'Shamanism is the best, most beautiful...
Transcript of 'Shamanism is the best, most beautiful...
Dreams and Reality
Siberian Summer with Shamans and the Mountain Spirits
I was born and raised in a modern industrial Siberian city. The world around me
was simple and familiar, like a blanket on a grandmother’s bed. Never had I thought that
in my early thirties I would find myself on the opposite side of Mother Earth, in America
– and then that I would return to Siberia many years later to restore a spiritual connection
with my homeland.
The country of my childhood dreams, the great American land, freed my spirit. I
listened to the voices of the land, and they greatly inspired me. They guided me to the
place where beauty and the spirit were One. They guided me to my true path. The right
teachers came into my life. They passed on to me their wisdom and knowledge, and the
light of awareness opened my vision. I found my true Self - I remembered who I was. I
had the heart of a Siberian woman, compassionate and brave, and I had the blood and the
energy of my Mongolian and Russian ancestors-healers. I was becoming a healer.
My Qi-Gong meditations, intertwined with shamanic practices, filled my life with
visions, messages, and synchronistic events. During one of my meditations, an image of
three burning circles came into my vision. I was high above the land, and the Great Eagle
carried me toward the burning circles. It wasn’t long, before a profound clairvoyant
experience with a 160 year-old shamanic staff granted to me strength and a clear vision
of the Great Eagle. The time had come to enter the first burning circle.
The land of Siberia came into my vision, and I knew that I was supposed to go
back to my homeland with a mission. I saw myself with my friends, Native American
shamans and healers, and we were joining hands with Siberian shamans. We were uniting
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our energies to heal the Earth, giving humanity one more chance to open and heal their
hearts.
ONGON ceremony – journey to the Upper World
In May 2001, I contacted a small group of young people in the Chita region of
Siberia who organize trips into the Siberian wilderness and to shamanic sites. After some
communication via Internet, I received an email with exciting news: I was invited to a
private shamanic ONGON ceremony. It was the kind of ceremony that people are seldom
invited to attend, and there was no question in my mind as to whether I should go.
The journey to Siberia wasn’t easy - it took two days to get to the place of my
destination. But overall, it was a beautiful, heart warming experience! Everyone I met on
the way put all their hearts and effort to help me in all ways possible. I was back home,
back to the land where people treat each other as though all of them are the members of
one big family.
I was expected by Mongolian and Buryat* shamans, and when I arrived, I was
greeted and welcomed with an incredible hospitality and warmth. The local Buryat
women invited me to a fully prepared dinner with rich Siberian food. First they fed me,
then we exchanged our presents – the ceremony was already in progress.
The ONGON ceremony is a traditional way for Mongolian and Siberian shamans
to go on a journey and meet with the spirits of the Upper World. It is a private ceremony
for a shaman, and the right energies around the ceremony are a crucial requirement for
the success of the shaman’s journey.
I stayed with the Buryat shamans for four days and on the last day of the
ceremony, the spirit of my Mongolian ancestor, Zarin, came into the body of a woman
shaman and talked through her. Zarin told me that I was chosen by the spirits to become a
shaman-healer.
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The ONGON ceremony was over, but I didn’t feel that my journey was complete.
There was one more place I had to go. I listened, and the answer came through a local
woman. “You can’t leave without visiting Alhanai,” she told me after the ceremony.
The destination of my journey had narrowed to a unique and mysterious land in
the mountains of the southern part of Siberian wilderness. Three years ago, Alhanai was
declared a National Park. This land was recognized as one of the few places in the world
that had been chosen by our gods to become a site of hope for the human race. It carried a
hidden magical power, and some of Alhanai sites were famous for their healing waters
and healing stones. The Alhanai Mountains were covered by endless forest where unique
springs produced a rejuvenating force, arshaan. This water could heal muscles and bones
and return strength and beauty lost with age. From Russian fairy tales this water was
known as “water, which brings life back”.
*Buryats are belong to Mongolian nationality
A ceremony to meet spirits of Alhanai Mountain
Once I arrived in the land of Alhanai Mountain, a local forest worker showed me
a trail to the mountain. “It is not a difficult trail,” he said, then paused and with a strange
look in his eyes, added: “But anything can happen on your way.” And indeed, not long
after I had stepped on the mountain trail, strange things began to happen. The trail
suddenly disappeared: there was nothing in front of me, nor was there a trace of the trail
behind me. I found myself in the middle of a dense forest, puzzled and lost, and hesitant
to move at all. A strange sensation was growing inside of me as if the spirits were
watching my every step and my every thought. I kept walking, but I wasn’t certain where
I was or where I was going. From then on I had to follow my intuition.
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I was by myself in the deep forest, the taiga, where you can go for days without
meeting a soul. However, the spirits of the land were all around me, watching and
patiently waiting for me to clear up my destructive thoughts and to start listening. And I
began to listen. “Look to the direction of this fallen tree. It is your direction. The bird that
flew above. Follow the bird.” With no doubts, I was guided to the place where I was
supposed to perform my ceremony.
After wandering in the forest without any sensation of time, I entered an open
space with a rocky pedestal that had naturally formed in the middle. I climbed to the top,
and to my astonishment, found an absolutely flat surface. It was as if someone had
flattened and cleaned it specifically for my ceremony. I gave thanks to the spirits for their
guidance, and after a short preparation began my ceremony.
My regular Qi-Gong practice and some knowledge of shamanic rituals allowed
me to go into a deep trance without the aid of hallucinogens or drumming. I started my
shamanic journey. Drifting upwards effortlessly, I found myself above the forest-covered
mountain ranges of Siberia; above the blue ribbons of rivers and the splashes of crystal
pure lakes. I felt the wind rushing into my face as I was climbing higher and higher into
the sky. At the same time I was growing bigger and bigger compared to the size of the
mountains, experiencing their strength and power. I entered a beam of golden light that
was streaming from above, from the cosmic space. It was creating a channel of
communication between the two worlds.
The Spirit of Alhanai appeared in my vision in four different forms: as a bear, a
deer, a young beautiful woman, and an old Mongol. Later, I interpreted the four different
forms as a representation of the mountain’s strength, vulnerability, beauty and wisdom.
The spirit of the Alhanai made three requests. First, he asked for a shaman to
come back to the mountains. A shaman as a mediator between the physical world and the
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world of spirits historically was a protector and a healer for people and the land. Without
a shaman the land and the people could be easily mistreated. The healing energy of the
land would disappear, as well as the culture of an indigenous people – their wisdom,
knowledge, and unique healing practices. The spirit of Alhanai requested a shaman with
the name Bator. In Buryat’s language “Bator” means “a powerful man”.
The second request of the Alhanai was to establish a ceremony for those who
enter the sacred space of the mountains. The ceremony had to open people’s hearts, clean
destructive energies, and awaken people’s spirits. The Native American purification
ceremony could serve this purpose.
The third request of Alhanai was to control the number of people who entered the
area. A system of regulation hadn’t been established in the park yet, and the widespread
news about the unique healing power of the land attracted more and more people.
However, in case we were unable to protect the land ourselves, Alhanai would wake up
the protective power of his spirits.
When I was leaving the place of my ceremony, I was drawn to look back. Above
the rocky pedestal the clouds have formed a face with a striking resemblance to the face
of the old Mongol. I stood there for a while looking at the smiling face, absorbing
mysterious energy of Alhanai and smiling back.
I asked myself why I had been guided to this sacred place. Why had I been chosen
to receive the messages of the Alhanai Mountain? Then the answer came: I was myself a
bear, a deer, a young beautiful woman and a wise man with Mongolian blood. I was
chosen to receive the messages and to pass them on to other people who had big and
compassionate hearts, who cared about the land and its people, and who could make a
difference in this world.
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The gate to the parallel world
As my Alhanai journey continued, I needed a place to stay for one more night.
The forest worker, who I met before, introduced me to a healer: “Slava will host you for
tonight. He is a good man and a very interesting person to talk to.” The young man was
as big and as strong as a bear, but his whole presence emanated kindness and hospitality.
Slava shook my hand with a kind and shy expression. “I live 1.5 kilometres from here, in
izbushka*,” he told me. “We can either walk there or we’ll have to look around for a
ride.”
Slava lived in a log cabin made out of whole trunks of pine trees. His companions
were a cat, a dog and a rooster. Everything inside was made out of wood except for a
huge Russian pechka** that was sitting in the middle of the room, occupying most of the
cabin’s space. My bed was a simple bench covered with a thick wool blanket.
Our conversation circled around a subject that we were both fascinated about –
Tibetan medicine. The time was streaming in a relaxed flow and a semi-dark room
magically transformed and stretched into the endless space of Siberian taiga. At one
point, we shifted our conversation in the direction of shamanism. “I want to give you a
present,” Slava suddenly said. He took something from a shelf and handed it to me. On
his big palm lay an ancient toli, a shamanic disk which shamans use for healing and wear
for protection. It was something I could not have even dreamed of having.
Slava was happy to see my delight. “You are a very special person, Galina.
Tomorrow morning I am going to bring you to a place that only a few people know
about. It is called Podkova (Horseshoe).” Slava told me a story about the place. At the
end of the 19th century, 33 black shamans gathered at Podkova to perform a ceremony.
Among them was a llama. There was nothing unusual about the event, but the next day
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all 33 shamans were found dead, and the llama was missing. I asked Slava for more
information. He gave me a strange look. “Tomorrow, wait for tomorrow.”
The next morning we ate a simple breakfast of pancakes with pickled cucumbers
and left the cabin. There was no trail to Podkova. I followed Slava, brushing against high
grasses, bushes and prickly tree branches. An open space suddenly appeared. We were
standing at the top of high cliffs which had formed a canyon with the shape of a
horseshoe. Looking straight out below us, as far as we could see, stretched green waves
of the Siberian forest. “Here it is,” Slava said in a soft voice. “This is the place.” He
paused, listening to the surrounding sounds, then turned to me. “I am going to leave you
now, but I’ll be close by. I just want you to feel the place.”
As I closed my eyes, I experienced a beam of cosmic light streaming from above.
It was the same light I have seen on my shamanic journey. The beam was penetrating
Podkova and, thanks to the canyon’s shape, was spreading to the whole area of Alhanai.
“Podkova works as a transmitter,” came into my mind. I opened my eyes and looked
around. Slava was waiting for me nearby. “I want to show you a cave,” he said and
offered his hand for support. We moved around Podkova descending to the lower level.
The cave was small and so narrow that only one person could fit comfortably
inside. Closing my eyes, I had no clue as to what was going to happen next. I was
immediately taken high above the area, and found myself approaching a big shiny
opening. “It is a gate to the parallel reality,” it suddenly flushed through my mind. I was
drawn to enter the opening, but there was something frightening about it. Feeling
cautious, I pulled myself back and opened my eyes.
As I came out of the cave, and looked at Slava, I saw a silent question in his eyes.
“Podkova is the gate to the parallel reality,” I said. Slava nodded in agreement: “That’s
right. This gate had been used by the local shamans for centuries. A hundred years ago 33
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black shamans*** lived on this land, and there also were some llamas, who came from
Mongolia. When llamas first arrived, they were fascinated with beauty and power of
Alhanai Mountains. They wanted to stay on this land, but 33 shamans were on their way.
A tension of competition began to grow between llamas and the shamans. They were
competing over their influence on the local population.”
Trying not to miss a word, I quietly lowered myself on a rock next to Slava.
“During ceremonies shamans were communicating with the other dimensions,” Slava
continued, his eyes looking deep into the mysterious past. “They were bringing back
wisdom and the mystical power of the Higher Consciousness. But since the departure of
33 shamans, the gate to the parallel reality remained closed for a century. The angry
spirits of 33 shamans blocked the gate.”
Slava paused and then looked at me: “The legend says the spell will be broken
when 33 white shamans**** come to this place. As they join their hands and create a
circle with Podkova, the love of their hearts will reach the spirits. The gate to the parallel
reality will be open again and the white shamans will be given wisdom, strength, and an
answer on how to protect our world and how to help humanity.”
I listened to Slava, goose bumps all over my body. It took me a few moments
before I spoke. “Slava,” I said quietly, “I had a vision of such a ceremony. A chain of
synchronistic events brought me here.”
“The time has come to reopen the gate, Galina.” Slava was looking straight into
my eyes. Then he repeated again: “The time has come. We can't wait any longer.” He
stood up and offered his hand: “We have to go now. Otherwise, you'll be late for your
bus.”
* A Russian style log cabin
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** A traditional Russian wood stove with an oven made of bricks*** Black shamans mostly perform rituals and ceremonies and are not engaged in healing**** White shamans are mostly engaged in healing
The Higher Plan
I picked up my backpack from Slava’s cabin, and a few minutes later we were on
a dirt road, walking back to the campground. Completely immersed in his thoughts, Slava
hiked like a soldier, stepping firmly on a dusty surface, as if he was measuring a distance.
I tried to keep pace with him but it wasn’t easy. “A bus from Duldurga to Aginskoe
leaves at two o’clock,” he said finally breaking a long silence. “It would be pure luck if
you find a ride to Duldurga on time.”
I had to be back to Aginskoe by tonight. A shaman Luba who invited me initially
to the ONGON ceremony, later extended her invitation for another ceremony, which was
taking place the next day. A family of local Buryats asked Luba to establish
communication with the spirits of their ancestors. Some members of this big family,
mostly children, fell ill for no particular reason, and a young mother had repeated dreams
about her deceased grandfather who used to be a shaman. In the process of the ceremony
Luba had to play the role of a mediator, retrieving messages from the spirits and passing
them on to the family. I was thrilled to witness the fascinating process of this ceremony,
but at the same time I felt relaxed, accepting any outcome. I surrender to the Higher Plan.
There was no ride to Duldurga. Thirty minutes remained before a bus would leave
Duldurga to Aginskoe. “You are going to miss it,” Slava mentioned casually. “Looks
like,” I sighed and turned my eyes away from the road. A green jeep appeared from out
of nowhere. Brakes squealed, and a thick cloud of dust covered the car. In the next
moment I saw two friendly male faces looking at me from the front seat. The men waited
patiently as I approached them.
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“Zdravstvuite,” I greeted the men. “Where are you heading?”
“To Duldurga," the driver said. "Do you need a ride?”
“Yes, I do. I have to catch the two o’clock bus to Aginskoe. Can we make it?”
“Of course, we’ll make it,” the driver said, cleaning up the back seat.
The ride appeared as unexpectedly as if it was dropped from the sky. I ran back to
grab my backpack and stopped by Slava. Suddenly he looked lost. He was tormented
with something that was unspoken. With his head bent down he carefully explored the
road beneath his feet. “Slava, I have to go. I am sorry… I hope I'll see you again.” I
hugged my new friend and paused for a moment. Not receiving a sign from him, I sighed
and slowly walked to the car. One more time I looked back, silently asking Slava to raise
his head and to give me one of his gentle smiles, but he kept standing motionless with his
head down. I hopped into the car, and with a clicking sound of the shutting door, the
driver pushed the gas pedal.
It was a wild ride. A fast ride comes from our Russian and Mongolian blood. If
you, my American reader, think that you are a crazy driver, forget it. Go to Russia and
experience a ride with a local driver. If you think, that you know what a bad road is,
forget it as well. Go to Siberia to experience it in its fullest. Only then will you know the
true meaning of a wild ride! Russian drivers are used to the rough roads as much as to a
rough life. They don't slow down in sight of bumps and holes, instead, they keep a steady
speed and move to the opposite side of the road, because from their point of view that
side always looks better than the side they drive on.
We arrived in Duldurga right on time. When our jeep approached the bus station,
my bus showed up directly behind us. With a humming vibration in my tailbone, I
crawled out of the jeep graciously thanking the men. No doubt, they were employed by
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the Mountain Spirits to play their important role in a chain of synchronistic events of my
Siberian journey.
The two-hour drive in a hot and noisy bus full of dust, luggage and people, awoke
vivid memories about life in Russia. The whole way to Aginskoe I stood on my feet,
sometimes on one foot only, trying to keep balance in my body and mind. Later I told my
American friends: “If you want to survive in Russia, you have to accept the situation, and
you have to adapt to it as much as you can. Besides that, it is important not to lose your
sense of humor.”
Finally, the long-awaited village appeared in a far distance. Images of the first
houses were swaying in hot air as if I was seeing a mirage. I arrived in Aginskoe, the
capital of Buryatiya.
The summer is hot and dry in Buryatiya. In the afternoon you find yourself under
the attack of a direct sun glaring mercilessly from the above. At the same time, heavy
waves of heat rise from dry and dusty roads. It feels as if your brain is melting, and your
whole body is on fire.
I was looking for the house of Zeremzhit, a Buryat woman who I have met at the
ONGON ceremony. Zeremzhit willingly agreed to host me after the ceremony. She was a
school teacher, and there was no problem in finding her house. Local kids, at first
interrupting each other and then in unison, gave me a clear direction to the house of their
teacher. As soon as I saw and greeted Zeremzhit, I expressed to her my desperate need
for banya. Streams of sticky sweat mixed with a day-thick dust made my body cry for a
good scrub. “Do you know anyone who has banya?” I asked my hostess with hope. “Let
me call some of my neighbors,” Zeremzhit said with a joyful expression on her face. She
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was happy to have me back.
A few minutes later she called for me: “Galina, get ready. My neighbors are
preparing banya for you.” On our way to the neighbors' house, I learned from my hostess
that we were invited to the house of Bator, a newly initiated shaman. Everything was
unfolding according to the Higher Plan.
Bator
After exchanging greetings, Bator’s wife, a petite smiling woman asked me to
follow her. She walked toward a squat log cabin, which was sitting behind the main
house. When she opened a low and heavy door, a familiar aroma of herbs and birch
leaves mixed with dry heat, reached my senses, and my whole body relaxed in
anticipation of a heavenly experience.
Banya is an inalienable attribute of Russia. It is unlikely that the Russian nation
would survive debilitating wars, hardship of life and rough climate without the healing
and rejuvenating power of banya. Banya restores our health by cleansing our body,
relaxing our mind, strengthening and lifting up our spirit.
A wood stove with a pile of river rocks on the top
was red from the heat. I scooped up a full dipper of hot water and poured it on the rocks.
The water hissed wildly through the rocks’ surface and a dense hot wave enveloped my
body. I reached for venik* which soaked in a bucket filled with hot water, and after
shacking excess water off, pressed hot branches against my chest. Leaves were soft and
emitting a healing aroma. I stroked and whipped my body with hot branches, adding
more and more steam to the room, until all pores of my body opened up to the healing
heat. I scrubbed and washed myself completely immersed in a pleasure of a well prepared
banya. At the end, I poured a full bucket of cold water over my head – the washing
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ceremony was completed. I felt light and pure from inside out like a newborn baby.
Bator and his family waited for me. As I walked into the house, a happy smile on
my face red from the healing heat, Zeremzhit and I were invited to join the family for a
dinner. We sat around a fully served table, and Bator started his story: “This afternoon I
was supposed to be at the ceremony, but my car broke down and nobody could give me a
ride. I didn't know what to think. I just knew that it happened for a reason.”
I listened to Bator with a smile and, when he finished, I replied: “The spirits were
holding you because I was on my way to bring you a message.” I told Bator about my
shamanic journey of meeting the Mountain Spirits. At the end, I passed along the
message, “Alchanai asked for you, Bator.”
The whole family went quiet. Even a 9-month old baby, Bator's grandchild, froze
up in the middle of his play with his mouth wide open. Bator broke the silence: “It is an
honor and a big responsibility to be the chosen one, and I want to tell you my story how I
became a shaman.” He poured some tea in a tea cup and began his story.
“I just started my path as a shaman. In other words, I accepted it. I had no choice.
I used to be..,” he paused and looked at his family for support and then continued. “I used
to be a KGB officer. Besides other things, we were obligated to persecute any forms of
religion including shamanism. I was a good officer and had a high rank, but something
strange happened to me two years ago. I had a dream. That dream was as vivid as the
reality itself. My grandfather, who used to be a shaman, came to me in my dream. He
said that a spell was put on our family, so no one would practice shamanism for 100
years. Then he said that 100 years had passed, the spell is broken and the spirits are free
again. “Your time has come,” the grandfather told me. I woke up in the morning
remembering every detail of that dream. Back then I had no idea what that dream was
about.
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I fell ill not long after that night. I lost sleep. Every night voices were talking to
me. Every morning I had to bring myself together so I could function at work. At lunch I
would lock the door in my office and sleep for a couple hours. I started to lose weight,
and I felt completely exhausted. However, I was tough. For almost two years I had been
pretending that nothing has happened. My family found out first, and then my co-
workers. After 20 years of working for the KGB, I was fired on the spot.”
Bator poured more hot tea in his cup, sipped it a few times and then continued:
“The spirits forced me to become a shaman. There was no escape, except to die. But I
loved my family so much, I couldn't hurt them. I had no other choice, so I accepted my
destiny. We found an old shaman who agreed to perform a ceremony. After that
ceremony I slept solidly through the whole night. It was the first time after two years.
Gradually my health and strength returned.”
“This is my story,” Bator said, smiling. He was looking at his grandchild who had
fallen asleep in his mother's arms. The shaman's eyes were full of love and warmth. “I am
much happier now. The spirits know better about what you need in your life. They still
talk to me but our communication is different now. They bring me messages and I pay
back with respect.”
At the end of our dinner, Bator stood up and walked toward a bookshelf. He took
something from the shelf and came back to the table. In his hands a small light-brown
horse was galloping across a grassy step. It was a captured moment of beauty and grace.
“This horse is made out of cedar,” Bator said stroking the smooth back of the horse with
his finger. “I like to work with cedar. A fresh smell of the cedar tree stays with the craft
work for a long time.” He brought the figure to his face and deeply inhaled the smell.
“I want to give this horse to you as a present,” Bator said. “You have a strong
connection with the horses. It came from your Mongolian life. There is something else…
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I saw konovyas** in connection with you. Men usually have this connection.”
“What does it mean?” I asked Bator.
“It means that very powerful spirits have been working with you,” Bator said and handed
me the horse.
*A bungle made of birch branches
** A hitching post
The spirits are knocking on your door
While carefully stepping around splashes of cow’s dung, I already pictured myself
in Zeremzhit’s house, stretching out on a comfortable bed that Zeremzhit has prepared for
me. I could feel the softness of the dawn pillow under my cheek. For eight nights straight
I haven't had a proper rest. The first night I sat for ten hours in the most uncomfortable
airplane seat, and the next night wasn’t any better. I had to take a train from Irkutsk to
Chita, and the whole night my body was jerked and pulled across a firm bench on the
Siberian Express. Then there were three nights at the site of the ONGON ceremony,
where we had just 3-4 hours of a night sleep. A few more nights I spent in the wilderness,
and the last night on a wooden bench in Slava's cabin. A thin wool blanket on top of the
bench didn’t make it any softer, and I was twisting and turning the whole night, regretting
that I didn’t have any extra padding on my hips.
When we approached Zeremzhit’s house, I saw a few local Buryat women lined
up by the front door. I looked at my hostess with a surprise and a silent question. She
seemed a little embarrassed. “Galina,” she said with a guilty smile, “I know you are tired,
but I hope you don't mind to work a little bit with my friends. I told them about you and
how you helped me with your healing. If I didn't tell them that you are staying with me,
they would call me selfish. They would say that I wasn’t a good friend, because I didn't
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want to share. Can you help them a little bit?” she asked with hope.
Zeremzhit was so honest and thoughtful in her attempt not to offend her women
friends that I forgave her. She cared about my needs as well, but at the same time, she
was eager to share my presence and my gifts with others with the pride of a hostess, who
was given a rare chance to be in the short time possession of a special guest. This 55-year
old woman reminded me of a child, who unexpectedly received a special present, and
because of that felt special as well. I couldn't say “No”.
I don't remember much of what happened next. I listened to the women, talked
and made movements with my hands… Faces and stories were changing without leaving
a trace. Just one story stayed.
One of Zeremzhit’s friends developed a number of strange physical and
mental symptoms over a period of two years. I remember that after listening to the
woman’s story, I told her: “The spirits are knocking on your door, but you don't hear
them.”
“I do,” the woman replied. “I hear a knock on my door every night. I open the door but
nobody is there.”
“I am sorry,” I said to her with compassion. “I can't help you. There is just one
way for you to get well. You have to drop your resistance to the spirits and accept a new
way of life.”
My work was completed. Extremely tired, but at the same time, feeling happy and
content, I finally closed my eyes - I didn’t have to make an agonizing attempt to open
them again. A soft pillow appeared from nowhere and reached my cheek. I was sinking
deeper and deeper into the valley of dreams, where dreams and reality finally merged
together.
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How many of us still keep our resistance to the changes which come our way?
Many of us say: “We are not happy where we are, but at least this place is familiar.”
Don't wait, my friends, when the spirits start knocking on your door. Don't be afraid of
the changes. Open your door and let the fresh wind of a new life inside.
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