This is from a writing  assignemnt on the Diving Deeper pod, which we had to write a fictional story beginning with these first and last lines.
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He was running the vacuum cleaner when the phone rang. There was no way around it. She left the fucking thing here this morning, he thought to himself.  There it is vibrating and making this silly ring that is more like fruitcake than a ring.  Pink. A pink Cyon Ice Cream hand phone.  She is just like the girl in the commercial he despises.  Then why did he sleep with her last night if he hates her that much? Well, he doesn’t’ really hate her, it is the girl in the commercial that he hates and truth fully, he does not know her! He met her at 10:30 and she was naked with is penis inside her by 12:45.  How can he hate her when he can’t even pronounce her name?

Was it Eun Choen or Oen Ching or who knows what.  He promised himself last month after four years in Korea he would have sex with one Korean girl before he left for Russia.  Success! He did it.  Now he has washed the sheets and blankets that are mad of Egyptian cotton that he pray in bed every morning caressing his body.  He scrubbed the end tables that look like they were found in the street by the side of the road because they were.  The shower is soaking with some kind if detergent that he cant read the label of and all that is left is the carpet, then the apartment will be back to the way it was before he decided to seduce her fir his own selfish needs.

She was a tease just like the girl in the commercial.  Sexuality for the sake of attention. To love or romance, just attention.  Well, she got her attention last night. She got attention in her mouth, vagina and all over her body but she left her fucking phone and now he has to face her again. He would mail he the phone or drop it off if he knew her name or where she lived. All he knows is that she was playing games with him for pleasure and sport. Who has the last laugh now Ice Cream Girl?  Teach her to play games with an American man.  He got her drunk, real drunk. Young girls do not get drunk like that in Korea and this is why.  Virgins become throw-aways, honor becomes humiliation, love of family becomes family shame.

No, this is not what he had in mind when he made the promise. He just wanted to see and feel the body and skin of a Korean woman one time.  How do you spend four years somewhere and not sample the goods once? Is there some kind if law against such practices?  He should have just chosen a hooker, it would have been easier. This is not what he wanted. No way. Not a pink Cyon Ice Cream buzzing and screeching while he is desperately trying to erase the memory of her.  He just wanted to clean the place, burn some incense and then take his shower to clean all evidence of her existence.  But he knows it won’t work but that has never stopped him.  He can still feel the dried semen on the inside thighs of his legs where the also dried blood is mixed in together. 
How could he do such a thing? What was he thinking? A virgin for sport? The phone call must be torture for her to make.  He can’t just let it screech and buzz forever he needs to do something.  But who knows how many calls she will get not knowing her phone is in the home of an American guy who trashed her and gently ushered her out the door so quickly in the morning she forgot her phone.  Tears running down those soft juicy cheeks.  Trembling hands trying to slip her jacket on but cant zip the zipper.  Her hair still drying from her shower and covering her face, like she was banished from society from one too many Soju.

No, when he goes to Russia, he will not make this same promise to himself again.  No more deals with himself about having to sample the goods before he escapes. No, I one thing is clear from last night is that he has poisoned himself, her and her family. Lessoned learned at what expense? No more of this, once was more than enough. A firm decision like stealing a woman’s virginity. He made it clear he would never go back there again.

I took a glance at the little list that shows which and how many the top ten blogs of mine have been viewed earlier today.  My stomach dropped.  Going by the title of the blogs only, almost all of the ones that have made it into my current top ten are about Sex, Women's bodies, Fashion and Korea.

To think of how many gut-wrenching, in depth reflectioons, essays and memiors i have posted in the last year and have thos be the topics that draw the most attention is so disheartenig to me.  Somehow i thought gaia would be different.  Somehow i believed that even though gaia is primarily compromised of white, middle class females, it would be different.  Somehow i thought the force of the content that dives some much deeper in my writing would win over the same things that crowd the newspaper stand.

Clearly i am wrong.  Apparently we talk a good talk about social change and revolution and a new way of living and looking at the world but it is still the same things that draw the most attention- sex, woman's bodies and fashion- which in reality are all just sex spelled out differently.
I give up.

It has been forty minutes in an altered brain rhythm.  We have slipped from below ordinary consciousness, below psychic all the way down to spiritual healing.  It is a state where words, thoughts and actions are not ruled completely by the ego.  The shadow has quieted down enough to allow the True Self to speak and be present.  The answers are usually simple, a word, a phrase or maybe even just a syllable. In this case, very simple: “Yes”.  This is life as a Reiki Practitioner for me.

I am not a Healer. I am fortunate to get to participate in healing experiences but not Healer.  At times I am passed information intuitively but not a psychic.  Have facilitated many spiritual counseling session but am not The Counselor.  Teachings have spilled out of mouth initiating growth and development almost on a regular basis, often daily, but I am not The Teacher. There have been more situations than I could possibly count when I “read” someone’s spiritual history at first glance, but am not a telepath. I have no particular skills or talents of a supernatural nature.  I am not anyone special, at least not anymore so than the next man or woman.  How could I be?  Why would the Divine give one child any more gifts than another?  Arrogant I am; but not that arrogant, at least not at this moment.

I have been noticing lately how many folks claim to be Healers, Shaman, Teachers and a host of other grand positions.  If so, why are they still working with the people they have “healed”?  More importantly, why would anyone want to be “healed”?  If a Shaman or Healer rids them of their blemish, how will they know what to do next time they encounter a similar obstacle?

Where did this concept of such demonstrations of Grace begin to be labeled as talents and/or skills?  What extreme arrogance I have would have to posses to think these are something I am in charge of or belongs to me.  Like Healing and auto maintenance are both skill sets that can be memorized or categorized similarly.  One can learn how a Suzuki Samurai works and have complete mastery over returning it to its homeostasis when trained properly, at least in most cases.  But Healing is not that way, or should I say, my experiences have been contrary to that. So what skills or talents do I posses that contribute to me in working with others?  I Pray a lot.  If I was to grasp on to one skill it would be that I Pray a lot.  Another one that comes to the surface is I am relentless.  I push and push and push rarely accepting defeat or limitations. I barrel through without allowing fear to trump the possibility of Healing, mine or someone else’s.  I have great Faith in Healing.  Although I am not sure Faith is an honest portrayal.  I have experienced and witnessed time and time again the Will and Courage rise up from within us for greatness to really call it Faith.  Faith implies believe, I do not believe in anything.  I wait till I have enough evidence and that is what I exist on- evidence not Faith.

After fifteen years of laying my hands on people, holding their hands while they shared their deepest fears and suffering, witnessing their first Prayer since childhood and seeing that look in their eyes that can only be sparked with the Divine, I would not be honest to say I have Faith.  I once had Faith, I once believed in healing and there was a time a when I thought I was “special” or “gifted”.

I used to live with a guy who was divorced and shared custody of his 11-year-old daughter who was a Downs Syndrome kid.  She was a bossy kid but loved to sit and watch me Pray and complete Reiki self-treatments when she stayed with us on weekends. She would watch me sometimes for several hours riveted.  I remember before meeting Katie, I heard people talking about how being around a “special needs” child teaches us many things.  I did not know they were talking about what she taught us about patience and compassion was her patience and compassion, not ours.  I learned from her how hard it must be to live in a world where those around you can easily understand each other but have no clue what I am trying to tell them.  How much patience it must take to watch us fools try to get her to be something she is not, but still love us.  What love and healing her presence brought to others and me. Not because a “special needs” kid could tie her shoe or cut her own noodles.  Because she put up with our lack of understanding of her world relentlessly and loved us in spite of our ignorance. At times it was unbearable to me the gap between her willingness to love and accept me versus mine to her.  Katie was one of the few Healers I have known in my life.

I remember the first “miracle” I experienced with Vibrational energy. It was 1993 and I was a Radio Shack manager.  I ran many stores but this owe was located at a little mall. They sent me this young woman to help out since I was low of staff.  She was attractive, fashionable and friendly but didn’t have a clue what a capacitor or integrated circuit was.  Hey, I needed the help. One day I was in my office and she came in crying uncontrollably. I asked, “Hey what’s going on?'

“I just left the doctors office and they confirmed I have cancer in my liver.”

I was stunned. She may not even have been 21 at this point.  I didn’t know what to do but somehow this spilled out of mouth without thinking, “I have just begun receiving training in some kind of Vibrational healing through touch. I have not tried it on anyone yet but I would be willing to try it with you.” Just like that manager became human being.

“Oh my God! I was u all night last night watching TV because it couldn’t sleep.  I saw this show about people that do that and was wondering if there was anybody in New Jersey who does it. YES! I would love to try this if you would be willing”.

I put my hands on her shoulders and Prayed for about five minutes or so, maybe longer. I saw colors and felt warmth.  It was eerie in a good way. I didn’t know how to stop or what one does yet, so I just sat back down at my desk.  She was crying but with different tears this time.  A week later she came back to work, ran in and hugged me. She had just left the doctors office and there were not traces of cancer. Nothing. The ran the tests several times and found nothing. About a year later I received training in Reiki, and have practiced some form of Reiki daily since January 26th, 1995. I have witnessed many miracles. It is humbling every time. It lets me know my place in the grand scheme of things.  Not very big for the record.

I am not Healer. I have no particular skills or talents. My name is michael.  I like to Pray. Join me.

Seven Years Ago

It was a Saturday morning.  We had my mom’s special Italian eggs with peepers and onions with some steak fries on the side for brunch, delicious as usual.  We were going to visit a new place my mom had heard about named Peddlers Village in New Hope Pennsylvania.  I was ten years old at the time and like on most of our road trips, I was asked to take out the map and navigate our way there.  Mind you I do not think I had been to Pennsylvania yet in my life but my mom always treated me as a person, not a little helpless child that needed to be coddled and bundled up in the winter and frozen solid with air conditioning in the summer.  This day was perfect- sunny 70 something degrees and the sky was clear; no need to bundle up or crank the air conditioner in the car. We drove her old Chevy Impala with the windows open, which made map reading a challenge but there were enough traffic lights to work it out.

We spent the afternoon walking around and munching on fresh-made kettle Peanut Brittle.  The little shops and snack bars were fun, we felt like we were in a different time and place. This was before New Hope became a tourist trap for New Agers and Peddlers Village turned into pseudo-Amish Village. We had a great day.  We ate some dinner there before heading back. I think we had some kind of special meat sandwich on fresh marble rye.  On the way home, I bailed on my navigators duties and fell asleep for most of Route 206 but woke up by the time she needed an update.  We stopped at the locally owned Baskin-Robbins Ice Cream down the street from our home and I got Jamoca my favorite.  These are the kinds of days that I think about when I think of my mom.  There were many that were nothing like this but these carry most the most strength for me.

It was seven years ago today that her body had had enough. It was a Monday around noontime. I had been back in jersey and trying to support my mom during her final half year.  I worked and lived at 300 hundred year old former Inn that was a renovated restaurant that a buddy was the chef and manager. He started chemo and radiation for throat cancer while my mom was eroding away from the cancer that started when I was just a little older than that day at Peddlers Village. She had fought that thing for about thirty years!  Enough was enough. I was helping this attractive wealthy woman when the call came: it was my Cousin Jackie.  She didn’t have to say a word; her tears and energy told the story that I already knew the ending six months earlier.  The doctors said she had several years, “She is a fighter!” her oncologist said.  I knew in my belly it was time to stop fighting; the fight was over.

During those last few months, the memory of my mom was hard to bring to focus.  She had lost most of her memory and faculties due to the large quantities of morphine being dripped into her system.  When I was sitting next to her, she would say, “You know my son Michael is on the phone. He moved all the way to New Jersey just to stay with me.  He is such a great kid. They all say he is selfish and doesn’t care about his family but he walks five to ten miles every time he comes to see me. That’s my son Michael, never the easy way but he stands for what he believes.”  She would dose off.  The next day I would be on the phone with her, “You know my son Michael walked all day in the rain and wind to come see me today?  He is such a good-looking guy.  I feel so bad he has never gotten married but we always knew, even when he was a kid that he would never marry.  He was always so determined to do what he needed to do. Nobody ever could tell him what to do. Not my Michael.  I wish he had married a nice girl though, somebody to take care of him. Such a shame. He works so hard with those messed up kids in Wisconsin or wherever he lives.  He is so good with them but he still needs a woman to help him out. He gets lonely even though he says he doesn't. I am his mother and I know. Ok, I better get off the phone, I do not want to keep him waiting after walking all that way.”

About a month before she passed, I brought my two nephews and their mother, my brother’s widow, to see her. They had not seen her much since she had regressed so much.  She did not know who they were. She raised them and didn’t know who they were.  They cried. I did worse. To see these boys witness my mom, their Gramma like that was devastating to me. Still is. They did not see her again after that night.

Tonight I lit a candle for her. I prayed for her and thanked her. Most of what is good about me came from her. It took many years to come to the surface but it clearly has her stamp on it.  She was the fighter that showed me how to fight.  She was the cook that demonstrated food as love to be shared and cherished. She was the one who let me know I am worth it so I can do that with for others.  She was the one who loved me during the Hell years and the aftermath that followed, giving me hope that I would again be lovable some day. I am.

I miss her. More than I let myself know or feel. Too painful. I pretend I am Ok because it is the only thing I know how to do. I miss her. I miss her.

Mom. I miss you. They do too. You are not forgotten. Never will be.  Thank you for being my mom.  I love you.

Your son Michael