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I Got Spiritually Bitch Slapped At A Healing: Part II |
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THE SCAM
I look around and take in the scene. Inside the yoga studio, along the back wall, a table is set up with wares for sale; magic potions infused with gold that cure ailments and enhance consciousness; raw food balls that eradicate cancer or whatever else they do; lavendar/patchouli candles that you can definitely burn and maybe eat.
The smell of vegans is overpowering. Whatever it is that raw foodists and vegans don’t eat makes them stink. I can’t put my finger on it, but vegans smell weird. Maybe it’s from years of waitressing and dealing with their high-maintenance, condescending food modifications, but I can sniff out a vegan from a mile away. And I don’t like the smell of it.
So right away, aside from a fleeting thought wondering whether anyone has ever gone postal at a healing, I’m turned off. It doesn’t help that before I even step foot in The Healing, I have heard the urban hippie mythology surrounding Head Healer Himself (HHH). I can’t help it. I’m a deeply suspicious Scorpion woman. It’s just my nature. And I’m particularly suspicious of anyone getting paid and worshiped for perpetuating the myths of magical thinking.
“He can heal broken bones and draw lightning from the sky,” my friend The White Collar Hippie tells me excitedly. I roll my eyes, politely of course. By now he’s used to my New York cynicism laced with dry Rhode Island wit.
But I’m determined to keep an open mind; I do have a rather large heart and am capable of profound moments of authentic spirituality when truth strikes. I sit in lotus, close my eyes for a moment and focus on my breath, trying to reserve judgment.
However, nothing, and I mean ABSOLUTELY NOTHING from this moment on helps me with this process.
The Head Healer Himself (HHH) theatrically emerges, arms outstretched, open-palmed, dressed in white flowing linen pants and a long white linen shirt like The Beatles wore during their India phase. He has some obligatory Healer beads and extremely shiny, gray hair that he wears in a long, Native American-style braid. He puts his hands together in prayer and bows to the crowd.
Claps. Hoots. Hollers.
Avocado, the opening act, high on Gummiberri Juice (liquid hippie crack), starts with a talk about raw foods and the benefits of cacao. He shows slides of their “neighborhood”. They happen to have bordering properties on the idyllic island of Kauai. I’ll tell ya, I think it’s pretty easy to be happy and healthy and maintain a positive outlook on life when you’re neighbors in fucking paradise. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out why these guys are so Zen. Try dealing with LA traffic for a year and then let's talk about serenity.
Avocado gets everyone fired up and clapping, introduces HHH and we’re off. HHH starts in right away talking about LOVE and asks us to repeat after him, “Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love…” [repeat 100x]
We all dutifully repeat it. “Love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love, love…”
Well, you get the idea.
“How ya’ feelin’ now?” HHH asks after our Lovefest. Claps. Hoots. Hollers.
Next up: the testimonials. We hear from a woman wearing a cast. Apparently she broke her ankle the week before and was on crutches. Claps. Hoots. Hollers. Now she’s in a temporary cast and doesn’t need crutches. Her doctors say it’s a miracle!!
Claps. Hoots. Hollers.
There are a couple of other people who talk, but I honestly can’t remember a word they say. I am too busy trying to figure out why the format of this healing feels so familiar, despite never having been to one.
Finally: the demonstrations. Of course! I think. An infomercial. This whole thing is run like a friggin’ infomercial. I don’t know if it is the raw cacao, but this is about when the nausea sets in.
First up, the older woman whose hip bothers her. She is about 60. HHH asks her to please stand up. He starts snapping away, like a magician, sometimes one hand and then another, sometimes both hands snapping simultaneously, rapidly; like popcorn popping.
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.
SNAP. SNAP.
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.
SNAP.
“What’s the snapping for?” I whisper to The White Collar Hippie.
“Oh, I that’s to focus the energy—“
I shoot him a “it’s-me-you’re-talking-to-don’t-fucking-bullshit-me” look.
“I have no idea,” he says, saving his pitch for the next lost soul. “You should ask him during the break.”
“I’m going to,” I say defiantly. The snapping drives me nuts. And hopefully, my artful overuse of the word in this essay will drive you nuts too. That way, you can have a very small sense of the torture I endured.
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.
SNAP. SNAP.
SNAP.
“How do you feel now?” HHH asks the lady.
“I, I, why, it feels a little better…!” she says hesitantly, moving her leg slowly to test its newfound agility. Claps. Hoots. Hollers.
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.
SNAP. SNAP.
SNAP.
SNAP.
A long pause; HHH holds his hand, menacingly in pre-snap position. You can hear a pin drop.
SNAP.
“How’s ya feelin’ now?”
“It feels better.” she says.
“On a scale of 1 to 10 how much pain were you in when you came tonight?” HHH asks.
“7” she replies.
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.
SNAP.
Kind of like when someone is so phony, it’s offensive—the whole thing is so cliché it feels like a scam.
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.
“And now?” his hypnotic southern drawl for some reason conjures the image of a slippery tonic salesman.
“4” she says.
Claps. Hoots. Hollers. Some people wipe tears away. I’m not fucking kidding. Nor exaggerating. If anything, I’m downplaying the reality of the whole entire display in an effort to block the experience from my memory.
SNAP. SNAP.
“Now?” he presses. The lady hesitates.
SNAP.
SNAP. SNAP.
“How’s about now?” HHH will ask that hundreds of times throughout the rest of the night. At least, for the rest of the night I stay…It’s 2 hours into it and we haven’t even had our first break.
SNAP. SNAP. SNAP.
“2.” she say flatly. But she doesn’t seem like she really means it. Non-judgment flees. Judgment prevails.
Puh-leez!! Am I at a piece of friggin’ performance art? Is this Punk’d? There is something surreal about the moment, as if the organizers of this event approach it like designers approaching Disneyland: What is a healing supposed to look like? But I feel gypped. There isn’t even a cool forehead touch, followed by a fancy spiritual seizure. The only thing I have to show for the experience so far, is an upset stomach, the slight taste of vomit in my mouth and an oncoming migraine.
Now I know what that vegan smell is: bullshit. But (God?) isn't done with me yet....To be continued...
Article Series
This article is part 2 of a 3 part series. Other articles in this series are shown below:
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I Got Spiritually Bitch-Slapped At A Healing: Part I
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I Got Spiritually Bitch Slapped At A Healing: Part II
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I Got Spiritually Bitch Slapped At A Healing: Part III
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