lie no. 30 | 11.24.19

“Your life started with loss.”

I couldn’t shake the shaman’s words stuck on repeat in my head as I walked out of his office three hours later, the powerless building now pitch black. 

This time I walked up the hall and down the stairs as I made my way back to the town’s center and tried to decide where the hell to go from here—both with this information and for dinner.

I’d missed the reservation I’d made earlier. I was hungry but the thought of eating at the time felt insensitive, to what or whom I don’t know. What I did know was I needed to find a place to sit and write down everything that had just happened. I found a nearby bar, because I also needed a drink, and that’s exactly what I did.

After the shaman shut the door he told me to take a seat as he lit a bunch of candles. 

That’s the first way I figured I was going to die in this scenario: A lit candle would topple over and set us both, along with all the sage, ablaze. At least we’d go out cleansed. Never mind that the door was never really out of reach, the space wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet. Or maybe the claustrophobia was just in my head. After all, there was room for a massage table I noticed.

Why didn’t I google what the hell shamans do? Why did I choose this of all times to throw caution to the wind? 

He sat down at his desk. “So, tell me what brings you here today, what is it you’re looking for?” he said as if I was in a grocery store looking for a head of purple, not white, cauliflower. 

I inhaled and took it from the top, except it sounded different this time. For starters, rather than leading with a compelling introduction to draw him in but not give too much away yet, I led with this: “I don’t really know. I’m not really looking for answers, I just felt strangely, almost urgently, called here.”

For a brief moment I thought back to that phone call on my first day in San Miguel. What if—no, that’s insane. That had not been some elaborate guerrilla marketing scheme shamans use to get clients. 

“It’s been a weird year,” I said, and then I was off. I told him about the birds, the construction, the song, the wisdom path, the dream I’d had the night before.

“Have you ever had one of those super realistic, but brief, dreams that feels intensely real when you wake up?” I texted Matt that day. “I had one last night—all these people were yelling ‘heed the call’ at me. It was terrifying.”

“Rebecca,” the shaman gently interrupted several minutes into my unrehearsed monologue, as I told him the ugly truths about my marriage, my parents, my career. I intentionally left out some key details. I hadn’t planned to tell him anything really—still not knowing what shamans do, I thought if he was anything like a psychic or medium the less I told him the better. “Take a breath.”

“You know, my story’s not all that unlike yours,” he said, as he told me about growing up in Ohio. 

That’s right—my shaman in Mexico was a gringo from the Midwest. Hardly out of central casting, but does anyone ever really turn out exactly as expected?

I caught my breath as he went on to tell me a little about what we’d be doing that day. Usually I just nod and act like I know what someone’s talking about when I don’t and add it to an ever-growing list of things to look up later—it’s how I end up down most rabbit holes. 

That day I asked every question that came to mind.

“What’s a chakra?”

“How can you tell if one is blocked?”

“Can chakra blocks kill you?”

“Where did you learn to do this? Is there an accreditation program? Trade association?”

“This Grandmother Forest you say we’re going, is it a real place?” 

“How do you define trance?”

He patiently answered every single one. Then he told me to lie down on the table.

I could physically feel the steel barriers start to rise around me as death—or worse—scenario numero dos revealed itself.

Now, I’d been somewhat prepared for the possibility there may be some touching involved. I’d deliberately worn jeans, a long-sleeve shirt, a sweater and a jacket. Oh, and running shoes, because, obviously.

Basically I wore the clothes I’d packed to wear home the next day, it being winter in Washington and all. 

I figured if something went horribly wrong he’d at least have a lot of layers to get through, buying me time to make my escape. 

The next day I smelled like a human smudge stick the entire way home. It was oddly comforting. Can’t say my seat mates shared this sentiment but that wasn’t my problem. After a glass of in-flight wine I found it hysterical, this notion of me cleansing the airspace over the Mexico-Texas border. Anyways.

“You don’t have to take anything off except your shoes,” he instructed.

I did as he said and got on the table. 

“Oh, do you have a phone on you?” he asked. “I can record everything so you can listen to the rituals later on your own if you’d like.” 

Think fast, I thought. I could get a text from Matt or my mother and he could read it and turn around and use the information in an attempt to blow my mind (what I thought either of them would text me warranting this I do not know). He could want it so I can’t call the police, not that I knew the emergency number there. He could put me in a trance and then drain my bank accounts.

“Yes, of course,” I said as I got up to grab it, slyly—although to this day I still don’t know what sense I thought this made—putting my phone in airplane mode as I handed it over. As if someone capable of putting me in a trance and using my fingerprint to wipe out my bank accounts wouldn’t know how to turn airplane mode off. 

It wasn’t until I got back on the table that it occurred to me that not only did no one know where I was, now they wouldn’t even be able to get a hold of me. 

But it would’ve been rude to ask for my phone back at that point and I remembered my girlfriend’s advice about being open minded. OK, sure. Maybe he’ll break into my phone while I’m out and book me an all-expenses-paid trip to Bali instead. Even my best-case scenarios involve deviancy.

He told me to relax. Maybe he could read minds after all.

He walked to the end of the table and asked if it was OK if he put a little oil on my hands and feet. 

My mouth said yes while my mind silently said it was some type of numbing agent about to kick in and prevent me from running away.

By this point he’d already moved to the opposite end of the table, now standing at my head. I tried to see if I could tell what was in his little medicine dropper but it was too dark. 

“Now I’m going to put a little under your tongue to help you relax,” he said.

Dutifully playing their parts, my mouth opened up wide while my mind silently screamed “Jesus, take the wheel.” It got in the backseat at that point and stayed quiet for the rest of the ride.

“Don’t worry, this isn’t a hallucinogenic or anything like that, it’ll just help you relax,” he told me as the herbaceous liquid trickled in and slowly spread throughout my mouth.

Oh, this was kind of fun now that my mind had finally shut up. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that it this could be some mind-altering substance! How freeing was this? I finally started to relax (still uncertain what those unctuous drops were to this day).

First he cleared my chakras and explained each of them in more depth as he went. He cleared my blocked ones, of which there were two.

Then, with an open crown, third eye, throat, heart, solar plexus, sacrum and root, it was finally time to go to the Grandmother Forest and things got weird fast.

“When’s your birthday, Rebecca?” he asked.

Does the Forest have an age limit?

“No, no,” he laughed, until I told him the date. 

He stopped and got quiet. Silence lasts longer in the dark.

“Interesting,” he finally said.

“Uh, what is? My birthday?”

“The fact that you’re here for your 35th birthday,” he said, but I still didn’t get it. “You’re in the midst of a significant transition in your life right now.” 

“You think?!” It was my turn to laugh. If someone came into my office spouting stories about birds and Stevie Nicks and wisdom paths and marriage and divorce and hurricanes and The Container Store and lying in therapy, you know what? I’m confident I, too, could’ve accurately guessed something was up.

“That’s why you’re here today,” he said. “That’s why your soul sought me out. You see, our souls go through spiritual transitions every seven years. It’s not unlike how our body transitions as we age.”

It sounded pretty different. 

He went on to explain the different seasons of life and the significance of each. Ages 28-34 are typically when people look inward and get curious about their greater purpose, he explained. 

“Oh, fuck,” I said, not intending to say it aloud. 

“Don’t worry, you’re not behind or late or anything like that,” he said. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. I get the sense your energies were focused elsewhere, away from yourself, during those years. That’s OK. That’s where they needed to be.”

I closed my eyes, thinking he was done and that we were ready to head into the Forest. 

Instead, he went on to tell me that if I was open to it, and really tried to remain as open as possible at all times, the year ahead was going to get really good. 

He cautioned me against imagining what that meant and told me to resist the temptation to start mapping it all out. He said that’s how to guarantee things would continue the way they’d been going. 

“You are in control,” he said. “But, and this is important, you have no way of knowing what happens next. You haven’t lived this life yet, so how could you know how it plays out? Stop trying to go where you think you’re supposed to be going and just be where you are.”

What he said that day really resonated with me—it does even more so today.

Whenever I try to do things the traditional way, be it personal or professional, something goes wrong. Or worse, thanks to the extra privilege I carry around this life I often get what I want, only to find out after the fact that it wasn’t actually right for me to begin with.

A dear friend told me I needed to stop “shoulding” all over myself last summer at a time I really needed to hear it. I’ve always been pretty full of should.

I will admit I had a healthy dose of skepticism as this man put his hand on my back—he only ever touched me through a sheet, well, and of course my 17 protective layers—and guided me into this sacred place it turns out is conveniently located in my head.

I’ve never been hypnotized but imagine it works similarly. He provided the descriptions—the towering trees forming a circle, the fire roaring in the center—and I painted the picture.

There was a whole cast of characters he brought along with us: a Native American chief, an African tribal warrior, all his spirit guides.

He told me each one would guide me to a different tree where I’d find myself at a different age—you guessed it—every seven years. We focused on ages 7, 14, 21, 56, 91 and newborn.

He instructed me to sit with myself at each of these ages and encouraged me to give each of them a hug or tell them something they needed to hear. We started with 91 and worked backward over time.

I high-fived myself at 91, not sure what else to do. I sat with myself at 56, mostly in silence, hoping some maturity would rub off.

When I’ve told this story to people they often asked how I look in the future. Y’all, I look fantastic.

Honestly, I didn’t see anything surface level in my future selves, or really at any age. I didn’t see how I looked, it was more of an essence I saw, or a feeling I got.

Mostly I was just pumped at the idea of the possibility of me still standing all those years from now. It meant there was a chance I could survive this stage, it meant I might make it out the other side.

It was surprisingly harder to visualize my younger self, I think in part because what I saw or felt could be fact checked. 

The shaman made a joke about how all 21 year olds need a hug, so to just go with that. Not me, I thought. I could use a lecture at that age. But as I sat there, a lecture never came. What did come surprised me: compassion for a young woman who had no idea what was about to hit in the next few years.

Then we got to 14. I couldn’t tell you a single thing about that age. I didn’t remember that girl, which kind of broke my heart. It also concerned me a little.

The more I tried to dig, the more nervous I got about falling into a trance. I wiggled my toes to make sure they still had feeling and keep myself alert. Maybe I was protecting myself. But maybe shady shamanic numbing agents weren’t what I was really afraid of deep down.

Next up was age 7. So much spunk and sass; smarts, too. Did not expect to fan girl over my first- and second-grade self. I could use some of that little girl’s wisdom as I got older.

I’d kind of been dreading getting to my newborn self since we started this. Who remembers the day they were born anyway? 

The shaman must’ve sensed my discomfort—I was no longer concerned he could read my mind by this point in the session, by the way. 

He eased me into this one, right before taking a sharp turn.

“Your mother and father are at the hospital,” he said. “You’re in the canal now.”

The wha... oh my god. Get me out of there! Not newborn me. Me, me! Thirty-five-year-old me does not want to be there. You get out of there, too, buddy!

Sometimes my next-level face management skills are more harmful than helpful. He kept going.

“You weren’t ready to leave the womb,” he said, despite my desperate, albeit silent, pleas to stop. “It’s as if you’re reaching back for something you don’t want to leave behind.”

That’s when he said those five words that I couldn’t shake.

“Your life started with loss,” he told me.

I knew exactly what he was talking about, I just never thought about it—certainly never like that, in that way, in those words.

I’d also never told him I’d once been a twin.