A Healing Presence
by
Ian Watson
I have been
involved in healing work since I was sixteen years old,
when I bought myself a set of Bach flower remedies and
began prescribing for myself and others. I have always
been drawn to herbs and trees, and have been blessed with
a faith and trust in the healing power of nature.
For a number of years I worked alongside dowsers and
spiritual healers, then I trained as a reflexologist and
began to gain more of an holistic understanding of health
and disease. At the age of twenty I gave up my day job
and began to learn homeopathy, a subject which became my
passion during the following ten years. I wrote books,
lectured widely, co-founded a college and felt sure that
I had found my vocation in life.
As my work progressed, I began to realise that healing is
a mysterious process, involving a multitude of different
factors, and yet almost always there is at the heart of
every healing process a relationship between two human
beings. I found myself becoming increasingly interested
in that magical interaction that occurs between
practitioner and patient, and I came to understand how
crucial the healing relationship is to the whole process.
The radical psychiatrist R.D. Laing said that
“The
treatment is how you treat
someone”, a comment that struck a
deep chord with me when I first heard it. The great
psychologist Carl Jung once remarked to a student:
“It is what
you are that heals, not what you do.”
These two
prominent therapists had both come to appreciate that
there is a crucial difference between what a
healer does,
and who he or she is.
Whilst techniques and procedures may be necessary and
helpful, the quality of presence, the state of beingness
that the healer brings is perhaps the most important
factor of all.
One day, during a teaching trip to Egypt, I was asked to
prescribe for a sheikh, or holy man. He was considered to
be a sufi master, and I was taken to visit him by one of
his disciples, who was a doctor and Chinese medicine
practitioner. We drove together from Cairo for what
seemed like hours, eventually arriving at a dusty little
village. The sheikh greeted us and we went inside his
house to conduct the consultation.
He was an old man, in his eighties, and he suffered with
cataracts and arthritis, among other things. I asked
questions in English, he responded in Arabic, and the
doctor did his best to translate in both directions. It
took a while to gather the information, but eventually I
was satisfied I had enough to go on, and told him so. He
looked at me piercingly, and I was aware of the power of
his gaze even through his diseased lenses.
He waited until I stopped writing, and said that he would
like to ask me a few questions now – if I had no
objections. Of course, I replied, please ask anything at
all.
How do you decide which medicine to give?, he asked.
Well, I note down all your symptoms, then try to find the
remedy that matches those symptoms the best, I answered.
Does it sometimes happen that you can’t find one? Yes, I
laughed – that often happens!
I became aware that despite his frail appearance, the
Sheikh had a gentle and yet powerful presence, and there
was a relentless quality in the way he looked at me.
And then what do you do?, he asked. Well, I look things
up in the books we have. All of the remedies we use
are well-documented, I explained. And what if you still
don’t know what to do?, he persisted.
I was getting more than a little hot under the collar by
this point.
I paused and reflected. How did I proceed when I was
unsure what to do? I pray, I told him, which was the
truth. I ask for help, for guidance.
He scrutinised my face for what seemed like an eternity.
Tell me, he said. To whom do you pray?
All I remember at this point is that ‘something
happened’. I found myself struggling to say anything at
all, my mind was racing and at the same time I felt what
can only be described as a peaceful presence in the room.
It seemed to fill up my chest, and then the whole room,
and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry – they both
felt somehow appropriate. The best way I can describe how
I felt is that I was full of love.
The old man sat back in his chair and just nodded gently.
He had no further questions. I had experienced what it
feels like to be in the company of someone who is fully
present.
During the months and years following this encounter, and
other encounters with remarkable individuals who taught
me the same simple truth in a variety of different ways,
the emphasis of my work gradually began to change. On the
surface I was doing mostly the same things as before, but
I slowly began to realise that healing is, in essence,
very simple. No matter what kind of therapy is being
practised on the outside, the key to accessing that
healing potential that exists within all of us is to
allow ourselves to open up to that internal presence
which is our own true nature.
I’ve come to appreciate that to heal is to become aware
of who we really are, and that the most valuable work a
therapist can do is to help us identify and let go of
that which is false, that which obscures our awareness
like clouds hiding the sun. Our resistance to being true
to our Self causes us to suffer. When we stop resisting
and let go, a deep and profound healing occurs quite
naturally, all by itself.
What I became increasingly interested in over the past
few years was this single question: what happens when we
really stop? If we take some time out and we manage to
interrupt the continuity of all our daily habits and
distractions and roles and things-to-do, even for just a
few moments, what is it that takes place?
My experience has been that the truth of who we really
are will begin to reveal itself in that tiny space. And,
strangely enough, coming close to that revelation is one
of the most terrifying things that can happen to any of
us. As we approach that inner truth, it tends to feel
like our very existence is under threat, as if we might
die, or go mad, or simply dissolve and cease to exist as
an individual entity. The ego, it has been said, does not
go to its own funeral willingly! Consequently, most of us
will spend any amount of time and energy looking in every
direction except the one and only place where that inner
peace and freedom from suffering that we all long for can
be found.
There is a peculiar paradox at work here, which St. John
of the Cross expressed succinctly: What you are looking
for is who is looking.
Strange, yet true, it seems. That which we most fear is
in fact the gateway to the awareness of our own true
Self, which of course is what we are driven to seek. That
seeking can take the form of a restlessness, of not
feeling at home anywhere, of yearning for the ideal mate,
or longing for peace of mind, or looking for something
without even knowing what it is that we’re looking for.
And all the while, that which is being sought is really
just the seeker itself. Our deepest yearning, the only
desire that remains when all other desires have been
satisfied, is simply to be as we already are. And the
essence of who we are is love itself.
I don’t know why it is, but it appears to be the case
that we often need to go away in order to come home to
our Self. This, to me, is the wonder and the magic of
going away on retreat, and I’m truly grateful that a
place such as La Serrania exists. When our group departed
having spent a week of profound healing and intimacy
together in May this year, we were all a little more at
home with our Selves. We had been touched by that
presence, and it wasn’t anything that we did that moved
us all so deeply. It was who we were in relation to each
other, and to ourselves.
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This article first appeared in
Odysseys,
a series of essays published on the website of
La Serrania,
a beautiful retreat centre in Mallorca where Ian has
held numerous self-healing retreats.