My father was a pharmacist, my mother a nurse. In my household, we took stale-dated medicine (because it was still good even if it was illegal for him to sell, so why waste it?) and we were never indulged a day off school unless we had a serious fever. Feeling bad had to be evidentially supported, symptomatically verified. Feelings themselves were irrelevant, and should be willed away, in order to remain productive and on-task. (My mother’s stoicism was so extreme she’d even once managed to ignore her own abdominal pain throughout a nursing shift, until her appendix burst and she had to be rushed into emergency surgery. A high pain threshold was one of our family’s bragging points.)
So the idea of energy medicine, or being attuned to the subtle vibrations of the body, were, shall we say, not part of my native language. Picking up Ellen Meredith’s new book, “The Language Your Body Speaks: Self-Healing with…
