It keeps happening to me: healing experiences at the hands of Germans. Today, for instance, I had a transformative massage from a man named Johannes from, of course, Germany. Turns out he’s done deep work in setting up a Holocaust youth education center connected to Dachau. Back in Lawrence, I’ve worked for many years with Ursula, an energy healer who was born in March of 1945 in the middle of Germany. Many of my friends and even my husband are of German heritage, often tracing their roots to co-mingle with my own in the shifting countries that encompassed Prussia.
Maybe it’s the longing of the ancestors for some reconciliation. Maybe it’s karma. Maybe it’s the confluence of life lessons, weather, the parade of the stars around us, the shifting of the earth we stand on, but there’s something very gratifying to me about these encounters (even if my Polish grandmother, upon hearing I hang out with Germans, would have said, “Feh!” — a word expressing disdain that cannot be adequately translated into English).
Over and over, I have put my body especially in the hands of Germans for massage, energy work, homeopathy, counsel, and over and over, something good has come of it.