The next Past Life Reading will post on Tuesday. I have a little something special planned for tomorrow.

In the meantime, check out my interview with author and blogger Myra McEntire, here.

And all this week, BEST I’VE READ 2010 will feature author posts and book giveaways. (400 books will be given away between December 6th and 14th!) There will also be a GRAND PRIZE GIVEAWAY on the website. So don’t miss it!

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You Were: The Miner

December 1, 2010

You were born in the sixteenth century in what is now northeastern Afghanistan. Your family, descendants of Alexander the Great, had ruled the land for centuries. On the day you were born, your grandfather was murdered and another man seized the throne. By the time you reached your teens, your once wealthy family’s sole source of income was a tiny mine. That single hole in the ground would eventually bring you both fame and fortune.

Lapis lazuli is one of nature’s miracles—a stone so perfectly blue that it looks as though it must have fallen straight from the heavens. That’s why the ancient Egyptians offered it to their dead. Why Buddhists decorated their most magnificent temples with it. And why many Renaissance painters would have murdered their mothers for a small bottle of the heavenly pigment made from ground lapis lazuli—a color they called ultramarine.

The problem was, lapis lazuli doesn’t fall from the heavens. It has to be dug up in mines. And the best mine in the world was the one owned by your family.

Since your grandfather’s death, your life hadn’t been easy. Your parents had both been raised in luxury and had no idea how to navigate the real world. Who knows what might have happened to them if they hadn’t produced a marketing genius.

When you were thirteen, you got tired of all their moaning and decided to take control of the lapis lazuli mine. That’s when you discovered just how bad things really were. The hole produced a handful of stones each month. They were exceptionally pretty and unusually blue. But the day you went to the market with them, you found yourself just one of a hundred people trying to sell pretty blue rocks.

Later that afternoon, your father almost fainted when he found you grinding a month’s worth of stones into a fine powder. When you had finished, you poured the powder into a small glass bottle and returned to the market. You sat there for two days with the bottle in front of you. Finally a man approached. He was an artist, and he wanted the ground lapis lazuli to use for paint.

“No,” you said. “This is the finest ultramarine in the entire world. I won’t sell it for any price until I know if your work is worth it.”

Word spread quickly that a young woman in Afghanistan was selling the world’s best ultramarine. In less than a year, the great painters of Italy were sending representatives to see you. You refused to sell them your wares since you’d never seen their work. Their royal patrons begged you to reconsider. Even the Pope sent an emissary. Finally one painter made the long journey to see you himself, with several of his canvases strapped to his mule. You’d seen work that was just as good, but you’d never seen anyone quite like him before.

The two of you lived in Italy for the rest of your lives, rich, respected, and surrounded by your favorite color.

Happy Thanksgiving!

November 24, 2010

(Above: Want to come over for dinner?)

As those of you here in the US know, it’s Thanksgiving weekend. And I have so much thanks to give that I’m going to have to take a vacation from blogging. I’ll be back on Monday with past life reviews and a little something special as well.

You Were: The Witch

November 24, 2010

I’m not certain which years I’ve seen, but they were dark. The events I’ve witnessed could have taken place in any country in Europe. A deadly disease was sweeping across the land. People lay dying in the gutters. Those who were still alive were busy looking for scapegoats—sinners to blame for the terrible fate that had befallen them. The first person most towns killed, tortured, or threw in jail was the local “witch.”

The lord of your lands had been looking forward to getting rid of you for quite some time. You were a healer, and your hands could repair most injuries. More often than not, that meant healing wounds inflicted by the lord himself. Wounds, it probably goes without saying, that he didn’t want to heal. That was enough to earn you the title of witch.

However, there was also the rather touchy subject of the lord’s son. (And I do mean touchy.) You two had been madly in love since childhood. Your beau managed to keep you alive and fed, but he was forbidden to marry you. His father, the lord, did not want his family’s legacy fouled by peasant blood. So when the town called for a scapegoat, you were the first person he imprisoned.

You watched from a cell in a dismal, damp tower as the peasants died of disease. You’d seen enough to know what it was—and how to heal it. But there was no way to spread the word. It seemed hopeless—until the lord’s son fell ill.

The lord had assumed that the dreadful disease only struck peasants. When he saw his son lying in a pool of sweat and blood, he finally started to panic. Not for his son’s sake. For his own. You were called to the castle and forced to listen as the lord begged you to save his life. You agreed on three conditions.

A year later, the town had a brand new clinic. The land had a new lord. And that lord had a wife beloved by her people. (Only a few jealous biddies still called her a witch.)

You Were: The Very Good Girl

November 19, 2010

 

You were born in 1718 to a wealthy merchant who lived near Milan. As a child, you were pretty, delicate, well-mannered, and docile. Your parents adored you. Your servants adored you. Heck, everyone in town adored you. Strangers who saw you riding around in your father’s carriage would gasp at the sight of your big, blue eyes and strawberry-blond ringlets. You’d acknowledge their stares with a sweet little wave, and their hearts would melt into big globs of goo.

When you disappeared, there wasn’t a dry eye in town.

Fortunately, your kidnappers were as foolish as they were evil. They figured a pretty little girl like you would be worth a handsome ransom. And it would be much easier than kidnapping an adult. They assumed you were too small and sweet to fight back. They were very wrong.

I’m not suggesting that the sweetness was all just an act. You were a genuinely wonderful human being. But that didn’t make you a doormat. Until that time, you’d lived a sheltered life. You’d never had to fight any battles, and you’d been looking forward to your first for an awfully long time.

As your kidnappers raced away from the scene of your abduction, you calmly assessed the situation. There were two kidnappers, both hulking males. There was no chance of overpowering them, so you’d have to outwit them.

They hid you in a hovel in the middle of the woods. Just as they had expected, you sat on a chair and bawled for your mamma. They didn’t need to watch you that closely. Which was a good thing, since the kidnappers were busy battling a demon that had followed them home. First, the thatched roof caught on fire. Then their wine was replaced with turpentine. One’s dagger disappeared from the sheath on his belt. The other man sat on the dagger and received a rather embarrassing wound. While they scrambled to clean up the blood and dress the wound, the horses were set loose and the cat went crazy.

Finally, the men came to the conclusion that the demon had something to do with you. They were too frightened to kill you, so they set you loose in the woods and hoped hunger or wild animals would do the job for them. But you’d paid close attention on your ride to the hovel. It took you two days to retrace the route, but on the third morning you arrived at your parents’ door with the world’s sweetest smile on your face.