Healing Is Evolution
Even Those Half-Assed Intentions With Finger's Crossed
There should be a rule about healing. As a person who pathologically avoids installing rules after needing to vaporize dozens and dozens and dozens of parent-made and self-made vindictive mandates, adding a new one to the list means it’s a big deal.
The Rule: Someone should tell people choosing to heal—even the half-assed versions with fingers crossed—that healing will change everything. And, that same someone should also explain what “everything” means. Healing is evolution.
Healing changes relationships, perceptions of the environment, what is true and what isn’t, beliefs, (did I mention relationships?), have tos and priorities, passions, creativity, preferences, acceptables, relationships, relationships, and also, more of those pesky relationships. Why all the repetition concerning relationships? People come to expect an adult over the age of thirty to be what they’ve most always been. That’s a given.
Yet, people aren’t givens.
And, healing people can be as remarkable and unpredictable as children exploring a frightening and fabulous new world. Which would of course, change relationships—no matter how long or static they have been.
Healing is evolution.
A few years into the deep end of the Mariana Trench type healing, I learned that, for me, the next stage of healing would mean several relationships ending and the rest needing to evolve. Because of the enormity of what I needed to do, I hit a pause button. A breather from healing. Time to consider whether or not I wanted to hit reverse. A rather nefariously hilarious consideration. The answer to whether it’s possible for humans to reverse or pause a healing intention once it has gone from maybe to GO, is not in the universe of being possible.
It would’ve been helpful for that elusive “someone should have informed me” to have said how jumping into healing can be a lot like gravity and Wile E. Coyote.
Over a decade ago, I took a break from healing without necessary information about how healing doesn’t take breaks. What unfolded during that period went on to shove me deeper into the healing trench. The experience illuminated that beyond pain, something else, something less horrible and a lot more magical, lays hidden behind the veil of the darkest parts of the human experience.
Once upon a time…
Standing on the dividing line between yester-me and I-don’t-know-me, I am uneasy, irritable, and turbulent. I have recently realized that undoing or healing trauma is harder than how I imagine the act of harming others to be. Discussing this travesty with a friend, they suggest going to a woo-doo doctor.
“Maybe you need a soul retrieval done by a shaman,” they offer.
I picture a Me doll with pins sticking out of it and cringe. Still, I’m curious.
“What’s a ‘soul retrieval?’”
They give me a curious description.
“A person has a body, a mind, a soul and a spirit. All except the spirit can be injured by trauma. Even parts of the soul can splinter off at different stages depending on when bad stuff happened.”
I visualize myself as a jigsaw puzzle missing several dozen pieces and someone with weird hair rescuing them from under the sofa.
“That’s irritating.”
My friend laughs.
“This shaman I hired to collect my soul parts is the real deal. He does it long distance through his dreams and emails me what happened.”
Silence ensues for several long seconds as I create a reply that won’t sound overly rude.
“You’re working with a long-distance shaman.”
The ruder statement I keep to myself.
What a load of crap.
My laughter is kept under wraps but not my smirk, which my friend responds to.
“Seriously, it works.”
Sarcasm races out of me before I can stop it.
“Yeah, for him it works really well. He sits at home in a comfy chair in front of a computer, and what, links up through the cosmos? How the heck is that possible?”
They shrug.
“I don’t know. Do you really care if it helps?”
When I Google the internet shaman, I find that as an impostor, his website is pretty good. Well before the introduction of AI, it holds articles that must have taken more than a few hours to write, as well as media interviews and testimonials. I note the man lives in Sedona, less than four hours from where I’ll be vacationing during the latter part of December.
Aside for readers: I am deliriously fond of ALMOST jumping off a cliff. I put up fences and boulders and danger signs, and then run toward the edge as though I am going to sail over… swerving at the last second when a flock of birds I have paid to dissuade me, gets in the way.
With a cackle of glee, I send an email to the shaman inquiring about an in-person session the four days before, during, and after Christmas. No way this guy would agree to spend part of a religious holiday healing me. Ten minutes later, the shaman responds.
“I am delighted to meet on any of the dates mentioned.”
He finishes with an informative aside.
“Shamans don’t celebrate Christmas.”
Maybe not, but apparently this one’s a mind reader.
In a flurry of emails, I receive an address, session cost, plus a stipulation that I bring a particular brand of tobacco. I picture the place having glass beads covering the entrance and a huckster standing alongside with a serious expression as they intone “Welcome. You must be in need of a shaman. Your aura is in the shape of a thundercloud.”
On the date of the appointment, Sedona is clear and beautiful. My husband, Bill, insists it isn’t a good idea for me to wander alone into a strange guy’s house even if he calls himself a shaman. Thus, he tags along as my protector. When we reach the destination, it is a non-descript house, minus any glass beads. This boring abode seems somehow less believable. I loudly question the veracity of the situation.
“I bet he’s a fake.”
This December, having been married close to a quarter century, Bill knows better than to disagree and instead, mumbles something about getting a margarita if it’s a bust.
When the door opens, the man is and is not what I expect. The shaman has a long graying mustache with braided ends on either side and is nearly bald, except for a braid of hair cascading down his back. Taking my hand in greeting, his palm feels like the inside of a buttercup. Our skin separates with no discernible impression of an energetic signature, other than he shakes hands like the tooth fairy thanking me for donating my teeth. Giving him a squinty eye, I detect nothing but a man with weird hair. I need more information about this person who will be paid to retrieve my bits from the black hole of trauma.
“May I use your restroom?” I ask.
Pointed in a direction, I step past dust bunnies peeking around legs of furniture to enter a much lived-in bathroom. There is a glob of toothpaste dead center on the counter that screams “fraud” and the toilet seat is propped up, verifying I am encountering a manly-man. Having determined the woo-doo doctor has different approaches to housekeeping than I do, there are no more clues to gather from the surroundings about his qualifications.
Apprehensively rejoining them in the entry, the shaman leads us into a room with a small table beneath a large dream catcher hanging from the ceiling. The shaman motions Bill toward a folding chair near the door, directing me to sit across the table from him. Once I’m settled, the shaman handles an eagle feather and other unusual items on his side of the table. Without looking up from what he is doing, he addresses business concerns.
“I ask that we settle up financially before we begin. Did you bring the tobacco offering? It is traditional that aside from the fee, the Shaman be given tobacco as I requested in the confirmation email.”
There had been a specific instruction on the correct brand, but it was elusive. I hand over close enough. Limp handshake guy mutates swiftly, giving me a narrowed look before placing the inferior tobacco out of the way and pulling a more refined stash from a pocket hidden in the folds of his oversized garment. After rolling a cigarette for himself, there is lots of smoking, chanting, whistling, and brushing with a lit bundle of herbs. The rhythmic sounds lull my nervousness. Even if he doesn’t retrieve anything I think, maybe, I’ll get high. The shaman passes the smoking tool a few times over a bright red bandanna laid out on the table. He stops chanting and ties the fabric around his head.
*!*Shabang*!*
Dude becomes another dude, shape shifting into a force that takes up the entire room with presence. In one motion he has become everything and nothing at the same time. After expelling what comes to me as an age-long breath, he speaks.
“Why are you here?”
The Bandanna Shaman gazes deeply into my eyeballs. Swallowing, my throat suddenly dry, words stutter out.
“U-h-h-m, t-t-o heal me… my family?”
Mentioning my family is unexpected. It slipped out of my mouth without my attention. The shaman pauses a long moment before responding.
“Are you here to heal your family alone or the family of the world?”
If I could heal the world and my family in one session that would be pretty cool.
That lovely thought is run over by the low self-esteem train.
Who am I to ask for something so enormous?
I answer what seems appropriate.
“For today, I am here to heal my family.”
It’s obvious the minute the words are out, I should have chosen B. The air feels charged. The shaman slams his palm on the table.
“NO! Every time you ask for healing of one family, you ask for healing of all families. There is no healing of only one…”
My cheeks are red as though I’ve been slapped. I squirm in the chair, wishing the session was over. The shaman carries on as though loudly chastising a person you’ve just met is every day business.
“Do you think you are being haunted?”
I picture the little hitchhiking ghosts at the end of a ride at DisneyLand. Maniacal giggles threaten to erupt.
Get a grip on the waistband of those big girl panties, missy.
I swallow hard before replying.
“Uhhh, no?”
“Does this family issue go back generations?”
I side-look Bill who offers the universal “I dunno” gesture, meaning maybe yes, maybe no.
“Ummmm, possibly. Uh yes…I think.”
The smoking tool goes back into operation.
“Then we shall begin. I will travel to the dreaming place to get information about your problem.”
The shaman disappears. Not like a vanishing act. His body sits in place, and yet, does not. Moments pass. It could have been ten minutes or thirty. In the interim, I go through the rest of the day’s itinerary. I wonder about margarita’s and am in the midst of developing a list of items to buy in the shops on the walk home when the shaman pops back into his chair and resonantly states the view from the other side.
“I see.”
Startled, I sit up quickly to act as though I’ve been paying attention.
“The guides have told me that over the last few months you turned into a great she-bear protecting her family. The journey has brought your people to this place at this time for healing. I realize this session is because you requested healing, but the guides are very insistent on also sending a message to Bill.”
The Shaman shifts his attention toward the man sitting near the exit. Bill looks unnerved. He’s come here as a TV viewer, not a reality show participant. On my end, Scooby-Doo and Shaggy give a big ol’ shake of their heads.
Ruh?
Profoundly irritated, it is small comfort Bill looks shocked and scared. I grumpily settle deeper in the comfy chair to hear fascinating offerings directed at someone other than me.
“About a year and a half ago, you received a wake-up call presenting truth. Everything believed before this time was not truth. You know now. All has changed for you.”
Bill’s eyes bulge.
“The reason for healing is unknown to you, as the issue appears as many things. The long and short of it is that you and your lineage have not been celebrated. This lack of familial and spiritual celebration has manifested as a life experience of an agonizing, grueling trek up a rock wall. Each day it is a struggle to find a handhold, while dragging your body up an incline, gasping with the grinding exertion. Slowly moving up the mountain, you see another climber alongside who has someone ready to catch him if he falls. The other man is aided by grappling hooks and a safety harness. Another person waits at the top to encourage him at every stage.”
The Bandanna Shaman leans closer toward Bill.
“You ask yourself, ‘What about me? Why must I work so hard, while another scales life with little of the effort I must utilize?’”
Bill is stilled of breath. His eyes glisten with the awareness of being heard and seen. For the first time, someone understands what his existence feels like. The shaman shares more.
“People who have not experienced a celebration of their life, do not know how to celebrate others. Because of this, the wounding can last for generations. This aspect…”
The shaman faces me.
“… has traveled through both your families for a very long time.”
Bandanna shaman pauses to collect his drum.
“This can be healed during a drumming ceremony. It’s quite simple. While I drum for about seven minutes, I will take you through different levels of healing. We go in, get the job done, and come back...”
The shaman smiles.
“You could go to therapy. It works for a lot of people. Usually, that takes at least a few months to figure it all out, but for me, seven minutes seems a lot easier...”
My inside voice has a field day with this last part of the shaman’s analysis. I’ll spare readers the details, imagine among yourselves.
“Close your eyes. When your mind gets in the way, find the space between the beats.”
Boomboomboomboom…
The sound of the drum is timeless, endless and expansive. Its tone weaves into the floor, through my shoes, up my leg bones, reaching the bladder and intestines, and eventually resonates throughout my body.
Is it working?
“Find the space.”
Boomboomboomboom…
Flying, flying, soaring through blue sky
Traveling to a land visited long ago
Boomboomboomboom…
Up, up to the light
Feathered friend is waiting
Ruffle, ruffle, wisdom in the motion
Boomboomboomboom…
Down, down into the earth
A space of nothing and everything
Black, dark waves of smoke
Boomboomboomboom…
Light, light wisps of white
Drifting up high into the night
Stars collecting wisps for the moon.
Boomboomboomboomboomboomboom.
Silence.
My eyes open. The shaman looks to me first, me having been the one who came in with the cash.
“Is there anything you would care to share?”
Like an over-eager child with wild tales to offer, I speed date him the details.
“Well, first there was an eagle cleaning tail feathers and then black smoke covered everything as though there was a great fire and then the smoke got white as it traveled up to a night sky and slowly disappeared, leaving bright stars behind.”
Excitedly, I wait for the sage to encourage more details and rave about my revelation. The Bandanna Shaman’s expression does not change.
“Thank you.”
He looks toward Bill across the room.
“What did you see?”
The interloper hesitates before responding.
“I didn’t see anything like she did. There was a large landscape of bones, bones upon bones everywhere. It was kinda disturbing.”
The shaman's eyes widen, appearing anxious to hear the rest of his answer.
“And then what?”
Bill bashfully continues.
“Well, the bones disappeared and then I saw a bunch of colors. That’s it.”
He looks like he failed the final exam. Bandanna Shaman, however, seems thrilled. His smile oozes across the table.
“That’s great. You had a wonderful journey.”
I roll my eyes as quietly as possible. The Bandanna Shaman reaches up to remove the red cloth. The dominating force of energy leaves the room.
“Well guys, how do you feel? Think you have what’s needed to heal your families?”
The man tidies bits of this and that, straightening the eagle feather and gently setting aside the smoking apparatus. Still in a state of wondering what happened, digesting pieces, not yet ready to see the whole, my mouth has something else to say.
“I think we do.”
A flicker of emotion crosses the interesting face, with perhaps an extra drop of moisture in his deep brown eyes.
“You have come a long way for this moment. Most of us will do whatever it takes to help the people we love.”
I sigh as he leads us to the front door. The shaman follows up with a long expulsion breath of his own, his response sounding timeworn.
“Love is not possible without pain… What is, is.”
I imagine I hear the universe provide a thunderclap in the distance.
As we leave the dusty house, the sky seems bluer than remembered, the air full of minuscule smells that are separate and yet one. Everything seems truer, more vibrant, and coated with a crisp edge of realness. My mind echoes with silence as Bill shares the aftereffects of the session.
“I feel different, but maybe I’m imagining it? That was crazy weird. Something shifted inside, outside, I don’t know. What about you?”
I reply.
“It seemed like we sat in those chairs for ten days and now the world is different…”
He nods, still looking a little shell-shocked. As we walk, I notice a missing element.
“I live with a low-level thrum of anxiety. All the time. Like a pilot light of nervousness that’s setting the stage for a full blow up if one more thing happens. It never leaves, not until right now.”
Bill agrees.
“I know what you mean, everything seems quiet.”
A few weeks later, when Bill arrives at a meeting to sell a computer system to a college, above the main door a huge sign is printed with “Robert Morris University Welcomes Bill Lecos”. Approaching the front desk, he wonders if his cousin with the same name is being honored or perhaps someone is screwing with him.
“Hi, my name is Bill Lecos and I have an appointment with the director.”
The receptionist smiles warmly.
“He is waiting for you in the cafeteria. Go right down the hall, you can’t miss it. It’s great to meet you!”
At the next door, a duplicate sign is posted. “Robert Morris University Welcomes Bill Lecos”. Perplexed, Bill cautiously enters the room where a man greets him.
“Hi, you must be Bill, welcome.”
The administrator introduces himself as he heads to a table. The two men discuss their backgrounds, which includes matching spans of time at the same college. Knowing many of the same people, they enjoy reminiscing about school. An equally engaging period is spent discussing the computer system, the original reason for the appointment. There is no mention of the banners until the conversation comes to a close.
“So Bill, what did you think of the signs?”
“Uh, they were…cool? I didn’t know what to think. It was surprising and nice.”
The school administrator fills in the blanks.
“Waking up this morning, a thought popped into my head. Welcome signs sure would make a guy’s day. So, I had them made for you.”
Boomboomboomboomboomboomboom...
In the darkest part of the Mariana Trench, a door opens. No one is there to see the rectangle of light or sparkles escaping to float merrily in the inky black void. They are simply felt as whispers of possibility in an otherwise sad and hurting world.
And the evolution continues, my friend. I honor your journey, all of it. Thank you for sharing.