Just One Light Meditation Story of the Millions of Drops of Divinity I Am - Just One
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The doctor walked into the room where I sat waiting for his almighty highness. He proclaimed his prognosis, "your white blood cell count is over 18,000; you have leukemia; you're likely to live another six months."
I was stunned.
Speechless.
No small feat to render moi speechless.
The GP came in without any compassion, no bedside manner, just his cold proclamation and his haughty demeanor. I was livid, beyond furious. My ten seconds of speechlessness died on the vine, a black blossom without fruit. I yelled, "are you out of your mind? You walk in here and give me a diagnosis that is that I'm going to die? Without offering me a smidgeon of hope, without the tiniest window of a solution?" I wanted the entire office to hear. Patients, staff, everyone, it was irresponsible at best, cold and calculated at worst.
Storming out of the office in the Virginia countryside I flew up the road mentally daring a police officer to give me a ticket. My fear stoked the internal fire of my rage.
I'd been falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon at my desk. Normally, I was the first one in the office and the last to leave and I took pride in the fact that even though the company, Ungermann-Bass, first local area network company, precursor to the internet, didn't pay me what they paid the guys, I had the highest sales worldwide. It was uber high tech before the country heard of tech. I was determined they'd pay me ... the price to my body was extremely high.
Regularly, I awakened at my desk thanking God that I did have the corner office and could shut the door. This had become a regular occurrence and I was worried. 'Why was I so exhausted?' This had prompted the visit to the doctor's office but a prognosis of death? In my 20s, working out at the gym, the owner had clocked me 20 seconds off world record time for the mile swim. He'd asked me to train for Iron Man. Now I'm going to die? Does not compute, does not compute, this does not compute.
Went home and decided the local general practitioner was a moron and called, "Dial Doctors," looking for a mind-body specialist. There was one. In the entire metropolitan D.C. area there was one mind-body physician. I was appalled. Had studied biochemistry with the intent to go to medical school and had decided after sharing a student apartment with a hypochondriac who was regularly creating disease in her body that there was a mind-body connection. Did no one get this? Would I have to track down Deepak Chopra, M.D., who had just published his first book?
Dialed the one "Dial Doctor:" Elliott Dacher, M.D., registered as an internist who had gone to Harvard. I made an appointment.
Fear mixed with anger, arrogance, a certifiable lack of humility, impatience, all these emotions raged within my body as I waited in the doctor's office. I'd meditated as a teen while reading Paramhansa's, Autobiography of a Yogi. No one meditated then, not even Deepak. My third eye blew open while meditating andit scared me to death. There was no one to speak to about this experience and I was innately and painfully shy. As a shrink at a cocktail party once astutely divined, "you've the most extroverted exterior over the most introverted real self I've ever seen."
I'd grown up "different." We all think this, we all believe we're unique, but I kept a strong mental dossier in my mind to support my ego's belief systems. Mine consisted of the fact that I didn't speak English in kindergarten, spoke Dutch, German, French, smattering of Farsi and an Indian dialect but not a word of English. I attempted speaking a number of languages to my first teacher but she had one language, it was lo and behold English in America ... imagine that. My mental stage set then: "teachers and the system are retarded." My mother, having grown up the youngest was struggling with being an adult in a foreign country, used me as her translator and babysitter and left me very clear that everyone except perhaps my father, who I rarely got to see, was retarded.
My stage was set by the only person who can ever set our internal stages, ourselves. Yes, indeed, I'd decided and since I always scored the highest on exams there wasn't a lot of external evidence to support anyone else's being right. So, I must be right and the system, its authority and most of its constituents were not only wrong but slightly deficient. I'd have to figure it out between me and God.
So, at a very young age, I meditated. And, my third eye blew open. And, it scared me to fricking death. What the hell is this? Light in my head? Light? You're kidding me? In my mind? I'd crossed the threshold of sanity, now I was now not only arrogant and angry, now I was insane. Yes, they, my mother included, would be happy to certify me insane.
I slammed the beautiful Yogananda's book shut and raced out to the world, to climb the corporate ladder, to travel, to date, kundalini-awakened and clueless as to what kundalini was, how to use it, and worst, could have cared less had I the faintest clue as to what "kundalini" was.
A mess. I was a bona fide mess.
Dacher called me into his office. Twenty-something, blonde, lean, fit, I fit the perfect dumb-blonde "Barbie-doll" mode. The doctor looked at me kindly but arrogantly and asked about my life. The poor doctor, the cars on the autobahn look like they were standing still compared to my words ... my mouth went off like a maserati with jet fuel in the engine. I was one of his first "trial" patients ... there are no accidents.
He cut me off at twenty minutes, "you have to make a decision on your marriage. Give it 100% for six months and if it doesn't work, leave." My husband was born in Peru, they spent money like it was water and he didn't make any so he was spending mine. We were Dutch, and although I was too generous, it was not from debt I would spend, only from what was already in the bank. We were an abyss of financial woes apart and I was paying down his debts while he created new ones.
"Meditate? You want me to meditate?"
"Yes, right now. I'll be back in half an hour," he strode out.
Great, he's multitasking patients and I'm left with two choices: light insanity or death.
For the second time in my life I was lucky. I stopped him mid-stride out the door and regurgitated my light story. He gave me a piercing look. His words belied his piercing gaze, to my benefit, "that light story, it's nice, no big deal, meditate." That shrug of the shoulders, however contrived it was, was important. I was certain he was clueless about the light, from his own experience, but I remembered my great-uncle who'd also said, "meditation, genuflection, reflection, prayer, all these are important.
Decades before, when I was four, my great-uncle had also given me the same shrug when I'd seen auras. That shrug had also followed a piercing look from his laser-like blue eyes beneath his snow-capped skull. "No big deal," he said, "lots of people in history have seen that, make sure you're honest." He was at the Vatican, best friend of the "good" Pope, with the Devil's Advocate's office, multilingual, multi-Ph.D.'d. I didn't trust the physician, but I did trust my great-uncle. When he walked into a room people fell into a hush. James van der Veldt had been his name and James knew how to wield power. And, I adored James, and he in turn, adored me.
Dr. Dacher walked quietly back in, "meditate every day at least 20 minutes, make an appointment to see me next week." We had three appointments.
On the third appointment I stated, "check my white blood cell count, I'm pretty sure I'm okay now."
He said, "no need, I'm sure you're fine, keep meditating."
Now the quandry began in earnest. Meditate and live with the increasingly weird experiences or stop meditating and each time begin to get ill with this disease or that one ...
