The Perfect Fit - A Psychic Romance, Laney's Past Life & Love

by Gister, TY

  He loved me and I loved him but he needed to carve out a life and sort himself out before he could function in an adult relationship and I certainly did not want to see him as my third child, which was what it was beginning to feel like.

  God, just thinking about it makes me exhausted. No wonder relationships are hardly the most appealing prospect. I like time on my own and know that if anything it is very necessary for me but I would like to feel the warmth of arms around me again. I want to feel love and be loved. To be close to someone, to share times and special moments, to laugh and live life again. At the same time it has to be real and have depth.

  My most recent house move had been more of a strain than the others. It left me feeling fractured and out of sorts. Both of the girls have left uni now and are starting jobs in different parts of the country. So for the first time ever I only have to think about me. I'm not so sure I like that too much and I'm not sure I'm very good at it.

  Mixed in with all my mixed-upness is the realisation that they have both left home. I suppose I feel a bit superfluous now. I'm not sure I know what to do and how to be. Every time they leave after a visit, I have to distract myself as within seconds, I've watered up. Watching them leave doesn’t get any easier, it's probably worse, as when they were younger they were just off to school or friends, back for tea. Now I might not see them for weeks at a time.

  So I've downsized to a nice two bed apartment, on the first floor. Apparently the building used to be a pub about fifteen years ago, which would explain the ridiculously high ceilings. A beautiful period property but I live in it, pretty much as a hotel, as if I'm visiting rather than living here. I haven't made it mine yet.

  I've always needed to be in rural areas, having been brought up on a farm but over the past few years I've noticed I can easily live like a recluse. I even call myself a hermit; the last cottage I was in, I might go a couple of weeks without seeing anyone. Laughingly I'd refer to myself as the crazy, bearded artist in the woods and on finding a few stray chin hairs several months back I've now stopped saying that. I have learnt my lesson on that account, my dubious skill at cosmic ordering has certainly taught me to be careful about what I wish for.

  Trying to make sure this move really was different I made the conscious decision to move to a place with people. Not being tied by work or commitments as such, I could pretty much go anywhere. Where was the problem; I figured maybe a town or city, at least the prospect of people and finding regular paid work would be better in town. A big contributing factor in my decision to move was my father.

  In his seventies, he spends most of his days alone; him and his chickens on a wild patch of land. He does have a home to go to but prefers to spend his days outside and alone; catching the odd fifty winks in a filthy shed, away from the world.

  I looked at him and could see that if I was not careful that could just as easily be me in a few years time. If I keep shunning the world, it will shun me. I might replace the chickens with canvases to paint and books to write, my filthy shed might be a pretty three bedroom cottage but other than that he and I were very much the same.

  Hence here I am in town. Instead of living like a hermit on my own, I'm living like one with people around. You see, nothing ultimately changes.

  I did consider city life but it has never really appealed. There are too many people and everyone seems in such a rush. I did make a mammoth road trip with my daughter to suss out a few areas. I thought maybe Bath or Oxford, but after two solid days of feeling overwhelmed and lost, I settled here; an ancient coastal town in Dorset big enough to have stuff going on but small enough to not freak me out. It's quite well 'to do' as granddad would say and is popular with tourists and day trippers. The ham stone walls and the architecture remind me of France, somewhere I've always had a soft spot for.

  Apparently I've spent many previous lives there in France. Since my divorce I've been to some spiritually inspired workshops and tried lots of alternative therapies. Some time ago I had several regression sessions exploring past lives. I think I was secretly hoping I'd come up with answers about my life, and a better understanding about what was going on in this one. And after each one, I kind of did but it doesn't seem to last. Here I am, still lost and still alone.

  God I feel a bit sad for writing this, but it's true and although it is sad, I don't feel morose or depressed. It's just a sad realisation of that is how I honestly feel. A little numb to life, wishing things were different that I could experience love but without the faintest idea of how to go about it. I've done stuff other people have tried and has worked for them but it's not the same for me. Right up to this point I haven't done anything for me. I am numb to my own heart, my own wants and needs. I don't get too fazed by life but I don't get excited by it either. At some point I opted for dull mediocrity and safety, hoping no one will notice me. But to feel love, the way I want to feel it, someone has got to notice and just the thought of that alone makes me wobbly. It feels scary. What's scary? Trusting someone on that level, sharing myself with them, the good, the bad and the indifferent. It's hard to imagine that there is someone out there for me, someone who might be the perfect fit.

  Although I can write for hours in my journal, I often don't come up with answers, it's just a good way for me to unleash what's swimming around in my head. It doesn't always make sense, sometimes like now, it is just bleating and moaning but occasionally there is the odd good idea. Whatever it is, it's good for me because when I put my pencil down and close the pages, I feel like I've accomplished something. I don't have to go back and check, it's not for anybody else's eyes, just mine, a place to vent. I can't always verbalise it well but it all comes out and then I feel able to get on with the rest of the day.

  I like writing, always have done, that and reading. I was born a book worm and am making up for not reading much during my married years. Actually that was part of my motivation for moving here. I was hoping to purge the book from me. I've felt for years there was one inside. They reckon we all have one inside of us. Well with no garden, no ties, no commitments and no distractions, (no love) and about four months before I have to get a normal job, it seemed like this would be the perfect opportunity for me to give it a go. The only trouble is I have no idea about plot, title or characters. I desperately need inspiration.

  Deciding I have bleated enough in my journal, I slide it under my rucksack on the chair. I give my pencil a few turns in the sharpener and get ready to open my notebook and see if I can't start some kind of flow for my novel.

  Pressing back into the chair, I close my eyes; the sun feels good on my face. It's really pleasantly warm out here and I can hear people leaving the cafe. Keeping my eyes shut I try and let my mind settle, no wonder I found meditating so difficult, how do people ever shut their minds up? Mine seems to always have something to say, prattling away merrily like a kettle that never runs out of steam. Well, there is one thing that shuts it up, but it has been a long time since I've had the luxury of enjoying that kind of deeply satisfied peace. Mmmm the kind that arrives lying in strong arms, bathed blissfully in the waves of post sex exhaustion.

  "Hi - are you ready to order?"

  I jump, brought back to the here and now with a bang. Aware I'd been smiling away to myself and a bit worried that I'd actually said mmmm out loud. Talk about embarrassed at where my thoughts had been. I look up to see a face I don't recognise. A drop dead gorgeously handsome face and eyes that smile all by themselves.

  "Um.. yeh.. sorry... I'd like a mocha please. A large one."

  "Sure. No problem."

  Well, how fickle am I? Only a few minutes ago I'd written down that I rarely felt attracted to people and here was I contradicting that. Mind you the good looking types never seem to show much interest in me. There again that could be more to do with my super sized V sign rather than anything else.

  I've been
coming here quite a lot over the past few weeks and I've never seen this waiter before. He's older than the usual university student on study leave. Cath hadn't mentioned she was looking for anyone new but then why should she? I'm already thinking far too much. He is just a nice looking guy, no a gorgeous guy.

  "There you go." He carefully places the mug down.

  "Looks like you're busy." Nodding at my books.

  "Yeh."

  He flashes a smile and I smile back. His eyes are stunning, for a second I think I must know him, he sort of seems familiar and yet I've not seen him before. He turns and goes back inside. Reaching out for the steaming mug, I shift my position a little. Resting my feet on the chair opposite and blowing the froth on the top of the mug, I start to ponder about what to write. Maybe I should have a go at a romance, which might usher in some of the real stuff for me. Write it how I'd like it to be, making sure to try and get my cosmic ordering right this time.

  It's funny, when I write in my journal, I can write for pages at a time without any problem at all. I'd been encouraged to start keeping a journal by my counsellor during the divorce. Although I'd been unhappily married, it had still been a confusingly emotional time and writing was supposed to help and to be fair, it had. But now when I try and think about making something up, I'm stuck. I don't know where to start or who to start with.

  Yeh, maybe a romance is a good idea. I can include snatches of the things that have happened and then add in some of what I wish had happened. By the time I've finished my coffee I have the stirrings of a plan scribbled down in my notebook and feel much brighter. Rounding up my things, I get up to go in and pay for my coffee. Cath is at the till, her head cocked to one side, the phone jammed between her shoulder and ear. Nodding at me, multitasking effortlessly, she rings up the amount for the mocha, luckily I have the exact money.

  "No, No... I want four dozen by Wednesday not Thursday!"

  I mouth thanks and goodbye. She's too busy to try and casually ask about the waiter. I'll have to find out who the mystery guy is next time.

  Chapter 2

  I almost skip home and there is a definite spring in my step. Now I have the threads of an idea and it feels good, I have somewhere to start from.

  The sun has faded away and the wind has picked up even more. It's only early afternoon but suddenly it seems later. I'm glad to get back indoors. One of the things that made my mind up about this place was the cosy living room, with its bookshelves and best of all, the fireplace. I love a real fire. I know some people moan about the dust it makes but I love it. Although I've had to downsize, one of the things I did keep was my beloved log basket and outside there is a tiny store for my neatly stacked logs.

  It doesn't take long to get the fire going and as I pick up a small round log from the basket I get a sudden sense of déjà vu. I've been getting these a lot lately. Often just tiny snatches that don't make much sense, especially as they don't seem to be from this lifetime. The way I'm holding the log and bending over to put it on the fire is the same, but the fireplace is different and it seems a long time ago. I don’t think much of it and sit down to get comfy and to start writing in earnest. Then it occurs to me. That image of déjà vu, that fireplace I remember, I've seen one similar to it before.

  A friend of mine had been doing some training a few months back. A hypnotherapist, she'd diversified into regression and wanted willing volunteers as case studies. Of course I volunteered and as such had several past life sessions. That fireplace was in one of them. Better than that, the lifetime I had seen was one of the clearest, even though it was sad too. But it's not the sad part that excites me now, it's the reason it was sad, the love there was between myself and my partner in that lifetime. We hadn't been married but the love we felt for each other was the stuff that melts your heart. That was it, I could write about that, write about that love and that time.

  I'd been surprised at the time how strong it had felt and how real, luckily Heather had taken meticulous notes and recorded the sessions. I jumped up, I had them somewhere. They must be in with all the paperwork and books, most of which is here on the shelves, there's a small amount left in storage. Hopefully not those though.

  A half hour of frantic rummaging and yep, here they are. A few sheets of A4 with details of love felt and lost, a heart elated and a heart broken. It had all seemed so real to me and if I can recall those feelings then that surely has got to help me evoke the very things I need for a decent romance. Immediately after the sessions I was always blown away by how strong they were and how real everything felt. I usually cried buckets, which apparently is all good. It certainly felt pretty good, although it is kind of bizarre watching your own death but once you get used to that idea it's all pretty cool after that.

  Placing another log on the fire, I spend the afternoon reliving those memories, allowing the images to flood my mind and soon I'm frantically writing.

  Chapter 3

  I have no idea how long ago it was, but it's definitely feels like France, probably about the twelfth or thirteenth century. I'm not particularly good at history but for some reason that sort of time period feels right. I'm a young woman in my late teens, early twenties. I'm wearing a light blue dress with a white apron. We live in busy town, which appears to be quite high up, as I can see tall peaks around me and below the skyline is a heavy forest of what looks like pine trees.

  My father is an important man in the town and it feels like he is in a position of authority, I don't think they had mayors then but it was that kind of thing. I took an active part in town life and enjoyed teaching the younger children. Well it was more play than teaching but the kids were great fun. But all the time, I was aware of my attention being pulled towards the trees, to a place just beyond them.

  Heather guided me to a point in time where I could see more clearly, what was going on. It turned out that there on the outskirts of the wood was where the love of my life lived. He was an artisan, a musician and good with words. He lived a strange life, following the 'old ways'. He understood herbs and worked with nature's elements. Robust, with a strong physique able to provide for himself and his parents until they'd died. The town's people were aware of his abilities and when the medic couldn't solve their ailments, they would soon head off in Jeanne Pierre's direction.

  The previous summer, the young daughter of a friend of mine had been taken ill and after several days there was no improvement. My father would not condone seeking outside help and especially not from someone who for all intents and purposes was practising a form of witchcraft. However I was not prepared to watch the child fade away. I secretly took my friend and her child to see Jeanne Pierre.

  There was something about him, the moment I saw him. My heart leapt out towards him before we'd even spoken. I felt as if I'd loved him for years, even though I'd never seen him before. Putting his axe down and leaving the unsplit log he looked at me, smiled and then his attention went straight to the child.

  In seconds he had her in his arms, listening to my friend and checking for symptoms. About an hour later, with mother and daughter seated comfortably indoors, he and I walked together outside. It turned out that regular visits were required, consequently over that summer we became close and I would often visit Jeanne Pierre on my own.

  I arrived at his place late one afternoon, with a simple picnic for us both. He'd mentioned there was somewhere he wanted to show me and we set off straight away. We walked for some time, laughing and joking and then he told me to close my eyes.

  Until that point, we'd never physically touched each other. As he took my hand gently in his own. My heart jumped. My senses seemed to explode so much so I was convinced he must be able to feel it. Swallowing deeply and silent now, I allowed him to lead me. Guiding me over bumps, around stumps and avoiding stray branches, it wasn't lost on me how considerate he was and how well he knew th
e territory.

  The ground started to feel different under my feet and we soon came to a stop. Turning to me, he told me that this place was special to him and that he'd never shared it with anyone before.

  When I opened my eyes, I could see why it was so special. The mountains seemed so close and framed the scene, one was strangely flat in several places forming plateaus, which looked like steps. We were standing at the edge of a small lake, with grassy banks in places and other areas were tiny concentrations of shale and small pebbles. It was the stuff of fairy tales and it was made all the more magical because it felt as if we were the only people who knew it was here.

  We walked a little around the edge of the water, and chose a spot to sit down. Taking an apple from my basket, I reached out to hand it to Jeanne Pierre. For a second he hesitated, we were lost in each other's eyes. My heart was pounding and I could feel myself breathing faster, how could I feel like I was melting and yet be on fire at the same time? This wasn't just physical attraction, although that was definitely there, this was something deeper. My heart felt like it was talking to his, a silent but incredibly powerful language, one we both intimately understood.

  He took the apple, putting it to the side. In one sweeping movement he gently brought his hand up to my face and traced his fingers slowly over my mouth, circling my chin and then so slowly from my neck to the edge of my dress. Thankfully he didn't stop there. I could feel his touch slightly firmer on the outside of my clothes. The contrast of his touch, first gentle and then firm creating an ecstasy inside of me, one which I had neither the hope nor desire to control.

  As I lay back onto the grass his other hand, fingers spread wide and palm wonderfully firm, pressed down on my belly, downwards, slowly and purposefully. I briefly glimpsed the sky above before I surrendered to the blissful internal shivers, filled with a warmth I'd never encountered before. It was as if he was savouring me and my body, his touch brought my senses alive, my only intention to surrender and embrace the magic between us.