“Where did that come from?” I asked Lin. She simply smiled and pointed up at the sky. “I get it, it all comes from the Presence, but specifically, where did that come from?” I tried again.
I had just witnessed something spectacular. A spontaneous remission from multiple forms of cancer, but I saw it at an energy level, far above, or perhaps below, the level of flesh. It’s a thing I’ve often been curious about. Is there a defining if immeasurable moment when a healing takes place? You know, with a cut you can see it healing until there’s no trace of it left, but when you’re talking about cellular activity it’s not so obvious.
I have wondered if, in all the healings in all the world, there is a particular second that has a different quality to all other seconds. Now I knew there was, because I had seen a rapid glow inside a body, as if the skin had been stripped away, and in the next second all traces of the cancer had simply not been present.
Lin surprises me. I think she knows a lot more than she lets on, or maybe she just trusts more than I do. It’s not enough for me to know a thing has happened; I need to know how it happened, and why it happened, and what the agency of it happening was. Blind faith, to me, is still blind. I don’t just want to believe in something. I want to know the something I’m putting my faith in actually exists and follows some form of logical progression.
“Answer me this, then,” I said, pulling Lin’s earlobe to get her undivided attention. “I’ve often wondered how someone can survive against incalculable odds, and yet someone else bumps their head a little and dies.”
I have a theory. Here it is: Until it’s your Time, nothing can kill you. When it’s your Time, nothing can save you.
“There are no angels in Heaven,” Lin said, and that was all she said. I have this constant feeling that Lin is my teacher; there’s something, probably many things, that she knows that I should know, or would like to know, but most of her answers are like ancient Japanese koan, riddles locked inside of words. They force me to think, and think differently, but I’m never sure I’m really understanding.
Ikkyu, the Zen master, was very clever even as a boy. His teacher had a precious teacup, a rare antique. Ikkyu happened to break this cup and was greatly perplexed. Hearing the footsteps of his teacher, he held the pieces of the cup behind him. When the master appeared, Ikkyu asked: “Why do people have to die?”
“This is natural,” explained the older man. “Everything has to die and has just so long to live.”
Ikkyu, producing the shattered cup, added: “It was time for your cup to die.”
I think my questions are the cup that has to die; that acceptance of what is, is more important than understanding what was or what may be. I saw Lin smile a little, as if she could read my thoughts.
When you’re used to thinking about everything it’s a challenge to think of nothing. Meditation teaches mind/no-mind, but I’m not a Buddhist so I think it doesn’t apply to me, or at least not in the same way.
At times like this I like to wander off on my own for a few days and just let the ideas sort of percolate. I often find that doing this allows for distraction and then, all of a sudden, the answer is right in front of me.
All these people living who were dying. Every single day, all over the world, tens of million of people are healing, getting better, having a remission. From a scratch to a healing from a dread disease, they all have one thing in common: they are getting well.
I saw Lin a week after our mostly one-way discussion. She smiled, and I think I had the answer.
“There are no angels in Heaven because Heaven doesn’t need them.”
She smiled hugely at that. I had my answer. I know where the angels are.