Click here to see the inner most insecurities exposed.  That’s the only way they heal, by the loving light of day.

http://www.elephantjournal.com/2013/12/building-security-through-insecurities-photos/

From blog.Ted.com – a list worth returning to whenever one has a few spare moments…  The Top 20 Ted-Talks as of December 2013.  How many have you seen?

1. Sir Ken Robinson says schools kill creativity (2006): 23,510,221 views
2. Jill Bolte Taylor‘s stroke of insight (2008): 14,343,197
3. Simon Sinek on how great leaders inspire action (2010): 14,228,854
4. Brene Brown talks about the power of vulnerability (2010): 12,703,623
5. Amy Cuddy on how your body language shapes who you are (2012): 12,682,694
6. Pranav Mistry on the thrilling potential of SixthSense (2009): 12,068,105
7. Tony Robbins asks why we do what we do (2006): 10,425,014
8. David Gallo‘s underwater astonishments (2007): 10,266,221
9. Mary Roach on 10 things you didn’t know about orgasm (2009): 9,435,954
10. Daniel Pink on the surprising science of motivation (2009): 9.176,053
11. Pattie Maes and Pranav Mistry demo SixthSense (2009): 8, 363,339
12. Dan Gilbert asks: Why are we happy? (2004): 7,788,151
13. Hans Rosling shows the best stats you’ve ever seen (2006): 7,685,726
14. Elizabeth Gilbert on nurturing your creative genius (2009): 7,593,076
15. Steve Jobs on how to live before you die (2005): 7,223,258
16. Susan Cain shares the power of introverts (2012): 6,807,240
17. Keith Barry does brain magic (2004): 6,371,778
18. David Blaine reveals how he held his breath for 17 minutes (2010): 6,359,084
19. Pamela Meyer on how to spot a liar (2010): 6,256,589
20. Arthur Benjamin does mathemagic (2005): 4,951,918

While having a door-wall put in the bedroom, it seemed wise to add wood floors and a new coat of paint.  2 out of 3 being hired out, we appointed ourselves the painters. My aspirations were high – paint the bedroom in a weekend, and make each and every brush stroke a meditation, an invitation to be in the here-and-now of the color and the brush and the wall.

At the end of the weekend, I plead the 2nd Buddhist Nobel Truth – Attachments cause suffering.  I was attached to a clean paint job with straight lines and no drips. In reality, I got some nice colored walls, some edges and creases and lines needing touch ups, a whole lotta pulled muscles and way more work yet to do than we had planned for.

I’m getting my first glimpse of how we’ll age together.  It’s sweet.  I make us our morning coffee and bring ibuprofen, Kyle makes our evening cocktail and brings ibuprofen.  We agree on when to stop painting and start stretching, our moans and groans making each other laugh.  We take turns being the wise Pooh and the hopeless Eeyore.  Pretty much like we always face things, as a team with mostly complimentary neuroses.

Oh wait.  I was supposed to be meditating.  Forgot about that, oops!  There were a few strokes every now and then, smooth and obedient… they were fun…  The painting wasn’t really the meditation after all.  The meditation was me and Kyle covered in paint, sore and stiff, tired and goofy, doing the next required task to eventually end up with a temple of a bedroom.  The meditation was love.

I’m republishing this piece for my students, who just learned their Enneagram types.  It’s a very fun piece in which almost every sentence conveys a bit of “four-ness” or “nine-ness”.  

A Four and a Nine Crawl Into a Bed

Four and Nine crawled into bed, and surrounded themselves with their nightly rituals – book, Mac Book, popsicles, and lip balm.

Four was reading a tragic love story about a time traveler who was married to a stationary wife. He was constantly appearing and disappearing without rhyme or reason, while she tried to be brave and stoic and have a good attitude about being abandoned and rejoined over and over through her life.

Nine was playing a video game that involved creating railroad systems across the nation, for the shipping of grain, ore and things, so that villages could eat and bridges could be built. Not a lot of action, just a lot of pointing, clicking, dragging, and watching the trains go back and forth.

Four finished the book, which had, of course, ended with the husband knowing the date that he would leave his wife for good, then telling her, then dying in her arms, only to come back one more time when she was eighty-two, and had been waiting for him every day for the last forty-five years. Is this a happy ending, a sad ending? It is not an ending to turn the light off and roll over with. But Four tried, anyway.

Nine closed the laptop, and they assumed Part I of their sleeping dance, in which she spooned him, and he warmed his cold feet on her ankles. Moved by the book’s tragically romantic ending, Four burrowed just a little tighter into Nine’s back, executing special spoon moves that conveyed love and happiness into his back and butt. Then she apologized for being insensitive earlier in the day. He could be taken from me any day, each spoon could be our last spoon, and I am so self-centered and insensitive so often… Feeling tears well up, she thought no, no, not going there tonight, it’s too late for maudlin, just try to be a better wife in the morning and go to sleep. In and down… in and down… But sleep did not come.

What did come was the recognition that a dear friend was turning thirty-three tomorrow. It was, also, her first day of teaching at their shared alma mater (where Four had been almost, but not quite, hired last year). The friend had also just passed her boards. She was a thirty-three year old, fully licensed doctor of psychology, teaching at her alma mater. She had a nice house and cute kid, too. It wasn’t a bad haul in thirty-three years. In comparison, Four was forty-two, had yet to pass the boards, did not get the teaching job, had never weighed more than at this moment and looked to become one of those obnoxious people who treat their dog like their child. The Four/Nine homestead was a very sweet but disappointing piece of real estate, sinking into a very cute little lake. It was in no way sellable, and by far the smallest and most challenged home of any of their friends or family. The idea, metaphor, archetype or meaning of ‘home’, was so loaded for her. It hurt deeply to finally have finally arrived at “Doctor Four”- ness while remaining mortified of house and zip code. All the years of drama, all the tragic romance, what a sad waste of time and energy, now I am middle aged and it’s too late …. But it’s not, another part argued, because here you are, being spooned in the popsicle bed.,, by the kindest man in the world. You are right on time…, this is all there is…. In and down, remember, in and down….

Four sometimes felt abandoned when she was the back-spooner… shorter than Nine, all she could do was hold him around the middle and stare at his back, which often felt like a closed door. Feeling middle aged, and in love, and jealous, and trying to be grateful wasn’t mixing well with abandonment. So, she rolled Nine over into Part II of their sleep dance, in which Nine lays flat on his back, and Four finds what that other crazy-but-charming Four from “Sex in the City” – Carrie – called “the nook”, which is the place where under-the-arm meets on-the-chest. She thought that hearing Nine’s heartbeat would be anchoring and soothing and, perhaps,she’d sleep.

Nine willingly assumed the new position and Four settled in to comfort herself with the sounds and smells and nearness and nowness of him. Some time passed, in which Four chastised herself for feeling lonesome while laying atop of her husband, but she was. His attention was elsewhere (in sleep, where it should be) and she was left to contemplate matters existential and banal. Just then, as if on cue, Nine murmured, pulled the blankets high up around Four’s shoulders and neck, kissed her forehead and drifted back to sleep.

Four’s heart exploded with childlike glee at his tacit understanding of her need, and his offer of comfort. “That was the perfect thing to say!” she whispered to him. “Mmmm…” he replied amiably. And then, “What’d I say?” “You said blanket tuck and forehead kiss, and that was exactly what I needed to hear!” “Good sweetie, I’m glad”, he mumbled. They moved silently into the final part of the sleep dance – Part III – where Nine is the spooner, tall enough to see over Four’s head, or nestle her neck or nibble an ear. This was Four’s favorite part. She liked feeling small and all wrapped up in him. A heavy, bed-tipping thud announced the arrival of Seven-the-dog, who took the only empty spot she saw by curling into Four’s belly. Now they were three spoons in the popsicle bed. Four was sandwiched between the two beings who saw her at her daily worst and were crazy about her, anyway. And just like that, the house didn’t look so bad, nor did her butt or the bags under her eyes. And for her friend who would have a perfect day, tomorrow, she felt happy, because she, herself, was having a perfect night, tonight.

Download flyer here –
Contacting the Priestess / Priest Within Workshop – 

If you’re interested in taking personal responsibility for your spiritual intentions and interactions, this might be the workshop for you.  It’s designed to teach very basic elements of ceremony, ritual and energy work, so that you can tailor them to your particular spiritual path.  You’ll learn how to create powerful ceremonies, work with energy and use tools of divination for personal self actualization.  Details below.

I have never had an interactive experience of angels, spirits, ancestors or deities.  It sounds lovely, the idea of invisible helpers guiding from the other side (while opening up a whole can of ontological worms about said other side), but so far, I got nuthin’.

What I have had is a multitude of synchronicities, and a quiet small voice within which is
right more often than it’s wrong. I’m fairly adept at reading energetic information, have limited success with telepathy, and am more often than not successful when providing reiki healing.

Do you hear me hedging my confidence here?  “Fairly”, “limited”, “more often than not” …  This ever present humility comes compliments of my spiritual teacher for a decade or so, who asked me to make sure I was using the correct choice between “I know”, “I think”, “I feel” and “I believe”.  Like most neophytes, I used them interchangeably without much thought, but once guided to be specific, I found that I rarely used “I know” or “I believe”.

Consequently, and pursuant to this essay, I don’t believe in angels, and I don’t know for sure that there are anthropomorphic gods or goddesses waiting around to be helpful (or punitive, depending on the belief system).  I believe everything is connected energetically, and that communication, intention and healing can be conveyed through these energetic connections, but I don’t know it for sure. I think of the Universe as possessing an intelligence that is phenomenal, and I feel like it’s a benevolent place to be, but I don’t know that either.

This careful use of “think” “know” “feel” and “believe” has at times been a buzz-kill, in the way that good personal responsibility often is.  I’d much rather live in a world inhabited by friendly spirits and guides, and pray to the goddesses I so vehemently advocate for and write about.  But for me, these are metaphors, ways to comprehend the incomprehensible, mythologically ripe with lessons to learn and helpful on the difficult adventures of being.  So recently, in a moment of envy, I decided to get me some angels.  And since I’ve never experienced them outside of myself, I decided to place them inside of myself.

For purposes of this experiment, I’m giving my intuition a costume closet and a bull horn.  This way, it can dress up as the Archangel Michael, or the goddess Kali, or whomever seems appropriate at the time, and SHOUT pieces of wisdom and guidance into my inner ear (also known as my heart).

This resolves several sticky wickets for me.  1) I don’t have to have a direct experience or knowing of angels etc.  2) I get to equip my intuition with more ways to get my attention. And 3) – I’ve found another way to pay attention to and interact with the magic of synchronicity.  I think it’s a often overlooked road map, and while I try to pay attention, I know I can do better.

This feels very consistent with my work as an existential psychologist, as it places personal responsibility for quality of life inside of me, alongside my free will and ability to choose.  If there’s a license plate on the car in front of me that reads “BKC-143”, my inner angel might help me interpret that as “Betz King, see tarot card #14 before 3 o’clock”, or it could mean “Burger King? Cholesterol 143.”  I get to decide, and trusting myself to make that decision is the muscle I look forward to strengthening.

Instead of believing the magic is outside of me, where I’ve never known it to be, all I have to do is recognize it inside of me.  I think it will be useful, and it feels fun.  I’ll keep you posted…

I have a love/hate relationship with the “new age”.

I love it because it has affirmed my childhood belief in magic.  The more open I become to the vessels of “new age”  (translate very old) wisdom, to the various oracles, healing methods, meditations, esoteric schools and  daily synchronicities around me, the more I delight in the reality of magic in my world.

Yet there is something about it that I hate.  Maybe hate is too strong of a word.  There is an aspect of this movement that has always repelled me.  It has tainted my happiness and irritated my search for truth.

Until recently I didn’t know what to call it, or how to lament of it to friends.   I just knew that when I found myself in a stereotypical “new age” situation, I would retreat with distaste, rolling my eyes and mumbling, even though I myself am a believer.

Take crystals for example.  I have a huge collection of beautiful crystals.  I know them intimately.  They have assisted me in many healings, on both myself and others.  Yet when I see someone clutching a clear quartz, or rubbing an amethyst against their forehead, I want to scream!

Or…I hear a conversation where someone is earnestly sharing:  “I just surrounded myself in white light, and do you know, my mother in law was just as nice as she could be” and I want to throw up.  Yet I surround myself in White Light all the time!  I know that it works!

I was a house divided against myself, and I just didn’t know why.

Then I serendipitously came across the writings of James Hillman and  Thomas Moore, books like Blue Fire and the Care of the Soul series.  These authors provided me with a startling new framework to place around my reality and my faith.

They spoke of the difference between spirit and soul.

Spirit and soul.  I hadn’t pondered the difference in these two words.  I considered them pretty much the same thing.  Actually, I preferred the word spirit, as the word soul often conjured up uncomfortably dogmatic visions of my childhood religion.  Hillman and Moore lament the loss of soulfulness in our society.  And in defining soulfulness, I realize it is the missing element which has caused me such irritation in the whole “new age” movement.  Too much spirit and not enough soul.  Hillman suggests that

 …soul is always in the thick of things:  in the repressed, in

         the shadow, in the messes of life, in illness, and in the pain

         and confusion of love.  Spirituality often seeks to transcend

         these lowly conditions of the soul.  But… a split of spirituality,

         with no influence from the soul, readily falls into extremes of

         literalism and fanaticism.

 Yeah, that’s it.  Literalism and fanaticism.  That was what was bugging me.  Denial of the shadow.  Soul acknowledges the sacred in the mundane.  It is a much lower frequency, an internal frequency.  Unlike many on a new age path,  I no longer consider it a asset to know how to leave my body.   I consider it an asset to stay in, no matter what happens.  It’s harder than it sounds.

I remember very well my introduction to the world of spirit.  I voraciously devoured teachings about white light, meditation and crystals.  I conversed with angels and guides, learned of energetic healing, telepathic communications, and the power of intention and visualization.  I felt as if I had been given a remembering of things long known but forgotten.

But James Hillman warns that:

When spirit is imagined as above human life… as abstracting

         and distancing, and as pure and uncontaminated, the soul is

         particularily denigrated.

Well, that was me.  Abstract and distant.  Pure and uncontaminated.  Ten feet out of my body, bathed in White Light, running red lights and walking into walls.

In retrospect, I believe it was my soul which asked me to put away my spiritual healing practice to pursue a degree in psychology.  Not because one is any better or more valid than the other, but because for me, the study of psychology in a university setting, would be a very soulful endeavor.  The “messes of life” at their finest.

College taught me many lessons.  Few had to do with school.  Yet the biggest and best lesson I didn’t learn at school, but muddled my way through all by myself, was the difference between faith and action.

Spirit is about faith.  About prayer and intuition and resting safely in the higher frequencies of the Universe.  It does not concern itself with the mundane, it trusts that all will “trickle down” , As Above, So Below, with emphasis on Above.

Soul is about action. Large and small self-nurturing and self-actualizing acts.  Daily availability to the small details. As Below, so Above, with emphasis on Below.  Soul embraces the famous words of Ram Dass;  “Be Here Now”.  Be here when the snow falls, watch it land on the trees.  Be here when you take that first sip of a hot chocolate.  Be here when your heart is breaking, when your mate holds your hand, when your cat purrs or your child cries.  Be present for your dreams.  And while visualization is a wonderful tool, so is grounding that visualization in a small, soulful and physical way.  Soul very often speaks metaphorically.  In images and cravings and longings it will tell you, in a very quiet voice, what it needs.

I was delighted to discover that there was a reason for my angst, that others felt the same attraction/aversion in face of the stereotypical new age trappings.  It is not that there is anything wrong with that picture, it is just an incomplete picture.  Now that I have more pieces to my ever-expanding puzzle, I am enjoying the view much more.  Yet I wonder how many others have turned away from that stereotype, not realizing it simply needed an infusion of old fashioned soulfulness.  I fear that the lack of soulfulness in the spiritual movement is making it less rooted and less respectable.  I fear we are losing people in our “airy-fairy” presentation of these truths.

The new age needs a new spin, one that allows for the mundane to be every bit as holy as the profound.

I’ve been published in the latest edition of About Place Journal.
My piece is called “Of Goddesses and Fools”, click on the cover to read it,
and while you’re there, check out the other wonderful pieces and authors!