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A Healing Story(continued) "Do you think there are any limits to what human beings can accomplish?" This was Gerald, who stood at his side now, his surrogate father. The father who understood him. "I don't believe in any but self-imposed limitations," Michael said. "You know that." Gerald walked with him over to the edge of the rooftop. They looked down upon the parking lot. "All of those people," Gerald said, "all of the buildings, the cars, all of the accomplishments of humanity began merely as dreams." "Not merely," Michael said. "No, not merely," Gerald said. "I misspoke. Dreams are
where we live. They are our true existence. We choose those which we
will create and those which we won't. But there's no question that the
world in our heads is bigger and deeper and more vibrant than anything
we can manifest at this stage in our Michael watched the worried relatives as they entered and exited far below. "How does this help me to help my father?" "It's not up to you to help him," Gerald said. "It's up to you to offer help. But he himself will create the outcome." "You had a heart attack," Michael said. "Yes." "You chose to come back, to live." "Yes." "So why should I do anything at all?" Even as he said it, Michael felt deflated. The power, the control that he had felt earlier was slipping away. "Why is your connection with your father dependent upon some sort of heroic gesture?" Gerald said. "Can't you just love him? Can't you just offer him healing with that?" Michael backed away from the ledge. "I don't even love myself," he said. "So write about the doubt. Cast a spell in confusion. Just write something. Don't leave yourself wondering what you would've said." Michael smiled, but only just a little. "Thanks for stopping by," he said. "I've never tried anything like this before." "You can do it," Gerald said. Michael wished that Gerald wasn't the only one who ever told him that. How could words repair? They had only the power that we gave them. A healing story? What was that? He was no shaman. The elevator reached its floor. They would all be gathered around him now, Michael knew. He had missed his chance. But when he turned the corner they weren't there. His father was alone. Michael moved quickly to his side. The sun had set and the lighting now was more artificial than natural. Tubes were sticking out of him. Wires were tangled near the bedpost. He took his father's hand and did not feel dread. He did not feel enclosure. He had no defeatist thoughts to share. And as the words began, Michael saw the energy coalesce before him. He saw the air harden and the language form. He was writing with his heart upon an unmarred blackboard and the room was responding. There were sentences hanging over the bed, paragraphs waiting to be born. "I realize now," Michael said, "that each of us creates his own existence. That all of the pain that seems brought to us by the outside world -- all of that suffering is just a mirror we hold before ourselves, trying to reflect some inner landscape, to understand the messages we are receiving from some deeper self. There's a centering of personal energy -- a true organizing that takes place every time we act as ourselves. I can't tell you that I love you, Dad. I'm not up to that yet. I write and I try to say things that are meaningful. I try to keep emotion in the forefront. I try to be honest. I can't heal you, Dad. I can only be myself." As the last words were written, Michael saw that they had formed a cocoon, a spinning vortex around the bed. Their energy was brightening the room. But his father remained the same. Michael couldn't understand it. He felt sure he had sorted the alphabet of his soul. He turned from the bedside and saw his family further down the corridor. They were huddled around the doctor. The news was bad. Michael knew then that his father would never wake up. Not to this world. The nurse entered and bent over and wiped his father's brow. "You had it backwards," she said. "Yes," Michael said. "You had to get the words out." "Yes. The nurse left and Michael was alone with his father. The others would be here soon. Michael understood. The words were still hanging in the air, dissipating. The cocoon was already gone. It had been a healing story. But not for his father. Michael smiled, but only just a little. He had wanted so badly to create -- how had he phrased it? -- "a living work that embodied his own goodness." And now he realized that all along he had been doing just that.
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