The Healing Faith

(Authors Note: I wrote this for a class I took back in February of this year. I am posting it now and dedicating it to the subject of my essay, a beautiful woman who finally surrendered to her disease after holding out long enough to welcome her grandson, Marty, into the world. Faye, a.k.a. "Faith", was a beautiful spirit and will be greatly missed.)

---------------------------------------------------------

Faith looked up at me, her ocean blue eyes full of tears. Both of her hands cradled my arthritic one, palm up, held fast in her lap. She ran her fingers over my open palm, stroked it as one would a precious, delicate animal. 

"I've always liked you." She whispered softly, intensely. "You're like me, a wounded healer."

I groaned internally. There's that word again: "Healer". I tried to make a joke, tried to push the word away from me discretely, gently, unable to unify the concepts of "wounded" and "healer" within my being in a way that made sense. How do I fix others when I can't even fix myself?

"We're all wounded, Faith. That's why we get into this business." 

She gazed at me, liquid eyes holding back a storm of grief, if only for a moment. And then it broke through, raged through her and shook her body with its torrents. She collapsed against my shoulder, and I held her, my hand firmly against her back, right where her lungs would be. Right where, at this very moment, the cancer was devouring her alive. 

"I love you." She choked out the words, through tears and decades of pain, in the voice of a little girl who was badly abused by those who should have protected her. I couldn't heal her, couldn't take away all the horror she had experienced in her life. All I could do was be present, be silent, and be in a space that allowed me to honor the spirit trapped inside this quivering, fragile body. All I could do was provide the safety that she should have gotten fifty years ago when she was just as terrified as she was now. But that's where my capabilities stopped abruptly, a revved car that brakes just in time to avoid sailing off a canyon cliff. I could be a comfort to someone, maybe; a healer, I definitely was not.

For the past fifteen years I have had a love/hate relationship with this odd title of "healer". I remember graduating from massage school in 1996; I was strong, knowledgeable, and very good at what I did. I had learned my trade well, and I naively strode out into the world believing that I had the power to fix any chronic ailment that came my way. Within three years I was depressed and disillusioned. My clientele loved my work, but their problems continued long after I had first laid hands upon them. On occasion I had a brilliant success story, but that was more the exception to the rule; the rule itself was that chronic pain usually stayed as chronic pain, and the relief I was able to give was merely a temporary solution. 

I grappled with this new knowledge, this ugly blow to my tender ego. What was I missing? Did I not learn as well as I thought I did? I sought out other massage therapists, chiropractors, movement therapists and naturopaths. I learned different modalities in energy work and became a Reikki Master. I entered the world of the healer and I consulted many gurus who turned out to be wannabes with less education than me. They were broken people hiding behind professional masks, tripping out on the concepts of "peace and love heals all". If I could just raise my vibration, man...if I could just embrace the world in a giant love-hug, then I, too, would see the rainbow crystal healing begin. 

Disgusted, I walked away from massage therapy and became an office manager for a legal firm. A few years later I was running a business with my now ex-husband in real estate investing. Though I had continued to have a side interest in the healing arts, I had realized that healing wasn't my main talent and that I had to push it into a back closet somewhere and focus on other things. However, the original calling wouldn't go away; the siren kept singing to me in an ever louder voice, until finally that voice crescendoed into a diagnosis of Rheumatoid Arthritis when I was only thirty-five. As someone who never smoked, drank, did drugs or abused my body, I was blown away. How did I get an "old person's" disease at so young an age?

I was on the quest again, like it or not. I studied detoxification, food additives and GMOs, dietary changes, and how the digestive tract works. I became a colon hydrotherapist and fluent in the language of supplements, digestive enzymes, parasites and anti-aging products. I opened my own wellness center and studied more fecal matter than one person ever should. All this, and three years and many clients later, I was back again where had I started; I had one or two miracle stories here and there, but the chronic conditions stayed chronic. As far as my R.A. was concerned, not only wasn't it better, but it had progressed significantly. Due both to a bad economy and a frustrated soul, I closed my doors and tried to find a steady paycheck somewhere else. How many times did I need to be told that a healer, I wasn't? 

Against my will, my journey has continued. The body is far more complex than we can imagine. As the now office manager and technician of a wellness center that uses light, sound, frequency and vibration to realign the Autonomic Nervous System back into a relaxed state, I have learned quite a bit about trauma and how that trauma lodges itself into the wiring of a being, creating the way that being senses the world and interprets their place within it. 

What I am coming to find is that so without, then so within. Trauma will program a person to see the outside world as threatening; their cells will then mirror this belief, and while a person perceives that they are being attacked on the outside, the cells will begin attacking things on the inside. This then creates autoimmune diseases, food allergies, cancers and other system breakdowns. Trauma creates belief, and belief creates biology. We become our own sickness generators; the good news is that if we can create it, then we can heal it, as well. 

I am back to where I started, but this time, I am here with more compassion and ease. I cannot possibly be the healer of someone else; I no longer need to take that stress and responsibility on. I can only heal myself through changing the belief systems that hold me fast, as Faith did my hand on the day of her visit. I can only move forward if I am courageous enough to see my world as safe, see myself as carrying a special gift worthy of giving to others. All I can be for others is a teacher, guide, mentor, or companion. I can only remind people of the light that they themselves hold, and of the possibilities and potential that they themselves possess. 

As Faith got ready to leave that day, I hugged her goodbye. I looked deep into those ocean eyes.

"You're beautiful, Faith. You have much to give. The world needs your love, and the gifts that you'll be bringing back from this experience will blow us all away."

Those eyes watered again, and she hugged me, hard. Faith still has a lot of life and power left in that petite body of hers. She left, her husband wheeling her tethered oxygen tank out behind her. I had to notice that she's already stronger than she was when she first came in to see us months ago. She decided that she's going to make it, and so she will. Her own personal healer is working overtime, and I believe, with incredible joy. With some people, I worry, but I have no such feelings with Faith. She's beginning to understand that she's loved, and that one thought alone will make all the difference. 

Of Sea and Mist

I have discovered, over my vast forty-three years, that I am an exceedingly passionate woman.

What I mean by this is that I willing surrender my stark, logical will to the preying beast of my emotional nature in most situations. It's just who I am, who I've always been. My mother considered me hopeless, and rightly so.

I know of many others who fight hard against their emotions, fight to maintain a cold, mechanical look of the world in order to conquer it and make it their own. I understand this view of life completely; these are the people who succeed in life, hold down proper jobs, accomplish the required educational commitments and socially are graceful and accepted into the fold. If life is dull or boring, or if they should find, in mid-life, that a roaring tiger of great hunger and rage resides within, they are at least already established and can either chose to act upon that tiger bite or simply shoot the beast, once and for all, with a silver bullet of rational thinking that puts the matter at rest for good.

Although I understand it, and although the world around me is consistently working within the safety of this framework, I am clearly not in alignment with the philosophy nor caught within it's open arms of comfort. I, dear readers, am not safe at all. I am, instead, out to sea, my tiny vessel rocked and slammed against the waves, the colors of sky and ocean becoming one until I've no way of knowing if I have capsized or am still afloat. And when I master a rolling hill of water and mist, laugh at it in my arrogance and triumph, I am tapped upon the shoulder to witness an even bigger mountain forming behind me.

I am amazed that those watery heights have not killed me yet. My boat, however, is pretty beat-up, and I'm not sure how resilient she still is.

I love the heat of the emotions, though. They create a chemical rush of the most exquisite drug on earth, my brain being my personal dealer, and so it is really no wonder why I live the spent life of an addict. The only emotion I run from is fear, and fear is a nasty, stiletto fanged monster that enjoys every rip, tear and suck of blood, flesh and soul it can get. I will do anything to avoid it, distract it, hide from it in open light and loud music...do anything to escape its clutches as it lunges for me from the darkest corners of my psyche. Out of all of my menagerie of emotions, fear is the hunter child, the wild one who needs not rest nor shelter, the stalker with the iron traps and the torturous imprisonments to satisfy his morbid leanings. He will not be caged, but cages me, instead, and makes his prey wish that they had never been born.

This is the one I battle most, the one who rocks my boat to timbers. Harpoons pass through it as arrows through fog, and there is no way to plead with it. It laughs at logic, at bargaining, at promises to make new choices tomorrow if only I can get through the night with a few hours of peaceful sleep. It knows better, sees through the attempted grift, clamps down harder and shakes me in its jaws until I am raw and weary. There is no escape when it calls, and I am its favorite game.

The other emotions have, at least, something useful to offer. Love is always thrilling, lofty, fun in its sexuality, humbling in its divine grace, and usually always makes me feel and be a better human on this earth than I was being previously. Anger fuels me, gives me energy, edge and spark; it triggers a snarky sense of humor and a definite sense of superiority. Depression, while hollow in its depths and wrought with an external inertia that seems impossible to rouse out of, also presents the gift of creativity and the strength of voice to demand attention; I write less when I'm stable and comfortable, because nothing is leaking out of me, begging to be put to paper or blog, and bursting my seams into near explosion. Grief can be a painful road to walk, bare feet upon glass for miles and endless miles, but it can then produce the most beautiful and loving spiritual insights I have ever experienced. They are my friends, this lovely watery whirlpool of sensations, and they woo me and make love to my spirit as would any ardent lover. No cold steel logic can even attempt to come close.

But the life destroyer is fear, hands-down. As an artist, as a human, I can survive and thrive with the others quite nicely. But fear...that demon grotesque and evil beyond words, is and has always been the reason why I long to leave this life for the sweet freedom that lies behind the Veil. It is the one emotion that I wish logic could work against; I have tried it before, when I was very young. It worked for a time, but I found that once I shut down the one, ending my panic attacks and actually putting me into the most successful time in my life, I had also shut down the others, and all I felt was numb and mechanical. I couldn't love anybody, I couldn't enjoy my successes, I couldn't have fun anymore. It was all gone, and I was stone cold within. I did what I was supposed to do...got married, dressed for success, began a business with my husband and learned all about investing and real estate. I ignored the fact that I hated my life. But the spirit has other ways of exploding those emotional seams when one is desperate to shut it all down in quiet compliance.

Within a year and a half I had Rheumatoid Arthritis. The center couldn't hold. I landed in the hospital severely anemic, with pulmonary embolisms and heart palpitations. For three days my doctors kept me there and considered giving me a blood transfusion. It didn't happen, but my husband was scared that I was on my way out.

And I was. I made the decision to stay. That's a whole other story for another post.

In order to stay I wanted to live again, wanted to feel again. I needed to find my way back to my authentic self. I ditched the husband, got out of investments and real estate, and fell in love hard with a strapping red-headed mountain man. All was good for only a year. It became 2008. The economy crashed. The man liked me, but didn't love me. And I lost my wellness center. My RA progressed. I ended up alone and on food stamps. So much for authenticity.

So, I appear to be stuck. The logical choices leave me numb and compromised. The passionate life leaves me poor, heartbroken and unloved. And fear is always crouched in the corner, throwing me pictures of my mortality with scenes of infirmity and disease. Death is not the problem; it's wasting away, piece by piece, and all alone.

I have bizarre thoughts: will I have a heart attack in my sleep? Will my landlord find my body before it smells up the house? Will a hazmat team flick maggots off of my flesh when they find me rotting in the basement? And lastly, will my landlord have to pack up my stuff and what will he think of me while he goes through it? The sheer stupidity of my fearful thoughts drives me insane.

So, to feel, or not to feel? How do I change? Do I even want to?

I think I will stay at sea. Sometimes, there is a full moon, and the stars shine so bright against the darkness of the ocean waves that I see diamonds all around me. Sometimes, I look out at the horizon, and I can see forever, rainbows drawn within the misty haze and foaming rolls. Sometimes, the waves rock me gently, and I am precious in the womb of the Great Mother, held and loved in her sea-salty breath. But I am always here alone, with no one to share such beauty and magic with, and I am sad for that. If only I could show someone what I see, have them understand enough to appreciate the gifts I have to offer. My world can be so amazing.

And if only fish gave foot rubs.

A Jumble of Words

Winter's chill
Has come again
Hand in hand
With evening's shade
Icy daggers
In spinal walks
Torment me well
Into midnight black
Each turn I make
Every breath inhaled
Brings cold pin pricks
To my frosty heart
I am worn out
By such bitter cold
By icicles piercing
My wounded flesh
These barren lands
Of stillness and grief
Overwhelm all sense
Of direction home


Moonlit altar
Deserted wood
Lying still
On marble stone
The aching quiet
Thunders loud
In deathlike space
Of empty echos
Haunting murmurs
Of paths not taken
And regrets
As loud
As the sea

On Being An Artist

I have begun to read The English Patient. I really need to read excellent literature more often. With great hubris I read my work, and with puffed feathers I declare...to myself, as if I were god...that it is good. Upon reflection, after reading the work of a true master, I realize that I am merely a fool and, maybe, if I am very lucky, I might have a raw talent that (with copious amounts of training) I can eventually make use of and even sing the songs of angels. Hell, I'd just settle for a damn good choir, at this point. But for now, I guess I just need to keep reading the masters and train myself thusly; perhaps their ghosts will whisper to me through the pages and transform my pea brain into something truly magnificent. It's worth a shot, at least.

Where do the greats get such amazing images? All of my metaphors are borrowed and used up like the worn, dirty carpet in front of a well walked-through door. I admire beautiful imagery, sensual and speaking volumes of story within a scant few lines, and I gaze at the words in utter awe and amazement. I read them over and over again to myself, and listen to the flow of the words as I watch the perfection unfold in my mind. How did the artist think of this? How did the brain meld such images together in harmony so perfect that I know exactly what he means, can smell and taste every facet of the object or scene, and yet, I know that my mind would never yield the same interpretation, would feel foolish even making such comparisons and I wouldn't, in sheer cowardice, even dare to write such words. I am convinced that I am nothing more than an idiot, sometimes, without one single ounce of creativity within. 

*************************************************************************************

Have you ever noticed that the best stories seem to be about hopelessly broken people? Why is this? What is it about pain and limitation that, within the ugliness of dark situations, make something tremendously beautiful appear? It is in that moment of sublime humility when the soul seems to peek out of the shadows and shows itself head-on. Before that, when all is perfect, it is nothing more than the mask of the meat-suit, the gruesome grin of the empty-brained hedonist who is so disassociated from his frailty that he thinks he is invincible. This is what the mythologies of old have come to tell us; naive ignorance is comical, while invincible power becomes boring. The Christ, as GOD, would send us apathetic; the real story instead comes from the vulnerability of the anguish, the ability to be ripped apart by thorns, nails and spear. Even Superman needs kryptonite to be worthy of our tales, and Sampson is a dolt until he buckles after his hair is shaved away. Our heroes need to prove to us that they can rise up from the ashes, can carry their shame and wounded bodies forth to not only stand tall in the sunrise, but to also save the world from imminent disaster and demise. To be weak, yet to overcome, saves us all in the long run. It gives us the hope that we desperately crave, the sense that maybe we, too, can reach out of our private hell and redeem not only ourselves, but also those who were brave enough to believe in us with every step of our tortured journey. 

*************************************************************************************

Is this what it means to be an artist? To delve into the muck of our existence, to rage against the chains that bind us to flesh and blood, just so we can write, or paint, or create something that evokes a response within others that moves, stirs, and ignites the spirit into the experience of feeling alive? If I never wrote another word, could I still see myself as an artist if I at least provoked emotion in those around me? Is my life a work of art that can inspire, or enrage, or at least invite discussion from those close to me? And their lives, in turn, would also be a work of art that moves me just as much. 

Dear readers, thank you for your beautiful creations. I am honored to witness them all. 

Letter To A Friend

Sometimes I channel things in letters that I just need to share. The follow excerpt is one such example:

I had a client yesterday in Westminster who is a very deep, insightful woman. She's a psychologist and trauma therapist, and the sharing of her thoughts after her session in 'the box' provoked a lovely discussion on how the human spirit chooses to create it's experiences here within the duality of three dimensional reality. I love profound discussions such as this...they are magical, fruitful, full of gossamer epiphanies that carry levels of daily experience to a higher realm of comprehension.

We spoke of dreams, trauma, the autonomic nervous system, out of body experiences, past lives...I shared many of my thoughts and insights with her, and her feedback was pretty enlightening. In a nutshell, my reluctance to create my reality in a 'positive' way is simply because my spirit has something to figure out in the darkness. I am searching for something in the scraps of pain that I dig up, rooting in the dirt like a bird searching for grubs. There must be something delicious in those fat, slimy worms, otherwise, I would fly off in search of more tender morsels elsewhere. When I have had my fill, belly big and bloated, feathers smelling earthy and sweet, I will raise my sights to the clouds above and touch them easily with one or two solid wing strokes against the solid air. Please keep in mind, I have the power to do and be anything I wish. 

So, dearest, worry not about my projected dismal future. All may not be lost, after all. I DO know that I create my reality, and I know for a fact that once I truly focus on an object, I can usually manifest it fairly quickly. I have seen miracles in my life that amaze even me. 

I have a fascination with the darkness. Although I never chose to dabble in drugs or alcohol, I do explore my own addictions regularly. I give in to my fears, my desires, my emotional turmoil. The observer within me finds all this drama fascinating; she sits above me, watching in non-judgment, as I fumble through this life, this body, chained to a device of my own making and crying out as, she notices, I hold the keys. I am learning something, finding pleasure somewhere in the abyss. As a spirit having a human experience, I am playing with forces unknown to my higher self, crashing through walls of illusion and polarity as I search for what this life is, what makes it beautiful, what really matters about all this sticky, tricky webbing that holds the mortal coil firmly in place. 

I want to know passion. I want to know what it means to be alive. Can you do this through logic and reason? Can you truly know love, exquisite pain, despair, intense joy, the experience of losing yourself to a person or situation if you coldly, logically, set up your future in happy little rows of safety and security? Without risk, there is no real play. Without abandon, the experience is lost. Creating safety is not living; it is helpful to survival, no doubt, but it is not being alive. Some of the most beautiful memories I have are from drowning in the depths of lonely anguish. I am alive then. I am whole, complete in the waves that pull me into the sea, suckled by the tides as I float down to the watery graves below.

I know I can change my fate. Despite your observation that I am vulnerable, it is only a vulnerability that results from my desiring it. I am stronger than you give me credit for. I can feel that power flow through me; quietly, within the recesses of my mind, I am well aware of the fact that, the moment I chose something different, it will manifest in magnificent splendor. Worry not. I can part the sea, and call forth fire from my fingertips. All will be righted in time.

A Beautiful Quote

A few days ago I chanced upon a story that described a severely depressed person reaching out to comedian Chris Getherd via email to ask if he had ever experienced depression himself. Chris's answer was beautiful, and I wanted to post a piece of it on my blog.

Chris wrote:

"Always remember that beautiful experiences and massive amounts of love are on their way. If you are able to feel pain and sadness this profoundly, more than most people can ever imagine, remind yourself that you can feel happiness and joy and love this profoundly as well, and that’s our little reward as depressed people. We feel things harder than other people do, and when those things are negative they are complete and total torture. But while we feel pain harder than other people have to, we feel beauty and joy and love harder than anyone else gets to, and that’s the victory that’s waiting on the other side of this pain for you. Hang on. Be tough. Better times are coming. Beautiful things and loving people are already out there, and when this cloud passes you get to experience them all so, so deeply."

Little did Chris know, his heartfelt response touched more people than just this one. I found myself profoundly affected, as well. It's so true...the depths of despair can be so deep when you feel emotions intensely, but I can also feel love and bliss in a way that most will never know. It's a great perspective to view this problematic situation from. 

Thanks, Chris. I never watched your comedy before, but I will be sure to be a fan now. 

An Excerpt from a Letter

The whole letter is too personal to post, but I can post this:

I know I need to think positively and create my reality into something so much better. I just choose to stay a little stuck. Stupid, I know. I don't know what my deal is. Maybe I'm just in rebellion against being here in flesh and blood. I can't figure out why I agreed to incarnate this time...must have been for a reason. Be damned if I know what it is.

I had a dream when I was 7 years old. I was in a barn with a huge black stallion (I was reading the Black Stallion series at the time, as I recall), and an old woman came in with a shotgun to kill the horse. As he reared up in his stall, I ran in front of him and took the shot in my neck; falling to the ground, all went black and faded away. All that was left was me, my existence, in a soft, dark, comfortable place. I was floating in inkiness, breathing deeply, fully relaxed and happy. Pure happiness, pure peace, and connected to absolutely everything. I could hear voices in the background, news from around the world, personal conversations, even random thoughts of others. I had the thought that I maybe should focus on a particular stream and learn something, but then I also realized that none of it mattered....it was all unreal, just games we all play, and so nothing was worth latching on to. I dimmed the voices, turned down the volume by refocusing my thoughts, and went back to my blissful state for what could have been an eternity. I loved it.

Finally, it happened. I felt my feet, my young, seven year old feet. I was returning to the mold, to the cage, and immediately raged against it. The fight only slammed me in quicker, and I regained the feeling of my body from the bottom up...feet, legs, knees, hips, ribs...until, eventually, I was back in my bed with the covers high up under my chin. I refused to open my eyes for the longest time, and then, in an act of defeat, opened up one eye to the scene of my bedroom. I've had plenty of bad mornings, but that was one of the worst. To be surrounded by everything, to be just a drop that's part of an endless, beautiful ocean, is blissful. To be that same drop, abandoned on the rocky shore with bird dung, is awful. I have never been back to that place since, and for thirty-six years, I have missed it.

As lovely as life is, there is something much more wonderful beyond this place. I think I've been kicking my heels against this three dimensional reality in open rebellion ever since. 

Being On The Watch

Clouds are mysterious things. 

They seem so solid, so stable; a cottony-grey wall that hides the sun and stars away in their faraway, unreachable depths. And yet, as one can do in a thick fog, you can run your fingers through them, breathe them deep into your body, get lost in them without being stuck or even hindered. They surround, but do not hold; blind, but do not impede; caress, but do not touch. Nature produces beautiful illusions such as this all the time; to get wrapped up in such wonder is to truly experience being alive. 

I remember being young under a moonlit sky. In my early twenties, life pulsed within me, and I would park the car in my driveway, strip down to my underwear (it was a secluded area), and lie on the hood of my old Ford Fairmont in hypnotic rapture at the beauty around me. The sensual coolness of the air, the smell of the damp grass, and the feather wisps of clouds lovingly stroking the face of the Moon as they passed before her eyes left me breathless. Time stood still in this place, this monochrome dream of nature where everything around me seemed to breathe me in and hold me spellbound. My long hair wound up beneath my head as a pillow, I would lie there on that old, beat up car for hours, feeling that I had finally found my true love and lover who opened up their secrets for me alone. It was heaven. 

My old college roommate, Chrissy, introduced me to Heart's album "Dog and Butterfly". There's a song on there called 'Minstral Wind', and it's a meltingly lovely metaphor of a girl caught in the winds of love and lust. She sails in her tiny boat, and the Wind whispers seductively in her ears, tempts her with treasures and visions of intense beauty and pleasure, and as the song builds, she is left spun around, off course, completely lost in his torrents of passion, her will no longer her own. By the end of the song she stands on her watch on a still night, and she waits for the breeze to move her again, to feel the "magic space" ripple through her once more. She hungers for the surge of nature, passion, beauty...everything that keeps her alive in this world. From the moment I first listened to this song, I knew what she was waiting for, identified with the character wholeheartedly. It may be chaos, but to lose your way in deep passion, in the foggy cloudiness of drenching, muggy desire, is gloriously divine. 

My moonlit nights gave me a taste of that. Human lovers, as I grew older, added to the collection of sensations and experiences, but the magic of the natural world continued to always beg to be considered prominently. The tendril streaks of cloud across the canvas of sky, the smell, taste and feel of the rain as it splashes upon the skin and runs thrillingly across velvet flesh, the subtle heat of a mammoth tree that pulls one in and close enough to stroke and smell it's dusty, sweet bark....these are treasures of life, vibrant vibrational reminders that we are alive and part of it all. Our brains block out so much of these sensations as we do our day to day survival dances, but we are only cheating ourselves when we shift our priorities so much that we miss what is going on around us. There is another world that begs to be drunk in and ravenously tasted.

This world has been nagging at me to return to my child-like wonder and co-create with it once more. As part of my healing, I have also been consciously asking for an awakening of my own kundalini, the life force energy that is the source of all vitality and creation. Whether it is that, or the fact that I may be entering my change of life process...I have no idea....has left me more open to sensual excitement and more aware of subtle energy shifts in the natural world. It's like walking around with a constant orgasmic buzz that leaves me giggling at everything for no reason. It's wonderful, and I highly recommend it. 

Tonight, the clouds sailed past a brilliant full moon. Exhausted after a long day. I still took a moment to gaze up at my old friends, and I waited for that breeze to move me. I giggled as I felt the familiar stirrings, felt my breath catch in the physical thrills and tingles that murmured through my body with delicious promises. The minstral whispered, and I am seduced; I am, for the rest of my life, his. 

A Culture Without Intimacy

 My friend Donna came into the center a few days ago, and afterwards we sat on the couch and talked for a long time. During her session, she had some amazing epiphanies…but then again, that’s Donna. She’s wide open to messages from Spirit, and she channels words of wisdom wherever she goes.

We sat there on the couch, talking with great depth of sharing. We held hands as she spoke, unafraid to be as close as only close friends can be. Her insights were beautiful, words that healed both her heart and mine simultaneously. Such conversations are precious, mostly because they happen so rarely. How often does one allow oneself to feel this vulnerable? These days, in this culture, moments like this are endangered species.

I have found, as I have gotten older, that intimate moments between friends have become less common. When I was younger, we had no cell phones, no internet, no texting. The only way to really talk to someone was to talk over the house phone, in person, or, as they did in the old days, write long letters that went on for pages and pages.

In highschool, I remember spending four hours on the phone one night with my best friend Russell; Russell was brilliant, amazingly insightful, and, little did we know then, starting to feel the presence of Schizophrenia. To be let in on his world, intellectually and emotionally, was both beautiful and terrifying. But we were like that…intimate friends with no walls. I wonder now if those conversations would have happened if we had access to text messages. Would I still have heard the mania and magic in his voice? Would we still have been able to connect deeply if it were all just little words on a screen?

It’s hard to be vulnerable via text. One can write a quick email, shoot off a text, stay in contact and yet never really connect. There’s no intimacy. We have an excuse to listen more to our own inner chatter than we do to another’s thoughts and dreams. We can break up with a lover and never see the pain reflected in their eyes, or send off a cruel email to an insubordinate without having the courage to reach out and actually mentor or truly lead. We’ve become a world of blabbering heads…we talk about us, we sell, we push our messages and agendas out to the masses, we control. But do we really get vulnerable, get deep into the dirt, tell our truths and be present, heart and soul, for others? No. Not so much.

I want to be vulnerable. It scares the crud out of me, but I long for it. I want to be who I am and not just a mask. I want to be there for others, as well. Only after being willing to make your heart intimate can you really enjoy being intimate on other levels…mentally, physically, and sexually. But again, you must feel safe, loved, and not used or manipulated. How glorious would that be?

For a long time, my friend Donna and I got to that space. In a quiet room, huddled on the couch, talking and whispering like children in awe of a big secret, we dared to share our frailties with each other. In that moment, we were one, and I loved her dearly for loving me and being bold enough to channel her soul. It was beautiful, this togetherness. And it made me wonder why I didn’t invite this into my life more often. This is the good stuff; this is what life is really all about.

The Nature of Love for the Over Forty Crowd

“I can understand having issues over trust.” My girlfriend explained to me over her Starbucks. “I’ve worked hard for what I have. My house is paid off, and so is my car. I’ve built a life for myself. Why would I invite someone in to that? Why would I risk losing it all?”

I double-blinked at her. Weren’t we talking about love? Weren’t we dreaming over finding our soulmates?

“I guess I’m really happy by myself,” she mused on. “He can have his house, I’ll have mine. Everything would be separate, if I got involved again. Maybe someday.” She ended on a deep sigh.

We had been talking about a mutual friend, whom I’ll call Gina. Gina had an old lover pop back into her life recently, and because both parties were more afraid of love than they were attracted to each other, he became more and more distant and she demanded constant conditions on how the relationship would proceed. It only took two weeks before the whole relationship disintegrated into a pile of tears for Gina. However, the next day she was happy and said that she was “relieved”, glad that she had steered clear of a disaster.

“I’ve known him for thirteen years.” She had said. “I’ve never been able to trust him. Something always comes before me, with him, and I need to be first.”

I wondered, was this even a realistic request in a new relationship? But if not, why wasn’t it? Is love, true love, filled with so much self concern?

I remember being young and open for love. It was all still new. I remember being in love with William when I was twenty years old. I would have done anything for him, and pretty much did. My step-father didn’t approve of him, so at twenty-one, with no money and a part-time retail job, I moved in with my friend Katie just so I could see Will on a steady basis. Was it financially stupid? Of course. I had no idea about what I was doing. I slept on an air mattress, ate cheap food, barely had enough gas to put in my car. But Will was mine.

I remember how whenever I saw him my breath would catch, every time. He was so beautiful to me. I wanted to know everything about him, every interest, every hobby. What fascinated him? What broke his heart? What lifted him up? I couldn’t bear to let him go at the end of the night, and would talk to him for hours at night on the phone, waiting for him to fall asleep so I could hear him breathe on the other end, slow and rhythmic, until it put me to sleep. The phone line would be open all night, with both of us fast asleep, receiver tucked under our ears. 

Making love on that tiny air mattress was pure bliss. Wrapped around each other, I’d beg him to breathe to me, and in a deep kiss he’d exhale and I’d pull his breath into my lungs. I wanted to become a part of him, and hated the boundary of bone and skin. On occasion I came dangerously close to bruising him, holding so tightly, nails dug into his back, willing myself inside of his flesh. I was lost, and wanted to be lost. Nothing else mattered.

Four years later, William broke up with me. My world stopped, went into slow motion. I begged, pleaded, promised anything to make him stay. But when one is no longer in love, there is nothing to be done. Feeling guilty for hurting me, he tried to make it work, but I felt his sadness and knew that I was the cause of it. I had caged the wild bird for my pleasure, but when he would gaze out the window instead of gazing at me, there was no pleasure to be found, only agony. All he wanted to do was fly. With a broken heart, I opened the cage door…neither one of us could be together once his love had left. It was done.

Now in my forties, I find that, somehow, passion has been squeezed out of us older folk. It’s no longer about love and intimacy; relationships now seem to be about business matters. Do you have a decent job? Can I see your financials? How’s your health? What type of insurance plan do you have? Love is a business contract among the over forty crowd. And at the first sign of passion, we run screaming, “Eek! Stalker! Fatal attraction”

Sex turns into something that you just kind of do. Do our parts fit together? Do you snore when it’s over? With William, I remember trembling in his arms, needing his touch so desperately that I thought I’d burn up. There’s a line in a Dire Straights song, Romeo and Juliette, that has Romeo saying, “Juliette, when we made love, you used to cry.” With William, I did, every time. But once we hit over forty, we desensitized old folks merely roll over and go to sleep, like nothing wonderfully beautiful had ever happened, because for us, it didn't. We go through the motions as if we weren’t even present.

True intimacy happens later. I have been speaking of early, romantic love, which does evolve into something deeper. Love, hopefully, gets stronger after challenges. Two people grow, compromise, fight, go through Hell and back, and eventually stand together, knowing that their partner, their love, is the extension of themselves. But this rarely happens any more…it’s easier to give up, move on, and get free of the things that could have brought them closer together. I’m guilty of this, too. How can we demand trust when we are so selfish? How can my friend say, “Trust is an issue, and if I love again, I’m keeping my stuff separate”? Why do we expect surrender of others if we will not give of ourselves freely?

It seems to me that by forty, we should be better at intimacy, not worse. We should know how to love completely, not to be jaded and selfish and wall ourselves away from it.

When William left me, I thought I’d die. I really did. The agony I went through was more than I was able to bear…I even had a night of such severe panic that I knew I had been on the verge of slipping into a breakdown. The insanity was creeping in, and it was only because of the visit from a divine friend that I am here, and sane, today. He anchored me and brought me back to this world. I was that close, and I was willing to go through that door and not come back. My mind was that fragile.

But the funny thing is, I would gladly trade my now jaded heart for the one I had back then, all those years ago. I may have been needy and immature, but I FELT SOMETHING. I was alive, I was willing, and I had someone in my life that I would have walked through fire for. Now I only have emptiness and memories. I am so well walled and protected that I have become the caged bird who gazes out the window.

But I still have some passion left. Maybe, someday, he will come to set me free. And his bank account won’t matter at all.

The Healer's Walk

Choosing to be a healer can be a rough professional choice.

There are aspects of it that are so amazingly rewarding. Miracles happen, lives change, education transpires and enlightenment reaches once confused vessels of clay. Sometimes, with full-on ego, or with quiet humility, the healer steps back and observes that he or she has just been a part of something really big. A life was touched and transformed, as a flower is kissed by sunlight and at once opens its petals to bloom happily for all to see. And we, the channels of such light, stand back and say (in our best Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure voice), "Whoa..."

These moments are the rare times that keep us filled with hope and dedication. However, they are also the few and far in-between. The typical scenario can instead be depressing, discouraging, and it twists our souls into calloused and desensitized goblins of being. It is a wonder why so many of us are eager to jump into this line of work. We enter it full of ideals, full of intentions that our light will change the world into a beautiful Utopia on Earth. And then reality hits, and hits hard.

We give of ourselves so thoroughly that we drop our boundaries; we allow clients to invade our space, and we take on troubles and exhaustion willingly because we convince ourselves that we are stronger than our clients and therefore we can bear the weight so much easier than they can. We fight for our patients, lecture and plead with them, wrap our identity and self-worth around their journey each and every step of the way. And then finally, sadly, we break down. We get sick. We get tired. And then we have to face the obvious: only our clients can choose to heal themselves. We can't do it for them. And, the truth is, most people refuse the chance to heal. They just won't do the work.

I find that most illnesses are caused by the long-term choices we make on a daily basis. Many issues can be resolved easily by a change of diet; others will require more work, such as an exercise program or the giving up of an addiction (smoking, overeating, drugs or alcohol, coffee, etc.). Some actually require a major lifestyle change, which may include moving away from toxic people (family, friends, an abusive spouse, etc.). A gentleman who was here yesterday is chronically dehydrated; all he needs to do is to drink water. He wants to feel better, wants to detoxify and get his life back, but he barely eats and refuses to drink. Tall and emaciated, already the recipient of a stroke at 27 years old due to a lack of movement, water and decent food, he spends his days in his parent's basement smoking pot and wasting away. He says he wants to get better, that he's not "giving up", but this otherwise gentle soul is doing nothing to save himself. And no one can want it more than him.

People want overnight miracles. Anything that is subtle or gradual isn't a happy option. They try things once, and if the hand of Jesus didn't reach down from the sky and drop their illnesses, like scales, to the ground, then they're done. And they refuse to take responsibility; its the healer's fault, they must be a charlatan, otherwise years of chronic pain would dry up within seconds. And they want to heal immediately WHILE STILL holding on to their poor eating habits, toxic friends and ugly addictions. How do you heal someone who wants to stay as they are?

Some people, those who I'm grateful for, know that it doesn't realistically happen overnight. It takes work and discipline, both on the side of the healer and of the patient. It takes a willingness to let go of your old patterns and the courage to put yourself first...not selfishly, where no one else matters, but "self first", where you realize that you can't be strong for others if you can't carry your own weight. Someone who understands healing knows that if they are unstable, then they have nothing to give, so they learn to say no to outside pressures to conform, learn to push aside naysayers, learn to focus on what they need to do to become balanced. Only then can they emerge and spread more light.

To be a healer, you must become aware. You must see and know who truly wants to heal, and who just wants to waste your time. You must honor EVERYBODY'S individual choice of journey, even if its not one you would choose for yourself. And you must honor yourself first, your own precious light, and guard it with all the selfless love you have within. To love yourself is the most selfless thing you can do...otherwise, your heart will break under the weight of all those who have already given up on themselves. There will never be anything that you can do for them. And that is the true sadness of being a healer.

Bounded or Unbounded?

New Year's Eve found me at dinner with a small group of friends and respected associates. We were gathered at an Indian restaurant, and it was a rare night for me; I was eating food, real food. Why, you might ask, was this so odd?

Sixteen months ago, after an evening where my heart had palpitations so strong that I feared a heart attack, I went on a strict diet. Due to the shape of my body, I found that a rice-based protein powder from a company called Metagenics had amazing results for me. In short, I walked away from food...ALL food...and ate (or drank) nothing but Metagenics Macro and Ultraclear Plus pH.

Both of these products assist the body in detoxification and gut repair; they are termed as a "medical food", properly balanced, nutritious, and easily digestible. My body thrives on it. My chronic pain became manageable, my anemia went away, my energy improved...for fifteen years, as a certified colon hydrotherapist, one-time massage therapist, and professional in the alternative medicine field, I tried EVERYTHING, every supplement, digestive aid and therapy in the book. Suddenly, by simply walking away from food, I felt so much better it was amazing. And for sixteen months I have done well.

People look at me oddly and try to shake me from my chosen path. I get comments about how I'm probably malnourished, and that one of these days my body will break down because of some missing vitamin that I don't regularly get. My bright eyes and good skin tone don't seem to speak for themselves. The comments are usually condescending, spoken usually by someone who has never experienced the frustration of dealing with chronic, autoimmune pain and issues. Everyone knows what's best for me, despite the fact that I protest and tell them that I AM BETTER and have been doing quite well.

I had a chance to go back to regular food for a while; financial issues on my part, coupled with holiday company closures, left me without my precious powder for a week. I was forced to eat real food to survive...I have never been anorexic, never had any signs of an eating disorder, and I hate being hungry. I stayed gluten, dairy, chocolate, tomato, and soy free since I have allergies to all of them. I also stayed vegan. My typical foods were rice, beans, veggies and apples. Within 24 hours I felt heavy, lightheaded and moody. I couldn't wait to get my next shipment of powder.

At the New Year's Eve dinner, I ordered Aloo Gobi: potatoes and cauliflower mixed with herbs and spices, gluten-free, over white rice. One associate snidely commented, "So, food is good, huh?"

It took everything I had to not rip his face off. His girlfriend (an animal communicator) then started lecturing me on how I needed digestive enzymes to transition back to food and kept hounding the issue, despite me telling her that, yes, as a colon hydrotherapist, I am in fact aware of that, and no, after several years of eating food and spending hundreds of dollars on HCL, digestive enzymes, and probiotics, popping several pills before and after each and every meal, my food NEVER digested well. I have noticed no difference in how I feel now digesting food verses how I felt then. But she kept pressing until I rudely told her that the conversation was DONE. Everyone went into uncomfortable silence for a moment or two. I voiced my boundary, and no one liked it.

As a slight side note: my digestion always went smoothly with my powder. Good bowel movements, no bloating, no belching...and energy after each meal verses feeling sluggish after real food. I know, too much information...but I'm trying to be clear.

We can be such a weak species. I am, too. Many times I have forced my opinions on others, telling myself that I am only helping, yet what I'm doing is trying to upgrade my self-worth by controlling someone else. We do this to each other; we control, dominate, force others to not think too independently because it ruffles the tribe. And I think that, in my case, no one wants to admit that maybe powder is a better solution to our pesticide-ridden, GMO, chemical and antibiotic infused edibles. We like our addictions, and to stand face-to-face with a mirror that says, "hey, maybe we should rethink this food thing," is not something that we want to see. It scares us, like standing too close to a sick person; it might be catchy. So we dictate, dominate and run over another's free will and choice without a thought. Our comfort is all that matters, NOT their empowerment.

My powdered nourishment should be delivered today. I am expecting that those close to me, now relieved that I am eating again, will protest loudly when I go back to full-time meals-in-a-glass. And I will try to defend myself with emotion and experience that they don't understand. But I need to be stronger...I owe NO ONE an explanation of my choice. I am an adult, I know how I feel, and all I need to say is, "Thank you for the concern, it is noted, and I have made my choice." PERIOD. No other defense is necessary.

My boundaries are up. I look forward to the day when I am so relaxed with myself that boundaries kept this ridged are no longer needed. Instead of looking for a fight, I will then just laugh at my silly friends and walk away, knowing that they are merely scared of a weird ripple in their pond. And may I, too, be honoring of all those weird ripples in my pond, as well. Let us be empowered and true to ourselves, and know in our hearts that we are safe.