I realize there can be great skillfulness in viewing anxiety as a problem to be solved. I’m certainly not against people adopting this attitude and finding relief through medications or other safe, remedial measures. Why not? That being said, I also think there is another side to the anxiety story that is sometimes missing from pathologizing approaches. In the untold story, people who experience anxiety are doing something right and also have special gifts. So, in addition to a western medical lens and a purely psychological-behavioral lens, I think it behooves us to consider a more spiritual-existential lens when it comes to one of the increasingly prevalent energetic constellations of our day. Failing to do so might mean we miss out on an important perspective, one where anxiety is a gate to wisdom and even a sign of tremendous spiritual power. So let’s suspend the narrative of anxiety as inimical for just a moment and consider — what stories haven’t we heard about her?

The Unavoidable Adventure: Existential Anxiety

Remember the Existentialists? They were those 19th and 20th century western philosophers that explored the connection between unavoidable human struggle and life’s meaning. For them, a conscious, intentional relationship with life’s inevitable suffering is actually the key to an authentic and meaningful life. And so, the existentialist position on anxiety is two fold. First, anxiety is understood to be an existential reality, that is — something natural that comes with the basic fact of being alive, something unavoidable. And second, those who are aware of their anxiety are having an authentic relationship with the nature of reality, that is, they have understood something true about the way things are. What has been understood? That all is open, free, and uncertain. That anything can happen. In other words, the anxious are those who are rightly intuiting the tremendous power of life’s vast potentiality. After all, life is inherently uncertain. To know this deeply is to have anxiety bubble up from its latent, unconscious forms to the realm of lived experience. Translation: you who are anxious, you are right. You are right about how wide open and therefore potentially frightening it all is. Total freedom is alarming to the human nervous system. As Soren Kierkegaard famously said, “Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.” Jean Paul Satre, another existentialist, said that anxiety (“anguish”) is the understanding that one is “condemned to be free.”

In more colloquial language, Vajrayana Buddhist, therapist, and author, Bruce Tift says this about anxiety:

“For most of us, anxiety is an incredibly difficult experience to work with. It seems we have a collective societal fantasy that we’re not supposed to feel anxious… Anxiety feels like a problem that needs to be fixed. But in my experience, anxiety is a completely legitimate and valid, if not pleasant, aspect of being human… it is part of our everyday experience. I know that I feel anxious every day. I might be anxious about some conflict with my wife or nervous about paying a bill. I may feel anxious with no obvious explanation. I don’t think I’ve ever met anybody who doesn’t experience anxiety as an ongoing part of life. So anxiety is not a choice; the choice is how we relate to it.” (Already Free, pg 133).

Many existentialists considered the overtly anxious the most courageous among us because they, at least, were relating to anxiety consciously (with awareness). Indeed, it takes courage to step out of denial about our fundamental existential fragility. This means that the anxious are the truth bearers in our society; those who are facing the wide-open existential reality and who manage to live in spite of the unavoidable vulnerability of our human condition. This is no easy task. Kierkegaard explains that “… no Grand Inquisitor has such frightful torments in readiness as has anxiety…which never lets him go, not in diversion, not in noise, not at work, not by day, not by night.” There is great heart in opening oneself to it, in consciously beholding the intensity. In fact, to behold and face life’s inevitable existential anxiety is the path to wisdom. Kierkegaard explains, “I will say that this is an adventure that every human being must go through – to learn to be anxious… Whoever has learned to be anxious has learned the ultimate.” (The Concept of Anxiety, 1844).

Whoah. If it’s true that those who have learned to be anxious are those who have learned the ultimate, then those who have found a way to live with anxiety are likely highly spiritually mature. They are and should be our teachers, our healers, and our guides. I have many therapist friends and many of them have periods of dark moods and acute anxiety. When these storm clouds stir especially vividly, I’ve witnessed an episodic imposter syndrome develop in them (and myself!) — doubting the appropriateness of guiding clients on account of felt anxiety. But if its true that anxiety is unavoidable, and it’s also true that we are living alongside it, I would argue that those who grapple with the “adventure” of “learning to be anxious” — those who, on account of their anxiety have “learned the ultimate” — are EXACTLY the people who should be guiding others. I don’t want a counselor or therapist or guru who has had an easy life and is unconscious about their existential anxiety. I want a guide who has been to hell and back in working with it, who has deep empathy for its humbling power; and who has found the courage to live with it.

So you who doubt your wisdom on account of the inevitable intensity of being human, riddle me this: isn’t the dirt under our fingernails also earth? Is wholeness — that is, a truly composite, dynamic, diverse, and complete Self — even possible without this intensity you feel? And isn’t it precisely this intensity that makes you know courage, yours and that of those you love? That of those you counsel?

“The Wounded Healer” by Tino Rodriguez.

The Shamanish Porousness

Anthropologist Mircea Eliade, whose publications on shamanism are often considered foundational to those interested in the subject, noted that, among the Siberian and Central Asian cultures he studied, shamans are identified by what he called their “shamanic illness” or “sickness initiation.” Rather than someone who appears emotionally regulated and physically in control, a person with shamanic tendencies was often spotted because of their waves of hysteria, nervousness, or dread; their need for periods of withdrawal or disassociation; their physical symptoms with no clear cause; and on account of having dreams or visions that were disruptive to their ordinary reality. Among the Evenki and Yakut peoples of Siberia for example, Eliade explains that early shamans were quite emotionally volatile, excitable, and typically overwhelmed by sensory or spiritual impressions. What is especially interesting is that — rather than being treated as pathology — these experiences were often identified as a calling or a special gift. The disregulated person was seen as someone with a psyche open enough to hold more than ordinary consciousness; as someone who could possibly survive the terror of initiation (which typically included a fearful period of chaotic engagement with spirits); and as someone who could somehow emerge with wisdom and a profound capacity to help others.

I’m not trying to say that those identified as shamans in the various cultures where that title existed experienced “anxiety” in the sense we use that word today. To impute all that’s implied by the word “anxiety” in its modern usage onto the experience of those who were identified for shamanic initiation feels off, because the “shamanic sickness” Eliade describes was likely not understood in exactly those terms. Nor am I trying to say that those of us who feel anxiety today are all “shamans” — that title is extremely culturally nuanced and must be bestowed within the cultural context in which the role arose. HOWEVER, I am saying this: I think those who are highly anxious are also typically highly sensitive, porous to larger realities, and susceptible to energy and stimuli that are both seen and unseen. I’m also wondering how acute sensitivity and porousness, so common in today’s anxious folks, would have been interpreted in cultures that were less pejorative towards these experiences. Have we made the mystic a madman by virtue of the smallness of our modern lens?

I don’t know much, but I know this: I often experience, hold, and then have to let go of energy in my body that’s “not mine.” And the ability to receive it in the first place feels directly related to precisely the kind of porousness and sensitivity that also lends itself to anxiety. As a Hospice Chaplain, I’m around illness, grief, and death a lot. Like — a lot. Sometimes its quiet, slow, and sweet; and sometimes I’m around the wails and fits of grievers for hours. Either way, I’m aware that when I come home, there is a certain energetic residue of our shared time together that is with me. I do things to work with that. I meditate and “watch” this energy off-gas. This practice is not visual — it’s felt. After work, I typically like to put my body under water — a shower, a bath, a dunk in a river, to experience a greater flow of receptivity that helps me with release. I cry sometimes. I burn incense or candles. I massage my body while saying mantras. Often, I dream something that converts the energy. Sometimes I get really sick with an unusual cold that lasts weeks, with a fever that comes and goes and comes back again, and I’m fairly certain it’s not entirely “mine.” But eventually the energy passes, and I return to the field of service. Sensitive and then okay. Anxious and then okay. Burdened and then okay. Suffering and then okay. Like breathing in and breathing out, its all strangely beautiful and alive, even though its damn awful, uncomfortable, and intense sometimes.

I have a background knowing that the root of my anxiety is a high sensitivity and openness that, despite sometimes leading to overwhelm also fosters great service and love in difficult contexts. So, when I see people who are highly anxious, I often wonder: are we missing the signs? Are we missing the signs of someone who is a seer? Of someone who has the potential to take on and transmute a lot? Are we overlooking the future sage? The poet? The priest? The doctor? The prophet? Is this person, who is always getting colds or aches, “sickly;” or are they sensitive to something collective, some greater imbalance? They say we are living in the Age of Anxiety. What if there are those who can experience more than their share, but who lack the cultural context and teachers to integrate their challenges as gifts? Are we outcasting the very (anxious) ones who would have the power to guide us through these Anxious Times? And if so… isn’t that tragic?

I find it very hard to believe that, even though, for thousands of years, some proportion of people, across various indigenous cultures, were born with the qualities of a shaman, that somehow the shamanic potential would have “dried up” simply because a place is surrounded by skyscrapers or suburbs. I’m sure the shamanish are among us. I’m sure many of them are likely highly anxious, because why wouldn’t you be overwhelmed from seeing, experiencing, and sensing more than the average person?

It’s not that there are no longer those with shamanic potential. What has changed is that modernity has few cultural containers with the history and sacred outlook to unlock the fullness of that potential. Actually, it’s even worse than that. In the United States, we live with the colonial legacy of committing continental genocide against indigenous peoples who do have awakened spiritual outlooks. We didn’t just ignore, we attacked those sacred containers capable of discovering, holding, and honoring healers, medicine peoples, and spiritual intermediaries. So, it’s not only that U.S. culture, by and large, ignores the gifts of the shamanish; it’s also that it suffers the fate of having extra blinders on having never fully reconciled with the truth of its violence against indigenous communities and their way of life. But to you who might hold this potential, I say this: as much as you can, don’t believe the conditioned rejection of your potential gifts. The culture won’t be able to see you, and won’t be able to honor your sensitivity as a power. My prayer for you is that you lean into that noble loneliness and foster a healthy doubt that the world around you knows the full story.

Anxiety as Archetype and the Art of Approach

The word “panic” comes from the Greek god Pan, who was essentially the god of the wild, having taken up residence in Arcadia, a place known for it’s unspoiled wilderness. Pan is depicted with the legs, hindquarters, and horns of a goat, and is associated with eros, sex, and instinctual forces. Enraged by clumsy intrusion, especially when it disrupted his naps, Pan would famously startle travelers who mindlessly wandered through the wilderness, terrifying them with screams and sudden noises. Apparently his wild appearance and cacophony was highly effective: electrified with fear, people would flee in a frenzy. Even his mother found him too unbearable to behold, and so abandoned him soon after he was born. And yet Pan was also known for stewarding the transition from Winter to Spring; for serving as protector of wild creatures and domestic flocks; for guaranteeing the fertility of pastures; and for composing the most beautiful music. In spite of his mother’s disgust and abandonment, he was warmly received by Zeus and the Gods of Mount Olympus, and was particularly loved by his father, Hermes. Historically, Pan had a loyal following. He was mostly worshipped in natural settings, like caves and grottoes, particularly by the mountain people of Arcadia who knew the full spectrum of his powers. Later, Pan was even seen as a version of Zeus by some, and archeologists have found statues, altars, and even temples erected to honor him.

Archetypes and the mythopoetic stories about them can teach us about the multi-valent qualities of powerful forces. And so, when we think of anxiety as an archetype, we can look to archetypal images and myths to discover a fuller story of what anxiety is (beyond the modern, overly-simplistic notion that it’s just “a problem.”) We can also look to these images and myths to discover coded lessons on how to approach the archetype (in this case, anxiety).

We can think of archetypes as patterns of perception that are deeply imprinted on the collective unconscious, and that “pull” on us and affect our lives. They can even possess us if we’re not careful. Each archetype refracts itself into countless stories and images across cultures, revealing the fact that archetypes are, by nature, multi-faceted and complex. They can never be summed up by a single image or story, even though they give birth to many. When we understand anxiety as an archetype then, we can expect to encounter various images and tales, each of which has rich symbolism that can help us understand what anxiety is and how to work with her from various points of view. In this way, an archetypal lens invites a more nuanced way of looking at anxiety, one that celebrates her many potentialities and helps us navigate her awesome, energetic power.

In my view, the mythos surrounding Pan stands for the message that, when it comes to anxiety: relating to our bodies, our need for rest, and our natural instincts wisely transmutes an otherwise frightening energy into a helpful force, one strong enough to bring about new beginnings. Pan clearly has a binary existence. The mythology reveals that he can be panic-inducing OR he can foster fertile ground; he can cause us to flee OR he can loyally protect our animal-side (our instincts and natural rhythms). Pan can be a cause for terror OR eros (a passionate life); he can be unpredictable OR a reliable steward of Spring (a new life). Through Pan, it’s suggested that cacophony could just as easily be music. But what makes for the difference between his two modes?

The chance to harness Pan’s strong energy in helpful ways seems to depend on our reverence and respect for the wild: for the animal within us, for our instinctual needs, and for our various seasons and cycles. Stumble through the dark wood with irreverent disregard for what needs rest, and you risk getting possessed by Pan(ic). He needs his naps, after all. But, worship at the altar of Pan in the grottos and caves of the earth (i.e., tending to your physical body), and he will reward your instinctual allegiance by imparting a strong, passionate energy that can navigate you to greener pastures — to a budding, new life.

Anxiety often arises when we go past the body’s speed limit. We have all had those moments mid-week where we start to ignore our exhaustion. We need to send “just a few more” emails; or finish “just a few more” things, but somehow, the list keeps getting longer. We stumble through the forest, disrupting what’s calling in us for rest and renewal. Our energy gets sucked into urgency and fear, when it might have preferred to express itself as exercise or relaxation. But, just as the ancient Greeks found ways to worship Pan, so too can we moderns. We worship Pan when we are aware of our bodies, when we honor their natural limits, when we integrate our drives and needs. We worship Pan when we see anxiety as instinct, as a message from our animal, bodily intelligence, that it too has something to say about our choices. We worship Pan when we make an offering — a sacrifice of certainty — so as to be open to change and see what wants to bloom. We could say that we tempt Pan’s wrath when we’re too fast; when we’re disrespectful of physical needs; or when our mind becomes overly ambitious and pushes us into activities that go against our deepest instincts. The good news is that it’s never too late to start honoring Pan. Why? Because the energy of anxiety is just that — energy. When we move too fast, it can sometimes feel like this energy is electrocuting us. Yet move at your own animal rhythm, and the energy can be the wind at your back, ushering you into a new season.

Starting in 2012 after my mother died, and for at least a couple years after, I had Pan(ic) attacks. My grief felt uncontrollable (of course!) and so, unconsciously, I compensated by controlling everything else: bringing in the last semester of law school with an A+ stellar performance; studying nonstop and passing the bar exam (in two different states); killing-it as a newbie litigator for legal aid. But I eventually realized that the ego is never as strong as an archetype. After getting possessed with fear (by Pan) too many times, I finally surrendered that we needed to start developing a new relationship. It took a lot of time in meditation and a ton of kind, gentle self-talk, but gradually, I learned to listen to the body, get good rest, and eat nourishing food. I learned to see strong energy movements as radiant and vivid rather than inimical; and started to sacrifice the “known” to see where the “unknown” wanted to flow. I would have never guessed the bucolic beauty of what unfolded next in my life, which came in the form of a renewed spiritual deep dive and a vocational switch to chaplaincy (into pastoral-wink-care). This wasn’t a gentle transition. It came with the force and speed of the energy that undergirds anxiety — but it was joyful. It’s not that Pan doesn’t growl at me from time to time as if he is about to scream, but when he does I remember to get to the grotto-temple, start feeling the body, and follow my instincts.

Seeing anxiety as an archetype can help us anxious-types realize that, far from having something wrong with us, we may just be rightly sensing a surge of instinct wanting to move us (or the collective) into a new season of life. Consider that maybe you aren’t flawed or unable to handle something: what if you are just experiencing the same wild power that transports nature out of Winter and into Spring? It takes a lot of energy to facilitate transitions, just like it takes a lot of energy to birth a new life. The surge of energy you feel might just be an ally, depending on how you receive it.

Consider also a different archetypal image: that of the Magician in Tarot. There are countless meanings associated with this card, but one of the prevailing interpretations is that the Magician represents the ability to convert numinous inspiration into something real and tangible. The Magician is the shaman that can render “what could be” into “what is.” He gives spirit some flesh. As Rachel Pollack explains in her best selling book Seventy-Eight Degrees of Wisdom:

“The Magician represents consciousness, action, and creation. He symbolizes the idea of manifestation, that is, making something real out of the possibilities of life… He is a lightening rod. By opening himself up to the spirit he draws it down into himself, and then that downward hand, like a lightening rod buried in the ground, runs energy into the earth. Into reality.”

Seen in the light of the Magician’s task, the energy undergirding anxiety becomes a natural part of living a creative life. We receive inspiration as if by magic, and it would seem this inspiration wants to be “grounded,” that is — wants to be made manifest in reality. So, maybe the energy gets channeled into writing a book or painting a portrait, but just as easily it might get channeled into starting a family or rendering the backyard into a garden. Anyone who has ever had a great idea or has been struck with artistic fervor will know that inspiration can be downright uncomfortable until it is fully channeled into a creative outlet. We itch with a desire to make our imagination a reality, to make our deepest longings so. As Pollack says, “far from being gentle, this surge of energy can be almost painful.”

What happens if the creative energy is received but isn’t funneled into an act of creation? Well, Pollack says:

“If we do not ground the lightening, it can become trapped in the body and will force itself on awareness as anxiety. Anyone who has ever gone through a moment of total panic will know that acute mental anxiety is a very physical experience, a feeling of the body running wild, like a fire out of control.”

But it’s worth keeping in mind that the person experiencing this kind of acute anxiety is actually already well on their way to fulfilling the Magician’s quest: they have been able to receive the transmission “from above”; they are halfway there. Therefore, seen through the lens of the Tarot Magician, anxiety is a sign that clarity, inspiration, or the urge to create or make a big change — has landed, even if it’s not totally conscious yet. In fact, we could consider anxiety an intelligent adaptation when we are overwhelmed with possibilities of what could be, when inspiration that has not yet found it’s way to our conscious minds or into the world of form. It’s as if the energy insists on bubbling up to the point we can notice it, so that, ultimately, we can do something with it.

There are an unfathomable number of other archetypal symbols and stories that could help us unpack anxiety in a nonpathologizing way. The Greek god, Hermes, associated with the element of air, is also an image of anxiety’s potential — revealing that this speedy energy has the power to render us into psychopomps and shapeshifters, capable of descending into the underworld and returning to communicate about it with artistic rhetoric and piercing insight. Amoghasiddhi, the Buddha of successful, skillful action, stands erect with the mudra of fearlessness within the midnight sky. He has a retinue of half-eagle-half-man creatures, who clang cosmic cymbals, echoing endless vibrations. When the energy is unblocked and free — it reverberates as compassionate action in the world. We could go on, and on, and on. And, I imagine, after a while, I wouldn’t even have to analyze these archetypal examples for us to get some intuitive “hits’“ about anxiety’s nature.

Taking an archetypal view when we are overwhelmed with anxiety means understanding that energy is not malevolent, and has arrived for a good reason. Perhaps it’s our instincts and physical needs rebalancing a disembodied orientation; or perhaps, quite unknown to us, it has been too long since we last engaged in an act of creation, and we need to give the spirit a body. When we feel overwhelmed with anxiety, therefore, we can consider that the system is reacting rightly. Life does have a certain electricity to it. When that electricity shows up, it’s not a character flaw. It could just be the surge of energy we need for where we need to go next.

The Ultimate Promise: Anxiety as Bliss

During a period of relatively strong anxiety about 12 years ago, I remember meeting with one of my meditation instructors for a cup of tea. I told him about a recent practice session I had while I was anxious, and how I felt and intuited that anxiety is ultimately nothing but pure bliss. My meditation instructor simply sipped his tea and matter-of-factly said, “of course it is.”

Not too long later, I formally took refuge vows (on the Buddhist Vajrayana path) with Mingyur Rinpoche and happened to be given the name Karma Dechen Wangmo, or: Holder of Great Bliss. Then, soon after that, I discovered an image of Sukhasiddhi, the deity often referred to as the Queen of Great of Bliss, and the painting immediately had me in tears. I felt I had discovered a self portrait, one that depicted a freedom I intuited was already there, but had not yet realized.

From the book, “Celestial Gallery” by Romio Shrestha.

All I can say is this: when anxiety is given enough love, reverence, and space — it reveals itself as Sukkhasiddhi — as the bliss of nondual knowing. We often think of bliss as ecstasy or pleasurable physical sensations, and on the coarsest level, sure, that can sometimes be so. But on the deepest level, bliss is the simplicity of pure being, which is flooded with the luminous knowing that we are both the source of manifesting reality and the reality that apparently manifests. Sukkhasiddhi is the profound bliss of clarity, knowing that all is ultimately you and therefore could never harm you. She is the energetic space in which the seeming-opposites arise and collapse.

I know. When anxiety comes, it can feel like the antithesis of bliss. Every fiber in our being just wants it to be over, and wants it to go away. I get it. In my shaky bones, I get it. Tomorrow, today, or maybe in an hour — I’ll feel anxiety. But discomfort isn’t always a great predictor of whether or not something is ultimately wonderful. Some of the best things in life are often cloaked, at least initially, in discomfort. So many of us have judged the Anxiety Book by its cover. And usually that cover has an illustration of an enemy, one that our collective conditioning placed there. Lately though, I’ve been wanting to read the full story. So I thought I better start writing it.

“All depends on how you look at it.”

Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj

Above: Springtime images of Marie-Louise Von Franz’s tower in Bolligen and its surrounding land. Below: A sneak into one of the rooms in Von Franz’s tower, with its great hearth and central mandala painting.

Von Franz built her tower at the behest and encouragement of her mentor and teacher, Carl Gustav Jung. A psychiatrist, psychoanalyst, spiritual sage, and progenitor of an entirely new realm of psychology that focused on the archetypal unconscious, Jung was the first of the two to build a tower. In 1923, thirty-five years before Von Franz built her hermitage, Jung built a two-story round tower on his land in Bolligen, directly on the shores of Lake Zürich. It was a circular structure made of stone and he was directly involved in its construction. Additions to this tower were made in 1927, 1931, and 1935, resulting in a four-tower structure with connected parts. And he wasn’t done yet. At the age of 80 in 1955, following the death of his wife, Emma, Jung built an addition on his 1927 tower to symbolize his mind’s expansion into old age. Indeed, for Jung, all these towers were an outward expression of his interior extensions of consciousness. He used his Bolligen tower(s!) as a place of retreat and contemplation, and some of his most impressive works were created there.

What is a Tower?

Jung and Von Franz both understood the preciousness of solitude, as well as its potency to connect us to the numinous and a creative, meaningful life. For them, the psychological world was just as real (in fact, even more real) than the physical one, so its helpful see their tower-building examples as symbolic rather than an encouragement to get into the medieval housing market. For them, a tower was an expression of an inner reality rather than an outer object unto itself.

A tower is a place that connects earth and sky. It is a symbol for the Self that is rooted in lived experience and that simultaneously reaches for the stars and the mysteries beyond them. A tower is also a place of defense and protection: guarding against the tendencies of extroversion and distraction, and the confusion of conventional life. It stands alone, and indeed, in fairy tales, towers are often solitary structures within the wildness of the wood — surrounded by the brambles of danger and magic. A tower perches one “high up,” and therefore grants a certain vista of the psychological landscape. As a result, the tower is also that which enables clarity and vision into our present, our future, and our incalculable depths. Therefore, a tower is an inner place of protected solitude that links our earthly reality to the numinous, and that encourages the depths of the unconscious (the wakeful unknown) to speak to our conscious minds with clarity and vision.

Surreal Fractal Tower created by artist Phil Perkins. https://philperkins.photography/

We all need to build and enter our own inner tower if we are truly interested in psychological development and an authentic, spiritual life. We need a tower — that which protects space; that which connects us to our depths; that which reaches for the-not-yet-manifest; that which enables clarity and vision; and that which allows for something we don’t understand to SPEAK. To call the tower a “practice” or “a discipline” is fine, but it would be more accurate to say that the tower is an interior mode of spiritual erectness where we encounter mystery by not blocking it. True, the tower protects solitude and space, by keeping out a certain amount of superfluous noise, but it doesn’t seek to choreograph what arises within it. To be in the tower is to acquiesce to the dance of a mysterious director. When above and below connect, there is an expression through you, and this is a spontaneous event.

For some, being in the tower might look like a time of formal spiritual retreat, a vision quest, or a weekend of centering prayer — but since the tower is really a solitary mode of being unblocked rather than a specific spiritual practice, we have to be careful to not limit the manifold ways in which different people might access and construct it. Still, examples are helpful. I have a friend who is a parent and spends time in the tower just by waking up 30 minutes before her children. In the quiet morning, she sits alone on the kitchen bench by the window, observing whats alive, inwardly and outwardly. I’m in my tower when I meditate in morning, but also during those solitary evenings of unstructured time when I put my phone away, and let myself be spontaneous in the company of candlelight. Poetry might come from the dark, as if from some unknown source; or the ancestral dead might present themselves in the “mind’s eye” and speak. We often know we are in the tower when we abide in paradox, when we notice the opposites waltzing together. The quiet, stillness before the kids get up might be roaring with thoughts; the dead enliven us; the hand writes but there is no writer. The above and below have connected. You are in the tower.

Inside the Tower: The Dark Gets Loud

From the tower, somehow, something entirely new emerges. Sometimes that new emergence is something discernible like an insight, a work of art, or a piece of writing; but just as often, time in the tower organically births a new attitude or a deeper way of being for which no description suffices. In either case, the tower permits something true to become vivified. I call this truth that becomes vivified “the unconscious,” but that term is really a misnomer since the unconscious is merely unsourceable, transrational knowing. Somehow, the tower makes that louder. Intuitions, realizations from one’s dreams, inspirations, renewed gratitude — but also shadow content from yourself and the collective you’d rather not see — all of it comes to the fore. Being in the tower amplifies these knowings, and sometimes the most uncomfortable contents or realizations seem loudest of all. But being in the tower also helps you to integrate what is revealed. It allows for rational consciousness and the irrational/symbolic ways of the unconscious to dialogue and collaborate. In the solitude and magic of the tower, the conscious mind is better equipped to suspend judgment and see where energy wants to move in our life. Direction, purpose, and meaning will come. And they will come loudly.

Truth becomes vivified in so many ways — but one of the magical symptoms of this vivification is that the outer and inner start saying hello to one another through moments of resonance and synchronicity. When I’m on a solitary meditation retreat, for better or for worse, the surroundings start to take on qualities of mind, and vice versa. Feelings of fear can render the nighttime a cacophony of terrifying threats; or, the sounds of a nearby, trickling brook can shift the tempo of the heart into a state of tranquility. This morning, I spent some time talking to the deceased Von Franz (as she lives in me) in active imagination, and when I later stood up to make breakfast, I discovered one of her books had fallen off my shelf. And then this blogpost started to emerge from my fingertips… These things happen in the tower. Inner and outer, though discernible, are revealed as indivisible. The tower makes the illusion of separation apparent.

Spiritual maturity — i.e., wisdom — depends on this vivification process, that is: it depends on the continual revelation that arises from earthly experience mixing with the ineffable. And so, we could say that the tower is both method and result. The tower as method is the reclusion into a state of solitude; a dialing down. The result is the amplification of transrational truth vivified in the moment. Cycling through both of these repeatedly results in the construction of the capital-T Tower of our entire Life. In other words, we need an interior tower to know that our whole lives is about climbing the capital-T-Tower of who we are. We use a tower to be The Tower, while also collaborating with mystery in its unceasing construction. To abide in the tower is to be on the ever-unfolding path of your life with consciousness. It is to consciously marvel at (and participate in) Life’s creation of your life.

Tower image created with AI by artist Koji Sato. https://www.facebook.com/groups/plism/posts/24317700234546416/

The Shadow of Inflation and Identification

All things have a shadow side. The tower also has one. Two, actually (at least!). The first has to do with losing touch with suffering. If we climb too high in the tower without continually touching base with the lower levels and the earth, we enter the ivory tower where we can become addicted to comfort that is separate and above suffering (our own and that of others). We ideate but don’t feel; we seclude ourselves but don’t invite the difficult wonder of the unconscious; we focus only on the pleasant; we disassociate. If we stay long enough in the ivory tower, we can start to become infatuated with the grandeur of our own cognition, a grandeur that has no legs or feet extending into the soot of embodiment. And then, we start to project our own unconscious sense of inferiority by “looking down” on others, objectifying rather than relating. The ivory tower is a ultimately a neurotic condition wherein a person compulsively seeks to exclude the complexity of emotional, physical, and practical life because it will mean discomfort and disrupting “pleasantness.”

Being in the healthy tower means scaling the stairs, above and below. In the authentic, healthy tower we might dream, but then we feel the dream in our bodies; wrestle with its difficult implications; deal with the fact that ambiguity cloaks even the most resonant dream interpretations; and then, regardless, contemplate how to live out and integrate the dream’s meaning. When we really scale the above and below, the meditation retreat means seeing patterns of confusion, rather than disassociating from all that is dualistic mind. When we are genuinely in the magical tower, suffering becomes vivified right alongside any gratitude or beauty: we might relish the quiet even as we are terrified by the loneliness. Too much heaven, and it might mean you’re in the ivory tower of inflation — like Icarus, flying too close to the sun. In the healthy tower, energy circulates between stars and soil.

The other shadowside of the tower is the experience of the dungeon, or rather: of becoming identified with the dungeon. Being in the tower — i.e., intentionally being in a solitary mode of unblockedness — can bring up a lot. A lot, a lot, a lot. Difficult content that has been trying to come to you, to receive love and understanding, will see an opportunity and burst forth. So will inspiration and all manner of beauty, but we don’t access those states without also accepting that which might disturb. So, if you’re genuinely opening — disturbance will come. Difficult thoughts, memories, emotional pangs, and mostly: all manner of fear. Again, it’s a good sign when all these things are coming into consciousness, for it means we have truly, at some level, become unblocked. And yet, we can become frozen in the face of these disturbing experiences, fixating on them, identifying with them, and thinking they’ll be around in their current form forever. When that happens, we start getting overwhelmed, and more than that: we can start believing we’re fundamentally flawed. In short, we are incarcerated in the dungeon when we believe that the vivified, overwhelming discomfort is who we are.

None of this is to say that there’s anything wrong with spending time in the psychic catacombs. In fact, on the path of self-realization, it is quite necessary to cultivate tolerance for sitting with discomfort (with grief, fear, rage, loneliness, despair, anxiety, depression, you name it.) But, we are called to relate to discomfort with spaciousness and friendliness rather than enslaving ourselves to it. When we do the latter, we incarcerate ourselves into thinking we are nothing but our trauma and internalized conditioning. If we are in a state of intentional solitude but repeatedly believing that we are unworthy or faulty, and getting highly dis-regulated as a result, we have spent too long in the dungeon. Where as the “ivory tower” shadow experience is becoming inflated with our pleasant disassociation from earthly reality; the “dungeon” shadow experience is becoming overly identified with difficult states. Too long on the dungeon floor, and we can’t see that we are holding the key to other rooms in the tower — to other aspects of Self.

Mingyur Rinpoche once wrote, “we are not the size and shape of our worries.” We need fresh air and the view from above to see that. Part of us needs to contact our own vastness, and this is ultimately where the courage to welcome it all comes from. It’s always possible to unlock ourselves from the dungeon and scale the stairs to some perspective. Why? Because we are not just the wet, cold basement of our psychic structure. If the meditation session is getting too overwhelming, we don’t power through, but instead take a walk and get some fresh air. If we awaken from a nightmare, we don’t rush to contemplate it while our heart is pounding, but instead, go about our morning routine, stretch, and return to it when we feel some distance. We remember impermanence and look up at the sky (classic, sage advise for overwhelm that really does work). We climb the stairs to the above. Not to stay there forever. But to relate and return to the below with some insight, and, dare I say it: with some love.

The Right to a Beautiful Life

When we spend time in the tower, we find ourselves living a deep, wakeful, and meaningful, life. Finally, the soul has a chance to be encountered. Difficulty comes just as much as difficulty does, but it feeds the larger construction of life in ways that deepen and extend the journey, while also inspiring profound empathy and humility. One of the reasons economic inequity, social marginalization, oppression, and persecution are so unfathomably cruel, is that the denial of our basic state of well-being makes living into our birthright of a meaningful life that much harder. How can a person spend meaningful time in the tower when all their energy has to be spent simply guarding the basic foundation of day-to-day needs? Too often, the stones people have gathered for construction of inner work are robbed. Violence as physical deprivation is horrible. But violence could also be defined as depriving someone of the conditions to build the tower — the Temple of our lives. To live a meaningful life is our birthright, and the deprivation of that possibility is, quite simply, barbaric.

Time in the tower is sometimes labeled as self-indulgent by those who don’t spend much time inwards but who have the means to do so. Sure, as we discussed, there’s always the risk of getting stuck in the upper echelon of the ivory tower, but my experience of those who spend ample time in the inner tower in balanced ways is that their hearts break readily at violence and their compassionate activity in the world is profound. People who spend time constructing, climbing, and descending their tower are in touch with their own aggression in ways that mitigate projection of that aggression. They also are in touch with life’s vibrancy and mystery, and as a result, long for others to access their own version of meaningfulness and liberation. In short, there’s a lot of love in the hearts of those who have a robust inner center of unblockedness — and this love has teeth. My best friend, Dave, is someone who spends copious amounts of time in the tower, at least 2 hours every morning, and I’ve never met a kinder, more responsive soul. He helps an extraordinary number of beings, yours truly included. My sister, lives in artful life in Santa Fe, New Mexico, spending plenty of time in the tower of simplicity, spiritual study, and quiet painting. She cares for my father and all those around her with a love that brings tears to my eyes as I write this. Often, the poo-poo’ing of those who make space for quiet comes from a place of insecurity; the critic isn’t sure that their own psychic legs are strong enough to scale the stairs of the above-and-below. (They are! You can do it!) In reality, entering the tower from time to time is a tremendous act love for self and others, because we tap into a place beyond the duality of self and other.

What of the Outer Tower?

It’s true: Von Franz and Jung both literally built physical towers. But they did so as a refuge and place to access and extend the inner Tower-Temple of the (capital “S”) Self. There’s something of wink and chuckle in that fact. We often live out in the outer world what we actually need in the inner realm, and Von Franz and Jung did so decidedly and consciously in this case. But I do think there’s a lesson there too, because sometimes its helpful to adjust the outer conditions, even if just a little bit, so as to go deeper into the inner dimensions. I’ve done at-home, solitary meditation retreats — and they are lovely. But there is something about going to wooded land, surrounded by mountains, where there is nothing for miles except the blessings of teachers who, long ago, practiced in the same place. There is something about the outer wilderness that really signals to the inner wilderness of the unconscious that we’re listening. We’re ready to dance. We’re ready to ascend and descend. We’re ready build new additions. We’re ready to construct the Temple of our lives with meaningfulness. With soul.

It’s a question I often pose to friends and clients who are grappling with melancholy, irritability, anxiety, depression, lack of inspiration or creativity, or the numbness of meaninglessness.

The response is often some version of “yes, but I shouldn’t be because…”

“… I get eight hours of sleep each night…”

“… I work from home, other people work so much harder…”

“… I just had a vacation…”

One reason we “should-all-over-ourselves” is that we don’t feel “normal” and we unconsciously think what’s normal (what most people do) is a healthy benchmark for determining how to relate to the world. We say to ourselves, “Well, ‘other people’ are functioning ‘just fine’ with the speed of life, so I should be able to too…” The problem with that logic is that it doesn’t account for the fact that you might be looking to a sick culture to determine what a healthy relationship with rest is. What’s “normal” might actually be totally wackadoo. In the case of social norms related to rest in the United States: spoiler alert — my contention is that the norm is, in fact, totally unsustainable for a healthy, spiritually awakened life. The culture is largely in a state of frenzied depletion, and most people have a very limited understanding of not only how much rest we need, but also what rest is in the first place. Moreover, the “usual” methods of unwinding don’t necessarily bring us meaningful rest and wellbeing. So here is where individuation and courage come in: finding the right amount of the right kind of rest involves a process of de-conditioning, of stepping out-of-sync with the herd. It may even trigger you feeling alone and “behind.” But you’re not. There are others who are starting to wake up to the pace that actually enables sanity, well-being, and even wisdom.

What is Rest?

Rest is not just sleep. There are many ways we can think about rest, but I like the definition theologian, artist, writer, and activist Tricia Hersey proffers. She says that rest occurs anytime the mind and body truly connect. Hersey reminds us that we don’t have to “earn” rest: rest is our birthright as divine beings. We are more than mere pawns of productivity in a capitalist-centered society. If we think about rest as the “cookie” we get if we’re “good” and “finish our homework,” we set up a conditional relationship to rest and position it as some kind of reward available only after we give others what they (explicitly or implicitly) demand of us. But feeling the connection of our mind and body is our right as sentient beings; it isn’t something we eventually “deserve.” The connection of the mind and body is a natural state of being, a natural state of wholeness that is our ontological baseline when the frenetic delusion of “not being enough” is allowed to dissipate. To rest is to tap into that wholeness — into the reality that right here, right now — we are enough because we are ourselves. We approach rest, therefore, not as another task to fulfill something we lack, but as a practice of relaxing into the fullness of connection with life in this very moment. We can feel the already-there-wholeness when the mind and body kiss in the here and now, and this can happen while napping or sleeping, but also while walking, crocheting, drinking tea, meditating, watching the rain, leaning against a tree, playing with salamanders, fishing, painting, being quiet, dancing alone, cuddling with a pet, taking a bath, drumming, or staring off into space for absolutely no reason. Where the mind and body embrace: there, we are free to just be. Rest is the art of being connected to simply being.

In her masterpiece Women Who Run With the Wolves, Jungian Analyst and Storyteller, Clarissa Pinkola Estés, refers to rest as “coming home to our soul-selves,” and insists we must “return home” to feel psychically alive. Rest becomes whatever makes us feel one with our depths. What this looks like will vary from person to person, but Estés suggests that solitude is a sure-fire ticket back to the soul. How often must we “return home”? Estés simply says: far more often than we think. If we don’t repeatedly swim in our depths, she warns that our “soulskins” will begin to dry out and crack. When that happens, we will feel like a partial version of ourselves, or even like the walking dead. Other people’s desires will become our own; monotony will render us comatose rather than rested; and life will cease to have any juice or moisture. Rest is diving into your watering hole, and bathing in the aliveness of your being. It is the context and the experience of feeling authentically and unapologetically you. So grab your swim trunks or your birthday suit — head out alone and without apology — but somehow, get yourself back home. Then repeat far more often than you think you need to.

It can be tempting to categorize rest as “self-care,” but to do so trivializes our existential need for mind-body connectivity, for the depths of soul, and for the peace of simplicity. Would you call breathing “self-care”? Eating? Rest is also such an existential need: the need to just be, and fulfilling that need is what makes us feel alive and part-of-it-all. Sure, rest can take place poolside or at a spa, or while getting a facial or a massage; but enjoying these stereotypical notions of self-care doesn’t necessarily guarantee rest. We can be in the middle of paradise and still have our minds stray from our bodies, still never connect to our soul-home, and still feel like we’re not enough. Both Hersey and Estés remind us: we don’t need to spend money to rest. Rest is possible right here and right now. Connecting with the earthy aliveness of your being can happen anywhere, and very simply. On the outside, it might look like doing nothing in particular; but on the inside, you’re in sync with the totality of this moment.

Look to Your Body, Not the Culture

I live in the San Francisco Bay Area, and it’s not uncommon that when my friends and I check our calendars to get together, we settle on a date several weeks or even months away. It’s so “normal” to be busy, busy, busy. There’s an implicit assumption that we should be doing all the things, all the time; so much so, that we forget about being one with all things at least some of the time. We suffer tremendously as a result. I’ve witnessed (and have experienced myself) many rounds of the ol’ work-crash-n-burn cycle, a pattern that comes from not returning home; from having tried too long and too hard to keep up with an insane collective pace; from becoming out-of-sync with life’s natural rhythms. The habituated cycle results in a state of collapse, which is not the same as rest. It took me a while to realize that if the normal tempo of modernity is sick, being abnormal might actually be a signs of health.

If American culture is constantly broadcasting the lie that more-and-faster-is-better, thank goodness, the body tells the truth. It moans and aches. The bowels get disgruntled. The energy stays too high and too long in the upper regions, making our neck and shoulders sore, causing headaches and sinus pain, and flooding us with exhaustion. If we ignore the body’s messages, it often engages in a “plan B” in one of two ways: either dialing down our unconscious overwhelm through a period of depression, or doubling-down on its warning and alert system through heightened anxiety. However unpleasant, the body insists on honesty, telling us — at times pleading with us — to slow down. Rest is the courageous act of listening to the body’s unrelenting truth-telling. It means effectuating the body’s insistence on balance, even if that means feeling out-of-step with the world we know. At least it’s a step in the right direction. At least it’s a step towards rest.

The Whiplash of Habit

When we start honoring the need for rest, the first thing that many people encounter is guilt. Hersey and Estés both write about this, and anecdotally, I’ve found the roar of guilt incredibly common when initiating a healthier relationship with rest. It makes sense too. Making room for rest can mean a dramatic change in our choices, lifestyle, and pace; and involves breaking away from the normal-but-unwell, socially-conditioned speed. It will necessarily mean disappointing others and letting things fall apart (or at least not holding onto life so tightly). The societally-imprinted urgency in you will speak. Voices will tell you things: that you really should finish this last such-and-such before calling it a day at work; that you really should hang out with so-and-so because they need you; that you really should pay the bills right now, or just get the chores over with, even though you’re spent and need to come home to yourself. So, re-committing to rest means being able to tolerate the surge of guilt that will try to drag you into old ways of being, and it can be quite challenging to do so. Guilt is often braided with physical restlessness because it takes the bodily system time to realize you are no longer opting into an insane pace of life. In other words, the voice of guilt often comes with feeling squirrely.

But perhaps these challenging initial experiences can be seen as a good sign. And, it’s worth mentioning that tolerating guilt doesn’t mean turning it into an enemy. This guilt has a benevolent motivation, but a misguided method. It is trying to make sure you belong, that you stay connected to (or important within) a group. But unfortunately, our guilt is going about belonging in an unsustainable way, and we can have empathy for it when it arises without living out its directives. If you’re making room for rest, it helps to expect the guilt to come. So, tip your hat to guilt and let it cuddle up (or scurry!) next to you while you meditate or stretch, while you skip stones at the lake, or while you day-dream against a redwood tree.

Signs That You’re Getting the Rest You Need

When you start getting used to a sustainable pace of being, you wonder how you ever went as fast as you did to begin with. The discipline to maintain that balance becomes more natural, because you’ve made contact with the wisdom of the body and soul-home, and you realize how life-giving rest really is. The sense of connection you have to the physical body starts to expand to a greater connection with the body of life itself. One becomes connected to “what is” in a grander, spiritual sense: and this is a beautiful, touching way to live.

I’ve noticed that creativity comes knocking at the door of the rested heart. We feel the impulse to write poetry, to paint, or to knit in the moonlight. Rest and creativity are great lovers, and they need each other for cyclical modes of incubation and expression. How many times do we lament, “I told myself I would journal/draw/wood-work/blog/sculpt this weekend and ugh, I didn’t…” Rest first, then see what wants to sing. In fact, rest until you want to sing.

Of course rest can also happen in the act of creating art. But usually to be a form of rest, it is artistry without objective. Restful, aimless art-making can sometimes give gusto to great projects with elaborate vision and direction. So play with what makes you rest into your mind-body connection, into your soul-home, but make sure its slow and present and for no particular reason. Then the creative force with a reason has a chance to come.

Another sign that you’ve entered a right-relationship with rest is that: you have some unstructured time in your week. I know. I’m hearing your rebuttal as I’ve heard it in myself, “Easy for you to say…you don’t have x, y, z on your plate…” Yes, yes, these voices can cuddle up right next to our weary hearts as we rest. We have to remind ourselves: rest is an existential need. Unstructured time enables rest. Rest makes us realize our innate sanity, our birthright to a connected, creative life. Renewed sanity makes us want unstructured time to rest. So yes, a good sign that you are resting well is that there are regular, blank spots on your calendar. A free evening is not a rarity — it has become an imperative. A morning with nothing going on is your usual. Rest — genuine connection with yourself — becomes the center of your mandala, rather than a peripheral additive.

I’ll close by sharing some of the signs I personally experience when I’m rested. I’m rested when I walk around the block after dinner, as the sun sets. I’m rested when I sit and stare, contemplating my nighttime dreams. I’m rested when I delight in visiting my favorite tree, the one I call “The Sad Enchanted,” and offer it a prayer of thanks. I’m rested when get to say to myself, “I wonder what I’ll do tonight,” and I’m so excited that I have no answer. I’m rested when I grieve all that I’ve seen and witnessed in this world. I’m rested when I resonate with you and genuinely celebrate you, as I celebrate myself. I’m rested when I pause to watch the early morning stars, and don’t mind if it makes me late to my morning routine. Anything that cuts me off from these things typically means I am wrapped up in a conditioned, unsustainable pace. But I’ll slow down again… even if it means I’m abnormal. Yes, rest means leaving the world, but it also means falling in love with the world and realizing I am inextricably part of it. “Rest, rest, rest” — I’m starting to love the sound of the word. Resting, resting, resting — I love simply being. Right now, at the end of this sentence — won’t you take a moment to see how your toes feel, to breathe and look about, to shut your eyes and watch the light dance through them, to make the noise you want to make, to feel your heart center, to rest with me?

As you can probably imagine, I encounter Grief often in my work as a hospice chaplain, and also with my clients at Deep Ocean Spiritual Counseling. I grieve along with the patients and clients I serve, and often “joke” with friends (but am totally serious) that I am a “Professional Griever.” However — just as there is a difference between attending to a patient in the throws of loss and being the patient oneself — it is something especially potent when the Dark Angel of Grief appears in Her fullness specifically for me. And I am currently experiencing a significant personal loss, and here She is. Right on time.

I call Grief the “Dark Angel” because, alas, I’m afraid Her benevolence is only apparent to those who can stomach the shock of Her appearance and the stings of Her transformative work. She is highly misunderstood. Especially in the United States, which has a particularly “shit-showy” relationship with Her, I believe it’s not at all hyperbole to say that societal suffering is in no small part due to our disastrously-repressed and borderline-abusive relationship with Grief. Most of us have yet to learn that just because something is challenging (excruciating, even), doesn’t make it malevolent; and just because something is emotionally gut-wrenching doesn’t mean we’re “lacking faith” or are “spiritually immature.” Quite the opposite in the case of Grief. She comes to our aid, but we have to be able to behold Her; to handle how She looks; and to stay open, even as Her approach ripples earthquakes under our feet. Doing so is a sign of the utmost spiritual maturity: to welcome the Dark Angel of Grief is to engage in holy surrender; it signals a willingness to receive the initiatic and transformative alchemy that guarantees no comfort, but assures new life.

What Exactly Is Grief?

Grief is not an emotion. Grief is a psycho-spiritual process of sacred disassembly and reconfiguration that metabolizes loss to bring us to new life. She is the digestive system of the spiritual body — the essential, metabolic art of decay — but also, eventually, She is the resultant respiration that gives oxygen to a new world and that renews a wholehearted hunger for life. The Dark Angel’s process is not interminable; and yet, at the same time, it is of no predictable duration either.

It is no wonder that so many rightly compare Grief to the caterpillar’s metamorphosis. The caterpillar enters the temple-chrysalis of loss; allows itself to be disintegrated by its own enzymes; and eventually emerges transformed, in a fantastical, fresh form, ready to take flight into new life. So too is the experience of Grief. The Dark Angel has a job and a purpose. She breaks us apart; melts us into “goo;” and magically — as if we were a Cubist painting in motion — reconstitutes us into something we could have never foreseen. The reason Grief is so terrifying to so many, is that during this breaking-apart — this sacred dissolution — we have no idea what awaits us on the other end of the process. We are entirely at Her mercy.

Because Grief is a process, She is not synonymous with sorrow. In fact, the Dark Angel cannot be summed up as any, single emotional state. To say Grief is a particular emotion is a categorical error, for if She is anything, She is a dynamic event, inclusive of a panoply of experiences. Sadness; shock; relief; anxiety; gratitude; horror; awe; loneliness; humor; exhaustion; numbness; excitement; vacancy; disorientation; rage; calm — She uses these and many other physio-emotional constellations to chisel and break us apart; to dissolve us into liminality itself; and then to weave and quilt our new form.

There is a vibrancy to Grief because of Her dynamism. One moment we’re on the floor in fetal position; the next moment we find ourselves singing in the shower, surprised at our okay-ness. Shaman Martín Prechtel reminds us that “Grief is not depression. Depression comes from not being able to grieve.” Grief, therefore, is not matte-grey. She is multi-chromatic. That the Angel is called “Dark” is a reference to Her mystery; Her numinous depth; and the ways in which She is shadowed by the culture and therefore initially perceived as a Dark Demoness. But if we were to behold Her closely, we would see, She is the infinite black, the color that contains all, iridescent to those who care to look.

The Dark Angel is movement, not stagnation, but we must be aligned with Her tempo. She is the movement of the metabolic; the pace of fungi eating wood; of mollusks absorbing algae; of the shedding of the uterine lining. Her speed is never fast enough for the ego, who fears uncertainty, and would prefer to know quickly what the next reincarnation will be. And yet, Grief is efficient, and if allowed to do Her work, operates at the exact pace of karma, taking no longer than nature requires.

Relating to the Dark Angel

When Grief shows up, it is important to open the door. If we repeatedly dismiss Her, She will go underground into the unconscious. There, unable to the develop in the light of consciousness, She will regress into Her more primal, wrathful forms; become increasingly tempestuous; and leak into our lives by thwarting how we direct our energies. Rather than disintegration and dissolution, She will opt for destruction. Take my word for it: She is powerful and you do not want to defer Her. Open the door.

In the face of something so awesome, the correct attitude to adopt is respect and reverence. After all, the Dark Angel of Grief is the Priestess of Metamorphosis, the Guardian of our initiation into new life. We cannot know exactly how She will walk us through the initiatic rite — that process is mysterious to us. All we can know is that Her liturgy will be uniquely tailored to our personal evolution. It behooves us, therefore, to bow humbly to She who carries the keys to our fate. At times you might want to question Her ways — but best to just say, “Ah, this too. Thank you. So it is.” One doesn’t question Baba Yaga; one doesn’t challenge Ereshkigal; and one sure as hell doesn’t disrespect the Dark Angel, or treat flippantly what arises in the temple of Grief. It is sacred ground. Treat all that comes as holy, and know, in return, She will guide you through.

Respecting the Dark Angel is a posture of “reverent unblockedness.” That can be challenging for an ego that wants to twist reality towards its own ambitions. True, we are called to actively relate to Grief, but as Sylvia Brinton Pererra says of descent generally: what is needed is “an active willingness to receive.” What are we receiving? We are receiving the multi-colored-falling-away; the strip-show; the dazzling dance of now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t. We receive the shifting weather of moods, thoughts, and psychic energy; of lonely stillness and restless movement. And we receive the not knowing of what will become of us. In short, we receive our own psycho-spiritual, metabolic dissolution in all its dynamic forms. It’s not easy to trust such a topsy-turvy Angelita Oscura. But with open palms, stand your ground, until She takes that away too. Then fall reverently.

Sometimes we worship at the altar of Grief alone, sometimes we need fellowship to do so (particularly if the circumstances leading to loss were traumatogenic). There is no failure in having support: the important point is to open the door to the Temple; to have reverence for Grief’s dynamism; and to respect Her process with as much trust as we can muster. We will each need different things in order to do that.

These days, my reverence to Grief looks like moaning with Her when She wants to moan; it looks like writing and singing songs on the guitar I can barely play; it looks like napping in the sun; it looks like moving my body to keep it loose and receptive; it looks like being still, staring out a window, doing absolutely nothing. When I sit in meditation with my fear; or when I pray for all the others who feel like this — it is as if I light a candle on either side of the Dark Angel. When I connect with friends who hear my testimony, or cry with lament to my sweet sister — it is as if I bow to the Priestess. Even writing this essay; or scribbling bad poetry on a Post-It over breakfast; or laugh-crying at the challenging-hilarity of acquiescence — all of it is like chanting Grief’s mantra.

In return, The Dark Angel of Grief blesses me. How do I know? Because my partner of almost nine years remains a Great Love even now that we are broken up. The Greatest, in fact. I know I am blessed by Grief, because My Love is still a Love. He is no enemy. Grief blesses me to not pigeon-hole reality; to not collapse him into “this” or “that,” into some overly simplistic fiction. And so, he remains wonderful and kind and brilliant and complex. My heart remains open to life, even when I don’t know what it will look like, and this is the most encouraging blessing of all. As Martín Prechtel says, “Grief is praise” for our love of life. And so I welcome Grief, the Dark Goddess, in praise of all my partner and I were and are to each other, and in praise of how the river of my being will eventually bend. What comes next? I scarcely know. Am I sad? Routinely. Terrified? Yes, sometimes. But I revere the Priestess of Grief, and so I say, “Ah, this too. Thank you. So it is.” I abide in Her temple, receiving Her iridescence as best as I can, knowing the Dark Angel isn’t done yet. I trust her, even when She turns me into goo.

The Big-Not-Easy of Grieving in Our Culture

I asked the organization I work for if I could use allotted “bereavement days” to grieve this tremendous loss, and I was told in no uncertain terms that the end of my relationship was not a “qualifying event” per our bereavement policy. The irony isn’t lost on me. After all: I work for an organization that specializes in ushering people through the threshold of loss. I’d be lying if I said the response didn’t light me on fire. (Note: Rage = also part of Grief’s dynamism. “Ah, this too. Thank you. So it f-ing is.”)

But, I chose not to be a flame-thrower in this instance. I cannot entirely blame the organization I work for because, for Heaven’s sake, it’s sitting in a cultural soup of collective dysfunction vis-a-vis Grief. Doing so would be a little like blaming an individual litterer for the entirety of climate change.

Our collective culture spouts values of individualism and control that are counter to the reality Grief reveals. To grieve is to surrender to a numinous process of psychological and spiritual collapse and regeneration, a process that we are not in control of. It implies that this very Self is not so separate, not so permanent, not so in-charge, not so unreachable. Moreover, Grief is an admission that — not only do we affect one another, but we inter-are each other, for the loss of you is a conversion of me. This is the case even when we grieve, not a person, but the loss of a house or job, or even when we grieve environmental destruction. A change in the interdependent reality changes us, and this means, we were always part of that interdependent reality — in fact, we are an interdependent reality.

Oooooeeee, American culture does not like that. Here, the individual is supposed to be sealed with concrete, impenetrable, and in charge of it’s own fate, right? Success is often taken to mean doing something rather than letting be. Strength looks like taking charge; predictability; speed; and self-directed innovation; it is rarely viewed as having the stamina to receive, let alone having the stamina to receive a dynamic, spiritual transfiguration by some mysterious, metabolic process we cannot control.

If I adopt the mythopoetic phrasing of Grief as a benevolent, Dark Angel of Transformation, I’d say the culture unconsciously views Grief as a suspicious, feral dog: one you can feed a few scraps, but don’t let it into house, or let it break your routine. Not only might it be distrustfully rabid; there’s also no time to clean up the shit it might curse your carpet with (and forget about it being a blessing!) Truth: even if I had been granted approval to use my bereavement leave, it would have been for a grand total of 3 days. A few bones and sinews, then back to work!

Just as not opening the door to Grief has disastrous consequences for the individual (thwarting how we direct our energies; deadening life with a matte-tint of meaninglessness; surprising us with self-destructive tendencies) —imagine the same thing on a collective scale. When Grief goes underground, becomes primal, and starts banging on the floor boards of our collective unconscious, we will have unchecked appetites from having refused decay (i.e., rampant consumerism); we will have systemic oppression from having denied life’s dynamism (i.e., patriarchy, and racial and gender injustice); and we will have projected enemies “out there” from failing to receive the blessings (i.e., domestic and international conflict).

We have erected a planned world, and so, have frozen our sorrow into statues of stone. But, eventually, the Dark Angel will splinter through our manicured reality, lighting it on fire if She has to. We can feel Her pent up (now destructive) energy as weird displays of perverse aggression, micro and macro: it’s the guy who cuts you off in the road; the politician who has no empathy for hardship and cuts Medicaid; the country that starts a genocide. Again, I turn to Shaman Martín Prechtel who summarizes this perfectly when he says: not being able to grieve “turns our losses into violence.” A society that’s unable to grieve, turns our losses into war. Psychic and corporal.

And so, we are wedged between something difficult here. On the one hand, there is an ethical imperative to welcome in Grief, for all our sakes. On the other hand, most of us are planted in a culture that makes that very difficult to do. How then should the earnest griever proceed? I’m afraid the only advice I have is that you just must find a way. Come hell or high water, you have to somehow fight for your right to party with Grief. Block out the fools; run past the nonsense; break the rules if you have to; but somehow get to the Temple, somehow open the door, and somehow reverently do your receiving-work the way you must. Not grieving leaves us dead. The Dark Angel of Grief is the path to new Life. Go to Her.

And lastly, if I can offer one more piece of advice: share. Talk to a friend, paint a painting, write — just find some way to sing what it’s like to welcome the Dark Angel, so that Grief is not relegated to a repressed state. Tell your friends, tell me, tell us — what’s She like? What’s it like to be open enough to life that you loved and lost? What’s it like to be open enough to death that you get to live again?

And yet I’m relieved. I’m relieved at my (and our) disturbance. I’m glad this heart is open enough to feel broken. I exhale that Grief has arrived with her lava-like fire and weightiness, to hold some of this with me. I’m relieved I am accessible to Her, because I understand that disturbance in this moment is a sign of humanity, of sanity, of empathy, and a healthy inability to see the abductions of so-called “criminal immigrants” as anything other than a gross and cruel misunderstanding of reality.

From the late 1940s until 1987 when he died, American writer and civil rights advocate James Baldwin urged white Americans to examine “why they needed the n————— (n-word) in the first place.” He repeated over and over again, that he knew (and has always known) he is not an n————— (n-word), and justly reasoned that it was therefore up to those who called him that to discover why they needed the concept. Baldwin demanded the inner examination of white people: people who Ta-Nehisi Coates would later describe as those who “tragically believe they are white.” Inner examination, Baldwin explained, is a critical component to curbing outer violence. Throughout his adult life, he repeatedly reminded us, that the fate of the country depended on this soul searching. Justice requires it.

Just as justice requires an examination of why “white” people need and invented the “n—————;” so too, justice demands that we all explore the invention and apparent need for the “criminal immigrant.” Because, let’s understand: the “criminal immigrant” does not exist. It is a make-believe designed to address a subjective fear. And when this make-believe is collectively replicated, the result is violence in the “outer” world. Most people have an extremely limited understanding of this most basic aspect of psychological physics: that what unconsciously is not integrated within, is intolerable to the psyche and becomes projected outward as an “enemy.” Our internal splits and the deportation of our own shadowed qualities, in a very real way, result in families being ripped apart. That’s why Mahmoud Khalil cannot be present for his son Deen on Father’s Day and is instead sitting in a detention center, thousands of miles away, a concrete room with 70 other men with no promise of due process or physical freedom. It is because some significant group of us need and invented the “criminal immigrant.”

And make no mistake of this fiction. I’m enraged I even have to refer to objective facts on the matter. But, for those of you slow-to-the-punch, who refuse to introvert your purely extroverted ways of knowing reality, here you go: In a study of the past 150 years, Northwestern University economist and professor Elisa Jácome discovered that immigrants were significantly less likely to be incarcerated than U.S.-born Americans. In fact, as of 1960, the incarceration gap widened such that immigrants today are 60% less likely to be incarcerated than U.S.-born people. (https://news.northwestern.edu/stories/2024/03/immigrants-are-significantly-less-likely-to-commit-crimes-than-the-us-born/).

The American Immigration Council also conducted thorough research on the topic, focusing on data from 1980 to present day. They too discovered that immigrants are less likely to commit crimes than the U.S.-born Americans. This finding holds true at national, state, county, and neighborhood levels, for both violent and non-violent crime, for both legal and undocumented immigrants. Moreover, AIC’s data reveals that welcoming immigrant communities actually decreases instances of crime and strengthens public safety. In other words: as immigrant populations increased, the number of violent and nonviolent crimes went down. https://www.americanimmigrationcouncil.org/research/debunking-myth-immigrants-and-crime.

So again, I’m asking us: why do we need this invention of the “criminal immigrant”!?

I must — I simply must — as a person of good conscience ask myself this question: What parts of me do I deem “outside,” “illegal,” “other” and, moreover, how can I reclaim the projections so dangerously placed on the innocent-supposed-enemy “out there.” Because they’re not out there. Because this apparent “criminal immigrant” is being abducted when they’re showing up to work; when they’re exercising their first amendment rights; when they’re lawfully abiding by court orders and showing up for asylum hearings. Why do we need them to be “criminal” when they’re not?

I’m not going to answer this question for you. I’m doing the work and it is liberation to do it. Please do it with me. And if you need help, I have a long podcast on the psycho-spiritual mechanism of scapegoating and how to unravel the lethal trail of our projections.

There’s another thing I have been disturbed by. And that is the incessant extroversion and outward orientation of our culture, and the stubborn, implicit refusal to explore — or even consider — how the recesses of our own minds have something to do with violence. I’m pissed about that. I’m pissed that my sitting on the cushion and self-reflection and dreamwork and grieving is deemed as “not the real work.” It’s not the only tool in the toolkit, but it’s essential to the cessation of cycles of violence. I’m angry by our insistence on an extroverted-only system of justice, because it again makes us “angels” and others “demons,” and therefore — here we go again — around the wheel of our own innocence and the enemy being “over there.”

I’m also disturbed because I know we’re capable of liberation and the reclamation of our wholeness. And I’m sad because: a life of liberation is such a potent, meaningful, dignified, way to live and I see me and us turn away from it habitually. I will hold the most gruesome parts of me and grieve them and love them for YOU. For US. And for heavens sake: justice will be incomplete without your self-inquiry; without your reclamation of your projections and inventions; without your wholeness. May that sink in to the deepest levels of understanding.

There is no King out there. Only in here. And she has the ability to make room for everybody.

There is a connection between the courage it takes to be there for our own suffering and the courage to be there for someone else’s. Long ago in my 20s, while trying to be the “hero” for others, I realized that my effectiveness was undeniably (and at times, embarrassingly) limited. What I could not bear in myself I had trouble holding for and with others, and I eventually understood that self-realization is a profound act of love for the world. I now see that compassion that emerges from the depths of inner knowing is remarkably formidable. In encountering our own dynamism, compassion becomes equally multi-valent, creatively responding to life’s seemingly infinite permutations of suffering.

But it takes courage to turn towards our own suffering. Acknowledging that fact can actually ennoble the journey. When we feel shakey or humbled, or when we’ve encountered previously unconscious threads of rage or despair, we can know that our seeing is a sign that spiritual courage has arisen from within, helping us to not only withstand what we see - but understand it as well. We are willing to become changed by our suffering, and this is a potent force for awakening.

Still, the spiritual courage it takes to tread in the waters of our depths seems mysterious and elusive at times. We’re expecting the absence of fear, or the immediacy of contentment. When I visit with hospice patients who are upset and frightened, but nonetheless consciously receiving the unfolding reality, I often ask them if they can appreciate the spiritual courage they are exhibiting, and just as often, they say “no.” They’re expecting that the presence of courage would mean not feeling any of those emotions that are typically slated as “negative.” My own belief is that courage doesn’t feel any particular way: sometimes we feel shakey, pissed, or ashamed even as we’re exhibiting a beautiful boldness to receive life. Spiritual courage is not any particular feeling: it is a way of turning towards reality. My hope is that, in naming some of the aspects of spiritual courage, it might embolden us to recognize the sign posts that we’re on the right track.

The Courage to Look

Spiritual courage often starts with a willingness to look at our own suffering. It’s the part of you that insists on starting a meditation practice to examine your experience; or the part of you that buys a journal to explore your day-time feelings and nighttime dreams; or the part of you that reaches out to a friend, therapist, or spiritual advisor for some guidance or support. Part of the courage to look, therefore, is turning towards a practice or a container capable of supporting your personal examination of suffering. Doing so is a sign that we are willing to turn inwards, to look at our own minds and hearts, even if they’re aching.

Just as often, the courage to look also involves a turning away from something else. When the itchiness of restlessness, fear, or anger starts bubbling up in consciousness, it’s so easy to find a way to ignore it through the inertia of our habits. We distract ourselves through TV, a scroll through our phones, or anything else that might drown-out the signs that reality is shifting beneath our feet (ah, to be human!) We might rationalize that we have “so much work to do,” staying extra-busy at our jobs, and therefore giving our distraction a nice, shiny, conventional purpose. And yet, the courage to look at suffering means dropping all of that regularly. Meditation teacher Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche once said that, “Busyness is the highest form of laziness.” That’s a rather sharp way of saying that mindlessly bobbing down the fast-moving river of our habitual distractions, in the short term, feels so much easier than turning towards the current of our pain. It is a sign of courage when we instead stop and turn towards what’s flowing in us — especially when the “water” is choppy.

The Courage to Go Deeper and Not Turn Back

Sage and meditation adept Sri Nisargadatta Maharaj once said

“The first steps of self-discovery are not at all pleasant, for what one sees is not a happy sight. One needs all the courage to go further…”

The Tibetans have a crasser version of such an elegant pointing out. Their adage goes something like this: when you start to wash away dried poop from the sidewalk with water, at first it smells worse!

Similarly, it’s very common that when we start to look at our experience, we often feel worse: overwhelmed; scared by the intensity of sensation; perturbed by generally feeling “out of control;” or disturbed the darkness of the hollowness we feel. As Christian mystic and poet John O’Donahue says: “At first your thinking will darken, and sadness take over like listless weather. The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.” Buddhist nun Pema Chödron has shared similar sentiments, stating, “We often talk about how terrible samsara (habitual suffering) is, but not often about how terrible getting out of samsara can be… and the experience can be excruciating.”

But before you run from this blogpost and hide under the covers, consider that if you experience these initial stages of greater intensity — it’s a sign that you already have the courage to go deeper and not turn back. It’s a GOOD sign! You are starting to not only look at your experience, but see and understand it as well.

Here, there are countless modalities and practices that can help us not turn back. Loving kindness practices, visualization, bodywork, insight meditation, and even the rich well-spring of mythopoetic story can help us continue the trek in unfamiliar territory. When I first started seriously meditating, there was a significant period of time where I felt like it took all my courage to not give up. I was in a dark-night-of-the-soul period of my life, where I felt like I was being spiritually dismembered and turned inside-out. Yes, I was willing to explore my grief, the construction of my panic attacks, and my fear; but I was simultaneously being affected by these experiences. I found refuge in many teachings, but one source surprised me…

I encountered an ancient Sumerian myth about the Goddess Inanna who descends to the underworld to encounter her “dark sister,” Ereshkigal (for a great analysis on this myth, I recommend Descent to the Goddess, by Sylvia Brinton Perrera). Having a name and description of “Ereshkigal” (the dark intensity I was experiencing), and an understanding of Inanna’s path of descent to her, helped me “mytho-poeticize” the psycho-spiritual tornado I was experiencing. The myth brought vital instructions to life: how to notice Ereshkigal when she has arisen, how to express reverence to her, and what tasks needed to completed or abandoned to allow for her transformative work. Since then, I see mythology as an archetypal goldmine for helping us navigate a variety of experiences, including the most disturbing. The courage to go further, therefore, is not measured by our individual strength or will, but by our surrender to emergent forms of wisdom… even if initially new or “bizarre.”

The other aspect of the courage to go deeper is being willing to lean on guides: human, live, flesh-and-blood guides. Preferably someone who has been to hell and back, and has learned that “hell” is not the enemy but rather: the portal. In my depths, I was so fortunate to have encountered authors, intuitives, Buddhist lamas, and compassionate friends who could walk with me, pointing out and normalizing the terrain, while letting me know where to watch my footing. The courage to not turn back means realizing: there are resources and we’re not alone.

The Courage to Let Go

If courage is not a particular feeling, but a way we relate to reality, at some point, it becomes clear that spiritual courage involves loosening our grip on life. We have to let the waters of being alive flow. This means being willing to accept dissolution… that things change. This acceptance is the opposite of passivity, for it is what enables a genuinely, fresh responsiveness to life’s infinitely dynamic display. We’re willing to bob up and down in the births and deaths of happenings, and nonetheless play our authentic hand, even if we lose.

The courage to let go into life’s interdependent flow ultimately makes life vibrant and meaningful. We are exhibiting this kind of courage when we realize that uncertainty is inescapable; when change becomes intriguing, even when it’s hard; and when we relinquish our grip on the deadness of certainty. We are exhibiting this courage when rest when we need to rest; when we leap when we need to leap. When we breathe. Feel. Look. And dive in all over again.

Spiritual courage is nothing we need to manufacture. It is the well-water that we discover when we dig deep. Ditch Digger: keep going! I’m doing the same right next to you.

My father and I are soon embraced by a group of residents who invite us to sit with them. They joke, gab, and ask us where we’re from. I’m distracted because a few tables away sits a lone, grey-haired man who looks disheveled and far older than the rest. His wide-eyed gaze is locked on me, and I can’t help but glance sideways at him every now and then to see if his stare ensues. The company at our table notices my distraction and says, “Oh him — don’t worry about him. He’s deaf and blind and mute.” Still, I can’t help but look again. The old man is still staring at me and seems anything but blind. We lock eyes for a few seconds, resting in each other’s gaze. Then, he opens his mouth and talks at a normal volume, though apparently, only I can hear him. He says,

“I love the harmonies you sing.”

Then he erupts in an enormous smile.

I feel aglow with so much awe and appreciation that I wake up with tears of gratitude in my eyes, still half in the dream realm.

My whole core felt resonance with the transmission the old man gave me. It is a dream that continues to reveal its layered meaning to me, but suffice it to say, it provided the encouragement I needed to deep-dive into an exploration of the unconscious and the ways in which it harmonizes with the “main-line-melody” of conscious, waking life. It also provided validation for the ways in which I swim adjacent to the mainstream, harmonizing with it by cultivating the underbelly tones that I intuit are needed for a more robust, whole sound in the collective psyche. I woke up with an emboldened sense that: there is loving-protection to follow my own tune (i.e., the archetype of the father); and there is encouragement from some deep wisdom that I’m on the right track (i.e., the acknowledgment from “blind-deaf-mute,” the archetypal prophet, who sees, hears, and speaks). The “melody” characters (the residents of the retirement community) are warm and welcoming, and not “bad” or inimical; and yet, they can’t ascertain the sage in their midst. I love the harmonies you sing, is both loving acknowledgment of the past and warm encouragement to continue living, speaking, and singing those “minor keys” that are necessary to round-out life’s orchestra. It is a call to express (to sing!) what must be sung to heal the split within and without, to remedy over-cultivated biases. “Singer of Harmonies,” has since become one of the many mythopoetic identities I return to when I need to remind myself what I’m doing in this life; when I need to remember that my efforts have their own subtle, secret beauty; and when I need to feel a sense of camaraderie with the sages, intuits, and all those who sing to their own tune, even when it’s lonely.

It often humbles, baffles, and bemuses me to think of the psyche’s sheer generosity: every night when we dream, we’re gifted images and symbols that seek to guide us towards ever-greater realization, personal and collective. Dreams sometimes reveal, sometimes warn; they sometimes reflect-back attitudes and behaviors we weren’t aware of, or sometimes compensate for biases we live out in waking life. Some dreams are for the dreamer; others are what the Jungians call “big dreams:” meant for the collective. In my own dreamlife, the unconscious has offered powerful symbols, shadowy guides, meaningful landscapes, talking animals, disturbing encounters, ancient primal sounds, and even mysterious voices speaking in Latin — words that I must look up later having never studied one lick of it. In one form or another, the unconscious psyche never gives up its quest to invite (and sometimes demand!) greater wholeness. It reveals that there is no individual mind separate from the collective mind, drawing on all human psychic knowledge at its disposal. It’s taken me a little while to begin to understand the symbolic and non-linear language of the dreamworld, and to resist simplistic, ego-led, and overly-objective or literal interpretations of the images I encounter. I’m certainly no expert, but I can say, with profound gratitude for the unknowable Dream-Maker, that having a relationship with this nighttime symbolic realm has not only deepened my life, it has drastically changed it as well. Many of the life decisions I have made — and even the fundamental manner in which I perceive the world — have been profoundly influenced by what I experience in the depths of sleep.

At the same time, as much as I’d like to paint myself as some kind of special-dream-shaman, I chuckle knowing that it’s always nighttime somewhere around the globe, and that every 24 hours, about 8 billion people dream just like I do. Nothing could be more ordinary than having nighttime visions from the unconcious realm in the form of dreams. What seems unique is our ability to recognize these ordinary visions and harness them for self and collective realization. But, even that is doable. All you need is an ego developed enough to withstand being disturbed, and a heart humble enough to rest in the sheer magic and numinous power of the psyche, without trying to claim or conquer it. The dream realm is a gift meant to unravel your tight parts, not an exercise to create new ones. With practice, we can let these ordinary visions from the dream world detangle us into greater wholeness.

And despite this lengthy introduction, my purpose in writing this blogpost is not to elucidate what I know about the art of dream interpretation. Rather, my hope is to point out how unremarkably-remarkable the visioning and meaning-making apparatus of the human psyche is. It’s truly flabbergasting to me how potent, helpful, and beautiful (even if occasionally uncomfortable) what I experience psychically can be, and yet I know our visioning capacity simply comes with these body-minds we’ve somehow been handed. Each of us has access to an entirely potent realm of symbols, mythopoetic significance, and transrational knowledge. That it seems “special,” is merely a recognition of how transformatively magical this realm is, and a nod to the overflowing sense of gratitude that can come when we open ourselves to it. But, just like being gifted a set of lungs, skin, or vocal chords — I believe the invisible sense organ for accessing ordinary visions and the realm of intuition and meaning-making is inherent, gifted to us all.

I know that not everyone remembers their dreams or has access to them in the same way. This is no failure. Dreams are merely one way to access our ordinary capacity for visioning and meaning making. In this post, I’ll describe three modalities for opening the door to the transrational, symbolic realm: (1) dreams; (2) active imagination; and (3) (what I’m calling) waking psychic immersion. These are by no means exhaustive. The realm is also accessed through yangti yoga (dark retreat), the vast world of art, psychedelics, and many more avenues to boot.

[As an aside, for guidance on dark retreat, check out offerings from a new budding retreat center started by my teacher, Lama Justin Bujdoss. For more on art’s capacity to access the symbolic realm, I’ll kindly refer you to my sister, Nadia, lucid dreamer and artist extraordinaire, whose collection of drawings and paintings capture spiritual and human nuance in a way that defies logic, but is just as real. Check out her instagram here. Also, if you’re interested in psychedelics and don’t know where to start, I have to plug my love, Dave, who has truly navigated psychedelic experience (his own and that of others) with a humility, compassion, and competency that I have yet to encounter elsewhere. Checkout out his website and his amazing resource library.]

So yes, the tributaries to that lead to the river of transrational knowledge are plentiful. Consider this post a humble invitation to get your feet wet and to deepen your relationship with the ordinary visions you are inherently capable of.

Accessing Dreams

One of the earliest dreams I can remember having was at the age of five. In the dream, I’m in my bed and it’s the middle of the night. I see a blue light coming under the bedroom door. I’m terrified, but curious, and eventually work up the courage to get out of bed and walk over the door. I open it slowly, my child (dream) hands shaking.

When I do, I see a blazingly bright Virgin Mary, radiating an almost blinding blue-white light. She stands between my bedroom and that of my parents, and seems powerful rather than dainty, and distressed rather than peaceful. She forcefully and urgently hands me spices and a glass of water, and tells me to mix the two and drink. Though fearful, mesmerized, and confused, I nonetheless do as she asks, and when I’m done, it’s clear Mary seems relieved. She lets out a sigh, her light softens, and her expression becomes peaceful. Then I wake up. In the morning, I tell my mother about the dream. All I can remember is that she spoke to me like an adult and told me that what I experienced was “very, very important.”

Today, my “nerd-alert” mind could dream-journal on the initiatic, alchemical, and dark feminine themes of this dream for hours, highlighting the ways that it came alive throughout my life; but at the time, I remember scratching my head and simply hoping we were having pancakes for breakfast. I didn’t think about dreams consciously until much later. Still, I did have them. And I wasn’t the only one. My mother apparently had effortless lucid dreams (more on lucid dreaming in a future post), and my sister too is a vivid (and frequent lucid) dreamer. Part of me wonders if there is a matrilineal karmic connection to the dream realm since I too have a strong pull to it. But, another part of me knows that it also took some work in my adult life to foster a steady connection to the unconscious dream world and to dream recall. At some point, it does seem like there is a bit of effort required: a willingness from the conscious mind to open the blue-illuminated door, in spite of our terror or reservations, and to dare imbibe on the numinous.

So are visions inherently accessible to us, or must the ability to access them be cultivated? My own hunch is: yes and yes. Both the nature and nurture components of our access to transrational wisdom make visions quite ordinary. On one hand, we come with the ability to imagine, to intuit, and to make meaning. It’s part of our makeup, just like having a two eyes, a nose, and mouth. I truly believe we are far more than just our conscious, waking, and seemingly-individual minds, and we naturally have the ability to realize that fact. And, at the same time, just like someone gifted with lungs is usually not automatically an expert at holding their breath underwater, perhaps it also takes some intentional effort to signal our openness to the watery depths of the unconscious psyche. For me, I notice there are pre-dream activities I do that help enhance the vividness and recall of my dreams, and there are also post-dreams activities that continue to foster a healthy, dialogic relationship to the unconscious. So, we come with the ordinary ability to have visions, yes; but perhaps we also have to somehow “signal” the unconscious to “bring it on” and remind the conscious mind to witness and remember.

I do this by:

• Explicitly telling myself, “I will remember my dreams” before going to bed. Then I repeat, repeat, repeat the phrase in my mind. Kind of like thinking you have to wake up early for a flight, then preparing your 5:00am departure plan, and then setting your alarm: the repeat effort around the desire to wakeup early somehow has you automatically waking up just before the clock strikes 5:00.

• I explain to my unconscious why I want to remember my dreams. “For greater wholeness;” “to see my blindspots so as to not cause harm;” “to understand others;” “for the love of liberation;” “to know what needs to be known;” “to move in the world with wisdom;” “to love more fully;” “to see what the Buddhas know: that there are no enemies.” The more authentically connected to an open-hearted intention, the better. My intuition is that this creates an emotional connection to the desire to recall dreams, and therefore strengthens our ability to do so.

• Keeping up a regular meditation practice. Practicing being uncontrived, aware, and loving towards anything that wants to arise in the field of the mind somehow signals to the unconscious that we are welcoming a relationship to it.

• Studying (yes, books!) dream yoga, dream recall, depth psychology, the unconscious, Carl Jung, or any related topics. Doing this during the day-time somehow primes your night-time mind to test out what you have learned.

After waking up:

• If your dreams start to escape you, lie in the position you were in when you were dreaming. The body knows. It can recall the dream longer than the conscious witness.

• Journal about your dreams by jotting down what you can remember, even if it’s fuzzy or just a feeling. The unconscious doesn’t always know if we’re really ready and willing, and somehow the act of dream journaling, even if it doesn’t yield any insights, sends a signal to the psyche that we’re invested and listening.

• Let the dream images work on you rather than coming to neat conclusions. The transrational realm of symbols is not neat or conceptually tidy. Symbols are different than signs in that there is no end to the depth of their layered meaning. By not conceptually contorting your dream, but letting it reveal more insights to you throughout the week (or month or decade!), somehow a flowing, natural dialogue starts to take place between the conscious and unconscious realms. Insight is a spontaneous result of this relationship. When consciousness doesn’t try to change the unconscious, but slowly familiarizes itself with the unconscious’ imagistic language: somehow, the unconscious speaks.

Active Imagination

Dreams aren’t the only way to access our ordinary capacity for visioning. Swiss psychiatrist and psychotherapist Carl Gustav Jung often discussed “active imagination” as another avenue for accessing the unconscious realm. He described active imagination as a process of dreaming with open eyes. I like to describe it as visioning while awake (with the physical eyes open or closed). There are many ways to do it. You can invite a specific event, situation, or a dream you don’t understand to appear “in your mind’s eye,” and subsequently let go and “watch” how the psyche develops it with a chain of images and symbols. My active imagination sessions are often a little more “free-form.” After some open-awareness meditation, I might, in a felt sense, invite the unconscious to show me what I need to see. What appears is often first a landscape, then characters, and then an encounter (most components of which defy logic), but other times, I “see” more abstract symbology of the Self that is just as meaningful. Whatever arises points me back to my entirety by highlighting an aspect of being I don’t yet know or have forgotten. I don’t always immediately understand what I see. I let the images work on me.

My partner, Dave, has a lovely trick to help people understand more about active imagination. He often says, “call to mind where you ate breakfast yesterday morning. Wherever that image appeared, that psychic space is the ‘place’ where active imagination occurs.”

Though profound unconscious messaging can arise in the same place as where you “see” yesterday’s breakfast nook, for Jung, it was really important to distinguish active imagination from “day-dreaming.” The two might happen in the same psychic space but they function differently, especially with regards to which part of the mind is “taking the lead.” Jung described day-dreaming as more mundane: it is the invention of the conscious mind alone and is typically about every-day matters, remaining in a surface-level realm of personal or daily experience. I’ll add that, often (though certainly not always), we recognize a day-dream only retroactively. Active imagination, however, is a gift from the unconscious in the form of non-literal symbolism, which unfolds within a field of unpinnable awareness or diffuse conscious “watching.” It both arises and is known in this borderless present moment. The experience is not orchestrated by the conscious mind, but simply unfolds with its light observation. Said more succinctly by Jung himself: through active imagination, “a new situation is created in which the unconscious contents are exposed in the waking state.” (Volume 14 of the Collected Works, para.706).

Active imagination is not meant to be a substitute for daily living or otherwise segregated from it. Quite the contrary. Whatever is experienced during a session of active imagination, like a dream, is meant to be “made flesh,” that is: to be integrated and incarnated constructively (not literally). For example, if you see a Medusa scream her head off in your active imagination, tearing your clothes off as she does it, it might be time to challenge (“strip”) the persona (the outer psychic layers we like the world to see) and harness some healthy, authentic aggression. We don’t need to scream at anyone, but we can allow the dialogic relationship between unconscious imagery and conscious logic to inspire some new, constructive attitudes and behaviors. In the case of good ol’ Medusa, an emergent harnessing of the image might look like quitting a job, setting some boundaries, coming into greater authenticity, defending your needs, or monitoring the serpentine-truth-telling-shadow within whilst navigating social dynamics. To have a relationship with our unconscious is to allow ourselves to be influenced by our wholeness, by the fullness of reality. In a very real (though symbolic) sense, what we are imagining in active imagination is true, even if it defies logic. “They are facts,” Jung often said, and should therefore be taken into consideration.

I’ve noticed both materialists and spiritual-types alike harbor doubts about active imagination, though for different reasons. Those who have an over-cultivated focus on the world of form and things, i.e., who adopt a materialistic “what-you-see-is-what-you-get” attitude, often have difficulty respecting the importance and meaningfulness of what can arise psychically during dreams and active imagination. Similarly, nondual spiritual practitioners who train in disregarding all passing mental content sometimes underestimate its potency, especially as a legitimate vehicle for greater self-realization. I’m not at all disparaging the importance of cultivating equanimity and non-indulgence in juicy thoughts during formal meditation practice, but sometimes we also need an adjacent or separate practice to honor and receive psychic gifts from our depths.

Jung too warned that our doubts about active imagination or the importance of dreams can become a significant obstacle to healing our neuroses. His recommendation? A little humility: some observation and concession by the conscious mind that it isn’t the only psychic game in town. If it was, why do we end up living out what we consciously insist we don’t want, or find ourselves with emotions disproportionate to a situation? In a great sweep of irony, our vehement skepticism about the transrational realm is often a sign that we intuit its existence: it’s the ego’s attempt to rouse certainty and safety in the presence of something far more powerful. In a highly materialistic and extroverted culture, where we’re often conditioned to associate “imagination” with some kind of child-like “delusion,” “fancy,” or “distorted reality,” psychic sight is regularly disregarded as fiction. And yet, there it is in each of us, whether dormant or awake: an ordinary capacity to invite-in the symbolic realms of mind, for the sake of living into our fullness.

Waking Psychic Immersion

It’s happened more times than I can remember: I dream or have an active imagination about a very specific symbol, scene, or image, and there it is, the next hour or day, depicted before me in “real life.” There was the dream about the key with an incredibly unique top and style, which was subsequently placed in my hand by my new landlord the next morning, reinforcing the dream message and sending chills up my spine. And there was the dream about the family of spiders: a large, medium, and tiny one, and the next afternoon, in my waking life, when I closed the bathroom door at a new coffee shop around the block, there they were: the same species, in their spun web, in the crack of the stall door, in the same position and order the Dream Maker had depicted them in. I chuckled as I peed, suddenly understanding the dream contents. Or there was the time that I had an emotional active imagination wherein the ancestral dead gifted a lake-full of lotuses from the depths to communicate something that stirred me. Later that morning, I decided to go on a hike. As I was inwardly releasing some accumulated grief from week (I work as a hospice chaplain), I tripped and fell. I felt disoriented and vulnerable, but after wiping the dust from my eyes, the first thing I saw was this pond of lotuses (see below), and I burst into grateful tears of understanding.

The third and last tributary to the transrational I’ll mention is as ordinary and accessible as the first two. I call it “waking psychic immersion.” It’s not so much an activity as much as it is a natural experience we notice. Waking psychic immersion happens when we become aware of the mysterious, synchronistic connection between the seemingly-separate “inner” and “outer” worlds in a way that reinforces a felt (and often previously unconscious) insight or understanding. It is not about being “psychic” in the sense of being able to “see what will happen in the future,” but is instead about noticing how two (or more) non-causal events can be linked together by a numinous sense of meaningfulness. One occurrence enhances the meaning of the other, and vice versa, and we are left in awe that the psyche is not limited to some“interior place.”

Far more than a mere amusing coincidence, the synchronicity of waking psychic immersion is something of a gestalt phenomenon: there is an emergent meaningfulness that is experientially made clear (or emphasized) as a result of a mysterious pairing of symbolic events. The meaningfulness that arises is not initially conceptual: it is instead felt — profoundly so. In fact, one of the signs that a moment of waking psychic immersion has occurred is that our conceptual minds stop for a moment, even if it’s a very brief moment. Like being immersed in a river of felt meaningfulness before taking a drink of articulable meaning; waking psychic immersion initially feels like bathing in something beyond words, even if soon after we let our thinking minds imbibe on a more conceptual version of the experience, perhaps in the form of journaling, reflecting, or talking to a friend.

And yet, despite the mysterious profundity of waking psychic immersion, the experience is also quite common and ordinary. Everyone has moments of having their deepest intuitions, dreams, insights, or unconscious contents validated in the so-called “physical” plane. For me, the question is whether or not people “believe” their transrational experiences enough to fully integrate them. Given that the typical ego’s M.O. is certainty and predictability, the ego usually tries to minimize waking psychic immersion as “just a coincidence,” especially when it is confronted by the mystery, numinosity, and humbling awe these types of experiences often entail. Moreover, many of us are not primed for the implications of waking psychic immersion: it forces a more nondual understanding of mind/psyche/self (which, in turn, can fan the flames of the ego’s fears!) Unless we’re used to appreciating what happens without knowing how it happens, we’ll often seek safety in simplistic logic alone, even if doing so denies our experience.

If we do have an ego developed enough to handle dialoging with mystery, we seem to find waking psychic immersion most dazzling and dramatic when the symbolic event first emerges in our dreams or active imagination, and then subsequently manifests in our waking life. The dream “comes alive;” or the active imagination’s message is reinforced on your way to work. But, waking psychic immersion can also occur the other way around, starting in everyday life:

Last spring, for example, I meditated at a cabin in the woods for five days, and I literally could not make logical sense of what I was observing and experiencing with my senses. The entire natural world — including the wood my cabin was made out of, the trees, the plants, the insects, and animals — was “coming alive” so vividly and strongly, I was stumped as to how to even describe the experience to myself. To say the space was haunted would be the understatement of the century, minimizing the interdependent wildness of the surrounding energy. The bees, animals, wind, water, sky and sound all seemed to be on performance enhancing drugs (I promise, I was not). Moreover, everything seemed keen on “playing,” as if wanting to come ever-closer to the “boundary” with my mind. Truth be told, I actually left my retreat two days early (I had planned to stay for a week), given how terrifying it all was to my certainty-oriented ego.

Yet sure enough, dreams over the next several days and weeks offered countless episodes of synchronistic guidance. I had dreams of waltzing with loving, wild animals; of speaking with blades of grass; and of morphing easily into and out of our natural world. The dreamworld seemed to reinforce the waking life’s experience so I could assimilate the memo: “see how illusory the separation between the natural world and the realm of our ego consciousness is?” Then synchronicity of synchronicities, a book literally popped off the shelf at my favorite used bookstore in Santa Rosa. The title: “Living in the Borderland,” by Jerome Bernstein. In it, Bernstein (a depth psychologist and Jungian analyst) describes the evolution of Western consciousness and the emergence of the ‘Borderland’ — a spectrum of reality that is beyond the rational yet is palpable, knowable, and experienceable — and that has the opportunity to provide individual and collective healing through the way it bridges the illusory mind-body and human-nature divide. I highly recommend it!

My partner Dave often notices the way in which waking psychic immersion happens in conjunction with his own psycho-therapeutic practices. He uses Internal Family Systems (IFS) personally and with clients. If you’re not familiar, this method involves helping people identify different parts of themselves (sub-personalities), some of which carry wounds or are in conflict with one another. The goal is to foster an interior space of welcome and understanding in relationship to these parts with the goal of fostering healing and discovering the healthy, authentic Self. IFS can involve witnessing the visualizations sub-personalities reveal, i.e., observing the images and feelings interior parts evoke to better understand their needs and points of view (a kind of active imagination). Dave will often receive very specific and powerful images from his parts, and then, poof! There is the image again, now depicted physically in waking life, often on one of his long, morning hikes. Did one cause the other? Who freaking knows! It’s not important. What’s important is that: the two events psychically “click,” and reveal or reinforce an underlying unconscious meaning that is true.

During a particularly intense period, one that Carl Jung called his “confrontation with the unconscious,” he admitted that he had to regularly remind himself of his relative world circumstances, saying things to himself like “I am Professor Jung. I have a family and clients. I live in Switzerland. My wife’s name is Emma.” Apparently things got so blended, it was important to reassert these kind of statements to stay planted in conventional reality. Some historians even think Jung was psychotic, but I’m not so sure.

To be clear: I haven’t felt the need for that kind of relative world self-talk, but I’m nowhere near the mind that Jung was. What I’ll say is this: the psychic and physical realms are not separate, even if they appear to be so. To the extent we can hold both sides of that equation in our awareness, I’m not sure there’s much risk. We don’t need to be scared of the ordinary fundamental inter-penetrability and lack of solidity of reality (psychic and physical alike), but nor should we deny that there are differences on a relative level between psychic structures and physical structures — they appear differently to the comparing mind. Holding both of these relative and ultimate truths, so far, hasn’t gotten me into any trouble.

Don’t Believe the Hype, Believe the Ordinary

If you’ve managed to get to the end of this blogpost, I tip my hat to you and consider you a kindred spirit. It’s my belief that sometimes the most ordinary experiences nonetheless require some fellowship given how hostile the conventional, materialistic world can be to the spiritual dimensions of the universe — that is: to the most fundamental and ordinary dimensions of the universe. Even spiritual types can sometimes make mystical experiences seem so rare and attenuated from our everyday experience, that they ironically concretize these experiences into something rigid. But what if, just like breathing in and breathing out, you vision and make meaning? What if you are born with a connection to this mysterious (yet accessible) dimension of transrational symbolism? And what if the conscious, logical mind were a friend, not an oppressor, capable of dialoging with (and sometimes taking a back seat to) unconscious contents? These questions make me want to sing harmonies!

I was surprised at how much my mother’s voice reverberated against the walls of my car while she yelled. I won’t say her scream was like that of a horror movie, because that implies fear on her part, of which there was clearly none; but, I will say that her voice was so loud and true that it cracked and quivered as one’s speech does when it reaches the apex of authenticity. As my mother’s sole audience, the scream was blood-curdling only to me. I felt fear. And awe, but way more than that too, because the scream also insisted on transformative participation. Like a tornado, my mother’s screaming sucked me in, disrobed me, and dislodged some old insincerity before spitting me back out. Wisdom transmissions are sometimes like this: that is, unpleasant and uncomfortable as all hell. I had received countless of them from my mother throughout my life, but they were always softer. This was like a lioness roaring at her cub to reveal the nature of the roar itself, without any care to comfort. It has remained a deeply impactful moment in my life and made me doubtless that my mother had awoken the soul-center of her being during the last months of her life, however unstable the realization was.

We were making the 15-minute drive back to Arlington, Virginia from American University in D.C. where I attended law school. I had invited my mother to my Health Law class, with special permission from the professor, because there was a guest speaker in attendance that evening who was tackling the topic of how our U.S. healthcare system compared to those of other nations, a topic near and dear to my mother’s heart. A French-American woman with more-than-a-penchant towards social justice, and a fiery advocate of universal healthcare and single-payer systems, my mother saw our current healthcare system as an immoral insult to the poor; as evidence of America’s deference to corporate greed; and as sheer hegemonic arrogance when so many better-functioning models were apparent. She was right. And she knew her stuff.

We walked into the lecture hall and I led her about four rows back to where I usually sat. I opened my laptop, as usual, to take notes, and she opened her purse to pull out a pad of paper and pen. We chit-chatted during the few moments before class, though I can’t remember what about. It didn’t matter. I loved talking to my mother about everything and anything, and it would be hard to say there was a person on the planet I looked up to more. She was intelligent and cared about the world and others, almost to a fault. Her Catholicism was somewhat baffling in the sense that my mom disagreed with pretty much every Catholic party-line in the political sense, being far more progressive than her stated religion. And yet, she attended church every Sunday. My sense was that she deeply resonated with foundational values like compassion, tolerance, justice, and love, particularly for the most oppressed among us, and that she found a narrative for these values in the Christian tradition she inherited. These values were what she loved to talk about; what she stood for at countless dinner-party debates; and what she embodied through her own conduct, including her consistent attendance at rallies and marches that favored gun-control, abortion rights, reparations, social programs for low-income families, immigrant rights, racial justice, universal healthcare, and any challenge to the “one-percent.” (And these are just the marches and rallies I can remember attending with her!) Church provided a spiritual element to these deeply held values, but you got the sense from my mom that their earthly embodiment was what mattered most, even to the point of compassion fatigue.

I’ll say this: you wouldn’t want to oppose my mother in a debate. She was a formidable reader, and her persuasiveness lied in her ability contextualize facts and figures within a compelling moral argument that was somehow so heartfelt, you’d feel touched even as you felt annoyed at how friggin’ armed she was with concrete evidence. She didn’t get petty or personal, but was instead enviably sincere in her solidarity with those who suffered and rhetorically equipped to stand beside them. And, she wouldn’t give up trying to convince you. Worst of all, when it was over, she wasn’t sore like you were and would be all too ready to hug you, turn on some funk music, and ask you to dance with her. Plus, there was usually no chance for her to be sore. She was often right and knew when you were just scrambling to keep face. It’s honestly no wonder I was drawn to the law as someone who longed to emulate her intellect as well as her heart. I’m still working on the dance moves.

And so, it was with a strange combination of reverence and pride that I invited my mother to be part of my law school world that day. I probably wanted her to see the rigor I was part of, and also loved knowing she was fully equipped to present the evening lecture herself. But, Maman wasn’t much into public speaking. She often projected authority outwards, claiming little for herself, all the while embodying it in a way that was apparent to everyone except her. I wouldn’t necessarily call her shy, but definitely naturally humble in some way I admired. True, she was extroverted and loved fun and animation, but never needed to be the center of attention, even holding herself back sometimes in deference to other’s judgments or preferences. That’s part of what made the evening’s events so badass. Maman broke through some kind of artificial sense of being demure, something I had seen many times before, but not to this extent.

I can’t say I remember all the details of what took place during that lecture. I do, however, remember cringing with anxious embarrassment during most of it. Looking back, the only thing embarrassing was the fact that I was embarrassed. At the time, I wasn’t very attuned to wilder sides of the feminine principle within myself, and therefore unable to accommodate it fully in others. In many ways, this evening was my initiation. The whole thing started off hilariously wrong. You know when you bring someone to see a movie that turns out to be, not only horrible, but also horrible in the particular ways the friend you brought would hate? And the whole time you sit next to them feeling their fumes of dissatisfaction? Yeah, it was like that.

The lecturer was clearly very knowledgeable, but kept emphasizing her “neutrality” on the subject and seemed to intentionally avoid any conclusive statement about the dysfunction of our healthcare system, even while the information she presented implied precisely that. If there’s one thing my mom didn’t like, it was when people were being “wishy washy” (as she said it.) She adored boldness in others, no doubt because it peripherally and partially satisfied her own longing to be fully herself. She liked when people “got in the game” and articulated an opinion, even if it was temporary or changed over time. Anything else was “Julie Andrews,” an actress my mother notoriously (and hilariously) disliked out of some detest for her overly proper movie characters and “nasal voice” which, to my mother, was intolerable to listen to and therefore unable to communicate anything of value. You wouldn’t see my mom hanging out with a Julie Andrews in a bar. You’d see her with a person who laughed a little-too-loudly, who drew stares and didn’t care. She’d be with the odd-balls and happy as a clam. And so, when it became clear that the guest lecturer in my Health Law class was a Julie Andrews, my cringing began, knowing that I might as well have brought my mother to see the Sound of Music.

About fifteen minutes into the presentation, my mother raised her hand and pointed out inaccurate discrepancies in two graphs the lecturer had displayed, as well as obvious (mathematical) errors in the totals. Fair enough. The lecturer paused, reviewed her slide in silence for a moment, and graciously conceded. Not long after that, Maman raised her hand again, but this time started speaking before she was called on, as if the raised hand was more of an announcement than a request. She asked the lecturer her basis for making a passing statement (I believe the presenter had said something about the “irrationality” of price controls for prescription drugs, which, to my mother’s credit, was pretty dumb.) Maman’s question wasn’t caustic in content, but she was unapologetically direct, and you could see a few students shift in their seats. I can’t remember how the lecturer responded, but the exchange spurred a debate in the class. It was then that a repeatedly-arrogant, boat-shoes-wearin’, tie-sportin’, prep-from-an-80s-movie-resemblin’ classmate (who looked at lot like this guy below) said, “Come on people, we all know the United States has the best economic system in the world and best healthcare system in the world, its insane to think…” And that’s about all he got out before Maman jumped in.

The details of the diatribe that Maman interrupted with have escaped me, but I do remember that it started with her mockingly chuckling while stating, “The only thing insane is what you just said and I’m afraid, my dear, you have no idea what you’re talking about.” (Me internally: “oh shit.” Cringing resumes full-throttle.) Maman backed up her claims though, with intense precision and detail I might add, and it was one of those moments when I didn’t know whether to plead with her to stop or applaud her. I was half expecting her to pull out a sword and quickly cut a “Z” for Zorro in the guy’s collared shirt when my law professor interrupted and said, “Excuse me, we will not be speaking to each other like that here.” She urged silence and a return to the guest lecturer’s presentation. My mom shrugged with no sign of shame, as if it had just been revealed that the professor was none other than Julie Andrews herself. In an almost uncharacteristically relaxed and cool way, she leaned back in her chair and sarcastically said, “Oh I’m sorry, I assumed this was a place that encouraged scholarly debate and had an interest in teaching students fact from fiction.” Daaaamn. Zorro strikes again.

About a year before all this happened, my mother had fallen into a deep depression that seemed to come out of “nowhere.” Those of us in her orbit experienced her as an exuberant and cheerful lady, a wonderful mother, an active community member, a friend to so many, an advocate, and a blast to be with. But, of course, the depression didn’t come out of nowhere, and time yields more insight, understanding, and compassion than could ever be conveyed here. I will say that during the two-and-a-half year span of my mother’s acute (observable) depression, there were two or three periods of a few months where it seemed to vanish entirely. It its tracks, you could tell Maman had discovered newfound confidence, wisdom, and yes, perhaps a little mania from time to time. During the late fall of 2011 when I brought my mother to my law school class, we were in one of these periods when the clouds broke up and the sun shined through. The depression would return again before she died about a year later, but not without revealing that Maman had indeed courageously descended, met the truth-telling-dark-goddess of the unconscious face-to-face, and returned with many lessons that needed to be learned. Whether this journey was fully recognized, honored, supported, normalized and assimilated due to the causes and conditions beyond her, is perhaps a story for another time. But in this story, because of what happened next during our drive home from a terribly-awkward-and-yet-strangely-awesome-health-law-class, I now know she did dive to her depths despite life’s oceanic turbulence; did reach for (and grab!) as many parts of her previously-excluded self as she could from the dark sea floor; and did resurface with the power and inertia of a current unknown to all of us, doing her best to reorganize herself, now with more wholeness, while also doing her utmost to catch her breath.

We were pulling out of the law school parking lot under the night-time sky when I said something. Something gentle, but (now that I look back on it) something stupid. I had been mortified during class. I was still thinking like high-schooler: wanting to be liked more than wanting to be real with myself. My mother had matured far beyond that now. She had realized that she no longer wanted to sacrifice so much of herself for the sake of other’s expectations or limitations. But this insight came with fire. Like a supernova that had not yet settled into a steady-state, my mother’s new knowing was bright and blazing, but also hot and unstable. Most importantly, however, it was real. So, when I said something like, “you could have been more polite and you put me in an awkward position…” KA-BOOM, something unleashed…

It started with yelling that built up to a scream. It’s hard for me to communicate how aware I was that I was not being “yelled at” but rather implicated by what she was booming, all the while being supremely affected by the vibrational power of the fantastic explosion. Maman yelled (and I mean yelled) about being fed up with holding people’s delusions with white gloves; about how many people will passively insist on staying “asleep” until they are forced to wake up; about her total unwillingness to shy away from truth for those who ignore it at the expense of others; about her refusal to any longer hide any part of herself; about the brutality of passivity and “niceness” by any so-called-authority, like my professor, who wielded power to distract us from the conflict needed for justice; and about her total rage for even the implication that she should feel ashamed of herself. Then, the yelling escalated to a scream that seemed to come up from her toes, through her whole body, and out into the cosmos. At the top of her lungs, as if on the edge of battle, in a way that shook my marrow, the car, and the future, she repeated one word:

“COURAGE!!!”

“COURAGE!!!”

“COURAGE!!!”

Her fist shoots up with every mention of the word.

“COURAGE!!!”

I begin to cry.

“COURAGE!!!”

My hands start shaking while holding the wheel.

“COURAGE!!!”

This woman is crazed!

“COURAGE!!!”

I’m afraid…

“COURAGE!!!”

This is not a story about diplomacy or skillful means. It’s not even a story about love or connection. Instead, this is a story about the raw power of authenticity, however imperfect, that cannot bear to be anything other than what it is. It is a story about healing the split with our unconscious, and trusting that it’s worth reclaiming lost parts of ourselves, even if it makes us messy, shaky, and pissed. Because at least it’s real.

There is some horrific poetry, not only to how this evening foreshadowed my own journey to the depths and back, but also that it provided the instructions for how to do it. I now know that when we go through something difficult — through hell, even — and we barely make it back alive, it can become an intolerable violence to subsequently deny any part of our experience, most especially the truth of our pain and deepest knowing. To stand in unequivocal solidarity with what is real for us, however that may shift over time, takes COURAGE, because it usually demands being inconveniently, and sometimes excruciatingly incongruous with collective standards of how we and others expect ourselves to be. It’s as if the psyche knows this, and equips us with an energy we never knew possible, and so yeah, insight from our depths can come out explosive at first. Feminist Jungian psychologist Sylvia Brinton Perera discusses this through the myth of Inanna, the above-ground goddess (our conscious minds), who descends to meet her “sister,” Ereshkigal, ruler of the underworld (our unconscious minds). She explains that when Inanna returns

“…she comes up loathsome and claiming her right to survive. She is not a beautiful maid, a daughter of the patriarchy, but ugly, selfish, ruthless, willing to be very negative, willing not to care. We know this as the demonic return of the repressed shadow. Although it stands ultimately for life, it often erupts in birth and takes a lot of taming. It may be a ‘rough beast,’ or it may, indeed, merely feel fearsome when a woman comes out of hiding to stand her ground — to herself and/or those around her. We see this demonic form of the returning goddess in much of the early women’s liberation fury. For the most part that stage in the movement has passed, but each individual woman initiate may have to go through it.”

Maman went through it, and had the courage to bellow that she would not go back “into hiding.” It can be hard to accept that authentically living may require a rocky, turbulent take-off for some, yet if the psychic engines need to scream to soar, so be it. I recall that a couple months after my mother died, my then-husband brought me to a party. I was in my depths and found it intolerable to pretend. While people were talking about their cheerful likes and dislikes, about skiing in Tahoe versus Europe, I’ll admit it: I got angry drunk and, at one point, interrupted the banality of it all, screaming above the music,“Next topic! So uh…what do ya’ll think happens when you die?”

I’m not one of those people who believe that the ultimate goal of a healthy psyche is individuation above all else. From my limited, library-card-knowledge on the subject, I know there is a lot of complex debate with regards to what makes a person psychically well, including not only authentic individuation, but also, for example, the ability to foster meaningful connection with others. But, I will say that authenticity with one’s totality — not just the parts of us we like, but all of it — seems to be a critical component to feeling well, and to being at ease with ourselves for the long haul.

Given this is a continual, life-long process, it can be helpful to know how untidy it can all get. For many of us, at least initially, the embrace of what’s authentic can’t be contained within our internal awareness alone. The suffering that brought us in conscious contact with the previously unconscious was too great and happened so fast, we’re forced to see the previously excluded sides of ourselves all at once. Like thrusting a sleeping person into a mess hall with blazing lights, it takes a minute to adjust. In the meantime, our raw newfound wholeness seeps out in our speech, in our facial expressions, in our ruthless resentment for having ever been put in the position to deny ourselves in the first place. Overtime things may settle, but initially, we’re so fed-up with being masked, sometimes to the point of rage, that it comes out a little rough around the edges. But if that’s the trajectory to authenticity for you, so be it. It was for me. It was for Maman. Not perfect, just whole.

The ability “scream” who we are — that is, to be who we are authentically and unapologetically — takes tremendous courage. My own experience is that, relationships with people who loved your persona more than your totality, will fall apart. People will look at you funny at parties, unconsciously resent you for breaking implicit social rules, and even talk badly about you. But, at least you won’t be “wishy, washy” about whats real for you. And sooner or later, you’ll find some odd-balls at the bar, who will love your authenticity to the moon and back, because it gives them permission to be themselves, to laugh a-little-too hard too.

The next few years following that evening in the car were the hardest of my life. I discovered, no doubt like Maman did, that you don’t decide to “go to your depths,” to the scary places of the psyche, life just takes you there. The only choice is how you receive the subterranean pull. “COURAGE!!!” she screamed, again and again and again, as if to make sure I understood. I still hear it. I still feel it. The word has reverberated in my heart ever since, during countless spins around life’s Great Round, the ups and downs, imploring me to let it all in. And so, if ever a mother gave her daughter something essential to survive, it was when Maman screamed her head off in the car, on the way home from seeing Julie Andrews.

The bowed-head, melancholic-heart experience of low self-esteem. For weeks leading up to my most recent solitary retreat, it was intermittently palpable. True, I wasn’t walking around thinking of myself as “a piece-of-crap,” or in any other explicitly pejorative sense; but I did feel an acute, uncomfortable uncertainty about “how I was doing in the world.” Insecure might be the right word. I felt small, and not in that “good-and-relieving-cosmic” way, but in that “not-enough” kind-of-way. It was as if a consistent question mark appeared whenever I considered whether my activities, efforts, or even my perspectives were “good.” All the while, what I meant by “good” was vague in my heart and mind. I was falling short of… something. Like it was just out of reach.

I imagine that low self-esteem can have many sources, but I wonder if one of its primary tributaries is the non-recognition of one’s innate goodness. As a chaplain, I encounter a lot of people who use the phrase “low self-esteem” to describe their state, especially after a stroke or an illness has dramatically changed their sense of accomplishment and agency. When I invite them to say more about it, they typically share something like, “I don’t know…I just don’t feel good about myself.” For most of us, even without being hospitalized, that sentiment is oh-so-relatable — we go through periods of not feeling good about ourselves. We feel small in the mirror of our minds, and maybe even embarrassed around others. The question is: what is this goodness we’re hoping to sense about ourselves and where are we looking for it? And, (in keeping with the orientation of this blog,) if we’re really going to heal the split between our dualistic notions of ourselves (as “good” or “bad,” for example) what would encountering a goodness with no opposite look like?

Untangling Yourself from the Past: How Have You Historically Considered Yourself “Good”?

So often, our beliefs about ourselves are inherited and conditioned. We start to have a mental schema of “what constitutes good me” and “what constitutes bad me” even without knowing that we’re subtly categorizing our experience of ourselves. This schema is influenced by how we’re raised; our level of healthy attachment; unexamined habits; and by covert, dysfunctional reward systems embedded in the collective dynamics we’re all swimming in. By pausing and contemplating the historical basis for our self-esteem, we can start to assess whether our framework about ourselves is actually aligned to our present experience.

When I engaged in this type of contemplation, I realized that, in no small part, I tended to measure my own “goodness” by the feedback I was getting from the world. When I looked back at the last 37 years, I saw that, pretty much since birth, I received continual, explicit affirmation of my “progress.” Last year, for example, I was a full-time hospital chaplain in a residency program that provided routine feedback about my work by analyzing recreated written scripts of my visits, providing detailed evaluations, and even eventually encouraging me to stay on as a permanent staff chaplain. Prior to that, I was in graduate school (seminary) for three years and received nearly-constant positive feedback in the form of grades and comments about my coursework. Even as a public interest attorney prior to grad school, I almost always saw the worthiness of my labor: the client won their case; the house was saved; the student loans forgiven; the debt relieved; or the credit reporting agency stopped lying. In kindergarten through college, in law school, and even in the years of working in the policy world between the two: people, grades, accolades, and promotions told me in so many words how I was doing and the reviews were generally encouraging. This might all sound like good news, but by hinging my self-esteem on praise and positive results as declared by the “outside” world, I was giving away a tremendous amount of power. I was also creating a narrow, conditional relationship to healthy self-esteem.

Maybe your historical sense of self-esteem is based on something different. For example, I know I’ve talked to friends who say they tend to feel good about themselves when they’re productive, including when it comes to their personal passions and pastimes outside of the realm of paid work. (Honestly, my self-esteem is often even contingent on how “productive” I am about spiritual studies and practice!) I know others who feel a strong sense of self-esteem when they are in a romantic relationship, or simply in the company of others, but as soon as they are single or alone, feel like their personal stock has plummeted. Still others might base self-esteem on fitness or body image. And, maybe it’s simply an amalgamation of all of these when we really look (in writing them, they’re all so relatable!) But, whether it’s productive = I’m good, not productive = I’m bad; praise = I’m good, no praise = I’m bad; relationship = I’m good; no relationship = I’m bad; fitness = I’m good; flabby = I’m bad, isn’t it exhausting to be incarcerated by unexamined mental mathematics about our self-worth? It’s like we’re dreaming of our own smallness, but haven’t actually woken up to see how the dream compares to reality.

And, of course, there is absolutely nothing wrong with drawing satisfaction or pleasure from productivity, praise, intimacy, fitness, or whatever else tickles you. Experimenting and experiencing is a wonderful thing! It is the placing of these things as the basis for self-worth that I question. When the basis of my self-esteem is something that is bound to come and go, that is — when it is something conditional — its dissolution will likely result in my suffering a sense of lack. Because, after all, sooner or later, I’ll be tired and needing to be still and unproductive; sooner or later I’ll experience the absence of praise or companionship; and sooner or later I’ll be unable to exercise because of an injury, illness, or the simple mechanics of aging. What happens to self-worth then?

The Good News About Low Self-Esteem

All this came to head for me about seven months ago. I moved back to California and had just started a new job as a full-time hospital chaplain. No residency evaluations, no tests, no more hoops to jump through (yay!), and so: no reassurance or praise to be found. My colleagues trusted my competency — it didn’t need to be pointed out. And, unlike law or policy-work, chaplaincy does not lend itself to revealing the fruits of your efforts in unequivocal terms. You accompany others in crisis and you let go. But, this all meant that the feedback loop, which I had previously relied on to feel “good” about myself, was cut. If reassurance about the impact of my work had to some degree watered my sense of self-esteem, I suddenly found myself in a desert.

And yet, the desert’s vastness and austerity is sometimes exactly what is needed to encounter a more fundamental and reliable goodness beyond one that comes and goes. In other words, the moment I experience a reaction of smallness, having been stripped away of what I typically delight and take pleasure in, I am poised to discover a more fundamental experience of being that cannot be stripped away, and that fundamental experience of being is not small in the least. For me, that fundamental, basic sense of being is always there, but it can become “more obvious” when I am denied whatever has historically given me a “high” about myself. It was as if the decor had been stripped and all that was left was the “decorator.” So, though low self-esteem is painful, it’s both pivotal and profound when it leads to a looking at “what’s left.”

Retreat

It’s November, about five months into my new job. The sense of smallness is upon me and I’m half-saddened and half-intrigued by it. I want a strong container to explore it, and I’m realizing that it has been too long since my last solitary retreat. I make arrangements for five days away in a beautiful corner of Northern California, an hour away from home. I prepare my traditional retreat schedule, plan what practices I want to focus on, discuss it all with my teacher, pack my food, and go.

Northern California is a special-kind-of-exquisite in the autumn. The trees are aflame with reds and yellows, and the redwoods seem to have extra dexterity as they’re caressed by the breeze coming over the hills from the Pacific. All I can hear is the swooooooooosh of the wind against the leaves and conifers, the caw of crows, the purr of hustling quail, and the crunch of dead leaves as deer walk by. I’m beyond grateful, and realize the incredible auspiciousness and privilege of being in such a place. I do practices to thank the land and local beings for their generosity; to explain my intentions; and to request assistance and blessings. Then, for the next few days, I sit and practice relaxing into naturalness.

When the mind settles, what I experience is the vastness of awareness, or rather, myself as the vastness of awareness. “Awareness” is not a “thing” because “it” is total openness, extending without center or limit. At the same time, awareness is pregnant with experiences. Thoughts, emotions, mental images, physical sensations, energy movement, and the experiences of sight, hearing, smelling, tasting, and feeling all arise and collapse back into this plane of awareness which, ultimately, none of these phenomena can be distinguished from. Anything that arises, when permitted to express its totality, reveals itself as an unpinnable event in motion, and therefore empty of any singular, independent existence — like fireworks that cannot be captured as they sizzle back into space, or waves that reveal themselves as nothing other than the water they came from. Worries about how “I” am doing, or images of anticipated, future events display like a movie for as long as the mind fixates on them exclusively; only to dissolve easily when the mind, once again, experiences its own empty (free, vapor-like) nature. Even seemingly-solid forms are not as static or separate as habitual thoughts think them to be. When really explored, the sight of my hands in meditation posture, the rim of my eyeglasses, the edge of the sliding door, the tree in the field, the passing deer, all appear in the periphery of my vision as pulsating pixels, like dancing light on water’s surface. They cannot be found outside of awareness. At the level of experience, they are simply images flashing so rapidly that their cohesion is taken for granted. The same is true for the body. Limbs are first experienced as solid, then as earthy heaviness, then as moving sensation, then as energy, until awareness abides in the subtle experience of limbs as unpinnable light-bliss. Mesmerizing. And then, my analyzing mind takes over, trying to catalog everything mentally, and in so doing, imposes that oh-so-familiar dualistic, conceptual lens on the rawness of experience. The solid “I” returns, looking “outward” at experience. But eventually, mind settles once again into its natural state. Once more mind’s essence is seen as the lack of solidity, while the brightness of awareness, mind’s knowing-quality, pervades the entirety of presence. Like a sunlit sky where space and light are inseparable, awareness as a still void and awareness as movement are in union.

This ground of being, the ultimate nature of mind is good. It’s not good because it is isolated from “badness.” Nor is it “good” because it is constructed out of “the right” conditions. Rather, mind is inherently good in that its fundamental nature is openness-to-any-possibility. It is good like space is good, or like the sky is good. Just as the naked sky is pristine and free, but can manifest storms or rainbows, so too mind’s nature is ultimately the goodness of potentiality, whether it manifests high or low self-esteem. It is this radical openness that allows for the experience of praise, or its absence; for the experience of productivity, or its absence; for romantic partnerships, or their absence; and for exercise, or its absence. The inherent spaciousness of reality allows anything to come forth, to express its fullness, and dissolve back into space, including our habits of perceiving and labeling experience as “good” or “bad.” Mind’s ability to experience it’s own insubstantiality (the basic ungraspableness of reality) is good because, at last, stuckness, separateness, and smallness are revealed as illusory and temporary, like insubstantial ghosts on the winds of being, just passing through.

What is self-esteem in the context of this insight? For me, it is resting confidently in the experience that there is no fixed self that could ever be separate from this basic, fluid, beingness. Overtime, I have started to relate to my “self” less as this lanky, well-meaning, dork that you all affectionately call “Malika,” and increasingly as the pervasive, open awareness that this “Malika-event” is backlit and co-constituted by. Paradoxically, self-esteem then becomes knowing that there is no static self to have self-esteem about! And, at the same time, this is only paradoxical from the point of view of conceptual understanding. From the point of view of experiential understanding, there is no paradox.

But, lest you think I’m some kind of adept, let me make it clear that I am a novice at all this and my conditioning to think of myself as a separate, singular being (with an interior world “in here” and an exterior world “out there”) is strong. From the vantage point of this habitual perception, low self-esteem and delusions of smallness take hold because this (seeming) separate self intuits the nonsensicalness of being separate from all there is, and so craves something (seemingly) outside of it to complete it. Usually that means grabbing at my historic source of self-esteem (I’ll take a glass of praise, please!) When that historic source of self-esteem eventually (and inevitably) becomes unavailable, the delusion of smallness dawns, and here we go again, unaware of the transpersonal grandeur of beingness, yet ever-primed to behold it.

On the other hand, from the vantage point of “self” as edgeless, center-less awareness, I’m complete to begin with — or more like, I’m completeness itself. Such completeness inherently has a relationship with the dynamic array of emotional states that arise, with all their ups and downs, because spacious awareness never minds the fireworks that arise and dissipate within it. They arise as awareness, in awareness. Self-esteem here just becomes the knowing of oneself as that completeness, as open inclusivity. It’s amazing that I forget to drop in and simply become what I have always been! But, habits are powerful. They often blind me from “what is.” As they say in the Shangpa Kagyü tradition about mind’s true nature:

So close you can’t see it.
So profound you can’t fathom it.
So simple you can’t believe it.
So good you can’t accept it.

I know there are some that might frown at my talking or writing about my experiences of the ultimate, limited as they may be. And, in one way, they have a point. After all, the Tao te Ching states something like, “those who know don’t speak,” right? But, I suppose I share it because I genuinely don’t think I’m describing anything special or spectacular, only the simple nature of things that is readily discoverable. And, I share it because these simple discoveries have opened my heart. I’m using the language of Buddhism and “mind,” but these are just words, and there are an infinite number of ways to describe our basic, fundamental being. However you call it, is observable in this moment, and nowhere in particular, and wonderful. It is you. It is grand. And it is good.

Trigger warning my friends: this article talks about some difficult traumas I have witnessed. Please be caring towards your mind-stream. If this is not something you can read right now, that is no failure. Refraining would simply mean you are engaging in an act of loving awareness.

There was the gentleman with ALS (lou gehrig’s disease) whose body was becoming paralyzed, one limb at a time. He was frightened and despairing, and during our fourth visit together, suddenly wasn’t able to control his swallowing or coughing muscles. He started to panic and couldn’t breathe. Immediately, there were fifteen doctors in the room, rushing towards him, looking terrified. Then there was the young man — actually, he was just a boy at the age of 16 — who shot himself in the head and who I saw die once he was brought in by paramedics. It was gory and hard on so many levels, but I don’t need to go into details. There was also the woman who spoke no English, and who, despite being at death’s door managed to travel hundreds of miles to our emergency room (having heard from someone that, if she did so, our doctors were legally obligated to provide her with a life saving organ.) Once she realized that this information was inaccurate, I sat with her as she tried to make sense of how to get back home to die in peace. And then, there were the two parents who I held as they bellowed, watching their son, no older than 30, be taken off a ventilator. As I blessed his body in his final moments (something his parents requested), I recall the sensation of his skin growing colder against my own. All this, and then some, in less than 24 hours.

I don’t know how to introduce this topic any other way than to provide an energetic sample of my chaplain days (and nights) of late. Yes, there are days that aren’t this intense. But, in all honesty, I can’t say that this kind of day is a-typical. Some days are worse. I join the ranks of many service providers who are exposed to trauma daily. Therapists, paramedics, doctors, nurses, social workers, firefighters, police officers, disaster workers, victim advocates, emergency department custodial staff, funeral directors, public defenders, legal aid attorneys… the list goes on. I know I’m not alone in this. But I can’t help but wonder… how are we managing it all? When things are at such an extreme, what does “healing the inner divide” and residing in the place beyond extremes actually mean?

It’s true that not all crisis situations and deaths are traumatic. Moreover, even if these events are traumatic for those enduring them, they are not necessarily traumatizing for those who are witnessing them. The inverse is also true. And yet, by mid-January 2022, five months into my first, official, full-time chaplain gig, I began to feel a palpable sense of brokenness. Suffering was everywhere and the hospital walls seemed to be bursting at the seams with trauma, grief, and the gully, gory mess of the human experience. Here I was in the middle of it. Like being in a city on fire, I wondered if it was actually possible to be there and not get burned.

And then my rumination took it from there. If I did “get burned,” i.e. — internalize the brokenness of the context where I served — what did that mean about me and my spiritual practice? Surely, I thought, if I were a good chaplain, I would be able to accept difficulty and come out clean and unscathed. Surely, a true bodhisattva (an awakened heart warrior on the spiritual path) would be able to serve amidst the flames, and even allow heat to self-liberate on the spot. Pure awareness never gets harmed, right? Why then, was I feeling it all?

I turned to my teacher, a Buddhist lama, for help. Over Zoom, I wept as I described my feelings of inadequacy. I explained that, though my formal sitting practice felt strong, my “everyday life” practice while at the hospital felt tumultuous and even frightening. I described the strong energy shifts in the hospital; the wails; the adrenaline; the vividness; the heavy, tender moments. I confessed my doubts that I was a “good” dharma practitioner, and recounted my theory that surely a true bodhisattva would be able to serve in the hell realms unscathed. Maybe I just wasn’t good enough.

My teacher’s response was simple. It was one part correction, one part practice instruction. He listened with empathy and then, in the gentlest way, said: “Malika, the bodhisattva gets burned. The question is, what would it look like to let the enormity of that brokenness simply be?”

In retrospect, my questions were pretty naive, and my teacher’s responses fairly obvious. And yet, I often forget that freedom on the spiritual path does not mean freedom from the phenomenal world, it means freedom within it. From this place of forgetfulness, I start thinking that success (in life, on the job, on the spiritual path) would mean the vanquishment of pain — as if unpleasantness would no longer be a flavor of the human experience. My confusion is rooted in an (embarrassingly routine) misunderstanding of the Buddhist teachings that I practice. Let me explain.

Buddhism teaches that the ultimate nature of reality is freedom, or total openness. This means that the ultimate nature of any phenomenon is not a “thing.” Rather, it is the freedom from any “thingness” (because, double zing: there is no such “thing” as a concrete, permanent, individual “thing” from a Buddhist point of view; instead, all is interrelated, moving, and dynamic because it is essence-less.) This is pretty radical when taken to its natural conclusion. It would mean that, whether we’re talking about a war zone or a baby shower, the nature of the situation is ultimately the same (total openness), even if it feels or presents differently on a relative level (that is, when compared to other situations). If you were to try to find the essence of each situation, you wouldn’t be able to. All you’d find is energy, awareness, and space, none of which could be pinpointed. A gunshot and a baby’s laugh ripple through reality with fluid, open freedom. The simple fact that either of these situations are able to arise in the first place is proof of the inherent openness of reality. Reality is just that way: open to any possibility.

Now, here’s where it gets tricky. My conditioning sometimes looks at these teachings and says, “See, if you were really spiritually advanced, difficulty would simply vanish because you’d see its inherent openness.” But, what I (re)realized in talking to my teacher was that, such snarky internal dialogue conflates liberation (freedom from fixation) with exhaustion (the disappearance of phenomena). For me, these words — liberation and exhaustion — each have special significance in Buddhism, particularly within the Vajrayana (Tantric) and Dzogchen traditions. As I’m someone who learns as I write, I’d love to unpack them each in turn.

Liberation refers to the freedom and energetic flow that reveals itself when we let go of the fiction of separateness (that is, when we let go things being “this” or “that,” or being some particular way.) If you were looking at the ocean, you might think to yourself, “Ah! There’s the ocean,” as if it were a concrete “thing.” And yet, if you were to allow your eyes to rest on the oscillating movement of the water’s surface, with its changing colors and wave formations; if you were to allow the smell of the sea-air to spontaneously change from fishy to fresh, and back again; and if you were to let the splash and seagull sounds arise and dissipate, like echoes of no substance — suddenly, your fixation on the “the ocean” as some stagnant “thing” would dissolve. What reveals itself instead is a vivid, dynamic experience that is free from any fixed reference point and that cannot be described in words. Liberation, therefore, is not necessarily the disappearance of experience, but rather the dissolution of our tightness around experience. It is the abandonment of the conceptual cages we construct around experience that block us from being experience. In more positive terms, liberation is the process of experiencing (and eventually, realizing we already are) the free-flowing, unpinnable vastness of reality. Liberation is not something “we do;” it is instead the natural state of things that is revealed when we allow reality to be what it is.

Exhaustion, however, refers to the “seeming-disappearing-act” that happens in our day-to-day lives. It speaks to the karmic lifespan of any given “thing” on a relative level, when we allow ourselves to compare “this” and “that.” For example, when growing conditions are no longer sufficient, a flower will shrivel and decompose in the ground. When weather conditions are no longer cloudy and cold, a puddle will evaporate in the clear, sunny sky. When organs no longer function sufficiently, a body will die. Although on an ultimate level, energy is never lost or destroyed (because there was never any “thingness” to be lost or destroyed to begin with); on a relative level, seeming “things” do look like they exhaust and disappear when we compare them to other seeming “things.” Exhaustion is the natural “end” of appearing phenomena, from the vantage point of the comparing mind.

My realization as it relates to my job was this: though my mental fixations about reality can liberate when I let be, this doesn’t necessarily mean that the energy of any given situation exhausts (i.e., disappears all together), and certainly not on my timeframe. Sometimes liberation and exhaustion happen at once, but not always. The terrifying energy on a battlefield may take quite a while to exhaust, even after guns stop firing. Its explosive quality may haunt the minds of those who survive for quite sometime, even rippling through multiple generations in various ways. On the other hand, the bright, bubbly energy of a baby shower may dissipate within a few short moments once the last guest has gone home. The point is this: we can let go of our fixation regarding how energy presents itself, but we can’t necessarily destroy or annihilate that energy all together. The energetic flavor of the moment is in town as long as it is. Un-capturable yet experienceable, it endures until it shifts and seemingly disappears. Like a mirage. Or a rainbow.

Or a nightmare…

I am in the emergency department, in “trauma room 5,” holding a woman in my arms as we watch her husband’s chest getting pounded and electrically charged by a team of twelve doctors moving at lightning speed to save his life. Indeed, the situation is nightmarish. There is no gentleness on the body when it is being resuscitated. Movements are fleshy and forceful. The room feels full, dense, and claustrophobic. The lights are bright and the words shared between doctors are like scalpels: sharp, efficient, precise, and cutting. As I hold this patient’s wife in my arms through it all, and whisper words of solidarity to her, I can tell our hearts are both pounding. Sweat rushes down my back from the heavy, shower-curtain-like protective gown I and others must wear in this particular hospital room. I’m getting burned, not because I’m failing, but because the bodhisattva doesn’t escape feeling.

It is here that my teacher’s question has resonance: “can you just let this brokenness be?” The moment this question surfaces, the mind begins to loosen and relax. This relaxation doesn’t make anything disappear, but rather allows all to express itself in the fullest sense, revealing the situation’s pervasive un-graspable-ness. Suddenly, the situation is not what I think it is (“bad,” “horrible,” “proof of my incompetence,”) it is simply what it is (strong, vast, free-flowing energy that is without location.) Though the energy is unpleasant to the senses, and at times so vivid that the body noticeably contracts, aversion too is permitted to “be,” and now I am “in” and “of” the moving, but-not-necessarily-disappearing, power of it all. Like a nightmare that manifests in the mind during sleep, but that has no real substance; liberation is seeing that experience undeniably manifests, yet is completely unpinnable. It is the brokenness that is knowable and yet nowhere.

There is no dreamer who decides when a nightmare is over. A nightmare exhausts on its own timeframe when the sleeping body begins to stir, when sunlight begins to dawn, and when the psycho-biological conditions for dreaming are no longer present. Forty-five minutes into the ordeal in the emergency room, the doctors give-in to death’s final word. The room becomes still, the gowns come off, and the doctors stand in reverent silence. The patient’s wife seems to be holding her breath before an exhale of wailing begins. When her sound finally explodes into the room, I hold and rock her, and she gives her weight to me. Slowly, we make our way to a separate, sterile room, populated only by a couch, office chair, and generic looking painting. We are now in grey liminal space, that is nevertheless dense with the weighted energy we’ve dragged in from the trauma room. We sit in alternating periods of conversation and silence, slowly processing what has just happened. We discuss shock, grief, and the surreal way reality blends at a “time like this.” Pockets of freshness puncture the density, like flashes of blue in an otherwise matte, grey sky.

Eventually, as this patient’s wife gears up to leave the hospital and make her way home, I pivot to discussing what I must: tissue donation, funeral homes, crematoriums, burial, whether driving home feels feasible, and who will be there when she arrives. I endeavor to render all of this on the lowest, gentlest frequency available between us. After a final visit of the body, I walk the patient’s wife to her car. The air outside is cold and sharp, quickly consuming whatever lingering heat was in my body from all the evening’s activity. We hug, and as we do, I enter a noticeably more tender landscape. Like opening my eyes to a green valley that is still dripping with moisture after a passing downpour, I can feel the “thunderclouds” still rumbling, yet now at a distance. The last thing I say to her as we pull away from one another is, “My heart breaks with you.” We hug again and I turn to leave. As I walk back into the emergency room, the comfort of solitude comes, and the internal winds shift again. Now, my chest feels like I have just watched the movie Life is Beautiful four times in a row, and the brokenness is with me, as is some vague sense of deep satisfaction. This is just the way it is. Shifting and moving; fine, not fine, and fine again. “Am I okay?” “Was that really fucked up?” I nod to each of my thoughts as they ebb and flow in my mind-stream. Then I allow my steps to follow their natural rhythm, and head back inside.

I can’t always realize my teacher’s instructions, but I endeavor to do so all the same. Can you just let the brokenness be? Was there ever a more impossible, beautiful, and hopeful instruction? What a relief to stop trying to be the cavalier heroine who vanquishes sorrow! What a relief to not have to work so hard to feel confident all the time! What a relief to let my sense of spiritual and professional competency wax and wane! What a relief to simply be in it. No pretending. No silver-lining. Just this.

My teacher’s instruction invites us to consider that all situations are buddha, that is, that all situations are inherently, open, awake, and free — regardless of whether they are pleasant or not. Lately, when I’ve had trouble remembering this in the hospital setting, I think of Palden Lhamo. Palden Lhamo is a manifestation of enlightenment. She is a buddha and the fierce goddess who has sworn to protect the lineage of Dalai Lamas. My teacher once told me that the first line of her sadhana (or ritual invocation) is something akin to this: You will know her because she is unpleasant and awful.

Palden Lhamo is the knot in our throat and the panic in our belly. She is the emergency room that is flooded with harsh smells and scary sights. She is the grief that settles all around us, as we come home from a life-changing loss. She is the shadowside of solitude, within whose fangs, fears cannot help but ooze. She is the ghastly, gory, and ghoul-like. She is the forceful screech of sirens or car breaks; she is the hold-your-breath quality right before an impending crisis; and she is also the energy of the crisis itself. You will know her because she is unpleasant and awful. And yet, Palden Lhamo is a buddha. She is the un-capturable, irreducible, open and free energy of these situations. If you have the guts to turn towards her, and if you can decipher her words amidst all the vomit and spit she spews your way, you may hear her say this: let me be and I will show you the meaning of freedom.

It’s often strange to me how much I love my job. And yet, I credit this to Palden Lhamo taking me under her tutelage. I don’t know how long I’ll be her student in the chaplaincy context, but I’m curious to linger. It would seem that Brokenness (Palden Lhamo’s epithet) has gotten a bad rap. And I just want to spend a little more time within her, discovering what’s really true.

A friend recently told me that she was worried about her new romantic relationship because she and her partner had yet to really “butt-heads” and “get into it.” Although, in her case, I didn’t think she had anything to worry about, her concern nevertheless struck me as appropriate and sane. Some part of us intuitively understands that conflict is a healthy part of any long-term relationship, whether it be with a romantic partner, a friend, a family member, a spiritual community, or one’s fellow citizens. When we’re skillful, conflict can deepen a relationship and demonstrate a certain willingness to invest in one another’s well-being. And don’t we all want people to invest in our well-being?

At the same time, just because conflict is a healthy part of relational life doesn’t mean we have to go out, fists up, looking for a fight. But, it does mean that we should be wary of sacrificing the rewards of speaking our truth in order to dodge discomfort or maintain some appearance of peace. Ah, if it were only easy to speak our truth! Indeed, if this is challenging for you, you’re in good company. Despite having been a litigator, I’m pretty averse to interpersonal tension. This is something I’m working on because, my bias of “keeping the peace at all costs” is actually one that repeatedly ends up attenuating compassion and intimacy rather than fostering it. As we’ll see, conflict avoidance can also compromise the success of liberation movements, whose efforts are critical to assuring that marginalized persons are free to be. So, in this post, I am thinking “out-loud” and exploring how we actually engage in healthy conflict without being… well… jerks! How do we affirm the belonging of all peoples while also putting our foot down when enough is enough? How do we say what’s true for us in the moment, while also being open to changing our minds? What’s the distinction between engaging conflict lovingly and being a conflict-lover, aggressively combating others for ego’s sake?

Before we get into it, I feel the need to emphasize the importance of this question. As I eluded to above, not only is healthy conflict essential on the interpersonal plane (to deepen personal relationships), it is also essential for justice and social transformation. We have an apathy problem in the United States: many of us believe ourselves to be somehow neutral or outside the problems of racism, sexism, xenophobia, homophobia, transphobia, Islamophobia, ableism, ageism, and anti-immigration sentiments. But, no one is outside the system in which these collective dysfunctions arise, and refusing to engage these realities and failing to integrate them within the scope of our awareness is just as much a political stance as anything else. An unethical one at that.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. often lamented this false peace that comes from not risking conflict. For King, true peace is not the “absence of tension,” but is instead “the presence of justice.” In his 1963 Letter from the Birmingham Jail, King expressed his anger and frustration with folks who claimed to be empathetic to his cause, but who stood on the sidelines to maintain their own comfort and some skewed semblance of social “order.” He wrote,

“Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.”

As Robin DiAngelo notes in her recently published book Nice Racism,

“King speaks to the tendency of white moderates to see a lack of struggle as an indicator of racial justice. He notes that no racial progress has ever been made without conflict” (pg. 3).

Surely, we should take Dr. King’s prophetic comments to heart and consider how conflict is necessary to disrupt the false peace that, ultimately, serves to maintain systems of oppression. So, whether we avoid conflict to make our next Thanksgiving less tense (but just as painful), or whether we avoid it to secure our own comfort in the face of collective realities that are deeply disturbing, I invite us to explore what circumstances make disagreement and disruption worthy endeavors. If we trust Kingian wisdom: conflict, when engaged in strategically and skillfully, can be used to generate a more authentic peace — a peace rooted in truth-telling, justice, and a willingness to repair harm and move forward.

Silence is Tricky

What was that old saying teachers and parents used to tell us as school kids? It was something like,“if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all,” right? Ugh. Well my friends, the question (as always) is: who does this mantra serve? And who does it not serve? Silence gets tricky first and foremost when it either enables or condones abuse or unethical behavior. Sure, when we speak out against abuse or unethical behavior we can always endeavor to be diplomatic, but being overly concerned with “niceness” can detract from the one-pointedness needed to cut through to results. I’m guilty of this. I’m embarrassed to say, I’m often overly concerned with “appearing nice,” and no doubt this tendency comes from both misguided feminine conditioning (and my reification of that conditioning), as well as some insecure need to be liked. And so, too often, I circumambulate around a “nice” persona, and sometimes use silence in order to ensure I’m “in.”

But do I really want to forego telling friends and family that I’m hurting? And do I really want to belong to the side of history that enables harm and violence through my passivity? Habits of silence to “save face” or “smooth things over” when there has been real, palpable harm doesn’t lead to healing; nor does it lead to lasting, healthy relationships; nor does it lead to justice. In fact, it is precisely our silence bias that enables dysfunctional systems (whether familial, communal, or national) to continue reproducing harm. For example, part of the way white supremacy re-perpetuates itself is through the silence of so-called “moderate” and “progressive” whites. This silence continues despite Black, Brown, and Asian Americans being assaulted and murdered in the public eye, and despite chronic discrimination against people of color and indigenous folks when it comes to housing, healthcare, financial lending, education, voting rights, and job opportunities. Moreover, this isn’t only a domestic issue. Silence is deadly on the international stage as well. Consider what happened when places like Tibet and Palestine cried out for help: the world largely remained silent, allowing occupation, cultural destruction, and genocide to continue unabated. In this way, silence can literally be deadly, and can actively contribute to the demoralization and destruction of a whole people.

If we have trouble understanding how silence can be harmful on the collective scale, we can start by examining our own personal relationships. Because it’s certainly true — on the interpersonal plane as well — silence can enable a relational dynamic that is hurtful, and also harmful to our emotional and spiritual development. We’ve all had dynamics with friends, lovers, co-workers or family members that felt somehow imbalanced. In these imbalanced relationships, we repeatedly offer someone else the space to air their grievances, while we become exhausted (or even demoralized and disheartened.) I think it’s great to be there for others, but if we find ourselves continually depleted, perhaps it’s okay to speak up and say what we notice. We needn’t be unkind, but it’s okay to allow our eyes to widen and to show our upset. All this assumes, of course, that we want to work on this relationship with the hopes of keeping it. Otherwise, tip your hat to this person, acknowledge this is where they’re at, and move on.

So, silence can enable abuse, injustice, unethical behavior, and dysfunctional relationships. But, not only that. As Sarah Schulman points out in her book Conflict is Not Abuse, silence as a response to someone’s grievances can be a punitive act. It can be a cruel way to retaliate. This punitive kind of silence comes into play when someone has the guts to tell you that you are behaving in a way that is hurtful. It’s hard to hear when we’ve messed up. If we’re not careful, we can be tempted to lash out by using silence to punish the person who had the courage to bring up what was challenging for them. We fool ourselves into thinking we are “noble” for not “stoking the fire.” We say “whatever,” we walk away, we hang up the phone, we literally physically leave a person in their grief. That’s super challenging for the person who tried to teach us about the impacts of our behavior. No one wants to feel that kind of exasperating loneliness in their pain. So, even if we can’t respond totally open-heartedly in the moment, it might help to at least muster a simple, “I hear you, thanks for telling me this. I’m going to have to calm down and get back to you.”

There are two major caveats to this roast on silence. First, there’s definitely such a thing as healthy forbearance. Within liberation movements, within families, within friendships, within partnerships: people make mistakes. Healthy forbearance means we don’t “nail” a person every time they make one. We weigh the situation thoughtfully with tenderness and mercy, and see what would be most helpful. Sometimes that means forbearing confrontation. My partner Dave frequently shares with me his inner contemplation in moments like these. He ponders: “Does this need to be said? Does this need to be said right now? Does this need to be said by me?” I find it helpful. In situations where I am the only the woman of color talking to a group of resistant white men about racial injustice and patriarchy the answers are often “um…yes, yes, and hell yes!” But sometimes, when a friend or family member makes a passing slight on my character in a joking way, and I know they didn’t mean to hurt me, I feel what I feel and move on. It’s up to us to make this forbearance-or-conflict determination, and I think we can trust ourselves in doing so as long as we engage what’s happening with an open and compassionate heart.

Second, silence is sometimes downright necessary when we need space to self-regulate our coarse and subtle bodies. Everyone has a right to protect their body and self-regulate their nervous system. This is especially critical for those of us in oppressed minority groups: when we are traumatized by the very systems we are endeavoring to disrupt, and we need a minute, a week, a month, or however long to regroup, we are entitled to that. Assuring time for recovery and spaciousness is part of the work of disrupting violent systems. Silence may be needed for that, and if silence is needed: silence is needed! Without anyone’s permission. Yet for those of us in dominant groups: this doesn’t mean that discomfort and tension are tantamount to non-safety of the body. So be careful with claiming “I don’t feel safe and therefore need to be quiet,” when what you actually mean is that your ego just got royally bruised and you’re using silence to punish or disengage. That may actually be a healthy ego bruising, and simply part and parcel of becoming socially responsible. So, silence for taking care of yourself and protecting the body: yes, absolutely; silence as a ploy to avoid awkwardness: maybe hang-out in the messiness a little longer, you’re on the right track!

An Alternative Guiding Mantra: “We’re Not Aligned, But You Still Belong”

So, the whole “if-you-can’t-say-something-nice, don’t-say-anything-at-all-thing” is a bit of a bust. What then might guide us in navigating conflict? No doubt each of you could come up with helpful (and even poetic!) mantras, but I’ll just share the one I’m working with. It’s this: “we’re not aligned, but you still belong.” This is not so much something I explicitly say, as much as it is an ethos I endeavor to embody. Here’s how I think about it…

Let’s say, some shit has just gone down. Maybe someone has just said something hurtful, or is about to do something unethical, or you’re noticing a dysfunctional relational or systemic pattern play out. The first part of this mantra — “we’re not aligned” — invites us to notice that and speak up. We’ve determined that silence in this case would unnecessarily condone hurtful or unjust conduct, and so we choose to respond. We’re ready to state unequivocally what needs to be named. This might mean describing our needs, stating our disagreement, or otherwise differentiating ourselves from tacit adoption of what was just said or what is taking place. In short, “we’re not aligned” is the part of our conflict-guidance-mantra that gives us total permission to speak up when something or someone is threatening our right to be well, or the rights of others to be well.

But here, I must state an aside, my loves. Even as we face potential conflict, we benefit greatly from simultaneous internal work. Because here’s the deal: we want to be able to respond, rather than react. Responding means there’s clarity and freedom to our engagement with the situation. Reacting, on the other hand, means our habitual patterns are in the driver’s seat, and we may be inadvertently addressing a past situation, not what’s presently unfolding. So, part of determining whether we’re “aligned” to whatever is taking place, and knowing how to engage in conflict if we aren’t, necessitates feeling our feelings with awareness. After all, in charged situations like those that can precede and pervade conflict, strong emotions are often at play. Anger can be especially prevalent. As Lama Rod Owens notes in his (ah-maaaaazing!) book Love & Rage, anger is an energy pattern in our body that arises when we are hurt but don’t yet know what to do about it. But instead of thinking that anger (or other difficult emotions) are a problem, Lama Rod encourages us to let these emotions inform us. We can think, “oh, I’m hella hurt and activated right now,” and then simply feel the feeling. I’m not going to lie: this takes guts. Emotional energy can be strong and uncomfortable. For me, anger is hot, fast-paced, itchy, and quickly coalesces into some kind of molten molasses in my throat. It’s hard to allow it to be, to shape-shift, to stay or not stay, without willing it to go away or trying to transform it into something else. But, that’s the work. (That being said, please take good care if you have a fresh or difficult embodied trauma and make sure to do this awareness work at your own pace. If body awareness ever feels like too much, take a break or try placing your attention on something outside of the body — like a flower, a candle, or the sturdiness of the ground beneath you.)

If you are able to allow difficult feelings to simply be there when you are facing a potential conflict, the reward is this: you’ll gain clarity about what this feeling is, as well as some freedom to be creative in how you respond. Maybe you determine, “oh, I’m just activated and annoyed because this dude’s mannerisms remind me of my insensitive ex-boyfriend, but actually, what he said was harmless.” Or, maybe you realize, “I’m hurt because of the insanity taking place right now and I need to say how I feel so this stops.” When we check-in with how we feel, we commit to our well-being while also giving ourselves a chance to engage in conflict with freedom and space.

So, we’ve dropped into our bodies; we’ve felt what’s going on; and we’ve assessed the situation before us from a place of authentic, embodied clarity. Let’s say we now know that we’re not okay with what’s happening. And so, the first part of our conflict mantra, which acknowledges that we are not aligned with whomever or whatever we encounter, encourages us to respond so that we’re not enabling harm to ourselves or others through silence. Now, the second half of the mantra — “but you still belong” — comes into play. It begs us to infuse the entire conflict with awareness of the other person’s humanity and complexity. For me, without this component, we are responding to violence with violence.

But what does it mean to belong? Belonging is a term I’ve recently fallen in love with — not because it describes a particularly “warm and fuzzy” emotional state, but because it describes the simple, ultimate reality of how things are. I started contemplating the term more intentionally after reading parts of You Belong, an incredibly touching, fresh, and insightful book by author and meditation teacher Sebene Salassie. Though we might experience belonging at some times in our lives and not others, Salassie explains that belonging is, in actual fact, unconditional. It is true whether or not we experience it. Said another way, belonging is not dependent on doing the “right things” or avoiding the “wrong things;” nor is it a specific feeling or thought that we need to sustain (Salassie, pgs 3-4). Rather, belonging is simply the fundamental birthright of all beings by virtue their interdependent existence with everything else. People belong because they are, and they are because everything else also is. As soon as we feel that we or someone else doesn’t belong, we have fallen under the illusion of separateness: mistakenly believing that there could possibly be someone that doesn’t belong in the fabric of reality from which they arose. “Waking up” from the delusion of separateness means coming into awareness of our innate belonging, which is not only the birthright of humans, but all sentient beings. For me, this includes plants, trees, animals, insects, flowers, spirits, ancestors, rivers, and so much more.

And so, we want to engage in conflict with awareness of the belonging of all beings. One way to do this, is to do our best not to objectify one another. Objectification occurs when we over-simplify someone, distilling them down to one “thing.” When we do this, we ignore a person’s history, complexity, multi-dimensionality, and their connection to this interdependent world we’re in. It can happen rather quickly: we get some idea about someone, and suddenly, because we’ve reified that idea, that’s all we can see.

When we distill a person down to one concrete “thing” — we turn them into an object. This gets really dangerous because, as Lama Rod Owens often points out, if someone is an object and not a sentient being, then we feel like we can do all kinds of inhumane things to them. And not only that, when we objectify someone, we deny our own capacity to see complexity. In this way, when we dehumanize someone else, we dehumanize ourselves. Suddenly, not only are we ignorant to the other person’s innate belonging, we are subject to doubting our own.

When I’m completely hardened to someone, and can’t muster any understanding or compassion towards them, I sometimes sit on my meditation cushion and do a “Complexity Contemplation.” This is an exercise (I made up) where I focus on the person I find difficult and imagine their entire life, starting with their birth. Along the way, I think about the following things:

• I think about all the joys and challenges they might have experienced as a young infant: how relaxed they must have felt when they were held and rocked, and how hard it must have been when they were neglected or ignored.

• I think about what their parents were like, and whether they were able to teach this person the things that might allow them to be vulnerable and trusting. I wonder whether this person had to harden in some ways in order to survive. I think about the wisdom of learning to survive.

• I think about all the times they might have been unfairly scolded or otherwise unseen as an adolescent, and all the ways they adapted to cope and fit in as a teenager.

• I think about the gifts they developed, the ways in which they expressed and currently express their creativity. I imagine the ways they might be a light in other peoples’ lives without my knowing. I think about whether they have gifts or passions that they are too humble, or too timid to share.

• I think about all the ways they endeavor to be good, even if it’s to a plant or animal, knowing that this person too has many moments of unseen compassion and generosity.

• I think about how they suffer, and that I too suffer. I think about who might be there for them, and what they might sound like when they really let their guard down. I think about how much they want to be happy and free, and all the ways they express that, and how I too want to be happy and free.

I engage in these contemplations because it brings forth what I’m not seeing when I funnel someone into “just being a jerk,” or “just being selfish,” or “just being ignorant of racial injustice,” any other singular categorization I’m prone to impose on someone. Honestly, without mechanically thinking through such things, sometimes I find it really, really hard to affirm the belonging of certain people. Even with this contemplation, I don’t always succeed. But, it is my commitment to try to see the truth: that this person, difficult as I may find them to be, is not “one thing.” They are dynamic and in relationship with this world, just like me.

In graduate school, whenever I would bring up the universality of belonging as essential to justice work, someone would often pipe up and ask, “So, are you saying that Nazi-sympathizers and KKK members belong?” Yes, but probably not in the conditional way the questioner is implying. It’s not that Nazi-sympathizers and KKK members have a right to see their delusions made manifest, or that they belong by virtue of their delusions. (And, my goodness, they do indeed hold delusions about some people being fundamentally superior to others and what must be done about that…though, we all hold delusions to some degree about this.) No. We can’t and shouldn’t accommodate any platform that seeks to hurt and annihilate others. That would deny the reality of innate belonging. But, if we consider any being, including Nazi sympathizers and KKK members, as somehow separate from us and all there is, or if we don’t see that they too are beings who breathe in and out and who are seeking satisfaction just like us — then we too are guilty of violence. If I stop wishing all beings to be well and free from delusion, then I myself risk being unwell and governed by delusion.

“We’re not aligned, but you still belong” is not a catch-phrase. It’s a practice. These aren’t words we explicitly say while in conflict, they are truths we endeavor to know and embody when conflict is necessary. If our conflict mantra were only: “we’re not aligned;” we’d risk losing perspective, objectifying others, dehumanizing ourselves, and ultimately, causing more harm than good. On the other hand, if our only guide to conflict were: “you belong;” we’d risk denying our own needs, ignoring our own hurt, compromising the safety of others, and condoning systemic violence. Increasingly, in this hyper-polarized world, we need both sides of the phrase. So, put your foot down, but know that you’re ultimately doing it for the person you’re in conflict with, not to destroy them.

Because this mantra is one we practice and embody, it doesn’t give us much help when it comes to figuring out the content of what we communicate in the midst of conflict. I know, in tense situations, it’s often hard to find the right words, especially when initially trying to broach a subject with someone. My experience is that when I am authentically considering another’s complexity, while tending to injustice or the ways I feel hurt — the right words come. Still, sometimes it can be helpful to hear phrases that balance firmness and compassion, to get a sense of what might be possible in the moment. These are but a few of the million-and-one ways that embodying our conflict mantra might emerge through speech:

• “You know, what you just said really didn’t land with me. Can you rephrase that or explain what you mean?”

• “I love you, but I found what you said really hurtful and enraging.”

• “I need things to change so we can move forward together.”

• “I’m hoping you might be the one man/white person/straight person/cisgender person I can talk to about the patriarchal/racist/hetero-normative/transphobic harm I’m experiencing. Will you just listen?”

• “I’m very concerned that this policy we’re considering contributes to systemic violence. Let’s spend some more time discussing it because I’m confident we can come up with less harmful alternatives.”

But What of Emotional Labor?

It’s true. If you engage in conflict this way, you might be doing way more energetic work than someone who might roll on into an argument as sloppily as can be. This means, you might find yourself in situations where you are doing the bulk of the emotional labor. If you’re not familiar with it, “emotional labor” is a term that describes the taxing quality of fielding and holding another person’s psycho-emotional experience, particularly when they are ignorant of (and actively contributing to) systemic dysfunction that marginalizes you. As Leah Cowan points out in this amazing TED Talk, people in historically marginalized groups are often unfairly expected to do emotional labor for those who are oblivious to their privilege, and this can be incredibly trying. Just know, it’s your right to stop engaging in any conflict when you feel you aren’t be heard or held in return. And remember: silence to self-regulate is LEGIT.

Overtime, however, I’ve realized that part of my commitment to justice, to personal development, and to my bodhisattva vows means that, sometimes, the care with which I approach an interaction is not reciprocated. For me, this is not necessarily a reason not to do it. I have the good fortune of not feeling acutely traumatized at this moment, and so, I can stretch myself a bit. Plus, deep down I know that I too am benefitted from engaging in conflict with an open and bold heart, and that people who can’t reciprocate are where they are. Still, you are entitled to make the call based on how you perceive a conflict and based on your needs. We all have limits and have a right to enforce boundaries. When I experience so much imbalance in the dynamic that I can’t even self-regulate or keep my cool, it’s time to go tend to myself.

Choosing Wisely

I hope it’s become clear throughout this post that conflict can be necessary to deepen relationships we care about, to disrupt the silence that enables harm and abuse, and to foster a more just and equitable world. I also hope it came through that we can engage in conflict boldly and lovingly, in a way that affirms the innate belonging of all. I’d even go so far as to say, it’s not just something we can do — it’s our social responsibility.

When I talk about ethical and social responsibility, I know that it makes some people queasy. In the past, friends of mine have resisted and pushed back, articulating that not everyone is going to be passionate about the same thing. True, true. But social responsibility simply comes with being a social being and living in community; it does not necessarily have to take the form of being an activist. We can be creative with how we carry out that social responsibility based on our talents and context. We can choose where and how we engage our ever-deepening awareness. We can do the work in whatever circles we find ourselves.

Pretty early on, I discovered that my skill-set doesn’t really lie in canvassing or leading marches. I’m not talented at organizing large-scale conferences or acts of disruption (bless those of you who are, and thank you!) But I asked myself,
”Where and how can I be an ally?” I realized that, first and foremost, being an ally meant being honest with myself about the ways in which I am reinforcing systems of harm. For example, if I am constantly capitulating to my feminine conditioning that has taught me, as a woman, to refrain from “ruffling any feathers,” in what ways am I still invested in patriarchy? And if I am not looking at the (embarrassing and saddening) ways I have internalized racism in my mind and body, how am I able to divest from systems of racial violence? No matter what our context, maybe healthy conflict starts by taking a look at the ways in which we are invested in toxic relationships as well as systems of violence.

Doing that internal work is vital. But the next step is actively divesting from harmful systems and relationships, which yes, sometimes necessitates conflict. Here, however, we can be creative! We can choose the contexts where we’ll help based on our passions and heart projects. And so, I engage in healthy truth-telling by sharing my writing, and by speaking with people I’m in relationship with, including my family, friends, and members of my spiritual community. I also plan on being open and transparent with my new chaplain coworkers, when I start a new position in August. Doing this work in community is especially powerful, because I know that others will help keep me accountable — and I thank them for that.

It can be tempting to think that conflict must be geared towards those with the most extreme views (like the KKK.) But, as civil and human rights activist Loretta Ross puts it, “know your sphere of influence.” Sometimes, the good we can do is precisely within the circles we are part of. For example, I have several therapist friends who have brought their ever-growing awareness of whiteness to the work they are doing with their clients. My partner, Dave, has found a way to have kind and productive conflict with friends and sangha members when it comes to racial injustice. These activities are important. We can radiate awareness of innate belonging from where we are, based on our talents and abilities. And we can appreciate our own open, undefended hearts that lie in the center of our activities. Conflict engaged from this place, my dears, can do a lot of good. Shine on.

I typically feel it at the end of the day as a deep exhale or inner shavasana, a homecoming into silence. Sometimes, I even feel it in the early afternoon, as the morning’s activities recede like a lowering tide. For several years starting in my late twenties and into my early thirties, I felt it much more dramatically and acutely as a series of surprise punches that forced me into bewildering, liminal spaces of uncertainty: Saturn had returned for the first time since my birth, and when she departed again for another 30 years, she took with her my naiveté, my mother, my marriage, and my legal career. But, the feeling’s appearance is not always so oscar-worthy. Sometimes, quite mundanely, it arises as a lull in conversation; or a rooted feminine settledness at the end of a woman’s cycle; or a contented peacefulness, resting in the delight of having just put poetry, prose, or paint to paper, and having nothing more to express. And still other times, the feeling is none other than a simple, painful knowing, that an old friend, a stage of life, or even a geographical place is now somehow askew to one’s trajectory, and is slowly parting. In a million and one ways this feeling arises: it is the deep intuitive knowing that something is dying.

If you’re anything like me, you’re not always good at letting things die. It’s so much easier to place our attention on what is forming and tangible, or to talk about what exciting new developments are emerging on the horizon. Think about the last time you reconnected with someone, and they asked you how you are: did you jump to a description of your recent activities? Even the question “what’s new with you?” invites a specific segment of your life experience: that which has arisen, or has been birthed, or is currently unfolding. Aside from those times when we are in the company of our closest friends, most of the time, we don’t eagerly feel into and describe that which is breaking apart, dissolving, or that which has just died.

And who can blame us? Many of us were not raised in a particularly death-conscious society. What’s “hot” is what’s new and shiny. Sadly, sometimes it feels like the closest our consumer culture ever gets to death consciousness is the planned obsolescence of a product. Is there not a palpable aversion to discussing the unique beauty and potential agony involved in the dying process (whether it be the dissolution of a stage of life, a season, a moment, a relationship, a person, or a whole culture or community?) To me, it increasingly feels like this bias we have on focusing on newness, birth, growth, increase, being “on top of it,” making more, being more, or however we want to speak about the “manifesting” stages of life, is causing us to live a half-life, and ironically, creating a kind of inner deadness. In other words, our birthing bias (our focus on what is arising and flowering), and our conscious or unconscious aversion to what is dissolving and dying, creates a kind of “maha” [great, overarching] bias that slowly cuts us off from the fullness of life’s creative cycles.

This bias is observe-able in ourselves and others. It can look like over-activity, which may be an unconscious effort to evade or “fill in” the experience of any one thing coming to an end. It can look like an inability to rest with difficulty or uncertainty (yours or another’s), or a compulsion to constantly highlight “the bright side.” It can look like stuckness or lack of inspiration, because the muse of creativity was never given a chance to rest and regenerate. It can look like nitpicking at our partner, or blaming an otherwise healthy relationship for all our struggles, not being willing to accept that the relationship is going into a new phase - one in which bubbly new infatuation is dying to make room for love’s deeper, more inclusive, and less conditional forms.

I am inspired to write about this because I am re-reading Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ masterpiece, Women Who Run With The Wolves. (As an aside: if you identify as a woman, look into this book sister! It is a feminist Jungian initiation back into your wild dynamism by way of myth and prose.) Most poignantly, Estés points out what we all know but perhaps rarely ponder: there is a life/death/life cycle constantly unfolding. Things are birthed; they increase to their fullness; and then they start to fall apart and die. You can see this at both subtle and gross levels: sensations, emotions, and thoughts arise, peak, and dissolve; as do whole stages of life, ways of being, seasons, and solar systems. Creation is not simply a kinetic coalescing process; it is also the dissolution of “what is” back into formlessness.

Here’s the thing, my friends: when we ignore the dissolution process that naturally (and inevitably) takes place in our experience, and force-feed ourselves increasingly kinetic ways of being, not only do we risk repressing our pain in unhealthy ways, we also miss out on the transformative potential that dissolution and death make possible. Death’s promise is this: if we can abide in the dissolution of any aspect of our lives with awareness, we will discover something we didn’t know before (Estés 98), and we will regenerate into new (wiser) beings. In the rot of our endings, our new beginnings are slowly being fertilized in the nutrient-rich soil of past experience. To anxiously ignore moments of dissolution is to forego the chrysalis wherein life-giving enzymes promise to break us apart and reconfigure us into something transformative and beautiful. Otherwise, we are a caterpillar refusing to undergo change: we insist on only eating, climbing, and eating some more - until we are so full, we have no choice other than to deaden and numb-out, unable to muster the strength to engage in the sacred art of transformation. Allowing the death part of the life/death/cycle is precisely the opposite of that. To die is to live - and live better. It is our natural existential rhythm.

But just because dissolution and death are natural, doesn’t mean these experiences are easy. They can be absolutely terrifying. Death’s sisters are uncertainty, groundlessness, and bewilderment. When the old is gone, and the new is not yet revealed, the sisters announce themselves, and they can be downright knee-wobbling if we aren’t used to inviting them in for tea. Why do we shake in our boots? The root of our fear is that death means finality. When someone or something in our life dies, we worry we will be in the unknown forever; that we will be scared forever; that we will be alone forever; that we won’t know which way to turn forever. But death’s nature is just a subset of the life/death/life paradigm, and her promise is ever-present. She whispers, “abide here and I will show you something spectacular - something fresh!”

This promise is hard to trust. Indeed, how challenging it is, I find, to remember this promise when we are in the misty liminal places — the places where it is so foggy with uncertainty, we can barely see our own fingertips! How difficult it is, when we are in the rotting soil of what was, and the weight of the emotional landscape feels like it will burry us alive! It’s hard in these moments to trust that what is brewing is actually newfound wisdom that will soon be ready for us to ride into our next stage of being. When my mother died, I remember a persistent background terror that lingered for at least a couple years. My fear was that I would feel the depths of sadness forever, like a well with no exit. And yet, sure enough, time revealed the fullness of the life/death/life cycle. What dies must live. Just as my relationship with my mother continued, so did the dynamism of my emotional experience: sadness lifted and what grew in its place I would have never previously imagined. Dissolution is never finality. It is simply that which ensures that there is no finality.

Various components of our lives are at different stages of the life/death/life cycle. For example, though your romantic partnership may be dissolving, your writing life may be robust and flourishing. Because different parts of our life are on different sides of the circle, we can slowly become intimately acquainted with their various rhythms. And yet, sometimes, there are periods when it feels like almost every aspect of our life seems to be in a dissolution state. This is my definition of a “descent,” which some people call “the dark night of the soul.” A true descent is not just a bad day or year, it is when the ground in virtually all corners of our life is shifting and dissolving so dramatically, that there is a total self-emptying of what was once known. It is not easy to abide in such a fluctuating landscape. New fault lines are opening and crumbling so fast, we doubt our steady footing. Such a descent necessarily entails suffering. It is the nature of the landscape. Yet even within this multi-vector dissolution experience, we can repeatedly endeavor to receive the transformative promise that dying inevitably entails. For Sylvia Perrera, another feminist Jungian psychologist, this is not a passive enterprise. Rather, the practice is a rigorous and repeated “active willingness to receive.” To receive what? The deconstruction that leads to life-giving reconfiguration and newfound wisdom.

But we need not do this alone. In my own experience of descent, one of my main lifelines was surrounding myself with people who continually reminded me of the life/death/life cycle (in so many words), and that nothing is permanent. These sweet beings weren’t afraid of the depths of my descent, and their steadiness helped me to trust that, perhaps they might well be right: maybe this is not all bad news. Soon too, personal experience came to the fore as the greatest teacher. I could feel that my perception was changing, and that I was transforming. My heart was getting softer, my ear more empathetic, my creativity more fluid. Music and poetry started trickling in, as did tears from simple experiences like watching the sunlight hit the leaves just so. I slowly transformed into someone who was a bit more embedded in the fabric of things, and it felt good to feel — even when everything was falling apart.

Now, I see that it wasn’t necessary to wait for such a dramatic conference of dissolution events. I could have started small. There is an opportunity, therefore, to simply explore one small life/death/life cycle at a time. Perhaps, we could just start with the arch of our day, and see when energy arises and dissipates within us. Women who experience menstrual cycles have a unique opportunity to explore the life/death/life cycle that happens within that time frame. We can also notice our patterns of extroversion and solitude: when does the socialite within recede? Even exploring a single inhale-and-exhale cycle can teach us plenty about the fullness of life/death/life.

Contemplations with guided questions can also be helpful. For example, consider the following questions with regards to where you are right now in your life:

• Is anything dying in your experience right in this moment? Sensations? Emotions? Thoughts?

• What, in your life, needs to be allowed to die? Are there any relationships or rigid notions that need to be loosened?

• What is your “birthing bias strategy,” that is, what is the way you tend to avoid the natural dissolution that is part of the life/death/life cycle? In what ways does this thwart growth and transformation? In what ways does it harm you?

• What might support you in letting go? Friends? Rituals to honor what has just ended? Literature that reminds you that nothing is final? A counselor? A sage?

• What are you afraid will happen if you don’t fill in this moment when things need to recede?

• What does it look like to “actively receive” death as a natural part of life?

Without making room for the death parts of the life/death/life cycle, we choose only more activity, more coalescing, more consumption, until we are frenzied, stuffed, exhausted, and sadly, barricaded from life. Our light dims when this happens. The franticness of trying to get closer to life by constantly birthing new ideas, projects, and activities, ironically attenuates us from the very thing we seek. As my partner, Dave, reminded me on a walk recently: when fruit trees aren’t pruned before the winter, they won’t yield as many fruit the following spring. By cutting them back, transformation happens from root to tip, and the harvest is once again plentiful. We allow dying so we can live; we seep in the rot of endings so we can flower vigorously. When the whole process is infused with awareness, our life ever-deepens.

Dissolution is nutrient-rich with wisdom. And so, how robust and precious it is, my friends, to not only know the fruit, but to also be intimately familiar with the rot from which it came. It takes courage and heart, but it is on the ground floor that we sometimes see the true nature of things.