Theos-Talk Archives (June 2004 Message tt00085)

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Dallas

====================
 

-----Original Message-----
From: adelasie [mailto:adelasie@sbcglobal.net] 
Sent: Tuesday, June 15, 2004 8:08 PM
To: theos-talk@yahoogroups.com
Subject: Theos-World N/A test

testing...

On 16 Jun 2004 at 0:21, cesar joanino wrote:

> test message
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Rev Cesar Joanino DD
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> >From: "Koshek Swaminathan" <arasophia@yahoo.com>
> >Reply-To: theos-talk@yahoogroups.com
> >To: theos-talk@yahoogroups.com
> >Subject: Theos-World Re: DO WE REMEMBER? : digest: June 12, 2004
> >Date: Tue, 15 Jun 2004 08:15:07 -0000
> >
> >
> >It is obvious that they prepared their miraculous feats years,
> >albeit lifetimes, ahead of time.
> >
> >Koshek
> >
> >
> >--- In theos-talk@yahoogroups.com, "Dallas TenBroeck"
> ><dalval14@e...> wrote:
> > > Nay 14 2004
> > > Dear Friends and S:
> > >
> > > Re: DO WE REMEMBER?
> > >
> > >
> > > William Henry West Betty was born in England in 1791. He
appeared
> >on
> > > the stage at the age of eleven in adult parts, and at twelve he
> > > was playing Shakesperian roles in London to overcrowded houses.
It
> > > is
> >of
> > > record that the English Parliament actually adjourned on one
> >occasion
> > > so that its members might attend a performance in which this
> > > precocious youngster played the role of Hamlet.
> > >
> > > ------------------------------------------
> > >
> > > When children come to visit me, they love to dress up in my
> >clothes,
> > > and "play lady." One day, Betty May had spent an unusually long
> >time
> > > in my room, and finally came out in a long dress, with a scarf
> >wound
> > > round her head.
> > >
> > > She said, "Look, Grannie! This is the way we dressed when we
were
> > > Indians."
> > >
> > > "Oh, were you an Indian?" I queried innocently.
> > >
> > > She looked at me with surprise in her eyes, and said, "Of
course.
> >And
> > > you too, Grannie. Don't you remember? What is the name of that
> >country
> > > where we lived when we were Indians?"
> > >
> > > I asked if it were India, maybe, but she said, no, that wasn't
the
> > > right name.
> > >
> > > Then I asked, "Were the babies Indians, too?"
> > >
> > > Quickly she answered, "Oh, no. Not Jackie. Jackie was another
kind
> >of
> > > man. Jackie looked like this" — and she drew herself up very
> >straight
> > > and folded her arms across her chest.
> > >
> > > "How about Jim and Sue? Were they Indians ?"
> > >
> > > She looked very serious for a minute, and then said, "I don't
> > > remember, Grannie."
> > >
> > > Then someone came in, and we were never able to pick up the
thread
> > > again, until several weeks later when she told me,
> > >
> > >
> > > "Mother doesn't know all the things we know, Grannie."
> > >
> > > "Why doesn't she, dear?" I said.
> > >
> > > "Because, she hasn't been to our country."
> > >
> > > "But how do you know, Betty May?" I asked.
> > >
> > > The only answer I could get was, "You know, Grannie."
> > >
> > > And then we say, we don't "remember."
> > >
> > >
> > > * * * *
> > >
> > >
> > > When Baby Carla was six weeks old, she saw her Uncle Hal for the
> >first
> > > time. A twinkle came in her eyes, she smiled, and put out her
> >tongue
> > > at him! Ever after, that was her sign of welcome to him, though
> > > sometimes she ex tended the greeting to others especially
favored.
> > >
> > > Between her and Uncle Hal there seemed to be always some inner
> >secret
> > > bond of delight and companionship, so that just as soon as she
> >began
> > > to say "Mama" and "Papa," she also began to use a name for Uncle
> >Hal.
> > > "Pak-kar," she called him.
> > >
> > > Her parents were mystified. What strange freak made that word,
> > > like nothing anyone had ever heard before? There was no
variation
> > > in it
> >at
> > > any time. It was always clear and distinct—unmistakable.
> > >
> > > Before the little one had reached the age of two, however, Uncle
> >Hal
> > > died suddenly. Carla appeared to know nothing about it, except
> > > that several times in the next few weeks, and very contrary to
her
> > > usual sunny awakening from sleep, she woke crying, as if her
heart
> > > were broken. When her mother soothed her and asked her why she
> > > cried,
> >she
> > > said, "Pak-kar's gone !" She never again greeted anyone with
> > > little tongue thrust out.
> > >
> > > Two years after this, while Carla's mother was reading one of
> > > Breasted's histories, she came to a chapter in which was
discussed
> >the
> > > similar roots of words in old languages. Across the page sprang
> >into
> > > her view this line, giving the ancient forms of our word,
father:
> > > Greek Latin Teutonic Sanscrit Tibetan pater, pitar, vater, 
> > > pakkar.
> > >
> > > It was four years later when Carla's father brought home from
the
> > > library a book of travel on Tibet, in which was illustrated the
> > > Tibetan greeting, first used by Carla at the age of six weeks!
> > >
> > > * * * *
> > >
> > > Little Robert was the sunniest, happiest, most lovable little
> > > four-year-old boy anyone ever knew! Not only was he cherished by
> >all
> > > those in his family, including aunts and uncles and cousins, but
> > > friends — even strangers — found him "different" from other
little
> > > ones, and with a strange power to lighten their hearts. But, one
> >day a
> > > terrible disease struck him swiftly, and he died.
> > >
> > > Little Robert's parents knew about reincarnation, and their
sorrow
> >was
> > > more bearable because they had also heard that when a child dies
> >under
> > > the age of seven years, the same Ego might reincarnate again in
> > > the same family.
> > >
> > > Two years later, a little brother was born to them, so closely
> > > resembling little Robert that they could not help giving the
babe
> >the
> > > same name. As he grew, old familiar ways were recognized, and
the
> >two
> > > babes seemed blended in this one. They began to speak of the
first
> > > little Robert as "the other one."
> > >
> > > Meantime, some of the families of cousins had moved far away,
and
> >had
> > > never seen the second Robert. One day, when he was three years
> > > old, one of these girl cousins came to the house on a
> > > surprise-visit.
> >She
> > > entered the room where the little fellow was playing on the
floor
> >with
> > > his blocks, and stood quietly for a moment.
> > >
> > > Robert looked up at her, smiled radiantly, flung out his arms
and
> > > called, "Ong !" This was the name the first Robert had given
her—a
> > > name which had never been used by anyone, save him!
> > >
> > > --------------------------------------------
> > >
> > >
> > > A GREEK LESSON
> > >
> > > I stopped short; I flung down the book. "It is a lie," I cried
> > > bitterly, "a cruel, hateful lie,"
> > >
> > > I almost shouted, — and the whole class stared at me in
amazement.
> > >
> > > A strange outburst was that for the dingy, drowsy Greek-room of
> > > the little New England college. I was as much surprised as any;
I
> > > stood confused at myself. For then it was that I remembered.
> > >
> > > The passage which I was translating seemed innocent enough—to
all
> >the
> > > rest. We were reading at sight — the professor's particular
hobby;
> >and
> > > he was exploiting upon us the Twelfth Oration of Lysias. .
> > >
> > > But I had been paying scant attention to what they were reading.
> >Greek
> > > was easy to me always, and the halting drone with which they
> > > turned the sweet Attic into their class-room jargon wearied my
> > > ears. And
> >my
> > > thoughts had drifted far away into I know not what regions of
> > > day-dreams, under a bright sky buttressed on purple hills, when
I
> > > heard the incisive voice of the professor:
> > >
> > > "Leonard, you may read now, beginning with the seventy-eighth
> > > section." It cut through the mists of cloud land like the flash
of
> >a
> > > searchlight.
> > >
> > > I started to my feet, found the place and began:
> > >
> > > "`And although he has been the author of all these and still
other
> > > disasters and disgraces, both old and new, both small and great,
> >some
> > > dare to profess themselves his friends; al though it was not for
> >the
> > > people that Theramenes died, but because of his own
villainy—'Then
> >I
> > > choked and stopped. Tears swam in my eyes, and a hot flash
scalded
> >my
> > > cheeks. For in that instant first I understood; and in that
> >instant it
> > > seemed to me that they all understood.
> > >
> > > But the professor, rather mortified at my unwonted hesitation,
> >began
> > > to prompt:
> > >
> > > "Go on, Leonard, — go on, it is not so hard
> > >
> > > — `and no less justly would he have died under the democracy,
> >which he
> > > twice enslaved' — why, Leonard!".
> > > "It is a lie," I burst forth. "A cruel, hateful lie." Those
words
> > > which he uttered so calmly had stung me like the lashes of a
> >scourge,
> > > — so malignant, so artful, so utterly unjust. And the whole
world
> >had
> > > read them—this had been believed for centuries, with none to
> > > contradict!
> > >
> > > "To say it when a man was dead !" I went on. "And Lysias! for
> >Lysias
> > > to say it!" I had quite forgotten the class; I saw only the
> >foppish,
> > > waspish little orator, declaiming before the people with studied
> > > passion and hot indignation well memorized. But the people had
> >never
> > > accepted it They knew me better. . .
> > >
> > > "They would not listen to such as Lysias; they would make an
> > > uproar and rise from the benches. How dared that alien accuse
the
> > > best blood of Athens!" Yet I could scarcely have told
> >you
> > > why I said it.
> > >
> > > My classmates were too much astonished to laugh. The professor
> > > laid down his book; mine I flung on the floor. My blood was
> > > boiling; my soul a tumult.
> > >
> > > "What does this mean, Leonard?" I heard the voice; I could not
> >clearly
> > > see the speaker.
> > >
> > > "I will not read it—I will not read another line," I cried. .
> > >
> > > For the past had opened like a darkness lightning-cleft; all in
> > > one moment I felt the injustices of ages; the shame of an aeon
of
> > > scorn—and they asked me to read against my self the lying
record.
> > > I would die again sooner than read it. I could not realize that
> > > they
> >did
> > > not comprehend.
> > >
> > > It was not often that Professor Lalor was at a loss for words,
but
> > > there was a long pause before he spoke.
> > >
> > > "Young man," he said slowly, "I always like my students to
> >manifest a
> > > living interest in what they read, and this trait I have
> > > especially commended in you heretofore. But there is measure,
> > > Leonard, in all things, as the Greeks themselves have taught us;
> > > and this exceeds— this certainly exceeds. One would fancy you
> > > contemporary
> >authority." .
> > > .
> > >
> > > Again I had choked, but anger gave me back my speech.
> > >
> > > "Lysias an authority!" I exclaimed. "Lysias !"
> > >
> > > My sight had cleared. The class sat quiet, startled out of their
> > > laughter; the professor looked pained and puzzled. "There is a
> > > degree of truth in what you seem to imply," he
> >said. "It
> > > may be conceded that Lysias was somewhat lacking in the judicial
> > > quality. And as to Theramenes, Aristotle has expressed a very
> > > different estimate of him. Yet Lysias—"
> > >
> > > "He was no better than a sycophant," I broke in.
> > >
> > > "Go to your room, Leonard. You forget yourself." But the truth
> >was, I
> > > had remembered myself.
> > >
> > > After that they nicknamed me Theramenes: I was nicknamed after
> >myself,
> > > and none suspected.
> > >
> > > -------------------------------------------
> > >
> > >
> > > Stories
> > >
> > > Often boys and girls say: "Why, I don't see how ever I can have
> >lived
> > > before in other bodies! I don't remember anything about it!"
Well,
> >it
> > > wouldn't be so strange if we didn't re member, when the brains
we
> >are
> > > remembering through came new with these present bodies, and when
> > > we have crammed them so full with the things of this life!
Indeed,
> > > we don't re member half our days in these bodies! Certainly, not
> > > one
> >of
> > > us remembers the day we were born—but we must have been born!
> > >
> > > Let us not be too sure people don't remember, or even that we
> > > don't remember. Many, many children have been known to remember,
> > > on
> >sight,
> > > places they have lived in, in other lives, and even grown-up
> >people,
> > > in visiting places they never
> > > saw before in this life, have recognized them by some special
> >mark. It
> > > is told of one American gentleman, on his first visit to London,
> >that
> > > while waiting in a lawyer's office to keep an appointment, he
> >began to
> > > have a sense of familiarity of the room steal over him. The
> > > feeling grew very strong, till finally he said to himself:
"Well,
> > > if I ever have been here before, there is a certain knot-hole in
> > > the panel of that door over there—and if so, it is under that
> > > calendar hanging there!" He walked over to the door and lifted
the
> > > calendar. The knot-hole was there, as he knew it would be.
> > >
> > > But recognition on sight isn't the only way of remembering. The
> >surest
> > > way of all is by feeling, and that doesn't depend very much on
the
> > > brain. In fact, it is the feeling, which some sight arouses, we
> >should
> > > call truly remembering. Your brain does not tell you that you
love
> > > your mother. You know you love her, because you feel love for
her.
> >So,
> > > we are really remembering the friends of other lives, when we
see
> >them
> > > for the first time, and feel we have always known them and loved
> >them;
> > > we are also remembering, when for no reason in the world we can
> >see,
> > > we dislike so intensely an other person we meet. Is it hard to
> >imagine
> > > the kind of Karma-seed in other lives which makes such liking or
> > > disliking in this one? What kind of seeds shall we plant now
that
> >will
> > > bring us loving friends in lives to come? Yes, there are other
> > > ways still of remembering. In deep sleep, we know all about our
> > > past
> >lives,
> > > and sometimes a dream about one or another may come through into
> >our
> > > brain, when we are almost awake.
> > >
> > > Very young children, especially between three and six,
"remember"
> > > words of a language once they knew. In one family, the parents
> > > were worried because their little girl was not learning to talk
at
> > > the
> >age
> > > of two years. She was constantly "jabbering," but not a word
could
> > > they understand. Then, one day, a soldier who had been in France
> >came
> > > to visit them. He began to pay attention to the little girl, and
> > > in amazement he said to the parents, "Don't worry about the
little
> >one's
> > > not talking. She is talking very good French !"
> > >
> > >
> > > Have you ever noticed how some boys and girls seem never to have
> > > to learn some particular thing? For instance, one boy knows how
to
> > > use tools without being taught; one girl doesn't need to learn
how
> > > to
> >sew,
> > > or to read; one boy can sing from the time he can speak, while
> >most of
> > > us are years in learning how; some girls love to write poetry,
or
> >can
> > > imitate the ways of speech and manners of others, but more
people
> > > never can do it well in this life, however long and hard they
try—
> >even
> > > with taking lessons. Well, all these facilities, or talents, are
> > > in evidence now be cause there was a skill in these things in
> > > other lives; or even a love for them, without much skill, —
> > > because it is the feeling, again, of love to do these things,
that
> > > lives, and
> >goes
> > > on from life to life. Perhaps you have noticed that sometimes,
> > > too, people grow lazy with these talents, and they lose them.
They
> > > must love them enough to make them always more beautiful by
> > > working for them, as a service to all, if they would keep them.
> > >
> > > Suppose we could remember all about our past lives? Remember our
> > > names, the names of our friends, all the things we did—both good
> >and
> > > bad? It really could do us no true service. It might not even
make
> >us
> > > happy, for it isn't pleasant to look back at our mistakes. We
are,
> >in
> > > our characters, all that these things meant to us, and if we
were
> >to
> > > stand looking back at those pictures, very long at a time, we
> > > might forget the duties right now at our hand to do. Our "now"
is
> > > made
> >up of
> > > our past, and our "now" is what makes the future, so it's the
> > > "now" that we must use aright. If flashes from the past come
into
> > > the
> >now,.
> > > unbidden as a sweet odor, we can recognize them and smile, and
> > > know them for what they are—messengers to say there are many
> > > houses of
> >life
> > > we have lived in, and we have yet to build for our souls still
> > > statelier mansions. Such experiences aren't to be talked about
to
> > > others, for only to the Experiencer do these "flashes" offer the
> > > evidence that we have lived before. All Nature bears evidence of
> >this
> > > same law of reincarnation for all who can see. Each one must see
> >for
> > > himself and in himself all that belongs to him, now or in past
> >lives.
> > >
> > >
> > > ---------------------------------
> > >
> > >
> > > HE TOOK THE GATES
> > >
> > >
> > > The following undoubtedly true story was written by a commercial
> > > photographer of Minneapolis. She is the elder sister of little
> >Anne,
> > > and up to the time of the incident, neither she nor any of the
> >family
> > > believed in, or knew anything of, the doctrine of re-birth. The
> > > article appeared in the American Magazine of July, 1915.
> > >
> > > "Anne, my little half-sister, younger by fifteen years, was a
> > > queer little mite from the beginning. She did not even look like
> > > any
> >member
> > > of the family we ever heard of, for she was dark almost to
> > > swarthiness, while the rest of us were all fair, showing our
> > > Scotch Irish ancestry unmistakably.
> > >
> > > "As soon as she could talk in connected sentences, she would
tell
> > > herself fairy stories, and just for the fun of the thing I would
> >take
> > > down her murmurings with my pencil in my old diary. She was my
> > > especial charge — my mother being a very busy woman—and I was
very
> > > proud of her. These weavings of fancy were never of the usual
type
> > > that children's fairy tales take; for, in addition to the
childish
> > > imagination, there were bits of knowledge in them that a baby
> > > could not possibly have absorbed in any sort of way.
> > >
> > > "Another remarkable thing about her was that everything she did
> > > she seemed to do through habit, and, in fact, such was her
> > > insistence, although she was never able to ex plain what she
meant
> > > by it. If
> >you
> > > could have seen the roystering air with which she would life her
> >mug
> > > of milk when she was only three and gulp it down at one
quaffing,
> >you
> > > would have shaken with laughter. This particularly embarrassed
my
> > > mother and she reproved Anne repeatedly. The baby was a good
> > > little soul, and would seem to try to obey, and then in an
> > > absent-minded moment would bring on another occasion for
> > > mortification. `I can't help it, mother,' she would say over and
> > > over again, tears in her
> >baby
> > > voice, `I've always done it that way!'
> > >
> > > "So many were the small incidents of her `habits' of speech and
> > > thought and her tricks of manner and memory that finally we
ceased
> >to
> > > think anything about them, and she herself was quite unconscious
> >that
> > > she was in any way different from other children.
> > >
> > > "One day when she was four years old she became very indignant
> > > with Father about some matter and, as she sat curled up on the
> > > floor in front of us, announced her intention of going away
> > > forever.
> > >
> > > "`Back to heaven where you came from?' inquired Father with mock
> > > seriousness. She shook her head.
> > >
> > > "`I didn't come from heaven to you,' she asserted with that calm
> > > conviction to which we were quite accustomed now. `I went to the
> >moon
> > > first, but—you know about the moon, don't you? It used to have
> >people
> > > on it, but it got so hard that we had to go.'
> > >
> > > "This promised to be a fairy tale, so I got my pencil and diary.
> > >
> > > "`So,' my father led her on, `you came from the moon to us, did
> >you?'
> > >
> > > "`Oh, no,' she told him in casual fashion. `I have been here
lots
> >of
> > > times—sometimes I was a man and sometimes I was a woman!'
> > >
> > > "She was so serene in her announcement that my father laughed
> > > heartily, which enraged the child, for she particularly disliked
> >being
> > > ridiculed in any way.
> > >
> > > "`I was! I was!' she maintained indignantly. `Once I went to
> > > Canada when I was a man! I `member my name, even.'
> > >
> > > "`Oh, pooh-pooh,' he scoffed, `little United States girls can't
be
> >men
> > > in Canada! What was your name that you `member so well?'
> > >
> > > "She considered a minute. `It was Lishus Faber,' she ventured,
> > > then repeated it with greater assurance, `that was it—Lishus
> > > Faber.' She ran the sounds together so that this was all I could
> > > make of it—and the name so stands in my diary today; `Lishus
> > > Faber.'
> > >
> > > "`And what did you do for a living, Lishus Faber, in those early
> > > days?' My father then treated her with the mock solemnity
> > > befitting her assurance and quieting her nervous little body.
> > >
> > > `I was a soldier'—she granted the information triumphantly—'and
I
> >took
> > > the gates!'
> > >
> > > "That was all that is recorded there. Over and over again, I
> >remember,
> > > we tried to get her to explain what she meant by the odd phrase,
> >but
> > > she only repeated her words and grew indignant with us for not
> > > understanding. Her imagination stopped at explanations. We were
> >living
> > > in a cultured community, but al though I repeated the story to
> >inquire
> > > about the phrase—as one does tell stories of beloved children,
you
> > > know—no one could do more than conjecture its meaning. "Some one
> > > encouraged my really going further with the matter, and
> >for
> > > a year I studied all the histories of Canada I could lay my
hands
> >on
> > > for a battle in which somebody `took the gates.' All to no
> > > purpose. Finally I was directed by a librarian to a
`documentary'
> > > history, I suppose it is—a funny old volume with the `s' like
f's,
> > > you know.
> >This
> > > was over a year afterward, when I had quite lost hope of running
> > > my phrase to earth. It was a quaint old book, interestingly
> >picturesque
> > > in many of its tales, but I found one bit that put all others
out
> >of
> > > my mind. It was a brief account of the taking of a little walled
> >city
> > > by a small company of soldiers, a distinguished feat of some
sort,
> >yet
> > > of no general importance. A young lieutenant with his small
band—
> >the
> > > phrase leaped to my eyes—'took the gates.' And the name of the
> >young
> > > lieutenant was `Aloysius Le Fębre.'"
> > >
> > > ----------------------------------------
> > >
> > > Interesting?
> > >
> > > Best wishes,
> > >
> > > Dallas
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >Yahoo! Groups Links
> >
> >
> >
> >
> >
> 
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