Healing Story

 

A Healing Story

Introduction

My healing stories began themselves in the summer of 2008.  There were several shamanic practice clients in relatively close succession for whom I heard, as I was working with them, “This person needs to find his own healing story.”

Over time, I have come to believe that the willingness of a client to engage in the search for a personal healing story is an important indicator of how quickly and effectively he or she will undertake the healing journey and possibly overcome the illness or condition that has brought us together.

The story need not be mystical, magical, spiritual.  It doesn’t even need to be made up.  For some people, a strong, clear story about the ordinary reality-based medical intervention successfully implemented by their own physician with other medical professionals is full, powerful and complete.

For others, a story that involves the engagement of their long-time spiritual guardians as personal healing helpers is just right.

And for some, it will be necessary for them to truly engage in a hero’s journey where the goal, their personal healing, is clear from the beginning.  But like the heroes and heroines of deep myth, the journeyer will have to take his or her own, halting steps and create the story by seeking the goal and living the process, finding and engaging wise, faithful, powerful, practical and magical helpers, tools and guides.

Here is a healing story I found with a client recently.

Blissings!

                                   

Two Warriors of Healing

 

I awoke to find myself sitting before the great hearth of a rustic tavern called from out of time to wherever I was.  The room itself was dim despite the warm glow of a huge, embering log within the fireplace.

I sensed it was late, near closing time, perhaps even past, so quiet was the space around me.  No tavern keeper in sight.

Two others sat nearby.  One, a young Chinese man in silky robes decorated with amazing, beautiful dragons in rich and marvelous colors.  One a slender middle-aged Caucasian fellow dressed in black velvets, part Renaissance, part 60s SoHo. 

They turned to me at the same moment and each nodded a greeting, the younger with a look of curiosity, the older with a thin but comfortable smile.

“You have come for healing,” the dragon warrior said, a statement, not a question.

 “It’s good you have found us,” said the other with a soft voice, deep as rivers.

“Sometimes healing is warrior’s work,” I heard two voices say inside my head.  “Like now.”

Simultaneously they rose and came toward me.  I found myself standing to face them, calm, arms loose at my sides, neck relaxed, eyes open but calm.

The dragon master stood before me, gazed into my eyes.  I felt his vibration shift.  He became here and other-wheres.  He began the movements of a fighting form, beautiful, flowing, powerful, invincible.  The dragons came alive, looking, guiding his movements, flowing with him. 

His motions flowed through my body as though I was insubstantial air, his hands and feet flaring healing fire in many colors as they met and burned away illness from my being. 

He was as tall as I, but then suddenly there were also dozens, hundreds of him, tiny dragon healers working through my body cell by cell by cell, the incredibly bright flames cleansing and healing.  From time to time he would grab up small tufts of gray… stuff − like dust bunnies – in his right hand, and burn them to less than cinders with flame from his left. 

Then the other master joined the fray.  He pulled from a scabbard a long, unnaturally bright silver dagger with a blade just over eighteen inches long.  As the dragon healer did his work, whirling in and around and through me as though he were a million ghosts, the other circled me slowly, shifting his vibration and scanning me very, very carefully, homing in on some thing or things only he perceived. 

 

Then, like lightning, he pierced the something within me with a now brilliantly glowing blade.  As he did, there became a dozen of him, making a large black velvet wheel centered by bright, sharp silver spokes which skewered something of wrongness within.  Skewered it and held it immobile and ineffective until, in a searing silver flash, the thing vanished from the world.

 

 And so this continued, the one master healing with flowing movement, explosive cries and fighting and the dragon flames of life, the other with quiet, cold, magical precision, piercing and destroying.  All through the night.

 

This morning, I awoke ready for more and more and more life.

 

May you, too find a healing story this day!

© 2009 Stephen Neal Szpatura

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