Christmas Gifts

Our Christmas tree is up, the lights outside are hung and our neighborhood is decked out like I’ve never seen it before. It’s evident to me that my community is in the holiday spirit. On the other hand, I haven’t felt much like celebrating. My dad is suffering from throat cancer. He was diagnosed in early autumn and even though it was rapidly progressing, his prognosis was pretty good. If he could soldier through the daily, intense radiation treatments and several weeks of chemo therapy, there’s a damn good chance he could beat this thing. But treatment is not easy and it takes a toll.

Dad lives at Wheatridge Manor and I couldn’t be more grateful for the people there. He’s not just another resident, but he’s family to them. They don’t say it, but I know it.  I see it and feel it in the way they go above and beyond to care for him. They are competent medical professionals, yes, but more significantly they are some of the warmest, most self-less human beings.
His nurse, Jessica, treats him like her own dad. She brings him things and asks him what he wants or needs to make him more comfortable. She says he’s her ‘special guy’. She talks to me privately when she’s concerned about him for whatever reason. She even let me cry on her shoulder when it got too much for me.
His pain is managed pretty well by his medical staff and he didn’t have a lot of problems swallowing for the first few weeks.  But the flavor of his food was affected and everything tasted like metal. Dad would take a bite and say, “There goes two quarters and a dime.”  Then he’d take another bite, “Four pennies and a nickel.”  So I told his nurses that we should yank on his arm like a slot machine and maybe he’d pay off.” Then we’d all laugh, at him and with him. The kitchen staff have always made him his own pancakes from scratch on Friday, so he could have them all weekend.
Dad couldn’t eat the ribs that were served for dinner one night. Liz, the cook at Wheatridge, made him something else. He couldn’t eat that either, so she tried again. She made him some chopped beef roast and gravy and served it to him with rice. Yes! He could eat that. She was so pleased that he ate it, she was thanking him! The following day I was visiting Dad and we were talking to Liz’s husband while he waited for her to get off work. He offered to make a special batch of chili for my dad.
Time went on and Dad didn’t want to eat. The weight dropped off him. At about a 40 lb. loss, he’s in great danger. Today he had a feeding tube placed directly into his stomach. Maybe if the pressure of eating is taken off of him, he can just rest and focus on getting better. These are the things that were discussed with me by Betsy, his Nurse Practitioner. Betsy is another heavenly soul placed here on this earth to ease the suffering of the sick. What I love about Betsy is that she doesn’t sugar-coat a thing. She calls me and is straight-up with me about him. She doesn’t give me a line of bullshit or feed me false hope. She called today to talk about her concerns and then to ask how I’m feeling about everything. I try to be strong, but I cried like a baby and she cried a little with me.
His nursing home is small and it isn’t fancy, but I can’t imagine any place I’d rather have him.  From Denise at the front desk, who always gives him a healthy rash of shit when he needs it, to Michelle the driver, and her husband Eric, the maintenance man who spend their own hard-earned money to get him little things for his comfort.
The gifts I have this Christmas aren’t under my tree, they are from the unsuspecting angels at Wheatridge Manor. By loving my Dad, who heaven knows isn’t easy to handle, they have given me everything.
Maybe I am in the Christmas spirit after all. How could I be so blessed and not be?

Walking in Gratitude

When I was a child I was always connected to nature. I spent most of my time outside talking to any animals I could find or even talking to the trees. The smell of rain and rich earth lit up my soul. My brother and sister could be found inside where it was warm, but I was in the snowy back yard with runny nose and my dog Dusty right beside me. I would tell her stories I'd both read and had written.

In the summer you could find me barefoot with my dad at any of the gorgeous Colorado lakes or rivers standing in the water with a fishing pole in hand. I was home.

Today, and for the last couple of years I've heard the calling of home again. I hear the chattering of the trees and the murmuring of flowing water. I read the clouds. I spend time in my backyard with my chickens under my apricot tree. It's a much different message this time. I feel the sadness of our Earth Mother. Political unrest and divide have upended the natural processes that allow her to sustain humankind. Greed-driven power is damaging her. But I believe I've found a way that will help.

What I’ve found is my path. I can't really call it a new path, because like nature, it's always been there, waiting for me to come back. It's the shamanic path of the wounded healer. Through nature and my own healing of trauma and pain, I found I could help others with the guidance of my helping spirits.

I've spent time studying through books and learning about others who have followed a similar path and now use it to heal others. Like most fields of study, books will only take you so far. The most important wisdom I've gained comes through the shamanic journey. It is a practice that involves reaching an altered state of consciousness through drumming so that I may access and interact with the world of spirit.  I do this for my own guidance, and I do it on behalf of others to help guide them in their own healing.

It sounds pretty "out there". I know it did to me when I first learned about it. All I know is that it works. I tend to come at things from an academic approach. I like the tangible, the practical. I started from that point but it didn't pop for me until I tried it. I went on my first shamanic journey and then the world opened up to me like it never had before. It was there that I met my power animal. From him, I've had loving guidance and advice that I can always depend on. It may not always be what I want to hear, but it is always what I need to hear. Our relationship is the result of a mutual trust that we’ve built together. Now I’ve been guided and encouraged by spirit to help others and I’m answering that call by becoming a shamanic practitioner.

It isn’t through my own abilities that I can accomplish any type of spiritual work. It is through the wisdom of my helping spirits and power animals. In them lies the ability and the power. I am merely a conduit through which the information flows. In the shamanic world we call it a “hollow bone”.  I serve as a hollow bone through which information can pass from the spiritual world to my client.

You may be wondering, is this a religion? No. “Shamanism is a methodology, not a religion.” – Michael Harner PhD.  It’s nothing more than an avenue to access the world of spirit. It is a spiritual practice compatible with any religion, or no religion at all.

Shamanism is the thread that connects all original peoples of this planet. It can be traced back tens of thousands of years on opposite ends of the globe. Our ancestors’ survival depended on the shaman of the community journeying to the land of spirit to find out where the food was, where they could find water, or how to heal their people.

I don’t think anyone can argue the fact that our world today feels tired and burned out both literally and figuratively. I believe in hope and the power of change. The beautiful thing is that when we heal ourselves, we create a ripple effect. If we focus on healing our negative thoughts and break our self-damaging patterns, we will see healing start to happen on our planet. Like the age old saying goes, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

With that wisdom in mind and the encouragement of many, I begin my practice. The possibilities are limitless.