Another week gone and I’m still on the roller coaster. At times I’ve wanted to cry and at times I’ve felt free enough to laugh. Oh the twists and turns of this inner turmoil, this ride that I know is needed but not enjoyed. Waiting for any doctor isn’t pleasant but waiting for one who cuts away lips for a living isn’t a great experience. In this man’s head and hands lies my future – at least that’s what my frantic ego is telling me. Deeper down I suggest to myself that I’m a bit of an illusion, a Cosmic kid conjured up by Divine Love. I didn’t ask to be born, at least as far as I know; my life seems to be the Divine Will, an actor on a stage and all that. So ultimately, it’s the scalpel of Spirit Breath that will have its way – a way of healing for it can do no other.
I’ve been topping up my trust by reading a wee book by Brandon Bays, a spiritual teacher who zapped her own tumour in six weeks by emotional healing and cell reprogramming. It’s been doing the trick when ego packs up and goes to bed for a rest. It all makes sense to me, the wounds of past traumas affecting the DNA output of our cells etc. According to Brandon journeying through our inner layers of trapped emotions takes us into the Void, a dark place that terrifies us. Yet, once we jump in, or are Divinely pushed, we find a wondrous joy on the other side, a place where all sorts of miracles take place. Finding Source and the powerful Self within, restores our immune system to do its thing.
I’ve no doubts about the theory, yet facing up to our hidden, repressed emotions isn’t as easy as it sounds. Ego has defended us from pain for decades and isn’t willing to hand over its realm of expertise to a therapeutic new kid on the block. Anyway, I dipped my toe in the waters of Self exploration a few days ago. Asking my body what it was trying to tell me, a number of images and accompanying tears began to flow through my conscious mind.
I saw a nine-year old me standing in front of a 30-year-old Cub master, with a stunned look on my face. We’d been making models for our handcrafts badge and I’d put in plenty of hours to rustle up a wee cardboard aeroplane for inspection. Unfortunately, my Scouting inspector wasn’t that impressed. ‘Go away and make another one Dylan!’ was all he could muster as his words pierced my tender heart. A failure at nine, as pronounced by a pseudo-father figure. Tears gently rolled down my face.
Next, I was taken to a scene that took place the following year. I’d previously entered our local cycling proficiency test and won a monetary price. I’d been invited to the local Town Hall for the presentation of prizes and felt like a million dollars. However, second time around, after weaving in and out of a row of suitably placed obstacles, I’d been quickly failed by a male judge with a clipboard. This time around no certificate and no price. Again a male quasi-father figure had clinically rejected me. Off I cycled, in the direction of home where waves of failure swept over me as I lay on my bed in an embryonic position.
The revealings kept coming. I saw myself, as a 10-year-old lad, standing in a row of boys at the front of our Year 5 classroom. We’d been playing with a football during lunchtime in the inner sanctum of our beloved teacher Mr Barrett. He’d been a soldier and was a real man’s man with his cigarette and role of school soccer coach. He lived quite close to me and I enjoyed the father-like concern he showed me regarding my academic progress. Anyway he we were, lined up like ten-pins about to face our just desserts for accidentally knocking over his favourite pot plant. After a loud telling off the dreaded double rulers were produced and brought down with a stinging whack on our outstretched hands. My we head reeled with emotions – shame, rejection, betrayal, the lot. Again, I’d blown it in the eyes of a substitute father figure. A warm, salty tear trickled down my 58-year-old cheek.
So, are these emotions something to do with my present lip-cell DNA? Is something within, trying to tell me something about my past, present and future? Why my lips, the physical expression of my prophetic voice? Clearly, father-like rejections are bubbling up to the surface. Time to get real and let it all hang out in the Light. Brandon says my job is only to co-operate and forgive, both myself and others. I do that gladly as I head further in to what lies buried in the shadows of my psyche..
Thank you for all your messages of support and prayers. Do feel free to send me any insights you may have; I’ll appreciate them all. Meanwhile I’ll sit still and let this ride take me where it wills, knowing that it is just that, a ride. I’ll write again next week, prior to my appointment with my surgeon. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he were a man of Spirit! Though maybe better if he were as good as my doctor claims.