The most curious thing about all this is that at no time during the regressions the word “Cathars” has come to me. But this stops being surprising when you start the research and find out this word was used by others in order to make reference to them. Anne Brenon, in her book The True Face of Catharism, explains it better than I (the translation to English is mine):
The word “Cathar” was only one of the multiple denominations in a pejorative sense invented by the Roman Church to label those that had been designated as heretics. We will have the opportunity to come back in detail about these various epithets. The “Cathar” one —to which the Lutheran historian Charles Schmidt, with the publication in 1848 of his book "History of the sect of Cathars or Albigensians", was going to provide with a great media fortune— probably means “adorer of the cat”, that is to say, sorcerer. The Rhenish canon Eckbert of Schönau, who forged the cultured word “Cathars” in 1163 from a popular existent denomination, cati (Latin) / catiers (oil language), tried to give it a more cultivated etymology but also more imaginative: from the Greek catharos, that is, “pure”.
Enough to say here that the interested parties themselves, those medieval heretics to whom the present volume has been consecrated, seem to have never called themselves, proudly, “pure”, neither “Parfait” (men) nor “Parfaites” (women), these latter belonging to the Inquisition’s vocabulary. The documents proof they essentially and simply used, to designate themselves, the generic term of “apostles” or “Christians”. Their believers were called “True Christians”, “Good Christians”, “Good Men” and “Good Women”.
They started off this way:
I meditated before going to sleep, I got nothing. But already in bed, before getting asleep, I started to see some flashes. It seems a new life. I saw a young man, of about 25-30 years old, with very accentuated curls of a light color that fall a bit upon his brow. It is night, it is raining, it is all very dark, and he is with his back to a stone wall that seems to be part of a great construction. It seems there is a large door nearby (the opening, not the door itself, arch-shaped), perhaps a castle? I don’t know if I am this boy. Then I saw more people, they are going up a very steep slope, there are women and children too, it seems we are a community. We all dress in a very similar way, with some kind of habit with thick cloth, of ivory color, tied with a rope, though I don’t feel we are monks. And the word “Carcassone” comes to me (and yes, I know what it means, but there was no more).
(Regression 23-11-2016).
Meditation at night, short duration, scarce connection. I suddenly know the boy is my son, and I must have had him very young, as I don’t think I am older than 40. I am inside an old-looking house, very humble, it seems of stone, with a very stuffy environment, because there is a fireplace but the chimney must be a bit blocked and there is some smoke. I am giving birth in the bed, there is nearly no light. Crumpled sheets all around. I am seated with my back quite straight and my knees bent, it hurts and I make efforts (in real life I was ovulating and I had uterus cramps). I know I have experience, as I have more children. When the baby goes out at last there is a great silence. It has been a stillborn baby, but somehow I am not surprised, as I am already old, it was too early for it to be born, and I know this will be the last. Like I said, I must be close to 40, but my hair is already gray and I am little less than an elderly. I see a gray thing, somewhat formless, on the sheets, but I am so tired and it affects me so very little, that I lay back and get asleep. Someone takes the body to wrap it in a cloth, they tie it up with strings like a bundle, which I bury the next day in a backyard, where there is a wide space with brush. No ceremony of any kind is made. At a given moment the thought comes to me that it must have been stillborn due to some sin I have committed, as a punishment from God, but I think I don’t take it very seriously.
I wear a very rough dress, like sackcloth, with no adorns of any kind. My son is someone important in the community, but I have the feeling that when I look at him I can foretell his future and I know he won’t have a good ending, I see flames burning. I think I have some clairvoyance traits. I am some kind of healer, people come to me for treatment. I use ointments and potions, and sometimes I do surgical operations, for example I know how to extract the uterus in case there are tumors like fibroids. But for some reason we usually don’t stay very long in villages, and the community is always moving from a place to the other.
It comes to me that my name is Matilde (probably in French, Mathilde).
(Regression 24-11-2016).
As soon as I started to relax, I began to see flashes from this life. I was in the same house. I am a thin, grey-haired woman, though I must not be very old, maybe a little older than 40, perhaps 45. The same boy of the other time is here again, the one with the blonde curls, but now there are more people, at least another man, a bit older (no more than 30), and I think he is H again, he is also my son, and I also see a young woman (some 18-20 years old), black, curly and long hair, and she usually is close, taking care of me. I know I have more children, but those seem to be the most important. I am wearing a very simple dress as the ones I previously described, and I usually wear sandals. The date 900 or at most 1000 and something, comes to me. The little village is typically medieval, it reminds me of Sepulveda, with cobblestoned streets, narrow and steep. I am in charge of cooking for everyone, at some point I see myself filling up wooden bowls with stewed chickpeas that is to be shared with everyone. I think we don’t eat meat. I make the stew in a big iron saucepan, hung over the fire in a corner of the house.
Then a day comes when we have to run away, someone is persecuting us and clearly, they want to kill us. I think mainly about my children, I don’t want anything bad happening to them. We all are evacuated. I see people carrying large recipients, some look like wicker baskets, but others are like big wooden buckets and maybe some metal, and I think they put provisions there and they carry them between two. They also load some mules, but we don’t have many. We go to the mountain. At the beginning I refuse to leave the house, I tell them it doesn’t matter, it is best they find me and kill me right here, of course they don’t comply. It is as if they know I am stubborn and they don’t pay me a lot of heed, and finally they convince me (or drag me) and I go with them.
Then we are inside what looks like a large walled enclosure, I don’t know whether it is a castle, as I only see a great, very tall and wide hall (it might even be a courtyard, I don’t get to see the ceiling), with stone walls, and there we are gathered, at the light of some torches. I don’t know why but I think of bonfires, and I fear that is what they will do with us. But what enrages me the most is they are persecuting us when we don’t mess with anyone, we just want to live in peace in accordance with our principles. And somehow that makes me feel guilty, because I educated my children on those principles. I think they are going to die for my fault.
I don’t know exactly what happens next, but confused flashes come to me in which I am not burnt at the stake. Perhaps that is what they do with some men (maybe the most important in the community), but to me, they cut my head off... I believe. We are in a group, already prisoners, mainly women, and one by one we are taken and forced to kneel, and we are cut with a sword. At that point I felt pain during the meditation, on the right side of my neck, possibly I got the blow there. The women shout and try to defend themselves, of course. The attackers are dressed like warrior monks, white livery with some symbol, but I don’t see it. It is a carnage. At some point I had the impression we sang while we waited.
The most intense part was the emotions I felt for feeling guilty, for the frustration of being attacked and being unable to defend ourselves, of not being able to flee to another place different to that fortress in which we will have no escape. And my sons... this caught my attention because I think this is the only time I remember my sons grown, and I am not used to feel that maternal love, I can’t believe they are going to die...
Except the end, I don’t think it was a very traumatic life, but a normal life for any woman of that era, and very simple. I don’t remember anything of my husband for now, which also surprises me. And I would love to know more of the religious matters.
Ah, and I didn’t mention that it seemed to me I was carrying a staff (I say staff because it is taller than a normal walking stick) to help me walk. I also felt I must have been a bit delicate in my respiratory system, perhaps some kind of infection or non-infectious bronchitis.
(Regression 7-5-2017).