Maybe sometimes we need to die a little bit in order to be reborn.
During a walk in the woods a few weeks later, I came across a pair of towering white pines enfolding each other in a perpetual, twisted, harmonious embrace. The two trunks seemed to be saying to me: You and Mark, you'll find a way. This partnership is rare and valuable. Cherish it.
CHAPTER 23
India Calling
Tourism may take us to “see the sights,” but pilgrimage takes us for darshan, the “beholding” of a sacred image or a sacred place.
Diana L. Eck, India: A Sacred Geography
Being on “casual status” at the hospital after my sabbatical made me feel more anxious about money and how I'd pay for my continuing shamanic training—not to mention college for our four kids. When I asked my helping spirits how I could achieve financial independence, I was told to meditate.
Apparently, I needed to sit my anxiety-ridden self down in the lotus position. So I began to practice. I did it for a few days, but it was really hard. So I stopped. I preferred to move; so instead, I created my own wacky version of shinrin-yoku—a kind of a walking meditation and divination I'd devised after discovering and falling in love with the Japanese word, which means “forest bathing.” I wandered slowly in the woods, focusing on open-ended questions and listening with my whole body for the answer.
When I felt lonely and disconnected, I asked: “How can I feel better today?” Birds calling back and forth to each other in the woods reminded me that I could pick up the phone and arrange to meet friends for coffee to help me feel less isolated in my new solo endeavor. When I asked how I could learn to love and accept myself, dying trees that had fallen over and were slowly decaying and disappearing into the forest floor made themselves known to me, and I saw how graceful they were in their simple surrender. Maybe I could be beautiful like that as well. I saw that I was dying, too—or at least parts of me were.
When I journeyed to ask (again!) how I could free myself from financial worries, the answer, once again, was to “sit on a lotus” (aka meditate). This time, my guides even showed me how. I was supposed to sit on the ground—legs crossed, back straight, palms resting open on my knees—and breathe. They showed me that having a straight back was important in order to line up all of my energy centers. It was rather embarrassing that the spirits had to tell me this, not once, but several times. Clearly, they were being firm with me; I wanted to honor them.
As I sat, my mind raced with ideas, thoughts, lists. At first, I allowed myself a pad of paper to jot things down. I often got insights I wanted to capture or was reminded of mundane stuff like the kids’ dental appointments. Eventually, over several weeks and months, I experienced glimpses of bliss. Surprise! I'd drop quickly into a sweet space of ease and effortlessness. Sometimes, it lasted just a few minutes. Other times, it lasted longer. It kept getting easier and, over time, fewer thoughts came to disturb me. It seemed as if the less I needed it to be blissful, the more likely it was to be so. On days when I missed meditation, I was aware of my own struggle for peace and calm. On days when I meditated, my disposition seemed sweeter, my patience greater, and my heart more expansive.
Having time to meditate or wander in the forest was a revelation to me. But being on “casual status” at the hospital was also an uncomfortable kind of limbo. People asked me if I was ever going back, to which I responded: “Oh, I'm still a doctor. I'm just on ‘casual status.’ My partners can call me if they need me to come in and help.” It felt as if I were trying to reassure myself as well as them. I felt as if I were convincing myself that I was still needed.
When my partners actually did call me in to work occasionally, however, I experienced deep dread. Returning to visit friends at work was wonderful, but going back to work at my microscope felt terribly stifling. I was caught between two lives. I wanted to let people at the hospital know that I was still doing something meaningful, but even I wasn't exactly sure where it was all heading. So much of what was happening took place during my shamanic journeys and coaching sessions. Being in Nature was profoundly healing. I was receiving helpful messages from loving spirits. But how could I begin to tell them about that?
I was still finding it hard to let go of the solidity of my medical career. It was something people could comprehend and admire. But being a life coach or shamanic healer? In the minds of many, I imagined, that was an occupation on a par with being a New Age cult member. The chasm of understanding often felt unbridgeable.
In my overcrowded and jumbled inbox, I noticed an email from a local yoga studio. They were sponsoring a trip to India for an event called the Kumbh Mela. An informational session was scheduled in a few weeks. The email told of an extraordinary adventure—not just a mere trip.
When the celestial bodies, planets, and stars all align with perfection, it creates a potent and fertile field of spiritual power in Allahabad where the three holiest rivers meet. Every twelve years, pilgrims, wise beings, and saints converge in this powerful spot to unite and pray with one heart to remove fear and suffering from the planet. This sacred pilgrimage has been occurring for millennia.
I investigated online and discovered that the Kumbh Mela is a Hindu pilgrimage—a long journey to a sacred place as an act of religious devotion. This particular one is equivalent to doing one hundred typical pilgrimages. It's the Superbowl of Hindu pilgrimages. My inner over-achiever's interest was piqued.
The Kumbh Mela is rooted in a Hindu mythological text, the Bhagavata Purana. In the myth, there's a battle in which light and dark, or good and evil forces, fight over a jug of goo called the nectar of immortality (amrita). During this tug of war, the jug accidentally spills and the nectar lands in several spots, one of which is the Ganges river near Allahabad, where the most famous Kumbh Mela takes place. When the nectar spilled into the Ganges, the water became infused with sacred power. The river literally became amrita, the nectar of immortality.
Every twelve years, during astrologically predictable periods, the Ganges is believed to transform, once again, into an intense power spot, where the veil between this world and the spirit worlds becomes thin. So for thousands of years, people have been coming to dip in the river at this spot to be blessed and to have their karma (or sins) washed away.
Washing away lifetimes of bad karma, or the spiritual impact of my previous not-so-great choices, sounded sublime. Could a dip in the river help lighten my load?
I forwarded the email to my friend Suzi, hoping to convince her to check it out with me. Getting to India also involved shelling out five thousand dollars, and spending that kind of cash felt really irresponsible in our current circumstances. Our emergency savings had dwindled to a new low. The trip made no logical sense. Could I even swing leaving our four kids and Mark behind for twenty-one days?
One night, safely ensconced in bed, I watched the documentary Shortcut to Nirvana, shot in 2001 at the last Kumbh Mela in Allahabad, which had been attended by sixty million people. Shortcut’s title plays on the fact that, spiritually speaking, the Kumbh Mela pilgrimage is viewed by many as a fast track to immortality. In other words, if you complete this pilgrimage successfully, instead of being reborn into this world again when you die, you won't have to reincarnate, but will instead be freed, released from suffering.
Shortcut’s filmmakers followed some American pilgrims around the Mela to get their perspective on the whole experience. I listened carefully, as a way to help myself decide whether I wanted to go or not. Some pilgrims reported being overwhelmed by the sights and sounds, saying it was kind of awful. This was my first hint that the experience might not be all chai and marigolds.
Some of the sadhus, or holy men, portrayed in the film seemed to be tricksters. They did sketchy, wild, yogic feats like stretching their penises around sticks (run to your computer now and find that video online!). In yoga, as in all spiritual traditions, there are subgroups that value asceticism, foregoing pleasures in life and even enduring severe pain in order to seek enlightenme
nt. I seriously began to wonder what any of this had to do with my own journey.
I also uncovered a few unsavory bits about the Kumbh Mela. In 1954, there was a stampede in which 854 people died. The crowds then weren't nearly as large as those predicted for 2013. Estimates ranged from fifty to eighty million people over the six-week period. If things got out of hand, it seemed that calamity and tragedy would be certain.
On the day of the informational meeting, it poured buckets. There were perhaps thirty of us sitting in a circle on folding metal chairs in a yoga studio. The speaker was a lively, slender, glowing woman in her forties who was dressed all in white and wearing mala beads—long strands of beads made out of dried seed pods used, much like a rosary, for tracking repeated mantras or prayers. Even her outfit was strangely promising. In Duluth, nobody wears all white—not even in August.
“Isn't the rain wonderful?” she bubbled as she began. “You know, in India, rain is considered a very good sign—a blessing, a portent of good things to come.” Could this precipitation be a positive signal from the Universe?
“What we are planning here is a spiritual journey,” she continued. “Our group will do meditation practices and pray for the earth. If we do this, if we all come together in this time and in this place, the entire world will benefit.” In other words, if we each did a good job at this Kumbh Mela, the next twelve years would be auspicious, or at least would be better than if we had not.
The speaker then told us about the significance of the geography: “In this spot in Allahabad, there are three rivers—two visible and the other mythical. Where we'll camp, the three merge to become the Ganges.” When I heard this description, I felt a tremendous inner thrill. Suddenly, I knew this pilgrimage was for me.
I had seen these rivers merging before. I had sketched this symbolic confluence in my journal several different times, months before I ever knew anything about a Kumbh Mela. In my journeys with Alice, I often stood on a spit of land between two rivers, which merged to become one. This spit of land is where I always found Alice waiting for me. The larger river is very deep, powerful, and still; it had long been a metaphor for how to create what I desire from a place of stillness. I felt a weird knowingness pour over me—an understanding that this trip is what's next.
I drove home and confessed hesitantly to Mark that I had a feeling this really was the trip for me. I was relieved when his eyes kindly registered his understanding. “Sounds good,” he said, effectively giving me the thumbs up. We had given up arguing over trivial expenses in the last two decades, but big expenses like this still required two “yesses” to act on and only one “no” to veto.
I hadn't anticipated feeling so strongly drawn to traveling to India on a pilgrimage. Sure, exotic travel fascinated me, and I admired Ghandi (who doesn't?). But this adventure felt less like Condé Nast and more like Into the Wild.
With Mark's approval, I mailed in my five-hundred-dollar deposit. The Kumbh Mela was eighteen months away; I could still bail out. I continued to mention India half-heartedly to Suzi. But as Suzi herself often says: “If you mention something to someone more than three times, you're trying to control them.”
Word.
CHAPTER 24
Laid by the Universe
In the attitude of silence the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness.
Mahatma Gandhi, The Way to God
In the meantime, fascinated by everything I was encountering with the spirits, I returned to a more advanced Foundation for Shamanic Studies workshop out in California. We were asked to merge, spiritually, with a particular part of the earth. To be effective, a shaman must learn to work in harmony with all of creation. As I'd learned from my experience with the boulder, the earth has knowledge she can impart.
As I lay on the floor, eyes covered, in the near darkness, I set my intention. As I merged, I began to have a feeling I recognized—ecstasy, a pure pleasure flooding my body. It grew and grew. It felt as if the ley lines, or mystical pathways of energy running through my body, were being crammed with so much love and power and joy that they broke open again and again to make more space. I was being broken open so I that could allow more of this love and bliss to fill me. The feeling just kept building and building, with no end in sight.
As I experienced this sensation, I simultaneously began to wonder if it were okay to be having it. I always liked to keep one foot firmly planted in “reality.” Was it weird to be having this extremely pleasurable experience? It felt like those most intense moments of love-making when you don't dare move because you want to hold on to the ecstasy for a few more moments before it peaks and abruptly dissipates. Now, however, I was free of the anxiety that the feeling would end.
Eventually, the call-back drumming sequence sounded, and I had to return my consciousness to the room. I wasn't sure what had just happened to me. We closed the circle and headed for supper, instructed not to share our experiences until later in class. I noticed that many participants seemed to be glowing and happy.
I wondered about the purpose of this pleasure and whether there was something I was supposed to be doing about it. When we were asked to share our experiences with a partner, I told her that it felt as if I were getting laid by the Universe. We laughed hard. “That sounds pretty nice!” she said. She had a totally different experience but one that was also joyful.
By the time I returned from this training, I had learned many different healing methods—soul retrieval, extraction, animal spirit retrieval, and more. I was becoming more comfortable offering healing work to others and began inviting my existing and former coaching clients to experience it. I asked people simply to bring a small gift as payment—flowers or something they had made. One of my shamanic teachers had admonished against charging money when we began. “You need to find out if your work is effective,” she cautioned. “You will know when it's time to charge.” That resonated deeply with me. I was feeling less anxious about money than ever before. It seemed as if everything we needed was being provided. Looking back over my life, I realized that it always had been, but now I could see that with a greater clarity.
Over time, I have worked with people with various challenges—a sense of deep emptiness following the death of a mother, chronic medical conditions, physical ailments like lyme disease, fear over financial concerns, confusion over what their highest path in life was, and depression. When I work with these clients, I light my candle and call my helping spirits using my rattle. I invariably feel supported, and I ask them to help my client. My helping spirits appear and make recommendations and share healing, love, and wisdom. The process of communication with the spirits reminds me of the process of making a diagnosis under the microscope when things are not so straightforward. You almost have to listen for the cells to tell you if they are malignant or benign. This is the soft, intuitive part—the art—of medicine.
I remember once when I correctly identified a rare tumor in an unusual site on a tiny fragment of tissue on a frozen section. My partner marveled later, after everyone had consulted, and asked me how I had known what it was. When I tried to recreate the moment, all I could say was that the diagnosis popped into my head. And I knew I'd been helped by that voice many times. In the case of the spirits, however, the communication was now more intentional.. And my healing work continued to prove to me that it was valid.
A client with hepatitis reported that her serum markers for liver inflammation were significantly reduced days after our shamanic work together. Another reported her child-like joy had returned and that she'd been smiling a lot more. One said that she was surprised at how easily she'd been able to stop her habitual use of marijuana; she hadn't smoked for three months. Another said he'd been “uncharacteristically calm and loving and felt remarkably well.” Bit by bit, reinforced by these experiences, I began to build a trusting relationship with myself and with my spirits. If I could be an effective conduit, and my clients truly wanted
to be well, the spirits would heal them.
Some seemed to experience almost miraculous results. One client reported how a shamanic healing with me had marked a pivotal point in her life. Ever since that healing, she said, her law practice had taken off, and she'd achieved her dream of owning a horse. “I've lost fifty pounds and life is beautiful,” she wrote. “I continue my work, in all its mystery, but I am so grateful for my session with you.” This is the kind of feedback that tells me I am on the right path.
It is hard, however, when I don't hear back from clients or when they occasionally report that they aren't sure that anything has changed. When I journey to Alice or other spirits to ask about these individual situations, I am often told to mind my own business or that more has yet to be revealed. Sometimes, I even worry that I am getting in the way. When I question my spirits’ information during a healing, they respond by asking if I trust them—to which the only answer is “yes.” And each time—no matter how odd the information I share—somehow it seems that clients connect with it and can see how it fits in with their intention. I have to remind myself that, while I am responsible for the effort, the outcome is really between my clients and the spirits.
Experience by experience, I am growing more and more dedicated to this way of the spirits. I can often see a person shift before my eyes, telling me that good things are happening. Most days aren't filled with “getting laid by the Universe” sort of bliss, however. Instead, I find a quiet and profound ecstasy in serving like this—even when I can't completely understand it. The exquisite beauty of working in this way is the understanding.
Swimming with Elephants: My Unexpected Pilgrimage from Physician to Healer Page 13