My mother’s father was a doctor. My mother recalls vividly of her father’s practice. My mother was born right around the end of the Japanese occupation in Taiwan. The war ended when my mother was one. Her family was one of the few that were well off. My grandfather became a politician after the Japanese left. He was a senator, representing the Taiwanese people, until the day he passed away. I have seen very few pictures of him. Most of which were static and formal. There was one newspaper clip picture that I remember seeing in grade school. He was speaking in public on a podium. The headline reads something like “The canon ball senator, fires again!” My mother said grandfather was able to speak his mind because he made his own wealth. One of the few lucky ones who didn’t have to pay attention to sponsors. I suspect that he spoke his mind, partly because he’s got “hot blood,” which run in all of our veins today…… Maybe that’s why I have a blog…

In any case, I grew up hearing stories about how the kids helped out in grandfather’s practice. Mother’s learned to mix herbs, heat them over small coal-burning oven, and spread the black substance on papers ready to be applied to patients. She recalls people coming in with sprains, back aches, dislocated shoulders, broken bones, broken bones that had been misaligned… When mother was older, her best friend was dating a man who studied Western medicine in Japan. He was very amazed that Grandfather was able to break a misaligned bone and realign it without the aid of x-rays.

My grandfather and grandmother passed away before my mother married. We never had the good fortune to meet them. Since he was a great provider of many, and by that, I mean more than much more than his own families of 18. Many stories were told of him. But they had always been just stories to me, since I didn’t have a real connection to him. It wasn’t until after my son was born, in the span of a few months, my angels have spoken through two people at different times in very different settings. They pointed out that I carry my grandfather’s blood in my veins and I’ve inherited his gift of healing. (Now that I’m writing this, I wonder what else I’ve inherited from him.)

Since I was always warned about the danger of being a healer with an unseen eye, I spent most of my life denying the healing energy I carry. The times I can feel the body sensations of strangers next to me. My hands roam automatically to massage where it’s most needed. My presence of a healing space. The thoughts that come into my mind as messages for others… It wasn’t until then, that I see the good in allowing the healing side of me to breathe and live. My grandfather helped and was appreciated by so many. The stories about how farmers would leave fresh produce at their door step in early mornings, about how many people waited and even kneeling beside the road of Grandfather’s funeral parade… There was lots of good in being a healer. And if I inherited that, it wouldn’t be so bad. It wouldn’t be bad at all. In fact, it’s great, isn’t it?

I am thankful for the people (healers for me) who spoke to me, out of the blue no less. I am glad I didn’t ignore their message, angel only knows how many times I did in the past. Today, I write with gratitude for the healers who came before me. I am riding on their love and devotions for themselves, others and me.