Many immigrants do not talk about what they endured back home. They were fleeing that world, and when they left they didn’t want to talk about it because there had been pain and heartbreak. ~ Isabel Wilkerson, author of The Warmth of Other Suns

Altar To My Ancestors

Zayde means grandfather in Yiddish. The few stories I’ve been able to collect of my grandfathers’ fathers are scant, but tender, and the stories about the women in my family are even more limited. The photograph above is Zayde Rosenthal who became a widower and married a second wife.

I always felt strangely drawn to this photograph. Perhaps it was because my Aunt Paulie, Zayde’s eldest daughter sat at her antique Singer sewing machine and told me stories of the old country and their desire to come to America. Aunt Paulie came first and worked in sweatshops in lower Manhattan to bring her siblings to America. Although I felt riveted by the stories, I never detected any grief or had any idea about the trauma they carried, that is, until it all began to unfold for me last week.

During the White Awake: Before We Were White workshop (link in Part One), we were encouraged to create an altar to our ancestors. The purpose was to reestablish a connection that had likely been broken. Each individual’s journey during this process was unique, many perilous, requiring much courage to face the trauma that caused the disconnection, but all were deeply meaningful, filling in the dots of our ancestral stories that would have been lost forever. I was surprised how satisfying it felt to construct my altar and feel a yearning to learn more about my ancestors’ history.

Upon noticing my newly arranged altar, someone told me that I looked like my maternal great grandfather! Until then, I had never considered there might be a resemblance or even a direct bloodline between the strangers in the odd photograph that graced my grandparents’ central room in their meager Bronx apartment during the late 1950s. I was told that they had never left Eastern Europe – that they never made it on the boat. To have a photograph taken during that time period in Lithuania, they had to stand for a long exposure requiring a brace to hold their heads still. As I look at it now, almost 60 years later, I imagine the photograph being rolled up and carefully tucked under someone’s arm on a crowded boat traveling across the Atlantic seas. It was then framed in the Bronx, not far from Ellis Island, the port where my grandfather immigrated alone, at seven years of age!

All my grandparents traveled on the boat when they were very young. Three were immigrants from small villages (shtetls) in Lithuania. (Fiddler on the Roof, based on the stories by Shalom Aleichem, was an authentic representation of the villages in Eastern Europe.) My father’s generation was not allowed to talk about the old country, We are Americans, they were quickly corrected. They fled pogroms, the draft, and growing malignant anti-Semitism.

As I researched the villages where my grandparents’ were born, I knew that thirty years later 95% of the Jews would be exterminated in Lithuania. When I imagined what could possibly motivate a mother to put her 7-10 year old child, a mere baby, on a boat never to be seen again… it was just unimaginable to me. What horror did they predict, and why?

From what I read, it wasn’t just the Nazis that murdered Jews around World War II, but many Lithuanian collaborators joined in. It could be one’s barber, dentist, or middle school crush. Could these parents in the late 1800s possibly have predicted what would happen to their children thirty years later? What level of hatred must they have endured to anticipate this? And what did they imagine if they did not let them go? Were my grandparents actually protecting us by trying to erase their past and only look forward to their new American identity?

The workshop led us through ancestral recovery, a necessary step for the collective shift in consciousness mentioned in Part One. If we go back far enough into our family histories, we can find our own indigenous roots. When I began to scrape together the few stories of my family from the old country, I uncovered lumberers and herbalists. I also uncovered the roots of social activism born out of religious and cultural persecution that I would label as heroism. With courage and perseverance, we can restore the disconnection caused by ancestral trauma, and begin to restore wholeness to our family lineage.

I don’t mean to make this sound easy. I became so physically ill during this process that I wondered if I would survive the grief that was nearly more than this frail body could process. I did survive this life-changing process and will describe more in the Aftermath and Integration in my final essay of this series.

Here is a gift to begin the integration process. I must express a disclaimer that jumping into forgiveness before processing all of the grief, in whatever form it needs to be expressed, only leads to more suffering. With Heart and Help I trust I will eventually be able to lighten my heaviness. But, hey, there are no guarantees, are there? In my essays, I like to be on the other side of the Great Grief and speak from there. Not true this time.

For now, I will grieve and rage and sick it out, as I have done with all unimaginable catastrophes I’ve experienced through life. And I will await the shift that is ultimately sure to come and turn my worldview inside out, as most multigenerational or family constellation work does. And if I and my helpers have what it takes, healing will happen seven generations backward and forward.

Kuan Yin’s Prayer for the Abuser

To those who withhold refuge,
I cradle you in safety at the core of my Being.
To those that cause a child to cry out,
I grant you the freedom to express your own choked agony.
To those that inflict terror,
I remind you that you shine with the purity of a thousand suns.
To those who would confine, suppress, or deny,
I offer the limitless expanse of the sky.
To those who need to cut, slash, or burn,
I remind you of the invincibility of Spring.
To those who cling and grasp,
I promise more abundance than you could ever hold onto.
To those who vent their rage on small children,
I return to you your deepest innocence.
To those who must frighten into submission,
I hold you in the bosom of your original mother.
To those who cause agony to others,
I give the gift of free flowing tears.
To those that deny another’s right to be,
I remind you that the angels sang
in celebration of you on the day of your birth.
To those who see only division and separateness,
I remind you that a part is born only by bisecting a whole.
For those who have forgotten
the tender mercy of a mother’s embrace,
I send a gentle breeze to caress your brow.
To those who still feel somehow incomplete,
I offer the perfect sanctity of this very moment.

~Vera de Chalambert





The fight against racism [anti-Semitism, xenaphobia] is our issue. It’s not something that we’re called on to help People of Color with. We need to become involved with it as if our lives depended on it because really, in truth, they do. ~ Anne Braden

A month ago my hospice physician gave me surprising news that I would likely be around a while longer! I realized how I have been living week to week, hour to hour, injury to injury. I took a shallow breath, which is the best I can do, and thought – How do I want to live this more time? The answer was not forthcoming; sometimes just asking the question is more catalytic.

A few days later, while trying to sleep, I slipped into a four hour riveting download. Downloads seem to happen more frequently during this end-of-life time. I believe we are continually receiving downloads, we just may not be aware of them. Our guides and loved ones on the other side are constantly trying to assist us. Sometimes my downloads involve life review and sometimes they are a direct transmission prompting healing that can take place while I am still embodied, should I be willing. These communications always leave me with tremendous gratitude, determination, and awe.

Unlike my usual meditations or downloads, I was met by an Ascended Master (so I knew it was serious), as the quality of the input was clearly from that high of a frequency. I was riveted for four hours, hearing that the next stretch of my life will be about FIRE. Fire is neither an element I am comfortable with, nor is it easily accessible to my gentle soul, in this particular incarnation. I understood that to embrace my fire, I had to go beyond my fear of disapproval from others and consciously enter the fire of eternal love, a fire that burns away the obstacles to fully embodying the Divine.

I was about to publish my previous essay – The Shadow of My Shadow is My Friend – and I was told that that essay would be the beginning of this accelerated stretch. I knew that times were dire and the Sacred Feminine would be greatly needed to get us out of this mess we’ve created. We have recklessly squandered our inner and outer resources and, as I mentioned in my aforementioned essay, a critical mass of people would be necessary to restore Love from fear. It is heartening that She is emerging through #metoo, #blacklivesmatter, #neveragain, and other movements to bring violence out of the collective Shadow and into the light.

The following day, after a brief contraction, I began receiving communications from many people that confirmed the veracity of the download. It is necessary that I have compassion for my contractions, because I need to take my ego along with me, as I am not yet free of this body curriculum.

Then Allison, my dear friend and primary caregiver asked me if I wanted to join her in a workshop she was participating in titled White Awake – Before We Were White. I didn’t quite know what Before We Were White meant, but I knew that growing class inequality and racism were issues I have always felt deeply in my bones, connective tissue, and DNA.

Participating in a workshop with hundreds of like-minded beloveds was something I believed was part of my past, however now video technology could bring it right into my living room. Although my voice was too weak to be audible, I had a visual presence and Allison generously offered to speak for me.

The workshop spoke of colonialism and the resulting genocide of indigenous peoples perpetrated by white people. It dispelled myths, particularly our American origin myth and explained white privilege in a way I could deeply ingest. I was surprised to hear that the concept of whiteness and the power hierarchy of skin color was a strategy propagated during the 1600s. The purpose was to sew hatred and division by a few, intent on staying in power at any cost to the vulnerable. (Sound familiar?) The workshop was presented by white people to mostly white people in order to hold all of the grief, shame, and complicity necessary to create a collective shift in awareness. The shame turned into deep acknowledgment/responsibility which turned into empathy for all the victims including we white people, who have been so victimized that we ourselves have become victimizers!

In keeping with my previous essay where I described the Karpman Drama Triangle as a destructive expression of conflict when it is unsafe to express our own authentic vulnerability, we assume one of the three faces of Victim – Victim, Perpetrator, or Rescuer. In the case where fear of other is stoked (xenaphobia) and we succumb to the fear, we risk becoming reduced to the role of Victim, either by being victimized or by doing the victimization.

During my last essay, I described my consequential  breathwork session where I was able to reach deeply into my unconscious Shadow and cathect the Nazi archetype. I found liberation by releasing this suppressed energy that had accrued over many lifetimes. Through this process I was able to understand white supremacy from the inside out. By dissecting the pathology of this distorted fire energy, it became less frightening as it is once again manifesting in the world today.

I will conclude Part One now. During Part two, I will describe my own particular process of ancestral recovery and its importance to me. During the process I developed the flu and I wondered if I would survive the physical and emotional demands of this sort of recovery. I thought I was merely signing up for an interesting workshop. I now understand the power of ancestral relationships, family constellation theory, and the illness that can come from unresolved fractures. I also understand the liberation of healing this family multigenerational family structure.

I request help from my ancestors to complete this two-part essay. Thank you for your continued support. May you realize how important your support has been to my process. We just never know how much we affect each other, do we?

For more information about White Awake:

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom. Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born. ~ Anaïs Nin

Much has been written about The Shadow, originally described by Austrian psychiatrist and psychoanalyst Carl Gustav Jung, a pioneer of Depth Psychology, an approach to psychotherapy close to my heart that includes the exploration of the unconscious and transpersonal aspects of the human psyche. The Jungian construct of the shadow involves those parts of the Self that we deem as flawed and unlovable, often due to early trauma, and therefore, relegate them to our unconscious. Eckhart Tolle describes it as the painbody, a semi-autonomous psychic entity of old emotional pain not faced, accepted, and let go of in the moment they were experienced.

Encountering the Shadow

Often these traumas have roots in our childhood, transferred by the unexamined (shadow) aspects of those in our family of origin whom we most trusted. Delivered as criticism or rejection, we learn to deny these injured parts to avoid further pain and, ironically, end up attracting to us exactly what we are trying to ward off.

Our shadow reveals our deepest wound, which also holds the key to our greatest healing. Our unexamined pain accumulates and combines with that of others’ to form a collective shadow. Wars have erupted due to our unconscious collective shadows. I believe by working to bring these aspects to consciousness, one person at a time, we can not only lessen the conflict in our own lives, but ultimately achieve world peace.

Robert Bly describes the shadow as the bag we drag around behind us through our life and when aspects of ourselves appear that create discomfort, we throw them into the bag as unclaimed, unlovable parts of our persona. The bag becomes heavier and heavier until we develop the courage to begin to take each dissociated part out to bring it into the light of consciousness.

In shamanism, the shaman, or healer, is seen as one who can walk between the human and spirit worlds to retrieve our discarded parts in order to restore balance to the soul, whether the imbalances are caused by fear, loneliness, addictions, or other ills.

Dancing With the Shadow

If we are courageous enough to enter into long-term, committed relationships, it is likely we will encounter the proverbial mirror that forces us to see our shadow projected onto our beloved. Discerning what is ours from theirs is the crisis and the opportunity of deep intimacy. For me, it took a series of divorces to realize who the common denominator was. During my first and most tumultuous marriage, it was easy to shrug off any criticism as his projections, but when I encountering similar criticisms during my second marriage, I began to recognize recurring patterns.

I don’t believe my rigorous life path of learning through relationships has been arbitrary. I believe it was specifically designed for me to learn and teach others self-love through the healing power of intimacy. As a psychotherapist, being of service has been a large part of my mission and doing my own personal work has been an essential prerequisite. I remember asking my former mentor, “Do I have to experience everything in order to be of service to my beloveds?!” Not everybody needs to experience a curriculum as extreme as mine, but as a psychotherapist, you can only take other people as far you have already gone.

From another former mentor, Werner Erhard, a complicated but significant leader of the “human potential movement,” I learned that in order to truly have a relationship, you must be willing to not have that relationship. To me, this meant that in order to truly have an intimate relationship with another person, I needed to be willing to risk it for my own Truth. This is not an easy principle to follow, especially when the ego is invested in maintaining status quo at all costs, but it is a tenet I have learned to follow more and more as I have matured spiritually. As Maya Angelou eloquently stated, “When someone knows better, they do better.” Choosing our Truth over our egos’ desires is the difference between feeding our shadow or feeding our authentic Self – choosing Love over fear.

Opening to the Teachings

From this end-of-life perspective, sitting still twenty-two hours a day, I have opened into what could be called my life review. Those who have entry into what some call the bardo or the life between lives, either through dreams, meditation, or visions, are able to begin a broader process of self-reflection over their lifetime and begin to identify the themes the soul has come in to work on. My many years in non-ordinary states of consciousness through Holotropic Breathwork, both as a practitioner and a facilitator, has helped me to access these healing states.

Throughout my earlier life I struggled with feeling victimized by energies outside of myself over which I felt powerless. This common pattern is often an imprint from the family of origin. My mother was my initiator in this journey of duality (drama). I was terrified of her and then of my teachers and went on to attract relationships that affirmed this worldview.Victim, Persecutor, and Rescuer are three different expressions of victim in the dramatic triangle. (For more information, see the Karpman Drama Triangle – three faces of Victim, a must for psychotherapists and addictions counselors!)

Drama vibrates at a low frequency and like attracts like. To maintain a low vibration, which serves to keep vulnerability at bay, a victim can only draw a persecutor or a rescuer, which then always switch roles. Shadow Work involves bringing each role to consciousness to allow vulnerability and intimacy, a high frequency.

Breakthrough From Drama to True Self

During my breathwork visions, for years I was a Jew in a concentration camp. However, one day, to my shock I suddenly became the Nazi – feeling the power/control of oppressing, enslaving, and murdering others. (This collective shadow, by the way, is the core of racism, or othering, a fear prevalent in the world today. A critical mass must be reached to bring this hatred out of the shadow, one person at a time.) I let myself marinate in these excruciating feelings until I felt the energy complete itself. I didn’t know what to think afterwards – feeling shame mixed with horror that shifted into empowerment, and even liberation.

For me during breathwork, as in life, the most arduous part of the process is learning to stay with uncomfortable feelings. I learned firsthand that it was much more comfortable to experience Victim than Persecutor; the latter forced me into shadow of the motherwound. However, by avoiding the pain, I suppressed my natural fire energy – creativity and passion (joy). I was so afraid of being my mother that I couldn’t fully be me! After this breathwork retreat, I knew my life would be different.

Staying in drama temporarily lessens anxiety, but the cost is one’s true power. The role of Victim (the one down position) was familiar to me. When people emulate the childhood abuser who appeared to have more strength and power; the Persecutor becomes their go to persona during conflict. The Rescuer (the one up position) feels the illusion of safety from the messiness of intimacy, by staying above the fray. Feeling less than was my shadow and Persecutor was the shadow of my shadow. Only when I allowed myself to fully experience this repugnant role, replete with abuse of power, shame, and fear, could I liberate myself and experience Wholeness. In that way, I was my own shaman.


During this sacred time of life review, I want to honor the teachers in my life of which I have only mentioned a few. I especially want to honor my mother who chose to play this role with me in this lifetime. Mother, I know you are with me and I look forward to dancing with you soon with less fear and more joy.

Put a candle in the window… ’cause I feel I’ve got to move. Now I’m goin’, goin’… I’ll be coming home soon. Long as I can see the light. ~ Creedence Clearwater Revival

The A Team

If you haven’t been to a cremation in Crestone and you feel so inclined, you would do well to go, even if it is 10° outside. The love, the intention, and the ritual of the community will keep you warm. I learned that last Sunday when I left the house for the first time in a year and a half. Confidentially, I’ve been afraid to die during the winter, because I didn’t want to put my loved ones through a cremation during the Crestone winters, before sunrise, when the fire threat in our high desert climate is reduced. My friend Marv just died and he and his family are giving his almost 90-year-old body a ceremonial sendoff. For the last few days of his life, his body was completely still, but clearly waiting for something unbeknownst to us. When his beloved grandson arrived from Japan, he took his last breath. Marv had his own perfect timing. He was then given the allotted three days to allow for his soul’s reorientation for his sacred Passage, his Pilgrimage, freedom.

I informed Lauren, my dear caregiver of nearly five years, that Marv had left his body. We stood in silence as she sensed a longing in me I had long since learned to suppress, due to the physical limitations that left my body immobilized from the neck down. Being close with Naomi, his wife and partner of a zillion years, someone who shared love, children, and laughed and cried with him, I felt the paradoxical combination of deep grief and relief she must feel. I had the honor to witness their deep, oceanic connection firsthand, during a concert performed in 2015 in my living room, by a few dear friends and brilliant musicians, who generously play for me, because I am housebound. That is the sort of community I live in. There were a few songs that elicited tears of grief and joy that revealed a direct channel between Naomi and Marv, the depth of which none of us could ever share, but was palpable and spread throughout the room as such feelings do.

I first met Marv a decade ago, after moving to Crestone from the New Orleans area after Katrina. Marv is someone you don’t forget; he makes an indelible impression with his colorful history of thirty-five years in the Hollywood music business, including being vice president of Columbia records. He had many stories to tell. Those days, Marv and I were getting around much better. More recently, we shared a particular experience of being at the end of our lives, which created a sort of connection in and of itself. As my life began to unravel shortly after arriving in Crestone, an experience shared by many Crestonians (knowing smile) and some initial resistance, I let go into facing an uncertain future alone, my greatest fear of my lifetime.

My former husband, while on his way out of our eleven year relationship, informed me that my horse Jasmine had a companion who loved her deeply and wanted to buy her. All I knew was her name was Elizabeth, she was the wife of a local Rinpoche (a highly respected Tibetan Buddhist teacher), and she would care for Jasmine, my elegant, billowy, chestnut mare, as I no longer could.

I suspected Elizabeth and I shared an auspicious bond. In the last year when she came to meet me, we coincidentally gifted each other photographs of horses. Her father, Marv and she had a deep connection with Jasmine. Although our lives were very different, there was a mutuality that couldn’t be understood in our three-dimensional reality, that horses tend to illuminate.

Naomi has been in my women’s circle for a number of years. (Don’t tell anybody, because it’s confidential.) One day Naomi came to visit me by herself. I wanted to show her my voice software that completely controls my computer, hands-free, thinking it might help her. We ended up talking for hours as she shared her life, her Dharma, perhaps one and the same, and her gratitude for my having reached out to her.

When Lauren sensed my feelings for the Mattis-Namgyel family, she naturally and innocently, in her own Lauren way, offered, “Do you want to go to the cremation? I will take you.” For a moment, I was speechless, because I had let go of the possibility of leaving the house long ago. After all, I am housebound and in hospice care! It was just too precarious for this frail body. Still, a moment later I replied, “Yes!” It was completely incomprehensible, but our intention was stated aloud, so we just needed to work out the details.

First, Lauren called Stephanie, the director of Crestone End-of-Life Project, to see if it was possible to logistically carry out this plan. After Stephanie realized from Lauren’s telephone call that someone had not died, as many of the calls to Stephanie portend, she was less in facilitator mode and more in exhilaration from our Vision that we still didn’t know could be actualized.

Next we called hospice to see if I really had lost my mind. I’ve been reluctant to even go in the courtyard of my home and hadn’t ridden in my accessible vehicle, since I realized my vestibular system and my connective tissue could no longer tolerate the movement. At the time, I felt like my internal organs would fall out of my body.

My hospice nurse said, “If you want to go, do what your soul wants.” With this encouragement Lauren and I both cried as we knew it really could happen! We had the blessings of Stephanie and hospice; I now had to inform Allison (drumroll). Allison is my primary caregiver, the one who holds my organs together, both metaphorically and quite literally, at times. Allison provides the voice of reason. If we had not considered the “what if’s,” she would provide them. Allison was scheduled to tend the fire at the cremation that Sunday, which would require her full attention. She is off on the weekends and I try not to engage her, unless it is an emergency. If I had not consulted Allison, it would have been an emergency of a different sort.

It was the day before the cremation, that Blue Rooster offered to play music for me and any friends and my living room was packed. I’m usually tired for three days after a concert, but the cremation was the next day and I didn’t have the luxury of a slow recovery! Waking at 5 AM the next morning to prepare for being at the pyre by 7 AM, would require nothing short of a miracle. Ironically, the musicians provided the necessary fuel when they dedicated the concert to Marv! My first request was the Creedence Clearwater Revival selection that is the title of this essay, my favorite request, which happened to be Marv’s as well.

The song transported me back to the concert with Marv and Naomi in 2015. The most common question I get when people hear I have MS is, “can you feel anything?” Often people with paralysis have no sensation, but the opposite is true for me. Sitting in my chair I felt a sensation I hadn’t felt in over a decade. Naomi, sitting across from me with constant loving communication of gratitude to me for providing this opportunity, Marv on my left, sitting unsteadily, yet joyfully on his walker, I suddenly felt a hand on my thigh and looked over and saw Marv’s sparkling eyes. His eyes sparkled with a combination of the innocent joy of a three-year-old boy and the dangerous joy of a sixteen-year-old. It was so dear, Marv, Naomi, and me, in this marvelous triangle of love together with the vision that only comes from an end-of-life perspective. It was both comical and deeply sacred at the same time.

At 5 AM, Lauren, Cindy, and Marie arrived for the Herculean task ahead of us. I have a back brace that we put on backwards with the hope of holding my organs in place and I took Dramamine for the inevitable motion sickness.

Lauren’s experience with me, Cindy’s practicality and confidence as an EMT and a sister in so many ways, and Marie’s wisdom to strategize with buckles, seatbelts and blankets – lots of blankets –  gave us the confidence that we could do this, despite the knowing that, as with any encounter, this could be my last.

Everything fell into place as we got to the pyre at 7 AM as planned. Being at the site was like a dress rehearsal for me, as I had registered with CEOLP (Crestone End-of-life Project) many years ago. I saw Marv’s family sitting where my family will soon be. I had not been to a cremation in nine years and the site had changed considerably. It was now lovingly embraced by a meticulously crafted bamboo fence with copper finials. In such an intimate community, I knew the artisans and the committed team members who contemplatively orchestrated such a meaningful way to leave this beautiful life with our beloved family and community as witnesses.

The intimacy and generosity of Marv’s family for sharing this sacred time together was nearly overwhelming and just the miracle I needed and hoped for.

(Dedicated to Barbara and Leslie, who loved and lost Spectre, along with us. Thank you.)

Remember to love deeply and hold loosely. – Gussie Fauntleroy

Fly Spectre Fly!!

What I didn’t want to cover in my last essay about Spectre was that, although his body was unable to function due to the melanomas wrapped around his jugular vein and intestines, he was not ready to go. When we prepared to euthanize him, we gathered in the remote, upper field – our animal graveyard, where the bodies of our beloveds returned to the soil. Moving a dead horse is not an easy task and the death ritual has to be planned in advance. The backhoe has to be ready to dig the hole, right then and there, to bury him. If a horse dies in a stall, you have a serious problem on your hands.

When Keith inserted the needle to euthanize Spectre, despite David holding him, Spectre boldly tried to walk on. Two men were nearly unable to keep the needle in his neck. Barbara and I stood by in horror at the scene where our veterinarian was trying to end the life of Spectre, our beautiful, mighty Patriarch of the barn. Finally, Spectre went down on one knee; he needed to be completely overpowered to go down. He demonstrated to me what the body is capable of: that the body wants to live at any cost, whether it has melanomas strangling organs from the inside out, or not. In looking back at the trauma of the spectacle, I saw Spectre’s warrior nature. I saw his power and I saw his terror. With Spectre’s strength, he could have overpowered us, but he just walked on – always a gentleman. Spectre didn’t go gentle into that good night.

In my last blog, I did not talk about the emotional cost of keeping my body alive. I did not talk about the intermittent, insidious bladder spasms that often leave me soaked in urine that inevitably accelerates skin breakdown. I don’t like to complain about the small stuff; I just do my version of walking on. I believe much of my suffering so far has been necessary, humbling me, stripping me to my basic core. I have learned that when I can love myself with this illness, I can love myself wholly and in that way, the process becomes a holy practice. The true love of my life has been my inner work which extends to my work with others, so they can also access that holy state of being. This illness has served my highest soul’s desire and for that I am deeply grateful. I am not special; it is just my time and I have said yes to the Universe. Everybody will, in one’s own time.

When I listen deeply to my bladder, I hear that it is trying desperately to expel the catheter, the foreign object that has invaded it for the past six years. In the vernacular, my bladder is pissed off. When I realize this, I have compassion and know that my body is not my enemy, but my advocate, and a damn good sport at that!

I didn’t mention my extreme diet and protocols I have followed for the last thirty years – the daily green smoothies I force myself to swallow, knowing that they make my skin more resilient to heal the inevitable pressure sores from sitting twenty-two hours a day and the multiple injuries I am sustaining more frequently, due to my body’s increased structural weakness. The disease progression continues, despite my efforts to enter remission. I am constantly strategizing on how to prolong my life, while lessening the suffering. For me, it is a Sacred practice chosen by my soul. I know that, because my ego would never freaking choose this!

I refused the traditional MS drugs, because I did not want to suppress my immune system, which was the best the medical profession had to offer this unrelenting, mysterious illness they call primary progressive multiple sclerosis, or PPMS, and have no clue how to treat. I searched for healing on three continents over twenty-five years, both alternative and allopathic. My main criteria was that it had to resonate as true healing, not tricking the body. In retrospect, many of my friends who attempted the mostly ineffective MS drugs have more debilitating symptoms today, due to the disastrous side effects, without having slowed the disease process, as promised. I don’t feel righteous or resentful; I feel tremendous heartbreak watching the physical devastation unfold in those I care about and for those who courageously watch mine.

We are all just walking each other Home – Ram Dass

Ram Dass says, when we live more from our souls, then death becomes just another moment. As we become initiated by life: either due to body breakdown through illness, injury, aging, death of a loved one, or even our beloved pets dying when we are young, we learn that we are more than this vehicle we call our body. As we meet our initiations and move through the anger and fear, we can begin to live more from our Souls.

If my beloveds experience me only as my physical presentation, the loss is devastating. If we have a soul connection beyond the physical my process can also be awe-inspiring, because paradoxically, as my body deconstructs, my spirit grows, exponentially. I am left with gratitude as it has helped me grow patience in accepting my circumstances with Grace and dignity. (If you are reading my blogs, you are likely in the latter category and you are being initiated right along with me. Thank you for that. It is clearly the road less traveled.)

We tried any experimental drug available on Spectre. Like progressive MS, there is no treatment for progressive equine melanoma, at this time. We would have extended his life at any cost, however I am now learning that more time does not necessarily equate with more quality of life. I came to realize that by prolonging Spectre’s suffering, I was avoiding my own grief at his expense, not an easy realization to hold.

Fortunately, for our animal friends we have euthanasia to help them avoid needless suffering. Some of my Buddhist friends reject its use believing that all suffering, in animals and humans, is necessary for our evolution. Every animal communicators (those gifted individuals who can speak to our beloved animals “on the other side”) whom I’ve read, or spoken to directly about euthanasia, have, unequivocally, expressed our animal’s gratitude to the humans for helping to end their suffering.

I believe animals are here to teach us humans. Many states have begun to offer aid-in-dying, which is popular with over 60% of the people. The qualification process is arduous for those facing death, but empowering once completed. Now we have the choice to discern what resonates for each of us as ethical and true to help our physical bodies come to completion, gently.

Six years ago I was told that my kidneys were going to fail if I didn’t allow a urinary catheter to be inserted permanently. I agreed, because I had places to go and people to see! There is a cost for going against nature; the contraindications need to be considered. My bladder revolts at times resulting in spasms (mentioned above) and urinary tract infections. Constant use of antibiotics can result in resistance leading to superbugs. Kidney failure, aspiration pneumonia, and sepsis are common causes of death, when allowed to follow the natural progression of the illness. One doesn’t die from MS, one dies from “complications from MS.”

As we evolve as a culture and there is less fear around death, more options for supporting this sacred transition are becoming available to ease one’s suffering. When the body is ready to complete itself and turn from the physical toward the soul for animation, other initiates will appear. Perhaps they will be in the form of friends, family, those being trained as death doulas and midwives. As the Feminine rises, there will be less fear around choice, and the desire to control other people’s bodies will be seen as archaic.

There is a time to walk on and a time to take a knee in surrender to the soul’s desires. May we be granted the Wisdom to hear our  inner guidance and the Courage to follow our own Truth.

Many of my Beloveds are struggling now. Have faith and the world needs you. Here is a  gift to be with:

Much love to you all. Aliyah

The beauty of horseback riding is that you need to learn how to be in complete control while at the same time in complete surrender. It’s a condition you cannot explain until you have climbed on the back of a horse and held the reins in your hand. – via obsessionreflection

Spectre and Clarice

I thought of Spectre as the Patriarch of the horse farm, the head of our horse family, the alpha of our herd, both equine and human. He was the most beautiful horse in the world to me and still is, in my heart. Since he was a thoroughbred stallion when we got him, being gentle was important for us novice riders. Spectre was a paradox; he was both gorgeous and powerful with stallion lines including a big, thick neck and he knew how to strut his stuff, yet he was compliant and sensitive and wanted to please. It’s as if he knew his power and used it judiciously. David bought him for $500, because as many gray horses do, Spectre developed melanomas. The primary tumor near his lymph node was wrapped around his jugular vein, so it was inoperable. We adored Spectre with all our hearts. The previous owner told David that we might have five years with him and that was exactly what we had.

Horses were always special to me. As a young child, I started taking riding lessons at the same stable where my mother had ridden a generation earlier. I treasured her English riding boots she gave me and kept them most of my life, despite being two sizes too large. By twelve, I had a horse of my own and during graduate school in New Orleans, I exercised people’s horses at City Park Stables. Horses were in my blood.

Being able to finally have my own horse farm was a dream come true. Our barn drew an extraordinary community of riders, horses, and dogs. We began learning dressage with Spectre until we found out that he loved to jump! Our close friend, Barbara, a professional jumper, showed him in his first jumping competition ever and he won a blue ribbon! He was a natural, but mostly he was a natural born lover.

Little did I know that a few years later I would be diagnosed with a life-threatening illness as well. I don’t have melanomas, but I do have a progressive, neurological illness that is slowly deteriorating the musculature of my body and has landed me in hospice at 64.

80% of gray horses eventually develop melanomas, but Spectre was young when his developed. Everybody loved Spectre, but more importantly, everybody respected Spectre.

The last time I was thrown from a horse, it was from Spectre. He’d been a stallion for most of his life, but a well-behaved stallion. People who know horses would smile at that statement. I was riding Spectre in the arena with a friend riding Jasmine and little did we know, Jasmine was in season. Usually Spectre was disciplined, and riding with other horses wasn’t a big deal, but I guess he was strenuously trying to contain his enthusiasm and gave the slightest little rear end bunny hop and I was instantly sitting in the sand of the arena. Realizing something was wrong, Spectre turned his head around 180° and looked at me. Thought bubble: Hey, what are you doing down there?

Only 15% of people with multiple sclerosis have as progressive a form as I developed. When I was 33, subtle symptoms began, but weren’t physically evident for another decade. In 2001, my horse Ransom broke away requiring me to catch him when I noticed that I could not run. I would be diagnosed two years later and the physical decline would be rapid.

Spectre’s last day

During our fifth year together, the melanomas were surrounding Spectre’s intestines creating a blockage. Keith, our beloved veterinarian, put on a glove up to his shoulder and relieved Spectre of his life-threatening impaction. David would have happily done this daily if Keith agreed, but he told us Spectre needed to be euthanized. Not wanting him to suffer and knowing that melanoma was a progressive disease, we scheduled it for that evening. Spectre’s appetite was unaffected, so on his last day with us, Spectre was given as much grain and carrots as he wanted. I wonder if he sensed our sadness as we celebrated our five short years together.

A decade later I found myself in a similar predicament. Muscle weakness became evident in my gait first and spread through my body, mercilessly. Peristalsis diminished from my esophagus to my intestines. Eventually, bowel problems similar to Spectre’s and difficulty swallowing would manifest.

I have a high tolerance for suffering, because in my heart, I believe it can be for a greater purpose when the suffering is emotionally regenerative rather than avoidance of the inevitable. Learning to discern the difference has been both rigorous and liberating. The feelings of helplessness from having a terminal illness only became bearable when I realized I could choose some of my circumstances.

Due to the slow progression of this illness, I often feel like a correspondent reporting from a war zone hoping to educate and empower others about their choices.

Update from the war zone– I have been choking while eating and needing help eliminating for six years. Despite the choking, I have chosen not to have a feeding tube, choosing quality of life over quantity. I designed my diet to strengthen the mitochondria of my cells, hoping it would clear the illness, but it hasn’t. I began to see that there is a greater plan at work for me and for all those whose lives I touch so deeply and being a reporter from a war zone is a large part of that plan. A feeding tube and a colostomy are not in my plan. To protect my kidneys, I agreed to a urinary catheter six years ago. Moving around with a catheter is something I’ve learned to live with; it is acceptable, despite having pulled it out once, accidentally. If you can imagine pulling a balloon through a penis, it was almost that bad. Wars zones elicit graphic images and dying is messy.

Being unable to cough or blow my nose, I have decided not to be resuscitated should I have a recurrence of pneumonia; drowning in my own fluids is not a form of suffering I need to re-experience. Images of waterboarding and other torturous methods come to mind. Inserting a nasogastric tube is one of the most painful and common procedures performed in the ER. Experiencing the suction machine was similar enough to determine a redline for me. So, no more 911 calls or ERs. If it were to restore me to a healthy life, that would be different.

Being virtually quadriplegic and living alone is not for most people. Fortunately, I have had the internal and external resources to pull this off. I have a care team of exceptional people who support me in this experiment. I have the opportunity and the joy to affect people all over the world with my writings and conversations.

I have learned a great deal from this curriculum from the inside out. I believe everyone has the sovereignty to choose for themselves how to live and how to die. More opportunities are being made available to empower those who choose to use them, from DNRs to MAID (medical aid in dying).

I believe as we evolve, we live more from our hearts (souls) than from our heads (egos). I know this, because my head would have given up long ago. Being a psychotherapist, I have come to understand that people make the best choices they can based on their level of development. We all have consequences for our choices, both good and bad– that’s how we evolve. In my heart of hearts, I believe that is what we are all here for.

I feel comforted knowing that the aid in dying law is passing state-by-state. If one meets the rigorous criteria to determine eligibility, it can reduce needless suffering that often plunges the dying and their families into helplessness and debt.

Nobody wanted to see Spectre suffer needlessly. He taught me a lot about having the courage to make the hard choices, despite my grief. I believe we humans have the same right, when death is inevitable.

These bonds with our children as we are their mothers in this lifetime – like Joni Mitchell sings,’permanent tattoos’ that transmit all kinds of emotional knowing and intuitions about their states-of-being into our bodies. Indelible. Love’s burning mark. – Kathryn Brady

When I was 26, I had an explosion of love like none I’d experienced in my life thus far – the birth of my first baby. It was in that moment, feeling that degree of love, that I realized just how much more vulnerable I was in life. I never really had very much to lose, that is, before now.

It’s a girl. I had always been a tomboy, didn’t really know much about girlie things. The men in my family and the men in my mother’s family had been the nurturers. My mother was the matriarch and wielded much power, impetuously. I think she missed the nurturance gene.

I never wore pink. Intuitively, I knew that Casey was a pink baby. She was completely uninterested in the trucks, farm animals, and backhoes I bought her. Casey loved to wear pink and always had a baby doll in her arms. Early on she made it clear that she was an Artist, drawing hearts and balloons on everything she created. As a conscientious mother, it was always a mad dash to provide blank pages on her two-sided easel so her creativity could flow endlessly. Entering her room, I never knew what creations I was going to encounter. A happy being, Casey woke up  every morning singing in her crib until I heard, “Ma!” and my day began.

She was around two years old when I became a single mom and it was Casey and me for the next few years. I rode her to pre-school on my bicycle down St. Charles Avenue and sometimes we rode the streetcar. When I took a few classes in premed, she watched me study, enjoyed my wonder, and was curious about the dead frog in the refrigerator that was my homework.

Casey was strong-willed and she came by it honestly, if you know me. She is a third-generation fiercely strong woman and, also, just the medicine my mother needed to open her heart. There was a special bond between them that I was not a part of, but for which I am deeply grateful.

At four, my creative daughter built a clay Madonna that her art teacher found exceptional. Unfortunately, it exploded in the kiln. Nevertheless, my daughter was to be an artist no matter what else she did with her life.

Any program, class, or experience I could find to enrich her life, we participated in. I loved to watch her blossom and blossom she did. Aside from being creative, Casey was very grounded and sure of herself. In preschool she asked for the telephone list of her Montessori school and began calling each student and telling them to bring a particular fruit to school the next day. Casey was planning a fruit salad! During these moments, I watched her in awe and happily became her assistant.

Another quality noticeable at a young age was Casey’s selfless generosity, an attribute she shared with my mother. When Casey was three, she grabbed a plastic bag and started putting her stuffed animals into it. When I asked her what she was doing her reply was, “I’m giving these to the ‘crooked childs.’ ”  This quality has been consistent throughout her life.

We used to draw letters on each other’s back at bedtime and excitedly guess what each other drew. It was a sweet, simple time. There was strong connection and love between us that has surrounded us throughout our lives.

Conflict arose in her fourth year when my second husband joined our family. Casey is fiercely loyal and I suspect this quality was triggered, perhaps including Sid felt like a breach of trust on some level. Also, Casey had to share me for the first time which made for a bumpy transition.

We eventually found a new equilibrium, that is, until a few years later when I dropped into a sense of unworthiness and self-loathing almost too painful to contain. I later recognized this as a replay of the postpartum depression I’d experienced for a few hours after her birth.

Dense feelings have a cumulative effect throughout our lives and once they become unbearable, the earlier triggers may have been long forgotten. They often become lumped into general malaise and even medicated. Our culture doesn’t value vulnerability and the trauma that contributes to it. Postpartum depression is usually minimized to just hormonal when it is more like a lantern illuminating, or bookmarking, an issue to be explored at a later date. Embracing a greater vision of the cumulative, multigenerational nature of trauma is essential if we are to heal the depression and fear so prevalent in our culture. As we are learning with epigenetics, trauma can skip one or two generations and really wreak havoc making it more difficult to connect the dots. The mother/daughter dyad can provide a mirroring aspect that is often unconscious and evocative. Understanding our ancestry can be a helpful part of the tremendous healing process that is possible with same gender dyads. Some useful tools are Holotropic Breathwork and Family Constellation Therapy.

Being a psychotherapist and open to different healing modalities, I was able to bring much of my angst to consciousness which became grist for the mill for myself and my children. Fortunately, I raised children who are self-aware and communicative. My parents, having been first generation American born with parents who immigrated from the traumas of Eastern Europe and grew up in the Great Depression, made physical survival a possibility for our lineage. I try to make it a practice with my children to give gratitude to their grandparents. Our ancestors’ lives were not easy.

Considering this, my mother was likely struggling with similar feelings I had, but she struggled silently and with fewer internal resources.

Aside from family issues, Casey and I share something unseen. There is an energy between us that is beyond our limited, concrete understanding. For example, when Casey was very young she, her father, and I swam with the manatees in Florida. We had not spoken of manatees for decades. When she was in France, twenty years later, she was walking into their rental telling Kumar about the manatees when she checked her mail and I sent her a Valentine’s Day card with the name of a manatee I had adopted in her name!

After the disability became physically apparent, Casey agreed to go to Brazil with me for a couple of weeks to see John of God. I wrote more specifically about this profound journey in my book and in a previous blog essay, click here. After two weeks in Abadiania, Brazil sharing one of the most profound experiences of my life, I saw more of how Casey and I were similar, than different. I experienced the deep soul connection between us and how it had profoundly affected the community of others seeking healing and their loved ones. The collective grief was palpable as we left on the bus.

It’s as if something was activated during that trip that I had not been aware of previously. When I was preparing my book for publication, Casey told me she wanted to go to the river in Louisiana where they grew up and do an art project with photography and that’s where she would speak to me after I left my body. I titled my book Meet Me By the River – A Woman’s Healing Journey after asking her permission. For the book, click here.

I could have written a full-length novel about my relationship with my daughter. When she feels joy, I feel joy; when she feels pain, I feel pain, like permanent tattoos. I can also feel my mother’s compassion and joy at watching Casey grow and learn, after all, that’s what we are here for. It is not an easy curriculum here in human bodies. It is the PhD level of evolution and my mother, now in Spirit, knows that. As I can now feel my mother’s unbridled love, I hope my children will feel mine and when we are together again, we will all have a celebration.

Hard times require serious dancing. – Alice Walker

No. I don’t have a pretty picture like a great ship sailing in stormy waters or an image of a physical body’s particles dissolving into eternal, ecstatic light. This is my latest injury. My right leg sustained yet another injury last Friday while transferring to the stationary bike. (I know it’s bad when the hospice nurse cries.) What will I do when my legs can no longer support any of my weight, when I cannot stand or ride my bike or even take care of the basic daily living skills? My body is known for healing quickly, but each injury is more debilitating and each recovery finds a new baseline with less ability.

The night before the injury, I slept ten hours which is nearly a record. My sleeping has been getting better and even my occasional naps are becoming longer. I’ve heard that as people move toward dying they sleep more. I believe we are given much preparation for our transition in our sleep, whether it is received consciously or unconsciously. The day after the injury I woke up from a dream that was partially autobiographical, but with dreamlike embellishments. I believe they – the Voice I’ve spoken of previously– wake me early some nights, because there is something I am needing to acknowledge and/or process that in waking hours I cannot access. In my dream, my former husband was becoming more distant from me with coldness and resentment. I tried to call him near, but he told me that he was closer to his new girlfriend’s family than my family. When he told me this, I cried desperately from the grief and fear of going forward alone with this illness. This was mostly biographically accurate, but I received it as a reminder to grieve. Being able to grieve is so important in our bittersweet, human lives and I believe it’s necessary to grieve well in order to truly feel joy. Since I began psychotherapy in my 20s and through fifteen years of Holotropic Breathwork practice and becoming a trainer, I have become more comfortable with grief knowing that joy is just on the other side. David was unable to process grief openly during the eleven years we were together. No one could navigate this curriculum without the capacity for grief/joy. I understand that this is an accelerated course in life and not for everybody. It is not a failing to be overwhelmed by my life. Believe me, I get it.

In her seminal book, The Hero Within, Carol Pearson, presents six heroic archetypes that exist in all of us. To access this best-selling classic with strong Jungian influence, click here. According to her teachings, we all have access to each archetype, or ally, and when made conscious they can elevate our self-awareness. The archetypes evolve developmentally as we evolve.

Suddenly in the dream, I slapped my face. Referring to Pearson’s archetypes, I realize that I have been avoiding the feelings of the Orphan archetype (vulnerability, innocence, fear of abandonment), wanting more the Warrior archetype (strength and physical persistence). This translates literally to my waking life. Authors like Carol Pearson and Michael Brown offer us so many tools to aid in our evolution.

By waking up 2 1/2 hours early, I had the time to explore the meaning within the dream. I remembered an earlier time when I sustained multiple injuries while I was avoiding the use of a wheelchair. If you know anyone with a progressive neurological illness, as the disease progresses and one’s equilibrium is affected, one may tend to wall-walk in order to stay upright. I became adept at wall-walking, that is, until I fell with my computer landing on my knee to avoid damage to my laptop. My kneecap cracked with the force. Still, I persevered and dragged myself onto the tractor. If will could have kept this illness at bay, I might have dragged myself up Mount Everest. Climbing off the tractor, I fell on my knee again and broke my patella in half! I have always minimized my injuries, that is until I couldn’t.

I required crutches and then a walker while the injury healed. Soon, I fell onto my computer desk and cracked my sternum! When I finally sat in the freaking wheelchair, I felt the relief of surrender. The dream last night and my time in contemplation allowed me to wonder if the series of injuries I’m experiencing now is an indication that I am needing to surrender once again.

The Orphan archetype, an ally that brings resilience and realism to situations through a willingness to feel vulnerable might be the exact medicine I most need now. Ironically, the illusion of abandonment is the pitfall of the Orphan when life is not met head-on. So it seems that these recurring injuries may be a message that I am needing to meet what is head-on.

Ultimately, letting go of my will means letting go of the illusion of control, an illusion we share as humans and seems to be a recurring theme in my life. Feeling the grief of what I am leaving behind is part of the work of moving from Orphan to Innocent to Warrior to Magician, to ultimately allow myself to be transformed, to be more of who I truly Am.

My dear friends tell me daily how courageous I am and what an inspiration I am for their lives. If you are reading this, you are one of them. I appreciate being received as inspiring, but I know everybody will be facing this level of surrender eventually in our lives. I am just doing it earlier than most, in slow motion, and reporting in real-time.

I am moving into the next level of this heartbreaking and joyfully sacred path we call life, which includes death. May I do it all with Grace and Gratitude. Namaste.

When a great ship is in harbor and moored, it is safe. There can be no doubt. But that is not what great ships are made for. – Clarissa Pinkola Estes

When I was a young girl, my father had a 1923 Ford Model T antique touring car that had a crank on the front that needed to be turned to start the engine. I’d heard you had to be careful it didn’t jerk your arm out of socket when you cranked it, it had quite a kick! The purpose was, in my seven-year-old understanding, to create a spark for the engine to start.

In looking back over the 40 years since completing my masters degree to practice psychotherapy, I recognize that I have played that same role with the people I served, to create a spark to get their psycho/spiritual engines going. This is neither a responsibility I take lightly, nor has competency come easily. It is a sacred task so deeply-rooted in my being that I believe I must have agreed to it prior to incarnating. My desire to serve has been just that pervasive throughout my personal and professional life and the joy I experience when their metaphoric engine gets running is profound!

Learning to hear the call of this sacred assignment began while I was still in single digits of age. In order to be effective, however, I had to reach a level of confidence that was not easy to come by. This journey toward self-love was wrought with many challenges, but I came into this world with a fierce desire to serve and I came to realize that in order to serve others, I first needed to heal myself. With this awareness, I started a life of seeking that led to many teachers and disciplines to help overcome my limitations. I’ve spoken before of my greatest teaching – to learn to trust my inner authority, which I believe is the only way to truly know one’s power. The experience of learning to drive a manual transmission in the late 60s served as a useful metaphor for understanding and developing this teaching.

Our parents and our older siblings serve as our first authority figures to help us practice vital lessons of personal power. When my brother was 21, he became my instructor and his 1968 GTO with a clutch that was about to fail became the instrument of my education. He knew the clutch could fail if handled recklessly and, believe me, he let me know it. What a set up for high tension. I knew if I didn’t learn fast, I’d be in serious trouble with my brother. What a perfect metaphor. My lack of confidence in life manifested as a fear of my own power (acceleration). Engaging the clutch unskillfully would immobilize the engine abruptly and infuriate my brother. Immobilization (shutting down) was my go-to strategy for warding off anxiety. My brother amplified the voice in my head creating reluctance, (fear). He taught me about the friction point, the point where the clutch and acceleration meet for forward motion. When met with accuracy, there was no damage to the clutch. To add to this tension, I was learning to drive a manual transmission in the hill section of Scranton, Pennsylvania. Engaging the clutch with your left foot on an incline could cause the car to roll requiring quick use of the brakes, also with your left foot. If there were a car behind me, catastrophe could ensue. The tension was great with the potential for collision with another car. You get the picture.

This mirrored a conflict that I refer to frequently in my life – immobilization versus empowerment, clutch versus accelerator. Applying the brakes offers more control, but I only have two feet! As I became more proficient at driving a stick shift, I felt less immobilized in life, less afraid of my power (acceleration). This has served as a good example of meeting my fears at the exact point where acceleration is required, to avoid stalling in the middle of traffic, to avoid a collision with fate, or my brother’s rage.

Another powerful metaphor was learning to waterski on one ski. Learning to ski on two skis was elementary growing up on a lake, but learning to slalom demonstrated the next level of proficiency. Learning to slalom, one needed to be able to shift one’s weight from two skis to one. This required shifting one’s whole equilibrium from two points of contact to one point of contact. Having the tendency to lose myself in relationships, the kinesthetic sense of balancing over my own center of gravity reminds me of learning to slalom. I often felt this shift after a divorce. After processing through the stages of grief, I always felt empowered when my center of gravity shifted over one ski, my ski!

And there is the snow ski metaphor when you have to lean forward as you ski downhill in order to navigate through the snow without losing your balance. Intuitively, we lean backwards to compensate for the downward slope. Leaning into issues sometimes means going against one’s intuition and one’s comfort zone. Thank you for indulging me in exploring these teachings.

Having spent most of my life in my body learning kinesthetically (in motion) to be still and listen deeply has been a huge gift that my ego would never freaking have chosen. Nevertheless, it has served me well. This carnal (physical) curriculum is not for the faint of heart. If my heart were anymore faint, I could never do terminal illness nearly as gracefully. As I live this end-stage form of neurological illness, I can see things in slow mo. My life force is growing exponentially as my body is weakening. My identification with this blessed vehicle is shifting to a greater me, the part of me that is more aware of other dimensions. There are times when my perceptions and my sense of love is so heightened that I know that transition to Spirit will be a minor step. Each time I experience this, fear of the unknown diminishes.

In their published work, James Lawley and Penny Thompkins assert that “metaphor is an active process which is at the very heart of understanding ourselves, others and the world about us.” I have much gratitude for the teachings that surround us when the intention is self-reflection that leads to empathy. After all, teachings that lead to having greater compassion for ourselves and others is the essential work of this time. As Clarissa Pinkola Estes so beautifully reassures us to not lose heart, because We were made for these times.


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Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. more...

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