Into the Soul of the World by Brad Wetzler

Author:Brad Wetzler [Wetzler, Brad]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hachette Books
Published: 2023-03-21T00:00:00+00:00

Our normal waking consciousness, rational consciousness as we call it, is but one special type of consciousness, whilst all about it, parted from it by the filmiest of screens, there lie potential forms of consciousness entirely different. We may go through life without suspecting their existence; but apply the requisite stimulus, and at a touch they are there in all their completeness, definite types of mentality which probably somewhere have their field of application and adaptation. No account of the universe in its totality can be final which leaves these other forms of consciousness quite disregarded.

Of course, the insurance companies need to use diagnoses to check the boxes and pay the bills, but to me, it felt like a game. My brother, David, who worked in the insurance business, embraced my diagnosis as much as I had. I guess he needed to view me as sick as badly as I did, even occasionally sharing my letters home with a psychiatrist he worked with. This felt like a massive betrayal, one that still stings to this day.

I thanked Dr. Lichtenberg, and as I got up and we shook hands, I said, “One more question, doctor. You said Jerusalem syndrome occurs on a spectrum. You see the severe cases. What do mild cases look like?”

“A mild case can present as a fascination or obsession with Jerusalem.”

“I might have a case of Jerusalem syndrome?”

He didn’t answer me. “Jerusalem syndrome can also present as an obsession that Jerusalem has the power to change us, to heal us. Brad, maybe it can.”

I nodded in agreement. “Maybe it can,” I repeated.

I left Lichtenberg’s office and caught a cab to the Old City for one last spin around the sacred sites. It was sundown, and the famously dazzling Jerusalem light was layered with dusky shadows. I entered through the gate I had first entered the previous March: Damascus Gate.

When I moved through the cave-like opening, I found myself in a crowd of people fighting for shoulder room. As I made my way, once again, toward the Via Dolorosa, I felt a tug on my shirt and looked down to see a Palestinian boy who looked to be about ten or eleven with his hand out. He had a roundish face and a bowl haircut. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, his short sleeves rolled up like a tough guy in a movie. He explained that he wanted to take me to the roof of his family’s house to show me the view of the Dome of the Rock and all of Jerusalem—for ten shekels. I paid him, and he led me up a dark stairwell and through a door, and we emerged to stand on the tar-paper roof.

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