Reflections From My True Self

Remembering Who I Really Am


My Inner Saboteur

This is what I do when the saboteur grabs hold of me and I lose myself in self-doubt: I wrap myself in a thick quilt of silence and walk backward as far as I can until I find a big, dark shadow to stand in, a large, tall tree to hide behind, and I sit there, far from anyone, and listen to the volume rising on the voice within me telling me I am not enough.

It would take so little to keep me from going there, so little to mute the voice of my saboteur. All I need is the proof that I have done something meaningful, or have someone look me in the eye and tell me, with clear conviction, that there is no means to measure the enormity of my worth.

But by the time I need it, I don’t allow myself to seek this proof, I am too far gone to look anyone in the eye. Shame keeps my sight locked on the ground.

And then I inhabit the shadow, and waste away my gifts, until a miracle, a sliver of sunlight, hits me and gives me just enough strength to remember I have a tool box. And I reach in with my last ounce of strength and have to pull myself along, out of the darkness, inch by inch, using every last resource, every last tool to save myself from my own self-doubts.

And I know this is exactly what happens for my clients, although they may visualize the process differently: they retreat into themselves, where the voice of self-judgment is loudest, and spiral into depression and paralysis.

But we don’t have to do that! And, just because I have the tools doesn’t mean I should create the conditions in which I need them. I can choose another way. I can recognize the voice of my saboteur, and lower the volume on it immediately! I can take the wisdom from its message, without having to accept the self-hatred and vitriol as well. And I also teach my clients how to do that, because none of us has to live in the shadow.

A thick tree trunk creates a shadow to hide behind

We take to the shadows, with the saboteur at full volume, until sunlight hits.
Photo Credit: Andreas Krappweis


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The Soul Calling

As we go about our lives fulfilling the roles that we have chosen to take on, that we may have inherited from the people around us, we are sometime interrupted.  Sometimes the interruption comes through something big, often painful or frightening, something that shakes up our life. And sometimes, the interruption is only a niggling sense, a feeling, an unfathomable itch that gives us no peace.

It is our Soul, calling us back to our essence. It calls us to recognize that which would emerge into the world through us. It calls us to own the fullness of who we are in spite of the apparent contradictions found in that very fullness. It calls us to remember we are more than we seem, more than our bodies and our minds.

Sometimes that calling is present to us for a long time, we keep going as if we didn’t know it is there. But we intuit the potency of it, we are aware that it will not abate, will not release us to continue as we were. Yet, the force of  habit, the familiarity of living and doing as we always have, the approval of our family and peers for continuing as we were, and, especially, the overwhelming power that the fear of change grips us with, all conspire to keep us from heeding that call.

We have not been taught to honor our Soul, not been taught to listen for it. Our world is not built to support this kind of growth, this kind of stretching that feels like taking so great a risk.  Our lives are built around keeping on keeping on.

We all need to be reminded of the great Wisdom of Life, which we are part of, and, more so, of the Wisdom we already hold. We all need a mirror that catches our Light and reflects it back to us, so that our physical eyes can behold it.  We all need someone who has faith in us when we doubt ourselves; who asks what we would gain, when we ask what we would lose; who recognizes our fortitude when we feel weakness; who speaks back to us our own words of Knowing, which we have already forgotten.

We all need support and companionship on our journey to respond to our Soul.

I am that, I am a spiritual companion. I hold up the mirror for you to see yourself in your power and your potential, walking your own path, guided by your Soul’s compass, through the spaciousness of your own making. This is what my Soul calls me to.

A mirror that reflects our Light Photo Credit: Andrea Friedmann©

A mirror that reflects our Light
Photo Credit: Andrea Friedmann©


For the Sake of Others

It is my good fortune to be called to help others find stillness within them. It is my good fortune to be called to observe in silence, without judgment. It is my good fortune that, in the course of my work, I am required to do what really matters, the only thing that feels sane.

If not for my work, for the souls whose unfolding I am called to witness and assist, then I, too, would be trapped in the frenzy, illusions of urgency and pressure clouding my vision. Surely I would feel that I could not reconfigure my priorities, believe that there is no space for stillness, no time for quiet. I would not stop long enough for my feet to feel the earth. Always, I would be reaching, grasping what is beyond my touch, unaware that it could come with ease if I would only make space for it.

But it is my good fortune to be called to stillness and quiet. It is my good fortune to repeat, again and again, apparently for the benefit of others, but in truth, for the benefit of my Self, that life is so short, we must move very slowly.

It is my good fortune that, for the sake of others, I cannot forget.

©Miriam Wickett at

©Miriam Wickett at

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I am an open wound, rubbed raw. I cannot pull my thoughts from the flaming pain. The whole of me is present only to this affliction, in this broken, bleeding moment. There can be nothing beyond, no before, no transcendence.

And yet, when it is my sister who is seized in pain, how easily I see the landscape of her path, the places she has yet to reach, where she can wash out the cuts, where she will find comfrey to soothe the lacerations, the places she will reach when the scars have become skin, thickened and rough.

How surely I know that she has the capacity to reach into her depths and find aspects of herself she doesn’t yet know, strengths and wisdom to drag her off the ground, prop her up until she can feel her feet. What certainty I have that she can heal, even if she never resumes her former stance, if she never walks in her familiar gait. I know she can be whole.

I comfort myself now, my own heart’s arms around me, my own voice whispering soothing sounds in my own ear.

I comfort myself now with the  knowledge that, if wholeness and healing can be true for my sister, then I can claim them also for myself.

©finchj at


One View

My precious daughter tells me she feels slighted by some children at school. It’s about an item of clothing, a jacket she’d been so thrilled to find, when we got it, because it had all the important elements: it was fuzzy and warm on the inside (not just for show), it had an abundance of sparkles, and, best of all, it had a gorgeous, large-eyed cat on the front. It was perfect for her, as if it had been made to order. And now, she says she doesn’t want to wear it to school again.

My precious daughter feels slighted… and I feel my heart breaking. The day has come. I can’t protect her from the random cruelties of the world that seeks to bend her by guile or by force, to shape her to its will. She has entered an arena that requires steadfastness and fortitude even when she is tired and feels weak. And I am suddenly exhausted, and weepy.

That may be all true, I can’t be sure. But I do know this: it is my experience framing this landscape, my view describing what is in it. It is my version of this story, of her story.

And in my attachment to that view, to my version, I am blind to so many other details. I am blind to my daughter’s innate power, to that force I have sometimes, in frustration, called obstinacy. I blind myself to her wisdom, her ability to pull far back when she is overwhelmed and then creep slowly up to the edge when she has gathered her resources. My attachment could cause me to forget that she has many places, many people, to offer her safety, to reflect her wholeness back to her, without judgments. I would forget that she is not a figure in the landscape, static, finished.

If I let go of my attachment, of my story, I am aware that this is a small opportunity to grow large, for her, my precious daughter, and also for me.

©Scott Liddell



The vine in the garden

pushes its way

up the trellis


Stretches past it,

reaching for



to grow further.

It finds



New tendril








further still,



each other.

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Caught by a wave

I have a memory of myself once, as a small child, at the seashore, walking into the sea, playing there, relishing the cool water that came up on the sand and receded, moving into it with enthusiasm. I remember suddenly being caught— a wave that gripped me, flung me up, pushed me down, whirled me.

I spluttered, coughed, desperate for clear air. I didn’t know which way was up. I could feel panic closing my throat, my eyes, blinded. I struggled, kicked, flailed.

Unexpectedly my head bumped the sandy ocean floor.

I whirled again.

And then my head broke through the surface of the water, into the freedom of breathing. I filled my lungs.

It is good to remember this. For today I am caught by the wave, rolling. I don’t know which way is up, which way is down.

But I do know this: either my head will hit the sand or it will break the surface of the water. Either way, I will know which way is up.