This Healing Work

I can feel your pain as surely as if it were my own. When I place my hand on yours, it is fear I feel gnawing at your bones. Your pulse beats your story and your eyes tell a tale I am not sure I am strong enough to hear.

I see a little boy, unguarded and pure. I imagine rubber boots, fists full of rocks, dirt-encrusted fingernails, and holes in your socks. There was light in your eyes, once upon a time. You were light. I wish you could know this, hold on to this and let it carry you through the dark and scary nights. I wish you could remember.

I am on the verge of tears, but I know I need to get a grip. I am here to touch you in a way that is loving and safe, to honour your goodness and to help you move through those energetic knots that have you feeling so stuck and defeated. I am here to listen. I am here to care. I am so sorry.

Thank you for braving the blizzard and coming here today; for allowing me the privilege of playing a part in your healing journey. I am new at this, you know. I have only just begun and my heart is probably beating faster than yours is. Thank you for trusting me.

I am not a healer now, nor will I ever be. Those who claim to be healers have chosen to ignore one crucial piece of information: We can only heal ourselves. But I can be a tunnel, a conduct for healing energy to pass through me and into you. I can be the middlewoman that guides the energy, and perhaps even strengthens its curative properties, if my intentions are good and my vessel uncluttered. I am happy to be the intermediary between the heavens and your beautiful but broken spirit. I have prepared myself for this. I am ready.

I am not ready at all.

What can give can also receive. If energy can travel through me and into you, it can also travel through you and into me. And in this clear vessel that I have carefully primed for healing work, a tempest can take place.

It is taking place. As I make my way from school to home, hours later, my mind is racing with angry thoughts. I find it difficult to walk, not because of the snow on the ground but because there is a heaviness inside of me trying to pull me down. Everywhere I look, I see suffering. My throat is tight and I am overcome with feelings of frustration and annoyance. I want to stand up on the streetcar and scream “Nobody understands!”

This angry person is so far removed from the girl I was this morning, I know that something is not quite right. The realization comes as a shooting pain in my head: these strong emotions are yours, not mine. They have squeezed their way into my psyche and are wreaking havoc on my mind. They are spreading their claws and ripping through the fabric of my perfectly good day.

I teeter on the edge of panic. What do I do now?

I hear a voice - thick as smoke and smooth as honey. I have heard it before; it is the voice of the man who spends his days singing to strangers on the street. He never asks for money, never holds up a sign, but just sits there, crooning old favourites. I reach into my jacket pocket, dig out a looney, and drop it into his empty coffee cup. He says, “Thank you. God bless” and gives me a lopsided grin. I feel the irritated voices inside quiet down for a second and this reassures me a little.

I arrive home and know I need to be alone. I am in a toxic state and ready to spew venom on anybody who gets close. I give myself permission to feel the hurt - your hurt - which is now mine too. I allow the waves of sadness to lap at my feet, my knees, my waist, but I do not allow them to swallow me up. I fight against the undertow, digging my heels in the sand, clinging to the solid ground which is anything but solid.

I embrace my aloneness and wait for the waves to recede, the sadness to pass, the bitterness to lose its bite. I carve out a space for myself - a hollow haven amid the density of the human condition. I fall into it, as easily as I fall into bed, and I let go of everything about today: you and your troubled eyes, me and my naiveté, Old Man Winter’s gruff farewell, the street singer’s velvety voice.

I clean out my vessel, yet again, chipping away at the unnecessary bits. I remove particles of you, particles of me, particles of both of us that cover my insides with dust. I vow to do a better job of protecting this little heart of mine; it is the only one I’ve got. I am of no use to you, or to anybody, if I allow the weight of the world to press down on my shoulders and obstruct my energetic flow. I am of no use to you, or to anybody, if I allow anger and resentment to dictate the way. If I lose myself, I am of no use to even me.

I look up at the night sky and pray for you. I imagine a string of stars reaching down deep inside of you and uprooting your pain, your loss, your fear, and catapulting them past the moon, into the darkest black hole of the cosmos. I see the little boy that still lives inside you - he is wounded but not destroyed. I ask the stars to lead you back to that boy and his light. Back to you, back to hope. Back to health.

The Journey Begins

On November 21st, I wrote this letter.

Today, the journey begins...

*

Dear Institute of Traditional Medicine,

Some people know what they want to be when they grow up. Other people need to grow up in order to know what they want to be. I fall into the latter category, although when I think about my childhood, I realize that I embarked on this particular path very early on.

I see myself at eight years old, all knotty hair and skinned knees, seeking refuge in the safety of trees. I remember sitting on branches, face turned to the sky, feet dangling in the air, perfectly content in my makeshift perch. I felt as free as a bird and as strong as the tree itself. I knew - the way children always seem to know - that there was magic in the trees, the sun, the stars, the leaves. Magic and peace and healing.

Then, I grew up.

I moved away from the forest of my childhood and ventured to various cities, in various countries, endlessly searching for my place in the world and hoping to discover my purpose.

Often, in the midst of a busy city, I felt the need to return to nature. To find a tree and sit with it. To pick a flower and admire it. To jump in a river and go with its flow.

In 2005, after spending a stressful year in Japan, my health started to falter in a way it had never faltered before. I saw countless doctors who prescribed medications which, they assured me, would “make me feel better.”

But I did not merely want to feel better, I wanted to be better.

So, again, I immersed myself in nature. I walked, I breathed, I meditated, and I sought out alternative therapies such as massage, yoga, and acupuncture. Slowly but surely, I became well again.

Since then, Traditional Chinese Medicine has been a constant in my life. It has improved the health of my mind, body, and spirit. It has opened me up to the power of energy and the miracle of interconnectedness. It has encouraged me to explore various systems of healing, such as reiki and holistic nutrition, and to share my discoveries with others. It has propelled me forward, inward, and outward and has lead me to this particular moment, this particular letter.

I want to immerse myself in Traditional Chinese Medicine. I want to play a part, however small, in the healing of our world and of its people. I want to be an advocate for traditional medicine in North America. I want to be for others what some practitioners have been for me: teachers of balance, of inner-peace, of wellness.

I would be honoured to study at the Institute of Traditional Medicine. I have no doubt that it would be a positive and enriching experience for all involved. Thank you so much for your time and consideration.

In wellness and wonder,

Vicki Rivard

***

This week's affirmation: I go back to school with an open mind and an open heart and allow the lessons to nourish, inspire, and transform.

Seeking Stillness

My city was attacked this weekend. Savagely assaulted, besieged, and set ablaze.

Voices were silenced and causes overshadowed by a few thrill-seeking cowards in black masks who have zero understanding of, or respect for, the purpose of protest.

Riveted to my TV screen, I watched in horror as the city I love became a broken, burning bedlam.

I was furious. Outraged. I swore, I screamed, I changed my Facebook status to one of fierce condemnation,

Blood boiling, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through my veins, I became a vehicle of bitterness and rage.

And I hated. I hated the G20 Summit. I hated the leaders and their private jets and their expensive suits and their wives. I hated them for shaking hands and smiling for the cameras and eating at the Fairmont while the city that hosted them was being destroyed. I hated the so-called anarchists who used my city as a platform to spread their vile, vicious non-message. I hated that the media frenzy was no doubt encouraging them. I hated that innocent and well-intentioned people were being unjustly arrested. I hated that poverty issues, gender issues, health issues, and green issues were being suppressed. I hated that the money that was spent on G20 security could have bought one hundred million mosquito nets in malaria-infested countries.

I hated so strongly and vehemently that the hate completely engulfed me. I merged with it, morphed into it. I became the hurricane itself, spewing venomous words and toxic thoughts into the world.

Deepak Chopra once stated, “In the midst of movement and chaos, keep stillness inside of you.”

My stillness had vanished. I had lost it, along with any semblance of perspective.

For a few brief hours I became part of the problem.

Because isn’t that how problems grow? How negativity spreads? How hate circulates? How fear propagates?

When we lose sight of who we are and allow ourselves to be overtaken by external circumstances we, quite simply, lose altogether.

I know this. And not in a superficial sense but in an innate and profound way. I know this.

And yet, with jets roaring overhead and sirens blaring in the distance, the innate and profound knowing that exists in my core dissolved almost entirely.

Almost.

At around 2am on Sunday morning, while I obsessively followed the tweets of those witnessing the brutality downtown, something happened: the hardened shield encircling my heart, obstructing all feelings but anger and hate, began to crack. I could feel the fissures snaking up, down, and around, allowing slivers of light to shine in.

I paused. Breathed. Closed my eyes. Opened myself up to the stillness of tranquility. Of safety. Of love.

I stayed in this place of inner joy and peace for a very long time, letting go of my anger, my hate, my fear, my frustration, allowing wave after wave of comfort and contentment to wash over me.

This is where power begins. In this place of genuine passion and purpose. Here, there is clarity.

Here, there is hope.

Numerous studies have been done, in recent years, to substantiate the claim that energy, in all its forms, has a deep and lasting impact on people, animals, and the planet itself.

The Global Coherence Initiative is a collaborative research project which studies the relationship between living beings and the Earth’s magnetic fields. Studies have in fact demonstrated a correlation between changes in the Earth’s magnetic fields and changes in a variety of biological functions (brainwaves, nervous system activity, heart rhythm, memory, etc.) Incredibly, researchers also hypothesize that the Earth’s fields can be directly impacted by human emotions.

The significance of this cannot be overstated: human emotions may play a key role (the key role) in the well-being of all living things and of the planet itself.

Though we cannot see it, energy spreads. It reaches far and wide. It communicates. It connects. It activates. And, as such, it can provoke change. It can transform conflict into cooperation, discord into harmony. It can balance imbalances.

This is not some airy new-age concept, but a phenomenon that many modern scientists do not deny: human energy can heal the world.

Let us remember this.

During times of crisis, of despair, of oppression. During times of fear, of distress, of injustice. During times of sorrow, of misfortune, of pain, let us remember this.

Resorting to violence and hatred, though oftentimes tempting, is never the answer.

Stillness is the answer.

And by stillness I don’t mean inaction. Action is critical. Protests are crucial. Expression is essential. But the acting, protesting, and expressing must come from a place of stillness, of knowing, of authenticity, of love.

We are more powerful than we know. The future is, quite literally, in our hands.

In our hearts.

***

Here is a tribute to the peaceful protesters who marched, sang, danced, and hoped. I celebrate you.

What the Media Ignored.

***

This week’s affirmation: Though chaos surrounds me, my heart is still.