WHO HEALS THE HEALER?
Yesterday I discussed how we all have a special gift. Some people are healers. Others inspire people, or are service providers, teachers, thinkers, doers, guardians, problem solvers, etc. I’m a healer. So who’s there when the healer needs healing?
We all possess every trait to some extent, but we’re naturally more skilled in one or two of them. Specialists, you might say. So anyone can offer healing. But, when a healer needs healing, it’s often more complicated than any one of those people just turning on their healing mode, especially if they’ve already received healing from that person.
When a healer needs healing and makes that need known to someone he’s already provided healing to, it unnerves them. They don’t expect a healer should be needy. They fear that since he’s the one needing what he usually provides, he’ll have none available for them anymore. What will they do when they need healing?
The need for healing is always a temporary one. Like any other need, it passes. Once it passes, things are status quo again. Humans are resilient.
In additon to fear, the person who’s received healing from a healer may feel inadequate. They were so appreciative of the healing they received, maybe even awestruck by how thoroughly it was delivered and how powerful it was, that they feel inadequate to try.
But, all healing is useful. There are no levels differentiating healing effectiveness, such as high, medium, or low. When needed, any healing provides value.
Still, when a healer needs healing, it’s best not to look to those who he’s healed before for comfort. Not always, but often it only leads to frustration all around. Perhaps the same is true for an inspirer needing inspiration, a doer who needs something done, or a problem-solver who has a problem of his own. Maybe they’re all better off not looking to those they’ve serviced before.
A healer who needs healing can certainly look for another healer. That’s probably the best. Like anyone else, a healer must use powers of observation to recognize another healer and cultivate a relationship where they feel comfortable opening up.
The other option is for the healer to simply heal him or herself. It’s sometimes difficult because pain has a way of emptying the mind of its usually well-developed faculties, but healers do have the toolset. We healers simply need to wade through whatever pain is afflicting us, isolate it, put it in perspective, and focus on putting the tools to use. It’s often not as efficient, and definitely not as easy, as going to someone else to provide service, but it is effective.
Empathy is a very useful tool for anyone to cultivate. It’s useful in almost every interaction between people. By using empathy we can sense what another person needs in the moment. If we feel comfortable enough with servicing that particular need, we can try delivering it. When a healer needs healing and the empathy alert goes off, try practicing your healing skills. It’s always appreciated.
So, who does the healer go to when he needs healing? It could be anyone, even himself. If you sense a healer needs healing, don’t be afraid to offer your services. Have confidence in yourself. It will be received and appreciated. Honest effort never goes unnoticed.
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My driver side-view mirror, having broken free and now floating down the Cape Fear River, is long gone. I’m not sure what to do.
I’m panicky, expecting to be pulled over at any moment by the police. Not having a side-mirror must be some type of safety infraction, probably punishable by death.
I consider using my makeup-compact mirror as a replacement. However, I can foresee problems with that. I doubt masking tape (all I have) is strong enough to hold it down. And whatever will I use to powder my nose? Besides, a 10x magnification mirror may help me spot blackheads, but I doubt it will help me see traffic.
Sure enough, as I’m thinking about police and prisons, I see flashing lights behind me. I figure I’ve been spotted, but I change lanes and slow down like I’m a law-abiding, innocent driver. My inspection is up to date. There’s no “improper equipment” here.
The lights get closer. I wish I could just disappear. But, I take time to ponder why the police get to travel at any speed they want.
I can understand it when they’re in pursuit of a dangerous criminal or rushing to Krispy Kreme® for a donut. But I think in some cases, they speed just because they can. No one is giving them a ticket.
I think about real car chases on television — the ones that make the evening news. I consider briefly if I should make a break for it. I’d careen dramatically off the next exit, tires squealing, and lay down some serious rubber; making a clean get-away.
My picture, the one where I’m grinning like an insane hyena, gets plastered onto the Post Office’s “Most Wanted” wall. Mothers toting small children are aghast reading about my crime.
My reckless driving disgusts even teenagers. And they should know — they wrote the book on it. They draw graffiti all over my poster, giving me a bushy mustache and crossed eyes.
I picture my mother talking to news reporters. Shaking her head, she cries over my fugitive status. She’s long been resigned to me turning out badly, despite my upbringing, which she claims was nearly perfect.
Mom appears on the talk-show circuit. Her hair is done up and she’s wearing the $100 suit she got at Kohls® on-sale for $5. She chats chummily with the hosts, dispensing advice on how to successfully raise kids.
She tells everyone she’s not surprised I’m an outlaw. She’s just surprised it took so long for those traits (not on her side) to come out. After all, I’m already a deserter. I left my family in the wonderful, frozen Northlands for the slimy low-lands of the South. So certainly, I can’t be expected to have proper manners or car side-mirrors.
As I contemplate this dire scenario, I notice I’ve already passed the exit. So, spectacular escapes are now out of the question. Though I suppose I could exit off-road through the swamp and gators. Maybe next time.
The flashing lights are now only three cars behind me. The vehicle is matching my speed, which has dropped below the posted minimum.
I look back. The flashing lights have moved into the center lane. The vehicle is moving faster. With consternation, I realize it will pass me. Perhaps this cop thinks he’ll get promoted if he brings me in all by himself.
The vehicle flies by, trailing a long plume of exhaust.
It’s a tow truck.
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