Might as Well Face it.... You're Addicted to Love

Recently I attended two speaking engagements.  I had to speak on addiction in the first and on ADHD and Anxiety Disorders in the second.   As I researched these topics I came to one resounding theme, our hearts and bodies are crying, no screaming for more.  Every year more and more medications are prescribed for anxiety and depression.  Every day more and more people are faced with the fact that they are indeed addicted to something. 

When we speak of addiction we generally speak of a drug, or an action that produces a feeling of relief or reward.  So many approaches to addiction come in the form of avoiding a certain outlet.  You’re an alcoholic, don’t drink alcohol and attend a group or therapy.  You’re a shopaholic, don’t spend, freeze your credit card in a block of ice and call your support group.  The list goes on and on.  Now let me be clear, I am not advocating that we not deal with the particular issue that we find ourselves hopelessly and compellingly drawn toward.  Rather when we avoid one addiction we quickly find another.  The issue is not the outlet of choice.  That is the effect to the cause.

Recently I was in the airport, which seems to be a regular staple in my diet. While I was waiting for my flight I watched a child, who was obviously tired and completely over the airport experience, clinging to his mother.  She looked tired as well.  Her response to her child’s constant clinging wasn’t to hold him and allow him to rest peacefully.  Rather in her exhaustion she reached in to her bag and pulled out an Ipad. She handed it to the boy and immediately his gaze turned from the affection of his mother to the shiny touch screen.  He played nonstop for the next forty-five minutes.  He made no sound and was content with the electronic embrace of unlimited apps and Angry Birds.  I am not criticizing the mother.  When it’s late and you are sitting in those incredibly uncomfortable plastic chairs after being herded like cattle through one line after the other there will be exhaustion.  She after all was giving what she had to give in the moment.  She wanted rest as much as he did.  Actually, as I watched him playing I gazed around the corridor and I saw teens, adults, and even some of the more elderly adults sitting quietly texting, playing apps, surfing the web looking for something to fill the void of sitting in a sterile and transient environment.  We are wired at our core and from birth to seek stimulation.  It’s what we hunger for, it is what we are addicted too and this begs the question, why?

Eventually as my gaze returned to the little boy I thought about his original expression.  He wanted to be held, he wanted to feel safe and comfortable and he sought that from his Mother.  When we look for safety as children, and again this is a snapshot not a judgment of a tired mom, and we are given an engaging distraction what does this produce in us over the long term?

Over time our brain normalizes distractions and we crave stimulation once again.  Why do we crave?  Simply put, it is just who we are.  What do we crave?, I believe this is the grandmother of all questions.  In the moment we crave the thing that fills the immediate need, but under the layers of coping strategies, habits and yes addictions I believe we crave something more, something that can not be normalized.  If it cannot be normalized it must be greater than our need, infinitely greater.  

I have written in the past about my own childhood.  It was filled with anger, abuse and neglect.  I found my outlet in books.  My best friends when I was twelve were men like C.S. Lewis and Ernest Hemingway.  Lewis covered the constant grappling with God’s greatness and our inability to understand it in the midst of pain and suffering.  Hemingway covered the endless searching and pain that comes from seeking in empty places.  Lewis would dissect love and loss and turn it in to something greater.  He took children and put them in the hands of good but unsafe lion to be saved from those that sought to destroy them.  What a paradox that is to unpack.

Hemingway took an old man in a tiny boat and pushed him to the edge of his existence in an epic battle with the catch of his life.

Both men in their lifetimes fought through huge and painful circumstances.  At one point after the death of his wife, Joy, he even said that, “pain is God’s megaphone to rouse a deaf world”.  In the process of losing his wife he learned something greater than the philosophical and academically based idea of love, he learned of the experience of love and sadly loss.  He adopted his wife’s son Douglas and raised him as his own.  Years ago at a lecture I met with Douglas.  He was a cheerful man with a grand sense of humor.  He had become a pilot and loved adventure.  His childhood was a broken one.  His mother fled from the States with him, leaving behind an angry and abusive husband and finding England and Lewis.  Lewis was much older than Joy and had his share of adjustments to make from being a confirmed academic bachelor to a husband and Father.  Shortly after the marriage of Joy and Lewis, Douglas faced the loss of the one parent that stayed with him.  In the short time I spent with him I could see in Douglas a love and desire that cannot be learned it has to be experienced.

Hemingway who was known for his ability to avoid pain through the bottle and the typewriter took his own life, alone and depressed.  He was a regular haunt at a bar called Sloppy Joe’s in Key West.  I remember sitting under a picture of him having a pint just wondering what his days must have been like sitting in the same place.

I am in complete awe of both men as writers and adventurers in their own right but in the adventure of love I have found Hemingway at a loss. 

I remember reading Hemingway as a child and I felt like I was there in the moment with the characters.  Most of them were men that had suffered and were battle weary from rough lives full of loss and looking for that moment of redemption.  I related to that.  I was a child that had seen more than his share of abandonment and violence.  I had attended to overdoses and suicide attempts with some regularity by the time I was a man.

These pains, they build walls inside of us.  They drive us to look for safe stimulation.  Safe, in the sense that our hearts are not exposed.  We are masterful at composure in the right moments and brave with many risks but at the root we crave the very same thing that a little boy, unaware of an observer, sitting in an airport crave.  We want to be loved and accepted as we are.  We are worn and weathered and have so many complicated defenses that distract us from it, and turn those we love away, but it’s there.

I have often asked the question is it harder to know someone or be known by someone.  I believe it’s the latter.  I am terrified that if you knew the real me that you would run for the hills.  I’m skillfully avoidant, and carefully allusive.   These are the habits that you learn with a family that uses their hands for things other than embrace.  Deep down inside I believe that I am a lost cause and that if you knew the real me you would say the same.  At the low points in my life I’ve been told this very thing even to the point that I was not someone that one should cast their pearls before.   I lived for years with the notion that my train wreck was somehow different that yours or anyone else’s.  I thought that I was inherently flawed and I lived years swaying between trying so hard to make up for the lacking and just giving up and destroying any ground that had made.

The reality is that I am inherently flawed and that I shouldn’t be surprised when I fail.  My issue is that I thought that was the sum total of the man I was.  I was addicted to my own shame in ways that drove me to my own addictions.  I eventually became conditioned to the idea that I was and always be a lost cause.  I believed that I was a monster and I treated myself the way that a monster should be treated.  I disconnected, I disappeared, I caged myself so that I could do no harm to those who deserved more than a monster.  I had chosen the path of Hemingway and was headed for the same self destructive path that I had been raised to expect.

In the moments that came when I reached the bottom there were men, braver than Hemingway, more intact than Lewis that stood beside me and fought for me.  At first I remember being so suspicious.  I didn’t know what trust was much less how to offer it to anyone.  They were relentless, they would call and invite me for lunch, for dinner, for fishing trips.  They chased me down and would not let me be content with the monster that I saw in the mirror.

To this day when I am counseling I imagine them in the room and I wonder how they would handle things.  They have seen my tears, my terror,  my inner demons and looked at me as if to say is that it? Is that all that’s wrong with you?  We love you man!  These men have been the parents that stood with men when I begged like a weary child in an airport to be embraced.  Instead of distraction they handed me a new world a new life.  They mirrored the love that they knew, not necessarily from their own childhood memories but from the love they experienced from a God that pursued them just as relentlessly as they did me.  They taught me to love myself and to love Jesus.  They didn’t give me books but gave me the experience, the experience that Douglas had with Lewis and God still uses these men to this day as I am learning to pursue those that God brings to me, weary and broken carrying their own inner monsters and shame.

If addiction is a way of filling something that the action can never satisfy then it must be an endless void that we are trying to fill.  It will only come through and endless source and that endless source comes to us through those that He chooses to send to us when we are dying and broken on the side of road waiting for judgment.  It is at that moment when we have come to then end of ourselves and have no where to run, nothing to offer; it is in that moment that we are met by those that He sends and in the words of Lewis, we are, “Surprised by Joy”.

Journeys in the Storm

Ten years ago I began a journey that I would have never chosen for myself.  It began in the summer of 2004.  I had been surfing all morning.  I was at one of my favorite breaks and the waves were beautiful.  The swell was around six feet and the intervals were around twelve to fifteen seconds.  The soft winds were blowing off shore, which meant that the waves were showing a nice face.  I had made the forty-five minute drive and this seemed to be like any other morning.  I arrived at the beach by 6:30am and was in the water paddling out by 6:35.  It never gets old.  That first duck dive under a wave, when your face is completely submerged and you feel the power of the current sweeping the wave over your body.  Shortly after you emerge and without a moment’s thought you begin to paddle.  This is a process that you repeat until you reach the break point.  It’s that first dive though, it simply fills you with a sense of life, amazement and adrenaline. 

After a quick paddle I reached the break point.  I remember sitting up on my board and breathing in the peaceful and serene watery world that had completely engulfed my senses.  The swell, moving gently but powerfully met me with my first set of the morning.  I watched the waves roll toward me.  The first wave passed it was smaller than the ones to follow.  I waited patiently for just the right wave, the right moment. Then in a burst of momentum I paddled swiftly with the wave.  It picked me up and as quickly as it lifted my board I stood.  I remember just gliding down the face.  It was smooth like glass and I could hear the curl crashing behind me, pushing me forward faster and faster.  I pushed my board against the wave gaining momentum with each lunge.  It felt effortless, even natural.  I drank in the moment until the end of the ride.  As I drew closer to the sand bar I turned my board using the wave as a ramp and as the momentum pushed me ever faster defying gravity I left the water and for what lasted only a second I was airborne.  Quickly before gravity could steal the moment I twisted my body and dove back into the smooth warm water.  I repeated this over and over until the winds changed and the waves lost their graceful faces.

The sun was high above my head as I caught the last wave.  When I stood the nose of the board dug in quickly to the water and I found myself thrusted face forward into the base of the wave.  It was like being put in washing machine on spin cycle as the wave and it’s powerful current held me under.  It was just the right moment where the water agrees with the force of the winds and currents as I was held under water for what felt like an eternity.     Quickly I opened my eyes in the murky and turbulent waters, my hand quickly ran the length of my leash looking for the board to which my ankle was tethered.  As I found the board, still under water I grabbed it and held until it’s buoyancy could break the surface.  I was running out of breath as the board itself was held beneath the surface.  I waited, forcing my body out of a panic and conserving as much air as I could.  My tired limbs ached and my mind raced, until finally the current gave way.  I offered one last tired burst of energy and paddled the last stretch to the beach, grabbing hold of each wave as they pushed me closer and closer to the beach.  As the moment passed I didn’t find myself shaken or even afraid.  I chalked it up to another messy wipeout as I gathered my board and my senses and made my way back to the Jeep.

As I was driving home I made my customary stop at the convenience store.  I loaded up on boiled peanuts and a sugar-free Red bull.  This offered me a burst of much needed energy as I rushed to make it home.  I had to be at work in an hour and didn’t have time to waste by resting. 

As I made my way through the lowlands my body felt strange.  I remember getting very dizzy.  I thought I was going to pass out.  I waited a moment for the dizziness to pass but it held its course and I finally pulled over and stepped out of my jeep to the side of the road.  As I stood I remember a flood of emotions running through my mind, my heart was beating faster and faster and I drew deep breaths almost as if I had run a marathon.  This frenzy lasted about ten minutes and subsided as quickly as it appeared.  I pulled my wits together and continued my trek home.  As the day progressed I forgot about all about it and carried on.

Fast-forwarding a few months, I was driving with a friend.  We were on our way to a repair store.  The air conditioning unit at my house which had been on it’s last leg since I moved in had finally given up the ghost.  I am inquisitive by nature so I took the unit apart and found that the cooling fan had died.  So off we went to find a replacement.  As we drove the music on local radio station stopped and a weather bulletin boomed through the speakers.  A hurricane, which had been sitting off the Gulf Coast, had made an abrupt turn, defying the majority of the forecast models and was heading directly towards us.  We were informed that we had roughly three hours until the feeder bands would reach us.  The hurricane was listed as a category one and was expected to dissipate by the time it reached us to become a tropical storm.  We listened intently and were relieved with the news that we would only see tropical storm winds. 

As we reached the repair store, I described the motor that I needed and gave the serial number.  The clerk laughed and made a joke about disco being in style when they made my air conditioner.  I smiled purchased the part and we began our ride home.  Once again a weather bulletin sounded off.  The storm was strengthening and was now expected to be a category four by the time it reached land.  The National Weather Service was now predicting a category three hurricane to reach Orlando.  As we listened my friend Seth spoke up.  He said that it would be smart to pick up wood and supplies to board up the windows.  I agreed and we drove quickly to the next stop.  When we arrived we were amazed to see a line of cars waiting in line just to enter the parking lot.  We were apparently not the only ones grappling to prepare for the hurricane.  We parked quickly and made our way in to the store.  We picked up as much plywood as we could find, a saw, tapcon screws and several flashlights.  We made our way to the counter, paid and left. 

When we reached home we didn’t waste a moment.  We began cutting the wood and fastening each board over the windows.  We had enough for both of our homes and for our neighbors as well.  We worked intently not even noticing the first set of feeder bands.  Finally, as the winds picked up and the rain poured down we finished the massive project, and without a moment to spare.  Seth and I went in to my house along with his brother, some of our neighbors and some people I didn’t even know and we waited.

Within an hour the sky was black, the winds were consistently pushing at about a hundred miles an hour and I was at the door with my video camera catching every second.  The weather report came on the radio shortly after and announced that the winds were now at a constant speed of a hundred and twenty-seven miles an hour with gusts close to one-forty.  I was an adrenaline junky, to put it lightly, and my mind raced with ideas.  I mean, how many chances do you have to experience winds like that?  I grabbed my skateboard and an umbrella and ran out the front door.  I grew up watching a lot of cartoons and from my extensive research of Bugs Bunny I understood that umbrellas can make excellent sails.  I mounted the board, open the umbrella and was expecting the ride of my life.  The winds were so swift they tore the umbrella apart the moment I opened it.  Fortunately the wind pushed me along even without the sail.  The rain was so strong and was pouring so fast that each drop felt like a pinprick.  I lasted about three minutes and ran for the safety of my living room.  I watched intently as tree after tree toppled and power lines snapped.  We lost power around 8:30 that evening.  Fortunately, being outdoors men Seth and I had an adequate supply of candles, propane, battery powered radios and of course flashlights.  We filled all of our coolers with ice before the storm and put as many water bottles in them as we could.  The storm reached carried on for hours until there was an abrupt silence.  This was not the end of the storm and could only mean one thing; the eye of the hurricane was directly over us.  I stepped back out the front door and looked up into the dark sky.  The sky was clear and there were stars everywhere.  The wind was gone as we muddled around in the dark and eerie silence.  Everyone piled out and we all began to survey the neighborhood, each looking for damage and checking on the other neighbors.  This lasted for about an hour and the storm once again reared its ugly head.

The next morning, I was prepared for the worst.  The storm had passed but in its wake it left our town upside down.  I drove around with my video camera recording one pile of debris after another.  The roads were empty and quiet and littered with fallen trees, power lines, and anything else that wasn’t strong enough to withstand the torrent that had devoured the town the night before.  As I drove I began to feel light headed once again and all the symptoms that I had felt months before returned.  It lasted for about fifteen minutes and left just as it had before.  This time I was a little more aware and was a little shaken, as this was not just tiredness but something more.  It stayed on my mind a little longer but eventually faded as I was distracted by the damage of the storm.  As the week passed we realized that we would be without power for a while.  The gas stations were empty of fuel, water, and the basic necessities as were the grocery stores.  Finally after another week the power returned and life began to return to some semblance or normalcy.  Already there were two more storms forming in the Atlantic.  I remember joking about it and saying, “What are the odds of us getting another storm?  Really?  They’ll pass.” Unfortunately by the end of hurricane season that year we saw three more.   Just as a precaution we decided to leave the boards on the windows.  As slim as the chances none of us wanted to risk weathering another hurricane without the safety of covering.  The boards stayed on for the remainder of the summer and were exposed to all four hurricanes.  Somewhere in the middle of all of the madness, I woke up in the middle of the night.  I remember it vividly because to this day it still sends chills through my spine.  I woke startled, unable to move, unable to breathe.  My eyes were focused on the ceiling and I could see flashes of light pulsing through out my field of vision.  I panicked but could do nothing.  My mind was racing as I tried to take just one breath, but nothing..  Just silence and fear.  After about thirty seconds I began to breathe and was able to move, but the terror that went through my mind was unforgettable.  All of the what if’s were still coursing through my head. What if I hadn’t regained my faculties?  What if I had suffocated?  I stayed awake for the next two days out of fear.  I called my doctor and went directly to her office.  When I arrived I described all of the symptoms that I had been experiencing over the past several months.  She gave me a thoughtful glance and told me that I was experiencing panic attacks and night terrors.  I was not convinced but at this point was exhausted.  She prescribed some meds and told me to rest. 

After this I met with a counselor and this was again confirmed.  As we dug into my past it was more and more evident that panic and anxiety had been a constant staple to my mental diet.  I began to take the meds and over the next month I began to become much more calm.  My mind was working and focused in ways that it had never had before.  I could actually think even concentrate.  As I began to experience a mind that worked as it was supposed to I realized that I had been having panic symptoms since I was a child. 

These symptoms had permeated every thought and action as far back as I could remember.  As a student I had always scraped by, unable to study for long periods of time, I procrastinated as much as possible and my grades had always suffered.  My religious beliefs were based on fear more than faith and I lived in constant fear that I was not only a failure but that God must be angry and disappointed with me.  This is when I began to write.

Within three weeks of these understandings I had completed my first manuscript, Unshed Tears.  It was focused on how experiencing childhood abuse plays a major role in how we understand God.  If our first experiences with authority are abusive then we form the belief that all authority must be angry and abusive.  We choose not to live and enjoy the power of God but we translate Him into being the ultimate abusive parent just waiting for us to fail, then pouring on our hearts pain and anguish.  I had been in this frame of mind and survived with fear as my constant companion.  The journey of understanding that God is not an angry parent took time.  My faith moved from surviving an angry deity to being embraced by a loving, caring and nurturing God.  This pushed me to understand that even with the baggage of abuse in my past I had been given gifts that I had feared to even touch.  Yes, there was pain, but redemption looked less like having my sins painfully burned away and more like being loved to holiness.  I rested.  It was the first time in my entire life that I exhaled in relief and dared believe that God was not only all powerful but truly all loving.  All loving, in that He could actually love all of me.  He wasn’t surprised by my failures. As a matter of fact He was there, in the midst of my failures holding me, defending me like a roaring lion when no one else would.

This was not an immediate revelation.  God is patient.  It leaked in through the cracks of my life, my past and carries through to the present and to the future.  My world changed in amazing ways and it came through panic, fear, anxiety and paralysis. 

My burnout in one Masters program carried to an open door to a new Masters degree and a career that would give me the ability to walk with others who have been down the same ragged and broken path. 

So often we look for perfection as the moment that God will enter the picture.  It’s as if we wait to be good enough to win His praise and affection.  Thank God this is not the case, for we would be waiting in an empty shack in fear that we would never be met.  It was when God opened the doors in my broken world; in my complete and utter mess of a life that I realized that he wanted me.  Just me, the broken and humbled mess of a man that I was and am.  I came to a place in life where I had nothing left to offer, I had no drive, no ambition.  It was in this moment, the perfect moment to experience the ultimate judgment and rejection that God showered me with adoration and love.

Since that time I have experienced some of the most dreadful and heartbreaking moments in my life.  I have lost everything many times over and have seen the darkness that exists with in my intentions and actions.  I am utterly a selfish and self seeking person and left to my own devices I would do all the good works and actions with a darkened heart.   My main drive would be to work hard just to prove that I was ok.  Fortunately, God has allowed me to see the contrast between my inability and His unfailing promise to redeem me.

It was in losing everything that I realized that I was holding on to dirty rags.  The keys to my redemption were so much different than reality.  My actions always have motives; they have a heart tied to them.  God allowed my actions to be stripped away so that he could show me His heart, His compassion.  I am learning to truly love, to truly give with an open heart and mind.  My religion is no longer anger and fear.  I always have my moments but I can finally be honest without the fear of condemnation, and in honesty I can truly see what is embraced by God, me.

Safaris, Drivers and the Essentials of Survival

Standing at the edge of the Great Rift Valley in Kenya I looked out from the mountaintop.  I saw rolling hills that stretched to the horizon.  I knew that the adventure that lie ahead would be life changing. 

The driver was waiting in Nairobi.  He was a kind man of small stature.  He had kind eyes and it was obvious from the start that he had a true passion for his job.  Over the course of the following days he would introduce me to the Northern parts of the Serengeti. 

As we pulled out of Nairobi the buildings began to diminish in size, they became fewer in number.  Mile after mile Nairobi became less visible.  As we started our assent to the top of the mountain, which led to the Great Rift Valley, we passed cars and carts pulled by different types of animals.  The road curved and narrowed leaving little room for error.  The driver was experienced and he handled the bulky van with ease.  As we reached the top of the mountain I stepped out and walked to the edge of a tall cliff that overlooked the valley.  Rarely am I ever speechless but in that moment I knew that I was seeing one of God’s most beautiful creations.  The land seemed to go on forever. It was mostly empty of the modern sites that we are so used to.  There were no buildings, no highways it was like looking back in time thousands of years.

I stood there on the edge for ten or fifteen minutes in prayerful thought still in awe of what I was seeing.  I dreamed of a world that doesn’t exist to most of the world.  It was one of great animals that ran freely, with people that roam the land with little to few attachments holding them to one place.  I dreamed of sunsets that dominated the horizon with no obstructions and a night sky that was unhindered by the pollution of city lights.  As I was drifting further into my hopes of what was to come, the driver walked over to me and placed his hand on my shoulder.  He said simply, “my friend, it is beautiful yes, but there is more to see.  We should go.”  With that I took a few pictures and stepped in to the van.

We made our way down the mountain in to the valley.  Upon reaching the bottom I noticed that the road was roughly paved and that there were no buildings within sight.  I asked the driver where the closest town was.  He smiled and with a deep laugh said, “there is no town, only Nairobi is close now.”  For the next hour, as the mountain faded into the background, I sat watching the small brush pass by.  I opened up a small bag that I had picked up in Nairobi.  It was mainly full of essentials like a can of sugar free Redbull, some potato crisps, fresh passion fruit, and some other dried fruits.  I offered some to the driver.  He took a handful of Skittles and shared more about the area.  By this point we were off of the paved roads and from here on out we would not see pavement for several days. 

I sat back watching this new world.  On my right I saw a herd of Zebras standing together as we sped by.  Further along the road we came to what looked to be a small village.  The driver asked if I wanted any souvenirs.  I smiled and shook my head no.  I wanted to see more. He seemed pleased with this decision and told me about the village.  “Mr. Jason, this is one of the villages belonging to the Masai People.  He explained that the huts were constructed of mud and dung.  “The people live in these huts for six or seven months and then it is time to move and build new ones.”  I asked about the children.  Do they go to school?  He said yes.  “Recently the children have been required to attend a school, it is not far ahead.”

We passed through the Masai settlement and made our way deeper in to the sierra.  Along the sides of the road I saw men, women and children walking and playing.  They were wearing traditional Masai garments, which consisted of brightly colored sashes.  I was amazed at how alive and playful the children were.  They jumped and tumbled with one another as the Masai women sat together watching as they wove new fabrics.

Past the settlements, beyond the villagers we were now in deep sierra.  There were more and more animals passing by as we drove ahead.  I looked to my right and saw three elephants walking slowly away from the dirt road.  I took a few more pictures and the driver said, “those are only a few elephants, you will see many more when we reach Masai Mara.  As we neared the protected area of Masai Mara the driver began to slow down.  He pulled to the side of the road and said, “Mr. Jason, this will be a good moment for pictures.”  I looked around and saw nothing.  I asked what exactly I was taking a picture of.  He laughed with a deep and loud laugh.  “Mr Jason, do you see that concrete marker over there?  It is the border between Kenya and Tanzania.  If you stand on one side you are here, in Kenya and on the other you are in Tanzania.” I walked over to the obelisk shaped structure.  Sprays painted on it were two letters separated by a line.  T\K.  I assumed the obvious T was Tanzania and K was Kenya.  So I did the tourist thing and jumped back and forth between the two countries.  I think I was mainly thrilled at the fact that I could cross over without an hour of customs checks on each side.  The driver took a few pictures of me as he laughed. 

We boarded the van once more and began the next leg of our journey to the Masai Mara Reserve.  I saw another herd of Zebras one was facing away from the road.  I named her J.Lo for obvious reasons.  Finally we made it to the gate of the Reserve.  The gate was simple. It was constructed of stones and mortar.  On each side piled in stacks that were at least five feet tall were skeletal remains of various animals.  At the top of each was the skull of an elephant.  I walked up to them and was amazed at the size of the enormity of each skull.  The driver came beside me and explained that the skull is full of small holes, which makes it lighter than other bones.  This allows the elephant to hold its head up without being weighted down.

After a lengthy dialogue with the park officials the driver motioned me back to the van.  I jumped in and we were once more on our way.  The Reserve was teeming with animals.  I saw elephants, zebras, giraffes, even a few hippopotami bathing in a stream that snaked its way through the terrain.

After three more hours we made it to our destination.  I was staying in a place called Serena Mara.  It sat on top of a rolling hill and the view was breath taking.  The driver asked when I would like to take the first safari.  I laughed and said that I felt like we had already taken the first one.  He smiled and said, “my friend you have seen nothing yet.  Shall we go for an evening safari after dinner?”  I nodded with excitement.  He said that we should go by 5:30.  I unpacked my bags, walked around the resort and quickly finished my dinner.  It was time for my first Safari.

The van was equipped for the adventure.  It had a roof that lifted to provide shade and an open view of any animals that we would see along the way.  It also had four-wheel drive, which came in extremely handy on the drive to the reservation and would surely be useful in the safaris to come.

We left the reservation quickly.  It had rained for about an hour and a half before we left and though Kenya is located on the equator it was a cool evening.  I had a jacket with me and was ready to see what the sierra had to offer.

Within five minutes we saw a herd of wildebeests.  They were massive and the number of the herd was in the thousands.  I had flashbacks to the Lion King.  I asked the driver to stop the van and I got out to get a closer look.  The driver apparently didn’t often receive requests like this and he was a little apprehensive but throughout the drive we had found a common ground in our love for adventure.  He had been a driver and a scout for some time and in his free time would go out for days into the sierra to watch the animals.  He studied their movements, their feeding habits, and had become an expert in finding them.  At one point he spotted a cheetah in a tree that was at least two-hundred yards away.  He pointed, I looked and saw nothing. Then I grabbed my binoculars only to see of all things a cheetah lying on a branch in a tree.  I was amazed and quickly came to trust his judgment.  This was still early in the ride and I was excited to get a closer look.  I left the safety of the van and wandered closer to the herd.  They were magnificent!  They moved as one unit.  If one sensed danger the herd moved with him. They were in perfect sync.  I snapped a few pictures and the herd began to move.  I could feel the ground shake.  It was a moment of pure awe.  After the herd moved on I stepped back into the van and we were once again underway.

We came to a stream and the driver stopped.  He pointed to the water and explained that there were four hippopotami submerged.  I stepped out of the van again to get a closer look.  The stream had carved a deep gorge into the terrain and the ground was muddy and wet.  I stepped as close as I could to the edge and took pictures.  I took one more step and felt the ground begin to give way.  I realized in a split second that I was headed down into murky water and there was nothing to stop me.  The driver had explained before that the waters were full of crocodiles and hippos.  This was all that was going through my mind as my feet lost their traction and I began to tumble.  Just as quickly as I began to fall I stopped.  I felt a hand grip me so tightly it almost hurt, but in the moment I was relieved.  I turned only to see the driver standing solidly with my life literally in his hands.  He smiled and in a thick accent that was more reassuring than Morgan Freeman he said, “Mister Jason, it is not a good idea to be this close”.  We both laughed as I regained my balance.  As he laughed he told me, “it is nice to see someone who is not afraid that will enjoy the wonderful creation around him, but my friend I believe you may enjoy it more than your health can tolerate.”  With this he laughed again and exclaimed, “Oh Mr. Jason, you are going to survive this trip without swimming with the crocodiles.”  We moved on, and throughout the way he pointed out more animals.  Some were huge and some were common rodents.  His eye for the detail of the land paired with his confidence was more than reassuring.  Over the coming days he would point out Giraffes, Lions, Cheetahs and animals that I had never seen nor heard of.  I was in constant amazement of everything.  There was no getting used to it and at no moment did it lose its wonder. 

I asked more than my share of questions and with patient smiles he answered each and every one.

On our last day he told me that he had a surprise in store for me.  We journeyed to another reserve.  The reserves were apparently established based on the types of animals that inhabit the area.  As we entered the new area I began to see apes of all kinds running and jumping.  He pointed out each one and told me the names.  They were care free, playful and whether they noticed us or not they were unhindered by our presence.  We stayed there for a couple of hours and I was lost in the complexity of their existence.  Just from my limited time there I could see a social structure.  The mothers were gentle and compassionate with their young.  They grouped together holding their offspring as if they were discussing their daily routines.  The males sat off to the side in groups also.  There was the occasional display of testosterone as one would stand and let out a loud shout.  It was obvious who the patriarch of the group was.  He was an older more laid-back guy.  He just looked wise, as if he had seen his share and more of the world around him.  The other apes showed respect and gave him his own space and distance.  I understood how easy it would be to spend years just observing these tiny actions of community.

Finally we made the journey back to Nairobi.  I was tired but still excited.  We chatted the entire drive and I continued to learn from this new friend.

As I returned I gave so much thought into my time with the driver.  I am an adventurer at heart and often show too much readiness and zeal for a new challenge.  It felt comforting to have a voice along with me that was more experienced, more in tune with the thrills and dangers that this world contained.  I started to apply this to other areas in life.  I thought about counseling and how so many people come with questions, fears, concerns, even panic.  I realized that for those I was able to serve as somewhat of a driver through the terrains of life.  I sat for hours in the airport and even in a hotel in Ethiopia thinking about it.  The question eventually came to mind, where does a therapist turn when he needs a driver.  This felt even more pressing as this particular therapist was sitting in an aged hotel in Addis Ababa.  I felt completely alone and out of my element.  I wasn’t counseling but I was definitely not in my comfort zone.  It dawned on me that in a counseling room I was safe.  I asked the questions, I did the digging when necessary but rarely was I out of my safe zone.  Then I began to remember the words of the men who trained me.  Their gentle encouragement and at times their tougher challenges rang through my mind.  I missed them as I thought about the risks that they guided me through.  They saw me at some of my best moments and quite honestly at many of my worst.  I realized that these men had been my drivers and that I had come to rely on their wisdom even when I was sitting eight thousand miles away.  There have been times when I am so perplexed with a decision that I ask my self what they would do in that moment.  I think about their words, their expressions and many times their patience and grace. 

I believe that we are made in a way that requires us to need each other.  We spend most of our hiding our weaknesses hoping that our drivers won’t  see them.  We dive into isolation because it seems safer.  As I think back to the moment when I was slipping in to the muddy waters of an African stream I realize that this was not the first time a firm hand had pulled me back to safety.  I am learning slowly to lead with my weakness.  This I believe is the lesson that many of the best drivers in my life have taught me and in all their patience they allowed me to grow until I saw it for myself.  In the end, what do professors, supervisors, and a driver in Africa have in common?  They have all known me at moments when the illusion of my own control was fleeting.  They all extended a hand of safety to me when I was helpless and they all have ventured with me into some of the scariest moments in my life.  Ultimately they have mirrored God’s love to me.  They have been the reflections of the greater hand which so many more times than I can count has pulled me from the edge and with a laugh that surpasses a driver or Morgan Freeman has rejoiced at the opportunity to be with me as I met my limits and clung to Him for safety.

Mars and Venus Revisited Part I

The idea of intimacy sounds wonderful on paper but is often much harder in practice.  Terms like trust, vulnerability, and love are often thrown out in conversation with enthusiasm and excitement, as they should be, but in practice they can be confusing, tense, and terrifying.  So how do we make sense of this crazy little thing called love?

Let’s start at the start…

I was sitting at the Nairobi International Airport waiting on a flight.  There was a boy there with his parents.  He was excited to the point of sliding across the floor and dancing.  This was his first flight alone.  From what I could tell he was traveling to India to visit family.  His Mother and Father were with him, definitely looking a little nervous about his first venture alone.  As he was dancing and sliding he looked over at me and I waved.  He suddenly stopped dancing and with some embarrassment he hid his face in his Mother’s dress.  He waited for a few seconds and then looked back to see if I was still there.  He smiled shyly and slowly began to slide and dance again.  The more confident he became the more he danced, finally to the point of showing off his dancing skills.  He knew that he had a captive audience and was working to keep that attention.  He slid harder and looked over more frequently to make sure I was seeing his athletic prowess at work.  I smiled again and he smiled back.  Sliding harder, to the point that he fell over, he became a embarrassed.  With that he ran back to his Mother’s side hiding once more.  He repeated the process two or three more times.  The reality was that he wanted attention, approval.  The more positive my response the more he risked.  He fell two or three more times but finally was sliding and falling all over with out embarrassment. 

By nature we all want to be acknowledged and accepted.  As we grow up our slides and dance moves become more complicated.  Our audience becomes much wider and our displays at times end up looking like the actions of a little boy sliding and falling.  We often grow embarrassed and run to the arms of safe behavior.  We rebuild walls of propriety and act, “normal” again.  The more we risk, the more normal the falls and slips become and eventually we learn to have a confidence in our own actions.  Sometimes we become excellent at embracing risks and performing in front of our imaginary audience.  There are times when we come across a very different Audience.  For men, we fall pray to the attention of the fairer sex.  We crave to be noticed and accepted and our slides and dances look more like an awkward mating ritual.  We try to look cool and in control.  We try to pull off the smooth dance moves of a George Clooney but often look more like Curious George.  This performance is one that we wrestle to balance.  Questions come to mind and insecurities mount.  We have to decide is it worth the risk of looking like a Curious George bouncing about awkwardly to gain the attention of the lovely object of our bumbling ritual.  As men we don’t do awkward well, though we do, do it often.  At the root of the insecurity we are asking two questions… One, are we acceptable? And secondly are we enough to maintain the attention of our new audience.

If you want to see this theory in practice just go out in public.  I play basketball at the local courts in Salmiya.  Mostly the audience is a group of sweaty guys talking trash and attempting to exert some form of social dominance on the court.  But, every so often there is that subtle feminine presence, it could be someones girlfriend or just a girl with her friends.  When, “She” is present everything changes.  The guys play harder, their look is more intense and they will try harder shots hoping to gain her attention and to prove to themselves that they are enough to hold that attention.  They basically want her to know that they are, “The Man”.

The lighter side of this is when those shots are missed and a guy looks more like a ball hog, receiving the criticism of his teammates.  He will quickly puff up his chest and become defensive.  He will return criticism with anger and sometimes will become even more of a ball hog or the opposite will simply pass the ball and not shoot any more.  Rarely do you see a player recognize the potential grace in his awkwardness, the gentle or not so gentle tug of his teammates and find balance as a player but mostly as a man playing a game with other men in the midst of a beautiful onlooker.

Why do we crave this attention so much?  Why, when you go to a club do you see the same dynamics at work?  You will see guys dressed in everything from Armani to Thug, strutting through the club as if it’s very existence dependent on their presence.  You’ll see guys come up with the craziest lines, silliest bravado, and some strange dance moves.  This of course is often reinforced by a few shots of liquid courage, which pushes them to risk more and balance less.  It is a truly amazing sight.  Most of the time this persona is met with rejection and the exchange of a fake phone number.  The guy walks away feeling like he’s won the trophy of manhood and in the background is a group of girls giggling and laughing.  The guy feels affirmed, that is until the following day when he dials the number and someone at Pizza Hut answers.

We crave to be accepted from the time we are a little child until we are the awkward guy on the basketball court or the king of disco fever performing intensely 30 years after disco died.  We have a deep need to be seen, to be known.  I think that we confuse being praised by our image for being truly accepted.  So our image grows regardless of whether it is genuine, fueled by insecurity or one too many shots of Cuervo.  Deep down we know that we are awkward and we crave to be accepted in our awkwardness but fear being seen as weak.

Girls, at this point I know you are all agreeing and probably remembering all the times you have been the object of this awkward show of testosterone and caveman behavior, but you are in this as well.  Being more graceful by nature and having twice as many neural connections for social engagement you are much more elegant in your awkwardness but it’s there…

I was recently talking to a good friend about her perception of herself and how she sees the world around her.  She is very graceful, quite beautiful actually.  When we got down to the facts, she shared that rare moment of fleeting composure.  Her eyes looked down and she said, “you know girls are so critical of each other.  It doesn’t matter what I wear, how smart I am, what I do for a living there are always girls looking for tiny cracks and imperfections.”  I was amazed.  I thought she was a really confident person and that she pretty much had it all together.  She continued, “you know what I really want?  I want to just walk out with no make up, no heels, just pretty much me without the covering of who I’m told I should be, and just be accepted for that.  Don’t get me wrong, I like it when men notice how I look, but there’s a lot more to me than my hair and my heels.”  I asked what it was like to have those moments where guys would do silly things to get her attention.  She said, “sometimes it’s sweet, you know?  Here’s this guy who’s probably really nice trying to be something that he’s not, I can see it from a mile away, but you know, he’s risking.  I like that.  Those other guys that pretty much live like they are the coolest act in town? Those are the ones who believe they really are that façade.  Then they want me to be in the façade with them and then it’s all about my hair and heels again.  I want more than that.  I’d rather have the silly guy that is awkward and knows it, at least he can see there’s more to me than that other stuff. “

I thought this was truly profound.  Guys, here’s the reality… They know we’re goofy and awkward.  It’s out there.  Girls, we know that beneath the layers of grace and beautiful eyes that there’s insecurity.  We see it. 

So that leaves us with one question.  What do we do now?

Here’s the deal. Over the next couple of weeks I want to know your feedback and stories.  I want to take those stories and begin a conversation that will hopefully lead us to an answer.  Guys?  What do you want?  How do you go about it? Ladies?  What is it in a guy that you treasure?  What do you really want from all of us awkward hairy humans?

I’m looking forward to hearing your input and also to continuing this conversation.

-JRS

The Side Nobody Knows.....

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After a few months and a little travel I am back at least for a week…  My silence however has not been due to some extended trip or even because of a hectic schedule, in fact, I usually write a lot more when things are hectic.

For those that have followed my blog for the past several years, even when it was on the other website, you know that I have a tendency to look at the world around and draw some sense of meaning from it.  Please don’t be disappointed, because in this entry I am going to shift gears.  I’m going to look inside, I want to share with you the side that nobody knows.  I know that we all have that inner monologue, kind of like a sitcom.  That inner voice that drives us and often expresses in our minds what we would never dare say out loud.  I can talk about that, but I want to go a step further.  Behind that sarcastic, skeptic, and often critical monologue is something else.  It is a side, that even as I write this, I struggle to grasp.  I have learned to ignore it, to let the monologue drown out this other side.

This year I have made my way around the region.  I made a couple of stops in Dubai, a quick day trip to Bahrain, and a week in India.  In ten more days I’m going to spend a week in Kenya.  The idea is to get away from the rush of daily life and spend a few days on safari in the jungle.  As excited as I am about seeing lions, hippos, monkeys(especially the monkeys), and what ever else might swing out of the trees, there is something more that I want.

There is this amazing feeling when you step out of an airport in a country that you’ve never visited.  You are immediately surrounded by the sounds of a different reality.  You hear languages that are unfamiliar, you see people who dress differently than you are used to and in that moment you face an enormous decision.  Do I play it safe, take on the normal mannerisms of the American tourist?  For those of you that have traveled abroad I’m sure you know what I am talking about.  It usually looks something like this, and this is a true to life example….  I had been in Mumbai for several days.  I had visited an island with a temple and carvings that were almost a thousand years old.  My hotel was directly infront of the famous Gateway to India and I spent some time at Mani Bhavan, this is where Gandhi had lived when he was in Mumbai. I had been to the local taverns, not the tourist traps, the ones that you have to know a little Hindi to order you Kingfisher and tikka.  By no means do I know Hindi..  I am slowly learning through Podcasts and friends who speak this beautiful language.  On this particular day however I was rushing to find souvenirs for my coworkers and friends. I was all over the main street in Colaba.  I walked up and down the streets bargaining with the vendors talking to different people that were either living there or visiting.  Needless to say the street was very crowded and was a buzz with visitors from all over the world.  I decided to depart from what had become my daily ritual of tikka at one particular local restaurant.  I decided to eat in a restaurant on the main street.  I am still adjusting to the categories on some menus as I travel.  You often have the options of chicken, beef or meat.  This usually leads me to the question if it’s not chicken, it’s not beef then what exactly is this mysterious other meat that has no specific name.  I ordered the lunch special and a large bottle of water.  As I was sitting I saw a group of tourists eating across from me. One man had a shirt that proclaimed George W. was his president, another had a bright orange hat with a State side college logo.  They were loud and demanding, calling the waiter over at least a dozen times.  They were making jokes about the staff assuming that no one around could speak English and if they could, would probably see the humor in what they were saying.   The look on the waiters face spoke volumes.  He was tired.  I’m sure he had worked extremely hard all day and now was dealing with the table from a nightmare.  I waited tables in college and I know that feeling all too well…  Being a counselor I did what all counselors would do in this situation (and in most situations), I sat back and observed.  At first I felt angry.  I was angry for the waiter.  I saw this kind man respond with amazing patience and even with a kind smile when complaint after complaint was shouted to him.  I remember dreading these parties when waited tables and on more than one occasion I had to put on the smile and wait patiently as people complained about things that I had no control over, it’s not fun.

After twenty minutes I heard a shout… “Hey!... Hey!... You American?” It rang out with a deep southern draw.  For a moment I thought I was somewhere in Arkansas or Louisiana.. 

I told you in the opening I was coming from a different direction in this entry so here it is.  I’m going to give you the dirt. I’m going to give you every reason to not read another entry I ever write… I’m going to let you in to the mess that is me.

I sat, still eating the plate of noodles in front of me.  My head began to rush. I had been so successful all week, just blending in with the scenery, just being.  I had hung out the previous night with a taxi driver who spoke about as much English as I spoke Hindi.   We spoke the common language of beer at a local tavern.  We sat for two hours playing an app on my Ipad just laughing in those awkward moments when we didn’t know the right words.  I wasn’t proclaiming some national pride, I was waiving the red white and blue.  I just felt comfortable being a guy in a tavern hanging out with another guy playing ludo and laughing.  I wasn’t analyzing nonverbal, my hypervigilance was at rest.    I didn’t feel a need to compensate with a flag waving session.  It was a great moment and I wanted to drink in every second of it..(pun intended)

Now, sitting in front of a group of people that were doing the very thing that I had intentionally avoided I was faced with a huge decision…  I wish I could say I had the perfect answer.. In my mind I looked at the group and my first thought was, “Bro the election was four years ago move on”.  I sat for what felt like an eternity trying to decided how do I respond in a way that shows friendliness and yet still offered me the distance to not be lumped in with these guys.  For a moment I felt like such a mess.  These seemed like nice American people.  If I had seen them at the local watering hole in Florida I’m sure it would have been a different story.  My perception of them would be completely different.  They probably wouldn’t be in that awkward state of compensating for their insecurity of being in an environment that felt totally foreign to them.  I might have been playing Ludo with one of them for goodness sake.. Who knows…

The lasting thought, the one that produced action was so off the wall and out of no where that I just went with it.  I realized, they didn’t really know if I was American that’s why they were asking, and I did spend eight years studying different languages.. I knew that Koine or Attic Greek wouldn’t do much for me, plus I wouldn’t even remember where to start, not to mention that they’re both dead languages..  There was one hope… I had spent six years studying Spanish!  Spanish… That was it… Now what do I remember from all over those declensions and conjugations.. Aaaahhhh!!! Of course!  Then without thinking the word flowed out in my best Spanish accent… “Como?”  I crumbled to my pride and went for a language that no one would know.  I’m in India, in Mumbai and I’m being yelled at by a group of Americans…  Como?  It fit and before I could really process it, it was out there.

The man looked at me with a puzzled expression.   Before he could gain a sense of composure more Spanish popped out from that vast expanse deep within the recesses of classes past.  Como?  Lo siento, no yo hablo un poquito Ingles.  How accurate my recitation was I have no idea.  The man’s expression changed from confusion to disregard.  With a brush off hand movement and a laugh he said nevermind.  Then he went on to tell his companions that you can’t find an American anywhere in this place.

I reflected on this for the rest of the day.  Was I ashamed of my own heritage?  I have always been a huge supporter of the States and was very active in the 2008 campaign.  I volunteered hours and hours at the local campaign headquarters.  I felt this deep sense of guilt.  I thought over and over at how my response to these guys was to intentionally speak yet another foreign language to these obviously confused visitors.

The more I thought about it though my ideas evolved.  I realized that it wasn’t about nationality.  Those were the details that I noticed directly seated in front of me.  What it came down to was this.  To jump in to that conversation I would have had to step out of my comfort zone.  I would have had to decide to take a position in a limited public place saying, “yep there with me”.  It was at all about nationality.  In this sense even in the States I avoid these compensating advertisements of party pride and allegiance to college football teams that play for schools that the majority of the fans never attended.  The football thing is it’s own topic entirely.. I could blog for days about that…

I have dark hair, an olive complexion and Hazel eyes.  I look every bit the Mediterranean many do in this region.  I can blend.  Just as the guys in the restaurant were compensating by proclaim their various national allegiances I was doing the same.  I was compensating, not only that but I went deeper.  I am by no means even fluent in Spanish.

See in the moment I was faced with a huge dilemma.  Do I step out of a comfort zone that allows me to just exist without the stigmas that I fear or do I risk?  This is not a question of nationality at all and as a matter of fact it is a deeper insecurity.  It’s about intimacy.  I realized that I would rather dive deeper in to my own camouflage than risk meeting people that exist outside of my comfort zone.  I see it all the time in counseling.  We all do this to some degree.  It looks different for each person but what it comes down to is this.  I want to have intimacy but I don’t want to risk.  The truth is that by it’s very nature intimacy is risk at every single level.

I realized that I have had friendships that could have been full of so much depth and joy but I responded with the emotional equivalent of Como?  Now I’m going to let you into a little secret about therapists.  For those of you that are therapists I know that this is like a magician that says look this is how you do that trick, it’s not real magic…lol  For those of you that are not therapists you might already know this.  The safest place to sit in a counselors office is the counselors chair.  We are trained to nod, encourage, to even proclaim the anthem of Jung, Erikson, or for the less vetted therapists Dr. Phil.  We observe, we wait, we long for our clients to make that connection and to experience the intimacy that they have long avoided but it doesn’t mean that we are any better at the practice of the sermon that we preach than anyone else.  So if you attend therapy, know that you are by far the bravest person in the room.

I have run in packs of therapists that in their free time stimulate themselves with amazing stories of self-discovery and at times over compensating non-verbal gestures.  These are our George W. shirts, our college mascot hats and worst of all the Halloween masks that we often wear through out the year.  Please know that I am not saying that all therapists are fake, or not real people.   Quite the opposite.  We have the training to have the most complex facades.  I can share stories all day, I can emote with the best of them.  Why?  Because at the end of the day there is a side of me that very few know, that aches to be known.  All the training, all the hours in the safe chair in my office they just allow me the position to appear like I have answers.  In theory and in therapy sure.. We are trained observers but observers by their nature are great at watching and describing in brilliant detail what they see.  I have come to the conclusion that when looking for a therapist the vetting process should consist of two questions..  As much of an antagonist as I am of CBT the criteria has nothing to do with theoretical orientation.  It comes down to two questions.

            What is your façade?

            Who knows the real you?

If the answer is anything other than honest reflection and a clear answer… Run…  No one and I will say it again no one escapes the façade on some level and if there is no outlet for the real person behind the therapist then the client becomes the outlet.  I have my façade just like everyone else but over the years I have learned that I have to have an outlet.

Many of you know that I live in Kuwait.  I have been here a little over two years my façade has been tested time and time again.  I have made more than my fair share of weepy phone calls to close friends.  Not with eloquence most of the times just weeping and venting.  My friends always prove that they love me for the weepy mess.  I think that often times they tolerate the therapist waiting for that moment to see the side that nobody knows.

-JRS

Soul Care

Psychology is so often reduced to a set of behaviors and conditioning.  It is easy to forget that even the term Psychology comes from the Greek meaning, study of the soul.  As a Therapist the challenge of finding balance between a given set of circumstances and the true wellbeing of an individual is always at steak.  It is easy to put the problem at the forefront and to offer fixes.  “So you’re unhappy?  Change your circumstance and your feelings will follow…”  The circumstance is always present and if we are talking about simply retraining responses to a set of stimuli then of course there will be a pragmatic element.  That’s a given.  In regards to true Soul Care we are often left speechless.  This goes far beyond the realm of normal cognitive restructuring.  We are asking a question central to each and every person and in my opinion this is why it is one that often discourages the care giver from truly diving into this area of Counseling.  It is no secret that many of us stumble into the career of Counseling because we have sorted backgrounds that set the stage for us to care for others in similar positions.  We can relate and in some unhealthy cases you will find counselors that will sort out their own issues in front of their clients.  This tells us that the challenge of soul care is an issue because we as therapists often don’t know how to care for our own souls.  It is easy to become hardened and jaded in this line of work.  You will sit for hours a day listening to the struggles of others, pouring your thoughts, reflections, and even your heart into sessions.  It is an amazing profession, but one that can quickly take its toll on the heart of the counselor.  The idea of giving steps and quick solutions for behavior becomes a way of containing the magnanimity of what we see each day.  If there is a problem that we can reduce to steps it feels manageable and manageable seems like a great option.  By all means we want to help our clients manage their lives and situations this almost goes unsaid, but is that all?  The art of counseling is about so much more than that.  The art of true soul care must be developed in the heart of the caregiver first before it can be offered to those around them.  This is something, for the caregiver that cannot be developed in the counseling room with a client.   It is a grace that one learns to offer one’s self over time.  With so many sorted backgrounds in our profession we are often the first to miss our own advice.  I say this not as condemnation but maybe even as an admission of my own guilt in the matter.  I find myself so often pushing to find answers, solutions for the things that torcher my soul at its depths but that is often where the journey ends.  I busy myself with paperwork, responsibilities, goals etc…  It is hard to stop my own distraction.  I have truly learned the art of avoidance, avoidance of the voice of the soul. 

In many ways we are all there.  The journey is one that started at birth and will continue til death.  Shakespeare said it this way, “to thine own self be true”.  The verbage suggests a continual process.  “Be” true.  The journey of soul care begins with learning to be.  There are times that I find myself an infant in this art.  My desire as a counselor is growing to be one that looks more like a co-journeyer on the path to soul care.  It offers hope not just to the immediate situation but also for situations to come.  In the coming months I will continue this conversation and would as always love your thoughts and feedback.

jason