I remember a former nun who came to me in southern California for
a past life session back in the 1980’s. We sat talking at first,
getting to know one another, and she told me about an experience
she had had just before leaving Los Angeles to drive up to my
place.
“I invited a priest-friend of mine over for breakfast this
morning,” she said. “He was making himself a cup of
coffee and I said, ‘Guess what I’m doing today.'”
“‘I have no idea,’ he said, and he poured boiling water into
his cup of instant coffee.”
“I’m driving up to Oxnard to be regressed to a past life.
Do you believe in past lives, Father Jim?”
“‘No,’ he said, calmly stirring his coffee. ‘But then,’ he
added, looking me straight in the eye, ‘I didn’t believe in them
my last lifetime either.'”

A past life is simply a life you lived before your current life. You lived it in a different body, often a different gender, a different race, with different parents and friends, different dreams and beliefs, different priorities, different skills, different loves, hates, and fears. Were you to meet that earlier “you,”
you might not recognize yourself. Nevertheless, some of the physical and psychological makeup of that earlier “you” remains subconsciously influencing you today, for good or ill, just as you will influence your future lives.
Some people can tune into their own past lives unaided. They might
experience them in dreams, meditation, or through travels that
suddenly stimulate past life memories. If you have never had such
experiences and do not know someone who can act as a facilitator
in unearthing past lives, you can still find many hints about
your earlier lives through things that fascinate you. A love for
certain kinds of ethnic music, for example, is a strong indicator
of the peoples you once lived among. Your taste in clothing and
jewelry is another indicator. A love of silks might suggest lives
of wealth in China or India. A preference for simple styles and
fabrics could indicate that you have lived happy lives close to
the earth. If you often dress in severe, unattractive, dark clothing,
a past life as a nun or monk might be guiding such choices because
of the safety and protection they once provided. Flamboyant clothing,
bright colors, gypsy flair, tinkling jewelry, all point to more
dramatic lives, enriching society through the arts but often lived
on the fringes. The possibilities are endless.
If you have unexplained fears without a current life basis, these
fears are another source for tuning into past lives. Fear of drowning,
burning, starving, or being buried alive are among the most common
fears but there are many others. Wounds can be indicators too:
if you died of a specific wound in an earlier life, your current
body might be marked by illness or an increased sensitivity at
the site of that earlier death-wound.
All such experiences from a past life, whether positive or negative,
have the potential to influence a current life. Tuning into the
root cause in a past life might not disconnect the influence —
sometimes it is too deeply embedded in body and psyche for that.
But at least it may help you to understand where it comes from
and this, in turn, may gradually soften any discomfort.
Why Would We Live More Than One Life?
It is said that we need all these varied experiences and roles to be whole. Another way to approach this is to say that we only live one life, but in many different bodies and circumstances. We might say that we are like a kaleidoscope filled with thousands
of different pieces of colored glass, all coming together to create an endless array of beautiful patterns. Or we could compare our past lives to beads on a necklace; each bead is handmade, unique in its own right, but also part of a larger whole.
According to the theory of reincarnation, we live many lives in
order to accumulate wisdom and compassion in multiple layers of
experience. Answering the needs of others as well as honoring
our own, for example, takes many lifetimes of trial and error.
In some of those lifetimes, you might be a healer, a nun, a loving
parent, or a spiritual leader, learning to put the needs of others
before your own. But sometimes you learn to do that so well that
you become totally one-sided, so self-sacrificing that you completely
neglect your own needs, feeling selfish even if you think about
them.
The soul cannot tolerate such one-sidedness for long and eventually
you will find yourself in lives where you might be consumed by
the arts, driven to put the expression of your own creative soul
above more practical considerations. Or you might find yourself
born as a disabled child, forced to be vulnerable and to let others
care for you, as you once cared for them. Finding a balance between
living out of one’s egotistical drives and expressing one’s genuine
soul-yearnings is a delicate and often excruciating process. If
you have been self-effacing for too many lives, you may no longer
be able to tell the difference between being selfish or not. Then
you may need to deliberately do what feels like being “selfish”
in order to re-set the inner balance-wheel.
Another difficult area involves courage, for there are many kinds
of courage. In one life, you might be a warrior learning about
courage in battle. In another life, you might be a farmer’s wife,
equally learning about courage in the face of unpredictable weather,
poor crops, an exhausted husband, and sickly children. In yet
another life you might learn about courage by fighting political
corruption and oppression. A child knows courage, so does a homeless
person, a refugee, a terminally ill person. If we are not to get
stuck in a one-sided “hero” definition of courage, we
have to understand all its many and complex dimensions, not by
reading books about it, but by living it.
Learning to love, to be compassionate, to genuinely desire that
all beings, all life forms, be shown kindness — this take countless
lifetimes — and yet mastering these energies are the most important
of all, for they are what makes us truly human. As Gandhi wrote
about love:
If for mastering the physical sciences you have to devote a whole
lifetime, how many lifetimes may be needed for mastering the greatest
spiritual force that mankind has ever known?
Getting Stuck in Archetypal Roles
We rarely know that archetypes exist unless something happens to activate one. Even then, most people do not understand what has been activated or what it means. An “archetype” can perhaps best be understood as an energy-field within the psyche.
It is a “field” with no content — in other words, it
comes without any images or emotions. It is a very powerful energy-pattern, however, and if a specific image or emotion enters its range and adequately matches its abstract structure, the archetypal field will grab onto that content and “fix” it into place as an expression of that archetype.
Sometimes this process is culturally specific — in India, for
example, Kali might represent the Divine Mother archetype, while
in the West the Virgin Mary might embody that same role. But archetypal
and karmic patterns are often intricately interwoven, which means
that some of the archetypes in an individual psyche may carry
an intense karmic “charge.” Thus the Divine Mother archetype
for some individuals might be embodied by a living woman known
to them from earlier lives — a spiritual teacher, perhaps, or
a loving relative.
There are countless archetypes within the psyche. Greek and Roman
deities are the most familiar representations of them in the West.
This does not mean that these deities are archetypes in and of
themselves. It only means that they carry a power or energy that
allows them to function as “content” to otherwise contentless
archetypes. The Roman war god Mars, in other words, is not an
archetype, but he represents what the warrior archetype is all
about. Unfortunately, for several thousand years, this archetype
has been attracting highly addictive contents. Once this archetype
is activated within the psyche, the warrior’s path may exert such
an intense fascination that everything else pales around it. We
no longer worship Mars, of course, but the reincarnations of many
of Rome’s finest are with us still and any sufficiently charismatic
general might easily carry an archetypal “charge” strong
enough to persuade his troops to follow him even into the most
hopeless of battles. Such warriors die, tend to be swiftly re-born,
and fifteen to twenty years later they are likely to be serving
as warriors all over again — unless circumstances allow for the
intervention of a more benign archetype.
Venus also is not an archetype but she shows us what the Lover
archetype is all about — if a Venus-like beautiful woman activates
this archetype within us, we may experience the heights of bliss
but also the depths of folly. Her relationship with Mars creates
special psychological difficulties.

Hera and Zeus are not archetypes either but we can understand
the Royal Leadership archetype by studying how they use and abuse
power; if something activates this archetype within our psyches,
we may find ourselves playing out their mistakes before we realize
what is happening.
The Greek myth of Persephone models for us the anguish of the
Raped Maiden archetype just as her mother Demeter reveals the
depths of the Sorrowing Mother archetype. Many women who have
experienced firsthand either or both of these realms find profound
consolation in the stories surrounding these two goddesses, for
they offer a way through horror to the promise of a mysterious
healing source within the psyche.
The twenty-two cards of the Tarot’s Greater Arcana are another source
that provides examples of what goes on behind the scenes in the
underlying archetypes we recognize in the images of the Magician,
the High Priestess, the Emperor, the Empress, the Hermit, Death,
the Devil, the Hierophant, the Lovers, and so forth. Like all
contentless archetypes, they are value-neutral: they can nurture
us and give us great gifts of wisdom and insight, but if we identify
too strongly with any of them, we can also wind up being possessed.
Honoring one to the exclusion of the others is unwise.
Similarly, a careless dishonoring of any of them is unwise. The
patterns each of them represents are hard-wired into our psyches
and can no more be dislodged than our blood vessels or neural nets.
As mentioned in the above section, “one-sidedness” is
the clearest sign that one has been gripped by an archetypal energy,
or role, with which one was probably over-identified in the past.
We all know insecure comedians who are always “on”;
cloyingly charming Southern Belles; smug fundamentalists who are
unrelentingly “right”; and males who are defined solely
by their arrogant machismo. These people are so one-sided that
they seem like caricatures. They are so caught up in a single
role that it is difficult to relate to them on a human level.
Here are a few other examples of what getting caught in archetypal
energy might look like…
A male who refuses to mature is called a Peter Pan, or puer (an
Eternal Boy). Part of this refusal to mature is cultural, for
the West worships youth, but when such a trait manifests in an
individual male, it could come from a life in which he died young
and never had a chance
to grow up. In later lives, he might cut off his psychological
maturation at that same point. This becomes his way of holding
onto a life he never got to live. Unfortunately, the aging Peter
Pan (or what I call a “wrinkled puer”), does not get
to live either — his life becomes a stale mockery of youth.
Imperious types, whether male or female, express the Emperor/Empress
role, which could stem either from wishful thinking or from an
actual royal life that needs to be released in order for them
to more gracefully rejoin the human race. These are the people
who say, “You’re either with me or against me.” They
expect their relatives and other minions always to agree with
them, praise them, and flutter around them. They become quite
unpleasant, even dangerous, when this does not happen. The “charge”
of the archetypal energy they carry is often quite capable of
constellating a disaster or crisis designed to keep them in power.
Along the way, they often retreat into psychological “bubbles”
and disown disobedient family and friends.
The “saintly” archetypes such as teacher, healer, and
priest-minister-rabbi-guru are notoriously easy to get caught
in. These can be beautiful, nurturing, and necessary roles, but
if we get so trapped in them that we have no life of our own —
and our mates (like C.G. Jung’s wife) are forced to manifest our
own unexplored shadow sides by becoming increasingly bitter and
bitchy — then we need to look at those earlier lifetimes where
we first got trapped, and, again, as with Emperor/Empress, find
ways to rejoin the human race.
If thinking of archetypes as force fields seems too abstract,
another analogy would be to think of the psyche, first, as a vast,
interdimensional ocean mysteriously held within the “leather
bag” of the brain (actually, psyche isn’t limited to the
brain — it’s throughout the body, but it’s simpler to think of
it as living in the brain). Within that ocean are archetypes —
think of them as a patterned potential for “riptides.”
That potential may only rarely be activated.
Let’s use the example of a riptide for the Hermit archetype. This is
a very valuable and healing archetype but it isn’t currently functioning
in as widespread a manner as the Warrior or Lover archetypes.
If you read the luminous writings of Thoreau or the Trappist monk,
Thomas Merton, you may be deeply impressed with the value of living
in a solitary hermitage and communing with nature or a chosen
deity. This may lead you to respect the Hermit archetype but it
doesn’t necessarily mean it will be activated in your own life.
The riptide potential of this archetype will only be activated
if the archetype is interwoven with your own karmic patterns.
This might involve a deep longing for such a life born in a past
life. More likely, it will emerge from your actual experiences
lived as a hermit in earlier lives. Then, it is as if a riptide
reaches out of nowhere, capturing the emotions, memories, and
images, and gripping you so strongly that you leave everything
behind and go off to live in the wilderness. Being gripped by
an archetype can be exhilarating and blissful. One can be a hermit
and reach immense psychological depth and maturity. In this case,
the karmic activation of that riptide was your destiny and highest
good.
But this can be very tricky. If you, in your earlier hermit lives,
already fully experienced the demands, challenges, and rewards
of that life, then to return to being a hermit would be at best,
nostalgia, and at worst, an escape. If the choice is not born
from a genuine desire for growth, the archetypal energies become
destructive. You then lose your footing, your sense of humor,
and your psychological flexibility. Although you may hide this
from others, even from yourself, you will become increasingly
rigid, cold, and misanthropic.
Bottom line: any time we are caught up in an outgrown archetype,
no matter how compassionate and caring it might seem on the surface,
it makes us one-sided and our lives become obsessive. When this
happens, the root of the problem probably lies in an earlier lifetime
where we identified too strongly with the archetypal energy of
a given role.
In such circumstances, exploring our own past lives, not only
to find the obsessive root, but also to explore the wide range
of alternate roles belonging to our own karmic palette, is highly
recommended. Other options include reaching out to alternate archetypal
energies and “wooing” them by taking up new interests
and widening our circle of friends to include those who have already
mastered “roles” we need for our own completion.
For psychic health, one needs to dance with, or at least be on
speaking terms with, a wide variety of archetypes. To overly identify
with one is a clue that one is stuck and unable to grow except
in that one direction, until ultimately one topples over. Just
as the human heart rate is healthiest when it is flexible and
variable (it is locked into a rigid, steady beat only when death
nears), so too the body and psyche need to embrace many flexible,
variable roles.

Why Bother to Explore Past Lives?
If we have had past lives, we have also obviously had past deaths.This fact is a major reason why people are interested in exploring their past lives — it places the inevitability of death in a much larger context and makes it far less fearsome. It also gives
us the hope that when those we love die — whether a family member,
a close friend, or a beloved pet — we will meet them again and
once more share the joys and sorrows of life. We will continue
growing together, laughing, being kind to one another, fighting,
making up – exploring all the nuances of possible relationships.
People may also wish to explore past lives to re-discover skills
they once had, for these can often be reactivated and become a
new line of work, or a cherished hobby. Looking into the past
for root causes of illness or unexplained fears is another important
reason for past life work.
Next to reducing the terror of death, however, the most frequent
reason people desire to explore past lives
is to understand relationships better. Close,
loving relationships never happen by accident — they emerge out of centuries of experience with that other soul. The same can be said of difficult, painful relationships — these too always have a long history. Knowing that history can help us to better understand the deeper issues, allowing either for a long overdue
truce or for a permanent “divorce” if the relationship is too toxic to be salvaged, at least in this current lifetime. Knowing the history of the animosity gives us the clarity and distance to see the wisest course of action. That deeper context allows our choices to come from wisdom, not anger or despair.
Perhaps the greatest benefit to be derived from exploring past
lives comes from a growing sense of serenity and trust in the
process. There is often great pain and confusion in our lives
and we may often feel our lives are meaningless. But when one
explores the complex and often wondrous patterns in the past,
things begin to fall into place and one slowly understands that
a larger mystery is unfolding. As British playwright Christopher
Fry wrote in his The Dark is Light Enough:
There is an angle of experience where
the dark is distilled into light:
either here or hereafter, in or out of time:
where our tragic fate finds itself with perfect pitch,
and goes straight to the key which creation was composed in….
Groaning as we may be, we move in the figure of a dance,
and so moving, we trace the outline of the mystery.

Perspectives on Exploring Past Lives
also by Kathleen Jenks, Ph.D.

There are many ways to begin an essay on reincarnation. I could write
about ancient burials in Siberia, where, as Joseph Campbell documents,
the body was colored with red ochre as a sign of life’s blood
and then buried in a fetal posture, facing east — an indication
of a belief that the dead would live again like the sun, rising
again in the east. I could also write about the males of Aboriginal
tribes in Australia who sing the spirit of an ancestor back into
a woman’s womb. Or I could mention that the ancient Celts accepted
reincarnation as such a normal part of life that loans were made
based upon repayment in a later embodiment. Such beliefs in rebirth
are common, and the majority of earth’s non-monotheistic peoples
take them seriously. Gandhi, for example, wrote eloquently:
If for mastering the physical sciences you have to devote a whole
lifetime, how many lifetimes may be needed for mastering the greatest
spiritual force that mankind has ever known? 1
India, of course, is well known for accepting reincarnation. The
very word karma, which could be loosely translated, “as you
sow, so you shall reap,” comes from India. What is less known
is that the concept of reincarnation was also openly embraced
by one of the framers of the American Declaration of Independence,
Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790). When he was twenty-two, he wrote
his own epitaph. It was never used on his gravestone but it reflects
a viewpoint he held the rest of his life:
The Body of B. Franklin, Printer,
Like the Cover of an Old Book,
Its Contents Torn Out
And Stripped of its Lettering and Gilding,
Lies Here
Food for Worms,
But the Work shall not be Lost,
For it Will as He Believed
Appear Once More
In a New and more Elegant Edition
Revised and Corrected
By the Author. 2
When Franklin was eighty, he wrote a friend, “I look upon
death to be as necessary to the constitution as sleep. We shall
rise refreshed in the morning.” Between Gandhi and Franklin
lie vast numbers of Western philosophers, poets, authors, artists,
and thinkers from all walks of life who have shared these beliefs.
People who are in touch with their own creativity are especially
likely to resonate with concepts of reincarnation because their
very creativity is a mystery of unknown origins. Thus, seeking
those origins in one’s own memories of earlier lives has its own
logic. Pythagoras advised souls returning to rebirth to beseech
the Goddess of Memory, Mnemosyne, to let them keep their memories
by allowing them to drink of her spring waters. Mnemosyne is the
mother of the Muses — in other words, she, as the Goddess of
Memory, is the font of all art. She can give us knowledge of beginnings,
origins, and earlier times because she remembers all the winding,
interconnecting stories.
According to Plato, when we die, we drink of the waters of the
river Lethe, which washes away our memories of the life just lived.
“The dead,” Mircea Eliade writes, “are those who
have lost their memories.” 3 But in another sense, the dead
are in the midst of experiencing celestial realms and garnering
even more memories. When they return to life, they first leave
the underworld by way of the left-hand road that goes to the spring
of Lethe and, “gorged with forgetfulness and vice,”
according to Plato, they drink the waters and their celestial
memories are lost. So the living are also those who have lost
their memories.
Pythagoras advised his followers not to take the left-hand road
to Lethe, but to go to the right instead, and find the road leading
to “the spring that comes from the lake of Mnemosyne. ‘Quickly
give me the fresh water that flows from the lake of Memory,’ the
soul is told to ask the guardians of the spring.” 4 That
soul, its memories intact, is then reborn as a great master.
The Buddha is said to have argued that “Gods fall from Heaven
when their ‘memory fails and they are of confused memory’.”5
Gods who don’t forget remain eternal and unchanging. From this
perspective, to forget is to fall from heaven, which gives an
interesting nuance to the myth of Lucifer in the West — and to
the “Lucifer” within us. Some people say, “the
devil made me do it.” From this Fall-equals-loss-of-memory
perspective, that’s exactly right. The loss of memory, the loss
of awareness of other choices and repercussions, pushes us into
repeating similar mistakes over and over. We fall.
Eliade comments:
…Knowledge of one’s own former lives
— that is, of one’s personal history —
bestows…a soteriological knowledge and mastery over one’s destiny….
That is why ‘absolute memory’ — such as the Buddha’s, for example
—
is equivalent to omniscience…. 6
That’s a very male way of looking at it, of course, in terms of
mastering one’s destiny, getting untangled from karmic burdens,
and returning to the celestial heavens. That may indeed be
what
it’s about for many, but I’m not sure that’s all there is to it. Having a body is a precious gift, one to be valued and lived in tenderly, anointing it, allowing quiet joy to be flowing in cell-deep pools, filled with their own memories. The body is a companion,
not a servant, and, in my view, each body we inhabit leaves an indelible imprint upon the soul. How could it be otherwise, when both are so interconnected, when matter itself is understood as a different vibration of spirit?
So in exploring past lives, we go into the Place of Memory, to
her lake, her springs, her fountain, and drink of those waters
and ask for gift of being able to remember.
Over thirty years ago, my personal experience in a past life regression
session facilitated by the late Marcia Moore convinced me of the
value of exploring what seemed to be memories from ancient times.
I began facilitating past life work shortly thereafter, and have
continued to do it all these years, because I believe that by
healing one’s personal past we contribute to a wiser, saner present.
British playwright Christopher Fry wrote in his The Dark is Light
Enough: is an angle of experience where the
dark is distilled into light:
either here or hereafter, in or out of time:
where our tragic fate finds itself with perfect pitch,
and goes straight to the key which creation was composed in….
Groaning as we may be, we move in the figure of a dance,
and so moving, we trace the outline of the mystery.
Exploring past lives is a way of tracing “the outline of
the mystery.” It can be seen as a ritual of time-travel,
a journey into imaginal space, or a journey into the personal
unconscious. It is through such underworld experiences that we
explore what Christine Downing calls “the times of real soul-making.”
7 The work can be called past life regression, story therapy,
far-memory exploration, active imagination, or guided meditation.
The exploration can be viewed as a literal exploration of an earlier
lifetime, but it can also be interpreted in terms of metaphor,
an “as if” adventure, a theatre-of-the-mind, a tapping
into Jung’s “collective unconscious.” Jean Houston calls
such a process, simply, an “intellectual focusing technique.”
Regardless, it’s a way of letting yourself be drawn back into
an ancient life or “story” that is especially rich in
personal relevance for you.
No matter what we call it, the memories are there and most people
can access them in light trance states with full conscious awareness of the process. Belief is not important, nor is one’s personal philosophy. Despite one’s intellectual belief system, we hold within us many worlds, many ages — some tranquil, others full
of drama and passion. Whether we call it soul-work or nonsense,
the memories and emotions are there, influencing us not far below
the surface. We feel them like a fleeting joy — or like the pain
of a phantom limb. In a sense, it’s like childbirth muscles: all
women have them but they’re rarely used more than three or four
times in an entire lifetime, and sometimes they’re not used at
all. Yet they’re still there.
So it is with the “muscles” of these memories, these
stories. If one chooses to explore them, it’s important to set
aside any bias in order to do “fieldwork” within one’s
own mind. Specialists educated in specific disciplines are often
the easiest to regress, for they are trained to bracket-out preconceptions
in order to simply deal with a phenomenon as it presents itself.
But everyone has the natural ability to access these “muscles.”
All one has to do is to stay open and see what emerges. If the
experience gives a new perspective to one’s existence, or if it
activates a renewed sense of wonder, or solves long-standing problems
or questions by re-casting their context, the process will have
been worthwhile.

This does not mean that everyone should rush out and find a past
life facilitator. There are many other ways of accessing the material
— dreams, active imagination, creative work, journaling, dialoguing
aloud with oneself —- and, the most common and miraculous way
of all: falling in love. As Tagore writes on the persistence of
love from past lives:
“I think I shall stop startled if ever we meet after our next birth, walking in the light of a far-away world. I shall know those dark eyes then as morning
stars, and yet feel that they have belonged to some unremembered
evening sky of a former life. I shall know that the magic of your
face is not all its own, but has stolen the passionate light that
was in my eyes at some immemorial meeting, and then gathered from
my love a mystery that has now forgotten its origin. Love then
can be a guide to past lives. And dreams, fantasies, musings,
and strong likes and dislikes for foods, clothes, furniture, art,
colors. All these ingredients offer hints of where we have been
before, with whom, and in what context. It may be that we do not
live many earlier lives, but rather that we live only one, always
the same, but lived in different costumes and played out on many
different stages, with many of the same supporting actors, over
and over and again over, as we garner new insights and greater
compassion each time.”

Much more could be said, for the subject is complex and fascinating,
but since I only wish to touch on a few perspectives concerning
past lives, this must suffice. For those who wish to pursue the
matter further, I offer a selected bibliography below.
FOOTNOTES::
1 Head & Cranston [see bibliography]:412.
2 Head & Cranston: 258.
3 Eliade, Mircea. Myth & Reality: 121.
4 Ibid.: 122.
5 Ibid.:116.
6 Ibid.:90.
7 Downing, Christine. Gods in Our Midst. New York: Crossroad, 1993:48.
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY:
Note: there are a huge number of books on these topics and I have certainly not read them all. Of those I have (mostly from the days of my initial involvement in the field), these are among my favorites. Many are classics and still in print. [Added 8 February 2004]: This is a fine review of a scholarly book that looks quite intriguing — Gananath Obeyesekere’s Imagining Karma: Ethical Transformation in Amerindian, Buddhist, and Greek Rebirth. (Comparative Studies in Religion and Society Series, vol. 14. Berkeley and London: University of California
Press, 2002.) Here is the review: http://www.h-net.msu.edu/reviews/showrev.cgi?path=4601070867937
Cerminara, Gina. Many Mansions. New American Library/Signet, 1950.
Cranston, Sylvia, and Carey Williams. Reincarnation: A New Horizon in Science, Religion, & Society. Crown, 1984.
Head, Joseph, and S. L. Cranston, eds. Reincarnation in World Thought. Julian Press, 1967.
Lucas, Winafred Blake, Ph.D. Regression Therapy: A Handbook for Professionals (in 2 volumes). Deep Forest Press, 1993.
MacGregor, Geddes, Ph.D. Reincarnation in Christianity. Quest Books, 1978.
Moody, Raymond A., Jr., M.D. Life After Life. Bantam, 1976.
Moore, Marcia. Hypersentience. Crown, 1976. [Note: Marcia Moore was my guide and teacher in the very beginning of my past life experiences.]
Stearn, Jess. The Search for a Soul: Taylor Caldwell’s Psychic Lives. Fawcett Crest, 1974.
For Children (but I also love this one too):
Gerstein, Mordicai. The Mountains of Tibet. HarperCollins / Harper Trophy, 1989.
Source for both articles:
Kathleen Jenks, Ph.D.
The author is a former professor of mythology at California’s Pacifica Graduate Institute who has now returned to private practice as a past life facilitator in southwest Michigan.