“The phenomenon of spontaneous healing…maintains that, given an appropriate healing impulse, the body is capable of restructuring itself instantly, and even severe symptoms and conditions may reverse within a very short period of time.”
— Stephan Hausner, Even If It Costs Me My Life
They call it “chronic illness,” conjuring
an inexorable iceberg flattening
any hope of a cure. The doctors forget
we are, under the microscope,
soothing lullabies sung by our parents,
war cries from our ancestors,
grief from victims of our violent culture.
Whenever we look through time,
we are helpless in the onslaught.
We are the children of Genghis Khan
sweeping down in brutal massacres.
We are the villagers burning.
The names change
but the story clings to our DNA,
projects onto the faces of our politicians,
our incestuous fathers and our silenced
mothers. Chronic illness, the doomsday prognosis,
all is obviously lost. Call in
medics to rush through the battlegrounds,
applying pretty bandages to gaping wounds.
Call in the lightworkers and now
everyone can go home
wreathed in smiles.
And still the disease lingers.
Yet if we resonate to the now,
our scrutiny leads us with loving
dispassionate eyes to the threads
which pull us back to the light
on the dark areas of our lives,
the grim foundations of our culture and
the true costs of every step.
We let go of the struggle, the constant
burden of hiding, not feeling,
and so carrying these deep
ancestral cords that strangle us
if we pull against them. There is no
forward movement. There is only
this deep uncovering, this allowing.
The frequencies of the immense
sing in the curative key, far outside
of time and its contractions.
Our only task is to unwrap
the generations of dirty, blood-
soaked bandages, unlock
the attics filled with lunatics,
and stay sane as the raging
energy erupts like a volcano,
released, stunning the doctors
by our rapid spontaneous healing.