Reiki. Not the poster for the next X-Men movie.

Yesterday, I had reiki. Or… I had reiki done. Or is it, I did reiki? Maybe it’s, I was reikied.

Either way, reiki is not a new agey thing to dismiss. There’s a stigma that comes with doing these things. I’m happy to say that reiki did not make me go out and buy a crystal amethyst necklace or gain a sudden concern for the alignment of my chakras and angels.

What it did do was make me so relaxed and grounded that I felt like a baby at nap time, mouth dribble included.

But, what the heck is reiki, you ask? I know, that baby description sounds way better than meditations and mantras.

My mom’s boyfriend’s mom, Gabriel, was my practitioner. That’s not even the right word. She’s at the level where she can say she’s my reiki master. No. Big. Deal.

(Isn’t Gabriel the perfect name for this sort of thing?)

Reiki is a Japanese spiritual technique that uses palm healing. So, for an hour, Gabriel would place her hands on or above the different parts of my body to restore the “healing energy” we all have. Throughout the day of our hectic, techie lives, our energy is usually overrun by the “Fight-or-Flight energy”. You want better “healing energy”. Take note of that.

I always wondered if my bipolar chemical imbalance causes my energy to do something crazy. Or if the meds do it. I sometimes hope to be different from others that way. Not in a “I hope I have superhero powers” sort of thing… well, okay yeah, that sort of thing. At least something that makes a reiki master surprised.

With a little bit of Sounds from the First Peoples of the Pacific Northwest, Gabriel cupped her hands around my head over my ears. In her palms, my mind was bouncing around, like when a kid throws a bouncy ball at a wall inside the house and watch it ricochet throughout the kitchen and livingroom. Her hands were the kitchen and livingroom. It wasn’t Parkinsons I had, but the effects of a high pace culture.

Though her hands were cool as they moved on to my arms, back and legs, I felt an emanating heat between her hands and my body, proving to me that energy is there and can be manipulated. Eventually, all of the barely contained Fight-or-Flight energy was dissipated and I felt like I had a clearer sense of how my body and mind felt. If this isn’t impressive, you, my friend, are a cardboard box.

Mythbusting…

-Reiki will not solve your existential crises or stop the HST, but it will put you in a space where you’re better protected from the stress of the day. REIKI MAKES LIFE CHILLAXABLE.

I used to meditate more regularly than a smoking habit, but stopped a year ago. For bipolar, for anything, meditation is amazing if you can stick with it. Take 15-20 minutes before bed or when you wake up, focus on deep breathing, focus on the sound of it and try to keep thinking of nothing. Do that. Rinse and repeat.

But, for the last year, all that stress from my last university year and cancer jacked up my adrenaline so high that the only way to sleep was to knock myself out with glorious Seroquel (cough*sarcasm). Now that I’ve been held like a baby by an energy healin’ reiki master, I can do away with the sleep meds and put my mind on the Slumberland Express with new agey supermight.

I did find out something I didn’t know about myself: I have “smooth energy”. I’m special after all, and all I had to be is me.

Beware 'the Arts' Cuts.

I had to write an opinion piece (like you see in newspapers) for my last class. So, in my traditional crazy fashion, I took Satan’s side against everyone rallying against arts cuts. Yes, I may lose all my friends. I may even lose myself. But, to hell with it. Sometimes you gotta let that monster breathe.

Why Save the Arts?

Arts funding was cut. Yes, it’s truly a horrible act committed by the federal government. Arts funding, murdered and the finance minister has blood on his hands.

Who will save us? Margaret Atwood pulled up her superhero tights and leapt to ‘the arts’ defence in a Globe and Mail manifesto. “There’s more to the arts than a bunch of rich people at galas whining about their grants,” she says. Harper, Atwood continues, “Told us that some group called ‘ordinary people’ didn’t care about something called ‘the arts.’”

Well, maybe they don’t. And why should they care when Canada’s arts heroine has to

Continue reading →

There’s no other way to say it: I dropped my Blackberry in the toilet.

I told most people I dropped it in the sink when I was doing the dishes. I can’t believe they fell for that. How do you pull out a cell phone when you’re doing the dishes unless you’re an employee of Cirque du Soleil?

This lie made me feel more guilty, so I came clean. What really happened was that I went to use the public washroom at school. Hung up my bag in the stall, pulled my pants down and sat. My Blackberry ba-dinged. A text message! I pulled my phone out of my pants that were around my ankles, and before I did any business (no 2, not even a 1) my phone slipped from my hands. A little juggling act later and splash, right between my legs.

Of course, in my idiocy, I jumped up, swore at myself and thrust my hand

Continue reading →