Rinalda, sometimes you are very good. Sometimes you are very very good. But today…I don’t know… My mind darted back and forth trying to recall what I was doing for the pass half hour. His tone sounded as if he was disapproving of what had transpired. I realized that I was not fully with him. The whole time since I started the massage I was with my students. Through my intentions I had gathered them into the room with me and was demonstrating to them what I wanted to enact on Saturday. I got so lost in the realness this classroom in his room that I was no longer alone with my client providing the service he needed. The moment, the picture, was bigger. His voice came back to me. Today…you are very very very good. Oh! He approves! Good!
Saturday came and I recounted to the students that I had taken them on a journey during the week to transfer knowledge during an encounter with a particular client. They looked at me, knowing very well there was no field trip. Sometimes our need to understand things, everything, is our stumbling block. Everything cannot be understood. Not that I have this all figured, but I periodically arrive at this position and can’t seem to stay in it because of the natural inclination to keeping trying to understand everything despite experiencing things that cannot be understood. I told them that they will come upon scenarios in their practice where they know to themselves that they do not know how to proceed with treatment, yet somehow the knowledge will arise to make the treatment a success because I did show them how despite their unawareness of having such teaching. And it’s not just knowledge from me. The idea is to look around and look within, and know that we know more than we know…direct knowing…
While they were working I checked my phone and saw my sister sent me a photo of a sizable centipede in her washing machine. She had gone downstairs to wash, but abandoned that chore when it turned up afloat. The spinning and detergent probably deprived it of its hiding place. I showed the photo to the students. One remarked that medicine can be made with such. Traditionally it is placed in a bottle with alcohol and stored. After the requisite time small amounts of the alcohol is consumed periodically. But not just centipedes, frogs, snakes, and even scorpions are used. Understanding was sought. Someone said it is an antidote. Only? Not sure. Another student remarked that her grandmother would boil a lizard and some lard in a cup of coffee and used that to treat asthma, effectively. No one could fathom that. Well I do have some marabuntas hanging around. I’ll add them to some brandy. Should be ready for toasting during Christmas. Hope my guests don’t see what’s at the bottom of the bottle.
If we eventually come around to conversations like these, then they already know and accept that I can be wherever I am working with clients and transfer knowledge to them. We have two brains with different but complementing functions. (Do we need to take out the corpus callosum to prove it?) It is stated that we cannot solve a problem with the same level of consciousness that created it. Accepted. But given that we keep tying consciousness to the brain, how can we hope to understand the brain if we use the brain, which is lower than the consciousness that created it, to comprehend it? Not that the brain is a problem, but our quest to understand the effects of the therapy we perform so as to properly pin it down to a science, to arrive at particular techniques and sequences that generate particular successes every time, will continue to evade us unless we can somehow rise above the brain. And we do, but we are so scared of the nothingness under our feet, and having the walls of our box disappear leaving horizons so wide, too wide, that we quickly return to thoughts that reinforce the density we know. We sigh with relief when we can again put out hands out and feel the walls. We utter thankful words when our feet are once again on the floor. We are safe.
Back to class. I reached a book off the shelf and spoke of memory, which again, we associate with the brain. But memory is all over us. I passed around the book displaying pictures of patterns formed in water depending on the vibrations emitted in its presence. It is now generally accepted that our bodies are largely made up of water. Hence our utterances, the music we listen to, the company we keep, the activities we indulge in, the environments we frequent, etc. all facilitate the creation of memories within our water molecules. And since the blood goes everywhere, the patterns are taken everywhere. When we add the vibrations of our emotions to the melting pot, we get our resultant healthy or diseased state. Adding to this ability to remember from our fingertips, spine, heart, bladder, etc., is the electricity factor. Because the water within us is laced with hormones and minerals it has conductivity. So our lightbulb moment is not something that happens exclusively to the brain. It happens at the cellular level, and whatever tinier levels we care to explore. Point is, even if we function below the level of consciousness that created us, we can and do receive and send each other messages all the time, electrically to say the least. But the need to have the message concretized makes our acceptance of the words belting out of our radios or scrolling across our television screen more real than then knowledge sparking off in our own bodies.
I remain full of gratitude for the many lessons my students have brought over the years, sharing stories that are just as, and even more interesting than mine. Our experiences with the oddities of the sophisticated unseen realms are not easy to acknowledge if we expect to be called crazy. It would take a special kind of arrogance to conclude that it’s the ambiance of my space that evokes these disclosures. Maybe it’s the relaxing of the brain during a massage that gives rise to active memories from other parts of the body which are verbalize because the Student Client does not feel judged by the Student Therapist. I remember one lady had spoken of her father coming home late one night without his pants. He was breathless. The route from work to home had few vehicles at night, so as was the norm, he had started walking. Having covered some distance he was glad when he spotted company, a beautiful lady waiting by the roadside. Conversation ensued, and more than conversation too. Passion and opportunity to fulfill it on a deserted road could not have been more perfect. It was the caressing of her legs put him on guard. As he went lower he realized she had too much hair and hooves. The scramble to be elsewhere couldn’t happen fast enough. The more he ran the more she chased him. He had started something that needed to be finished. Finish it! Some men are petty. Who cares if the woman doesn’t have feet? That she could run after him so fast should be complimented. Most women in stilettos can’t.
Well, we can call that the overactive imagination of a child who could not clearly recall what exactly her father had said. Now a grown woman with children she encountered the woman. Her daughter has a habit of pulling the curtain to look outside when she gets up during the night to use the washroom. One night when she did so she saw a woman. She woke her mother to say that a lady was outside asking for some water. She’s thirsty. My student said she all but snatched her daughter from the window then she roused the others and started praying together. The lady outside repeated her request for water. They could hear her clearly. For that matter, the next morning one of her neighbours inquired about her guest, said she heard a lady asking for water late last night. Anyway, she prayed with the children and the lady probably got tired of waiting she was suddenly in the house, in the midst of the prayer, repeating her request. She said her daughter fainted. The woman left shortly after, but her daughter remained sick for days. Point is, it was the same woman her father had described, beautiful, long hair, hooves.
There was another story of summer camp. This student had to work so her children were sent to the nearest camp which was held at an Islamic organization. All went well until one day they brought the child home sick. Totally not herself. It was recounted that somewhere on the grounds where the children had limited physical, but full visual access, a sheep or goat (I can’t remember) was tied. Then its neck was punctured and the blood squirted making a complete circle as the animal went round and round the peg to which it was tied. Then the girl collapsed. The presumption was that the sight of the blood caused her to faint. She insisted that there must have been more to the story as while she was looking at her daughter, she knew that was not her daughter. The man who brought her hinted at the animal sacrifice being done on the behalf of someone who need help and that the girl might have been susceptible… The mother asked why, since they know how deal with these things, didn’t they pray for the girl. She acknowledged that she has gotten much help from the Muslim community, but maybe this was the end of the rope as she showed no intentions of joining the faith. She had to rally all manner of resources, take time off from work, and with diligent prayer her daughter eventually returned to her senses.
Another student spoke of coming home from work one day to find her son howling and behaving like a wolf. He kept his wrists bent and together with the fingers hanging. She was trying to understand what this display was about. Naturally, she thought it was some childish thing he picked up, but it persisted. She watched her son comfortably cross a high narrow beam outside, even sat on it for a while, like this was the norm. He leaped around the house and when she tried to hold him she was scratched and bitten. She inquired from the siblings what happened to him. They didn’t know. Eventually the disclosure was of them all watching a horror movie and he suddenly started acting out and they thought he was joking. Well, that case too involved days of prayer for deliverance. When whatever left the boy was limp. No energy and no memory of any activity beyond looking at the television with the others. I met him. He’s about twelve years old with no interest in heights and lacks the flexibility to accomplish the things he mother recounts. Horror movies have been banned from the home, but he is allowed the play games his mother considers reasonable.
Here’s another one. Like my client who believes something is sucking the residents in that Home, a Therapist felt something was doing the same in her home. Always two teeth mark on her skin and she feel weak as if she had donated blood. She prayed. Applied what she knew. It happened again and again. The Pastor was asked to pray too. It still happened intermittently over a three year period. She decided it was her thorn in the flesh, but it would be helpful to know what she was fighting against. She no longer prayed to get rid of whatever it was, but to see what it was. The answer came. One night she heard the movement and peered through her lids. There was what she called a grimble. She said it took up residence in a corner of the room and began ‘charming’ her. She felt her body became immobilized. It approached and held onto her. She tried to fight and couldn’t. Then she willed herself to mentally pray and strength started coming to her body. She prayed and fought it and was surprised that such a skinny thing possessed so great strength. When she was able to use her voice she prayed aloud, cursed it, called down the Trinity and everything she knew. It left. Bay rum is all she had at the time, and she sprinkled it all around the area. In this case, I have seen the marks. It looks like whatever (grimble or not) was piercing her skin had a very good idea of blood vessel placements. Dead on target every time.
This other lady was a Therapist long before we met. She spoke of a time in her life when her dreams of family were dashed. Her husband’s loose fist would not stop swinging and she came to accept that it was not for her to change him. She returned to her maternal home where she had to share a room with her children. A butcher down the road noted her return. He had long shown interest in her. Now she had children, evidence that she knows what sex is, he started paying some serious attention. She ignored him. He had eight children with two women who seemed fine with each other. He eventually moved from mere words to actions. He brought her chicken, large chickens. Being in need she would accept and thank him sincerely as her children and mother benefited. Talk of sex kept coming and going. That went on for a while, the tokens and sex talk. Then one day he explained that it would be no disgrace to her or her husband if she allowed him to do oral sex on her. That’s all he wants. She couldn’t understand why he would find such needful let alone gratifying. She eventually agreed, considering it a reasonable exchange for all his help.
Well they can’t go to his house. She can’t go out and leave the children anyway, so it was arranged for him to come when she had put the children to bed and her mother has gone into her room. They would use the kitchen. He came. Lights out, but the reflection from outside was good enough. The eyes get used to the dark. And…action! Meh gurl on her back and her suitor reached for his target. Upper lips to lower lips. She kept glancing for any sign that they might have company. Then she decided to surrender to the moment. With her eyes close it seemed that the licking was changing. Like there was more tongue. Aaahhh, forget that. It was good. And the finger that had inserted itself into her seemed to change too, expanded, fuller than a finger should be. Aaahhh, forget that. It’s all good. He has been good to her and maybe she has become so used to the abuse of her husband that her mind won’t let her enjoy a good thing. She concluded that the man was so good at oral sex that she was feeling more than she should. Rhythm picked up and she felt too much teeth. Well, it’s their first time together so she did not expect perfection, but teeth can be jarring any day. The sharpness of it made her eyes open and she saw something moving back and forth on the floor. She focused. It was a tail wagging vigorously. Hands on his head, she pushed with all her might to get him off her. He growled in protest. The man had turned into a dog. A dog. It was a dog between her legs licking to all hell. The ears, the long face, the teeth… He kept shaking his head growling unintelligibly. It was not until he changed back that she knew what he was saying: doh move! doh move!
When she started the story she remarked that there’s a guy with eight puppies who she will kill if he ever came near her again. His children. She said given the right circumstances they will change into dogs like their father. Not all people are people. And the women with whom he has them must know who he is and must have agreed in some way to still be there. By now they might be dogs too, aaammm, bitches. She did chase him from her mother’s kitchen that fateful night and he had remarked that due to the act they are forever entwined. She told him no, not if she could help it. She promised to kill all the dogs in the neighbourhood just to kill him without being charged for murder, so he had better leave her alone. I asked her why she felt he ended up with this dog manifestation. She said we’ve gotten greedy. People no longer want the wealth of peace of mind and health, they want lavish material things and they do anything for it. Some of the anything can result in this. Well, the man is wealthy, with moments of regret maybe, but by and large the envy of others alone justifies his means. So yes, Therapists need to clear and ground themselves because clients leave a lot of baggage, but the Therapists themselves have baggage they can drop on clients. You can feel the dark vibration of the stories let alone to be touched by the vessels that experienced them. Praying with the understanding is important, but for now we can agree to bypass that and just pray for each other.