The Beginning of a Journey

A snow-covered mountaintop next to the Lake District of Cumbria - Wast Water

A Path Emerges

The year was 1998 and I was serving as an enlisted Marine at the American Embassy in Lisbon, Portugal.  Although I had not grown up as an excessively religious person, some ideas and particularly Asian philosophies had piqued my interest early on in life.  There was a point in time before I joined the Marine Corps when I had grown an interest in developing clairvoyant abilities.  Despite my early attempts, none were too successful, nor had I gathered enough experience to practice clairvoyance with much confidence.  Needless to say, these interests quickly faded as I moved onto basic training and my duties in the Marine Corps.

It was May 4th of that year when I began consciously waking up.  In the months leading up to what I sometimes refer to as my initial awakening, I was warming up with psychic abilities and my dreaming had intensified.  There were a handful of precognitive scenarios that had come to me in my sleep which then proved themselves to be both tests, and indicators, of the deeper level of consciousness that I had asked for, and was called to, in the preceding years.  One day, while I was preparing for an off-duty work assignment, I found myself walking down the hall of our shared living quarters.  Only this time, I was both walking, and watching, myself walk down the hall as the witness gathered strength and my perception of time began to slow down to a dribble.

I was being asked to look inside for what I already knew – that I was awake, I was alive, and I was about to meet my spiritual guide, in human form at least, for the first time as I knew it.

At this point in time, I had returned to my room as I caught myself gazing into the full-length mirror that had adorned the back of the front door.  At first, the lighting in the room began to shift as it moved from light to dark, and now back to the mirror again.  Within a moment, the form of a body that I was seeing had begun to shift with the light in the rest of the room.  His two eyes pierced the veil of darkness as he stared at me, blankly.  As the vision unfolded into a broader scene, he was standing there, patiently, atop a handmade wooden raft that was only bound with old, worn-out ropes, as he was floating in the isles and fjords of Scotland.

His name is Peter and he was showing me what would become a series of information regarding my own past lives, and what would become past-life regressions, later in Paris.  He was crude in appearance and rather scroungy looking, although for months, as I fell asleep, I would continue to connect with those two eyes, and a few others, for the work that I was about to embark upon.