Reality Is Just an Illusion. Chuck Sr. Coburn

to bee stings.”

      Shirl nodded her head in confirmation, having witnessed the immediate and dangerous swelling in my body that occurred the last time I was stung.

      I listened carefully as Juan Gabriel translated my thoughts back to the shaman, though his sentences seemed much too short to accurately portray my mounting concern. The shaman just smiled, nodded, and muttered a few words in my direction. Then he quickly shifted his attention to the next healing·.

      "He will take care of it," Juan Gabriel said quietly.

      Take care of it? Take care of what? What was he going to do? Did he fully understand my anxiety—and the potential danger? How many hundreds of miles away was the nearest hospital emergency room? Maybe I needed to sleep on the bus that I knew was parked somewhere nearby . . . I wasn't so sure that the shaman's language and cultural differences had permitted my concerns to be fully understood.

      It was late by the time the shaman finally chose to terminate his healing work for the night. We all climbed into our sleeping bags around the fire pit, but the highly charged energy from the healings made it difficult for anyone to doze. Nevertheless, the next morning I awoke to a wonderfully relaxed body—and an apprehensive mind.

      A Healing to Remember

      We were served a light breakfast of fruits, breads, and juices prepared by families in the community. Following our meal, the shaman returned to his seat near the fire and conducted several more healings. When he finished, he got to his feet, smiled, and nodded at me. He then located Carol, a woman from our group who he had determined also required a bee sting. His eyes went back and forth between Carol and me, as though preparing us for what was to come. Then he walked away.

      After a few moments, though it seemed to me like an eternity, he returned, walked directly to Carol, and raised the back of her shirt. In his cupped hand, he held a bee which he placed on her back. Seconds later, we saw Carol wince as the bee inserted his stinger.

      Then the shaman turned and walked toward me. I desperately looked for Juan Gabriel, reminding him that I was not willing to take the risk associated with being stung by a bee. My mind was suddenly swimming with the horror stories that our family doctor had related about people suffering from allergic reactions similar to mine who had died from a single potent sting.

      The issue of fear had been presented to me once again.

      Within a matter of days I had been confronted with my fright of snakes, my fear of being in the jungle, and now, a potentially life-threatening bee sting. I knew spiritual pilgrimages always contained lessons, but what was I supposed to learn from this?

      Did 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 . . .