When
it comes to giving my clients an experience they came for, there isn’t
much I won’t do. If it’s legal in Cuba, and I have the means, I’ll make
it happen. Such was the case for a pair of parishioners I had on this
last trip. At first they went quietly about their religious business,
joining hands, bowing their heads and mumbling before every meal. I
didn’t think much of it, other than it made me feel like an ungrateful
hog for ripping into my food without pause. I do recall thinking at one
moment that I admired their devotion and wished I had the presence of
mind to remember to give thanks for the vittles before me, as well as
the confidence to not worry about what others might think. I was raised
near a barn, not in one. My brothers and I were taught to say the
blessing before meals, but somewhere along the way the habit was
forgotten, as were the words themselves. When Pop died last summer, we
tried to recall his blessing, the one we heard seven days a week
from birth to adulthood, and on holidays after we left the nest, but we
could only piece together parts of it.
Joseph
and Mary (to give the religious couple false names) were very obedient,
not just to the Lord, but to their tour director (i.e. me!), so one day
when we were doing a walking tour in a small town and I realized the
husband was missing from the pack, it worried me. Daily I had to fall
back and light a match under the tails of some of the others to keep
them up with the group, but never with this couple. I found him three
blocks behind, peering through the window of a 7 Day Adventist church in
session.
“It’s not our denomination,” he says, “but we would love to attend a church service here in Cuba.”
Ding,
ding. I had before me an opp to bring joy to the lives of others. Going
to church is not anything I would in a million years spend my precious
time in Cuba doing, but it’s all the same to me. As long as what I’m
delivering does no harm and brings happiness to someone, I’ll be any
decent person’s mule.
I don’t know what made me
ask the hotel van driver if he knew of any churches. The couple and the
church members said it was the Lord, I say the driver just happened to
be standing there when the question came to me. In either case, when it
turned out that Baracoa’s only Pentecostal church was located right in
the van driver’s very own backyard, I was declared a divine channel for
the fold, though a wayward one. Actually, I wouldn’t exactly call it a
church—it was more of a thatch-roof, open-air, dirt-floor structure with
pews in a chicken yard—a humble space, which they apologized profusely
for. Anyway, doesn’t matter. It’s not the habit that makes the nun.
At
first they thought I was one of them, since the only words that came
out of my mouth were those of a believer. The couple spoke no Spanish
and the congregation spoke no English. I was not only a divine channel,
but an anointed translator. The first half of the gathering went along
beautifully from an interpreter’s standpoint—the welcome, introductions,
songs and prayers were a piece of cake since I have the familiarity
with the topic to do a to-the-T translation. Unlike most teens who
escape the pains of parental oppression with drugs, sex, and
rock-n-roll, I rebelled with the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.
From grade 10-11, I was an evangelical Bible-thumper…until the pendulum
swung my senior year.
The
translating turned to toil when they started into that simultaneous
whooping and hollering characteristic of a Pentecostal worship service. I
couldn’t keep up with the cacophony of praising. It was like trying to
translate the bark of every seal in a pack of 50 at a sardine
convention. Finally, I just gave up, raised my hands and let the “Praise
Jesus”es, “Glory Be”s, and “Halelujas” flow out of me in the language
preference of the Lord.
The
second translation snafu occurred when the terminology turned
anatomical, not because I didn’t have the vocabulary, but because
prudence made me bashful. Apparently, the van driver’s wife is an
appointed-by-God healer and she wanted to show off her powers. She asked
the three of us if we were in need of healing. I piped up that my back
was killing me and neither massage nor Santería had done a damn thing to
alleviate the pain. The wife asked for help with impaired vision. The
husband passed on the offer.
We
were encircled by the congregants and the healer commenced a
laying-on-of-hands ceremony. She started with the wife, touching her
face and placing her palms over her eyes all the while pleading to God
with fervor for a miracle. She started in Spanish, but then bust out in a
language I could make neither heads nor tails of. I knew what it was
though, she was speaking in tongues. I had witnessed it before in that
Holy Roller stage of mine.
Finished
with healing the blind, she moved onto hubby, even though he had
complained of nothing. She went back to Spanish, I went back to
translating and she must have preformed a Superman, x-ray vision C.A.T
scan on his midsection, because she started praying for Joseph’s ailing
prostate, in detail. In those prayers she kept interjecting, “Everybody
keep your eyes closed!” as if having them open would annul the whole
healing process. Well, about the third repetition of that command, I
opened mine to see who was peeking. It was then that I saw the reason
for her insistence--she wanted some privacy as she laid hands on that
infirmed prostate to bless it and the surrounding areas. Lord, help me
Jesus, I kid you not, she had one hand on his backsides and the other on
his fronts and hallelujah, a resurrection occurred!
As
for my back pain, I really did have a coconut farmer’s Santeria
medicine wife give it a go, AND another Cuban massage (see how desperate
I am?). Perhaps I’ll recount those in the next installment, along with
Mary performing a bus engine healing miracle.
Regressing
to the previous ‘logue, several have asked about the rehab…it was fab,
as fab as a rehab can be. I keep calling it a rehab, but it’s actually
more of a center. Not everyone who goes there has a mental illness and
certainly no one is kept against their will. It was established by an
Australian spiritual teacher, Isha, (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j4kkYgZnVN0)
who has a very non-mainstream approach based in love consciousness. I
think it the best route, first, because it doesn’t treat symptoms; it
goes to the root. Second, it addresses every aspect of wellbeing: body
(detox diet), mind (recognize and detach from thoughts that cause fear
and aren’t loving), emotions (express the ones that do us harm and
replace them with love consciousness) and spirit. It’s all natural. They
don’t encourage or discourage the use of medications—whatever you need
in order to practice the system is fine.
It can be brutal. There are no distractions—no t.v., internet, etc. It’s just you and your baggage. And your emotional shit will
come up. (Taking away my coffee is enough to make me as raw as a
diaper-rashed behind.)You are out of your comfort zone and all the
things we usually turn to (alcohol, food, shopping, technology, etc) for
escape aren’t available. It feels like a face it or perish situation…if
you decide to stick it out. As I said before, you can leave at any
time. They have a staff of well trained teachers available 24/7 to
support you through it and you come out on the other side feeling so
empowered.
The
bottom line is to take responsibility for your own happiness, to stop
being a victim of your past, present and future, to cut ties with the
dependencies we have on outside approval, to let go of judgementalness,
particularly of ourselves and to go within for the answers. Anyway, I
could go on and on about it, but the important thing is it gives me
hope that I can maneuver through the dark periods when they come. I
don’t set myself up by believing that there is a cure for them. Maybe
there is, maybe there isn’t. What matters is that the fear of them and
the shame associated with them not paralyze me. Believe it or not, it
was much easier to come out of the closet as gay than it has been as
someone who has a mental illness. I have chosen to include mention of it
recently in my travelogues precisely to confront that shame.
What’s
next? Thursday I depart for High Hope ranch in Glenn Rose, TX to begin
preparing for the Vision Quest
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vision_quest) that has been in the works
since last August. I’ll be going into the wilderness, alone, for 3 days
with only water and my wits for a period of fasting and prayer. It’s
mostly about overcoming the fears that keep me from living uninhibited,
full-throttle, maxing out my highest potential. As an extension of
that, I’m asking for help with removing whatever it is that has me
blocked as a writer. For those who are into this sort of thing, hold me
in the light May 22-29. For those of you who aren’t, airlift me in a
pizza on May 27. Tell the pilot to drop it where he sees the buzzards
circling.
As always, with gratitude for taking the time to read this and with much love, G
