Chapter 13 The Ancient Healer

Chapter Thirteen

      The Ancient Healer

      “How did this all begin?” I wondered, as the eighty-year-old Healer began to massage my body.  I could hardly walk.  The pain in my leg and back wouldn’t go away and I was beginning to consider suicide as a solution.  I could trace the pain to an event a couple of weeks ago.  I was training in the Brazilian martial art of Capoeira and the young master wanted me to kick a punching bag with my legs.  The kicks required twisting the back and hitting the shins repeatedly.  The kids were in their twenties.  I was sixty-two. 

      I started Capoeira six years before, thinking I was taking the Pomo Indian kids to learn self-defense.  When Mestre Amunka told me he would only train the kids if I would train with them, I was dumbfounded.  Surely he didn’t expect an elder to do cartwheels, to sing, and dance around like an acrobat to Brazilian music.  “But I’m fifty-six!” I had protested.  “I’m fifty,” he replied staring into my big blue deer eyes with the blaze of headlights on a dark forest road.  “What’s happening to me?  Is he serious?  Yes, he means it!  He wants me to play with them.  Hum, I guess if he’s willing to train me, I could learn.”  That’s how I found a sense of connection, a semblance of family on two or three days a week in rural California. 

      I was looking at Capoeira trying to match the natural physical abilities of the Native American kids with an activity which would be a better gang than the ones they had chosen on the streets of their homeland.  Conquered by the white European settlers, those Pomo kids had nothing left save their genetic inheritance and a loose affiliation with the local tribes.   They used their senses to learn about the environment, just like their ancestors before them.  They weren’t abstract thinkers like the other European kids at school, so they soon fell behind academically, landing in sports and then cutting school, and experimenting with sex, drugs, and alcohol.  The need for connection led directly into the gangs.  In order to define themselves as Indians, with a history and life-style of their own, they ran headlong into confrontation with the police and authority figures.  It seemed like a no brainer to me that identification with an indigenous martial art, where singing and dancing were the focus, would key into their genetic memory.  The kids were successful, praised, and encouraged, but lost interest.  Perhaps it was the fact that I, the white European (with native blood), had introduced them to Capoeira.  If one of their uncles had sponsored them, they could identify with him and feel good about connecting with their South American relatives through a common practice and ceremony.

      How did I get the idea of Capoeira anyway?  In 1998 I was teaching Critical Thinking at the community college and one of my students, a great-grandson of Sitting Bull, invited me to a Sweat Lodge.  He was a Lakota Sun-Dancer who married a local Pomo woman.  His wife was also a student of mine, but in a different class, and since they had different last names, I didn’t draw the connection between them until later when I saw them together at a Pow-Wow.  Her class was required to write a final paper on a topic of interest to them.  She chose spousal abuse as her topic, as that was her history of alcohol abuse and being battered by her husbands.  Now that she was in recovery, she was the Director of the Women’s Shelter.  I was stunned to connect the flesh and blood man of her paper to the Sun-Dancer whose profound tribal wisdom inspired me.  The paradox was hard to sit with.  How is it that we carry this wisdom within us and yet cannot walk our talk?

      After digesting the contradictions of human life, we become more humble and compassionate.  I decided to attend the Inipi or Purification Ceremony, which is also called the Sweat Lodge, on the Pomo Reservation.  The Pomo people allowed my friend to put up his lodge on their ancestral land as a gesture of hospitality.  They were inclusive in attitude, a kind of live and let live approach to the invasion of their homeland.  They were outnumbered and overpowered; they held on to whatever they could.  Times were tough, but they were tougher; they survived.  And so I went to the Lakota Lodge.

      
      That’s where I met the young Cherokee MD from the Indian Health Center and his Brazilian friend, a Capoeira Mestre from Sao Paulo, Brazil.  That’s where the idea of Capoeira was implanted during the Prayer Service deep in the womb of mother earth.   And as I began to train, I discovered my theory was correct.  Almost all of the Capoeiristas had indigenous blood running through their veins.  Something about the singing together and supporting the play of one’s skills spoke to the native memory inside of us.  We felt connected in a common purpose. And as the young people began to trust me more and more, they shared their histories of abuse and addiction which would have killed them, if it hadn’t been for the Mestre, who recognized the need for bonding, activity which challenges, and the hope of a life within the Capoeira world where extended spiritual family blended into blood family.  That is what held me in the community and that is what hurt me.

      The inner young man inside of me wants to be liked; he wants love, affection and acceptance.  In order to get that approval, I kicked the bag and hurt myself so badly that I couldn’t stand the thought of feeling that pain any longer.  My sister told me about her wizard, who spends the winter in Southern California, and since I was considering suicide, anything was worth a try.  But as the Healer worked on me, we talked of the one strange thing we had in common.  We were both from the same small rural town in Idaho!  And as he told me of moving there in the winter of 1949, I began to remember that winter as if I were yesterday.  It was the coldest on record, with more snow than ever before.  I was six then.  We traveled to Sun Valley and saw ice statues, mounds of snow as big as a house and a curious town which had a vague sense of familiarity, like something out of a dream or perhaps a recollection of a genetic memory from Austria or Switzerland.  As I drifted off into memories of my boyhood the pain disappeared.  When I got up off the table, I felt no pain.  It was a miracle!

      The Healer and I talked about acupressure points, energy meridians and where I should massage my arms and legs to increase circulation.  Two days later the symptoms were back and I was back on the Healer’s table.  This gave me the opportunity to go backwards in time to Idaho and remember meeting my spirit guide.   I was thirteen and with a group of boy scouts exploring the lava tubes created millions of years ago.  The one I was exploring had a sand floor, deposited over thousands of years by rivers flowing down from the snow-covered mountains. My friends had left me alone in the tube.  I went further back until I came to a strange outcropping, which looked like an altar about chest high.  As I approached the smooth rock, I noticed it was dripping with what at first I thought was red paint.  No, upon closer inspection, it was dried blood.  White bones were at the foot of the altar collecting in the sand.  As I went further into the cave and came around a turn, I stood face to face with the owner.  It was as surprised to see me in there as I was to see it.  We stood staring at each other as the adrenalin rushed and our hearts beat faster.  I was taller.  He had razor sharp teeth and claws.  I had never seen a bobcat up close and personal before.  Finally I yelled in fright and the cat turned and ran up and out of its backdoor, a chimney-like crack in the side of the cave. 

      As I came back into my sixty-two year old body resting on the Healer’s table, I felt no pain.  I got up, went home and felt so good, that I put on Capoeira music and was turning cartwheels and kicking imaginary opponents.  It was so good to be alive.  And yes, within two days the pain returned and so did the torrential rains, which brought whole mountainsides down on sleeping families.  My sister and I were going to a wedding that weekend and our travel was delayed seven hours while we sat in our car. The rain slowed traffic to a crawl.  I thought I would never walk again.  Sis loaded me up with her pain pills.  When we got to Nevada and our motel, I got into the hot tub in the pouring rain and soaked my aching body until I could get into bed.  I didn’t sleep much that night.  The morning was sunny and the Las Vegas Wedding was unforgettable!

      My prejudice against Elvis Presley Weddings was about to dissolve.  Initially I thought such a theme wedding was extremely tacky, so very different from my big, fat, Greek Wedding in 1967. Even though I knew the relationship between the partners was the key to a public announcement of commitment like a wedding ceremony, I still retained that sense of the sacred within the Christian tradition in which I was raised.  But the Elvis wedding was one of the most loving, real expressions of what marriage is all about I had encountered.  I had to swallow a lot of humble pie that day. 

      The bride clearly wanted me to formalize our relationship.  From the moment I met her in Santa Barbara, she understood me psychically.  She could put out the desire to see me and I would walk into the restaurant where she was sitting.  “I was expecting you”, she would say.  We did that a lot.  Now she was getting married to a man I had never met.  When I asked her whether she wanted to be my niece or my daughter, she said, smiling, “Your daughter of course!” and so she was from that moment on.

      The groom was charming and told me a lot about himself.  He was thirty-four and his younger brother was his best man.  They had recently buried their father, a life-long alcoholic, who had abandoned them during puberty.  Their mother was the strong, emotional force in their lives.  As he talked, I began to see a parallel story emerging.  I was thirty-four when my younger brother and I buried our father who succumbed to the alcohol spirit.  He too abandoned us emotionally at about the same age.  The brothers were the same 18 months apart as my brother and I were. They grew up in rural Oregon.  We grew up in rural Idaho.  They have Celtic roots.  We have Celtic roots.  The groom’s thoughtfulness and sensitivity was like a magic mirror in which I saw myself reflected. 

      And then I was back in Reno, Nevada at my brother’s wedding in 1967.  All of the parents were drunk, mine more than the bride-to-be’s parents.  My dad’s gambling addiction was so pressing that he wandered away while we were preparing for the wedding.  My brother, the groom, wanted his dad there for the wedding and left the wedding party in search of his drunken father.  My new bride of a month helped me calm the situation.  But, true to my mom’s shadow character, no sooner had the groom left than the Queen Mother began to make cruel, insinuating
remarks suggesting the bride was pregnant and therefore a slut.  Her gift seemed more like a wicked step-mother’s venom than the acceptance of her new daughter-in-law.   Evidently Mom had forgotten how she had trapped my dad into marriage two years before my birth.  Mom miscarried the baby, but she was pregnant on her wedding day.  Sadly, in her drunkenness, all she expressed was her envy of the bride.  Like the wicked step-mother standing in front of the magic mirror, Mom was seething with rage.  The bride was beautiful and she was getting the beautiful son.  Mom felt she was losing both of her sons within a month’s time.  At least that was how she was acting, like a woman in the presence of thieves who are taking away her most prized possessions.  And just after my brother arrived, Mom’s demeanor changed to sweetness and light.  Our dad wasn’t with the groom.  But luckily, he stumbled into the room just before the wedding ceremony.

      At the banquet we all danced.  But the band-leader didn’t know who the bride and groom were.  Judging by the way my wife and I were dancing and talking, he assumed we were the bride and groom and singled us out.  That hurt my brother.  He always complained about never being able to compete with his older brother.  Although we corrected the situation on the wedding night, my brother just added another insult to his injury list.  Twenty-six years later he had enough unresolved hurts on his list, which he never talked with me about, to permanently sever our relationship.  That was twelve years ago.  We had only spoken twice in that period of time, although I had tried repeatedly to break through his wall of silence, he held his own counsel in his castle.  As I remembered the wedding in Reno and told my newly wed son and daughter the story, I felt a great relief.  I went to bed that night in pain but feeling like a huge weight had been lifted.

      In the morning all the symptoms were gone.  No pain at all!  Nowhere!  I was so impressed that I risked making a telephone call to my brother.  Amazingly, he took the call and listened to the story punctuating it with “yes” “Ya” and “Uha” at all the previously unacknowledged events. He sighed when I told him I just wanted him to know that I had noticed and I was sorry I hadn’t told him sooner.  He talked about getting together someday, thanked me for the call and hung up.  I have felt better ever since.  Remembering and grieving the pain of our lives is hard to do; we were raised on denial of feelings.  But the tears and recognition of our suffering transforms it.  Nothing has changed except my attitude toward it, and that has made all the difference.  The pain in the body is real, but perhaps it is an invitation to remember a promise unkept to one’s inner child.

      When my daughter, the Jewish Hummingbird Princess, moved across the desert and up into the hills near the ocean, my nephew the Actor, who reminds me of Hermes and like the beautiful god, dismisses boundaries as unnecessary, needed help moving his mentor into her new home.  He went next door to ask for that help.  The Paladin, who in Medieval Christian times rescued ladies in distress, opened the door to his twenty-first century home when the young man with long curly locks rang the doorbell.  Looking like a page out of King Arthur’s Court or perhaps a dream, the guy wanted help moving some heavy furniture into the home his mistress had bought.  The Paladin was more than happy to help, and when he met his new neighbor, fell hopelessly in love with her.  It seemed too good to be true.  They were the same age, divorced, loving parents of children whose ages overlapped, and wow the chemistry of sex was exploding all over the place!  I was amazed at what a beautiful couple they made.  He was completely devoted to her from the moment he laid eyes on her.  And it might have worked out the way he wanted it to, but Creator had a few lessons to teach us all.

      My Daughter’s biological father, a Lawyer who loved to gamble, was dying and like my dad, he loved his grandchildren.  He watched my relationship with his grandchildren and he trusted me, he could tell I loved them for who they were and that I attended to them in the way he would want to be able to care for them. His greatest gift to me was his complete trust in me.  As he slowly slipped into the Spirit World, the Paladin and I were always there for his daughter.  She called us her Angels of Death.  That was a compliment of course, coming from a woman whose ancestors were Rabbis back in Russia before immigrating to the USA.  We supported her in the hospital and the rest home and drove with her and the children to the grave site when it was time to bury her father.  The Paladin told me that his dad had died three years before and he never did grieve for him, so he was taking advantage of the opportunity to go through his grief with his friend’s father’s passing.  At the Orthodox Jewish funeral, I sat between the Princess and her ex-husband the Prince. The Paladin sat behind us covering our backs with his psychic sword.  When I spoke about the old man’s trusting me with the most precious treasure, his genetic future, I broke into sobs.  The Rabbi put his hand on my back and waited for me to recover my composure.  We waited while the grave was filled in and then we went to the wake.

      While all the Jews were inside talking about the deceased and their stories about their relationship, the Prince was outside practicing soccer with his children.  It was a very strange scene; two worlds and cultures juxtaposed, yet not touching. I wondered if I would have been unable to deal with the Eastern Mediterranean funeral vibe when I was the Englishman in denial. I was looking at myself and my relationship. It was no wonder the Princess and I were attracted to one another, she was the younger version of my actress/teacher/psychologist spouse. And I was the unconscious of my feelings alcoholic family patterned Prince acting like death was a common event like brushing his teeth or practicing for a soccer match.

      Before the internment ceremony, I kneeled down in front of a waterfall, rolled a Prayer Smoke and prayed for my friend’s transition into the Spirit World.  The Paladin and the Princess both shared that Prayer Smoke with me.  The Paladin’s family intermarried with the Spanish conquerors before they came north into California. He looks Native American, brown smooth skin and slim, like he just got off of his horse and took care of it before he could be bothered to be social.  When the horses and the children are taken care of, the Paladin is a very attentive companion.  That’s why he makes such a good Angel of Death, his compassion and patience are real.  He speaks from his heart and he listens with it too.  Someone wanted me to talk about how I had met the Princess after the funeral and I was telling stories about our relationship and my Native American adventures. The Paladin was circling me in rapt attention.  After a while I suddenly got it and asked him, “Would you like to have a Dad again?”  “Ya, I would love to have a Dad, someone I could say I love you to like I did to my dad before he died.”  “OK,” I said, “do you want me to be your dad?”  “YES!” he said emphatically. I took the silver turquoise ring that Raven’s Gift had given me off of my finger. I gave it to the Paladin and told him to shake my hand.  “Now you are my son,” I said embracing him.

      Impulsivity is a Coyote trait and such a fun one. I got rewarded with the most real, loving man I had ever met.  And he changed my attitude toward Roman Catholics.  My wife’s prejudice against the Church of Rome and its destruction of the Greek Byzantine Empire and Church during the Crusades was always floating around in my consciousness. My previous lives as a Russian Orthodox Monk and a Greek Christian were unconsciously supporting my Protestant upbringing and its cautiousness regarding Romans. The Paladin squashed all that with his Christ-like love.  He wasn’t threatened by anyone’s belief structure.  He found his support in his Church when his wife abandoned the marriage and his alcoholism became a problem.  His community was there for him through his recovery and the struggles to support his daughters as a single parent.  He had Bible study at his home every week and he never tried to push his beliefs on anyone. He opened his home to me, embraced me like the father he lost and found again, and continually wanted to sit up with me and support the Native American Church. For him there was no contradiction being Native American and Roman Catholic. Unfortunately there was a contradiction which couldn’t be overcome by love. Religious persecution and the need for intellectual sword play; that’s what the Princess was dealing with.

      It didn’t matter that the Paladin would come over and sit with her all night long whenever she asked. It didn’t matter that he loved her and would support her. It didn’t matter that his kids liked her kids. None of that mattered to her. Nor did the fact that he was sexy and fun and exciting to play with and liked to dance and play the guitar. Her problem was very simple. Could she put aside two thousand years of persecution of her people by the Roman Catholic Church? He wanted her to see the Passion of Christ! That horrible movie which painted her people and religion out to be murderers? Never was it going to happen. How could he be so insensitive? An educated man would at least know why she couldn’t go to a movie like that. That’s why it would never work. She needed someone who could challenge her intellectually. The Prince (her ex-husband) was cute and good in bed but he was a Roman Catholic and never again was she going there! Never. End of discussion!

      And so the Paladin learned that high maintenance Jewish Princesses can be your friends, sit up with you in the Native American Church, share the same town and mutual friends, even the same relatives, but not your bed. She had the superb support of the Paladin’s unconditional love when her health and her father’s health was life threatening. He gave her his love and became her Angel of Death. I was the one who lucked out. I got the loving, compassionate son I could always call and talk to. He never fails to make me cards, kisses me, hugs me and rubs my aching back. He gets me food and water and sits with me after every Peyote Ceremony he attends. And after holding my Macaque feathers for a year, one of his friends gave him her beautiful Macaque feather fan. His selfless love came back to him in the fan. He has learned to sing and help out with the wood for our Ceremonies.  My brother the Lion loves him and appreciates the fact that he will always show up early, help out and will be the last to leave having cleaned up everything. He’s a great model for his younger brothers.

      Even the Raven hangs out with the Paladin now. The Raven is of course the equal to the Princess intellectually.  Funny how they don’t spend much time arguing like she says she likes. Maybe they both prefer an audience and have difficulty being one for others; Just a Coyote thought. Of course there’s the reverse discrimination thing too. The Raven hates Semitic thought. It destroyed the naturalistic philosophy of the ancient Greeks when it was assimilated by St. Paul into his new religion. Monotheism whether it is Judaism, Christianity, or Islam is just too Semitic for the Raven. He finds Zen Buddhism and Yoga more to his liking and ironically so does the Princess, but who says this world has to make sense?