mystical healing

Braithwaite had brought his squalling kids to the chateau.
He had the impression that I had a capacity to heal.
I had warned him not to come expecting miracles.
The little family were in my kitchen.
My light hearted comic capering had so far singularly failed to engage anyone present.
There's one mystic truth I know.
They never going to buy into my You Can Choose To Be Well routine if they don't first buy into my James' Jokes Are Funny routine.
Time to bring out the big guns.
Gently I placed Fur Ham on the table.
He's a professionally cute hamster.
One of the little girls tugged her mother's arm.
"Mom I want a burgher."
The other little shite didn't even look at the hamster.
I endeavoured to keep my rubber faced features from showing too much emotion.
It is contraindicated at every level for anyone people think is a healer to get really annoyed with those towards whom he's supposed to be radiating light, grace and hope.
I was thinking to myself somewhat ruefully: If Fur Ham can't reach these little shites, I got nothing.
This was humbling.
For me and for Fur Ham.
Face it, I reminded myself, animals aren't for everyone.
No one is at fault here.
Different aspects of the creation work miracles for different people.
For some children, animals can open doors to liberty, peace, tenderness, fulfillment and joy..
On the other hand some of the little shites have no interest in animals at all.
The trick is not to get angry.
Or frustrated.
Or impatient.
It is also probably not a great idea to habitually refer to those whom you're supposedly trying to heal as "The little shites."
Ah gentle travellers of the internet.
All my life I've wanted to be a healer.
What fun it would be to go around healing people instead of really irritating them.
And I would have gotten away with it too if it wasn't for those meddling kids.