WE ALL NEED A GURU SOMETIMES

"110 over 70...105 over 60...120 over 80..."

The doctor called the figures out loud as he read on my blood pressure. It could not have been easy for he was standing several feet away, was not using any equipment -- there being nothing wrapped around my arm -- and his hands were flaying wildly in the air as he concentrated.

I was before him because I get these knots in my back, the upper middle part feeling like it is caught in a vice grip. So, like the millions of other Americans without health insurance, I do what I can to figure my way on my own, which means self diagnose, be it herbal supplements, holistic remedies or, in my case, good old fashioned green bud. I had been offered medical marijuana a few years before by a M.D. but since I was leaving California at the time, I instead opted for some pills. The pills made my legs wobbly for about 20 minutes and otherwise lazy so when I returned to the state, a new diagnosis was in order.



This time my evaluation occurred in a private apartment, one with a Buddhist feel to it, the type of place where you take your shoes off at the door, sit on mats and the air is peaceful. The visiting doctor - an osteopath - I was informed was the guru to another guru, the host, who lived there. I had been referred by a friend.



Three others, a woman and two men, all early 20s, were already waiting when I arrived, each carrying the necessary $125 in cash for the visit. I was given three forms to fill out, essentially asking me to detail my medical condition and history. To give us a backing to write on, the host had scattered several hardcover books on the floor. I chose a coffee table-sized version of the Wizard of Oz. Our host strummed a guitar as we waited for the doctor in the adjacent room.



When I was called in, the doctor stood across the table from me. He asked a few basic questions before the hand waving began. He made crossing movements in front of me following the direction of my spine and vital organs. Occasionally he would abruptly thrust his arms outward. It made me think of healers I had seen from the South, the way they attempt to waive away bad energy. After a minute, he asked me if I felt what he just did. I had straightened up a few seconds earlier, so I shrugged and said maybe that had been due to him. He nodded, and proceeded with the blood pressure reading. After writing that on my chart, he then did the same for my pulse rate, still standing across the table from me.

After a short conversation, I produced my driver's license as identification and the $125, broken down into six twenties and a five. He counted it the traditional way, his reading of aura obviously not extending to such material things.

copyright, 2009, Wired Gypsy Publishing Network