by Utt, Kelly
The only chair in the tiny room is a leather recliner. The space is small and cramped. I sit down and flip the footrest up, careful not to knock anything over as I do. The lights are dim and my eyes are still adjusting, so it’s hard to see exactly what else is in the room. There’s some sort of shelving to my left and a white noise machine is pumping a whooshing sound my way. I reach a hand over and locate it on the shelf just above my shoulder. The volume is okay, so I don’t try to adjust it. There’s a blanket folded neatly beside me in the chair. I figure I might as well loosen up and relax as much as possible, so I kick off my shoes and cover myself with the blanket. It’s clean. Smells like it’s been freshly laundered. It reminds me of being at home with all the throw blankets Ali keeps around the house and of being a kid tucked securely under one of Mom’s quilts. I feel good. I close my eyes and breathe slowly and deeply. By the time I hear Dr. Epstein’s voice, I’m so relaxed I could probably doze off and take a nap.
“George, can you hear me?” he says over the speaker system. It’s odd hearing the doc’s voice booming around me in this little cocoon-like room. Reminds me of the Wizard of Oz and the man behind the curtain. Or the voice of God depicted in movies. Or better yet, astronauts listening to commands from the control center while hurling through the heavens in tiny capsules. I’ve been to the U.S. Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville, Alabama and have stepped inside replicas of the cramped capsules early astronauts traveled to space in. Talk about bravery.
“I do,” I reply. “Loud and clear.”
“Is the volume okay? Not too loud?” he says, clanking what sounds like a glass of water around on his desk and then taking a swallow.
“It’s fine,” I say.
“Did you find the blanket on the chair?” Dr. Epstein asks.
“I did,” I reply. “I went ahead and took my shoes off and covered myself up. I could sleep in here. It’s nice.”
“Good then,” he returns. “Be sure to loosen anything that’s too tight. Do whatever you need to in order to get really comfortable. The more relaxed you are, the more receptive you’ll be to hypnosis.”
A track of background music begins to play. I can’t make out all the intricacies of the music because the whooshing is still louder, but it sounds like a low hum with some mid-range pulsing tones and higher, longer probing notes on top. It has a sci-fi vibe. It instantly makes me feel like I’m embarking on a journey. I like it. I notice myself relaxing even more. My thoughts drift to my childhood and being covered up by one of Mom’s quilts. I’m sure it’s on my mind since we just talked about it and now here I am under a blanket with all of this soothing sound and darkness around me. It reminds me of the feeling of being a little kid and being completely safe and carefree. I could sleep deeply and peacefully then. My parents took care of everything and as long as I was with them, it was all I could ever need. I was loved completely. Through and through. I was cherished. All little kids should be so lucky.
“Please close your eyes if you haven’t already, George. In a moment I’m going to count slowly backward from twenty to one in order to relax you more completely,” Dr. Epstein says.
“Okay,” I reply quietly. I wonder if he can hear me.
“Good, I heard you,” he confirms, knowing what I was thinking. “When you hear me say the number twenty, allow your eyelids to remain closed. In your mind’s eye, see yourself on the top floor of a tall building where you’ve just stepped into an elevator. Let any background distraction or thoughts fade away.”
“Okay,” I reply again.
“Good,” he says. “You can just listen now as I give you instructions and help you deepen your level of relaxation. You don’t have to respond verbally unless I ask you a question or you have something you want to tell me.”
The whooshing and the pulsing and the long probing tones seem to be carrying me now. My limbs are beginning to feel heavy and if I don’t consciously direct my attention towards them, it’s like I don’t feel them there at all. The sensation is odd, but soothing at the same time.
“The moment I say the number nineteen,” Dr. Epstein continues, “and each number after that as we descend, you will simply move down in that elevator relaxing more completely. In your mind’s eye, watch the numbers go lower one by one as the elevator sinks downward. At the base of the elevator is a large, soft bed, with a comfortable pillow. When I say the number one, you will sink into that bed, resting your head on that pillow. You will go so deep that your mind will no longer be limited by the usual barriers of time. So deep that you can remember everything you have ever experienced.”
“Okay,” I say, very quietly now, even though I know I don’t have to answer out loud. My pulse has slowed. I think my heartbeat has synced up with the vibration of the low hum. I’m all in.
“Number twenty, eyes closed in that elevator, on the top floor of that building,” he continues. “Twenty… Nineteen… You are safe. No harm can come to you here. Eighteen... Relaxing and letting go. Seventeen… Watching the numbers go lower as you descend. Sixteen… Lower. Fifteen… Sinking into a more comfortable, calm, peaceful position. Fourteen… Lower. Thirteen… Going down. Twelve… Going way down. Eleven… Moving down that elevator, relaxing more completely. Ten… Feeling good. Nine… Going lower and lower. Eight… Breathe in deeply. Seven... Down, down. Six... Going way down. Five... Resting now. Four… Almost there, relaxing. Three... Deeper. A beautiful level of peace. Two... On the next number, number one, sink into that bed. And one... You’re there. Sink into that soft bed. Let your muscles go limp and loose as you sink into a more calm, peaceful state of relaxation. You’re very safe in this state of tranquility. This state of calm is healing and healthy for you.”
I see the elevator in my mind’s eye, just like Dr. Epstein tells me to. I watch as the numbers on the display near the roof tick lower and lower and lower. My limbs get even heavier, and the heavy feeling spreads around my whole body as the whoosh, pulse, and probe sounds carry me. I think I see what people mean about hypnosis. I’m present in my body and can wake up at any time if I choose to. But I’m not fully in my body either. I feel as if I’ve plugged my body in to charge or something. It’s nice. I feel relaxed and completely at ease. I reach the bottom floor on the elevator and, as instructed, I sink down into the soft bed. As I do, I begin to feel like I’m outside of my body entirely. There’s an overwhelming sense that my consciousness, what I consider to be me, can’t be contained by my body. It’s far too expansive. Wow. This is amazing. I feel like I can travel anywhere, unencumbered. Even in space, as nuts as that sounds. I’ve never even really meditated, so this is all new to me. It must be what the meditation gurus talk about. I’ve never been a drug user either, but this might be similar to what people experience on drug trips. Native Americans and their peyote come to mind. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong about that. My brain is trying to pair what’s happening now with something I have some frame of reference for. The closest I think I’ve come is a runner’s high after endorphins kick in. Although, it reminds me of what I felt last weekend when I dreamed of Dad. And what Marjorie reported remembering of floating up and away from her body at the end of her Wild West life. Fascinating. You’d think all of this would freak me out at least a little, but it doesn’t. Not really.
“We’re going to do some exploring now, George, and I’m going to guide you through a series of memories from your childhood,” Dr. Epstein explains. “If you feel uncomfortable with anything you experience, you can float above it like you’re watching from a distance. Like you’re watching a movie. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Don’t worry about analyzing what you see. There will be plenty of time for that later. Simply let yourself experience,” he explains.
“Okay,” I reply.
“When I count down from five to one, imagine that you’re in a happy memory from your childhood. A time when you felt safe and loved. A place of perfect serenity and joy. You can remember everything. See this m
emory clearly as I reach the number one. Whatever comes into your mind is acceptable. Don’t try to analyze. Five… Remembering a childhood memory. Four… Coming more and more into focus. You are perfectly safe and loved. Three… You can remember everything. Two… Breathing deeply and feeling good. One… a childhood memory. Be there with this memory. Where are you now? You may answer me out loud or simply answer in your mind and tell me about it later. It’s up to you.”
I feel myself being almost sucked into a time and place. I let it happen. And suddenly, I’m there. It’s Brooklyn, early eighties. I’m very young. It’s wintertime and it’s snowing hard outside. I think we might even be snowed in there’s so much of it. The snow is beautiful as it falls softly against the window panes. The entire borough is blanketed in white and is peaceful and still. No one is going anywhere this night. Animals are all huddled in their warm dens, tucked away from the weather. The air is warm inside our apartment. I’m in my parents’ bed, snuggled tightly in between them. They’re both sleeping. Dad is laying on his back and snoring lightly. I’m drowsy, but awake. I’m watching Dad’s breath move a section of his jet-black hair around on his forehead every time he exhales. He looks strong and healthy and young. His skin is a vibrant pink. There’s no sign of deterioration or disease in his body. His heartbeat is powerful. His steady pulse pounds reliably in his neck. I feel secure beside him. Mom is rolled over away from me and towards the bedroom door. She is laying on her stomach with one of her blue and white patchwork quilts tucked carefully around her shoulders and under her chin. Her hair is a bright, vibrant red without any of the white strands I’m now used to seeing frame her face. Everything I see and feel and hear and smell is dynamic and present. It’s entirely different than the shallow, highlights-only kind of memory most of us are accustomed to. I feel like I’m really there. Really in this memory. Not just referencing a snapshot.
“What are you becoming aware of?” Dr. Epstein prompts. “What do you look like?”
I follow his guidance and turn my attention towards my own appearance. I’m comfortable, dressed in pale yellow one-piece pajamas with snaps up and down the front and plastic soles built into the feet. A small, rudimentary outline of a teddy bear has been stitched onto the upper breast pocket area on one side of the front. I’m pretty sure Mom made this item of clothing for me. I can see a tag fixed onto the inside collar bearing her name. I’m wearing underpants instead of a diaper, so I must be old enough to be toilet trained. Ah, yes, I’m somewhere around three-years-old. It’s interesting. When I need clarity on some part of the memory, I simply think of a question and focus my attention on it and the answer seems to come to me within a short time. My hair in this scene is lighter than I’ve ever remembered it before. It’s almost dishwater blonde and it’s cut into a bowl shape. Silky strands fall down across my forehead and land in a straight line just above my eyebrows. My hands are little and chubby. They’re the hands of a toddler. My fingernails are clean. My little body, my clothing, and our home are all clean and well cared for. I can smell the lavender-scented lotion Mom slathered onto my back while getting me dressed for bed.
“What you become aware of may be more than just visual,” Dr. Epstein says. “It may be hearing, or smelling, or tasting. Or even just a knowing. All of these senses are okay. The people you see may look younger to you. They were younger then.”
“Yes,” I say simply. Dr. Epstein must be curious about what I’m seeing, but I don’t feel like articulating it all just yet. It’s not that I want to withhold anything from him. I’m busy taking it in right now.
“If you have any discomfort, remember that you can detach and step back to watch from a distance,” he reassures. “If you need more clarity or want to bring things into clearer focus, you can do that by taking a few slow breaths and going even deeper. You can go as deep as you like. You can remember everything.”
I again follow his prompt and tell myself to go even deeper while taking a long, slow breath. When I do, more complex understandings wash over me. I feel Mom’s frustration at Dad’s long hours away from us while building his business, but I also feel her love for him and admiration for his work ethic. I feel Dad’s pride at what he’s building for his family. For Mom and me. I understand how meaningful what he’s doing is. He has nothing but good intentions. His hopes and dreams are pure. He wants me to have every opportunity and to live comfortably and to pursue my every desire. He’s literally building a world for me to thrive in, and Mom is supporting him in doing so. I think I’ve understood that intellectually, but I’m feeling and understanding it now in a different, more visceral way.
“The childhood memory you’re experiencing may be connected to other memories,” Dr. Epstein says. “It’s okay to visit those as well. Let your subconscious mind take you where it wants you to go. Let it show you what it wants you to see and learn.”
I float away from the winter bedroom scene and give myself permission to move on to other memories as the now familiar whoosh, pulse, and probing tones continue to lay the foundation for my journey and to push me onward. Floating in and out of memories is virtually effortless. I’m eager to find out what else my mind wants me to reconnect with. I rest peacefully in what looks like a dark hallway for a little while until a series of doors appear. I don’t think Dr.Epstein mentioned doors, but for whatever reason, my mind has created them. Maybe it’s continuing with the building theme due to my initial descent down the elevator. Each door is the hallway is closed tightly, but has brilliant, white light almost bursting out around the edges. I find myself curious about what’s behind each door. I’m not frightened. Quite the opposite. I feel safe and good and deeply relaxed, so I decide to explore. As I move through the hallway, one particular door on the right pulls me towards it. I step close in front and place my hand on the knob, then open it wide and pass through the bright light as a new scene comes into view.
As I descend down towards a familiar land, I’m taken aback by the staggering beauty of steep, rugged cliffs and a surrounding blue-green sea. Something ancient within me is stirred and I feel the sides of my face getting wet with tears in the here and now as they pour out of my eyes and soak the cushion on the recliner underneath my head. This familiar yet foreign scene looks a lot like my hometown on Cayuga Lake, only the cliffs are more severe and the water is crystal clear with a million shades of blues and greens sparkling in the sunlight. Smooth, round pebbles frame the shoreline where swimmers frolic as they watch a boat coming into view on the horizon. This definitely isn’t Cayuga Lake. It’s an island. I attempt to orient myself as I near the ground within the scene my mind has presented. It feels very familiar, yet I don’t remember having visited this place before. Maybe Mom and Dad brought me as a kid? Where in the world am I?
Before I can consider a childhood visit any further, I find myself standing on the stone floor of an outdoor arena amongst a group of soldiers clad in linen with metal armor plates and helmets topped with fiery red crests. In a flash, the recognition settles over me. Oh, my God, I’m in Ancient Greece. And not just anywhere in Ancient Greece. I’m on the Island of Ithaca. What serendipity! There must be a bigger connection to my winding up in Ithaca, New York than I ever would have imagined. How intriguing. I don’t care if anyone believes me when I tell them about this or whether or not there’s scientific proof for what I’m experiencing. I know it in my bones as sure as I know I love my family: I’m in Ancient Greece. I lived in Ancient Greece! I remember.
I look down at my feet on the ground and am awestruck by the sensation that this is me. In Ancient Greece. It’s exactly like Marjorie described when she told us about her past life memory from the Wild West. I’m the same. My consciousness is the same, only I’m here. I was here. I am here. My personality, my reactions to people and situations, and my thought processes are all the same. I’m certain of it. My mind whirls with a dizzying volume of questions and new understandings. And sweet little Ethan said it first. He must have remembered the same time and place. I didn�
�t think he was wrong or making things up exactly, but I definitely won’t doubt him now.
I examine my body more closely. I’m wearing shin guards and footwear that’s sort of a mix between what I’d call boots and sandals. It’s comfortable enough. I’m tall. About the same height as I am in this current life. I’m taller than many of the other soldiers. I’m strong, too, and muscular. A prime physical specimen, if I do say so myself. I can feel the latent energy in my muscles. They’re agile, ready to move. My hands are rough and calloused from use. They have a strength the likes of which I’ve never known in my George Hartmann life. I feel like I could literally crush things with my bare hands. My hair is dark brownish-black, just like it is now and just like Ethan confirmed in his own memory. My skin has an olive tone. In a flash, I see my Greek face. It’s very similar to my George Hartmann face. How fascinating. I have the same big, round eyes and long nose with a strong jawline and symmetrical features. I look different, for sure, but remarkably similar. I wonder if Marjorie looked similar to her present-day self in her Wild West life. Is that how this works? Or is it only a coincidence in my case?
The other soldiers and I are putting on some sort of exhibition for the crowd. We’re each holding a shield and a spear, and we have a short sword tucked into our belts. I assume it’s for use in close combat. We’re not a particularly aggressive army. We don’t go out pillaging or trying to conquer other lands. Instead, we’re proud protectors. Our focus is on keeping our city and our people safe.
I look to my right at the soldier standing beside me. His hair has been lightened from the sun and is a dusty color of brown. Same olive skin. He’s younger. I’m in my mid-twenties and he’s a teenager. About fourteen-years-old. I’m his mentor. I’m training him and teaching him the ropes. He’s strong, too, but his body isn’t as developed as mine. I still have to look out for him. He turns to face me and our eyes meet. When they do, I’m struck by the sudden recognition that he is Leo! It’s my little Leo, here with me in Greece. He’s the same in the eyes, just like Ethan described when talking to Marjorie about his own memories. This young soldier isn’t my son here in Greece, but we’re close. We spend a lot of time together and in many ways, we do have a relationship similar to a father and son. How amazing that he’s now my actual son in New York. Apparently, relationships can switch around from one lifetime to another. It’s all riveting. I’m enjoying this immensely. Still no fear or discomfort.