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A Quest for Peace of Mind, Body and Spirit
To start a session, Ford picks up a conch shell and blows it like a trumpet. Tears flow from his eyes. Some shamans enter altered states by drumming, fasting or taking psychotropic drugs. Ford says he opens his heart so "the souls can shake hands." The client lies in a hut painted ocean-mist green, listening to the finches chirp and the liquid rustle of leaves.
"I help people find -- and live -- their life's purpose," Ford says.
  Larry Ford, a shaman in the Virgin Islands, opens healing sessions by a blowing conch shell. "I didn't ask for this strange gift," he says, describing his work as a shaman. "I finally just surrendered." (By Laura Blumenfeld -- The Washington Post) |
Part medicine man, part masseur, Ford places a rose quartz on a client's heart, burns sage, sprays lemon-grass essence on a clear crystal and places it on a client's head. The rituals are meant to heal energy imbalances.
In Robert's case, Ford told him he had a lot of energy but that it was trapped in his neck and his shoulders. "He tried to pull the energy down into my body," Robert says, by tugging on his ankles.
Almost half of his clients are men, Ford says, "top guys on Wall Street, multimillionaires." Robert asked: "How does my energy compare?"
"I'm not here to be judgmental," Ford solemnly replied.
It's all in a day's work: Ford contacts the soul of a woman's lost child. Another client experiences such psychic cleansing, he throws up. A third, "the quintessential Euro-male, who hadn't cried in 15 years, was sobbing like a baby for half an hour because his father's soul was there."
Robert's wife, Alison, says it felt like psychotherapy. "There's a loving part of you that you don't always trust," Ford told her.
People are drawn to shamanic healing, says Jan Kinder, 51, the center's founder, because, "they did the home, family and career. 'Now what about me? Who am I?' " Shamanism is one of the center's offerings, along with "Tuning the Body," for which Kinder sticks a vibrating tuning fork between vertebrae.
"It chills me out right away," says Marian Kraff, 40, a psychologist on vacation from Bethesda.
Alison opts for another shamanic session. She emerges from the hut, her cheeks flushed, her brown eyes so bright they verge on gold.
"Rocked out," she says with a detached smile.
Alison knows some people think it's flaky. "I'll go back and tell my friends. And they'll say --" she rolls her eyes. " 'Jesus Christ, what is she doing now?' But I feel empowered. I feel so good right now."
She heads off to snorkel at Honeymoon Beach. Another round of pink rum punch?
