When I was little I was playing in front of the TV while Grandma watched some WWII movie. In it, there was mention of Chinese water torture. I remember a man, with water dripping relentlessly on his forehead, his face in shadows of black and white, his face twisted in a portrayal of agony.
I couldn’t imagine how simple drops of water could be so painful. The man wasn’t the Wicked Witch after all.
Later, in the bathtub, I lay back and dripped water from my washcloth onto that center spot on my forehead. It tingled. Tingled in a good way. It felt lively, lovely, and made me feel a sense of well-being like having the back of my neck stroked. It almost gave me goosebumps. I guessed that if one dripped water on that spot for hours, it might make one crazy, but my experienced was a pleasant one.
It wasn’t until years later that I learned about chakras, those energy centers of the body, and specifically about the third eye. The minute I read about the third eye, I remembered my little experiment in the bathtub. My third eye was apparently open and sensitive even in early childhood.
This is one of those little clues that I have had my whole life that I was more than just a physical human being—that I was a greater being than my body. But also that I seemed to know more than my peers. I remember learning things in school and thinking, “I knew that” but couldn’t for the life of me understand how I had already learned it.
When I was about seven, walking to school in the morning alone meant a half hour of imaginative mind-play. I pretended I was all grown up and that I had children and we were walking together. But I distinctly remember that my imaginary children did not seem real to me. I knew they were imagined, creations from my own head. I had no emotional attachment to them. But I realized one morning that I was certain that I knew what it felt like to be a grownup. I knew. Somehow, I must have been a grownup before—before I was little Kitty Anthony.
One afternoon, I asked my father about this. I remember him clearly sitting in the gold vinyl recliner that had been recently purchased. We were in the living room of Grandma’s house and he was reading a magazine.
This conversation went something like this:
“I have a question.”
“Well, you’re created when you are born, right?”
“And when you die, you either go to Heaven or the other place down there, right.”
“Well, if that’s true, then how come I know what it feels like to be a grownup? I mean, I feel like I know that I have been a grownup before.”
“What you’re talking about called reincarnation.”
I repeated the word and he explained to me what it meant and that some other religions believe we live over and over again. He gave me a little paperback book titled We Have Lived Before: The Enigma of Reincarnation, by Brad Steiger. I was fascinated and frightened all at the same time—I read stories of memories of terrible deaths from Civil War soldiers, and the story of Bridey Murphy. I didn’t remember dying, specifically, what I remembered was the sense of being alive and being someone/someplace else. But I was afraid that if I explored further, I might uncover unpleasant memories.
Still, it was the beginning of my work, my study and hundreds of books and a half century later, I am still learning and studying things of the spirit.