A Journey into Oppression and the Birth of the Creative Spirit

On March 22, 1987, I finally made the decision to live. My grandparents provided their loving presences, and home, for me for four days, while I detoxified from sixteen years of drug abuse and alcoholism, and a near successful suicide attempt. Over the course of my lifetime, they had already provided a constant, unwavering loving presence for me, even while I felt no love for myself, or my life. My grandfather eventually came to represent the very presence of God’s love for its children over the course of our shared life, and that love helped to prepare me for the engagement to life’s real purpose. Thank you, Grandfather Great Spirit, for your presence continues to daily guide me into my own promised land, which I gladly share with all who are receptive.

For most of life, I would have preferred intoxication Into numbness or even death over speaking my truth.  Trauma, both childhood and intergenerationally derived, had placed me on lower levels of self-expression, resulting in little connection with any creative potential within me.  But an experience in early March of 2017 convinced me that I need to speak up and honor my own creative potential. Though I never dreamed of being a spokesman for higher possibilities in life, my spirit demanded that I honored its calling, through the only way that I knew how.  I have since written several short stories and a few manuscripts that might have become books, had I been less controlled by the effects of early childhood trauma. 

Here is my story of how I opened up to my creative potential through writing, and how I opened up to the miracle of radical empathy and compassion.

Chapter One:

Awakening Through the Shadows ~~A Journey Through Oppression and into the Birth of the Creative Spirit

It began on an ordinary evening in November 2016, or so it seemed at the time. I had invited Sheila Hamilton to our home for a meeting of our book club. An accomplished journalist, a five-time Emmy Award winner, and a heartfelt mental health advocate, Sheila had written All the Things We Never Knew, a memoir that unflinchingly explored her late husband’s struggle with bipolar disorder and his tragic suicide. Her story carried a profound vulnerability, a deep ache woven into its narrative that quietly wrapped itself around all of us in the room that evening.

As she spoke of her husband’s trauma and fragmented upbringing, and his battle with inner darkness, I found myself leaning in, not just physically but emotionally. Far beyond pity or sympathy, her words struck chords deep in my soul. I saw, perhaps for the first time, the reflection of countless unresolved fragments of my own story. It was as though her late husband’s struggles surfaced the submerged faces of my own pain.

Her story didn’t just resonate; it catalyzed something. By the time the evening ended and the shadows of the discussion spilled into the quiet of the night, I had made a decision. I was no writer, but I felt an urgent compulsion to share my perspective on the unseen chains that strangle human potential—to give voice to what our language often fails to articulate about our shared experiences of oppression, repression, and the fires of transformation that lay within them.

I signed up for a blog and began to post long, unpolished reflections on the WordPress site, as well as Facebook. Most posts received no attention, and slided quietly into the void. I was the recipient of nearly 300 new subscribers on my blog site, most hoping to sell me SEO (search engine optimization) services. On Facebook, someone might leave a tepid acknowledgment. Most simply unfollowed or severed connection with me altogether.

The spirit of indifference can crush the tender roots of self-expression, but still, I pressed on. Amid the disheartening silence, there came an unexpected ally. Marty, my friend of more than twenty years, emerged as a reader of my words. Beyond his quiet nods, he engaged with the raw thoughts I spilled on the screen. He resonated with my posts on toxic masculinity and its sinister offspring that rippled into every facet of life—toxic religion, toxic politics, and toxic capitalism. An unspoken yet profound connection began to grow between us, forging a deeper camaraderie that extended well beyond the veneer of casual friendship.

Marty and I had shared many moments over our twenty-one years of connection within circles of friendships and couples’ groups gatherings organized by our wives. Our interactions were always friendly, yet mostly surface-level. I had observed an unspoken restraint within him, particularly in the presence of his wife, Eddy. Eddy was an outgoing, vivid presence, a strong woman who often occupied more space in group conversations than others might wish. Marty, by contrast, became her constant shadow, retreating into silence. Sitting quietly in Eddy’s presence, he seemed to withdraw into an invisible chamber of an inner world, rarely revealing his true self.

Eddy, it seemed to me, had become to Marty what society so often was. Like a positional placeholder, Eddy, and society, listened long enough only to reclaim any empty silence and fill it with itself. Society is quick to silence voices that challenge its rhythm and fill the void with its own narrative, drowning out the tender, breathing self that longs to emerge fully. I could see this same internal dance played out time and again between Marty and Eddy, and I recognized it intimately.

Eddy “found” Marty in 1996, while she was a minister at Living Enrichment Center in Wilsonville Oregon. Eddy had been on an active search for a compatible boyfriend, even for a husband, for several years, and she had refined her attempts through composing a one hundred question “application” for her male friends to answer, to see if they would be able to meet her needs without her having to learn about them through painful real-life experience. She was to later tell my wife that those questions revolved around her understanding of who I was as a man and spiritual seeker. She wanted a man with similar, or identical, characteristics as myself, because she adored me and knew I was not available. Marty was to answer every question successfully, thus qualifying as my surrogate, I guess? As you will note in the photographs, we also shared many physical characteristics, so it was an unusual pairing. They were married at the church by the nationally famous lead minister Mary Manin Morrisey later that year.

We all yearn to be heard. To truly be seen for who we are. And yet, too often, societal structures, interpersonal dynamics, and unchallenged paradigms don’t allow it. They push down the authentic voice in favor of scripted roles, cultivating oppression and repression rather than giving way to mutual exchange. The interconnectedness of all these forces on an individuals, and by extension society’s, spiritual and emotional health cannot be overstated. These undercurrents shape the diseases of the heart and soul that suffocate creative potential.

My attempts to articulate these profound truths over the years had been met with hesitation, avoidance, or outright dismissal. Marty, though, heard me. His steady interest in my writings invited a new layer of sharing between us. We stepped into deeper dialogues, exploring those quiet corners of existence most choose to avoid. Meanwhile, the rest of the world withdrew further away. My Facebook notifications dwindled to nothing but my wife’s encouragement and the occasional comment from my steadfast friend Jim H.

The more Marty and I shared, the more blatant the contrast between genuine connection and performative relationships became. His willingness to listen and offer his reflections created a safe harbor. Yet that same dynamic clashed starkly against much of the disinterest I navigated, both through interpersonal relationships and through society’s treatment of those who challenge its path.

Oppression as a Universal Experience

Through this process, I began to understand something profound—that oppression is not merely a social system inflicted by one group upon another. Rather, it is something that infiltrates the spirit, shaping both the oppressor and the oppressed. It is the reinforced silence, the habitual dimming of one’s creative light, and the continuous, unspoken permission to repress. It is the main supporting pillar of collective oppression feeding into our cultural conspiracy of silence.

I saw this oppression not only in Marty but in myself. A lifetime of repression and unacknowledged pain and trauma had physically and spiritually manifested as disease. The darkness we carry, whether from our personal histories or the collective weight borne by society’s traditions, has a way of encasing itself in the body, manifesting in illness.

Religious, cultural, political, and economic systems, despite their claims of serving humanity’s needs, had repeatedly failed to address this deeper current. Their structures stifled individuality under the guise of compliance and order, suppressing all the necessary chaos that leads to an evolving structural change. Healing, I began to see, required taking radical responsibility. Not just for the pain inflicted upon oneself, but for the ways in which we consciously or unconsciously perpetuate these systems.

Through self-exploration, the silence of rejection, and Marty’s willingness to walk alongside me, I recognized the duality within us all. The darkness that seeks to oppress and destroy is not separate from us but lives within the same heart that holds light. Acknowledging this dichotomy was not easy, but essential. To see one’s participation in both sides of oppression and carry that weight allows the birth of meaningful change.

Virtually all human beings carry this weight, navigating what it means to live in a world that simultaneously nourishes and confines. Both victim and perpetrator coexist within us, intertwined. Healing the soul’s fractures requires unearthing the buried stories within so we can create space for authentic creativity to breathe.

And yet, society offers so few opportunities to genuinely exchange knowledge, foster collaboration, and bring forth this healing. How do we move truth forward when traditional systems refuse to listen or engage?

The answer lies in new approaches. By integrating emotional, mental, and spiritual care, we can create communities of healing, learning, and growth. Gone is the time for systems that silence human potential in favor of mechanical order. Instead, we step forward into a time where voices like Marty’s matter, where the lost art of listening is restored, and where the revolutionary act of being heard awakens freedom for all.

It starts now—with us, with courage to break the silence and breathe life into the creative spirit lying dormant within.

Chapter Two – The Black Mass and the Birth of a Voice

It was January 11, 2017, at 2:45 in the morning when my life took a turn I could have never anticipated. I awoke with an inexplicable urgency, wandered to my office, and sat down. Suddenly, my body betrayed me. I lost all control, unable to move, unable to think, yet my awareness remained painfully sharp. For one solitary minute that stretched into eternity, I was frozen, a silent witness to my own body’s rebellion.

And then I became aware of something even stranger. Within the left hemisphere of my inner field of body awareness, a dark presence emerged. Black as obsidian, it loomed, nearly the size of a golf ball. I sat there, stunned and paralyzed, staring into the void of what I could only describe as a “black mass.” It was unlike anything I had experienced since July of 1987, the last and only other time I had detected my own life energy field, during a fleeting moment of self-awareness that had all but faded from memory.

This time, there was no mistaking it. The black mass didn’t waver. It didn’t leave. Every time I looked within, there it was, an unrelenting reminder of something heavy and undefinable. It was now part of my enhanced proprioception. Fear took root, but I kept it a silent companion, initially unwilling to share this unsettling discovery with anyone.

Weeks passed. Fear became a daily shadow. The mass stayed, immaterial yet as real to me as my own hands. By February, I experienced a second “seizure,” lighter this time but public, occurring while I was playing cards at my friend Jim’s house. His easy laugh and the light chatter of the group seemed galaxies away as I felt the familiar grip of something dark within me. By now, the black mass had taken on a grim identity in my mind. I began to know it not as an anomaly but as Death itself, hovering in the spiritual sense, unyielding and impervious to the prayers and affirmations I threw at it like desperate offerings to an unmerciful deity.

I finally broke my silence, revealing the experience to my wife and a trusted friend. They theorized about spiritual trials and psychic connections, but nothing softened my growing certainty: the mass was a harbinger, an emissary of something final. I tried to carry it quietly, sharing only snippets of this all-consuming struggle.

Then came March 5, 2017. Marty, my dear friend and a fellow survivor of malignant melanoma, suffered a major seizure and was hospitalized at OHSU. Marty’s life was already a battle; he had barely emerged from a four-year recovery from melanoma. Against all odds, the Interleukin II therapy had worked in 2012. Now this, a diagnosis of a brain tumor.

When my wife Sharon and I visited Marty two days before surgery, I couldn’t help but draw parallels between our experiences. His seizures were far more brutal than my own, but their essence mirrored mine. And he told me that his cancer was golf ball sized, in the left hemisphere of his brain!

I shared my perception that Death had made itself known to me in palpable form, though I hesitated to suggest our present experiences and struggles were connected or that we were somehow mirroring each other. I hoped against hope that Marty’s future didn’t hold the same grim specter that haunted me.

Wednesday, as Marty was being prepped for tumor removal, I found myself pummeled by waves of anxiety, something I had never experienced before. Lying on the couch at home, I felt as though my consciousness was slipping through my grasp like water cupped in trembling hands. It took every ounce of strength simply to hold myself together.

When Sharon returned from her creative writing class, she found me pale and broken. I told her the story of my day, laid bare my struggle, and explained why I insisted on no medical intervention. I believed this was no physical illness but a spiritual event, an unraveling within the soul. Sharon, though concerned, accepted my decision as an act of self-determination. She ministered to me with love, care, and a bag for me to breathe into if I entered into a panic attack.  She offered a steady hand in my uncertain time.

Each attempt to rise from the couch brought dizziness, as though the ground itself conspired against me. My words began to fail me, each syllable forced from my throat with an effort that left me emotionally raw. It reminded me of a distant memory from three decades ago when my voice failed entirely during a reckoning with dangerous truths I was forced to confront in an underworld tour. This time, I wasn’t merely losing my voice. It felt like I was losing my very identity, my tether to the world.

By Thursday, improvement had eluded me. The day pressed heavy with dual concerns for Marty’s surgery and my own unspeakable terror of Death, shadowing my thoughts like a storm cloud. I turned, as I often did, to tapes of spiritual guidance, desperate for solace. Jack Boland’s voice crackled through the tape recorder as he spoke words that hit like a hammer. “Pain, not peace, is the precursor to lasting spiritual evolution,” he shared. My spirit sank. Were these trials a divine command for reckoning?

That evening, after yet another nearly sleepless night, I found myself a vortex of emotion, sitting in the family room, waiting for Sharon to join me. Something urgent bubbled within, a life message clawing to break free, but self-doubt throttled my voice once again.

I begged Sharon for her help to deliver my message to the world.

“Please,” I pleaded, “carry this for me. I can’t do it alone.” But with steadfast love, she refused.

“Your message is your own to deliver, my beloved Bruce. It must be spoken through you, or it will not carry the truth and fulness of your energy.”

Her words, her refusal, were an act of ultimate love. For years, I had allowed myself to be silenced, diminished by judgmental voices, oppressive power figures, and a fluctuating self-esteem and fear. Sharon’s stand was not a rejection but an empowerment. To step into the fullness of my own truth, I had to find my own voice.

And so, I did.

With her love as my foundation in that pivotal moment, I turned inward, asking Spirit for guidance. From the depths of despair, a prayer arose within me, unbidden but familiar: “Grandfather, Great Spirit, Thank You.”

Compelled as if by unseen hands, I wrote. Words poured through me, unfiltered, raw, and real. For two days, I became the vessel, channeling fifteen pages of story in a state I can only describe as divine flow. It took everything I had, but it also gave me back everything I had lost. This wasn’t just writing. It was a reckoning, a resurrection of my creative spirit, long buried beneath the weight of oppression.

Through this process, I realized that listening to “so-called authorities” will never replace the authority of one’s own spirit. True healing demands unapologetic honesty, a willingness to listen to oneself more deeply than the voices of judgment.

And for those of us blessed with the power of expression, silence is Death’s closest ally.

Sharon’s refusal to lend me her voice was the greatest gift she could have given me. For in that moment, I was forced to reclaim my own. And through it, my healing, and my most profound writing, began.

And, miraculously, the dark mass of energy that had lingered within me vanished the moment I completed my narrative, which also was timed with Marty’s successful tumor removal. To this day, that shadow remains gone, replaced by a lightness I never believed possible.

Writing has become my sanctuary, a practice through which I continue to weave threads of healing, awareness, and transformation. Only now do I truly understand the necessity of listening—to myself, my inner voice, and the energy woven into my experiences.

It turns out, this act of deep listening, more than adhering to external authorities, was the missing key.

Chapter 3: When Darkness Fades: A Journey of Healing Through Story and Energy

This path has led me to an insight I once struggled to decipher, a truth so profound that articulating it feels like trying to describe the indescribable. It is an insight born from my relationship with Marty and the essence of what unfolded during his final year. Marty, with his illness, and I, with my yearning to carry his burden and to heal my own, found ourselves bound in an extraordinary connection many might struggle to name. Some label it radical empathy, others whisper of telepathy, while some dismiss it as mysticism or coincidence. For me, it was a convergence of energy, emotion, and spirit, borne not of logic but of love and presence.

Through my openness and unwavering compassion, I found that Marty’s essence, his inner world, began to resonate within me. His energy imprinted on mine, a dynamic exchange that bridged the physical boundaries separating us. This connection, almost psychic in nature, filled the spaces between us with shared understanding. Some might call it prayer; I know it as attunement to the vibrations that flow within and between all living beings.

This attunement allowed me to perceive a dark, golf ball-sized mass within my consciousness. It was not necessarily just mine to bear; it perhaps was Marty’s reality pressing into my awareness, as well. My love for him, my concern, my devotion to being fully present in his suffering, made it possible. This deep, almost incomprehensible resonance turned me into a vessel for his experiences, and through that connection, I could articulate truths hidden in both our lives.

Through Marty’s energetic map, I began to uncover layers of suppression and repression I had ignored within myself for years. His consciousness, like a mirror, reflected the stark light of truths I had long buried. This bridge between us was not mere imagery; it was tangible, formed through love, compassion, and the energetic interplay that seemed to flow as naturally as the tides.

Storytelling is a gateway to healing energy. It provides a container for emotions we cannot otherwise name, a tool to shape the intangible turmoil within us into something real, something whole. As I ventured into the act of narrating my own experiences, I unearthed an alchemy that transformed pain into resonance, chaos into coherence, a tumor of death into an expanding opening to life. Storytelling may appear simple, but its power lies in its ability to heal not only the narrator but the listener who resonates with its truth.

For me, the story I shared was not just about Marty or his illness but about the intricate web of energy binding us all as human beings. By giving voice to experiences I barely understood myself, I began illuminating shadows I had ignored for far too long. Each word, each sentence, was a beam of light aimed directly into the darkness of my consciousness.

With each shared narrative, I felt the healing unfold not only within me but around me. Empathy became the catalyst for this transformation. To feel deeply for another dissolves the illusion of separation, and through this merging, I discovered a profound truth that applies to all of us: our individual stories, though unique in detail, are mere threads in the universal fabric of human experience.

What unfolded between Marty and me is difficult to contain within words alone. Radical empathy doesn’t just sit with emotions; it transcends them, moving into the energetic and spiritual realms where thoughts, feelings, and even physical sensations begin to intertwine. Over time, I felt his essence as if it were my own. His fear, his hope, his suffering, and even fragments of his memories seemed to bleed into my awareness.

This level of connection blurred the boundaries between us, not in a way that erased our individuality but in a way that expanded understanding. It left me confused but also trembling with awe, challenging me to question the limits of empathy. Was this connection simply emotional resonance, or did it extend into something more profound, more primal? Was this love forging a telepathic link, or was it the mysterious signature of shared consciousness?

I began to see this phenomenon not as a mystical aberration but as an inherent potential within all human beings. When we allow ourselves to love and care so deeply, we create energetic pathways that bind us. Marty’s suffering left an imprint on me, manifesting as something tangible within my own body. I felt his cancer as a dark mass within my mind. Strangely, this did not frighten me; it clarified the depth of our connection. Through this shared energy, I uncovered layers of truth about his battle and my struggles, bringing light to corners of my consciousness that had long been cloaked in shadow.

It was through listening to the sacred silence within that I began to mend. For much of my life, my ignorance and the unrecognized effects of trauma drowned out my own inner voice with noise—from societal expectations, external judgments, spiritual philosophies from others supposedly more evolved than myself, and self-doubt. But slowly, I began to honor the whispers of intuition, those fleeting, intangible nudges that urged me to pick up a pen or pause to feel the energy of a moment.  Marty’s and my tumor were representative of a dark cancer common to much of our world, the cancer of an often-loveless world and our ego’s limited response to it, and traumatic wounding and the mind and body’s accommodation to it through denial and disease.

The act of writing became more than expression; it was a communion with energy, a process of disentangling the chaotic threads within me and weaving them into coherence. This practice taught me that listening isn’t merely auditory; it’s spiritual. To truly listen, you must be willing to send energy inward to meet the voice that calls from the depths of the soul. For only in honoring that voice can we truly heal.

Marty’s presence taught me that radical empathy is far more than a social virtue; it is a spiritual force capable of transforming reality. Compassion was the thread that wove us together, forming a shared experience of vulnerability and resilience. This resonance illuminated truths within us both, though they were not always easy to face. Compassion revealed the oppressed, unspoken fragments of our lives and offered a pathway for bringing those hidden pieces back into the light.

Through our shared consciousness, I learned that the pain we carry is often interconnected. Healing does not always mean eradicating the pain; sometimes, it means acknowledging the shared energy of suffering and allowing it to dissolve into deeper understanding.

My experiences with Marty, his illness, and the profound connection we shared have forever altered my understanding of empathy, storytelling, and spiritual connection. His light illuminated my darkness, and in turn, my willingness to bear witness to his suffering brought a new clarity to both our lives.

Healing is not linear, nor is it easy. It requires courage, patience, and the willingness to explore the shadows that frighten us most. Yet, through radical empathy, conscious listening, and the power of storytelling, we open ourselves to the infinite energy that connects us all.

The bridge between our consciousness and another’s more than metaphorical; it is the very essence of human existence. By crossing that bridge, touching the energy of another soul, we uncover truths capable of transforming not only ourselves but the world we inhabit.

Chapter 4:

During this time, Sharon and I attended Matthew Fox’s Cosmic Christ Workshop in Tacoma in April 2017. After an inspiring seminar on mysticism Friday evening led by the Master Spiritual Teacher Matthew Fox, we returned to our hotel room to rest before the next morning’s follow-up workshop. That night, I experienced a deep, peaceful six-hour sleep, during which I had an extraordinary, powerful dream. What fascinated me most about this dream was the heightened sense of awareness I experienced.

I felt completely awake while dreaming.

In the dream, I opened a door and stepped into a well-lit room. The space felt neither familiar nor unfamiliar, shrouded in a kind of purposeful neutrality. A man stood inside. He, too, was unfamiliar yet strangely recognizable, as if his presence conveyed timeless wisdom. He greeted me warmly, offering a cup extended from his hand. I hesitated briefly, wondering about its contents, but an intuitive knowing arose—I understood that drinking from this cup would leave me “intoxicated by spirit.”

Within the room, my attention was drawn to a table on which lay an open map. The man accompanied me to the table, still holding the cup. I studied the map, which resembled the style of a topographic hiking map. It revealed two distinct pathways. The path on the right was a single, dark, solid line, directing a straightforward route from the bottom to the top of the map. The section on the left, however, revealed a complex web of intersecting paths made of dotted lines that wove and snaked their way without parallel to the dark line. None of the paths crossed one another, and curiously, none had a clear beginning or end.

This map symbolized a great mystery. My curiosity lingered on the dotted lines, representing paths less traveled, unexplored, yet interwoven with possibilities. I had no judgment about either path style, but the map compelled me to reflect deeply.

The following morning, Matthew Fox invited attendees to share any dreams they had experienced. Feeling unworthy as someone who didn’t consider themselves “realized,” I held back and chose not to voice my vision within the larger group. However, during the session break, I approached Matthew with a copy of his book. I mustered the courage to share my dream privately while he autographed my copy. Without offering an interpretation, he told me with a knowing smile, “Let it tell you its meaning.”

On the drive home, I recounted the dream to Sharon. Mid-conversation, I felt a wave of profound insight rolling through me. Horripilation (goosebumps) overtook my body, and the full, mystical significance of the dream revealed itself like a floodgate opening within my consciousness. I realized that drinking from the cup had already awakened something within me, connecting me to Spirit in its purest form. The map represented my own life’s narrative, with the solid line signifying the well-worn paths shaped by family, culture, and societal expectations, while the dotted paths symbolized the spirit-led journeys into the unknown, ones informed by creativity, faith, and intuition.

It became clear that I was being called to integrate these paths into a cohesive story that could be shared. This dream was a spiritual teaching in its entirety, delivering a universal truth about our dual lives. We walk the known paths dictated by human history, yet we are also invited to create our own pathways through the untamed landscape of the unknown. That day, I fully understood that spiritual intoxication arises not from safety or routine but from courageously navigating the mysteries of existence. For this revelation, I felt profoundly blessed and forever grateful to Great Spirit.

Later that week, Sharon and I met with Marty and his wife at Marco’s restaurant. Marty, still recovering from surgery to remove the cancer, carried himself with hopeful resolve. Over lunch, we shared conversations about hiking and potential trips, including Marty’s dream of completing a segment of the Pacific Crest Trail. Marty radiated a sense of urgency, eager to pursue delayed adventures as he prepared for what he sensed was the final stage of his life. Yet, as the discussion turned toward the Cosmic Christ workshop, I started sharing the profound aspects of the workshop and my dream. Marty’s wife listened for a little while then dominated the topic with information from her memory and hastily sourced from her phone. Her assertiveness felt dismissive, yet I recognized this dynamic as deeply familiar to Marty’s experience. My heart expanded with compassion for him.  I had always loved Eddy, but sometimes her need to control the narrative could be an irritant.

Afterward, at a late-April gathering at Marty’s home, I had the opportunity to speak privately with both Marty and another friend, Jim. With Marty’s wife in another room with the other wives, I finally shared my experience of transcendent energy and the dream’s profound symbolic meaning. Marty, deeply curious, engaged intently in the conversation. He spoke of his father’s spiritual experience before passing, expressing his own yearning for a similar connection to the divine. Marty wished for a glimpse of Spirit and asked for guidance in his own exploration. I promised to share a meditation inspired by my profound spiritual experience of July 21, 1987, believing it could offer him a pathway to the connection he sought.

The meditation I shared with Marty was not designed to prescribe answers, but to serve as a bridge between his conscious mind and the inner teacher within his spirit. It was a thought experiment deeply rooted in the necessity to relinquish control and step into the unknown.

Marty’s yearning for connection, my own exploration of Spirit, and the lessons shared through the dream were all steps in the collective healing of our hearts and minds. They reminded us that the unknown isn’t something to fear, but a sacred opportunity for transformation. Mysticism, at its core, is a testament to the spiritual adventures that await us all when we step off the solid lines of certainty and dare to follow the dotted paths that intersect with infinite possibilities.

Chapter 5: 

This Meditation Process for Healing and Meaning

This process is a deeply personal bridge, connecting the essence of my non-verbal self to my conscious mind. While this method has brought profound insights for me, it must be noted that it may not work universally, as each individual must forge their own connection to truth. This is merely a template, open to adaptation based on each practitioner’s singular path.

The Meditation

Step 1: Quiet the Body and Breathe

Start by sitting down comfortably, allowing the body to find rest. Focus on your breathing. Consciously inhale and exhale, letting each breath quiet the mind. Even a few deep, intentional breaths can shift your mental state, making way for this experiment.

Step 2: Invite Openness

Ask yourself if you are willing to hear the truth of the moment. Can you open yourself to unexplored realms of awareness, setting aside preconceived notions and judgments of yourself or others? Gently inquire, “Can I release the thoughts tethering me to the past and allow this moment’s full depth to unfold?”

Step 3: Visualize and Surrender

Imagine driving a car toward a familiar destination. Pause and ask yourself, “What would happen if I just let go of the controls?” Visualize yourself releasing the steering wheel, even for a moment. Allow the car and your surroundings to dissolve, leaving you suspended and moving into an unfamiliar yet profoundly safe space.

If the imagery still feels rooted in familiar scenarios, gently start again. This exercise requires surrender, a willingness to step beyond what you recognize into the mysterious unknown.

Step 4: Encounter the Guide

Once you release control, you may sense a presence—a guide or teacher, formless yet profoundly reassuring. This guide leads you into a mystery beyond logic and reason. Trust the process. There is no fear here, only the exhilaration of freedom as you leave behind the anchor of intellectual understanding.

Step 5: Explore the Web of the Unknown

You might encounter a vast, interwoven web of sensations and impressions. It is neither light nor dark but exists beyond such dualities. Pause and observe the intricate tapestry that stretches before you. If you find yourself in familiar psychological or emotional territories, pause the experiment. True discovery lies in venturing beyond the known into realms where there is no attachment to your current understanding.

Step 6: Discover Absolute Stillness

At some point, you will arrive in a state of profound stillness. It might disorient you at first, but soon you’ll appreciate the peace of this silence. It may feel as if you are witnessing the essence of existence itself. Listen closely. Within this calm may arise a voice—not spoken to you, but through you. This voice carries wisdom, fresh and entirely unexpected. Allow it to flow without question or interference.

Step 7: Receive the Teaching

The voice might offer teachings or realizations, often joyful and deeply resonant. You may laugh, cry, or feel a surprising exhilaration. Here lies the truth, free from the constraints of intellect or memory. Acknowledge it without attempting to own or analyze it. These moments are fleeting yet timeless, and they are all that is needed.

Through this meditation, you may see the distortions and attachments that weigh on your mind and body. These may be trauma wounds. The impact of these attachments and unconscious responses to them might have become so familiar that they still provide security or familiarity, but they no longer serve your growth. Face these forces compassionately, recognizing their role in your life while also allowing them to begin their departure.

This exercise requires patience and courage. The path will likely challenge long-held beliefs and constructs. For many, the return to “normal” consciousness after this meditation will create inner tension. This discomfort is part of the process of integrating what has been revealed. Over time, as you revisit this practice, clarity will emerge.

The meditation also brings clarity to the relationship between self and other. It unveils the gap that forms the foundation of judgment, division, and illusion. The discovery that this space is a construct created by the mind can shift your perception entirely, dissolving feelings of otherness. When this gap disappears, only unity remains.

The process reveals another truth—that within us lies the potential to both dream and be dreamed by the collective consciousness of humanity. Each of us serves as co-creators within this vast interconnected web. But meditation also uncovers the structures of thought that have anchored humanity’s suffering, often rooted in outdated paradigms of worshiping the past rather than exploring the present.

To truly seek truth, you must be willing to encounter discomfort. Truth will not settle in a crystallized mind bound by certainty; it needs an open heart and a curious spirit. Through this practice, you may come face to face with the unfamiliar, and your inner world will shift. If you persevere, a deeper reality will emerge beyond anything you have imagined.

Know this simple assurance as you begin this work: “You will find what you are looking for.”

Don’t give up before the miracle appears. Continue seeking, not with blind faith but with steady resolve. Step beyond the limitations of yesterday into the profound potential of what is yet to come. This is the essence of healing—of finding the path where mind, body, and spirit align with truth.

The secret of true change is to transform yourself first, and the world around you will follow. What begins as an inner exploration ripples outward. Continue the practice, revisit the unfamiliar territories, and anchor yourself in the boundless moment that lies beyond time. Within this space, the healing of both self and humanity begins.

“God” laughs with us when we see through our own illusions. Seek truth, beauty, and wonder, and you will find them reflected back tenfold, both within yourself and in the world around you.

I also wrote an email to Marty after our evening together.

Marty,

The process of healing and growth often requires time and trust, a practice that unfolds gradually, hour by hour, day by day. Our gathering last evening was a shared blessing, and I am grateful to you and Eddy for creating such a beautiful space for connection.

This morning, I awoke early, around 2:45 a.m., with a profound “sense of presence.” I felt as if we were all together again, unified in our intentions. I extended a silent blessing to everyone in the circle. Though I cannot prove the impact of this internal act, I entered a dream state shortly afterward, and it was here something deeply symbolic occurred.

In this dream, we were in a noisy industrial plant, working on an electrical system that required reconditioning. You stood by with Sharon as I worked on an electrical panel that had a security lock in place. I was instructed to remove this lock. Soundproof headsets protected me from the intrusive noise, while I saw others around us who had already completed their tasks, their discarded materials tossed into a nearby dumpster. I noticed that while our efforts sometimes seemed to overlap or get in each other’s way, there was an undeniable interplay between their work and mine.

The symbolism of the dream is clear to me. The “electrical system” represents the interconnections within us, which need recalibration to function properly. The “security lock” symbolizes the self-protective mechanisms we construct over time, often to guard against perceived vulnerabilities. These controls, while intended to secure and preserve, can also become barriers that prevent the flow of healing energy and true transformation.

Marty, part of your healing lies in removing these self-imposed locks. They are barriers deeply rooted in your consciousness; layers perhaps built over a lifetime. These mechanisms, which served you in moments of survival or self-protection, now hinder your access to greater well-being. The consciousness that allowed the presence of melanoma to take hold must be fundamentally transformed for lasting healing to take place. Infusions, medications, and treatments may offer support, but they will not suffice if the underlying framework remains intact.

Transformation requires trust in the process and the willingness to release fear and control. This surrender is not passive; it is an active opening to the higher power within your being, a power that resides in your heart and soul, beyond the confines of the mind and ego. It is not about blaming or taking responsibility for the illness but about recognizing the opportunity for profound inner change.

My higher intuition sees your potential, Marty. It sees the innocence of your being and the beauty of who you are. You are not responsible for this wounding, and yet you are capable of surpassing it. While there are no guarantees, I feel immense hope for what lies ahead for you.

Marty, your story speaks to more than one man’s battle. It reflects the universal challenge of letting go, of dissolving the ego’s grip, and of trusting in the unknown. Healing, in its deepest sense, is not merely physical but a transformation of consciousness. It is a greater acceptance of what is and opening to a deeper experience of life, even in its uncertainty.

Blessings to you, always. May your path continue to unfold with profound meaning.

Bruce

The spiritual lesson embedded within my dream and this meditation is clear. True spiritual intoxication occurs when we surrender our need for control, allowing Spirit to guide us along paths we have not yet imagined. These journeys into the unknown are not reserved for mystics or visionaries; they are invitations to all who are willing to walk with faith and engage in the unfolding mystery of life itself.

We shared a beautiful hike on Dog Mountain several weeks later, despite the challenges that he was facing. His perseverance and spirit were uplifting, and they signaled a readiness to move forward with life. That brief moment of triumph, however, was followed by a setback as new treatments and circumstances unfolded. Within a week he lost all feeling in the right side of his body shortly after starting an anti-cancer drug called Keytruda, and became wheelchair bound. Even amid these trials, he remained present, embodying courage and grace.

Chapter six: The Fire at the Edge of Transformation

Dying, death, and transformation became urgent subjects for Marty as he faced the irreversible progression of metastatic melanoma. The medicines, though prescribed to alleviate physical turmoil, brought complicated side effects. Marty lost much of the independence he had cherished so deeply. The act of scrolling through Facebook to catch glimpses of his friends’ lives or world events became a distant memory. His energy was fully devoted to navigating one pressing task after another, striving for the small victories of peace amid the chaos of his unraveling physical state.

Dreams of hiking, once a shared pastime filled with freedom and connection, faded. His body, once strong and dependable, refused to cooperate. Anti-inflammatory medications aimed at reducing the swelling in his brain and anti-seizure treatments were now an essential, lifeline tether. The physical losses piled atop one another, echoing louder with each passing day.

Marty confided in me one morning, expressing how inarticulate he felt in the face of his own experience. Words seemed inadequate to capture the disorienting transition between who he was and who he was becoming. Only a short time ago, Marty had been the embodiment of vitality, a highly intelligent man, a successful software engineer, businessman and former manager at the Bonneville Power Administration.  He was someone deeply engaged with culture, passionately supportive of his wife, and immersed in activity that enriched his body, mind, and spirit. He’d been physically fit, intellectually stimulated, and joyously alive. Now, his life was confined to the static routines of home, clouded by anxiety and death terrors, emotional pain, and the daunting absence of hope for the future.

Yet, amid these difficulties, Marty’s struggle felt like a fire burning away the forest of his life, consuming the layers of identity, independence, and autonomy he had cultivated for so long. The metaphor came unbidden during one of our morning meditations, and I shared it with him later in a message:

“Marty, life sometimes feels like a breathtaking adventure hike, doesn’t it? Picture it like walking a trail beside endless beauty and serenity. There’s freedom in the rhythm of each step, an innocent joy in the simplicity of breathing in nature’s wisdom. But then, on the other side of the trail, flames leap skyward, licking at the edges of our reality. The fire consumes not just the trees and the past, but pieces of ourselves we thought we couldn’t live without.

I imagine your current path leads you between these two extremes. One side is the magic of presence, the awe of stillness and being. On the other, the fire burns away illusions, memories, and attachments, leaving behind only the truth of who we are. It’s not an easy fire to withstand. The heat stings, the flames threaten. And yet, in its wake, it reveals something eternal and unbroken.”

Marty responded with silence that day, but the reflection seemed to resonate. Over time, he began dissecting the details of his losses with greater clarity. Losing independence, losing intimacy, losing control of even the most basic bodily functions all felt like brutal affronts to his humanity. But within these losses also existed an opportunity for raw, unimaginable truth.

“It feels like life strips you bare,” he said once, “as though dignity isn’t your right anymore.” And yes, it did seem as if his fire burned more intensely than most. Yet, paradoxically, within this spiritual incineration, something remained unbroken. The fire blinded, yes, but it also revealed the essence of love and being that glow beyond the flames.

Marty’s courage became palpable as he yielded to this inner transformation. Slowly, he began to see his pain not as punishment but as a call, an invitation to uncover the unshakable strength lying beneath his circumstances. We spoke often about the challenge of trusting in love’s relentless emergence when surrounded by so much loss. The grief over a life once filled with energy and purpose subsided into a deep, quiet understanding that the past must burn to open space for renewal.

“Love will soon be your most precious garment,” I told him one evening. “All else will be stripped away, but love—that persists. It transforms from action into state, and when you embody it, even your greatest struggles begin to shine with a purpose.”

Marty found fragments of hope in those words, and hope began shaping his days in small but significant ways. Conversations turned toward glimpses of awe amid the trials, the laughter shared with his wife despite their roles shifting to caregiver and patient, the knowledge that his words mattered in the OHSU cancer survivor’s creative writing community we had joined. Though his strength waned, Marty continued walking this improbable trail, learning to wear his pain like a cloak of humility rather than a shackle.

He adjusted to the fire not by extinguishing it but by existing within it. He surrendered the need to define it, instead allowing its searing heat to shape him into something freer, something stripped of pretense. He embraced the blistering truth that life at the edge of transformation is closer to divinity, closer to authentic creation, than any meticulously planned existence could offer.

And what did we learn there in the glow of Marty’s fire? That beneath every loss resides the seed of clarity. That what once seemed oppressive could become fuel for boundless creativity. That pain could sit beside joy, not as an unwelcome guest, but as part of existence’s sacred wholeness. Marty’s transformation became a lesson for all of us, especially for me, who witnessed it in awe. It reminded us that in life’s final stretch, love expands to fill the void, proving its indelible presence even in suffering.

The forest fire burned, and still, Marty endured. Transformation revealed itself in the ashes. And we walked forward, side by side, toward the unknown, where the trail meets the horizon once more.

Yet, Marty was tormented by the thought of the eventual return of the cancer, which he felt was inevitable.  He was plagued by waking dreams, when he awoke from sleep and his dream world continued, overlaying what his waking eyes were trying to witness.  It was terribly distressing for him, and for Eddy.  Marty also needed some alone time, as Eddy, and his disease, had become a full-time occupation of his mind and soul.  He even sought to be placed in an independent care facility where his wife would no longer be required to be with him round the clock. He felt angry, and oppressed by her constant presence and control, and showed his anger by taking inordinate amounts of time to enter and exit their car, sometimes taking ten minutes to do so.  With me, he only took about twenty seconds, so there were marriage issues playing out.

Marty and I continued our attendance at the cancer survivor’s writing group.  Marty told me he was waiting for a creative story to form in his mind that could be the container for his intention to move beyond all of his knowns as a human being into the unknown of a new life, a life where fear of death no longer exists, and his deteriorating health was no longer a concern.  That story was to be his vehicle to give him permission to accept Oregon’s Death with Dignity option.

Chapter 7: The Eternal Dance of Creation and Release

Marty exercised his right to the Death with Dignity process on September 10, 2017, a decision cloaked in silence. He chose to shield me from this knowledge, leaving me unaware until the day before. The evening before was supposed to be one filled with joy, music, and celebration. Sharon and I and 20 other family members and friends attended a party his wife had organized, celebrating the marriage and life shared by Marty and Eddy, all unaware that this was to be Marty’s last full day ot life.

Upon arriving at the party, Sharon was discreetly informed by Eddy of Marty’s decision to proceed with his Death with Dignity plan the following day. The celebration of life morphed into something surreal, a liminal space straddling joy and an impending finality. I had prepared to play Michael Franti’s “Life Is Better with You” as a tribute to Marty and Eddy’s love story and their life intertwined, but the song now seemed like an elegy rather than a celebration. The change was too stark, the grief too raw. I couldn’t bring myself to present the music to the celebration, retreating to a space beneath the dining room table where I could quietly observe others who offered their gifts of music, poetry, and presence.

Emotion surged within me as the realization settled into my heart. My own spirit informed me that a healing was happening within Marty, and that he would be fully functional again.  For how long, I had no idea.  I wondered to myself how could someone who radiated hope and strength so deeply, someone who still had coherence and vitality, choose to leave? Marty had started regaining nearly full use of his right arm and leg, no longer needing the wheelchair, yet still using it, perhaps out of insecurity.

Marty sat surrounded by friends, receiving stories, laughs, and tender exchanges graciously, but I grappled with an internal storm of disbelief and acceptance. His primary fear was clear; metastatic lesions in his brain would steal his identity, erode his sense of self, and leave him at the mercy of a process that felt utterly out of his control. He chose instead to meet death on his terms, entering the Unknown with all the dignity he could preserve.

I sat by Marty, offering him words that seemed inconsequential against the gravity of the moment. He listened quietly, seemingly at peace, while I carried the unnamable ache of knowing this was goodbye. The hours we had left felt like both an eternity and a fleeting moment. Although I had been told weeks before that I might be part of his Death with Dignity process, it became evident that something had shifted. I was excluded from the endgame, left to grapple with the emotional and spiritual debris that followed.

The next day, September 11, 2017, Marty passed away after a nearly 20-hour process using physician-prescribed medication. It was his final act of control in a life defined by battles, triumphs, and courage. I was not present for this transition but felt its reverberations over and over in my heart. The following day, as Michael Franti played “Life Is Better with You” live at a concert Sharon and I attended, I could barely contain my tears, crying through nearly the entire song. Life was better with Marty in it. Now, we were left to face a world without his light, his laughter, and his spirit.

 I grieved for him deeply and still do. But through my grief, I realized that his ultimate act of courage was also a lesson, a call to release our false senses of control and open ourselves to the infinite. His story did not only end with loss; it evolved into transformation. His choice became a mirror that reflected life’s paradoxical truths back at us—that within endings, new understandings arise.

Throughout Marty’s final months, at times I felt disconnected, adrift in a sea of poor communication and strained friendships. Sharon, a hospice nurse who had dedicated her life to supporting others through loss, was largely sidelined by Eddy and Marty during those crucial weeks. The only reason I remained was that Marty insisted that I be present for many of his needs. Marty’s needs were not identical to Eddy’s needs. The layers of exclusion from Marty’s process resonated through the bonds of friendship we had built over decades.

Eddy accused me of having a homosexual relationship with Marty the last several months of his life, as I was so devoted to his healing.  Eddy’s understanding of love was a very limited and from my perspective a selfish type yet uniquely tailored to her experience.  Even within this emotional rift, healing sought a way in, like sunlight breaking through the canopy of a dense forest.

Marty had been more than a friend. He had been a guide on my own path of self-discovery. Through our shared experiences, I came to understand the precarious balance between living fully and letting go gracefully. He invited me into an unseen realm where the rigidity of societal structures crumbled, replaced by the fluidity of spirit and the boundlessness of creative energy. His death shattered parts of me I thought were unbreakable, yet in those broken places grew something profound and resilient. Through his passing, I found renewal.

Here is Marty’s final creative effort, a story of release from societal expectations, rigid attitudes, structure, repression, and the lifelong oppression of the human spirit into the infinite freedom of Spirit:

We visited the Riverview Cemetery last week, Doyle and I. Truth be told, I dragged Doyle there with me. I’m a green burial plot owner, and I wanted to see my plot and its surroundings in the morning sun from the East.

Although the hour was early, a couple of parties were already at the site, evidently an early graveside service and a couple visiting a recently- interred loved one with their dog. I was also looking for a sign of completion – a sign that Eddy and I had completed the arrangements for a “final rest” in a good way.

I looked up the hillside and remarked to Doyle, “Look, a coyote loping through the midst of the people and their pets with such obvious self-confidence. You can always recognize a coyote – even if you don’t think you have ever seen one before. They are never frightened – just there, immune to danger and above the fray.”

Yes, I recognized my sign, the age-old sign of the trickster, the shape-shifting presence of the coyote. May he safely inhabit this place forever. (end of story)

Marty, you are now safe.

The resting place for Marty’s body

Reflecting on Marty’s own words shared in one of his final creative writing pieces, I see the poetry of his life encapsulated in a single image. His visit to Riverview Cemetery and the encounter with the unperturbed coyote loping through the graveyard symbolized his narrative perfectly. The coyote, the timeless trickster, reminded us all to remain fluid, to transcend fear, and to find solace in the transitions life offers us. Marty saw in that creature a part of himself, a spirit unafraid to walk the line between worlds.

Marty’s spirit persists, not in some otherworldly place, but in the transformational energy he inspired in those of us left behind. He showed us how to reach into the ambiguity and find not despair, but meaning. Yes, Marty has left this earthly plane, but his presence is deeply woven into the stories we tell, the lives he touched, and the lessons he imparted.

His name may not echo in history books or grand monuments, but in the hearts of those who knew him, he is immortal.

Rest in peace, Marty.

You are whole, healed, and safe, and you have gifted us with the courage to meet life’s ultimate mysteries with strength and hope.