“Every time you are willing to say, “yes” to everything on your path, you express the hero inside of you.” Joseph Campbell
Most of my childhood was spent listening to my Irish uncles telling powerful myths of ancient gods and ageless heroes; of men of magic and women of bravery. I was terrified of some gods, in love with courageous warriors, fearful of monstrous Cyclops, and I always dreamed of being a heroine of great beauty and mystery.
Myths and Stories are the oldest schools for humankind. Genuine stories offer a living school where the only entry requirements are an active imagination, some capacity to feel one’s own feelings and the willingness to approach the world as a place of mystery and revelation.
Myths are not a part of the past, but a way to see universal truths playing out in the present. Myths are the inside story that makes meaning of the outside world. People feel more whole when listening to a story and feel most lost when out of touch with their own story.
When I think back to the myths told to me of the hero’s journey, I realize now that the accomplishments of the heroes took place in the outer world. But as the story of our world becomes less clear, as we all find ourselves living in a cosmic turn, it is the unfolding of the inner life of the soul that provides the best way to proceed. In order to move forward in a deep and meaningful way, we must find the hero within each of us. Somewhere deep inside each of us lives the soul of a hero. It’s not something we bring to the world, rather something that brings us to the world. We must discover the hero within because we are all heroes of our own myths.
We discover the hero within by doing the inner work of determining what meaning and purpose this world holds for us, and for the future that awaits us. We can learn to see with more clarity how we each have a unique role to play; how we each have our own way to make a difference in the lives of others. It is up to us to give our own life the meaning and vitality we need to make it through and to be of service to others.
We need a path that allows us to bear the trials of living, the ordeals of our present time and circumstance, and the suffering inherent to life’s harsh realities. Discovering the hero within means waking up to the realization that the necessary conditions are being created for us to recognize our unique place in the universe, the particular gifts that we have to bring forth, and to serve a purpose greater than ourselves. Now is the time to help sustain and revitalize the world around us.
We need to learn how to tolerate dynamic tension if we are to embark on a worthwhile inner adventure. As we develop and grow, we cross points of no return. Once we cross over to new experiences of conscious awakening, and once we’ve committed ourselves to a path of awareness, we will no longer be the same. Our old identity begins to shed its skin. We come across threshold guardians – daemons that block the way, attempting to ward us off. They are like the gargoyles entrenched above archways and entrances to shrines and cathedrals. These guardians are manifestations of our deepest fears. They also guard the way to our deepest longings. We cannot go on a genuine, soulful adventure without bringing along your authentic doubts and fears, as well as our strongest desires and longings – for, without them, it would not be a hero’s journey.
But the one simple truth of discovering the hero within is just to be ourselves – that’s the real job of a hero.
The zombie apocalypse is imminent. Or so it seems since we have already had earthquakes, hurricanes, melting ice caps, famine and pestilence and that is just what happened recently!
It appears to be our entire mutual fate to be living during a time of great upheaval and sweeping change. When the story of the world becomes less clear it is the unfolding of the inner life that might provide the best way to proceed. The telling of myths, folk tales and fairy tales became a source in my Scot Irish family as a way to face great obstacles and impossible tasks because the examples of the heroines and heroes and the hope they seemed to always have. In every case, something goes terribly wrong – but something even bigger goes right.
The origin myth of Pandora’s box, written by Hesiod in about 800 B.C., is one of my favorites because it was one way to explain how all the evils came about in the world. Zeus gives a wedding present, a box, to Pandora, the first mortal woman on earth. Zeus does not tell Pandora what is in the box, but gives her strict instructions not to open it. What a set up! Somehow Pandora manages to wait a year, at which point her curiosity gets the best of her, and she opens the box. The lid flies open and all the evils and miseries of the world bolt out: hate, violence, sorrow, ignorance, jealousy, and sadness. Pandora manages to shut the box, leaving only Hope who is hiding under the lid. This old myth teaches us that all the ills and ailments, all the scandals and betrayals and the rampant dishonesty must be faced before the hidden hope of life can be found again. It’s as if things must become hopeless before a deeper sense of hope can return from the depths of the human heart. This level of hope includes a darker knowledge of the world and a sharper insight into one’s own soul.
Hope is found, not by clinging to old dreams or by denying despair, but by surviving it. When life becomes darkest the eye of the soul begins to see. “Hope springs eternal” when people begin to see beyond the parade of facts and the litanies of ideologies and learn to trust the deeper values of individual life as well as the underlying truths of human culture. Great crises are not solved by simply conserving assets, but by finding inner resources that are hidden from sight.
All shamans, mystics, Buddha, yogis and saints have said the same thing: answers to our questions come from looking within and in our stillness we find hope.
Hope is a bright star in a hopelessly dark universe. Through light years of distance, the brightness fills our inner selves. Hope is not just an emotion; it is a promise that smiling and laughter are just around the corner. When the fighter has been laid on the canvas by a well placed right to the jaw, hope is there saying, “Get up. Take a nine count if you must, but be ready to stand, and have the ref dust off your gloves. You’re going to win this match.” Hope is drawn to the person who sees beyond the present defeat, beyond the moment of being cast down, beyond the loss of the job, and beyond the negative words of hopeless voices. There is that voice from the “bright star” telling us to look beyond the darkness – to the bright light of hope.
In the end, Pandora hears a faint voice in the box and when she lifts the lid she finds hope, releasing it into the world. And everywhere evil goes, hope goes too. And all that is touched by evil – so too is touched by hope.
“At first I was afraid, I was petrified,”
Gloria Gaynor, “I Will Survive.”
This is the song I was listening to when I received the phone call from my doctor. I don’t remember much about what he said. All I remember were those three devastating words: “You have cancer.” The opening line of Gloria Gayor’s song summed up my exact feeling. Petrified.
After I hung up the phone I made a choice. I knew the opposite of fear was courage. I realized that to get through this adventure I would need to surround myself with family and friends who would not only support and encourage me, but would also help me stay in my joy.
The deep sorrow of any illness carves a hole into our being, but the hole leaves space for joy. Sorrow and joy are a package deal. When one is in your kitchen the other is asleep on the couch.
I learned that joy is everyday magic. It grounds me. It lifts me. It expands my mind and spirit. And I learned that a daily affirmation helped me to stay in my joy. I would look in the mirror at the scars on my face that six surgeries and 64 stitches left and I would say out loud: “My scars are only skin deep. Cancer cannot break my heart, it cannot rob my spirit, and it cannot touch my soul. Today I choose to stay in my joy.”
There were days that were challenging to be joyful. I had a nuclear breakdown when I heard about John McCain’s brain cancer. He, too, had the same kind of melanoma as me, and I wondered if my cancer would spread. Waves of emotion crashed over me. I couldn’t breathe. I went down the street to St. Patrick’s Cathedral and sat in the back row and prayed for John McCain, for me, and for anyone going through cancer. Then I sang – out loud – in the beautiful acoustics of this 103-year-old church, “Let it Be,” which had been my theme song throughout my cancer journey. When I left the church I checked Facebook, and one of my oldest and dearest friends had posted a video of three men sitting in a cathedral singing, “Let it Be.” This confirmed to me that God/The Universe was always speaking to us, sending us little messages, creating serendipities, reminding us to stop and to breathe. Reminding us to believe in something else, to believe in something more, and to remind us that we are never alone. Never.
Last month was my one-year cancer free anniversary. I uncharacteristically did not want a party nor did I celebrate in a grand way. I didn’t buy an expensive item to mark the occasion. Having cancer has changed me.
Surviving cancer didn’t give me a fresh start on life; it gave me a chance to understand what it means to live. It wasn’t a challenge to be dealt with, conquered or overcome. I realized a complex view of myself was required to work through my fears and having cancer has provided me a level of maturity I had never before experienced. I am now weathered, solid, shaped by my sorrow and pain as well as by my success and joys. Cancer is a process that allowed me to open doorways and turn the lights on to the inner rooms of my soul. The gratitude I feel will be burned into my consciousness forever. I will never forget because I will never be the same.
And now the darkness is over. And in its place is the illumination of a bright new path that lights the way for the rest of my life and for the joy that surrounds me. Always.
Years ago while in Lyon, France, I stumbled onto what the locals told me was a “healing” well. It was named after my favorite medieval saint: Saint Guinefort.
In the thirteenth century, a Dominican friar, Etienne de Bourbon was preaching near Lyon, when he heard during confession that many of the local women had taken their children to Saint Guinefort. Etienne had never heard of this saint, and wanted to learn more, so he investigated.
Much to his surprise, he discovered that Saint Guinefort was actually a dog . . . a greyhound, in fact. As the hagiography of Guinefort goes, he was a dog on a large estate. One day, when his master and mistress had left the house, a snake entered into the castle and began to approach the baby’s cradle. Guinefort attacked and killed the snake, and was badly hurt himself in the fight. He stayed to guard the cradle, and so when the parents returned, they found the cradle knocked over, and both dog and cradle covered in blood. Assuming that Guinefort had attacked the baby, the lord killed him with his sword—only to find the baby safe and unharmed, and the corpse of the serpent torn to pieces. Realizing their error, they made a shrine for the unjustly slain Guinefort, and began to venerate it. Etienne was none too impressed with the locals’ veneration of a dog as a saint, so he made them destroy the shrine and burn the remains of Guinefort—but that apparently did not end the cult of St. Guinefort, because it survived all the way into the twentieth century. If this story seems familiar, it may be because a version of it is found in the Disney film, Lady and the Tramp.
Animals have been the spiritual companions of humans since the beginning of recorded time. The earliest indication of the spiritual significance of the human-animal relationship can be found in the 20,000 year-old cave wall painting of Cro-Magnon people.
In many if not most cultures, animals have served a variety of spiritual functions: They have acted as guardians and shamans, and have appeared in images of an afterlife. Many ancient creation myths depict God with a dog.
That animals touch us in a deep and meaningful place is not a new phenomenon, but one that pervades the history of the human-animal relationship. Throughout history, they have offered us something fundamental: a direct and immediate sense of both joy and love. We recognize that animals seem to feel more intensely and purely than we do. I know I yearn to express myself with such abandon and integrity.
In having a relationship with our animals we can recover that which is true within usand, and through the discovery of that truth, find our spiritual direction.Simply, animals teach us about love: how to love, how to enjoy being loved, and how loving generates more love.
They teach us the language of the spirit. Animals can’t “talk” to us, yet they communicate with us and commune with us in a language that does not require words, rather feelings. They help us to understand that words can be limiting. Animals offer the unique opportunity to transcend the boundaries of our human perspectives; they allow us to stretch our consciousness toward an understanding that enables us to grow beyond our narrow viewpoint.
I see animals as the spiritual guardians or keepers on the planet. They never lose their awareness of themselves as spirit and their innate connection to all of life. Of all species, humans appear to need the most education to master their existence. Humans, unlike most animals, struggle with their analytical complexity and fail to see or even acknowledge themselves as spiritual beings.
I think Will Rogers sums up my feelings perfectly when he said, “If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.” Indeed and some day, I look forward to meeting St. Guinefort.
My hugs are awkward. They are a perfunctory gesture mandated by social etiquette and colder than day old oatmeal. They are short where they should be long, rigid instead of soft and they end as abruptly as they begin. They have the soothing qualities of a traffic cop and just as much sex appeal. When finished, I don’t even look back and I consider by duty done. Hugs are a profound weakness of mine.
I would never had considered changing the way I hug – or lack there of- if the director of my new TV project wouldn’t have noticed. After a situation where I needed to hug someone at the end of the show he stopped and said, “Are you kidding me with that? Does anyone in your life believe your hugs?” Then he suggested I take improvisation lessons.
Returning to El Paso I made one phone call to the only friend I know who has experience in acting. He called several people and found an improv teacher named David who agreed to teach me.
Nervous I entered David’s home and the first thing I notice are his eyes, which are brown, but not like chocolate, or honey, or chestnuts. His eyes are the color of forest mushrooms, earthen brown in a way that brings to mind old sepia photographs. They could melt you with their facade of chocolate, but then they would crush you with their under-layer of earth and soil.
I am pleased to see his silver hair and he relieved to feel he has that teacher/dad vibe. He has a face like some guy you’d ask for directions in the street, non-threatening but handsome. In a suit he could be a news anchor, tall, clean cut but with a loveable smile that is only ever removed from his features when he needs to be serious. His movements are unhurried, choreographed and deliberate. His voice is deep.
Over the course of a several lessons in a couple of months I appreciate the way David counts my opinion and listens to what I have to say. For the most part I understand what is going on with the structure of improv and periodically he stops to address me directly, to explain the next exercise and what its purpose is. It was oddly comforting to be treated so much like a child, yet all along I feel in control, like all I have to do is whisper “stop” and he will.
I thought improv was just a way to make jokes, or sophisticated guidelines for brainstorming. But something in the language of our culture communicates something grander. And I began to notice that improv was something much deeper. I instinctually know that I am being asked to be fundamentally open-minded, to be brave, to be adventurous.
Improv is not about memorizing a script and performing a scene it’s about showing up and being more of yourself. Those who learn to paint like Da Vinci imitate a master; yet a long as their own inner mastery remains unknown, they are imposters. They may grow by following the brushstrokes of an original yet only become themselves by grasping their own originality. The great teachers and artists can indicate genuine paths to follow; yet following them can only take us so far. In order to emulate a saint or a teacher those who follow must eventually take their own lead and make their own footsteps.
We may enter paths where others have found meaning and even transcended; that’s a worthy way to begin a quest. But, in order to answer the question of our own lives we must risk taking our own steps. The only genuine safety in this world comes from risking oneself completely in order to become oneself more fully.
Improv demands that you show up, jump in, and go deep. After one especially charged emotional exchange I sat with the devastating emotions I was feeling and cried. And cried. And cried.
As I was leaving, David walked up to me slowly, wrapping both arms around my shoulders and hugged me. I felt my body press into to his and I sank into the warmth of his body, appreciative of the simple gesture, which made me feel as if my own father had his arms around me. I could feel the world around me melt away. His hug made the room warmer somehow, and the future seemed less bleak. It was pure. Unselfish. Undemanding. Free.
Improv has made me question every promise I ever made to myself. It made me open up when I didn’t want to let myself in. It helped me to breathe when I didn’t want to anymore and it helped me see that it’s okay to feel. And so often there are no words for the emotions we are experiencing. So we hug. Deeply.
They say that sometimes your biggest strengths are also your biggest weaknesses.
But sometimes it’s your weaknesses that become your greatest strengths.
Years ago while in Lyon, France, I stumbled onto what the locals told me was a “healing” well. It was named after my favorite medieval saint: Saint Guinefort.
