Author: Maasaisis

Vipassana- Part 3

by Maasaisis

SITTING WITH DEATH

I used to pride myself for being Multitasker Extraordinaire- a Go Get Er Done Er kinda gal thriving on achievements. Like a Pac Man, I swallowed adversities whole with my eyes on the prize always. Digesting it properly was not an option because it was not efficient. I sidestepped my vulnerabilities and presented the good side with an exclamation mark. The question marks were left unattended.

Vipassana was the gateway- an invitation to get intimate with the unattended.

On the third day, I sat with death. It started with sharp, stabbing pains between my ribs near my lump. Someone told me that cancer is like having PTSD, with every new symptom of “abnormal” the mind goes to the worst-case scenario. Like a confirmation reminding you that there is an end and it might come sooner than later.

The pain I felt was significant. I tried to lasso my breath but couldn’t catch it. The sharp dagger in my chest dove deeper pressing against where I didn’t want to go. My body constricted, my heart raced. What if this is really serious? What if it metastasized into my lungs? Is this it? Maybe I came here to learn how to die? 

Fear penetrated my very essence and froze me in place. My mind wrote, edited and recited my own eulogy. A full blown panic attack exploded beneath the shell of my quiet seat. What would happen to my only child? How would my life partner of 20 years survive without me being his constant? How will I be remembered?…

I really don’t know how I managed to sit through that 90 min of hell. Perhaps it was a primal instinct of survival…to just hang on. I left the meditation Hall debilitated and collapsed into a shaking heap in my room. 15 minutes later I was back in the hall where Beast was waiting.

When babies are left to cry it out they eventually give up and stop crying. That’s what happened for the remainder of the afternoon meditations. I just gave in and let my mind shake, rattle and roll. I discovered a sliver of space between the escalating pain and my reaction to it. I struggled to come up for air there. I faced my greatest fear which was that my faith was misplaced….that the very making of me was a farce. Was I wrong and ignorant? Had I let cancer spread everywhere because I chose to believe in myself?

What sprung from the dark side was the urgency to face the truth. I needed certainly which meant I had to have a look inside. It became clear to me that the “not knowing” was the seed that fragmented the very structure of me. Was I riddled with cancer or had my healing practices helped at all? I hadn’t seen my doctor, oncologist or had any kind of scan for 5 months. I held fast to my conviction that everything that I was doing so diligently was healing me. The underbelly of my certainty was the epicenter of my fear. The trepidation of being wrong diverted me from facing facts. That was the real reason I hadn’t checked myself.

Ding! Gut check! This scary realization was the gift I received in those excruciating hours I sat with death. I committed to booking a diagnostic scan upon my return but first I had to survive the rest of Vipassana.

THE FRIENDS AND ENEMIES OF MEDITATION

There was a new notice on the bulletin board that described the friends and foes of meditation. As I read through the enemies list “Obsessive Scepticism” jumped out. Simultaneously, I heard a defensive voice in my head say “Oh no, you’re very open. You’re not skeptical at all!”. As I clung to scenarios where my optimism shined, I saw with blatant clarity that in regards to healing my optimist held hands with a rigid skeptic .

After my first and only appointment with the Oncologist then the Surgeon, I completely shut the door on conventional medicine. I poured every ounce of energy into researching alternative and holistic approaches to healing. I was very quick to be skeptical of any ideas or beliefs that challenged my own. Heck, I was skeptical of pretty much anything and anyone that didn’t align with how I wanted to shape my reality.

My initial feeling was one of dread but then it quickly shifted as I realized that the very awareness of the skeptic in me was a step in the right direction. Perhaps it was the effect of Vipassana that I was able to see the program that I was running. Being stuck in any which way of thinking shielded me from being receptive to potentially very important information. Being fixed on any kind of program may have inhibited not only my healing but my evolution. Wow, what a breakthrough….

Looking at the list again I was utterly humbled. I’d been in bed with the enemy without even knowing it. I realized what a trickster mind can be. It veils the scary stuff, the ugly stuff and disguises them as noble qualities. I was amazed that I didn’t immediately go into self-sabotage mode with this new awareness. Awareness… it’s on the list as my friend! Thank Christ! I stood there and burned both lists into my brain.

5 FRIENDS OF MEDITATION:                        

FAITH                                                                

EFFORT                                                              

AWARENESS                                                     

CONCENTRATION                                            

WISDOM                                                            

5 ENEMIES OF MEDITATION:

CRAVING

AVERSION

AGITATION

OBSESSIVE SCEPTICISM/ DOUBT

MENTAL/PHYSICAL SLUGGISHNESS

LESSON: “WE DON’T LIVE LONGER WHEN WE TRY NOT TO DIE. WE LIVE LONGER WHEN WE’RE TOO BUSY LIVING”

-Mathew McConaughey

Vipassana – Part 2

by Maasaisis

Vipassana means to see things as they really are. It is believed that the Buddha himself developed Vipassana meditation to end human suffering. This ancient practice has stood the test of time by continuing to attract modern mankind for the very same reasons it did centuries ago.

Liberation is a state of mind. Vipassana is the practice of purifying the mind by accepting things as they are. In observing what IS with an equanimous mind we are no longer self-sabotaged. We become the witness rather than the afflicted, thereby accessing the possibility of reaching  the height of our human potential. Imagine holding the key to peace, love, and harmony in a world that is riddled with so much pain and suffering.

The only truth is impermanence, which is reflected in the law of nature. All of creation ebbs and flows with the law of change. Yet our pain springs from reacting to the inevitable pendulum that swings from one spectrum of experience to another.

We want to keep what brings us joy even though it will eventually change. We don’t want to accept pain and misery yet it’s unavoidable. We push death away even though it is the only inescapable certainty in life. We want to avoid what hurts us and cling to what we can’t stand to lose. The dynamic of craving and aversion is the root of our hardships because we are pushing against the blueprint of creation.

Even though Vipassana is Buddha’s teaching, you don’t have to be a Buddhist to practice it.  It is non-sectarian and available to all. The quiet practice of observation allows us to identify reactive thoughts and feelings. Cravings and aversions create Sankharas – grooves in our path that trip us up or keep us stuck. If we do not become aware of the trenches we are in how can we ever get out? We would forever be wandering lost in the labyrinths of our own making.

In the Prairies, the day is born from the ground up, almost as if the sun was birthed from Earth. Hues of dazzling orange, red, purple, and pink streak against the bluest of blue skies. The brilliant rays of color reach out to caress mother in her sparkly snow blanket. Soaking in the luminous beauty, my heart cracked open and my eyes involuntarily watered. The ability to be emotionally moved by anything was a positive sign that I was healing.

9:00 AM The gong rang for the next round. I took my seat in my private room convinced that I could sit through 2 hours. Who was I kidding? Within minutes I was already squirming in my seat with an unbelievably itchy face.  My right shoulder started its dull, rhythmic throb sending electric shocks into the base of my skull. Like a drumbeat sounding in crescendo the pain magnified and my attention latched on like a blood-sucking leech.

I cracked my eyes open- only 15 min. had passed… then, a tidal wave of aversion swept over me. I slammed my eyes shut and focused ferociously on my flaring nostrils, breathing like a dragon. My mind became a sports commentator announcing the play by play of every breath. Breathing in…that’s good, just take a nice deep breath, now let it out…no, no do it smoooooth and let it all out before you take the next breath in….don’t try so hard to breath….just relax…Am I doing this right? Fuck… Feeling defeated I considered a nap. A full shut down…no one would ever know…

Beast came and set me straight. You are avoiding what you must face! Get on with it! Sit through it! Do it!

There was still about an hour left. I swore then and there that I would commit to sit through every meditation in the Dhamma Hall. No more escaping. I would do it as if my life depended on it. I could not exist in a linear timeline as it would only cause more suffering by aligning reality with the ticking of the clock. The “Are we there yet?” mentality had to go if I was going to survive 10 days. No matter what arose in my mind I would simply have to sit through it. I sparked my oath of commitment and made my way to the Hall to complete my meditation. 

An interesting occurrence transpired after that. In the hall I relaxed because there wasn’t any anticipation to go anywhere. Surrender greeted me as I let go. I leaned into discomfort and accepted agony. I sat with every shade of aversion and noticed that feelings came and went. I allowed myself to change positions if I could no longer stand it. I undulated with my experience and sat with all my distractions.

When my attention was fully cocooned in the cave of my nostrils I floated effortlessly on the surface of my breath. My sensations became acute. I felt the temperature variation between my inhalation and exhalation, that subtle difference in how much air passed through each nostril. The little hairs on my upper lip moved like seaweed in the ocean of my breath and carried me to the great emptiness in the space between thoughts. The gong teleported me back to the hall.

Outside, the boundaries were clearly marked and enclosed us from the great expanse of the prairies. Crisp snow cloaked the large field and I could hear the crunching steps of the meditators as they walked off their last sit.  They had already forged a pathway around the circumference of the field by the time that I got there. As I joined the quiet contemplators I couldn’t help but feel like another prisoner in line. Perhaps it was the confinement of space and the manner in which we all walked… Were we all prisoners of our habitual mindscape? Are we all imprisoned by our cravings and aversions?  Why are human beings predisposed to create our own suffering?

LESSON: “The only conversion involved in Vipassana is from misery to happiness, from bondage to liberation. Real wisdom is recognizing and accepting that every experience is impermanent. With this insight you will not be overwhelmed by ups and downs.” – S.N. GOENKA

“Liberation”- Acrylic painting in progress by Maasa

Vipassana – Part 1

by Maasaisis

What if my mind takes me to a place I can’t come back from? …

Standing in line waiting to register, I strained to recollect the mandatory agreements for enrollment.  Once it was my turn, the registrar took my information and reinforced what I was signing up for. I was to commit to the entire 10 days adhering to the 5 precepts without exception. I’d travelled 10 hours for my peace of mind- how ironic would it be if I’d lost it?

The 5 Precepts and the Questions In My Mind:

  1. Abstain from killing or harming any being– Aren’t all creatures considered sentient beings? What about the flies and mosquitoes I’d intentionally killed…the animals I’d eaten?
  2. Abstain from stealing- Is inspiration from someone else’s idea stealing?
  3. Abstain from sexual misconduct and all sexual activity during the course- What about after the course…if I want to keep practicing Vipassana meditation? Is vowing celibacy a necessary sacrifice on the road to enlightenment?
  4. Abstain from telling lies (this includes exaggerating)- I’ve exaggerated to make myself more interesting…call it a self-preservation tactic for a gal with a devaluation conflict. It will be a good practice to form an alliance with silence...
  5. Abstain from all intoxicants- Escape from reality with any substance went out the window the day I got my diagnosis. I’m golden. 

I had more questions but I set them aside. My stomach lunged into my throat as I signed the document sealing the deal.

We were to renounce all forms of prayers, talismans, religious objects, mantras, and devotional practices. Yoga and exercise were discouraged. Music, reading, writing and other forms of mind stimulants were prohibited. I reluctantly discarded the crutches I clung to when shit hits the fan…

To ensure that our environment was Vipassana friendly we were to wear modest clothes, and hand over our car keys along with all our devices. “Noble Silence” commenced and would continue for 9.5 of the 10 days. There would be no physical contact, no eye contact, no gestures, nor any form of communication between students. Men and women were segregated. Dread hit home like a punch in the gut. 

I was assigned room C125. Peering into the room, I was relieved to see that it was a single. Relief was replaced by guilt for playing the cancer card to attain my solitude. It was the first and only time that I’d mentioned the cellular dysfunction in my body to my advantage. I quickly recognized my old program and cancelled my guilt. I’d put myself first, something I was incapable of doing prior to life with my Lump. I was making progress.

Sitting still for 10 days with my insides in a Gordian Knot was risky. I was prepared for an encounter with the Beast- the creature of many faces residing in my mind. It grabs me by the scruff of the neck and drags me down to its formidable lair. In the past it had held me captive with my bones rattling until I could fathom my way back up to the surface.

DAY 1 THE OMG FACTOR

The morning gong went off at 4 am. I implemented daily skin brushing to my monastic life at Vipassana. I brushed right over Lump thus stimulating blood flow to the stagnant area that had become the focal point of my life. That morning it was the size of a walnut. Being hormonally influenced it had a life of its own. That meant it morphed in shape, size, and texture depending on what signals were firing in my body at any given time. Even though I knew it was a shapeshifter, the big days still did a number on me.

4:30 am: The gong rang again to initiate meditation. We were given the choice to sit in our rooms or to convene in Dhamma Hall. I left my room since the potential for giving up would be too easy in private. I carried the familiar heavy feeling fastened to the now largest version of my lump down the dark hallway.

My piece of real estate in the hall for the rest of the program was in the last row. I patted myself on the back for having the foresight to bring my buckwheat meditation cushion. I used it as a moldable base on top of 2 pillows. As a result my hips were higher than my knees in a cross-legged position on my metaphorical throne. Thankfully as an avid yogi, I knew just where to place my props to sit comfortably. Suffice it to say, I’d never sat still in one position for 2 hrs. so I had a back up kneeling stool and an arsenal of more props to get me through the first long sit of the day.             

Imagine this: You are naked and bound tightly against a tree. A mass of crawling, skipping, pinching insects traverse your bare skin. The tidal wave of millions of rapid, tripedal gaits overwhelms you but you can not escape. The struggle to get away is all consuming. That is the best comparison I can imagine to what I endured that morning.

The instruction given to us was simple. Use the Anapana breath to solely observe the air moving in and out of the nose. The focus is on the very limited space between the upper lip and the wings of the nostrils. The little triangular space was to be the entire focus of the meditation. We were to objectively feel the sensation of every breath without changing its natural flow. Thus, began the training of the untamed mind. The focus it entailed literally blew my mind.

My thoughts were like leaves wildly swirling in a storm. They lured me into the manifold vortex of internal babblings. The moment I recognized my attention was away with my thoughts, self sabotage would take over.

Get it together, focus on your breath. You’re wasting meditation time on stupid thoughts. Do it right! No, don’t give yourself a hard time… Just let them go… No judgement… Just observe… How long? How much longer? When’s the fucking gong going to go off? GOD, I AM IN AGONY!

No, no, hone the mind…equanimous mind! Just fucking breathe for fucksakes! I’m breathing too loud...Fuck this, fuck, fuck, fuck! Why the hell am I doing this? Why do I make things so hard on myself? Am I a masochist? What is wrong with me? Right…I have fucking cancer…cancer…cancer. 10 hours a day for 10 days…OMG I can’t do this… How long? How much longer? How long? How much longer?

Big exhale. Then the pain! My folded up legs felt like they were between vice grips, both feet throbbed, my neck and shoulders buckled under the dense weight of my head, and my hips cramped struggling to maintain my faltering body structure.

That first sit knocked me flat out. There was not a sliver of peace-only a wild and raving rebellion. Every moment was an eternal longing to abort. There was no clock in the room and the anticipation of the gong ringing to finish was unbearable. When it finally rang, it took the greatest self restraint not to cry out. I painfully unravelled my rigid body and dragged my defeated self into the dining hall for breakfast.

Who gives a rats ass about enlightenment? I’d happily run with ignorance into bliss. That’s where I was at whilst slowly consuming stewed prunes on porridge. Listening to the symphony of food munching around me, I convinced myself I would be just as dedicated if I sat through the next session in my room. Ignorance is surely wonderful. I filled my bowl with another round of deliciousness and savoured every bite.  It was a delectable intermission before my next round with the Beast.

LESSON: “The most difficult times for many of us are the ones we give ourselves.”-  Pema Chödrön

Sitting to find a seat in myself.

I Feel Therefore I Am

by Maasaisis

I stood in the forest clearing and screamed into battle. Gripping my invisible Samurai sword I slashed viciously with tears blinding my swollen eyes. The primordial, shrilling, shriek awakened the beast that lay dormant inside.

That morning, I faltered. I did what I had consciously avoided the previous times I had the bout with my eyes. In Google’s search engine I wrote- Breast Cancer/ Eyes. My heart seized as pages linked to Ocular Metastasis. It was as if I stood in the middle of a frozen lake- terrified by the sound of ice snapping. The resounding chorus of cracking threatened the very structure of what held me up. My entire approach to healing came apart at the seams.

My 5th round with Rocky Balboa Eyes was by far the worst. I called them so, because I looked like I got my face pummeled by the Champ himself. My practice of loving myself was confronted by the grotesque face that looked back at me in the mirror. I felt defeated, exhausted, and utterly lost.

I had relentlessly dedicated myself to a deeper human experience- trusting that by doing so, I would ultimately heal. I had rigorously detoxed, renounced pleasures, fueled my body solely on live foods, resolutely practiced my healing protocols, and held fast to my spiritual rituals.

I accepted my circumstance and believed in the higher purpose of the challenges I faced. I gave way for my true self to crawl out of the shell of the old predictable self. Yet, 6 months later…I still had my lump and had potentially made my condition worse. I felt like a fool.

The beast that had leapt out of me was Anger. I didn’t even know I harbored such a gastly thing until it exploded out. The compulsion to “take the high road” was usually an automatic response. In the past, the impulse to overcome anger and convert it to something useful had been ingrained. Anger is not productive, it’s ugly- it doesn’t solve anything- it’s just a waste of energy…

My rage emerged like the Incredible Hulk. I felt robbed of my life. Everything I had endured and deprived myself of was a joke. Accepting failure after trying so hard made me livid! I wanted to freak out, go on a drinking binge, drown myself in Ecstacy- escape reality, bathe in debauchery and rebel against the unfairness of life. Is there no meaning to anything? Did I seriously just get a shitty break and this is it? Should I have submitted to being butchered? “Fuck You Universe!” that was where I was at!

Bending over, I pressed my hands into my thighs while catching my breath. Heaving from my outburst, I felt it slip away. The crazed beast subsided and in its place was emptiness. The lesson from Anger was yet another example of what was left unfelt. There is no wasted emotion- all feelings collaborate in making us human.

In “When the Body Says No: The Cost of Hidden Stress”: Gabor Mate- MD and author, reveals the common thread between chronic disease and stress. Working in palliative care, he found that there is a physiological link between the body’s systems and our coping mechanism to manage negative emotions. Life experiences from an early age condition us to suppress what we feel or to override it in order to function. By doing so, there is a ripple effect causing a biological consequence. Maintaining my composure throughout my life may have been the root cause of my undoing…

I was due to leave for Vipassana the following week. I laughed at the absurdity of voluntarily choosing to sit with myself in silence for 10 days...especially at such a time. Pandora’s box had been opened…

LESSON: FEEL WHAT IS LEFT UNFELT

The Vision Vine

by Maasaisis

Little did I know that I would go through a hellacious resurrection and my life would be set on a new trajectory. It was in the heart of the Amazon jungle that I met Isis...

SHAMAN ON THE RIVER’S EDGE

I shifted uncomfortably from one ass cheek to the other on the wooden seat of the canoe. It was a 2 hr river ride from Puerto Maldonado to Tambopata Jungle Reserve where our 3 day Ayahuasca ceremony would take place. The hike up to Machu Picchu punished my body and depleted my stamina. Perhaps it was due to exhaustion…for the first time on that trip, I felt the foreboding of things to come.

The jungle straddled the river with shades of luscious greens. The vibrant symphony of its resident creatures accompanied us along our way. With my head resting on the railing edge of the canoe, I fell into a hypnotic trance watching the paddle go in and out of the murky water.

The sudden change in our course urged me to look up. Standing on the river’s edge stood a compact man with aged skin that hung off his bones like leather. His face was etched with deep set wrinkles that showed no expression as we pulled up. Slung over his shoulders were green wine bottles, tied by their necks with woven rope.

We had entered the community of Infierno. I subdued my imagination before it ran wild with theories of how the village came to be named after Hell. It was the chief of the pueblo, the shaman, who was waiting for our ride. A chorus of clinking glass synced with his movements. Inside the bottles the dark liquid sloshed around as he boarded our wooden vessel. He quietly took his seat with purpose. I instantly acknowledged the big spirit living inside his small body and cowered at the thought of ingesting a potion made by the Chief of Hell Village.

ENTER THE VISION VINE

We fasted for 3 days to purify our bodies in preparation for the ceremony.  Ayahuasca, also known as the “Vision Vine”, is a brew made of the Caapi vine and leaves of the Psychotria Viridis shrub. The DMT from the leaves alone does not work by being orally ingested. However the harmaline-containing vine neutralizes this problem to deliver DMT’s powerful psychoactive properties.

The natives of the Amazon have been using Ayahuasca for over 5000 years. Shamans claim that the plants themselves revealed the secret of combining these companion plants. If humans were experiencing altered states of consciousness in the infancy of our evolution, perhaps our brains are pre-wired for it. What is there for us to gain by accessing areas of the brain that are otherwise out of reach without the use of mind altering plants?

We gathered around the fire when the sun went down. I looked around the circle, at the serious faces staring into the flames. No doubt we were all feeling the uncertainty of stepping into the unknown. None of us had experienced Ayahuasca before except Da. Da sat across from me behind the flames, next to the Shaman. Each one of us brought an object of importance to place upon the ceremonial altar. I whispered a prayer for insight as I offered the large shard of quartz crystal Mama had given me.

The Shaman blessed the altar and ignited the ceremony with an Icaro chant. The Icaros are sung to attune to the energy of the medicine and to call in spirits that may help us. The whistling, humming and vocal melodies are used to navigate uncharted territories of otherworldly realms.

The bottle was opened to release the brew into the ceramic cup that was passed around the circle. Knocking back the potion, Da’s face screwed up into the likes of a walnut. If it had that kind of effect on the toughest guy I knew, it had to be bad-really bad.  My breath caught on anxious nerves as I watched each participant struggle to get it down.

When it was my turn the smell from the slimy swamp in the cup made me gag a little. I knew that if I prolonged the moment I would never get it down.  I tasted the bitterness even before it hit my tongue. I opened the gate of my throat and drained the fowl brew . Ayahuasca is notoriously nicknamed La Purga, The Purge. It took all my might not to instantly projectile puke into the center of the circle. I laboured with heavy breaths and managed to keep it down… initially.

I don’t know how long I stared down the fire before I felt it. The symphony of the jungle which up until that moment was just in the backdrop suddenly came to life inside my head. I was saturated in the vibration of sound emitted from all the strange creatures of the night. Dumbstruck by the intensity of what was happening I locked eyes with Da before my body gave way and I fell back. My physicality dissipated along with my reference to reality and the visions hit full throttle.

I transformed into a dazzling, emerald serpent. Blades of grass parted before me as I powerfully weaved forward. My slinky underbelly glided on the earth unobstructed then my movement suddenly changed to rocking forward and backward giving me a vantage point altered to a higher perspective. I was riding on the back of an immense, black jaguar. It was Da. He showed me around the jungle as we conversed telepathically. I don’t remember what we talked about, only that we had full capabilities of understanding each other without speaking.

WADING THROUGH HELL

If there is a Hell it must be personalized because that is what I experienced next. After a violent puke session wrestling my insides, I found myself wading through a sea of dead bodies. The horrific landscape was formed out of countless carcasses and severed appendages. It was dark, endless, bloody, and terrifying. I slogged through hell frantically looking for a way out. I was utterly alone in a silent world, imprisoned amongst the dead.

While writing about this experience, an old memory surfaced from the depths of my psyche. I now know exactly when the seed of my personal Hell was planted.

When I was 8, we went on a trip to Shirahama- a resort town on the South Coast of Wakayama Prefecture in Japan. We stayed in my grandparents’ luxurious condo by the beach. One night, my parents turned on the TV to watch the breaking news. A plane from Japan Airlines had crashed in  Gunma Prefecture and killed 520 people. It was to become known as one of the deadliest plane crashes in history.

My parents didn’t have the chance to warn me before I saw the image that shattered my reality. Up until that moment there was no reason to question the ending of things. There I saw mounds of lifeless people in the rubble of a monumental disaster. Embedded in the scattered plane parts, I saw a torn-off arm laying next to a leg poking out at an unnatural angle. Personal belongings lay in disarray, no longer belonging to anyone.

I hung suspended in shock, understanding that life could end abruptly and violently. Life didn’t always progress, it could be taken away without warning. I was paralyzed in fear, unable to undo what I had seen even after I shut my eyes.

I felt like I was in Hell for eternity. My determination to escape was eventually overwhelmed by despair. I finally stopped pushing against the corpses. Kneeling down, lifting my arms and looking up, I declared “I accept!”. I genuinely accepted that there was nowhere to go. I stopped fighting against the harrowing reality I was in.

It was as if I had said the magic word. The moment I stopped looking for a way out, it happened. Golden wings broke free out of my shoulder blades. I lit up the world of the dead as I flew right out of Hell.

My enormous wings enveloped me in the most heartfelt embrace. I was held in a cocoon of light in an exalted state. I don’t know how the name came to me. It just did. ISIS. She came as consciousness rather than a separate entity. Her powerful voice declared, “Do not forget who you are!”

It was a resurrection of Source that was long lost to me. In some kind of revelation, I opened my mouth and spilled out otherworldly melodies in a strange tongue. I became the vessel in which my song tethered me to all that is. Ecstatic moans from our circle beckoned my voice to stay…

“Suddenly Maasa began to sing in a totally mesmerizing language that clearly was out of this world. Any attempt to try to describe its profoundly spiritual beauty is just not possible. It was not just a song. It was a presence that arrived through sound…like an Angel was sitting amongst us and healing us with it. I have never since experienced anything of that sublime beauty and benevolence in any other ceremony. Isis had come to us using Maasa as a vessel-as the purest way to reach us by sound.” – John

THE MERGING POINT

I layed in my hut, still between worlds as the medicine seeped out of me. I felt my predictable self merge with an awakened being. The message was clear. I AM all that IS. I am made up of what has been, what is and what will become. The song that came through me was a primordial call of remembrance echoing across all of time and space. My wings are omnipresent, always accessible and deeply aligned with truth.

The message was powerful but so is the human condition to fall back on old, familiar ways. It is so easy to forget. Perhaps we were initially intact but life experiences can break us into pieces like deep ravines separating us from the original landmass from whence we came. I was determined to stay awake with Isis.

The adventure in Peru had come to a close. Each one of us received gifts of great importance. As the group dispersed homeward bound, we all felt the daunting task of holding onto our insights. On my way home I made a commitment to engrave the message into me. I would etch my awakening into a tattoo as a daily reminder of my remembrance.

The symbol that came to me represented my experience. The scarab, in Egyptian mythology, is a token of resurrection and transformation. The scarab beetle’s life cycle moves from dung to life. It is a perfect metaphor for the quest to rise out of the shit and align with the truth. These shiny insects roll manure from East to West in the same direction as the moving sun. The ancient Egyptians revered these tiny creatures as representations of the immortal cycle of creation. On my left forearm now is a constant reminder of that:  I AM, I AM, I AM.

LESSON: REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE

“Merging With Isis” – Acrylic on canvas by Maasa

Inca Trail To Machu Picchu

by Maasaisis

My lungs gasped for air but there was no such substance. Day 2 of our trek- clinging to my determination gulping fast, shallow breaths. I coaxed oxygenated blood to my heavy limbs to drag me up Warmiwainuska-Dead Woman’s Pass. At an elevation of 4215 meters, we were at the highest point of the Inca Trail, notorious for its challenges. 

Synapses in my brain were on strike. The steep incline through desert-like terrain was a vast change from the rolling paths and stone staircases we had trekked the day before. The single track path reaching to the summit was flanked by the perilous edge that fell into the pit of the valley. I willed my cognition to stay alert in the rarified atmosphere. I was convinced the trail was given its name for its treachery. Maybe some poor woman perished attempting to reach the summit...I later found out that the original people of Peru the Quechua named it so, because from below the crests of the valley resembles a supine woman.

I gave way as another energetic porter, a man in his mid 60’s smiled and left me in the dust. Keeling over trying to catch my breath, my ego crumpled in his wake. I was certain that the porters had some kind of Andean superpower, giving them the ability to rip up the range like mountain goats. They took swift, easy steps, expertly maneuvering around unbound rocks under the weight of our massive bags. Poking out of their sandals made out of car tires were brown, hardened, toes covered in dust from the miles we trekked. I felt embarrassed sporting my overpriced hikers, which clearly did not possess any magic to expedite my ascent.

Porters passed by me one by one while chomping on their coca leaves. The Coca leaf is used in the Andes as a traditional medicine for altitude sickness and stimulant to ward off fatigue. Apparently chewing the leaves is harmless, but the very same foliage prepared with toxic chemicals will make the renowned king of drugs: Cocaine. I had accumulated a saliva ball the size of a big marble which I stored in my cheek like a hamster. I let the acrid essence dribble down my throat in the space between my breaths. The spiteful taste kept my eyes on the prize and legs moving. 

I periodically looked over my shoulder to check on the group. Da was last in line behind the trail of bowed heads- sparsely spread out. Trudging behind the lady who arrived in Cusco in a pantsuit and high heels, Da patiently pushed her forward with his charisma. We all faced the mountain carrying our metaphorical baggage. It was up to us to transform our burdens into fuel- to just keep climbing one step at a time.

Standing on the summit of Dead Woman’s Pass I was exhilarated, giddy and exceptionally exhausted. I felt like a champion for actualizing my potential. I was high fiving and hollering as each participant crossed the threshold. My joy had an expansive feel to it- weightless, like I was levitating above the clouds. The sudden violent whirling in my head smashed me back down to Earth. My bliss flipped on its backside in a matter of seconds in a knockout blow.

DESPACHO CEREMONY

My head rested on Da’s lap while the world spun around me. I lay discombobulated inside the cave of the 4 man tent. The best way to describe how I felt was akin to an epic hangover- like I had recklessly consumed copious amounts of mismatched liquor. Da had his broad palm cupped over my forehead as he always did when I was sick.

Our guide Alberto, sat across from us- his gentle face illuminated by a single candle. He was crouched over his Mesa, purposefully laying out symbolic objects for a Despacho ceremony. The items were offerings to Pachamama; Earth goddess and to Apus; the mountains. I surrendered the weight of my achy body while my head rhythmically pulsed against Da’s hand. Alberto called upon the spirit of nature to siphon my suffering and transform it into something good. His lulling incantations pulled me in and out of consciousness. I chose 3 coca leaves from the pile laid out on a piece of woven cloth in slow motion. Instructed to hold it into a fan shape, I blew on it three times and released my plea for vitality. 

I recalled fragments of the ceremony when I awoke feeling noticeably better the next morning. Either I acclimated to the altitude while I slept or Alberto truly summoned the Earth Spirits to work magic on me. I tested my feet by walking over to the edge of the ridge. We were poking above the clouds at Puyupatamarka: Temple of the clouds. Sandwiched between the sun and wispy clouds, I took in the alpine breeze deeply into my lungs and exhaled gratitude. With the daunting task of surviving two more days, I packed up my things and set off at turtle speed. 

THE GLORY OF MACHU PICCHU

Walking through the Sun Gate, my Soul illuminated at the first sight of Machu Picchu. The glory of the ancient citadel was still intact.  At 2,350 meters above sea level, the Conquistadors never found the stone city. Terraces, buildings, and public squares were quietly nestled between the peaks of Machu Picchu and Huayna Picchu. The hardships of the previous days dissipated as we forged forward to the finish line. 

Leaving the Sun Gate, the group scurried on with renewed energy propelling us forth to the Lost City of the Incas. The mystical presence of ancient times permeated the maze of stone structures.  We scattered to explore the many buildings and sectors that blended in beautifully with the surrounding landscape. It was as if the Almighty himself carved the city right out of the mountain.

Yearning to be alone, I navigated the sacred site by avoiding sounds of clicking cameras held by zealous tourists.  My hands dragged across the cold, archaic rocks perfectly shaped to fit like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The bricks were meticulously constructed to fit together without the need for mortar.  There wasn’t a single space to slip a note between the stones. How did people in the 15th-century mine and shape these rocks to perfection? What did the people eat and where did they get their food from? Who lived here close to the gods? 

I befriended a Llama in my wanderings before I found the Funeral Rock. The enormous slab of rock sat in a cemetery site exuding a sense of purpose. Three steps and a flat landing was sculpted out of the bulk, clearly for one principle objective. It was large enough for an adult to lie on.  Were the dead laid out here so their spirit could rise into the cosmos? Was it used for sacrifices to please the gods? Perhaps a platform crafted for the Shaman Astronomer to commune with the stars?

Pondering its purpose, I gravitated cautiously towards the solid bulk.  It beckoned me to lay my back against it’s smooth, dense surface… but it was roped off. No one was around and they would never know….The voice of my desire ultimately conformed to my manner of restraint to “do the right thing”.  I was yet to find my own set of rules to live by- to smash down the invisible walls built on other people’s shoulds.  I regretted not seizing the moment and letting the magic pass me by.

Back with the group, I told Da about my urge to lay on the Death Rock. Rather than giving me a pat on the back for being a respectable tourist, he quickly devised a scheme to get me on the slab. Da does not play by the rules. He nonchalantly declared that we were to come back at night and simply bribe the guards to let us in after hours.  Mama was usually the one who dealt with Da’s crazy ideas. She’s won a few battles but by the time his spark turned into a raging fire no one could stop him on a mission. I immediately regretted telling him about my fancy. Afraid of potentially getting arrested for bribery, I implored Da to drop his absurd idea.  The glint in his eyes assured that it was a done deal.

We took the shuttle bus down the winding mountain road to the town of Aguas Calientes located at the foot of Machu Picchu. Da leaned over and informed me that we were to execute our late-night escapade after soaking in the hot springs. He wasn’t going to let it go. 

“Machu Picchu cerrado”. The taxi driver repeatedly told us it was closed but Da persisted- “Si, Si Yo sé… I know”. Da smiled, nodded and pointed up the mountain. The Cabbie eventually shrugged his shoulders and took our fare anyway. Squirming in the backseat, my heart synced with the rushing sound of the Urubamba River. I couldn’t possibly survive a Peruvian prison! What would become of our group? We’d make the headlines in the Kansai news… “Irresponsible tour facilitators arrested for bribery at one of the 7 wonders of the world!”

At the gate, I stood frozen a few meters behind Da while he negotiated with the guards. Fear and shame bubbled up in the coulden of my belly- a concoction that made me want to throw up.  “Muchas Gracias, Muchas Gracias” Da shook hands with the guards. “Let’s go!” I felt the frame of my body relax. The churning in my stomach subdued into a glowing feeling of excitement. Enveloped in the mystery of an onyx night sky, Machu Picchu was entirely ours to explore.

Roca Sagrada- the sacred rock sat dominantly in the Central Plaza at the foot of Little Peak-Huayna Picchu. It’s dark, massive, silhouette matched the profile of the mountain behind it which was a few shades lighter. We stood in reverence as the soundless citadel amplified its sacredness from all around us. 

Time leaned against us as a reminder of our mission. Clicking our Petzl lights back on, we broke the silence. With our foreheads beaming the way, we miraculously backtracked to the cemetery without getting lost. There was a vast heaviness in my body as I lay down…as if I was made of the same material as the rock . Pressed between the mystery of the past and the starry sky, there was a spark of remembrance of a time before mine. Tethered to the human experience, my heart cracked open. 

Mesa’s laid out and a ceremonial smoke with Da.
Keeping my eyes on the prize.

The glory of Machu Picchu.
Andean superheros .
Soaking in Aguas Calientes with some of the members of our group.

A Penis In Cusco

by Maasaisis

I have decided to include significant stories from my life, as these experiences have undoubtedly shaped me to become the person that I am. When I share the story of my healing, many do not understand why I chose to go about it in such an unorthodox way. What makes abundant sense to me has confused and frightened others. I credit my extraordinary life experiences for molding me into a person with the ability to accept cancer as a gift, and to heal from that place.

Da and I arrived in Cusco, Peru- the gateway to the Sacred Valley and the heart of the Inca people. A jetlagged group of 16 Japanese participants trailed behind us. We were to acclimate to the high altitude before we started our 4-day trek to Machu Picchu- one of the seven wonders of the world. At 3400 meters above sea level, Cusco stood taller than our destination.

The quaint town is a World Heritage Site- a historic capital of the Incas. In the main square stood the Basilica Cathedral. The Spanish Conquistadors had built it after they demolished the sacred temple of the native people.  Inside the cathedral, I wondered how such a deep sense of peace could permeate from a building built on the ashes of decades of violence.  

The low amount of oxygen in Cusco brought on headaches and general heaviness that resulted in slowing down our pace exponentially. It was like learning to live underwater- pressing against the atmosphere and sucking life through snorkels. I eventually summoned the energy to venture out. Exploring the stone corridors of the city, I admired the brightly woven clothes worn by the indigenous people. The explosion of colour looked fabulous against their dark complexion.

It was on one of these excursions that I was approached by a smiley man who was eager to talk to me. Thinking it was a good opportunity to practice my rudimentary Spanish, I tried to decode his ramblings without much luck. He had a sheepish look about him. When I finally said “no entiendo”, he unzipped his pants and pulled out his pecker! Unfortunately, this was not the first time I was dick flashed in public.

In Japan, Trench Coat Flashers are part of the norm, just like the Chikans in trains known for their various groping techniques during rush hour. These perverts- camouflaged amongst other salary men, would remain anonymous because the victims usually do not want to make a public scene.

I was eleven when a Flasher followed me from the train station on the way home from a school dance. The street was quiet except for the quickening sound of feet behind me. I turned around to see an erect dick that jumped out of the man’s coat like a jack in a box. He resembled a featherless bald eagle, triumphantly spreading its wings to show off what was between his skinny bird legs.  As disturbing as it was, it was usually a momentary indecent exposure. A situation I could easily run from. 

The Peruvian man exhibiting his member wasn’t going anywhere. He just stood there in a matter of factly way, smiling at me as he held out his brown weiner like an offering.  It would have been comical had it not been for the utter shock that froze me in place.  Under the circumstance, it took longer to kick start my defense mechanism to get my legs moving. It was like breathing through a straw as I sprinted back to the hotel in slow motion. It would take me years to stop running from men who violated me; to speak out and be outraged. Thankfully, I grew my own set of balls through life experiences. I don’t run anymore.

The story of the Peruvian Pervert became the highlight of our last dinner in Cusco. We blessed our journey and retired early in preparation for Machu Picchu.

LESSON: GROW MY OWN SET OF BALLS.

With the locals in the hacienda we stayed at preparing for Machu Picchu.
Da and I sandwiching Theo Parade-
“A native of Cusco, Peru and Director of Poqen Kanchay
Foundation, Dr. Paredes works to preserve the culture of ancient
Andean peoples.  An Anthropologist, Archeologist and Shaman –
at age eleven he was struck by lightning, which in the Andes is a
calling to the work in the Spirit World. “
Basilica Cathedral in the town square in Cusco.
A woman in beautiful traditional clothing.
I loved exploring the stone corridors of Cusco.

Learning To Lean In

by Maasaisis

My womb was his cocoon until liquid gushed out of me. I instinctively slammed my legs shut, got horizontal, and elevated my hips in attempt to stop the terrifying flow. This can’t be happening… it’s much too soon. Being a student of traditional midwifery and a practicing doula, I knew that we were in big trouble.

A venomous chill penetrated my system when I felt my sopping wet panties. I had lost too much amniotic fluid… The first thought that arose from shock, was the cosmic orgasmn I had the night before. It’s incredible how the mind finds a way to direct a moment of crisis by pointing the finger. It’s my fault…I came too hard…too much oxytocin compromised my sac…I killed the baby.

In the emergency room, I listened to his heartbeat- still beating strong inside the shrivelled up sac. Is he suffocating? Is he cold? Maybe if I don’t move the sac will repair and I can make more fluid… “I’m sorry, there is nothing we can do” says the doctor. I did not have the capacity to put an end to his heartbeat.

I lived with him for another week, accepting that the best place for him to die was inside me. During that time, my mind found another victim to blame- because I needed a better explanation for the sudden ending of my anticipated reality. I had been spotting due to a polyp that had grown outside my cervix. Two weeks before my sac exploded, at the recommendation of an obstetrician, I had the polyp removed. It was supposed to be a “safe” procedure, but maybe I got an infection which ruptured my membrane…I will never know.

I was in a room on the maternity floor where I’d had the privilege to witness many miracles of birth. I heard the wailing sounds of the rites of passage- women transforming into mothers. I would be initiated into a different kind of ceremony- one of letting go. I prayed that there would not be a heartbeat that morning… but my ears picked up a faint whooshing sound when the ultrasound rolled over my belly. It was to be a conscious choice to terminate my creation.

There was a packet of Cervidil sitting on the bedside table to induce my labour. It occurred to me that there should be doulas available to support women birthing death. Maybe that would be my niche after this…I couldn’t handle Al’s pain so I sent him away. I told him I needed to do it alone but it was my way of protecting him from what was to come. I assured him that the best way to support me was to go… “Babe, I got this”- words that I spoke too often, which would eventually need to be rectified.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.” I clung to the Ho’oponopono prayer with every surge of my womb. I was left alone in my ceremony until my scream alerted the nurse. He dropped out with a splat- into the basin between my thighs.

I could not look at what came out of me. I asked nurse to take it away because I was too close to a place I dared not go. I shoved the whole thing down to survive the moment. We buried him while I was still vacant. Al allowed his heart to break while I stood on firm ground unable to crumble.

Years later, my lump opened doors for do overs. It wasn’t until I received the help of Washuma, that I was able to finally be present with the residue of that loss. It was a significant event in my life that deserved a sincere reckoning.

Washuma- a South American cactus also known as San Pedro, which means the one that has the keys to the heavens. I was no stranger to working with plant medicine. Da took me to the Amazon jungle when I was sixteen for three days of ceremony with Ayahuasca. My initial life altering experience with Aya secured a huge respect for sacred plant medicine. My awakening was so profound- I felt no need to seek more mystical wisdom from mind altering plants. Then, it came back into my life precisely at the right time.

I opened my throat and accepted a potent dose of the slimy concoction. After so many initiations with my lump, swallowing it’s textured bitterness came with great ease. I settled into a beautiful transition of a birds eye view of perspective. It was an auspicious day coming up on the Lunar Eclipse- a glorious day for ceremony. The warmth of the sun broke through the windows and enveloped me in a blissful space. With soft eyes I absorbed the vastness of the snow capped mountains- illuminated under the canopy of bluebird sky. Time dissipated to a merging point of existence in the now. I bathed in gratitude for my place in all that is.

The spirit of my Scottish Granny distracted my euphoria. ” Stop your messin’ aboot and get on with it gal!” she said. I had to laugh because that was when the option for a second dose was made available. My experience to that point was near perfect but I could not deny the “edge”. There was somewhere I needed to go and the next drink would take me there. The second cup was a struggle- I was pushed off the precipice the moment I got it down.

My left ovary ached to be recognized. I felt constricting physical pain- beckoning me to lay down with it. There it was…the undigested day at the hospital. There was blame, pain, guilt and grief- a camaraderie of emotions waiting to be transformed and set free.

Washuma is known as Heart Medicine, because healing springs from love. What I experienced was the most tender kind of love which fueles remarkable forgiveness. I finally forgave what I repressed with sweet, loving, devotion to all that I am. It dissolved the enormity of the experience archived in my left ovary and made space for expansive love-the kind that can fix anything. The grief was not only from the loss of what could have been- it was also the inability for me to process my experience at the time. I had been carrying the guilt of not being able to properly say goodbye- nor able to acknowledge the price I paid to keep going.

I prided myself for being the strong one, never leaning on others for help. Even as I pushed Al away that day, I hung on by a mere thread. I reshaped my anguish into a shield to protect him from what I thought only I could endure. Washuma compassionately revealed to me, that I had in fact committed a disservice to the very person I was trying to protect. It became abundantly clear that I had robbed Al of a pivotal experience to brace me while setting his own grief free. I had bypassed the medicine of being vulnerable by assuming that he could not handle my weight. I ran the very same “I’ve got this” program with cancer when I should have leaned in- when I should have given him an opportunity to discover what was there for him.

LESSON: LEANING IN CREATES OPPORTUNITIES FOR PEOPLE TO SHOW UP IN WAYS THAT CAN NOT BE ASSUMED…IT GOES BOTH WAYS AND IT’S SOME KIND OF WONDERFUL.

The Things I Did- part 2

by Maasaisis

The Cold Sheet treatment is like a 30-day fast in a half-hour– Dr. Richard Schulze

I did not enjoy slathering the thick layer of petroleum jelly over my vulva. It was a compromise I was willing to take to assure the safety of my womanly bits. I wasn’t about to risk torching my coochie in the inferno awaiting me.

The potent smell of cayenne, ginger and dry mustard evaporated from the steamy bath- tinging my nostrils with exotic spice. I watched my hand turn instantly pink under the spout of fiery water. The temperature was set beyond the edge of my limit- that was where it needed to be for the Cold Sheet Treatment.

In contrast- the ghostly white sheet, silently froze in the rubbermaid filled with ice. It was placed in the shower stall next to the bathtub for a quick hydrotherapeutic transition.

Around the corner, hanging from a hook high up on the wall, dangled two swollen enema bags. Bag Number One was filled to the brim with cool Catnip Tea for the preliminary flushing. Catnip has a relaxing effect- to dislodge retained fecal matter from the intestinal wall. How the same herb has the opposite, stimulating effect on cats remains a mystery to me. I aimed to have a clean shute to shoot up the napalm concoction in Bag Number Two.

Bag Number Two… 10 cloves of crushed garlic, a cup of apple cider vinegar, plus a cup of distilled water. Apple cider has antiviral properties and aids in clearing mucus from the body. Garlic is a powerful antimicrobial/antiparasitic agent with claims to fame for killing cancer cells. The quickest and most absorbable way into my system was up the bottom end. Looking at the clumpy brew, it occured to me -too late- that I should have filtered out the garlic pulp… but hey, when in Rome…

Al gathered all the necessary equipment and ingredients while I prepared mentally for my supreme detox. He carefully waterproofed the bed in preparation for the pyretic, wet, burrito I was to become. His unwavering commitment to support me- even as I was about to artificially generate a high fever, was sentiment of invincible love.

There was an assembly line for the garlic paste treatment next to the prepared bed. Olive oil, garlic paste made of 1 part garlic and 1 part vaseline, 2 strips of cotton big enough to cover the soles my feet, 2 inch gauze, and woolen socks to keep the garlic wrap on my feet. The pungent smell of copious amounts of crushed garlic infiltrated our domain.

It was through a serendipitous meeting with an old friend that I learned of the Incurables Program- based on the work of the late Dr. John R. Christopher and his student, Dr. Richard Schulze. What she shared with me was intriguing and after some digging, I found the program compiled in Sam Biser’s ” Save Your Life Manual”. I printed all 438 pages of the PDF version and dove right in.

The purpose of the cold sheet treatment is to induce a fever to accelerate the body’s immune response. It’s vitally important to hydrate while the internal body temperature is pushed up to 103 degrees in the sweltering bath. Severe dehydration with a high internal temperature can lead to a seizure. That’s why Dr. Christopher recommends drinking 4L of yarrow tea- a diaphoretic which prompts sweating while maintaining hydration..

The body naturally raises its temperature as a way to rid itself of toxins. When excess undesirable materials like mucus, heavy metals, poisons, and toxic waste accumulates, an efficient way for the body to unload is with a fever. That’s why when we are sick, the peak of our healing usually comes with a fever.

Cancer cells are anaerobic cells that thrive in oxygen lacking environments. Sustained heat up to 113 degrees Fahrenheit can damage, even kill these rogue cells. The extreme temperature variance in the Cold Sheet Treatment forces oxygenated, purified, blood to flush through the system. At a 104 degree fever, white blood cells move 64 times faster to accelerate healing.

I saw white and inhaled a gasp before a scream leapt out of my throat. My body seized as the electrifying burn shot up my insides. The garlic pulp dragged out the excruciating process by partially blocking the nozzle at the end of the tubing. My fingers and knees involuntarily dug into the slate floor, while I shrieked to counteract the sizzling. I was meant to hold it in for as long as possible once the bag was empty. That was about 15 seconds for me… If I ever want to extract information from an unwilling villain, all I’d need is an enema bag and some potent garlic.

Al was armed with Cayenne pepper to spoon into my mouth if I got close to fainting. It was slow going getting into the tub. I thought of the live clams that Mama used to drop into boiling water for our miso soups… how they must have suffered… The only way to endure the heat was through vocalizing the sensations felt in my body. Mournful, long minor tones escaped my mouth like a lifeline out into the cosmos.

I felt like a pressure cooker ready to implode- the surge of blood throbbing in my brain, gave me double vision. I still had half the yarrow tea to drink, which meant I needed to stay in. In my delirium, I landed outside myself in the presence of friends and family who had passed over. They cheered me on and delivered me to a mysterious, cozy, environment.

The walls were made of earthen clay, painted in a warm mustard color. I knelt on the terracotta tiles of what looked to be the kitchen floor. The low, curved ceiling almost touched my head when I stood up to walk into the other room. I saw her crouched, back body covered with long, bushy, raven hair- she was preparing something… Medicinal herbs hung from the ceiling. I never saw her face but I knew she was my Medicine Woman.

“Al, help!” There was still some tea left but I responded to the urgency to get out. He braced me under my armpits as I feebly stepped out of the tub- dizzy and inbetween worlds. Knowing the program, he instantly wrapped me up in the frigid sheet. It felt absolutely divine! I could almost hear the sheet sizzling against my fevering body.

I leaned my weight into my man as he laid me down on the bed. Using Olive Oil, he thoroughly massaged my feet before slathering 1/2 inch of garlic paste on the prepared strips of cotton. The strips were placed on the soles of my feet- bandaged with gauze to hold it in place. Once my feet were wrapped up, he secured the swaddle with wool socks. He pinned my feet in my wet cocoon, then covered me up with a wool blanket. The album I listened to when I gave birth, was set to play on repeat. I spiralled into an altered sleep- traversing time and space.

LESSON: I AM THE MEDICINE WOMAN.

The Things I Did- part 1

by Maasaisis

Every idea I pursued- regardless of its merit- was relevant because I attracted it with my drive to live. I accepted cancer as the physical manifestation of my soul’s longing- to calibrate with my inherent sanctity. It was literally poking out to say “Acknowledge Me!” The activation switch went on- causing a ripple effect that I chose to ride out. What came to me was perfectly orchestrated to unfold in sync with my personal development.

Experience transformed into steppings stones-eventually leading me to my pot of gold. The gold being the answer to the million dollar question- why did I get cancer? The answer was my cure. It’s only in looking back from where I’m at now, that I understand the significance of the journey. Even the loop-de-loops that got me disoriented and scared, was part of the grand course- leading me to the permanent breakup with my lump. Stay tuned… I promise more details in due time.

There is no such thing as setbacks or wrong choices. That’s the interesting thing about perspectives. It changes from every vantage point…

The first cancer book that came to me was truly a gift. “Radical Remission: Surviving Cancer Against All Odds” by Dr. Kelly A. Turner. This book was an affirmation- a confirmation that I too could experience a Radical Remission. In the field of integrative oncology, Dr.Turner discovered the lack of research on people who cured cancer by using unorthodox approaches. Her fascination with their recoveries- against all odds- became the basis of her astounding research.

Dr. Turner travelled around the world interviewing holistic healers and radical remission survivors. After talking to over 100 survivors and studying over 1000 radical remission cases, she discovered awe inspiring parallels- nine common themes that lead to their cures. Radical Remissions tells the tales of miraculous recoveries- each person attaining health in their own unique way yet, tied with common themes.

I felt a kinship with the stories in the book- like I’d found my tribe through the collective initiation ignited by cancer. It was as if I was reading various versions of my own story. I was connected to the survivors – intuitively seeking out what we all had in common.

The number 9 started making a regular appearance-marking it’s importance since my diagnosis on 9/9/’19. Curious about it’s meaning, I found this quote on numerology.com. “The energy of the number 9 represents completion, but not finality. Think of it more in a cyclical sense; it’s about the ending of one cycle and the potential it creates for another cycle to begin. The 9 in Numerology acts as an usher in this process of transition or transformation, guiding and empowering us with its wisdom. It absorbs answers from a spiritual source, then delivers them to us in the real world.”

The Nine Radical Remission Themes:

  1. Changing your diet
  2. Taking control of your health
  3. Following your intuition
  4. Using herbs and supplements
  5. Releasing suppressed emotions
  6. Increasing positive emotions
  7. Embracing social support
  8. Deepening your spiritual connection
  9. Having strong reasons for living.

The first seven months of navigating my way with my lumpy companion was like taming a wild horse. I’d have breakthroughs- flying on my ride then…it would start buckin’ and freakin’ just when I thought I had the damn beast tamed. This is the process of cultivating homeostasis in body, mind and spirit.

Carving out my own healing protocol involved research and commitment. There are plenty of fancy holistic cancer clinics with wondrous testimonials that lured me in. All I’d have to do was sign up, show up, and come up with a ludicrous sum of money to hand my healing over. The cost ran anywhere between $25,000 to over $100,000 USD with extra costs to consider for follow ups. It sure gets you thinking about what you are worth… If I would have chosen that route, I would have found a way to Club Cancer Med.

I found a center in Costa Rica close to where I spent seven winters frolicking with my beloved cetacean family. I’d be dialled in tropical paradise with gourmet raw food, fresh juices, yoga classes, counselling sessions, spiritual practices, cutting edge treatments- all under the supervision of highly qualified integrative doctors. I’d be in the company of others marked with the “C”…that in itself was comforting. I fantasized about spending my days off with my finned family which surely would have contributed to my healing. It would have been so much easier…less lonely…to let go of the reins and let someone else take charge… but…it wasn’t for me.

I conceived a plan to replicate the common denominators of what the clinics offered. Most of them followed intense detoxification protocols, supplementation, anti cancer diets and self inquiry practices. I was convinced that with enough research, I could mimic a similar program in the comfort of my own home- close to my family, where I believed was the best place for me to heal.

I discovered first hand that alternative treatments can be just as intrusive as conventional therapies if not approached in a balanced manner. My detox protocol was well on the way after my 33 day grape fast. I was proud of my shit- no pun intended. Regular, smooth, snaky coils and cloudy pee delighted me as evidence of good plumbing. I stayed on track and ate like a rabbit.

Inspired by the work of Ann Wigmore and the program she created for the Hippocrates Health Institute, I started growing and juicing my own wheatgrass. I nurtured my gut drinking homemade rejuvelac- an enzyme rich, fermented, probiotic drink made of sprouted wheat berries. I revered the sacred grass- supremely high in nutrients and antioxidants. I believed in it enough to take the emerald elixir up my ass! To insure the highest quality of grass, I aspired to make my own rich soil.

I’ll never forget forging through knee deep snow to my veggie garden- adamant to find worms beneath the blanket of winter. I dug furiously until I found enough worms to force them out of hibernation to work for me. I had my system dialed with several wheatgrass trays going at a time- harvesting and using the finished carpet of cuttings as food for my miracle compost.

I cried the day my compost went missing. Al mistakenly took out the garbage can which was my compost factory. Thinking it was where I put the cat litter, he took it to the dump without looking inside. I’d grown that soil for weeks- anticipating my miracle cure. I diverted my devastation and took it as a sign to declare the end of my wheatgrass craze…

I followed the Gerson method aiming to drink 13 glasses of veggie juice a day. I ate raw-carefully planning out my meals days in advance so nuts were soaked and beans were sprouted in time to construct my meals. I ate cloves of garlic… Al could taste it when he kissed me. I restricted the consumption of oils so my cells wouldn’t get gunked up. I practiced 16 hours of intermittent fasting between my last and first meal of the day.

I joined online forums looking for radical remission survivors and found a woman who cured Non Hodgkin’s Follicular Lymphoma. She became a great ally, someone I could lean on when I got shaky. I had wonderful support from friends and family but they were not in the ring with me. She was one of many angels that blessed me along the way.

Triple handfuls of expensive supplements went down the hatch three times a day- washed down with herbal concoctions for every system in my body. I received lengthy IV infusions and stinging bites of mistletoe inoculations. Morning rituals with yoga and meditation- evening soaks in Moor Mud. Weekly dives into my can of worms and spilling my beans to my Acupuncturist. I skin brushed, I saunaed, I enemaed, I Wim Hoffed and baptized myself in frigid water on a daily basis.

I sat with Cymatic recordings of high-frequency sound waves and directed it to my lump. I practiced Ho’ponopono-expressing repentance, forgiveness, love, and gratitude. The Buddhist Heart Sutra did what “Eye Of The Tiger” did for Rocky Balboa. At night, I wrapped up my lump in flannel, soaked in castor oil and Frankincense- hoping that one day I’d wake up and it’d be gone….

and then…

The Cold Sheet Treatment- the pinnacle of my healing crisis…

To be continued on my next post…