Virgil Mayor Apostol introduces Way of the Ancient
Healer: Sacred Teachings from the Philippine Ancestral Traditions
(North Atlantic Books,
Berkeley, 2010)
Introduction
ANCESTRAL JOURNEY INTO THE
FUTURE
I
come from a patrilineal and matrilineal bloodline of healers. Rosa delos Santos
(1890–1947), my father’s mother, was a healer from Alcala, Pangasinan, who
later migrated to Camiling, Tarlac, to be with her husband, Maximo “Simon” de
Guzman Apostol. Although I never had the opportunity to meet her while she was
still walking the earth, her knowledge was nevertheless passed on to me through
my father, an advocate of natural healing cures who familiarized me with
important principles of healing.
I was also blessed to grow up in the same
home in which my maternal grandmother lived. Her name was Alejandra “Allang”
Melandrez Miguel (circa 1897–1996) of Laoag, Ilocos Norte, a province located
in the north-western part of Luzon. Her husband, Lucio Respicio Mayor (?–1950),
also of Laoag, was a healer and expert in the native fighting art of Arnis de mano. My grandmother’s mother,
Susana Melandrez, died in the process of giving birth to her, due to
complications of my grandmother being breech (suni).
It is a common belief in the Philippines
that a breech birth will produce a great healer and midwife. In my
grandmother’s case, fate was determined not only by the passing of this gift
through the bloodline but also by cultural and social expectations. It was as
if through the sacrificial death of my great-grandmother, hundreds of lives
would be born or healed at the hands of her daughter, my grandmother.
“Apo Allang,” as I will refer to my
grandmother throughout this book (Apo, a title of reverence for an elder), was
an accomplished healer and midwife who gained the skills from her father, my
great-grandfather, Leon Miguel (?–1941), who was popularly known as “Ama
Lakay,” a title for a venerable elder. Ama Lakay was from Agunit, Dingras (now
Pacifico, Marcos), located near the foothills of the Cordillera Mountains that
extend throughout the eastern part of Ilocos Norte. As a traveling healer who
provided indigenous medical services to the people, Ama Lakay had his daughter
accompany and eventually assist him during his healing sessions and midwifery.
Alejandra
Melandrez Miguel Mayor (ca. 1897–1996),
my maternal grandmother, was a
distinguished healer,
bonesetter, and midwife.
Apo Allang practiced healing and
midwifery in Laoag until she and her husband, Apo Lucio, migrated to Isabela in
the 1930s. Her practice continued in Ilocos Norte and flourished in Isabela
during their frequent trips between the two provinces. In Isabela they first
settled in Vira, which is now Roxas, adjacent to the eastern central region of
Mountain Province, where they became intimate with people who called themselves
Allai and who occupied the mountain foothills. Apo Allang consequently extended
her healing work to this ethnolinguistic group. With the coming of World War
II, they resettled in the town of Naguilian where she was responsible for
pioneering traditional medicine and midwifery.
By 1965 Naguilian had a population of
about 10,000. In spite of the fact that her two assistants gained sufficient
skills to practice on their own, Apo Allang was still in great demand for her
services, being the senior healer and midwife. With her reputation, it was
often required for her to be in two to three places at one time.
The Gift of Healing
Revealed
The
bulk of my early teachings came through visual transmission when I would
observe Apo Allang working with people who had come to her for treatments. I
guess you can say that I was her assistant, holding a bottle of coconut oil in
one hand and a bottle of liniment in the other. I was always fascinated with
her skills, and I never failed to take the opportunity to witness her in
action. With patient after patient, her various maneuvers I observed ingrained
themselves deep in my subconscious mind and into my superconscious mind, as
would be revealed later in my life. I never learned the midwifery skills that
were passed on to her, and although the treatments that I witnessed only called
for Ablon, a form of traditional
manual medicine (neurovascular and musculoskeletal manipulation and stimulation
combined with bonesetting), assisting Apo Allang never lost its appeal for me.
Growing up as a child, I would spend
hours in my father’s vast vegetable garden, observing and catching bugs and
lizards. I also held a reverence and fascination for stones. As my mother put
it, I had rocks in my head. This part of my childhood steeped in me a love for
a jungle atmosphere and an interest in the metaphysical properties and esoteric
uses of things found in nature.
In
the arms of my sister, Vilma. Standing next to us is our brother Vidal, Jr.,
1964.
With
my sister, Vilma, and holding a staff, 1968. My first and last names root from
Latin and Greek and mean “one who bears the staff of a messenger who follows
in
the teachings that come directly from the source.”
No Doctor in the House
My
first experience as a healer took place in 1982 when I was eighteen years old
and a freshman at the Adventist University of the Philippines, which was then
called “Philippine Union College.” I was quietly reading a book in my dormitory
room when my roommates rushed in carrying another roommate who was apparently
injured. They were playing basketball when one of them sprained his ankle.
Since neither the campus doctor nor nurses were on duty, they turned to me and
asked if I knew what to do. Visions of Apo Allang treating her patients flashed
my mind. With a calm composure, I examined my roommate’s ankle and then asked
for a bulb of ginger, which was quickly retrieved from the campus store.
After crushing the ginger and squeezing
the juice on his ankle, I began to systematically apply Ablon to the ankle as
Apo Allang had done in such cases. It was as if her spirit was running through
me. My injured roommate squirmed in pain at my touch, while a couple of others
threw teasing remarks at him, stirring everyone into laughter. Not paying
attention to the distractions around me, I continued with full concentration,
while my roommates slipped into curious silence, watching every maneuver with
anticipation of what was to follow.
As
a freshman at Philippine Union College when I first took the role
of a healer.
Silang, Cavite.
While maneuvering his ankle into its
range-of-motion, I was surprised at myself for executing healing skills I
didn’t realize I possessed. The movements that had been ingrained in my
superconscious mind were now emerging. When I ended the treatment, my roommate
responded, “Nalaingen!” (It is better now!). I was proud of myself, sensing that
I had accomplished a great deed.
When afternoon came, my recuperating
roommate informed me that he had visited the campus doctor. Immediately, I felt
crushed. I thought that “I” had already healed his sprained ankle. Did he hold
some doubts in what I did? The praise that I received from my other roommates
disintegrated in my mind. My ego burst. While trying to keep a straight face
and accepting what he was admitting, he continued with an unenthusiastic look
and said, “Isu met la isu” (Just the same). Upon examination, the doctor had
merely manipulated the ankle. After hearing this, my ego began to mend.
Realizing the gift of healing had passed down within my family bloodline, I was
struck by something more important for its development: a lesson in humility.
Our zoology class had an excursion at a
marine sanctuary, which was home to sealife, such as fish, octopus, and sea
cucumbers. One of our fellow classmates accidentally stepped on a sea urchin,
embedding some of its spine in his foot. Our teacher told us that if we
urinated on his foot, the urine would act as an antidote, so three of us males
stood above his foot attempting to release a flow of urine. Unfortunately, none
of us had a full bladder, and our classmate had to wait for someone else to urinate
on his foot. As funny as it may have seemed, we walked away with a new-found
knowledge of using urine.
In My Blood
About
a year after my first healing encounter, a woman came to me and asked me to
Ablon her leg. “Why was she asking me?” I thought to myself. I told her to see
Apo Allang, but she insisted that I do it because her problem required stronger
hands. Despite my attempts in passing on the job, she told me that I had the
skills because it was in my blood. As if a lasso had been flung around my body,
I knew that I could no longer escape and hesitantly accepted. After going
through the motions on what I thought was right, she responded by saying, “O,
kitaem . . . mayaten!” (Oh, you see . . . it’s okay now!). I later learned that
within a lineage of healers, it is strongly believed that someone down the
genetic line is sure to inherit the same talents, similar to a family of
musicians in which the gift of music is passed down through the descendants. I
have heard of other similar cases of people in need going to certain
individuals for healing, knowing that the gift of healing runs in their blood
in spite of these individuals being unaware that they had any potential to
heal.
Joking
around with my grandmother. San Diego, 1990.
The numerous spiritual encounters, stories,
myths, legends, the various healers healing both physical and metaphysical ailments,
and the events that took place, all contributed to my outlook in life. These
incidents, among others, eventually launched me into the physical and spiritual
worlds of healing as practiced in my motherland, the Philippine archipelago.
The Archipelago’s Early
Names
Historically,
various names have been cited for the archipelago. Some are accepted among
scholars, while others are disputed. Ironically, non- Filipinos assigned the
majority of these names. An island group of what is now known as the
Philippines was known among the early Chinese and Japanese merchants as part of
the Liu-kiu (Liu-chiu, Loo-choo, Lu-chu, Lieu-kieu) island chain, which partially extended from northern
Taiwan to the southern tip of Luzon. Liu-kiu was probably the same location
described by the Japanese as Mishima, or “Three Islands,” that included Taiwan,
Luzon, and a third, which is possibly the Visayas.[1]
Spanish chroniclers spoke of discovering the Lequios Islands. In Relación de descubrimiento y conquisto de
la isla de Luzon y Mindoro, written in 1572 by a chronicler in an earlier
expedition to the northern coast of Luzon before that of Captain Juan de Salcedo,
it is stated that “there is a province called Iloguio, which they say is very rich in gold. The Spaniards have
not seen it yet.”[2]
The Philippine archipelago consists of
islands located in Southeast Asia, north of
Indonesia, east of Vietnam, south
of Taiwan, and northwest of Micronesia.
Map courtesy of The General Libraries,
The University of Texas at Austin.
The Spanish had variants to the name Iliukiu: Yllocos (pronounced “Il-yo-cos” in Castilian Spanish), Yloquio, Ylocos, Ilocos, and Ylucos.[3] When the “i” prefix is added to the root word, this indicates the place of origin. Hence, Iliukiu means “from the Liu-kiu district.”[4] This also points out why almost all the ethnic nomina in northern Luzon begin with the letter “i” prefix, such as Ibaloi, Ibanag, Ifugao, Ikalahan, Ilokano, Ilongot, Iraya, Isinai, Isneg, Itawis, Itbayat, Itneg, Ivatan, Iwak, etc.
A
Negrito woman of Palanan, Isabela. Note the ornamental scar patterns that are
still in vogue among certain Philippine Negritos, the people of Papua New
Guinea, and
the pygmies of Africa. In her left ear is medicine for a headache,
and the medicine around
her neck is for a sore throat. National Geographic,
September 1912.
Whether or not Liu-kiu once referred to
the island of Luzon is a question of debate. In modern times, however, Liu-kiu
refers to the three principal Ryukyu
Island groups of Anami, Okinawa, and Sakishima, and not to Taiwan or Luzon.
Ryukyu is perceived as a rope with several knots floating on the open sea or as
a string of pearls, the latter actually being a fitting title for the 7,107
islands and islets of the Philippine archipelago, which was once popularly
called the “Pearl of the Orient.”
Other names assigned to the islands in
the past were ma-i or ma-yi; Liu Sing, Lui Shing, or Lu Sung
(Lands adjacent to the Mainland, and most likely the precursor to what is now
Luzon, the biggest island in the archipelago); San-hsii or San Tao
(Three Islands); Haitan, referring to
the Aeta or Negrito ethnic groups believed to be descendants of the aboriginal
inhabitants; Islas del Poniente
(Islands of the Setting Sun); and the Sanskrit
Panyupayana (Lands Surrounded by Water).
The name “Philippine Islands” comes from Las Islas Felipinas sometime after Spain
claimed part of the central archipelago (Samar and Leyte) and named it
accordingly to honor Prince Felipe II of Spain, who would later become king
(1556–98). As a result the people, whom the Spanish referred to as indios (Indians), were eventually called
“Filipinos,” a title that was originally reserved for pureblooded Spanish born
in the archipelago.
Asian neighbors of the Philippines all
have changed their names for political and spiritual reasons; hence, Formosa
was changed to Taiwan, Dutch East Indies to Indonesia, Siam to Thailand, French
Indochina to Vietnam, Burma to Myanmar, Kampuchea to Cambodia, Chosan to Korea,
East Pakistan to Bangladesh, and Ceylon to Sri Lanka. Following these examples,
an official attempt for a name change was filed as Parliamentary Bill #195 in
1978 in the Interim Batasang Pambansa
for the Philippines to be changed to the Republic of Maharlika. The main motive
was to help heal the psychological and social affect of the people resulting
from 333 years of colonization, which is still reflected in modern society, and
the underlying historical stigma associated with the current name.
A
group of Negritos, two of whom are wearing top hats. From Alden March,
The History and Conquest of the Philippines
and Our Other Island Possessions, 1899.
As documented by Eddie U. Ilarde and the
Maharlika Foundation, Prabhat Ranjan Sarkar (Shrii Shrii Anandamurti), an
Indian scholar, philosopher, spiritual teacher, philologist, and linguist, says
that “Maharlika” comes from the following Sanskrit derivatives: Maha, which in Sanskrit means good; La means a cup or container; Lik, meaning small; and A, which is a feminine gender suffix.[5]
Together, they mean “a small place of great people” or “a small container
filled with great things.” Maharlika also breaks down into Maja, or great, as in Taj Mahal, Mahatma Gandhi, Mahayana,
Mahabharata, and other noble names; and Likha,
which means to be born or created. “Maharlika” therefore means “nobly created”
or “born great.”
Map
of the Philippine archipelago. Map courtesy of The General Libraries,
The
University of Texas at Austin.
Indonesian scholars of the Yayasan Kawi
Sastra Mandala Foundation attest to the findings of the name Maharlika through
their efforts in restructuring Asian history and culture prior to Western
colonization. The Indonesian word Merdeka,
which means freedom, came from the Sanskrit Maharddhika,
which can be considered the mother word of Maharlika.
Therefore, a Maharlikan is one who is born noble and free.
As with any political endeavor, this
attempted name change has been met with both acceptance and opposition by
either those who are ready to elevate above and beyond the suppressive effects
of the colonial mentality or those who are pessimistic worshipers of the
“half-empty” glass, pointing toward the faults of others while not grasping the
idea of potential positive change.
Animism and Spirit of a
People
We
all strive for our basic needs: food, shelter, and clothing. We attempt to live
in harmony with nature, and we seek for an understanding of a greater source of
power that oversees us. Being part of that greater power, we express ourselves
in limitless ways. Human ideas give form to diversity, while this same
diversity gives form to new ideas. When diversity and ideas are set in time and
space, we create an even greater puzzle, where not one single piece is missing.
This is not a three-dimensional puzzle but a fourth-, fifth-, and sixth-dimensional
puzzle, a multidimensional puzzle that sometimes extends beyond our average
capacity for understanding mysterious and wondrous things.
In the Philippines, as well as many other
countries that evolved from an animistic culture, Spirit takes the role of
expression for the unknown. This is evident in the perception of certain
phenomena, such as the interpretation of natural occurrences leading to certain
events; illness attributed to an ancestral, elemental, or some mischievous
spirit; and even signs coming from animals or revealing spirits dictating future
events. For example, while I was driving home from work, a feather that I hung
on my rearview mirror somehow detached and fell on me. I knew that it was an
omen. When I arrived, I was given word that my grandmother, Apo Allang, just
passed away. Another example was while with a patient, I suddenly slipped into
an altered state and received a vivid vision of a blue and orange salaksak or “kingfisher” fluttering on
the ground, a bird that forewarns people of illness or death of a close one
(see plate 28). A week afterward, one of my uncles passed away.
At times certain phenomena that take
place must be paid attention to. Kuniong was a close friend since my preteen
years. One day he called, sharing his plans to vacation with his family in
Hawai‘i and that he was looking forward to seeing me there in a couple of
weeks, not realizing that I had just relocated back to California. A couple of
weeks finally had passed when during one quiet evening, the lights in the house
began to flicker, and the music on my computer was skipping, stopping intermittently,
and playing different music at will. In fact, the entire computer system went
haywire and continued even after rebooting the system. Sensing a spiritual
presence, I called out for the disorder to stop, but soon was overcome by the
need to pay attention. Turning off the music and lighting a candle, I played my
bamboo flute and announced that if there was a message of goodwill to be
relayed, the spirit was most welcome. I then closed my eyes and slipped into a
period of silence.
The following day, I received word that
my dear friend, Kuniong, unexpectedly drowned while on vacation. I was in total
shock. But when I recalled the electronic disturbance the previous evening, I
broke down and cried, realizing that it was he who paid a visit. Upon sharing
the news with my brother Vidal, he too expressed having experienced some odd
malfunctioning of his computer about the same time.
I am reminded of another event in the
Philippines when the coffin lid was being closed, I felt the spiritual presence
of the loved one who passed away. All the hairs on my body stood on end,
accompanied by a comforting sensation. When I shared this experience with one
of the church members, she paused for a while and replied, “The devil will
reveal itself in many different ways.” I was in total disbelief with her
response, but soon realized that it was my fault for opening up to just anyone.
Although certain Christian doctrines
teach that such events are the work of the devil, from an indigenous
perspective, this is not the case. It is a reality that merely points to a
transition from the physical plane to an etheric one and that visitations from
departed souls are not unheard of, especially when ties are close or people are
receptive. If seen from this context, it provides a hint of how our ancestors
were truly in tune with the spirit world.
The term anito derives from the original Austronesian ani for “soul” or
“spirit” and the Malay to or toh for
“resident of the head.”[6]
Thus, Spirit, as a central theme, developed with the Philippine anito, the
Malaysian antu, the Indonesian hantu, the Micronesian aniti, and the Polynesian aitu. Within Taiwan, aboriginal ethnic
groups from Taiwan that are ethnically and linguistically related to Filipinos
recognize Spirit as anito (Tao or
Yami), hanido (Bunun), utux (Seediq and Atayal), and hicu (Tsou). Interestingly, among some
of the First Nation peoples, the Odawa, Ojibway, and Potawatomi, in particular,
who inhabit the Great Lakes region bordering the United States and Canada,
“Great Spirit” is known as Manitou.
It is also found in the Ilokano term aniwaas, one of the four souls of man
according to ancient Ilokano belief. Interestingly, the Endo-European Latin
words anima and animus represent the feminine and masculine soul or spirit principle,
as well as the breath. In Icelandic, spirit is andi. This reflects the relationship of languages and how certain
words or concepts span the globe.
The Challenge in
Categorizing Animistic and Healing Practices
An
“animist” is one who believes that natural objects, natural phenomena, and
everything else in the universe possesses a spirit or soul. Something that is
“animated” is full of life and vigor. Animism is very alive in the Philippines
for it is deeply rooted in the consciousness of the people, serving as a base for
personal and communal perspectives in life.
Various attempts have been made by
Western cultural anthropologists to identify and categorize various animistic
and healing practices from an “etic” perspective. In other words, the lens of
the viewer is looking in from the outside as would often be the case of those
studying the culture and making observations and conclusions based on a foreign
model. Another approach has been attempted to understand the culture via an
“emic” perspective, or viewing the culture from within.
In Western societies, it is possible to distinguish
medical practitioners based on their college degree and licensure. Attempts
have been made to label certain cultural healers as a “shaman,” “priest” or
“priestess,” “medicine man” or “medicine woman,” “medium,” and “faith healer,”
among others. There is, however, a very thin line that categorizes whether a
healer is one of these, and therefore inappropriate or limiting, because many
of the healers possess several, if not all, of the above skills. For example,
my grandmother was a mangngablon (one
who deals in conditions that call for manual medicine), mangngilut or mammaltut
(traditional midwife), mammullo
(bonesetter), mangngagas (medicine
man or woman), and mangngallag or baglan (shaman priestess whose duties
include spiritual healing, divining, and counseling) all tied into one.
Although it is more appropriate to address individuals with such titles
according to the specific needs as they arise, it will suffice to use them as
specialties in this book.
During the 1950s researchers agreed that
the Western approach to fieldwork could not account for all their
anthropological data. Mikhal Polyani then initiated an inquiry into a wordless,
inferential style, which he called, “tacit knowing” or a
knowing-through-feeling. By the 1990s constructivist psychology was born, with
Vittorio Guidano and Guiseppe Liotti of the Center of Cognitive Therapy in Rome
suggesting two distinct ways of knowing: tacit and explicit knowing.[7]
The introduction of explicit knowing explained a secondary process of
recognizing contrasts and differentiating parts when making linear, rational
decisions.
Virgilio Enriquez, who earned his PhD in
social psychology from the Northwestern University in Illinois, introduced tacit
knowing into what is now Sikolohiyang
Pilipino or Filipino Psychology, which is rooted in the history, language,
arts, and common experience of the people of Malayo-Polynesian and Asian
heritage.[8]
The theory of tacit knowing is crucial since many Filipino skills cannot be
explained by standard academic psychology. It is assumed to be the older way of
human understanding because it works with the primary processes of sensing,
intuiting, and feeling.
Katrin de Guia, who backs up Enriquez’s
view in her book, Kapwa: The Self in the
Other, provides examples of how Filipinos find directions without maps,
read body gestures, and participate in the feelings of others regardless of
distance by interpreting metaphors, dreaming of places and events before they
happen, and deriving signs from complexities in nature, among others. She
further points out the Igorot small-scale miner who knows where the gold is
without any assaying, and faith healers who feel the locations of clients’
sores before examinations.
Feeling as a way of knowing taps into the
systemic memory of the mythic man. It draws on the memory of nature.
Connectedness is the precondition for this feeling as a way of knowing. Such
feeling can be overwhelming at times and sometimes hurt, as it is not as easily
controlled as thought.[9]
De Guia further wrote that feeling-through-knowing
also requires surrender with a sense of vulnerability and other infantlike
qualities. Feelings as a way of knowing offer no blueprints, but instead
understanding from experience. The theories of tacit and explicit ways of
knowing are explored in this book throughout the Filipino traditions discussed.
Spirit Mediums and Shaman
Priests
Mediums
around the world are known as channels to the spirit world, acting as vessels
in receiving information and wisdom. The mangnganito
(spirit medium) is known to communicate with spirit guides, such as ancestral
spirits. In a Christian perspective, these spirit mediums receive dialogue with
angels or various saints.
When the mangnganito goes into a trance,
he is bound to the actions of the spirit and sometimes emerges out of this
trance not knowing what took place or what was said. For this reason, an
assistant is usually present to transcribe everything the spirit channels
through the medium while in a trance.
As for the mangngallag as shaman,
animistic practices serve as the archetype foundation. It is this very reason
why parallelism exists between shamanic cultures around the globe. Classic
practices include soul journeying into cosmic worlds, soul loss, soul
retrieval, soul theft, and extraction of entities. Unlike the mangnganito or
spirit mediums, the mangngallag is aware of everything transpiring and is in
full control. When in an altered state of consciousness, the spirits communicated
with are commanded to follow specific instructions or demands.
In his book, Shamanism, Piers Vitebsky cites Roger N. Walsh, MD, PhD, who
explains that shamanic states of consciousness should not be confused with
meditative and yogic states. Walsh disputes the belief that shamans, yogis, and
Buddhists all “access” the same state of consciousness and that shamanic states
of consciousness are intensely concentrated with the experiences being coherent
and highly organized according to the purpose of the journey. Yoga and Buddhist
vipassana “insight” meditation is
based on concentration and focus of awareness of one’s bodily sensations,
emotions, thoughts, and mental states, whereas shamanic consciousness is a
highly aroused state flying between cosmic worlds and battling with spirits.[10] I
have experienced the dilemma of attempting to describe my shamanic encounters
with nonshamanic practitioners of yoga who naively interpret my experiences
from a pranic or meditation point of view.
Throughout the book, practitioners, such
as the mangngallag or mumbaki, are
sometimes referred to as a “shaman” or “shaman priest” in an attempt to provide
a more thorough description, since the practices of shamans and priests can
overlap. For example, both may offer prayers and move into altered states of
consciousness, travel to cosmic worlds, or counter acts of sorcery. In the
dilemma of categorization, there is also a very thin line that separates a
shaman and priest.
With such a complex background of influences
that lead to the development of the healing arts, it is important to document
and comprehend the origins and traditional practices of not only the Filipino
healing traditions but also all the ancient healing practices. In so doing, we
would be able to better comprehend their role in today’s society and their future
implications and contributions to the greater pool of healing knowledge. Let us
continue this ancestral journey into the future.
A
species of the banyan, locally known as balite
(Ficus Benjamina), is considered
an
abode of spirits, which is why both children and adults alike fear and respect
the tree. Maria, Aurora.
[Editor's Note: Not all of the images presented with the Introduction in the book are included. You are encouraged to peruse the book which contains 355 photographs.]
[1]
Manansala, Quests of the Dragon and Bird
Clan, 162.
[2]
National Media Production Center, Region
1, 10.
[3]
Some researchers have attempted to correlate the word Iluko with “luek” or “luok,” which are coves found throughout the
coast. Other researchers, however, affirm that these place names derive from Ilukong, describing people of the
plains, valleys, and lowlands.
[4] Trinidad
H. Pardo de Tavera’s Etimologia de los
Nombres de Roxas de Filipinas, quoted in Gagelonia, The Filipinos of Yesteryears, 453.
[5]
P.R. Sarkar quote in Ilarde, The
Philippines at a Glance, 10-11. The Maharlika Foundation is a nonprofit,
nonsectarian, sociocivic, values-oriented organization supporting spiritual
endeavors for national renewal and moral renaissance.
[6]
Gagelonia, The Filipinos of Yesteryears,
465.
[7] De
Guia, Kapwa: The Self in the Other,
226.
[8]
Ibid, 25.
[9]
Ibid, 226.
[10]
Vitebsky, Shamanism, 146, 148.
*****
Virgil Mayor Apostol, BBA, B.MSc, HHP, who goes by the moniker "Nagabuaya," descends from a maternal and paternal bloodline of indigenous healers, and has also been blessed to receive the teachings of other respected elders. He has dedicated himself to the research, development, and promotion of his ancestral Ilokano traditions. His background includes: founder of Applied Sciences of Indigenous Healing; author of Way of the Ancient Healer: Sacred Teachings from the Philippine Ancestral Traditions (North Atlantic Books, 2010); co-author of Healing Hands of Hilot (1997); instructor of Didya Mudgara: Warrior Club Calisthenics; educational speaker; and workshop presenter. In March of 2015, Apostol was bestowed the honorary title of “Open Eye Master” from the School of Pyramids, thereby initiated into the International Circle of Masters. He is based in Southern California.
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