Reiki Master Training: Finding the Right Teacher

Bill and I both loved learning Reiki I and booked in at once to do Reiki II on Beth's return to Australia six months later, in December 1988. This was a smaller group; only about a dozen of our original Reiki I class had chosen to continue so soon.  Some probably never would. Most people who learn Reiki are not thinking of setting up as practitioners; they're simply seeking to help themselves and their families, pets and friends. The basic hands-on technique is adequate in most circumstances. 

We weren't thinking of becoming professional practitioners either, but we were captivated by the idea of distant healing, and we had fallen in love with the Reiki energy. We weren't the only ones. One of the assistants at our Level II class was one of our classmates from Level I. 

'I couldn't wait,' she told us with a big grin. 'I went to Beth in America and did it there.' She looked as if she was about to start dancing with delight. 'You'll love it. It's magic — real, fair dinkum magic.' 

We thought so too by the time we finished the two-day class and learned all the amazing things we could do with the energy. As well as being able to bring about verifiable healings for people at a distance, we could gain deeper insights into what ailed them, enabling them to change any thinking or behaviour that contributed to their illness. 

I was so enraptured that I decided to become a Reiki Master myself, to share this wonderful gift with as many people as possible. Beth presented each of us with a certificate and a long-stemmed red rose. I told her my decision. 

'Oh good,' she said. 'I'll see you at all my seminars, working your little butt off.'

'If that's what it takes,' I said.

'That's what it takes,' she said with a grin.

She was the picture of warm encouragement, yet in that moment I knew she had no intention of ever training me as a Reiki Master. I didn't realise then that I was psychic, so I tried to dismiss this knowing, but I was certain of it despite having no rational reason. A short time later, Beth announced her retirement. We would not be seeing each other at all her seminars; there wouldn't be any more. Well, at least her undeclared refusal to train me wasn't personal.

She had trained three Australian Reiki Masters by then, one of whom was Denise Crundall in Melbourne. I asked Denise if I could assist on her seminars with a view to Master training when I'd served my apprenticeship. To qualify for Master training, you had to have been doing Reiki for five years and be seen as a person of the highest integrity. After two years of further training, you had to demonstrate that you not only knew your stuff but could teach it. Denise welcomed me, and I did assist on a couple of her seminars. I respected her greatly and learned valuable things from her, but I knew she would not train me to Mastery either — not that she lacked the intention like Beth; simply that it wouldn't happen that way.

At this point I heard on the grapevine that Ann Adcock had become a Reiki Master. To everyone's surprise, it wasn't with Beth but someone in Adelaide whom at that time we had not heard of — though we later came to know her and greatly respect her —Trisha Ellis.

Ann had been Beth's chief assistant in the State of Victoria, and the organiser of all her seminars there. Bill and I had got quite pally with her, but this was news to us.

Soon afterwards Ann phoned and said, 'Guess what?'

'Ha ha, I know,' I said. We arranged for her to visit us at Three Bridges and tell us all about it.

She told us that she and Trisha Ellis had been best friends for decades, since Trish had been Matron of Sandringham Hospital in Melbourne. After moving to Adelaide, Trish became the coordinator for Beth's South Australian Reiki seminars. She and Ann had a standing joke that whoever attained Mastery first would give it to the other. Both expected to train with Beth.

Trish was also a crystal healer. She was doing a lecture tour of the United States in that capacity when she met a woman who was a Reiki Master, who immediately assumed that Trish was too. When she learned otherwise, she said, 

'I'd be very happy to initiate you'. 

But Trish needed to continue her tour, and declined. On her travels she met up with a young Reiki Master she knew, Rev. Glen Dunning, who took one look at her and said, 

'Trish, when are you going to take Mastery?'

Obviously the Master energy was already shining out of her, which is the way it happens when one is ready for initiation. And so she received Mastery from Glen. He already knew that she had been working with Reiki for eight years, was well able to teach, and her integrity was beyond doubt. 

When she got home, she phoned Ann. Trish, in turn, knew that Ann had also worked with Reiki eight years and was well qualified for Mastery, so, according to their old, half-joking agreement, she offered it to her. Ann went to Trisha's home in the Adelaide hills for the final training and initiation. 

Naturally I thought Ann might be the Master to train me. Meanwhile Ann looked at our Three Bridges property with its beautiful gardens and huge lounge room built for big parties, and thought of running seminars there. A few days later she phoned. 

'Rosemary, I keep seeing your energy. It's as if I can't turn around without falling over you. What is it you want to say to me?' I'd been in a fever with it, so I took a deep breath and told her I was hoping she'd accept me into Master training. She said,

'When I received Mastery, I thought, "There'll be people who will want it from me," and I decided there were three I'd be very happy to train — Sue, Tony and you.' She added that she felt I wasn't quite ready, and would talk to me more in about nine months. That was the same timing I'd been getting!

As it happened, her friend Sue never did train. Tony van Lambaart was the first Master to train with Ann; I was the second. She held a number of classes at Three Bridges, with some students coming from Melbourne and staying overnight, as we had room to accommodate them. I assisted on Ann's seminars there and in Melbourne, even before I entered formal training. That began late in 1991. Ann waived the five year requirement as she knew of other healing and teaching I'd been engaged in, and let me start only four years after I learned Reiki I.

I immediately went straight into ego, becoming self-conscious and inept. For a while I must have been her clumsiest student ever. If people were sitting in meditation prior to fine tuning, my chair would squeak. If there was so much as a tissue on the floor, I'd trip over it. But gradually I got a grip and realised it wasn't about me but being of service to the students.

The training also involved private sessions with Ann, helping me clear anything that might hinder my progress, and giving me exercises to develop my non-physical abilities. To reach a point where I could transmit Reiki for life to students during the fine turnings, my energy had to be raised considerably. 

Eventually she initiated me — a profound and beautiful experience taking place over three days. But that did not complete my training; it enabled me to begin fine-tuning people under her close supervision.

I've already recounted how Master training cost me my marriage to Bill — which, obviously, was already very shaky for that to have happened. Also, some little time later, a cousin invested some money for me and managed to lose it, so I was left destitute and went on the dole.

It was a surprise to me, in March 1992, when, after a special gathering of Reiki people, Ann presented me with my Master certificate in completion of my training. She gave a speech in which she praised the way I remained focused on service through Reiki even in the face of such catastrophic events in my personal life. 

Later she told me that, all through that two-day gathering, people were nudging each other and whispering, 

'Look at Rosemary. She's radiant!' 

I was unaware of that, fully immersed in looking after people and facilitating the purpose of the gathering, but apparently I was the only one oblivious. 

'It was the Master energy shining from you,' said Ann. 

Learning Reiki I

Note: Reiki I is the first level of Reiki training, the basic method of hands-on healing.

In 1984 I had a reading from a famous clairvoyant called Mario Schoenmaker. Mario believed in reincarnation. He described a scenario in which, in my last life, I tried to help some dying people. 

'So in this life,' he added, almost casually, 'If you wanted to, you could heal with your hands,'

That wasn't a thing I had any idea of taking up. I already had my vocation: I was a poet.

Some years later, in a personal development course, I got chatting to the woman sitting next to me.

'You seem a bit tense,' she said. 'I think I can help you. I'm a massage therapist. Let me give you my card.'

It seemed like a great idea, and I became a customer. I didn't make regular appointments, just rang her up whenever I felt especially tense, weeks or sometimes months apart. I'd never had a massage before. I found it blissful, and very relaxing. I was a busy mother of young children, and working part-time. It was about the only 'me time' I had. I usually dozed off.

One day she said, 

'I've just learned this new thing called Reiki. It's not a vigorous massage. It's more like a gentle laying on of hands. Do you mind if I try it on you?' As far as I was concerned, she could try anything on me. She was good!

I blissed out as usual and didn't really notice what technique she was using. It felt great; that's all that registered. 

Some months later she said,

'I've just learnt Reiki II, the advanced course. Is it OK if I try that on you?'

'Sure,' I said, and once again registered little of the actual treatment, only how wonderful I felt afterwards. It had such an effect that I never again felt so tense that I needed to consult her. However, because I wasn't going on a regular basis, I didn't notice that until much later. Anyway, that's how I came to believe that Reiki was a type of massage. I now know it works very well in conjunction with massage and many other therapies, so practitioners of various kinds add it to their qualifications. 

Abalone diving is a young man's game. Bill retired and we moved to the country east of Melbourne, to a tiny place called Three Bridges, near Yarra Junction and Warburton. That was where we were living when I saw Beth Gray's Reiki seminars advertised. I got a huge, irrational hit: 'That's for you!' It was easy to then rationalise it: it was just after I started wishing for something Bill and I could both learn to help him with his spiritual healing gifts. 

Bill wasn't hard to persuade. I think he must have been tired of feeling drained after doing healings, and the thought of me being able to give him a nice massage afterwards was enticing. Also he had recently managed to put my back out while attempting to relieve an ache. A friend who did massage had to make an urgent visit to put it right. The idea of getting some actual training must have started to seem good too. 

The time and money for us to do the course became available with almost miraculous ease. 'It's as if the Universe opened up for us,' I said.

Beth Gray was an American Reiki Master who visited Australia twice a year to teach in all the capital cities and some large country centres. (There were no Australian Reiki Masters then, though Beth was in the process of training some.) Our course was in Melbourne, over a weekend. There was a free introductory session on the Friday night, for people to find out about Reiki and see if they wanted to do it. We didn't see why we needed to drive all the way from Three Bridges for that. We were already enrolled in the course, and we knew what Reiki was - a form of massage, right? 

So we turned up on the Saturday morning, and found ourselves in a room of about 60 students and maybe 10 assistants. Beth was short, vibrant and glamorous, with beautifully coiffed grey hair, a stylish suit and scarf, high heels, bright lipstick, and long red nails. I found out later she was nearly 70. She looked 50. 

She asked a few of us to share why we wanted to learn Reiki, and then asked some of the assistants to tell us what Reiki had done for them. We heard of healings that sounded like miracles. Then she led us in a meditation. That was cool; Bill and I had done meditation before. We still didn't really understand what we were getting into.

Then we had to stay in our quiet, meditative state while the assistants ushered us, 10 at a time, to a small room to receive what Beth called a 'fine tuning'. Each group would be gone a little while, then they'd come back into the main room. Meanwhile the assistants rearranged their empty seats to form long rows, one chair behind another, where people were directed to sit when they returned.

As instructed, I was still in a meditative state as I lined up outside the little room for the fine tuning. When we went in, we sat on chairs side by side in front of Beth. She instructed us to keep our eyes closed until told to open them. She said we would feel her doing things to our heads and our hands, but on no account to open our eyes. The procedure, she told us, was sacred and secret.

She wore a little bracelet of bells which tinkled softly as she moved. She told us later that she got it in the Philippines where, before she knew about Reiki, she trained with the spiritual healers. She said she wore it as a reminder to stay humble, knowing that she was not really the healer but merely a channel, a pipeline for the healing energy. It was nice to hear the little bells as Beth moved along the line. There was something sweet and reassuring in the sound. I'm sure all Reiki Masters who ever had a fine tuning from Beth dreamed of one day wearing just such a bracelet when working with their own students. I for one never found my bracelet.

At one point, I felt her stop in front of me, then she took my hands in hers. I was so startled that my eyes flew open involuntarily, and I found myself staring into the face, not of Beth but her chief assistant, Denise Crundall, whom she was training as a Reiki Master. Denise and I stared at each other wordlessly a moment, then I recollected myself and shut my eyes again. 

When we went back into the main room and sat one behind the other, we were shown how to put our hands on the shoulders of the person in front of us. We must leave them in place, we were told. If it became uncomfortable because our muscles weren't used to the position, we must 'push through' the discomfort.

Then I got the shock of my life, in more ways than one. My hands suddenly felt as though little electric currents were running through them. 'Oh,' I thought, 'This is something other than massage.' Later I came to know this phenomenon as the hands 'switching on'. Reiki is activated by touch I guess if we'd attended the Friday night talk that would have been made clear. I expect it would have been explained as scientifically as possible. But ever since that startling experience, I have privately felt that Reiki is magic.

After a while I noticed that Bill's hands on my shoulders felt warm and soothing. When everyone was back in the room, sitting in their 'Reiki trains', as these lines of people with hands on shoulders were called, Beth started going up and down the lines, feeling everyone's hands and asking us all the same two questions: 'How do your hands feel?' and, 'How do the hands on your shoulders feel?' We learned that different people perceive the energy in different ways. It has something to do with one's own individual energy, and something to do with how much need of healing there is in the body under the hands.

Over the weekend we received three more fine turnings. Beth explained that the energy is passed on in 25% increments because 100% all at once would be too much to cope with. We got lots of practice working on each other on Reiki tables (which are similar to massage tables) and experiencing at first hand our aches, pains, tiredness etc. leaving us. An even greater thrill was being able to do that for others, as they reported in wonderment.

After presenting our certificates, Beth told us she would be back in six months to teach Reiki II, the technique for healing 'in absence'. With that, we'd be able to give Reiki to anyone in the world, without having to be with them in person. More magic! I could hardly wait.

Calling it Quits

When I look back, I see many reasons why Bill and I didn't stay together. Basically we grew apart. We'd been doing that for some time before we noticed. When the boys turned into young men and stopped living with us, it became apparent that parenting was the biggest thing we had in common. Without that, there wasn't much else. 

'What do you want from life?' I asked him, hoping to find some mutual aim and recover our sense of partnership. 'What are your goals and visions?' He answered, but I didn't hear him. 'I'd like to travel around Australia,' he said. Well, we'd already been to Sydney, Adelaide, Townsville, Darwin, Ayers Rock, Kakadu and Broome. Besides, to me a vision was big, like saving the world; a goal meant being a famous writer at least. After we parted, he visited Perth and Brisbane and explored more of coastal Victoria.  He was telling me loud and clear what he wanted all the time; I just wasn't capable of hearing it.

And I broke some unwritten contracts, although I didn't realise that until later. He was supposed to be the writer, and later the psychic and the healer. It was I who went on to careers in all three. 

When we met, he was writing a novel. He didn't know I was a writer too. He knew I was a librarian, and that I'd majored in English Literature at University. He told me with naive enthusiasm that he was drawn to me because I must be good at English. An odd basis for attraction, I think now, but I didn't question it at the time. 

Bill was 15 when his family migrated from Holland. His older brother John had learned English at school; his little brother Robert was young enough to pick it up easily here.  Bill missed out both ways. Maths was the only lesson he could understand at his Australian school. He taught himself English by attending movie matinees and watching the same cowboy film over and over. Surprisingly, he fell in love with the language. By the time I met him, his reading was quite sophisticated. His writing, though, had problems. The first letter I ever got from him was a huge disappointment. I couldn't read it! Finally I figured out that he was spelling everything the way it would have been spelt in Dutch if it had sounded the same. Once I had that clue, I managed to decipher it, but it took a long time for only two pages. I could see that he did need help.

He loved English because of its nuances, its subtleties, its fine shades of meaning, the fact that so many different words could be used for one thing. In Dutch, he told me, language is blunt and simple — one word, one meaning. Bill's father loathed English for exactly the same reason. 'You know where you are with Dutch,' he said.

Bill's written English improved considerably, but he put the novel aside for the responsibilities of providing for his family. If he'd stayed a carpenter, perhaps he would have written in the evenings; but abalone diving is one of the most physically demanding jobs there is. He rose early and went to bed early, and there was no guarantee of a weekend off. If the weather was right, you dived. You might not get another chance for a while. His father was a builder. When it wasn't diving weather, Bill worked for him. It kept us fed but didn't leave much time for writing. Luckily, abalone diving became his even greater passion. He loved the life. His story-telling impulse was satisfied by becoming a raconteur, telling wonderful tales of his experiences under water, which he never wrote down.

I was a poet, a very different matter. It takes a lot less time to write a poem than a novel. When I'm asked how long it takes me to write a poem, I usually say, 'Anything between five minutes and 20 years'. That's more or less true, but at least the first draft can be done quickly. But I was just a private scribbler. It was only when I was 32 that I asked myself, 'OK, you've got a good husband, lovely kids, a nice house, all the things you're supposed to want. Why are you still discontented? What do you really want to do with your life?' 

A light bulb lit up in my head and I knew the answer. It had always been there. I wanted to be a poet. I'd always wanted that. I just hadn't believed it possible. 

When I was little, my parents read me poems for bedtime stories, and bought me books like Now We Are Six and A Child's Garden of Verses. I started writing poems when I was seven. My parents were proud of me, but when people asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I said, 'A poet,' they explained as kindly as possible that it wasn't a thing you could 'be' in that kind of way. It would have to be a hobby.

I won some school writing prizes, and in my teens became brave enough to submit to Meanjin, the foremost literary magazine in the country (and the only one I knew about). My work was promptly rejected. I pulled my head back in and resumed scribbling so privately that few people knew. 

Now, at 32, I told myself, 'OK. Time to have a go for real.' Bill was appalled. 

'I've got friends who are artists and musicians,' he said. 'Any art form consumes you. It's a tunnel that'll swallow you up.' 

I argued vociferously. I wouldn't let it do that to me; I'd still look after the family. I wore him down until, grudgingly, he gave permission. (Obviously I had little understanding of feminism back then.)

Doing it 'for real' required much more crafting. Near enough wasn't good enough any more. But it seemed I'd learnt some things in those years of scribbling. I was published quite soon, joined the Poets Union, embraced performance poetry, and made a name. I even got to teach the poetry part of Professional Writing courses at various colleges, on the strength of that name plus my BA.

Bill didn't pick up a pen for another 12 years, until he retired and we moved to the country. I was amazed that his gift was still there, but he seemed to have lost heart. He wrote some good short stories but didn't do much with them.

By that time he'd become psychic overnight, lost it and partly regained it. [As recounted in my previous post.] Meanwhile some friends got me interested in Tarot. I started playing with it just for my own amusement.

At the same time as becoming psychic, in the same lightning-strike way, Bill developed healing gifts — part of the same package. He would get an inner knowing where to put his hands on someone and how to massage them to relieve pain and other symptoms. If he did this too often in a short time, he became drained of energy.  

'Who heals the healer?' I wondered. 

Also I was worried about the legalities. He was working on people without any qualifications. When I saw a Reiki course advertised, I persuaded him we should both do it. I'd experienced Reiki. I didn't know much about it but I thought it was a superior kind of massage. I thought he could get some qualifications to put to his natural gift, and that when he got drained I'd be able to look after him. 

But Reiki isn't like that. It's not massage but energy healing. You tap into the universal energy instead of using your own, so you never get drained. It's activated automatically by touch. 

I had no idea of being a healer myself, except to help him, which now he didn't need. But it was I who fell in love with Reiki and, in a major life change, decided to train as a Master (a teacher). As a start, I began seeing clients professionally. I also decided to advertise Tarot readings. To my surprise I got plenty of clients for both services.

Bill declared, 'I support you 100% in your ambition to become a Reiki Master!'  A few months later he thought the training took too much time and money. 'Unless you give it up,' he said, 'Our marriage is over.' I was rocked. But I was due to go to Sydney, to a conference of trainee Reiki Masters with the world Grand Master on her first visit to Australia. 

'Go,' said the Reiki Master who was training me, 'And then make up your mind.'

I walked into the conference, and into peace and acceptance. There was a large room full of people sitting on cushions on the floor. It was also full of the Reiki energy they all carried. I looked around. There were my brothers and my sisters; I was home. The decision was made. After a profound and beautiful three days, I went back and told Bill the marriage was over.

It was his turn to look shocked. I think I must have called his bluff, and then he didn't know how to back down. But I hadn't realised that he was bluffing. And by then it was too late. 

10/6/13

A Sudden Awkening

Bill, the second of my three husbands and the father of my two children, with whom I spent 27 years, was a very physical person. As a boy and a young man, he played a lot of football; soccer in Holland and Aussie Rules after his family migrated to Melbourne. He was a carpenter when I met him, and he ran a scuba diving school as a sideline. 

When our first child was only three months old, the Victorian Government released new abalone diving licences, which until then had been frozen a long time. Bill heard the news on his car radio and went straight into town to apply for one. It was granted — the very first one — and instead of saying, as Bill expected, that he would receive it in the mail in a couple of weeks, the clerk wrote it out on the spot and said, 'That'll be $300.' Knowing there was nothing in the bank, Bill coolly wrote a cheque and then went straight to our bank manager. He told him the story, up to the point of being asked for the money, then looked the bank manager in the eye and said, 'What would you have done?' 

'I guess I'd have written a cheque,' said the bank manager.

'Good!' said Bill. 'That's exactly what I did, so would you please pass it.' He did. And so began Bill's long career as a professional ab diver, which kept him enthralled with his adventurous life, and his family well provided for. 

He loved to be outdoors, and he couldn't sit still for very long without getting restless. He had to be up and doing. He needed activity. But he also loved reading and movies and conversation. When we first got together he was writing a novel. It was shaping up to be a good one, but he never finished it. He did write several excellent short stories later. So he was both physical and thoughtful. He was not, however, very spiritually inclined. As for me, my attitude to the extra-sensory was both fascinated and fearful. I played with Runes and I  read Colin Wilson's massive books on Mysteries and The Occult. I kept an open mind. Bill was simply sceptical. That changed very suddenly some years later. 

We married in 1966. Our children were born in 1967 and 1969. It wasn't until 1985 that Bill had his overnight awakening. He did some personal development work which was not spiritual in nature but opened up his mind to new possibilities in general; then a friend who was very psychic died, and Bill felt that Reg was in touch with him after his death. I expect he was right. Anyway, those are the only things I can see to account even a little bit for what happened next. 

He started knowing ahead of time about global tragedies. He would say, 'There's going to be a plane crash somewhere; I can feel it.' Sure enough, a plane would come down somewhere in the world within hours, every time. This was not a source of joy to him. He said to me, 'I can't stop it happening. I never know where exactly it will be, or what airline. I just see it happening and hear the people screaming. I can feel their fear and pain. It's awful.' He also realised that even if he did have more details, it wouldn't help. Who do you phone to say, 'A plane's going to crash at such and such a place and time'? No-one would believe him; they'd write him off as some nutter. And then, when it did happen, he could come under suspicion for having known about it beforehand.

I think myself, in hindsight, that when people awaken suddenly like that, the Universe gives them evidence they can't possibly ignore, such as global events which they couldn't know of in advance, and which will be sure to get into the news. It's a way for them to realise: 'Hey, this stuff is real. It's not my imagination. I'm not going crazy.' 

He also foresaw smaller and more personal events. He could do predictions for people, and they would turn out to be correct. He never charged money for it, just did it as a favour for friends occasionally. I was fascinated, and also selfish. I would ask him all sorts of questions pertaining to me. How lucky could I be — my very own fortune-teller right in the house! 

I found that a good time to ask those questions was when we were in bed at night, before he fell asleep. I know now that the time between sleep and waking, at either end of the day, is a natural trance state. Back then, I guess it just seemed like a convenient time without the distractions of the day. 

One night, more than half asleep, mumbling answers to my self-centred questions, he suddenly shouted, 'Peacock's gone! He's dead, he's politically dead. Howard's got it. I can see the headlines.' He was quite right of course: Howard did replace Peacock as leader of the Liberal Party, and Peacock's political career was effectively over from then on. But when Bill received this information, it was two weeks before there was even the slightest whisper of it in the press. He really did have the gift. 

He decided he didn't want it. There were three days when he couldn't go to work. He could see a terrible disaster involving hundreds of people. He could hear their cries, and feel their pain, terror and despair. It drained him. He looked grey, and could hardly move from his chair. He didn't know what the event was or where, but he thought it might be an earthquake in Indonesia. We had been to Indonesia a few times, so perhaps that was what he could relate to. I guess he saw brown-skinned people and moving earth. What it turned out to be, four days after he started getting it, was a landslide in Chile.

That was the last straw for him — so debilitating, so distressing, and there was nothing he could do. What good did it serve? In those days we didn't have a clue; no idea about protecting him with white light or anything like that. He prayed for the gift to be taken from him. Well, 'be careful what you pray for.' It stopped immediately, and then he missed it. He didn't miss the distressing side-effects, but he missed the ego trip of being able to make predictions for his friends. So he asked for it to be given back, without the world disasters. Eventually it was, but it was never again so clear and true. It was as if it became tainted. He still often got things right, but just as often some bits would be wrong. 

Instead of it coming through spontaneously, as it had done before, now he would press people to let him read for them and then try to tune in and seek out the answers. Then he would get a mish-mash of useful information and rubbish. He himself could not distinguish which was which. It all seemed very influenced by his wish to impress. He would go for the most dramatic interpretations of whatever he got. He also started doing readings at social gatherings, where he was drinking alcohol. I thought that must interfere with his abilities, but he wasn't about to listen to my notions. In the end, I think he gave up trying. But by then we had parted.

4/6/13