Saturday, November 28, 2015

Last weeks sneak preview of Jennifer's upcoming novel Fairy Godmothers of The Four Directions was the blog's highest one week of visitors in the past year. We offer another free chapter to wet your appetite. Don't forget her other novels and poem at
Chapter Seven


Falling soundly asleep in the Prince’s arms, when Cinderella opened her eyes, she found she was in the palace. The blue velvet bedspread and crisp white sheets so carefully fitted Cinderella felt like she was resting in an envelope.

She found Blackie sleeping on the floor next to her bed. Attuned to Cinderella’s movements he woke instantly. His brown eyes, warm and shining, made her smile. Stretching, Cinderella slipped her feet into slippers set next the bed. Feeling welcome she sighed with pleasure.

The walls were a pale version of sky on a summer’s day. Bookshelves and a writing desk were nestled in the alcove. French doors led to a terrace. Lemon trees, in ceramic pots the size a comfortable chair, stood sentinels at either side of the doorway. Their star shaped, white flowers, blooming. Cinderella inhaled their sweet, potent, fragrance drifting in through open windows. Hazily she remembered being carried up the stairs. The Prince kissed her. Yes, he kissed her! Calling her by her given name, Charlotte, it was the first time in years she’d heard her name. Remembering made her smile again.

Blackie jumped up, his paws on her lap. His face filled with life and joy. Cinderella laughed and for a moment they wrestled on the carpet until Cinderella snaked her head under his shoulder and kissed the white star at the center of his chest. With a last hug she extracted herself and stood taking in the bright spring day.

Around her wrist she found a piece of ribbon and used it to tie her hair up in a ponytail. She wanted to see everything clearly not frazzled with hair in her eyes.

The door opened and a young woman, followed by a butler, pushed in a cart. A dish of blackberries, a large pot of steaming tea, buttermilk pancakes with warm syrup. “Yum!” Charlotte smiled her thanks. The pancakes were light and fluffy. Tea was hot. Charlotte ate the breakfast. The first food she had not prepared by herself in years.

Pancake breakfast was weeks past. Now she was trapped in a dark cave, high in the hills, far from the palace, in the company of a ‘strange woman,’ for who knew how long? A Fairy Godmother who called forth the terrible losses she wanted to put behind her.

Yes, something had happened in their conversation. She felt free. Free from the fear threading her muscles in anticipation of the next blow, the next dangerous moment. What more was there in the West?

As if reading her mind the Fairy Godmother said, “When you become a woman of power then people will think you’re charmingly ‘strange.’ A hazard of wisdom I’m afraid. More importantly Cinderella, whatever you push into the shadows will grow and sabotage your happiness.”

Adding wood to the fire they both watched the sparks fly. The Fairy Godmother said, “The West is a place of transformation. It is the liminal space between one life and another. For example you are transforming from a young woman to a Princess. You know the skills of a woman who brings beauty to her home but what do you know about the skills of a Princess?”

My name is Charlotte!” Cinderella snapped. Blackie lifted his head, watching over her, alerted by her frustrations. Pressing her lips together to avoid anymore unplanned outbursts she hung her head. What is wrong with me? Did I just yell at a Fairy Godmother?

Well Charlotte, why do you think you’re here?”

Sifting through feelings Charlotte found no words. She sat in the silence of rebellion. Her posture concretized, transformed into stonewalling. She wondered will this endless night ever end?

The Fairy Godmother loomed like a long shadow standing next to her. “You have begun to put your past behind you. Tonight you dealt with grief, the losses of your parents and the loss of your life as a girl, at the center of her parents love. Our time together is short. You must enter the sacred dream and find your way home.”

Cinderella shut her eyes, banishing the cave and the Fairy Godmother. Only the words continued reverberating through the luminous fibers of her dreambody. Something indiscernible was happening. She saw her dreambody woven with fibers of light, thick and tight. Softening her posture, light peaked out beyond the fibers. She was surrounded in a nimbus of golden light.

The Fairy Godmother said, “Do you know how to enter the sacred dream? Can you retrieve pieces of your spirit broken away by trauma? Will you walk between dreams or enter the dream of another? These are the skills of a Queen Charlotte. You have set aside pains of the past and now we dream.”

The Fairy Godmother unfurled a necklace of moonstones from around her wrist. The soft luminosity of the pebbles reminded Cinderella of the Grand Ball. The Prince had seen beyond her stepmother’s deceptions. Did he learn to see beyond illusions while apprenticing to the Fairy Godmother of the West? When he pulled Cinderella into his arms she had felt a wild joy.

Now the Fairy Godmother’s version of introspection and dreaming awaited her attention. Glowing with a light she did not understand, Cinderella was unbearably tired. Her resistance fading, intuition, the miles of sensors lining her gut, intelligence free of worry and doubt, assured her of the Fairy Godmother’s wisdom. She was safe.

But while her dreambody glowed, her physical body ached, bone deep striations of throbbing. Eyes hollow, trapped between who she was and who she might become, she retracted her light. Instinctively closing her fibers prevented leakage of her luminosity.

The Fairy Godmother’s radiance filled the cave, the limestone walls reflecting her light until the entire cave was alive.

Plaintively Cinderella asked, “Who am I now? Am I Cinderella or Charlotte?”

The Fairy Godmother’s face shifted in the fire light but she did not speak. Cinderella couldn’t describe the features of this woman of the West. One moment her silhouette was delicate. Blinking, in the next moment strength radiated out of the Fairy Godmother like a force of nature.

Charlotte felt even her wicked stepmother would not be able to keep up with the ever shifting nature of the West, the subtleties of twilight. Were the powers of the West stronger than her stepmother?

She watched, the light in her dreambody distilled to a pinprick, her fibers held so tightly closed she shook with the effort. In silence the Fairy Godmother pulled out of her pack, two shawls almost the size of blankets. Woven out of goat hair, dyed midnight blue, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and handing Cinderella the second shawl.

Bundled in the soft fabric Cinderella’s eyes became even heavier. The Fairy Godmother sang a song. She threw herbs into the fire. As the smoke cleared Cinderella shivered. The air was vibrantly alive. She took the cup the Fairy Godmother handed her. The drink was strong with clover honey and herbs. The fire burned high warming even the limestone wall and floors. Shadows wavered, expanding and contracting, over the pale surface. In the light of the flames Cinderella was lost. Shadow and light was an ever-changing effervescent dance on limestone’s blonde walls. Her head nodded. She tipped ever so slowly until she lay down.

The last she remembered the Fairy Godmother was smoothing the hair away from her face while humming. No one had touched her like that since her mother died. Cinderella felt her heart crack; fierce joy, sadness and terror flooded her. She was falling into an abyss of darkness, a menacing velvet presence. She screamed. No sound, only feelings, choking her alive. Her world went black.

A woman’s face, round and filled with life, laughed down at her. “You tell yourself a really good scary story!” She said. Raising a moon faced drum she struck the hide with a padded mallet. Right next to Cinderella’s ear! The reverberation travelled down her ear canal into her jaw unlocking the spasm holding muscles rigid. Her luminous fibers forming her dreambody relaxed. Her throat opened. A hoarse cough, rolling onto her side Cinderella coughed and coughed. Finally expelling a thick river of mucus; she was horrified. The rhythm of the drum never faltered.

Muscles unwound. Her heart synchronized with the drum’s pulse and cadence. Even her skin throbbed. Each thump was thunder: Bbaaaa booom. Air quivered. Shimmering, the drum’s face stretched over a hoop the size of a watermelon. “Where am I?”

Cinderella sighed, surrendering into the heartbeat. Her preoccupations fell away. Concerns for her future drifted, dissolving like smoke. The authority of the drum, throbbing, the tides on the current of moon, was all encompassing. She drifted atop a deep sleep, relaxed and alert.

A whisper across eternity, she heard, “We all have a place within us; a place of impenetrable peace. From this location you’ll retrieve your spirit.”

Cinderella opened her eyes. Overwhelmed she snapped them shut. Squeezing her eyelids tight, the pouring in of nature, she opened one eye. Trees vividly green against blue sky. Bushes bent heavy with gardenia blossoms and fragrance. A wilderness whipped through the garden, primitive and free. Lighter than air the woman’s disembodied voice continued, “Impress on your spirit shield your place of impenetrable peace.”

Cinderella risked opening both eyes. Intensity: the saturation of colors rippled over her skin. Gusts of wind bent the bushes setting the flowers swaying. Fragrance set free, hit her with supernatural force.

She was in a place of untamable power but felt only peace. She could see fragments. A flash of memory emerged and receded. Moments in time punched through the otherworldly landscape. Feelings externalized from her past floated on the breeze. The numb years, after her parents passing, unfolded in exquisite detail, compressed in the blink of an eye.

She observed from a great distance these traumas. She took solace in Nature. The mountains gave their strength. Glacier fed streams sparkled with purity. Trees swaying in communion, the fragrance of her mother’s roses, these were the stepping stones she used to find her way back to love. Blackie as her ever-present guardian, her mother’s gardens, night-walking through memories and dreams of family life were more stepping stones. The moment was eternal until eventually love, Cinderella’s Deepest Desire to give and receive love, was restored.

She felt a stirring in her naval. Images, grief and loss, viewed from this landscape of impenetrable peace, mixed with love migrated fusing in her belly. The frayed edges of the landscape smoothed like the individual fibers of a feather gently brushed into place. In this way Cinderella reconciled the disparate parts of herself into a cohesive whole. She retrieved the broken pieces of her soul. Her belly contained her memories, within the reflected the landscape of impenetrable peace, shimmering and vibrating with love.

When Cinderella woke the following morning she stretched. Her eyes popped open. She felt willowy and tall. Free of the aching muscles and complaining joints that plagued her. The fire was a pile of ashes. Water and bread waited on a wood platter. Next to her was a drum. Three symbols imprinted in the face of her drum resonated in her belly. Startled, she sat up, knocking over the water. Jumping to her feet she put her hand to her belly and felt a quickening.

She cried out in surprise and alarm. In a panic she ran out of the cave, slamming into the Fairy Godmother beyond the gigantic stone covering the entrance. “Good morning Cinderella. Has your moon shield frightened you? Will you choose to become a woman of power? A woman who knows who she is? Or will you continue to cower?”

Yikes! Harsh words so early in the morning!”

Cinderella felt at once hurt and infuriated. She wanted to lash out. Before she could spit out her words of anger the Fairy Godmother turned her around, taking her to face her drum standing up along the limestone wall. Pointing, the Fairy Godmother said, “These symbols carry messages of love, protection and wholeness for you. They are potentially the beginnings of a Sacred Spiral.”

Turning Cinderella around one more time, she said, “Go and spend the day in sunshine. We have only one more night together and much dreaming ahead of us.

Balance your work of dreaming in the reflected luminosity of the moon, with exercise and sun.” She gave Cinderella a push past the standing stone and into day light.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Jennifer and I are in the final weeks of editing and formatting her latest novel. We will offer Fairy Godmothers of The Four Directions as an ebook on Amazon Kindle. Enjoy this sneak preview and free chapter.
Fairy Godmothers of the Four Directions

Chapter Two

Finding Cinderella

Did you ever wonder how the Prince discovered Cinderella? She was hidden by her stepmother’s illusions. In plain sight, on the fireplace hearth, Cinderella was invisible.

Maybe you didn’t know Cinderella and the Prince grew up together. Their parents played Bridge, a strategic card game. Tournaments hosted the King and Queen went on for days. Their play was so intense, they were lost. Absorbed by the challenged they were oblivious to the adventures of Charlotte and the Prince.

While the adults played cards the Prince and Cinderella explored the castle. They played hide and seek in the gardens and basements. The Prince taught Charlotte to play the drums. Soon she played at his skill level. They began challenging each other tapping out sophisticated rhythmic patterns. Music became one of their shared passions.

On rainy days they explored the palace attics. Opening trunks they found elaborate gowns and uniforms. Dressing up, they danced. Already they shared the joy of music. Dance was a natural evolution of their partnership. Swaying, fast stepping, kicking and turning they moved with easy elegance.

Sometimes they even brought meals up to the attic, to eat in full costume. Late in the evening they raided the kitchen for molasses cookies dusted in extra fine baker’s sugar. They found a empty guest room and shared stories Charlotte heard in the market. The Prince picked up his stories hanging around the guard’s break room. They embellished with voice, gestures and facial expressions, always ending in laughter.

After Charlotte’s father won the pick of the litter from the palace kennel, Charlotte’s puppy Blackie became their constant companion. They raced through gardens. In winter months they used warrior’s shields to slide down the snowy hills. Blackie stumbled and rolled in pursuit, until he stole Charlotte’s fur hat. The Prince laughed until he was doubled over watching Charlotte chase Blackie across the frozen lake. He finally dropped the hat, a little the worse for wear. The ear flap was torn and the fur clumped together with drool. Charlotte treasured that hat even with the holes left by Blackie’s sharp puppy teeth.

Charlotte and the Prince both wore a network of nearly-invisible-interlacing-scars from Blackie’s puppy desire to hold hands in his mouth simultaneously levitating and tugging them across the room.

Evenings, filled with food and adventures, they settled with Blackie on thick rugs and oversized pillows. They dreamed of a life shared, planning good works for the Palace and Kingdom. Energized with the combination of hope and imagination one vision led to another until starry-eyed they fell asleep with Blackie between them. They never guessed their carefully planned future would be torn apart by the death of Charlotte’s parents.

Few people know it was the Prince’s idea to stage a ball. Returning home after studying diplomacy abroad he was appalled to find his beautiful Charlotte renamed Cinderella. He gathered his advisors for a meeting. Included among them were the Fairy Godmother and the Fairy Godmothers of the Four Directions. When the Prince decided to create a celebration as a distraction the Fairy Godmother offered to meet with Cinderella and help her find a way to the dance.

Invitations were sent to every young woman in the Kingdom. The Prince’s purpose in staging the gala was to get Cinderella’s stepmother and her daughters out of the house. His teacher, the Fairy Godmother, would prepare Cinderella and escort her to the celebration under her protection. The Prince vowed to recapture the love he and Charlotte shared.

At midnight when Charlotte transformed into Cinderella the servant, his plan was to ask her to be his wife in front of the entire court. But when the clock struck midnight reverberating throughout the castle Cinderella noticed her stepmother bearing down on them. She panicked and ran.

Wow! He had forgotten how fast she could run! Shouting orders, he gathered a crew of his fastest men. They chased her all the way back to her parent’s stone cottage. Bright lights of the castle left behind, the dark night settled around them. The Prince did not need light. His feet knew the forest trails.

He wasn’t prepared for the treachery of Cinderella’s stepmother.

She raced along the edges of forest. Knowing the Prince followed close behind, Cinderella’s stepmother conjured oil. Black and sticky the spill extended across the narrowing path instantly suffocating the plants along the roadside. In the chaos that followed bodies fell, twisting into piles, the guards tumbled one-over-another.

A wicked smile curving her lips the stepmother thought, “If I’d had more time I would have thrown fire.” Envisioning the flames leaping along the edges of piled up bodies her smile deepened. But the spell required too much concentration. The agile Prince avoided falling by leaping past his men. Now he was beginning to out pace her. She ignited her power and sped after Cinderella.

Wrenching open the heavy wood door Cinderella’s stepmother fell into the kitchen panting and out of breath. Standing at the kitchen sink Cinderella understood this would be their final encounter.

Cinderella stayed to protect her family’s treasures. She could have fled into the forest. But her stepmother’s magic would have seen her. Every part of the forest that helped her would be made to suffer. She realized, tonight, her stepmother would try and kill her with magic. Instinctively she backed away.

In the near distance the Prince was shouting, “Charlotte! Charlotte! Come to me!” Cinderella swiveled her head to look out the window. With supernatural strength her stepmother shoved Cinderella toward the fireplace. She stumbled. One shoe flew across the room. Her head struck the stone mantle and Cinderella crumpled. Her stepmother smiled, pushing a loose strand of hair away from her face.

When the Prince catapulted through the open door the first thing he saw was Cinderella’s shoe. A shoe his Fairy Godmother had created. Made of clear quartz crystal it sparkled in the dim light. Pretending not to notice the slipper, the Prince moved toward the wicked stepmother.

Yes, the Prince could see through her disguise. Yellow teeth, shriveled hands more claw than fingers, and her thin hair revealed a thickly veined blue scalp. Her hiss spewed acid. Droplets formed on the shield he threw up to protect his face.

Where was Charlotte? It was difficult to see past the crone without the light of a fire. Yet he didn’t want to use magic. Changing the environment without knowing where Cinderella was located could be dangerous. The first lesson with his Fairy Godmother the Prince learned magic rebounds, splinters taking detours. It’s not reliable. Stories written tell us the successes of magic. Too few stories are told of magic’s failures.

Outside, rain turned to hail beating a vicious tempo along the copper roof. Cinderella heard the Prince calling. A muddy blue cloud, her stepmother’s enchantment, obscured her sight. Guards tumbled into the kitchen. The noise amplified the enchantment making it difficult to breathe. Stamping grew to stomping. Yelling expanded. Not one word was decipherable. The hail receded leaving a soft misty rain in its place.

When the Prince picked up Cinderella’s shoe the witch’s spell wavered. Coughing and belching the enchantment’s gritty residue, the Prince could not see her but then, a sound – out of place with the carnage in the room - caught his ear

Inspired Cinderella tapped out a musical phrase with a piece of kindling on the stone fireplace. The Prince might not be able to see her but if he heard the familiar cadence of her rhythmic tapping maybe he could find her.

Carried by the density of stone she tapped, “DA, da, da, duh. DA, da, da, duh.” Urgency was building a fire in her veins. Double time the rhythm changed. “BA-ba-ba—buh—TA-ta-ta-Tah-TA-ta-ta-Tah.”

The Prince froze. Within his stillness he heard, transformed by her love and fear, a symphony. He heard her song: “Please hurry…..I love you…..….” Beyond the stench of the stepmother’s incantations he saw her surrounded in bursts of pink. Suffering in the stifling reek hinting of blood and violence, the Prince saw Cinderella hidden in the stepmother’s grainy shadows and disease.

In this way, although Cinderella was hidden from view by her stepmother’s spell, the Prince located her. Standing by the massive hearth the Prince stripped the spell. He shouted orders. Guards moved toward the stepmother. A snarl from the depths of jealousy obscured the witch.

She screamed, “I will never be your newest occupant in the palace prisons!” Growing to enormous proportions she sealed all the exits. Her hair shot out in a hundred different directions. Her breath stank of freshly clotted blood. Sweet with disease it petrified the surrounding air. No one could breathe without gagging… A riptide of rage, the wave of putrid odor, exploded across the room.

Horrified, every eye entrained. They watched the stepmother transform, from an obsequious fawning woman at the ball, into a primordial creature sobbing with anguish. The guards froze in the horror.

Launching herself at Cinderella she attacked. Talons tore at the fireplace mantle. Lightening left acrid, toxic fumes. Thunder rocked the foundation of the cottage. Plates, knives, vases and even chairs shuddered then flew across the room. The room exploded as flames shot out the doors and windows.

The spell hiding Cinderella had faded yet she was trapped on the apron of stone, frozen by the witch’s immobilization spell. She choked on the black smoke pouring out of the fireplace. Her stepmother’s nails tore at her clothes and face, narrowly missing an eye. A knife shooting like an arrow sank in the limestone just over Cinderella’s shoulder. A wooden spoon hit her head. Windows shattered. Hundreds of pieces of tiny glass fragments targeted Cinderella embedding in her face and arms. The acrid stink; values twisted by greed and despair, turned the room a dirty dusky blue. Eyes watered, noses swelled.

Cinderella trained her eyes on the Prince. A nimbus of light was growing, golden and deep. Tendrils extended to fill the room. His eye fell on Cinderella. In the space of a heartbeat his love and concerned wrapped around her.

He didn’t see her torn clothing or the deep circles under her eyes. He saw his lifetime friend. He saw the woman he loved, just as he had known for his entire life he would love her. Looking through the filters of his magic he checked for traps in Cinderella’s aura. He could see no physical damage. He bit back rage when he saw her spirit bent with sorrow. Was it shame he saw in her heart?

He pulled Cinderella from the hearth, wrapped her in his cloak and set her behind him. The entire room filled with a soft glow. House ware, transformed into missiles, settled to the floor. A collective sigh filled the silence. The sweetness of honeysuckle was drawn into the house on a current of fresh air.

Cinderella stood on shaking legs. She was never more grateful for the honeysuckle vine. Intertwined with the garden gate, without restraint the flowers shared their sticky fragrance. It mixed with Cinderella’s gratitude; a subliminal message restoring the spirits of every warrior standing in the stone kitchen.

Then the massive kitchen island trembled. Cinderella looked at her stepmother. Her blood shot eyes, hair standing on end with power; her psychotic hatred laced with insanity was their only warning.

The stepmother’s rage fractured the calm with jagged bolts muddy red. Her face contorted. Her scream raised the roof. Hair crackling, eyes red with broken vessels, she called up hurricane winds. Rain tore across the kitchen.

The limestone fireplace cracked. Family treasures disintegrated. Furniture exploded. The seams holding the house to its foundation groaned. Stone screamed shifting along mortar. Guards could not fight the wind.

Pressure building exploded ear drums. The men fell to the floor holding their heads, screaming their pain. Darkness tore at uniforms cleaving long red welts. Cinderella and the Prince were doubled over in agony.

Her heart squeezed painfully. Each inhale burned long striations of acid. Facing death, in that pivotal moment, Cinderella chose. She chose love. Showering the Prince with her love, she dove into a benevolent grace. Golden droplets, dewy and sweet, infused with honeysuckle, burst, spreading the potency of love’s protection throughout the room.

Yet the tornado of grainy debris, impenetrable, continued to assault. The Prince recoiled against the darkness scraping across every soul. Pain and paralysis gripped his muscles. Even his heart threatening to stop, for this brief moment, violence diminished in the luminosity of Cinderella’s love.

He had this one liberated instant. Reaching for the silver chain, infinitesimally thin, hanging at his side he jerked it free. The length whipped across the room. A flash of supernatural silver parted the grainy debris. The thunder of freedom, a collective inhale; bodies dropped to the floor, free of pain. As the Prince fell, choking out words of power, the silver snake sliced through fumes and furniture alike. Glittering with magic, it lashed around Cinderella’s stepmother, transforming her back into a woman.

All of the darkness infiltrating molecules constellated around the stepmother trapped in the silver chain binding her. Her scream tore at the walls and extinguished. 

This was how the Prince discovered Cinderella hidden in the fireplace. She was tapping with a piece of kindling on the stone.

Thursday, November 5, 2015

Again by popular demand......Here is a story of a healer and how he came to dwell in The Great Mystery…..

Our healer began the study of healing as a child learning from his father the community shaman. Eventually he grew in his abilities and wanted to live beyond his father’s shadow. He wanted to push beyond the boundaries of what he knew and venture into the unknown. He left on a day when the clouds thundered and lightening split the sky. He left his home and friends. It was a heart break. The rain poured in straight lines. The storm masked the weeping of his mother and the roar of his father’s disappointment. Yet something was pushing him beyond his comforts, beyond the pleasures of the familiar.

He was hungry for healing. He had lived too long, invisible, within his father’s shadow. He was ashamed of his unspoken agreements to remain invisible. He allowed his loyalty to his father, his teachings, the family and even the greater community to subvert his personal strengths. Now he must reclaim himself.

He was hungry to define himself on his own terms. He longed to test his skills without looking over his shoulder for approval. He traveled until he was far beyond the reputation and influence of his father. He found a community looking for an apprentice to assist their healer. Within the forest of tall pine trees he studied the paths of mind, body and spirit. First traveling the geography of each dimension individually, next he studied their interactions and relationships. It seemed an eternity before he understood the effects of interventions on one level interwoven with all levels. Long story short when he attempted to heal the body it affected the mind and spirit.

And as much as he loved his teacher they had a falling out. On another stormy afternoon with the thunder at his back he moved on once again. Traveling into different lands he studied the ways of medicine. He hungered for both traditional medicine and esoteric or holistic medicine. He began his studies with the different bodies that live within the skin of one man.

The brain was one control center with its powers of observation. The heart’s wisdom held within its power the drumbeat of life. When the heart is filled with love it beats steady and strong. Even when weakened with illness the heart can sometimes transcend itself with love. We call this a peaceful death.

Our healer found the gut is the third control station of the body. It is lined with antennae. Each filament is designed to read truth. When he learned the truths of the gut he came to live within his personal power. But there is more….

He learned blood, the rivers of life, carried hormones and other messages throughout the body. The bones of each body form a structure. The muscles hold the bones in place. To support this knowledge our healer learned massage and adjusting the body so the components, the power stations of the body, could work together in alignment and harmony.

To give the body strength he studied healing with herbs. Discovering energy fields resonating beyond the skin’s surface, he learned the healing properties of gems and minerals. And eventually as a healer he was able to hold a patient’s hand and listen to the pulse of health and perceive the shadows of illness.

Using himself as the laboratory he practiced the tools of health and vitality. He found engaging personal strengths, in conjunction with purpose for a greater good, created vitality. To tone his body he walked in the hills and the ripple of wind flowing over his skin called him into attunement with the forest. He practiced yoga until the movement became a prayer. Engaging strengths, at one with the forest, in prayer with yoga made him happy.

One day a yoga teacher said, “The purpose of yoga is to prepare the body for meditation.” He turned his attention to meditation. There were breathing meditations, sitting in stillness, guided imagery. He tried them all. He cultivated an openness to hear the quiet stillness within. Beginning with intentional rest he learned the pathways of meditation. He traveled the dimensions of dreaming. He magnetized the powers of healing.

When his teacher retired he decided to move on. He did not want the responsibility of becoming a community healer. His next teacher initiated him, by blowing power through the top of his head, into the hands of healing. A channel of cosmic light opened. This fueled the health passing through his hands freely. Wellness was transmitted to the patient he touched.

This time when it was time to leave he was able to make his goodbyes with thanks. He left gifts. He told his teachers how they changed his life. He left with a light heart on a sunny day. He traveled to the city where he studied a long time and learned to heal with his words. This required he first listen with his full presence. Sometimes just listening with care was enough. He became attuned when to speak and when to listen. It was if his studies in meditation had changed his ability to hear with the mind, the heart and the gut. They fueled his words and contained his silence.

He moved to a monastery along the cliffs of the sea, where through prayer he cast out illness and encouraged health. They taught with prayer to release his agreements, his ties, to negativity. Continuing in prayer he petitioned Infinite Intelligence to fill the void. His greatest prayer was to be at one with the Divine. The Sacred in the silence began to fill him. This was a new kind of prayer. It revolutionized his perceptions.

At the monastery he learned to set bones and sew up cuts. He learned the secrets of nutrition as medicine. Fish oil in conjunction with primrose oil reduced the body’s inflammation. Magnesium malate calmed and soothed muscles. Potassium rich diets increased heart health. Dandelion root is a blood cleanser. Cinnamon reduces and stabilizes the blood sugar. The list grew longer and longer.

Eventually he combined all he knew of healing methodologies into complex treatment regimes. It would be easy to say he had integrated the diverse modalities and had been transformed. But it was more than a transformation. He no longer practiced the elements of healing. Through cohesion the dimensions of healing were ingrained on his DNA. The essence of his cellular replication was imprinted with the essence of healing. He was at one with healing. Healing was at one with him. He had undergone a radical transmutation within the essence of life.

Hopelessly ill patients were waiting at his door each morning. He became well known and successful. People crowded together waiting for an appointment. Day after day he treated patients. He worked long into evenings. Absorbed in the needs of others he had little life beyond illness.

Toxicity began to crowd out his health and vitality. Even when he wanted to stop and walk in the forest his gift insisted on its expressions. He could not turn away from the need. He gave of himself until there was no more to give and then he left to become a wandering healer. Life pulled him. He surrendered into life and was reborn.

When there was no where else to go, when he embodied the art and science of healing in its totality, he surrendered again and no longer called himself a healer. He simply traveled the world.

Eventually he returned to his village arriving on a cold winter’s day. The trees had lost their leaves. The branches stood stark against a grey sky. The mountains in the distance were covered in snow. A hawk flew around him in a full circle. The forest rushed a greeting to him on the rustle of evergreen trees. Walking at the center of his knowledge long ago translated into wisdom; warm within the glow of self illumination, as he walked past the Cherry tree, the flowers blossom.

Author’s note: When I hear this story I understand the healer transcended the methodology of healing. He was dwelling within the Great Mystery. His presence was Grace itself. Is Grace the dimension of life that transcends healing and is born of the Great Mystery?

Jennifer Morse is the author of a motivational book: The Way of the Fairy Godmother. A fictional book: Letters from the Land of Midlife Dating. Together with her husband, William Mortimer, they co-authored the young adult book: Redemption’s Warrior.

Found here