Once again, the healing aspect is central in what is turning around this project: I left for the Amazon to recover, but I didn’t know what that, exactly, meant.
There are many definitions, for the word “healing”, and we could itemize them, but once, fourty years ago, when I took the road of becoming a therapist, adventure which I’m still living, we used to define shiatsu an art.
This gave me an imprinting, because I grew up with that image: for that reason the concept of healing, for me, has always been relative, and at the same time, since the beginning, it had a meaning which transcended the symptom.
I was going in the forest to look for something, and the kind of energy that passed through me, once taken the decision, was easy recognizable, many times felt at the beginning of an adventure, that was clearly a seed which would have for sure germinated: in short, I felt in search.
And in these pages I’m describing the Me who was in search in those days, posting up pictures made of words: this one I’m giving you today is the third and last before the leaving.
5th October 2017.
Something is feeling a sort of speed change in what is happening, and this change creates a separation, a space between me and the outside, everything, everyone, with no exception.
It’s time I realize that I have the same symptoms of the ones who told me about their psychosis, same slidings, same sudden change of landscape, brightness, density: the only difference is that I see it, and not just notice it: I see myself and I see that I’m feeling feelings, I split up, I’m doubling, and what I pursued for so long time is now present, it’s happening.
So many times I said or thought that the Great Spirit is also a Great Humorous, and that he punishes fulfilling our wishes: I used to say so because they were sentences I was believing in, they sounded good to me, and so when I was pronouncing them, but now that I have what I pursued for years, now that I forced myself in a too big ambush, maybe, now it looks like the charge is over.
I’m meeting people who deal, in various ways, with my situation: the neurologist, the anthroposophical doctor, the physiatrist who serves Ayahuasca, others more on the side, and everybody tells me the same thing: I’ve used my body too much.
But what does it is supposed to mean?
Is it a catholic heritage, perhaps, which imposes, without us realizing it, the concept of punishment?
I don’t understand what “using too much” means: too much for what?
Too much to get to a hundred years, or too much to not creating disharmonies?
But without disharmonies, without contrasts, without seeing contraddictions, without making ourselves sinuous so we can go through archipelagos of reefs which we all have at the bow, where can we go?
The solution of throwing the anchor doesn’t work, not for me: getting bored would be the minor problem, because the feeling which follows that is the waste of life, and I cannot stand this.
So, too much for what: maybe because there is no parachute, not if we overcome a certain limit?
I overcame it, then: many would have stopped, trusting doctors, hospitals, exams, opinions, treatments, experiments, in the end, because the truth of each one isn’t in the others.
Yet, I gave opinions for years, gave treatments, healed, solved, often admittet an inadequacy; I have been and, in some way I still am, a reference: to be honest, sometimes I say to myself that I would like to meet a therapist as I am.
A part of me, inside, is shouting “self-conceit!”, but I know that the particular love which has often tied me to my patients, my way of taking care of them, bringing them at home, without them knowing it, and looking at them, considering them while, maybe in front of the fireplace, I was going back to the sensations I felt, elaborating them, I used to let them grow inside, and in the next meeting my hands were running where they knew; this sensation, not daily but frequent, used to fill me up with joy: I knew I was changing something, and that wasn’t depending on reasonings and deductions about the symptoms, rather on something I allowed to flow and grow.
Some would have defined it a canalization, not me: I felt no entity, no presence at all, yet I’ve always felt, when that was happening, a melting inside my belly, and I knew, with certitude and calm, that it it was going to happen, that I would have felt that particular heart-beat again.
And that was good for me: I was experiencing the meaning of a sensation which was pushing on, projecting itself and creating a possible future.
I collected for years sensations of this kind: I can recognize the feeling that follows them, by this time it’s something familiar, something I belong to.
It is as getting into a stream, and the body waves off at the sensatios.
I’ve never had a doctor or a therapist that behaved with me as I used to behave with some people: someone looking in my same direction, offering, when needed, a long sight, a shove.
So the solitude: state of softness and warmness, and bed of thorns which doesn’t allow to stay.
It looks like I should be the therapist of myself, more than I’ve ever done.
Still today, passed two years and one year after the tumor excision, I think about something like this: that the meaning of the word “healing” depends on the awarness of the moment, that involves both see mirrors and be blinded by them, and that is changing as the time goes by.
If this change doesn’t take place, something about the unfolding of life becomes out of tune, something is opposing to that, the disharmony goes deeper and gets venomous roots: it’s needful to think about the ground.
The aggravation of the symptoms itself, so good at absorbing the attention, should make prick up the ears, raise the eyes, which often collapse staring at the disaster.
Sometimes this process is so far away from being recognized that we entrust our life to stranger hands, to a salvific technology, to a supposed and hoped knowledge of an hazy shade of something which has to do with health, and so with healing, about what we actually mistake question: healing from what?
Because to be sick means, at the end, to be besieged by a situation that escapes us, that often is lived as unrelated, inconceivable; and if the sickness lasts long enough, mental ducts begin to develop and paint around realities which are not easy to distinguish from projections: we feel sick, we interpretate the others’ behaviors, we create for our use pad-needs and we surround ourselves with them, to avoid facing directly the shadow of death.
A thing that, sooner or later, will happen.
So what can the word healing mean, if not joining the Inner Voice, that scent sometimes inhaled with pleasure and satisfaction and sense of peace, if not rising the eyes, embracing, closing circles, get sharpened with no intention of hurting, if not unburdening?
With this I leave you, and the next time we will see what happens once landed in the forest.
May Beauty be around.