Sometimes who we are is more apparent to strangers than to ourselves. A chance encounter made me look deeply into the core of who I am.

While having sushi with a friend, a man sat down beside me. As he ordered a sake, he said to me, “You have beautiful hands.” Although, obviously chatting me up, could he not see what my hands looked like?

I wouldn’t say I liked how my hands looked. Although they are strong working hands, I was ashamed of their simple look. Beauty for me was long, elegant hands.

Continuing, he said,  “Yes, they are so adept. You must be a healer.”

He asked me to hold them up, which I did, somewhat embarrassed yet intrigued. He did not touch them; he just looked and repeated, “Yes, you are a healer.”

I sat silently as he finished his sake and departed, leaving me in turmoil.

Did he see into my soul?

Did he sense my reluctance to own a part of who I am?

I  had always rejected being called a healer, even though I am the first to cradle a bird who has fallen from a nest or care for someone in need. But, apparently, not enough to guard against its exposure.

Could what I viewed as working hands be healers’ hands? Was my judgment of unpleasant aesthetics preventing me from accepting who I am?

With no formal training, how could I be a healer? Yet both of my great-grandmothers were gifted healers. So why could I not embrace my lineage?

From my earliest memories, family members would ask me to rub the tension from their necks or knots from their backs. My grandmother particularly loved her hands massaged. She would say it was the greatest gift I could give her. 

As a young child, I was confused because I didn’t do anything. I allowed my hands to do what they knew. It was as if my hands had a mind of their own. I would be praised for having the touch, but I did not see the communication. It both intrigued and frightened me.

I had always shied away from the touch. But, without any formal training, how could I justify these abilities?

Sitting in my reluctance, I realized the encounter with the stranger opened my eyes to a restriction I had held tight.

We are all healers. We each possess the power to heal ourselves. Our body’s innate intelligence needs no shingle to hang upon a door for permission to rejuvenate daily. It happens unconsciously. The knowing is within our very cells to repair themselves.

To heal is not just about the proficiency to set a bone or the skillful expertise of a surgeon. It is often the fractures within the spirit which require the most care. So healers are also those with the ability to speak to the soul.

Speaking kindly to someone or listening with an open heart to the turmoil of another are also abilities instrumental to healing. The act of kindness is reflected upon the bestower so we, in turn, heal ourselves. Even when outwardly rejecting it, I have always profoundly known the essence of who I am is a healer; I accept it now.

My hands are my instruments. I lay them on my keyboard, allowing words to flow through me to inspire, encourage, reassure, and heal.

In retrospect, I misunderstood the meaning of healing. I feared the responsibility of being called a healer, but I understood it was not the label I feared; it was of standing in my truth.

We must walk in the skin of who we are. Otherwise, we will always be searching for ways to prove our worthiness.

 

Our essence will always ask to be seen. Until it is, we may sense a void in our spirit. However, if we open to the message of a chance encounter, we may be lucky enough to step into our actual being.

Healing may not be so much about getting better, as about letting go of everything that isn’t you – all of the expectations, all of the beliefs – and becoming who you are.

Rachel Naomi Remen