May 27, 2025
Dear Leland and Everett
In my last post, I briefly mentioned feeling a darkness in me. I had a helpful, clarifying conversation about that sensation, and wanted to share some insights here.
First off, as I think I’ve mentioned before, I’m starting to sense sometimes we all feel the same underlying energy flows, each of us from our own unique perspectives. I first noticed this trend in my Spiritual Stew meetings, but I continue to notice similar trends in the world around me. After a Memorial Day weekend spent interacting with loved ones across several walks of life, I came to appreciate how the thread of distraction, of discomfort, of…something not quite right, permeates not just me but those I encounter.
In one particular conversation, a friend of mine (about whom I’ve spoken before; he too experiences visions) also observed the seemingly confusing signals (and lack thereof) he’s been receiving of late. Separately, he and I have both experienced the sensation that our messages were evolving (his experience was quite interesting: God literally dismantled a house built for my friend to explore his faith, and was in the process of building a new one; this tracks very much with my sense that the way I would experience things going forward will not necessarily resemble the visions I’ve had the last few years).
During this conversation our discussion turned to the feeling of discomfort or darkness we both felt. I reluctantly admitted the degree to which I’m coming to realize that I have been avoiding that sensation, and am invited to stop succumbing to distraction and face the discomfort I’m feeling.
My friend and I have worked out a metaphor for what our healing journeys have felt like thus far, and completing this train of thought requires sharing the metaphor. Some of this will likely overlap from past messages, but the metaphor expands as I deepen my understanding.
When I set the intention to heal, I often the experience something unpleasant out in the world: an argument with a loved one perhaps, a bothersome life event, or even particularly unpleasant world news. Whatever the specifics, I am drawn into old patterns of righteousness, ruminating as I see the world through the prism of good guys and bad guys. I’ve learned to take this state of righteousness as a sign of opportunity: rather than look for how to defeat the bad guys or defend the good guys, I decide to explore what sits underneath these emotions. So I take the situation into meditation or prayer. Typically I’ll discover some discomfort in my body. I’m always tempted to interpret the discomfort as a distraction, but am learning to explore it with curiosity. In the metaphor, my friend and I describe this process as coming to understand that something is stuck, rather uncomfortably, in our bodies. But rather than avoiding the discomfort, as has been our habit, we now reach in and around to grab it and pull it in front of us so that we might grant it our attention. The progress, at least at this stage, is developing awareness that something is stuck within ourselves (and is the ultimate cause of the discomfort we experience, not what is happening out in the world).
Developing awareness of physical discomfort is not enough to experience healing. The next step is to understand the underlying cause of the discomfort; to do that I’ve learned to just explore the discomfort, sometimes even asking it what it wants me to know. Eventually, when I am ready, some insight emerges. Historically that insight has been some unpleasant life experience. The implication: the unpleasant life experience somehow lodged in my body as an unhappy memory, triggering defensive behaviors meant to protect me from experiencing similar pain the future.
Typically, once I’ve understood the underlying memory associated with the discomfort, I start to see the ways the experience shaped my life. I see the different times I’ve avoided or shied away from situations in order to protect myself from experiencing similar pain again. And I start to realize how these behaviors have come to limit me, and have outlived their usefulness. At this stage I understand that it is time to let go of not just the pain, but the defensive habits I’ve created to protect the pain. Returning to the metaphor: at this point I learn that it is time for me to let go of the discomfort I pulled out of my body and now hold in front of me.
Unfortunately, at this point I realize I am holding onto this discomfort with white knuckled terror. Even though I have come to understand how the original experience and the overprotective adaptations that resulted are hurting me more than helping me, the idea of experiencing the pain is too acute to surrender. I often need a little time and space, and some compassion and grace while I built the strength to let go.
During this phase I typically attempt bargaining with God. Sometimes I might try to justify why I should keep the metaphorical armor I’m clutching. God doesn’t respond, and the silence feels deafening. Then I offer to trade my armor for something else I might want. More silence. Eventually, perhaps somewhat desperately, I ask God to at least explain what will replace this thing I clutch. Still more silence. Finally, I am reminded: I must take the leap of faith, and surrender this thing, and trust that whatever comes next will be better than this protection I surrender.
Eventually, and usually with some invocation of God’s support, I work up the strength and will to open my clenched fist and let go of the pain and the armor protecting it. Immediately thereafter I feel a sense of release, of relief, of relative peace. It’s the feeling one might experience after a particularly challenging workout, or a fight with a loved one that results in reconciliation, or any sort of big emotional release.
The feeling of peace might last a few minutes or a few hours; typically I feel a lingering calm for a few days. Eventually, inevitably, I come to feel a void. I come to appreciate how the thing I surrendered had become so embedded as to effectively become part of me. Letting go of the thing meant letting go of part of myself, and that part of myself warrants grieving. While I recognize the value of letting go of the thing, I come to appreciate that the thing, even if flawed, was a known commodity. The thing was predictable; I could rely on the thing. Even though I recognize how the thing pulled me into suffering, I lament the loss of the known. In the void left behind, I just feel unnerving uncertainty.
Eventually, something new starts to fill the void, slowly. In these moments I am reminded death comes before rebirth: I must let go in order to create the space for something new to grow. Why God works this way, I don’t know. But I’m increasingly convinced this is the way God works.
Okay, backdrop complete (and I hope that was helpful, even for its own sake), I set this metaphor to contrast slightly with what I am experiencing today. Because what I sense today is not that any particular energy is stuck in my body, nor that I’m carrying armor to which I’ve grown attached. So I recognize progress of a sort: I don’t appear to be holding negative energy and protective armor in quite the same ways. And yet, I still feel this feeling of discomfort.
At this point I’m reminded of the dream I had recently. Just a week after my most recent journey, we travelled to Yosemite for your spring break. We spent the week hiking, exhausting ourselves in the wilderness. It was a wonderful trip, though I will admit the two of you are still warming to hiking. In the lead up to the trip I told you about El Capitan, about how climbers ascend to the top, and how you can sit in a meadow and use binoculars to see climbers look like ants on the massive granite face (something we did, twice, while throwing frisbees around the meadow; these two experiences were some of my highlights of the trip). I even explained how climbers will sometimes sleep on cots anchored in the rock face, and showing you images I found online.
That night I dreamed I was attempting to sleep in a cot anchored high up El Capitan. My cot was anchored in, and all my belongings were anchored in. Whether or not I was anchored in was unclear. I wondered whether I might roll off the cot and fall. I imagined looking at my phone (why my phone?) and worrying it might fall. Each time I imagined a specific action, I was flooded with a new wave of fear.
I woke up, appreciated being out of the dream, and then drifted back to sleep. I returned right back to the dream. In fact, I woke up several times, but each time returned right back to the dream. I started to feel a little desperate and hopeless. Finally the thought occurred to me, “what if I stopped resisting this situation, and just embraced it?” Up until that point, I felt as if fear were dialed up to 100%, and all other emotions dialed down to 0%. In that moment, I felt fear dial down just a notch, offset by a small feeling of aliveness. I embraced the situation more fully, and felt fear dial down further. I found that I could, by adjusting my attitude, affect how I experienced lying on that cot. I could resist, and would immediately feel fear surge again. Or I could embrace the situation, and feel fear subside. I didn’t necessarily enjoy the feeling of aliveness, but the aliveness sure beat fear.
My sense is that I am invited to look at the darkness or discomfort I feel. My current hypothesis is that I am invited to treat the discomfort the way I engaged with righteousness: notice it, pull it in front of me and grant it my full awareness, exploring it with curiosity. What will come of that exercise, I do not know for certain. But my suspicion is that I am invited to replace resistance with embrace, and in the process feel uncomfortable but more alive. To what end, I have no idea. But I at least have a sense of where I’m going, if only a limited one.
I love you both.
Love,
Dad
Letters to Leland 