I love to read, and I never go anywhere without a book; making me no different than any other writer. And now that I’ve moved into a more focused chapter of my life, I only read things that matter to me. No more reading because I have to—my grandad used to say, “with age comes freedom,” and now I’m living that out. Remember that while you’re scrolling down through my list. Since I started blogging ten years ago, I’ve annually posted my top books of the year. Oddly enough, the length of the list has not been consistent. This year I’m going with twelve. Don’t think apostles. Think alchemy—three becomes four; the apocalypse, the philosopher’s stone. The books are listed from ten to one. And then I’ve thrown in two extras, just because I wanted to use the number twelve. I’ll start with the apocalypse, that ought to be a fair warning.
Ten—“The Book of Revelation,” translated by Michael Straus and illustrated by Jennifer May Reiland. I’ve read The of Book of Revelation several times, but never in one setting. Now I have. And while The Saint John Bible’s is illuminative, the art didn’t drive me into an apocalyptic fetal position. Straus’s translation is true to the original language yet fresh. And he offers little poetic surprises along the way using Greek, Latin, French, Spanish, and German to accentuate the poetry of the vision. He also includes a bit of alleluia musical score, which I found delightful. Reiland brings the apocalypse alive, shockingly with graphic eroticism. Her detailed watercolors are contemporary in content and style. Reiland’s “Self-portrait of Mary Magdalene Having a Vision of the Apocalypse,” is a juxtaposition of the beauty and the beast.
Nine—“The Tarot, Magic, Alchemy, Hermeticism, and Neoplatonism” by Robert M. Place.
First, Place is an artist, one who wants to know everything about his subject, which for several years has been the tarot. His latest tarot decks are “The Alchemical Tarot” and “The Tarot of the Sevenfold Mysteries.” His research led him into the areas you would expect, hence the long and cumbersome title of this book. I’ve read several books on the tarot and this one offers the most concise and at the same time, in depth, history of the cards. Place does a reasonable job of providing the reader with enough connection, but not too much background, into the other topics, out of which tarot developed and without you cannot truly understand the craft of tarot. His art is beautiful and imaginative. I’m especially fond of the first deck. He also provides several plates of historical tarot cards and alchemical art. The only thing that would have made this volume better would have been color pictures, of course that would have put the price out of reach.
Eight—"Alchemical Active Imagination” by Marie-Louise von Franz. Von Franz was one of
Carl Jung’s closest and most respected students and colleagues. She has written more about Jung’s concept of Active Imagination than anyone. Jung’s technique, along with dream analysis, was central to his therapeutic method. To have any understanding of Jung’s mystical theories and practices, his oft misunderstood “The Red Book,” and the use mandalas, von Franz’s book is a must.
Seven—“Aurora Consurgens: A Document Attributed to Thomas Aquinas on the Problem of
Opposites in Alchemy,” edited with commentary by Marie-Louise von Franz. If you
didn’t read number eight on the list, go back and read it before trying to tackle this work of art. This isn’t the Thomas Aquinas you read in seminary. This is the great theologian facing death, trying to sort out the most serious questions of life and the end, his personal apocalypse. He needed a therapist and a spiritual guide. Therapy hadn’t been invited so he turned to Sophia, the feminine divine to be his confessor and confidant—his ally with God. Mind bending stuff with soul creating possibilities.
Six—“When Nietzsche Wept,” a novel by psychotherapist Irvin D. Yalom. Did philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche have a therapist? What if that therapist was a colleague of Sigmund Freud? What if Nietzsche was the father of talk therapy? Irvin Yalom has been one of the most creative and imaginative therapist and writers of our era. He has used the novel, and in this case, historical fiction, to pose some fascinating questions about the human condition and the practice of therapy. This book is deliciously written and moves quickly across the landscape. If you’re interested in therapy and/or spiritual guidance (spiritual direction), this is an important read in understanding transference, counter-transference, the depths of depression, and suicide. He also wrote “Schopenhauer’s Cure,” a melancholic teaching novel about group therapy.
Five—"The Transmigration of Timothy Archer” a novel by Philip K. Dick. He’s the author of “The Man in the High Castle,” and the film “Blade Runner” was based on his science-fiction work. Dick was a prolific writer authoring 44 novels and 121 short stories, ranging in topics from science fiction, alternative universes, altered states of consciousness, metaphysics, and theology. “The Transmigration of Timothy Archer” was based on Dick’s friendship with the controversial Episcopal Bishop James Pike, who was a precursor to the equally firebrand Episcopal Bishop John Shelby Spong. The novel provides a picture into the confused psyche of someone caught in the political swirl of the church, illusive historical Jesus research, and the drama of human tragedy. The twist is in the title.
Four—“The Intelligent Enneagram” by A.G.E. Blake. This book has nothing to do with the
Enneagram as a personality typing tool and everything to do with the teaching of G.I. Gurdjieff. If you have read Cynthia Bourgeault’s “The Holy Trinity and the Law of the Three,” you’ll recognize Gurdjieff’s name. Bourgeault does her best to use Gurdjieff’s work in relationship with the Trinity without getting her reader bogged down in the intricacies of the metaphysics behind the Enneagram. I have found Blake’s work to be foundational in understanding the philosophical and magical power of the Sacred Circle. Blake fills in the thought gaps Bourgeault left with her reader. If you want to fully grasp the Enneagram at a deeper level, this book is for you.
Three—“Bodies, Politics and Transformations: John Doone’s Metempsychosis,” by Siobhan
Collins. The Irish author and academic takes on the daunting task of salvaging Donne’s most opaque and often misunderstood poem. In fact, his detractors use this lengthy poem to disparage Donne’s canon. Most aficionados on Donne divide his career into two segments—before and after priesthood. The first half of his writing life was filled with Eros. The second with Agape. Collins succeeds in giving Donne an appropriate Janus-esk reality. Or in Jungian terms, she allows him to individuate. Collins work is true the subject; poetic, illusive, and evocative. If you don’t know who John Donne was, might be good to read a biography, such as “John Donne: The Reformed Soul,” by John Stubbs before starting in on Collins.
Two—“Healing the Wounded God,” by Jeffrey Raff. Raff was a student of Marie von Franz; thus, he’s is a Jungian analyst and a practitioner of alchemical imagination. His other works are “Jung and the Alchemical Imagination,” The Wedding of Sophia,” and “The Practice of Ally Work.” I would recommend you start with “Healing the Wounded God,” but these four volumes have shaped my spiritual practice. He has taught me how to contemplate with and pray to the divine and communicate with my souls. He has led me into the discovery of the Anima Mundi, the world soul and my own anima. His book has also been supportive of the idea of the “disabled God,” and my research into disability theology.
One— “Knot of the Soul: Madness, Psychoanalysis, Islam” by Stepania Pandolfo. Her other equally evocative book is “Impasse of the Angels.” Pandolfo has changed the way I think about the magical realm of writing and engaging the imagination. “Writing is magic…an otherworldly receptivity.” Her work as an anthropologist of psychology takes her into the dark, imaginal, and artistic world of mental illness, a pain that invades all our lives without respect the race, creed, or culture. We sit at her feet while she teaches us about Sufi poets, art, the metaphysics of Islam, and the tragedy of mind. Pandolfo’s writing is a mystical spiral, which induces an altered state of mind for the reader. These books are a pathway into an alternative universe that demands we somehow keep one foot in whatever we might consider “our reality,” each realm in itself that is as allusive as the other.
I said I would give you two extra books. I also realized I gave you ten other book titles while reviewing my top ten for the year; that makes twenty. As promised, though, here are two addition books, just for fun—which makes the Fool’s journey through the Major Arcana complete.
“The Ravenmaster: My Life with the Ravens at the Tower of London,” by Christopher Skaife. Just plain fun and a few tidbits about ravens—like Guinness and scones (yes, the two go together; try it.)
“Living Revision: A Writer’s Craft as Spiritual Practice,” by Elizabeth Jarrett Andrew. This book is for writers at every level of their craft. Insightful and filled with practical tips and exercises. She’s also friends with two author friends of mine, Karen Herring and Beth Gaede.
My planned reading for 2019? I have these in my que, sitting on my desk.
“The Exegesis of Philip K. Dick” by Philip K. Dick
“Science and Spiritual Practice: Reconnecting through Direct Experience,” by Rupert Sheldrake
“The Lifetimes When Jesus and Buddha Knew Each Other,” by Gary R. Renard
“How to Change Your Mind: What the New Science of Psychedelics Teaches Us About Consciousness, Dying, Addiction, Depression and Transcendence,” by Michael Pollan.
Hope you found something here intriguing. Happy reading.
Sunday, December 30, 2018
Friday, December 21, 2018
I Wish I Could Win the Irish Lottery
Six times, I’ve put my name in an Irish lottery, hoping to be drawn to stand with a few select others, as the morning sun would rise and shine into the center of the ancient temple tomb at Newgrange. Maybe next year. Of course, it was cloudy this morning in Ireland, like most days, the sun was not seen.
Whenever I’ve gone through a rough patch in my life; someone has invariably told me, “Well, you know, the sun will come up in the morning and everything will be better.” I’ve always hated that trite statement. When I feel down, in the blues, depressed, or when I’ve failed miserably, it doesn’t feel like the sun is going to come up in the morning. It actually feels like the sun will never rise again. I’ve felt like that so often, though, I feel okay with living in the darkness.
There are days when I do want the sun to rise again. On those days, rare as they may be, I feel like I need a bit of light and warmth. Paradoxically, during the Christmas season, at the darkest time of the year, when I feel the bluest, is when our culture tells us we should be celebrate.
The first 400 years of Christianity, Christmas wasn’t celebrated. Easter was the only Christian feast. At some point, Christians came into contact with the Celts. The Celts celebrated the three-day feast of the Winter Solstice. The word “Solstice,” is translated as “the day the sun stood still;” the three days when the naked eye cannot see the shadows lengthen. On these three days, the Celts believed their prayers and celebrations participated with Creation in order to restore the lengthening of the days of the sun.
The first day of the solstice, they gathered around the community’s oak tree, which was typically in the center of their village. They decorated the tree with bright red mushrooms that were indigenous to the season. The oak tree was known as the light bearer. Whenever the great oak was hit by lightning, the people would take the struck limb and use it for the Yule fire log, which brought good luck into the home with the promise of longer days to come.
On day two, the Celts gathered at their sacred sites, like Newgrange, to welcome the rising of the sun at the Winter Solstice. These feasts honored the souls of the departed who would be taken into the heart of the living sun.
On the third day of the feast, the people would box up food to take to widows and orphans, to ensure they had enough to sustain them through the impending winter.
Christians witnessed in the Celts celebration of the Winter Solstice, the same thing they believed about the light of God coming into the world. They adopted some of the Celtic practices and in 336 CE, established the celebration Christmas on the same day as the Winter Solstice, which was December 25. (At that time Christians used the Julian calendar, which had only 362 days and no leap year.)
By the 1500’s the Julian calendar no longer matched the seasons of the years. In 1582, Pope Gregory the XIII established the Gregorian calendar that we use today. With the addition of three days and leap year, the Winter Solstice fell on December 21st or 22nd, leaving Christmas three days after the Solstice. Instead of moving Christmas back to match the Solstice, Christians left it on the 25th, marking the rising of the Son of God on the third day after the longest night—to mirror the Resurrection story.
In the ancient worship services of the Christmas feast, Christians would read four different stories from the bible about the rising of God’s light.
At the setting of the sun on Christmas Eve, they would read a story to remind them that God had always been present to people in the darkest times in their lives. Men like Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and David who lives were often lived in the dark shadows. And women like Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, and Bathsheba who suffered under the hand of oppression. Yet in all the dark shadows and all the oppression, the promise was that the light of God would shine once again.
Then at midnight, Christians would read the story of the angel who appeared to the shepherds. This story is not the sanitized version we are familiar with; a story of sweet shepherd boys being frightened by the appearance of an angel. Instead, this story reminds the listener that the shepherds were criminals sent out of the village to do the dangerous work of tending the sheep. After living with sheep, the outcasts would smell disgusting. Everywhere they went, they carried the mark, the smell of being an outsider. Then, at the darkest moment of their lives, the angel appeared to them and said, the Light was now born into the world and they, and all other outcasts, were invited to go see this strange occurrence.
Then, before sunrise, Christians would read the third story, which was about the shepherd’s arrival at the stable where the Light, in the form a baby, had been born. The shepherds, who smelled like sheep, were welcomed into the barn; the stable where everyone, including the baby smelled the same. And the Light provided warmth for them all.
And finally, after sunrise, Christians would read the story that reminded them that the Light has come for everyone—even when they would feel like the sun will never rise again.
The Light, God, was with the ancients in those bleak times. God was with the shepherds, the criminals, the outcasts, the rejected, when all hope was lost. At the worst of times, God would appear as Light, as an angel, as a lamb, as baby, as the rising sun.
No matter how dark our life might be, whether the sun is standing still, or the sun is hidden behind dark clouds, we can be reminded, as with our ancestors, the Light, in some form, will rise again, even if I didn’t win the Irish lottery.
Whenever I’ve gone through a rough patch in my life; someone has invariably told me, “Well, you know, the sun will come up in the morning and everything will be better.” I’ve always hated that trite statement. When I feel down, in the blues, depressed, or when I’ve failed miserably, it doesn’t feel like the sun is going to come up in the morning. It actually feels like the sun will never rise again. I’ve felt like that so often, though, I feel okay with living in the darkness.
There are days when I do want the sun to rise again. On those days, rare as they may be, I feel like I need a bit of light and warmth. Paradoxically, during the Christmas season, at the darkest time of the year, when I feel the bluest, is when our culture tells us we should be celebrate.
The first 400 years of Christianity, Christmas wasn’t celebrated. Easter was the only Christian feast. At some point, Christians came into contact with the Celts. The Celts celebrated the three-day feast of the Winter Solstice. The word “Solstice,” is translated as “the day the sun stood still;” the three days when the naked eye cannot see the shadows lengthen. On these three days, the Celts believed their prayers and celebrations participated with Creation in order to restore the lengthening of the days of the sun.
The first day of the solstice, they gathered around the community’s oak tree, which was typically in the center of their village. They decorated the tree with bright red mushrooms that were indigenous to the season. The oak tree was known as the light bearer. Whenever the great oak was hit by lightning, the people would take the struck limb and use it for the Yule fire log, which brought good luck into the home with the promise of longer days to come.
On day two, the Celts gathered at their sacred sites, like Newgrange, to welcome the rising of the sun at the Winter Solstice. These feasts honored the souls of the departed who would be taken into the heart of the living sun.
On the third day of the feast, the people would box up food to take to widows and orphans, to ensure they had enough to sustain them through the impending winter.
Christians witnessed in the Celts celebration of the Winter Solstice, the same thing they believed about the light of God coming into the world. They adopted some of the Celtic practices and in 336 CE, established the celebration Christmas on the same day as the Winter Solstice, which was December 25. (At that time Christians used the Julian calendar, which had only 362 days and no leap year.)
By the 1500’s the Julian calendar no longer matched the seasons of the years. In 1582, Pope Gregory the XIII established the Gregorian calendar that we use today. With the addition of three days and leap year, the Winter Solstice fell on December 21st or 22nd, leaving Christmas three days after the Solstice. Instead of moving Christmas back to match the Solstice, Christians left it on the 25th, marking the rising of the Son of God on the third day after the longest night—to mirror the Resurrection story.
In the ancient worship services of the Christmas feast, Christians would read four different stories from the bible about the rising of God’s light.
At the setting of the sun on Christmas Eve, they would read a story to remind them that God had always been present to people in the darkest times in their lives. Men like Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and David who lives were often lived in the dark shadows. And women like Tamar, Rahab, Ruth, and Bathsheba who suffered under the hand of oppression. Yet in all the dark shadows and all the oppression, the promise was that the light of God would shine once again.
Then at midnight, Christians would read the story of the angel who appeared to the shepherds. This story is not the sanitized version we are familiar with; a story of sweet shepherd boys being frightened by the appearance of an angel. Instead, this story reminds the listener that the shepherds were criminals sent out of the village to do the dangerous work of tending the sheep. After living with sheep, the outcasts would smell disgusting. Everywhere they went, they carried the mark, the smell of being an outsider. Then, at the darkest moment of their lives, the angel appeared to them and said, the Light was now born into the world and they, and all other outcasts, were invited to go see this strange occurrence.
Then, before sunrise, Christians would read the third story, which was about the shepherd’s arrival at the stable where the Light, in the form a baby, had been born. The shepherds, who smelled like sheep, were welcomed into the barn; the stable where everyone, including the baby smelled the same. And the Light provided warmth for them all.
And finally, after sunrise, Christians would read the story that reminded them that the Light has come for everyone—even when they would feel like the sun will never rise again.
The Light, God, was with the ancients in those bleak times. God was with the shepherds, the criminals, the outcasts, the rejected, when all hope was lost. At the worst of times, God would appear as Light, as an angel, as a lamb, as baby, as the rising sun.
No matter how dark our life might be, whether the sun is standing still, or the sun is hidden behind dark clouds, we can be reminded, as with our ancestors, the Light, in some form, will rise again, even if I didn’t win the Irish lottery.
Friday, December 07, 2018
Altered State of Mind: Parables of an Alchemist Part 2
Altered State of Mind: Parables of an Alchemist – Part 2
Something happened. Seems it would be easy to describe something so simple. But it’s more complicated than the straight-forward sentence, “I retired.” I did retire from active work in the Episcopal Church. I made the choice, happily. I’ve been working since I was seventeen. I’ve worked for the Houston Astros, the Milwaukee Brewers, Coolidge Unified School District, Grand Canyon University, and The Episcopal Diocese of Arizona. I’ve had many masters and now it’s time to be my own. I can choose what to do and when to do it. I’ve become a full-time writer without the necessity of a day job. That feels really good.
But change, even desired good change, comes with transition—the movement from one place, or stage, or chapter to the next. Transition is the process of change. Sometimes we want things to change, like our weight, or our diet, or our work situation, or where we live, or who we live with, but we don’t do anything about it—we are unwilling to go through the transition, the process. Of course, there is change that we can’t control, getting older is the best example. But sometimes other people make decisions that force us to change, layoffs, unwanted divorce, our health, a family death. Change happens. Transition is the process we go through to get to the other side of change.
Prior to retiring, I was an interim pastor. The church’s previous pastor had suddenly, without warning, been removed from the position. It was a shock to almost everyone, including me. Sunday the priest was leading worship. Monday the priest didn’t have a job. Chaos ensued. The congregation was stunned, confused, bewildered, frustrated, angry, numb. And I was thrust into the position of being the congregation’s interim pastor. A dark cloud hung over all of us. In alchemy such an experience is known as “nigredo.” This stage of alchemy is painful because the heat has been turned up and everything is whirling around. The soup of our soul had begun cooking.
For a year, the congregation went through the process of asking hard questions, airing grievances, expressing anger, and grieving, lots of grieving. The transition through this stage was only possible because people were listened to and no one tried to fix their problems, because change had already happened and going back to the way things were, was, as is always the case, not possible. Collectively, though not necessarily individually, they begun to transition to the next stage.
The next stage began when they decided to move forward and seek a new pastor. They talked about their dreams for the future, their hopes for a new leader, and how they would live life together in a new paradigm. In alchemical terms, this is known as “albedo.” It’s when the chick begins pecking out of the egg because it knows it can no longer live in the darkness. The chick must break through, into the light. This stage can be very frightening, panic can set it, a collective claustrophobia can envelope us. Will we ever see the light again? But then a sliver of brightness elbows its way into our darkness and fresh air rushes in; we feel reborn. Once out of the egg, the hard work of standing on our own two feet begins. We wobble around, but finally we get our legs under us, and then we find our stride. We feel like we’re heading into a new land.
And that’s when things get weird. Things aren’t all wonderful under the sun’s brightness. We get to the first obstacle, a cliff. We feel like we’re ready to fly to the other side. We’re a raven who should be able to fly high in the air. We see ourselves as a peacock with a beautiful plume. We tell ourselves that we are ready. But then we realize we are raven with a peacock tail, we look cool, but can’t fly over the crevasse open before us. In alchemy this is the stage of “rubedo.” We have to stay the course, keep working in order to make the final transition.
With the hard work of deep listening to the divine, our soul, and others, reflecting on what has happened, re-imagining what can happen, and leaning into what the transition means—positive change happens—the gold we desire is produced. The Phoenix rises from the ashes and resurrection becomes a reality. We do this work, at first for our self, but then as we go through the transition, we discover that all this work has been for the sake of others as well. The gold heals us and those around us.
While everyone in the congregation was suffering through this transition process, so was I. Making my way through each stage, chaos, breaking out of the egg, and weirdness. But now, as the congregation has hired a new pastor, they are ready to step into that stage of gold. And while they do that, I step off into retirement.
And what does that mean for me? It means I have to endure another round of alchemy. More change. Transition. And I must go through each stage again, nigredo, albedo, rubedo, hoping for gold. This first week feels like what Matthew Fox calls ReFirement. I’ve re-entered the cauldron’s heat. A lot of painful transitions of my past have resurfaced for me to process through once again. I’m having very strange dreams that I have to work with. One minute I’m elated with relief and the next depressed for no reason. I feel like I simultaneously have a huge hangover and the best afterglow possible.
I told the congregation they would repeatedly go through this process. But now they are conscious of it and have new tools to re-imagine themselves and not repeat the errors of their history. Same goes for me. More experience with the process and better tools to manage the waves of uncertainty. And the one thing I can count on is that more change is coming.
As a part of this transition, my son, Dr Neil Stafford, PsyD, and I are starting a new podcast, “A Therapist and an Alchemist.” Our first episode explores the topic of change and transition in much more depth. Our first conversation will appear very soon. Please join us in the conversation.
Something happened. Seems it would be easy to describe something so simple. But it’s more complicated than the straight-forward sentence, “I retired.” I did retire from active work in the Episcopal Church. I made the choice, happily. I’ve been working since I was seventeen. I’ve worked for the Houston Astros, the Milwaukee Brewers, Coolidge Unified School District, Grand Canyon University, and The Episcopal Diocese of Arizona. I’ve had many masters and now it’s time to be my own. I can choose what to do and when to do it. I’ve become a full-time writer without the necessity of a day job. That feels really good.
But change, even desired good change, comes with transition—the movement from one place, or stage, or chapter to the next. Transition is the process of change. Sometimes we want things to change, like our weight, or our diet, or our work situation, or where we live, or who we live with, but we don’t do anything about it—we are unwilling to go through the transition, the process. Of course, there is change that we can’t control, getting older is the best example. But sometimes other people make decisions that force us to change, layoffs, unwanted divorce, our health, a family death. Change happens. Transition is the process we go through to get to the other side of change.
Prior to retiring, I was an interim pastor. The church’s previous pastor had suddenly, without warning, been removed from the position. It was a shock to almost everyone, including me. Sunday the priest was leading worship. Monday the priest didn’t have a job. Chaos ensued. The congregation was stunned, confused, bewildered, frustrated, angry, numb. And I was thrust into the position of being the congregation’s interim pastor. A dark cloud hung over all of us. In alchemy such an experience is known as “nigredo.” This stage of alchemy is painful because the heat has been turned up and everything is whirling around. The soup of our soul had begun cooking.
For a year, the congregation went through the process of asking hard questions, airing grievances, expressing anger, and grieving, lots of grieving. The transition through this stage was only possible because people were listened to and no one tried to fix their problems, because change had already happened and going back to the way things were, was, as is always the case, not possible. Collectively, though not necessarily individually, they begun to transition to the next stage.
The next stage began when they decided to move forward and seek a new pastor. They talked about their dreams for the future, their hopes for a new leader, and how they would live life together in a new paradigm. In alchemical terms, this is known as “albedo.” It’s when the chick begins pecking out of the egg because it knows it can no longer live in the darkness. The chick must break through, into the light. This stage can be very frightening, panic can set it, a collective claustrophobia can envelope us. Will we ever see the light again? But then a sliver of brightness elbows its way into our darkness and fresh air rushes in; we feel reborn. Once out of the egg, the hard work of standing on our own two feet begins. We wobble around, but finally we get our legs under us, and then we find our stride. We feel like we’re heading into a new land.
And that’s when things get weird. Things aren’t all wonderful under the sun’s brightness. We get to the first obstacle, a cliff. We feel like we’re ready to fly to the other side. We’re a raven who should be able to fly high in the air. We see ourselves as a peacock with a beautiful plume. We tell ourselves that we are ready. But then we realize we are raven with a peacock tail, we look cool, but can’t fly over the crevasse open before us. In alchemy this is the stage of “rubedo.” We have to stay the course, keep working in order to make the final transition.
With the hard work of deep listening to the divine, our soul, and others, reflecting on what has happened, re-imagining what can happen, and leaning into what the transition means—positive change happens—the gold we desire is produced. The Phoenix rises from the ashes and resurrection becomes a reality. We do this work, at first for our self, but then as we go through the transition, we discover that all this work has been for the sake of others as well. The gold heals us and those around us.
While everyone in the congregation was suffering through this transition process, so was I. Making my way through each stage, chaos, breaking out of the egg, and weirdness. But now, as the congregation has hired a new pastor, they are ready to step into that stage of gold. And while they do that, I step off into retirement.
And what does that mean for me? It means I have to endure another round of alchemy. More change. Transition. And I must go through each stage again, nigredo, albedo, rubedo, hoping for gold. This first week feels like what Matthew Fox calls ReFirement. I’ve re-entered the cauldron’s heat. A lot of painful transitions of my past have resurfaced for me to process through once again. I’m having very strange dreams that I have to work with. One minute I’m elated with relief and the next depressed for no reason. I feel like I simultaneously have a huge hangover and the best afterglow possible.
I told the congregation they would repeatedly go through this process. But now they are conscious of it and have new tools to re-imagine themselves and not repeat the errors of their history. Same goes for me. More experience with the process and better tools to manage the waves of uncertainty. And the one thing I can count on is that more change is coming.
As a part of this transition, my son, Dr Neil Stafford, PsyD, and I are starting a new podcast, “A Therapist and an Alchemist.” Our first episode explores the topic of change and transition in much more depth. Our first conversation will appear very soon. Please join us in the conversation.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
