An Energy Healer Called Michael
I went to an energy healer yesterday. I opened the yellow pages and there were as many natural therapists in Auckland as there were plumbers. He sat and listened to me, laughing with me and offering sympathy and permission to have all the emotions I do. Mostly I don’t feel anything, but grief. Anger never stays long and runs through me like lightening looking for earth. It’s just disbelief and shock that refuse to budge. We talked for ages and I melted into the comfort of his home.
All healers have their own unique way of healing. His healing feels like he is putting bubbles or bulbs of light into me in bursts. I fell asleep on the healing table as a torrent of rain opens the heavens and thunders outside the window. I marvelled at how I can do this considering how quality sleep has eluded me for months.
Afterwards I get a call from my mum. She tells me how she has not only called the Man but sent him a card telling him exactly what she thinks of him and I know the intensity of what would have been said. The candle of warmth in my belly I was carrying from the healing gets snuffed out. I don’t care what she has done because she did what she needed to for her. I just don’t want it to visit my heart because I know this won't be the end of it. Her anger is like chopping down a Kauri tree and sticking it on the fire. Fuel for ages. As my friend Michelle says I want to be a lily, floating on this shit sea. I want to let go of it all. Let go, let flow. Holding onto anything is inertia. Let of him, the dreams of him. All of it. Let go of the stains of grief, especially now that the rest of me is clean. The stains are filthily obvious and I want them gone.