Princess: Just going with the flow
So yesterday, I went to see my energy man.
I met him when I was on assignment for a local magazine, writing a bunch of stories for a package on wellness. In one week, I tried five different styles of yoga, went to Pure Barre and did interval training. I had my back cracked and got vitamins injected into my veins through an IV. I even got this crazy facial where they inject your own blood plasma into your skin with a little spinning needle thing that feels like a cheese grater. It gave me a black eye and a fat lip, but after all that healed, my skin looked fabulous.
One of my assignments was to go see Rob. I’d heard of him because one of my friends who’d had difficulty conceiving got pregnant after just two sessions with him. (Rob didn’t get her pregnant — hello — her husband did. Rob just did the energy-clearing part.)
“Why don’t you go see that energy-worker guy that Shelly saw?” my friend Catherine asked, trying to be supportive.
My head spun around on my shoulders, my eyes rolled back, and I started to spit fire, smoke pouring from my ears. We had just spent a fortune on fertility treatments, and nothing had worked. “You really think that’s why she got pregnant?” I hissed. “Give me a break.”
So when my editor called and asked me if I could take on one more little assignment and go see Rob the shaman, who had gotten Shelly pregnant, I had nothing to lose. I was there as a journalist, not a customer seeking some kind of miracle. I had nothing in the way of expectations, and whatever skepticism I had was tempered by my willingness to gain the insight I needed to write my article.
My experience with spirituality hasn’t been great. After being raised by two atheists who are smart enough to call themselves agnostic, I was left to my own devices to figure out what I believed in. I once pursued Buddhism during college, only to discover that the white guy from Jersey turned Tibetan Buddhist monk who ran the Vajradhatu International Buddhist Church in Boulder had died of AIDS and had likely infected half the population in the process.
Then I fell in love with yoga, which, aside from helping me lose weight and feel great, was spiritual in a I’m-so-hot-and-dizzy-and-nauseous-I-forget-my-own-name kind of way. You could say I practiced yoga religiously, at least until my guru landed on the pages of Vanity Fair in the midst of a major sexual-assault scandal. Everyone freaked out and started doing vinyasa flow instead — talk about a downward dog.
When I went to see Rob, I had no expectations. I didn’t expect him to be such a regular guy. He didn’t tell me to go into the light or to find my inner child (not that I would have to look very far) or to meditate or to put on black Nikes or drink the Kool-Aid (though he does provide free Fiji water). We talked about regular stuff. I sat on his massage table, he just sort of squeezed my shoulders and rubbed my back, and we just chatted away.
So I was a little surprised when I stood up and felt lightheaded, dizzy and extremely thirsty. As the day wore on, I felt sicker. I wasn’t hungry. I had a blinding headache and went to bed early. The feeling continued through the following day. “I must have the flu,” I told Ryan. “Obviously this is some kind of strange coincidence.”
It felt like I had a really bad hangover or was coming off a detoxifying cleanse. Like my alleged-rapist yoga guru liked to say, “It feels worse coming out than it does going in.” I slept for most of the afternoon.
The next day, I felt better but still had a lingering ache in my lower back. It wasn’t a muscle ache so much as a deep soreness I could feel whenever I shifted in my chair.
“Sorry about that,” Rob said when I came in for a follow-up appointment. “I hate to tell people what can happen because then they get freaked out if it does happen and disappointed if it doesn’t.”
He told me my kidneys had been super-toxic, most likely from all those fertility drugs I’d injected into my body. He said if we cleared that out, I might even be able to get pregnant.
We all know how this story ends: I didn’t get pregnant. But I found a creative flow I hadn’t experienced before, and I truly believe that is why and how I finally finished my book. And that’s also why I went back to see Rob yesterday: because if it’s possible for me to believe in anything, it needs to be that.
“I wanted a baby, but instead I got a book,” I told Rob.
“God has a funny sense of humor,” he said.
I told Rob about how when I saw George’s body, the only thing I felt was the absence of energy. He was just gone. I told him how when we drove into the mountains, my understanding of energy began to change. I watched the river flow and felt the wind blow (I know it sounds like a John Denver song; just bear with me). I saw the sun disappear behind a gray sky and then reappear in rays of light. I was reminded that the sun is always there even if you can’t see it.
And I guess that’s what Rob does, and maybe that’s where George went when he died and what happens to me when I write (even if I spent the better part of a decade writing a book no one wants to publish). It’s all just energy. So you might as well go with the flow.
No, the Aspen Princess is not stoned; she’s just reflective. Email your love to firstname.lastname@example.org.
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Last week, The Aspen Times ran an article about limiting home size in Aspen and Pitkin County. One might think that climate change is finally poking at the Aspen bubble.