How do I heal? I don't know.

By the grace of God?
Through touching?
By listening to the quiet voice within?
Through diet and exercise?
Through the senses?
Through beauty?
Through music and images and words?
Medicine?
By holding crystal?
Through the white light?
The color green?
By caring?
Chanting?
Through laughter?
Walkabout?
Meditation?
Through the practice of balance?
Through strength of will?
Letting go?
By releasing blockage?
Through prayer?
By being in a certain place?
By being with certain people?
Certain animals?
By crying?
Through anger?
In the water?
In the heat of the sun?
The luster of your smile?
The darkness of the void?
The hues of the prism?
Through knowing that you care?
Through knowing that anyone cares?
Through remembering?
Through forgetting?
In an instant?
Through time?
Through tending the garden?
Through guidance?
Through learning?
Through teaching?
Through giving?
Through love?

With so many ways to heal, why is it so illusive?

Exchange

Sometimes a simple gesture can act as a turn of the handle that opens the floodgate.

As we stood on the deck of his cabin in Bear Canyon, my brother handed me four poems about people in his life.

"Here, Rob. Tell me what you think of these. One of these has you in it."

He flashed me that mischievous smile that always made me know that he knew and that he knew that I knew.

It was a brief diversion from moving boxes back into his mountain cabin as he was returning after some number of years off in his third marriage. He was not doing well with the divorce. Big time victim stuff. He was hurting.

"I had just told her that I felt that I could finally give her unconditional love. I told her that I had decided to truly love her. But she said that she had already made her decision to leave… She'll be sorry."

It was good that my son, John, and I could be there with Ray. The Hughes boys hangin' out.

It had been a year and a half since dad died. The family had been ripped apart by anger, guilt, shame and sadness. Anger that our great tree of life had fallen and toward whatever or whoever we thought we could blame. Guilt that we hadn't done more for him and for blaming each other in any way. Shame that we were so selfish. And sadness beyond words that the foundation and glowing heart of our family was gone.

We were now trying to move on. And trying to forgive. I told my brother that I loved him. He gave my son some lessons about history and the mountain. And John listened to Ray's every word with sincere respect.

John and I hiked with my brother to the waterfall and Ray taught John about the rock varieties of the mountain.

John and I hiked alone to the spring at Bear Flats, half way up the Bear Canyon trail that leads to the summit of Old Baldy. We put our hands in the water as it bubbled out of the mountain. After we splashed our faces, we thanked God for the mountain and the spring and the plants and the animals. We then picked perfect bay leaves near the spring, took them down the mountain and gave them to family members for healing and cooking.

I've been bringing bay leaves down the mountain for many years.

Years ago and not long after we were married, my wife, Nancy, and I once went up the mountain and revisited the spot along the stream in Bear Canyon where we had fallen in love, the same spot where we also had shared peaceful moments with her younger brother, Johnny. But at that time early in our marriage, Nancy's brother was dying of complications from AIDS and he lay alone in a stark hospital room in the town where we had all been raised. And that day, years ago, Nancy and I went to Bear Canyon and picked bay leaves near the rock-lined pool in the stream. We took the bay laurel branches and berries and leaves to the hospital in our hometown at the base of the mountain. We put on our hospital gowns, gloves and masks and headed for the room where Nancy's brother, my friend, lay alone. Johnny's body was devastated from the effects of AIDS. Pneumonia was killing him and only artificial support systems were keeping him alive. It was an early time in the AIDS epidemic. Fear, ignorance and narrow minds were prevalent and even most of the attendants in the hospital were afraid and they shunned him. This was hard to take. Nancy's brother was one of the most sensitive and brilliant people I have ever known. I had been his friend, his teacher and his student. And to theater audiences, I had been the wise old Gepetto to his Pinnochio.

We put the bay branches on his chest and in his hand. We took off our masks and kissed him on the cheek. He couldn't speak because of tubes in his throat and he was too weak to move. But his clouded eyes could move and they followed Nancy and me until we sat next to the bed. Nancy silently held her brother's hand for a while. Their hands shared the bay branch and I silently wandered in my own thoughts to memories of John Selby.

I saw him as he stood on one leg and his fingers danced with his flute for a grand tribute to Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull. And another time when he was supposed to perform a monologue assignment in acting class, he defiantly stood with his flute again and made his own peace with music and soul and love and anger. It wasn't the teacher's way. It was John Selby's way. Through his poetry, his music and his performing, he teased us all with glimpses of the other side of passion and defiance. Yet so gentle, he was a wisp of a breeze that made fresh the hearts of his friends. I thought of distinct and dramatic images in his poetry - the self defining in THE THIN MUSICIAN, the cusp of choices made in SALT SPRING ISLAND, the complex relationship with his grandfather in AS I DIG THIS GARDEN, and the second chances of INDIAN SUMMER.

I took Nancy's place at his side. She was exhausted. The bay branch was now between her brother and me. I asked Johnny if he could move his eyes. His answer was a slight movement of both eyes side to side. I smiled and cheered!

"Fantastic! John, I love you. I know it must be hard to be so confined and physically helpless. Come with us in your mind and ride the wind to the mountain and up through Bear Canyon. Join us at the place we all love. We come to the pool in the stream and sit quietly to listen to the sound of the water falling over the rocks. The smell of bay permeates the crisp and exhilarating air. Moving past the pool and along the trail we stand under the giant redwoods and sequoias, relatives of your old friends at Santa Cruz. We're now on the switchbacks along the face of the mountain. The Sun is intense. We look down and out across our valley. On top of the world, we take off, sailing like red-tailed hawks across the low ridges, over the foothills and the highlands and the groves and the colleges and to outside the window of your room here. See us so grand and free. Now let's soar back to the trail and continue on to Bear Flats and splash our faces in the spring just after it has bubbled out of the mountain. Refreshed, we dance across the high ridge with the bighorn sheep and scurry up the last thousand feet to the barren rock summit. The wind takes our breath away as we turn slowly in a complete circle to take in the glorious views of the Pacific beyond our valley and the Channel Islands shadowing out of the sea. We see the ridge of the San Gabriels to the West and East, from Santa Monica and L.A. in the West to the East and Big Bear and Lake Arrowhead and San Bernardino and beyond the great peaks of San Gorgonio and Jacinto to the oasis of Palm Springs. And off to the North we see the great Mohave desert stretching beyond the horizon. The wind suddenly grows hot to remind us of the loco winds, our friends the Santa Ana winds that have come from the Mohave through the mountain passes so many times and spilled into the valleys to incite the passions of all things living… including us. And now from the top of the mountain, the winds swirl below us as we sail to our higher purpose…"

We all sat alone, together, in a long silence until finally I broke the silence.

"Thank-you so much, John, for your passion and your creativity and your vision and your generosity. And thank-you for letting me fly with you and thank-you for your understanding and acceptance of the love between your sister and me. Thank-you, my friend."

His eyes were bright and focused, if only for a moment, and they looked deeply into my soul. And then his eyes moved up and down, just one time … the poet's silent gesture of a thousand words.

It was the last time we saw Johnny alive.

But now, far from the town where we were all raised and far from Bear Canyon and Mt. Baldy, and as I write this exploration, I see one of his poems in a simple frame on the wall before me.

WHILE LAUREL LEAVES WERE ALL AROUND

During this spring, the drenched earth had been calling out for blood.
I made my nest within a circle of five redwood trees, in a ravine grown over with bay.
At night I threaded my way through the huddled cattle, Dodging holes in the ground and sky,
And when it was clear, the moon-on-the-bay appeared
To be a silver snake, slithering across a dark mirror to me.

I boarded the treehouse almost accidentally
In the darkness under all the bay trees.
An owl pronounced its presence
With a full and hollow hoot.
I heard a flute play each night,
And sleep pulled me into the ocean
While laurel leaves were all around.

     —John S. Selby

I didn't read my brother's poems immediately, but waited until I was alone, sitting in my rental car. I was under a Eucalyptus tree at the edge of a park where I had played as a child.

I came to the poem that had me in it - with my name changed to Ricky. I guess Ray did that to protect the innocent. Thanks, Ray, but there's nothing to hide here. On the contrary, let's get it all out.

Memory From My Twelfth Year

Mother and Dad were in another argument
and Dad said she was dumb.
Mom slammed the gathered dinner dishes to the floor
sending shards of china and pork chop bones
skittered over the linoleum
as she sobbed down the hall.

Dad, Ricky, and I
continued to eat in silence.

When dad finished
he reared back in his chair
and threw his plate
like a big pie
at the sink across the kitchen.

Ricky cried.

     —Ray Hughes

And I cried many times at dinner when the arguments got out of control and escalated to violence. Until eventually the dinners were totally silent and many times I just sat alone and ate the cold food that was the remnant of best laid plans gone afoul. I still get indigestion or anxiety before dinners and in fact sometimes find myself looking for a fight to pick, even during the best of times. Funny how things work out that way… like father, like mother, like son.

I've written many times here about my father's strength and sensitivity and kindness. The many lessons learned and the profound connection that the two of us found in the Last Ride Home. The gentle confessions and forgiveness that we shared in the exploration of Where do I begin?. But now I am compelled to tell the other side, as I seek to move beyond the dark spell that threatens to perpetuate itself through my own actions learned so well through rote.

Something seemed to simmer under the surface in my dad and at certain times it would boil to the top as a violent rage or a cruel attack. As far as I know, no one outside of immediate family ever saw this other side, this Mr. Hyde, of a man who was otherwise a tower of compassion. It was an ugly and frightening performance that was reserved for a special few - my mother, my brother and me. My father was a powerful and imposing man… physically, mentally and verbally. He was I'm quite sure the greatest influence on all of us. And apparently each of us received our own unique version of the darkness, and were in turn branded with imprints that were left for each of us to carry on or to somehow shed. But how does one selectively shed an imprint of a loved one? How can we discard the bad and the dark while carrying on with the goodness and the light?

Perhaps because of the anxiety in my home, I was a bed-wetter beyond the diaper years. It was discomforting and embarrassing and it was also one of the situations that enraged my father. On several occasions when he found out, he rushed into my room in a rage and began yelling.

"What the hell is wrong with you, you worthless piece of shit. You goddamn baby. Get out of that bed, now, you piece of shit."

And he yanked me out of the bed by my arm and held me up while he beat my butt with his hand again and again and again as I cried.

"I'm sorry, I can't help it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm….."

"Shut up godammit. You make me sick. You're worthless. You're worthless"

His hands were huge and they shook my entire body as they struck me. And his face was that of a monster. His eyes were wild with madness. And hatred spewed from his glare.

And I whimpered, "I'm sorry."

And he shouted, "You whimpering, worthless baby! What a whimpering worthless baby!"

I was helpless. Overwhelmed. Bullied by the person I needed and loved and who I wanted to please. I couldn't fight back. I wouldn't fight back. Afraid that he would kill me. Afraid that he wouldn't love me. I was afraid and helpless. Overwhelmed and lost. Afraid to express the feeling that was inside me - the feeling that was strong. The feeling that grew stronger through the years but was never expressed. It was the feeling that never could be expressed until now….

Anger. Anger born out of confusion and out of being bullied and out of feeling helpless in the face of abuse.

And while the anger could never be expressed to or about my father, it was passed on to others as I lashed out to those I loved the most. Or other times I found myself feeling worthless - unworthy of good fortune and I pulled back into the shy and protective fetal position of a baby, figuratively or literally. Not only worthless but helpless as well.

Another situation that brought out the monster in my father was when I would make a mistake while we were working together or while I was carrying out a task.

As I attempted to hammer the nail, I missed badly and bent the nail. Reeling back in disappointment, I brushed the can of nails and it spilled onto the floor.

He exploded as he shoved me out of the way.

"You stupid idiot. Can't you do anything right? Get out of here. You're no help at all. I'll have to do it, myself. Just get out of here. You're no help, you worthless idiot."

I was afraid to speak. I went crying to my mother. I never expressed the feelings of anger and injustice that I felt toward my father. Not to him. Not to his face. I was afraid and I didn't act and it only reinforced the sense of weakness and futility that I felt. And it only magnified the anger that churned inside me. And I carried on the curse to my own loved ones and friends through the years.

Stop.

End.

Nevermore.

What I couldn't say as a child to set the record straight and what I didn't know as a child to make things right, I can say and know now. Bear with me while I spew this tirade to the past that I must express in order to feel complete in the present and to move forward with the strength and salvation that is me. I'm going to get it off my chest. I'm going to purge it from my heart. I'm going to throw it into the chasm of past ignorance and fear. The darkness that will remain just that. The darkness that recedes behind me as I move toward the light. Join me if you will.

"Daddy, why are you being a monster when you are so kind? Where does it come from? You are hurting me. I want you to help me. When you hurt me I am confused and I am very angry. I want to hurt you back. I want to destroy you because you betray me. But you are too strong. You are being a bully and I hate bullies. How can I hate you when you are everything that is important to me? Stop. Stop. Stop. Don't hurt me. I want to destroy you to make you stop hurting me. But I love you. Why are you being a monster when you are so beautiful and kind and smart and strong? Where does the monster come from and how can I destroy it?

I am not worthless, daddy.

I am strong and I am powerful. I have vision to see the truth in things. I can fly like the wind and I can heal. I can heal myself and I can heal you, if you would only let me. I have the gift of words and I can make them soar. I am an artist and my sensitivity is profound. I am a man and yet some of me is like a woman. I am full and complete. I will make many mistakes, but I will learn and grow and I will change for the better. I have learned much that is good from you. You are very special. I totally forgive you for the pain that you have inflicted on others and on yourself. But I do not accept the definitions and branding that you have sent my way while you were cursed by your own fears and demons. I will always remember you for your strength and compassion and wisdom and your abilities to bring light to others. You are a great man with a great spirit. I know that you are sorry for your violence and that you carry shame. Please let it go, daddy. We must both let it go and move on toward the light. I am trying to change the course of history through enlightenment. I need your help. And yes, I can feel you just over my shoulder cheering me on with approval and appreciation. You know that I must take this journey alone but that I am taking it for both of us. Pray for me. Pray that I may be strong and that I may move beyond the fears and demons that have been passed down through generations. I also pray. I pray that the light and the spirit will continue to guide me and that I can develop the strength to carry the responsibility of healing."

It began to rain in my hometown, on the park where I had played as a child. It was probably snowing in Bear Canyon with a beautiful silence and peace, but in my rental car parked alongside the park, the rain enclosed me and blended with my tears as time lost all meaning.

Pruning a Tree

My father taught me to prune a fruit tree.
Prune after the harvest.
Cut off dead branches.
Cut off branches that don't bare fruit.
Cut off branches that grow inward and tangle or cross over other branches.
Cut off branches that grow inward and block light to the main branches.
Cut off runners, branches that arbitrarily grow out of the trunk and reach straight up seeking light...taking energy from main branches.
Cut off branches near the ground that would sag to the ground with fruit.
Cut back main branches or top off the tree every several years… cutting back to major branch junctures…keeping the tree structure less cumbersome.
Prune to the natural tendencies of the tree to take a balanced and beautiful shape.

In pruning the tree of our life, the natural tendency is to prune away things or people or places that are outside of us. See the branches of the tree that are inside of us and represented by such things as anger, guilt, blame, regret, fear and anxiety. These are the kinds of branches to be pruned according to the basic principles of pruning.

I have seen the dramatic effect that proper pruning can have on the beauty and productivity of a tree and I have learned that it is never too late to prune a tree that has gone wild and out of control.

Touch

Touch the point of tension and let the healing energy pass through you. Ask God to pass the energy through you at the same time that you give thanks for the power and allow yourself to carry it. The energy cannot be seen. It is somehow powerful and gentle at the same time. You are like a vessel that carries the energy. When you can be at peace with yourself and therefore have the confidence to focus outside of yourself, the energy flows most freely. As the energy flows, you can feel the tension release at the place that is blocked and suffering. If the recipient of the healing touch is open to being healed and accepts the confidence and energy that you pass on, the tension gradually releases its hold and the blockage dissipates.

I find the healing touch to be miraculous and yet it seems somehow normal to me and I feel as if anyone can provide this service to others. However, I think our own tension and self-absorption generally prevents us from caring about and seeing the need in others or recognizing our power to provide the healing touch. Also, the healing touch can be a frightening experience, especially when the results are dramatic and the recipient becomes highly emotional because of the miraculous change and its overwhelming effects. A huge responsibility comes with the power to heal. Humility in the light of the power to heal is critical to properly carry that responsibility.