Psychotherapist's Journal - Thoughts and Tools to Inspire Wellness in Mind and Body - by Karen Gorrin

The Invitation - A Native American Prayer

What a gift I stumbled upon today. I was organizing some papers when I re-discovered this beautiful Native American prayer, The Invitation, adapted by Elder Oriah Mountain Dreamer. I had included the prayer in an interfaith chapel service I led at Swedish Medical Center several years ago while I trained and worked there as a pastoral counselor.

May you accept the invitation of this prayer, drink in the challenge of the words, listen closely as you deepen your relationship with yourself, hearing the truth of who you are, noticing what's working, and noticing where you might choose differently.

As a suggestion, you could follow your reading of this prayer with time for quiet reflection or journaling. You might also offer this invitation to someone special in your life. What a fabulous conversation you could have!

The Invitation

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living, how old you are, or how much money you have, whom you know, or how you came to be here.

I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

An Idea Worth Spreading

One of my areas of inquiry these days is the brain. I am fascinated by the neuropsychology of how we learn, come to know the experience of love, form and hold our belief systems, and so much more. (See one of my favorite books about the brain, A General Theory of Love.)

So you can imagine I was thrilled when my colleague Sue Ann Birdwell, a family therapist in Kirkland, sent me the below link. I think you'll enjoy listening to brain researcher Jill Bolte Taylor's speech from the recent TED conference. It's a powerful account of her experience watching her own stroke unfold, and reveals surprising insights into the very nature of life itself.

In the Quietness of this Place

With gratitude to my friend and colleague Rachel Whalley, for sharing the following essay with me yesterday over lunch. Written by Howard Thurman and excepted from his book, For the Inward Journey, may these eloquent words bring comfort in moments of despair:

"Despite the dullness and barrenness of the days that pass, if I search with due diligence, I can always find a deposit left by some former radiance. But I had forgotten. At the time it was full-orbed, glorious and resplendent. I was sure that I would never forget. In the moment of fullness, I was sure that it would illumine my path for all the rest of my journey. I had forgotten how easy it is to forget. There was no intent to betray what seemed so sure at the time. My response was whole, clean, authentic. But little by little, there crept into my life the dust and grit of the journey. Details, lower-level demands, all kinds of crosscurrents—nothing momentous, nothing overwhelming, nothing flagrant—just wear and tear. If there had been some direct challenge—a clear-cut issue—I would have fought it to the end, and beyond. In the quietness of this place, surrounded by the all-pervading Presence of God, my heart whispers: Keep fresh before me the moments of my High Resolve, that in fair weather or in foul, in good times or in tempests, in the days when the darkness and the foe are nameless or familiar, I may not forget that to which my life is committed. Keep fresh before me the moments of my high resolve."

Hello Babies, Welcome to Earth!

When Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. first wrote these words in his book, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater his character Eliot Rosewater was about to baptize newborn twins. "What will you do? What will you say?" another character asked him.

"Oh - I don't know." Eliot's sorrow and exhaustion dropped away for a moment as he became enchanted by the problem. A birdy little smile played over his lips.

"Go over to her shack, I guess. Sprinkle some water on the babies, say, 'Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies: 'God damn it, you've got to be kind.'"

As I place pen to page on the first entry of this Psychotherapist's Journal, I wonder to myself, "What will I do? What will I say?"

At the outside, this journal will be about embodiment — and all the joys and struggles that come with being spiritual beings within the limitations and opportunities of a body. The one rule I know: We are all whole people, with a mind, body and spirit that work together.

Most of us experience illness with these bodies, whether our own or that of a loved one. Often, but not always, the experience of receiving a diagnosis jolts us into an unknown and uncertain world of questions without answers. We learn, much to our dismay, that medicine is more art than science. We wonder how our bodies could have betrayed us, and why our bodies betrayed us, and where was God while all this was happening anyway? Other times, for some of us, the lightening jolt of illness is the certain moment that confirms our faith: We surrender to the experience of embodiment.

I believe illness is the shadowy cloak that surrounds the light of wellness. This journal will explore this point — through my lens as a psychotherapist — and through my lens as a woman who has lived with chronic and life-threatening illness herself, both my own and that of my loved ones.

I look forward to the discovery this journal will bring, and I'm already curious about the unexpected twists and turns that are sure to join me along the way.

Finally, the title of this post is also fitting because today happens to be my birthday. What better date to begin this journal, than on my natural day of reflection and gratitude of my own embodied experience, as I celebrate my 42nd year on earth.

Warm regards ...