These Holy Mysteries
© 2001 by Stephanie Lee Jackson
"Angels," photo by Pierre Saslawsky
Ive heard it said that in Mexico, the poor people go to a curandero for all their minor ills, but when they get really sick and the curandero can do nothing, they go to the hospital. The rich people go to a regular doctor for all their minor ills, but when the doctor can do nothing, they go to a curandero.
Last fall, my landlady Gretchen went to a curandero. She was complaining loudly of amoebas. They take all your nutrients, and they make so much noise I cant sleep, she said. Indeed, she was getting skinnier and skinnier, and this on an already ascetic, could-have-been-top-model frame. She was also trying some sort of intestinal cleansing formula, and gave everybody daily updates on the contents and appearance of her bowel movements, much to her twelve-year-old daughters mortification.
Gretchen went to the curandero along with her friend Lulu, who for the last four years had been growing progressively deaf. Calcification of the ear canal, was what they called it. The curandero worked out of a tiny room somewhere far out in the maze of ancient cobblestone alleyways, where he could not be found again unless one knew someone who knew how to get there. He was a jolly middle-aged man dressed in polyester and wearing a baseball cap. The waiting room was packed, but Gretchen and Lulu got in ahead of the crowd, for some reason probably involving social class.
After Gretchen told him her troubles, he took his thumbs, and pushed agonizingly hard on two places just above her pubic bone. She said it was awful. But as soon as hed finished, her stomach stayed in place. She slept the whole night through without a rumble. Then she left for Canada, so the jury is still out on whether or not she gained weight.
For Lulu, he took his thumbs, put them behind her ears in the soft spot where they tell you never to push in massage school, pushed really hard, and dragged them down her neck. She almost wept, it hurt so badly, and there were two red lines down her neck. Then he took his hands away. Lulus husband said something, and she wept for real. I can hear what you said! I havent heard your voice in two years! she cried. Everybody got very emotional.
Through what Gretchen was able to gather, the curandero was just an ordinary guy until he was about forty years old. Then his grandmother, a gargantuanly fat woman who was the curandera before him, said he had the gift, and he was going to have to start giving cures, because she needed him to cure her. So he opened up shop, without any formal training except a few tips from the grandmother.
All of the books Ive read on spiritual healing lay particular emphasis on the need for things like vegetarianism, teetotalling, natural fiber clothing, full-spectrum lights, organic food and the like, but none of this seems to be of much importance in Mexico. They just go ahead and heal.
I was dying to meet a real curandero myself, but there didnt seem to be much chance of finding Gretchens fellow after she left. But a couple of months later I heard about a chiropractor who works more with energy currents than actual moving of bones. I talked to a couple of people who had tales of near-miraculous relief from pain after he twitched their feet for awhile and pushed on a few spots. I got his phone number and waited for an excuse to call.
Meanwhile one day I went to visit Miguel, the Cuban archeologist, who was digging the remains of a sixteenth-century convent out from under the Teatro Juarez. Miguel escaped from Cuba after he met a couple of vacationing French girls who offered to pay for him to visit them. He didnt get back on the plane, and spent a couple of years living illegally in Paris and refusing to learn French. He never saw either of the girls again after a two-week visit. He survived by doing amateur massage therapy and seducing all his clients.
Finally, he got caught by the French government, petitioned them for asylum, and they popped him right back onto a plane. However, he convinced them that he wanted to go back to Cuba by way of Mexico City, and asked if, being an archeologist, he could stay one day to visit the Anthropological Museum. The French being basically liberal souls, they agreed, and during that day, of course, he disappeared. Then the Mexico City authorities nabbed him, and he spent a couple of months in jail. Finally he petitioned the United Nations for international asylum, or something like that, and it was granted. People around town call him El Cubano, and nobody can understand his accent.
During the course of our mostly unintelligible conversation, Miguel discovered that I was also a massage therapist. He asked me something in awful Cuban, eating all his consonants, and I got a look on my face like he was trying to swallow me and stepped back a couple of paces. Finally I came to understand that he had a friend Gabriela, also a massage therapist, who had a practice at a big hotel and needed help. I gave him my phone number.
Gabriela called the next morning, set up an interview, and hired me on the spot. The money she offered per client was terrible and if there were no clients I got no money at all, but she said she wanted someone who would eventually take over the business so she could travel. Meanwhile she paid the overhead and could legalize me.
But, as it turned out, the spiritual chiropractor came to Gabrielas every Wednesday, and when he showed up, I had nothing to do. So we had a session. As I told him, my left leg has been slightly shorter than my right since birth, and despite numerous visits to orthopedists and various modifications to my shoes, it tends to screw with me, particularly when under stress. Deciding to move to Mexico indefinitely with no source of income created some stress, and thus my shoulder had been hurting.
Okay, he said. Lie down. You dont need to take off your shoes. As predicted, he twitched my ankles for some time. Then he pushed on my skull, and I could hear bones popping. He put his hands over my forehead, above the skin, and I felt an intense heat coming from them. He pushed on several places on my stomach, which was not comfortable, and radiated some heat there too. Then he turned me over and pressed a few points to one side of my spine. Then he twitched my ankles some more.
After awhile he told me to stand up, and take the orthotics out of my shoes. Youre all right now, you dont need them, he said.
What? I said.
You dont need the lift, your legs are the same. Gabriela, come in here for a moment, he called. He matched up my ankles and showed Gabriela. See? Theyre the same length, he repeated.
I got up and walked around. They felt different, but I couldnt be sure. I decided to go without the orthotics for a week, on spec, and see if I developed any galloping crookedness. Meanwhile, in a less dramatic miracle, the low-level intestinal discomfort, which had been part of my life for so long that it seemed normal, had disappeared. Two of the spots hed pressed must have been the same as Gretchens.
Youve got parasites. Get these herbs from the Blue Unicorn and take them for ten days. Also, get this liniment for the inflammation in your shoulder and on the bottoms of your feet. I hadnt told him about any stomach problems or the fact that my feet hurt. He says that God tells him these things while hes twitching ankles. I believe him.
Gabriela agreed to let me paint and feng-shui the office, and to change the horrible fluorescent lights to full-spectrum halogen. She was surprisingly agreeable about it. What are your ideas? she asked. I told her my ideas, which were decided and draconian, and she said Okay, well do it. Ill pay.
We made an appointment Friday to get paint; she showed up half an hour late, which is practically on time by Mexican standards. But then, when we had our pile at the register, she suddenly turned to me and said, Can you buy this now? Ill get the money on Tuesday.
I was taken aback. I checked my wallet; not enough. Do you have thirty-eight pesos? I asked.
No, I left my bag at the office, she said. We agreed to leave the stuff on hold at the shop and Id pick it up in the morning.
Come morning, Id had time to think back upon various experiences with Mexican nationals and money, and called Gabriela. Gabriela, I cant loan you money now. I havent known you long enough, I said.
Oh, thats fine, no problem, well paint next week. See you Monday, she said. The following week passed with no clients in evidence and no influx of cash or paint. I came to understand that Gabriela had hired me in order to gain commissions on my clients and get me to man her empty office for nothing. The possibility of a free redecoration was merely a boon. So I quit, insofar as that was possible; I just picked up my CDs and didnt go back. This also provided some insight as to why Mexican businesspeople complain that its impossible to keep decent employees.
A month later I had my first full session of Reiki. Molly, an old-beyond-her-years mystic who moved in around the corner, swapped me for a massage. Reiki is a full-blown laying-on-of-hands energy healing technique, one that Id like to study, provided that it doesnt turn out to be a load of hokum. Like anything else, I suppose, it depends upon the sincerity of the practitioner.
Molly was a very sincere practitioner. We talked for nearly an hour beforehand, trading anecdotes of meditation and healing experiences; she said shed like to join the local Reiki circle, but was intimidated. I said that possibly this was because the people in the local Reiki circle are affiliated with the Blue Unicorn, whose owner is a slave to his own conviction that he is the most spiritually advanced person in Guanajuato, and lets everybody know about it.
My session lasted an hour and a half, much to Mollys surprise. As she explained afterward, most bodyworkers tend to be pretty tuned in already, and dont need a lot of healing. The session involved me lying on the floor while she put her hands in various positions on my body and kept them there until it seemed like time to move them. I could definitely feel a lot of energy flowing, in all different ways--like a psychic infusion of chicken soup, like guitar strings twanging, like cascades of maple syrup. I felt warm and loving and safe. At one point I almost left my body, but decided to hang onto it. After she was done I felt like I had gained about forty pounds. It was hard to speak, and I had to pee three times in an hour.
Wow, that was really beautiful, you were taking in so much energy. Thank you, said Molly. We debriefed for another half an hour, then I tottered on home. I was starving and my consciousness was in a state of extreme sensitivity.
I was supposed to meet Martín, my friend the violist, later on for a movie. I hoped it would be something warm and amusing, and Id tell him about the Reiki and make hot chocolate. When I got to the theatre it was jammed with adolescents; the film was that rare bird, a brand new, made-in-Mexico art film. I almost turned around and left again. Martín showed up.
Stephanie, Im drunk! Can you tell? he exclaimed. He was followed by some amusing young friends, whom he described as a bonch of fockin loosers. I was not in the mood.
I just had a spiritual experience, I tried to tell him, once wed gotten into our seats. I am in a state of expanded consciousness, like when you take mushrooms. Im feeling very sensitive.
Did you eat something? Martín asked, with interest.
I ate dinner. I did NOT eat any mushrooms, I said its LIKE mushrooms, I explained.
Youve been doing drugs? said Martín.
No, never mind, I said.
The first scene was of a transvestite trying to seduce a macho guy in Mexico City. The macho guy is too naive and inexperienced to deduce the meaning of the womans husky voice and scratchy chin, and thus when he discovers the existence of a penis, he chops it off and throws it out the window. The transvestite staggers into the street, screaming and bleeding profusely. I curled up into a fetal position and stayed that way for much of the movie.
Afterward I declined Martíns invitation to go to his place with the youngsters for just one drink, and went home. There was no light in my house because when I went to pay the electric bill, they wouldnt take my money, and couldnt explain how to get to the place where they WOULD take my money. I forgot about it, figuring Id pay next month, and without warning they cut me off. So I lit a bunch of candles and meditated in bed for awhile, managing to regain a little bit of peace and groundedness before falling asleep.
The whole of the next day I was still feeling so sensitive that ordinary activities, like showering, dressing and eating breakfast, seemed overwhelming. I wept into my raisin bran. I managed to get myself out of the house around noon, and went to pay my electric bill. Their system was down, but they assured me that Id have power by tomorrow. By evening I was feeling almost normal.
But then, halfway through the symphony, a Wagner extravaganza, I started shaking and could not stop. Outdoors, the weather assisting the Wagner, a sudden torrential rainstorm burst upon us. I made it through the performance, only just, borrowed a sweater, and raced home, offending several people who yelled, Hi, Stephanie! I waved right at you and you didnt see me!
The callejons were all cataracts. I got drenched, and arrived to a house still without power. Thanking heaven for gas and matches, I made a huge mug of tea, put on a wool sweater and a shawl, lit all the candles, and got under my down comforter, to scour through my books on spiritual healing for comfort and possibly an explanation. I was still shaking. The phone rang; it was Martín, in a state of spiritual crisis over the Wagner.
Im awful, I told him. Can you bring me some aspirin? So Martín arrived at midnight in a wet tuxedo, overwrought, while I opened the door in a shawl with a candle in my hand.
You look like a fantasma, he said. I felt like a phantasm. Martín had been so emotionally affected by Wagner that he wept at the final bars. He said that it reminded him of life--dark and distorted and glorious and grandiose. He finished the wine and paced around smoking. I drank my tea and translated some relevant passages from my spiritual healing library into Spanish for him, while the rain pounded the house and the roof began to leak in several places.
Finally Martín was calm enough to go home. I was nine-tenths asleep and told him to let himself out and throw the keys under the door. I spent the night alternating between freezing and burning, having dire, repetitive dreams about bleeding transvestites and sensible business plans, and waking to the sound of water dripping inside.
The next morning the fever had subsided, but my whole body ached and my intestinal tract could barely tolerate water and dry toast. Furthermore, my house keys were nowhere to be found. I called Martín.
No, I threw the keys under the door. Want me to come look for them? We looked in all the places the cats could possibly have moved them, and were finally forced to conclude that the kids in the alley had finagled them under the door. Also, I still had no power. So Martín fetched a locksmith to change the lock, and called the power company to exhort them, while I went back up to bed. My theory, confirmed by the spiritual healing tract, was that the Reiki had initiated a massive toxic dump in my system. Or a non-believer would say that I had come down with the stomach flu again.
By Monday I was ingesting small amounts of solid food once more, but was perpetually exhausted, and the power had not yet been turned on, despite the fact that I had begun calling two or three times a day. Every time they were very polite and efficient and said, Yes, here you are, were turning your power on today, right now, as soon as possible. I didnt know what to do, since threats and losing my temper would only make things worse, and I didnt know any electricians to bribe.
Finally I tried tears. I didnt have to fake it. I called again and said, Im very very sad. I havent had power for five days, I paid the bill on Thursday, Ive been calling and calling and they always say its going to happen right now, and I dont want to hear any more lies, sabes, hombre? Im sad.
He said, Theyll be there in half an hour. They were there in an hour and a quarter, and knocked on my door to borrow a chair so they could reach the meter. I dont know whether crying had anything to do with it, but I will be very very careful to pay my electric bill on time in future.
The rain, meanwhile, rained on, filling reservoirs, creating creeks, turning the hills an electric green, pulling down rocks and mud onto main thoroughfares, finding its way through my roof and windows, flooding under the doors, as inconvenient and unavoidable as love. I put bottles, buckets and houseplants under the flowing leaks and towels against the flooding ones, while the cats hid under the bed.
Soon after my visit to the chiropractor it became apparent that my short leg was still, in fact, short. Other people also said that the cures he had effected on them were somewhat temporary. Since I hadnt expected an actual miracle I was uncertain as to whether he was a total sham or not, but decided not to visit again. He said that the cure is in the mind of the patient, and I agree, but my mind was evidently too stubborn to respond to the power of his suggestion.
I did go back to Molly for another couple of Reiki treatments. Each one was intense in a completely different way. The second time I had a sense that I was re-connecting with the negative aspects of all my ex-boyfriends and transforming them into deeper spiritual strengths; later that afternoon while sitting in the sun and listening to a Windham Hill recording I had the sense of receiving an unconditional love so deep that I burst spontaneously into tears. I was glad nobody else was around. The third time I had a vision of a putrid and decaying bride in black, jumping out an arched doorway and disintegrating into a sunlit field of daisies. Then I saw a fabulous skyline lit up below me, and felt a tower of energy pouring through my crown. I decided that I should probably not consider getting married anytime soon, and contemplated moving to Manhattan instead.
I came to the conclusion that Reiki is like Mary Poppins medicine; it adapts itself to the needs of the patient. This strikes me as useful and fun, so now Im looking for a teacher. A master, I suppose, although after all it seems as though anyone would qualify.