Читать книгу The Oil That Heals - William A. McGarey M.D. - Страница 10

When I was a five-year-old boy playing on the hills that rimmed the Ohio valley, I discovered a magnificent flower. It had a wonderful yellow-orange face to it, which magically changed after a few weeks to a fluffy white ball of what my parents called seeds. To me, they were one of nature’s miracles—I could pick one of those long-stemmed objects of wonderment, hold it close to my mouth and gently blow, and off they would go, these little white floaters, into the wind to land far away from my sight.

But the flower itself carried even more interest for me. I used to lie down on the grass and smell the dandelion as it was clothed in all its glory. I wondered about that bit of nature. My nose told me there was not much of an odor, but an aroma of some sort did seem to be there. And I wondered, “What can the dandelion be good for?”

In my later years, it occurred to me that perhaps memories of a past life as a doctor using herbs could have been stirred deep within me, to give me that early interest in the dandelion. Most people think it is simply a weed, especially when it gets a good start on one’s lawn.

But that memory of lying there on the grass, not far from my home, smelling the dandelion has made its place in my life ever since. It symbolized for me the inquisitive spirit that must be in all individuals, if they are to understand their origin, their destiny, and the nature of all those mysteries that are locked within every created object that becomes part of our personal experience.

The dandelion (Taraxacum officinale), as a matter of fact, is a highly respected herb, nutritious in its nature and used to clear obstructions from and to stimulate the liver to detoxify poisons in the system. It has a strong alkalinizing effect to neutralize acids and acts as an eliminatory herb in maintaining body health and as a building agent. The leaves and the root are the active ingredients most commonly used, and dandelion tea is applied most frequently in renal, bladder, and liver difficulties.¹

Perhaps the flower is there to catch one’s attention and thrill all those who are, by nature, inquisitive and investigative. But there is a value, too, and I’ve found that most of nature—given us through the kindness of God—is here to be used for aid and for help, once its use is determined.

The experience with the dandelion has proved to me that the commonplace things one tends to neglect in travels through the earth are often uncommon in their true value, so let’s always remember—even when we are grown and relatively sophisticated—to smell the dandelions.

It was not long after that that my mother died following surgery for pulmonary tuberculosis. I was seven, and I—like my two brothers—cried when I found out that mother had left us and would not be seen again. Some years later, when the idea of reincarnation became part of my belief system, I understood death as a passage from one room to another, from one environment which we call the earth plane to a spiritual setting where the surroundings are of a different vibratory nature. When we make that change, it is really I or you who steps into that other dimension.

When my mother died, I wasn’t wise enough to smell the dandelions in that experience. Looking back, however, I know there is truth in the concept that every experience is an opportunity for soul growth. If life is indeed continuous, my inner being must have been aware of that reality, and what Edgar Cayce had to say about it was my inner lesson:

Life is continuous! The soul moves on, gaining by each experience that necessary for its comprehending of its kinship and relationship to Divine. (1004-2)

My belief system was rooted early in the Presbyterian church, although I have had past incarnations, too, as a Catholic priest. But in this life, I chose parents who had adopted the Presbyterian approach to their understanding of the Divine. From the time I was twelve years old, I taught others about the biblical story. At first, I taught seven- and eight-year-old students. After many years, I taught adults. In between, I aimed my life toward the ministry, but changed it midstream to medical education.

But my faith included the view of a Creative Force in the universe—and even outside the universe—which brought me into being and which created all things. This view brought me later to the writings of the Chinese mystic, Lao Tsu. He found the Divine to be the Mother of the Ten Thousand Things, and just as much of a mystery. These few words, however, from the Tao Te Ching² helped me feel more in touch with that which I could not truly explain:

Something, in veiled creation, came to be

Before the earth was formed, or heaven.

In the silence, apart, alone,

It changes not, is ever present, never failing—

Think of it as the Mother of the Ten Thousand Things.

It seems to me now that we need a basis from which to start understanding the mystery of the body and that which brought it into being. I didn’t look at life in exactly that way during my formative years, but what was happening inside my unconscious mind was the adoption of the idea of God as the Creative Force, the Beginning of all things, the Wisdom that created me with His potential and made the path clear for the return voyage. And I accepted Jesus as the Christ, the Anointed One, who had already made the trip back to His beginning and who had performed something mystical here in the Earth that is still difficult to understand. Another experience for me, another step.

Communication has always been important to me. When I was in the eighth grade, my teacher told me I would some day write a book—she apparently saw that in my writing. From the time I was eleven years old until I finished college, I worked in some capacity with newspapers. Paperboy, printer’s devil (they had those in the ‘30s), reporter, typesetter, printer, and—for a period of several months when the editor of the small-town newspaper was down with a heart attack—I was the acting editor of the paper—at age eighteen.

In college I took part in writing, helping to create a literary publication, writing poetry and short stories, and helping with the college newspaper, editing it in my final year. It seemed that writing was something that had to be part of my destiny, wherever I found myself. The experiences that came about during those years taught me how to communicate, but one cannot communicate unilaterally. To write a story for the newspaper, I had to ask questions and listen to those who knew what was happening. Then I put my talents to work.

It must be that way, to some extent, as we work with our physical body. If we pay no attention to what our body is telling us, we may end up with a perforated ulcer of the stomach instead of the earlier overacidity. Listening will tell us that something is wrong, something is burning in our stomach. Why not listen and give the communication a response—change our diet, our life style a bit, and introduce some antacid preparation?

One of the most frequent criticisms I hear about today’s physicians is that they don’t listen. Patients tell me this, their voices ringing with resentment and anger, for they all believe they know something about their own body. It is, after all, their body. They know how they feel. And to them, how they feel is important. If their doctor won’t listen, frustration results and there is further disruption of the physical body because of the emotional upheaval.

Communication is always a two-way street. Knowledge of our body requires a sensitivity to what is going on and a response to that need. It doesn’t always take a doctor to know when something is happening inside, and then what our conscious response brings about in the way of correction.

Sometimes, like a rumor that a reporter catches on the fly, there is a hint of something going wrong inside the body that comes in an instructive dream. Both the rumor and the dream need investigation. Once investigated and interpreted, the rumor may become fact that can be published in the paper and the dream may become a therapy that can be instituted in the body. The key is to listen, appraise, then act.