Dreamy

What a dreamy weekend. Though I hesitate to chronicle events of no particular interest to you reader, (I always wonder if there is a reader), the set does form a lovely whole. Friday afternoon featured a called from a stranger asking to send a proposal for one of the largest single consulting job I have ever been involved with. Miracles. In the evening I took myself downtown to where Central Avenue is brightening up nicely and attended a free lecture at Gypsy Hands, where Sara is Goddess of small realm of royal blue and crimson rooms.

http://www.gypsyhands.com/heal/html/events.html

There I listened to Maori Healers from New Zealand. An unusual barefoot man spoke for about two hours and I grew used to his notable speech impediment due to a significant harelip. Such surprising packages people come in, this wise healer with his huge belly, and his potato nose was a delight, with a powerful message of awareness and personal responsibility couched in stories that could be written up for children, perhaps they were being presented for us children. I was charmed, especially by his wife, Atta. Her dimples alone were beguiling, but to add her voice, so smooth, and her wisdom. She was another humble one, sitting on a stool crocheting as her husband spoke, her bare feet turned up and crossed. She would nod as she listened, perhaps to the same stories she had heard a hundred times. She spoke of the smells of people in there illnesses, and her willingness to tell, to let the words be in the air. It was clear that her awareness was given in so much love, that harsh news could be harvested, a feast, if one was willing. She talked about the grounding power of food, of eating, "just look at our bodies" she laughed. Indeed she is another sturdy island person grown heavy with powerful heaviness of women, the weight a thick layer over the whole torso, her arms were formidable and her hands, muscled. Later on Sunday I got experience her power first hand. After the meeting, though I had not intended too, I signed up for a session. But first to Saturday.

Saturday my friend returned form a journey gone wrong. I welcomed her with tulips and lilies, cooking and time. We attended a poetry reading of Marilyn Kallet at Carpe Librum http://www.redroom.com/blog/marilyn-kallet

She is a mentor of mine Her poems delight me. Her readings sound as if these finely crafted poems are her conversation to you. And I as repeat jeweled lines in my mouth I turn them on my tongue, and make umm, yum, sounds, they taste of such depth and delight, layers unfold. She is lovely, and the years rest so gently on her, I cannot believe time is passing for her. I am so honored when she greets me as she does, telling me that my presence made the event an Event. So precious. I read her book with wonder, a treasure chest.

Sunday was a large day. At church for both services I read a long poem that Rev. Chris had requested early in the week. "Do you have something about the power of the spirit to overcome evil with good?" Do I? I live that poem every hour as I keep the darkness at bay for a little while, and then a little while again, to build a day, and build a day, quick before the night falls hard again. I read "On Earth as it is," the long poem of the vision that we are making progress, is it a patient dream. After each service I greedily stood in the receiving line with Rev. Chris and our beautiful guest musician Jonathan Sexton receiving hugs, and praise, licking it up like ice cream and laughter, my belly fuller and and fuller.

Then we hurried over to Gyspy hands where I was the last client scheduled for the Knoxville event. I waited patiently on the floor. There were four massage tables in a row, lots of singing, chanting, and oh the sounds of pain. Directly in front of me was a large mat, that I later realized as a wrestling mat, so apt. This became my focus. A large woman lay face down on that the mat. Atta sat on a chair at her feet, placing her own feet on top of the prone women's upturned feet. The woman groaned and twitched, though I could not discern that anything was occurring. Atta was doozing, her head down, slipping from time time off to the side and catching herself from falling out of her chair, never looking up. Eventually Atta began to walk up the woman's legs, then her back. Atta is large, the woman on the floor screamed as the weight came up her body, up even onto her chest, she gasped and begged for air. Then Atta moved down onto the floor and Sara joined her. With the woman now lying an her back, they folded the her legs up toward her head as if she were giving birth, and just as I thought that they began to yell at her "Push, Push." As so the wrestling match, the birthing labor began. It continued forever, screaming and writhing. I have never seen women behave in such a manner. I was determining how to gather my few things and leave unnoticed. This was more that I cared to view and way more than I wanted to experience. Eventually the big man lay on the wrestling woman. "Push him off, Fight him" they cried, other women in the room joining in the chant, slapping the hard wood floor. I was both fascinated and digusted, what possible good could this torturous display bring about? But eventually the woman began to try to poke the eyes of her captor and he set her free, satisfied that she had found her power to fight for her life, for her freedom. Oddly, she was even grateful, and like me, paid money for that.

Soon it was my turn. I told the big Maori man I was frightened about what I had seen. He did not assure me, he only laughed. I submitted. I laid face down, he began to work my feet. Soon he moved away and Atta came to me. I was grateful for her, for her touch. Over and over as she hurt me, I mumbled bless you Atta, bless you Atta. At two points the pain was the greatest. When she pulled the tendons under each arm, I flinched, toes curling, groaning. And then she worked my belly. For that time, I was turned face up. She mounted the table between my legs, like a lover. I found myself reach out to her as if she were my lover climbing up my body. But she was not. She pushed her elbow into my womb. I kept my fingers gently on her arm. She asked me about my children, how many children, two live births and two lost. I released everything, Bless you Atta. My belly was pushed to my spine, and in that one moment I rose up and cried out, and she was done. Then I wept. Other women I knew came and held my hands, stroked my forehead. I saw many things, so much drifting away. I heard over and over, "I am almost home, it is almost done." The women exhorted me to cry out, but I did not. Instead that deep hard laughter rose out of me breaking over me, that laughter that rises up out of the light, laughing and laughing, the tears flowing.

Others gathered laughing. It is a dream, a dream of freedom. We will all pass over into laughter. There is nothing else. We will see all our sorrows, all our pain rise up out of us. Bubbling up and out in laughter. That is what I saw with Grandfather on the other side. In a vision after he passed over, we watched together the stories of the pain we shared, the pain we cause each other, and we laughed. So beautifully had we both played our roles, he the Pharisee and me the rebel. We were very fine in our roles. And it was done. Nothing was left but to laugh, loud and hard. Yesterday I laughed as all the victimizers and all the victims floated before my eyes and drifted away, further away, far enough removed to be a tale from long ago and far away, not today's pain lived again and again. We will all pass over into laughter, laughter and song.