School in between lives

I just love to have this kind of client.

She found me on ChatGPT - She said I’m the first in the list when she’s searching for a QHHT practitioner, which was a nice surprise to me.

She had multiple dreams about a small dark-skin girl staring into her eyes. After almost 20 years she still remembered those eyes and that face. Nothing else but the face. In the trance when she drifted through all the memories, I guided her to see that face again. 

She said the little girl was East Indian, she looked into her eyes and seemed to have something to tell her. 

She spoke very slowly like trying to find something inside : “She grabbed my hands and looked into my eyes, and said - You just have to remember…. that you can manipulate energy…”

The following was written with AI assistance based on my transcript entirely.

People passed by in the distance, walking along a dusty road, completely unaware she stood among them. She looked down at herself, expecting to see her body—but there was only a sense of form, not substance.

She was there, but not there. Only the girl could see her.

“You need to learn,” the girl said at last—not with words, but with knowing.

“Learn what?”

A pause. Then a smile.

You already know.

Confusion washed over her. “I don’t.”

The girl laughed softly, taking her hands.

You do. You’ve just forgotten.

The world began to change.

The people passing by were no longer solid—they shimmered, glowing faintly, as if their forms were only one layer of something deeper. The air itself felt alive, responsive.

She focused.

Tried to see more.

Tried to understand.

Then came the sand.

It lay scattered at her feet, golden and fine. Without thinking, she reached toward it—not with her hands, but with intention.

The grains stirred.

Lifted.

Moved.

Not by touch—but by will.

She gasped.

Again.

The sand obeyed, shifting and flowing like it was listening.

The girl beamed with delight, clapping like it was a game.

“There’s more,” she urged.

Water followed.

Invisible currents shaped by motion she could not see but somehow controlled. Like running her hand through air—yet the water responded.

Then color.

Light stretched and bent, forming hues out of nothing, as if reality itself could be pulled apart and rewoven.

She didn’t understand it—but she could do it.

“Why?” she asked.

“What is this for?”

The girl spun joyfully, her laughter bright. “ To build.” 

“What to build?” She asked.

“Anything!”

But then, more quietly—

“For your children.”

The words settled deeply.

“To show them,” the girl continued, eyes shining. “To show them it’s possible.”

A pause.

“Like planting a seed, and passing it on.”

Something shifted inside her.

“Why do you tell me these? ” she finally asked.

The girl tilted her head, amused.

“You asked for this.”

“I didn’t,” she protested.

The girl smiled wider.

“Maybe you just don’t remember.”

And then—She was gone.

The memory didn’t end there.

It pulled her further back.

To another place.

There was sand.

A wide, open place that felt like a beach, or something close to it. The ground stretched out in pale tones, and the air was still.

He was there as a boy—about fourteen. Sitting cross-legged with others, all of them boys, gathered in a loose group facing a teacher.

The teacher stood in front of them.

“This is only for boys,” the teacher said.

No one questioned it.

They simply listened.

The lessons began with something simple.

Sand.

They were told to move it.

Not with their hands—without touching it.

At first, nothing happened.

The boy focused hard, staring at the grains in front of him. Around him, the others did the same. Everyone was trying. Everyone was struggling.

Slowly, over time, the sand began to respond.

It lifted slightly.

Shifted.

Not much—but enough to notice.

The teacher guided them to do more.

“Form it.”

They tried to shape the sand into cubes. Into spheres.

It was difficult.

The shapes collapsed easily. Focus slipped. Control wasn’t steady.

But they kept practicing.

Day after day. It went on for a long time.

The lessons changed.

Now there was wood—a simple branch.

The teacher showed them how to bend it.

Not by touching it.

The branch curved slowly, as if something unseen was guiding it.

They tried to do the same.

Again, it was hard.

Nothing moved at first.

But eventually, with practice, they began to affect it.

Small changes.

Slight bends.

Then came something different.

Color.

The teacher showed them how to create it.

It had something to do with light.

Pulling it.

Stretching it.

When they did, color would appear.

They also practiced with living things.

Small things.

Like grass.

They learned how to make it move.

To curl it—changing it from straight into a curved shape.

Not by touching it.

Just by using what they were learning.

The lessons continued.

Again and again.

For years.

They were not told why.

One day, the boy asked.

The teacher answered simply.

“You need to develop it.”

He said there would be uses for it.

But not yet.

So they kept learning.

Without knowing the purpose.

Only building the skill.

Among the boys, there was one who stood out. That’s her son in this lifetime. 

They laughed together often.

There was a strong feeling there—something deeper than just friendship.

He felt a lot of love for him. The face is totally different, but the sense is the same.

They continued learning side by side.

Sitting in the sand. Practicing. Shaping. Trying.

Understanding that one day—

There would be a reason.