Doi Saket, Thailand—My little thatch-roofed hut was situated in a wetland populated by two mud-covered water buffalo and a colony of scorpions. I encountered seven of the black arachnids during a month-long stay. The seventh one stung me on the hip during the witching hour. It felt like an injection with a hypodermic needle, the aching pain of the venom colonizing the muscle. The owner of the land took me to see the village shaman over a period of two days. We brought offerings. Unrestrained belly laughs spilled out into the driveway as we approached. A taciturn lady with a swollen leg waited supine on the porch.
He summoned us. The shaman’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. He growled. His limbs contorted in spontaneous mudras. He was invoking and embodying the local god, a statue of whom stood in the garden. He came to and seemed to abide in a state of laughter-filled bliss. I wondered whether the gargantuan hornet’s nest above his humble, tiger skin throne would rouse. He asked me the purpose of our visit, read my aura, and requested that I return the following day to discuss past lives.
The next day he delivered the past life reading, placed his hands on my shoulders for a time, and then we meditated together. I am in awe of the dharma of the scorpion that stung me.
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