The Shaman of Port Authority

I stand in front of Port Authority in New York, bundled in fleece and faux down, scarf wrapped up to my chin, clutching a Starbucks, contemplating how to kill two hours before my flying trapeze classes. An older woman approaches me. She’s tiny and slightly stooped, her auburn hair’s gray roots in need of attention. She asks me for a dollar, and since I have two singles in my pocket, I pull out both and hand them to her. She thrusts one back at me. “I asked you for one dollar, not two. Don’t be so careless with your money!” She stands in front of me, her eyes boring into mine. I smile, discomfort tugging at the corners of my chapped lips. She continues to stare, and says, “You will have true love on April 4th.”

My eyes well up with tears. “Thank you,” I mutter, looking away. I feel exposed, as if I’m standing naked in front of Port Authority, rather than shrouded in enough outerwear to take on Antarctica. I feel ridiculous that a stranger, a stranger in need of a dollar, has the power to say something that evokes intense emotion in me. She takes hold of my gloved hand. “Listen,” she says, “I’m a shaman, a medicine woman, I see things. I see your big smile and your big heart. But I see your anxiety and depression too.” She taps her forehead on the left side, which is the side I draw my bangs over to hide what I don’t want to see: lines. She pushes my bangs away, and says, “I’m intuitive, a shaman. I do readings for a lot of people. But I’ve never said this to anyone before: I know you will have true love. April 4th.”

Tears stream down my face as I watch her walk away, shuffling slightly, her backpack broader than her back. Near the corner of 41st and 8th, an indigent man approaches her. She doesn’t break her shuffling stride as she hands him the dollar I’d just given her.

***

Feeling unworthy of true love is a core issue—perhaps, the core issue—for me. In defiance of contemporary wisdom, I don’t believe this is because of some fundamental lack that occurred during my early childhood. If who I am today is the result of human error, it’s my own.

I sit down to meditate, but my thoughts are spinning, unwilling to give me even a moment’s reprieve. So I pray instead. A prayer from my childhood religion pops into my mind: “Lord, I am unworthy to receive you.” Goddamnit, I think. How the hell can I receive God’s help, if I think myself unworthy of it? Then, I remember the second part of that prayer: “But only say the word, and I shall be healed.”

In this moment, I realize that my problem is my attention. I focus on the wrong things. With that simple prayer, I focus on the part that brings despair rather than the part that brings comfort. I pay attention to problems, rather than solutions.

Right now, I’m dealing with an attention problem that I have been unable—or maybe just unwilling—to let go. My inability or unwillingness makes me feel damaged, hopeless in this area. I keep trying to solve the problem with the same thinking that created the problem. I keep giving the problem all of my attention. I sit down again to pray, and this time I focus on being healed.

***

I’m back in front of Port Authority. Another day, another trapeze class. I scour the crowd of smokers and travelers and indigents and combinations of all three searching for the shaman. I don’t actually believe she’s a shaman, of course, but a week later I’m still thinking about her, about her motivation, about her intention, her attention. I wonder if she shuffles about Manhattan’s west side all day, asking for and then giving away dollars. I wonder if she’s just a kook with no grand plan at all. Or maybe she’s an angel, sent to say the word someone like me most needs to hear.