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Walking down the street, I see a pregnant woman with her hand on her belly, as though protecting her baby as she steps off the curb.
On the other side of the street, another woman holds a hand on her belly also. A different gesture, maybe more one of comforting an upset stomach. Both made me smile and reminded me of how sacred our bellies are. So much there. Sacred. I am not sure WHAT it is I saw last night. I had read something about it in the morning, and then it had vanished from my mind in the heat of the day. A healing. At the soccer field in the evening. All welcome. It piqued my interest but not enough to make a note of it, nor a commitment. Especially in the midst of navigating a house move, someone’s car “situation,” and a scary wall cracking sound in yet another part of town. As I walked to my daughter’s home in the evening, it came back to my attention. First, the sound. Someone speaking in a microphone in a booming, commanding voice. There were two voices actually, and it took me a moment to recognize that the main, male voice was using the American language, while the other, a female voice was translating in Spanish. As I passed the soccer field, I saw that it was brightly lit, with several rows of folding chairs ready to welcome people, several of them already occupied. The healing. I had forgotten. What the heck was going on? I was kinda curious but I had to go to my daughter’s and it wasn’t until I was walking back that I decided that Lila and I were going to give this a closer look. Would they let us in? Was there a fee to enter? Within a minute I was sitting on one of the chairs in the back, Lila happy in the grass. No one had even looked at us, let alone asked us for pesos. Let’s see this thing, I thought. A small stage area. Someone playing guitar softly. A heavy-set American man in a chair, holding a microphone. At his side and also with a mic, a Mexican lady. Another gentleman nearby. And then, the person asking for healing. I had seen this sort of thing in movies but never in person, let alone in a soccer field. I waited. Time after time, invited by the American gentleman whose words were translated by the Mexican lady, people (mostly women) left their chairs to step forward and answer the question: “What do you need me to pray for you about?” Or “Tell me what you need.” Painful intestines, depression, aching bodies, feet that hurt terribly, diabetes, a back that had been in pain for over 5 years. And more. The format remained about the same: come over, state what you want healed, have it repeated for all of us to hear, then a prayer to Jesus, occasionally a lay of hands. At the end the question: “How do you feel, now?” To which the answer was, every time: “I feel good.” “Are you still hurting?” The man would ask, instantly translated to “Todavia the duele?” “No, I feel good.” “No, it’s gone,” came the answers. No big whoop, just ... gone. One woman who had been carefully helped to the stage walked away by herself with a spring in her step. Another one, having had the translator’s hands hold the side of her face, fell backward and stayed laying in the grass through the next person’s turn. No one seemed to be concerned but me. I couldn’t stop myself from checking on her. Was she sleeping? Breathing? Once in a while, the American man would take a break and tell an impressive story about someone he’d healed. Once he spoke about how doctors were confused by him - but called him to help anyway. At one point he invited people to bring pieces of paper or cloth and have him bless them, then suggested they bring them to people they knew who needed healing. I had no paper nor cloth or I might have walked up. It was fascinating, as was watching my mind have all kinds of conversations with itself, getting tangled up and tired, until with one breath I allowed myself to just BE. Eventually, Lila and I left quietly and walked home. I could still hear them a little bit from my open window. What the heck did I see, last night? I may never understand and like many things here, I guess I don’t have to. In Happiness School, I share with you ALL the tools from my very own toolbox. in 90 days, you will learn to adapt with less pain, more excitement - and more magic.
I had a UTI in Sinaloa. While this is certainly true, I’m pretty sure the only thing a UTI and the state of Sinaloa have in common is that they are both scary. At first, I wasn’t quite sure about the UTI part. I think the last time I felt the majorly unpleasant sensation was over to 30 years ago - interestingly enough, also on a long road trip - so I had to go back in my memory before assessing that yup, that was it - and it wasn’t going to get better on its own. Being me, I immediately wanted to take a hot bath but because I have only seen one bath tub since moving to Mexico, I knew that wasn’t a likely option. A hot shower would be my next best hope and having just checked out of the motel, we were told that we would have to pay for another night if we wanted our room key back. I didn’t like that idea, especially since I knew that while the hot water would relax me, it would not heal what ailed me - and was ailing me more by the second. Pharmacy. We must find a pharmacy. Which we did. I walked in and asked for medicine, learning a whole new batch of Spanish vocabulary in the process. Something to cure this and something to take away the pain while I waited for the relief to arrive. I was handed two small boxes of pills and popped a dose before getting to the car. It was getting bad. Stopping to get a juice, I searched on my phone and learned that while the meds I had been given would help, they would not cure the infection. I needed antibiotics. Other pharmacy. This time I asked for antibiotics using my fancy new vocabulary about what-was-wrong-with-me. I also did a little dance to emphasize how uncomfortable I was and the nice señora behind the counter graced me with a sisterly wince. Then she told me that she could only give me antibiotics with a prescription, which needed to be written by a doctor. A doctor. My mood sank. We were about 20 hours from home with a big chunk of desert to cross. I didn’t know anyone in this whole darn state, nor the next, who could write me a prescription. How would I find a doctor? And if I did, how long would it take for me to get an appointment? I suddenly saw a bunch of hurdles in front of me just as the burning need-to-pee-but-can’t-pee madness was getting worse. Next door, said the nice señora, pointing to the wall. There’s a doctor next door. A doctor that could see me? I asked. Me being not Mexican, not from anywhere near here, and just passing through. Sure, she said. Go knock on the door and he’ll see you. He’s there right now. I walked out of the pharmacy and opened the door… next door. I stepped into a tiny waiting room, and a man wearing a white coat and a nice smile came out to greet me and invite me into the examination room. Once there he asked me what was going on. I used my new words again and he asked me a series of questions. Then he had me lay on the exam table and palpated my belly and back, asking me more questions. Having assessed that my bladder and kidneys were fine, he wrote me a prescription to take next door, advising me to drink lots of water and take the prescription for five full days, even though I would feel better in a few hours. I wanted to hug him and instead asked him how much I owed him. You see, I don’t have Mexican health insurance and I knew that my travel insurance would not cover this. 45 pesos was his answer. Well, plus the pills, which you will pick up next door. 45 pesos. You are freaking kidding me? Two Dollars And Forty Five Cents?? For a doctor’s visit? A real doctor, in case you are wondering. Diplomas on the wall and all. With no appointment. No paperwork, no nothing. The antibiotics came to about 60 pesos, I think. As I walked out, the pharmacy señora seemed happy for me. On the road again we went, out of Sinaloa. And by sun down, I barely hurt anymore. I am still shaking my head at how the whole thing was so smooth and so inexpensive. So easy. So… right. This is Mexico as I am learning it: Some things are maddening, take forever, baffle me. And others have me in awe of how so very well they work. Things like taking care of someone who is in pain without a bunch of red tape, wasted time and money. Important stuff. In Happiness School, I share with you ALL the tools from my very own toolbox. in 90 days, you will learn to adapt with less pain, more excitement - and more magic. |
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Laura - I always read your posts and am touched by your vulnerability , courage and honesty. Thank you for sharing from your heart. It is a rare gift in this world. A gift we humans are in desperate need of. You put out so many heartfelt blog pieces that touch my heart and move me down the right path at the right time. Pure beautiful magic girlie. I love you for this. Thank you for digging in there and finding the gems of wisdom and then just sharing them out as if there's an endless supply ... which with you, there is." Archives
February 2025
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I write because this is the way I am able to taste life more deeply. |