The Open Road ... Summer 2006
The Dutch Connection
by Catherine MacDonald, Bracebridge, Ontario
My hand trembled as I gently opened the aged, crumbling book held together with willow twigs and waxen covers. The fact that this was a 300-year-old religious text found in the archives of a centuries-old Dutch village would have been enough to give any sensitive individual cause for reflection. But the knowledge that this book was in fact written by me in 1691 in a past life caused my heart to pound so hard that I was sure the archivist could hear it. How I arrived at this phenomenal juncture in my life—blending present-day reality with mystical wisdom—is a tale of diligent research, self-discovery, and enlightenment.
My story begins in 1987, when a folkart book called to me from the shelf of a craft store in Oakville, Ontario. The floral designs were particularly intriguing and a one-paragraph story about a 400-year-old hamlet in Holland where the designs originated was most fascinating. I perused the book frequently, never really sure why it held such a fascination for me, but was delighted when my husband announced that he was going on a business trip to Holland and would I like to tag along.
In Holland, I was able to locate the village of Hindeloopen on a map and drove north in search of it. It wasn't well marked, but with a little perseverance and what seemed to be a coincidental discovery of a road sign, I finally found it. I stepped out of the car and into a wonderful, unspoiled centuries-old Dutch village. As I wandered along the cobblestone streets, I couldn't escape or explain the overwhelming sensation of having come home after a very long absence. The buildings and scenery had an indescribable air of familiarity. The old church, with its beautiful steeple, towered above the village, seeming to provide love and protection to the red-tiled roofs clustered beneath it. To my surprise, the painting technique that had drawn me here was still in use, and many of the little curio shops and house windows displayed wonderful hand painted boxes, trays and furniture. What a find!
Although this visit was short, after I returned home I could not escape the homesick feeling that crept into my heart during moments of relaxation. This strong sense of kindredness with the little village led me to suspect that perhaps my family had originated there, and I spent the next three years tracing my family's roots. While I uncovered a wonderful family tree, no one had ever been remotely connected with Holland.
Meanwhile, I returned to the village five more times in the next four years, each time staying longer, walking through the streets and visiting shops. During these trips, I visited the simple country church regularly and my fascination with it increased with each visit. My soul found peace within its sanctuary.
While my visits to the village and church were pleasant, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was searching for something. But searching for what? It seemed that I was reaching out and touching the answers, but I didn't yet know the questions. Why did I have an insatiable need to return to this place over and over again?
It was shortly after my fifth visit to Hindeloopen that I heard of Edgar Cayce in relation to the term “reincarnation.” I was raised in a strict evangelical environment and attended church regularly until I left home as a young adult. Reincarnation was not found in the Bible (according to today’s church) and therefore this notion was strictly taboo. However, the mystical connection with Holland still nagged at me and nothing else so far had been able to explain it, so I decided to do more research. The only book I could find in my local library was The Many Happy Returns of Edgar Cayce. What a revelation that book was. I spent the next year buried in New Age literature, soaking it all in like a gigantic sponge. I joined an A.R.E. study group in Oakville and slowly my life began to change. I began to meditate, finding positive answers to the daily stresses in my life. And finally, once I learned to listen to God rather than blindly seek answers, I was guided to a past-life therapist in Toronto. I was very nervous and somewhat sceptical as I attended the regression appointment. This business was totally foreign to me and the concept of having possibly had a past-life was only beginning to take hold and now the idea that I could possibly recall that past-life was really pushing it. But I was determined to know the truth and I forged on. It took me about 5 seconds, to feel perfectly safe and relaxed in the office of the therapist. Through the muscle testing technique of applied kinesiolgy she quickly confirmed that I had had a life time in Holland beginning in the mid-17th century and living for approximately 68 years.
The therapist skilfully guided me while in a state of regression to experience what was neatly tucked away in my sub-conscious mind. We began in the mid-17th century, in front of a one-room plaster and brick dwelling perched beside a ditch-canal in the middle of flat green pasture land as far as the eye could see. I saw myself—a six-year-old boy wearing dark pants and a jacket that was at least three sizes too small and a wide-brimmed black hat at least three sizes too large. Inside the house, the poverty of my farming family was obvious: stone block floors, a straw bed, a fire-place, a wooden table and benches were the crude furnishings. My mother was a large woman wearing dark clothing and an apron. Her face was ruddy with broken blood vessels in her cheeks from years of outdoor labour. When I looked into her eyes, I sensed instinctively that she had also been my grandmother in my present life. I had always been very close to my now deceased grandmother, and this fleeting glimpse of her again overwhelmed me. The therapist carefully urged me away from the emotion and we moved on.
At age 14, with the blessing of my mother (this life’s grandmother), I was taken to the city to be schooled and trained as a pastor in the new Dutch Reform Church. Subsequent research confirms that this was a common destiny for poor farm boys that showed potential in the 17th century.
While the parting from my home and mother was heart-wrenching, as I jogged along in a wooden cart my attention soon turned to the changing scenery of the approaching city of Amsterdam. The city was filthy. Sewage ran down the sides of the streets. Later research in the book "Rembrandts Holland" stated that Amsterdam built it's streets higher in the middle so the sewage could run down both sides, unlike other European cities that built them lower in the centre to allow the sewage to run down the middle.
Laundry hung between tall, skinny buildings and abandoned children hovered around the back steps of the church waiting to be fed. My next 10-15 years were spent in education and service at a church in the oldest, poorest section of the city. The church operated what appeared to be a soup kitchen and also provided some medical care. One child in particular, who sat regularly on the steps, caught my interest. He needed a walking stick to support himself and was too handicapped to be of use in the workhouses. I made a straw bed for him in the kitchen and he became a permanent resident of the church. Life in the church taught me many painful lessons. I quickly learned first aid, since accidents, plagues and sickness were daily events on the church steps. One didn't have to wander far from the security of the church walls to find hardship.
Eventually, as a young man, I was assigned to a church of my own. I boarded a sailing vessel and travelled from the Amsterdam harbour to a village in the north. Unbelievably, there was my beloved village, Hindeloopen. At first when seeing only the harbour and dyke that surrounds the village I did not know where I was. The harbour and dyke were crudely made with log piles and rock, not like the modern harbour and beautifully groomed dyke of today, but as I walked from the harbour to the church there was no doubt in my mind. There stood the church, strong and tall in the centre of village activity with its unmistakable unique steeple. What puzzled me, however, was that the entrance to the church was on the opposite side as I know it today.
The ensuing years were wonderful times of dedication to God and service to the people of the village. There was happiness, sickness, accidents, and floods. I spent the rest of my life in this village with its beautiful, modest country folk and wonderful handpainted furnishings.
My sixth visit to the village, in July 1993, was one of great satisfaction and completed the circle for me. The key was the information learned from the past-life regression session which gave me the date of my pastorship in the church (1684-1719). I obtained the pastor's name, Dominicus Goltzius, from the church records in the village. It was interesting that not only were the dates correct he was the only pastor that had stayed any more than a couple of years. It would be difficult to make a false identification. A short trip across the cobblestone courtyard to the village archives yielded a portrait, events recorded by local historians and, the most exciting discovery of all, the book I wrote explaining the works of the Apostle Peter, published in Amsterdam in 1691. The sensation of holding the book and gently opening its fragile pages was indescribable. A subsequent past-life regression session revealed a life time as a Greek scribe for the Apostle Peter, but that's a whole other story, none-the-less important in establishing connections between life times.
When attending church services in Hindeloopen, I was always mesmerized by the sounds of the organ, during my last visit to Hindeloopen I sought out the church custodian and requested a visit to the organ loft. He graciously obliged me, and to my total surprise, I found a 300 year organ, in it's original state. If my mathematics is correct, it would have been acquired during my pastorship there. The custodian lowered the wooden lever and the air rushed up the tower filling the bellows. My keyboard expertise is poor at best, but as my fingers settled on the yellowed ivory keys and my higher self took over, I could hear the wonderful refrain of the 23rd Psalm as it wafted out over the empty pews. I was in a state of ecstasy. Was this the first time I had touched these keys? Knowing is not important, for in those moments, my closeness to my Creator was immeasurable.
It was relatively easy to research the facts learned from the regression. There are extensive seventeenth century historical documents available and many paintings by Dutch masters of every-day life in the Golden Age of Holland. In my regression I saw the daily costume as quite different than I would have expected, but artwork from that period proved that my expectations were all wrong, and what I saw in the regression was correct. While scouting the village for clues as to were I might have lived, I was invited to tea by a resident of the village who offered to show me the upper level of the house that hadn't yet been renovated. My eyes fell quickly on an ornate ironwork assemblage. I asked what was it, and he told me that it was a chimney ornament used to denote the pastor's house in the olden days. If I could have got that thing in my suitcase, I would have bought it and brought it home. But the universe knows best, it was just for me to see. I do have a picture though.
To say the least, my experience in Holland was incredible. The synchronicity of my Dutch experience was quite remarkable. After returning home from my regression with my knew found knowledge I realized that I had created my home in Canada in Dutch decor. My windows were adorned with white Dutch lace valances, the fireplace hearth that I built with Dutch painted tiles depicting occupations of the 17th century, the many pendulum clocks throughout my house. Pendulum docks were invented in Holland in the 17th century as well, and probably had the same fascination for me then. When I was a child I recall taking my pillow and sleeping in the bottom of my clothes closet when upset. This very old memory came flooding back with tears of recognition with the first glimpse of a Dutch cupboard bed. Our memories, regardless of how old they are or how many life times ago, influence our behaviour in this life time.
In meditation I asked God why did he have me crossing the ocean that many times when he could have just pointed me to a book in the local library. I heard loud and clear, “You were so ensconced in your childhood beliefs, you never would have believed it if you didn't see it all first hand.”
Since that time, with my mind opened, my life has been on an incredible spiritual journey and I look forward to seeing what is still in store for me in the future.
Catherine was the first President/CEO and Chair of the Board for Edgar Cayce Canada. She has held many positions within the organization including Chief Financial Officer and with her husband, James Schmidt manages the E.C.C, Bookstore. She also served on the A.R.E. Board in 2004.
