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Chapter Seven
The Making of a Healer |
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Life is not so much a journey as an awakening.
Anonymous |
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All suffering prepares the soul for vision.
Martin Buber |
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I (Jane) was weeping silently as I lay on my bunk in the dark, all by myself, at night in a dusty youth hostel in the Philippines. I couldn't bear the pain from my throbbing headache any longer. I was 26 years old, and feeling miserable, exhausted, and confused. |
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The year was 1974, and the troops enforcing the curfew under Marcos' martial law were pacing the streets of downtown Manila. It was quiet outside, but tension pervaded the stillness, and the air was hot and muggy. From my second-floor room I could hear every creak in the old building, and the dripping faucet of the bathtub down the hall was exacerbating the pounding in my head. There were so many spiders and crisscrossing webs in the tub that I hadn't had the energy to deal with bathing. So I lay sweating in the humid heat. The widow who owned the old mansion lived in a separate building, and it was too late for any other travelers to be arriving for the night. I was very much alone in the dilapidated building, and I had been tolerating more continuous pain than I had ever experienced before in my life. |
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I had never had a headache anywhere near as painful or as long-lasting as this one. It was now in its third day, and massive doses of aspirin hadn't touched it. Lying down, practicing deep, rhythmic breathing, and massaging |
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