Emily Gould Needs a Good Cry ↳
I’ve always had a soft spot for soothsayers and energy healers. Like most writers, I have a yoga teaching certification. I have dabbled in astrology, tarot, acupuncture, cupping, Rolfing, the Alexander Technique, craniosacral massage, hypnotherapy, and herbal medicine. (My children are vaccinated, I hasten to assure you.) I dipped back into familiar territory: yin-yoga classes where I opened my hip-flexor muscles to their fullest because, as every yoga teacher loves to remind you, the hips store a lot of emotions. Then I did a session with my favorite psychic, who encouraged me to ask my ancestors for help when I needed it. They did not oblige. So, weeks later, I took the logical next step: I called a shaman.
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She took out a box that looked like something children would be invited to explore at a nature center, and it was full of twigs, rocks, bark, shells, and bones with a few polished crystals thrown in. She told me to pick whichever ones I wanted, and as I selected each, she said, “Oh, that’s a good one for you,” in a serious tone that made me believe she really meant it. Then I lay down on a long padded bench and closed my eyes. E. arranged the stones I’d chosen on my stomach and chest.