Since my last blog, my inner journey has been as rich as my external trip to the jungles of Brazil and the volcano in Guatemala. Frankly, I am still integrating and promise to share about my first experience with the shamanic plant medicine ayahuasca, in a blog soon. But today I want to share a journal entry from my first shamanic experience because I came back from the jungle pregnant with a new idea for collection of mini-memoirs, And since I’m feeling nostalgic…this is a picture of Me & Michael 15 years ago…
Ready? Possible Trigger warning…especially if your pregnant.
Flashback to my first shamanic memory
My earliest shamanic experience struck when I was about the age my son is now.
My parents were always an odd match: She was from a small pueblo in Mexico where she helped raise 15 brothers and sisters and only had a 3rd grade education. At age 21 she became an illegal immigrant, working as a nanny so she could send money home. My father was raised around Beverly Hills and was working on his post doctoral research at UCLA.
His Jewish parents disapproved of his marrying a Catholic Mexican, and her father refused to walk her down the aisle. Without the support of their parents, they wed and had two healthy boys. The third pregnancy turned into a terrible miscarriage, where she nearly hemorrhaged to death.
I was born about a year after that. Followed by another brother. So I was raised, the only girl, in a family of boys which was torn between opposing Jewish and Mexican heritages. I spent my summer months on a ranch in Mexico, and studying the Torah at Camp Hess Kramer in Malibu.
When I was old enough to understand where babies came from, I found my dad in the kitchen one morning and asked him: What happened to the baby that died before I was born?
A cloud came over his face, he slowly started recounting that my mother was cramping and bleeding in the bathroom, but before he took her to the hospital, he returned to the toilet to find the fetus fully in tact. He scooped it into his hand, it was no bigger than his palm, but when he took a closer look, he could see that it had already developed a little penis, it was going to be a boy, he felt the presence of it’s soul, and said goodbye to his son, then put it’s remains in an old mason jar and took it to UCLA medical center. When he looked up from his revelry, he asked why I was crying.
“I remember. I was there.” I said. But my dad dismissed my ‘deja vu’ as my having overheard his telling the story before.
“But that baby was supposed to be me.”
“Nonsense!” He said and went back to making sandwiches for our school lunches. I spent the rest of my childhood with a vague sense that I was supposed to be a boy. Some part of me knew I had a hermaphroditic soul, and was trapped in a girls body. I’ve since railed against all known gender restrictions and conditioning.
To be Continued…
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