A new day.
With gratitude.
There have been times that I have believed I can spin hope
from the darkest of corners and between the largest chasms of
impossibilities. And on rare occasions I
have convinced others of some great possibility or another. To see potential all around. To find happy. I am just now sitting at the river
alone, on a small piece of heaven, that is in actuality a small stretch of
floating dock, secured to a break wall along the Hudson River in this place I
call home. It is getting dark and there
are others gathering a small distance from where I lie. They come to observe the setting of the
sun.
I am intrigued by this crowd that gathers, from out of
woodwork it would seem. Who are they and
what do they want? Cult-like and mesmerized
they stand one or two together frozen, rapt, still. As the sun sets behind Slide, Van Wyck,
Peekamoose, Panther…the majestic Catskill Mountains.
I rise after the water calms and settles and gather my
belongings, a journal, my newest purchase; a book, The Exquisite Risk, my
water and walk toward home leaving those gathered in the rapture of the setting
sun. A day has come and gone. I walk at a pace not normally practiced. Slow almost.
And notice my face is holding a smile.
A calm has washed over me.
The day prior I attended a Healing Workshop with John of
God, a spiritual healer from Brazil. I
went in hopes of providing some degree of proxy healing to my daughter, which I
know is a bit way out there in the scheme of normal, or acceptable. But hey, the fact that my 23 year old daughter
was slapped with stage 4 breast cancer is absolutely way out of the scheme of
normal and acceptable and what else can I do, but pray, and fret, and worry,
until hope and faith kick into my bloodstream and dull the pain and restrain
the fears? I walked around the grounds of Omega, that Eden-like environ, dressed in white and filled with an unknowing that slowly moved toward calm.
Quiet. And I was, like the sunset groupies moving in a similar cult-like rapture staring
blankly towards something I could not see or make sense of, but I was for that time, not
afraid.
It was powerful to be in that one place among so many, feeling a
collective unison. We were all there to
feed this one thing. Hope. And it was palpable. In the quiet I could also feel the tenderness
of doubt around the edges that softened, to become acceptance. This acceptance was different than any I
have experienced before. It was not
begrudging or despairing or submitting. It was not the acceptance of loss. It was not the giving up of hope. It was the acceptance that I was where I
needed to be. My daughter is where she
is. (I am determined to not say, where she needs to be….but she is there nonetheless.) It was powerful to be
able to be among so many others that were seeking to be healed, seeking to be
freed from worldly suffering, pain, debilitating grief, illness, emotional
barriers, and/or physical limitations. I
was able to reflect and meditate and see myself exactly where I was. I was free from comparing myself to others,
to where and how much I fell short or was incapable of changing. For
once. In this place filled with hope
because we were all accepting of our pain. And we were all wanting goodness, wholeness, peace.
Hope and faith are pretty strong ideas, credited for their
healing powers even within the scientific community, the very one that relies
heavily on medicines and surgical practices that are frequently developed by
chance, or to remedy an altogether different ailment. A medical community that works harder on
treating symptoms then finding cures. A
community that is presented with inexplicable miracles and stories of hope and
faith that strengthens the healing powers of pills and protocols that cannot be otherwise scientifically explained. Hope and
faith provide promise that cannot be prescribed. And so I went to see John of God to help
support and rejuvenate my own hope and faith. To help
direct a spiritual healing of one kind or another. To do what little I can beyond making ginger
carrot soup and kale arugula apple green tomato banana concoctions so that my daughter may drink down some antioxidant hocus pocus hope in a glass when she visits,
unexpectedly.
The morning after my journey in white, I drink my holy
water, I fidget my new prayer beads, I put in my rose quartz earrings mined from
the Casa de Dom Inacio of Brazil, click my heels, blow a kiss up to God and heaven and
head to work. I am supposed to be in bed
for 24 hours following this healing intervention, but John Of God, nor the
entities of healing have left any money in my shoes, or added sick time to my
benefit package and so I must go to work, but promise to take it easy and
maintain as much peace and reflection as I can.
I am gifted with working with children. The type that keep things real. Or push things so far to unbelievable that I
am reminded everyday, everything is possible and nothing ever goes the way it
should. Expecting miracles, and disasters,
and always laughter. My students arrive,
loud, exuberant, unaware of most anything outside of their own needs and
perspectives. They stumble in with
binders and breakfast and problems thought to be insurmountable. “Why did they put so much cheese for this
pretzel on my tray?” (There is about a
cup of thick soft pale orange soup on his Styrofoam tray next to his soft
pretzel. This is breakfast? I wonder. I had thought
this was a baseball game indulgence, an unimaginative treat from some poolside snackbar. ) “Why
is this cheese so hot?” Student 1 explains immediately, “It is hot
pepper, a nacho cheese sauce, that is why.” (He in fact speaks, in a factoid like mechanical manner when sharing facts.) Student 2 implores unimpressed, “Why would I want nacho cheese for a
pretzel? “ Student 1 answers, off track,
“Do you know if pepper is hot in your mouth the only thing that will help is
milk? That’s why I’m drinking all my milk. See?” He slurps extra loud for impact. Student 2 disputes this, “C’mon that doesn’t
make any sense! But why is there nacho cheese for a pretzel? Student 1 sticks to his guns, “No it’s true. Water will
just wash the hot burning reactions all over your throat, but milk absorbs it. Try it!”
He smiles for extra encouragement.
Student 2 refuses. Student 1 adds
more background knowledge, embellishing and delighting, at the very least,
me. “Do you know the hottest pepper in
the world is called the ghost pepper and it can kill you?” I think I hear music, background, maybe something from The Exorcist..Probably, no doubt if you forget your 52
cents for strawberry milk. I snarkily
think to myself. But student 2 is coming
around, “What? Wait… the ghost pepper?
how do you know that, did you ever have one?”
And then suddenly in the middle of this, as I am trying to
keep my pact with God and follow the protocol of resting, as I am falling into
meditation and reflection and calm…..Student 1 wakes me from my 2 second
meditation to ask, “Hey, what exactly are those things?” I’m not quite sure
what he …. "There, in your ears! What are those supposed to be? A dwarfs weights? Little pebbles for weightlifting?” Ah, the healing powers of rose quartz are
working miracles already, because in the midst of so much that makes no sense
to me, I am smiling.
Student 1 reminds
me that it is important to not take life so seriously. To be able to laugh at myself. He helps me stay in the present and not
attempt to see any dark edges at the expense of missing the brightness. The hope. The faith. The healing powers of ghost peppers, which he
swears he has tried. And he did survive it. He boasts. As Student 2 says, “Well of course we can see
you are alive.” And I attempt to teach, but always learn a great deal more, about myself, about life, about humanity
and that day, about ghost peppers. The
hotness of one is comparable to 100 jalapeno peppers. When the oil from a ghost pepper is mixed
with marine paint, barnacles cannot grow on boats. I wonder if they can stop cancer cells from
growing? But not out loud. And then
Student 1 asks, “Hey, where were you yesterday?” And I tell him I was helping my
daughter. To which he says, “You have a
kid?” When I laugh and say I have three,
he laughs louder and says, “Oh my God! What did you go and do that for?” I have to smile and reflect and start driving
the day toward pronouns and the Haudenosaunee Peace Tree.
When I return home from the river, in my peaceful new manner or deportment,
my daughter calls to tell me she is coming home for the weekend. And I am filled with happiness. At the miracle of her. Of life.
Of unexpected pleasures. I am filled with gratitude and excited about
giving her the amethyst crystal earrings that were purchased for her. The ones that may or may not look like
weights for a very small person. The
ones that may or may not have healing powers.
I can’t wait to see her. I call
out to my son as he is heading downstairs to tell him this news. She is coming home for the weekend. I can see his smile expanding as his cheeks
grow and become visible from behind.
I wonder where I can find ghost peppers to remove those
barnacles from my daughter, so that she can journey on calmer seas. I am reminded that hope and faith come in
many shapes and sizes and theoretical beginnings. I am
reminded that love is more healing than anything else I can offer. But just in case, I will be following the
protocol for healing for the next 40 days.
And maybe after that the seas will calm or part or continue to wash over
me and provide restorative life affirming grace. And I will look forward to a big soft pretzel
with mustard and maybe a ghost pepper on the side. And a drink. It is long over due for me to rid myself of a
few sharp edged barnacles that have been blocking my vision, my hope and faith.
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