Gonzo Girl

Bart.

That was the name of my first Shaman.

It was the early 2000’s. My family had decided to spend the Christmas holiday in the small seaside village of Puerto Morelos, Mexico. 

Sitting on the beach, terribly hungover from a night of Margaritas followed by cartwheels down the street, I struck up a conversation with a nice couple from California. They had two toddler age kids and looked to be in their late 30’s or early 40’s. Just a typical American family on holiday. 

“We’re from Washington. I’m a school counselor, what do you do?”

 Bart spoke up. 

“I’m a Shaman.” 

I think I hid my utter surprise relatively well and asked a casual question. “Really? How does that work?” 

“It’s pretty simple. I work with people to help them heal. In whatever way they need.” 

Huh. 

I had plenty of other questions that felt too awkward to ask. Like, is there some kind of Shaman school for healing hopefuls?  Do you make a living wage in this field? What about taxes?  Are you active in your Chamber of Commerce?  Do you have some sort of small business license with a catchy name like, Dial-a-Shaman, or Shamans R Us? Or is it more mystical like, Life Essence, or simply the word, Shaman.  

Jokingly I said, “In that case, you got anything for my hangover?”  Without hesitation he reached into his beach bag and pulled out a few bottles and poured 4 or 5 different capsules into my hand.

“Try these.” 

Which I did. No thought of possible danger. No weirdness attached. Somehow, I just trusted this guy.

And I’ll be damned. I felt like a new person within about 15 minutes. 

Thinking back over my lifetime,  I’ve encountered a good number of Shamans, Healers.  Some are quite obvious. I’d call them the biggies: Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, Mother Earth and such.  Healing left and right to those that request it. No wound too large. Happy to help. 

But what about the others?  The less obvious.  

The Everyday Shamans.

Like Aunt Hazel.  A powerful woman with a heart of kindness and compassion.  Without children of her own, she opened her arms to an army of nieces and nephews.  I remember her warm lap and hugs; her gentle and humorous presence. Her example of confidence. She was there when my mother died and there when my step-mother was unable to love me. Even when she was dying, sitting next to her, I felt her love and protection. I knew we were connected for eternity.

Or Mrs. Teter. The woman who taught me the joy of parenting. She was my boys’ preschool teacher and so much more. I had grown up in a home in which children were viewed as a burden. They interfered with the life of the adults. But Mrs. Teter showed me the truth about kids. That small people are not adults in training. How they teach us to be present in the moment, how to experience the world with wonder and awe. Able to express their feelings wholeheartedly and with truth. What a gift.

And, my Parenting Committee. Even though they wrote out a “no babysitting” contract (truth) and gave it to my mom and dad right after I was born, my older siblings, Karen, Lois and Jud, have cared for me my entire life.  Three very different people serving me in three very different ways. Each with genuine, unconditional love. Through it all. I am so very grateful.   

There have been others along the way.  Even some official Shamans. The woman who communicates with horses and brings their wisdom to the world; the High Priestess, helping people connect with true self; the Bhutanese guide sharing compassion with all living things. The tree in the backyard, standing tall and strong. Our black Labs, reminding us that this is, in fact, THE BEST DAY EVER, every single day. 

Whoever they are, you know pretty quickly.  They are the ones that exude peace and contentment; creating a safe space for healing.  

Healing.  

And in this world we can all use a little healing.  A little solace and peace. 

Or a good hangover remedy.