After years of struggle with a variety of chronic health problems, in 1999 author and psychotherapist Jessica Nagler left her home in Los Angeles to travel to Central America on a quest for well ness. There she met a Mayan shaman who taught her the ways of the ancient Maya and assisted her with her own spiritual journey. While in Guatemala, Jessica had a profound awakening: when she returned to Los Angeles, she remained in solitude for nearly three years, studying Buddhism and chronicling her journey. Her first book, Jun Q’anil: One Who Walks the Way, is a direct account of her reasons for embarking on her quest and the adventures that took her deep into the jungles of Central America.
“One doesn’t discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.” -André Gide
The only thing I knew with certainty was that I T needed to leave Los Angeles, not because I was depressed or manic or looking to escape, but because some other part of me was demanding a radical change. I wish I could articulate this better, make it less elusive so it doesn’t sound new-agey or clichéd, but the fact that I couldn’t describe in words what I felt inside was part of the mystery, the pull. I knew only that after a decade of debilitating health problems and intense inward examination, it was time to make a break from my life and devote myself entirely to personal transformation. I left my fiancé, closed my psychotherapy practice and sold everything I owned, not because I wanted to, but because I needed to relinquish all that was familiar in order to face something unknown.
Disentangling from life wasn’t easy-ending a relationship, a career, letting go of possessions-but nothing challenged me like the headaches. These weren’t ordinary headaches; they were headaches that made light and sound and heat intolerable; they made it impossible to think or work or see without a cloudy haze; they required me to sleep a dozen hours a day. When the pain was bad, it was as if I was suffocating. I couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen to my brain. I remember precisely the morning they arrived: November 1, 1991, the day after Halloween. I awoke feeling as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to my skull. When I moved, cerebral fluid seemed to shift from one side of my brain to the other, like a yolk bouncing around the white of an egg. I knew in that sort of murky, dream-like way that I was in trouble, that something was very wrong, that everything was about to change.
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Several years and a lot of energy were spent trying to fix the problem. I knew by heart the waiting room décor of all the best doctors in Los Angeles, none of whom could find anything wrong, except to say that I was stressed. I was stressed, they said. I went to bed healthy (though formerly I’d wrestled with an eating disorder, chronic fatigue, anemia, asthma) and awoke the next morning with my head in a meat grinder. Who wouldn’t be stressed? Spinal taps and brain scans revealed that I did not have a tumor, nor was I suffering from an aneurysm; still, I was frantic for an explanation. But even back then some part of me knew that my efforts were futile, that no matter how many tests I had or doctors I visited, there would be no easy answer. This crisis would trigger a lifetime investigation. But first I’d spend a year evaluating the pros and cons of living.
It wasn’t that I wanted to die, or even that I had a plan to do myself in. Rather, I couldn’t imagine enduring a lifetime of pain. It didn’t seem worth it. I remember sitting on my bed one afternoon, head pounding, vision blurry, scheduling doctors’ appointments. I was so sick of telling my story, the history of how it all crept up on me, knowing that I’d be out several thou sand dollars with nothing to show for it-no answers, no relief. I wanted to give up, but some deeper force in me kept going.
Eventually, I found a way to manage the headaches, mainly through weekly chiropractic adjustments, and I resumed a semi-normal life, including falling in love, but I carried a profound sadness. I’d examine my reflection in the mirror, look past the image and peer deeply into my eyes. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, my soul was clearly weeping.
I couldn’t help but feel that the physical, emotional, and spiritual pain were all wrapped up into one, that some how I’d gotten off track and didn’t know how to shift back to center. I struggled to define my relationship with God (I’m Jewish by birth, non-practicing, just neurotic), but didn’t feel connected to my roots, or any roots, and this separation also felt like a void. The most difficult aspect was not having someone to talk to. There were therapists, of course, but most of them just sat staring blankly or tried to twist what had happened into something that didn’t resonate. I gained insight from reading, meditating, and talking with friends, but there came a point when I knew I needed guidance. That’s when a friend gave me the name of a spiritual counselor named Sanda Jasper.
The sign outside Sanda’s Pacific Palisades office read, Osani Holistic Health Care: Acupuncture, Clinical Nutrition, Reiki Therapy and Spiritual Counseling. Red geraniums sprouted from window boxes above neatly trimmed hedges outside the front entrance. Inside, the air was redolent of incense and sage. A statue of the Chinese goddess Kwan Yin and a small water fountain stood in the corner.
A tall, slender woman dressed in gray slacks and a cream cashmere sweater entered the room. “Hello, you must be Jessica,” she said. “I’m Sanda.” She shook my hand and smiled. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.”
Surprisingly. Sanda looked more like a regular person than a Maharishi-style guru. She stood slightly hunched over, as if nursing a sore back, and tried to call very little attention to herself. I observed with interest as she attended to a few odds and ends behind the receptionist’s desk. I might have felt unnerved if it weren’t for her kind eyes and reassuring smile.
Sanda offered me a cup of tea and motioned for me to follow her into a small adjoining room. I sat on one of two cushy chairs and noticed a few plants and a framed photograph of the Dalai Lama. There was also a mas sage table covered with a sheet, which I’d later learn was used for energy work. Sanda took off her shoes and lit a candle before settling back in her chair. Even before we began speaking. I knew that I’d found my teacher.
What puzzled and excited me most about Sanda was that she seemed to know me before she knew me. I felt seen in a way I’d never known but had always longed for. It was as if she perceived my total being. not just my body or image or persona, and this felt deeply comforting.
“What is your intention in coming to see me?” she asked.
Although the question didn’t surprise me, I was momentarily stunned. What was my intention in coming to see her? How could I explain that I felt haunted by an inner restlessness I couldn’t define, that ever since my engagement I’d been suffering from chronic bladder infections, as if my body had rejected my relationship. or that I had headaches that crept in like monsters in the night? “I feel lost,” I said finally. “Like I’m missing a critical piece of who I am and what my purpose is. grasping for a memory that’s just out of reach. I feel I’m going through the motions, doing what I’ve been conditioned to do, wasting my life. It’s sad, really. I’m here for some guidance.”
“Okay,” she said. “So that’s your intention, you’d like some guidance to explore what’s happening. It’s important to be able to state your intention; it helps bring awareness to your thoughts, feelings, and actions. When your intention is unconscious, you’re at risk of being controlled by your fears ‘’
“How do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, when we’re not conscious of what we’re doing and why we’re doing it, we tend to be more reactive; we operate out of fear rather than from a place of empowerment. An empowered person is a conscious person, who’s always aware of her intention in every choice and action.”
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“Seems like a lot of effort to be aware in each moment,” I said.
“You’re right,” she said. “It takes effort to become conscious. And not only do you need to be conscious of your intention, you also need to know whether your choices and actions are coming from a place of fear or love.”
I tried to take in what Sanda was saying.
“I’m not talking about romantic love,” she went on, “or the kind of fear that arises at the edge of a cliff. I’m referring to the essential quality of love and fear-love as the energy of wholeness, and fear as the energy of lack.”
While I considered myself to be a relatively conscious person, I could think of many areas that were still being controlled by my unconscious fears. I worried about everything money, success, achievement. I questioned my ability to be a good partner in a relationship, to be less selfish, less controlling. And I was afraid of the unknown. “I tend to be pretty hard on myself,” I said.
“Yes, I got that sense.” Sanda’s eyes were smiling, but her brows furrowed with genuine concern.
“And I get these headaches.” I reached up to touch my temples. “They make me feel as though my head is in a vise, as if someone wrapped cellophane around my brain. I’ve been to lots of doctors, but none have been helpful, except my chiropractor.”
Sanda sipped her tea and curled her feet up under her like a cat. “Do you know much about the energy body?”
“A little.” I said.
“Surrounding our body is an electromagnetic, or auric field,” she explained, “a transparent field of energy. It is in this field that we register both positive and negative energy, even when our five senses don’t. Being conscious of our energy field is part of being multi-sensory, which means that in any given situation we use our intuitive sense and sensibilities, along with our regular five senses.
“Energy configures not only in this field but also from centers, called chakras, that emanate from the body,” she went on. “Each chakra holds and emits a specific energetic frequency, influenced in part by our genetic makeup and individual life experiences, as well as our unique soul imprint. The seven main chakras, then, are an energetic reflection of what’s going on with our body. mind, emotions, and spirit.”
“So it’s possible to read energy?” I asked.
“Yes, there’s immeasurable knowledge to be gained from developing your ability to read energy; that is, to hone your intuitive skills so you can perceive and trans late these subtle energies. Reading energy is very helpful in understanding how to heal past traumas and old wounds, physical or emotional.”
“So the headaches…?”
“What’s your sense?” she asked.
“I don’t know. My body usually tells me when some thing’s not right; it’s sort of the barometer for how I’m doing. Sometimes there’s a clear link between my physical problems and life stressors-like I used to get stomachaches when I was anxious-but often the connection isn’t so clear, though I know it exists.”
“Exactly,” she said. “That’s something we can work on.”
“But the headaches are such a mystery.” I said. “Especially how they just appeared one day and have never gone away.”
“Often it’s the greatest mysteries that help us to awaken.” she said, “so it’s useful to approach things holistically and to view the same situation from many different perspectives. Just as you’ve gained insight from doctors and healing practitioners, it’s important to investigate from within yourself. Becoming conscious of your energy is part of this process. Like right now, are you aware of what your energy is doing?”
“I’m not sure.” I knew how to sense other people’s energy. Ever since I was a kid I could sense things that others didn’t, for instance when someone was camouflaging an emotion, sometimes I even knew what they were thinking. But it hadn’t occurred to me to tune in to my own energy.
“Let me give you a clue,” she said, smiling. “If your physical body was doing what your energy is doing right now, you would have me pinned against the wall.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize I was being so intense.”
“It’s okay.” Sanda laughed. “You didn’t mean any harm and I’m capable of handling it, but it’s important to know how to manage your energy. It’ll help you tremendously.”
“How do I do that?” I asked.
“It’s a process, like anything else. It doesn’t happen immediately. Start by setting the intention to call back your energy. Try it right now and see what happens.”
I closed my eyes and tried to tune in to my energy field. It was subtle, but I could feel a slight pulsing sensation around my physical body. Then, because Sanda had said my energy was extended out beyond my field, I tried to pull it back in, focusing on the pulsing sensation until I felt myself more contained.
“That’s it,” she said. “Your energy followed your intention. You’ve just taken a step toward becoming conscious on a subtler level.”
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Over time, Sanda would teach me how to recon figure my energy, a conscious process of changing the way I thought, felt and behaved toward myself and the rest of the world. “It can feel awkward, even painful,” she had said, “when you shed layers of fear and give birth to something new. It’s a kind of spiritual breakthrough that in the beginning can feel like a breakdown.”
All this information would take me years to digest and assimilate on all its various levels. Eventually, living more consciously would become second nature, but initially this process was like learning a new language and indeed I was. And so it went, as Sanda began to clarify and put words to things that I had always felt, but never understood.
Nineteen ninety-seven was the year of El Niño. Large yellow tractors swarmed the gray beaches, digging trenches, building blockades, trying to safeguard against the inevitable destruction of Mother Nature. A heavy downpour was slowly eating away at the cliffs of the Santa Monica Mountains when I entered Sanda’s office and helped myself to a cup of tea. I wrapped myself in a blanket and settled back in my chair, anxious about my upcoming departure.
At this point I’d been working with Sanda for nearly two years. She’d assisted me through family crises, a roster of doctors, a career change and the profound sadness of breaking my engagement. But it was just the beginning. Now I could see that all those things needed to happen in order to free up enough energy for what I’d always sensed was coming, as if I had to prove to the universe that I was ready. Honestly, I would have preferred just to shift things around a bit, get a little more comfortable and basically keep my life intact. but such comfort was no longer possible. Instead I felt compelled to leave everything behind and go on a sort of spiritual quest. assimilate on all its various levels. Eventually, living more consciously would become second nature, but initially this process was like learning a new language and indeed I was. And so it went, as Sanda began to clarify and put words to things that I had always felt, but never understood.
Nineteen ninety-seven was the year of El Niño. Large yellow tractors swarmed the gray beaches, digging trenches, building blockades, trying to safeguard against the inevitable destruction of Mother Nature. A heavy downpour was slowly eating away at the cliffs of the Santa Monica Mountains when I entered Sanda’s office and helped myself to a cup of tea. I wrapped myself in a blanket and settled back in my chair, anxious about my upcoming departure.
At this point I’d been working with Sanda for nearly two years. She’d assisted me through family crises, a roster of doctors, a career change and the profound sadness of breaking my engagement. But it was just the beginning. Now I could see that all those things needed to happen in order to free up enough energy for what I’d always sensed was coming, as if I had to prove to the universe that I was ready. Honestly, I would have preferred just to shift things around a bit, get a little more comfortable and basically keep my life intact. but such comfort was no longer possible. Instead I felt compelled to leave everything behind and go on a sort of spiritual quest.
I found a small retreat center in the Costa Rican rainforest-it seemed like a good place to get oriented, a landing pad. From there I’d play things by ear. Playing things by ear wasn’t my forte–I was more a Type-A control freak-but Sanda explained that this type of journey was about strengthening my ability to trust and allowing things to unfold. Much later I’d see the grace in this way of being, walking in faith instead of by sharply focused sight, but initially it was one of the most difficult lessons to learn.
Once, I asked Sanda why surrender was so difficult.
“Your rational mind, or your executive self,” she said, “is like a well-developed muscle. Whenever you have to make a decision or take action, especially when it involves something new, this aspect of yourself naturally takes control. It’s the muscle you’ve come to rely on, it’s how you’ve survived.” I knew I needed instead to build up my intuitive muscle now; it was time.
I began the process of packing up my things, sorting through and cleaning out everything I owned. Oddly, never had anything felt so right. I said goodbye to my clients, making sure that each one would be taken care of by a new therapist. I completed my last few sessions with Sanda, though we wouldn’t really be ending our work. I knew that in some ways I’d be taking her along.
She gave me one of her personal meditation stones to carry with me. “When you need to,” she said, “use this in your meditation to connect with me. But remember that you don’t actually need anything tangible. Our true connection transcends not only the physical, but space and time as well.”
During our last session, when we were discussing some of the potential challenges that lay ahead, she said, “Don’t worry, when we need to connect, we will. If we don’t connect, know that whatever is happening is a lesson you need to learn on your own.” I smiled tentatively. “Have a good journey, Jess,” she said. “I’ll see you on the other side.”
“Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of humans as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.” -Helen Keller
The above section is excerpted from the book Jun Q’Anil, copyright 2005 by Jessica Nagler, published by Cypress House.
Jun Q’Anil (pronounced Oon Ka-neel) is available online and in bookstores.
