Indian Style
CHAPTER 3
“Your father was a very confused person in life, and he remains so in death,” Jana says, her eyes all floaty, like she’s focusing on something just behind my head.
I rock uncomfortably back and forth on my hips despite the large yoga pillow that separates my ass from the hardwood floor. I try to find some magic angle that will release me from the stiff, achy, smoldering, stabbing, bull-shit chronic pain sensations; invisible yet pernicious symptoms that have been an unwelcome, relentless presence in my body for the last third of my life.
I wonder (yet again) how people relax in this god-awful position, let alone meditate. Back home in rural Pennsylvania, we called it “sitting Indian-style,” but that was long before I transplanted myself to San Francisco—one of the big, American hubs for hardcore political correctness. I haven’t a sideways clue what the SF-PC Police would have me call this crosslegged pose, or what cute, whimsical term the ancient Guru’s of India gave it that’s now being passed on like watered down chai by all the trendy, Westernized yoga converts of the world.
This beautiful, lush Indonesian island—littered with ornate Hindu temples, vibrant green rice paddy fields, swaying palm trees, perpetually burning incense sticks, carefully constructed spiritual offerings and some of the most devout, tranquil and beautiful local people I’ve ever encountered—has been my temporary home-away-from-home for the past month. In a few days I’ll be taking off for Thailand, so I’m loading up on as many healing sessions as I can pack in.
Image by Adam Wilson.
Balinese women carrying elaborate, tiered baskets of fruit on their heads while walking to a Hindu ceremony. Image by Cassandra Smolcic. Ubud, Bali, 2019.
I somehow find myself sitting in a wooden, traditional Balinese-style building in the treatment room of an intuitive healer named Jana Johnson, who is as milky white as she sounds (despite the exotic location). I just finished a brutal, three-day detox program here, at a well-known retreat, yoga and wellness center in the epicenter of Ubud.
The thatched roof yoga shalas and garden pathways just below us are constantly buzzing with regal-looking creatures from all corners of the Earth. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a higher concentration of stunning humans in one place—many who carry themselves like glamor gypsies, aspiring Cirque Du Soleil performers, Greek gods, yoga barbies and enchanted fairies—characters who look so mythological in their features, presence and demeanor that that they could easily be cast on Game of Thrones. The people watching opportunities here are nothing short of epic, and unlike a lot of other places I’ve been, few subjects of this yoga kingdom show signs of discomfort in “being seen.”
Many of the healers here have a strong following among the center’s regulars; cluster of devotees who sing their praises so freely that traditional marketing efforts are likely gratuitous. Though she doesn’t publicly advertise herself as such, Jana is known around campus for her psychic abilities. I’ve heard her described as a “powerful spiritual medium,” a term that both intrigues and makes me queasy with suspicion at the same time.
As I just briefly explained to Jana: I’m no yogi. I’m also not a new-agey, woo-woo, hippy-dippy-trippy spiritual type (though I don’t mention all that, given the audience). Just between you and me, I’m also not a meditator or a vegan and I don’t, in any way, feel like the community here is “my tribe.” I’m an academic, a pragmatist and a chronic pain patient; three things that don’t mix well with ancient stretching rituals or faith-based mysticism.
A statue of the Hindu goddess Durga, who is said to be the protector of all that is good and harmonious in the world. Image by Cassandra Smolcic. Ubud, Bali, 2016.
My pain management doctor, and a number of other specialists from the Bay, warned me that yoga is more harmful than helpful for “a person in my condition.” I’m beyond spun-out and fed-up by all the contradictory medical opinions I’ve heard about my RSI over the last decade, but that particular piece of advice has always made sense to me. I’ve found myself laid out in excruciating pain for days after turning a doorknob or zipping myself into a dress the wrong way, so I see no need to stretch my body and my shitty luck any further than the ordinary hazards of everyday life (and believe me, there are many).
“How long has it been since your father passed?” Jana asks, shifting her spacey gaze more directly at me.
“He’s been gone for eleven years now,” I say, allowing only ten percent of myself to be impressed by the fact that she knew Dad was dead without me telling her. Perhaps “Dr. Adolf”—the American Craniosacral healer I saw here yesterday — had passed off his chicken scratch notes to her. Maybe these two have a system. Well I’m not that gullible, I think.
Jana asks me what brought me here today, seeming to pick up on my skepticism. I give her the abridged version of the story, quickly filling her in about my all-consuming chronic pain syndrome and the last-ditch healing journey it’s catapulted me into. Dr. Adolf suggested I book a session with her for some help with my energy, I say, my eyes now avoiding hers in hopes that she won’t pick up on my half truth.
As we talk I uncross my legs and readjust my body for the umteenth time. I roll my head forward, which sends a jolt of tension up a tendon in my neck, locking my head in place above my right shoulder. Resisting the pressure is akin to pulling on a loaded fishing line until something finally pops around the base of my skull, sending my head flinging free like a thrashing trout bobbing out of the water on a transparent wire.
Genius idea, Cassandra. Why would you come to Asia if you can’t stand sitting on the goddamned floor? To hell with psychics, shamans, vegan food, yoga pants and spiritual offerings. Screw Julia Roberts and Elizabeth Gilbert and fuck “Eat Pray Love.”
Negative Nancy continues to rant tangentially, taking over the loudspeaker of my headspace. With language that’s punctuated by crassness, disapproval and what we call “piss and vinegar” back home in Pennsyltucky, she proceeds to cast shadows of dismissal and doubt all over my far-reaching fantasies of recovery, like some cantankerous raincloud. “Nancy” makes a few good points though. I’ve been going along with some far-out, eye-brow-raising treatment methods lately; the kind of ritualistic, voodoo-hippie shit that seems straight out of some adventure movie or a witchy alt-medicine catalogue. Despite all the rave reviews from travel bloggers and in the know ex-pats, none of these supposed “miracle workers” have fucking fixed me yet.
Though my upper body has been a hospitable breeding ground for burning inflation over the last seven years, a different kind of heat has been bubbling up inside me over the course of the last few months. It feels like a reservoir of mounting rage is on the verge of boiling over, threatening to cook away every last drop of fluid sweetness left inside me.
Jana tells me I have some powerful allies in the spirit world; an impressive team of angels guiding me through this life. Before I have a chance to roll my eyes into the depths of my skull, she describes my deceased Grandmother and Great Aunt to a T, in terms of personality and demeanor alike. “Your Aunt was not a blood relation, she married into the family, but her bond with you is really strong nonetheless.” The accuracy of her characterization baffles me so much it temporarily empties my mind of thoughts.
Then she asks how old I am, snapping me back to the room. “Thirty-two,” I tell her, and wait for the predictable shock and awe that typically follows. At first I’m taken aback by the fact that she doesn’t look the slightest bit dumbfounded by this information, until I realize that the appearance of “knowing it all” is a big part of her shtick. Someone who pretends to be psychic can’t really afford to look stunned by much of anything, Nancy surmises. It’s actually a comforting feeling though, her not putting on any air of surprise about my age, despite us both being American.
I wait for her to ask what treatments I’ve tried in the past, but unlike Dr. Adolf (and just about every other healer I’ve ever turned to about my chronic pain), she never does.
“You’ve tried just about everything Western medicine has to offer and then some, haven’t you?” Dr. Adolf commented yesterday after I’d rattled off my healing work resume. I’ve heard some version of this rhetorical question countless times before, and it always makes me feel like a failure. While that list keeps getting longer, the pain continues to dominate my existence, without any regard for all the time and sacrifice I’ve put in to snuffing it out.
A spiritual teacher meditating before a class. Image by Cassandra Smolcic. Ubud, Bali, 2016.
After keeping my wallet propped open to an assortment of quirky healers since landing in Denpasar, I’ve more than blown my modest living budget for the month. Yet, here I sit, spending another 950,000 Rupiah (roughly $70 USD) on another long-shot “spiritual healer”—a former New Yorker who looks to be at least a decade my senior and only just exited the corporate grind a few years ahead of me.
From the neck up Jana still looks very Western, conservative even, with a shoulder length bob of brown curly hair that she keeps down despite the grueling, wet heat. She wears a mix of patterned, colorful fabrics draped loosely around her body. Around here, it’s a familiar bohemian ensemble, one that looks comfortable yet doesn’t quite suit her. She isn’t like most of the rail thin, muscular or absurdly buff long-term ex-pats you see here; she looks more like someone’s favorite Aunt or a woman who’s spent their entire life in one small, middle American town.
Jana poses a vague question about my relationship with my father. I oblige, giving her the cliff notes of my well-practiced sob story; a monologue I can now recount without the embarrassment of wet eyes. The tragic tale of my Father’s demise is one I’ve told many times in my adult life (to therapists, friends, lovers, coworkers, and the occasional unlucky by-stander when I’ve had too many drinks at a bar). After all that rehearsal time, the words and phrases that once made me feel like I was choking on a piece of un-chewed meat now glide right off my tongue.
But as I gloss over the climax of my family tragedy a sharp muscle cramp starts to sting on my right shoulder. It’s the worst of all my trigger points, the one that throbs, seizes and radiates with electric discomfort most often. This taut band of muscle tissue lives underneath my boney, winglike should blade in a precarious, hard-to-reach place. I pause between sentences to take two slow, labored breaths before continuing on to the premature ending of my father’s life story.
“We had lots of ups and downs over the years, but when I was twenty-one Dad died of a sudden heart attack,” I say. “He was only fifty-years-old, and I wasn’t speaking to him at the time,” I confess. I feel myself creeping over the familiar TMI borderline, a boundary I seem to compulsively cross with confidants and strangers alike.
“The last time I saw him, I chewed him out for falling off the wagon, leaving halfway through some holiday dinner,” I tell her. “Most people think he smoked and drank himself to death, but I suspect he might have picked a stronger poison by then.” Jana’s face is expressionless and her body unmoving. While she’s anchored to the floor in statuesque immobility, I twitch, wiggle and writhe with nervousness and discomfort.
“I’m pretty sure his last girlfriend was a crack head.” I tell Jana with calloused irreverence. “Her two front teeth were rotting out and she never made much sense when she talked, which was all the fucking time. It seemed like her lips weren’t synced with the audio coming out of her mouth; like watching a poorly dubbed movie,” I say, and wait for my captive audience to crack a smile. But she just nods and squints her eyes like she’s looking through me again; as if she already knew all this and is immune to my morbid sense of humor.
She closes her eyelids and takes a few deliberate breaths before speaking. “Your father was a very intelligent, creative and passionate person at his core, and he passed all that down to you. His influence is a big part of what makes you so special. You’ve inherited his resourcefulness, his curiosity and his deep love of nature, among other things.”
My body automatically rocks forward on the yoga pillow, doing its best to clue me into the fact that all of these words ring true; with the rare and subtle vibration of impeccable honesty. But my arrogant and well-fed “disbelief system” still has a strong enough hold on me to override it.
I feign a closed-mouth smile in Jana’s direction, refusing to let her message fully sink in since much of these conclusions could have been gleaned from what I just shared and the rest could have been gathered from my demeanor. Though this woman clearly does have a strong sense of intuition, I think, I don’t know if I’d call that being “psychic.” Besides, everyone knows that flattery will get you everywhere, Nancy’s second cousin, Debbie Downer chimes in.
Jungle views. Image by Cassandra Smolcic. Ubud, Bali 2019.
“But your father passed a lot of his demons on to you as well,” Jana says, interrupting my cyclical train of thought. “He has a dangerously strong hold on you—even after all these years.”
Well that sounds about right, Debbie scoffs. Dad must be giving me a beer-soaked bear hug from the afterlife right now, she snarks with mocking condescension. The more rational, intellectual side of me has to mock this woman’s assessment, because there’s another side of me who can sense that I’m listening to some powerful and important insights. The “believer” is a part of me that I’m deliberately not well acquainted with.
Suddenly, it feels like I’m being stabbed in the back, in that awful nook behind my shoulder blade. I straighten out my spine and pretend to lean against an invisible yardstick, stretching my body into a power pose like I learned stateside in Biofeedback therapy. I hold the carbon dioxide hostage in my lungs until I feel more buoyant, then slowly exhale from my diaphragm.
“Your father has a hook in you, just beneath your right shoulder blade,” Jana continues, breaking the long, breath-filled silence. “That’s where he’s been feeding energy off of you.”
How could she possibly know that’s where I’m hurting right now? No one can be that good at reading body language, Nancy, Debbie and I all wonder simultaneously. As a list of contrarian questions ping pong through my astonished headspace, the sting intensifies and the rest of my body seizes up in tension. Pain shoots out from the spasming knot, lighting my body up with sensation like some tacky, haphazardly wired Christmas tree.
I close my eyelids tight, loading my lungs up with more humid air while I picture a bright, healing light filling the knot with white, glowing oxygen cells; a visualization technique my East Bay acupuncturist taught me years ago. Despite how ridiculous the method seems, the sting dulls and the muscle constriction gradually starts to loosen.
After I slowly nudge open my eyes, I feel strangely more present. The tightness in my chest has relaxed and the scene around me suddenly seems much simpler than it had just a few moments before. I’ve stopped scanning the room for fishing line, a fog machine or trick mirrors. The notion that all this is some kind of elaborate con or hoax — carefully designed to rip me off or make me look like a gullible fool — has left my field of awareness.
Macro self portrait by Cassandra Smolcic, 2019.
That’s when I notice the look of humble wisdom, compassion and kindness written all over Jana’s face. Despite my best efforts to remain leery, I now can’t help but see her as someone who is genuinely trying to help me. This acknowledgment has a calming effect, helping to melt more tension off my frame.
“Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but as I was talking about my Dad I started to feel a stabbing pain in the exact spot you just described,” I say with my eyes glued to the floor. That spot has been a major problem area since I was first diagnosed with RSI, I tell her. It’s also where my Balinese shaman has been focusing a lot of his efforts, but I keep that part to myself.
“Your father’s ghost is depleting you,” Jana says, and I do my best to feel the gravity of such an unconventional idea. Despite all the hard work I’ve been doing to avoid following in his footsteps, I’m still susceptible to falling into the same pitfalls that took him from this world, she cautions. I’m not “out of the woods” yet, she says, using a familiar idiom that makes me feel more at home in her foreign realm of poltergeists and entities; confusing new territory that seems infinitely more complex than the tangible reality we’re both sitting in.
Incense burning from a Ganesha statue, the Hindu God who’s known as the remover of obstacles. Image by Cassandra Smolcic. Ubud, Bali, 2019.
My gut sounds an alarm so sharp and piercing that, for once, I can’t help but give it my undivided attention. Without the fallibility of language, it tells me that every word I’ve heard here today is trustworthy and accurate. My body feels simultaneously light and heavy, and my peripheral vision seems to expand like curtains pulled back from a movie screen. Everything in the room suddenly appears sharper and more crisp, and the hair follicles on my skin take turns standing in attention, like a crowded stadium of fans doing “the wave.”
“That hole allows for other troubled spirits and dark entities to feed off of you,” Jana elaborates. I picture something like an outer space vortex or a cluster of cancer cells infesting the upper right corner of my back. “No wonder you feel so depleted, anxious and depressed and can’t sleep at night,” she says, nailing me to the wall, yet again, with her proclamations. She explains that my nervous system has been working overtime since childhood, that my body cannot heal itself without sufficient rest or respite from all those stress hormones. This assessment sounds and feels accurate on more levels than I can describe, yet I still hear whispers of skepticism creeping back in to my mind.
This woman is a fraud; a crankpot; a complete an utter lunatic. If you believe anything she says, you’ve lost your fucking mind, Nancy interjects, and I start to feel dizzy with confusion again.
“Did Adolf tell you about me before our appointment or something?” I finally muster up the courage to ask.
“No, he didn’t. Is that who referred you here? Frankly, you look totally exhausted sweetheart, that much is obvious, but the rest takes a special eye to see. You don’t consider yourself a spiritual person?” she asks, though I’m sure she already knows the answer.
“I’m agnostic, but I’m still open to things,” I say, finally feeling ready for the later part of that statement to be true.
My lack of faith is likely connected to my pain, Jana explains matter-of-factly. She can sense that I’ve been holding a lot back, bottling up past traumas and otherworldly gifts. “It’s like you’ve been fighting off your authentic self, and that pressure can manifest itself in many damaging ways. But don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t make you any less of a remarkable human being,” she says, her expression relaxed and void of detectable artifice. Her unwavering sweetness makes me feel a pang of guilt for all my internal naysaying and suspicion. “You’ve gone through a lot in your short life, the kinds of things that would tear most people apart. Not only did you survive it, but you came out shining.”
A cluster of purple lotus blooms, which are symbolic of purity and rising out of suffering in Hinduism. Ubud, Bali, 2019.
“I don’t feel like I’m shining. I feel weak and drained most of the time.”
“I mean beneath all that. Your spirit and resolve are incredibly strong. Look at all the amazing things you’ve achieved in your short life, despite everything that stood in your way.” I hadn’t mentioned my accomplishments or credentials, and I wouldn’t say that I have “success story” written all over me these days.
Maybe she Googled my name; I did pre-pay with a credit card, Nancy blurts out with the accusatory tone of a seasoned prosecutor. But what about all the other, bone-chillingly accurate insights she’s shared? No amount of Googling or even social media stalking could tell a person all that, rebuttals the defense. And the prosecution finally gives it a rest.
For a few precious moments, a sensation of inner quiet drowns out the otherwise incessant noisiness of my being. It’s here that all of my fearful, paranoid and disbelieving thoughts effortlessly fall away. When I take another slow and deliberate breath, what fills that space is a deep sense of appreciation and respect for Jana’s abilities, gifts and guidance.
In this space of unusual inner calm, the concept of a person having “otherworldly” abilities no longer seems so laughable, strange or unsettling (like it had just thirty minutes before). Neither does the idea that I may possess mysterious, extraordinary powers of my own. I told you so, interjects Cassie, the oft-neglected voice of my inner child.
What Jana says next sends of ping of ancient recognition down my spine; a poignant message that stays with me for years to come: “This is not at all uncommon, but you come from a long line of troubled souls—people who struggled with all varieties of addiction, who violently abused and mistreated themselves and one another, who suffered with mental illness and serious depression and have been unconsciously passing their traumas on, from generation to generation. But you somehow managed to break that cycle and free yourself from all of the things that could have been; that arguably should have been. What you’ve done with your life is nothing short of a miracle, do you understand that?” she asks, her eyes locked to mine with sincerity.
“I haven’t really thought of it that way,” I say with my lips, while a jolt of inner resonance lights up my heart below the surface of my physical body.
Suddenly that sense of inner quiet becomes deafening, compelling me to close my eyes again. Within that jet black field of stillness my mind chatter and pain symptoms have all gone silent, like they’ve completely passed through me for the time being. I feel tingly, light and iridescent; my ears wide open to whatever wisdom Jana has to share with me next.
“When you broke the cycle of inter-generational trauma for yourself — coming into the light instead of letting the darkness take over — you not only healed yourself but you effectively healed your family line for seven generations forward, and seven generations back,” she said, pronouncing every word with meticulous slowness. Despite the damp heat in the room, the message gives me chills. “It’s time for you to come out of hiding, my dear.”
Balinese sunset. Image by Cassandra Smolcic. Ubud, Bali, 2019.
“What do you mean by that?” I ask.
“It’s time for you to let your light shine,” she says. “I know you wear black to protect yourself, to blend in to a crowd, but you’re not fooling anyone. You shine too bright,” she says. “It’s time you introduced some color back into your wardrobe and embraced your brighter, more radiant and fearless side.”
“I guess I need to go shopping then,” I say, pointing down at the black dress I’m wearing with a hopeful shrug, “because just about everything in my suitcase is black.” Jana smiles at me knowingly, and I add the suggestion to my mental checklist.
It’s hard to believe that I walked into this office, just an hour ago, feeling so uneasy in this woman’s presence. But now it’s like I’m speaking with someone who’s known me intimately for years, maybe my entire life. It’s a good feeling; being so seen, understood, accepted and cared for by someone who’s older and wiser than me.
“This job might go beyond my capabilities, but I’m willing to try some energy work to see if it might help break your father’s hold on you. But like I said, the connection is strong so I can’t promise it’ll be all that effective.”
“Sounds like it’s worth a try,” I say, feeling more open and hopeful than I have in a long time.
“It won’t be possible to unhook the two of you unless you are fully ready and willing to let him go,” she says with caring eyes scanning my face. “Are you ready to do that?”
“Yes,” I agree, really wanting to mean it. “But before we do that, I should probably tell you why I actually booked this appointment in the first place.” Speaking to something I’ve been working hard to deny for most of my life, I finally open my lips and say it out loud: “I need to tell you about the visitors I see at night.”
• • •
You’ve just read Chapter 3 of “Trigger Point: The Hail-Mary Healing Memoir of a Yuppie Redneck Drifter.” Read the previous chapters and the memoir disclaimer here.
Self-portrait from a return trip to Ubud, Bali. Image by Cassandra Smolcic, 2018.