Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life –

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

–William Stafford

From Ask Me: 100 Essential Poems, Graywolf Press.

When is enough, enough?

How much is enough? What is enough? We live in a culture that encourages us to want more—more money, more things, more success, more friends, more attention, more certainty, more of almost everything. Buddhism gives us a haunting image for this endless appetite: the Hungry Ghost. A Hungry Ghost has an endless hunger and a mouth too small to get enough in. Nothing is ever enough because everything it consumes passes through, leaving it chronically hungry for more.

We all have the potential to be a Hungry Ghost.

Our bodies can help inform us when enough is enough. Like when I am hungry and make a bigger meal than I actually need, then feel full halfway through. Do I stop eating, or do I eat it all and then overeat?

“The instinctual nature tells us when enough is enough.” Clarissa Pinkola Estés, Women Who Run With the Wolves.

Estés has a work titled The Gift of Story: A Wise Tale About What Is Enough. In the story, the question is explicitly posed: “What is enough?”

Listening to our intuitive nature will help us have enough and be satisfied. Feel our satisfaction with enough.

Want what you have is another consideration. Instead of always wanting something different or more—what would it mean to want what you have? This still makes room, maybe even more room, for what else may want to arrive.

What would it be like to stop requiring something else in order for this moment to be enough? Receive what is here without grasping for what isn’t?

“Happiness is not having what you want, but wanting what you have.” Rabbi Hyman Schachtel, 1954 book The Real Enjoyment of Living

“Seek not that the things which happen should happen as you wish; but wish the things which happen to be as they are, and you will have a tranquil flow of life.”
—Epictetus, Enchiridion, 8

That is remarkably close in spirit to “want what you have,” although Epictetus is really saying something broader: want reality as it is.

What might that be like, to want reality as it is?

It too often gets down to us not feeling like we are enough. When this is conscious, wonderful; we can do something about it. When this is unconscious, we may become billionaires or powerful, but as Hungry Ghosts, we are never satisfied.

Seeking satisfaction outside of the moment is a waste of our energy. It puts us in a future that is unknown and never, ever arrives. We never arrive in the future because it is always the future.

Many of us are addicted to considering and chronically planning for the future, losing the satisfaction that is present in front of us now. I tend to notice this on my walks with my dogs. Instead of taking in all the beauty surrounding me, I may find myself jumping ahead. (Others tend to jump back and be in the past).

I find I am more and more aware and present for what is in front of me. Or soon notice when I am not enjoying the walk, or making dinner, or tending to my gardens (because my mind was elsewhere). Maybe it is in part age; I just don’t have the interest in mentally focusing on the future. Maybe—and I hope this is the case—some of this serenity is due to decades of meditation and mindfulness.

Our future and our past are in the present. This present moment is the future of our past—and the past of our future.

Contemplate that.

Our life as it is now tells us who we were, what happened to us, and who we are likely to become. We are creating the future in this moment, and that is enough. It can be enough if we let it.

Creating our future in the moment rather than continually leaving this moment for some imagined future.

I want to mention, as I have mentioned before: There is no dogma here. This is not absolute truth, or a truth that can only be framed one way. This is just my take on it. So, take what works. Tweak it. Leave the rest. Adjust it to your own wisdom and life experience. Let my sharing invite contemplation and creative thinking on your part, in your own way.

Which reveals to us another dynamic of enough.

It is enough for me to share my ideas, wisdom, and experience. I don’t need to insist this is the truth or insist you respond to it in any particular way.

This is that golden dynamic of mutual influence. Influencing one another should be enough, and it can be found in all healthy relationships: writer to reader; reader to writer. Friend to friend. Government to the people; the people to the government. Spouse to spouse. Teacher to student; student to teacher. Therapist to client; client to therapist. Mentor to mentee; mentee to mentor.

The ability to be influenced by the other. That is enough.

Anything beyond that is attempted control, coercion, or manipulation. Anything less than that is isolation, laziness, or indifference.

Have I brought up enough about enough? — This is a great question for writers too —

When have I shared enough in this article, scene, or memory? Or essay? This question can be translated as trusting the reader. We don’t have to summarize everything (or anything); we don’t have to explain what we mean when we showed it. And we can leave some things out intentionally for the reader to fill in.

We can also trust ourselves as writers—that we are sharing enough, revealing enough in a skillful way to be understood.

In this world
we walk on the roof of hell,
gazing at flowers. -Kobayashi Issa

✍️ Writing Prompt: Go to a piece you are working on, whatever the genre. Take 30% or more of it out. And still make it work as a full essay or scene or memory reflection.

🌀 Contemplative Action: What might that be like, to want reality as it is?

🙏 Contemplative Action: Want what you have.

I leave you with lyrics by Brandi Carlile, from her song “Human”:

“We don’t need to know right now
It’s hard enough being human.”

Listen to or read the lyrics to Brandi Carlile’s “Human” here.

PS: If you got this far — Do I overeat after having made too much food for myself? It depends. The habit energy really wants to consume it all. My body says enough. So I have gotten better at listening to when my body tells me “enough.”

And I am better at making smaller meals.

rough, uneven stones
stacked and
offered to me
on the skyline of the shore

You said
and for the sun
setting down over
Bear Peninsula

such an offering
of stone on stone
on stone

not
a gift
or request

You will not wait for me
here
or elsewhere

You told me so…

like you had for Her.

a memorial
a landmark
a prayer made into stone

walker
lover
friend
will arrive and wonder

What is the true story of this cairn?

like me

I wonder.

Now with distance between us
these
ancient
endangered
ignored
prayers

placed on each other

time
space
oceans

beloved
stone man

there is no love story without
a kiss,

ocean breath
lips

crash
return
and crash again

I build a cairn
of words

my
monument
landmark
defense

to
my
longing

hoping
knowing

since

I can’t get to you from here.

wind
time
waves

break stone
and woman
down.

This in between, like
dark gaps separating stones

air
water
wind
prayer

calling

you
me
Her

will erode me.

Down.

break this
rock body
woman down

down to sand.

till all that is left
is Your monument.

rock
scissors
paper

my
Prayers
dreams
songs

crash the shore
at sunset

Now,

just

stone
on
stone,

Our sun sets
behind Your cairn

taking the last warmth of light

and vanishes

without me.

—Julie Tallard Johnson, Cairn on Bear Peninsula, October, 2016

Daiju visited the master Baso in China. Baso asked: What

do you seek?

“Enlightenment,” replied Daiju.

“You have your own treasure house. Why do you search

outside?” Baso asked.

Daiju inquired: “Where is my treasure house?”

Baso answered: “What you are asking is your treasure

house.”

Daiju was enlightened! Ever after he urged his friends:

“Open your own treasure house and use those treasures.”

–Paul Reps and Nyogen Senzaki, Zen Flesh, Zen Bones

I wrote The Zero Point Agreement more than a decade ago, and I find myself returning to it now. A friend told me, “This is a love letter to your future self.” And I have found that to be true. Because like Daiju in the above story, I come to understand that what I seek is carried within.

In Lakota framework everyone is a meaning maker; everyone must make sense of his or her experience. Woableza has been translated as “realization.” It has always seemed to me that this word acknowledges that each person has a capacity to make meaning; that understanding is very personal, is timed by him or her, and is not predictable; and for woableza to exist, a change in the person should take place. ––—Gerald Mohatt, The Price of a Gift

At the heart of the book is a simple but profound invitation for each of us: What agreements have we made that are shaping our lives without our even realizing it?

We all carry agreements about who we are, what we deserve, what is possible, how relationships work, what success means, what we should fear, and what we must do to belong. Many of these agreements were made early in life. Some were inherited from our families and culture. Some came out of painful experiences. And many were never consciously chosen at all.

Yet we live by them.

The Zero Point is that place where we can become aware of these agreements without being controlled by them. It isn’t about positive thinking or putting affirmations over old wounds. It’s about learning to witness our habitual thoughts, reactions, fears, and stories with enough space to make another choice.

Zero Point is where choice becomes possible.

This book brings together what has always mattered most in my work and personal life: psychological understanding and spiritual practice, personal responsibility without blame, and the possibility of freeing ourselves from the stories and patterns that keep us suffering.

Relationships are a big part of this work because they so beautifully—and sometimes painfully—show us the agreements we are living by. Our need to please. Our fear of abandonment. Our desire to control. Our resistance to intimacy. Our beliefs about what we deserve.

And then there is resistance itself: that very human tendency to hold on to familiar suffering rather than risk an unfamiliar freedom.

The Zero Point Agreement offers practices and inquiries to bring these hidden agreements into awareness and to discover what remains when we are no longer bound by them.

If you feel caught by your history, limited by old beliefs, or simply curious about the agreements operating beneath your life, I invite you to read—or perhaps reread—The Zero Point Agreement.

The invitation of the book remains the same:

Step into the Zero Point, where more becomes possible, and discover who you are beyond the agreements you have made.

Suppose we were able to share meanings freely, without a compulsive urge to impose our view or conform to those of others, and without distortion and self-deception. Would this not constitute a real revolution in culture?

-David Joseph Bohm, quantum physicist, Unfolding Meaning

Cook a large fish — choose one with many bones, a skeleton
you will need skill to expose, maybe the flying
silver carp that’s invaded the Great Lakes, tumbling
the others into oblivion. If you don’t live
near a lake, you’ll have to travel.
Walking is best and shows you mean it,
but you could take a train and let yourself
be soothed by the rocking
on the rails. It’s permitted
to receive solace for whatever you did
or didn’t do, pitiful, beautiful
human. When my mother was in the hospital,
my daughter and I had to clear out the home
she wouldn’t return to. Then she recovered
and asked, incredulous,
How could you have thrown out all my shoes?
So you’ll need a boat. You could rent or buy,
but, for the sake of repairing the world,
build your own. Thin strips
of Western red cedar are perfect,
but don’t cut a tree. There’ll be
a demolished barn or downed trunk
if you venture further.
And someone will have a mill.
And someone will loan you tools.
The perfume of sawdust and the curls
that fall from your plane
will sweeten the hours. Each night
we dream thirty-six billion dreams. In one night
we could dream back everything lost.
So grill the pale flesh.
Unharness yourself from your weary stories.
Then carry the oily, succulent fish to the one you hurt.
There is much to fear as a creature
caught in time, but this
is safe. You need no defense. This
is just another way to know
you are alive.

“If a problem is fixable, if a situation is such that you can do something about it, then there is no need to worry. If it’s not fixable, then there is no help in worrying. There is no benefit in worrying whatsoever.”

— His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama

This teaching echoes the wisdom of the 8th-century Buddhist teacher Śāntideva: If a problem can be solved, why worry? If it cannot be solved, what use is there in worrying?

Can the object of our worry be acted on? Typically, yes, there is some form of action that can be taken. Is there a possibility that the problem or concern is fixable (to the person worrying)? Or what is fixable?

No matter what the worry — a young person at a new job worrying about what others think of them, worry about having enough money for food, or the upcoming midterm elections.

Worrying is not the solution. We can do better and be more present in the moment if we learn how not to worry. One practice of not worrying is in preparation. Especially during those in-between times when you can’t solve the problem or fix the issue NOW, you can give your energy and attention to preparing for what you want.

This is a discipline that nature practices in abundance. Throughout nature, plants and wild animals respond brilliantly to the present season while simultaneously preparing for what comes next. On the outside, you see the season the Tree is in—with its seeds or fruit, its blossoms or changing colorful leaves. Yet within, the Tree is already responding to what comes next.

Trees actually register the shortening and lengthening of days, changes in temperature, and other seasonal cues. As autumn approaches, these signals help a tree slow its growth, set its buds, and enter dormancy. And during winter, the tree is not simply waiting. The prolonged cold itself becomes information, helping determine when dormancy can safely end and growth begin again in spring.

The Tree is entirely where it is, while also readying itself for what is coming. It does not need to worry about winter to prepare for winter. It responds to what is here. And within that response, the next season is already being tended.

And I am not talking about constantly planning what you are going to do. That is actually a distraction, not a solution or a conscious practice. It also doesn’t help with stress and worry, because the planning itself can be stressful, especially when it just adds more to the “to-do list.” Planning—which I tend to do—is often a fantasy. We can spend a lot of time imagining what we might do without doing any actual preparation.

So, when you become aware that you are worrying, first ask yourself: Is the problem fixable?

If yes, take some time in the present moment to prepare. What is it you want to happen? What is the next step close in—the one thing you can actually do now or soon?

Do your best to let go of the worry and keep returning to preparing to fix the problem.

Then, of course, the next step is to take the next step.

If the answer is that the problem is not fixable, then you let it go. Don’t give it any more of your life energy.

Take a sacred pause, breathe, and refocus on what is in front of you presently. Or go for a walk and tap into the natural cycle of the day and season. Let your body, in nature, remind you of your truer rhythm.

An example of this is my wanting a change in someone else. I want them to figure something out or do something differently. I can worry about them, rehearse conversations with them, imagine what they should do, and waste a lot of life energy on something that is simply not mine to fix.

Or there is something in the future that I am worrying is going to happen, so I worry about it now. Instead, I can prepare myself by choosing the attitude I want to take when the time comes. I can do what is mine to do and then return to the present moment—to whatever is in front of me now.

“We can only be responsible for what is in front of us presently.”

— Santikaro

When I was younger and worried about future situations (which I did a lot)—how something would or wouldn’t go—I started the practice of saying, “God goes before me and prepares my way.”

God isn’t really my language, so God soon changed to: “Love goes before me and prepares my way.”

I then sit and imagine this God-energy, or Love, going before me and preparing my way. I don’t have to go there ahead of myself through worry. I can be here.

And I let go. I give it over and trust myself and this higher energy of Love.

Give yourself permission to prepare for the future in the present moment while being fully present with what is in front of you. It can be like preparing your home for guests. Rather than worrying or stressing about everything that needs to be done, enjoy the preparation itself. Then, when your guests arrive, you can be more present to enjoy them.

Or, as I was recently taught to do with my novel, I can write a storyline—an outline of the chapters—as preparation for writing the novel. I don’t have to write the whole novel in my head or worry about how it will all come together. I can prepare the way, then return to the writing in front of me.

“In any dark time, there is a tendency to veer toward fainting over how much is wrong or unmended in the world. Do not focus on that. There is a tendency, too, to fall into being weakened by dwelling on what is outside your reach, by what cannot yet be. Do not focus there. That is spending the wind without raising the sails.

We are needed; that is all we can know.”

–Clarissa Pinkola Estés

✍️ Writing Prompt

One preparation practice borrowed from CBT is scripting. Scripting is the practice of writing out in advance what you would like to have happen that is possible. This can include what you would say, and what others would say or do in a situation that you anticipate will be difficult, stressful, or emotionally charged. Rather than repeatedly rehearsing the situation through worry, you consciously prepare by imagining and writing out what could be possible. This script then “goes before you and prepares your way.” This script shifts what you are preparing for! And gives you a broader, more generous attitude.

🌿 Active Contemplation

What am I preparing for—and what am I worrying about?

Notice the difference in your body between worrying about something and preparing for it. Ask yourself: What is mine to do? What is not mine to do? What can I prepare for and then let go?

🪶 Contemplative Action

Go outside and find a tree. Spend some time being with it. Notice the season it is in right now and the ways it may already be preparing for what comes next.

Let the tree talk with you. Listen. Be curious. Take a few breaths and say quietly:

I can prepare without worrying.
I can tend what is mine to tend.
I can let go of the rest.

She is light. She is a flame. And how disturbed we are when the flame begins to flicker. And don’t we hurry to shut the window, to protect her from the draft. She is a beacon and rocky shore that we long to crash into. The precipice. We force our bodies away from the pinhole in the door through which we see a rib of light, but which allows us no vision of what is inside. She is movement, a turning wand, the end of the road with no home, a voice in an empty subway–– nobody there and Sunday morning without the newspaper. And how we grind our teeth at the empty doorstep, don’t we, and we know we are helpless now that Sunday has begun and we are stranded with ourselves and the teeming light that makes us squint. And where is she? She is the light.

–– Karen Holden, Book of Changes: Poems, The Creative

I have consulted the I Ching since I was 16 years old. I was at the bookstore looking for something to help put out the inner turbulence inside of me. I was in the middle of my Thundering Years. A book in the Eastern Religion section fell off the shelf. I took that as “this is the book.” Literally, this little paperback, Essential Changes: The Essence of the I Ching by Owen Press, fell off the bookstore shelf at a critical time in my life. And in its brief introduction, the translator writes: “There is clearly a field for choice”—meaning, make your own interpretation. Since then the Book of Changes has been a constant companion, helping me navigate and make meaning throughout my entire life. I offer up this introduction in part as an expression of my appreciation to this great and enduring spiritual friend and guide.

The I Ching is thousands of years old and is believed to be the oldest book of divination. And, even though there are a vast multitude of commentaries written about the I Ching, no single person or philosophy can make a claim that their interpretation is the definitive one. That’s part of the beauty. You are the meaning maker when it comes to interpreting and consulting the I Ching.

The I Ching creates an inner process of thought transformation, a way to engage in personal inquiry, helping each of us traverse the diverse territory of our humanity. It helps us make meaning by offering a larger and alternative view (story) of any given situation. Instead of limiting ourselves to one perspective (often based in our assumptions, history, and beliefs), we open up to a more expansive view. The I Ching serves as that “third thing,” offering us more options to consider and contemplate. We may also discover other ways to navigate difficult circumstances.

The I Ching’s core philosophy relies on the same interdependent reality found in nature and the Heart Sutra—everything is changing; thus it is called the Book of Changes, and all exists dependent upon everything else. Nothing ever happens in isolation. The I Ching shows that all solutions reside within the individual (the zero point), move out from there to intimate partnerships, then to the larger family, on to the local community, and outward to the global community. It also relies on the principles within nature—the four elements, the four seasons; the I Ching brings in the spiritual and mythical through the relationships between heaven and earth—the earthly and the divine archetypes. The earth principle represents the receptive, the receiver, and the heavenly principle represents the creative or the Creator/Giver.

To those devoid of imagination a blank place on the map is
a useless waste; to others, the most valuable part.

––Aldo Leopold, A Sand County Almanac

I Ching is translated as “the book of changes.” I means “change” and is understood to be the underlying principle of life. Ching is translated as “scripture” or “book.”­ We then access the basic and fundamental principle of existence when we consult the I Ching. This allows us to make meaning with the master meaning maker (the Tao, the Great Unknown, Brahman, God, Mother Earth). I am convinced that this is the reason some religious fundamentalists consider such an oracle evil or “occult” (in the negative reference to the word). They fear and resist the personal empowerment that such an oracle can give us. With the guidance of the I Ching, we could evolve into autonomous, self-reflecting individuals who are free from dogma and dependence on a single teacher or doctrine! In contemplating and applying the commentaries of the I Ching, we discover for ourselves the many mysteries and possibilities of the universe.

The Book of Changes is more than just a book. It is a
living, breathing oracle, a patient and all-seeing teacher
who can be relied upon for flawless advice at every turning
point in our lives. Those who approach the I Ching
sincerely, consult it regularly, and embody in their lives the
lessons it teaches inevitably experience the greatest riches
that life has to offer.

––Brian Browne Walker, The I Ching or Book of Changes

I just wanted to introduce you to my Spiritual Friend. Blessings in all your explorations and discoveries, wherever you find them and however they arrive for you.

Synchronicity can provide us with confirmation that we are

on the right path, as well as let us know when we are not.

–Jean Shinoda Bolen, The Tao of Psychology

We must admit that there is something to be said for the

immense importance of chance.

Carl Jung, foreword to Wilhelm and Bayne,

–The I Ching or Book of Changes

✍️ Writing Prompt

What has fallen off the shelf for you?

Write about a moment when something arrived unexpectedly—a book, a person, an animal, a loss, a sentence, a dream, a wrong turn, a coincidence. Something you could have dismissed as chance but instead chose to receive as meaningful.

Begin with: “I didn’t know it then, but…”

◇ Active Contemplation

“There is clearly a field for choice.”

Notice today where you have become fixed around the meaning of something. This happened because… She did this because… This means that… I know where this is going.

What happens when you loosen your grip on that interpretation? What other story might be possible? What does the Creative reveal when you leave a little blank space on the map?

🔥 Contemplative Action

Make room for synchronicity.

Sometime today, interrupt your usual way of choosing. Take a different road. Pull a book from a shelf without knowing why. Sit somewhere you don’t usually sit. Walk without deciding beforehand where you are going.

Then pay attention.

Don’t demand a message or turn everything into a sign. Simply become receptive. Let something find you.

As I sat on my porch this morning with Lulu and Henrietta, I considered what makes people cruel and what dynamics are necessary for cruelty. How does someone actually “enjoy” being cruel? There’s a rationalization in objectifying the Other, but getting into being cruel is a deeper and darker level of evil.

First, let me say I believe people can be evil. There is no devil outside of us, or boogeymen under the bed. The evil is within men. A good read on this is Scott Peck’s The People of the Lie, which is one explanation of how evil people attack others rather than face their own failures.

“it is characteristic of those who are evil to judge others as evil.”

“I know now that one of the characteristics of evil is its desire to confuse.”
― M. Scott Peck, People of the Lie: The Hope for Healing Human Evil

Following my enjoyment on the porch with my late-summer prairie gardens, the rising sun, the cool morning air, and my dogs, who were content, I had a session with another woman who survived a coercive relationship. A great book on this is Coercive Relationships by Jennifer Parker. And, for readers wanting to understand the psychology of coercive cruelty, I further recommend Jess Hill's See What You Made Me Do. Drawing on decades of research into coercive control and domestic abuse, Hill shows that cruelty is rarely impulsive; it is often a deliberate strategy of domination, shame, and isolation. M. Scott Peck's People of the Lie remains a classic exploration of evil, but Hill brings a contemporary, research-based understanding of how these dynamics operate in relationships and institutions.

What is necessary for cruelty? Beyond having a history of abuse? — What is necessary is A lack of self-awareness, an unwillingness (and/or incapacity) to take responsibility for anything problematic, always blaming others. Never looking within.

Cruelty thrives by recruiting others into its narrative and eroding the strength and courage of those it seeks to control.

Cruelty relies on shame— on watering the seed of shame in the other. This way, the other takes on the sense that there is something wrong with them, instead of understanding that the intent of the cruelty is to make you feel wrong, bad, crazy.

Cruelty relies on division—recruiting others to their perspective of the other, making the other look bad, wrong, dangerous, pathetic, or crazy to others.

Cruel people—evil people—lack empathy or any real interest in cultivating it. Empathy is their nemesis. It interrupts the objectification, domination, and blame on which cruelty depends.

Instead, they build on reasons to be cruel, to prove others wrong, and to seek retribution.

In more than forty years of mentoring and counseling, I have seen the astonishing power of coercive cruelty to slowly erode another person's sense of self, creating invisible prisons that keep partners, followers, and others trapped. Yet even more extraordinary are those who break free. They often leave behind homes, possessions, relationships, and communities. Their willingness to endure those losses lights the way for others to leave abusive, controlling, or narcissistic relationships—whether with a boss, a friend, a spouse (research suggests most perpetrators are men), or a religious or political leader.

Our watering seeds of empathy, first in ourselves, and then for others, is the singular and collective action that needs to be taken. Kindness, mindfulness, compassion, and understanding all come from our ability to empathize with ourselves and others. I say watering the seeds because we all have the seeds of cruelty and empathy in us. For those who thrive on cruelty, the seed may have dried up, and the soil turned to cement.

The ability to give our attention and curiosity to ourselves and others is empathy.

The ability to listen to ourselves (go within) and to others is empathy.

The ability to feel another’s suffering with compassion is empathy.

We must focus our energy on watering the seeds of empathy in ourselves and others and let go of trying to change or figure out those who are cruel, such as our current president and much of the republican party and most of their MAGA followers. Don’t let them steal your empathy—we can always respond with empathy; it must be more directed toward ourselves and toward the desire for connection and peace than toward trying to influence or change the one administering cruelty.

I recently had a difficult encounter with someone I care deeply about. So, I searched for a poem to help me open my heart and mind, to generate empathy for myself and for them. I still may need to exit the relationship, and that’s okay. But I am staying present with empathy and curiosity, and trust that I will know what to do. I am staying in my leaving, if that is what I need to do.

Here is the poem that is helping me navigate this relationship:

The Bloodheart Tree

If we forget our beginnings

we will never be at ease

will lose our wits as we stumble back

through endless aisleways of secret,

and things we don’t forget.

You say, what if heaven is eternity

in the house of childhood?

but I say that denies the definition

of such a place.

The best thing is,

we can still laugh.

We take these horrors tenderly in our hands

one by one and carry them

like the dark and lustrous things they are

to the altar, place them

with our blessings

and light a candle of this place inside

we now call home.

Like the Bloodheart tree outside your window

our own hearts become known to us

one reddening leaf at a time

bright and fragile in the snarl of common green.

If we know each other like this,

one unbelievable turning leaf at a time

even the future

even if childless

and lived alone

makes sense.

your arms open

(that gift of trust from your parents)<

you walk into the world and I

can hear your voice in the wind through

the bloodheart tree,

even when you do not call.

–Karen Holden, Book of Changes, POEMS,

I can hear your voice, even when you do not call; that is empathy.

🖊️ Writing Prompt:
Write about hearing another in the wind even when they do not call.

🌿 Active Contemplation:
Contemplate this poem. What does it teach you about empathy? What line or lines stand out for you?

🕯️ Contemplative Action:
Today, when you encounter (or read or hear about) someone who frustrates, disappoints, or wounds you, pause before reacting. Place one hand on your heart, take three slow breaths, and ask, What would water the seeds of empathy here? Your response may be a kind word, a clear boundary, or simply walking away without letting cruelty take root in you.

Another contemplative action is to prepare to VOTE in person come November. Maybe get 3 others to go with you to vote.

Like the Bloodheart tree outside your window

our own hearts become known to us

one reddening leaf at a time

bright and fragile in the snarl of common green.

“To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.”
—Mary Oliver

“No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.” –Robert Frost

These surprises Frost mentions are not being surprised by an idea or a memory (though that can be nice too); he is referring to the narrative itself surprising you as you write. As you hold a conversation with your book. Or a character surprises you, or a word that appears on the page as you stumble through a scene surprises you.

This creative stumbling will be missed by those who let AI do any of the creative bits when writing or when being with our stories off the page.

What are the creative bits that are so important to a writer?

Working through any resistances. — Resistance is a constant companion and shows up in eclectic ways. Anything basically that interferes with your writing (when you have every intent to write) is resistance. I recommend The War of Art to all my writers. We must push through or write through the resistance, on our own, not using AI as a tool for this. Why? Because you are shutting out many bits of the creative process at once, while giving AI credit for moving you through this resistance.

(Before I move on, I have a confession—these reminders are for me to live and create by as well. I did dabble in using AI for exploring ideas. I felt the bondage with that, and now the freedom and power of my own creative soul in not engaging AI for anything other than some Google searches).

Be in conversation with your story or idea. This sometimes difficult and lengthy conversation is essential for the story to be yours and for you to tap into the deeper roots and aquifer of your story. About 10 years ago, I created what I call the Conversational Arc. A way to encourage this conversation on and off the page. To be in conversation with your subject, your themes and threads, is to open up to bringing world into word; ideas into word. Your observations and understanding into words and stories. Here’s where the surprises often arrive too in synchronistic encounters, new ideas, more hidden gems and stories. Much like being in conversation with the trees (they do like to talk!), or contemplating a spiritual teaching (this is conversational), a give-and-take takes place, and you find ideas, memories, and stories flow between you and the world. Flow between your conscious and unconscious and even the collective unconscious.

Everything you are in conversation with influences you.

Giving this over to AI not only influences what you write, but also gives some credit to a conversation with a machine; this credit can be consciously known or hidden in the unconscious.

To struggle with ideas, memory, and story is to write. The more we struggle and muddle through, the more we discover.

Through your own sight comes insight.

You must be the observer. Through our observations, we discover. This is part of our research for a book. So, for example, instead of asking AI to describe Horicon Marsh for me, I visit Horicon Marsh to observe for myself. This is especially true for core threads and themes, and narrative places. This is where we come to understand something for ourselves, in our own way. AI can’t give me the encounters I had on my visits to the Marsh.

You must imagine what is possible. When we can’t observe, or we are trying to come up with what we want to write about having already started a piece, we must hang out in the tense edge of wanting something to emerge that hasn’t yet. This is where we can muddle along. Muddle into discovery.

The power and authority of direct experience. You must experience your thoughts and ideas yourself. This is the art and craft of bringing the world into words through a listening ear as we hold these sacred conversations and relationships on and off the page. with ourselves. With the natural world. With even the mundane. David Whyte’s poem on writing — that everything is waiting for us, to talk to us:

"Put down the weight of your aloneness and ease into the conversation.
The kettle is singing
even as it pours you a drink,
the cooking pots
have left their arrogant aloofness
and seen the good in you at last." –David Whyte, "Everything is waiting for you."

This can be said for memoir, fiction, and essays: “A poem...begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion finds the thought and the thought finds the words.” – Robert Frost, letters Robert Frost wrote to Sidney Cox from England between December 1912 and February 1915

Do your own thinking. Cultivate. Don’t drown out the authority of your own creative spirit, or your unique voice. Muddle along and experience the divine through paying attention, asking yourself questions, and engaging in conversation with the world.

“. . . muddling along in these things that we can't reduce to a science anyway, such as literature, love, religion, and friendship.” -Robert Frost

Discover your own symbolism. Look into what you are writing about, what is important to you in this story or scene. This can be challenging, but sticking with it and creating symbolism that matches the story nurtures your writing and you as a writer. Don’t give this over to AI. Discover your own images, metaphors, and symbolism — much of which will spontaneously appear on the page. Or show up on your walks and visits to places in your story.

Ask yourself the question, and then go about listening. The questions we may ask and explore with AI hinder us from expanding the range of experiences we have in asking questions of ourselves and perhaps of our spirits as well. Ask the question and then go about living the question throughout the day, on and off the page.

Birches

By Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.

But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves:

You may see their trunks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.

But I was going to say when Truth broke in

With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm

I should prefer to have some boy bend them

As he went out and in to fetch the cows—

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,

Whose only play was what he found himself,

Summer or winter, and could play alone.

One by one he subdued his father’s trees

By riding them down over and over again

Until he took the stiffness out of them,

And not one but hung limp, not one was left

For him to conquer. He learned all there was

To learn about not launching out too soon

And so not carrying the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise

To the top branches, climbing carefully

With the same pains you use to fill a cup

Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

And so I dream of going back to be.

It’s when I’m weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig’s having lashed across it open.

I’d like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:

I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.

I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again.

That would be good both going and coming back.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Home

When you said, I arrived home, it oddly felt confining,
as if some invisible strap bound me,
or a fence had quietly been built around the horizon.

I have long dreamed of getting a small trailer
and traveling about with my dogs,
meeting up with friends,
but mostly strangers.

I would stop in places
where loneliness and homesickness gather
like people in an oncologist's waiting room.
I would share a poem,
or a question,
maybe a book and a sandwich.

And I would listen to their stories
(and they would ask about mine),
each one
keeping that ember inside us alive.

What is it about ongoing relationships
that get all the attention—
the books,
the lectures,
How to Save This Marriage?

Can't I belong
to this moment,
with and without you?

Can we come home to strangers?

To the temporary friend,
the kind or unkind waitress,
the man pushing his old dog in a carriage,
the neighbor who visits as I garden,
the kids who play up and down the street—
calling me Grandma,
and sometimes by my name—
the young woman who helps with the yard.

These shared moments
are home.

Coming home.

Not a destination,
or a particular tribe,
but a heart that keeps opening,
to each other
and beyond.

But I am told to stay put.

Work it out.

Come to an understanding.

Invest in a home.

Save the marriage.

While nothing lasts in this life,
or is meant to.

I am reminded of the Jesus Saves signs
along rural roads,
and how I would like to place another beside them
that simply reads:

Buddha Recycles.

Like an osprey,
migrating separately,
wintering in another country,
and possibly reuniting
to a familiar nesting place with friends and strangers,

Zugunruhe rises up in me
like a compass remembering its true home.

It cannot be shaken.
I want to take flight.
to land
among unknown family.

Perhaps home
has never been a place at all,
but the brief warmth
of being recognized
before we each
continue on.

✍️ Writing Prompt
Are you working through something? Write a poem as one way of entering into it.

🪷 Active Contemplation
What—or where—do you consider home? Is it a place, a person, a community, a memory, your own body, or something else entirely? Your breath?

🌿 Contemplative Action
Today, greet a stranger as if they were already an old friend. Offer your full attention, a smile, a question, or a few moments of genuine presence.

First, let me start with this: Who owns a secret? Whose secret is it when an uncle abuses a niece? Whose secret is it when your boss tells you something personal and disturbing about their life? Whose secret was it that my father had another secret daughter?

At first, when I discovered this, I thought it was, in part, our secret, my father’s and mine. And I wasn’t sure who else knew.

So let me share the full story of how I discovered my intuitions were correct—that someone was indeed missing from my family—and what I learned about the burden and false responsibility of secrets.

As a therapist for more than forty years, I have discovered that secrets rarely travel alone. They are often accompanied by silence, shame, fear, or grief, and they find a way to lodge themselves in our bodies and souls.

How I Discovered The Truth

My father visited me in Minneapolis. I was 27 and living alone. Mind you, this was the only time he ever visited me there or anywhere. He was not one to ever call, visit, or reach out to me in any way. I am not sure he knew how. He was an adult child of two alcoholics who were highly abusive, both physically and psychologically. There are stories of him and his brothers being thrown down the stairs. His parents were violent, scary people when we visited them as a family. Their history is that my grandfather insisted my grandmother marry him a few days before he left for the army. She fell in love with someone else while he was gone, and he found out about it and punished her and everyone in his life till his death. They also drank themselves to death. My father and his two brothers left their home before they turned 16. My father became a father at the age of 18. He was 25 when I was born, and I was #4 in a family of 5.

Well, 6, actually. That was the secret.

I remember the restaurant and even the food my father ordered when we met in South Minneapolis. He’s a fan of ribeye steaks. At the time, he was a traveling salesman, selling paper and packaging products to cheese factories across Wisconsin and Minnesota. He was on a business trip. He let me know he was coming to the Twin Cities.

He did not order an alcoholic beverage, which was another rarity. I started a conversation with him about what I understood of intuition at the time (I had investigated this topic in various ways by then). I told him of the many intuitive markers in my life when my feeling sense—my wisdom body—had alerted me to the truth about something. Finally, I described my intuitive experiences during family time and how I always sensed someone was missing. He listened, and I could detect his heart soften to me. He sat very still, his eyes on me as I spoke. Then I asked him the question that had troubled me since childhood: Did he have any other children?

Before I asked him that question, I asked if he would be honest. He said that he would.

His answer was open and kind. I could see that, at that moment, he, too, needed to speak his truth. He needed to share his secret. He told me that, yes, he had another daughter. She was born when I was seven years old. He told me her name and about her life. She lived in Wyoming. I felt such love and relief. He gave me one of the greatest gifts a father can give—his vulnerability and recognition. A weight I carried in my heart and body lifted, and a great peace entered and filled me.

So much came together for me then. This validation of my intuition opened a door within me that has remained wide open ever since. The truth really can set us free. Now I was free to fully trust my intuitive self. (I had a ways to go, and it wasn’t till I was in my mid-30s that I took the psychic development course).

Then, like many young adults, I went on with my life. I forgot my half-sister’s name. I didn’t write it down. About 6 months later, I wanted to know her name and to possibly meet her. So I called my father.

I asked him if he could tell me my half-sister's name.

“Don’t you ever bring this up again. Don’t you even think about it,” he shouted into the phone. And I could hear my mother in the background asking Who’s that?

That was that.

I was not even to think about it. But of course I did. At that moment when he shouted at me, I did, without realizing it, take on the burden of his secret, as if it were mine. It wasn’t until shortly after he died (about a decade later) that I realized that his secret was not mine.

Is not mine.

I thought hard about it, realized that some other siblings might not have known about this, and decided to share it with them. Then they could decide what to do about this, or not. Then I let it go. It wasn’t mine to carry or hide.

Family secrets are often carried from one generation to the next, shaping family members in ways that remain outside conscious awareness. Psychology describes this as intergenerational transmission: unresolved trauma, shame, silence, and unspoken family agreements are often then communicated through relationships, emotional patterns, and family roles. What remains hidden is rarely absent; it often continues to influence the family until it is acknowledged and integrated.

I know it can be painful to realize something happened—or to hear someone else’s memory of what happened—when we discover we were part of the story. This happened to me when I attended my nephew’s one-person show. He is a writer, a popular drag queen, and a powerful performer. He had written a play using family photographs and stories about how our family—including me—responded to my sister (his mother) getting married and, later, to his coming out.

The best of me was not reflected, and I wept my way through the performance.

At the same time, I deeply appreciated and valued my nephew’s vulnerability and his truth. As well as his talent. What he was told about me wasn’t wrong. And, of course, it wasn’t the whole story. Only I could fill in the rest of it.

As I reflected on my reaction, I wondered if something more was happening. My father’s other family was one of the great unspoken secrets in our family. No one talked about it, or even knew about it, yet everyone lived in the shadow of what was unknown or unsaid. Family secrets have a way of shaping the stories we tell about one another. We inherit not only what is spoken, but also the silence, the assumptions, and the emotional currents beneath it.

My nephew's play reflected a truth that I too had long carried. His performance even shared a few family secrets. My tears reminded me that many truths have never been spoken. They all belong to the same family story. And for me, hearing them is freeing.

I’m going to share a family secret.

It’s one of those secrets no one has to tell you to keep—you simply know not to speak about it.

I discovered that where there are secrets, there are often treasures waiting to be found. For me, that treasure was my psychic gift. There is a good chance some of your own intuitive life, or psychic gift, lies hidden, waiting to be discovered.

“Indeed, the most trusted friend we will ever know lives in our own skin.”

—J. T. Garrett & Michael Tlanusta Garrett, The Cherokee Full Circle

When I was seven years old, I began having an odd, persistent feeling that someone was missing from our family. At every holiday meal or family gathering, I would quietly scan the room, asking myself, "Who is missing?" I never said anything. I only knew the sensation was real: someone was missing.

Years later, after I began keeping a journal, I wrote about these experiences. The feeling became a regular companion: Someone is missing.

Where are we taught what to do with experiences like this?

Not in schools, churches, or most homes.

Yet many Indigenous traditions—and some ancient contemplative traditions—understood intuition as a natural human capacity that could be cultivated. Children learned to pay close attention to their bodies, dreams, the natural world, and direct experience—not only as sources of physical survival, but as pathways to wisdom, relationship, and spirit.

As one example among many, Māori traditions recognize concepts such as wairua (spirit) and hinengaro (mind), in which intuition and inner knowing are understood as part of a holistic relationship among body, spirit, ancestors, and the natural world.

As Arnold Mindell writes:

“The quality of life depends upon body sensations that are linked to dreams and the environment... the dreaming body, when accessed, is a source of health, personal growth, good relationships, and a sense of community.”

In so many ways, women in particular have been taught not to trust our bodies or our experiences. And that our emotional states are overreactive and not in our control.

As a teenager, I became increasingly aware of what lay beneath the surface of everyday life. In today’s accepted terms, I was a Highly Sensitive Teen. My therapist later (when I was in my mid 30’s) identified me as psychic (highly sensitive wasn’t a term yet). I often sensed what others were feeling before they spoke. I had dreams that later proved meaningful. And the feeling that someone was missing from my family only became stronger.

“Clear intuition requires the ability to respect your own impressions.”

—Caroline Myss, Anatomy of the Spirit

Eventually, I discovered the truth. I discovered my father’s secret. (I was 27 and living in Minneapolis).

My intuition had been right all along.

My father had another family, and I had a half-sister who was seven years younger than me.

The experience changed something fundamental in me. Once I knew I could trust what I had felt for years, I stopped dismissing my inner knowing.

Being psychic (Highly Sensitive) isn’t always easy. Being highly intuitive can also mean absorbing more than you know how to carry. Meditation, journaling, recording my dreams, and consulting the I Ching helped, but they didn’t fully explain what was happening to me.

Then, in my mid-thirties, a psychologist, my therapist, told me about a year-long psychic development class taught by a local psychic and healer. (She was also an anthropologist by education). For the first time, I found a language and practices that made sense of what I had been experiencing my entire life.

“Practice listening to your intuition, your inner voice; ask questions; be curious; see what you see; hear what you hear; and then act upon what you know to be true. These intuitive powers were given to your soul at birth.”

―Clarissa Pinkola Estés,Women Who Run With the Wolves

That class changed my life. The material in the class became seeds for future books I wrote.

The class taught me that intuition is not something reserved for a gifted few. It is a human capacity that can be strengthened through attention, discernment, and practice. And, that some of us are psychic, Highly Sensitive, and can learn to live with this gift and vulnerabilities skillfully.

Looking back, I realize the family secret wasn’t only about discovering I had a half-sister.

It was about discovering that I could trust myself.

Here is the last lesson from Be The Cause in this 3-part series (below). Psychic Abuse

I don’t turn anyone away who wants this material. And once you have the material from this course, you are free to use it in whatever way you choose — teach your own class, write a book about it. Or, use it to develop your own abilities in ways that can help others heal and learn about themselves. These lessons improved my skills as a therapist and writer. You can pay for the course, or let me know you can’t afford it. Just reach out. If you become a Founding supporter of my Substack, you get the entire class as a gift. Or you can go to my website and pay per segment (which is 4 lessons). There are 12 segments.

Or, again, just let me know you don’t have the funds. No one is turned away.

Lesson 4 (week 4): Psychic Abuse

When we carry the pain of the past without conscious awareness of these transgressions, our bodies, minds, and relationships suffer. It’s particularly important here to name and acknowledge psychic abuse. We want to know what psychic abuse is, not only to heal from any of it in our own lives, but to recognize such abuses in our daily lives now.

When we are out searching for spiritual connection and meaning we are vulnerable. Whereas vulnerability is a good quality, one that opens us up, we can also be open to harm. So, there’s a difference between a vulnerability in which we are unconscious of our pain and one in which we are conscious of our suffering and vulnerabilities. We are aware of how others treat us and what arises in our own bodies. We recognize, for example, that we are being triggered, possibly through someone else's attempt to manipulate us or influence us in negative ways.

False shamans, psychological and religious cults rely on our unconsciousness to where we are vulnerable and in pain. If we cannot have our pain, then we cannot have our joy. Meaning, being aware of our pain (often from past trauma or neglect), we can then open up more to our inherent joy.

Here is what psychic abuse looks and sounds like:

“Don’t trust your own pictures (experiences/emotions/memories).”

Someone saying to you, “Don’t even think that.”

“Your pictures should match mine.” (All cult leaders, control freaks, and narcissists express this in some way or another.

You get a sense that the other is invading your thoughts or is “mind-reading” you.

There is a lack of permission for you to be yourself

There is shaming/teasing when you share your opinion. “That’s silly.”

There is a passive-aggressive tone to their words.

You are told to “stop lying.” You are told to “tell the truth” while everyone around you is living a lie.

You are told to tell the truth, but are in reality being asked to lie.

A lot of psychic abuse is done on a nonverbal level and implied (energy level). The other person's energy doesn’t match their words, as in gaslighting. Or their attitude is unkind and harsh, but their words are nice. (One of the lessons in the course is insight into the “nice game.”)

All these forms of psychic abuse are examples of gaslighting.

Explore These:

✍️ Writing Prompt

What “pictures” are being lit up for you right now?

Spend some time journaling about what is arising. Notice the beliefs, stories, or memories that have been activated.

Then choose one.

Write a single scene from your life where one of these transgressions took place. Stay in the moment. Let the scene unfold rather than explaining it.

Or, write about a family secret. What was never spoken? What did you know without anyone telling you? What has that experience taught you?

🧘 Active Contemplation

What, in this lesson, rings true for you about psychic abuse?

Where have you doubted your own experience because someone else’s version of reality became louder than your own?

How might you begin trusting yourself—and your direct experience—more?

🌿 Contemplative Action

Simply by reading and contemplating these ideas, something is already shifting in you.

You are becoming less willing to remain numb or disconnected from your truest, intuitive self. You are becoming more conscious, more awake. Every moment of sincere contemplation expands awareness.

I notice this every time I teach this material. Each time, I wake up a little more. I learn something new about myself, about others, and about the world. My own consciousness continues to deepen.

This is one of the reasons I encourage people to teach these practices after completing the year-long course. Teaching is not simply passing on information. Each time we teach, we become the student again. We embody the teachings more fully and, in doing so, awaken alongside those we are guiding.

I am considering teaching this course live online starting in the fall (a 6-month course). We would meet up twice a week. Let me know if this interests you.

This is the 3rd segment of a 4-part series on Being the Cause of Your Life. These teachings are taken from a yearlong course on intuitive development. Designed for Highly Sensitive, empathic, and psychic individuals. I find them useful for everyone, and reminders during this difficult time to ask ourselves, what are we giving our life energy to?

Seniority

Seniority is about being true to yourself, letting no emotion or others’ behavior be bigger than you. It’s another term for not letting ourselves get carried off by reactivity and down rabbit holes of negativity. Any time we let something become bigger than us—so that it takes over the inner landscape of our hearts and minds—we have lost our seniority. A lack of seniority is where we have given ourselves away.

In Buddhist psychology, the Buddha spoke of the First Arrow and the Second Arrow. The first arrow is life itself—pain, disappointment, loss, conflict, illness, or another person’s suffering. None of us escapes these arrows. The second arrow is our reaction: our stories, assumptions, catastrophizing, resentment, fear, and the endless proliferation of thoughts that follow.

Often, someone else’s “crazy pictures” are made up of both arrows. They have experienced the pain of the first arrow but are also caught in the suffering created by the second. When we become consumed by their actions, we unknowingly pick up their second arrow and wound ourselves with it. We lose our seniority.

We also want to avoid getting hit by the second arrow when disappointment or bad news comes our way. When we get triggered, the first arrow has struck us; we can’t change that. We can, however, stop the second arrow of reactivity from wounding us. We practice mindfulness, remind ourselves, I am not letting this get bigger than me.

We breathe, take a sacred pause, go for a walk, touch the earth, and remember our own goodness. We choose how we want to respond.

Seniority, then, is not taking on our own or others’ second arrow. It is remaining grounded in our own body, awareness, and wisdom. Rather than being swept away by every emotion, thought, or circumstance, we learn to remain grounded in awareness itself. Seniority is not about controlling life; it is about no longer being controlled by it.

Most people are not senior to themselves.

We lose our seniority whenever we become consumed by circumstances, other people’s reactions, or our own “crazy pictures.” We allow our thoughts, fears, judgments, and stories to become bigger than the awareness that holds them. We become the effect of our lives rather than the cause.

This is about developing a deep confidence in our own direct experience—trusting our capacity to observe clearly, respond wisely, and remain present. It is knowing what is yours and what is not yours. It is knowing what deserves your life energy and what needs to be released. In Buddhist psychology, this is the practice of wise attention: learning where to place our awareness and where not to become entangled.

Reclaiming our seniority requires mind, heart, and action. It asks us to practice mindfulness, compassion, courage, and discernment until they become the ground we stand on. This is where we put our energy — into the practices that calm us and center us, rather than into the disturbing emotions and storylines. We are present for them, but they don’t get bigger than us.

Bullies, manipulators, and unhealthy systems rely on us getting entrangled in their drama and stories. But we never have to relinquish our seniority. Sometimes remaining senior may even look, from the outside, like surrender or stepping back. Yet inwardly we remain grounded, clear, and free to choose our response rather than simply react.

My Take on Words and Term Choices

The word seniority was unfamiliar to me when I first encountered it in this context. As with many oral teaching traditions, however, the choice of words was intentional. The original teachings made a distinction between power and authority, between power and seniority. Power seeks to dominate, control, or elevate itself over others. Seniority does neither. Seniority simply invites us to be present with what is.

I have intentionally kept the original terminology because I believe new words invite us to see ourselves differently. Sometimes, changing a single word can allow us an entirely new view.

Words themselves matter. They shape perception. They create meaning, relationships, and boundaries. They can open the heart or close it. In Buddhist psychology, speech is considered one of our most powerful actions because language helps create the world we inhabit. Words can heal, liberate, divide, or destroy. Used wisely, they help us reclaim our seniority. Used unconsciously or to dominate another, they become expressions of power rather than wisdom.

This includes the words we say to ourselves.

Seniority is remembering that we are the mountain, not the weather. Emotions, thoughts, and circumstances pass through us like changing weather, but awareness itself remains steady.

✍️ Writing Prompt

Write about a time you lost your seniority.
What happened? How did you know you had let something get bigger than you? What thoughts, emotions, or stories became bigger than you? Most importantly, what helped you reclaim your seniority? What did you need to let go of—or take responsibility for—to become the cause of your life again?

If you are writing fiction, write a scene where your character loses their seniority.

🪷 Active Contemplation

What does it mean, in your own life, to let your emotions become bigger than you?

Notice the difference between feeling an emotion and being ruled by it. How might your life change if every emotion were welcomed, but none were allowed to take over the landscape of your heart and mind?

🎯 Contemplative Action

Throughout today, practice noticing the First Arrow and the Second Arrow.

When something painful, disappointing, or upsetting happens, pause. Recognize the First Arrow—the event itself. Then gently ask yourself:

• What can I do to stop the second arrow from striking me?

• What story am I adding?

• What assumption, judgment, or fear is making this experience bigger than it needs to be?

• How can I return to my seniority in this moment?

Remember: the First Arrow is often unavoidable. The Second Arrow is where freedom begins.

First, here is a short video on what poisons our wells and has us living a lie:

Knowing the Difference Between Truth and Lies

What you will discover is that it’s easier to live the truth than a lie.

It may be more challenging—even difficult—to live our truth, but it takes less energy. Walking in a lie requires constant effort. (Staying in a bad relationship or job, for example.) Living a lie harms the body, builds negative habits in the mind, and can become one of the causes of depression and fatigue.

If you are fatigued or tired—especially for long periods of time—you may be living a lie. In psychology, this is often referred to as living from the False Self.

Crazy Pictures: Real Versus Unreal

Our “pictures” include our thoughts, emotions, memories, assumptions, sensations, attitude, and inner images.

We often begin to feel crazy because of what society insists is real—and what isn’t. What is important and what isn’t. We are given crazy pictures and told it is not crazy, it’s you.

Stop trying to be normal.

Stop trying to do things perfectly.

Stop trying to prove yourself or to fit in.

We all have gifts: our intuition, our imagination, our ability to create, generate unique ideas, and connect with our innate wisdom. These gifts can threaten people who have abandoned their own gifts or who are no longer in touch with their own truth. The False Self has taken over, and they are building a life on lies.

Don’t doubt yourself. Your natural abilities to feel deeply, create, intuit, and express yourself are not crazy.

“Am I crazy?” she asked. “I feel like I am sometimes.”

“Maybe,” he said, rubbing her forehead. “But don’t worry about it. You need to be a little bit crazy. Crazy is the price you pay for having an imagination. It’s your superpower. Tapping into the dream. It’s a good thing, not a bad thing.”

— A Tale for the Time Being

The goal of life is not simply to be happy. The goal is to become whole—to live with integrity. To be our truest selves.

Wholeness requires that we take everything out from within and look at it honestly. We have to look inward. (The False Self does not want us to do this!)

Self-awareness is essential to living a true, whole life.

Name everything.

This is the journey of empowerment and integrity through awareness. This is how we develop healthy boundaries. Looking inward allows us to become aware of and gradually trust what we know and have experienced.

So, What’s Real?

You decide.

When someone else decides what is real for you, you are giving up your integrity—your seniority. This is a form of abuse: someone forcing their reality onto you.

The magic and true authority in life come from figuring things out for ourselves, exploring what is true for us and what is not.

Give yourself permission to live freely with your innate gifts of intuition, imagination, and your ability to discern the truth for yourself. To experience your own wholeness, you must also give yourself permission to live creatively and openly with your giftedness.

Explorations on What’s Real

TRY THIS: The next time you find yourself feeling crazy, pause.

Rather than assuming something is wrong with you, become curious. Ask yourself:

What am I responding to?

What feels off?

Sometimes your distress is telling you that something in the situation isn’t making sense or isn’t aligned with your deeper knowing.

This is especially important if you are a Highly Sensitive Person, deeply intuitive, empathic, or someone who naturally picks up on the emotional atmosphere, energy, or intentions of others.

• Bring your attention to the sensations in your body. Notice what you are feeling without rushing to explain it away.

• Stay with the sensations instead of labeling yourself as crazy. Let them inform you rather than define you.

• Don’t let the confusion—or the intensity of your feelings—become bigger than you. Stay rooted in your own awareness.

• Ask yourself whether you may be absorbing someone else’s story, emotional state, or distorted narrative and unconsciously making it your own.

• Above all, trust your capacity to discern what is true. Your body often notices what your thinking mind has not yet put into words.

My teacher, Colleen Brenzy, who taught Psychic Development, some 30 years ago, would often say:

“If you feel crazy, something crazy is going on.”

That simple sentence changed how I understood my being highly sensitive (psychic). How I came to trust my experiences.

Another Practice

Breathe and ask:

Are these my emotions?

Are these my thoughts?

Any time you feel crazy or have an intense emotional reaction, simply ask yourself these two questions.

This practice reminds us that we often empathically take on other people’s crazy pictures as though they were our own. This is especially true for highly sensitive and empathetic people. When I am feeling reactive to someone else’s behavior or presence, I ask myself these questions and take a few deep, slow breaths.

Cults and mind-control systems depend on people taking on someone else’s reality. They rely on you not trusting yourself, especially when something feels off.

Ground yourself.

Whenever you are feeling crazy or emotionally overwhelmed, ask yourself:

Are these my emotions?

Are these my thoughts?

Don’t go on an internal vigilante hunt for answers. Simply ask the question.

Breathe.

Make no effort.

Here’s a truth: our body and psyche hear and respond to the question.

Asking these questions is a powerful antidote to taking on other people’s crazy pictures. By asking, you are creating a boundary—not by forcing an answer, but by opening yourself to deeper knowing.

Simply ask your body and soul:

Are these my emotions?

Are these my thoughts?

This, too, is why cults and cult leaders don’t want you to question what they say. Because you will discover the lies being told and the lies you may have been taking on.

Question everything, especially when it feels crazy.

Curiosity will take you where you need to go.

There is nothing but water in the holy pools. I know, I have been swimming in them. All the gods sculpted of wood or ivory can’t say a word. I know, I have been crying out to them. The Sacred Books of the East are nothing but words. I looked through their covers one day sideways. What Kabir talks of is only what he has lived through. If you have not lived through something, it is not true.

–Kabir, Indian poet and mystic

Knowing What’s True

TRY THIS: Right Words, Wrong Energy

We can know when someone is speaking the truth.

Energy always speaks the truth.

When we pay attention, listen, and trust ourselves, we can learn to discern truth from lies. Truth from seduction.

Begin with something simple.

Listen to how people say hello.

Does their energy match their greeting?

What does their energy communicate?

Practice with ordinary encounters first.

Then begin noticing this in other conversations.

Do their words and their energy match?

If they don’t, something is out of alignment.

If they do, they are speaking from their truth. They are being honest.

The more you practice, the more your own discernment becomes trustworthy—and the less easily you are persuaded to abandon what you already know.

“Quantum physics suggests that by redirecting our focus—

where we place our attention—we bring a new course

of events into focus while at the same time releasing an

existing course of events that may no longer serve you.”

Sol Luckman, Conscious Healing: Book One on the Regenetics Method

.

The Story of How Siddhartha Defeated the Final Demon

One of my favorite stories about Siddhartha’s awakening unfolds beneath the pipal tree or sacred fig tree, which became known as the Bodhi tree. Bodhi is a Sanskrit and Pali word meaning awakening, enlightenment, or wisdom. Because Siddhartha awakened beneath that tree, it became known as the Bodhi Tree—the Tree of Awakening.

His intention was to sit there until he fully awakened. As he sat in meditation, drawing closer and closer to awakening, Mara appeared.

Mara is often described as a demon. But in Buddhist psychology, Mara can also be understood as the embodiment of everything that keeps us asleep and feeling separated: fear, clinging, doubt, self-protection, pride, judgment, distraction, unkindness, and attachment to identity.

Here I am at 70 going on 100, and I find this same final demon arriving as I sit under my own Bodhi tree. As I walk through my life.

I find these internal demons are often brought to the surface by a Troublemaker. Someone comes along and takes on the role of Mara. Triggers us. Pokes at our insecurities. Or is simply being themselves, but brings out something in us that we may later regret. And that may keep us feeling separate and even isolated.

When we are mindful enough, we can see these Troublemakers as necessary to keep us on the path — and even to wake us up. We can be present with them as we are for all the things we favor.

While Siddhartha sat under the Bodhi tree, throughout the night, Mara brought one challenge after another. Before Mara presented Siddhartha with his final challenge, he tried many other ways to keep him from awakening, from feeling a sense of belonging. First came fear—armies of demons, storms, darkness, and terrifying visions meant to drive him from his seat under the tree. When fear failed, Mara turned to desire and temptation, sending distractions in the form of comfort and longing. He then tempted Siddhartha with the easier path, inviting him to abandon his efforts and return to a life of comfort and certainty. Mara also appeared as pride and self-importance, encouraging attachment to identity and spiritual achievement. Throughout it all, Mara manifested as restlessness and distraction—the endless stream of thoughts, fantasies, memories, and worries that pull us away from the present moment. Only when all these strategies failed did Mara reveal his most powerful weapon: doubt. Not fear of failure, but the deeper question of worthiness. Who do you think you are to awaken? It is this final challenge—the voice of unworthiness—that I believe brings out the underlying shame we carry and want to be free of.

Can be free of.

This final demon challenged me recently, even at this late stage of life, the belief that I don’t deserve true and lasting love, or that what I have will be taken from me.

This final demon confronts you with:

“Who do you think you are to believe you can awaken?”

It is a question many of us know well.

Who do you think you are to heal?

Who do you think you are to write the book?

Who do you think you are to speak your truth?

Who do you think you are to be loved?

Who do you think you are to live the life that calls to you?

This is the voice that touches our shame, our secrets, and our deepest sense of unworthiness.

Who do you think you are to even want awakening, let alone trust it can happen?

When faced with this final demon, Siddhartha did not argue.

He did not defend himself. He did not try to prove Mara wrong.

He sat with all this, witnessing it all.

Siddhartha did not argue with himself.

Instead, Siddhartha reached down and touched the earth. This gesture is called the Bhumisparsha Mudra — the Earth-Touching Gesture.

He called the Earth itself to witness the countless acts of compassion, generosity, courage, and practice that had brought him to this moment.

The Earth responded with a great rumble.

The ground shook.

And Mara disappeared.

Not because he lost an argument, but because the spell of unworthiness had been broken. He remembered his goodness and invited the earth to witness this.

And the earth did.

We, too, can touch the earth as we remember all the acts of love, courage, generosity, and kindness we brought to others.

I am grateful for Mara's recent appearance in my life because it gives me the opportunity to touch the earth and remember. And it gives me a clear path to my full awakening.

He arrived with doubt. As the need to be appreciated. As the longing to be seen and understood. As the fear that perhaps I have not done enough, given enough, loved enough. This final Mara, for me, contains the part of me that needs to be reassured, acknowledged, and shown appreciation by others for what I’ve done.

He arrived because I forgot my own goodness.

He arrives in your life because you forget yours.

For a long time, there was part of me that thought freedom would come when others finally understood me, appreciated me, or reflected my worth back to me.

But every time I look outside myself for reassurance, Mara is waiting.

The earth does not ask me to prove my worth.

The trees do not ask me to earn my belonging.

The river does not ask whether I have done enough.

They simply receive me.

Perhaps awakening truly takes place when we learn to do the same. To receive ourselves as we are.

I realize now that my freedom and awakening depend on radical self-compassion.

The highest form of peace is having no attachment to being seen, validated, recognized, or even understood by anyone. To do things simply for their own sake.

Instead, we — may I — live fully in the joy of being love, being compassionate, being quiet, being generous, and leave it at that.

Leave it at that.

That can be difficult in these times of “likes” and “online followers.”

I say, bring it on, Mara — because I intend and deserve the freedom of peace.

✍️ Writing Prompt

Write about your inner demon, your Mara. Name it, as I did here.

☸️ Active Contemplation

When I remember that I will age, become ill, lose everything and everyone I love, and die — these are called the Five Remembrances — what helps the heart awaken right now?

What is important to you right now?

What matters?

What wants your attention?

🌎 Contemplative Action

Every day, touch the earth.

Do the Bhumisparsha Mudra — the Earth-Touching Gesture — and sit in remembrance of your goodness.

The grounding practice is just one way to use our imaginations, our beautiful minds, to pause, to focus on our connection to the living earth, to breathe, and to practice no effort. Imagining bringing up Earth’s energy through the soles of your feet is simply another mind-training practice.

It slows us down.

It brings our Awareness to the moment, our bodies, and our breathing.

It invites us to breathe without effort. Let go of making anything happen. Just imagine.

To feel our very real connection to the earth and imagine receiving the earth’s energy through our roots, through the bottoms of our feet.

Grounding can be part of your morning practice. Then, throughout the day, take a moment to pause, to become aware, to take a breath.

You can add the practice of Letting Go and Witnessing, what Tara Brach refers to as the Sacred Pause and David Hawkins refers to as moments of surrender. Just take some mindful breaths throughout the day. Hawkins taught that healing and freedom arise not by fixing, suppressing, controlling, or analyzing our emotions, but by allowing them to be fully present without resistance. Rather than trying to change an experience or build on it through an inner narrative, we learn to stop resisting it. We simply allow ourselves to be with the experience.

Both are inviting you to:

1. Stop. Pause.

2. Become aware. Notice your emotional, physical, and mental experience.

3. Allow what is here. Let the feelings, sensations, or thoughts be present without pushing it away, clinging to it, or judging it.

4. Refrain from reacting or building a story around it. It is most often the story, not the feeling itself, that keeps suffering alive.

5. Breathe. Take a couple of nice breaths. Feel the body breathe.

6. Rest as an observer, a witness. Notice that there is a part of you that can observe thoughts, emotions, sensations, and urges without becoming them.

7. Let the experience move through naturally without holding on, adding on, or forcing anything. Breathe and no effort. Feelings, when allowed, tend to arise, crest, and pass on their own. We do not have to make them leave. We simply stop holding them in place through resistance.

This is the heart of both witnessing and surrender. We learn to trust that awareness itself is healing. We discover that we are not our thoughts, not our emotions, and not our stories. We are the Awareness in which they arise and pass. The more we practice allowing, the more we experience the natural peace that exists underneath the mind’s constant efforting.

A Few Words (My Take) on Visualization Exercises

I invite you to approach this and all practices at their core as mind-training. If you believe that in this grounding practice, you are actually grounding to the earth, let that be true for you. If you don’t believe that what we visualize helps shape reality, then think of this exercise as a way to orient your heart, mind, and nervous system toward the qualities you wish to embody. When we imagine and practice being grounded, we become grounded. Our heart rate does slow down, and we feel more centered—grounded. This practice helps you connect with and be in your body, a place to start any healing or transformative process.

Also, any subject we focus our thoughts on becomes more real in our experience. Thoughts manifest in form through our body and our experiences. As Hawkins often taught, what we hold in awareness tends to expand, while what we resist tends to persist. Bringing awareness to our inner experience allows it to be seen, felt, and eventually released.

As a therapist and spiritual mentor, I recommend that you give yourself permission to tweak or add to any exercise that I offer you. For example, I use “cords” extending down from the bottoms of my feet in this grounding practice. You may visualize the roots of trees, as many have. You may do this grounding practice along with a yoga posture, such as Tree Pose or Chair Pose.

What’s important here is to make it your own and not approach any teaching in a dogmatic or limited way. At the same time, try it as I offer it for the first week and see how that works or feels for you. Then adjust as needed.

I also use the word imagine. Imagine may simply mean thinking it as so. Postulating it. Or you may be more visual and actually “see” cords or roots extending from the soles of your feet. Whatever works for you is enough. The invitation is not perfection. The invitation is awareness, presence, and practice. Through repeated moments of pausing, witnessing, and letting go, we gradually train the mind to rest and the heart to soften.

This is us becoming the cause of our lives.

At any given moment—especially during these chaotic times—how do we give our attention to what truly matters?

How do we keep from handing over our attention to the loudest voices around us, the fears of the present, or the echoes of the past?

I want to offer you a four-part series adapted from my online course, Be the Cause (of Your Life.

The course itself was inspired by a year-long training I took in 1993 and later taught for more than a decade. Its teachings helped me learn how to stay rooted in my own experience, trust what I know, and live from the inside out rather than constantly reacting to what was happening around me.

The material remains as relevant today as it was thirty years ago.

This series is about staying present for what matters. It is about learning to trust your direct experience, strengthening your relationship with your body, and becoming the cause of your life rather than the effect of it.

Before we begin, one phrase from the course has stayed with me all these years:

Breathe and no effort.

No forcing.
No pushing.
No insisting.

These practices are invitations.

As you read and explore, remind yourself to proceed with easeful effort. In the oral tradition from which these teachings emerged, we were often reminded:

Breathe and no effort.

Week One: Being Grounded in Our Body

The intention of this series is simple:

To wake up more fully to our lives. To be the cause of our lives.

To become more conscious.
More aware.
More present.

And to do that, we must gradually give up being numb.

We need to learn how to see, feel, hear, and experience it all—the good, the difficult, and the messy. Becoming who we truly are allows us to handle more of life.

One teaching from the course has stayed with me:

We are in pain where our life is in pain.

Because of this, we begin with the body.

Especially when doing spiritual, emotional, or transformational work, we must be good to our bodies. History, memories, grief, trauma, and joy are all carried within us. The body remembers.

This series begins and continues by developing a conscious relationship with our body through a simple grounding practice.

Why Grounding Matters

Grounding hands us our life back.

When we are grounded, we become senior in our own space. We become centered. We begin living from the inside out rather than from the demands and expectations of the world around us.

Grounding helps us become the cause of our lives rather than the effect of them.

When we are not grounded, we are easily pulled by the moods, fears, expectations, and energies around us. We lose contact with our own knowing and understanding.

Grounding also strengthens boundaries because we are more fully inhabiting ourselves.

It helps keep us on our path.

Grounding is not a luxury.

It is foundational.

A Peace Treaty With Your Body

One of the invitations in this practice is to create a peace treaty with your body.

Develop kindness toward our body.
Safety with it.
Curiosity about it.

Let your body know you are here.

Many of us were taught to ignore our bodies, override them, criticize them, or push them beyond their limits. Yet the body is not an obstacle to awakening. It is the doorway.

Care for the body so she can wake up more fully to your present experiences.

This is where the journey begins.
And it is where the practice continues throughout our lives.

My Own Story

When I first entered counseling in 1992, I lived primarily in my head.

My therapist eventually referred me to this course because I was disconnected from my body, my emotional intelligence, and my inner teacher.

Like many people who grow up in dysfunctional or neglectful environments, I survived by becoming highly mentally active. I could think about my life, analyze it, and explain it.

But I wasn’t fully living in it.

I didn’t have a strong sense of what belonged to me and what belonged to someone else. My boundaries were blurry. My body carried experiences and emotions that I wasn’t consciously aware of.

Grounding changed that.

Not because it magically fixed anything, but because it helped me begin a relationship with my body.

A conscious relationship.

A relationship built on listening.

And over time, that changed everything.

Grounding Practice

Sit in a chair with both feet flat on the floor. Be comfortable yet alert.

Breathe and no effort.

Close your eyes and find your breath. Rest your awareness in the physical sensation of your breathing in and breathing out for just a few breaths. Settle in. Feel your feet on the floor. Then bring your awareness to the bottoms of your feet. Simply postulate cords emerging from the soles of each foot.

Breathe and no effort.

Imagine the cords moving through the floors and earth until they reach the center of the earth.

Breathe and no effort.

Once they reach the center of the earth, imagine the earth's energy being pulled up into the cords. Breathe and no effort. This core earth energy then moves up the cords and into the bottoms of your feet. Then imagine them moving up your legs to the base of your spine and up your spine until the cords and energy reach your solar plexus (3rd chakra).

Breathe and no effort. Imagine this area filling up with this core earth energy. Then have the energy move down and out through the bottoms of your feet. This way you have a continual cycle of core earth energy.

Breathe and no effort

Sit in this energy for a bit. Notice what you notice. Stay focused enough to acknowledge that you are grounded. When you feel done, simply open your eyes.

Reflections for the Week

☙ Reflection One

Close your eyes and rest in the breath for a minute. Ask yourself:

• What part of my energy is in the past?

• What part of my energy is in the present?

• What part of my energy is in the future?

Notice what arises. You may wish to write about it in your journal.

☙ Reflection Two

How are you being good to your body?

☙ Reflection Three

Where might numbness be living in your body—physically, emotionally, or spiritually?

The more we inhabit our bodies, the more we are able to discern what is true.

And perhaps that is where all meaningful change begins.

Breathe and no effort. ✨

I was 12 and a singing Sunflower in a community traveling play put on by Madison Youth Summer Theater known as the Stagecoach Players. We traveled in an actual stagecoach, giving plays at parks across Dane County.

I would take the city bus from Madison's far west side to downtown to rehearse. I was one of the youngest players that year. While I was attracted to acting, I was also thrilled by the independence. My biggest fear was trying to memorize my few lines.

At the time, there was a McDonald’s on the north side of Capitol Square. It was a two-story McDonald’s with upstairs seating and large windows overlooking the Square. If you were a kid in Madison in the 1960s or 1970s, that McDonald’s was a destination after shopping downtown, going to the Square, or attending events at the Capitol. Later, I remembered going there on group dates where we would all visit over Coke and one shared order of French fries.

That summer when I was 12, I sat at the McDonald’s booth shaped like a crescent moon. I had a good half-hour before my bus would come. A man sat next to me and lit up a cigarette. I brushed my hand in front of my face and turned away from him.

“Now there’s a young woman who knows how to take care of herself. I admire that,” he said as he put out his cigarette.

His comment felt like an acknowledgment of my maturity and independence, and we struck up a conversation. He was tall and lanky and looked more like a friendly postman than the dark stranger we often imagine would do us harm. Of course, there is no physical profile for a pedophile or perpetrator. They come in every shape and style. (However, historically documented and publicly known child abusers in Western countries have overwhelmingly been white men.)

Somehow, with his interest in me, which was seductive and unusual, I shared the details of my life, especially my summer at Stagecoach. He kept asking me questions with acute interest in what I was doing. He discovered I was on my own, that I took the bus from my house to rehearsal every Saturday. I did not tell him where I lived because he didn’t ask. (Was it an intentional withholding on his part, as that may have alerted me to possible danger? Maybe).

When it came time to leave, he asked to walk me to the bus stop. I was beginning to feel some unease, but also a tad sorry for him, and responsible for his interest in me. He asked if he could hold my hand, then took it without my consent. As we waited for the bus, he put his arm around my shoulder.

The walk and wait felt like walking the green mile, but I knew I would be relieved once I got on the bus.

Only, he got on the bus with me. His arm still around my shoulder.

I didn’t say anything to the bus driver because I likely didn’t think to, and, like many young girls of that age, then and now, I wanted to feel and look like an adult. I wanted not to let on that I felt stupid or foolish. Did I even have reason to feel scared? The bus ride was a good hour with all its stops along the way. He sat on the aisle seat, with me tucked close to the window. My feeling of foolishness turned into anxiety and confusion.

What exactly did he want? I could sense some desperation on his part, as if I could read a secret language men like him spoke. And this carried some obligation on me as well.

He kept his arm around me the entire ride.

Something in me knew not to let him follow me all the way home. I felt it wouldn’t be good to let him know where I lived.

One of the stops along the way was Blackhawk Country Club, a golf course where my parents were members and where they spent most of their Saturdays. I got off at that stop. I had to get up from the inside seat and head toward the door. I told the Smokey Stranger (that is what I have come to name all the pedophiles or perpetrators I have encountered in my life—Smokey Strangers), I was getting off here. I said something about my parents waiting for me at the golf course. I told him they would not like me to be seen with him and that I had to go alone.

He got off with me.

Or he stayed on the bus.

I rushed to the golf course without him following me, and found my parents on hole #9. Already intoxicated and getting too much sun. They wondered why I was there. I mentioned something about wanting to see them and wanting to walk home from there. They made some jokes, and my dad asked me to get out of the way and off the green.

This could have been the end of it. But I had told this man enough about me that he could, and did, find me the following weekend.

While I was at the rehearsal at the community center, I could see him across the street, a bit out of sight, waiting for the rehearsal to end. He stood at ease as if he had a role in the play of my life.

Even though I was utterly embarrassed (because I felt responsible somehow for this man’s behavior), I told the Stagecoach director, another young man, about the guy outside waiting for me.

He simply looked at me and said, “I will take care of it.”

He went outside and talked to the tall Smokey Stranger. And the Smokey Stranger disappeared around the corner. Out of sight.

And that was the end of that. Sort of.

For decades, I believed there was something about me that encouraged, invited, or even caused his behavior. That belief did not arise in a vacuum. It grew out of a culture that typically shifts responsibility from the perpetrator to the victim—a culture that teaches girls and women to question themselves before questioning the person who caused the harm. The ways women and girls carry this burden are myriad, complex, and often invisible. Many spend years wondering what they did wrong, rather than recognizing that the responsibility belongs entirely to the perpetrator.

The deeper tragedy is that a culture shaped by (mostly white) misogyny teaches girls and young women to assume responsibility for the harmful actions of men. It teaches them to doubt themselves, to minimize their experiences, and to remain silent. To get over it. Instead of asking why a man chooses to harm, exploit, or violate, girls are taught to ask what they did to cause it. (One reason I never shared my encounter with my parents).

It took me decades to understand that my self-blame was never evidence of responsibility. It was evidence of how thoroughly I had absorbed a culture that protects perpetrators by teaching victims to question themselves.

Too many stories do not end as mine did, with a young girl finding a way to escape before a full assault occurs. For those who endure sexual violation, the burden of self-blame will be even heavier. They carry not only the trauma of what was done to them, but also the mistaken belief that they somehow caused it, invited it, failed to prevent it, or should have known better.

And they are told, in too many ways, that they won’t be believed or fought for.

No child is responsible for the intentions, desires, or actions of an adult. No young girl or woman invites abuse. No young woman causes exploitation. The responsibility belongs entirely to the person who chooses to do harm. Until our culture teaches this truth as clearly as it teaches girls to be careful, many will continue to carry burdens that were never theirs to bear.

“All the perpetrator asks is that the bystander do nothing.” Judith Herman, Trauma And Recovery: The Aftermath Of Violence--from Domestic Abuse To Political Terror

One of Judith Herman’s most powerful arguments is that the struggle is not only between survivor and perpetrator, but also between truth and society’s desire to look away. She writes that people are often drawn toward denial because acknowledging abuse requires action, accountability, and a willingness to confront uncomfortable realities.

My next posts will be a series on Be the Cause of Your Life—what it means to trust yourself, honor your experience, and live from a place of inner strength. The series draws from my online course, Be the Cause. When I first encountered this work in the early 1990s, it gave language to something I had been searching for. It taught me to trust my own experience, develop clear boundaries, and stand more fully in my own life and body. Looking back, it was one of the first steps toward claiming my inner knowing and recognizing the strength that had been there all along.

✍️ Writing Prompt
What prompted this article was a dream I had about an encounter with a good-looking stranger on a bus. He was trying to convince me that he could help me find my way. I got off the bus and, even though I was lost for a while, I eventually found people who helped me.

The dream opened the door to this memory and article.

Write from a dream you have had recently. Does it spark a memory, a story, an image, or an insight?

🌀 Active Contemplation
Where might you be silent about, or ignoring, the impact of patriarchy?

Is there a memory you carry with shame, where you may still be blaming yourself for someone else’s corruption, harmful intentions, or behavior?

🔥 Contemplative Action
Publish a story that challenges patriarchy.

Speak up when patriarchy is controlling the narrative.

Tell the truth in a way that returns responsibility to where it belongs.

If you choose to subscribe as a paid member, you are supporting the time, care, and attention that goes into creating this work. Each article is thoughtfully written, revised, and offered with the hope that it brings insight, encouragement, companionship, or a new way of seeing.

Thank you for reading, sharing, and supporting this work in whatever way feels right for you.

With gratitude,

Julie

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“I Live Life From My Side.” I live life from the inside-out. This is the Zero Point Agreement.

The Zero Point Agreement

“It’s your life—but only if you make it so. The standards by which you live must be your own standards, your own values, your own convictions in regard to what is right and wrong, what is true and false, what is important and what is trivial. When you adopt the standards and the values of someone else . . . you surrender your own integrity. You become, to the extent of your surrender, less of a human being.”
— Eleanor Roosevelt

In the mid-90s I began offering the Initiation Course. The Initiation Course (and the book Wheel of Initiation, 2010) offers a spiritual template to explore your own spiritual path.

To live freely is to live an active, creative life built on conscious agreements and intentions. Our awareness of what we agree to shapes the quality of our engagement with life. What and how we are engaged with, what we agree to give our energy to determines our experience. Outside circumstances is canvas, we are the paint.

To be engaged in this way is to understand our co-responsibility—what we can do in any given situation, no matter how horrific. We are always part of the cause and the effect. There is always a point of transformation, peace, awareness, and even beauty to engage.

We experience connection with others by being responsible for our side of things.

Over the years of study and experience, I expanded and deepened the initiatory process presented in Wheel of Initiation to include the zero point agreement. My background in general systems theory, transpersonal psychology, group dynamics, Buddhist principles, and reliance on observable nature comes together in this book, The Zero Point Agreement.

In living the zero point agreement, we recognize the potential in each experience.

The zero point agreement is based on the science of interdependence (mutual dependence among all living things) and the Buddhist principle of dependent co-arising (everything comes into existence dependent on other things). The science underlying the zero-point agreement shows up in the natural world (how we are part of the whole). This systematic wisdom of connection is the foundation of the zero point agreement and how to live a life of meaningful engagement.

We each have contributed to the conditions we are in, even if in a small way.

How do I remain conscious in a poisoned time?

The zero point agreement states that you take one hundred percent responsibility for your experiences. You don’t “surrender your integrity” to others as Eleanor Roosevelt mentions above. You don’t blame others, God, or outside circumstances for your predicaments.

Imagine yourself struck by a poison dart. In the first moments, your survival depends not on obsessing over who fired it, what tribe they belong to, or how unfair it is that you were targeted. The urgent question is: What now? How do you stop the poison from spreading? How do you stay conscious, connected, and capable of responding?

We are living through a time when outrage, fear, propaganda, and division move like poison through the collective body. The constant churn of the Donald Trump era and the broader Make America Great Again movement has left many people locked in cycles of blame, panic, contempt, and despair. Some are consumed with rage at the shooter. Others deny the poison exists at all. Meanwhile, the toxin spreads through families, institutions, communities, and our own nervous systems.

Blame alone cannot heal the wound. Endless outrage cannot remove the dart.

This does not mean we ignore injustice, surrender discernment, or stop resisting harm. It means we refuse to let the poison colonize our inner life. If we remain trapped in “Why is this happening?” or “Who can I hate for this?” we risk becoming reactive rather than responsive—injured in spirit long before the wound itself becomes fatal.

The deeper invitation is to ask: How do I remain conscious in a poisoned time? How do I protect what is humane, truthful, and compassionate within myself and my community? What medicine counters the toxin?

“We must be our own before we can be another’s.”
— Ralph Waldo Emerson

Madison’s Snowflower Sangha got me at hello. I wanted to check Snowflower out because even though I had, and still have, a good teacher in Santikaro, I missed having a sangha. When I attended my first in-person sangha, a woman named Lisa was giving the dharma talk. So, I learned that it was a democratic process here, and having a woman lead felt especially welcoming to me. I appreciated the dharma shares by other members that followed the talk, and still do, in which all the members become my teachers.

At 70, I can’t share the entire, long, and beautifully twisted journey I took to arrive here. But it started with my first spiritual teacher, who was a Lutheran minister. My family attended church on the occasional Easter, when I discovered this minister. He was an excellent storyteller and would return alone to listen to him, even as young as 10.

I decided I needed to get baptized at 13 because I wanted to cover my bases in case there was a hell. Having that baptism certificate, I guessed, was your ticket in.

He took me through the catechisms, so the day arrived when he would baptize me. I am sure he could see the excitement and anticipation on my face when he left the room to get the holy water. When he came back, he looked at me and said, “It’s just tap water, Julie.”

Baptized by tap water.

This revealed to me that the bells and whistles are not the takeaway from such rituals and practices—it’s the meaning we make from them. It’s our intention. (And I did get a baptism certificate, so I was covered.)

I was yet to encounter a lot of dogma, loneliness, false and abusive yogis, strict teachers, being shamed, and being misunderstood. One, a Southern Baptist minister, who did indeed condemn me to hell. I was 16.

I started my meditation practice at 16 through Transcendental Meditation, by Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. The best outcome of that was giving up pot. I stuck with that for at least four years, and later, in college, I needed more help. I was on fire with confusion and needed direction.

I went to what they called a TM Checking and teaching. Most were dressed in white and radiated peace and happiness, but in the face of my internal fire, I felt like an outcast. They suggested certain practices to improve my well-being, and all would be well.

I gave TM up and soon found Stephen Levine and The Gradual Awakening.

From there, I went on to Vipassana and Mahayana practices for a decade, then on to Tibetan Buddhist practices. A relationship with an ex-Gyto monk introduced me to Tibetan culture and Buddhism. The Tibetan Book of the Living and the Dying by Sogyal Rinpoche was a meaningful read for me, and I attended one of his retreats. There he met up with each of us one-on-one. I later discovered that he had abused women students.

I do keep what I’ve learned from bad teachers—but I do not keep their particular teachings. I am in the camp that a teacher must be an example of their teachings. Not perfect, but certainly not taking advantage of their followers. Their particular take on doctrine becomes false.

Mind training was always central for me—consulting the I Ching since I was 16, and then discovering the Lojong teachings.

The Shambhala teachings were described by Trungpa Rinpoche as “mind-terma”—hidden wisdom teachings —which he claimed he had revealed. In truth, the Lojong were centuries old, and the true teachings that he rebranded as Shambhala. He, too, ended up abusing his power and died young from alcohol abuse. He did not live by his teachings, but he did build a small empire and founded a publishing house.

For a while, I felt I had a sangha at Deer Park in Oregon, WI, and worked closely with Geshe Sopa, helping him translate some of his teachings into writing. He would give a “teaching before the teachings,” which I found more relatable. But the dogma—and one zealous nun in particular—made that place unwelcoming.

I was able to approach the teachings in a non-dogmatic way, and Geshe Sopa encouraged this, but dogma tended to win out. So I took what I learned and moved on. Once I left, I lost the sangha too.

Some teachers and teachings can be a bit dogmatic and still be good when we are allowed and encouraged to approach them in non-dogmatic ways. To disagree. To bring our own meaning and twist to them. To be curious. To explore how these teachings arise in our direct experience. To even challenge them.

Later, a dark night of the soul arrived—more like a year. long darkness. I continued meditation and yoga, and learned Dzogchen meditation along with continuing Lojong, but nothing was lifting me out of the darkness and grief. I was isolated, living out in the country. I didn’t have a sangha, and most of my friends were in the Twin Cities.

So I did what any good seeker would do: I went online in search of a book.

I ordered one from Wisdom Publications, trusting that His Holiness the Dalai Lama would shed some light into the darkness. I had many encounters with the Dalai Lama and found his teachings simple and profoundly helpful.

When I got the book and began reading, I wept because it had exactly what I needed. But it wasn’t from the Dalai Lama. I had gotten a different book inside the cover of the one I ordered: Heartwood of the Bodhi Tree by Buddhadasa Bhikkhu.

After completing it, I looked up the editor and found he was only an hour away from where I lived. That is how I met Santikaro.

I found Santikaro—and Anapanasati meditation practice—11 years ago now.

Santikaro emphasized curiosity and making our own meaning from the practices and teachings. I continue to learn a lot from him, particularly around Anapanasati and broader Buddhist teachings on non-clinging, non-self, and emptiness.

Because all of Santi’s teachings and retreats were online, I never felt deeply connected to a sangha. Four of us met as a study group for a few years, but that ended, and everyone lost touch.

I wanted to be part of a tribe, a sangha, and Santikaro recommended Snowflower.

So I attended my first Tuesday night.

After about a year of attending Snowflower, I was listening to one of Thich Nhat Hanh’s books while out on a walk. He was going through the Fourteen Mindfulness Trainings of Interbeing, and at that moment, I fully trusted that I had found home—in his teachings, in this sangha, and more deeply in myself.

I was not being asked to give up or feel bad about my long journey to here, but rather to embrace it all. To know that speaking about boundaries and safety is part of the duty of a teacher, a sangha, and a practitioner.

I felt a long weight lift off me when I heard the first three trainings.

The First Mindfulness Training – Openness

“Aware of the suffering created by fanaticism and intolerance, we are determined not to be idolatrous about or bound to any doctrine, theory, or ideology, even Buddhist ones...”

Clinging to rigid beliefs, teachings, or ideological certainty is directly challenged in Thich Nhat Hanh’s First Mindfulness Training, which calls us into openness, humility, and a willingness to remain in relationship with truth as a living, evolving experience.

The Second Mindfulness Training – Non-Attachment to Views

“Aware of the suffering created by attachment to views and wrong perceptions, we are determined to avoid being narrow-minded and bound to present views...”

This training invites us to loosen our grip on certainty, recognizing that attachment to our own perceptions can become a source of suffering. Through non-attachment, we cultivate deeper understanding, compassion, and freedom.

The Third Mindfulness Training – Freedom of Thought

“Aware of the suffering brought about when we impose our views on others, we are determined not to force others... to adopt our views...”

True spiritual freedom requires that we neither dominate nor coerce. This training encourages respect for the sovereignty of others’ paths, fostering dialogue, curiosity, and compassionate presence rather than dogma.

Thich Nhat Hanh taught that attachment to dogmas, views, and ideologies is one of the greatest obstacles to truth and a primary source of suffering. He advocated for spirituality grounded in personal experience and mindfulness rather than blind adherence.

He encouraged us to maintain our chosen spiritual, religious, or secular traditions without abandoning ourselves or our herstories.

So here I am with this Sangha, deeply grateful and curious about what I will discover next—from others, and from myself.

I will end by sharing this poem attributed to Rumi:

Come, come, whoever you are.
Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving.
It doesn’t matter.
Ours is not a caravan of despair.
Come, even if you have broken your vows a thousand times.
Come, yet again, come, come.

✍️ Writing Prompt:
Write out your beautiful and twisted spiritual—or secular—journey to here.

🌀 Active Contemplation:
“Wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving.”
How are you a wanderer? A lover of leaving?
How does being a wanderer and lover of leaving keep you grounded in your truest self?

🔥 Contemplative Action:
Where do you need to come to—or come again to—in order to arrive home?
Join the caravan.