Inner Visions | February 4, 2021

Journal Date: February 4th, 2021

I had another reiki session with Angelic yesterday.

As usual, it was a good experience. I feel like it was very healing.

This time I also had very interesting and intense visions while she was doing the energy healing.

It began as it usually does.

At first, I didn’t see very much at all. 

Then, shifting colors began appearing in my field of inner vision.

After a few more minutes, a more definite image began to emerge.

It took me by surprise.

The first image that appeared was a crocodile. 

It was not what I expected.

But I decided to just stay with it, allow it, follow it and see where it took me.

I followed it down the banks of the Nile River and ended up in Ancient Egypt. I saw the great civilization, and all of the magic that went on there. I could see the great cities, and the temples lit up at night.

And I tried to look for myself, to see if I was there, how I fit into all this.

And with that, I found myself somewhere else.

This time, it was morning, and I was in a garden, somewhere in or near Mexico City.

I was wearing a flowing white knee length dress and gold sandals, and my dog Beso was there with me, with a white and gold collar and leash set.

We walked together along a garden path until we reached an elegant temple in the middle of the tropical garden we were in.

Together, we walked up the stairs and stepped inside.

The inside of this temple was dazzlingly beautiful, and with its high vaulted ceilings and long expanses of glass windows stretching up towards the sky, had the look and feel of a renaissance cathedral.

I walked, with Beso beside me on his leash, down the long aisle towards the beautifully decorated altar.

Once we arrived at the front of the cathedral, I noticed another section of this temple which had caught my attention. I turned to my left and began walking in this direction.

This section of the temple appeared to be a museum, and it was much darker here than the rest of the space, the only light coming from the glass box display cases.

Stepping inside, I realized that this museum was dedicated to me.

Looking closer, I could see, yes, each display case held items or photographs of events from my past. It was arranged chronologically, starting at birth.

My first thought on seeing this was, “Oh no… I can’t go through this again.”

I heard a voice (which would later speak to me at similar critical times) answer, “Yes, you can. You can do this. It’s safe to see what there is to be seen here.”

So I took a step forward, and I continued.


It was difficult to go back through this reliquary containing my past. 

So much suffering was contained within these displays.

But there was beauty, and there were tender moments, some measure of sweetness, and little bit of joy, as well.

As I walked, there were moments that overwhelmed me, and I felt that I could not go on.

But as before, a voice from beyond encouraged me. “Keep going. You can. There is nothing for you to fear within these walls.”

So I did.

I walked and I looked and I took the time to feel for everything that came up.

I cried, very often. So many tears had to be shed.

But this time, they were tears of compassion, sympathy and love, filled with sadness for the girl and the woman I’d once been (rather than of shame and bitterness, as they had often come before).

I won’t spend much time now on the specifics of what I saw there–it’s nothing new, nothing I haven’t known about or written extensively on before by now.

What is important here is the journey I made through this memorial of my self, and how I felt and reacted to what was there.


After maybe 20 minutes in this process, I finally made it to the last display case, to the present moment and the end of the museum.

When I had arrived at the end of the final exhibit, all of a sudden the dark wing of the temple containing this museum lit up, and was now brightly lit with hundreds of candles and torches illuminating the beautifully decorated walls.

And now I could see up to the ceiling of this cathedral, where uncovered windows showed the brilliant, burning stars shining down into my corner of the cosmos.

It was very late, maybe 4 or 5am – an entire night had passed during my descent into my own personal underworld.

It felt like a signal that my descent was over. And I felt I was being honored with this beautiful display for having made it through.

I knew that soon, the sun would be rising outside, and that my time in this temple of the past was near its end. I felt I was being asked, “Do you have anything you would like to say before you leave here?”

And before I could think twice, I heard myself answer, “Thank you.”


And then immediately, another part of me responded with something like, “Really?? Thank you? Are you kidding me?”

“Well, yeah…” I shyly responded. Then, a little more surely, “I guess I am grateful – it got me here, didn’t it? It made me who I am. And I’m proud of that.”

Though I was still tearful as I lay there on the table in Angelic’s office (the “real,” physical me) had to smile a little: it was true. I was grateful. And yes, I was proud. I had made it. I had made it through to the other side of all that.

And though it seemed enough to simply have survived, what’s more, I knew that one day, I would say that I had triumphed.

At that point, I looked down at my wrist, and I saw some markings appear there.

They were the two tattoos that I have wanted to get, the infinity symbol on my left wrist, and a small black skull on my right, both drawn in the style of the Smith-Waite tarot.

And I remembered what I had recently heard Clarissa Pinkola Estés say about the scars that people like me carried:

“It’s never going to look like you never suffered. Although I say, be proud of your scars. It has everything to do with your strength and what you’ve endured. It’s a map, so to speak, a treasure map to the self, the deepest self.”

And then I heard a voice say, “You have nothing to be ashamed of anymore. You can leave all of that behind. It was never truly yours to carry in the first place.”

I acknowledged this was true. This is a major part of what the inner work of the last year has shown me: most of the shame I carried came from things which had been done to me, not by me. 

I carried the shame of my abusers, of my attackers, and those who had committed crimes against me.

I carried the burden of guilt that properly belong to the men who had raped, assaulted or used me, the mother who hated me, the father who had refused to protect me from harm. 

I had created this structure of lies about myself and my life, all resting upon this false foundation: “It’s because you deserved it. If you had simply been better, they wouldn’t have ‘had’ to…”

Well, now I know better. Now I knew that the failings were not mine. I did not bear the responsibility, and I could not account for these sins of theirs.


The voice spoke again.

“There is nothing to fear here. You don’t have to be afraid any longer. You may return whenever you want to, and you will find only peace here.”


And with that, I was ready.

With little Beso next to me, I stepped outside the temple door into the early morning light.

The sun had not come fully over the horizon yet, but the sky was becoming lighter with each passing second.

Beso and I walked down the rear temple stairs, both of us now dressed in new clothes: he was in an adorable little white doggie tuxedo with a gold leash, while I now stood in a flowing floor length chiffon gown with a light white cape, all with gold details, as well as a golden necklace decorated with pearls, and similarly made matching earrings.

After walking down the stars, we stepped onto a garden path that first led to a fountain filled with flowing water.

I walked to it, and dipped my hands into the running water and brought it to my face, and with a white towel, cleansed myself before continuing down the garden trail.

It was here that I stepped onto what was now a grass-covered path with my bare feet. The sun was shining down on the earth, and the grass felt both warmed by the sun while retaining a certain earthy coolness belonging to the morning.

From there on, I walked barefoot on the grass with little Beso by my side until I reached a throne, also gold and ivory and decorated with pearls to match the clothes I was already wearing.

I sat down, and it was here that my gold and white crown appeared on my head.

I had made it.

I was now sovereign, ruler of my own kingdom.

I had learned how to belong to myself, discovered my own agency, and the right and ability to make decisions that would serve me and all that I oversaw.


Once I had been crowned and was comfortably seated on my throne, people began to arrive.

They were all dressed mostly in white, along with the addition of one bright primary color as an accessory (like a royal blue belt or a red scarf).

When all of the guests had arrived for the celebration we were to have, it made for a very vibrantly colorful and energetic garden party.

As they arrived, the guests spoke to me.

They welcome me to my kingdom.

They told me, “You made it.”

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

“We’re so glad you’re finally here.”

They were all so happy to see me.

And it turns out they had expected me, had wanted to spend time with me, had been waiting just for me.

So when everyone arrived, we had our celebration.

It was a very peaceful, calm and relaxed garden lunch. We sat at a table set in the grass, covered in white linen with gold place settings, and ate healthy fruit and salads, drinking only water, juice and green tea.

The conversation lasted long into the afternoon, and nothing very much in particular happened. We just laughed and smiled and talked and enjoyed each other’s company.

Around this point, I left the perspective of being in my own body within the vision, and the scene seemed to zoom out until I could see the entire globe, spinning slowly in the void of space. 

As it spun, day shifted into night and then again to day and back again, and the people continued on, with no interruption to the rhythm of their peaceful daily happenings. All was calm, all continued with grace, and a gentle and reassuring order prevailed.

I saw myself again (this time, in a new change of clothes–a white button down shirt and pants) go on to interact with new people, and take on the role of a healer and helper.

And this, too, like day and night, alternated in a graceful rhythm, becoming part of the pattern of a new life of purpose and contentment.

Inner Beso Dream

Journal Date: February 2, 2021

At the end of the collection of short stories in Warming the Stone Child, Clarissa Pinkola Estés offers a couple tips for continuing the healing journey on your own.

The first one is this: “Pay attention to your dreams. Your dreams will tell you everything. In terms of injured instinct, dreams that are about animals that are injured or not acting properly are very good clues to what is hurt or what is injured in the deep unconscious.”

It’s funny, because just days before I heard this in this book, I had a very intense dream which fits what Estés is describing here perfectly.

From what I can remember, I had been struggling inside of this dream for a while before the parts that I became more directly conscious of occurred.

I remember that in this dream, I had been at a party for quite some time, feeling more and more frustrated as it went on.

Both my best friend and my ex-boyfriend were there. In this dream, we were still dating, but I could tell that he was losing interest, and not wanting to be with me.

Then my best friend showed up, and somehow it became known that she intended to sleep with him.

I tried to convince her not to do that, but apparently I didn’t do a very good job, because that’s exactly what happened next.

And in the dream, I just could not get over it.

I held on to that so tightly, with so much resentment and bitterness. I just couldn’t let it go. I told everyone I met. It was the only thing I wanted to talk about in my dream, really.

It just went on and on like that, endlessly, without reprieve.

It was like I had to convince anybody who would come near me how wrong it was. How it was something which could never be forgiven, which I had to hold onto forever.

This went on for a frustratingly long amount of time.

Until suddenly, I found that I was no longer at the party, but back on the streets of Whittier, making my way back towards my childhood home on Friends Ave.

And I had a little baby Beso in a wrinkled up, used and old plastic bag inside of my black backpack, just like the one I had in middle school.

Baby Beso was very sick.

I had fed him something toxic without knowing it was poisonous to him.

And so now I was trying to make my way back to this house, thinking that it was here that I would be able to take Beso out of the old bag in the backpack. 

I knew that he was suffering in there, it was dark and poorly ventilated, and I could only rarely look inside to check on him and see if he was even still alive.

And on top of this, I kept getting distracted, caught up again and again in telling everyone I encountered what a victim I was, and how I would never forgive them for what they had done to me.

This went on until I found myself on a street near Uptown Whittier, one which was on the other side of the alley where I had often walked through on my way to another friend’s house.

I took one last look inside of my backpack to check on baby Beso–and he was not doing well.

His eyes were red, deeply irritated all around the edges, and it was clear that he was suffering, struggling and very much in pain.

I was worried that he may not make it all the way to my mother’s house.

But I was convinced, for some reason, that there was nothing I could do until I reached this place, so I put him in my backpack again, and kept on walking.

And then I woke up.


I thought about that dream quite a bit that day. Clearly, there seemed to be a significant connection between what went on in my dream and in my world.

I remembered how my therapist has started calling the part of me that still needs mothering, the child within that requires loving attention and care, my “Inner Beso.”

I think it’s because I talk about my dog all the time, and how much I love being his “mom,” and how much I’ve learned from caring for him. I think he keeps saying that to encourage me to do the same for myself, to transfer my Beso-mothering skills into inner child, self-mothering skills.

What I got from analyzing my dream was this:

Maybe the bitterness and resentment I’ve been feeling towards my family aren’t serving a purpose anymore.

Maybe they are poisonous, maybe they are the toxic food that I have unknowingly been feeding my “inner Beso.”

And maybe I’m just going in the wrong direction entirely.

Why go revisit that old place in Whittier? 

Why go “home”?

There was nothing nourishing in that place to begin with. To keep returning there no longer makes any sense to me.

Maybe it’s just a distraction, a dangerous lie putting my inner child at further risk of being harmed.

Maybe the thing to do is attend to my “inner Beso” now, right where I’m at, as imperfect as that may be.

And please, take him out of that dirty old bag in your backpack immediately!

There is no reason to hide him away anymore.

All of this is to say, I need to turn and start heading in the other direction now.

This return to the childhood home, the return to the past, has served its purpose and outlived its usefulness. 

I’ve learned what I came to learn. Now is the time to move beyond it.

And I don’t need to wait to start caring for myself. I can start feeding my “inner Beso” healthy, nourishing food. 

I can give myself experiences that fill me up and nourish my soul.

I don’t have to wait anymore.

Entering the Hermes Field

Journal Date: Saturday, January 2, 2021

I remember early on into the first month or so of quarantine– I was reading a book on alchemy, and it was describing the process of “entering the Hermes field,” and how to use this in your own spiritual development and awakening.

In the book, the author creatively describes a meeting with Hermes, and suggests that you can also directly communicate with him, and ask for guidance.

So I decided to try it.

“Hermes, I’m ready– show me my shadow. I’m ready to see the truth.”

I was answered almost immediately, that same night.

It was a lot– it felt very intense. So much so that I had to modify my request a little bit: “I’m ready, but please just show me what I can handle right now. Not more, and not less, just exactly what I am capable of handling at any given moment.”

Honestly, I was scared.

I was coming up against things I’d been running from for a lifetime.

And it hurt. It was painful to see what was there to be seen.

Painful, but not exactly surprising.

I already knew I was pretty messed up.

The surprise came just a few months into it, though, when the things I was seeing shifted from how I was wrong, and started to reveal to me how others needed to be held accountable.

This was where it started to get really difficult. 

I was used to being the one to blame. My inner critic was so easy to activate, it was already so natural for me to punish myself.

But what do I do when I have to hold other people accountable?

That was beyond terrifying to me.

How could I begin to come to terms with the vast amount of mistreatment from all those people I felt so powerless with?

This was the hardest thing: to come to terms with my family and how they had treated me.

I’d never really allowed myself to consider this.

I’d rather throw myself under the bus, and punish myself, than face the truth of what my family was.


I resisted.

But it soon became undeniable.

There was something deeply wrong with the narrative I’d been sold about who I was, and why they acted as they did toward me.

The narrative was coming undone, even though I’d done my best for 32 years to hold the bundles of lies and patchwork logic together.

I’d changed myself to fit their demands.

I’d sinned just to earn a place in their hell.

And it was all starting to unravel itself before my eyes.

There was nothing I could do to stop it now.

I could look away, but the thread had been pulled loose, and was now coming undone through a life of its own.

A Turning Point

Journal Date: January 2, 2020

COVID is still very much a problem right now. It looks like we’re just past the peak of the most recent surge, and the two vaccines have been approved and are on their way, but it will likely be many months before anything begins to approach any kind of “normal.”

I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if it took all of 2021 for this to run its course.

But I’m not in a rush to return to “normalcy.”

Of course, I’m concerned for my health and that of everyone else, but I’m far from eager to return to what once was.

There’s a part of me that’s afraid for what will happen when this ends–I almost don’t even want it to.

There has been so much growth for me this year, and I don’t ever want to go back to the way things used to be for me.

But just because things will reopen, and I can go back to my same old patterns or lifestyle doesn’t mean that I should.

I can just decide for myself that I want to live a different kind of life from now on.

These have been difficult times, but I can take what I have learned from the depths, and return to carry this wisdom in my life from now on.


I really believe that things are going to be different from this moment forward. 

Just in the past year– it’s incredible how much I’ve changed.

I’m so proud of myself.

I don’t say that enough. I should. I’ve worked so hard for this.

The past year is just the culmination, it’s the work of many, many years coming to fruition.

This is the year healing happened.

There’s no going back – never – to the way things were before.

So many things came together this year to make it happen.

It was years and years of difficult work, but there’s also an element of it that I can’t explain – that I believe is only attributable to something higher than myself. 

We can call it grace.

I’m thankful for that, too.

These two things, persistence and grace, have made all the difference for me.

Other things that made the difference last year: Beso, my little doggie love; a regular meditation practice; my therapist; and Mama Gena’s School of Womanly Arts and all the beautiful women I met there.

Finally, I can thank an unflinching willingness to face my pain (and to do my best to hold it with as much compassion as possible).

This was it – this year was the turning point that made all possible.

Saturn Square Pluto Fears

Journal Date: December 22, 2020

Since I don’t have enough to worry about, I decided to go online and start worrying about astrology and all the messed up transits I’ll be going through next year.

I’ve been terrified of the Saturn square Pluto transit that will be happening for me starting in mid-February 2021.

And now, thanks to the internet, I just realized Saturn will be transiting through my 8th house of death for the next three years, so now I can go ahead and start stressing about that too, while I’m at it.


I took some time to re-read all the predictions that were scaring me to death about these transits, and I’m glad I did.

It doesn’t have to be a horrible experience.

It’ll be challenging, most likely, but that doesn’t have to automatically mean bad.

According to Jessica Davidson, this may be a time in which “buried memories may resurface, and you may re-experience old fears and hang ups that you thought were long dead. You’re confronted by the past so you can let it go and move forward in your life. Use these transits to explore what’s really important to you. Turn inwards to discover how your soul wants you to live, where to put your energies, and who you should strive to become.”

When looked at that way, it may not be such a bad thing. I’ve still got inner work and healing left to do, and this is just part of the process.

There are still things I know I need to let go of before I can step into what I want for my future.

This Train is Leaving the Station

Journal Date: May 5, 2020

I woke up early this morning to take my little puppy Beso outside before the sun rose.

Coming back inside, I gave him a snack and lay down to rest more on the living room couch while he played with his toys.

Soon, I found myself in the middle of a terrible dream.

In this dream, I was being rejected, shamed and abandoned by everyone in my life. I felt wildly out of control, unable to control my body or my reactions to anything around me. I was sure that I had been drugged, I had a vague memory of taking a pill I had been offered earlier in the dream by my mother.

I tried to tell the others in my dream it wasn’t my fault, I couldn’t control my self, it was this drug I had taken that was making me act intoxicated, that the way they saw me wasn’t reflective of who I really was, but no one believed me, and left me alone with my shame anyway.

Soon I came to realize I was on a train, which continually traveled between two stations, an old station and a more modern one in a new town. Sometimes I would get off the train and explore the land surrounding each station, but inevitably I would find myself back on the train as it continued its ceaseless journey from one point to the other.

On one trip back to the old town station, I saw a hospital emergency room. I wanted to rush off the train and see if they could give me a drug test or something to prove the cause of my condition. But I could never stay off the train long enough, I always came back sooner than I would have wished to commence a new cycle of pain and confusion.

Once back on the train, I re-experienced each abandonment anew. Most times, it was one of my parents which were leaving me after delivering their cold, unequivocal judgements on how I was not worth the trouble to be around. But there were times when even my puppy Beso was taken away from me. It may not seem like much, but each time it happened, I felt my heart implode like a massive black hole in my chest, and I heard myself scream out loud.

This lasted until I was woken up on the couch by my mom. “Are you okay?” she asked. She had heard me scream again and again in my sleep, and was afraid something was wrong.

I finally got up and she brought me water and some aspirin to help with the headache I had woken up with.

“Look at Beso,” she said, pointing to my dog laying under the couch beneath me. “Even though you were making so much noise he never left you. He’s so loyal.”

I avoided thinking about the dream until later in the afternoon. I had fallen asleep again for a nap, and on waking up, the meaning of the earlier dream came to me all at once.

The drug I had been given was my trauma, my childhood experience and conditioning which told me I was and would never be good enough.

Being high (or in this case, low) on this drug had me acting in ways I felt I couldn’t control. I was reactive, reckless, hurting myself and others, watching this bitter pill create the wreckage of my life I knew, feared, and experienced over and over again.

There was still that part of me that wanted to get off at the old train station, to go back further into my past, to find some authority that would look at me and give me a diagnosis that would shift the blame onto anything outside of me. I wanted someone to say to me, “It’s the drugs talking. It’s this tough pill of trauma you’ve been hooked on for so long. We understand it’s not your fault.”

But no doctor could ever give me that script. Even if they did, few would believe me and even less would care.

I could feel all of the shame and fear and sense of “stuckness” rising up within me as I reflected on the dream and what it could mean for me.

Then I remembered, the train always kept moving. The train was always taking me forward, trying to open its doors for me onto new frontiers, but I had such a hard time feeling ready to make roots in this foreign territory, I was obsessed with proving something about who I was and who should be held responsible for all the consequences that came of that that I found myself again and again on that same train “home”.

Now I could see that when those doors opened again, I needed to plant my flag in that new space and declare the future my true home.

The past is a desolate place, a withered landscape, a war-torn country I could never trust as my own. In some ways I think that maybe I never had a home, I felt as if I’d been born at sea, a small ship at sail in dangerous seas. 

I know I can’t go back to where I was, but now I’m prepared to get off this train and build my own house, create my own safe harbor from a pattern I am putting together as I go along. I’m ready to go home, to the future, and leave that train of sadness behind for good.

Rubedo: the Red Phase of Alchemy

After the whitening of the albedo comes the last phase of the Great Work: the red phase, or reddening.

The white phase consisted of an intense process of purification, in which all the rotting decayed matter that had died during the nigredo was thoroughly cleansed of impurities. What was left was then considered clean but also very sterile, incapable of producing new life and lacking animation.

The purpose of the red phase was to make the matter come alive again. This process was initiated with the completion of the last phase of the albedo, conjunction, which was known to alchemists as “the marriage of the sun and moon.”

The rubedo continues this work of uniting opposite energies or elements until the Great Work has been completed.

The first process in the red phase of alchemy is known as fermentation, where the alchemist receives visions and other types of inspiration that will ultimately guide them to the end of the Great Work.

This is followed by a long process known as distillation, in which the alchemist is tasked with separating “the earth from the fire, the subtle from the gross.”

The final phase, coagulation, marks the completion of the Great Work and the creation of the Philosopher’s stone.

Encountering the Animus

Journal Date: November 25, 2020

I decided to do some reading for fun, for myself, so I picked up Women who Run with the Wolves again. 

I’m picking up where I left off, in the chapter on nurturing the creative life.

And once again, I’m finding that it’s exactly what I needed, exactly when I needed it.

As I picked up where I’d left off, the theme of the chapter turned to the nature of the animus in a woman’s psyche.

This is something that has long interested me. I knew my inner masculine was far from healthy, but I was lost as to what to do about it. I think here, I have found a way to start.


“Animus can best be understood as a force that assists women in acting on their own behalf in the outer world. Animus helps a woman put forth specific and feminine inner thoughts and feelings in concrete ways.”

“He brings ideas from ‘out there’ back into her, and he carries ideas from her soul-self across the bridge to fruition and ‘to market’. Without the builder and maintainer of this land bridge, a woman’s inner life cannot be manifested with intent in the outer world.” 


Furthermore, Estes speaks of the distrust many women feel for the masculine, even within themselves.

“Generally, this wariness comes from barely beginning to be healed traumas from family and culture during times previous, times when women were treated as serfs, not as selfs.”

And it is not even “previous times” for all. Not for me. This treatment was for me, in my time.

I think that’s the core of the issue: I was denied the right to have a self. 

I was forbidden from myself.

I felt I existed only as a reflection, as a means to another’s end.

“It is still fresh in wild woman’s memory that there was a time when gifted women were tossed away as refuse, when a woman could not have an idea unless she secretly embedded and fertilized it in a man who then carried it out into the world under his own name.”

This has been the most painful part of it all: my alienation from self. My disconnection from my own body, mind, heart and soul. My self-betrayal and self-abandonment, based only on the assumption that I had less of a right (to think, to act, to be) than anyone else.


“The key aspect to a positive animus development is actual manifestation of cohesive inner thoughts, impulses and ideas.” 

The positive animus appears to be action oriented, concerned with bringing form to the ideal. It is practical, not simply theoretical.

“Archetypally, the King [representing the Animus] symbolizes a force that is meant to work in a woman’s behalf and for her well-being, governing what she and soul assign to him, ruling over what psychic forces are granted to him.”

Unfortunately, the masculine as I have come to know it is not this way.

I have experienced the masculine not as protector, but as perpetrator. As the source of violence and fear. As that which seeks to control, and to silence me. 

Even if only my own inner masculine, the animus which rules my terrorized interior world with an iron fist.


“But what if something takes over the creative flow, making it muddier and muddier? What if we become trapped by that, what if we somehow perversely begin to derive issue from it, to not only like it but rely on it, make a living by it, feel alive through it? What if we use it to get us out of bed in the morning, to take us somewhere, to make us a somebody in our own minds? Those are the traps that wait for all of us.” –Clarissa Pinkola Estes

It is definitely a trap that I have fallen into. 

And haven’t really gotten out of.

Honestly, I’m still here, wallowing in it as we speak.

I think it’s a great question to ask: What purpose is your illness/inferiority complex/lack of creativity serving for you?

Because it does serve some purpose at this point.

First, it’s a great excuse.

It gives me all the reasons I could ever need for why I can’t do x, y or z.

It allows me to tell myself, “Well, my unhappiness/lack of success/whatever is because I’m not really trying. If it weren’t for this, it would all be different…”

It allows me to avoid taking responsibility for my own life.

I can keep blaming it all on someone else, and keep away from the recognition of how I continually give away my power.

Because yes, I do have power. Even now.

I don’t have to wait until everything is “perfect,” until I’m “fully healed” or have gained approval or validation or whatever it is I’ve been waiting for.

I could start now if I wanted to. If I chose to. 

I’m starting to suspect that I’ve always had more power than I think I do.

I must stop assuming otherwise. 

It’s not just out of fear, but laziness, that I do this.

Because assuming I am powerless amounts to an act of surrender.

By refusing to look at all the options I have to create and influence change, it is as if I were just handing over my life and my self to whatever it is outside of me that would have me in subservience.

It’s time for me to remember: I don’t have to do that anymore.

Albedo: The White Phase of Alchemy

If we have been able to surrender to the darkness of the nigredo, we may find that a shift begins to occur. 

The blackness that once seemed to only grow ever deeper begins to recede. The heaviness starts to lift as we relinquish our attachments to past beliefs, habits, ways of being, etc.

As with any death, the decomposition of these old forms releases a great amount of energy that is now free to be used in new and different ways.

It is not enough to meet our shadow in calcination or to grieve and release our past pain and sorrows through dissolution.

We must then proceed into the next stage of the work, the separation and the conjunction which comprise what is known as the albedo, or the white phase of alchemy.

In the process of separation, we are tasked with using our discernment to determine which parts of our shadow (our repressed and previously unacknowledged qualities and other psychic material) are worth saving.

Not everything that we meet in the darkness is to be feared. We may often be surprised to find there is much that is worthwhile and good there.

These positive traits are sometimes referred to as “the gold in the shadow,” which refers to the unrecognized parts of ourselves that have value and are truly authentic to us. These could be the parts of ourselves we learned to hide or diminish due to disapproval we may have encountered from parents, peers, or other parts of our society.

The second operation of the albedo is known as conjunction. It involves the reunion of the disparate elements which were separated in the previous phase. It also requires a rebalancing and harmonization of the masculine and feminine parts of ourselves. The result is the creation of “the lesser stone,” or what is sometimes called “the Philosopher’s child.” 

The conjunction requires that we become comfortable with the apparent duality of our being, and join the forces of our soul and spirit. The result is the development of what the Egyptians called “the Intelligence of the Heart,” a condition or state of being where logos and eros are united in the self to create something greater than the sum of their parts.

Finding Gold in the Shadow

I’d spent a lifetime running

seeking

needing

using

fearing

hoping

destroying

doing anything to fill the narrow, trembling void between

self and shame.

One day I stopped running, and my shame

she turned, and came to me.

She took me over and she held me down

in soft savage embrace,

when I finally caught my breath and

dared to look at her straight in

tender eyes, I saw more beauty and more

goodness and more

grace than I’d ever found

in years of wild flight.

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This is what it means in alchemy to “find the gold in the shadow.” To be able to look within at all of what is hidden, to see and to know the self in its fullness without fear, no matter what may come—that’s the moment when we first die, and when we are first born.

“We know that the mask of the unconscious is not rigid—it reflects the face we turn towards it. Hostility lends it a threatening aspect, friendliness softens its features.” —Carl Jung

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Don’t be afraid to change direction. It might be that you end up finding a friend in what you once feared.