Past Lives

I belong to a writing group based in New York. Last Saturday I was given a challenge to write as if I were a grieving artist who was seeking healing through accessing a past life of someone who was connected to the sea in some way. I had 45 minutes to write.  I chose to use a person from my family tree for my past life individual.

Caron Happuch Holliday is actually my great-great grandmother. She did have a daughter named Mary. The Brooklyn was an actual ship. On February 4, 1846, the ship left New York to carry 238 individuals 24,000 miles around Cape Horn to California. The passengers survived two terrible storms and arrived in California on July 31, 1846. Caron Happuch Holliday and her daughter were not passengers on the ship. She actually traveled from Alabama to Utah by covered wagon.  

                                                Past Lives 

Another painting ruined. A promising beginning obliterated by black waves. My mind chooses my colors. My mind controls my hand.  My hand controls my brush. So why do those black waves appear? On my canvas. In my dreams.  Why?

I believe that what is inside has the ability to appear in visible form.  In paintings.  In words. But now every painting I begin ends up in blackness. I stare at the pile of ruined paintings. My pain is slashed across each piece, and I am no closer to understanding the reason why. I am running out of canvases. So, I will write this down on paper. Somehow, I must understand.

I write. Something. I lift my pencil from the page. Journaling by hand—not on the computer—is soothing to me. The anguish begins to fade as I stare at the page. At the words my pencil has written.  Words I have no recollection of writing. Caron Happuch Holliday.  Who is she? My great-great grandmother?  Or something more? My pencil moves across the page. Adding more words. Mary. Brooklyn.  My pencil  scribbles back and forth. Back and forth. Huge black wavy lines obliterate Brooklyn. Obliterate Mary. 

I close my eyes and concentrate on the past.  My past. My mother’s past and each mother’s past until I arrive at Caron. In that moment I am Caron. Her grief is my grief. Her tears are my tears. Mary, my baby. My beautiful baby girl.  I feel her in my arms. The ship.  . . I feel the Brooklyn rock beneath my feet. Going up and down with each wave. Tilting to the side. Righting itself. The storm.  The wind. The waves. The angry smell of salt pushes into my nostrils. The taste of salt invades  my mouth. Storm rages around me. I clutch the mast with one arm. I hold Mary in the other. The waves. The black waves. They crash over me, tearing at my skirts. They reach out and pull back. Again and again. And once more.

Mary!  Maaarry. The waves. They have taken her. Snatched her from my arms. She is so little. So alone in the depths of the sea.

I scream. I did not want this. I struggle to bury my memories. Bury my tears. Bury my Mary in the depths of the sea. I pick up my pencil and begin to write once more.

       Are these memories mine?
      Or Caron’s?
      Did I travel on a ship?
      Did I live through a storm?
      Was there a Mary?
      Did she exist?

I see the questions lined up in a list, marching down the page in search of answers. There is no answer. I throw my pencil across the room before it can obliterate my list with blackness.

I do not wipe away my tears. I let them flow—washing out my visions. Or memories. Or whatever they were. Caron existed. Mary existed. I exist. I feel empty, alone. In this moment the anguish of these memories have been washed away.

I lift my head. There is one more canvas leaning against the wall. I stumble to it on trembling legs. The canvas feels heavy in my hands. I return to my easel and place the canvas there. I pick up my brush and swish it to and fro  in the water. Around and around, swishing a figure eight. To and fro. Around and around until all the blackness is gone.

 Once again, my hand moves of its own accord. Choosing colors. Applying color as my brush wills. A face emerges. A baby’s face.

 Mary.

Accepting and overcoming challenges makes me stronger.  When I was given this writing challenge, my first reaction was “How do I do that? I don’t know anything about accessing past lives.” But I managed to find a solution. The process of accepting a writing challenge and finding a way to accomplish it is helping me to become a better writer. Each challenge I am given tests my ability.  What will I eventually do with the words I wrote last Saturday in response to the writing challenge?  I’m not sure, but it was a good experience and I feel that I was successful.