The “sickness”, whatever, flows in waves, pouring on heavily at times and then releasing its tight grip on my body. I am sweating then cool, allowing a short walk to the mess of fruit shake/sandwich stands where I approach my favorite lady for a fresh coconut and a baguette. She is a special one, the plumpest of them all and with a sincere smile across her face. I think she recognizes me surely for I am the only monkey seeking coconuts and plain bread. She also has the lone bread warmer, a distinctive appliance that makes her baguette tastier than the identical offerings from ten other adjoining stands. I know the local secrets.
Sleep. Sleep. Belly grumble.
I set up a small altar in my room with my stones and sacred items (sandalwood mala beads from training with Dharma Mittra, a quartz crystal from John of God, a stone from my shaman brother in Italy, a stone from my sister in NYC, a conch shell from Varkala India, a dove, an amethyst heart from my love, a piece of citrine for abundance and protection, a ring from my late Bubbe, my turtle totem Arnold) and send light. Western medicine failed yesterday and today I ask for healing in other dimensions.
Rest. And even more snoozing before trying for the first time in days to do yoga. I could barely do one sun salutation but headstands felt great letting fresh blood flow to my brain. I close my eyes and try to meditate as I remain on the top of my crown, although unsuccessfully for memories as a crazy kid doing cartwheels while ill pass joyfully through my mind….those were not the wisest ideas of my youth and mercifully my room is too small to try.
I finally finish reading Autobiography of a Yogi, a book that has trekked with me for about a year. Shit. I am such a stereotype you might as well just snatch away my flax seeds and mate tea. Alas in the words of Sri Yukteswar “Medications have limitations; the divine create life force has none. Believe that: you shall be well and strong.” I can overcome this malady…after my trip to Panama and Brazil last April I experienced two weeks of intestinal distress and conquered it all with meditation despite the doctors prescribing me antibiotics and other assorted pills. It is all possible.
At the edge of the Mekong I sit and OM. LOUDLY. Three times. I shake Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam. There is a glorious feeling to the emancipation of energy followed by the flow of a something novel and clean. Many rounds of pranayama and then sitting meditation. I thank the sun for his beauty and grace as it sets over the mountains, thanking creator once again for allowing me to experience being unwell in such a magnificent place. I rise, OMing three times again, receiving giggly smiles from the captains tying in their boats for the day on the shoreline. Buddha doesn’t OM…yet.
“So shall my word [creative Aum] be that goeth forth out of my mouth; it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and I shall prosper in the thing wherto I sent it. For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace: the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands” (Isaish 55:11-12).
Let the night spirits cure my bowels allowing me to travel tomorrow. Om Peace to all.