Conspiracy of Healers

She laughs at my Hawaii shirt as she comes in. “Trying to distract me from healing you?” she asks. “No,” I say: “Just wearing it as an note to myself that I’m still going through a midlife-crisis.” She smiles and says: “Well, I’ll see you in the guest house in a minute.”

Living in a spiritual community means there’s always lots of people around that want to practice their healing on me.

I was never so sure about healing, though.

“Why should I heal if I am not sick?” I would ask them. And they would exchange knowing glances. His ego’s resisting. He’s not willing to heal. It’s a classic case…

But they wouldn’t say anything. Which was good. ’Cause I’m way too smart for their circular arguments.

“On some level,” they would tell me. “You’ve chosen to work with this healing community. It must be, because deep down you really have something to heal.”

“Sure,” I tell them. “On some level, on some level…” And then I would stare out of the window and pretend to contemplate my fragmented self.

So anyway, I enter the massage room. She tells me to lie down. It smells of incense. But not the terrible Nag Champa. I don’t know who invented that.

The healing starts. She balances my chakras. Then my organs. Then my meridians. Then she asks for the…