the snakes have to do with an inner fear of activating my kundalini . . . raising the quality of my own spirituality? And my fear of the vision quest, the ayahuasca, and the rain forest—were these about letting go of control? Was avoiding the potential bee sting about preconditioning myself to some sort of limitation? Was I being taught to look at things differently and to trust a new way of being?
As I watched the shaman approach, it occurred to me that in order to make the leap to higher-dimension consciousness, I must first eliminate my limitations . . . and allow a new awareness to develop.
When in Rome, do as the Romans, I thought.
Dorothy, we're not in Kansas anymore . . . .
Beyond Fear
Juan Gabriel began to speak to the shaman, who was now lifting the front of my sweatshirt and rubbing his closed hand in a circular massaging motion below my navel. As I looked into his eyes, his smile and unspoken words seemed to say trust me.
Then, suddenly, without warning, he plunged his fingers below my belt line! Just as quickly, he withdrew and abruptly moved on.
I was afraid to breathe.
I immediately turned to Shirl and asked in a low voice if she had seen what he had done. She admitted that whatever it was happened so quickly that she didn't know what had transpired.
"Did he have a bee in his hand?" I inquired of the woman on the other side of me as I sat motionless, uncertain of exactly what had taken place.
"Do you feel anything?" she responded."His hand was closed so I couldn't tell if he had anything in it. You don't think he actually put a bee down your pants, do you?"
"No . . . I don't think so," I muttered more to myself than to her, feeling most comfortable in total denial. Sixteen pairs of eyes were focused on me as I sat frozen, afraid to flinch for fear of being stung. What could he have done? I clearly had never before been in such a delicate situation.
After about five minutes (or maybe it was a day and a half—hard to tell when you're totally into the moment)—the shaman indicated that he was finished with the morning healings. I shot Juan one of those What do I do now?! looks and received an uncomfortable I don't know shrug in return.
I got up very slowly, moving as few of my body parts as necessary, and ambled toward the door as though I needed a casual breath of fresh air. I felt no movement on my abdomen but, at the same time, knew something was there.
Once outside, I bolted toward the outhouse—a scary experience in itself—and quickly and carefully undid my belt and eased down my jeans.
Then I heard it . . . a buzzing . . . and movement . . . in a place where one definitely does not want to hear buzzing and feel movement. As I lowered the front of my underwear, a bee that had been lodged in the elastic band of my briefs suddenly flew up, careened off my chest, and burst out the door.
I looked down to insure that all my attached body parts were in their proper place and that I hadn't been stung. I must have set the endurance record for remaining motionless in an aromatic, non ventilated outhouse as I kept replaying in my mind what had just taken place.
How had the shaman been able to carry the bee without it stinging him? Had he somehow hypnotized it? Could it have been some kind of specially bred bee without a stinger? But don't bees die when they lose their stingers? And if that's true, then the big question: How did that bee know not to sting me?
Later, as we boarded our bus to leave, I asked this same question of the shaman. After a pregnant pause, his simple response was a very knowing and caring smile.
I guess Houdini never revealed his secrets either . . .
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