Stop Being Mean to Yourself

by Melody Beattie

  We were all so happy that afternoon. The counselors rejoiced for the lost soul they had led to salvation. The other children were delighted (probably because it was me and not them who had been caught). And I was happy, too.

  Mother wasn’t called.

  We did a repeat performance, including another trip to the altar, along with the singing, the cheering, and the poster making, the following day. The counselors wanted to make sure the experience “took.” I left camp that year feeling good. But it didn’t have the impact everyone hoped for. The moment 1 returned home, I headed straightaway for the cupboard under the kitchen sink and that bottle of Jack Daniels.

  Ten years would pass before I would find my way into chemical dependency treatment and the twelve-step program that ultimately saved my life. And thirty-five years would elapse from the time I made the poster proclaiming Jesus Was in My Heart before I would understand what those colorful words I cut and pasted that day really meant.

  For most of the years of my life, I thought they meant I had to jam a porcelain statue of Jesus into my heart. Although I considered myself a Christian, that vision didn’t work for me. It didn’t make sense.

  Then, on my trip through the western United States in 1995, I wandered into the Sanctuario de Chimayo. The Sanctuario is a New Mexican church rich in folklore about the healing powers of the ground beneath its foundation. This dirt, this earth, is said to be sacred and holy, containing powers similar to that of the water in Lourdes. Crutches line the walls in the back room of the church, physical evidence of the healing miracles that have supposedly occurred here. Daily, for almost two weeks, I watched people walk, limp, and sometimes be carried into this church.

  In the Sanctuario where so many flocked for a miracle, I too saw a flash of light. I finally understood what it meant to have Jesus in your heart. Whether they had known it or not, those well-intentioned, hand-wringing, soul-saving camp counselors from northern Minnesota were talking about the value and importance of each of our hearts. Hallelujah! I didn’t have to keep trying to jam that porcelain statue into my chest anymore.

  “It takes a lot to get out of bed each day and live life with passion and an open heart,” Nichole said one day shortly before I left on this trip to the Middle East.

  “Yes, it does,” I agreed. “It certainly does.”

  They were all talking about the same thing—the camp counselors, my daughter, and now in the Nile River Papyrus shop, this intricate Egyptian picture hanging on the wall.

  An open heart is as light as or lighter than a feather. And Jesus is in that heart.

  “I’ll take that one,” I said, pointing to the picture about paradise.

  I continued to look around the store. It took me only moments to spot it. It looked almost like a Celtic cross. It was gold. The top was rounded. A crossbar ran through the middle. On closer inspection, I saw that it was a key.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s an ancient Egyptian symbol,” the shopkeeper said. “The ankh. It’s the key to power in this world.”

  The merchant took the simple painting off the wall, and I held it in my hand.

  I was right. There was a key to power and life. I had suspected it all along. The Egyptians had known it for five thousand years. Maybe that was the reason for the camels’ mysterious smiles. But my friend had been right, too. It wasn’t really a secret and it wasn’t out of reach.

  The key to power wasn’t in all the things I had done, the people I had talked to, the crystals on my desk, or the books on my shelves.

  I had held it in my hand all the time. It’s where all the hard work and all my endeavors had led.

  The key to life and power is simple. It’s knowing who we are. It’s knowing what we think, what we feel, what we believe, what we know, and even what we sense. It’s understanding where we’ve been, where we are, and where we want to go. That’s often different from who we think we should he, from whom others want us to he, tell us to he, and sometimes even tell us we are.

  There are many drugs that can injure the body and deaden the soul—cocaine, alcohol, heroin, marijuana. But there are other drugs whose narcotic power we overlook. Disillusionment and betrayal can grind away at our souls until all our faith and hope are gone. The cumulative effect of a lifetime of disappointments can leave us wandering around confused, lost, and dulled. Whether it happens in one moment or over many years, losing faith deadens the spirit like a syringe filled with heroin or a line of coke. The most debilitating drug on this planet besides losing faith in God is when we stop believing in ourselves.

  I’ll take it,” I said. “I’ve been looking for that for a long time.”

  Shortly after I paid for my pictures, half price, Essam returned to the store. We had a quiet afternoon, sitting in the sandlot, watching an Egyptian version of Candid Camera, the famous old television show. Then I went to my hotel. I wanted to get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow I was going into the pyramids of Giza.

  Today, I had found the key to power in this life and in this world. Now I was ready to get my “special powers.”

  I STOPPED TALKING AND GLARED at the deceptively innocent looking female torturing me at the airport in Tel Aviv.

  She wasn’t intimidated.

  “Show me the rest of your notes,” she said.

  I pulled out another sheet of paper. “I’ve got this,” I said. “But it’s not going to mean anything to you.”

  “Read it to me,” the interrogator said.

  “It’s from a conversation with my nineteen-year-old daughter. It’s just an idea—a concept—for this book.”

  “Tell me what it says,” the interrogator said.

  I looked at the words written on the piece of paper I held in my hand. I felt so embarrassed. Explaining this was going to be the toughest one of all.

  chapter 10

  Pyramid Power

  From the Hanging Gardens of Babylon to the Pharos Lighthouse of Alexandria, the pyramids of Egypt are the only one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World that still remain intact. After thousands of years, these massive man-made structures also still remain shrouded in mystery.

  From composite pictures drawn by archaeologists, scholars, and historians, we now understand that these colossal constructions were monuments to death—temples built of stone and filled with treasures to provide a luxurious dwelling place for nobility who had entered the realm of existence called the afterlife.

  The dead could not necessarily take their riches with them into this mystical next world, but ancient Egyptians of nobility believed that they could come back and enjoy the treasures they had accumulated in this world if their possessions were carefully placed inside the tomb. They also believed at first that entrance into the afterlife was granted only to those of nobility. And this afterlife could be achieved only if the body were preserved so the soul could return to it. The culture developed a sophisticated and successful method of preserving bodies called mummification. Positioning of the body was important, too. The mummified bodies were placed under the exact center of the pyramid. And the pyramids were constructed on the west side of the Nile River because the Egyptians believed that the dwelling place of the deceased was in the direction of the setting sun.

  It is said that people love a great mystery. That term—“great mystery”—aptly describes the Great Pyramids of Giza. Although they are a wonder of the ancient world, they are the physical embodiment of the word “mystery” in contemporary culture.

  How this ancient civilization constructed these mammoth structures has caused much speculation and remains an enigma. Over two million stone blocks, each weighing about two and a half tons, were transported and carefully positioned to build King Khufu’s pyramid alone—the largest of the three pyramids of Giza. Were the pyramids the result of much grunting, groaning, and primitive manual labor? Or were they constructed, as some people speculate, using innovative methods and tools that have since disappeared but, if rediscovered, would rival space-age te
chnology?

  When these pyramids were constructed now puzzles some historians and archaeologists. While many experts have surmised and long agreed that the pyramids of Giza date back to about forty-three hundred years ago, other scholars such as Joseph Jochmans are now stirring the historical and archaeological pot by suggesting that these mysterious monuments may have been built as long as twelve thousand years ago.

  Although many puzzling aspects surround the “how,” “when,” and even the “why” of these pyramids, the ultimate mystery of these colossal tombs is the aspect perhaps least discussed by historians and most cloaked in legend. It is the secret surrounding the supernatural powers the pyramids are said to possess. The Great Pyramids of Giza may have been a gateway to the afterworld at the time they were constructed to entomb pharaohs Khufu, Khafre, and Menkure. But many of the millions of tourists who flock annually to Giza—despite threats of terrorism and war—and many local inhabitants, like Essam, believe that these pyramids are now, more than ever, a cabalistic portal—a gateway where passers-by can touch the edges of a world unknown.

  My guide for this long-awaited expedition to get these special powers was again Essam’s seventeen-year-old nephew. He explained the mystery of the pyramids differently while we were horseback riding to get there. It was mid-afternoon. We had just scaled the side of a rocky hill. Now we were passing through a desert graveyard, the local burial ground for those not of noble birth.

  “It’s better to be buried in a pyramid,” the young guide said, pointing to the dusty graves. “Otherwise the wind blows the sand away and robbers steal all the treasures.”

  Essam had been talking to me about going into the pyramids to meditate since the night we first met. I didn’t understand what he meant about “getting the powers.” Nor did I especially believe him. But I had followed his strict instructions anyway. I had my four small white candles in my backpack. I was dressed in white. And to my great embarrassment, I was wearing a white cotton cloth on my head, held in place by a woven green band.

  I had argued with Essam about wearing this kerchief on my head, but he had insisted. “If you want to get the special powers, you must wear that white cloth,” he said.

  Grumbling all the while, I had purchased the white head covering from one of the young merchants hawking his wares on the path that led from the perfume store to the pyramids. It cost two dollars and fifty cents.

  Riding the horse across the desert, headed for one of the smaller step pyramids, I felt more like a cheap tourist imitation of an Arab sheik than I did an enlightened woman on her way to becoming empowered.

  I knew there was something special about the pyramids. I felt it my first night in Cairo, when I had been drawn to them. I felt it even when that menacing group of men made a run at me by the fence. I felt the powers of the pyramids each time I came close to them during my stay here. Their influence on the village of Giza was undeniable.

  But I had never particularly fantasized about going into a burial tomb to meditate—even one of these colossal stone monuments. I didn’t understand what mysterious powers could possibly be inside the pyramids or how these powers could possibly affect me. Although I liked, respected, and trusted Essam, I secretly thought this whole ordeal of going into the pyramids and “getting the powers” was a tourist gimmick.

  If there’s so much power here, why are so many people living in poverty? Why are the women so trapped? And why do these people drive the way they do?

  I was skeptical. I was skeptical about the “special pyramid powers.” I was skeptical about crawling around inside a tomb. And I was skeptical about wearing this stupid white rag on my head.

  After clearing the mountainside and the graveyard, I loosened my hold on the reins, nudged the horse with my heels, and began galloping across the stretch of desert that separated me from the pyramids. I was still baffled by how quickly I had taken to horseback riding. But I didn’t question that mystery. It was as if I had been riding horses all my life.

  The ability to break through a barrier or block in one moment and begin doing something that in the past appeared unfathomable was awe-inspiring, yet I almost took it for granted. If people could do that, I thought, they could do almost anything. It’s about our perception, our fears, and the limitations we place on ourselves.

  When we neared the Great Pyramids, my guide pointed to one of the smaller pyramids that stood at the edge of the three large ones. The smaller pyramids were the burial tombs for the queens and relatives of the pharaohs, he said. We were headed there.

  We rode to a small hut that housed the pyramid guard. My guide took my horse’s reins and tied up both horses. Soon, a frowning bulk of sun-dried man emerged from the hut and approached me. He was wearing a uniform. He was the official pyramid guard. He would take me inside to meditate and get my powers.

  Essam had prepared me for this. I knew I would have to pay off the guard for allowing me private entrance into the pyramid. Well, not really pay him off—I was to tip him. But Essam had instructed me not to pay the guard until after I finished meditating.

  The guard led us on foot to the pyramid entrance—a small hole in the side of the pyramid. The guard asked if I was ready. I said yes and showed him my four white candles. The guard shook his head no. He had four white candles he wanted me to use. He said he wanted to be sure I got the powers.

  And probably wants to be sure he gets a bigger tip, I thought.

  “Okay,” I said. “We’ll use your candles.”

  The bulky guard squeezed himself through the small opening in the side of the pyramid. I followed him, trying to climb in head first. That didn’t work. So I hoisted myself up and lowered myself in, feet first. In an instant, I went from blazing desert sunlight to the pitch-black interior of this tomb. We walked hunched over through a narrow passageway that was only about three feet high. My guide followed behind me. After a few moments, the guard in front of me stopped and lit one of the candles.

  I looked around the musty, dank interior. The walls flickered with gentle light from the candle. The rock was crumbling. It was the palest shade of yellow, almost off-white in color.

  We followed a circular trail leading to the heart of the tomb. After a while, we were able to stand almost straight. Then we came to a juncture. One passage led to the right, one veered to the left. We went left. After walking a short distance, we reached a dead end, a small womblike room in the center of the pyramid. The ground was littered with crumbling rock. A natural ledge about three feet off the ground encircled the area of this three-sided cubbyhole.

  The guard dripped a few drops of candle wax onto the ledge from the candle he held in his hand, then stuck the candle firmly in place. Then he lit the remaining three candles, carefully positioning them equidistant apart on the ledge, creating a semicircle of light. I sat down on the ground, with my back to the dead-end wall of the small room, and adjusted the white kerchief on my head.

  The pyramid guard and my guide wished me luck in getting the powers. Then they left me alone.

  I sat on the floor of the tomb. This is ludicrous, I thought. What am I doing? Is this really how one finds enlightenment? It seemed more like the height of absurdity to me.

  I didn’t know what to do next.

  This wasn’t the first time my quest for enlightenment had left me feeling in the dark.

  A year ago, on my journey through the western United States, I had wandered into a Native American sweat lodge in Sedona, Arizona. I understood that it was a sacred ritual symbolizing spiritual cleansing and purification. But that was all I understood. I dutifully and respectfully stood and allowed myself to be purified with sage smoke before I entered the tent. Then I climbed through the flap with the other participants. I watched as the fire keeper brought glowing hot rocks into the tent, placing them in an indentation in the ground. I could see that the rocks would create the heat that would make us sweat. But I wished I had an instruction manual.

  I listened attentively, sweating, huddled i
n the tent, as the old Native American shaman began the ceremony with a prayer. My anxiety heightened as it became apparent that participants were expected to say something aloud. I wanted to fit into the rhythm of the experience. I wanted to get all I could out of it. I wanted to do it right.

  Sweat dripped down my face. I leaned forward intently, hanging on every word the shaman uttered.

  “And now we will honor the spirit of yeast,” she said, “who brings us . . .”

  I lurched back. The spirit of yeast? I thought. What does that mean? My mind raced. I tried to figure out if we were honoring bread, or agriculture, and what I could say about that when it became my turn. I was thinking so hard I could barely listen. All the while, I struggled to act calm and enlightened.

  I mumbled something when it became my time to speak.

  “And now we will thank the spirit of the West,” the shaman said next.

  Oh, I thought. The Spirit of the East. Now I get it.

  On another occasion, I had gone to my doctor, a holistic healing professional, for almost two years before I understood what he was talking about. During that time, he had regularly referred to my “orc” field. I had no idea what he was saying. None whatsoever. I knew vaguely that he was talking about the energy that was part of me and that surrounded my physical body. The work with this healing professional had been profound. It had helped me greatly. So I didn’t question him about my “orc” field. I assumed it was some new discovery everyone but me knew. After almost two years, while I was reading a book, I finally understood. My doctor, my healer, had been talking about my “auric” field.

  There were a lot of things about life that I just didn’t get. Sitting in this tomb on the edge of the Sahara Desert, I didn’t understand what I was supposed to do now. But, if sitting here with a kerchief on my head was going to help me get one inch closer to the missing piece, then I would try it. I really wanted to be enlightened. I really wanted “the powers”—if there were any special powers to be had.