Shamanic Chanting

This morning I woke up in the hospital ward. Obviously I was surrounded by people who weren't in the best of health. I was aware that the feeling of being sick is in itself infectious. The anaesthetic in my shoulder and chest where they inserted the tube had all worn off, so that felt pretty rough every time I moved, especially lifting my head to sit up or get up. I got dressed and went out into the street to buy a paper (and a bottle of Tabasco sauce) - this felt like a huge act of rebellion, and extremely therapeutic.

They let me out. I celebrated by driving to Bill Lewington's workshop near Southend to collect my newly rebuilt horn. Took it to a Shamanic Healing Ceremony I'd been invited to, where about 35 of us walked in circles, hummed, sang, danced, beat on drums, shook rain sticks, and directed energy towards 'Alan', a very fragile looking old chap, who lay on a bed in the middle being ministered to by half a dozen white-clad women (the rest of the group was mixed). Was a beautiful ritual.