So I just got back from a woo clinic in Western Massachusetts. It was a pilgrimage of sorts, seven hours in a car is kind of like walking the Santiago de Compostela except less beautiful, although 87 through New York state is beautiful. I drove with the sun setting. Everyone who has sick has done this.
I am a pilgrim. I am late in realizing this. Typical. Late bloomer. Bonehead. Novice. I'm always looking for a guru, or a mountaintop to ascend at the the top of which there will be The Answer. Maybe it will be A Pill. Giving Up Gluten. Trumpets. The light of illumination.
The doctor at the woo clinic was beardless, New Englandy in his khaki pants, very un-lama, half of my session he typed into his computer, sternly. At the end of this he said: There is no cure for what you have. But, he said, it's not going to kill you. You're going to have to learn how take care of yourself.
At this I saw a cartoon tumbleweed blowing through the desert. Take care of myself? Me? In my imagination there was a cow skull like in a Georgia O'Keefe painting. I'm in no position to to that!
Then I thought, godamnit, that 70s TV show was right. I could have just stayed home. But I had to travel to find out that, Grasshopper, the mountain is within.