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  Praise for The Reluctant Healer

  “The Reluctant Healer is a gripping journey into the future of healing, in which the best of contemporary medicine is made even better by incorporating the powers of consciousness on behalf of healing. This extraordinary book is essentially a glimpse into the future of healing, in which science and spirituality join hands. And besides, it’s a beautifully crafted, exciting read!”

  —Larry Dossey, MD, author of New York Times bestseller Healing Words and One Mind: How Our Individual Mind Is Part of a Greater Consciousness and Why It Matters

  “The Reluctant Healer is one of the most intriguing books I have read in a long time. The author has a gift for writing a novel that keeps the reader immersed in the story, page by page. I could not put it down. Truly, a significant book for our time.”

  —Joyce Hawkes, PhD, biophysicist, author of Cell-Level Healing and Resonance

  “The Reluctant Healer tells an enthralling, deeply personal and honestly raw account of a transformational journey of inner discovery that reveals, however reluctant we may be, that we all have innate healing abilities. In showing how the power of such healing consciousness transcends the unsustainable myth of separation, it offers an inspiring way forward for our conscious evolution.”

  —Dr. Jude Currivan, cosmologist, author of The Cosmic Hologram: In-formation at the Center of Creation, recipient of the 2017 Silver Nautilus Award for science and cosmology

  This book is a work of fiction. Except as otherwise indicated herein, names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Greenleaf Book Group Press

  Austin, Texas

  www.gbgpress.com

  Copyright ©2018 Andrew Himmel

  All rights reserved.

  Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright law. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

  Distributed by Greenleaf Book Group

  For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact

  Greenleaf Book Group at PO Box 91869, Austin, TX 78709, 512.891.6100.

  Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group

  Cover design by Michele LaGamba-Himmel and Greenleaf Book Group

  Cover images: portrait close up profile of young woman ©BestPhotoStudio; closeup portrait of a confident middle ©Jacob Lund; scales of justice ©Billion Photos; Chrysler Building ©Drop of Light; abstract fractal background ©Idea Studio. All images used under license from Shutterstock.com.

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-62634-530-0

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62634-531-7

  Part of the Tree Neutral® program, which offsets the number of trees consumed in the production and printing of this book by taking proactive steps, such as planting trees in direct proportion to the number of trees used: www.treeneutral.com

  Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

  18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  To Michele, my love of twenty-five years,

  the inspiration behind everything.

  Memorandum

  1:Flight

  2:Fire

  3:Frequency and Vibration

  4:Moist

  5:A Federal Agency

  6:The Levitation of Debris

  7:On a Path

  8:The Requirement of Wrinkles

  9:The Myth of Intelligence

  10:Mousserende

  11:The King of the Mississippi

  12:Street Practice

  13:One Portion of Kabbalah

  14:The Great Harmonic Alignment

  15:Dangling Hands

  16:The Road to Vermont

  17:The Importance of Presence

  18:Computation

  19:Multitasking

  20:Sitting In

  21:Scattered Pages

  22:White Frogs

  23:The Golden Cuffs

  24:The Line Traversed

  25:A Question of Sanity

  26:A Striking Development

  27:The Vanishing Point

  28:The Mountain Wizard

  29:Twisting

  30:Awakening

  31:Duality

  32:Gone

  33:Logistics

  34:The Decline before the Fall

  35:Fragility

  36:Three out of Four

  37:The Point of Return

  38:Crossed

  39:Above the Rim

  40:Circling

  41:The Divide

  42:Grounded

  Decision and Order

  Epilogue: The Spirit of Liberty

  Acknowledgments

  Reader’s Guide

  Author Q&A

  About the Author

  Memorandum

  From: William Alexander

  To: The Disciplinary Committee of the First Judicial Department

  Re: Response to Notice of Charges

  I’m going to disclose everything, even though I may place myself in considerable jeopardy.

  For most of my career as a lawyer, my record has been unblemished. I have not distinguished myself as a gifted attorney, but I have worked hard and fought for my clients. Prior to the events that led to this proceeding, no one had ever filed a complaint concerning my legal services, nor had anyone ever questioned my integrity.

  That changed.

  You, the Disciplinary Committee, have commenced enforcement proceedings against me for engaging in acts of deception, extortion, and theft of property. And while I am neither a thief nor an extortionist, I understand the Committee’s position. I wandered far beyond the boundaries of my field, unaccompanied by a degree in psychiatry or any other area of medicine.

  So I submit this memorandum in reply to the Notice of Charges in the hope that my response will be viewed on two levels. The first level involves the realm of events and details. On this level, I concede that the Notice is a fair chronicle of facts and conduct. On this level, I have no defense.

  The second level is more complicated.

  1

  Flight

  Night approached, and I wanted a drink. Actually, I wanted a few drinks, but first, I had to escape. This task, on a bleak Manhattan afternoon in July, was tricky, because Norman, the litigation partner, was once again prowling the hallways. Veteran associates of Canaan & Cassidy had committed to memory the twists and irregularities of the corridors leading to the elevator bank . . . to freedom. The more challenging skill was predicting the chaotic path Norman might choose on his grim Friday patrol, for this was Norman’s passion: to capture a junior attorney near the beckoning elevator, so close to freedom, and to ambush the associate with the assignment of reviewing a document production or financial prospectus, an undertaking that would consume the weekend and snuff out any hopes of release that the associate had foolishly entertained.

  Thick strokes of sun filtered through the law firm’s windows. My hopes were high, and I was patient. I waited until Norman walked by my office, his heavy frame displacing the dank air of the hallway. Then, I stepped outside my office and followed him at a strategic distance. He listed to the right with each step, his wrinkled shirt refusing to remain tucked. I heard footsteps and spun around to see Stefan Ortvald quietly falling into step behind me. He knew I was following Norman, and we both knew that hiding in plain sig
ht was our only path to deliverance.

  But Stefan’s presence was unwelcome. He was tall and clad in a crisp Armani suit, and I was rumpled. Plus, he was Danish and spoke English with an accent suggesting flair and confidence. And while we were both associates, Stefan was a rising star and possessed a subtle authority that I lacked. If Norman turned around and saw us both, he would choose me.

  I quickened my pace, then abruptly pivoted to the elevator bank. Stefan, close behind, almost tripped over me and suppressed a laugh. I pushed the button and noticed that the Down arrow was faded, probably eroded by the oily fingers of associates over the years, frantically pressing the button to hasten the arrival of the elevator. We tumbled into the elevator, and the doors closed. Stefan and I held our breaths until we felt the downward pull toward ground level.

  Once outside, Stefan faced me squarely. “You do not fool me, Will,” he said. “There is brilliance within you, and my gift is recognizing your talents, your artistry in evasion. We will celebrate tonight.”

  Why not? I had nothing else to do. The long expanse of a solitary weekend lay before me, and Stefan was as close to being a friend as anyone I knew at the firm. As we headed downtown in the cab, I reflected on our escape, which was more exciting than the work I was escaping from. I was a graduate of Hamilton College and Cornell Law School, and a third-year associate at Canaan. As we drove past the flickering lights of the city, I told myself, not for the first time, that I did not pine for more, that I did not occasionally fend off despair contemplating the vague emptiness of my life.

  “Hey,” I heard.

  I turned toward Stefan, who had shifted closer to me in the back seat of the taxi. He smiled broadly.

  “You have no idea what we just escaped from,” he said.

  “You were never in any danger,” I replied. “Me, that’s a different story.” Stefan bent forward and looked around as if to guard against eavesdroppers.

  “Do you know about Norman’s latest client? An administrator of pension plans. Have you ever read a pension document, Will? Not just the summary, but the actual text of a defined benefit plan? Good Lord. We’re free, Will, we’re free.”

  “For the weekend,” I said. Stefan inched closer to me.

  “Just last Friday,” he said, “I made it to the elevator. Norman was nowhere in sight. The doors were closing quickly. And then a hand stabbed through the opening. And then another hand. Big, fat hands.” Stefan laughed loudly as he held up his own hands, clenching his fingers. “For a few seconds, all I could see were these two paws, prying the elevator doors open. Norman was grunting loudly. The elevator was fighting back, but Norman was too strong. He was committed. He yanked the doors back open. And there he was, staring at me, breathing heavily, his hair flying.”

  I started to laugh as well. “Don’t forget the sweat pouring down his face.”

  “Good point. The sweat just flowing freely. And he yelled, ‘Ortvald!,’ even though I was right in front of him. He was triumphant, and I knew I was screwed. ‘Ortvald,’ he said again, this time very quiet, very sinister.”

  “Your weekend plans dashed, right?”

  “Exactly. So Norman stepped into the elevator and pressed the Stop button. The elevator shook, and he put his face right up against mine. His breath stank. And I had to say something, not to escape, but just to find some dignity in all of this terror. But before I could speak, he smiled warmly and said, ‘Ortvald, have a great weekend.’ And he spun around and walked out of the elevator.”

  I looked at Stefan skeptically. “Funny story. But the truth is, Norman has to be careful with you.”

  “With me?”

  “Stefan, you’re part of the new order. Or you will be soon. And Norman knows it.”

  Stefan sat back. “I’m just a lowly associate, Will.”

  “You’re a senior associate, with a strong client base. You’re a lock for partner. Norman will be escaping from you in the not-too-distant future.”

  “Not sure about that,” Stefan said. “But if I’m the new guard, Will, you could be right there with me. You should keep that in mind.”

  Stefan offered this observation in a kindly manner, but I also wondered whether his comment had a sharper edge. Stefan navigated office politics with ease, but I had trouble summoning enthusiasm for such maneuvering.

  We settled on Mikonos, a brightly lit midtown Greek restaurant with a wide, marble bar carved into a semicircle and separated from its dining area by a row of giant, porcelain urns. Almost as soon as we entered, I wanted to leave. The bar area was jammed, and suddenly, I desired the ease of a solitary evening, not the noisy surfeit of brash, confident professionals. Stefan loudly summoned the bartender for two glasses of scotch.

  “You are weak,” Stefan said. “The slightest disturbance to your tidy existence, and you are ready to flee. I will drink heavily tonight, and I will not drink alone.”

  I downed my glass quickly and began to relax. The soft jazz block chords of Oscar Peterson playing “Have You Met Miss Jones?” floated across the room. We were a solid twenty feet from the restaurant’s tables, but the smell of the charred T-bones and garlic-laced filet mignons swept over us.

  “Do you know why I like scotch?” I asked. But Stefan was staring off into the distance. I poked him hard. He didn’t flinch.

  “I like scotch,” I said, “because the more I drink, the uglier you get.” I held up two fingers and grabbed two more glasses from the bartender. I drank mine, and pushed the second glass toward Stefan. He continued to ignore me. I pushed him gently, but he was solid and didn’t budge.

  “Look,” he said. “They do not seem real.”

  I followed his stare and saw two women at the edge of the bar, near the front window, facing each other and holding hands. One of the women was in her midthirties, sharply dressed, slightly overweight, and had her eyes closed tight. The other was younger, and I thought slimmer, although she was dressed more shabbily, a tent-like poncho thrown over her shoulders. Her eyes were green, so intensely green that they seemed fake. I thought Stefan had been talking about the women, but I realized he was referring to the eyes.

  “You’re right,” I said. “They can’t be real.”

  “Her eyes shone forward like tractor beams,” Stefan said, “piercing through the night, illuminating all that lay before her.”

  “Really? You should tell her that. She would probably appreciate poetry, something from the early Star Trek genre.” I remained fixated on the ponchoed woman.

  Stefan faced me. “Poetry. A proven technique,” he said. “‘Had we but world enough, and time, this coyness, Lady, were no crime.’ Andrew Marvell, sixteenth or seventeenth century . . . I cannot remember. Will, you should know: that line rarely fails.”

  “That’s your technique?” I asked.

  “It is, and I pass the poem off as my own. The words have power. They break down barriers. I credit Andrew Marvell with my relationship with Ava.”

  “So, show me how to break down this barrier, how to approach the green-eyed lady.” I threw down one more drink. “You might want to wait until they’re finished doing whatever it is that they’re . . .”

  But Stefan had already grabbed my arm and was dragging me toward the two women. I stumbled after him as he elbowed his way through the crowd, stopping in front of them. By this time, I had managed to break free from Stefan’s grip and was still a few steps behind him.

  “Call it intuition,” Stefan said to the women, “but I am convinced that you would benefit from a recitation of lyrical poetry. So I have asked my friend here . . .” Stefan spun around and gestured toward me. “I have asked my friend here to recite a few lines for you.”

  The sharply dressed woman offered a dull smile. She turned to her friend. “I’m late as it is, Erica. We’ll talk later.” She left, and the younger, green-eyed woman stood her ground, alternating her gaze from Stefan to me. Norman might choose me. But this woman, Erica, would choose Stefan. They fit. They were both, frankly, gorgeous. I imagine
d them together and planned to retreat back into the crowd. Maybe my chances would improve after Stefan confessed to his current relationship.

  “‘Now therefore, while the youthful hue sits on thy skin like morning dew,’” Stefan began.

  “I thought your friend was going to recite poetry,” Erica said. She looked at me then, not with warmth but with the attention paid to someone who might be auditioning for a role.

  “He tends to freeze in moments of stress,” Stefan said, “so at times I have to help him.”

  Erica moved toward the bar, elbowing past Stefan, and found an empty stool not far from where I was standing. She then summoned the bartender, presumably to settle her tab. Stefan smiled, raised his glass to me, and wandered away. The crowd shifted, following some primal edict of reorganization, and I found myself directly in front of her.

  Her eyes darted about, and she seemed troubled. I calculated that I had no prayer with her, which was fine. Anyway, she dressed like a slob. It was as if she set into motion a battle between her beauty and appearance, daring one to outdo the other.

  “You hurt my friend’s feelings,” I said. “So I’m going to tend to him now. I’ll get back to you later if I have time.”

  I turned away from her, then felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

  “Don’t move,” she told me. She looked past me, and her mouth opened. I craned my neck to follow her gaze.

  “I asked you not to move,” she said. Then, more softly, “Please.”

  She lowered her eyes to me. “There are colors emanating from you. Bright, splashy colors. Hues of pure green, to the higher-spectrum colors of blues, to violet. Very unusual. I see their aura all about you. They are emanating, but they haven’t quite broken free. They are struggling.”

  “The colors? I began, but she continued.

  “The powers reflected in those colors. You have substance, perhaps powers, but you don’t even know it, and you keep them bottled up.” Was she toying with me?

  “You’re coming on to me,” I said. “I don’t know how I feel about that.”