Pieces of Me: Memoirs of a Past Life Tourist

By Brenda Ann Babinski

Time and again we are born. We wear different bodies. We learn different lessons. Each life makes up a piece of our soul, carrying us further along our journey of expansion. Brenda Ann Babinski became a Past Life Tourist simply out of curiosity. But what began as a whim, soon became a quest of discovery that propelled her through time and space, where she has collected the scattered pieces of herself. Richly nuanced and exquisitely crafted, Brendas memoir deeply touches the essence of what it means to be a human in search of a soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Oct 21, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504367714

Brenda Ann Babinski

Brenda’s past life travels began in 2012 during her training at the Omega Institute with Dr. Brian Weiss. What began as a curiosity has become a passion, taking her from lifetime to lifetime in the ultimate journey: the discovery of the soul.

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Copyright © 2016 Brenda Ann Babinski.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-6770-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-6771-4 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/13/2016

Contents

Prologue

Manco Inca

Getting There

Hark

Day 1

Incher

Didiane

Day 2

21

Jakob

I Am

11

Amrit

Daniel

40

Butterbean

38

Serge

Serge Between

Batu-Dai

Goerda Oppenheim

Spadone

Day 3

Excerpt from Wishes Fulfilled by Dr. Wayne Dyer

Brother Thomas

First breaths

Man

Cardinal

Chao

Day 4

Constance Willoughby

Constance - Between

Day 5

The Keeper

Home

Rose

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

For my parents

Betty and Dale Burley

With love and thanks.

Mom, you gave me roots

Dad, you gave me wings

I hate to brag, but I chose really well this lifetime.

We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls

Anais Nin

Prologue

In the Beginning

I’m sorry, what did you say?

My mind has been wandering. Crowds compel me to draw into myself, to the comfort of my own thoughts, while a pasted smiling, nodding veneer of me presents the impression of engaging. Words, small talk, laughter, wine. I hate it all.

I’m here for Barb and will stay only as long as is absolutely needed. I promised her and now I am stuck in a hell of mingling. I have smiled and nodded and pretended to listen, biding my time until I can escape.

But then this. I need to hear this.

Excuse me. I am sorry but I didn’t hear that last bit. What were you saying?

She has long, frizzy red hair and is wearing piles of scarves and bobbles and noisy, mismatched clothes. I have instantly filed her in the weirdo category, easily discounting anything she has to say based on my judgment of her fashion sense. Wow. When did I get to be such a bitch?

I was saying that I can see it clearly. I will know the valley when I find it, and I plan to find it. She is staring into the mid distance, as if seeing it right now. I sold my stuff. All of it. Tomorrow I hand over the house keys to the new owners. I’m leaving on Saturday. She sips her red wine. Garish copper smudges mark where her lips touch. I feel slightly lightheaded. Standing closer to the wall I reach my hand behind me to anchor myself to its steadiness. A wave of panic flutters high in my chest and I squeeze my fists closed, willing the anxiety attack away before it has a chance to grab hold.

I’ve had the memories since I was a little girl. It’s all really clear. I plan on finding it and reclaiming it. I died a brutal death for that treasure. It’s time it came back into the world to do some good. Head swimming I reel, wondering if I am going to throw up or fall down.

Are you alright dear? Do you need to sit down? You look a bit pale. She takes my hand and leads me to the couch. We sit. I am grateful for the sturdy hold of the cushions.

How did you die? What happened? I steal myself for the answer I know is coming. Before she even begins to speak I know. It’s the same. Her past life memory is the same as my Dad’s past life. Exactly the same.

I was a slave, one of hundreds… maybe thousands. The Emperor ordered us slaughtered after we carried his gold and treasures on our backs. Miles and miles through the jungle we carried it, then we dug a giant pit and we helped load it into the ground.

I am sweating now. Even sitting I feel as if I will lose my balance, maybe fall. Maybe float away.

I have a vivid memory. The Emperor looked at the Priest. They nodded at each other and then the Emperor lifted his arm. WHAM! The guards began hacking away at us. We were so tired and worn out we didn’t think to fight back. I took a hit to the back of my head and was dead before I hit the ground.

I fix my gaze on her fingers, gnarled with age but with finely manicured nails. Long, sharp red points. I clench my fists. My head swims.

Hot tendrils of panic crawl up my back, settle in my chest and I feel my eyes begin to swim. Not now, dammit. The room spins and I gasp as I reach for the arm of the couch, clenching tightly until the spinning stops. Noises from the party distort and play in my head like maniacal circus music. I have to go. Now. Breath stops. I struggle to live, to continue breathing, to feel the beating of my heart slow and steady. A panic attack. A big one. The logical part of me acknowledges this as the rest of me is swept away by the screaming in my head: I have to go NOW! I jump to my feet.

I have to go. I’m sorry. I just remembered an appointment. I think I smile, but am sure the grimace on my face looks anything but remotely pleasant. She rises and gives me an awkward, strangers-who-just-met hug.

Excuses given, I bolt from the party and get in my car. As soon as I sit in the familiar solitude, the panic attack leaves, suddenly and completely, as I knew it would. At least my brand of crazy is predictable. I sigh, exhausted by life. Pulling my phone from my bag, I dial.

Dad. I have to tell you something. You aren’t going to believe this….

Manco Inca

My Father’s Lifetime

Peru – 1532

Curls of red stain the current as he dips his bloodied hands into the water. The coolness seeps the heat from his palms, which moments before held the beating heart of the young girl. Another sacrifice to save his people from the coming plight. All in vain. He knows this. He has been gifted by the gods with the vision and he sees them even now, sailing toward the shore, armies of marauders who will kill and plunder and destroy his people.

He yanks the white robe from his body, stained nearly black with blood and throws it into the creek. Wild impotence rages through him. Splashing the icy cold water on his body he washes the river red with leavings of this sacrifice. How many beating hearts has he held aloft, feeling the hot blood drain down his arm, staining him, spraying the ground around? How many times has he heard the screams of the young end abruptly as his blade silences them? How many times has he watched the clay earth become wet with the blood of the innocent, the tears of the mothers and fathers? And knowing all along that it was all for naught. No amount of blood was going to stop the inevitable. All of it in vain. There would be no stopping the massacre.

And now he knows it is time. He must tell the Emperor.

They come. He dares utter the words aloud, though no ears can hear. They come and we are powerless to stop them.

The young Nimah approaches, bringing a clean white robe to wear. She bows her head, never daring to look upon him. She fears him. They all do. Even Capac the Emperor.

Of course they do. I am Manco Inca, great Seer and Prophet. I alone can save my people. Capac boasts the power of the throne knowing that now he must act quickly. It is time to hide the riches from the seeking savages. The Emperor Capac must obey Manco Inca who is lord and seer above all men, above even the one that is called Emperor. Manco Inca rules. His will be done.

A single clot of virgin’s blood clings to his thumb. He watches, transfixed, as the glistening globule suspends. No sacrifice is great enough. He shivers once, blaming the cold.

Carelessly he flicks the mess away.

* * *

Following the weary slaves, Manco Inca descends the mountain. Work is complete. After the collapse of the rock eye, he’d had to refine the method of locating the hidden riches. At dawn this day, testing of the light had confirmed the reflection. The new tunnel would pinpoint the exact location of the cache. Shrouded now with vines, in a mere cycle of the moon, the newly constructed tunnel would be forever hidden. And only Manco Inca would carry the secret. He alone would know how to find the treasure and only he would be able to recover the riches once the men and beasts of his visions were finally gone from the lands.

Murderers. Marauders. He was not yet sure, but his sight showed them coming from the seas, riding on the backs of large beasts, slashing, destroying and killing all in their paths. What men were these who controlled great beasts? Surely men and not gods?

Reaching the valley floor he commands the legion of slaves to join the others who toil to hide the Emperor’s riches. All of the gold and treasures, carried for many days to this desolate spot are now sunken beneath the jungle floor, soon to be filled in with soil and overgrown quickly by the vines and succulents that pervade. Hundreds of slaves have toiled to carry these treasures and they stand now beside the pit waiting for the guards to shout more orders. They are wilted in the moist heat of the forest, bug bitten and sick with jungle rot.

Manco Inca joins the Emperor and stands to the right of the throne. Capac is silent, watching the scene below. Two burly guards wave palm fronds to cool and to scatter flies and mosquitos.

Capac looks to Manco Inca. Manco nods. All is ready.

A moment suspends as all becomes still and silent. He hears the rustling of leaves high above, a distant shout of a black howler monkey. A mosquito buzzes close to his ear and lands, sinking stinger into the soft flesh of his neck. He swats at it, killing it, then absently wipes the gore onto his white robe.

The Emperor gives the signal. Eyes turned he watches the leader of the guards raise his machete, shout.

Time bends and slows. Axes raise, thrust of wet flint, limbs fly free. Blood sprays. The guards hack their way through the crowd of weary slaves, who are astonished and remain passively standing still for their slaughter. Flesh is cleaved and blood let as each witness is silenced for eternity.

It is done. Bile rises in his throat and he swallows his weakness. Satisfied. It is a worthy sacrifice at last.

The blade surprises, rending Manco Inca’s body back to front, piercing the fabric of his robe. Bright black-red blood spills on his tunic. He opens his mouth to speak. No sound is made, only a stained pink foam gurgling from his mouth, spilling down his chin. Another garment ruined, this time with the