Section 1

• Prologue 
• Introduction
• Chapter 1:  An Electrician’s Guide to Our Universe
• Chapter 2:  The Sacred Circuitry of Creation
• Chapter 3: Like Father, Like Son? My Father’s Aborted Search for Truth, and its Influence Upon My Own
• Chapter 4: Why I Became an Electrician
• Chapter 5: Show and Tell
• Chapter 6:  The Architecture of Truth: From the Enclosure of Dogma to the Cathedral of the Universe
• Chapter 7:  A Search for Truth and a Journey Through the Abyss to Redemption

Prologue

There’s a particular kind of silence every electrician learns to respect—a tense stillness that settles in the seconds before a high-voltage switch is thrown. In that suspended moment, enormous energy hovers between potential and release. I wore fire-resistant clothing, noise-dampening earmuffs, and safety glasses, and I deliberately turned my face away from the equipment at the moment of activation. That last precaution was for the arc flash: a sudden, explosive burst of light and heat caused by electricity jumping through the air when something goes wrong. It arrives without warning. It shows no mercy. Even after exhaustive inspection and testing, I could never be fully certain how a system would respond to the surge of current unleashed at the moment of energization. I spent much of my career learning to read that silence, to sit inside uncertainty, and to act with precision despite it.

I never imagined that same silence would one day become the perfect metaphor for my relationship with memory, family, and the nature of the universe itself. When I finally closed the switch on this book, there was no plasma blast, no flash of catastrophic failure. The circuit simply held. We shall see whether it continues to.

Every electrician eventually learns a humbling truth: a signal sent into a circuit that doesn’t match its required impedance—its balance of resistance, capacitance, and inductance—does not pass through cleanly. Some of it reflects back toward the source. Some dissipates as heat. Energy is wasted before it ever becomes meaning. Where transmitter and medium are not matched, there is no clean transmission—only interference, and loss. The inverse is equally true. A receiver precisely tuned to a signal’s frequency can extract meaning from what others hear only as static. This is not merely the physics of electricity. It is, I have come to believe, the physics of every meaningful exchange between people, between generations, between a writer and a reader not yet born.

My father was not a naturally good listener. He had a sharp instinct for what held his attention, and an equally sharp instinct for what did not. In my infancy, his solution to a crying child was to carry me into the garage and set me in the car so he could sleep undisturbed. My parents eventually abandoned that particular habit, but the silence it installed in me proved harder to dismantle. I didn’t speak until well past the age of four, and by then I am certain I had several verbal signals circulating in me, searching for a receiver tuned to their frequency. I had learned, early and without anyone intending to teach me, what every electrician eventually discovers: without a resonant circuit, transmission fails. I was waiting, perhaps unconsciously, for a connection capable of carrying the first signal of my own identity.

It never quite arrived in the form the experts expected. But the dam broke eventually, as it does for those who find even a partial frequency match, and once it broke, I could not stop talking. My father wondered aloud whether I would ever be quiet. He never understood that he had helped build the dam himself, and that once it burst, he would be the one flooded by everything that had gathered behind it. Late in his life, as memory withdrew its favors one by one, he became something of a captive audience while I managed his failing affairs—and in that captivity, for perhaps the first time, he listened. His long years of quiet disinterest had offered something unexpectedly valuable all along: the simulation of a receiver. Imperfect, unsparing, real. He was my first audience, and in his flawed way, maybe my most honest one.

I carry a memory from the third grade that has stayed with me precisely because it never stopped being true. I was playing in the woods with a neighbor when she proposed a game of mutual disclosure. I agreed eagerly, exposed myself completely—and she refused to reciprocate, then ran off, leaving me standing there, vulnerable, met with nothing but indifference.

Writing has mirrored that memory throughout my life. To transmit a signal is to expose yourself and hope that something equally honest returns. That reciprocity, that confirmation of resonance, is what any scribe seeks most: not applause, but evidence that the signal crossed the distance and found something on the other side to receive it. Most audiences, like my childhood neighbor, don’t stay to find out. Over the years I have sent thousands of pages into the world—to men’s groups, to readers, to editors indifferent to anything but profit—and the response has mostly been silence. My pants remain figuratively around my ankles. It no longer embarrasses me. Embarrassment is a luxury I can’t afford at this stage of life. What remains once the need for applause falls away is something cleaner: the obligation to transmit. Not because reception is guaranteed, but because the signal is real, and suppressing it would be its own form of dishonesty. The transmitter doesn’t control whether a signal is received. It only controls whether the signal is sent.

Throughout history, certain people accept the task of documenting the interior life of their era—not the facts alone, but the truth beneath the facts, the human cost behind the statistic. Consider John Steinbeck during the Great Depression. He could have observed the nation’s suffering from a safe distance, a transmitter broadcasting from far off, its signal weakened by the very distance it traveled. Instead, he disguised himself as a migrant worker and lived among the displaced. He didn’t report on suffering; he let it alter his own frequency. The result wasn’t journalism. It was resonance—a transmission so precisely tuned that readers who had never set foot in a labor camp recognized their own interior landscape inside it.

This function grows more urgent as a civilization frays. Our social and ecological frameworks are fracturing under pressures accumulated over generations, and what fractures a shared story fractures the people who depend on it. What holds a people together, in the end, is the shared conviction that this happened, it mattered, and you are not alone in carrying what came after. When that carrier wave weakens, what once transmitted meaning degrades into noise. This is exactly where the scribe becomes necessary again.

I was, by trade, an electrician. I have been retired from that career for over a decade. Now, by inspiration and then by compulsion, I am something closer to a scribe. This is not a book about electricity. It is a book about everything a life spent reading current, resistance, and circuitry has taught me to see: in the movement of grief through a soul, in the way love outlives the body that once carried it, and in the quiet accumulation of meaning inside an ordinary life. With no children of my own to carry my name forward, the written word may be the only vessel through which anything essential in me reaches the people who come after. Some of those readers I will never meet. Strangers not yet born, who will one day stand at the edge of their own silence and need to know that someone stood there first, looked into the charged dark, and kept transmitting anyway.

That thought doesn’t diminish me. It clarifies the purpose of everything that follows.

And so, father—in whatever form you now take, be it my inner critic, society’s critics, or the universal love source—can you hear me now?

Introduction

I am seventy years old, and still learning how to live the life of a retired man. I am married to Sharon White, a retired hospice nurse and the author of Whose Death Is It Anyway: A Hospice Nurse Remembers. She has been my closest friend and partner for nearly thirty years, and together, through her two children, we share three grandsons. This book began as a blog, filled slowly over years with essays on recovery, trauma, and spirit, until one day I realized the material had become something larger: a body of work my grandsons might one day turn to, to understand who their grandfather actually was, what he lived through, and what he came to believe.

You’ve picked up a book with an unusual title:  An Electrician’s Guide to Our Universe, and a Life, Love, and Death Upon Its Unlimited Bandwidth.

Perhaps you’re wondering what an electrician could possibly tell you about life, love, and death and the nature of reality. Maybe the word “bandwidth” caught your attention, or perhaps you’re simply curious about how someone who works with wires and circuits views the cosmos. Let me explain what you’re holding and why I believe it matters.

Unpacking the Title

Before moving on, the title deserves a closer look, breaking it down word by word so that what follows connects both emotionally and structurally. Each word carries its own weight and purpose, so let’s explore them one at a time.

“An Electrician’s Guide”

establishes both the perspective and the approach. I am an electrician—not by accident or convenience, but by calling. For decades, I’ve worked intimately with the fundamental force that powers our modern world. I’ve learned to see energy where others see only switches and outlets, to trace invisible currents through complex systems, to identify points of resistance and facilitate better flow and connection.

This isn’t a technical manual. You won’t find wiring diagrams or electrical codes here. Instead, the electrician’s lens provides a unique vantage point for viewing reality itself. When you spend your life working with principles of voltage, current, resistance, and conductivity, you begin to recognize these same principles operating everywhere—in human psychology, in relationships, in spiritual development, in the very structure of consciousness.

This guide is practical because it emerges from hands-on experience. Every concept has been tested not in abstract thought but in real-world application. Just as a good electrician must understand both theory and practice, this book bridges the conceptual and the experiential.

“To Our Universe”

expands our scope beyond the merely personal. Yes, this book will help you understand yourself better, but it does so by placing you within a larger context. You are not separate from the universe—you are the universe experiencing itself through a particular focal point of consciousness.

The universe I’ll describe isn’t the cold, mechanical cosmos of materialist science, nor is it the purely mystical realm of disembodied spirituality. It’s a living, dynamic network of energy and consciousness, operating according to principles that govern everything from subatomic particles to galactic superclusters, from neural impulses to spiritual awakenings. Think of it as a vast electrical grid, infinitely more complex than any human-designed system. Every star is a power source, every being a unique node within its circuitry, every interaction an exchange of energy. We’re all connected to this grid, drawing from it and contributing to it, whether we realize it or not.

This is an extensive work, so I hope you weren’t expecting the Cliff Notes or the abridged version of universal knowledge.

And a Life, Love, and Death”

brings the focus to what matters most: the fundamental experiences that define human existence. These aren’t abstract concepts but lived realities that every person navigates.

• Life—the mysterious force that animates matter, the current that flows through us from birth to death, the energy that seeks expression, growth, and connection.
• Love—the most powerful force we experience, the ultimate conductor that allows energy to flow between beings, the resonance that occurs when two frequencies align in harmony.
• Death—not an ending but a transformation, a change in the energy of the circuit, a return of energy to the universal field from which it emerged.

Through the electrician’s lens, these experiences reveal new dimensions. Life becomes understandable as a particular configuration of energy. Love manifests as resonance and conductivity. Death appears as a transformation of energy from one form to another, following the fundamental principle that energy cannot be created or destroyed, only changed.

“On Its Unlimited Bandwidth”

points to the central promise of this book: potential. In electrical terms, bandwidth refers to the capacity to transmit information—the range of frequencies a system can handle, the amount of data that can flow through a channel. Applied to human consciousness and spiritual development, unlimited bandwidth suggests that we have access to far more than we typically experience.

As an electrician, I never just saw a light switch. I saw the circuit behind it: the unseen current, the flow of energy from source, through conductor, to the point where it finally does its work—illuminating a room, powering a tool, closing a loop. This book borrows that lens, not to explain the wiring in your walls, but to trace the circuitry of a life—the currents that connect meaning to its source, love to the people who taught us how to withhold or offer it, and death to whatever larger bandwidth consciousness moves into once the body can no longer carry it.

A conductor, whether copper or human, can only do its work when the circuit is complete. I spent decades learning that a system running on a single polarity—all voltage and no ground, all output and no return—doesn’t illuminate anything. It just overheats. I have come to believe the same is true of a life, a family, or a culture that runs only on one frequency: achievement without reflection, control without surrender, noise without silence. Much of what follows is an account of what happens when the circuit fails, and what it takes to restore it.

That restoration required something the trade also taught me: you don’t fix a system you refuse to look at, and you don’t diagnose a fault by staying at a safe distance from it. I have lived the dark side of this circuitry myself—the ignorance of a family and a culture unaware of the damage they were wiring into their children, the traumas and toxicities so normalized within the American narrative that most people never think to call them by name. I nearly didn’t survive my own wiring. In 1987, near death and out of options, I had an experience that rewrote the base code of who I understood myself to be. What emerged from that rewiring is the raw material of this book: reflections on addiction and recovery, on toxic masculinity and toxic religion, on the conspiracy of silence that keeps families and nations from naming what actually happened to them, and on the unlimited bandwidth of experience available to anyone willing to stop insulating themselves against it.

None of this is offered as easy comfort. It’s offered as a set of tools—a working theory for the design of what I’ll call our spiritual circuits, and a guide to rewiring the loose or faulty connections most of us inherited without ever choosing them. Some of these essays run philosophical and intellectual. Others descend into the darker rooms of the psyche, mine included. I have made no effort to sand down the rough edges or perform a version of myself more palatable than the one who actually lived this. A master teacher once told me that no teacher can effect your salvation—you have to work it out yourself. What follows is my record of that work: witnessed, transmitted, and now, finally, sent out to whoever is tuned to receive it.

Who This Book Is For

• If you’ve ever wondered whether your life has deeper meaning…
• If you’ve sensed connections between seemingly separate things…
• If you’ve felt there must be more to existence than what meets the eye…
• If you’re searching for a framework that honors both scientific understanding and spiritual yearning…

Then this book is for you.

You don’t need to be an electrician, an engineer, or scientifically minded. You don’t need background in spirituality, philosophy, or metaphysics. You need only curiosity and openness—a willingness to consider that reality might be more interconnected, more meaningful, and more accessible than you’ve been taught.

This book serves multiple audiences: Spiritual seekers will find a fresh perspective that bridges science and spirituality without reducing either to the other. Analytical minds will appreciate the practical, systematic approach to experiences often dismissed as merely subjective. Those in transition will discover tools for navigating change, understanding resistance, and facilitating transformation. Anyone questioning meaning will encounter a framework that reveals pattern and purpose woven through existence.

How to Approach This Material

Read actively.

Question everything.

Test ideas against your experience.

The goal isn’t to convince you of anything but to offer tools and perspectives you can use. Notice where resistance arises—it often indicates something important. Like electrical resistance, psychological resistance reveals where energy wants to flow but finds blockage. These moments offer opportunities for insight, growth, and  breakthrough.

Stay grounded throughout. For all this book’s exploration of consciousness and spirituality, it’s rooted in practical reality. The principles discussed aren’t escapist fantasy but applicable wisdom for navigating actual existence. Take what serves you and leave what doesn’t. Truth resonates. When something rings true, it’s because it aligns with what you already know at some level.

Trust that resonance.

An Invitation

The universe hums with energy, consciousness, and potential. You exist within this vast network, connected to everything, with access to unlimited bandwidth. Most of us live like outdated technology, unaware of the upgrade waiting within us. This book is an invitation to that upgrade—to expand your capacity, remove your limitations, and tune into frequencies of experience you’ve never accessed. It’s about becoming more fully yourself by understanding yourself as part of something infinite.

So let’s begin this journey together.

Whether you’re an electrician, an engineer, a philosopher, a seeker, or simply someone curious about the deeper patterns of existence, there’s a place for you here.

Plug in.

Tune in.

The current is already flowing.

Let us all become empowered by the energy of our universe!

With the framework in place, it’s time to descend into the specifics—the wiring of one particular life. Every system, after all, is best understood not in the abstract, but at its point of origin.

Mine begins earlier than memory itself.

Turn the page.

Chapter 1:  An Electrician’s Guide to Our Universe

“We don’t see the world as it is, we see it as we are.”

—Anais Nin

My life’s work has been about understanding systems. As an electrician, computer engineer, and general systems’ analyst, when I wan’t designing or building new circuits or computers or installing electrical systems, my job was to troubleshoot—to find the point of failure, bring repair, and restore balance. I’ve supported multi-billion-dollar chip fabrication plants and maintained the pumping systems for an entire city’s water supply, from reservoirs through local pump stations . I love functioning systems, and I’m intensely curious about why some succeed while others, even after long periods of operation, eventually fail. The first step, always, is to understand the system. Before any repair can begin, you have to know how it’s wired.

This book is my attempt to apply that same diagnostic lens to the most complex system of all: the human being.

We are about to embark on a great adventure, a journey into the center of our being and consciousness itself. Our tools will be words and stories, consciously developed to create containers for our infinite spirit. These containers will keep us safe as we uncouple from the old, frayed wiring of misunderstanding and personal dis-ease, allowing us to rediscover our capacity to live by the power of our timeless, limitless, present-moment self.

But to understand the system, we must first trace its origins.

The Ghost in the Machine

One of my earliest stories is a powerful one. As a baby, I was often wrapped in a blanket and placed in the car in the garage at night so my parents could sleep. My father was chasing the American Dream, working two jobs, and I was just another “damned crying baby.” Though I had no conscious memory of it, this experience left me feeling abandoned and lonely from the very beginning. A toxicity pervaded my childhood home—the same toxicity that still pervades our culture. My father, caught in his own web of fear and threat, overreacted to any perceived disturbance. I felt a need to internally, though unconsciously, balance whatever energy he over-expressed, a habit that certainly wired my own passive-aggressive tendencies. Though I loved my parents, I did not want to become them. For most of my life, I couldn’t get past my upbringing.

The unhealed traumas of our past become entombed within our bodily tissues. When our personalities are formed by layering ego upon our wounds, the wounds become inseparable from us, affecting us in ways that aren’t always visible on the surface. For years, I believed my cries weren’t important, and this belief shaped my reality. I felt alone because I had been taught that I was.

We all suffer under traumatic influences, whether from family, school, work, or Mother Nature Herself. Society is often the greatest inflictor of trauma on the individual. Our medical, economic, religious, and political traditions have largely failed to understand humanity’s basic, innermost needs: to be valued and to be heard. This failure has caused unnecessary pain and suffering, and we have all tried to manage our symptoms in our own unique, and often dysfunctional, ways.

For years, I chipped away at my life through self-destructive choices. My suicidal behaviors existed on a spectrum. It wasn’t just about the acute act, but also about not fully developing my potential, not connecting with my or others’ spirit of wholeness, and not truly living. It’s the person who, feeling they can’t measure up, stops talking, overeats, doesn’t exercise, or drinks too much. We don’t call it suicide while it’s happening, but when we see so many with early disease or dying young, there is no other way to describe a life of choices that did not affirm their value.

From 1971 through 1987, as a practicing alcoholic, drug addict, and mentally ill human being, I lost most of my freedom of choice. I understand now that when I turned to substances, I was trying to escape the wounds of trauma. On January 28, 1986, I made a conscious decision to kill myself. Of course I didn’t succeed, but I have spent considerable time since looking back on that day, trying to understand the failure of cultural, familial, and personal circuitry that led me there.

The Conspiracy of Silence

You can’t speak truth to power if you have not yet fully engaged the power of the authentic self where your truth resides.

Many of us don’t have a life narrative—a story that embodies the wisdom we’ve gained and the problems we’ve overcome. I call this the conspiracy of silence. It’s not an intentional silence, but one born from a lack of words or the willingness to describe our personal pain. This silence is taken advantage of by those around us and by our political, religious, and economic leaders. They assume that if we say nothing, we’re doing okay. When we don’t know how to speak our truth, our silence is interpreted as agreement.  

This conspiracy is built right into the framework of our collective consciousness. Our shared knowledge attempts to keep us in alignment with each other, no matter how out of phase with the truth that knowledge may be. This toxic silence allows conflicts to fester, preventing us from addressing the underlying issues of trauma, wounding, and oppression. The conspiracy continues whenever people become too fearful to speak their truth, fearing further attack and marginalization.

To not express ourselves honestly is to invite our own early demise, spiritually and physically. We become invisible to each other, and worse, we become invisible to ourselves when we fail to listen to our inner voice crying out for justice, peace, and healing. Other people’s stories and their garbage get back-filled into the empty spaces within our foundation of consciousness, adding to our internal confusion and chaos. We must choose to stop adhering to the worn-out patterns inculcated by culture, religion, and our own misunderstandings. We must each penetrate the conspiracy of silence and bring the light of a loving heart and healing words into the hidden darkness.

The Power of Telling Your Story

When someone commits suicide, even those closest to them are often surprised. They never knew the person carried such thoughts and intentions. That’s because a person approaching that darkness has already minimized their own pain and their willingness to be seen. They believe no one wants to listen. We are lonely because we don’t think anyone cares to hear what we have to say. And in many cases, we don’t know what we’d say even if someone were listening.

I have a dear friend who, at eighty years old, still cannot tell her story. She had several suicide attempts in her life. Her children, now adults, never understood what drove her to those decisions, and they struggle with similar issues today. Their mother’s story could become great advisors to their lives, but she doesn’t have the words or the strength to put her healing journey into language.

This is what is said in AA meetings: we share our experience, strength, and hope. When we have a story, we can help lift the person one step below us. They are looking for meaning, and if they can be encouraged by someone who has found it, that’s hope.

For a long time, I didn’t have a narrative. I had nothing to say. I was the guy who sat back in groups, smiling or spacing out, because I didn’t think I had anything to contribute. I feared that even if I did, no one would listen. One day, I begged my wife, Sharon, to tell my story for me. She was already a great writer. Compassionately but firmly, she reminded me that my story was my own to tell, and that it would die with me unless I found the courage to share it.

That was when I truly started trying. A story was bubbling up inside me that felt like 100 pounds of stuff in a 10-pound bag. It had to get out. As I began revisiting my childhood, a profound realization struck me. I saw, for the first time, the wounding process I shared with my father. I felt an incredible compassion and love for him, a man who had also suffered immensely under his own diseased parental upbringing. If you are tired of people taking advantage of you, trampling on your heart, or if you are tired of staying silent, you must examine your experiences and open yourself to these profound realizations, and find your hidden voice..

A New Circuit: The Miracle Experiment

My spiritual awakening began in 1987, marking my own exit from the chaotic mindset that had defined my life. I had to begin a search for my own personal truth. I had to start developing my own story. I had to believe my words had value, that I could listen to myself, no matter how painful or terrifying the messages bubbling up within me were. I had to make peace with my demons, seeing them not as tricksters but as guides. I had to reinterpret the darkness in my heart and give it an opportunity to speak, because that’s where my story truly begins.

A large part of my healing involved what I call my Miracle Experiment. Simply put, this is the intention, and all subsequent effort, to heal from traumatic wounding and the consciousness it creates. It means dealing directly with the darkness of our past, seeing it in the light of insight and compassion, and moving onto new paths of conscious evolution.

The Miracle Experiment brings the understanding that every time I identify with a person, a process, or a place, I am either creating a new path of consciousness or reaffirming an old, worn-out one. Identifiers like “I am a victim,” “I am an alcoholic,” or “I am a son of Beryl and Corinne Paullin” keep me traveling in old directions. But I can just as easily say, “I am no longer traveling old paths of consciousness.” Through mindfulness and meditation, I can reduce time-based thinking, stop rehearsing painful old memories, and create a new life experience for myself. Because of our innate human capacity to heal, we can can reveal the presence of a long ignored timeless self.

This experiment has no guarantee of cultural success; institutionalized trauma is highly resistant to change. But to the degree that an individual can uncouple from these toxic influences and explore the roots of their suffering, the Miracle Experiment can proceed. It is the perfect solution for when life feels out of control.

A Life on the Unlimited Bandwidth

This book is not for the healthy, wealthy, and wise among us. It is for those seeking to build their own bridge to our shared healing potential. If you want more from life, if the conspiracy of silence is holding you back, then I have written this book for you. My life’s lessons were not gained in a classroom or at the feet of a guru. My wisdom comes from real life—from love, friendship, family, and work. Life has trained me to be not only an electrician, but also opened my mind and heart to deeper inquiries into psychology, philosophy,  and spirituality.

Since 1987, I have chosen to live more fully, with enhanced awareness and honest expression. I experience joy and peace most of the time. This peace isn’t fleeting; it’s niw predominantly a constant presence. If we are not experiencing miracles in our daily lives, it only indicates that we are too firmly entrenched in the ruts of our past. 

Make peace with your story. Develop your own narrative and be the hero of your own journey. Find and cherish your story, no matter how difficult it is at first, because as you heal, that story takes on a significance that connects it to the grand story of us all. It should no longer be “his story” or “her story,” but our shared story.

Are you tired of your own suffering? Are you tired of being a silent figure in the dreams of others? Are you tired of your past wounds controlling your present?

How much is our cultural and personal overlayments to the truth responsible for our pain and suffering?

Let us now start to explore the possibility of living a life on the umlimited bandwidth of the universe.

Chapter 2: The Sacred Circuitry of Creation

Have you ever stopped to think how much the craft of an electrician mirrors the harmony of the universe itself? Probably not too much, eh? You are not alone! Yet here lies a truth so profound it will reshape how you see both the cosmos and your place within it. This book is both an electrician’s guide to the universe and a retired man’s journey into the unknown—a convergence of practical wisdom and spiritual awakening that explores life, love, and death within the universe’s vast, unlimited bandwidth. At first glance, the cosmos and the electrical trade might seem worlds apart. One is rooted in wires, circuits, energy distribution, and the tangible flow of electrons; the other stretches across galaxies, black holes, and mysteries that dwarf our imagination. Yet as we delve deeper into the systems powering our homes, businesses, and societies, we uncover patterns of energy that harmonize with the self-organizing principles governing our bodies, our minds, and the very birth and motion of stars themselves. And we uncover a ground of existence that is common to everything and everybody, in a true matrix of universal interconnectness. The universe, you see, functions as a vast living cosmic circuit—and we are all active components within it.

The Universal Electrical Code

This book spans 42 chapters and uses over 300,000 words, filling nearly 450 pages. “Unlimited bandwidth” might sound like a neat, concise phrase, but capturing its true meaning takes a massive effort. This book is my version of the Universal Electrical Code. It’s not a condensed take on the National Electrical Code or the Bible, and if you’re looking for Cliff Notes, you won’t find them here. Big thoughts and agendas take massive books to contain all relevant information. Take the National Electrical Code (NEC)—a 900-page masterpiece of meticulous detail that every electrician swears by. It’s more than just a technical manual; it’s a guide for taming raw, potentially dangerous energy and turning it into safe, life-giving light. Every section emphasizes safe energy use and proper current flow—principles that prevent fires, failures, and even loss of life. The NEC is nearly as hefty as the Bible—about 1,200 pages of spiritual guidance compared to 900 pages of electrical know-how. Despite their differences, these texts share a key similarity. Both provide frameworks for safely accessing and using energy: the NEC equips electricians with practical tools for managing electrical energy in the physical world. while the Bible offers guidance to those of a Judeo-Christian persuasion on navigating spiritual energies like faith, morality, and divine connection. The divergence highlights something essential about the nature of energy. The NEC seldom allows exceptions to its strict safety rules unless additional measures are implemented to ensure safety—energy follows unchanging laws. Energy appears to require respect for its core principles, whether it moves through copper wires or the human mind. The Bible’s interpretations, on the other hand, have inspired both profound acts of love and tragic conflicts throughout history. Theological interpretations often reflect the changing times and the limited spiritual understanding of those presenting them.

The Electrician’s Meditation: Energy, Matter, and the Architecture of Existence

For electricians, our work resonates deeply with the metaphorical significance of light described in Genesis: “And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. And God saw that the light was good, and God separated the light from the darkness.” Light transcends mere photons. It signifies the ordering of chaos, the awakening of consciousness, the unveiling of creative power, and the experience of true humility that brings perspective—and often, an accompanying sense of humor. This biblical declaration serves as an archetype for human creativity: our ability to imagine, innovate, inspire, educate, and transform while keeping our love engines engaged. This aligns seamlessly with the electrician’s craft. Our work begins in darkness—empty spaces, dormant potential—and culminates in illumination that brings life to lifeless structures. There is profound satisfaction in flipping that switch for the first time in a newly wired building, an act that echoes the genesis of creation itself: turning darkness into brilliance, revealing a new order.

What Is Energy, Really?

Energy is defined as the ability to do work, and reveals itself in two fundamental forms: kinetic and potential. Kinetic energy is the universe in motion, the vibrant pulse of action. We see it in the determined strokes of a swimmer cleaving through water, in the relentless flow of electrons igniting a circuit, or in the powerful thrust of a rocket defying gravity’s hold. It is the energy of doing, of becoming, of the tangible and immediate now. Conversely, potential energy is the quiet hum of what could be, the universe holding its breath. It is the immense power coiled within a battery, waiting for a connection to release its charge. It exists in the stillness of an apple suspended from a branch, pregnant with the promise of its fall, or in the silent tension of a drawn bowstring, anticipating the arrow’s flight. This is the energy of storage, of anticipation, of latent power residing just beneath the surface of reality. But beyond these scientific classifications, what is energy at its very core? Is it merely the measurable force that powers our cities and technologies, a utility to be harnessed and controlled? Or could it be something more profound—the invisible, unifying current that threads through all existence, linking every star, every stone, and every living soul in a grand, cosmic dance? It is both the force that moves the world and the silent, ever-present field in which the world moves. There may not be a place in our universe where there is no energy, so please let up on the “I am out of energy” complaint! Energy is the ability to do work—it fuels our lives, powers our homes, and drives our spiritual growth. As an electrician, I served as one of its critical intermediaries, learning to transform raw power into something usable, orderly, and beneficial. I helped build networks that shepherd energy from vast, untethered sources—wind, solar, hydroelectric, nuclear reactors—into structured systems that warm families and light their way. Consider the serene waters behind a dam, holding potential energy in perfect stillness. A single release sends water cascading through turbines, exchanging stored potential for kinetic motion. There, amid spinning generators, emerges electricity—a modern miracle seamlessly delivered to power our daily lives.

The Universal Truth: E=mc²

But energy’s transformations extend far beyond turbines and conductors. Einstein’s profound equation E=mc² reveals that matter and energy are interchangeable expressions of the same universal truth. This deceptively simple formula tells us that even the smallest particle of matter contains an extraordinary amount of energy—the speed of light squared multiplied by its mass. When matter converts to energy, as in nuclear reactions, the results are staggering: a single gram of matter theoretically contains enough energy to power a city for days. This equation doesn’t merely describe a physical phenomenon; it unveils the fundamental architecture of reality itself. This hints at something grander than physics: energy may be the quintessence of existence itself. Perhaps we are not separate beings consuming energy, but rather temporary manifestations of the same cosmic force that ignites stars and orchestrates the dance of galaxies. In this view, consciousness itself becomes another expression of energy’s infinite creativity—a universe awakening to its own magnificent nature through countless eyes, including our own.

Energy as Life’s Potential

The universe whispers that these concepts are not limited to the world of physics. Within us lies energy capable of creation, transformation, and perpetuity. Every decision, every thought is energy—just waiting to manifest itself into action or stillness. Consider this metaphor: energy is life’s potential, vibrating unseen until directed into tangible outcomes. And matter—be it the masses we interact with daily or our own physical forms—is the vessel that molds energy into creation. The question facing us as individuals is timeless yet urgent. How do we understand and utilize the energies that flow through and around us, externally in nature and internally within ourselves? How big is the spiritual reservoir behind our bodily appearance, awaiting access, transformation, and utilization? While energy exists as an indifferent, universal force, as an electrician I served as one of its critical intermediaries. I learned how to turn raw power into something usable, orderly, and beneficial. I helped build the networks that shepherd energy from its vast, untethered sources into structured and efficient systems that light lamps and warm families. I dealt in precision. I understood Ohm’s Law, circuit diagrams, logic, Boolean algebra, thermodynamics, calculus, physics, chemistry, materials science, electrical engineering and the application of transformers, and I applied that knowledge to design new circuits, maintain circuit stability, and enhance voltage and current control. But my work was not only technical. It was a manifestation of humanity’s remarkable ability to transform natural forces into tools for collective progress. Visualize it this way—energy travels across power lines like rivers weaving through civilizations, reaching the duplex outlets in your home, offering you a reservoir of potential. It is both mundane and extraordinary. Electricians don’t just craft lines linking power plants to light fixtures—they create pathways for our shared human energies and aspirations. Ever wondered where your energy really comes from? It’s a question that has captivated thinkers for centuries. We often focus on the tangible sources—the food we eat, the sleep we get. But what if there’s more to the story? What if there’s a deeper well of energy, one that goes beyond simple calories and chemical reactions? Exploring this possibility isn’t just a philosophical exercise; it’s a practical quest to unlock our fullest potential. Our bodies are incredible energy-conversion machines. Every meal you eat is meticulously broken down through complex metabolic processes, with cells acting like tiny power plants. They turn food into molecules like ATP and glycogen, which fuel everything we do. At rest, your body generates about 100 watts of power—enough to light up a bright bulb. During a workout, that can surge to 400 watts. This biological engine powers neurological processes behind every thought, every movement, and every heartbeat. To many it is a closed system of matter-to-energy conversion, a beautiful piece of natural engineering. Yet, many ancient traditions and modern explorers of consciousness suggest that our biological energy is only half the picture. They speak of accessing universal energies, or “prana,” that flow through and around us, independent of food consumption. Is it possible to tap into these external energy fields to supplement our internal power? Can practices like meditation, breathwork, or being in nature give us access to a reservoir of vitality that our digestive system can’t? This is where science meets spirit, challenging us to look beyond the meal on our plate and consider the untapped energy that might be waiting for us to connect with it.

Harnessing Personal and Spiritual Energy

Just as electricians harness physical energy, so too must we harness personal and spiritual energy. Efficient use of energy, both external and internal, shapes not only the material world but also our potential as humans seeking fulfillment and growth. Energy consumption patterns define how we interact with the environment, offering gentle reminders for mindfulness. Are we stewards of the energy systems we command, or reckless overseers exhausting finite resources? On a personal level, consider the distribution of your energy. Are you directing it toward pursuits that fulfill your growth and nourish your essence? Or is it scattered across transient distractions, creating resistance in your inner circuitry? The quest for spirituality magnifies this question. Many ancient traditions—from yogic practices to meditation—encourage the mastery of energy flow within the human body. These methodologies mirror the flows of electrical networks, guiding energy to the spaces where it can shine brightest. Our bodies, like all the material world, are an embodiment of energy. Managing and maintaining our personal energy can provide profound benefits.

The Thread of Existence

Energy is the thread stitching the fabric of existence. Electricians may be seen as builders of the scaffolding that powers human societies, yet their work reflects a universal truth—energy must be tended to, guided, and appreciated to reach its highest potential. For spiritual and human potential advocates, the lessons gleaned from energy’s role in physics can apply to personal growth and balance. Every spark, transformation, and manifestation is a reminder of life’s stunning interconnectedness. Energy flows within the circuitry of the universe, and it flows within us. Hold this knowledge in your hands like a bright, buzzing sphere of potential. Know it for what it is—a force capable of illuminating the path forward. Align with its rhythm. Allow all actions to echo its purposeful transformations. Energy does not discriminate where it resides, but we hold the power to decide where we direct it next.

The Living Circuit of Existence

What if the wires we twist together, the currents we measure, and the circuits we build mirrored the fabric of existence itself? What if the principles that govern electricity also held the keys to understanding our universe—and our place within it? For electricians like myself, the unseen harmony of energy flows isn’t just a technical marvel; it can be a profound metaphor for existence. Every connection we make—whether to a person, a purpose, or the infinite universe—has a current. There must be a difference in potential for this exchange or movement of energy to occur. Then it flows, builds, and returns, creating a circuit of energy in and out of our lives. Each thought, loving word, or intention we send outward amplifies this energy, constructing pathways for signals to find their way back to us. We are, at our core, transmitters, receivers, and transformers in life’s vast energetic network. From Genesis to the stars beyond, energy flows in mathematically perfect patterns. Gravity distributes influence like a transformer regulates voltage, ensuring balance. Grounding wires stabilize circuits just as mindfulness grounds humanity, preventing overreactions and chaos. Light—whether physical or spiritual—becomes the common thread that banishes darkness and disorder in favor of clarity and connection. The universe is not navigated solely by intellect but through the intuitive compass of the heart and soul. The path toward universal truth is vast, non-linear, and often shrouded in uncertainty. It demands a courage that comes from vulnerability—a willingness to step into the unknown rather than cling to what feels safe or familiar. Exploration requires active participation. We must engage with texts, communities, mentors, and experiences. We are not merely hitchhikers in this vehicle of consciousness. We are its engineer, its pilot, and its fuel. At the heart of this theory of energy lies the understated yet profound force of intention. Just as wires are designed with specific purpose—to illuminate, to power, to connect—so is the universe. Each star burns with resolute intention to shine. Every black hole compresses unimaginable possibility. Every switch in a circuit offers a choice to ignite, to bridge, or to signal meaning. Our lives, like those circuits, harbor immense potential to light up the spaces around us when we align with purpose. Energy doesn’t just govern household currents or celestial patterns; it pulses through us too. From the neurons firing in the brain to acts of kindness communicated in invisible networks of meaning, humans are living circuits constantly exchanging metaphysical charges. Ideas, dreams, emotions—all act like currents transmitting forward momentum and, critically, demanding balance. The NEC and the universe agree on one truth above all else—energy either flows efficiently, or unexpected disorder awaits. Whether it’s a short circuit in a panel or entropy among celestial bodies, imbalance has consequences. But when these principles harmonize, the result is breathtaking beauty—lit rooms, communication over vast distances, thriving cities, or galaxies awash in starlight. Modern life, however, often short-circuits us. Endless demands drain our energy unevenly, leaving us disconnected from ourselves and others. What appears as chaos on the surface is simply energy that needs redistribution. Take a moment to assess your “load demands,” much like electricians do when designing circuits. What commitments fuel you? Which ones drain you without benefit? Learning when to redirect energy—toward balanced and harmonious flow—allows us to thrive. Within this landscape of constraint lies a profound truth: personal practice becomes political action. When we cultivate presence, deepen our connections, and reclaim our energy through intentional living, we do more than heal ourselves—we build the foundation for collective resistance. Each individual who breaks free from the machinery of disconnection becomes a node in a wider network of consciousness. A society of individuals who know themselves, who maintain their energetic sovereignty, and who remain connected to one another cannot be easily manipulated or controlled. The path toward liberation begins not in the halls of power but in the quiet, revolutionary act of becoming fully present to our own lives and to each other. Living in resonance with the universe and its unlimited bandwidth allows us to reflect on two critical questions: Are we harmonizing our energy with existence—contributing to growth, connection, and evolution beyond limits we thought we could not exceed? Or are we like disconnected wires, sparking aimlessly, ungrounded and dissipating energy into the ether?

Tuning Into Universal Bandwidth

The universe doesn’t shout; it hums. Its messages may manifest as creative silence within receptive minds, persistent thoughts, uncanny coincidences, unexpected insights, lucid or teaching dreams, and songs that seem written just for us. Listening transcends mere hearing—it means tuning our entire consciousness to existence’s subtler frequencies. Bandwidth carries a rich metaphorical significance. Technically, it measures a network’s data transmission capacity. On a deeper level, it symbolizes our ability to push past the limits of our known reality, build meaningful and dynamic relationships, and connect with the mysteries of the natural world. It represents an ever-expanding range of love, collaboration, and shared understanding. Living within universal bandwidth means aligning ourselves with life’s broadest frequencies, tapping into a deeper purpose and collective energy. Are we connected within this invisible grid? Are we amplifying signals of empathy and creativity, or functioning like ungrounded wires, disconnected from others through hatred and unforgiveness, while sparking aimlessly in isolation? Electricians know that grounding is crucial for balance and safety in systems. Similarly, humans need grounding to maintain stability in the chaos of life. Practices like reflection, service, meditation, and mindfulness serve as grounding wires against the surges of modern living. This topic is much too important to just have a cursory introduction to and will be explored in depth in a future chapter. Our true ground must be consciously embraced and incorporated into daily life. With light comes humility and humor.

When we ponder our galaxy’s vastness or consider accessing infinite universal bandwidth, we see that our individual light, though important, remains infinitesimally small compared to cosmic grandeur. If we are energy in motion—symphonies of luminous circuits and deep shadow—then cultivating lightness becomes vital. Humor lightens both load and spirit, transforming life’s intricacies into experiences that illuminate a life well-lived. This cosmic perspective offers us profound wisdom through simple observation. Just as you would laugh at the thought of a brain cell considering itself more important than a lung cell, the universe metaphorically smiles when we think ourselves more important than other species, or one member of our species more valuable than another.

Consider how absurd it would be if your left hand declared independence from your right, or if your heart claimed superiority over your kidneys. Such declarations would be both impossible and ridiculous—yet this is precisely how we often behave as humans within the larger organism of existence. To be light-hearted connects us to the universe’s wit—a natural reminder of how energy in our human experience can ebb, flow, play, and even laugh at itself without shame or friction. This lightness isn’t frivolity; it’s recognition of our place within an incomprehensibly vast and interconnected whole. Could you imagine the response of a universe when confronted by an individual claiming their own rugged individualism, or our collective human exceptionalism? Picture a single wave declaring its independence from the ocean, or a note in a symphony insisting it could exist without the orchestra. The universe would laugh—not with cruelty, but with the gentle amusement of infinite wisdom—at the whole idea that anybody or anything could live a life separate and apart from the life-giving and life-sustaining universe.

The Transmission of Truth

To venture toward universal truth, our consciousness must offer unparalleled vision—beaming spiritual intentions into the cosmic fabric while remaining sensitive enough to receive the faintest echoes of guidance, wisdom, and insight reflected back like light from distant stars. Consciousness can be seen as both the observer and the creator of much of what it perceives. Through vision—both literal and spiritual—we connect with the universe, uncovering meaning in its mysteries. Expanding spiritual vision is like upgrading a telescope; the stars remain unchanged, but our ability to see them clearly improves. What blocks our spiritual vision?

• Fear?
• Doubt?
• Unhealed trauma?
• Fixation on trivial details?

Clearing these roadblocks expands our conscious lens, allowing universal truths to focus clearly. Any dynamic exchange requires strong transmission and accurate reception. Projecting spiritual intention means sending heartfelt desires, questions, and affirmations into existence’s vastness—clear, intentional, purpose-driven signals into deep space. But transmission needs reception. The universe often whispers through synchronicities, moments of inspiration, profound silences. Can we sharpen our ability to listen, not just to what we expect but to what we need? Living in resonance with the universe’s unlimited bandwidth compels us to reflect on two critical questions:

1. Are we harmonizing our energy with existence—contributing to growth, connection, and evolution beyond limits we thought we couldn’t exceed?
2. Or are we like disconnected wires, sparking aimlessly, ungrounded and dissipating energy into the ether?

This task transcends mechanics—it’s profoundly spiritual. It requires illuminating every corner of our existence with clarity, facing resistance with courage, keeping energy flowing in service of others. To live aligned with universal bandwidth means seeing life’s circuits as multidimensional, a delicate interplay of persistence and resistance, viewing challenges not as barriers but as dormant wires awaiting connection or switches ready to illuminate unknown possibilities.

The NEC and the universe agree on one truth: energy either flows efficiently, or unexpected disorder awaits. Whether it’s a short circuit or entropy among celestial bodies, imbalance has consequences. But when these principles harmonize, the result is breathtaking beauty—lit rooms, communication across vast distances, thriving cities, galaxies awash in starlight. We are as much architects of our separateness as we can be builders of our reconnection with the infinite. It’s time we choose the latter—to evolve not apart from, but within, existence’s grand, immeasurable tapestry. This book serves as your guide through kingdoms of consciousness, from familiar common knowledge into the transformative realm where uncommon wisdom, the sacred, and the great unknown guide the pilgrim. There is beauty in the quest for self-awareness. Begin with small steps toward questioning, meditating, exploring the unknown within.

What lies at the edge of our universe? Perhaps an undiscovered truth. What lies at your core? Perhaps the same truth. As you rise into higher consciousness, remember this: the skies are endless for those ready to take flight. Where on the universe’s boundless bandwidth will your mind lead you? We may not know exactly how the journey will end, but most of us have a pretty clear idea of where it began. The next five chapters share my beginnings on the path toward limitless bandwidth.

Having traced energy from the stars to the wiring in our own bodies, it’s time to ground this exploration in a more intimate circuit: the one passed down, generation to generation, within a single family. Every seeker inherits an unfinished search.

Mine began with my father.

Chapter 3: Like Father, Like Son? My Father’s Aborted Search for Truth, and Its Influence Upon My Own

Every soul that yearns for healing and transformation is eventually called to a personal search—a quest for its own unique truth. But what is this elusive “truth,” and where can it be found? We are often told that the path winds through the teachings of historical figures or the wisdom of enlightened gurus. Yet, those with true spiritual discernment understand a more profound reality: all truth must ultimately be unearthed from within the fertile, often-unexplored ground of the seeker’s own soul. My search for this inner truth would lead me down a path I never expected, forcing me to explore the complex, lifelong relationship with my father and, ultimately, with myself. It was as if I was destined to pick up the torch where he had been forced to lay it down.

This journey is not for the faint of heart or spirit. It is a demanding pilgrimage into the shadows of the self, a place where forgotten pains and unresolved questions reside. However, for those brave enough to undertake their own spiritual excavation, the rewards are immeasurable. With each layer of discovery, the heart and spirit strengthen, eventually soaring on the wings of wisdom and energy released through this profound personal exploration.

For years, I felt little desire to write about my life, a life I often saw as dysfunctional and chaotic. So why now? The answer arrived in an unexpected pause. When I retired early from my career as an electrician to care for my disabled father, the relentless pace of life slowed to a quiet hum. In that stillness, I finally had the time for intense, unfiltered self-reflection. I was compelled to look at where I was, where I had been, and, most importantly, where I wanted to go in the time I had left.

I began to see with startling clarity how my life’s foundation was built upon the works, processes, and unanswered questions established by my family’s history—a history that echoed the stories of all fathers who had ever lived. My father carried his own wound, inherited from a childhood steeped in fear and instability, and he spent a portion of his adult life trying to excavate its roots through study and self-examination, only to have that search interrupted by the practical demands of providing for a young family. He never finished the work he set out to do. I would come to understand, much later, that I had inherited not just his wound, but his unfinished question.

I will return to my father’s story in full later in this book—the man who shaped him, the violence he survived, the war he fled into and the one he fled from, and the long, imperfect road that led him from a broken home to a life of his own making. For now, it is enough to know this: his search for truth became, without either of us fully realizing it, the opening chapter of my own.

My own journey of spiritual discovery is a continuation of his, an echo of a search that began a generation, or perhaps a hundred generations, before me. I took on my father’s legacy early in life, though I didn’t understand it at the time. As a young person, I was visited by mysterious dreams and inexplicable experiences, phenomena that took me well into adulthood to begin to decipher. After a near-death experience in 1986, it became clear that my life’s new mission was to continue the work my father had started: to explore the vast territories of both the soft and hard sciences, to understand the human mind and its profound susceptibility to both darkness and enlightenment.

This has been, and remains, a profoundly personal exploration. It is a story I feel compelled to share, not as a guide with all the answers, but as a fellow traveler on the path, holding up a lantern in the dark. The path from limitation to a Life, love, and death upon the Universe’s unlimited bandwidth always requires a search for truth.

Are you ready to begin?

Chapter 4: Why I Became an Electrician

My fascination with electricity began in the wake of a flood. It was the summer of 1965, and I was nine. Just months earlier, during Christmas of 1964, the Willamette River, swollen with winter rain, had burst its banks. It was a massive, destructive force that swallowed homes whole. The water crept up to our front door, nearly reaching the living room before it finally receded. Our home was spared, but the flood destroyed our furnace and water heater, leaving behind a mess of mud and damage that pushed my father to move us to higher ground. That disaster, with all its raw, untamed power, unexpectedly set the course for my life’s journey. It was during a visit to our new home, then just a skeleton of wooden studs and plywood floors, that I first encountered the magic of an electrician’s trade. I descended into the basement to find him methodically pulling Romex cable through the bones of the house. He worked with a focused calm, connecting conductor pathways that would soon bring light and life to our new world. To my young mind, it was alchemy. The idea that a hidden network of wires could be orchestrated to command light with the flick of a switch felt like a profound secret of the universe being unveiled before me. I peppered him with questions, and he answered with a patient kindness that transformed his craft from mere labor into something noble. In that moment, I felt an immediate and deep respect for him and his work. The thought of bringing power and light to families, of taming this unseen force for the comfort and safety of others, planted a seed in my soul. I began to wonder if becoming an electrician might be my calling, though my daydreams were a crowded space, filled with aspirations of becoming a jet pilot or an astronaut, of soaring into the heavens. That idea of “getting off of this fucking rock” had appeared early in my life, probably a response to the loneliness and effects of early trauma that i had experienced. Yet, the image of that electrician, a humble master of currents, became a permanent resident in the landscape of my mind. My interest soon found a more hands-on, and decidedly more dangerous, outlet. My new neighbor, Craig Salter, became my partner in a series of unorthodox adolescent experiments. We were younger versions of Prometheus, digging trenches to wire lights into secret underground bunkers we’d carved out of the earth. We surreptitiously tapped into a garage receptacle and ran some Romex underground to our “boy caves”. I marveled at our ability to command illumination in the dark, feeling the thrill of creation. But that thrill came with a visceral lesson in electricity’s duality. One day, I accidentally became the ground in a live circuit when my elbow brushed against an exposed connector on a light. A violent, convulsive power seized my body, a force that both gives life and snatches it away. For a terrifying moment, I was trapped in its grip, a conduit for a power far greater than myself. If my body hadn’t managed to shake loose, my story would have ended there, a cautionary tale whispered among neighborhood kids. In that jarring instant, I learned a fundamental truth: you never want to be the unintentional ground for a live circuit. That shock was more than physical; it was a spiritual awakening, a searing imprint of the fine line between existence and oblivion. Years later, my path toward becoming an electrician found structure under the mentorship of Albert Critzer, a Local 48 electrician who was a teacher at my high school’s occupational skills center. Albert was more than an instructor; he was a force of nature, a man whose passion for the trade was as infectious as a live current. He didn’t just teach us a skill; he transmitted a reverence for the craft, an energy that lit a corresponding fire within me. He showed me that a life dedicated to this trade could be deeply rewarding. But the stars still called to me. I held onto the dream of escaping Earth’s surly bonds through a career in the Air Force, and then NASA. I had the grades and the ambition; the cosmos felt within reach. I took a long, winding detour through college and university, studying electrical, electronic, and computer engineering. I briefly joined the Air Force ROTC, only to find the path they offered was not the one my soul sought. With the Vietnam War winding down, they had a surplus of pilots. They wanted me to be a ground-based engineer. I pictured a life tethered to the earth, managing the very systems I dreamed of transcending. I also had a girlfriend with potentially severe health problems that I felt obligated to remain with, too, which really complicated, and then destroyed, my childhood dreams. With a heavy heart, I said, “NO THANK YOU,” to the Air Force, turning down a full-ride scholarship to find another way to the heavens. What followed was a period of aimless wandering, of doing earthbound and unfulfilling things that left me feeling hollow. Then, after a near death experience in 1986, and the beginning of a search for truth into 1987 that resulted in healing, hope, and a new outlook on life for me, I applied to a local electrical union’s apprenticeship program. I was accepted. I never regretted the decision to join with Local 48 electricians. I did learn many more lessons about toxic masculinity from several of its members, however. I have a chapter devoted to those teachings later in the book. I became an electrician by trade, but a writer and spiritual seeker by vocation. At first glance, these paths might seem to diverge, yet they were strands of the same cord, woven together to guide me toward profound and illuminating truths: our culture has converted our minds into goal setting and achieving mechanisms, and we often find what we seek. Whether it is a constrained sense of self, shaped by the wounds of our past, or an infinitely expanding awareness, the external lives we build are but a mirror of our internal choices for perception and vision. This realization was not a sudden epiphany; it arose from the crucible of unique life experiences, cultivated in equal parts by relentless curiosity, deep inner reflection, and a myriad of challenges. As an electrician, I was anchored in a world of tangible realities. I worked amid the inherent dangers of invisible energy, where precision and foresight were not just skills, but necessities for survival. I learned the foundations of energy management: system planning, design, and construction. But as a spiritual seeker, my perspective began to shift. I started to see the parallels between the electrical energy coursing through inanimate systems and the spiritual energy coursing through the human spirit. This dual focus brought a critical insight into view. Just as an untrained person risks mishandling a powerful electrical grid, an unconscious or spiritually unevolved individual mishandles the vast personal energy flowing through the grid of their life. Without inward awareness, they stumble through unexamined lives, ignoring opportunities to heal old wounds and faulty perceptions, their potential limited by a lack of insight, connection, and fulfillment. This spiritual energy remains elusive, poorly understood and often unconsciously harnessed. People seek answers from institutions often peddling capitalistic and political agendas, not spiritual truth. Yet, the collective longing for a deeper relationship with the fundamental energies that animate life is undeniable. Through my dual lenses, I came to recognize this deep, shared yearning. My two interwoven paths—profession and spirit—revealed underlying truths about human connection, the rhythms of nature, and the very structure of existence. They taught me how to live a life charged with maximum spiritual energy, flowing harmoniously not just within myself, but as part of a greater universal current. Electromagnetism is one of the four fundamental forces of the universe, and electricity is its most tangible expression. Yet, it is also a profound metaphor for life itself. Consider the circuit: a closed loop requiring energy, flow, balance, and ground. Its very foundation lies in potential—an imbalance that sparks movement and transformation. You do not need to believe in electricity to feel its power; you must only respect its laws. Similarly, you do not need belief to experience life’s interconnectedness; you only need awareness. Like a closed circuit, our potential comes alive when our energy is driven by purpose and loops back with the feedback we need. This dynamic plays out in our relationships, creativity, and spirituality. We’re wired to seek, and our minds naturally set goals. But our sense of safety and happiness often hinges on reaching those goals, sometimes at the cost of who we are. My lifelong journey has been about understanding—my work, my family, myself, and the nature of reality itself. Yet there’s a big difference between looking for proof of what we already believe and with rigorous personal honesty searching for the truth. The first traps us in the cage of our own biases; the second opens the door to the infinite. By turning our attention not just to what we seek, but to the one who seeks, we open an entirely new dimension of possibility. An electrician looks at the current in a circuit, but a true master asks: What powers this current? Who is the person asking these questions? The answers unlock higher degrees of insight and profound clarity. We often suffer because we won’t accept the obvious: the “me” that we defend is a ghost. Our childhood wounds, our career, our trauma—they happened to our biology, but they are not us. They’re events. We are no longer a victim when we cease being addicted to our past identity. If it disappeared, so would our drama. But oh how many of us love our drama more than freedom! Electrical connections taught me the physical principles of flow, potential, and grounding. Spiritual seeking revealed their metaphysical parallels. Together, they outlined a foundational truth: life, much like a circuit, depends on intelligent design, good connections, and energy directed with purpose. This is a story about beginnings—the roots of curiosity, the forces that guide us, and the transformative power of asking questions. But it doesn’t stop here. As we journey forward, we will move from understanding these principles as metaphors to applying them to our most vital connection of all—to ourselves, and to the universe. For the seeker, there is always more to learn, more to illuminate, and more to connect. Are you ready to dig deeper into your miraculous real self while flying to the farthest reaches of our spiritual universe? Then keep reading!

Understanding energy as a technical and spiritual principle is one thing. Learning to trust your own voice enough to transmit that understanding is another matter entirely—and that lesson, for me, started long before I ever picked up a tool belt.

Chapter 5: Show and Tell

One of the greatest lessons of my life has been that if I do not respect and develop my story, I just remain a clone of this disfigured culture, my past misunderstandings of myself, and their imprints upon my soul.

I am the little guy in the back row, third from the right.

The photograph is my third-grade class photograph from Cedar Oak Park Grade School. Mrs. Tozier needed me to take hyperactivity medicine (methedrine) before she would let me into the class. My doctor and mother substituted sugar pills into the prescription bottle to fool the teacher. Use, abuse, and then addiction to methedrine would come in the 1980’s, however, and it turned my life inside out. Standing in front of the classroom during “Show and Tell” was one of my earliest opportunities to share something about myself. Back in first, second, and third grade, however, my enthusiasm far outpaced my preparedness. Most days, I would take my place in front of the class with nothing in hand, just eager for the chance to be seen. It wasn’t about showcasing something incredible; it was about the space to say, “Here I am.” But for every ounce of courage it took to stand there, there was a nagging weight from those many humiliating moments at the dunce chair while wearing the required conical hat. For those who aren’t familiar, the dunce chair wasn’t just a piece of furniture; it was a symbol of inadequacy and judgment. Even now, as I step into different stages of life, I can hear the whispers of those insecurities in the background. Yet, something within me presses forward, offering to share what little I have—with anyone willing to listen. Doubt is a sneaky companion. It doesn’t shout at you; it whispers in subtle tones that make you second-guess yourself. Back then, in that classroom, I didn’t know it, but holding onto those few moments in front of my peers despite having “nothing to show” was my first act of defiance against those inner doubters. When I think back on the experience, I realize it was never about the object I brought to show (or the lack of one). It was about being visible amid feelings of unworthiness. Even now, as an adult, some days feel like an updated version of those same “Show and Tell” sessions. Whether it is sharing an idea with Substack, Facebook, or my blog site, writing this book, or simply opening up in a conversation, there’s always that little voice saying, “Why would anyone care?” My 50-year class reunion experience did not bring any healing to those feelings, and I relearned that many people really don’t care. I continue to move forward to new experiences. As the scenarios change, the feelings of inadequacy continue to fade with each new step I take into the unknown. The unknown has become my best friend, and a most trusted guide into my new life. Today, I have something to say. And Earth School classmates, here I am once again. Here’s the breakthrough I’ve discovered after years of learning about that inner voice of doubt—I don’t have to banish it completely to stand firm and be present in life. I just need to be present in any situation, and speak louder than any doubting voices from others, or within myself. Growth doesn’t come packaged with immediate confidence. It arrives piece by piece, lesson by lesson. And now I place a seventy (70) chapter book into the public marketplace. It is my life’s work. I hope that you find it as interesting as I find it amazing! In this great classroom of life, I finally have something to show and tell, and I may even have someone in the audience interested in seeing it and, perhaps, me. My next great class reunion in the sky will be nothing like this experience on planet Earth, but I at least I made myself fully available for Earth school’s lessons. I don’t sit in the dunce chair anymore, but I empathize with those that still do. If you are still stuck in that chair, remember, one miraculous idea will set you free. You have infinite value, and are worthy and deserving of love, honor, and respect. Get out of that chair and walk into the best version of your life, which is now unknown to you. Do not let any other voice drown that truth out. If you do not reject the narratives others have thrust upon you, and respect and develop your story, you will also just remain a clone of this disfigured culture, any past misunderstandings of yourself, and their imprints upon your soul. Together, let’s take a long walk into the unknown. A life on the universe’s unlimited bandwidth awaits us!

Learning to show up for yourself is one form of excavation. Learning to question the structures that told you who you were allowed to be is another. For me, that meant confronting the tradition I was handed before I ever chose one for myself.

Chapter 6:  The Architecture of Truth: From the Enclosure of Dogma to the Cathedral of the Universe

The pursuit of truth is, fundamentally, an act of excavation. We dig through the strata of culture, upbringing, and inherited belief in hopes of finding the bedrock of existence. For a significant portion of my life, I operated under the assumption that the Christian church was the shovel with which I was meant to dig. It was the institution that promised answers to the relentless questions of the soul. Yet, as I matured and my spiritual peripheral vision widened—aided by the harsh crucible of addiction and the quiet revelations of nature—I came to a stark and transformative realization: the church was not the vehicle for truth I needed. In fact, it had become an enclosure, walling me off from the very infinitude I sought to explore.

The Fragility of Dogma and the Moral Dissonance

My divergence began not with rebellion, but with observation. Even in my youth, the reasoning presented by the adherents of the faith felt fragile, often resting on a foundation of superstition rather than spiritual substance. My 4th grade friend and, ultimately, brother in the electrical trade 30 years later, Layton W. told me as a youth that if I called anybody a fool, I would go to hell. The cosmology offered to me—a rigid dichotomy of heaven and hell—rang hollow. It felt like a transactional system designed for behavior modification rather than a genuine map of the metaphysical landscape. 

The phrase

“You are a sinner, and unless you accept Jesus Christ as your savior, you will spend an eternity in hell” never rang true with me.  For one thing, when this was first introduced to me when I was seven years old, I could not envision anything that I could think or do that would cause a universal spirit to persecute me throughout eternity.  Add Jesus to the mix and even as a youngster I could see that there were big holes in adult understanding of what God’s love is, and how to experience it.

Furthermore, the anthropomorphism of the Divine became a barrier I could not surmount. To assign gender to the Infinite, to bind the Source of All Being to the structures of human patriarchy, seemed to shrink the Divine into something manageable, understandable, and ultimately, false. I was seeking the ocean; the church was offering me a cup of water and telling me it was the sea.

This theological dissatisfaction was compounded by a profound moral dissonance during the 1980s. The church’s stance on the sentient nature of other beings was deeply troubling to me; the prevailing doctrine that animals lacked souls stood in direct opposition to my intuitive understanding of life’s interconnectedness. Worse still was the institutional failure of compassion regarding the AIDS crisis. I witnessed an institution that preached love yet practiced alienation, terrified of difference. The cognitive dissonance between the message of grace and the practice of judgment became deafening.

The Dark Night and the Mountain Top

This spiritual disillusionment coincided with a personal descent into the hell of addiction. My search for Truth had taken me through the darkest regions of the human experience. Despite stints in recovery units, such as the Physicians and Surgeons Hospital Care Unit in 1984, and attempts to reintegrate into church life at Hinson Baptist in both 1984 and 1987, I remained fractured. I realized that no psychiatrist, psychologist, or priest could do my work for me. There was no “Jesus” or other prophet who was going to bring salvation or healing to me from the outside.

The pivotal shift occurred not in a pew, but on the road to a friend’s house.  I saw a vision of the divine mother holding a baby, and I felt the love of this universe for the first time in my life.  It was absolutely beautiful and overpowering experience, with the vision remaining in my field of awareness for nearly a week.

In that transcendent period, I had no need for any more mediation between me and God’s love, or God’s truth.  I realized that the ceremony of baptism I had undergone years prior was a symbol pointing toward a reality, but the church had mistaken the symbol for the reality itself.  I tasted the water of life directly; I no longer needed the cup.

Dismantling the Mediator

The intellectual framework for this departure was solidified through the work of Jack Boland and his paradigm-shifting perspective on the Twelve Steps, as well as the mystical teachings of Joel Goldsmith via Marie Schmidt. Boland proposed that we do not need an intermediary to advocate for us in front of the ever-present spirit of truth. The Divine is not a separate entity to be appeased but a reality to be realized.

This understanding dismantled the hierarchy of the church. If the spirit of truth is accessible, immediate, and internal, then the ecclesiastical structure of priests, mediators, and intercessors is not just unnecessary; it is an impediment. I realized that true spiritual healing is not about conforming to a set of prescribed behaviors or dogmas but about embarking on an inward journey to unravel the mysteries of existence. It demands a holistic approach that integrates the mind, body, and soul—a connection to the Universe that transcends the material world.

Through my interactions with Marie Schmidt, who would look at me and declare, “More perfect than you are, you could never be,” I began to understand that God was not a distant judge, but my innate capacity for change and evolution. I recognized that I needed to create new paths of consciousness for myself and stop following the rutted roads created by others.

Perception and the Direct Path

We perceive the world through two fundamental lenses: the mind, with its tapestry of conditioning and historical wounding, and the state of divine union. The church often operates within the former, dissecting the world into the known and the alien, the sacred and the profane. I left because I desired the direct path of the latter—a perception of reality where the observer and the observed are joined in an eternal dance.

I anticipate the argument that the church provides community and moral structure. These are valid utilities. However, for one seeking the raw, unvarnished truth of existence, utility is not enough. Comfort is not the goal; clarity is. I sought a relationship with the Infinite that was not contingent on fear, dogma, or a mediator.

My departure was not a rejection of the spiritual life, but an embrace of it. It was a step out of the sanctuary and into the vast, terrifying, and beautiful cathedral of the universe itself.

I invite you to consider: are the walls you worship within protecting your spirit, or are they hiding the horizon?

Let us break down those walls, and find the life that is lived upon the universe’s unlimited bandwidth!

Leaving the enclosure of dogma did not deliver me into instant clarity. It delivered me into the wilderness—the same wilderness where addiction, mental illness, and unspoken suffering had already been waiting for me for over a decade. That descent deserves its own honest reckoning.

Chapter 7:  A Search for Truth and a Journey Through the Abyss to Redemption (check against Chapter 5 in Death Becomes Us)

Be mindful oh Mankind, of the painful secrets that we must keep, Through openness and honesty we may awaken, or by silence suffer and stay asleep—B.P.

As a society, we need to remember that those struggling with mental illness, including addiction and alcoholism, are like the “canaries in the coal mine” for our collective well-being. We’re all vulnerable to the damage caused by spiritual suffocation if we ignore the stories of our most fragile members. The marginalized, sensitive, and oppressed often stand at the forefront of our shared human journey, reflecting the state of our collective spirit. As Jesus of Nazareth once said, “Whatever you have done to the least of these, you have done unto me,” a reminder that any culture turning away from the harm it causes—whether deliberate, accidental, or simply uncomfortable to face—stands indicted. A growing spiritual culture cares for all without limits, looks inward with honesty, and makes amends for its wrongs. Yet harm persists, and we all carry stories of wounds. The invisible scars left by social and family trauma are often the deepest, most dangerous, and easiest to deny, quietly shaping lives while the world overlooks the sacredness of human connection and the deep need for safety. Addiction rarely emerges from society’s dark fringes or the inner shadows of a fractured mind. Instead, it originates in a profoundly human yearning—a quiet, unspoken desire to soothe a pain that refuses to be named or to chase the allure of life’s unknown thrills. What begins as a fleeting escape can swiftly devolve into a consuming labyrinth—a force so relentless that it wrestles the soul into submission, snuffing out hope’s fragile flame. Addiction’s trajectory is rarely straightforward; it weaves an intricate web of triumph and despair, exhilaration and desolation. Its presence is pervasive yet often obscured, so intimate in its devastation that it eludes even the closest of observers. Mental illness, too, is born from a complex confluence of forces. Cultural and familial narratives intertwine with genetics and early childhood experiences to shape its emergence. The emotions imprinted on an unborn child, the subtle energy of parental interactions, and the delicate moments in the first three years of life plant seeds that may not sprout until years later. Addiction and mental illness are often tethered—a dual storm of anguish, with each feeding into the other’s destructive power. Together, they form two sides of a coin that, when cast into the tumult of life, leaves in its wake not winners or losers but a deeply reverberating impact on individuals, families, and entire communities. This chapter marks the unveiling of my deeply personal story shaped by addiction, unraveling mental health, and the pursuit of redemption. It is the story about shedding the suffocating cloaks of personal conditioning and donning the robes of universal spirit. It is a tale not of ultimate defeat but of the raw fortitude of the human spirit, a search for light entrenched in chaos. For family members, psychologists, sociologists, spiritual seekers, and anyone who dares to explore the depths of human suffering and resilience, this is an invitation—a call to walk the fractured, uneven road toward understanding and healing. Through this narrative, may those caught in their own storms find the faint glimmer of a path forward and, perhaps, the courage to step onto it. One of the ugly cloaks I wore is represented by the poem below, written while I was hospitalized in the Physician’s and Surgeon’s Care Unit for substance abuse recovery in 1984.

THE FOOLS

You know who we are, there is no need for our names.

We may be outwardly different, but inside are the same.

Vacationing on chemical trips, playing strange mind games.

Striving for our culture’s version of success, and its dubious fame.

We remain graceless souls blended into life’s darkest mass.

Affirming our uniqueness, though stuck in the same class.

Parading around like winners but appearing just like an ass.

Steering clear of self-awareness, Oh our transparency of glass!

Spewing words of wisdom, but with only another dogs’ bark.

Seeking to make a good life, but on life’s script leaving a shit mark.

We may eventually see the light, but now life is always so dark.

Needing purifying inner flames, while snuffing every divine spark.

Hoping to someday blossom, yet we will never possess Love’s flower.

Swimming in intoxicating sweetness and then drowning in its sour.

Never realizing that, over life, we don’t hold any real lasting power.

We avoid the dark reality of our lives, by living in a chemical tower.

We bring up life’s rear, though we think that we should be first.

We want all of the best, somebody else deserves the worst!

Our life should be more blessed, why on earth do we feel cursed?

Our dependency creates toxic bubbles, just waiting to be burst!

This dark cloak clung so tight to me that I thought it was my flesh. Sometimes the road to clarity and healing winds through the darkest places, past a broken sense of self and a feeling of disconnection from the universe. My path towards healing was one of those. This is not a sanitized story; it is not here to soothe or smooth over jagged edges. By 1987 I carried the wounds of sixteen years of addiction and a near suicide, the lifelong echoes of trauma, and the failures and losses that shaped me. But I also carry the truth earned from those depths—and the redemption that followed. For some of us, the entryway to the universe’s unlimited bandwidth means traversing a perilous journey, while shedding the aspects of self that would resist embarking on the hero’s journey. By 1986, my life resembled a long and painful cliché—a childhood steeped in chaos, a youth drowned by alcohol and other substances, and adulthood underpinned by broken relationships and unrealized dreams. In my sober moments entering the University of Portland as a freshman, I was able to secure a full ride scholarship with the US Air Force, but my disease forced me to give it up. The disease started with beer at age five, escalated through my teens, and by my twenties, addiction had hollowed out nearly everything. On January 28, 1986, the Challenger space shuttle exploded. For many, it was a shared moment of tragedy; for me, it was a cruelly poetic metaphor. It mirrored the destruction of my aspirations—dreams beginning in early childhood of piloting planes and perhaps touching the stars as an astronaut—shattered by the far harsher reality of addiction.

Challenger Explosion January 28, 1986-The day I attempted suicide, and began my Search For Truth

I had promised myself at age 15, with unwavering resolve, that if I couldn’t quit drugs by the time I turned 30, I would end it all. At 30, after a failed suicide attempt on January 28, I secured yet more medicine for a second attempt. I carried those suicide drugs with me, waiting for the moment I’d finally again lose the energy to fight the effects of despair, emotional isolation, and grief. From April of 1986 into the first three months of 1987, I lived out of a 1977 Datsun 310 or squatted in unoccupied homes, trying to put distance between myself and my family, friends, or anyone who could bear witness to my crumbling existence. Despite clinging to the spiritual principles of AA, abstinence wasn’t on my list. I existed in the tortuous realms of addiction, suicidal ideation, emotional isolation, despair, surrender, and, at times, a desperate rebellion. And, I carried the suicide drugs with me the whole time, hidden under the front seat of my car,

AA Book, mostly disregarded by me though carried in my car through the darkest days

The Poems of Pain I wrote poems during this period. Consider the following desperate attempt to map the uncontainable agony inside my soul.

PAIN

Growing without roots, with a will that won’t bend.

Weathering life’s storms, which never seem to end.

No longer waiting for the sun that was once promised to arise,

How could truth’s light possibly shine in dimmed eyes?

Having reached with futility for all the high goals of life,

With no spiritual growth, while consumed by inner strife.

Devoid of healing affection, and a stranger to real love,

Unrealistic hope was what my failed dreams were all made of.

Despair meets each day, summer has now changed into fall,

Looking at life, I am totally disgusted by it all.

Dying of loneliness, and holding life by only a thread,

With me rotting inside, hopefully, I soon will be dead.

Pain,

Why?

Words in their raw form were my only emotional connection to the dire truth of my life. When you’re closer to death than life, the challenges of compromised free will and its limited choices carries unbearable weight. Born out of numb desperation, I replaced the act of taking my life with something else—a search for truth. It wasn’t yet fully a noble quest. It wasn’t driven by insight, blinding light, or revelation. These blessings were to come after the emergence from the dark underworld. Perhaps similar to the hero’s journey acknowledged in ancient mythology and modern literature, I had to enter into a completely unknown world and fight my demons there. I had to scrape and fall and crawl to find the hidden healing vein of my long lost self. It was a last gasp attempt to find something—anything—worth holding onto. I formed fragile bonds with people society doesn’t want to see—the homeless, the addicted, the criminal element, and the outcasts. A man I will call Steve came into my life during this period. An undercover agent, he and others were investigating the Portland Police Department, and those who might have known and aided and abetted Steven Kessler, a notorious and evil criminal who had killed a prison guard, escaped jail, and ransacked the DEA’s office in 1982. I knew the man who supplied Kessler with his getaway car. I also was roommates for three weeks in the P&S Care Unit in 1984 with Tom C., one of Kessler’s co-conspirators in starting the infamous 1966 Oregon State Prison riot. I was a card-carrying member of this disfigured community that Steve was investigating. Agent Steve and I were from different worlds, but we occupied the same neighborhood for nearly a year during the investigation. I did not know that he was an undercover agent, though I had my suspicions and I sensed that he was keeping a big secret. Steve saw through my darkness. He was curious about my search for truth and asked many questions over several months. This strange, one-sided friendship was a lifeline for me, as Steve became my big brother, giving good advice as I navigated an amazing cast of damaged characters ranging from murderers and motorcycle gang hit men through drug manufacturers. It was Steve who ultimately intervened when I hit my second rock bottom, the bottom where death again became inevitable. And he did so with sharp honesty, urging me not just to live—but to search differently and better. Steve dropped me off at my father’s home in March of 2017, after he saved me from certain death. My parents were snow birding in Arizona and thankfully would not be home until the following month. He told me that my search would not be complete until I fully faced my father, and dealt with all the damage I had experienced through that relationship. Steve also removed and disposed of the suicide drugs from my car, unbeknownst to me. I had lost so much weight, had open sores on my body, heard “voices”, and shook badly, similar to Parkinson’s disease. I was too ashamed of my appearance to face my psychiatrist again, so suicide through medication became out of the question My fight for recovery wasn’t a Hollywood montage of victories. One evening I downed a few bottles of wine with my lifetime friend Randy and his girlfriend from my father’s stash. After Randy left, I entered into a blackout. I grabbed my father’s 22 caliber rifle and drove in that state to find Brock, a drug manufacturing friend who lived near my parent’s home. He let me into his home, rifle in hand, and I sat on the floor, with the gun laying across my legs. The gun discharged and shot a hole through his front door. Brock intuited that it would be a good thing to “sober me up” and he injected me with methedrine. I hung out for a couple days with him. He shot me me up with speed two more times, and, miraculously, a light then went off in my mind. I looked at him and myself with a new clarity, called both of us insane, and I stopped using, drinking, and smoking on the spot. I had only five dollars to my name, and no source of income, so I drove to my beloved grandparent’s home to seek family support. I began detoxing for five tortured days, telling my grandparents that I had the flu. They nursed me back to health, and then I drove to my parents’ home once again. Another lifelong friend, Craig, happened to call and ask if I’d join him at a local AA meeting. Since I was searching for truth and trying to strengthen my connection with a “higher power” beyond my human limitations, I agreed to go along and see what I might discover. Over the next three months, I found myself attending AA, NA, and ACOA meetings—sometimes three in a single day—where recovery began to click for me. I picked up a temporary job at a local warehouse and met a man named John Johnson, who took an interest in my recovery journey but was wary of my ongoing involvement with church. He gave me Jack Boland’s tapes on recovery and spirituality, which became a lifeline, helping me give shape to the fragile beginnings of my faith and self-discovery. The real work was long and sometimes cruel when filled with facing deep wounds, though enlightening when blessed with a gradual awakening, and sometimes apocalyptic revelations and spiritual experiences. I experienced setbacks and some regressions, but I stayed sober. Over time, healing came—not just through seeing and “fixing” what was broken in me, but through surrendering to something bigger than my pain. I reframed loss and failure as an evolution rather than a curse. This shift allowed glimpses of joy, discovery, and eventually, finding my true nature and an unshakable sense of purpose.

The Death of Dreams and the Rebirth of Meaning

If grief is the culmination of love, what then is the death of a dream? It isn’t loud like funerals or heartbreak; it’s a quiet decay that smothers the soul. When I lost my first wife to mental illness and my dreams of becoming an Air Force pilot and later a NASA astronaut, I felt like I’d lost most of my identity. Dreams are the compass guiding us through life, and without them, I drifted into a debilitating fog of chronic self-doubt and cynicism. Yet, the darkness of losing those dreams became fertile ground for transformation. The ultimate lesson? Redemption doesn’t mean going back to what was. It means finding beauty in what remains—in the jagged, shattered pieces that refuse to align perfectly. There was beauty to be witnessed through the kaleidoscope of my broken parts, but I had to develop the discernment to see it. What I once saw as a barren wasteland became the birthplace of something greater. The death of those dreams stripped away illusions and made room for a purpose deeper than ambition, wider than a desire to just blend in and remain silent about what I have seen.

The New Normal of Addiction and Cultural Disease

Today, what concerns me is how deeply normalized addiction and self-destruction have become in our culture. We fragment our life force through adhering to patriarchal norms and toxicities, and build walls between each other through unchecked coping mechanisms, competitive burnout, and resistance to treating mental illness openly. This is not a story about me; it is about us—all of us who unwittingly perpetuate a culture that denies vulnerability and glorifies survival at the expense of thriving. We need a paradigm shift. Addiction and mental health issues are not a moral failure; they are a public health crisis. Mental health care must become accessible—not stigmatized. Dream-smothering despair must be met not with judgment, but with possibilities. My search for truth has evolved—not ended. I share this story not to wrap my experience in a neat narrative arc, but to connect with those who also walk along the edges. To those overwhelmed by grief, broken dreams, or addiction, I offer this knowledge hard-won through decades of survival and healing:

• Love and loss are two sides of the same coin. The deeper the grief, the more meaningful the connection.
• The death of a dream doesn’t mean the death of hope. It is often a clearing—painful, painful space where something new can grow.
• Seek people, places, or practices that remind you of light.

My life’s purpose isn’t to pretend away the abyss but to show others that it’s possible to climb out of it and carry its truth forward. My search for Truth, which had taken me through the darkest regions of hell, eventually gave me wings, and enabled me to fly to the sun, and beyond. I had a series of dramatic, miraculous healing experiences over the several years immediately following my suicidal ideation that restored me to a physical, emotional, and spiritual sanity and understanding that I had never experienced before in this life. This transformation started being documented by me in 2016. I had been trapped most of life by our culture’s conspiracy of silence. The prison guard with one of the primary keys to release me from my spiritual imprisonment was my unhealed relationship with my father and our sick patriarchal culture. Overcoming a lifetime of oppression and control by others is no easy task. It also must be done clean and sober, for the true depth and healing of the experience to permanently take hold. I began a new relationship with my father, starting with new-found sobriety. The real fruitage of healing from the relationship was not to become apparent until many, many years later. I also confronted toxic masculinity, toxic religion, and toxic capitalism, the three pillars of darkness upholding much of our culture, Much of that material is included in other chapters in this book. My journey through addiction was a profound challenge marked by despair, shattered dreams, and unexpected friendships. Yet, within this darkness, I discovered a powerful spark of hope and the unwavering strength to move forward. My story embodies the resilience of the human spirit and the transformative power of connection.

One of the most painful realities I’ve faced is the tendency of people to turn away, not just from my struggles but from the struggles of many others. I’ve witnessed the stark lack of empathy and compassion that permeates our troubled culture. Adjusting to this sick, potentially terminally ill American society is not a hallmark of good mental health, but becoming part of its healing transformation is. Addiction, suicide, and mental illness have become pervasive issues, and their growth shows no signs of slowing down. We all can make a meaningful impact on each other’s lives. Our positive vibrations can resonate far beyond our immediate circles. However, on the darker side, each suicide typically affects around 140 people. If my suicide attempt had succeeded, it would have devastated my parents’ lives. But I realize that I might not have impacted many others, as I had few fulfilling relationships, and even fewer who cared about me.. My healing journey now holds immense value, not just for me but also for those who still find themselves in the depths of despair. I aim to reach out to those who are open to my message of healing and hope. Perhaps one day, I will positively influence the lives of 140 people, contributing to their greater good. This is not an ending. It never is.

When Dreams Die~The Silent Grief of Our Guiding Light

This grief may not manifest through tears shed at a gravesite or the numb silence of mourners, but it lingers in the soul, darkening inner worlds. Dreams are guiding lights, the stars that illuminate paths in the vast terrain of existence. When these lights extinguish, the dreamer is often left wandering in the shadows of despair and confusion. My life continues to explore the profound intersection of hope, loss, and resilience. It is meaningful to dissect the layers of this silent grief while seeking ways to rediscover meaning and rekindle our inner guiding light. Dreams are far more than idle imaginings or lofty aspirations. They are the scaffolding of our identity, the force that propels us forward when nothing else will. A cherished dream infuses us with purpose, energizes our days, and fills our nights with visions of what could be. To dream is to affirm life itself, to declare that there is something more—a horizon worth reaching for. Philosopher Søren Kierkegaard described despair as “being unconscious of having a self”—a feeling eerily parallel to losing the essence of what once inspired us. Without dreams, we run the risk of losing the “self” that connects us to our inner voice, passions, and higher aspirations. The death of a dream isn’t always abrupt. Sometimes, it is a slow and agonizing dimming, as obstacles or doubts pile up until the horizon is no longer visible. Other times, it is sudden—triggered by a life-altering failure, an irreversible event, or perhaps harsh words that puncture our confidence. Consider, for example, the aspiring writer or artist who abandons their craft after repeated rejection. Or the entrepreneur whose startup crumbles after years of effort, leaving them financially and emotionally depleted. Or my story again, how about a life experience where a young wife suffers an irreversible medical condition, stifling all hopes for her emotional stability and joy in marriage? The grief, though rarely acknowledged by others, is no less real than mourning the loss of a loved one. When external, tangible losses occur—such as death, a breakup, or financial ruin—the world often responds with condolences, rituals, or support systems. But when it comes to the death of dreams, the response is strikingly absent. The grieving dreamer is often met with dismissal (”Maybe it wasn’t meant to be”), platitudes (”You’ll bounce back”), or worse, silence. Consciously or not, society pressures individuals to “move on” without fully processing their loss. This message fuels shame, leaving the individual with a lingering sense of failure. Such invalidation only deepens the isolation. The dreamer feels as though they cannot acknowledge their grief, rendering their loss invisible not just to others, but to themselves. The death of a dream often mimics the stages of traditional grief—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. It can leave individuals feeling untethered, destructive, or swallowed by apathy. Some signs of “dream grief” include:

• Loss of identity: Who am I without “this dream”?
• Chronic self-doubt: Was I foolish to believe in it at all?
• Fear of trying again: What if I only fail again?
• Cynicism: If my dream has died, what’s the point of having any?

This psychological fog traps the dreamer in a purgatory of longing and resignation, where the future feels impossibly distant, and the past remains an aching reminder of what might have been. The road to healing begins with honesty. Acknowledge your loss—honor it as a profound chapter of your human experience rather than a failure to be forgotten. Acceptance doesn’t mean letting go of all hope. Instead, it frees you to reflect on the past, allowing space for new aspirations to emerge. The death of a dream often clears the path for a greater, more authentic version of your life’s purpose. The artist, once paralyzed by rejection, may discover joy in collaborating with others instead of perfecting solitary masterpieces. The failed entrepreneur, stripped of their initial vision, may find success by pivoting or mentoring others in their path. The valedictorian student-athlete, felled by an injury and an addictive process, eventually finds recovery, and then shares their experience, strength, and hope with others still suffering. This reframing begins by asking:

• What has this experience taught me about myself?
• If I could reimagine this dream, what would it look like now?
• How can I repurpose my knowledge, skills, or resources to serve a new vision?

Transformation is not linear, but it invites us to move forward—not with blind optimism, but with compassionate realism. Sometimes, it’s impossible to rekindle the inner light alone—especially when consumed by self-doubt. Seek connection. Trusted mentors, supportive communities, or even professional counselors can offer a clearer perspective, gently illuminating paths you might not yet see. The human being who witnesses the death of a dream—and dares to dream again—is among the most courageous. This resilience shapes not only individuals but entire communities. Our collective stories of failure, perseverance, and triumph unite us in the shared complexity of life’s bittersweet beauty. Walt Disney once famously said, “All our dreams can come true if we have the courage to pursue them.” But perhaps a truer realization is this—dreams may die, evolve, or retreat into the shadows. Yet, it is the enduring hope, the belief in light itself, that ultimately keeps us alive. If your guiding light has dimmed, know this—you are not alone. A single candle can reignite another. Surround yourself with those who uplift, inspire, and remind you of your inner worth. We are never meant to carry the weight of such loss in solitude. The death of dreams is a profoundly human experience, yet it is also an opportunity to reconnect with self and purpose in ways previously unimaginable. While it may feel like the end of the road, it is often the spark of transformation waiting to unfold. I know, for I totaled my vehicle of consciousness into a wall at the end of that dead-end road, forcing me into dramatic, life-affirming change. We are the keeper of our inner light—challenged, perhaps, but never extinguished. The path ahead may be unclear, but by choosing to walk it with curiosity and faith, we honor both the dreams we’ve lost and those yet to come. Never forget that dreams, both waking and sleeping, are manifestations of our sacred, creative nature. They are the vehicles for our hopes, ambitions, prayers, and best intentions. Being carried by them connects us all to our universe and gives us greater access to its unlimited bandwidth.

The search for truth through the abyss of addiction taught me what it costs to stay disconnected from those around us. It’s time now to examine that disconnection more closely—not as personal history, but as a universal architecture. If energy flows through circuits, so too does it flow, or fail to flow, between one human being and another.