Souls of the Fire

By RAYNA GANGI

A story of unconditional love as experienced by a woman raised by Native American grandmothers whose journey includes the Marine Corps, corporate America, alternative health, and the love of a child.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GANGI
• Release date: Jun 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393715597

Book preview

This book is dedicated first to those Souls of the Fire who have circled my life throughout my journey, each giving a part of themselves to reach into the depths of my heart. We are all souls. We have bodies, but we are souls, and though the journey is the destination for us all, the souls that greet us on that journey are vital and forever loved.

I also dedicate this to all women, especially those whose journeys have been written by others and who have somehow lost their way to their true intention for their lives. I hope some of this story touches you, reminds you, empowers you, to find your true path and honor the life you were meant to live.

And to all children, be they one or one hundred, who are the generation to carry on the messages and create life in ways we have never imagined. Your hearts may feel broken, but they are always healing, always growing, and if you let them, always loving.

And finally, to Julia, my inspiration and my teacher. Elsa, my automatic editor of everything I write. Laurie, who insisted my spirituality be included in my next book.  Lilavati whose spiritual mentorship has always been my guide.  And to my Seneca grandmothers whose wisdom stays with me on every path.

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SOULS OF THE FIRE

By

Dr. Rayna M. Gangi

Copyright  by Earthwalk-USA/ 2017.

All rights reserved.

9781538085165

CHAPTER ONE

It seems like forever since I’ve spoken to you, even longer since I’ve written, but it’s time.  I don’t know how long I’ve been gone or where I’ve travelled, but I know things have changed and that I’m no longer the person history created.  The people and places I’ve touched and loved, known and forgotten, are still somewhere around me, still somewhere inside of me, but they too have grown, evolved, changed into identities not always recognizable by those who once knew them. 

The changes started slowly, but took more than forty years.  I just wasn’t aware, wasn’t ready to know.  I wasn’t at that special stepping off place that we all once knew as we prepared to emerge from the womb and then promptly forgot with our first tears.

When I first met her, I was taken with her charm, her smile, and her stance that told me she was in control of our meeting and of my reaction.  I saw her as a chili pepper, a bold wine, a lavish table setting.  I couldn’t see the finished meal, only the ingredients, the spices from many cultures, the hot stuff and sweet stuff that make mouths water and nostrils flare.  Even from a distance I detected her finer curves and gentle angles.  The illusion she created made me feel playfully older, solemnly younger.  She was the kind who’d rather play tennis than work, rather join you in a glass of wine than a good cause, and rather support and assist than ask for your help.  She remembered little things, unimportant things.  Her words were strong, opinionated, fortified with an upbringing she believed in.  It was her eyes I watched the most.  They were blue, but the whites were always lined with the roads travelled behind her ego or her personality.

Her journey, like mine, had started many years before our meeting, and neither of us knew or understood why we had chosen a cold northern city and a school of bodywork to awaken a part of us that had lain dormant for lifetimes.  I was compelled to know her, drawn to her like a scary movie you peek at while you cover your eyes.  I knew she’d leave me breathless and shaking, but I didn’t want to miss any part of her.

Her probing of me started less than three weeks after we began massage school and it seemed like the timing was right.  Most of us had been naked on a table and stroked or kneaded by the strangers we called classmates.  The physical had become clinical, and the hidden parts of us, the spirits and souls longing for life and a chance to play, begged for an opportunity to show themselves. 

Suzie’s questions were like any we’ve all heard before.  Are you married?  Do you have children?  Why massage school?  She probed with questions she seemed to already know the answers to.  My surprise was that I answered her.  Though I had known my history for what seemed like lifetimes, I rarely looked at me through someone else’s eyes or experience.

So alike, but so different, she remarked after a series of questions and head nods.

Though I feared her, I was compelled to answer honestly.  Something inside, the soul part of me, had waited lifetimes to answer to hers.  She was smart and cultured.  She carried her background in her walk and her clothes.  I knew I could mentally compete with her, but I was from the other side of town, places no one ever heard of.  I dressed the way people perceived me and walked for protection or survival.  No one truly knew me unless I willed it, or allowed it.

I have a daughter.  She’s eight, she’s mine, but not really.  No one ever truly belongs to anyone else anyway.  I don’t know why I’m here, except that I think I’ve always wanted to do massage to have something more to do with healing.  I learned Earth Medicine when I was a teenager, so this is just another step. I live in the city and I have to go pick up my kid.

I didn’t feel bad about the way I had answered.  I had other things to do, other places I had to go.  I was responsible, always on time, always where I was supposed to be.  I raced out of the parking lot with a passing wave.  The sun had warmed me, charged me, so I could get on with my day, and Suzie had turned the key in a door not yet ready to open.

Julia’s eyes met mine in the school hallway and I immediately knew that her day had also been filled with changes.

Tough day? I asked as I helped her buckle up.

Kind of.  She stared out the passenger window as she always did when she was trying to formulate a question.  What’s it like to have a Daddy?

I tried not to act alarmed at a question she had never asked.  The same as having me, I said.  Daddy is just a word for a man who parents you and gives you parts of himself that you need to grow up.

But you’re not a man, she said as gently as she could.

I don’t have a man’s body, but I treat you almost the same way a daddy would.

But you’re also like a Mom, aren’t you?

Yup.  Lucky you!  You get the best of both worlds!

She didn’t smile.  Is someone at school bugging you about Dads?

Not really.  I just don’t know what to say when they ask who you are.  I understand, but it’s too confusing for them.

Honey, just tell them I’m your other parent and let them deal with it.  All that really matters is that I love you and you have a happy, loving family.  It’s doesn’t matter what bodies the parents are in or whether you’re a girl or a boy or Jewish or Black or Italian or whatever.

I’m only half Jewish, right?

Mommy is Jewish.  If that makes you half Jewish and you’re happy with that, then so be it. She seemed to settle and accept my explanation so I turned on the CD player.  The right kind of music always seemed to calm her.

Why are some people Black?  She smiled at that question and I knew that we were now into learning mode instead of a crisis.

What’s your favorite flower? I asked.

"I like lots of different kinds.  Daffodils, roses, tulips.  Red, yellow and black tulips.

Great.  Now, if you were God and you were trying to make the world interesting and beautiful, what kind of flowers would you plant?

All of them, she said after a moment.

That’s why some people are Black.  I brushed back her golden hair and tweaked her nose.  And you, my dear, are a beautiful flower.

A pink tulip.

Or whatever you want to be, I answered.

The car in front of me slammed on the brakes to avoid a cat and for an instant I thought we were going to crash.  My arm flew out to stop Julia from jerking forward and I could feel my leg muscles as I pushed my brake pedal as hard as I could.  As if prodded from behind, the cat leaped to the opposite curb and the car in front resumed its speed.

Lucky for us, Julia said.  They never let you down.

Who? I asked as I took a breath and counted my blessings.

You know.  The angels or spirits or whatever they are.  I saw a giant hand push the cat across the street.  And then it just disappeared.  Poof!  Just like that.

Then I guess we’re lucky, I answered.  I felt the warmth return to my chest as my heart got back to work and I thought I remembered a time and a place when I, too, saw a hand appear from nowhere.

We settled into our normal routine of dinner, homework and bedtime.  Every night her eyes sparkled at the thought of a new day, and every night she insisted I sing her to sleep.

Can’t you go to sleep to a different song? I asked according to our nightly ritual.

She giggled and curled up with that special little smile that all children acquire and use when they know they’re going to get their way no matter what.

Okay, you win, I said with a sigh.  But one of these days you’re going to get tired of Silent Night and The First Noel.

Just sing, Baba, she answered.  So I can get some sleep.

I sang each song twice while I waited for her rhythmic breathing and then covered her and kissed her cheek.

Baba loves you, I whispered.

I sat in my usual seat in massage class and awaited the results of our daily test.  P.K., the woman who had sat next to me from day one, had moved to the back of the room and I felt a familiar uneasiness at her absence.  I was sure she had moved because of me.  I didn’t look like anyone else and my presence often made people uncomfortable.  I slid over a little to make more room for Niki who had also sat near me from the beginning.  She didn’t seem as bothered by or interested in classroom dynamics.  She seemed more rebellious, more unique in her approach to people than many of the others.  I was aware that I was going out of my way to make her feel comfortable so she wouldn’t be inclined to move.

She peered sideways through her black hair and smiled nervously as she chomped on her gum.  Oh, man.  She wants us to get up in front of all these people and talk?  I don’t have anything to say.  Her voice seemed to squeak as she quietly voiced her objections to me. I hate talkin’ in front of people.  What am I gonna say?

She just wants us to say why we chose to come here, I answered.  Just pretend you’re talking to a friend on the phone.

I don’t talk about this stuff on the phone.  She chuckled and shook her head, resigned to the inevitable.

My name is Laurie.  I’ve always been interested in healing and consider myself somewhat of a healer and... Laurie’s voice broke and she wiped the tears that rushed to her cheek.  The room got very quiet as everyone waited for her to expose her pain.  No one had appeared to be really listening to any of the mini-speeches until Laurie gave them the opportunity to be witnesses.

One of the reasons I’m interested in healing is because I have alopecia. 

She hesitated and I glanced at Suzie to see if she knew what the word meant.

I have no hair, Laurie blurted as she sobbed into her hands.

I watched Suzie nod her head in silent support of her deskmate and then focused my attention on Laurie’s eyes.

Good for her, I whispered to Niki.  She’s got guts.  Good for her.

What’s alopecia? she whispered back.

I didn’t answer.  Niki squinted, bit her lower lip, and put her face through all kinds of contortions as she struggled to understand.  She was an old soul, a being who had spent countless lifetimes trying to hear what was being said to her.  She dressed like a modern gypsy, but not in the feminine form, and I sensed in her a desire to be free, to soar, to look at the world from a higher place, a place where she didn’t have to compete or know words.  I envisioned her on a hillside surrounded by music and I could feel her disharmony.

Laurie, on the other hand, straightened her stance with every tear.  She was empowered by her pain, aware somehow that her baldness opened her, allowed others to reflect and be reflected.  She was a mirror for those of us who always made sure our hair looked just right, as if our outward appearance was any indication of who we were.

I watched Suzie’s reaction as Laurie returned to her seat and was amazed at her smile.  Only someone who had never felt that kind of pain could smile in the midst of it.  And yet, as I watched Suzie’s eyes, I knew there was a different kind of suffering in her.  There was a part of her that cried without tears, needed affection without being touched, longed for love without rules.

Julia was waiting for me with a long face and a heavy backpack.  I knelt down to her level and held her close to me. You okay, Jupe?  You don’t look so hot. When she didn’t answer I automatically went into parent mode checking for fever or cuts or a look in her eye that would tell me what was wrong.

What’s this on your ear? I asked.  Pus was oozing from the holes in the lobes. Infected from your earrings?

I took them off two days ago, she said.

Two days?  Have they been oozing all this time?

I guess so.

Did Ruthie see them?

Ruth had used artificial insemination to fulfill her dream of motherhood.  She and I had agreed to parent Julia and give her the best home we could.

Not really, Julia answered.  She saw my flea bites, though.

What flea bites?

The ones on my behind.  She says they’re from the cat.  Can we go home now?

I wiped her ears with a tissue, checked again for fever, then took her hand to walk to the car.

Do you have to study again tonight? she asked.

Of course.  I’m tested every single day.

Before dawn, Julia was standing in my bedroom doorway crying.  My bites hurt so much I can’t sleep. Her thighs, buttocks and elbows were covered with open sores, some of them oozing, some larger than quarters.

I thought they were flea bites, Ruth said.  She’s had them for weeks, since you started school.  You know how she’s allergic to everything.

I assured Julia the salve I was putting on would make the bites feel better, but I was scared.  She never seemed to be well.  In seven years she had gone through three bouts of pneumonia, four cases of strep throat and various other ailments picked up at daycare, all of which were treated with an automatic ten-day dose of antibiotics and a lot of home days.  My time was not as flexible.  My school started an hour before Julia’s and the pressure of learning the ology-type science courses in a condensed period of time made every night a race.  I tried to relinquish my usual over-protective behavior and said a silent prayer for Julia’s quick recovery.

When the phone rang, I let my machine answer so I could study and worry about my daughter in peace, but when I heard Suzie’s bubbly voice wishing I was home, I thought of nothing else but answering her.

What do you know . . . about cells? The hesitation in her voice at first made me believe this was a test, a personal encounter to check my intelligence against hers.  I wasn’t sure I trusted her.

Depends on your question, I answered.

I was just looking through our material for tomorrow and wondering what a cell really is.  I mean, I know all the parts, or I think I do, but what is it really?

The stuff we’re made of, I said cautiously.  Like a metropolis.  Each cell is like a person in New York City.  Some carry brief cases or get to ride in limos.  Some rush to catch buses.  Most realize they have a job to do.

Like a city? she said with a somewhat British accent.  How charming.  What about the street people or the ones who don’t work?

I don’t know.  Maybe they’re the sick cells.  You know, the ones who’ve been damaged or abused.  They can’t work anymore or they don’t know what their work is so they kind of . . . don’t.

Have you studied? she asked.

Not yet.  I just put Julia to bed.

Ah, yes.  The daughter who’s yours, but not really.  I have two daughters.  A nine-year-old and a three-year-old from China.

Her voice trailed off and softened as she spoke of her children and through the phone I could see her face.  I liked her.  As soon as I realized that, I knew I would also have to make myself vulnerable to her and  I trembled.  I had been guarded for so long my armor was a part of me.  My inner whisper told me to go for it, lay myself on the line and let the chips fall.  She wasn’t close enough to hurt me, wasn’t close enough to reject me.

I should probably tell you something, I started.  Uh, but maybe not tonight.  Maybe tomorrow.

Oh, go ahead.  Is it something horrible?

Not really.  Some people might think so, but it’s not.

What, do you have AIDS?  Have you killed somebody?  Are you gay?  What could be so horrible?

Killing somebody is pretty horrible. I said.

Is that it?  Did you kill somebody?  Her voice was light, almost airy.  I sensed there would be no judgment, but I couldn’t trust it.

I’ll tell you tomorrow.

Okay.  She paused and then laughed.  Chicken.

You got it, I answered.  And I’m a tired chicken.

We hung up and I had to catch my breath before I could focus on my book.  Maybe we were all cells of some kind.  I closed my eyes and pictured millions of people floating through the universe.  The universe was a body and Earth was a vital organ, the heart or liver.  Each of the people had an energy center and most had the ability to reproduce.  Some became cancer cells and influenced others to join them.  Some were police and others were firemen.  I could almost feel the cells in my own body calling out their names.  The cells turned into circles and became the sores on Julia’s body.  I jumped away and my book fell to the floor.

I felt guilty going to school knowing that Julia needed to see a doctor, so I left Ruth a note to make an appointment. Other than a check-up now and then, I was the one who always did the doctor appointments. It was time Ruth learned how to be a mother. I then began to worry about my own day.  Massage day.  I didn’t mind giving anyone else a full body massage, but I also had to receive one.  I had overheard women in the bathroom and hallways carrying on about the cellulite in their thighs and their overweight stomachs.  Even the men didn’t want to expose legs that were too skinny, hairless chests or skinny arms.  Partners were picked randomly so there was no chance of choosing someone you liked or trusted.  I wasn’t afraid to expose my body, but I didn’t like what had happened to it after years of stress and neglect.  I hoped for a male partner because their assessment of me wasn’t threatening.  The whole thought of people judging their bodies and comparing them to others made me dread the day.

I used the largest towel I could find, maybe the largest ever made, and was sure only my head and shoulders were exposed as I climbed onto the table and hid under the sheets.  My partner was a twosome, Don and Tony.  I was sure one was gay and just as sure the other didn’t know.

Four hands on me at once, I mumbled to them.  Aren’t I lucky?

One leg was uncovered so Tony could start at the bottom.  I closed my eyes as Don started at my head.  I tried to concentrate on the music, but the anxiety and fear in the room was so great that no one could keep quiet.  I felt like I was in a noisy indoor playground with groups of children in every corner desperately trying to enjoy themselves and claim their territory. I opened one eye to sneak a peek at people working.  I wanted to see Suzie’s style, her technique.  She was two tables away from me also under a sheet.  I started to laugh at the thought of twenty-five naked bodies in the same room and fifty hands touching just about every part of them.

Did I hurt you? Tony asked.

No.  I laughed again.  Sorry.  I didn’t mean to jump.  Nothing hurts.  I was just laughing.

Does it tickle?

Not yet.  But don’t put the thought in my head or it will.

I took one last glance at Suzie and decided she was enjoying her massage.  I wanted her as a partner, to give, not receive, maybe to show off for her, or just to touch her.  A month of school had made most of us more willing to touch people, but touching her would be different.

The massage ended.  I had lived through the mortifying experience of being naked, touched, kneaded, frictioned and percussioned.  It felt good.  The massage oil had softened me, the music had moved me, and the experience had inspired me.  People needed to be touched.  Our bodies work day and night pumping ideas, thoughts, emotions, pain, blood and memory.  They aren’t stone temples or chiseled works of art.  A body is a womb that holds the baby in all of us, a cradle that rocks as our spirits soar, a harbor for our souls as they play the game of life.

It was my turn to give to Don.  Tony said he’d help a little, but he was tired from doing me.  I didn’t mind.  I welcomed the opportunity to massage Don in a way that would let him feel what I had in my hands, learn what I had learned.

I started at his head, my hands gently covering his face.  I could feel his nervousness beneath my fingers so I applied more pressure as I stroked his forehead and cheeks.  When I got to his neck I could see the blood flowing through his arteries and I marveled at the fact that my touch was helping that process.  His shoulders had bones I already knew the names of and I smiled as I glided up arm muscles that I would soon name and understand.  The music resonated differently in me and I felt my breath changing to its beat.  The room seemed quieter, more relaxed, as people began to understand one of the reasons they were here.  By loving another body I could heal myself.  By helping another soul I could find my own.

You’re telling me later, right?

Uh, I won’t be home for a while.  I should have just told Suzie right then and not made it such