Intermission, Inspiration

There will be a pause in this blog for about a week while I'll be on a mosaics mission, sans computer. Tomorrow I head to warm and sunny Florida for the Society of American Mosaic Artists annual summit in Miami. I've never been to such an event and I expect it will be populated with colorful characters and highly colorful art, all of which I hope will inspire me to keep experimenting with this fascinating and extraordinarily time intensive medium. This past week I spent many hours at my studio, absorbed and engrossed by the process of cutting and arranging tiny pieces of ceramic and glass into various patterns.

Introvert, Inside the Tent

I'm reading Gifts Differing, a book by Isabel Briggs Myers, as I continue to explore the characteristics of my personality type (du jour), INFP, and what that might mean for me. What is fascinating is the relationship among what the four letters represent. "I" indicates introversion, as opposed to extraversion, and for folks like me it is the dominant process. Introverts' way of dealing with the world means going inside. Of course, most of the rest of the world are extraverts, so introverts need to develop the auxiliary process of being in the world. As Briggs Myers puts it, the auxiliary process is second best.

Let's take a look at the "F" of INFP. "F" represents feeling as my dominant internal process. But when I deal with the outside world the auxiliary process of thinking takes over and the world only sees or hears my thoughts, not my feelings. Same with the "P", which stands for perceptive. Its auxiliary is "J", for judging, and so I live my outer life in the judging attitude.

"The result is a paradox," says the book. Well, that explains why I've felt like two people (at least) my entire life. What happens internally and what I project externally can often feel like two different, but both very real, worlds. She gives an excellent analogy to describe how the dominant and auxiliary processes work:

A good way to visualize the difference is to think of the dominant process as the General and the auxiliary process as (her) Aide. In the case of the extravert, the General is always out in the open. Other people meet her immediately and do their business directly with her. They can get the official viewpoint on anything at anytime. The Aide stands respectfully in the background or disappears inside the tent. The introvert's General is inside the tent, working on matters of top priority. The Aide is outside fending off interruptions, or, if he is inside helping the General, he comes out to see what is wanted. It is the Aide whom others meet and with whom they do their business. Only when the business is very important (or the friendship is very close) do others get in to see the General herself.

If people do not realize that there is a General in the tent who far outranks the Aide they have met, they may easily assume that the Aide is in sole charge. This is a regrettable mistake. It leads not only to an underestimation of the introvert's abilities but also to an incomplete understanding of her wishes, plans and points of view. The only source for such inside information is the General.

One thing I'd like to have happen is for my General to get out of the tent a bit more, to enjoy some sunshine and to give the overworked Aide a bit of relief.

Icing-less bun

This morning I overcame some serious inertia to go to a spinning class. It began at 9 a.m. which, for many of you, is not all that early and might even be considered decadently late for some. For me, however, it was a bit of a coup to get up, spend an hour meditating and writing, have a pre-breakfast of a grapefruit and some tea and walk to the class.

I've never "spun" before. Averse to fads and a bit leery of gyms and indoor exercise that requires equipment, I had dismissed this activity out of hand. But this studio, Spynergy, was offering a free first class and it seemed worth checking out. Three of the five students were brand new and the instructor patiently showed us the proper sitting position. We began with easy cycling as we stretched our upper bodies and breathed deeply, much like I would in a yoga class. The music du jour was R&B, and towards the end of the class we climbed out of our seats to "Ain't No Mountain High Enough", all the while maintaining the correct posture. I appreciated the instructor's attention to our alignment, essential to avoid stressing and injuring the knees. And despite our request that she not tone down the intensity of the class for the neophytes, the instructor kept the class mild enough that, alas, I didn't bust a gut or break much of a sweat. After the class ended I asked the teacher if she ever used Latin music to accompany the workout. Turned out she is a techno-pop and R&B woman but she suggested that I take a class with Anna, whom a student affectionately described as merciless. Sounds good to me!

To reward myself for my early morning adventure I stopped into a local bakery to pick up the carbohydrate, or second course, of my breakfast. I spotted what looked like fruit studded rolls on a bottom shelf and asked what they were.

"Hot cross buns," said the employee.

"Can I buy just one?" I asked, noticing that they were arranged in groups of six.

"Sure," she said, after checking with the manager. "Do you want me to ice it?"

"No, thanks," I replied. I didn't really need the extra sugar or to be reminded of the crucifixion while munching away.

The hot cross bun, which was neither hot nor crossed, was light, moist and delicious.

Intelligent Indulgence

I'm a recovering chocoholic. Once upon a time I could scarf down bars of high-fat milk chocolate that a friend would send me from Europe. Lindt bars with different fillings and Ritter Sport bars had a particularly short half life once they arrived to my home. My self-discipline disappeared as I tore into their elegant and shiny wrappers and mindlessly masticated the contents. In a bit of perverse logic, I convinced myself to quickly consume them so that they wouldn't be around to tempt me.

I wasn't always like that. As a child, I was able to stretch my stash of Halloween candy for up to six months. Back then, I knew that my parents would not budge and buy sweets the rest of the year so, like a squirrel, I'd hoard the stuff for a long New England winter. Perhaps it was this childhood "deprivation" that led me, in later life, to overindulge in sweets, particularly chocolate. And I'm sure I got hooked on the caffeine, theobromine and phenylethylamine and the other compounds found in chocolate, not to mention the sugar, which sent my energy level skyrocketing, and then plummeting. For a time I must have found this sugar-induced roller coaster ride exciting, if not addicting, but over time it was becoming increasingly difficult to manage my chocolate-enhanced moods.

Fast forward to September 2007, when I moved into my current apartment. I decided to treat this move as a fresh start, a chance to nurture some new habits and to discard some unproductive ones. I decided that I would not bring into the house any sweet edible substance that might pose the risk of overindulgence. In other words, jams, jelly and maple syrup were OK, as I consume these in moderation, but ice cream, cookies, cakes and candies were most definitely not OK. And I honored this rule for a few months until it became very cold and very dark, and I was convinced that I couldn't survive winter without the help of hot chocolate. Bringing sweetened cocoa powder into my apartment turned out to be a mistake. I'd typically drink the hot cocoa in the evening, and the caffeine and sugar would conspire to make it difficult for me to fall asleep at night. And even that little bit of sugar started to feel addictive.

And now I will get to the point of this posting. A fellow I met at my retreat told us about Dagoba chocolate, which he eats as part of his breakfast. Intrigued, I found some on sale at Whole Foods and promptly fell in love with this intelligent indulgence. Dagoba means temple of the gods, and the unfussy label, in addition to clearly stating the cacao content, subtly declares that Chocolate is sacred. Indeed. I first sampled the Xocolatl, a dark chocolate bar infused with cinnamon and enough chili to kick up some heat in my mouth. Its complex flavor demanded that I slow down to savor it. One segment of the bar was quite satisfying and I was not tempted to commit the sacrilege of carelessly consuming the whole thing at once. I also tried the Mon Cherri, which has hints of berries and vanilla. And tonight I have enjoyed some of the Lime bar, dark chocolate with lime and macadamia nuts. I get the most out of the experience if I treat the chocolate like a fine wine and take the time to appreciate its aroma before putting it in my mouth. I never knew mindfulness meditation could taste so good.

Idiazabel

With my refridgerator empty save for a bit of mayonnaise, aoili mustard, a few eggs, some maple syrup, a loaf of whole wheat bread and one container each of milk and cottage cheese, it was time to replenish. Wishing to have an adventure rather than simply doing a chore, I headed over to Russo's, a food market not far from where I live. I did not bring a list but decided to follow my intuition and buy what looked interesting, colorful or otherwise appealing and figure out what to do with it all later.

I had been to Russo's years ago, before it had been renovated and expanded and I wasn't quite sure what to expect. All the better to make this expedition exciting. I found a shopping cart and entered the building. The first thing that caught my eye was a heaping pile of inaptly named red cabbages, which actually are purple. I simply had to add this amazing color to my cart. Next I encountered a gigantic carrot. Impressed by its size, I tossed it in next to the cabbage. This carrot turned out to weigh nearly a pound. Moving down the aisle I scooped up some red potatoes and an acorn squash with a dark green shell. A handful of yellow onions balanced the colors a bit. Turning the corner I saw basket after basket of shimmering apples, pears, oranges and grapefruits! I wanted them all, except these were sold by the basket. Moving along into the main building I was confronted by even more fresh produce and other edible goodies.

Fresh dates! It had been awhile since I had eaten one, or been with one. I plucked a package of them and then continued to peruse the fresh fruits. The apple section alone was inspiring. I couldn't resist such pretty pommes, especially with names like Jazz, Pink Lady and Cameo. And then there were pears! Not just any old pears, but pale yellow Chinese Ya pears, whose name reminded me of the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, and so I had to add some of these individually wrapped beauties to my cart. And shortly thereafter is when I looked up and saw him, a cute guy I had briefly dated over the summer. I called out his name and he turned around. But it turned out it wasn't him, but his twin brother, who is used to answering to both names. I'm glad I met him, because I had seen the twin once before at a Whole Foods and had been too shy to ask him if, indeed, he was this person's twin. Now I can shop angst-free.

Relieved, I proceeded to the end of this particular aisle and into a smaller room filled with all kinds of vegetables, including carnival cauliflower. It is orange. A must have, even though I have no idea what gives it that distinctive color. Exiting the smaller room I spotted some artichokes and imagined dipping their leaves in my aoili mustard. Mmm. Passing some refridgerated cheeses I was tempted by goat cheese and smoked maple cheddar. Moving along into Russo's largest space I came face to face with the aptly named Ugli fruit, which looked liked a citrus gang leader with its tough, pockmarked greenish-yellowish surface. The store had sliced one in half so one could see that its interior, resembling an orange, was much less menacing. I tried to apply my fruit selection intuition to this beast even though I had no way of knowing which were riper than others. I chose one with a more yellow-orange skin. And then I spied my dear old friends, Thai bananas, at the end of this same aisle. Thai bananas are tiny, barely two-bites of fruit are protected by the peels. Fun to look at and eat, I plucked a small bunch out of the bin.

Wheeling around the corner I saw even more cheese and the deli section. And that is where I met Idiazabel. Even if it turns out I don't like this particular sheep's milk cheese from Spain, I do love the name and may have to change mine to it. Idiazabel's neighbor was Boerenkaas, a raw milk gouda from Holland. Not wishing for Idiazabel to be lonely in my fridge and to remind me of my sola cycling trip from Amsterdam to another famous cheese producer, Edam, I added a small wedge of the Boerenkaas to my cart.

I perused the pastry section but decided to pass. Perhaps I'll sample it on another trip. I stopped at the deli counter for a sandwich - a "small" sub was just $3.98 and it turned out to be quite large. A container of half sour pickles, some stem tomatoes, a head of garlic, a quartet of yams, a package of baby romaine two cukes and a singularly sumptious yellow pepper rounded out my purchases.

The total came to less than $60. I am now tempted to return, shopping list in hand, to find ingredients to complement the colorful and exotic foods from today's highly enjoyable but somewhat impractical adventure.

Intimidating

Someone I know, an Ivy-league educated and published scholar, was recently denied tenure at a prestigious liberal arts college because it was reported that the students found this person to be "intimidating". This word conjures a person of large physical stature whose manner of speaking or behavior frightens people, an intellectual bully who shames students, grandstands and routinely flunks a good portion of the class. And I can imagine that an exclusive college, which prides itself on a low student: teacher ratio, would not want to have such intimidating bullies scaring the pants off many students in, say, a large survey class that is required for graduation.

But this person teaches relatively small classes in rather esoteric subjects and stands just over five feet tall. And for years this person has looked young enough to frequently be confused for a student.

Intimidating?

No.

Intellectually rigorous, expecting a great deal from students, unwilling to lower academic standards?

Yes.

So, why have these characteristics, usually lauded in elite academic institutions, been conflated with intimidating? Possibly because this person is female and students expected or wanted her to nurture their emotions as well as their scholarly ambitions. It is difficult to imagine an equally qualified male tenure candidate being turned down because he was strict yet fair about assignments and deadlines and held students to high standards.

While I don't and can't know the whole story, apparently enough people on this campus were stunned by the tenure denial and the foul odor of gender bias to protest the decision. The whole episode is yet another sad reminder that in our world being a woman of substance is not always enough. Softness is required, too.

Interrupt Not

Interrupt Not. That is the basic message of an anonymous plea called "Listen", which has shown up in my life twice in the last few weeks. I received a copy at the end of the Hoffman retreat and again last night, at the first meeting of a group that explores a spiritual path to creativity via exercises in the book The Artist's Way. For much of my life I've prided myself on being a good listener, even though - as I now realize - I've often listened with an agenda or with a need to then be able to say something clever or wise to the person who was speaking. That isn't necessarily listening. I've also been guilty of interrupting people; often my comments are motivated by my own need to be heard. And as someone who has often had trouble expressing herself verbally, I've often been interrupted by supposedly well-meaning family members and friends who think I have finished speaking because, simply, I have stopped to take a breath or choose a word or because they simply can't wait another minute to impart wisdom or to chime in with a humorous aside.

It was incredibly refreshing and empowering yesterday evening to be given 10 whole uninterrupted minutes in which to explain to the group why I had signed up for the workshop. Knowing that no one would cut me off, interject a cute comment or otherwise divert the attention to themselves, I was able to say things that I had never said aloud before. To protect my own confidentiality, I will not divulge those remarks here. When the 10 minutes were up, I was asked if I wanted to receive feedback, or not. I said yes. Again, it was empowering to be given that choice. And the interesting thing about allowing someone to speak for 10 (or 15 or 5) minutes without inserting one's two cents is that, chances are, by they time the speaker is done, that previously irresistible urge to give a certain bit of feedback will have dissipated, allowing the listener to offer a deeper level of response.

I invite anyone - particularly those who have felt that they are not truly being heard - to ask their spouse, partner, siblings and friends to try this experiment with them. Set a timer for 10 minutes, allowing one person to speak without interruption for that time. Then the listener has 2 minutes to reflect back what s/he heard, without offering advice or reassurance. It is also refreshing to be a listener, knowing that one is not expected to jump in and save the other person. This kind of listening can also be done by phone. I feel fortunate that I have a reflective listening "buddy" with whom I speak each week on the telephone. We each get 15 minutes to speak and the other person periodically reflects back what has been said, without offering commentary of any kind. This arrangement is organized and facilitated by the Zen Monastery Peace Center in California, if anyone else would like to look into it.

The text of "Listen" follows - author is Anonymous.

When I ask you to listen to me and you start giving me advice, you have not done what I asked.

When I ask you to listen to me and you begin to tell me why I should not feel that way, you are trampling on my feelngs.

When I ask you to listen to me and you feel you have to do something to solve my problem, you have failed me.

Listen! All I ask is that you listen - not talk, or do. Just hear me.

Advice is cheap; a buck will get you Dear Abby and Dr. Joyce Brothers in the same paper.

I can do for myself; I'm not helpless - I may be discouraged and faltering, but not helpless.

When you do something for me that I can and need to do for myself, you contribute to my fear and inadequacy, but......

When you accept as a simple fact that I do feel what I feel, no matter how irrational it appears, then I can quite trying to convince you, and get about the business of understanding what's behind this feeling. When that's clear, the answers are obvious and I don't need advice. "Irrational" feelings make more sense when we understand what's behind them.

Perhaps that's why prayer works, sometimes, for some people - because God is mute and S/He doesn't give advice or try to fix us. God just listens and lets us work it out for ourselves.

So please listen and just hear me. And then, if you want to talk, wait a minute for your turn, and I'll listen to you.

INFP

What do Mary, Mother of Jesus, and I have in common?

Apparently we are both INFPs, one of the 16 personality types according to the Myers-Briggs personality preference indicator. So, what does INFP mean? "I" stands for introverted, "N" stands for intuitive, "F" stands for feeling, "P" stands for perceiving. Each of the four letters represents a component of psychological type as determined by Carl Jung. As for mine and the Virgin Mary's type, INFP describes a person who - at their best - is sensitive, concerned and caring; idealistic and loyal to their ideas; curious and creative; have long-range vision. At worst, or if not properly supported and appreciated, INFPs withdraw from people and situations, have difficulty expressing themselves verbally, become easily discouraged, and reject logical reasoning.

Bingo!

The reason I took this personality test in the first place is that I'm enrolled in a career exploration workshop and in our last class we discussed Myers Briggs types in some detail. The result is a useful piece of information to include when mulling over one's work life and the kinds of circumstances and occupations that will be conducive to satisfaction and happiness.

Interestingly, I had scored differently the last time I took this test, about 12 years ago. Then I turned out to be an INTJ, someone with a clearer preference for thinking over feeling and judging over perceiving (what "judging" means in Myers-Briggs terminology is a preference for structure and planning). That just shows how years of yoga practice, spiritual re-education and plunging into a creative line of work can transform a "TJ" into an "FP", while leaving my "IN" intact; for the sake of accuracy, I must admit that my scores for I and N were quite strong, while my tendency towards F and P were less conclusive. And it is possible that the last time I took the test I answered the questions inaccurately, responding aspirationally (how I wanted to be and/or how I thought I should be) rather than how I actually was. It's also possible that I'm a bit of a flip-flopper. In certain group work situations, I can quickly morph into an INTJ if I sense (intuitively, of course!) that there is a need for a decision maker or someone to be in charge. I can play that part, but I don't necessarily enjoy being in that role. Indeed, when I read a bit more about how personality type manifests in the workplace it became clear that, on the job, I am an INTJ.

And while I normally hate being put into a box and reject almost any categorization of my "type", the woman leading my career workshop told us that INFPs are rare indeed, occurring in about 1% of the US population. That made me feel special again, until I realized that I am just one in a 100, not one in a million. Then she pointed out that INFPs, of the 16 types, have the hardest time finding satisfaction in or fitting into the contemporary American workplace. Many of them just quit. It felt validating to have my own highly disappointing and discouraging corporate experiences corroborated by the research, although then I started to worry that I might never be able to tolerate a job that actually offered benefits and a 401(k) plan. My detour into anxiety and self-pity abruptly ended when I Googled "INFP" and discovered that, according to Wikipedia, I am in pretty amazing company. In addition to Jesus' Mother, other INFPs include Homer, Shakespeare, Princess Diana and Mister Rogers.

Incognito

Purim is around the corner. The protagonist of this holiday is Esther who, via a nationwide search for beautiful women, becomes the wife of Persian King Ahasuerus but conceals her identity as a Jew. Later, when the Jews are threatened by Haman, Esther risks her life by asking the king to save her people (click here for the whole megillah). Today we celebrate Purim by dressing in costume, wearing masks, and making a ton of noise to drown out the name of Haman when the story is read aloud in synagogue. And of course we eat.

On Sunday, my Rosh Chodesh group gathered to celebrate the month of Adar, in which Purim falls. In addition to nourishing ourselves with an extraordinary array of snacks we contemplated the masks that we wear on a regular basis, and why. These are masks of false cheer or bravado, masks of authority, masks of indifference. Often we aren't even aware that we have a mask on, so quickly do the muscles in our face shift into a certain position. To a certain degree, all of us walk around incognito part of the time, disguising our true feelings and authentic natures so as to protect ourselves from judgment, ridicule or the demands of others.

To emphasize the point, we made masks of each other's faces by applying strips of plaster soaked in water to a partner's vaseline-coated visage. Lying on the floor as my partner built my mask, the beginning of the process felt as relaxing as a spa treatment - the wet bands of plaster were soothing on my skin, there was music and conversation nearby. But as my partner built the layers and the plaster began to harden, it was if the spa had morphed into an ICU and I was the subject of an emergency medical procedure. Increasingly I felt trapped and stifled. While I could still breathe, I could no longer open my mouth to speak, and my face felt like it was immobilized beneath the increasingly firm plaster shell. When it was dry enough to be removed, it felt like a mini-liberation, an echo of the more profound unmasking of myself that I experienced at the Hoffman Institute.

Although most of our daily social masks don't leave us feeling as if we are trapped under plaster, some people who have maintained a particular mask for years have difficulty opening their mouths wide or registering spontaneous emotion on their face. After our masks had dried, we sat in a circle and each of us had a chance to tell the other women something about ourselves that most people don't know, or a reason we hide behind masks in the first place. Some of the responses were surprising. It was an excellent reminder for me to be more conscious of the masks I wear, to remember to take them off from time to time and to realize that, much of the time, other people are wearing them, too.

Inward Bound

It's been awhile since my last post. Thanks to those of you who are still with me, still checking this blog for signs of life. Part of the time I was in California, at a retreat designed to help people reconnect with themselves. And before that I was fighting a cold and a fever, which almost made me consider cancelling my trip. And after the retreat I have been letting my experience sink in, pondering how to write about it. I felt that I had to address it first before scribing about other things.

Inward Bound is the best way for me to characterize this retreat, called the Hoffman Process and organized by the Hoffman Institute. In my class were 39 other people, from across the country and the world, of all shapes, sizes and hairstyles, with a variety personalities that defied Myers Briggs categorization, ranging in age from 20s to early 60s. What we shared was a common determination to free ourselves from, in many cases, lifetimes of emotional pain and suffering that was interfering with the quality of our lives. Many of us were veterans of different therapies and therapists, myriad medications and spiritual practices, as well as practitioners of strict diets and exercise regimes to render medication unnecessary. The collective healing expertise of our group was impressive, even if - as our presence at Hoffman indicated - these complex formulae and heartfelt efforts have not consistently eased our distress. And most of us had learned about the Hoffman Process from other people who had done it and who had experienced meaningful if not lasting results, many of which have been documented in research studies. It was the combination of scientific proof, and the fact that the person who referred me is a Harvard educated CEO, that persuaded my highly skeptical intellect to invest time and a not trivial amount of money in this experience. At the same time, my ego was convinced that it was so special that the process wouldn't work on me, and so there I was, deeply wanting to put an end to my existential and emotional angst yet concerned that I would simply get in my own way, that I would be one of the people for whom this didn't "work".

As we were told early on in the retreat, there is no way to "fail" the Process. True enough. Simply by showing up one has demonstrated a commitment to heal. But many of us were hoping and wanting to achieve an enormous transformation. Fast. And forever.

Although we didn't scale sheer walls, navigate a rope course or leap blindfolded off of a platform into a safety net of interlinking outstretched arms, the process was probably more intense than what I imagine an Outward Bound course would be like. On several days we did exert our bodies to an exhilaratingly and sometimes painfully sweaty degree, stretching ourselves beyond previously established limits, but we did this indoors, not outside. And the exertion was designed to physically, and ultimately mentally, disconnect ourselves from many of the unproductive or negative thoughts and behaviors that we had picked up when we were children and have clung to us like life-force sucking leeches ever since. Hoffman refers to these as "patterns". Sometimes I've thought of them as programming, or conditioning. Whatever metaphor works is the one to use. Disassociating from the patterns was actually liberating and fun, and most of us looked markedly stronger and more powerful after that emotional and highly physical exercise than we had just a few hours before. In fact, a few of us were ready to pack our bags and go home at that point, having accomplished what we thought we had come for: a psychic purging of negative and self-defeating inner voices, voices that had once protected us but no longer serve us.

But we were only on day three of an eight-day retreat. There was more to come, said the teachers, a group of people of a variety of backgrounds who are trained specifically to deliver this process. I preferred to think of them as guides or shepherds, steering our group of sometimes unruly and resistant sheep from one session or activity to another and keeping track of the handful of sheep who'd inevitably wander off, either mentally or physically. Come to think of it, we were more like cats than sheep. Our large class was divided into smaller groups of eight, which periodically met for more intimate processing and discussion, and each group had its own catherd (if it isn't already a word, it is now).

One reason I had a hard time thinking of the facilitators as teachers is that much of the material they presented was not completely new to me, and sometimes I experienced their delivery as uninspired. Having attended retreats, personal growth seminars and dozens of yoga classes, many of them led by emotionally open and enthusiastic people who willingly shared elements of their own spiritual journeys, I was occasionally disappointed by what and how the person at the front of the room was trying to "teach" us. And at times my intellect would protest, "What are you doing here? You know this stuff already. What a waste of money!"

But then it occurred to me that my broad exposure to all kinds of healing modalities and spiritual writings meant that maybe I was a personal growth junkie who could talk the talk, perhaps even more effectively than these teachers, but, let's face it, still wasn't able to walk the walk. My resistance, thicker than a coconut shell and spikier than a porcupine, had gotten in the way of translating intellectual understanding of spirituality and healing into new ways of being and behaving. And at the times that my intellect was trying to invalidate what it was hearing, I reminded myself that I came for the group energy, which I believed I needed to complete some of the healing work I had started in individual therapy, and because the time had come to just do it. I decided I was not going to let my reactions to the teachers get in the way.

The only way out is through.

I had found that it was quite difficult for me to go through some of the less pleasant emotions in a 50-minute hour. It often would take me until minute 40 to soften and relax enough to let my feelings out. And by then it would be too late, because my ego - eager to protect my appearance at all costs - didn't want me to leave the therapist's office while I was a blubbering, vulnerable mess. And if I did manage to release some deep emotion, it was very difficult for me to sustain a more open and yielding emotional quality between sessions. I'd return the following week, feeling as if not much had happened. And so on. I would stay stuck, out of a powerfully toxic combination of stubbornness and fear, both unable and at times unwilling to free myself from some rather heavy baggage.

The Hoffman Process and the group helped me through, and I was able to tap into, feel and release grief that I didn't even know I was carrying with me as well as reach deeper levels of some more familiar sorrows. How did this happen? The Process is neither magical nor manipulative, but it does creatively utilize and sequence some time-tested tools - guided visualization, meditation, expressive writing, music and physical movement - to allow suppressed feelings to surface and be released, to give voice to parts of ourselves that have been shut down for decades. Equally important is that each person came to this retreat with a strong intention and motivation to allow this work to happen. And the setting - a resort in Napa Valley with gourmet catered meals from a Bay Area restaurant - nourished our spirits and bodies. The food in particular gave me something to look forward to each day after a few hours of riding an emotional roller coaster or two; between my cold and the tears, I probably consumed a full box of tissues each day.

The release of so much negative emotion and energy was palpable, with many people literally blooming, growing taller and sparkling before our eyes. And because each of us was feeling comfortable enough with ourselves to remove our social masks, we could now finally see each other as individual people, rather than as the projections of our fears, hopes and judgments. Many people told me to look in the mirror. I did. I recognized myself again, after years of seeing the reflection of a stranger.