It was a warm spring evening years ago. My plan was to shop for groceries.

I'm in a parking lot. I squeeze into a spot, grab a monster cart, and pass through parting glass doors into a stadium-sized building.

Stacks of advertised specials stand sentry to miles of chock-full aisles. I bypass the papers to find the starting gate. I glance at my watch to determine the allotted time until the cash register rings. Decisions begin. I must remember family favorites, menu ingredients, and nutritional values and then determine the price from perplexing codes. A choppy pattern emerges: weigh, decide, reconsider, return item to shelf, place new choice into cart, and then dash off to next aisle.

My temperature rises. Unbutton and remove sweater; add to cart. Oh, bread and cereals. This aisle alone could use up my remaining time. With my face warm and hands clammy, I clench my jaw and toss one item and then another into the cart and turn to the next long row before me. My stomach tightens. Just a few more aisles to go, I think, and push on.

Then suddenly, the tiny swells of fear that had been lapping at the shores of my consciousness gather into a huge wave. My legs shake, yet I feel gripped in a vise. A dreadful premonition warns me: I'm in trouble. I have to get out of here—fast! Trembling, I abandon the cart in the frozen foods section and race to my car. Hot tears stream down my face as I turn the key. The short drive home seems endless.

It was my first panic attack many years ago, but I still remember it clearly. That spring evening, I had headed out to tackle the grocery shopping while my husband stayed home babysitting. Round-the-clock care of our five-month-old and coordinating the older children's activities, while juggling the rest of my household duties, had been taking its toll. I was exhausted.

More attacks like this would plague me in the months and years that followed. At times, the tiniest apprehension could launch me into waves of panic so severe that I felt as if I were about to die. Nearly anyone might experience such terror under certain circumstances, such as seeing a truck headed straight at you or having a loaded gun pointed at your head. But only a nervous system gone haywire, like mine, would evoke this type of response from a simple disappointment or indecision.

After the first few panic attacks, I grew terrified that another one would arise. As these fears snowballed, they started to rule my life. I clung more and more to the presumed safety of my home. As the size of my world diminished, I slipped into depression.

I reached out for help, and ever so gradually, it came from loved ones, doctors, and books. Medication helped diminish the intensity and frequency of the attacks. Over the course of a few years, I became more functional. Yet I continued to struggle with intermittent bouts of anxiety and depression. And hovering in the background like an ominous dark cloud loomed the threat of those waves of terror, which could burst with a thunderclap when I least expected.

I continued researching to find solutions. The subject of reincarnation started entering my consciousness. The widespread ancient belief that we are born into the physical world not merely once but many times intrigued me. Several prominent psychiatrists had used past-life regression in their therapy. Two in particular got my attention: Dr. Brian Weiss (Many Lives, Many Masters) and Dr. Raymond Moody Jr. (Coming Back: A Psychiatrist Explores Past-Life Journeys).

Weiss and Moody disagreed somewhat in their interpretations regarding a patient's past-life experience. However, they both believed that past-life regression could be a helpful therapeutic tool to enhance the healing process. After reading their books, I wondered whether exploring reincarnation could help me.

* * *

One day, a friend who was interested in reincarnation gave me a tape from a seminar she had attended where a psychologist guided the participants in a regression process. My friend assured me that it was simple to do and that she had found it enlightening. But I still felt uncertain about what I would do regarding a former incarnation when I felt barely capable of managing my current state. So I placed the cassette in a desk drawer, where it stayed for weeks.

Now and then, as I thought about that tape, my curiosity gathered steam. Then, one cold, gray Midwest morning, I sensed an emerging eruption. I went to my study, opened the desk drawer, and retrieved the cassette. I stared at it in my hand for a while, still apprehensive about diving into the icy waters of self-discovery. An impatient part of me thought, "Just do it!" So I put the tape into the recorder, pushed the play button, and settled into my recliner.

The calm, comforting male voice on the tape gently invited me to relax. He suggested that I find myself in another place and time. In my mind's eye, I gazed down and saw bare feet. As my mental eyes moved higher, I realized I was a dark-skinned female with long, silky black hair. I was wearing a brightly colored, loose-fitting garment and standing on a sandy beach dotted with palm trees. The vivid blue sky was cloudless; the temperature was warm. A sea breeze brushed my body. The soft sand sifted over my feet. I gazed out at the ocean and saw a mist-covered mountain on a distant shore.

Suddenly, letters flashed through my mind: "n-e-s-i-a."

"Hmmm ... maybe this is Polynesia," I said, guessing.

Next, a word assaulted my consciousness: "Krakatoa." Vague recollections of a volcano emerged. My stomach tightened. This island paradise no longer seemed so idyllic, and I had lost all desire to view the next reel of the movie that was playing in my mind.

I reached for the off button, sat back quietly, and reflected on what had just happened. I felt shaken. Then a thought occurred to me. I went to the bookshelf and pulled volume K of the encyclopedia. Flipping through its pages, I found "Krakatoa," a volcano that erupted in 1893 in Indonesia. The eruption of this volcano caused tidal waves that killed thirty thousand people.

Over the years, I'd had numerous nightmares in which I'd been involved in a devastating flood. I also tended to feel fearful around large bodies of water and found movies about drowning deaths terrifying. I wondered if this tropical island scenario could have been the source of some of these fears or if my mind was just weaving together images I'd seen and heard before ... in this life. Well, the encyclopedia displayed no casualty list with my name on it. Still, this whole thing was unsettling. I closed the book and put it back on the shelf.

A couple of weeks later, I awoke one morning feeling afraid and frustrated as I recalled a puzzling dream. I recorded this nighttime drama in my journal and entitled it (a tip suggested to me several years earlier at a dream seminar):

The Beast at the Beach

I am at the beach with a large party of people. Suddenly, I feel terrified. A young man in the group displays a weapon, which he uses to threaten everyone. Somehow, I manage to get away from the crowd and begin searching for a place of refuge. I find myself in a dark, unkempt apartment badly in need of repair. And worst of all, there are clusters of strangers around, cluttering up my house. I feel annoyed and disturbed by them.

I wondered if the dream had anything to do with my fear of the tidal wave in the tropical island scenario. I had no idea who the violent young man (the beast) or all the other unwanted people in my house were.

After this beach dream, my curiosity about reincarnation intensified. I thought about my friend Suzy who had endured a puzzling near-death experience. In order to help sort it all out, she had seen a local psychologist who used past-life regression in his therapy. In my notebook, below the dream notes, I wrote, "Talk with S about shrink."

* * *

I've always enjoyed writing and occasionally kept a personal journal. In its pages, I felt free to record my thoughts, feelings, inspirations, and dreams. When I was in a particularly poetic mood, I would express my ideas in verse. Around the time I began exploring reincarnation, several journals were stashed in my desk drawer. However, at this point, journaling wasn't a regular habit, just an occasional practice.

One of my journals contained an occasional experiment, which I had first tried about a year earlier after an elderly gentleman from one of my study groups showed me his notebook. In its pages, he wrote a thought or prayer to God. He then followed it with God's response to him. This lovely man was wise and spiritual-minded. His beautiful notebook pages were uplifting. Yet, I couldn't help thinking that he was a little arrogant in his belief that God was speaking to him and/or through him. Still, I felt an inner urging to attempt this same practice. So, now and then, I listened for the voice of God, and if I sensed something, I recorded it in my journal.

This process required that I concentrate on becoming quiet and peaceful. Then I began to listen intently to my spirit, the divine part of me. If a word or two came to my consciousness, I jotted it down. Sometimes more words followed. I quickly discovered my censor, the voice in me who usually said I was just making it all up or it sounded stupid. I had to let go of such thoughts. I found this practice somewhat like closing my eyes and trying to walk. I could take only one step at a time. Trust was essential. I had to believe that the universe was friendly and I was being guided. And that was difficult.

One day not too long after my inner trip to the Indonesian island, I went to my journal. In it, I wrote about feeling called to a deeper, closer walk with God and my yearning for clearer guidance and greater healing. Then in a prayerful, meditative state of mind, I tried to let go of all other cares and allowed distractions to drift away. I listened intently for a response to my request. These words came.

h.s. Take my hand. Do not look far down the road—only a few steps ahead. This is where I shine my light. This is where the opportunity for healing abounds—this moment, this step, and this breath. If you practice, you will learn. Welcome.

For many of us, small groups have become the churches of today. It is a time when institutions of employment and religion have swelled to an impersonal size and family members often live far from one another. While the desire for community remains a deep personal need, finding it has become increasingly difficult. So, clusters of people from various places, backgrounds, and religions are gathering together. Some of us were led to small groups because of a common interest or experience, an illness or addiction. What most of us truly share, however, are questions in our minds and longing in our hearts for answers, connection, and healing.

The bibles for some of these new communities might be a twelve-step publication or a best-selling blend of psychology and spirituality from authors like Melody Beattie, Marianne Williamson, or N. Donald Walsch. Services could be held in conference and meeting rooms or in libraries, restaurants, hospitals, and living rooms across the country and around the world.

As a child, I was brought up in a traditional church, which met my religious needs for many years. But as I matured, my heart began resonating to a different kind of spirituality. After much soul-searching, I finally made the difficult decision to break my ties to the church of my youth. For a short time, I drifted on a lonely sea as I longed for a community of similarly minded spiritual seekers. Soon, a light pointed my way home as I was led to several small groups of people who met regularly to study spiritual ideas, share their personal journeys, meditate, or pray.

Some of my fellow travelers no longer attended church, while others were affiliated with religious institutions, both traditional and otherwise. The locations, faces, and focus of my groups changed now and then, but the warm, nurturing support they provided remained. When I sought feedback or help on many issues of my life, this was where I often brought my observations and questions.

While still a member of my childhood church, I discovered A Course in Miracles, a huge manuscript that two New York psychologists introduced to the world in the 1970s. Sometimes referred to as spiritual psychotherapy, the Course combines elements of Eastern and New Thought ideology. It speaks of relationship as a path to God and forgiveness as a requirement. Its language, much of it written in iambic pentameter, is seldom easily understood. However, for millions of people, its pages have provided many satisfying answers.

One evening shortly after my first attempt to uncover a past life, I brought my friend's regression tape to my Monday night Course group. At that time, there were only four or five regular members. I told them about my tropical island scenario. They expressed a curiosity about the subject, so we dimmed the lights, made ourselves comfortable, and began playing the cassette. Before long, I found myself in another place and time.

I look down at my feet and see moccasin-like boots. Layers of heavy, furry clothing cover me. My surroundings are freezing cold. I seem to be an Eskimo woman whose family includes a mother, a young male child, and a husband who is away on a hunting/fishing expedition. I watch myself go through this cold, drab existence. I envision working on a colorful rug. This small, Eskimo village is a close-knit community. I hear them singing a song about their members who are away. At the end of this scenario, I witness my own death at an old age from some kind of stomach ailment.

The tape ended. We turned on the lights and began sharing what each of us had experienced. Debbie described a peaceful meditation, but she did not discover a past life. Suzy found herself in one of the lives she had previously encountered at her therapist's office. The tape so relaxed Richard that he had drifted into an enjoyable nap

This second past life for me in its freezing setting was not as appealing as the tropical island, but at least no volcano was looming in the distance. Again, I questioned myself as to the meaning of this scenario. I told the group about my "Beast at the Beach" dream. Suzy, a psychiatric nurse by profession, repeated how much she respected her therapist, who had used the regression process in her therapy. She suggested I contact him to help me sort it all out, so I wrote down his phone number. Even though the prospect of seeing a new shrink was not appealing, I decided after a while that it was probably a good idea to get some professional help.

* * *

Dr. Lippman's office was on the second floor of a narrow two-story building in a small shopping center. After climbing the steps, I headed down a well-lit hallway and found the door to his small outer office. Inside was a row of chairs, an aquarium, some magazine racks, and a frosted window. I stood tapping my knuckles on the glass and my foot on the floor as I waited for a response.

A young, dark-haired woman slid the window back and smiled at me. I announced my name and then, looking at my watch, added, "Sorry I'm a little early." She handed me a pen and some papers and asked me to fill them out. I sat down and began writing.

"Of course I'm early. I always allow extra time to find a new doctor. Does that make me neurotic?" I asked myself, gliding easily into the self-analytical mode I sensed would be appropriate for the approaching visit. I didn't answer my own question, but just continued completing the forms and handed them back to the secretary.

I picked up a magazine, sat down, and began flipping through it. Then I distracted myself with the antics of the aquarium residents, but I had a hard time concentrating on anything. I decided to stage a brief rehearsal in my mind of the material I wanted to cover with the therapist.

Act one of my mental script contained a colorful cast of characters: one depressed, angry mother; a quiet, meek father; a firstborn Miss Perfect played by me; and two rebellious younger siblings who resented my star billing. As the play went on, I stepped into another role (critic) and labeled this drama "dysfunctional." The rest of the troupe did not appreciate my review.

I quickly scanned my stormy adolescent years and found it amazing that I had somehow survived. As I fast-forwarded to adulthood, the plot became more complicated when I began starring in a "married with children" role. This one became extremely challenging because I often felt like a child myself.