Saturday, 15 August 2009

Eagles and Shamans

What I like about writing a blog is that suddenly it is everybody’s property.

May comes to visit with her friend Renée. “You can’t call your boyfriend Simon” May proclaims. “Hmm you’re right. I’m not very happy with it.” I reply thoughtfully. “But what shall we call him? I find it very difficult to think of him as anyone but who he is with his own name.” “Well, that’s it!” cries May, “Call him by his own name and then say you’ve changed the name. That’ll fox ‘em.” I give that idea a few seconds gestation. “I don’t think that’s the right thing to do.” “Well how about Marcel?” “I don’t think so.”

“George?”, “No”, “Pete?”, “No”, “Kenny?”, “NO”, “Well what about, what about, Nick!?”... “That’s IT.” I change the name immediately*.

May and Renée did not come here to re-christen my boyfriend. They came to practise their Shamanic healing. It’s very much the latest thing in West London. And they haven’t really come to see me but rather are drawn here by the fact that I am the custodian of a rare and coveted eagle’s feather that just dropped on me out of the sky.

It was back before breast cancer, in Australia on holiday with Nick. We were lying on a remote beach looking idly into the vast sky above where a distant eagle hovered, then juddered and flapped its wings. It dropped a feather that gently fluttered down and down towards a spot just a few yards from us. As we realised what was happening, Nick and I both sprang to our feet and ran towards the spinning feather. Nick scooped it up before it even touched the sand and presented it to me.

Even though I am not Shamanic by nature or religion, I took that to be a very good omen.
So I lie on the floor whilst May and Renée shake maracas and pepper pots over me, clear my energy blockages with a pendulum and comb my aura with the eagle’s feather. For comfort I’ve removed my bright yellow crocheted snood and replaced it with my white terry-towelling sleeping beanie. Suddenly I have gone from vibrant eye-catcher to looking, and feeling, like a giant baby. But it feels good to have people take care of me.

My philosophy is this: everything is beautiful, in it’s own way. Having been seriously ill in my youth, I’m aware that miracles happen that defy medical explanation. If I allow it, they happen on a daily basis. So bring on the prayers and the chanting and the chakra clearing, the crystals, reflexology, shiatsu and laying-on of hands. All well intentioned, freely given spiritual aid is gratefully accepted by me. Just don’t bring me anything that tries to play on my fear. I’ve no tolerance for that kind of manipulative Svengali-ism and if you care to try it on with me you’ll soon find yourself out the metaphorical door with a real live flea in your ear.

*For those who have just joined this blog, Nick was formerly called Simon. I have now changed every reference to Simon - to Nick. For those who have been reading up to today, I apologise for this blog's confusing and arbitrary renaming policy.