On some level, I knew this was sacred work, but there was another part of me (the South Park part) that wouldn't have it. So, as I was sashaying around the deeply padded floor clutching my stones—a piece of lapis, a chunk of black volcanic basalt, and an old, fossilized deer hip bone I'd recovered from the riverbed near our house—I was thinking to myself: We look ridiculous! It was just too New Age. This was way too far a bridge for us to cross.
Then (oh no!), I caught the eye of a fellow student who was a bit of a sacred clown herself. We both started laughing at our stone-hugging boogie, which had now shifted into a slow jam. I was suddenly back at the seventh-grade dance in the cafeteria with Lionel Richie's Penny Lover playing, only I was fondling my odd bevy of rocks instead of a scrawny prepubescent male.
Over a dinner of quinoa and gluten-free everything, my fellow clown and I busted a gut replaying the awesome silliness of our stone-grooving. “I was really having a hard time getting into it and then I caught your eyes and it was over. I couldn't stop laughing,” I confessed. She agreed. Despite my resistance, however, I had to acknowledge that I really enjoyed the material they were teaching. “I'm absolutely loving the beauty of all the stones people have brought and the way the instructors dramatically spit and spray the agua de florida all over people when they are doing the healing work! It's crazy awesome! I want more! Will somebody please pass the shaman sauce?!” We all burst into laughter. Shaman sauce was truly what we were all seeking—some sort of magical balm in a bottle to restore our souls.
But a part of me wanted to question my laughter. Maybe I wasn't taking the sacred seriously enough, or maybe the sacred needed to be serious, or maybe I was simply immature and needed to learn to become more still. Later, when I asked another student about our dances-with-stones laughter, she said: “I have two words for you—Dalai Lama. The guy is constantly cracking jokes and laughing his head off, and he's one of the holiest humans on the planet!” So maybe that part of my brain was the divine part.
The weekend we spent at the school featured an introduction to the culturally based shamanism of the Incan people, which was quite different from the core shamanism I'd been studying. A shaman from Peru was on site to do initiations for us. I was fascinated by the beauty of these ancient practices and the ritual tools from the Andes—the stones and the colorful woven mesa cloths that held so much meaning.
What didn't feel quite as right for me was the prescribed nature in which all the teachings were done. There was definitely more rigidity, more dogma. To open the four directions, you called in prescribed spirits rather than discovering your own. In that way, it felt a little more like a religion to me. You went off on journeys with descriptions of the characters you'd meet and where you'd go in the spirit realities. I preferred a more open-ended style of teaching, where students weren't given any specific answers or directed to call in any particular spirits. They were sent off to the spirit worlds to discover everything on their own. Perhaps because I wasn't born into this lineage, experiential methods felt more authentic to me.
Little did I know how powerfully this experience with the healing stones would affect my life.
I returned home with my stones, curious and eager to try working with them on my own. I even invited each of my kids to have a “healing session” with me. The two younger ones volunteered immediately. It seemed that Josephine, now eight, had a stomachache.
We went into the small extra bedroom I had claimed as my “healing room.” It had a low antique Chinese dresser cum altar lacquered in ocean blue with golden flourishes whose many little drawers held my journals and other special trinkets. There was also an incense burner in the shape of a dragon, a candle, and a few other meaningful symbols—a framed photo of one of our garden peonies blossoming to represent abundance, a shiny glazed black bear that Katherine had made, and an elaborately painted Indian elephant. Hanging on the wall above it was the large portrait of Lakshmi depicting purpose or dharma, a complicated Sanskrit concept that, for me, means that, when we use our gifts, our work will sweeten the world.
I lit a candle, opened sacred space, and encouraged Josephine to begin by making a collage to show me how her tummy felt. She shrugged and examined the shallow bowl filled with a collection of sticks, leaves, seeds, stones, and dried flower petals. Then she slowly created a collage that, at first, appeared to be a tangled jumble.
“Okay,” I said. “Now choose one of my stones and gather up all the pain in your tummy and all of the feeling around it and blow it into the stone three times, taking your time between breaths.”
When she finished, she lay down, and I got out my pendulum to help me determine in which direction the chakra, or energy center, was spinning and how fast. I was no expert, but I had built up enough experience with the pendulum that I felt I could work with it. Assessing chakras seemed very different in some ways from pathologic diagnosis, because chakras are not visible like the cells on a Pap smear, for example. You have to sort of surrender and to feel and trust what you are sensing. Yet, as I practiced, I was able to perceive differences that surprised me. I swung the pendulum over her belly, moving up the chakras, until it indicated where the energy was blocked by spinning counterclockwise. I placed the stone in that area.
“Now I want you to take some deep breaths and, as you blow out, continue to send all of that pain, that yucky feeling in your tummy, right into the stone. The stone can handle it, okay?”
Josephine nodded. She began to breathe in and blow out, over and over. After a few minutes had passed, I sensed that there had been some sort of release in her body as she let out a sigh. So I rechecked the blocked area with my pendulum. Now the energy seemed to be flowing freely and I sensed that the affected chakra seemed to be spinning smoothly again. I then illuminated all of Josephine's chakras, filling them with light and empowering them from the heavens. As I did, I could feel a sweetness, a peace, enveloping us.
Suddenly, I felt as if it didn't matter what I did with these tools in the future. This moment was enough. I'd been given a gift that allowed me to connect sweetly with my daughter on a deeper level. When the healing was complete, I noticed that Josephine was visibly softer. “My tummy feels better,” she told me.
I invited her to look at her tummy collage again. “If it feels the same, you can leave it as is. Or if it feels different, you can make any changes you want to show what's different.” She immediately began to rearrange things with an air of quiet excitement. What she ended up with looked much more orderly and symmetric. Had some kind of order been restored?
“Can you see it?” she asked.
I cocked my head. “I'm not sure. I see that it's much different than before.”
Josephine grinned. “It's an angel.”
Suddenly, I recognized the angel's agate head and feathery grass wings. This surprised and touched me so much. Something about doing this work with Josephine, an open and nonjudgmental child, helped me to see its pure power and profound beauty in a whole new light.
CHAPTER 18
Family Healing
In the shamanic view, mental illness signals “the birth of a healer,” explains Malidoma Patrice Somé. Thus, mental disorders are spiritual emergencies, spiritual crises, and need to be regarded as such to aid the healer in being born.
Stephanie Marohn, Waking Times
My younger sister, Maria, now in her early forties, had led a difficult life, struggling mightily with depression and anxiety since early adolescence. Shortly after she was released from an inpatient psychiatric treatment center, I flew out to L. A. to visit her. We spent a great morning together with her good friends, Amy and Katie. But afterward, she became unexpectedly tearful as I sat alone with her in her living room. “I just don't feel safe here,” she said. “I'm feeling really bad. I'm so sorry.” Later that day, she called to say that she wouldn't be coming back to her house to sleep, describing how she had acted out in her day treatment that morning in a way that ensured she would be readmitted.
I
told her that she needed to trust that instinct. “Only you can know just what you need,” I said, completely caught off guard. I'd thought things were better. I wanted to wish all of Maria's discomfort and fear away. I wanted my presence to be enough. Of course it wasn't. Selfishly, I'd longed to spend a week building a reserve of happy memories together. It had been a long time, and I was afraid that we were still caught in our old established roles—I as rescuing older sister and she as troubled victim. I needed to take a step back and realize that this problem wasn't mine to fix. I could be loving and supportive, but it was up to Maria to determine what she needed to feel better. All I could offer was my presence.
As I considered this, I was reminded of the mythical insight into mental illness expressed by Joseph Campbell in Schizophrenia: The Inward Journey.
A [mental health] breakdown is an inward and backward journey to recover something missed or lost, and to restore, thereby, a vital balance. So let the voyager go. He has tipped over and is sinking, perhaps drowning. Don't cut him off from it; help him through.
This shamanic or mythical view of mental-health crises as initiations—as a way for a person to receive a gift—was so inspiring to me. I wanted to draw on it to help Maria heal. How could I use it to help her through? Then I had a thought. I knew Maria didn't believe in God and the Beastie spirits and all that stuff, but I wondered if she would consider having a shamanic healing. I told her that I'd seen it really help and that, in fact, it had helped me. I offered to contact a local healer.
“Sure, I'll try anything,” Maria responded. The shamanic healer recommended by friends wasn't available but passed along a warning: “Hospitals can be funny about shamanic work, so it can be tricky. But tell Maria that, once she's out, I'll be happy to work with her.” My heart sank. Deep down, I sensed that, if Maria's spirit wasn't healed, all the medications in the world weren't going to give her lasting peace of mind. I asked the healer if she'd walk me through what I could do to help Maria. I wrote it all down and double-checked everything. I didn't want to mess this up.
When I visited Maria, I found her sitting in the common area of the ward, chatting with a small group of visiting friends. She looked frail but luminous. Several disheveled and very dispirited-looking patients in hospital-issue pajamas shuffled around us as we talked. Just seeing the other patients looking so despondent made me afraid for her. This felt to me like the last place a person could get well.
Maria and I visited for a while and then I decided to make my offer. I told her that the healer I had contacted wasn't able to see her until after she was released, but that I was willing to try to do a healing for her right now. She agreed. After checking with a rather gruff-spoken nurse, who told us to leave the door open and gave us no more than five minutes, we went into Maria's room, and I had her lie on the bed. I felt slightly nervous, rushed and exposed, but I was determined to try anyway. I wanted so badly to help. At the same time, I knew that it was up to Maria to be open to healing, and the fact that she was encouraged me.
I opened sacred space in a simple fluid motion and then began the process of working with the energy centers or chakras in her body as I had been instructed over the phone. It was a procedure specifically for people who were in a state of great imbalance. It was all so new to me, and I had so little experience, that a part of me felt as if I were just going through the motions. As I worked slowly from the base of her torso upward to the crown of her head, Maria's body shuddered out three or four sobs, which surprised me and caught me off guard. Something seemed to be moving—or perhaps was being released. I also realized that this was the first authentic emotion I had sensed from her other than fear since I'd arrived in L. A. I finished up and closed the sacred space, grateful for the exchange we had just had.
“It's done,” I told her softly.
She responded with tears in her eyes that spilled over down her cheeks. “Thank you for doing that.”
“Thank you for letting me do it.”
In the weeks that followed, Maria made a slow and steady recovery with the help of her physician, friends, and community. I was grateful to have been part of that support.
It wasn't just my immediate family who experienced degrees of despair on a regular basis. My dad's mother, Lee, had been a psychiatric nurse (married to my grandfather, a psychiatrist) who became a chronic alcoholic. She died tragically in a house fire that started while she was smoking and drinking in bed. They discovered her body the next day when her neighbor found that the wall they shared was warm to the touch. I never realized it before, but the way that she died was not only tragic; it was also potentially significant.
I'd learned during my first formal training in shamanism about the difference between the loving and compassionate spirits of the Upper and Lower worlds, and Middle World spirits. The spirits of the Middle World—the nonordinary aspect of where we live on earth—are a mixed bag. Some are suffering beings. For example, the spirits of those who die suddenly and unexpectedly—in a car accident, a fire, or even in a suicide—may not have yet realized that they are no longer alive, so they are sometimes confused and suffering, searching for loved ones. Without a body, of course, these spirits are no longer able to communicate in the usual way, and sometimes attach themselves to others, attempting to express themselves through their lives and physical bodies, or to influence them. That's essentially what “spiritual intrusion” is.
I wondered if Grandmother Lee could be one of those confused, stuck spirits. Could that somehow have something to do with my dad struggling with depression for so long? I shared what I had learned about these stuck, confused, suffering spirits with him and asked if he thought that perhaps a shamanic healing could help him feel better. “I'm willing to do that,” he replied with a smile.
I contacted Tim Cope, the teacher at a workshop I had attended, and he suggested that he and Dad prepare for the experience with a few discussions via phone. Then Mom and I went with Dad to Tim's home for the actual ceremony, and I was glad we did. Going into a stranger's darkish basement filled with curious sacred objects to have a shamanic healing might not be all that reassuring without a trusted companion.
Tim was gracious and charming, making sure Dad was comfortable as he lay on the floor on some cushions, with my mother and I close by. Tim asked me if I would drum for him while he called his helping spirits, making me glad that I had followed my desire to learn to drum. To be able to participate in this way felt like a huge blessing to me.
After a couple of preliminary questions, Tim asked, in a strong and emphatic voice: “Joel, do you want to be healed?”
Dad responded with an inaudible mumble.
“I didn't hear that, Joel,” Tim said, even more loudly. “Let me repeat my question: Do you want to be healed?”
Dad coughed. “Ah … yes … yes,” he finally replied.
“Okay, I heard you that time, Joel,” Tim said with a broad grin. “Now let's get started.”
I was surprised by the exchange. We'd been planning this visit for weeks and had driven three hours to get to Tim's home. Wasn't it obvious that Dad wanted to be healed? After hearing Tim's question and Dad's initial hesitancy, however, I realized how critical this question was, how important it was for my father to state his desire for healing. And how important it was for the healer not to be overzealous. If we aren't sure that we want to be healed, then our intention isn't clear. And shamanic work that isn't empowered by intention can either be a complete waste of time, or can have only temporary effects. I wondered how clear my dad's intention really was. Did he believe he deserved to be healed—to feel really good?
Tim began calling each of his spirits in a poetic and beautiful way—which I won't relate here, as it's his sacred work. When he indicated he was ready, I began to drum for him so that he could journey to another world to receive the healing instructions to help my father. I was nervous as I held the drum, hoping I was up to the task. I felt so happy to be able to contribute in this meaningful way.
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nbsp; When the healing work was complete, Tim indicated that I should stop drumming. Dad, who had fallen asleep, awoke with a start. Tim shared that, on his journey, he had been led back to the burning apartment in New York in which my grandmother had died. She (or her spirit) was still there in that burning room. And she wasn't the only one stuck there. A part of my Dad's soul was also stuck in that room. Tim had retrieved it and returned it to him. Tim also acted as a psycho-pomp—someone who facilitates the transitioning of dead souls—for my grandmother's spirit. He explained it like this to my dad: “My spirit helpers took your mom by the hand and escorted her lovingly to a place where she can be free from suffering and be healed.”
Hearing this was incredibly moving. In fact, the whole experience made both my mother and me teary. I suddenly realized why it was so important that we had come. My parents told Tim that they'd never even had a funeral for my grandmother. “We were so young and in shock and really didn't know what to do,” Mom explained. “And Lee hadn't wanted a funeral; she wanted her body to be donated to science.” Tim had us all stand behind Dad, supporting him—literally, having his back—and when he was ready, we helped him push his mother's spirit into a virtual boat and send it symbolically out of this reality and into the next.
About six weeks after our visit to Tim, I was gifted with one of the most vivid and incredible night dreams I've ever had. Dad's mother came to visit me. She looked slender and elegant, her dark hair in soft waves, wearing red lipstick. I could feel her exuberant spirit. She was clearly in a heavenly place, happily sitting beneath an idyllic apple tree with my grandfather. She was so real and so palpable. I sobbed for joy and from the overwhelming compassion I sensed coming from her. I felt sure that Tim and his spirits had helped her to transcend.
Swimming with Elephants: My Unexpected Pilgrimage from Physician to Healer Page 10