Healing Wisdom for a Wounded World My Life-Changing Journey Through a Shamanic School (Book 2)

Healing Wisdom for a Wounded World

My Life-Changing Journey Through a Shamanic School

Book 2

WEAM NAMOU

HERMiZ

PUBLiSHING

Copyright © 2016 by Weam Namou

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the author.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

2 0 1 6 9 0 0 4 2 6

Namou, Weam

Healing Wisdom for a Wounded World

My Life-Changing Journey Through a Shamanic School

Book 2

(memoir)

ISBN: 978-1-945371-98-1

First Edition

Published in the United States of America by:

Hermiz Publishing, Inc.

Sterling Heights, MI

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1: Idleness

Chapter 2: To Wish Upon the Virgin Mary

Chapter 3: Meeting My New Mentor

Chapter 4: Slipping into Youth

Chapter 5: My Brilliant Career

Chapter 6: Stolen Inheritance

Chapter 7: The Path to Enlightenment

Chapter 8: A Secret Story

Chapter 9: The Story Continues

Chapter 10: A Fear Doll

Chapter 11: Patience, My Dear, Patience

Chapter 12: Dealing with a Chameleon

Chapter 13: Dealing with Self

Chapter 14: Born into Luxury

Chapter 15: Old Friendships

Chapter 16: Wolves

Chapter 17: Keeper of the Tree

Chapter 18: The Story Continues to Continue

Chapter 19: Healing the Solar Plexus

Chapter 20: Phone Session with Lynn

Chapter 21: The Naturalization Ceremony

Chapter 22: Making a Bundle

Chapter 23: Whatever

Chapter 24: An Eventful Death

Chapter 25: Just Dive In

Chapter 26: The French Filmmakers

Chapter 27: Seeing My Hands in My Dream

Chapter 28: The End

About the Author

Other books by Hermiz Publishing, Inc.

Attributions

To my ancestors

Chapter 1

Idleness

Your goal is just to be, said my first year mentor, Leslie, after I finished telling her over the phone that, for the life of me, I could not set any goals for the New Year coming up in a few days. For someone who fell short of meeting last year’s deadline of finishing her book, this seemed insane, completely inappropriate, and out of character – although it felt right to just be.

It is winter, a time for a shaman to rest, to hibernate with the bear and be with your dreams, she said. Next year you will learn how to move energy. I’m so excited for you.

We chitchatted briefly because I could hardly speak. Stomach flu had me curled up in bed like a puppy. I stared out the window at the evergreen sprinkled with snow, and I felt the whisper of the sunrays that caressed my bedroom. Not making a New Year resolution! Who ever heard of that? This tradition, started by Ancient Babylonians some four thousand years ago, was in my DNA.

For the Babylonians, the first new moon following the vernal equinox, the day in late March with an equal amount of sunlight and darkness, heralded the start of a new year. They made promises to their gods that they would return borrowed objects and pay their debts. They marked the occasion with a massive religious festival called Akitu, derived from the Sumerian word for barley, which was cut in the spring. This festival involved a different ritual on each of its eleven days.

I turned to my husband, who was getting dressed for work, his back against me. He put the green work T-shirt over his tall and lean body, and then he sat at the edge of the bed to put on his socks. I could see from the side of his face the handsome and manly Roman nose, cleft chin, high cheek bones, and moustache which made him look like an Arabian prince. I asked, Do you remember the last time I stayed in bed all day?

When you gave birth to our kids and had to sleep in the hospital, he said.

I returned my gaze to the window and thought, maybe I need the stomach flu. I would never have taken the liberty to fully rest on my own, to unwrap my muscles and stretch and release tension that had gone unnoticed for years. Besides, Babylonians celebrated a new year in late March, which is considered a logical choice for a new year, when spring begins and new crops are planted. January, on the other hand, has no astronomical nor agricultural significance. It is purely random. The Romans continued to observe the New Year on March 25, but their calendar was constantly tampered with by various emperors so that the calendar soon became out of synchronization with the sun. I wondered, had we not tampered with nature’s clock, had we synchronized our new resolution with the equinox, would we have better luck keeping resolutions? According to statistics, only eight percent of people will achieve their New Year’s resolutions.

February arrived, bringing with it the first quarter school material, called Face of the Earth Lodge. I read the study guide, welcoming the messages of how, this year, we will acquire very definite tools for our shamanic work, such as drums, rattles, stones, crystals, talking sticks, and shields. The intent for this year was to understand how to bring form into the world; to experience holding energy and moving it out into the universe; to develop the ability to move energy into objects for healing and sacred work; to learn how to use sacred tools powerfully in a way that doesn’t manipulate ourselves or others; to prepare for the building of dreambodies and develop the skills for lucid dreaming.

As I read the first few pages, a switch turned on. I disrobed from the state of torpor, put on a new pair of energy, along with a coat and gloves, and went for a walk. An extra silence filled our subdivision, given the twenty degree temperature, the dark evening hour of six o’clock, and the Super Bowl kickoff scheduled in half an hour. The heavy silence made the occasional dog bark sound as musical as a Beethoven symphony. Light snow and a gentle breeze joined me in this walk, softly stroking my long hair and my face as I thought long, long thoughts about my past.

It seemed that most of what I had set my intent on had somehow or another, at some point in my life, manifested. It is true that our thoughts and actions create the bulk of our reality, though we often forget that. We forget to honor the reality we arrived to, the dream we birthed, and we slip into a worry over the next dream, sadly and foolishly wondering where, when, how, why? Why not surrender to the process the way we do at night, when we rest our heads on the pillow, place the bedsheets over us, close our eyes, and submit to a higher self?

I marched on, my breathing growing louder and deeper, my heart tumbling into a newer determination to continue on the path I had chosen. Suddenly, the sight of lanterns on several peoples’ front yards and a few electric candles at one house’s window sills caught my attention. Were they there before, and if so, why had I only noticed them now? Their light penetrated into my heart, smiling upon me with their blessings.

At home, my husband and children sat in front of the TV, watching the game. As I removed my coat, layers of snow plopped onto the floor. I wiped the area with a towel then went into my room to read more of the school’s study guide. It talked about how, this year, our instructors would prepare us to become a shaman warrior and ready us for battle against our enemies, ignorance, chaos, and negativities, the very things that lead to disease, war, evil, imbalance, and disharmony within us and within nature. It emphasized the importance of being aware of everything we think and do. It said that in order for a woman to take her power in the world, her voice needs to be heard, and that the tasks we are meant to do for the school were designed to help us speak and be heard through various means.

I thought about my book and the dream or, more accurately, the nightmare that my sister once had when the Virgin Mary visited her.

Chapter 2

To Wish Upon the Virgin Mary

Legend has it that if the Virgin Mary appears in your dream, she will make whatever you ask of her come true. One night, when my sister Niran was twelve years old, the Virgin Mary appeared in her dreams. The Virgin, wearing a bright blue robe, happily fluttered in front of Niran, like a butterfly over a sunflower. This was my sister’s chance to cast her wish. She knew exactly what to wish for – that the Virgin save the house my father was building for his family. Each day, Niran had heard our parents talk and cry about how they were on the brink of losing it.

The Virgin Mary waited. Niran tried to part her lips and say, Our house – but she couldn’t. Her voice choked. Soon the Virgin began to leave. Niran tried to crawl to the Virgin, but she could not reach her. The Virgin Mary moved farther and farther away until, like a bird flying into the sky, she blended with the air.

Niran opened her eyes, devastated that she had lost the opportunity to help save the house in Al Sikek.

Hay Al Sikek translates to the Railway Neighborhood. It is part of Al Karkh district, and it’s located behind Baghdad Central Railway Station. Built by the British in 1953, the Baghdad Central Railway Station is the main train station, and the largest, in Baghdad, and it links the rail network to the south and north of Iraq. The station, once considered the Jewel of Baghdad for daily travelers, offered telegraph services. It had a bank, a post office, a saloon, shopping areas, a restaurant, and an office with printing presses that printed train tickets.

During the 1960s, my father worked for the railway station as the head of the bookkeeping department. The government gave him a house to rent for one dinar a month, which translates to living for free. Back then, prominent family men like engineers, doctors, and pilots lived in the district of Al Sikek. Each street had a security guard at the entrance. Our house had beautiful front and back yards with flowers tended by our gardener. Nearby stood a movie theater and a private club where my siblings went to hang out and swim.

The heavenly lifestyle became more heavenly in 1968 when Ahmad Hassan Al Bakr became president of Iraq. He gave all government employees free land in the district of Al Sikek, on which they could build homes. He allowed them to borrow money and required they pay it back little by little, through small deductions from their monthly salary. No one could pass up this deal.

My father built a big two-story house on his share of free land. At that time, our family consisted of eleven children: seven girls and four boys. My oldest two sisters were married to brothers. My father decided we would live on the first floor, and my married sisters and their families would live on the second floor. In the Middle East, homes are built from real brick and concrete, so they can last a lifetime. Unlike wooden houses, Middle Eastern homes do not need a new roofing every fifteen years. Married children, usually the sons, would build a second home on top of the first one. Then if yet another one married and decided to live at the same house, another house would be added atop the last. It was like making a cake, layer by layer.

My father loved his children dearly and wanted his married daughters to live near him. But my oldest brother warned him, You might not have enough for the second story. Build the first one now, and if you have enough money left over, build the rest.

My father did not listen to my brother because one of his sons-in-law promised that he would help finish the house, if need be. My father pushed on. The house was completed. It stood on its feet with all its body parts. Missing were the interior necessities, such as the plumbing and electricity, painting, and floor tile. But money ran out. My father needed one thousand dinars, which was chump change at that time, though not to my father, who had already overused his money and resources. The son-in-law who promised he would help finish the house, if need be, relinquished his promise as easily as one passes gas. My father then went to his siblings to borrow the money. When they showed hesitation, he offered to do anything, even put the house in the borrower’s names, for the one thousand dinars.

One thousand dinars would not have affected anyone’s pockets, but it would have secured the lives of our entire household, including my married sisters and their families. In Iraq, once you bought a house, you owned it for life. Mortgages did not exist. It would have been so easy to lend that money, but one miserly aunt convinced the rest of the family members to turn down my father’s request. She blamed his financial problems on his bad business tactics and his association with scoundrels. She strongly felt that he did not deserve any financial help, that even if he was given the one thousand dinars, he could not be trusted to execute the deal. Some wonder if she simply could not see our family prosper.

One greedy man of high position at my father’s workplace had his eye on our house that was one thousand dinars shy of completion. He told my father, We gave you the land, lent you the money to build the house, and it is still not finished. You have to give it back to the government.

My father, an outspoken man, cursed him. This caused a feud. The man turned off the water and electricity on the rental house we lived in, forcing my mother to carry water back and forth from the neighbors. My siblings, who had exams during this time and could not study in the dark, spent the nights at my cousin’s house.

Having missed the opportunity to request of the Virgin Mary to save the house, Niran decided to turn her rescue efforts elsewhere. She would ask for help from her friend and classmate Hayfa, the daughter of Iraq’s president. Hayfa and Niran shared a desk at school. The teacher was not responsible for this particular seating arrangement. Hayfa registered in elementary school long after school started. When she entered her classroom, she spotted the one person who was not geeked by the presence of the president’s daughter, my sister Niran, who was not only nonchalant but also a beautiful girl with full lips and big, fish-shaped eyes. She went up to Niran and asked her, Can I sit beside you?

Fatima sits here, Niran said. She’s out of school because she’s sick.

When she returns, I will give her back her seat.

Hayfa and Niran quickly became friends. Hayfa had other sisters in different classrooms and like her, they were well-behaved and mingled casually with the rest of the schoolmates. A car drove Hayfa to school every morning and picked her up at the end of the day. She would come in with a headscarf that she quickly removed when she entered the classroom. Hayfa was older than the other students in the class, and she barely had any previous education. When the teacher asked her to go and write her name on the board, she wrote it so big that it nearly covered the entire board. She had no training in handwriting.

A pretty and generous girl, Hayfa brought lunch to school every day and had an allowance high enough to buy cake and a Pepsi. She always offered my sister the first sip of her Pepsi bottle. My sister would politely decline, saying, You bought it, so you must have the first sip.

They went back and forth like that, but Hayfa always won. She had my sister take the first sip even if it meant waiting until recess was over and carrying on like this in class. Being the president’s daughter, she would continue drinking her Pepsi inside the classroom, which was not permissible, because the teacher never reprimanded her.

Hayfa was a chatterbox. Every day in class she would tell my sister whatever happened inside her home the day before, who visited them, and who did not. Even while the teacher gave a lecture, she talked and talked. She stopped at nothing. One day, the teacher, unable to direct a message to Hayfa, called out my sister. Please Niran, keep quiet because your talking is disrupting the classroom, she said.

No, Miss, she was not the one talking, Hayfa responded. I was.

Hayfa liked my sister very much, to where when Fatima, who previously shared my sister’s desk, returned to class and wanted her seat back, Hayfa refused to give it up. Another time the teacher moved Niran to a different desk while Hayfa was absent. When Hayfa returned and saw what had happened, she told the teacher, I want to sit next to Niran.

The teacher had to oblige.

Niran figured if she told Hayfa her troubles at home, her father, the president, could surely help out. Not only was he the president, but a neighbor. He lived only a few blocks from our house, and his uncle lived even closer. She was at first too shy to approach her, but over time, when the government cut off the electricity and water, leaving my mother in a heap of a mess, she finally had the courage to speak.

My dear, I never even see my father, Hayfa said to my sister after listening to her. When he comes home, I’m already asleep.

My sister missed an opportunity to ask the Virgin Mary for help, and being the friend of the president’s daughter did her no good. Our family lost the house and moved out of the rental home and into a bad neighborhood where the kids on the block, for no known reason, threw stones against our windows. My father considered his options. He and his brother discussed selling their shares of the land in the then Christian village of Telkaif in northern Iraq. Their father had left them that land.

My father said to his family, Since you did not lend me a thousand dinars to finish the house, at least give me the deeds to sell my share.

They agreed. The deeds were housed by the same miserly aunt who convinced the rest not to lend my father money. My father sent one of my older sisters to pick up the deeds. Each time my sister went there, this miserly aunt found an excuse not to give her the deeds. She said she could not find them, that she had misplaced them and had to dig for them. Five times my sister would take two buses to get to my aunt’s house, and she would return empty handed. My father then went to get the deeds himself, and he received the same message. Oh, I can’t seem to find them. I seem to have misplaced them.

We lost the house my father had built. We were kicked out of the house we lived in. Then the man who feuded with my father ended up transferring him to the city of Samawah, located 174 miles southeast of Baghdad. As a result, my father worked all week and came home only during the weekend. This broke his spirit. By the time we left Iraq, we had little to our name. We certainly did not have the deeds. Years later, my aunt gave them to the other brother. Then Saddam announced that whoever had a rental in Al Sikek could consider themselves the owners of that house, for free. We’d missed yet another opportunity for prosperity. For decades to come, that became our family’s pattern. How does one break such a pattern?

Chapter 3

Meeting My New Mentor

I eagerly waited for Wednesday night to arrive, for my scheduled call with my second-year mentor, Fiona. In preparation, I cleaned our three-bedroom home and even organized parts of the basement. Cicily, the woman I met at the writers retreat the year before, called early that morning. She said, I’m on my way to Target, so I’m going to put you on speaker. I want to talk to you about your book. I’d like to represent you once you’re done with it. I met with some of the editors from the retreat the other day and we talked about your work, how important it is, and how much you’d progressed from your first visit to the retreat to the second visit. You’re one of the ones who will make it.

Not a shred of joy entered my heart. I heard this all before from my previous New York agent and editors: You’re a good writer! You write important stories! You will succeed! Pass the sunflower seeds, please, and spare me the compliments. Nowadays, fancy words of encouragement mattered less to me than Big Boy’s strawberry Belgium waffle with extra whip cream and ice cream topping. I longed for that hot golden, sometimes crispy, waffle with fresh strawberries, the juice trickling over the plate like a bride’s long veil…

I want you to send me the manuscript once it’s finished, she said, interrupting my imaginary rendezvous with the Belgium waffle.

I consented, feeling no depth of truth to my consent. For three years, I had itched to write the The End, but I couldn’t. The manuscript needed a load of work, and forcing it into completion felt as unnatural and unhealthy as forcing a five-week embryo, which is the size of a grain of rice, into a fully developed baby.

We talked about the kids, work, and how she had wrecked her Saturn and went and bought a car. I listened, poured myself another cup of blueberry coffee, and put away the dishes. I froze when she announced that one of the writers at the retreat had recently finished her book. Dripping with envy, the benign not malicious type, my mind scrambled in different directions as I tried to understand, how could this be? Despite not having made a New Year’s resolution, I did pack up my laptop the first morning of January and head to the coffee shop, determined to finish the book this year. I stopped taking freelance jobs and going to those good-for-nothing meetings with Iraqi-American businessmen. So how, despite all the time and effort I stuffed into my manuscript, was I nowhere near done? And in all truthfulness, the manuscript reeked of too many literary flaws.

I need to stop going over the material I’ve already written and just finish the first draft, I said, changing my three-year-old son from his pajamas.

That would be my advice, she said. Once you finish the first draft, you’ll have a better idea of what changes you need to make. Then you can go back and revise. And I’d be happy to look at it and make suggestions.

After we hung up, I dropped off my son to nursery school and then drove to Panera Bread to write. My schedule routine was as follows: wake up at 7:30 am; dress my daughter and send her off to school with her father; sit behind the computer and write from 8:30 am to whenever my son woke up, normally at around 10:30am or later; feed him; and, two days a week, prepare him for nursery school. Then I make the beds and tidy the house, and if I have not already