First-ever Past Life Regression

In the first life I regressed to, I was a native...Native American, I believe, but of the American Southwest, perhaps even in Mexico. A bronzed, muscled Adonis with hair black, like coal, and intense focus in my eyes. I was in my 30s, the prime of health, and while a great warrior and athlete I was not a ruler. I lived in what appeared to be a pueblo house (though there seemed to be some portable teepees in the village) with my lithe, gorgeous wife, similarly dark-skinned but somewhat lighter, with long, flowing, straight, black hair and sensitive but still penetrating dark eyes. We had two children, a boy and a girl, both the same age (maybe twins) with their parents' dark features; we also lived with my aging father--his skin a clay like mine, but with short, white, wiry hair and a beard--and his wife of many years younger, looking like my own wife, but older and not nearly as pretty, her looks marred primarily by a pointed and crooked nose. She was one of the main things I resented about my father--he remarried, to someone so much younger than he, and did not even make a wise choice in his vanity; she was one I seemingly ignored, with indirect and mainly unrealized anger, as I was more focused on him.
I could not pin down a trade; I saw pot-making, spear-crafting (and throwing), and hunting, but nothing that popped. However, we did live well. The purpose for that life, it seems, was to learn to survive...especially with the Spanish coming. One of my greatest moments was dancing around a fire of initiation or celebration, holding the severed head of a Spaniard (by the hair) from each of my bloodied hands, while my tribesmen cheered me on--I had proven myself truly manly, though it seems there wasn't a need to prove that, especially at such an age and comfortable standing. In death, I proved close to my goal, but not quite...while in my 50s (maybe late 50s) I lead a valiant charge against the Spanish armies, only to be run thru by several spears to the chest...and then killed by gunfire. And my name, I never completely got...perhaps Raven, or Raptor, or something about or Of the Soaring Wind.

In my other visualization, I lacked a lot of detail. However, I was a round, robust, and rather fiscally poor pizza maker in what appeared to be Italy. Middle-aged and large, with a grayed mustache that curled at the ends and at times a wide, stereotypical smile, I slaved away in a shop/kitchen with a huge, floor-to-ceiling brick oven. My meager home was full of children, though I know not how many. What I do know is that my wife...was the same. Slightly different features, not as intense, but definitely the same soul; though I doubt she looked this way to the rest of those there, she still to me was a petite but tallish beauty with long, flowing black hair. The only other person I remember was my assistant in the shop and longtime friend, who still only seemed to have a cameo. My name was, I believe Rafael Mario, with the last name beginning with a D. My purpose was to learn to make do with seemingly nothing. However, I never got a chance to explore further, or see if I fulfilled my destiny. It does seem, in hindsight, that my purpose in this life may be similar to that one, though--make something out of the meager beginnings I have come from.