Who Is Me?

By PJ Lee

Patterns can mean more than you think even when you dont realize they exist.

Patricia Jane Lee has embraced that truth as a result of examining her past lives, which have spanned the globe.

In her current life, she has enjoyed nursing sick animals especially the paralyzed ones while in the past life, she was a paralyzed man.

When Lees family farm was sold, she was devastated, and she carried that pain for years. Later she discovered a past life where she had been an Indian chief whose land was stolen. She then realized she had been carrying both her own pain and that of the Indian.

In examining her current life and former lives, Lee has discovered remarkable similarities that exist between her past and present. She realizes the person she is today is the sum of all the people she was in her previous lifetimes.

Join the author on her healing journey, as she examines the patterns that have permeated her many lives, and, along with love and forgiveness, frees herself from painful remnants of the past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: Nov 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504305495

PJ Lee

Patricia Jane Lee has lived past lives as male and female, rich and poor, in countries throughout the world. In her current life, she has worked as a nurse, farmer, writer, and therapist. She lives in a rural seaside community in New Zealand.

Book preview

1%20ID%20747280.jpg

Feather 1

Chief White Cloud heaved in a large lungful of mountain air. Its freshness and purity calmed his weary body. The rising sun penetrated his layers of clothing to reach the cells deep within his heart.

Joy and happiness pulsed through his being as he was transformed into a state of oneness. He was the mountain, he was the dusty plain, and he was the sun’s golden rays.

He was the universe itself.

Chief White Cloud’s soul danced in delight as he conversed with his long-departed ancestors.

Time and reality disappeared.

Was it a minute or was it an hour, and did it even matter?

The flapping wings of an eagle jolted the chief back to the present, and he felt his heart tighten as he remembered.

He looked over to the sun and breathed, thankful to again see those early morning rays.

This mountain was special. He’d come with his father as a small boy. His father had come with his father, who’d come with his father. Generations had made the predawn climb.

Chief White Cloud had spent his whole life in freedom, following the herds and plant material to ensure there was always a plentiful supply of food, medicines, and clothing.

He loved the land with every cell of his body, and the land loved him back. He was the land, and the land was him.

But everything the chief loved so dearly had been taken from him, including the hunting grounds and the sacred sites.

Now this mountain was all that remained of his former existence.

How he ached for that lost freedom.

It was a long and arduous trek to get here and held even more significance now that the rest of the land was gone.

But this morning Chief White Cloud revelled in the dawning of the almighty sun. It brought such joy.

He had missed the early morning rituals of giving thanks to the sun for each new day. It was now well into the morning before the sun reached his tribe.

He looked down at his moccasins. They were wearing thin. In the past he would have replaced them long before they reached this condition, but now his sources of hide and food were few and infrequent.

His once-prosperous tribe was suffering. Feelings of anger and bitterness were building among his people. Chief White Cloud felt burdened. His people were his responsibility, and he was not providing for them as he should.

He turned to the great ones in the sky and asked for help. He knew he would be given the answers as he thought back to the days prior.

Periodically the chief had ridden to the white man’s camp where new settlers were arriving every day.

He saw the cavalry dividing up the land that had once been the Indians’ to roam freely.

Chief White Cloud’s tribe had left their land without bloodshed, unlike some tribes who’d fought and taken numerous scalps in their eviction.

But that had all changed when Chief White Cloud found two men fighting over the land they had been allocated. He was incensed. How dare they fight over land that wasn’t theirs in the first place? The land didn’t belong to them; it didn’t belong to anyone.

As the two men continued to argue, the chief felt the muscles in the back of his neck tighten, and an unfamiliar feeling of anger surged through his body.

He pulled his bow to his chest and fired two arrows with deadly accuracy. Instantly, the two men were dead. The chief galloped off while the adrenaline continued to ravage his pounding body.

Now he was on top of the mountain speaking to his elders. Killing was not something he had been taught or believed in. His tribe was a passive one. His people had lived with integrity and harmony with all creatures around them. In turn, they had the respect of everything that shared the land with them.

As the chief communicated with his ancestors, a peace descended upon him. He hadn’t set out to kill the two settlers. He asked for forgiveness for the killings, and this was granted. He was a wise man and had learnt well from his father and grandfather. Now they were speaking to him again, urging him to continue with the love and compassion he had for all humanity. They implored him to let go of the bitterness that was beginning to consume him.

Feeling satisfied and fulfilled, and knowing that love and compassion must reign despite all that was done to them, White Cloud made his way back down the mountain and mounted his horse for the three-day trek home.

The journey was a meditative one. As the chief rocked back and forth in the hot morning sun, he found himself drifting into the space where answers flowed.

He knew there would be consequences for the killings, but he also knew he would have the strength to continue and would have the wisdom to lead his tribe forward.

*     *     *

If it had been that simple, then perhaps things would have turned out differently.

White settlers were daily being killed across the country. As Chief White Cloud’s tribe had gone without a fight, they were perceived as less of an enemy than some.

However, it was amongst his own people that the chief faced his biggest foe.

Other tribes were jealous of the chief’s prosperity. When one lives in harmony with one’s environment, then prosperity flows. Some other tribes could not understand this concept and did not realise they were actually blocking their own good fortune by their feelings of resentment.

There was one Indian who particularly despised Chief White Cloud. Little Foot had always hated him. He’d hated him when they were children together, and he hated him now. He’d hated him for all that he knew he’d never have himself.

When White Cloud’s father joined the Great Spirit in the sky, White Cloud became chief, and that incensed Little Foot even more.

Ugliness seethed through his body.

Nothing would give him more pleasure than seeing the demise of the chief and his people.

Little Foot had long since left the tribe, and it was a better place without him. Feelings such as Little Foot harboured didn’t belong among White Cloud’s followers.

Little Foot also aided the whites in their quest to control the land. The white leaders liaised with him, believing he was an Indian they could trust. What they didn’t realise was that the only allegiance Little Foot had was to himself.

As word of the killing of the two settlers spread, Little Foot seized his chance. He had a devious plan. He knew much about the white people and their habits. He knew where they were staying, and he knew the layout of their camp. He also knew a large group of them were staying in a makeshift dwelling some distance away, where they’d taken their families for safety.

In the middle of the night, Little Foot sneaked up to the enclosure and killed them all, including women and children. He then planted items from White Chief’s tribe to make it look as if they had committed the murders.

Next morning Little Foot brazenly rode to the cavalry and informed the men that White Cloud was responsible for the killings. He promised to lead the cavalry to the tribe.

Chief White Cloud had been set up.

*     *     *

The chief was making good progress on his trek homewards, but his unease grew the further he rode. A troubled sleep didn’t help, and the feelings of heaviness and sadness only worsened as he continued his journey the next day.

When the sun began setting after his second day, the chief considered riding through the night, as there wasn’t that much further to travel. However, he chose to stop, mainly for his horse’s sake. But by daybreak Chief White Cloud knew he had made the wrong decision. Something was drastically wrong. He’d seen his mother and son that night, and he knew that was an ominous sign.

As the chief came over the brow of the hill to his settlement, he was met with a sight of utter destruction. Piles of ashes lay where the tepees had stood so proudly. Bodies were strewn across the clearing.

Chief White Cloud ran from one to the next. He sobbed when he came across the bodies of his mother and son. He sobbed and howled and roared and screamed. Every single one of his people was dead.

Nothing could describe the grief this great man felt at that moment.

Minutes turned into hours, which turned into days. Mornings, evenings, and night-times passed in a black fog of nothingness.

The chief was weighed down with anger, guilt, and loneliness. He was oppressed by his feeling that he had failed his people. And he ached for his son and mother. He had been grooming his son to take over the tribe, just as his father had done for him. Now there was no meaning to life.

White Cloud believed the slaughter was because he had killed the two settlers. He had no idea of the slaying carried out by Little Foot, let alone that those deaths had been attributed to him. His guilt was immense.

Perhaps the slaying of White Cloud’s tribe would have been enough retribution, but unfortunately for the chief, one of the two settlers he’d killed was the son of a general who lived far away. The general rightly wanted justice and placed a bounty on White Cloud’s head.

Word of the bounty spread to the white people’s camp. They knew White Cloud was not amongst his people the night the cavalry attacked, and they feared him. Would he attack them again? Soon bands of men were hunting the chief they believed was responsible for their killings.

It was really only a matter of time until Chief White Cloud would be taken.

And as sure as the sun continued to rise, the inevitable happened. Chief White Cloud was ambushed as he rode through a pass.

Fear surged through the chief’s body as he realised he’d been caught, and then he was struck by a searing pain in his chest.

First there was blackness, then a blinding light, as he ascended with his loved ones to the skies above.

Now in the new plane, time as he’d known it ceased to exist.

It was perhaps a day or two later on earth as the chief watched his body being claimed by a lone tribesman. He saw himself laid out in a tepee with a giant crystal on his forehead. The Indian was dusting his body with a feather and preparing it for burial.

But this burial was different. There was no fanfare. There were no crowds of people gathered to pay their respects. There was no son dressed in his regalia as had been the case when he took over after his father’s death. There was only a lone Indian.

The chief was suddenly filled with the most remorse he had ever felt. The confiscation of his land had hurt, the death of his tribe had hurt, but now he realised an even greater pain. He had been entrusted with generations of knowledge, and he had failed every single ancestor. All the lore, all the wisdom, every single thing that had been handed down to him was now lost forever.

And then he left the earth plane, still carrying his guilt, his anger, his remorse, his sadness, and all the knowledge that should have been continuing its journey though later generations. Knowledge lost forever.

2%20ID%20747280.jpg

Feather 2

In June 1956, Patricia Jane Lee was born. That was me. I believe I was also Chief White Cloud plus a myriad of other people who lived both before and after him.

I don’t remember the first time I saw the chief, but he has always come across as a stern, wise man. I have only ever seen him smile once, and that was after I started writing this book. He is happy I am doing this. I hope I do him justice.

In fact it is he who pushed me to write, and I made a kind of promise to him several years ago that I would do so. Maybe Chief White Cloud is keen for me to write this because he wants the injustice of the past to be rectified.

I am sure the knowledge I am sharing is not the knowledge that was lost, but regardless it seems important to him that I write this. And it is interesting, that maybe the knowledge was never lost at all; perhaps it lives on in every one of us, just waiting to be tapped into.

I was able to piece together that first chapter from the past life images I received. I was given a tremendous amount of information about that life. In fact I was given so much that I tried to find more about it online.

Surely a massacre that killed a whole tribe would have been recorded somewhere.

I had seen how the cavalry was dressed, so I was able to narrow down the time frame of when this would have happened.

But I had no luck.

At the time of searching I still believed the chief’s tribe was massacred because of the two settlers he killed.

Years later, when I was given a further image showing the traitor Indian, I realised the tribe was massacred in retribution for the killing of the larger number of settlers, not just the two as I had assumed. I had been searching for the wrong thing.

As I gathered more past-life information, I discovered my current life was mirroring events that had happened in my previous lives. The Indian life was a classic example of this.

As a child I was brought up on a farm in New Zealand. I remember one long, hot summer holiday when I never went to town. For me that was bliss. I loved being one with nature and helping the sick animals, and I loved the sun that shone into my bedroom early in the mornings.

In fact the view to the east was spectacular. We could see the mountains more than a hundred kilometres away, and many a morning we’d be greeted by a stunning sunrise. The west was a different story. A huge hill took the evening sun from the house early in the winter afternoons.

But that was okay.

We also had a trig station on the farm with a big rocky bluff in bush behind it, and many times our family made the trek to both, just as Chief White Cloud had done to his sacred mountain. These places were the highest points for miles around and places of physical and spiritual power.

As a youngster I had no idea about my other lives. It took me years to realise the significance of my early home. I believe we choose exactly who, where, and when we are to come into this world. I believe I chose that farm for its unobstructed views of the rising sun, for its abundant limestone, and for the freedom I would feel living there.

I am sure Chief White Cloud had a big part in choosing that environment, for that farm was everything dear to his heart and everything he had lost in his lifetime.

And I believe I chose my parents for the lessons I would learn along the way. My father was a spiritual man and a lot older than my mother, and I believe I chose them because I wanted the spirituality in my life. I knew they would have to retire, and I would experience the loss of the land just as White Cloud had done in the Indian life.

Of course that is exactly what happened.

When I was thirteen, the same year I started a four-year stint at boarding school, my parents sold the farm. I was devastated. I didn’t know what to do in town, what to do in a house. I had spent every waking moment outdoors, helping on the farm and roaming free. The boarding school felt like a prison, and the holidays didn’t feel much better. My heart ached for the farm.

Here I was recreating the Indian life. I am sure that is exactly how White Cloud felt when the land was taken from him.

One saving grace was a bach we had at the beach. I loved it there and always regained my sense of freedom when we visited. Several years later, my mother, now a widow, sold the bach. I felt devastated all over again.

I carried a huge loss in my heart for years from the sale of these two places. Even though my husband and I continued to work on the land, nothing could heal or replace the loss I felt.

I eventually left my husband and moved to the city, accentuating the pain.

As I got more past-life information, I began to realise that the love I had for the land in childhood wasn’t just about this life but was also about the Indian life. And the pain of losing it was more than just this life as well. I was also feeling the pain Chief White Cloud had brought into this life. I wonder if I would have even missed the farm if I had not also carried the loss from that lifetime as the Indian.

The sale of the family farm had created the same feeling as the confiscation of the land in the Indian life. By working on the feelings the sale of the farm had evoked in me, I was also working on the unresolved feelings from the Indian life. I saw this sort of example reiterated time and time again.

I am currently living in a beautiful house with distant sea views. The evening sun shines in, and there are beautiful sunsets. But there is no morning sun. The house is built on the slopes of a hill, the east being obscured by the hillside. I’ve had the house for twelve years now, and the last year or two the neighbour’s tree has grown so tall it obstructs my morning sun even more.

Here I am recreating another issue from that Indian life. When the land was confiscated, we no longer had the sunrises. We couldn’t carry out our early morning rituals. I know there is still work to do on that aspect of the Indian lifetime, and when that is complete, I will move.

That is another thing that is predominant with these other lifetimes. Basically the issues are all around us, in our faces. Here I was doing work on that life, about the Indian who missed the sunrise, and I am living in exactly the same situation myself.

Often I see a movie, an item on television, or an article in a book or magazine that touches on exactly the issue I’m dealing with at the time. For me this synchronicity is always confirmation I am on the right track.

In the area I now live, the land was confiscated from the Maori more than a hundred years ago, and the locals here feel a huge loss from that, just as I did in the Indian life. The government is currently in the process of putting those wrongs right with money and land settlements. In some people, the bitterness has spread through the generations.

I find it interesting that I have experienced the same pain as these people. I died feeling what these people felt. I was reborn and was still feeling it. I am a white woman. But I am