Death was once a Great Unknown to me. Gazing out to sea, I wondered: Is there another shore beyond the horizon of physical life? For centuries, religions preached eternal bliss or pain there, and science preached an edge that we sail off into non-existence. I once believed that anyone claiming knowledge of that distant shore must have some special psychic gift, perhaps a near-death experience or some other cosmic bonk on the head, to explain their ability. Yet, none of those applies to me. I’m just an ordinary guy whose curiosity about human existence beyond the physical world led to the extraordinary experience of knowing. And I’ve discovered that nothing separates us ordinary folks from this ability, except our willingness to let Curiosity carry us on voyages of discovery.


Often it’s a chart or map drawn from a childhood voyage that later sets our course for afterlife exploration. Somewhere in my mid-twenties, looking over one of those old maps piqued my curiosity. Raised in the backwoods of Alaska, I had a recurring daydream – one that happened at least once a week for months, beginning in 1953 at the age of five…

Playing outside, like kids do, I was suddenly transported to different place where the clear, night sky was filled with stars. After climbing a set of creaking wooden stairs, I opened a door and entered the second-floor room of a small, white stucco house. A plain white curtain fluttered lightly, covering a window on the opposite wall. Between the curtain and where I stood, a woman in a big brass-rail bed beckoned, smiling. I joined her, not knowing at age five what all the joy and bouncing was about. Then terror gripped me as heavy footsteps climbed those creaking stairs. The door burst open and a man whose bulk filled the doorway stood there in seething anger. I knew if he caught me I’d be dead, or worse. I rolled out of the bed, ran naked toward the window and dove head-first for the window’s plain white curtain. In the grip of pure, absolute terror, the last thing I felt was my fingertips touching that curtain…

Then the daydream would end and I’d be back in daylight, playing outside, my heart still pounding with mind-numbing fear. As a five-year-old boy, I never understood why that man wanted to kill me. As a twenty-something man looking over that old map, I wondered where the daydream had come from. How could I as a young boy have knowledge of brass-rail beds, sex, or jealousy so strongly felt it could lead to murder? And the feelings accompanying the experience: where had the pleasure, joy and frolic I’d felt with the woman and the throat-gripping terror come from?

It was clear that no reasonable, logical rationalisation could explain away the childhood voyage pointed to by this map’s existence. Parents didn’t take their kids to see such movies back in 1953. I saw my first television program at least a year after the daydream began, and that kind of story was not something broadcast on 1950s television. It took years of reading, questioning beliefs and exploring possibilities before I accepted the only possible explanation: I had lived a previous life in another place and time. Going over that childhood map, I realised it contained the memory of the final minutes of that lifetime. Curiosity led to my acceptance of reincarnation as the truth.