The Seasoning of a Soul

Chapter 16: Those Who Hear Not the Music

Those who hear not the music think the dancers mad.
-Friedrich Nietzsche

I looked through the window of the small plane as it began its descent in final preparation for landing. What an unusual twist of events, I thought to myself. If Mom knew what I was about to do, she would have strapped herself to the wing of the airplane with anything she could get her hands on-a garden hose, piece of twine, even an old worn-out pair of support hose, if need be. Anything that would guarantee she would be able to witness what was about to happen-that which intrigued and fed her soul.

Some fifteen years had passed since I had driven my mother up the incline to a small church in Paradise, California, a tiny town some twelve miles from Chico. I hadn't been particularly interested in taking her that night. Watching some documentary on aliens and a psychic surgeon was not high on my list. The operation was bloody and gory, and I winced as I watched the surgeon's hands penetrate the massive bullfrog-like goiter that was protruding out of the man's neck.

On the way home, Mom had me pull over and park the car in a turnout on one of the bluffs before heading back down the highway to our town of Chico, which was nestled below. She wanted to watch for UFOs, and we were far enough away from the lights of the town that we could get a good view. The black night provided the perfect backdrop, for stars were in abundance, and if nothing else, perhaps we could spot a shooting star. She inhaled on her cigarette, munching away on a bag of pork rinds, talking excitedly about what we had just witnessed, full of life, hoping beyond hope she would see something out of the ordinary.

What a turn of events. Now it was I, feeling that same sense of excitement at the anticipation of having the identical surgeon I witnessed so many years ago work on me. I had received a phone call from a friend who had moved to a small town in Alaska with his pregnant wife a few months prior. "How's your arthritis?" Bill inquired.

"Funny you should ask," I replied. "I was just saying last night that I would rather work with a spiritual healer than get pumped full of medication."

"I wanted to let you know that the psychic surgeon from the Philippines is here," Bill replied. That's all it took. I was packing my bags and making a reservation. I love how spirit works. I love the orchestration and synchronicity of events when something falls into place seamlessly. This was one of those times that left me shaking my head, half laughing, yet at the same time, completely full of wonder at the magic of it all.

I had been diagnosed at 32 with rheumatoid arthritis, one of the worst cripplers, and yet despite the amount of medication the doctor wanted to put me on, I sought to the greater degree to work with it through meditation. Something in me innately knew if I fully accepted that diagnosis, I would be in real trouble. Around that time, I had a lucid dream where a young girl walked up to me and held out her hand for me to heal. There was something on the top of her hand, a dark, green-black energy that looked like the lobster-type thing that attached itself to a man's face in the movie Alien. I tried with all of my might to lift it off her hand, but the suction was too great. It felt as if this energy was almost cemented to the bone.

I got off the plane and hugged my friends Jan and Bill. I liked them both immensely. I was glad that Bill had followed the impulse to call me. They were a handsome couple. Jan, a pretty woman, more than a few months pregnant, with big blue eyes and blonde hair, was the more pragmatic and logical of the two-a role reversal it seemed, as men were usually by far the more logical in those days. She struck me as the kind of person who had no problem getting in the face of any instructor at a seminar with a sincere "Why do you say that?" and who would stand there blinking her big, blue eyes with child-like curiosity, until she was satisfied with the answer. Bill, on the other hand, seemed to be led more by his gut-level instinct and intuition. If it "felt right" to him, then that was good enough. There was something about Bill, a quiet melancholy. I had the feeling that his path in life had been arduous and trying. He was a sensitive man with a deep reverence and love of the Native American and it felt to me as if some part of his soul was seeking to bridge a distrust of the white man from a past life on levels he wasn't aware of, despite his engaging nature.

The following morning we pulled up to the condo where the healer was staying. I was feeling a slight bit of apprehension. Jan and Bill had attended a gathering the night before and observed what was called an "operation" by the healer himself.

This morning, there were several people in the room standing around chatting, awaiting their appointed slot. I recognized two well-known celebrities. I looked at a woman who was sitting on the floor with her legs stretched out in front of her, ankles crossed. There was room next to her, so I sat down. She was watching a video from the night before of the master healer performing surgery. Completely relaxed, she smiled at me and said, "They're playing this for me . . . I'm the one lying on the table." She turned her head back to watch the monitor.

I watched in awe as the healer took his finger and made an incision as if with a knife, splitting her from below her navel to her pubic bone. He inserted his hand up to his wrist and began pulling out "black gunk." I don't know what in the world you would call it, but that's what it looked liked. The young woman lay there, completely relaxed, with her eyes open, while other people stood close by, huddled together, their heads straining to get a better glimpse, observing the operation. When he removed his hand, her skin closed up.

When it was our turn, we went into the room together. I remember the grin the healer had on his face when he saw Jan and her swollen belly. Bill told me that I could "request a scan" in which the healer would hold his hands over my body and would thereby be guided to whatever needed attention. Being the control freak that I am, I went with four specific requests: my arthritis in my right hand, my left breast, my right knee, and last but not least, I wanted him to work on my third eye.

He was not a big man, rather slight in build, with golden brown skin and a full head of shiny, black hair neatly combed in place. His eyes were like two black olives, but they shone with a light that revealed a serenity and reverence for life. He seemed to be without ego, and I remember how humble and almost shy he was. He was a man with a gentle demeanor and simply radiated a sense of peace and well being. I could feel his deep love for God. Sometimes you don't understand what it is about a person that is so unusual; you just know something is, and you have only to be in their presence to feel it. He was that way. He was fascinating. I wanted to crawl inside his journey and understand what revelations and insights had enabled him to become so aligned with the God consciousness that he was able to be a pure conduit for that "Presence" to work through.

Intuitively, I had been feeling something was the matter with my left breast-the beginnings of cancer, who knows-but it was a sensation, a thought, a gut feeling, and that was first on my list. I went behind a curtain, put on the robe, and crawled on the table, pulling the sheet up, covering my chest.

He stood off some seven or eight feet from me, and I watched as he dipped his hands in what I assumed was holy water. He walked over to the table, made eye contact with me, and then placed his fingers on the left side of my breast. I felt a pressure, like trying to penetrate firm Jell-O. I could feel his fingers moving into the tissue in my breast. He had his eyes shut, like he was being completely guided by his God-self or some guide. I could feel the blood trickle down the side of my breast, but I felt no pain. His wife took a paper towel and wiped up the blood, cleaning off my breast. He smiled at me and said, "You're healthy now."

This, I thought to myself, is beyond cool. I told him I wanted him to work on my third eye. I know penetrating the skull took more energy, and I could feel when he had found entrance. Again, his wife wiped the blood off my forehead. I quickly sat up. He was going to work on my hand. I watched, with my eyes glued to the procedure. He gathered his fingers together until the tips were touching one another. There is a smell when the body is opened up, and I was completely intrigued with how he was able to lift and "magnetize" some liquid, which he dropped into a bowl. He did that a few times and then my skin closed up. He pulled out something black from my knee, and I know to this day, it has never bothered me since.

I looked at Jan and Bill both standing close by watching. I shot them a grin that went ear to ear. They both laughed at the look on my face. I sat there, dumbfounded but elated, then quickly got dressed. I wanted to witness what he was about to do.

An obese woman sat on the edge of the table across the room. Bill leaned over and whispered quietly in my ear, "She has a brain tumor." We watched as he inserted two fingers through the base of her skull and a few moments later, through the socket of the eye, and proceeded to pull out a mass of gunk. That seemed to take it out of him, and he sat down in the chair and said to her in broken English, "There, big mama. You're okay now."

I stared at the house as we drove away. "My God, it really is whole new consciousness coming forth on the planet."

Upon my return to Los Angeles, I immediately made an appointment to speak to Dr. Peebles through his medium. I wanted feedback about my recent experiences with the spiritual workshop in Canada, the psychic surgeon in Alaska, and my dream with the young girl.

"Was I seeing with inner-vision what the energy of arthritis looks like?" I inquired.

"Yes, you were," he replied. "The young girl was you in another life. Your arthritis," he continued, "runs parallel to your anger." Parallel to my anger. I hadn't even begun to tap into that. Certainly I had been wrestling with it, wrestling more so not to acknowledge it. There was so much below the surface that was feeling like a volcano. I could feel it churning, but I rarely allowed myself to express it. I felt like I wouldn't be able to survive if I pulled the cork. Not only that, but if I pulled the cork, I wasn't sure what would come out, and that thought alone terrified me. There was so much I had no memory of, unexplored terrain, a journey through which I was about to embark upon. It was, for me, a matter of timing.

I had been struggling with and trying to fight what felt like demonic forces. I slept with the light on at night and searched to find ways to heal myself on all levels. It felt as if I were reaching my arms to the light, but no matter how hard I stretched and strained, something dark had me by my ankles, trying to pull me back into a black place that frightened me beyond words. I didn't know if I had the strength to fight its weight, to keep from being pulled into the belly of the beast.

Whatever this was, it was something that was keeping me from the light inside myself. I felt as if I were bound in cords of invisible barbed wire, like a snake trying to shed its skin. This energy was dense and dark, vibrating at the lowest of levels, and I was being pulled backwards and sucked up by quicksand.

Dr. Peebles said the following words to me about it: "This was an exorcism of your own soul of the places within yourself that you had termed and judged as dark and black from other lifetimes where you did play with black magic. The psychic surgeon was like tying a final knot, a surgeon's knot, and that is why you feel a sense of equilibrium and balance."

That statement made complete sense to me, for I have yet to meet another who can judge me more harshly than I have judged myself. Somewhere in our path, judgments do come forward to be healed through forgiveness. I still struggle with that, and it is one of the hardest areas of my life, for I can beat myself up unmercifully. When the dark energy reared its ugly head, it was part of a cleansing process, one that would unfold in myriad ways down the road, but not all to be revealed to me just yet. The metaphor of peeling an onion is most appropriate to the evolution of becoming conscious-and it seldom happens without tears.

Over the years, I have had two other experiences with the Philippine surgeons, but never the master healer himself again. I had to laugh, though, at my last visit. When I walked into the room and told the healer I wanted him to work on my third eye, he started laughing. "Ahhh," he said, "you want to see spirit!"