The plane began its descent into Moscow. Deep in meditation, I felt into the layers of the atmosphere energetically as the physical plane pushed through them on its way down through the clouds of early morning. Silently, I humbly asked the people of Moscow and the land itself to give me permission to give the gift of healing I'd come to give to complete strangers. It seemed wise not to assume I could just announce my presence, and being American, have everyone in the immediate vicinity respond as if that were a position of privilege. One has to make friends with a place and its people before unraveling the scientific fabric and established laws of how the world is supposed to work.
I was about to live my reason for being alive. Few human beings ever sense their purpose in life let alone know with absolutely certainty what their purpose is. It had taken forty years to arrive at this intersection of time, space and spirit. Once I opened to the possibility, the possibility opened to creation.
Had I remained in my marriage, safe in a highly lucrative career, resigned to the role of wife of an aspiring surgeon, I would never have been in Moscow that November and who knows whether the miracles that followed would have ever manifested some other way. I doubt it. Sometimes the Universe points at you and says, "Tag, you're it!" And no one else but you is perfect for the role the Universe wants filled at that particular moment.
The Universe had already made me several offers I hadn't been able to refuse. Pelvic imflammatory disease that blocked both of my fallopian tubes and a systemic fungal infection that had nearly killed me. Healed. A toddler stricken with Juvenile Rheumatoid arthritis. Healed. Those experiences had been the initial tests, to see what I would chose, how I would handle pain, adversity, profound disappointment. The Universe had also given me so much when I came into this world. A memory of having been alive before. Artistic and musical talent. A beautiful singing voice. The ability to make people laugh. A gift for writing. A graceful, adept dancer. A photographic memory which made school work a snap. And the gift of being able to read other people's thoughts. All of this was part of the package, although the container was wrapped in Asperger's, at the high functioning end of the autistic spectrum.
Stepping out of the jetway at the FinnAir gate, I was blown away by what I saw. The Moscow Airport was a dump. Elena, a young woman of twenty who was to be one of my interpreters, was waiting past customs. We retrieved my voluminous luggage, boxes of bribes and gifts -- teas, coffee, sugar -- and more cartons containing humanitarian supplies for a fledging inner city mid-wifery program, loaded everything into a taxi and headed for Elena's apartment.
