Monthly Archives: February 2016

Finding Buddha in a Typhoon

This blog is a series of posts that tell the story of one woman’s Spiritual experiences.  The story begins with The Day My Soul Cracked Open.
May you find your own moments of grace, healing, and love while enjoying her adventures.


Rain came down like waterfalls from the clouds as I waded through the sidewalks of Nara, Japan. It ran in torrents across the pavement, washing over the tops of my sandales as it swirled toward the street. The force at which it collieded with the rivers rising up out of the storm drains created whirlpools and waves. It was raining so hard, water propelled itself at least three feet off whatever surface it happened to crash into. It felt like it was raining from the ground up just as hard as it was from the sky down.  The wind whipped wet sheets of air at me from all directions. I’d never experienced anything like it. The sky had simply opened, dropping nearly three feet of rain in 24 hours.

I would later learn that the typhoon over my head had swelled to a category five super storm while raging over the warm summer waters of the Pacific. Japan’s saving grace was a faltering eye-wall, dropping the sustaining winds down to the status of a category two typhoon a day before making landfall. The winds may have quelled, but the moisture this storm collected off the warm ocean waves didn’t spare the mainland a single drop of rain. It drenched everything in its path with the intensity of a dam bursting through its concrete confinement.

I was walking through the blistering rain looking for Todaji Temple, a 1400 year old structure housing three giant Buddha statues. It would be my only chance to explore one of the most ancient and historically significant sites Japan had to offer during my three week treck across the island nation.

I’d been hired by a woman* with a terminal illness making checkmarks on her bucket list. She was wheelchair bound with limited mobility and a host of medical needs. We’d been traveling for a week and a half on little sleep and even less food. I’d spent the previous ten days accompanying my companion on the marathon sprint of what she’d figured was the last vacation of her life.

I was dedicated to her care, knowing what this trip meant to her. I spent hours holding her upright in airplanes and train seats. I learned how to disassemble and reassemble her medical equipment. I moved and transfered her from chair, to bed, to bathroom, to shower, and back again. I ran along side her with aching legs and sagging shoulders, trying to keep up as she raced around the country in her  battery powered wheelchair. I hauled luggage and medical equipment through train stations and crowded sidewalks, doing the best I could to ensure she wouldn’t miss a single connecting leg of her journey.

I had the morning off. A rare break from the whirlwind of a woman trying to capture as much life as she possibly could in the short amount of time she had left. As much as I hesitated leaving her alone, she urged me to go. She was interested in modern day Japan. The Japan that offered easy movement via ramps and elevators. For her, modern Japan meant mobility. My main interest – histoical  Japan – meant stairs. Lots of them. Stairs were the nemesis of this vacation.  The inaccessible obstacles in her carefully planned adventure.

“Go!” She said. “There’s no point in you having to stay locked up in this hotel, too.” It was impossibe for her to do any sightseeing in the heavy rain. It would short out her wheelchair.

“Go see something I can’t. You deserve it. And take pictures!” She said as she yawned over her breakfast.

“I don’t know.” I countered tenatively, taking a sip of tea.

“Do you think you’ll have another opportunity to see a thousand year old giant Buddha in a thousand year old Japanese temple?” She asked as I fed her another bite of poached fish and rice.

“No.” I replied. “But the rain. It’s pouring out there. And I’m tired. I could just hang out here with you and take a nap.”

“Hey.” She said sternly. “Trust me. You can sleep when you’re dead. If you want to go see the temple. Go see the temple. Don’t let anything stop you. Not even a typhoon. Besides, it’s not raining that hard, is it?”  She grinned at me as she looked toward the window.

I’d started out with a map given to me by the non-English speaking clerk at the front desk of our hotel.  She’d outlined the streets with a pencil, waving her hands a bit while pointing directions in the air. Confident we’d somehow communicated effectively, I set out on my mini pilgrimage with a complimentary hotel umbrella and my Nikon d80. I’d gagued from her arm movements that I was to exit the hotel, walk straight for a while, then take two left turns and a right. From what I guessed, the temple would then magically appear right in front of me – at least that’s what I hoped would happen when I left that morning.

Not. Even. Close.

I’d been walking for over an hour through the drenched streets of a foreign city, lamenting the smeared pencil marks on my soggy map. My camera, wrapped in a plastic bag and tucked under my shirt, hung heavy around my kneck. I was soaked from head to toe. My umbrella, more useful as a shield for pushing through the howling wind than a covering to protect me from the assaulting rain, did its best not to crumble apart and blow away.

I contuined walking, finding myself in a residental part of the city. I moved past houses and rice patties, twisting and turning through the water logged streets. I found my way back to the business district, encountering a small, open restaurant in an otherwise desolate city. I stepped inside, hoping for a way to get directions from the old man behind the counter. It was impossible.  We had no way of understanding each other. Frustrated, I made my way back out in the storm. I did my best to retrace my steps, but visibility was limited in the onslaught of rain and recognizing landmarks was difficult.

I don’t know when, exacly, I started praying. Or crying for that matter. I was cold, hungry, and exhausted. The wet fabric straps of my sandles gnawed at my heals. My clothes stuck to my skin as I stumbled forward, finding footholds in the cement. The rain made the concrete slippery. I wondered how far down the street the water would carry me if I accidently slipped and fell in the gutters.

By then I’d been walking for over two hours. I’d given up all hope of finding the ancient temple or the giant Buddha. I was lost in a strange city, in the middle of a typhoon, half way around the world. I couldn’t communicate with anyone and I had no idea how to get back to my hotel. I’d left my traveling companion, a woman with limited mobility and complex medical needs, lying alone on a bed. The entire time I’d been walking I hadn’t seen a single police officer, hospital, or tourist information center.

I came to an abrupt stop in the middle of a city block as panic set in. I willed myself to remain calm as I struggled to hold on to my umbrella. I fought hard against the urge to drop to my knees and hyperventilate.  Wind lashed across my back and arms as rain continued to shoot off the sidewalk, pelting my legs like bee-bees. My body gave in to the trembling of desperation. My throat tightened as my breath became ragged.  I closed my eyes, lifting my head toward the sky. Cold rain and salty tears rolled down my cheeks. My body shook as I sunk deeper into the pit of fear.

What the hell do I do?

The question screamed through my body.

What do people do when there is nothing left to do? What do they do when they’re stranded in the middle of the storms of their lives, feeling lost, scared, alone, and powerless? What do people do when last remaining shreds of courage, fortitude, and determinaton begin to slip from their fingers?

They pray. Furiously.

Which is what I did. I let out a begging plea to the strange gods of a foreign land in one last, desperate attempt to find my way back to safety before completely losing my shit.

“Dear Buddha, Amaterasu, and any other Kami or Deva who’s listening. I know I’m not Buddist, or Shinto, or Japanese, or even Oriental, and I’ve never actually prayed to any of you before, but if you can hear me, please help me. Please tell me where I am and how to get back to my friend.”

I looked at the priest sitting in the chair across from me while trailing my fingers along the edge of the jar of holy water I’d collected earlier. I watched as he silently asked his God what to do with me.

In that moment, I realized I was his typhoon in the middle of Japan. I was the storm that blew into his church, knocking him off balance and forcing him to step a little deeper into the countenance of his faith.

Funny, how we both sat there, a little lost and a lot perplexed, trying desperately to find the common ground God required from us.

I glanced out the window before continuing with my confession.

*personal details have been changed to protect the anonymity of my traveling companion*



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A Druidic Witch Goes To Confession: Part 1


I sat quietly in the pew while eight elderly parishioners filed into the church. One of them, a small woman wearing a white prayer scarf, smiled at me as her body began its crooked decent into a kneeling position. In a Catholic church, it is traditional to kneel at the side of the pew and make the sign of the cross before entering the row of benches. The woman’s hands, covered in dark spots and stiff with age, shook with the unmistakable cadence of Parkinson’s Disease. She closed her eyes as she reached first for her forehead, then the middle of her chest. She followed this with a gentle tap on each shoulder. Her body pitched forward as she fought to control her arms. I thought she might collapse and I moved to help her.

“No, no.” She whispered. “I’ll manage.”  I nodded at her as I settled back into my seat.

“Are you here for confession?” She asked as she sat down next to me.

“Yes.” I replied quietly.

“You’re first. Go on, now.” She said, waiving me forward with her quivering arms. I was keenly aware of the same sinking feeling in my stomach as I’d had the day my Druid teacher singled me out for my Bardic initiation. I glanced at the statues of Mary and Joseph as I walked toward the confessinal door. I tenatively grasped the gold plated door knob, taking a sharp inhale as I turned it to the right. I slowly pushed open the door.

The room felt like a large closet with windows. Late afternoon sun trailed down the walls in soft, white pools. One side of the room was used for storage while the other was dedicated to the purging of sins. On my left, candle holders, music stands, and folding chairs were arranged haphazardly against the walls, spilling out apologetically toward the middle of the room. To my right sat the priest. He was dressed in white robes with a purple prayer sash around his neck. He was much younger than I’d expected. His hands were clasped in front of his slender body, resting over the knee of his crossed leg. His hair had yet to show signs of grey and his skin held the elasticity of a man still in his prime. He felt elegant and refined against the wildness of my bristling Soul.

There were two ways to make confession – behind a small divider for the semblance of privacy or face to face.

“Where do I sit?” I asked.

“Wherever you’re most comfortable.” He replied, readjusting his posture as I cleared my throat.

I chose the option of sitting face to face. I nervously lowered myself into a simple metal chair with thin black vinyl cushions. I looked at the priest for a moment before reciting the words I’d memorized in second grade catechism. “Forgive me Father for I have sinned.” My voice felt thick and heavy with the guilt of a Catholic who hadn’t seen a priest for over half her life. “It’s been at least 30 years since my last confession.”

I paused, not knowing what to say next. I stared at the floor while my brain unraveled in a million different directions.

“What do you wish to confess?” The priest asked.

“Well…” I said, dragging the word slowly across my tongue while I figited in my chair. “I guess I want to confess that I’m a Druid and a Witch and I want to go to church tomorrow.” I raised my eyes to his face, studying his reaction.

It was his turn to look at the floor. He shifted again as he fought to maintain his composure. The bluntness of my confession caught him off guard. His knuckles turned white as he clentched his fingers tighter around his knee. I watched as fear traveled over him, tickling his skin like the legs of a thousand little insects.

It was a fear I knew all too well. Memories of sleepless nights spent clutching a rosary with a bible under my pillow and a cross on the wall above my head poured into the forefront of my consciousness. The little Catholic girl in me remembered the horror stories of witches and heretics and how they would burn in hell for all eternity for consorting with the devil.

“I grew up Catholic and I’ve always loved churches.” I spoke gently, trying to ease the tension in the room.

I spent the next few minutes explaining the twists and turns of my Spiritual path through Druidry, Shamanism, and Pagan Witchery. I watched the Priest’s face as my words filled the room. He was listening, thinking, trying his best to determine how to be both brave enough and safe enough to minister to the woman sitting in front of him. I did not begrudge his discomfort. After all, I was probably the first person to come into his church and openly admit to being a witch.

I finished speaking and waited for his response.

“The first thing that comes to mind are the Harry Potter books.” He said nervously.

“They talk about many of the same things you described.” He took a long, labored breath as he thought about what to say next.

“There are a lot of connotations around the word witch.” I replied, moving the conversation along a thin line between spiritual counseling and outright blasphemy. “It scares people, especially in the church. There’s a misconception in the Christian community that witches are evil and they do bad things. That’s not true. At least, it’s not true among the witches I know. Some of the kindest, most loving people I’ve met call themselves witches.”

“I see.” he said, eying me carefully. “I suppose it is a word that can be misinterpreted, and, as with Harry Potter, I suppose it’s possible to call yourself a  –  witch…”

He physically choked over the word. It scratched and clawed its way up his throat, coming out as a hoarse stutter in the small corner of his confessional. I could see how difficult it was for him to continue. To say things that might displease God in His holy house. He wore his struggle openly.

I admired him. I watched as he wrestled with his virtue, his faith, and his commitment as a priest to do the good Lord’s work. I imagined the questions forming in his head.

Why would God put a witch in front of me? What is His plan? Will He protect me? Will I succumb to temptation? What if I fail Him in this moment of doubt? 

All the Catholic worries I grew up with and the terror they inspired permeated the room. His fearful questions were my childhood nightmares. I knew them intimately.

I honored his courage. It took decades for me to heal from the religious trauma of my youth. When was the last time I felt as courageous as this man looked?  My mind dug out the memory of the day I found Buddah while walking through a typhoon.


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Christian Roots and a Pagan Crown


The late afternoon sun created streams of multicolored light through the small windows near the front of the church. One of the rays rested quietly on the bare foot of a statue of Joseph hanging on the wall in front of me. He was holding the baby Jesus. A second statue of Mother Mary hung by his side. Beneath them was an altar of candles with a kneeler in front.

I took my jar of holy water and moved to stand before the kneeler, tilting my head up toward the feet of Mary and Joseph. I lit a candle, knelt down, and rested my head on the smooth wooden surface meant for the elbows of a praying woman.

I stared at the Easter lilies as tears rolled down my cheeks. My childhood self would have roamed the church, looking for Jesus under pews and around corners as if we were playing a special game of hide and seek. My adult self wondered what I’d say if I actually found him. Especially now.

Going to church as a child taught me about ritual and prayer as well as the concept of good versus evil.  I learned about the good fight between God and the Devil and how not to be a sinner.

Becoming a Druid brought my Spirituality to life. It allowed me to honor my body and my human experience. I remembered the first time I danced barefoot around a campfire to the sound of djembes and frame drums. There was something hauntingly primitive and primal in the way my body moved. It was my soul in its purest form of human expression. Druidy taught me how to fully embody my Spiritual communion with the Divine. It also gave me a Goddess.

For a child growing up in the Bible belt, the ability to pay homage to a fully empowered Goddess as an expression of Divinity was life-changing. My early ties to religion taught me I was born from the rib of a man whom I later betrayed. My betrayal caused his ruin, placing us both in disfavor with God. Our punishment together was the loss of Eden, my further punishment was to be cursed with menstruation and painful childbirth. I was taught my only hope for salvation was to become an obedient wife and mother – that this would be my most important duty as a Christian woman.

So I became a Pagan one instead. A wild, unapologetic, fully empowered, menstruating, breast feeding, daughter of the Earth. I celebrated my womb and the life I bore from it. I learned to love my body and accept my place as the Divine Feminine counterpart to God. I chose not to be subservient or obedient. I was not a child among men. I was a woman, and without me, humanity could not exist. I allowed myself to be powerful in my own right. I gave myself permission to enjoy being all the things men are not. To be what they cannot be. I took my place as a woman, not to punish men, or hate them, or try to prove myself to them. I took it because that is what I am meant to do. It is my divine birthright to be the female expression of humanity in its fullest, most empowered and impeccable form. It is my birthright to honor my body as sacred and holy.

I gazed up at the statue of Mary.

“Surely you must understand me.” I whispered to her. “How could you have given birth to divinity if you, yourself, were not divine.”

I wondered what it meant for her to be both the beloved mother of Jesus and the cursed daughter of Eve – the good and the evil – the sinner and the saint.

That moment – kneeling in a Catholic church, talking to Mary and searching for Jesus while honoring my Pagan connection to God – made the polarity of my Spiritual identity even more complex. As I’d mentioned in my first blog post, The Day My Soul Cracked Open, I was experiencing a full blown crisis of ego. I felt overly sensitive and vulnerable with an acute inability to discern the reasons why. This, coupled with a lack of Spiritual judgement and consistent weepiness over not being able to feel like ‘me’ anymore, made the task of figuring out what was wrong with me even more daunting.

I had no idea how to be Christian and Pagan at the same time, but I was.

How does a woman like me talk to Jesus when Pagans and Christians are not on speaking terms? How does a woman like me even exist?

A knock on the door and the sound of people’s voices snapped me out of my troubled mind. I rose from the kneeler with my holy water and resumed my place in the front pew. I watched while the priest opened the side door for a small gathering of parishioners eager to receive the sacrament of confession.

How long had it been since I sat face to face with a priest and told him about all the things I’d done wrong? At least 30 years.

I’d been invited to attend mass the following morning by the woman with the key. I felt the only way I could do that in good conscience was to ask permission from the priest.

How, exactly, does a Druidic Witch say confession to a Catholic Priest? I was about to find out…









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Becoming a Bard


The lady with the key locked the door behind her, leaving me alone in the church. It was six days after Easter and the pulpit was covered with flowers. The fragrance was sweet with the promise of Spring. The sun was bright outside, illuminating the stained glass, creating depth and vitality among the angels and saints.

I walked down the sides of the pews, stopping at each tall window to study the image radiating into the dark church. It was quiet and still, the air only slightly stirred as I trailed my fingers along the colored panes of glass. The pictures were familiar, reminding me of the windows in my childhood church and the stations of the cross. I lingered at each window, admiring the art and architecture of this holy place.

I love holy places – shrines, temples, churches, groves, lakes, stone circles – anywhere that inspires me to stop and breath deeply with my eyes closed.

Whenever I went on vacation as a child, my parents would always find the nearest Catholic church. Sometimes we would go inside to look around when no one else was there. I loved the smells, the ornate statues, the feel of the wooden pews. Churches were quiet and filled with anticipation. I’d always been told that church was the house of God, and I always hoped I’d eventually be able to find the one Jesus lived in. I wanted to catch him at home doing normal human things. I wanted to know what Jesus did when he wasn’t working – did he like to play games? Make furniture? Water flowers? What does the Son of God do when he’s not answering prayers or preforming miracles?

These were the questions I couldn’t ask as a Catholic child. They were considered inappropriate. In church, Jesus was always portrayed to me as a God – something unattainable to a mere human and I was told it was blasphemous to think of him as just a man.

But he was a man. A human person walking the Earth in human form, dealing with a human body, human emotions, and a human psyche. This part of the story always seemed rather important and relevant to me, even as a child.

I sat down in the pew nearest the altar, the fragrance of the flowers settling over my hair and skin, and contemplated Jesus as a Druid Priestess.

By this point in my life, I’d been on my Druid path for seven years. The day I initiated into Druidry was sunny and clear. It was just after dawn and the sun was still new to the horizon. It was a surprise initiation orchestrated by my brother and the Druid community he belonged to.

It was the last day of a week long, full emersion experience into the training of this particular Druid Mystery School. I’d been doing a home study course with the program and was entertaining the idea of continuing my studies on site at the school itself. My brother, being older, wiser, and having gone through several levels of initiation, spoke to me all week of “jumping over the fire to become a Bard.”

A Bard is the first level of Druid training. In the days of old, the bards were the traveling minstrels. They were the historians, poets, and storytellers, bringing news from court to court. It is much the same in modern times. A talented Bard is an artist, stoking the flames of her creativity and creating magic with her art –  Hence the initiation.

“The fire gets built up really high, as high as the Head Druid thinks you can jump.” My brother explained. “You’ll want to get a good running start because you have to clear the fire pit, and it’s a good five, maybe six feet across. Think of it as kind of a cross between the long jump and hurdling.”

On and on he went, all week long, describing the awe and peril of jumping over the bardic fire into the life of a Druid. Being the younger sister, I marveled at every word he said, trying to conjure up the strength, agility, and courage I would need to take my own leap of faith. So, when our morning mediation was complete and the head Druid commanded his attention toward me, my insides freaked.

“Shit!  I don’t know if I can do this.” I thought to myself as I looked at the fire pit. “That’s a long way across and I’m really short. I can’t believe I’m actually thinking about doing this…”

“Come toward the fire” invited my Druid teacher with his English accent. “Let us begin.”

Although it was an impromptu ceremony, everyone seemed to know exactly what to do. Everyone but me. I was the only uninitiated member of the group and all I had to work with were the embellished stories my brother told.

I completed the first part of the ceremony with a shaky voice. My body trembled as I kept glancing at the fire. I was sweating when the time came to jump. My Druid teacher opened the energetic gate, indicating that the rest was up to me. I backed up a few steps, eyed the fire, and thought about my footholds. Which rock looked like the best launch, and which one would catch me on the other side? I was barefoot and anxious. Everyone was watching, waiting for me to commit. The pause in the air was profound. I began rocking my body back and forth, willing myself to make a decision. One that would land me safely on the other side of the fire, unburned and somehow Bardic.

“What are you doing?” My Druid teacher asked. “Come into the pit and step over the fire. You can do it.”

His words broke my brother’s spell, allowing me to approach the fire and jump over it without harm. My brother erupted with laughter while the rest of the community cheered. Everyone gathered around me, creating a hive of Druids all buzzing like bees. I could feel the vibration of their toning voices in the marrow of my bones. Something primitive began to seep out of the deepest part of my soul. I could feel it enter my blood, travel through my veins, and settle in my heart.

It was this primitive part of me that wished to talk to human Jesus.




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How A Witch Gets Locked In A Church


I loved church when I was little. We used to go every Sunday morning. My church was a block away from my house and every week, no matter the weather, my family and I would all dress up in our nicest clothes and walk up the hill to greet the Priest.

Upon entering, every member of the congregation would dip their fingers in a little golden cup of holy water and anoint themselves with the sign of the cross before finding a place to sit.

Aside from the guaranteed sip of wine and the texture of the communion bread on my tongue, my favorite part of church was the holy water. It had a particular smell – not quite rancid, but not fresh either. The texture was different from any other water I’d experienced. It felt somehow thicker, denser, and more oily than other water. As a child, I felt my church’s water was nothing short of a miracle from God. I thought Jesus must have changed it when no one was looking, just like he did when he turned water into wine.

30 years later, in the middle of a full on pschyo-spiritual crisis, I wanted nothing more than to feel and smell the water I loved so much as a child.

To be honest, it was quite intimidating to admit I wanted to go back to church. I stopped going when I was 13. As a small child, church felt like a beautiful, comfortable, loving place to be. When I started to reach puberty and womanhood, it changed. Religion suddenly became terrifying. I don’t remember the exact moment or chain of events that turned my loving  Jesus experience into a nightmarish fear of being possessed by the Devil. However, between the ages of 11 and 13, the emotional trauma I experienced over not wanting to go to Hell left scars for three decades.

I’ve been working my way back into a loving relationship with Spirit ever since. After six months of insomnia and believing the only way I would ever be fully safe from evil was if I lived in a convent, I stopped going to church altogether. I spent the remainder of my teenage years hiding from my fear of God while still fearing God.

I started looking at other forms of Spirituality in my early 20’s, eventually finding my way into Druidry, Paganism, and Shamanism. I formed a complex Spiritual identity as a Druidic Shaman with Witchy tendencies. In other words, I became everything the Catholic church said would send me to Hell.

Contrary to my upbringing, identifying with Pagans, Druids, and Witches didn’t leave me feeling like a demon nor was I living amongst fire and brimstone. In fact, none of what I’d experienced in any of my Spiritual endeavors felt sacrilegious. I’d gone half way around the world and back, experiencing many forms of prayer, ritual, and meditation, and every form of communion I had with divinity was, in is purest form, divine.

Nonetheless, how does a Witchy-Druidic-Shamanistic-Non-Practicing-Catholic in the middle of a psychotic spiritual breakdown go back to church and ask for holy water? It seemed like both a dilemma and a homecoming.

Practically speaking, she actually has to find an open church. Not an easy task in today’s world. When I was a kid, church was open all the time. The doors were never locked. Not true anymore. I spent two days canvasing all the Catholic churches within reasonable driving distance. Every one of them was locked. My Druidic mind took over and thought, “Hmm – a sign, perhaps?” Yet, the craving in the tips of my Catholic fingers would not ease. I sought out church after church until finally I met a woman with a key.

She was a volunteer in a Catholic bookstore across the parking lot from the fifth church I’d tried that day. She opened the door, gave me holy water, and asked me if I wanted to stay.

“Alone?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “The Priest will be here in an hour for confession. I’ll lock the door behind me.”

That’s how I found myself alone, locked in a church, questioning everything about myself and my Multiple Spirituality Disorder.

The next hour felt like lifetimes…

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The Day My Soul Cracked Open


It’s been almost a year since I woke up with what I’ve decided to call ‘egonesia’ – or – amnesia of the ego. It was a devastating experience as it was happening. One day I simply had no meaning in my life. I don’t mean I was dissatisfied with my life and came to the realization I needed to make certain changes. It was more like the parts of my brain and personality that construct logical, ordered, purpose-based, task-oriented, ‘this is who I am and what I do as a person’ were no longer accessible. They’d disappeared and I had no idea how to get them back.

I remember standing in my bedroom, starting at the floor, and not being able to make any sense out of anything. It was as if my brain was in a void. Time froze and so did my body. I couldn’t form a complete sentence or a construct a coherent thought.

I somehow new I was in crisis. A primitive part of my soul understood something had been disconnected. It was as if I was an old computer with a new hard drive. All the outside parts of my life were intact and recognizable, but the intrinsic memory of who I knew myself to be had crashed and the new hard drive hadn’t been programmed yet.

I began to feel a deep yearning in my soul. A craving for something I couldn’t name.

Before that moment, I’d always had a strong sense of myself. I know who I was, what I valued, and what I believed in. I grew up Catholic and later became a Druid and a Shaman. I had a complex and eclectic view of myself as a spiritual being, a teacher, a healer, a wife and a mother. I had always been able to place myself within the context of my life in what I’d considered to be rich, meaningful, beautiful ways.

Not that day. That day none of it made any sense anymore.

There was no explanation. My condition wasn’t preceded by any traumatic incident or head injury, I had no major health issues or undiagnosed illnesses, and my family life was stable. Yet, I was completely stripped of the parts of my ego that defined my beliefs and why I’d created my life around them. I felt as though my Soul had been cracked open and the entire essence of my being was pouring out beyond my control.

My ego was gone, and with it, my judgements, my convictions, my discernment, and my ability to understand myself as a woman or a spiritual being. It was as if the Universe had suddenly decided I needed to start over with everything.

Oh so you’re Catholic – what does that mean?

Or maybe you’re a Druid – what does that mean?

You’re a teacher – tell me about that.

You’re a healer – how does that work?

If you can’t define yourself as ‘mother’ or ‘wife’ or ‘shaman’ – how, then, will you know yourself?

And so it began – my reconstruction.

What do you do when everything you think you know and understand about who you are as a person is suddenly stripped out of you from your core?

For me, the only thing that came to mind in the moment was to pray the Rosary.

So I did. Every day. For a month.

This created a wide rage of reactions in my life from fear to eye rolling to jubilation.

My Christian friends cheered at what they hoped was my return to the Church.

My atheist friends rolled their eyes.

My Pagan friends feared I’d accidentally drunk the Kool Aid.

Everyone who was close to me understood I was in crisis but no one knew how to help me. I wasn’t behaving in any of my ‘normal’ ways. I wasn’t the same person they’d come to know and no matter how much they wanted me to ‘get back to my old self’, I couldn’t. It’s not that I didn’t want to – I did. In fact, I was trying as hard as my friends and family were to figure out how to get back to being the old me again.

My old self knew knew how to be me. It was comfortable being me. It liked my friends and my family. It made me who I was on purpose. My old self and my old ego embodied all the things it thought made me interesting and cool. It knew how to be normal in social situations. It knew what to say and how to say it. It didn’t freak out the people I loved and cared about. My old self was confident and witty, and clever. This new self knew none of that. This new self was fragile, extremely sensitive, and only wanted to talk to God.

She didn’t want to talk to the Christian God, or the Pagan God, or the Divine Feminine Goddess God. She didn’t want to talk to the nothingness of the Atheist God. She wanted to talk to the real God. The one creating the yearning in her Soul. She wanted to talk to the God that stripped her of her former self. The one that made her vulnerable. She wanted to talk to the God that had opened her up – forcing her to walk bare souled through her life with no mask and no refuge. She wanted to talk to the God that turned her life upside down and made everyone around her question her sanity.

A few weeks later, I found myself alone, locked in a church, clutching a jar of holy water…

This is the beginning of the healing journey my life has taken since the day I felt my Soul was cracked open. I have no other way to explain it except that one day I woke up and my ego was gone. It was terrifying at first, but ever since, life has become progressively more entertaining, meaningful, love-filled and poignant. May you find your own ways to heal within the context of my stories. Enjoy.   




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