Where does your self-worth come from? Is it based on what you've achieved? What you plan to achieve? What you haven't achieved? If you are like most of us, you've spent a significant amount of time measuring your worth according to your accomplishments or how much money you make or by some standard your family or our society has taught you to use. But if this scheme is only making you unhappy, then there might be a healthier way to feel good about this thing we call Self.

Stanford professor Dr. Carol Dweck writes in her book, Mindset, that there are two ways to approach how people calculate their value. One is to have a "fixed mindset" with which we gauge our success by validating how competent and smart and talented we are while avoiding evidence that might undermine our image of ourselves. She points out that as long as we are indeed able to avoid or ignore that evidence we are able to keep our shaky stance as the person we somehow need to be. But that when we can't avoid that evidence, whether it's supplied by sources "out there" or by our own self-doubts "in here," then we suffer--needlessly.

The other option is to have a "growth mindset." This alternate measuring stick is based on the idea that our intelligence, success, worthiness, and abilities are fluid and growing all the time. So failure is seen as an opportunity instead of invalidating. The more we fall and rise again the more resilience we feel, the more our capabilities grow, and the more fulfillment we enjoy.

Our theme tonight was Ambivalence. One of our members has an important decision to make. As is often the case, our theme actually applied to more than one of us—and has applied many times to all of us.

Another member suggested asking an important question in ambivalent times: "What's the worst case scenario if I make this rather than that decision?" If the worst case is that I prevent myself from living while I'm trying to decide between two difficult options, and stay in limbo indefinitely, then that might eventually become unacceptable. But then we're faced with another vexing problem: "How do I know when I've waited too long?"

It was suggested that if we wait long enough, it will be obvious: "Yes, that was definitely too long. I've been stuck between Scylla and Charybdis and haven't been living my life for [fill in your own time limit]. But now I can't get that lost living back. And if I'd decided sooner, I'd never know if I gave up too soon. How can I be sure?"

Of course, we can't be sure. We can only make a reasoned guess. Being sure is having an easy choice, not the kind we're dealing with here. Easy choices leave us feeling 95% good about the choosing. Hard choices can leave us feeling only 51% good. And that feels 49% bad.

We did what we could do tonight. We held the ambivalence. We didn't judge it, we didn't minimize it, we passed it from person to person and examined what it means to each of us. In the end, we didn't know any more than when we started. But then again, we didn't know less.

​And maybe it's not about knowing. Maybe it's about feeling. Or acting as if we were our wiser selves. Whatever it's about, it seems to come up a lot. The Lovin' Spoonful wrestled with this 51/49 conundrum 50 years ago! Were those simpler times? Maybe, but that famous song was, I think, disguised as a simple either/or proposition about love when it's really tackling the bigger issue: self-trust. And how do you learn to trust yourself when it comes to decisions requiring wisdom and intuition as well as rational judgment? Um, practice?

Here's another song in disguise by these merry minstrels from the mid-60's. It pretends to be about how music can sweep us away, and bond us together, but it might just be about the ethereal magic we create when we make the scary decision to love ourselves.

When David Richo, the Jesuit-trained, Zen Buddhist and Jungian psychotherapist, leads meditation retreats, he is sometimes asked very difficult questions during the teaching breaks. What he is teaching, by the way, is also considered a very difficult subject: "how to be an adult," as he puts it. But despite the difficult subject matter and despite the difficult questions, his answer is often surprisingly simple. When he is asked, "What do I do in the following impossible situation?" or "What should I say when this awful scenario unfolds?" he advises his questioners to repeat a phrase taught to him by the Dalai Lama, and to repeat it as many times as it takes for it to sink in. Here is that phrase:

Lovingkindness meditation is an ancient practice accessible to all those willing to open their hearts to the selfless goodness abounding and abiding within us. This font of love is sometimes buried deep beneath a foundation of cracked and deformed bedrock laid down before we can remember. But accessing it can change our outlook and thereby change the world we create every day.

Click on the mushroom if you'd like to follow along the path of lovingkindness meditation. Your guide will gently help your thoughts and feelings cooperate with your intention to radiate the love, kindness, and goodness that resides within you.

You will learn two very simple methods of stopping your negative thought patterns in their misguided tracks and redirecting them toward positivity. These practices are more than 2,500 years old, yet they feel fresh and new and revolutionary. If you are not used to tapping into this aspect of your Self, it can be quite eye-opening. You will learn that encountering a state of ultimate peace and happiness is not so mysterious. It is within your grasp. It only takes trying.

Are you ready, Freddy? Ready to change? Real, personal change? It's okay if you're not. (Not that you asked my permission.) If it's okay with you then that's fine. If it's not okay with you then that's fine too—either way. It's neither good nor bad if you're not ready. It just is. It's normal. It's natural. Being ready to change is a choice—either conscious or unconscious—and everything we do is for a reason.

The way I see it, not being ready for a difficult change is not necessarily evidence of a neurosis. And it's not just a way to give yourself an excuse to continue counterproductive thoughts, feelings, and behaviors. True, it's partly about fear of the unknown (even if you think an unknown future would be better than a known present), but it's mainly just the way a lot of us approach self-improvement: It's actually part of the change process!

Talking about change is something we do in group every Wednesday. Actually, all of the talking we do, and all of the listening, is about nothing but change. Changes we have made ourselves, changes we'd like to make, changes we think we can't make happen. It's all about change. One thing we haven't talked about recently is what stops us from changing more or faster. Could it be as simple as whether we're ready or not?

In future meetings, we'll check in with each other regarding where we are, change-wise, and we'll continue to share the ways that have worked for us when it comes to changing what isn't working. We don't have control over the slings and arrows that befall us from external sources, but no one but we have control over our reactions to all that "out there" stuff. Humans are the most adaptable creatures on the planet. It's ironic that, on the other hand, we are so famous for finding ways to postpone our amazing adaptability.

But don't dismay. Now you know it's all part of a process. And the progress we chose to make in our process can be as fast as we like. I would tell you that there's no time to lose, but I would be wrong. We have all the time in the world. Whether we lose the time at hand, seize it, or forget to notice it, it's there. Or rather, it's here. In this moment.

All losses are losses of innocence. Think back on all your losses. Or on your first one. Often, when I ask someone to recall their oldest memory, it is a painful one. It is about an injustice, or an injury, or a cruel realization; it is some kind of loss.

The process of becoming an adult (whatever that might mean to you) is a painful one. Adulthood is a painful state to find yourself in if you are not ready. And staying a child is also painful. Pain, pain, at every turn. I believe this pain is the knowing we are giving something up that we would rather keep to get something that is scary. Something that, once gone, can not be replaced. Some forms of innocence cannot serve us as adults. We would be left too vulnerable in a world full of adults. But others of our innocent traits keep us from becoming too hardened. It's a delicate balance.

Let's end with Dickinson, that great existential philosopher who chose to share very little of her wisdom with a violent world while she was alive. Below is one of the 1800 poems she wrote about love, control, self-awareness, and innocence lost. I think she is advising us to continually redirect our attention inward so that we may reacquaint ourselves with our only true home: that shining source of all power we call the Self.

"Solitudo is Latin for nature. In true solitude you remember yourself as a part of everything, as a native of the natural world. You rediscover ease, inspiration, belonging, and wisdom in your own company." 
                                          Bill Plotkin

"The cure for loneliness is solitude."
                                         Marianne Moore

"Without great solitude, no serious work is possible."
                                         Pablo Picasso

Working with people who experience disturbances in their moods, such as depression and anxiety, I have the privilege of being a companion (or accomplice) on many fearful journeys. Some of these sojourns are internal, navigating rocky and treacherous pathways through ancient deserts and frigid mountain passes that make up the topography of troubled histories. Other expeditions are external and consist of ominous, winding trails through an outside world populated by dangerous characters, both strange and familiar, inside and outside the family, at once inviting and hostile. These trepidatious treks are often lonely ones. Yes, I provide company, for a small sliver of time each week, but much of the way features desolate isolation that feels hopeless, extending to an unknown horizon.

Like it or not, we come into this world alone, and that's the way we leave. Surrounded by well-wishers, celebrants, gawkers, or mourners, there is no other abiding companion we are always with but ourselves. Is this why solitude is so repulsive to some? Is it because it reminds us of the emptiness we visit for such a short time? Arriving and leaving with reticence implies we'd rather be where we came from or where we are going. Perhaps "here," whatever that means to us, is just too much to take. The mysteries that bookend our little lifespans can seem more like home.

And when we are alone, who is it we're alone with? Is it with a cherished Self? part loving friend? part co-conspirator? Are we, on the other hand, alone with everyone on Earth? everyone who's visited? everyone who is to come? Or are we with no one? Do we feel as though we are part of the very vacuum we're expected to fill? Whoever we are alone with when we practice the art of solitude, we'd better get used to. For most of our time here we can always count on some form of "aloneness."

Some of us take to solitude naturally, others must learn to move toward that inner light. Some of us find a teachers to help us face the emptiness that promises such fullness. These teachers can take many forms. Some make us think they will never leave, then do. Others make us want to escape their gravitational fields, and we find ourselves flung away into the abyss before we know it. Still others are somehow able to lend us some of their solitariness for awhile, until we feel our own resources for tolerating nothingness materializing.

However and to what extent we do manage to learn it, it takes an artist's hand to first cut the canvas of possibility and stretch its vastness over whatever frame we are able to pick out for ourselves. Finding the paint to create our picture of meaning out of nothingness is another thing. But no metaphor can make us ready for that infinite embrace only we can give ourselves.

I'm not here to tell you I've mastered this art, or to tell you how I've molded my inner space into a place of divine comfort in times of outer chaos and confusion. But I can tell you it's peaceful in there, that all the resources we need are available, somewhere inside.

If we are to learn from those who came before us we must head their advice: Seek the natural world (whatever that means to you). It's where we came from and it's where we're going back to eventually. John Muir, taught us that, "In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks." So what are we seeking? Is it awareness? understanding? acceptance? What is it that so many have found by steadfastly and single-mindedly turning away from the conventional distractions, irritations, and comforts we find in the roiling busyness of social engagement? There's only one way to find out. I believe you will find answers, but the questions are all yours. I don't pretend to understand it. But I do know what one of the existentialists who inspired my style of counseling had to say about it all: 

“In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion.”
                                                                             Albert Camus

Don Miguel Ruiz wrote a book in 1997, called The Four Agreements: A Practical Guide to Personal Freedom (A Toltec Wisdom Book). This book changed the way millions of people around the world look at life, at relationships, and at themselves. I count myself as one of those millions.

Four Agreements are:

1. Be Impeccable With Your Word
2. Don't Take Anything Personally
3. Don't Make Assumptions
4. Always Do Your Best

Though these "personal commandments" are simple, easily understood, and even obvious, they were considered revolutionary when they were first introduced. Taken together, they are a startling declaration of independence, while separately they are not so original. They are suggestions that we have often heard before in various forms. There is a well-known Eleanor Roosevelt quote that combines agreements two and three, for example.

While these agreements, with very little effort, can be quickly comprehended and memorized, anyone faced with actually agreeing to abide by these four jewels of wisdom is often overcome with trepidation. After all, wisdom does not come cheap. As is usually the case, the price can be painful.

1. How can I expect myself to ask for what I want, or to say what I truly think, or to refrain from negative self-talk? I might as well not speak at all! (Maybe this is why maintaining a vow of silence can be so valuable.)

2. And taking things personally is what persons do! It's all about me, after all. How else can the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune make me suffer? Is it just my imagination that has the world pitted against me?

3. And without assumptions, what do we have? A million single cases to evaluate and react to every day? We are such a successful and dominant species partly because of our ability to do all this categorizing, generalizing, profiling, comparing, and projecting, right? Without assumptions, we'd be reinventing everything all the time! Wouldn't we? Am I protesting too much, here?

4. Lastly, always doing my best is just too much to ask for. My best is very, very good, isn't it? That is just too high a standard for poor, little, old me. Unless, I recognize that my best varies day-to-day and moment-to-moment. Perhaps there is room for slack on this one.  The counter-argument here is that my best is woefully inadequate, so what good is it? What good am I? And "good enough" is not!)

These Four Agreements come up in discussion in counseling all the time. They are words to live by, or at least to consider living by. Without these guiding principles, forgiveness would be much harder, negative self-talk would be much louder, and fear of what's "out there" would be much greater. The book is founded on one over-arching idea (I should have started with this): that the world we live in is subjective. We dream it. And everyone else dreams their worlds too. It's no wonder we have misunderstandings between us; our dreams don't mesh. Some are even as different as night and day, or as good and bad, or as heaven and hell.

I heartily encourage you to buy this book. I am not exaggerating when I say it will change your life. (But only if you want your life to change. Don't worry, you get to choose.) If you'd like to read it before you buy it, you can do it that right here!

BONUS: There is a Fifth Agreement. Perhaps we can revisit this topic of self-awareness, self-improvement, and self-healing through self-agreements at a later date. There's so much to explore just by looking at small changes we can make to the way we see and think about our dream/world. For now, here's a short and very handy summary of these powerful concepts: Boom.

Till next time, let's agree to get together soon!

"She makes me so mad! That control freak! That slut! That passive-aggressive, disingenuous, obfuscating, thrill-seeking, center-of-attention, stingy, over-educated, unfeeling, hyper-sensitive, wrong-headed, back-stabbing, wishy-washy, pretentious, holier-than-thou, do-gooding terrorist!!"

"He embodies all that I loathe, and when I'm around him the hair on the back of my neck stands up."

"I can't take my eyes off her and I want to leave."

"I'm flabbergasted, confused, and aghast that anyone could spend more than two minutes with him. Can't they see how despicable/insincere/evil/duplicitous/smelly he and/or she is?!"

Thus spoke a shady character you might--if you're paying attention--be very familiar with. If you don't know it by name, you certainly have felt its presence, and have even seen its work. It is the shadow self; the part of us that is covered with buttons, all waiting to be pushed. They get pushed when the shadow recognizes its own, unacceptable characteristics manifested by others but denied by old, learned limitations. These limitations are imposed by our family of origin, our close contacts, and society at large. These influencing factors are why no two shadows are alike, and the reason we are called to dig deep to learn its secrets.

Are we really composed of different parts--some conscious, some unconscious? Are these archetypes we've heard and read about and seen represented in every story that's ever been told really real? And does the filtering of all human experience through these psychological lenses explain some of our mysterious beliefs, attitudes, values, and behaviors? And if any of this is true, how do we navigate and make sense of these theoretical aspects of the Self? Is this really the best way to try and understand our complex personalities? And if we never understand what it means to be us, can we still seek that holy grail of Jungian psychology: Individuation (the lifelong process of trying to integrate our conscious and unconscious parts into a genuine whole)?

Okay. That's enough for today. This gives us plenty to think about as we contemplate our dark side. Watching the movie with someone interested in strange concepts like psychic wholeness might be called for here, followed by a curiosity informed discussion, of course.

Would you like to learn a simple way to do a little light side/dark side integration right now? At the end of this piece is concise, beautifully written essay which explains in very basic terms what it means to befriend your shadow and how to start doing it. It's from a book called Shadow Dance: Liberating the Power and Creativity of Your Dark Side and is presented by David Richo, a gifted therapist, lecturer, and author who makes the incomprehensible very clear. Before you check out his short article, why not enjoy a few quotes by the eminent analyst who came up with this mystifying idea of peering into the unknown recesses of who we are and calling it Shadow Work: 

"Only the soul knows what the ego might find most fulfilling in life. Only the ego is capable of manifesting in the world the soul's desires."
                                                  Bill Plotkin, Nature and the Human Soul

Our conversation, Wednesday, was like a Sunday drive along an unfamiliar route. We followed where the terrain led, each having a hand at steering. At one point, we made a rolling stop at the intersection of two curious streets: What We Do and Why. After a moment or two of hesitation, it became clear that continuing blindly onward was not a viable option. We had a choice to make: We could turn left, onto an unlit lane that meandered down a steep slope toward the mysterious depths of the unconscious mind; or we could turn right, onto a spacious boulevard lined with research laboratories and clearly marked as the way to consciousness. We could delve into feeling, emotion, intuition, insight, and the unknown, or we could cruise along the well-marked route toward rational thought, empirical data, and shrewd analysis. This may surprise you, gentle reader, but we chose the scientific route and proceeded immediately to a subject even experts are sketchy on: neuroanatomy.

I've heard people say they don't believe there's such a thing as left brain thinking and right brain thinking, but I must respectfully discount that opinion as a possible case of wishful thinking. It's all right to wish that we are not torn between two ways of perceiving and operating in the world, dictated by nature's bifurcated design idea, to think that our precious brains are not split like a walnut into opposing forces we may or may not be aware of, but whatever the reason for wanting to believe in a simpler model of how we think, it's just not that simple. There is overwhelming evidence that our left cerebral cortex is in charge of certain of our functions (including being in charge), and our right cerebral cortex is charged with other functions (including not caring about who's in charge).

I summarized what little pertinent info I've retained about the hemispheric differences by citing examples of data collected from stroke survivors (My Stroke of Insight, A Brain Scientist’s Personal Journey is one excellent example). I said that it seems fairly clear to me that the thing we call our head or our rational mind or our ego or our logical self, resides in the left frontal cortex and the thing we think of when we think of our soul is probably swirling around up there in the right frontal cortex. Our left mind sees things as well-defined, black and white (that is, either/or), time-bound, measurable, fixed, and serious. Our right mind knows that we are all one, that our place in the world is blended with everyone else’s, that reality is infinitely colorful and fluid, that peace and tranquility are always there for the choosing.

I recommend listening to some music that suggests wholeness as you read the rest of this. Here's a link to the only full-length album by The Postal Service. It's called "Give Up" and has been with us since all the way back in 2003. What's so "wholenessy" about this record? Well, its precise melodies, harmonies, rhythms, and pop structures could only come from left brain order; while the ethereal, sweeping feeling, the metaphorical lyrics, and general impression the compositions and performances leave us with (not to mention the title) is the territory of the right brain. Is it too poppy for you? Why not try this link? This one is newer, from just three years ago, but it sounds much older, with roots in 70's psychedelic rock. This is Tame Impala's "Lonerism." Enjoy either one as we continue to explore balance together.

But really, what is there to explore? Why not just practice it? Why not spend some time, as our group did, using words and memories and logic to define what it means to use thoughts to describe our world and our places in it? This is a familiar street for those of us who try and think our way out of situations our emotions have gotten us into. And the familiar is always more comfortable than the new. Even familiar things (and places and people) which are painful or counterproductive or even destructive are often more acceptable to us than venturing toward the unexplored. But this familiar highway only goes so far. Eventually, we come to a dead end and we know we have to head back the way we came. We know it's time to descend down that darker roadway, toward the numinous depths of that thing that is sometimes called the soul.

You can call it your soul, your spirit, your unconscious, your psyche, your dark side, or anything else, because it doesn't care what you call it. It doesn't need to go by any name. It is the unnamed place, or maybe the unnamable place, it is the unexplored territory. Carlos Casteneda called it A Separate Reality or Ixtlan. Whatever it is, wherever it is, it is much harder for us to explore with our conscious mind. It is, by definition, unconscious. But we know it's there. We feel it when we make decisions that go against our "better judgment," or when we "know" something we couldn't possibly know, or when understanding defies description, or when when we fall in love.

When most of us feel imbalanced, it's our right brain that's feeling left out. But it's our left brain that must cooperate if we are to feel in our right mind. Our best guidance system is useless without a place to guide toward. If you want to feel more balance in your life, try this balancing exercise: stop thinking. It's easier said than done, but keep trying. Chances are, the harder you try, the harder it will become; so stop trying. Don't think and also don't not think. This will take a lot of effort and it will take no effort at all. It will make sense and it will make no sense. It will eventually stop being an it. It may transform to a "not-it." Or it may transform into transformation. Words don't help when describing this shift from imbalance to balance, so listen to music with no words, or in another language. Look at a picture. Or a tree.

Just as taking the scientific road on our journal to wholeness led us right back to the swamplands of uncertainty, your ego will not like this exercise. But it knows it needs to do things it doesn't like. It knows that it needs its better half, its soulmate, if it's going to ever feel fulfillment. It will eventually cooperate. And when it does, it will stop needing to.

"Life meaning is always a derivative phenomenon that materializes when we have transcended ourselves, when we have forgotten ourselves and become absorbed in someone (or something) outside ourselves."
                                                                            Irvin D. Yalom

Wednesday night's group went the way existential group therapy is designed to go. We all lived our roles as we do in the real world. We had the quiet artist one who smiles and listens. We had the seething store manager who is caught between a condescending boss, unteachable subordinates, and disrespectful patrons. There was the action-oriented businessperson whose hair-trigger anger has been honed by years of litigation. One member's anger-to-forgiveness ratio was relatively low. Another member was balance on the love's tightrope between betrayal and abandonment. Some felt imprisoned by their moods, others by their corporal bodies. Several members were physically missing but no less present. There was the socially anxious extrovert, the optimistic depressive, the agoraphobic team leader, and the recovering addict who trusted the prescribing physician to a fault. Finally, there was the wounded healer, the designated leader who would rather serve by following.

That was the cast of characters. All the world's a stage, of course, and our little slice of it, an almost too-cozy consult room, lined with chairs, love seats, and sofa, with lights dimmed and voices hushed, had no audience save for ourselves. Instead of a curtain rising, hoisted by unseen forces, I closed the heavy door, marking the opening scene of our 90-minute improvisation. Thus began a drama, a comedy, and a history, all rolled into one, a study in post-modern realism.

The action began with introductions, old members to new ones and vice versa. By describing the week we had each had we revealed our individual modus operandi, the way we function "out there." As always happens, the way we function "out there" is also the way we function "in here," on our own private stage. In some groups, cross-talk is discouraged, if not forbidden. In ours, an open discussion is a must. If you have a question or comment, you speak it. If a response to what you have said moves you to either explain, defend, push back, or appreciate, then you do that; openly and honestly. We all waited for the plot to thicken, and it did. We hear stories of conflict out in the world, but conflict in the room, in the here-and-now, is what we need to see for our play to have substance. The out there stuff has come and gone. “This is this,” as Robert DeNiro’s character, Michael, demands in “The Deer Hunter.”

A character’s arc takes three acts to observe. In real life, that arc can span many weeks or months—years oftentimes. In our microcosmic group therapy sessions, that arc can be compressed. We can guess at each character’s call to action, we can see how inter- or intrapersonal conflict is resolved, we can observe how change is mustered through courage and creativity, and how attitudes, beliefs, and values can begin to bend. And in our little room, all our arcs bend toward, away from, and through each other’s. They carom off the walls and fold back against themselves. We are actors and audience members experiencing a shared odyssey. Together, we can feel that change is afoot. And the change moves apace, as if it knows we have under two hours to tell tonight's story.

I had intended to talk about balance in this piece. How in group we had discussed the way a “healthy” person uses both brain hemispheres to makes sense out of this existence and to navigate between and through the obstacles we encounter. I was thinking about how clients endeavor to manufacture the ideal product of any therapy: wholeness. But in introducing this topic, I couldn't help but be distracted by the process—forgetting the product entirely. But why shouldn't I? Life is only a process, after all, isn't it? We never get there, wherever we think “there” might be. We bring to group--and to the other parts of our life--our despair, our curiosity, our compassion, our very selves, and we act out our roles--now a hero, now a villain, now a jester--the best we can, hoping to portray our message honestly (or at least fool the critics and get some good reviews). We come alone, in whatever costume seems to fit, but we leave together, wearing the experience.