The Power Inside

I really hate to put it into words, because the words make me sound all airy-fairy California granola hippie. But these words aren't new age parroting; these are the observations of my own situation, what works, what doesn't, and an intuitive reach for healing.

I really believe our brains cause our diseases. That disruptions of the spirit and patterns of coping with emotional trauma cause pain in our bodies. I'm not saying treating the body's illnesses with standard medical practice isn't worthwhile, but in many cases, curing the symptoms doesn't cure the disease.

Not sure I'm being clear.

I come by diabetes genetically. It is present on both sides of my family, and therefore written into the code of each cell. You can view it that I am just screwed, or you can compare it to my pale, sunburn-prone skin. Just something I need to care for so it doesn't cause me harm.  This dis-ease only activated when I was deprived of the physical attention from my partner. My body, then going through the stresses of a pregnancy, got all mad and pouty and said "you ain't gonna give me no sugah? I'll show you what happens when you don't give me no sugah!" Was I listening? Nope. Who knew the body has such power?  My cells closed to absorbing sugar, my pancreas panicked and dumped more and more insulin, and for a bit that worked, the doc had me stop ingesting sugar-making foods, had me forcefully introduce insulin into my body, and my body said "Okay, okay, you're not getting what i mean, your blood is like Karo mixed with honey and maple syrup, stop it with the insulin, that's like broken glass in the veins and organs, I give in."  So I was able to grow a healthy baby, and once the stress of doing so had passed, the symptoms passed.

But I was not cured of diabetes. I continued to be deprived of the physical attention my body wanted, the cuddles and kisses that make my stubborn brain so willing to work hard and perform well. I ignored the pleas, pushed myself as I always do, and a few years later the imbalance of my body which mirrored the imbalance in my spirit revealed itself in measurable damage to my kidneys, failing vision, neuropathy of the extremities, insomnia, ovaries screaming for attention, blood full of sugar, but none where it needed to go.

The body is an amazing and complex organism; everything depends on everything else. I had to wrap my mind around the seriousness of the damage, and I had to accept that ignoring the emotional and spiritual needs absolutely gets  reflected in the body. There are ways to medically treat such problems, but all a band-aid does is protect the wound so the body can heal it. Seems like every medical treatment we have is aimed at relieving symptoms, not changing the cause.

For me, I needed to feel sweetness in every cell of my spirit first. And then my body would mirror the state of health of my soul. So I bathed my self in what felt sweet to me: music, and laughter, green growing things, creative pursuits, and because I seem to need physical attention, I chose weight training, and cardio workouts, dancing and cycling. Holding rocks in my hands, taking long scented baths, playing with texture and color and involving all the physical senses I could in order to make my suffering body feel loved, coaxing it to work with me on this task of living.

I also used tools the medical field suggested. Methods and substances that made me nauseous and weepy and sleep a lot. The only thing I did that year was heal, from the spirit out.  And when my eyes opened one day and I was well, I saw there were problems in my life that were poison for my spirit. If I didn't want that to manifest in my body, I had to fix those. I did the best I could, but as everything in the body affects each other, every action a human makes affects others. It's difficult to trade the well being of one for another.

All this to say last night I had this insight about arthritis. At night my wrists and ankles ache, enough to disrupt my sleep. I can take a combination of pills to mask the pain, but my intuition tells me masking the pain makes my brain think my joints don't need any help, so the condition will continue to deteriorate.  Somehow I have to get the brain or the spirit or whatever life force is in charge of such things to focus on sending its energy to the places that ache. So here's my arthritis strategy: Plenty of fluids, deep focused breathing, lots of movement in those joints so they don't rust. And focused conscious attention notifying my brain that there are areas in pain which need extra love. Yeah, bathing those joints in the warm dripping honey of love, that's better than masking pain with increasingly higher doses of NSAIDs. It has to be. And being kind to my poor abused brain can only be a good thing.

Dark Well of the Night (Nov 9, 2008)

I am treading water at the bottom of a stone well, staring at the moon. I float easily; the water is warm and silken and perfumed with rosemary. Moonlight glints off the quartz of the granite blocks and it’s as if the stars spilled out of the sky, reaching down the rough-hewn walls just to bring their joyous sparkle a little closer to delight me. I lean my head back, let my arms drift on the water’s surface, and my hair swirls around me, caressing my shoulders, my back, my breasts.

I open my eyes as the chill of a dark cloud crosses the moon, and her light dims to a pale shadow. I suddenly know a dark reptilian beast has been waiting for this moment, and it is rushing up from the depths to clamp its jaws on my limbs and drag me down, down, down.

I hold out my shaking palms to the stones above the waterline, drawing heat from them as if from a crackling fire, and the stones slide out to form a narrow ledge. I clamber up on it, shivering, huddling close to the wall, lifting my gaze from the darkness below to the shadows above, willing the moon to appear to save me. I know I am not yet safe, that the beast can easily snatch me from the shelf and take me under. I keep my face lifted to the circle of darkened sky above me and breathe deeply of the cool night air, my last breaths of life. I know it is coming soon.

I hear the wind faintly above, unseen trees whispering the language of the leaves, and I understand the words they are saying, a phrase that has come to me before in times of fear: “and what if he does what if he does what if he does….” I think of sharp fangs and unknown depths and the agony of airless lungs, of desperation and panic (sowhatifhedoes whatifhedoes whatifhedoes), and my breathing slows. So what if he does? I am calmed by the wisdom of the trees, the glitter of dim stars, the gentle caress of night air. I slip my legs into the water, warm against my skin, and slide off the ledge into the water to await the monster of the well.

And then he is there, and his flesh is not scaly, his limbs warm and strong, no foul breath and tearing teeth. It is dark and I cannot see, I inhale deeply and allow the beast to pull me under; down down down, and I cannot see, cannot hear, cannot smell or taste, the anonymous beast dragging me down to his lair, and I relax my screaming lungs and allow the soft water to fill me. I sleep.