Tag Archives: betrayal

Dreaming of Forgiveness

I’m in Starbucks ordering a chai tea latte, I think it’s the one on Ambleside down the street from Gyra’s office, my therapist during those dark days full of hurricanes and touch down tornadoes.  Or maybe it’s the one in Caulfield village, in the same plaza as the Safeway where I used to run into her, where we would stop and smile and talk in the cereal aisle, me on my way to the vegetable section, she on her way to pick up bread, or perhaps something from the cold meat section.  She’s a carnivore, I know that.  No vegetarian could wield a flesh cutting knife with as much precision as she.

But I’m allowing myself to become sidetracked.  My Judge quickly backing up my Victim.  It’s good to give them a voice now and again, to let them speak, to hear them out.  To acknowledge them before gently guiding them back to their seats.  It’s my Avenger’s turn to manage the show.

So, back to my dream.  Did I mention I’m dreaming?  It actually begins in that trance world between awake and sleeping, the best birthplace of Active Imagination.  I’m lying on my back in the wee hours of the morning, warmly comfortable nestled under my blue and yellow quilt and I’m barely aware of the early morning dawn birds just beginning their Spring concert.  I’m floating in that magical realm of almost, but not quite awake, slowly replaying the film of my last dream, which must have included elements of my used to be marriage because suddenly and seamlessly I’m in Starbucks ordering my soy, no-water chai tea latte and in walks S., otherwise known as The Other Woman, or during those dark tsunami days (and some days since) as Witch Woman.  So named because even then, even so wounded and full of unrecognized anger I could not bring myself to give her the name that rhymes.

I’ve been here before, in this netherworld of Active Imagination.  In this particular scene.  Always in Starbucks.  Always ordering or waiting for my chai tea latte.  Sometimes with a friend, but most times alone.  And always, always, always unprepared to run into her.  Mirroring my awake fear.

What will I say to her when first I see her again.  After.  After she deceived and lied and manipulated and connived and betrayed.  So many Ands.  After she lived for two years having an affair with my husband while making nice Safeway small talk with his wife.  So many Afters.  What will I say to her?  It’s been six years since I woke up to see the Red Bird of Betrayal flying over my life.  Six years since my marriage blew up and six years since I’ve seen Her.  We live not far from each other, yet since I gave her my husband, I have yet to run into her again.

In all my other reverie world Starbuck encounters, my words don’t come as I want them to.  In that, I mean my shadow self always steps forward and disempowers me by blaming and shaming.  My Wounded Child and Victim join hands crying out and pointing fingers,  “You are a Black Hole sucking energy from everything around you, spewing out toxic free radicals in your evil witchy wake!”

Once again I’m at Starbucks, this time I’m waiting as the barista makes my drink, when I turn around and there She is.  I’m the director in this Active world of Imagination, so she stands silently.   Caught.  There is no more avoiding me.  I have my BlackBerry in one hand, to appear important, supported and needed.  I hold the silent support of all my contacts in my hand, my big, huge team is fanned out invisibly behind me.  My other hand is warmed by my soy, no-water chai tea latte, a symbol of my own self-love, care and nourishment.  I’m standing in Starbucks, where I often sit to journal or to write.  We are on my turf here.

  I turn to her and say, without attachment, as if observing my thoughts as in meditation, “What you did     was wrong.  The pain you caused was overwhelming, not just for me, not just for my four children, but it rippled out further than you can imagine.  You acted without any care or compassion.  You lied, deceived and betrayed.”  I look at her and shake my head, turning to leave, “It was inexcusable and so very, very wrong.”

“Can’t you let it go already?” She demands, “You should learn to forgive and forget.”

This time my answering words come without force, without conscious thought, through a channel of Grace of understanding.  I am looking at her with sadness and compassion, finally seeing that she is buried so far underground that she can’t see the light of Truth that surrounds her.  “You have no idea whether I’ve forgiven or not.  Forgiveness has nothing at all to do with you; it’s something I do completely for myself.  The truth of what you’ve done can live side by side with Forgiveness.  One does not negate the other.”

Then I’m climbing a sturdy, narrow, wooden ladder and with a hammer I have broken through the ceiling so that the ladder can now rise higher and higher through the jagged opening into the sunlight above.  “I’ve broken through!” I exclaim with a smile just before I wake up.

I chuckle as I think again of the ladder leading to my “break through.”  I’ve been searching and working on Forgiveness for years and finally ‘get’ it.  I don’t need to forget the Truth of my wounds in order to Forgive.  I don’t even need to release the pain of those wounds, I need only to detach.  To release means simply to ease out the hook of attachment and let my emotions swim and swill in the swamp with the rest of life’s injuries.  If needed for my work as a writer or actor, I can cast a hook into that swamp and reel it back up.  But this time I’m in conscious control of the fishing rod and can choose which worm to catch and when and where to release it.       

I’m not finished with my forgiveness work and it will remain a daily practice, but now I have a strong foundation to support me.



Filed under Dreams, forgiveness, Spirituality

A Murder of Creativity

I’m sitting at the corner table in the Park Royal Village Starbucks sipping a tall, soy, no-water chai tea latte, listening a duet of “Baby it’s Cold Outside.”  I’m also sitting in front of a blank document, curser blinking, waiting for letters to be typed into words.  Words that have been written in my head for days.  Words that are supposed to be the conduit to bring my thoughts from the ephemeral world inside my head to the concrete world we can all see and touch.  It shouldn’t be so difficult.  I’m thinking thoughts all the time, whole words and even complete sentences!  Why are they never here when I’m sitting in front of my laptop or with pen and paper?  Where do they go, these little things with wings?  Where do they fly off to when they don’t want to be permanently etched onto paper or digitized into my laptop?  There is an entire flock of words soaring around up in the realm of my imagination, calling to each other, “Quick, come this way before you’re captured!  Follow your brethren and you’ll be safe!”

I imagine first a dark cloud of words, like the murder of crows that gather by the hundreds each evening east of the highway just past Boundary Way, cawing to each other as they circle and swirl in the sky, sharing the news of the day.  Hitchcock’s crows looking for Tippi Hendron, their dark wings disturbing the air as more and more of them join the birdley hurricane.  A force not of this world.  Us, down on the ground, humans walking, driving in their cars along the highway, going about our business, we are inconsequential.  For once, we are in their world….or is this where our two worlds meet?  The world of the crows and the world of the humans.  Am I the only one who looks up and watches?  Am I the only one who stops and wonders at the awe of the black dance in the twilight above us?  At the beauty and the grace of the word birds as they fly sky-poetry?  Or is it a short story?  Perhaps another chapter in a continuing saga, a never-ending novel, an ever-shifting memoir.

I imagine next a murmuration of many coloured starlings.  Red ones, yellow ones, orange, green, purple, pink, painting the sky.   Adverbs and Adjectives flitting about like hummingbirds and darting here and there like swallows.  Resplendent joy as they dance just out of reach, playing tag.

Sometimes, when I’m looking too hard, with my forehead bunched up in wrinkled concentration, I catch a glimpse of a word bird of many colours, a kaleidoscopic bird or a tie-dyed bird.  Metaphors and similes, that when splashed across the page in a wondrous technicolour luminocity, lift from the page and hug my heart.  The “just right” birds that fly onto my page when I’m not even looking, when I’m not even trying.  These are the touches of grace that every so often kiss my fingers and caress my soul and keep me coming back to the blinking cursor or empty page again and again and again.

But I didn’t intend to start out writing about birds, or even word birds at all.  See how they can fly about and disturb the best of intentions?  I want to sit down and begin the story of a great Warrior who did battle with the Demons of Betrayal.  I want to write about how this Warrior was thrust into the battle against her deepest wishes.  About how, when she found herself suddenly in the seering nuclear wartime winter, in the cold, wet, muddy trenches, her Spirit Warrior sent out the call to arms to all archetypes, and she became like the Amazon Warrior of legend.  For this is how legends are born and reborn again.

Red Bird of Betrayal ~ line drawing by Patrick O'Neill

Like all great legends and myths, the woman who becomes the Warrior is unconscious and unaware that she is waging a war.  She is sleeping when the call to arms is sounded and an army of archetypes gathers in the kairos, bringing with them all manner of weaponry and protection, guided and directed by her Spirit Warrior.

Two weeks later and I’m sitting in another Starbucks, surrounded by students and jazz music, waiting for the start of my son’s soccer game.  I smile at the girl across from me as she looks up from the text book she has spread open before her.  My Warrior is resting.  My Storyteller moves my fingers, typing the shared Truth, dancing in sideways through the door.  The red Bird of Betrayal drips blood as it flies overhead, small droplets of warrior wounds.  Creativity breaths in the Realm of Possibility, where the birds of inspiration nest and where all truths live.  Mine and his.


February 8, 2012 · 5:13 pm

I Am A Warrior Woman!

I am a Warrior Woman.

I’m on the phone with my spiritual director and we’re speaking the language of archetypes, a language I’m learning and a language in which Jim is both highly gifted and knowledgeable.  I’m becoming more fluent but have SO much more to learn, especially when it comes to speaking archetypically about my own life.  I am immersing myself in the world of archetypes and myths as a way of becoming more conscious and aware of the many different personalities that live within me.  I yearn to discover “who” is speaking and why.

In a blue folder on the desk beside me lays a certificate from the CMED Institute that certifies that I have “Completed the Sacred Contracts Program and Has Met all Academic Requirements Set Forth by the CMED Institute to Qualify as an Archetypal Consultant.”  Even after seven months of work and research at home and three VERY intensive, very long four-day classroom workshops, I feel like a two-year old still learning to speak.  The only people to whom I’ll be consulting in the near future will be myself and the other four members of my group, but I’m incredibly excited and energized to be learning this new language!

My phone crackles and buzzes and Jim’s voice cuts out once again.  I give up trying to record the call and take the phone off “speaker” and press it to my ear.  Jim’s voice now comes through loud and clear and I pick up a pen to begin madly scribbling notes to myself.  I don’t want to miss a word of his incredible guidance and knowledge.  I’m devoting the next twelve months to meticulously and mindfully release a fate lock in my life and allow space for the threads of destiny to begin weaving a new pattern of energy and grace.  I’m deep in the muddy muck of fate and have called Jim to help me find the tools to scrape the gumbo that’s sucking me in place and keeping me stuck.

I give Jim the Cole’s notes of my life, of the wounds that are wrapped around my fate lock.  I am working to release the pattern of pain and suffering stemming from my husband’s and the Other Woman’s betrayal and replacing it with a Love and a deep knowledge of my self worth.  I have done much and worked hard to heal but I still feel the hooks of a burr rubbing against me.  In healing myself, I offer healing to all other women who have been so wounded.  We are all interconnected and what is in the one is in the whole.

I’ve finished outlining to Jim the story of my blind-sided hit and the ensuing destruction.  I’ve skimmed over the lengthy, stressful, highly complicated settlement negotiations that have just recently been concluded five long years after the end of my marriage.

I finish speaking and without pause I hear Jim exclaim, “What a worthy woman!”

Immediately the rich meaning of those words fill me and sink down deep into my being, grounding me in the truth I haven’t been able to see or feel.  Tears of knowing fill my eyes as the worthy energy vibrates through every cell.  I am worthy.  I am a worthy woman.  I am seeing through a new clarity of knowledge.

When the tsunami of the knowledge of my husband’s betrayal bashed against me I was hit hard with a feeling of humiliation and all the detritus that comes with that.  I am filled with the very visceral perception of the meaning of that word and the ever expansive wounding it causes.  It is a scatter bomb, tearing through tissue and burying little landmines in hidden places in my psyche.  Long after the initial destruction has occurred, I’m still finding the cracks in the foundation of my Self.

I am a Warrior come back from a long, dark, warring night and I share my stories with you.  I pull back my Warrior armor and show you my healed wounds and point to the injuries still seeping, still healing.  Beneath my Warrior armor lives a Wounded Healer.

Be careful when reading these words, be careful not to infer meaning where there is none.  A Wounded Healer is a healer who has been initiated into her power by way of a wounding, and it is with the mindful and active healing of these wounds that the healing power grows.  A deeply empowered and powerful Wounded Healer is one who has been greatly injured (physically and/or psychically) and who has peeled back the scabs time and time again to release the pus of toxins held within.

My Wounded Healer speaks through the voice of my Warrior, telling the stories of my wounds so that you may find the wounds within you; so that you may begin the process of healing.  I shed my armor and show you my vulnerable under belly, not because I am unhealed, not because I am still wounded – but because I AM healed, because the wounds have given me the great gift of becoming a Wounded Healer and a Warrior Woman.  The injuries remaining are not inconsequential, but I am actively healing them, I am living my healing.  I invite you to live yours.

I am a Warrior Woman and I am Worthy!


Filed under Archetypes, Sacred Contract

Kayaking My Way Through Freedom

I’m driving my son’s slightly beat-up and definitely well used 2004 Honda Pilot, his twin brother in the passenger seat beside me.  Every time I turn a corner the golf balls that fill the pocket in the driver’s side door roll and crash around in a mini thunderstorm.  I can’t stop grinning and that’s taking me pleasantly by surprise.  I look to Braden and exclaim, “Isn’t this exciting?!”  He chuckles back to me, for once more circumspect and composed than his mother.

I stop at the red light, lean forward slightly and peer up through the dirty windshield.  I can just see the tips of two magnificent bows pointing the way home from their secure, roped down perch on the top of the car.  I can’t help grin again.  This is what joy feels like.  I have finally found the way through my adult maze of serious protection and found my child’s inner delight.  Or rather, she found me.

I have wanted a kayak for so long that the wanting seemed to be as much a part of me as my hazel eyes and my fair, quick to burn skin.  The wanting long ago settled in to sit comfortably beside the well watered illusion of my marriage.  In the nest of Those That Will Never Be.

Five years ago the illusion of my twenty-four year marriage was swept away in the tsunami of deceit and betrayal and with it went that well feathered nest.  Although I didn’t know it at the time, this was the beginning of freedom for me.  Freedom from the crazy making constraints of trying to find truth within the prison of narcissism.  Freedom from a marriage I now recognize as unhappy.  Freedom to make my own choices.  It was the greatest gift I have ever received.

And now, sitting elegantly on the floor in my living room, cushioned protectively and lovingly with my son’s childhood comforter, sits the ride of my dreams.  My ship has finally come in and her name is Eliza.  Beside her sits her best friend, Delilah.  Mango and Fire.  One kayak for me and one for a friend to use.

When I’m paddling silently, exploring coves and beaches I would never otherwise get to see, I’m changing my perspective.  Exchanging my upright on land outlook for a gliding contemplation on water.  Eliza and Delilah are so much more than kayaks, they are a long held-down dream realized.  They are the symbol of my freedom.

My mango coloured Eliza kayak sitting on my front lawn beside my Fire coloured Necky kayak.

Eliza and Delilah sitting pretty on my front lawn.










Filed under Dreams