With a Little Help From My Friends

I get by with a little help from my friends / I get high with a little help from my friends / Oh I’m gonna try with a little help from my friends

The Beatles said it best. A letter to my friends sent out today..

Allo Yasmin and all,

This will be a long one guys and gals, as it’s been a long time…

Yasmin, thank you for your words, your thoughts, your experiences…and for re-establishing connection. I would love to come by for Stammtisch, and Tuesdays just so happen to be the only night of the week where I’m not working until 8:30 or 9pm…so yay! Also, I’d love to go to the CIIS thing, but $120 is too steep for me. Sorry to hear about your grandmother, and yes, thankfully you were able to be there with her for the passing.

As for me…let’s see. I’ve been minimally social these days, a vast departure from my usual self (eh, social is so overrated, so, how do you say…1999). I’ve been trying to figure out this recent change in my persona, and so far have come up with this conglomerate reason: 1) succumbing to one of the occupational hazards of being a therapist – withdrawal and isolation; 2) succumbing to the quiet, homebody lure of being a 30-something (not very Sex in the City of me); 3) succumbing to flat out laziness; and lastly 4) succumbing to adjusting to life in Marin, which is decidedly not life in SF. I was always a city girl, though the lulling curves of Mt. Tam are a blessing.

Oh yeah…I live in San Rafael now. I moved here last May to live with Ben, who is my beau. We are doing swell.

Thankfully, all my loved ones for the time being are alive and well. Even so, I’m ever so alert to the fact that time is passing. I’m even more alert to the fact that this passing of time seems to be speeding up exponentially. I seem to have landed myself (albeit in a somewhat ungraceful way, kind of like a gnat flailing in a stale pint of Pabst Blue Ribbon) into a period of revisiting, reexamining, and revisioning. It’s an interesting place to be, at one moment deeply contemplative, at another vastly spiritual, and at yet another nauseatingly neurotic. Today happens to be a veritable jackpot of the nauseatingly neurotic sort. I’ll leave it at that.

Career-wise, I’m struggling. It’s hard to hear of other interns who are loving their jobs or feel that they are where they need to be. My decision making about the sorts of placements I sign on to has been largely fear-based, specifically around bringing in enough money to feed, shelter and cloth myself (the fear being that I end up in financial crisis). Looking back, this has put me in a rather myopic stance, as I’ve limited myself to full-timeish paid positions that = incredibly high burnout. The first year I worked at a rape crisis center that was pretty f@#*ed. We joked about what sort of axis II diagnosis we’d bestow upon it were we given the option. I left after a year, and shortly after about 80% of the staff followed. I spent 1/2 a year at Seneca Center working in a behaviorally-based program. Seneca is an awesome agency, but the work is very, very exhausting. After 6 months of driving 120 miles a day, dealing with Medi-cal, and worrying about whether my clients would physically assault me, I moved on to another agency. This agency feels OK for the time being, but about 2/3 of the 60 people I see in a week or court-mandated – this accounts for alot of resistance. Had I not been traumatized at my previous 2 jobs, maybe I would have some stamina. But the truth is, I’m tired. I don’t have the energy, and sometimes I don’t think I can do this work. I’m not sure how much of this is fact, how much of it is an attitude issue on my part, how much is me replaying old struggles and stories, and how much is distorted based on my experiences so far. I have about 1000 hours left, which I’ll try to finish. No promises.

The most ironic thing of all is this…I pick these jobs to help me stay financially afloat. That said, each month I overdraft my checking account, my loans are in deferment, and I have no health insurance, no sick days, no vacation days. I almost have to laugh.

As there is shadow, there is some flickering of light. Yes, my friends, what remains of my soul is able to fashion together some semblance of silver lining, some version of a light at the end of the tunnel metaphor. My lovely set of circumstances has pushed me very close to my limits. I’m hobbling along that precarious scale of hope vs. despair. Despair has created in me an absolute need for hope. Hope seems to be re-emerging as the creative spirit.

Folks, for the first time in my life I feel Hungry. Not Hungry for security. Not Hungry to fulfill obligations. Not Hungry to do what I’m expected to do.

I’m Hungry to create, to really, truly embrace the Creative Spirit. I’m Hungry to save my spiritual self. I’m Hungry to dream and dream big. I’m Hungry to say f*&@ it to convention, to habit, to the trajectory of what I should be doing.

This – all of this – is a good thing, because I don’t think I’ve every felt this kind of Hunger before. I can almost relate to a Born Again’s perspective…that moment of scraping the bottom injects the organism with Vision…even if the Vision is still hazy and amoeboid in structure, there’s this ineffable quality that emblazons itself into your heart and soul. It counters the fears and those pesky negative introjects that say “But you can’t,” because in some ways it’s all you have and there is no other option other than to wither away.

Perhaps I should be writing in “I” statements.

Anyway, through all of this I learned that another former CIIS’er is going through something very similar. We’ve met, we’ve commiserated, and we’ve shared our visions. We are supporting each other. Here’s the fun part…we are attempting to forge a partnership to use our degree to create our own thing – a product, a service, a biz…I don’t want to say much more about it, because it’s still very early. But, wow. To think one could have an idea and maybe, just maybe, bring it into fruition. To think that maybe, just maybe, one can craft a lifestyle of choice and abundance. It’s news to me. Heh.

So guys, this is where I’m at as of late. Yes, long, rambling, ranting email, but it’s the truth.

I too would love to hear from other folks. Bring it! The joy, the tears, the woes, the truths, the inspiration, the juices that pump through Everything. Bring. It. ON!

With love

Anxiety, How I Love Thee

It’s been a rough month. Not because anything is necessarily wrong. Sure work is stressful, and love is a work in progress. Sure I entertain the usual, irrational fears of winding up broke under the caving roof of student loans.

It’s been a rough month for me, but not because anything is out of place or out of the ordinary – and certainly not because I’m knowingly earmarked to encounter Impending Doom in the foreseeable future. In other writings on other blogs, I’ve outed myself as a “dutiful dysthymic,” and perhaps less obviously have alluded to the sometimes paralyzing attributes of an anxiety that has no beginning or endpoint.

Anxiety is just another character among an all-star cast featured in the epoch that is Human Experience. We can’t escape it – it’s in our wiring. Most of us are familiar with the idea of “fight or flight” when faced with a situation that is potentially threatening. As such an event comes into awareness, information tips off a part of our brain called the amygdala whose role it is to flip the switch so to speak – that is, to initiate the fight or flight response. It’s here that a person or animal will begin to experience those not-so-pleasant physiological aspects of fight or flight: breathing becomes quick and shallow, airways dilate, pupils dilate, blood vessels constrict to most regions sans the major muscle groups, the heart pounds as it increases it’s output, blood flow to skin decreases leaving it pale and clammy, the body perspires, digestion halts, saliva dries like a desert lake bed, the immune system is suppressed, muscles become stronger, and mental activity increases at a dizzying rate. We are prepared to fight or escape the brewing danger. This is Nature’s design. This is survival.

As Nature would have it, the stress response is a learned one wherein the amygdala retains information about the organism’s triggers. This works beautifully when the organism is indeed in some sort of peril. The trusty amygdala has had practice in responding and as such becomes an expedient survival sage. Normally if the thinking brain, or pre-frontal cortex, is able to process the information and finds the situation to be benign, the amygdala checks-out and the body returns to homeostasis.

For folks like me, the body has difficulty returning to a calm place. Though the motor may no longer be revved to a massively high rpm, it’s reverberations continue to idle at a lower albeit distracting velocity. That is, the baseline is jacked up and the body is in a continual state of hyperarousal.

How does one acquire such a sensitive system? There are all kinds of ideas about the etiology of anxiety disorders…genetics, trauma, environment, culture, etc. For me, I imagine it’s a bit of a hodge podge that’s crafted my central nervous system into what it is today. I grew up in a chaotic, crisis-happy family where folks jockeyed to be the most miserable martyr. A fantastically messy and painful divorce when I was seven, a mentally ill mother with a gambling addiction, an emotionally abusive configuration of parents and step-parents, and a never ending stream of double-binds pulled me from my soul. Coupled with a system likely pre-disposed to a high degree of sensitivity, I wonder if it was written in the stars.

During months like this when my internal resources feel a bit depleted, I begin to wonder if there is some greater design to this all. Perhaps this is my projection, but I sense a growing infusion of depression and anxiety imprinted into the trek that we as individuals and the greater collective find ourselves navigating during this Dissociative Age. With this comes a growing inclination to find meaning and authentic engagement – or quite the opposite, a propensity to radiate in the radioactive glow of denial.

I walk the fine line along the edge of both. Some days I am in the current of Flow, a space where many artists report losing track of time, of thought, of ego awareness. These are days when I can cut through my habits and resistances like a sharpened blade slicing through freshly baked sourdough.

Other days are less about Flow, less about smoothly cutting through obstacles, and more about unsuccessful tempts at cutting my teeth on something that’s much too jagged and disjointed.

Again, I’ve stumbled upon at a potential crossroad. I could continue on my usual trajectory, which is to fall short of moving in sync with my dreams and in effect servicing the weightiness of Obligation. Or I can make my departure from a different tarmac, ascend up a different route, become intimately familiar with a different control panel.

I suppose one question is, which camp of anxiety will ultimately sway my actions – the perseverating worry of taking a risk and utterly failing or the aching regret of never trying?

Stuck Like Taffy

Where’d my inspiration go?

Worked hard to get where I am, and now…this?

Feeling stuck.

Unable to generate momentum.

When I’m passionate it’s a flurry of ideas, like snow carelessly whirling about the Sierras…except for lately.

Nah, lately it’s just me sitting here in a sticky wad of taffy dreams and virtual schemes.

Alone with myself.

The Spirited Voice

(Image taken from www.sacredsoundschool.com/the_school.html)

The last day or two I’ve been thinking of the spiritual quality of voice and sound…of the experience of having voice…of embodying sounds, tones, melodies, harmonies. How many times have I sat with someone and heard something akin to “I need to find my voice” or “I’ve finally come into my voice,” only to feel the radiating pressure of tearful resonance gently pressed upon the field where my essence intermingles with that of another soul?

Shamans speak of soul retrieval. Here I speak of voice retrieval as a form of soul retrieval. Of voice loss as a form of soul loss.

Voice – that expressive, alive, vibrational component of the human condition – is nourished and
at times neglected through the course of the life span. Perhaps beyond. And I believe most anyone who’s experienced a moving piece of music can provide testimony to the ethereal dance between sound and psyche.

Through the course of human history, man has called upon music as a resource in both celebrating and coping with the unexplainable and sometimes painful mysteries of life. Söhngen (1983) noted how the ancient Greeks recognized the order of the universe as bestowed by the Creator in musical sound forms, and how by the Middle Ages the mathematical parallels between music and nature led people to believe that one could imitate the work of the divine through music creation [cited by Lipe, 2002, p. 211]. This belief system supported the idea that music offered man a direct line to the Creator, that Divine being who ultimately held answers so coveted by those attempting to cope with an uncertain and tenuous human existence.

Centuries later, the famous researcher and conservationist Jane Goodall beautifully described what transpersonal theorist Ken Wilbur might call a peak experience, during which an encounter with a Bach piece in an ancient English cathedral elicited intense bodily, emotional and spiritual responses within her:

“It is hard now, after twenty years, to recapture that moment of ecstasy in the cathedral. It became incorporated into the warp and woof of my very being. If I hear Bachs fugue, no matter where I am, the result is the same: just as the chimes of Big Ben trigger an unconscious spasm of fear, so that music floods my whole being with love, joy, and a sort of spiritual exaltation,” (Goodall, p. 266).

Goodall taps into the potential of music to slip into the body and psyche, affecting one deeply in the ways of bodily, emotional and spiritual experience. She speaks to how the notes, composition, tempo, tonal quality and rhythm of Bach’s fugue or Big Ben’s chimes are seemingly woven into the very fabric of her being. The music serves as Jung’s transcendent function of sorts, connecting the tensions of her unconscious and conscious to create a profound sense of joy, fear or spiritual exaltation.

Perhaps such an expansive core experience is indicative of how the order inherent to music and nature manifests in the most internal, rhythmic aspects of human functioning. Homeodynamics considers the various periodic processes of human functioning, such as Circadian rhythms and other movements within the body. At the most basic level, humans are hardwired with rhythmic elements reminiscent of the music we come into contact with both aurally and kinesthetically.

So, back to the person who utters the words, “Somewhere along the way, I lost my voice.” I also hear this as, “Somewhere along the way, I lost connection with a part of my soul.” Somewhere along the way, voice and soul were not nurtured. Somewhere, voice and soul were squashed, discounted, or simply went unnoticed. Perhaps there was trauma or maybe voice and soul went unheard not out of maliciousness, but out of ignorance to this massively important and underestimated step in human growth. This step of finding voice. Of healthful expression. Of authentic engagement between internal and external landscapes. Of sitting comfortably with the freedom and responsibility of personal power.

As I write about this subject, I notice a bit of melancholy and the bittersweet of loss trickling in. As a child and adolescent I sang. I sang in choirs, I sang in performance groups. I was a second soprano, then a first soprano. Practice distracted me from my unhappiness at home. Breathing and vocal exercises calmed my frazzled nervous system, though at the time I was unaware of this. The act of singing brought me into my body, into the present, and for brief moments I felt joyful. These moments kept me going.

Like my creative writing teacher in college, my high school vocal/choir teacher encouraged me to continue on. I didn’t. Distraction and disembodiment won my attention, and today when sing I do so in the privacy of my own company.

I suppose I’m writing this today to quell my own unrest and disappointment of letting part of my soul fall to the wayside. I also write this with hope, as there is opportunity to incorporate voice retrieval to the healing and spiritual path. For awhile I’ve wanted to study with master vocal and sound healer Silvia Nakkach, and it seems I may actually give myself permission to go for it in April. This permission in itself is a sign of growth and progress.

Today I am in the thick of the spiritual process of finding voice. Along with this, I assume the role of shape shifter as I rework long held constrictive/restrictive posturing and patterns. There are many facets to this task, one of which is to work directly with voice, sound, and music in the service of reclaiming soul.

WeFeelFine.org: An Exploration of Human Emotions, in 6 Movements

This is a fantastically creative and heartfelt cyber project that bridges science and technology to the rich terrain of human emotion. At least I think so. Check it.

http://www.wefeelfine.org/index.html

What’s in a Name Anyway?

It’s funny how we sometimes fail to see what’s sitting right under our nose. Especially funny when we’ve flung into the Universe that unequivocal “Give me a sign!” cry – indeed an age-old cry, which from time to time includes a smidgen of Universal bargaining. If you give me a sign, I promise I won’t miss it and will do my very bestest, so please, please, please, just give me a sign…er, thank you!

Your’s truly has been know to partake in such conversations with the Unknown, particularly around the unknown.

And I love it, love it, love it when I hear back.

In a previous post I wrote of such an instance where I called for Guidance whilst in the midst of intellectually-driven indecisiveness concerning my spiritual path. The short version of this story is that within two weeks I came in contact with the Order of the Sacred Grove. Through a series of (dare I say) synchronistic events, I committed to OSG’s year-and-a-day apprenticeship within a sub-group called the Laurel Grove that focuses on the Grecian pantheon. The High Priestess seemed completely down to Earth, psychologically healthy (an A+ for good boundaries), and the group was located in the community in which I live. Puuurfect, I thought.

One of my first tasks was to select a Craft name. Lucid seemed like an obvious choice initially, but in reality this is a screen name that I use to connect to my writer/blogger self. I then stumbled upon another name and thought, “There it is…on to the next task.”

In the process, I became mildly addicted to scouring the Internet for names and their meanings. It’s quite fascinating, actually, the breadth and beauty of names humans have created and bonded to over the millennia. On the eve of the day I was to reveal my chosen name, I came across a Sanskrit name meaning “ascension” or “healing.” I broke the name into its root number and found it to be a 3, which happens to be my birth number.

I later learned that the name, Rohana (the male version of which is Rohan, which I will forever associate with Lord of the Rings), is also the Hindi word for sandalwood. A few weeks prior I impulsively purchased sandalwood incense (not a fragrance I normally gravitate towards), and in researching its symbolic properties learned that sandalwood has traditionally been linked to spirituality, healing, and protection. Because of it’s popularity, Sandalwood is also an endangered species.

The reason I’m sharing all of this with you, dear reader, is because from here emerges a Tale of Synchronicity.

The following day I revealed my chosen name – Rohana – to the High priestess and other apprentices of the Laurel Grove. As I introduced myself – “Hi, I’m Ro-Rohana” – I was struck with the immediate insight that it didn’t feel right. Gasp! Rohana…it didn’t easily roll off my tongue, and more importantly didn’t feel energetically in sync with the Laurel Grove microcosm.

I didn’t say anything.

The day after, I joined the greater OSG community for a day of candle making. Here, the community collaborated in making hundreds of handmade tapers for the year. On what may have been my 200th time of dipping string into melted max, I began a conversation with the High Priestess of another grove within OSG. She asked about my chosen name, and I explained its Sanskrit and Hindi meanings, my interest in Eastern/Asian pantheons, and my Asian ancestry (I’m a Hapa…half Thai, half Germanic/Euro-mutt).

She then proceeded to tell me that she is the High Priestess for the Sandalwood Grove (I had no idea it existed), which focuses on the deities of Indian and Eastern Asia. She went on to talk about the grove’s work with shamanism, to which I responded having great interest in.

She looked at me and said, “You should be in the Sandalwood Grove.”

One might think that the overpowering scent of synchronicity would’ve hit me square in the gut right there and then. One might also think that I would’ve actively pursued apprenticing with the Sandalwood Grove.

Instead, I ended the conversation with something wonderfully unremarkable like “wow” or “cool” and continued to struggle with being Rohana of the Laurel Grove.

In the end, I did choose to switch to the Sandalwood Grove, but only after receiving a call from the Laurel Grove’s High Priestess who encouraged me to seriously consider if I was in the right grove. I spoke in more depth with the Sandalwood Grove, and learned that it would be possible to integrate my interests in shamanism, temple work, and my Asian ancestry. I also learned that being Rohana of the Sandalwood Grove felt absolutely congruous.

But only after being repeatedly “pinged” by the Universe and guided by a name.

Cyberspace Poetry Reading

The event is the third annual Brigid in Cyberspace Poetry Reading, started by Reya and publicized by Deborah Oak at Branches Up, Roots Down, among others.

WHAT: A Bloggers (Silent) Poetry Reading

WHEN: Anytime February 2, 2008

WHERE: Your blog

WHY: To celebrate the Feast of Brigid, aka Groundhog Day

HOW: Select a poem you like – by a favorite poet or one of your own – to post February 2nd.

RSVP: If you plan to publish, feel free to leave a comment and link on this post. Last year when the call went out there was more poetry in cyberspace than I could keep track of. So, link to whoever you hear about this from and a mighty web of poetry will be spun.

Feel free to pass this invitation on to any and all bloggers.

>>—————————————————————–<<

nobody but you | charles bukowski

nobody can save you but
yourself.
you will be put again and again
into nearly impossible
situations.
they will attempt again and again
through subterfuge, guise and
force
to make you submit, quit and/or die quietly
inside.

nobody can save you but
yourself
and it will be easy enough to fail
so very easily
but don’t, don’t, don’t.
just watch them
listen to them.
do you want to be like that?
a faceless, mindless, heartless
being?
do you want to experience
death before death?

nobody can save you but
yourself
and you’re worth saving.
it’s a war not easily won
but if anything is worth winning then
this is it.

think about it.
think about saving your self.

your spiritual self.
your gut self.
your singing magical self and
your beautiful self.
save it.
don’t join the dead-in-spirit.

maintain your self
with humor and grace
and finally
if necessary
wager your life as you struggle,
damn the odds, damn
the price.

only you can save your
self.

do it! do it!

then you’ll know exactly what
I am talking about.

On Guidance

(Image is Silent Winged Prayer by Susan St.Thomas)

There are days.

Days when the daily grind seems fruitless. Days when the routine, the responsibilities, the paperwork, the bills, the deadlines, and even “the work” as a novice therapist – yes, the work that one hopes will be sustaining and fears will be all-consuming – just don’t seem to pan out, make sense, fit together.

On these days, I find it difficult to make sense of purpose and meaning. I stumble over wondering about how and how come and why and why bother. I ask myself how civilization evolved into a pile a junk mail and money owed notices. How consciousness and spirit co-exist with VISA, Target, Exxon, the Consumer Way, and the timely death of the American Dream.

On these days, sometimes I’m on it enough to turn towards meditation, to call for my guides and ancestors. On these days, I ask for Guidance.

Perhaps this is akin to reciting the Lords Prayer…of laying in bed on silent nights murmuring those lines long memorized, while fears and hopes traipse about the living room of one’s soul seeking a sturdy, comfy recliner to rest upon.

Maybe my practice of calling upon guides and ancestors is really a call for my own Guidance, the intuition and wisdom that’s inherent within me regardless of external factors.

In any case, in my lifetime I’ve finally and thankfully learned to ask for assistance, and whatever the mechanism may be (i.e. something totally cosmic or absolutely sans cosmos) I’m finding that usually I become privy to some sort of tip or clue. As if a flashlight temporarily illuminated a fragment of the dark side of the moon.

This is how I’m coping right now during this precarious and explosive era of human experience – and certainly not how I would have chosen to cope five years ago. Five years ago, I was reticent to surrender to faith. Five years ago, I rejected the idea of religion, dogma, and trust in the Divine. Five years ago, I believed in the paranormal and synchronicity, but stopped short of attributing these phenomena to anything remotely reduced to declarations of human certainty.

Today, some of this still holds true. I do not blindly trust and I am wary of the fogginess of blind faith. I understand there to be such a thing as spiritual bypass, which can be a tempting road to follow. I’m observant of the different flavors in which humans relate to religious systems and structures.

What is different is that I somehow found for myself that delicate balance of trust vs. mis-trust and faith vs. discernment. I don’t pretend to know the secrets of the Universe, nor do I feel a pressure to. That said, I also don’t need to sequester myself from attuning to a particular spiritual tradition for fear of colluding with the certainties of an Ultimate Dogma. It just doesn’t have to be this extreme.

What I can do is hold both; that is, to open myself up to the support and enrichment that a spiritual system can offer without ascribing to it the ego-fed notion that it must be the only Way, the end-all-be-all of Universal Truths.

Lately, I’ve felt lost career-wise, path-wise, spiritually-wise. Recently, I asked for Guidance and spiritual support. I stated my openness to the process, and assured Them/Me that I would receive such Guidance with intentionality. A series of synchronicities and intuitions led me to a spiritual path and mentor (who seems to be psychologically and spiritually healthy).

So this tale of a Neophyte’s Search introduces my journey into the world of the Craft. I’m participating in a year-and-a-day apprenticeship as a solitary through the Order of the Sacred Grove here in the Bay Area.

There is more I wish to write on this, specifically around the butterflies I feel in my chest around “outing” myself (especially given the fact that my social networking accounts are connected to this blog). And I will write more on this, as I’m sure others in the community have experienced this to one degree or another.

But for now, I leave this post with Trust.

On Patterns

Apparently, I’m on a writing spree. Onward then…the second follow-up to my decidedly late New Year’s post.

From Celtic Devotional, Caitlin Matthews asks the manifestor this: How can I change my thought patterns to empower my goals?

Great question. Loaded, but great. There is a school of psychology that addresses just this called Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (sounds juicy, eh?). I imagine managed care systems heart CBT, as it’s designed to be short term and results oriented – and therefore cost efficient.

My managed care grumblings aside, CBT is shown effective in treating issues such as depression or anxiety. The basic premise is that thoughts and beliefs influence emotional states, and emotional states influence behaviors. I would add into this the effects of thoughts and emotions on the soma.

If I can isolate my habitual thoughts, observe their impact on my emotions and behaviors, and modify those thoughts as necessary, then with some practice I might be able to reshape my experience of myself in the world.

There’s a mindfulness plug here, as mindfulness is a means to observe our internal landscapes in the here and now. (Actually, some clinicians are beginning to blend CBT with mindfulness practices).

So.

Back to Caitlin Matthew’s question of how can I changed my thought patterns to empower my goals? In my previous post, I identified the following as energies I wished to invite or “manifest” into my life:

“The quality of being open to possibilities. The ability to dream and dream big.

The knack of believing in myself. The expansion of my worldview.

The transmutation of anxiety into a peaceful stance.”

What stands in the way? For me, an incredible bohemeth of negative self-talk internalized. She is doubting, critical and doesn’t know how to be any other way. She holds the torch for those souls (do they know who they are?) who told me I was less than so many years ago. She’s a dedicant to strife and a believer that one is not entitled to ask for much beyond the rudimentary basics of existence. You see, somehow suffering and fulfillment became sickly interwoven in my family. Somehow, a culture of “I can suffer more than you” dominated the scene; a talent show of sorts where certain people paraded the weight of their baggage, while others were told to shut-up, eat their popcorn and enjoy the show. She weighs in as a judge for this show. A veritable Simon Cowell of sorts.

I understand what needs to change, but the how is the tricky part. How to change thought patterns that were etched into your gray matter at a very young age. Yes, I can map out my beliefs, become intimate with them, create countering beliefs and affirmations…and this all helps. It does.

For me, matters of spirit also arise. It is in spirit that I am big enough to fold my arms around Her and ask Her what it is she really needs with compassion and patience, as a precious few have done for me. It is in experiencing myself as more than my thoughts, my emotions, my body…and at the same time understanding that I – this ego concept of “My, Me, Mine” – is mutable, shape-shifting, impermanent. In all of this maybe, just maybe, Her fear will undergo that alchemical process of transmutation.

In the service of Love and Peace.

On Manifestation

I’m not the most timely, prompt or consistent blogger, and yes, it’s taken me a tad bit over two weeks to reclaim a percentage of my focus reserves for the purposes of the written word.

For the handful – quite literally a handful – of souls who have stumbled across my patch of the world wide virtual garden, I present you yet another attempt on the behalf of yours truly to practice the element of discipline via creative expression and (and this is a very big and) follow-through.

My last post borrowed material from Caitlin Matthews, who offers a number of poignant questions geared towards supporting folks in clarifying their goals, which is a popular ritual in many culture at the onset of a New Year or cycle of another nature.

My last post also indicated that I would follow up on these questions in new posts, which I suppose requires some “follow-through” on my part. (See how this is all coming together?)

So. Here it is.

Question One: What am I endeavoring to manifest now in my life?

There’s a back-story to this. Two years ago when I was 28 and experiencing what I can only describe as a cornucopia of Saturn Return phenomena, I interned as an art therapist at a hospital in the SF Bay area. It was my last year of graduate school, and as the year progressed I became more and more distraught about my mountain of school debt, the prospects of finding a post-graduate internship that would pay enough to wean me off a diet of burritos and macaroni and cheese, and the incessant fear that due to my sensitive nature I would be devoured by the field of mental health. These are common concerns for people in my situation, and of course it’s easy to say to a struggling friend or colleague, “This too shall pass.” However, when it’s you sitting in the labyrinth of your own fear, it’s a much more difficult inner dialog.

For all the dismay and turbulence I experienced that year, I was blessed by a wonderful clinical supervisor. Karen was in her early to mid forties, and her eyes reverberated with the tides of the gray seas. All people are special, and some seem to shine. She was one who those who shined.

Our supervisions were a blend of clinical discussion and personal mentorship. On a particularly dismal day I brought up my concerns to her. I lamented about my anxiety (that old school, pesky companion of mine), my financial woes, my fears about my career choice, and on and on and on. Almost in tears, I stared blankly down at my hands clenched in the folds of my lap.

Karen asked me a question: “What do you want for yourself?”

I shrugged and whimpered something about wanting any clinical job that would allow me to eat and hold down a cheap rental. Karen pushed on.

“What else?”

Well, I thought it might be kind nice not to screw up too much as a green therapist, so I said just that – I didn’t want to fuck up.

“What else? Barring all obstacles, what do you want for yourself…anything, think grand.”

A funny thing happened, and that funny thing is that I had absolutely no answer for her. No one had ever asked me, and I don’t believe it ever occurred to me to ask myself. There were no words for her answer, no “Oh, I’d love to travel the world” or “Why, I’d like to write a best-selling novel.”

Karen did something important for me that day. She modeled a stance of believing in possibilities, something that was desperately lacking in my childhood. Karen taught me about the nature of manifestation, in that to manifest one must have a vision unencumbered by the weight of past baggage.

I learned something about myself. I didn’t know how to dream. I didn’t know how to expand my realm of possibilities. I didn’t know how to believe in myself. It was as if those muscles were withered and in need of a personal trainer. I think this can often be the case for people who grew up in conditions permeated by a consistent stream of crisis, instability, loss and trauma. We learn to just get by, to just weather the storm, to just come out on the other end. We also learn that that at the other end is just another storm to weather. While for some this can become a path towards inner strength, adaptability and resiliency, I believe this comes at a potential cost. The cost is that our worldview is consumed with the notion of survival. Survival is important, I don’t argue that. However, when it preoccupies the physical, emotional, and cognitive systems, the quest for just getting by kills the creative process of drawing up vision and manifesting change.

So, what am I endeavoring to manifest now in my life? The quality of being open to possibilities. The ability to dream and dream big. The knack of believing in myself. The expansion of my worldview. The transmutation of anxiety into a peaceful stance.

You know, the basics, the grit, the foundation.