Why? - and other questions

Why in the world did the Fates lead me, thirty-two years ago today, to an intersection outside of Aloha, Oregon? Why did destiny arrange things so that I drove across that intersection at precisely the "perfect" moment to be rammed - twice - by a Southern Pacific freight train? Why? I didn't hear the train's horn (listening to Running on Empty, cranked up to eleven, at that moment. Honestly you can not plan for things like that.) There were no bells, bars or anything marking the intersection except a sign that said "Don't park on the tracks."

Good advice!

Over time I managed to draw so many lessons from that experience. For instance, it was after I was discharged from the hospital that I sought out my first alternative medical practitioner, an osteopath named Paula Eschtruth. It was she who brought me back to physical health and set me on the path of healing. She was amazing and I am so grateful to have found her!

Being knocked upside the head by a freight train is a perfect example of the way in which shamans are called to their vocation. There's always something - illness, injury, accident, insanity ... come to think of it, I suffered from every one of these on my way into shamanism. I had the knack for healing, and for my brand of mysticism, for as long as I can remember, but I didn't understand any of it consciously until I was well into my thirties. I used my healing energy to make myself sick, so as to avoid school or work. I was pretty good at giving myself a raging fever. (Why??) I dumbed down my mysticism by drinking, smoking pot, and doing as many drugs as possible. Until I got out of that stupor, I couldn't even remember my dreams, much less connect to the world of spirit. Whew.

To answer a couple of questions from yesterday, Steven, how is it helpful to remember past lives? It's interesting, something to do while waiting for the train, yes? And too, it gives me a persective from which to take all of this - you know - this life not as seriously as I might otherwise. It helps me focus on my soul's purpose. When I'm working on my soul's purpose, I experience a sublime satisfaction. I find it extremely helpful.

Jo, I didn't know anything about my past lives when I was a child, nor did I know I was a healer. My familial label was "the pretty one." (Why? My sisters are very beautiful.) I suspect they chose "pretty" because they couldn't think of anything else to say, since I was also "the weak and wimpy one." Sitting in my room, reading and re-reading that book about the WWI nurse's execution, or the chapter in "Little Women" in which Beth dies, weeping, hiding as much as possible (fearful that I would be imprisoned, starved and killed), all those behaviors were interpreted by my family as indicators of my lack of courage. With no connection to my big ole history, without a way to explain my odd behavior, I was seen as weird, and a pain in the ass. When my mother explained about how I knew when she had a headache, you could tell this fact creeped her out.

Past-life memories began coming to me shortly after the train hit me. One of my great teachers explained that the train wreck opened a hole in my energy field so these revelations could come into my consciousness.

I promise to answer more questions, and also to talk more about my strategy and preparation for the trip to Krakow, but for now, enough - eh? I think so. Here is the first of my offerings to Bridgid, a beautiful poem posted in 2007 by my dear brother Hammer of the now defunct blog, Throwing Hammers. Man I loved that blog. Love the man behind the blog. Love this poem. Much love to all. Happy February! L'chaim.

Mind

The slow overture of rain,
each drop breaking
without breaking into
the next, describes
the unrelenting, syncopated
mind. Not unlike
the hummingbirds
imagining their wings
to be their heart, and swallows
believing the horizon
to be a line they lift
and drop. What is it
they cast for? The poplars,
advancing or retreating,
lose their stature
equally, and yet stand firm,
making arrangements
in order to become
imaginary. The city
draws the mind in streets,
and streets compel it
from their intersections
where a little
belongs to no one. It is
what is driven through
all stationary portions
of the world, gravity's
stake in things, the leaves,
pressed against the dank
window of November
soil, remain unwelcome
till transformed, parts
of a puzzle unsolvable
till the edges give a bit
and soften. See how
then the picture becomes clear,
the mind entering the ground
more easily in pieces,
and all the richer for it.

--Jorie Graham