Threads: The Reincarnation of Anne Boleyn (2 page)

I would stand at the gates of heaven and
argue, Henry once shouted to me in a rage. And so, in a way (are
these the gates of Heaven after all? I cannot say for certain.) I
do.

Henry knows me very well indeed.

Just as I saw my life in rapid passing, I now
see scenes that show a servant who was crippled and in pain, and
yet was always kind and high spirited. We ran to her with our
little aches and disappointments and sought her comfort, heedless
of the pain she was suffering while she soothed ours. She neither
preached Scripture, nor was she particularly pious or prayerful,
although she wore a small iron cross on a leather strap around her
neck and took her place with the other servants in the chapel
during Mass.

I see her seated on a three-legged stool in
the kitchen by the door, shelling peas into a large wooden bowl.
Her walking stick is propped against the wall behind her. I see her
wipe her brow, for the fire is lit and hot, and I see her
laugh.

She always laughed, and knew how to make
everyone around her laugh as well, and knew how to speak to us so
that we might feel ashamed of ourselves when we misbehaved without
ever thinking she loved us less. We took her for granted until her
death, when a lonely gap remained where her bright voice once was.
We left the walking stick in its now permanent place against the
wall, and never removed it or allowed it to be used again.

I discounted the value and the contributions
of the servant because she was not of my class, and therefore not
of as much worth as I.

“There is none of more worth than any other,”
I hear. The Voice tells me that the servant has far surpassed me,
and that I should look to her example for guidance.

I am further reminded of her child, a
strange-eyed girl who spoke thick of tongue and could not learn.
She was said to look like a Mongol, and had a graceless, slow and
heavy gait. The other children ridiculed and teased her, and the
adults slapped and scolded her for her clumsiness and stupidity.
Her smile was as bright as her mother’s despite this, and she loved
her tormentors with a heart-breaking stubbornness. She hugged them,
and brought them flowers and little presents, then wordlessly died
one night in her sleep, leaving the rest to ponder their
cruelty.

I am grateful that I was not among those who
were cruel. I am grateful that I returned her hugs. I felt such
pity toward her.

“There are many whom we pity who in fact
should pity us.”

I had felt deserving of pity in the last
years of my life. I even was willing to change places with the
likes of Ruth, and be an idiot servant girl in order to let someone
else be queen. It seems to me, though, that the Voice is referring
to something other than the treatment I received from Henry, and my
fall at the very end.

“We are all on the same road, some ahead of
us and some behind. We do not always recognize ourselves as being
among those who are struggling farther back, and misunderstand,
scorn, and even persecute the ones who move ahead of us. History is
littered with such as these: eccentrics, geniuses or unwavering
idealists being among the most noticeable. These change the world
almost by force, though the change most often does not take place
during their own time, they are so far ahead of it and therefore so
rarely understood.

“The less noticeable shine a light with
simple good-natured long-suffering, and they shine that light for
us despite our impatience, ingratitude or scorn. There is always a
beacon shining if we look for it and open our hearts. We will each
be a beacon ourselves, one day. It is just up ahead of us in the
very direction we all are traveling. Those who follow behind us
need our wisdom, for the ones who shine now will leave at the end
of the road, and it will be left to us to be the light.”

One of these “lights” was our gnarled and
crippled servant Rose, who shelled our peas, and whom we kept out
of charity. She did nothing more than slow and flawed handwork, and
often could not leave her bed at all from illness or pain. She
created troublesome expenditures and excessive inconvenience in
nursing her back to health each time she took to her bed. If she
was well enough to work, we were sometimes impatient that she took
such tedious trouble to perform her tasks, and that her twisted
hands could only deliver sorry results. Yet when she died, even
Mother wept and retired to her room. We recalled that she never
complained, was always eager to be of service, and when we no
longer had her, we all found her contributions to have had great
value and missed them. An emptiness remained in place of love we
had never noticed, nor realized we needed.

I mourned that I had taken it for granted,
and mourned for myself that I should have to continue through life
without it. I did nothing to earn it. In fact, with the contempt
the upper classes are taught to feel toward the lower, I presumed
it was my due and the source of it, Rose, not worth much. I
awakened to her worth only upon her death.

There was no pettiness, or criticism, or
sarcasm or wickedness in Rose. She had no selfishness or
ill-intent. She seemed almost to have lived the life Jesus taught,
and I only see this now with being shown. Yet all who should have
recognized godliness overlooked her. She was too meek to draw
notice, and her position was too lowly.

Her physical limitations, idiot child, and
station in life were not a punishment for her, the Voice explains,
but were designed by her own heart so that she might be an example
for the rest of us. She endured her trials out of generosity and
love. Her daughter did the same.

“Only a large soul, far advanced, can give so
much just so that others might see more clearly. Such is a means of
allowing the rest of us to place our own grievances in their proper
perspective, and of showing us how much even the weakest among us
is capable of giving. We can see, or not see. The choice is
ours.”

I feel suddenly sad for her, that her efforts
were not appreciated and rewarded while she lived.

The lecture pauses, and the Voice aims a
personal comment toward me.

“Adulation is transitory. Is it not?”

I agree, feeling a wave of pain. Adulation
most certainly is transitory.

“Then it hardly matters whether or not Rose
received adulation or acknowledgment during her lifetime. It is not
those on earth whom we need to impress. They are often misguided in
their assessment of worth. Yet there are souls, like Rose, who show
them what is worthwhile and through this, some people see and
grow.”

I interject: “But if it is not seen, what
worth has it? The point of it is lost. Did she waste her effort on
us?”

“Do you feel it was wasted? Your mother did
not.”

I do not know the “mother” the Voice seems to
be referring to. The mother I remember could not be touched by the
likes of Rose, or by any other thing. Her heart was ice. Upon
hearing of Rose’s death, she did not weep for long. Yet she did
weep . . .

The Voice continues.

“It is like written music. Its beauty exists
whether or not we choose to play it, or choose to listen. If we
choose not to see, the choice and the loss are both our own. What
we should see is that there is none among us with nothing to give,
and that giving is our purpose. At the same time we should respect
and show gratitude toward those who are giving themselves so that
we might understand this.”

I grow small with understanding. I realize
with surprise and then shame that I am one of those who did not
recognize herself as struggling farther back.

A far yawning distance stretches before me on
the road. I brace myself, not knowing yet if the balance of my life
will allow me to move forward, or if I slipped even farther
behind.

I cannot demand a better position or order
someone to move me closer to the front. I have no power over this
except to slowly edge my way forward with painful effort, like
everyone else. It is vexing, for I expect crowds to make way for
me. I am not accustomed to viewing servants as my betters.

Then I feel shame at my expectation of
special treatment. One of my daydreams in life, toward the end of
it, had been that I should be like one of the faces in the crowds
who knelt and bowed—and sometimes stared and pointed as I passed —
any one of them; it mattered not. Remembering, I feel a sense of
anticipation for I am now their equal. Relinquishing my
expectations is a small price to pay, to finally be one of them. I
am pleased.

I am well-pleased, and eager to get to work.
I even feel a sense of pride in my position on the road, for there
is a swell of souls that surrounds me here, and only a narrow
trickle of souls toward the front. I want to be among the masses,
unwashed, if need be. I want to be a face in the crowd,
unrecognized. I want no special treatment and no special
acknowledgment—I have had enough of that, and it grew sour within
me.

I am anxious to proceed.

•
~
۞
~•

I now reacquaint myself with The Law, which
is only in essence the same as I was taught. It is more stern and
forgiving, more fair and unyielding than I had thought in life. I
cannot buy it off with rituals and tithings and outward displays of
piety. I cannot fool it with secrecy, self-delusion, or excuses. It
does not require approval by my peers and church leaders. It has no
respect for position, wealth and power; it rather views these as
detriments than advantages. It is as Jesus said, but not as my
teachers interpreted His words.

The Commandment of The Law says: “Do unto
others as you would have them do unto you.”

It means this. It means me.

I am here to learn where I failed and where I
succeeded. Then I will return to try again, to see if I can
overcome my faults and repay my mistakes. It will take many
attempts because the human soul must be forced into improving. It
is stubborn and self-absorbed, and resistant to disruption of its
habits and beliefs both in life, and here, beyond it. It does not
go to Heavenly Glory without a fight, and it travels a long hard
road to get there. I have yet a long hard road to travel. I will
not return to Peace yet, or even soon. I have much to face, and
many strengths to develop first.

My purpose, at this stage, is to remember.
From this strange and uncomfortable vantage point, I view myself
more closely than I care to, my eyes pried open as it were, my face
held firm so I am forced to watch. With each memory, the Voice
reminds me of The Law and how I measured up to it in that instance.
I know I am forgiven. I also know I am not complete. I am forgiven
for having had to borrow—we all borrow through our sins; it is
expected and is a step in the process of growth. However there is
no escaping payment. I pay for what I take, and am paid for what I
give. It is as simple as that. I see where I paid in this last
life, what I earned and where I took.

The borrowing brings me incredible sorrow,
more than I ever would have thought.

I will be held harshly accountable for
seemingly minor things, forgiven for things I had thought
unforgivable, rewarded in instances I had thought I would be
punished, and shown the error of ways I thought were right and
good. I will pay, but not for things I had expected. I also will
receive ample reward for small thoughtless, seemingly unimportant
acts of kindness and love, and I see there had been many. Each
moment counts in the final tally, which will shape my future as it
did my past. I am to work toward compiling the tally myself, from
the beginning of that life to that last moment when I knelt
blindfolded before my executioner and an eager crowd.

One works here at self-assessment until
successfully completing the job, then takes the tally and uses it
like currency toward the next existence on earth. The tally
determines destiny, good or bad, upon one’s return there. This
destiny, so called, seems frivolously unfair and incomprehensible
only in the realm of forgetfulness that we call “life” where the
steps leading to seeming injustice are hidden. Here, it is the Word
and it is the Wisdom, and I am in the midst of this, understanding
and ashamed, attempting to heal from a past and prepare for a
future I have created for myself.

The Law is a stern one, but fair to the
smallest molecule. I see that it is fair. I see also that I have
woven my own tapestry thread by thread from the beginning of time,
and have no one to blame but myself for the pattern and the
outcome. I would prefer to have woven somewhat differently, in many
ways. Regret is easy. It is so much harder to be good when one is
flesh, existing in a state of forgetfulness, influenced and seduced
by so many things. The most seductive sin, I suppose, is passing
judgment on others, and the next must be the acting out of one’s
anger when one has the power to hurt the ones who wound us. I was
guilty of both things.

One is so much better off without power. It
is something I will henceforth avoid by choice. It is harder not to
pass judgment, or to restrain the temptation toward vindictiveness.
One can always find the means to feel superior to someone else no
matter what one’s circumstances, and can easily feel justified in
punishing enemies. So, I am caught again, as I have been caught
many times in the past, and I will pay.

For now, I spend this period between lives in
reflection and analysis and the setting of goals so that I can
begin saving toward the day when the debts come due. In terms of
time, I do not know how long the process of analysis takes. There
is no time, here in the Memories, or rather, time does not move at
the same pace or in the same measurable direction as it does on the
physical plane. I believe many years have passed when I first see
my life fly past me and find it was a matter of moments. I think
mere hours have passed since I arrived only to find it was years.
It would be startling were I not absorbed in my task and guided by
a presence that reassures me.