ERIC PEARL, THE HEALER

Why Me?

If I were sitting on a cloud scouring the planet for just the right person upon whom I could bestow one of the rarest and most sought-after gifts in the Universe, I don’t know whether I would have reached through the etherium, pointed my finger through the vast multitudes of people – the shepherds, the shopkeepers, the righteous and the self-righteous – and said “Him! That’s the one. Give it to him.”
Now maybe it didn’t happen quite that way, but that’s the way it feels. Except when it doesn’t. I mean, except when someone else comes up with an entirely different and convincingly plausible explanation. “Oh, no,” some well-meaning person may exclaim, incredulous at my obvious lack of understanding of how the Universe works, “you’ve clearly done this before in your past lives.” Now what I want to know is this: how is it that they’re so privy to my past lives when I’m still trying to figure this one out?
I mean, let’s be real. I’d spent twelve years building one of the, if not the largest chiropractic practices in Los Angeles. I had three homes, a Mercedes, two dogs and two cats. All would have seemed perfect if I hadn’t mishandled my money and my alcohol sufficiently as to bring my six-year relationship to an end, an event that left me virtually unable to put one foot in front of the other for three days. Prozac helped that. It helped that a lot.
Six months later I’m visiting Venice Beach, California with my assistant, who insists that I get my cards read by a reader on the beach. “I don’t want to get my cards read by some reader on the beach,” I responded with absolute conviction. If a reader were all that wonderful, people would come to her; she wouldn’t be dragging a card table, tablecloth, chairs and accouterments to an overcrowded beach sidewalk where she could proceed to flag down unsuspecting tourists to foist her version of their futures upon them, expecting them to pay for the privilege.
“I met her at a party and told her we’d be here. I’d be very embarrassed if we didn’t get a reading, ” she responded on a dime, adding that the woman has both $20 and $10 dollar readings. One look into my assistant’s eyes told me that further protest would prove useless. “Fine,” I grumbled, reaching for a ten-dollar bill, knowing that was fully half the money we had left to spend on lunch. I marched dutifully over to the woman, sat down in her folding chair, gave her ten dollars and thought about how hungry I was already.
In exchange for my money, I received a very nice yet unremarkable present-time reading and enjoyed being called “Bubelah” by this endearing Jewish gypsy. Almost as an afterthought she said to me, “There’s very special work that I do through the use of axiatonal lines. It reconnects your body’s meridian lines to the grid lines on the planet that connect us to the stars and other planets.” She told me that she was able to do this work and that, as a healer, it was something that I needed. She also told me I could read about it in a book called The Book of Knowledge: The Keys of Enoch. It sounded quite interesting so I asked the question: “How much?” She said, “Three hundred thirty three dollars.” I said, “No, thank you.”
This is the kind of stuff you’re warned about on evening news shows. I can hear the news blurb now, “Jewish gypsy on Venice Beach takes $333 from unsuspecting chiropractor.” My picture with the word “Sucker” under it flashes across the screen. ” … convinces doctor to pay her an additional $150 a month for life to burn candles for his protection.” I feel humiliated for even having considered it. So, my assistant and I left and creatively went about constructing a ten-dollar lunch for two.
You’d think this would have been the end of it, but the mind works in mysterious ways. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head. I found myself taking the last few minutes of a lunch break to go to the Bodhi Tree Bookstore attempting to quickly read through Chapter 3.1.7. of The Book of Knowledge: The Keys of Enoch. This chapter discusses these axiatonal lines. The biggest lesson that day was that if ever a book were created that could not be quickly read through, this was that book. But I had read enough. This was going to haunt me until I gave in. I cracked open my cookie jar.
The work is done in two days, two days apart. Day one, I gave her my money, lay there on her table and listened to my mind jabber, ‘This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. I can’t believe I gave $333 to a perfect stranger so she could draw lines on my body with her fingertips.’ As I lie there thinking of all the good uses this money could’ve been put toward, a sudden surge of insight came over me as I heard myself think, ‘Well, you’ve already gave her the money. You may as well cut the negative chatter and be open to receiving whatever there is to receive.’ So I lay there quietly, ready and open. I experienced nothing. Absolutely nothing. I, however, seemed to be the only person in the room who knew that. But I paid for both sessions, and therefore I was coming back on Sunday for part two. The strangest thing happened that night, however. About an hour after I’d gone to sleep, the lamp next to my bed – a lamp that I’d had for ten years – turned itself on, and I woke up to the very real sensation that there were people in my home. I searched the house with my Doberman, a carving knife and a can of pepper spray but found no one. I went back to bed with the most uncanny feeling that I was not alone, that I was being watched.
To the eye, day two started out pretty much the same as day one. However, it soon became apparent that it was to be anything but. My legs didn’t want to stay still. They had that “crazy leg” feeling that strikes every once in a blue moon in the middle of the night. Soon that sensation took over the rest of my body, interspersed with almost unbearable chills. It was all I could do to lie still on the table. Much as I wanted to jump up and down and shake the sensation out of every cell in my body, I didn’t dare move. Why? Because I paid my $333 and I was going to get my money’s worth out of this. That’s why. Soon it was over. It was an oppressively hot August day and we were in a non-air-conditioned apartment.  I was chilled near frozen, my teeth chattering as this woman rushed to wrap me in a blanket where I remained for five minutes until my body temperature returned to normal.
I was now different. I don’t understand what happened, nor could I possibly attempt to explain it, yet I was no longer the person I was four days before. I drifted into my car, which somehow knew the way home.
I don’t remember the rest of that day. I couldn’t tell you for certain if the rest of the day even took place. All I do know is that the following morning found me at work. And the odyssey begins.
It had been my practice to have my patients lie on the table with their eyes closed for 30 to 60 seconds following their adjustments to relax, and to allow their adjustments to set. On this particular Monday, seven of my patients, some who had been with me for almost twelve years, and one who was seeing me for a first visit, chose this day to ask me if I had been walking around the table as they lay there. Some asked if anyone else had come into the room because it felt as if several people were standing or walking around the table. Three said it felt as if people were running around the table, and two sheepishly confided that it seemed as if people were flying around the table.
I’d been a chiropractor for about twelve years and no one had ever expressed anything like this before. Now seven people had said this to me on the same day. Something was up. Interspersed between my patients, I was fielding other observations from my employees: “You look so different! Your voice sounds so different! What happened to you over the weekend?” I certainly wasn’t going to tell them. “Oh, nothing," I replied, wondering myself what exactly had taken place over the weekend.
My patients were reporting that they could feel where my hands were before I touched them. They could feel my hands when they were inches to feet away from their bodies. It became a game to see how accurately they could locate my hands. Yet it became more than a game as people started receiving healings. At first the healings seemed minor: aches, pains and the like. As patients would come in ostensibly for chiropractic, I would adjust them, then tell them to close their eyes and lie there until I told them to open them again. While their eyes were closed, I would pass my hands over the patients for a moment or two. When they got up and the pain was gone, they asked me what I had done. “Nothing. And don’t tell anyone,” became my standard reply. This directive was about as effective as Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” approach to drugs.
Soon people were coming in from all over for these healings and I had no idea what was going on. Sure, I checked in regularly with the woman who had reconnected me via the axiatonal lines. “It must have come from something that was already in you. Maybe it had to do with your mother’s near death experience at the time of your birth,” she said, adding “I don’t know of anyone who ever responded like this. It’s fascinating.” Fascinating. Apparently, fascinating meant that I was on my own.

A quest arises.

November finds me in the office of a world-renowned psychic.

Out of breath, lost, and 30 minutes late (as usual), I rush in, plop down on his chair and pretend not to notice “the glare”. You know, that look mastered by the anally retentive, terminally prompt; the one that causes you to flash back on every lecture you’ve ever received about being on time and to simultaneously question your value as a human being based upon the perceived enormity of this single, yet questionable, flaw. I was certain that on his days off he was petitioning Congress to bring back the use of the word tardy in the public school system. This reading was shot, I was sure.
He spread his cards in a very businesslike fashion, carefully not showing a hint of warmth or compassion on his face. He looked at the cards, then looked me straight in the eyes with a slightly quizzical expression or a scowl and asked, “What is it that you do?” Now, I don’t know about you, but at $100 an hour, I was thinking, ‘You’re the psychic. You tell me.’ I refrained from verbalizing my thoughts. “I’m a chiropractor,” I said matter-of-factly, being careful not to give out too much information that might color my reading. (I didn’t even tell him my last name when I scheduled the appointment.) “Oh, no. It’s much more than that,” he said. “Something comes out through your hands and people receive healings. You will be on television,” he continued, “and people will be coming from all over the country to see you.” This was the last thing that I had expected to hear from this man. Then he told me I would be writing books. “Let me tell you something,” I shot back with a knowing smile, “if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that I won’t be writing any books.”
Books and I never got along. By this point in my life I had maybe read two books, and one of them I was still coloring. But life was to bring more changes. Psychics, healers, and channelers found me. From all over the country they would come, telling me that they were told in their meditations to work on me – and refusing any monetary compensation in return. My love affair with alcohol cooled down to a casual friendship: one and a half glasses of wine with dinner, occasionally. No one was more surprised than I.
The strangest was yet to come: My addiction to television came to an abrupt halt. It was replaced by, dare I say it, books. I couldn’t read enough: Eastern philosophy, life after death, channeled information, and even UFO experiences. I looked at, listened to and read everything, everywhere.
At night, I would lie down to go to sleep, and my legs would vibrate. My hands felt as if they were constantly “on”. The bones of my skull would also vibrate and my ears would buzz. Later on, tones would come to me, and on rare occasion what sounded like voices in choir.
That’s it. I’ve lost my sanity. I was certain now. Everyone knows that when you lose your sanity, you start hearing voices. Mine were singing. In choir yet. I couldn’t have had a little light humming, a faint vocalist or even a small chorale group. No, I get a whole choir.
And what about my patients? They were seeing colors: beautiful, exquisite blues, greens, purples, golds and white. And although they were able to recognize these colors, they told me that they had never seen these particular manifestations before. Their beauty is beyond that which we know. I am told by my patients who are in television and film that not only do these colors not exist as we know color here on earth, but even using all their sources and technologies that we have today, it would not be possible to reproduce them.
And, yes, patients saw angels. Now angels are a popular thing to experience, so in the beginning I didn’t pay that much attention to the angel stories until people began describing the same stories: the same angels, the same messages, the same names. We’re not talking common angel names like Michael or Ariel, neither are we talking Moses or Buddha, although a lot of people do say that they see Jesus. We’re talking names like Parsillia and George. George appears to children and others who might be unnerved by the thought of seeing an angel. You see, George appears first as a small multi-colored parrot. Then, as it is regularly explained to me, suddenly he isn’t a parrot at all, suddenly he just becomes your friend. George has been known to appear to people later during times of stress.
The first person to see George was an 11-year-old girl named Jamie. She and her mother flew in from New Jersey because she had scoliosis of the spine, quite noticeably disfiguring the body of this unusually bright and otherwise very attractive girl. When Jamie came out of her session, she said to her mother and me, “I just saw this tiny little multicolored parrot. And he told me his name was George. And then he wasn’t a parrot at all. He wasn’t even a life-form.” Life form: now there’s a word for an eleven year-old. “Then, he just became my friend.”
Within the next two to three months, several George sightings were reported to me by other patients, none of whom knew of George, because, as with all of the angels, I keep the names and descriptions in confidence so as not to influence other people’s experiences. (Even in this writing I’ve changed the names of George and Parsillia to protect the purely innocent.)
Jamie’s spine was mostly, though not completely, corrected by her third session, after which she returned to New Jersey. I’ve spoken with her several times since. She appears to be doing fine. And, every once in a while, she still hears from George.
Parsillia, on the other hand, comes with specific messages. First, she often lets you know that you will be healed. Following that, she tells you that, if you are healed, you are to go on television and “spread the word”. I guess she would be called our Angel of Public Relations.
The first person to see Parsillia was a woman from Oregon named Michele. Michele had seen me during an NBC interview on one of my earlier talk show appearances. At the time she weighed all of 87 pounds. She had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and fibromyalgia. She had no appetite and it hurt her just to swallow. She was unable to get up from a chair to make it into the bathroom by herself. To make her pain somewhat bearable, she would have to be carried from her bed and placed under a hot running shower up to four times each night. If she took her children on a one-hour drive to visit her mother, she would have to stay there, in bed, for three days before she was able to make the drive home. She was obviously unable to hold down a full time job. And her six-year-old would have to make dinner for his three year-old brother: peanut butter sandwiches.
Michele, like most of my patients, had never seen an angel or heard voices before. It took her three days before she was able to get the angel’s name. Parsillia told her that she would be healed and that she was to spread the word via television. Approximately one year later, she was a guest along with me on a different talk show. She was all smiles – and quite a few tears. Her weight is now normal, her complexion healthy, she holds down a full time job and exercises regularly. And oh yes, she cooks dinner for her family every evening. No more peanut butter sandwiches.
Another visitor patients see is a man with white hair, a white moustache and a white coat. Other times, he appears in a robe with his head covered.
Debbie, a Southern California mother of three, was the first to see this angel (whose name we don’t know). She was diagnosed in March of 1995 with terminal pancreatic cancer, the same cancer that took the life of actor Michael Landon. She was told she had maybe two months to live. Her experiences included being elevated out of her body, traveling through a tunnel, seeing flecks of turquoise and blue light and ultimately being embraced by white light. Debbie experienced the white haired man in both forms. The first time she encountered him he was wearing his robe and head covering. He touched her wrist sending a surge of energy coursing through her body. He then bowed and walked away, leaving her in the presence of a very bright yet unusually welcoming light. Tears filled her eyes. She next found herself in a tunnel traveling through the galaxy, feeling “stuff” leaving her body through both her feet and her head.
By Debbie’s second or third session, her previously inoperable tumor was 80 percent gone. Approximately eight months later, her doctors felt she was a candidate for surgery to remove the remaining 20 percent. Just prior to her appointed surgery date, she returned for another of our sessions. A day-and-a-half later she went to the hospital in anticipation of her surgery. After some tests, however, she was sent home. No surgery. Apparently, in the day-and-a-half since our session her tumor had vanished completely. Nothing remained but scar tissue.
As an interesting side-note, Debbie came back for another session in November. During her session she felt water droplets landing on the right side of her face. Following that, the man with the white hair and mustache reappeared, this time wearing his long white coat, which was blowing behind him in the wind. Then he simply blew away.
Patients also commonly see a circle of doctors wearing white coats, conferring and guiding the healings. They can be seen talking in the circle, yet they can’t be heard. Another regular is a young Native American girl who places a leather band with shiny, square ornaments on your forehead. Often times a Native American male also comes and stands in the room. (We are not yet sure whether he’s a chief or a shaman.) Another visitor is a very tall, handsome angel, usually described as eight, nine or ten feet tall with huge, densely feathered white wings in scalloped rows. I am told that he stands behind with his arms around my waist, peering over my right shoulder, silently guiding my hands. Many of these angels seem to have their own specific scents: flowers, incense, and herbs – in particular, rosemary.
Then came Jered. Jered was four when his mother first brought him in. With braces on his knees that would no longer hold him up, his eyes simultaneously looked in two different directions yet were able to focus on nothing. Words no longer came from his mouth, and in the void was only the endless flow of saliva. Jered’s light had been reduced to a vacant expression which showed barely a glimmer of the beautiful being that once dwelt within.
Jered had been losing the myelin coating of his brain where nerve impulses travel. He had been suffering approximately fifty grand mal seizures per day. Medication reduced the seizures to approximately 16 a day. As he lay there on the table, motionless and almost without expression, his mother explained that over the past year she had helplessly watched his rapid deterioration. By the time of her first visit, she found herself left not with the child she once knew, but with what she could only describe as an “amoeba”.
During Jered’s first session, whenever my hand would approach the left side of his head, he would sense its presence and reach for it. “Look, he knows where your hand is. He’s reaching. He never does that,” his mother pointed out with hopeful surprise. “That’s where the myelin is missing,” she added. Jered became so active that by the end of that session his mother had to sit by him on the table, lightly holding his hands, placatingly singing children’s songs as only a mother can. Their favorite was “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”. The day of Jered’s first session, these physically violent seizures stopped. Completely.
Jered’s second session found him grasping at doorknobs and beginning to turn them. His vision improved, he was now able to focus on objects. On his way out of our office, he pointed to a floral arrangement in our reception area: “Flowers,” he said smiling. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.
That night, Jered was discovered reciting the letters of the alphabet with Vanna White while watching Wheel of Fortune. And before he went to sleep, this formerly speechless cherub looked up towards his mother and said “Mommy sing to me.” Five weeks later, Jered was back at school. On the playground. Catching balls.
Did Jered see an angel? He never said so, but I know that he did. This one drove him one hour to and from his appointments, sat by him on the table, lightly held his hands and lovingly sang to him “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” as only an angel can.
It turns out that I had to go inside to find most of my answers. My two main concerns were, one, that I couldn’t predict what someone’s response would be and therefore could make promises to no one, and, two, that I would have unpredictable highs and lows in the energies that would last anywhere from three days to three weeks.
I had always been an in-charge type of person who could accomplish whatever I set my mind to. While others took a wait-and-see attitude, I preferred to dominate, manipulate and control situational outcomes. Obstacles that seemed invincible to others were invisible to me, so I would charge ahead and get things done. The most galling expression on earth to someone like me was, “If it’s meant to be, it will be.” Meant to be, schmeant to be. If I want it to happen, I’ll make it happen, and don’t any of you namby-pamby fatalists get in my way. So, imagine my surprise when the realization dawned on me that for these healings to really accelerate, I had to get out of the way and quit directing, to step back and let a higher power guide. Who’s saying this? I thought. It can’t be me.
But it was true. Not only did the energy know where to go and what to do without the slightest instruction from me; the more I got my attention out of the picture the more powerful the response. Some of the greatest healings occurred when I was thinking about my grocery list. The audacity!
Receive, don’t send.
Who said that? I asked, searching the inner recesses of my head as if I could really see something in there. You’ve got the wrong person here for that kind of advice. My ego was still recovering from “get out of the way and let a higher power guide.” How am I going to get these healings through to these people if I don’t send them?
Receive, don’t send.
I heard you the first time. Now answer my question, I mentally retorted.
Silence.
(Silence can really irk me sometimes.)
I went in to see the next patient. Hoping that I wasn’t doing her a disservice and grateful that she couldn’t read the hesitation and uncertainty of concept in my mind, I began, palms open, at her feet. I received from the patient through my hands. I received from the heavens through the top of my head. It was loving, it was humbling, and it was confusing. It felt awkward. And then I saw the patient begin to respond. And it felt right.
At that point I truly embraced the concept that I had been espousing, yet not fully understanding all along: I am not the healer, only God is the healer, and for some reason, whether I’m a catalyst or a vessel, an amplifier or intensifier, pick your own word, I’m invited into the room.
The session was over. The patient had seen the same spectacular colors and heard the same exquisite tones that the other patients see and hear. She too had seen two of the angels frequently described to me as being present during the healing process. Her problem, a mixture of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, fibromyalgia, and colitis, was to be gone after this session. Although not immediately life threatening, it had been ruling her life for the past eight years. She got up from the table and said, “Thank you!”
I replied, “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it.” She said, “Well of course you did,” not understanding. “It wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t hold your hands over me.”
I thought, maybe that person sitting up there on that cloud didn’t make such a mistake after all. Maybe I was selected for this gift because I don’t wear robes and turbans, because I don’t hang tapestries and burn incense, because I don’t walk around barefoot eating bowls of dirt with chopsticks. Maybe it’s because I’m accessible and speak in relatively plain terms. Or maybe it’s because of my ability to come up with silly little ways of explaining things that I’m only beginning to grasp myself.
“It’s like this,” I explained, searching for an easily comprehensible analogy for a young girl whose concept of spiritual synchronicity was that Melrose Place was both the name of the street where my LA office had been located and that of her favorite TV show. “It’s as if you’ve just had a wonderful chocolate malted…and you’re thanking the straw.”
She laughed.
I think we both got it.