Love & The Goddess

by Coen, Mary Elizabeth

  “How come no taxis have passed us yet?” asked Ella.

  “Because no vehicle of any description has passed us.” I snapped. “It looks like we’ve ended up on some back road.”

  “Look at the chickens.” Ella pointed to five gangly fowl wandering over and back, quaking and flurrying as we passed. “It reminds me of my granny’s farm in Connemara, back in the seventies – all the fields with weeds growing wild and the old stone cottages with their tin roofs. Though I don’t think her farm ever smelt this bad.” We burst into a fit of giggles at the sight of three black pigs, their snouts in a trough, happily munching potato skins and slops behind a barbed wire fence. It reminded me of that old Ireland too – my mother grew up on a farm in the midlands. But I’d never experienced anything as sticky as the red clay on this road. My black trainers and Ella’s sandals were covered in it. “Just imagine if we were back home right now –we would be at the Galway races dressed in all our finery,” said Ella.

  “That’s one reason I’m delighted to be away. Trevor and I used to attend every year with Liz and her husband. This year he’ll be swanning around with Martha instead.”

  “I never thought of that. It’s good you came away at this time, so,” Ella said, rubbing my back in a reassuring manner.

  No taxi passed us, but we weren’t on the wrong road after all, and we finally arrived sweaty and grimy at our accommodation. It was called a poussada, which in Portuguese means an inn. It was a very plain long one-storey building with small windows and a corrugated roof. A rotund Brazilian woman greeted us and briskly led us down a long corridor to our adjoining rooms, sparsely furnished yet spacious, with two beds each and stacks of fluffy towels in the plain but immaculate en-suite bathrooms.

  “Not much hanging space, but much better than you predicted, Kate,” said Ella brightly.

  Yes, much better than I’d expected after listening to Trevor constantly warning me about “the flea-infested kip I’d find in lieu of a five-star hotel” if ever I visited a “third-world country”. “You can leave some of your clothes in the suitcase and use it like a drawer on top of your spare bed,” I suggested.

  To which she merely replied, “Hmm … I’ll see.”

  Leaving Ella to unpack, I returned to my room for a shower. I sighed contentedly as warm water ran down my back, helping unwind tight knots in my aching muscles from the long flight and bumpy bus ride. A glance in the mirror startled me – a ghostly face framed by a mass of fiery candy floss stared back. My skin had taken on a deadly pallor, due to exhaustion. Thankfully I’d brought some tinted moisturiser, otherwise I was sure I’d end up being mistaken for one of the spirit entities that allegedly floated around the Healer’s ashram. I rubbed serum into the mess that had become my hair in an effort to combat the effects of humidity.

  Afterwards, I unpacked the excess of clothing I’d brought, from waterproof fisherman’s trousers, in case of monsoon rains, to t-shirts, dresses and tunics for over leggings and skinny jeans. I laughed at the idea of having a choice of clothing sufficient to dress for dates with a variety of men from “spiritual” to “outdoor” types. I could probably glam up to satisfy a “sophisticate” in the sticks if it came to that. But no, I reminded myself, I’d left dating behind and was here for the good of my soul. After pulling on a blue tunic over navy cotton chinos, I sat on the edge of the white-covered bed to check if my mobile phone was working. I had three text messages. The first was a “Welcome to Brazil” greeting from a regional network. The second from Liz made me sigh as I read her warning, “Kate, have a great time. Mum said don’t let that healer near u with a knife!” My mother had obviously forced her to write that to me, since she never ever sends texts herself. I scrolled open the next one, “Enjoy Brazil. Be safe Mum, Julie x”. My heart warmed at the thought of good wishes from my daughter and I immediately sent her back a text telling her I loved her. Then I jumped up, grabbed my shoulder bag and left the room.

  “Come in, door’s open,” Ella called as I knocked. I entered to find her fixing a bandana around her head. It matched her azure-blue embroidered kaftan worn over flared white trousers. Smiling at me, she twirled a triple row of beads dangling from her neck. “What do you think? Do I look the part?”

  “If you mean ‘hippie tourist on the spiritual trail’ … then yes. But you know we have to wear all white to the ashram whenever the Healer is present? Apparently it’s easier for the spirits to work on us when we’re dressed in white.” I rolled my eyes heavenwards.

  “I know, you told me. I picked up some great chain store bargains before I left. When I’m finished accessorising, they’ll look couture. What are we doing this evening?”

  “After dinner, we’ve to go to the ashram for an introductory talk.”

  There was a knock on the door, and Ella rushed to open it. I stood out of the way as a Brazilian man wheeled in an empty clothes rack. We had passed it earlier on the corridor and obviously Ella had noted its potential. I’d forgotten how resourceful she could be. “Obrigado!” she cried, squeezing a five dollar bill into his hand. Then, “Oh look at these!” scrunching her nose in disgust, examining the distorted metal hangers dangling from the rail. “Not to worry, I’ll work on getting a few proper ones from him later.” She clapped her hands happily. “See how quickly I can turn any place into a home!”

  As we entered the dining room, we were met with a clatter of conversation, at first difficult to decipher as four or five different languages vied for ear space. A group at the top table spoke German, while an elderly couple to their left spoke French. After passing a Japanese family, my ear tuned into English spoken in several different dialects: American, Cockney and Irish were somewhere in the mix. My nose twitched to aromas of garlic, lamb stew and roast chicken mingled with zingy citrus scents and wild herbs. Excitedly, I took in the mouth-watering display of vegetable and nut salads vying for space on the buffet table with a sunburst-yellow display of star fruits, melons and mangoes. “Oh Ella, I’d definitely run my own cookery school or restaurant if only I could buy fresh sun-ripened produce like this back home,” I said wistfully, running my hand over the soft hides of papayas, apricots and nectarines sitting together like satin pompoms in a bowl.

  “Stop romancing the papayas and get your meal,” said Ella laughing, as she thrust a plate under my nose.

  We travelled to the ashram by taxi, a black cab similar to London cabs but with two rows of seats facing the driver’s back. There seemed to be no shortage of taxis in this area – several others arrived just as ours pulled up inside the high-walled enclave surrounding the blue and white building. Following the crowd, we made our way to a small room at the side of the building. There we took our seats on one of the middle row of benches among other new arrivals of all nationalities. Looking around me I observed smiling faces and noted that none of the people present looked obviously in need of healing.

  “Who are the paintings of?” Ella asked, pointing to the row of pictures on the azure blue wall.

  “Saints and ascended masters from different spiritual traditions,” I answered. Since my breast scare, I had been in contact with James’s cousin Maria who had mailed me a book and some photocopies on the Healer, so I understood what I was looking at. One of the Healer’s main attendants stood up at the front of the room to explain how the Healer worked. “The Healer is an incorporate medium, meaning he allows one of up to three hundred benevolent spirits or entities to take over his body and work through him,” she told us.

  I shivered at the word “entity” – what had I come to? What if this was some strange cult? Would I end up frothing at the mouth and writhing on the floor spouting obscenities in a cloud of sulphur? A lifetime of Aunt Marge mailing evangelical leaflets from the States warning of Satan’s rule had definitely got to me. The leaflets often told of how clever Lucifer was at disguising himself as an angel, a saint … even Jesus himself. Beads of perspiration clung to my brow. Christ almighty! I was here to get help with my anxiety and insomnia, and alrea
dy I was a nervous wreck worrying about ghouls, demons and things that go bump in the night. Would I ever rest easy again? I grabbed Ella’s arm. “Maybe we shouldn’t have come.”

  “A bit late for that – you missed the opportunity of going to Rio.”

  A woman sitting in front of us turned around with her finger over her lips. “Ssh! Silence please.”

  I fell silent, still nervous – yet a scan around the sixty-odd smiling pilgrims in the room told me everyone else was happy and relaxed, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. As soon as the introduction ended, we were joined by a tall American girl called Naomi who had spotted us arrive earlier at the poussada. “Believe me, people have amazing stories here.” Her amber eyes widened as she swept chestnut waist-length hair over one shoulder of her gypsy-style top. “Earlier today I met an Italian lady who was back to give thanks. Last year she was here with three requests. She wanted to find love, financial security and healing. A year later – and I’m seriously not kidding you – she has met the love of her life, landed a great job and she is healed.”

  Ella pulled herself up to her full height, in an effort to hear the tall girl better. “I didn’t think you could ask for material things when you put in your requests?”

  “Why not? Material things are not bad in themselves, unless they are used for gratifying your ego. We live in an abundant universe and there is nothing wrong with working with the law of attraction. You just open yourself to receiving from the Divine.” She held her upturned palms softly in front of her. “Receiving is a different principle to ‘taking’ which is like grabbing as if you were a greedy thief, jealous of what others have. We all need to count our own blessings and never compare ourselves to another. I used to constantly do that.” Naomi sighed as though her previous attitude brought a recollection of pain. Then, visibly brightening, she continued: “Now I thank the universe every day for all the blessings I have and say I am willing to receive whatever else will enrich my life and so assist me in helping others.” She gazed intently at each of us in turn. “In this way I have manifested greater health and doors have opened to me in my career as a dancer and a teacher of healing dance. At the moment I am leaving my heart open to the right man coming along for me.”

  “What you’re talking about is like that book on the law of attraction, isn’t it? The Secret? Tell me how you work it.” Ella leant in closer to Naomi. I could see she was determined to get some new business venture going and if a philosophical way of thinking helped, she would work on it. I excused myself and wandered off through the crowd of chattering pilgrims, hoping to hear something that might assuage my fears. Many were discussing what a great honour it would be if the entities appeared to them. An elderly Irish man there for the third time told me, “This place is like a spiritual hospital. You get healing on every level of your being – physical, emotional and spiritual. This is my third visit and I will keep coming back. Last time I was here I actually saw the entities floating around as orbs of light.” He must have noticed the blood drain from my face as I fidgeted with my ring, because he added softly, “Don’t worry. Everyone has a different experience and the entities are very gentle. You won’t experience anything you can’t handle. Healing happens in strange ways. Just be open to it.”

  As we got a taxi back, I prayed silently that I wouldn’t get cold feet and want to leave the place. My mother was right. It reminded me of going to Irish college when I was thirteen – after five depressing days in the remote wilderness of Achill Island I rang home begging to leave the place. I didn’t want to be a quitter but I was having serious reservations.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Doesn’t everyone look gorgeous!” said Ella, as we turned the corner on to the main street and joined hundreds of white-clad pilgrims walking purposefully towards the ashram. It was certainly uplifting and my insecurities from the night before had dissipated as soon as the cock crowed at dawn and a ray of orange light streamed through the gap in my faded floral curtains.

  “Hmm…” I looked the two of us over. “Even if we both happen to be dressed like twins in embroidered tunics and leggings. Looks better on you though, with your sallow skin. That lace wrap is to die for. I used to make lace as a hobby, you know?”

  “Ha! Knew you’d appreciate it.” Ella twiddled the ends of the delicate scarf, wrapped cowl-like around her neck. “It’s vintage all right – a bit of altar linen, would you believe? I got it for a song at an auction. But what are you on about – me look better than you? You’ve a better figure for white. And look, all those women are wearing identical kaftans, probably from that stall across the street.” Seeing us noticing his heaps of white clothing, the stall vendor winked and beckoned. “Need a hat, ladies?” But we kept on going.

  “Look at the jewellery – isn’t it fab?” I said excitedly, after noticing a short plump woman arranging a display of crystal and silver jewellery on a table outside her shop. They looked like something Julie might like. Rows of magnificent cave-like amethyst geodes glistened. Nearby a rangy mutt was barking over a bone.

  Merging into the throng of angelic white, we floated past the main café with its irresistible aroma of rich roast coffee, locals taking their seats for strong early morning shots. The road widened as we arrived at the blue and white building and made our way to the main auditorium, where we sat on the second row of benches from the top. In front was a large platform. Paintings of saints and deities from Jesus to Buddha lined the walls along with deceased Brazilian doctors who – it was said –returned in spirit form to assist the Healer. People of all ages and denominations filed into the large blue L-shaped room, some on crutches and in wheelchairs and many with shaved heads, young and old. An overpowering scent filled the air; I could practically taste its oily flavour – a mixture of citronella and neem oil – powerful mosquito repellents.

  “I like the music. Very soothing,” said Ella. “What do you call it?”

  I drew on the information Maria had sent me. “They’re known as bajans, from the Indian Vedic tradition. The repetition of words in simple soulful songs gives a sense of permanency known as Shashwat, which means bringing presence to the now. All the spiritual traditions emphasise being fully alert to our present experience and emotions, no matter what comes up. Living in the now is the path to healing. Only past regrets and future fears unsettle the mind. We need to practice meditation and deep breathing in order to help us stay present and aware of our emotions, even if those emotions are unpleasant.”

  “I suppose it’s great if you can do it,” said Ella. The music changed and she jigged excitedly in her seat. “I know this one – I love it! It’s Santiago, by Loreena McKennitt. It’s hardly one of your so-called bajans, is it?”

  “Not in the traditional sense, but the lyrics are repetitive in the way a mantra is, so it has the same effect …”

  All of a sudden, the side door was forcefully thrown open. The Healer burst through – a large, powerfully-built man in a white lab coat. He strode past us and up on to the podium. The many hundreds who filled the room stared at him. His body was trembling as though he were standing on a massive power plate with the volts turned up to maximum. As his head shook uncontrollably, Ella nudged me, sniggering. “He’s turning into the incredible hulk …”

  “Shh!” I whispered.

  Finally, his body quivered one last time and it was obvious a change had taken place as his posture became more erect and he assumed a strong look of intent. I knew from reading Maria’s book that he was now ‘in entity’, taken over by a benign spirit to act as Healer. He called out something in Portuguese and one of the translators announced in English, “Volunteers for visible surgery, please?” Several people put up their hands and were told to step out of the crowd. The first, a young woman in a flowing white dress, was led before the Healer. I stretched my neck to get a better view as he held her hand in his, while placing his other hand on her head. Her body appeared to droop and relax into a semi-trance as he eased her into a chair against t
he wall. Next he removed her right breast from her dress and held it in his hand, massaging it vigorously before making an incision with a sharp knife. The crowd gasped and there was some muttering as he plunged two fingers into the open wound. Rooting around, he fished out something round and bloody like a polyp. This he held up for all to see, before placing it in a jar. More gasping and muttering, as Ella nudged me. “The woman beside me says that girl is staying in her poussada. She came here with breast cancer. She thinks he’s just removed the tumour. Imagine.”

  I sighed with relief at the thought of my healthy diagnosis. Thank goodness I wasn’t desperate enough to undergo something like that. I sincerely doubted that I could have summoned up the same unwavering faith the girl had just exhibited. Years of living with a medic had made me more paranoid about hygiene and germs than I cared to admit. Trevor would have had apoplexy if he were here! And yet, apparently no one had ever contracted an infection after any of the Healer’s operations. It was all the more astonishing, when compared to the amount of people contracting super bugs in our sanitised hospitals back home. I remained sceptical however, as I knew everyone who came here was not cured. The ashram warned people not to abandon their regular prescription drugs unless advised to do so by a medical doctor. Conventional medicine has been tried and tested and could never be overlooked on a mere whim in favour of “energy healing”. Yet I believed something powerful was going on here – something science could not explain. Whether it was the power of intention, belief or loving energy, nobody could state emphatically. Einstein himself lamented the fact that most of us only use ten percent of our brain capacity, ignoring intuitive and other possible latent talents. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to think that at some stage in the near future more of our potential could be tapped into and that we would learn to assist our own healing on both physical and emotional levels?