The following blog entry is a collection of journal entries in response to the Mountain Ancestors Grove’s 2018 Twelve Nights of Solstice program exploring the Hero’s Journey. These short presentations and guided meditations will each be made available for replay at any time. 

TWELVE STAGES OF THE HERO’S JOURNEY: ONE MAGPIE’S TRAVELOGUE
by J. Webster, Inaugural Chief-of-the-Folk

More so than parts 1 and 2, these entries rely heavily on the context of the guided meditations provided on theMountain Ancestors Grove Facebook page. The writer strongly encourages you to watch or read these meditations before reading these entries.

PART 4: NIGHTS 10-12​

NIGHT 10: THE ROAD BACK

In late high school, when I was writing daily and fanatically, I remember telling a good friend about a story idea I had, one that, like most of my favorites, involved a very literal “Special World.” This friend frowned a little, and said she had a very important question for me, one she hoped I wouldn’t take personally: “Do you actually believe in alternate realities?” 

I believe she meant well, but it was an uncomfortable moment. She didn’t quite hit the nail on the head, but she had brushed against a… maybe not a belief, but a value system? A perspective? And when she did, something in her tone made me feel like she had caught on to some shameful secret I didn’t even know I had.  I denied it immediately, brushing it off by explaining that it was just an easy story to tell. But the question stuck with me: Why did these stories about alternate realities, about what Campbell would call “special worlds,” so resonate with me? And why hadn’t I grown out of it yet, and I was clearly expected to do?

In adolescence, my favorite stories were always those that tied my own mundane world to another world in very literal ways: The Neverending Story, the Narnia books, K. .A. Applegate’s Everworld series, Gaiman’s Neverwhere, etc.  I was utterly captivated by the idea that my life could be connected with some vast secret, some setting where life was utterly different, and where important battles or explorations could play out in a way that might actually affect my own life. Like many children, I imagined myself in these worlds, playing out scenarios and daydreaming about the roles I could play in these stories. If felt good to imagine myself as the hero in these worlds, but it also felt…meaningful. It almost felt like practice, as if I could somehow hone my own character by vividly picturing who I wanted to be in these scenarios and deciding how I would react when faced with difficult decisions. Could I be the person with the integrity to stand up against “evil?” The person brave enough for self-sacrifice? The person smart enough to know what to do? These seemed like important questions, and stories that allowed me to imagine myself literally entering the plot felt like the right stories to test these questions.

The special world in the story I wanted to write, the idea that so concerned my friend, was one build of all the dreams, fantasies, and narratives of the characters who would be drawn into that world. I liked the idea of a set of characters having to find their way through the labyrinth of their collective psyches. Like all of the other examples of “Special Worlds” I had read, I liked to imagine how I would handle it myself. 

And this is why this little about of Young Jane is relevant today: At the time, I truly believed that, given the chance to experience such a world, I would choose not to return to the Ordinary World. What would that Special World be like if my mind were the only one shaping it, and what in the real world, I wondered, could compete with the richness, the meaning, and the liberty offered by the chance to explore a world like that? I knew, with the certainty that only a teenager can muster, that given the opportunity to abandon my mundane life to live in that “Special World,” I would never go home. I promised myself I would never go home.

Yet here I am… going home. In a number of ways. Not only during this internal “hero’s journey,” but in my external life. And that’s ok. A lot of growth and transformation can happen in the special spaces that are in some way separate from our ordinary lives, but the longer you stay, and particularly if you stay after that space has changed you in all the ways it can…then maybe any place can become an Ordinary World. The colors will drain, the facets of wonder will crumble, and all of its mysteries reveal themselves as mundane.  I have learned the importance of letting go of these special spaces when they lose the newness that made them special, of letting the memories of my experiences remain, but still moving on. 

I have also learned, at last, to love my Ordinary World. On closer examination, my Ordinary World has all the richness and meaning I always wanted, all the opportunities to practice Integrity and Courage, to solve complex problems, and to hone my character that I could want. I even have my very own paladin with whom I share my life.  I have, at last, a life that I would want to return to from a “Special World.”

I know, I know, “attachment is the root of all suffering” and all that.  Still…what a beautiful thing it is to have a life I would not lightly choose to trade for a fairytale.  

NIGHT 11: RESURRECTION

This chapter of our journey brought me face-to-face with a very specific memory, a memory of a time when someone made me believe that what I thought were pearls were only pebbles. A time I was told “No, this treasure that you think you have is neither treasure nor yours. Throw it away.” I thought this person was someone to learn from, someone to emulate. Maybe even a “mentor.” I respected them, and wanted to be worthy of their respect. So I believed them, and that belief changed me. Diminished me. Robbed me. 

It was not their fault. They meant well. Their values were just different from mine, and that’s ok. Multiplicity of truth and all that—they were permitted their own values, and those values were as legitimate and valid as my own. But their values were not my values, and even though I knew what I wanted and needed in my life better that they did, I tried to follow someone else’s values, someone else’s truth. 

I know that I am being vague and melodramatic, but it’s the only way I know how to communicate to you, Dear Reader, what I experienced in this meditation without revealing more than I’d like. I want you to have context when I tell you that this false “mentor,” this person who wanted me to abandon the treasure I am trying to bring back into my life… this is the figure who appeared to me as my Threshold Guardian. Theirs was the face that told me, in so many ways, that I could not leave the Special World with my reward: because it was worthless, because it was dangerous, because it was too heavy for me to carry. Reason after reason for me to drop it, leave it, crush it under my heel on the way out. 

Their eyes glinted with the dragon’s fire, and I understood that, just like the dragon, they did not act with malice. They were only acting in accordance with their nature, in accordance with their values. And my values are different. My values are all my own. And my values are reason enough to stand before this obstacle, and say “No.”

I was glad our meditation did not guide us to fight this beast. There would have been no winning against my Threshold Guardian, only clashing wills and mutual wounds. No…it was a far better choice to leave them to their fuming objections and judgment, leave them to their impotent flames, and to merely leave with my prize.  

I have a beautiful home, a beautiful life, and a token to bring home from my adventure.  Why would I waste any more time or energy fighting an unwinnable battle I walked away from a long time ago? Time to move on…

NIGHT 12: RETURN WITH ELIXIR 

Our last meditation had us, like Samwise, returning to our “garden.” This image resonated deeply with me, since I like using a garden as a metaphor for the life I have built.  

Life is a journey, and I remember many obstacle that I have crossed on my path:  the craggy mountains that tore the soles of my feet, the raging rivers whose chill I sometimes still feel in my marrow.  After my travels and obstacles, I feel as though I finally found a place to clear a patch in the wilderness, to build a home and plant a garden.  The walls started as a crooked frame, and the plants began as only fragile tendrils, but I did not give up. I worked. I repaired.  I tended. And as my home grew sturdy and my garden vibrant and alive, so did I.

Sometimes I feel small, tired, and scared. The prospect of starting again, at times, overwhelms me. But I have strong roots, well-practiced in surviving dark winters and wind-swept, stone-faced slopes. My roots have found rich soil and thrived, and thick and strong, they can press through vast weights of earth, crushing stone and seeking deep waters. I am no ornamental potted-pet, no struggling weed, no stunted brittle thing that must hide its flowing sap and soft buds from the elements. I can do this. I can accept and grow from what comes next in my life. 

Sometimes you have to build a house to have a home. I have done that work. I can do it again. 

The following blog entry is a collection of journal entries in response to the Mountain Ancestors Grove’s 2018 Twelve Nights of Solstice program exploring the Hero’s Journey. These short presentations and guided meditations will each be made available for replay at any time. 

TWELVE STAGES OF THE HERO’S JOURNEY: ONE MAGPIE’S TRAVELOGUE
by J. Webster, Inaugural Chief-of-the-Folk

More so than parts 1 and 2, these entries rely heavily on the context of the guided meditations provided on the Mountain Ancestors Grove Facebook page. The writer strongly encourages you to watch or read these meditations before reading these entries.

PART 3: NIGHTS 7-9

NIGHT 7: APPROACH

There is a scene in my favorite movie, the NeverEnding Story, where the characters discuss a terrible trial the hero must pass in his quest: a magic mirror that will show him his true self. When the hero’s companion mutters “That’s won’t be too hard,” another character responds, “Oh, that's what everyone thinks! But kind people find out that they are cruel! Brave men discover that they are really cowards! Confronted by their true selves, most men run away, screaming!”

I have faced this mirror before in my life. I expect to face it many more times. I earnestly hope that each time I face this mirror, I will be rewarded with the difficult truths about myself that I may not be facing properly, the discipline to face my Shadows, and the vision and wisdom to see my best and truest potential self 

Today, I see…

I have promised honesty to myself, but there are parts of myself and my Shadows that I hesitate to expose to an anonymous online community. I offer you my honesty, Dear Reader, but I am not sure that entitles you to full disclosure of all my thoughts on these meditations. 

I will say this: I have met many of my Shadows. Many of them have names, names that are an intimate part of my religious practice, and I hesitate to subject my practice to your uninformed scrutiny, to your possible ridicule. Is that hesitation the voice of the Shadow in me that wants to preserve your good opinion, that wants you to think me wise and reasonable? Or is that just good judgment and discretion? I admit that I am not sure… For today, I will try to walk that line carefully, but I will need to address that question more fully for myself in the future. 

Today, I see my Shadows of fear. I see the part of me that wants certainty, wants a “Plan,” because maybe disaster will be less painful if only we put in the effort ahead of time to prepare. I see her grasping, clawing hands, straining to hold on to some illusion of control or certainty. She clings to smoke and calls it stone, and shrieks in pain as it evaporates from her grasp. She… she is in such pain, and she seeks to make it mine. She seeks reinforcements by trying to share her pain and her fear, hoping that four terrified grasping hands can wrest back the control that two hands cannot find. She claws as my back, crying out for my attention. I name her, and she fades.

I see my doubts. My masochistic epistemologist, who argues that whatever belief hurts me the most must be true, and that I would be a coward to ignore her accusations. She cites all my mistakes and failures as precedent, cherry picking support for her claim that I cannot achieve the goals I consider setting. “You are too shy, too quiet,” she says when I ask about what leadership and service roles I may explore in Guam. “You have failed for so long, you window has closed,” she says when I ask about writing full time or seeking a clerkship. “You are too old to begin, your body has rotted in front of a desk for too long,” she says when I think about setting competitive physical fitness goals for Guam. On and on… she has so much to say. But I name her, and she fades.

As these Shadows fade, I see the face of my vanity glimmer briefly in the dark. She wants her turn. She remembers how it felt to know that she was young and beautiful, that she was a “favorite” among her classmates and peers, and perhaps most of all, that she was correct. She remembers how to critique those around her, how to secretly believe she was something better. She remembers how much she can get away with, how much she can take.  I see her whenever I silence my doubts and fears, wondering where the line of her territory lies, and whether my doubts and fears are the only things keeping her in check. For today, I name her, and she fades.

Other Shadows flit through my mirror, but they are not for your eyes. 

I hope that you will respect what I have chosen to share with you, Dear Readers. Thank you for listening. 

NIGHT 8: ORDEAL, DEATH & REBIRTH

I know the transition that is coming for me. This identity and this stable life I have built in Colorado… like all things, I knew it couldn’t last forever. Sometimes, our identities slowly devolve from entropy, gradually revealing something new. But other times… other times there is a Dragon. Maybe our Dragon is an unexpected event, one that sweeps down out of the mountains without warning to wreak havoc on our life. Maybe we see smoke in the distance, and like Ben’s hypothetical paladin, we grab our broadswords and charge across vast distances to face the challenge. In any case, our Dragons give us a unique opportunity for complete rebirth. Because no one faces a Dragon and comes away unscathed.

My Dragon had wings like storm clouds, beating humid air against my skin in ceaseless waves. My Dragon stalks the canopies of the jungle, slithering and coiling, stealing bird eggs and leaving silence in her path. My Dragon’s neck twists upon itself before unwinding to lift its swaying head, waiting to strike. Her round, glassy eyes do not blink, but their vertical slits narrow to slivers as I approach.

I tell her I am not here to destroy her, but that I will not lie down and be her passive prey. 

I tell her that I know she has more power to change me than I have to change her, but I see her chains, and I know that it is my choice to free her, to face her unrestricted strength. I tell her that I know I still have choices, even when I cannot know their consequences.

I tell her I do not know what she is. Not really. I tell her that I don’t know what she will do to me, only that she will do what is in her nature to do, and that I will no longer be what I am now. 

She speaks to me…

I tell her that I know that I can trust her to be a Dragon. No more, no less. I understand that she will do what Dragons do, and when she does, this “Jane” will end. The Dragon guarantees no more than that. We are in agreement.

I knew this was coming. I have had opportunities to turn back. No one has forced me into this position. I am here because this “Jane” is ready to die. She is ready to peel away, like the hull of a seed or the husk of a cocoon, and let some new life walk on in the body she leaves. She is ready to be a memory, an echo, a source of strength for the next Jane on whatever paths she chooses to walk. 

With my talisman in hand, with the guidance of my vision and my Shadows silenced, I release my Dragon. We understand one another, and I am ready.

She exhales.

NIGHT 9: REWARD, OR SEIZING THE SWORD

In Campbell’s monomyth, the Hero is rewarded for facing the Dragon. Sometimes the reward is tangible and external, like Jason and the Golden Fleece, or intangible wisdom, like the Childlike Empress’s new name. Scott Pilgrim is an amusing example of a meshing of the two: an internal reward made, by the magic of metaphor, into a tangible sword. 
I have not given much thought since I started these meditations to what my reward would be, what treasures I would earn from my Dragon. I had no explicit goal in mind, since my main goal was to fully explore this “journey.” I know that narrative has power, and that building a narrative understanding of our identity and our lives can have a profound effect. This is not limited to our spiritual or religious practices; narrative therapy and even narrative medicine  may indicate that conscious narrative-building can have a beneficial effect in healthcare and therapeutic practices. 

Sometimes, the power of narrative is a double-edged sword. Some stories we tell ourselves empower us, while others lock us into destructive habits, victim mentality, or baseless mistrust. This is why it can be helpful to check in on the stories we are telling ourselves, making sure that they are the beneficial stories that we want to be feeding through repetition, or the damaging ones we need to respond to or rewrite.

All of this is to say that I embarked on these meditations with only the journey as a goal. I expected the story itself to be its own reward, and gave little thought to what my prize might be. But I think I found it anyway.

I will not tell you what I found in my visualizations. That part of my experience is mine. But I will say that it was something I had misplaced over the years, familiar, but restored to me now as a new, changed thing. I think I know what it means.

I have a passion for writing, and the good fortune to have that passion paired with some talent at it. Or at least that was what I used to think, that my writing skills were due to “fortune.”  I used to make beautiful things with this gift, but I’ve redirected my energies over the years, and my writing practice has become almost nonexistent. 

My writing practice. Essentially, that is what came to me in this journey. I don’t think I have ever given enough credit to the fact that I was good at writing because I practiced. I was writing all the time. Daily journaling, 8k words of fiction a weekend, random rambling passages in the margins of my notes at school. The time that I now kill on Netflix, YouTube, and sundry other “enter-drain-ments,” I used to spend writing. Most of the writing was nonsense, never to be read, but I was still doing it. I didn’t think of it as practice. I thought of it as a necessary exercise of my identity, a behavior that fed and even defined my soul. That practice is part of what I have abandoned over the years, and even when I came back to writing, I only ever wrote with an audience and a purpose in mind. Because I was no longer practicing in private, the perceived high stakes of every public piece of writing paralyzed me. 

I promised myself when I began that I would waste no time on regrets for lost time. I can only move forward with the knowledge, skills, and discipline that I have now. 

I know what I need to do with the reward of this realization: I need to have a disciplined daily writing practice. And I know that I can do it, because part of my prize is the memory that I have done it before.  

The following blog entry is a collection of journal entries in response to the Mountain Ancestors Grove’s 2018 Twelve Nights of Solstice program exploring the Hero’s Journey. These short presentations and guided meditations will each be made available for replay at any time. 

TWELVE STAGES OF THE HERO’S JOURNEY: ONE MAGPIE’S TRAVELOGUE
by J. Webster, Chief-of-the-Folk


PART 2: NIGHTS 3-6
NIGHT 3: REFUSAL OF THE CALL

My husband and I had a great conversation about this step of the Hero’s Journey. He was concerned about how this narrative arc seems to require that the “Call to Action” come from an external source: Obi Wan Kenobi offering Luke his father’s lightsaber, Gandalf on Bilbo’s stoop. He complained, “Why can’t heroes just know that something needs doing and go do it?” There was then an eloquent little aside about how a paladin should have charged past Gandalf and Bilbo at the beginning of The Hobbit, brandishing a broadsword and shrieking “I’ve got this! Onward!” But I can’t do his storytelling justice here, so I’ll move on.

In response, I reminded him of this step, of the “Refusal of Call.” This step is skipped in many stories: Harry Potter accepts his enrollment in Hogwarts immediately, and the Pevensie children take readily to their roles as monarchs of Narnia. But when it is included, I think it adds something valuable to the story. Even when the initial call to action came from an external source, when the hero initially refuses the call, this gives the hero an opportunity to reflect on their decision, letting them hear and respond to an internal call instead of an external voice.  Luke realizes that the threat he has been called to face will be a part of his life regardless of his decision, that he cannot just opt out of the consequences of refusing to help. Bilbo, after much reluctance, finds internal motivation to pursue his quest. 

There are reasons that we establish and hold to Ordinary Worlds. They are familiar, and often safe and comfortable. For these reasons, the voices of fear and caution in our lives, both internal and external, are likely to object to our leaving the Ordinary World for an adventure. Fearful voices speak of the dangers of the unknown. Rational voices speak of all the value and security we will be leaving behind. Even our egos might step in, crying out that “This is enough, what I have and what I am right here is enough, and what we have here is mine! Why must I let go? Why must I change? Why must I grow?” A story that fails to at least tip its hat to these voices, to at least recognize that these are predictable and rational reactions to being asked to divert from our status quo, is presenting a less relatable hero. Because these feelings are an important hurdle for anyone facing change to overcome.

Hesitation need not be the end of the adventure. Fear doesn’t need to end your story. At all moments on our paths, we have the choice to pause, even to change direction or to turn back. We will always experience periodic echoes of our doubts, and our doubts will invite us again and again to refuse the call to adventure. In each moment, we are forced to reassess the decision to stay or go, to wait or proceed, to flee or fight. Perhaps we will miss specific opportunities by refusing a call to adventure, but it is important to remember that we still have the option of accepting the next call, or of responding to our own internal call. 

There are calls I have refused, out of fear or doubt or practicality, but I must let those moments go. I must forgive myself for my decisions and recognize that the story is not over. There are so many paths that remain open to me, and even many that are now obscured may be cleared with the right tools and enough initiative.

NIGHT 4: MEETING THE MENTOR

This one is difficult.

Our meditation tonight asked us to look ahead, to look to a mentor on the other side of the threshold of seed and soil, a mentor who makes ready and fertile the Other World we are preparing to enter. But because of the literal and physical Other World I am preparing to enter in my own life, it is difficult at times to believe that I am not leaving all of my mentors behind me. 

My legal ethics professor in law school (whose name many of you would recognize) once gave an entire lecture on mentors: how to find them, what selection criteria mattered, how they can serve your legal career. He asked us how we felt, while facing such a dire job market, about choosing employers who were poor mentors, whose ideologies or practices we disagreed with or disrespected. I remember telling him that maybe, with the world as it was, we needed to abandon the dream of finding respectable mentors, and that instead, we should just try to be “better than our mentors.” 

This is not to suggest I have not respected the many people who have taught and supported me throughout my life, who I might say “mentored” me. I have been blessed with four amazing parents and even an extended family who have always offered me support and kindness, who are thoroughly invested in my success, and who build me up in all I do. With exceptions so few I can count them on one hand with fingers left over, my academic teachers have been truly spectacular (including the incredible high school chemistry teacher who had very kind things to say about my last post and may be reading this one too ☺ ). 

However, during law school, I found it harder and harder to find people with whom I felt mutual respect. I had a hard time finding people whose values and goals I could share, while I had no problem at all finding many examples of people whose conduct and principles I had no interest in emulating. The legal community was full of a plethora of characters who served better as cautionary tales than as role models, and even when I found people I respected, I had made myself so small and afraid that I escaped their notice.  It is difficult to accept mentorship when you feel unworthy of the offered support.  So, by the time my professor asked us that question, I had become a little bitter about “mentors.” I had begun to believe mentors were at best a networking tool, at worst a fanciful pipedream. 

But I found them. After much questing (which is a story for another day), I found mentors, both in my religious practice and my community.  I have allowed myself to accept this mentorship, finally remembering that I am worthy of their lessons and support. The support and gentle guidance I have received here, from the land, from my gods, and from my human teachers, have reminded me of my own strength. 

Our meditation prompted us to ask who waters our garden, who gives us what we need to thrive when we leave the Ordinary World. I see their faces. I know their names. I have been so well fed in this garden, and I overflow with gratitude for my time here. My roots are strong, healthy, and ready for transplanting. 

NIGHT 5: CROSSING THE THRESHOLD

“Who will I become?”

I thought that would be my BIG question on this 12-Day journey. I have moved long-distance twice before, casting aside my past and completely upending my life. Each time, I lost the communities and stability of my previous home, and each time, when the dust cleared, I felt like I had become an entirely new person. When I left home for college, I felt like I had shed the last vestiges of childhood someplace on the tarmac of Bradley Airport, and I landed in Arkansas with a new boldness and a more vanity than was good for me. I felt like I had emerged from my introvert shell, and my new confidence felt decadent. I loved it, and I thought that when I moved again, it would feel the same way. It didn’t work out quite like that. My move to Colorado for law school shook all the pieces of my life out of place again, but when they settled this time, the settled off-kilter. It was like getting off a ship and waiting for my land legs to come back, but they never did. Instead, I teetered about for years, clumsy, apologetic, and skittish in all social situations. It took me years to reconstruct myself into something functional. 

I have wondered what this move will be like. I have wondered how I will fit into a military community, into a conservative community, into a community of mothers and much younger women. I have wondered how my routines, health, and relationships will evolve. To sum up, I have wondered how the move will transform me this time, and like a shaken magic-8 ball, what new personality will rise to the surface when the chaos stills.

I was surprised that a different question came to me as I clawed my way through the dirt. I found myself asking instead, as I stood in the blinding light of the Other World: “Who do I want to become?” 

This is a better question. This question suggests that, unlike thrown dice, I have some agency in what will happen to me when I land. It suggests that my wishes matter in this, that they may have an effect on my destination there.

So this is my question moving forward on this journey: “Who do I want to become, and what should I do to get there?”

NIGHT 6: TESTS, ALLIES, AND ENEMIES

Hmmm… part of this meditation really resonated with me. When asked to consider whether the people around me have dispelled or fed my fears (i.e., the shapeshifters), the people in my life were very clearly divided into two camps. I thought of some of the plans I’ve considered for Guam, and the completely different responses I heard from two types of people in my life: the people who enthusiastically encouraged my ideas, and the people who were very quick to point out how unrealistic my hopes were. Why do I keep people like that in my life? I can identify them readily, and still I make excuses for them and continue to listen to their…nonsense. 

I also knew immediately who my Trickster is, the person whose goals and behaviors are so askew from my own that he always forces me to face a new perspective, for better or worse. I am glad that I will have ample opportunities for him to play his part in my life for the next few months.

I wonder who the Herald will be for this next chapter of my life. I wonder if the structure of the Air Force will play a part in this role. It seems like for the next few years, whenever a call comes down from on high that announces a new chapter in our life, it is likely to come from official documents created by over-worked under-paid government employees. I don’t think out Herald will have a specific rank (at least, I don’t have a “herald” in my rank insignia flashcards), but I’d bet there’s probably an acronym for it. 

My allies are easy to identify. I have spent the last week in touch with family members who are helping and advising about the move, about housing, about selling my car. I am surrounded by people who want to wish me well, who want my mailing address for sending cards and letters, who want to schedule goodbye outings and skype-dates while I’m away. I am so blown away that only six years ago, I was so lonely here that I wanted to move to Alaska next, because, and I quote: “If I’m gonna be sad and lonely, I might as well do it someplace dark and cold.” That’s where I was. That cold, dark place, believing that I was completely undeserving of new friends. 

What. Utter. Poppycock.

I notice that my tone for this entry is different. Maybe it is because, on reflection, my journey looks so bright and full of allies and protection. Maybe it is because I found a talisman I did not expect, and it warmed my heart. 

Maybe it is also because I have glimpsed the Shadows that haunt my path: among them is a part of me that, like the students in my course, want you, Dear Reader, to think highly of me. The part of me that believes that more words, smarter words, the right words, might prove my wisdom (i.e., my worth) and thereby earn your respect. This is the part of me that would keep me silent for risk of using the wrong words, the words that would reveal me as naïve, as shallow, as… some third disparaging word that this Shadow would REALLY like me to think of because adjectives sound best in sets of threes. 

I know that soon, I will need to address this Shadow, and others, but for now, my little rebellion against that Shadow is to share this entry as unedited rambling, as my honest reflections as I sat on that boulder in our meditation.