It seems everyone I know in the late-50's to early 70's range is fighting an illness or physical condition, or more than one. Among the many tightropes I walk on my path is how to respond to friends telling me about their conditions, the visits to physicians, and the courses of treatment. You see, I'm pretty fully on board with Louise Hay-style interpretations of disease -- that there is a deeper meaning behind each condition. Yes, taking this route started decades ago when I left the corporate world and ran out of health insurance. I knew right away that I would need to be strong, and to keep learning from my body in an unconventional way. Along the way, I came to believe that there really is no such thing as death (something I'll write about soon), so for the most part, I lost that fear factor around illness. I've come to believe that my body isn't something to fight, that it is on my side. So references to "fighting disease" have been harder and harder to hear over time.
I guess the way I look at it, disease is essentially a loving message from the Universe, our inner source of Love, not something caused by an outside, negative or random factor. When I am sick, I am out of optimum alignment, but with no judgment to that. I look pretty carefully at where and when a condition starts, and the symbolism behind it. If my stomach is upset, I try to figure out what it is I cannot "stomach," literally. I try to pinpoint exactly what time the situation started, and what was happening in my life at that moment. The other day, I was stung several times by a bee or wasp. My right hand ballooned up immediately and hurt like heck. Once I washed it in cold water and put a baking soda poultice on the area of the sting, I sat down to try to reconstruct what I had been thinking about (with my left brain!) at that moment. Sure enough, in the seconds before the bite, I had been perseverating on how to use my leadership qualities to "help" in a situation that was not only not being asked for, but was probably not going to help me or the others involved at all. Was it an accident that all of a sudden my right hand was out of commission, barely able to grab a spoon or type on the computer? I don't think so. The message was clear: "Don't move any further forward in this direction, dear one. Take the time to rethink your next step."
This way of looking at illness is hard to admit to. I've kept it to myself for the most part. A bee sting is one thing, but these days, many of my friends' lives are being turned upside down by serious accidents and diseases. I find I've gotten pretty good at analyzing, even to some extent "diagnosing," what is going on in these situations, but does that mean that most people want to hear what I have to say in the heat of the moment? No. I care so much, and want to share my insights, but only if they are asked for. So I walk my own inner balance beam, listening to accounts of conventional medical treatments, which are obviously so right for most people in many situations, while at the same time running an internal dialogue -- almost a computer scan -- about what I see happening under the surface. I've come to trust all my instincts. But (as has been the case with so many things) the question is, when do I open my mouth? I guess the only place to do that, for now, is here on my blog, or on demand.
Meanwhile, how thankful am I to all my body's parts and abilities. Perhaps I cannot break records and the boundaries of human physicality. But today, I can walk, I can see, I can breathe, I can digest, I can hold, I can think clearly, I can write, and the bee sting has all but gone away. There's an Olympic gold medal in there somewhere!
