Sinking his teeth into a meaty barbecue rib, Sammy stops mid-bite. Self-conscious of his barely noticeable double chin, he’s trying to reduce his consumption of fatty foods. He holds it out towards my plate with a hopeful, messy smile but I’m quick to respond with an emphatic “No.” I’ve finished many of my kid’s suppers, but not this one. Lily would have taken that succulent bone like a prize, returning later with a satisfied grin and dirt on her snout and front paws. But we still ache too much from losing her in the fall to open our hearts to another dog. For now, we are a canine deprived household which is a dilemma for carnivores: what to do with the bones? Small ones go in the compost, worms eventually making magic soil of them. I’m determined to not let food waste end up in a landfill on my watch, so I snap at Sammy “Bring it out for the coyotes if you’re not going to finish it.”  
Too lazy to put on boots to clop through the spring snow out to the woods and me not quick enough to intervene, Sammy throws it off the front porch as hard as he can but it ricochets off a tree and lands just a few feet from the house. 
“Hmph. I guess the coyotes will have to come close to the house.” He mutters. 
“They won’t.” I assure him. We debate if it will be insects or rodents who will find it first. We were both wrong. 
 
‘Quarantining’ and ‘distancing’ are new verbs for modern America, made real by Covid 19. Both words embody restriction of activity, a sloughing off of what is no longer needed even when we had stamped our feet to acquire it. “What’s the scoop with Americans and toilet paper?” one Chinese stand-up comedian asks his Jewish New Yorker friend in an interview. Nervous giggles and a lame explanation turned to uncomfortable guffaws when the comic states frankly, “Like, umm… there areother options.”  I mean really. What distance do we hold from our bodies that we can’t simply wash up? The apocalypse is coming and we scramble for toilet paper, ripping it from our neighbor’s hands in an overcrowded grocery before the imminent shutdown. Today, ‘what can we do without?’, is a daily question and for many privileged ones, a sigh of relief. ‘Taking stock’ shifts from a figure of speech into a literal process of assessment. Need whittles down to truth instead of a gross overstatement. One person takes orders and makes a grocery trip for the whole neighborhood. We make do with a simpler life and learn to live with those we love. So far, I am distanced from personal loss, have food for the table and am in awe of a silver lining in the world’s largest pandemic. 
Beyond the fear and grief, there are miracles. A report from China states that cities, burdened by air pollution are now witnessing consistent blue skies for the first time in years or even decades. Coal burning factories shut down and the air clears itself. In a matter of weeks children who have rarely seen a blue sky now gaze upward in wonder. Elders who knew blue skies before, breathe deeply through their face masks and smile.  Nitrogen dioxide, a pollutant produced when fossil fuels are burned, has decreased by 100 million tonnes in a two-week period. * I don’t know what a tonne is but I read that it is approximately the same amount the entire country of Chile emits in a whole year. 
From Venice, Italy, a country shattered by grief, comes another miracle. After tourist boats and cruise ships clear out, blackened waters quietly settle to crystal clear. Millions of minnows can be seen flitting in these waters and larger fish and birds have ventured into the city’s waterways and sidewalks. Dolphins, their radar honing in on unimaginable despair, swim the rivers. Harbingers of hope for broken hearts. Even here in the United States, where we have been slow to respond, a friend snaps yet another photo from his apartment window of the San Francisco skyline with the ocean beyond. Having seen many a smoggy pic, this one is startlingly clear. He includes the caption: “Never, in 6 years of living here, has this view been thisclear.” One week into the Bay Area’s shelter in place order and air quality experts can measure the difference. 
The Earth’s capacity to rise and fall, expand and contract with whatever we take from her, whatever we dish out, is notmiraculous. It isnotextraordinary. It is her way, so ordinary we cannot see her lessons etched in every tree, every wave. So quiet we cannot hear her whispers murmuring from every stream. Cannot feel the pulse of her tide until it turns into a tsunami. A pandemic that is changing the face of humanity. 
 
A flash of blue outside my studio window catches my eye. A bluejay on my front lawn is pecking at the earth. I stand for a better view, wrapping fingers round my mug of steaming echinacea tea. It keeps pecking at the same spot while I take a long sip. What the heck is she after? I wonder. She swallows tiny unseen bits and then bobs her head with extra intensity and I remember Sammy’s barbecue rib! She whips her head to the side and I gasp at the marble sized hunk she wrestled free. I murmur out-loud to her, “Oh Sweetie, don’t eat too much, you’ll get sick!” But before I could finish my sentence, she flew off with her prize. She landed in a nearby tree before launching on a longer flight across the wide field, her trophy secure in her beak. 
Speechless, I realize I have become so immersed in excess that I assumed the blue jay would follow suit and overeat. I ponder this awhile before it dawns on me: over-consumption is not of Nature. It’s a symptom of dis-ease, a sign of imbalance. A question surfaces: has modern gluttony contributed to our tragic state of affairs today? I wince. I refuse to glorify Covid 19. The complexity of this crisis undoubtedly intersects all aspects of contemporary life: political, economic, environmental, spiritual to name a few, and I believe it will be years, maybe decades before we reallyknow the virus’s origins and full impact on humanity. This should not stop us however, from gleaning insight and consciously shifting our behavior to curb the immoral overuse of the Earth’s resources. The earth does not need us, but we need her. The March 2020 National GeographicThe End of Trash,makes this point in no uncertain terms. In 2015 alone, we extracted 93 billion tons of raw resources from the earth and reused/recycled a mere 9.3 billion. What happened to the nearly 84 billion tons of resources? Buildings, roadways and longstanding infrastructure account for less than a quarter of that. The large majority of what we take from the earth, becomes trash - entering the oceans, dispersed into the atmosphere and covering the land. Is it possible the Covid 19 tragedy can propel the circular economy movement and the conscience of humanity to emerge from this crisis with increased respect for our home, the earth? Air pollution experts warn of the likelihood of “reverse pollution” once the stimulus package kicks into gear. It is possible the environmental gains will be dwarfed once consumerism and overconsumption gets back on its feet. Can we avoid this if we are willing to learn from the birds around us? This bluejay discovered a juicy prize, a blip of enjoyment on life’s radar but possessed the innate wisdom to take only what she needed. And leave the rest. Her behavior heralds a lesson in moderation. 
 
I stop writing mid-sentence, curious to see who else may have benefited from Sammy’s mis-throw. Pulling a sweatshirt over my pajamas, I enter the freezing morning and search for the bone. I kick at dead leaves and fallen branches. I pace back and forth, scanning, noticing tiny holes burrowed into the earth by rodents and beetles. I can’t find the bone. A robin swoops so close to my head I could hear her wing beat. She settles in the maple tree. The sun crests the hill beyond and catches her beak, turning it to translucent amber. It opens and song sublime fills the blue-skied quiet as I imagine a coyote slinking this close to the house, enjoying a juicy springtime tidbit. 
 
*https://www.sciencealert.com/china-s-carbon-emissions-suddenly-dropped-recently-but-not-for-the-best-reasons

That’s a big question for those of us in recovery from spiritual or cultic abuse.  A friend from out of state, who is a therapist told a client, who is a cult survivor, about a support group he might be interested in. He laughed at her. “Join a group? Heck no. Never again. I’m done with groups!” 

A group, a congregation, an organization, a collective, a community - whatever the setting - if violations take place where people who align with the same ideals gather,  you’ve got a complicated mess on your hands. The group surrounding a leader or ideology can exacerbate the trauma caused by abuse of power. In such situations, many of us were publicly shamed for things we did while striving to align with the goals of the group. This is excruciating and humiliating.  If you manage to extricate yourself from that network, Bravo! But even with good therapy and support from friends and family, we can continue to suffer quietly, making it far safer to steer clear of groups altogether. Aversion to groups can actually be a hard-earned survival mechanism. 

Group violation is especially challenging because we are such social beings - as Dr. Dan Siegel, a neuropsychologist, says,  'We are hardwired for connection'. But when that natural instinct has been turned against us and violation occurs in a group setting, be it verbal, emotional, sexual or spiritual, the added layer of pride and shame compounds the experience. By pride, I’m referring to the group think: “we are special” , “we know something others don’t know”  or “we are the chosen ones.” And shame, well, that is a primary means by which a nefarious leader controls his minions - by bringing attention to our failings and keeping us striving. All this, makes it totally understandable that many cult survivors don't want to be in groups.

However... Since we are indeed social critters, I believe that speaking in a group and/or sharing one's story with others in a safe container can be powerful and integrative. I experienced this in my own healing process when I joined Toastmasters, a group that supports members to develop their public speaking abilities. I will never forget my first introductory speech. I visibly shook like a leaf, standing in front of maybe a dozen very kind and supportive people while I stammered out a few sentences, then ran back to my seat and tried very, very hard not to burst into tears. But the next time it was slightly less terrifying. And now, I sometimes can feel amazingly calm and clear when I am talking in a group setting. I think Dan Siegel would attribute this progress to what he calls ‘creating a coherent narrative’ - that my neurological system has settled through the experience of telling, and repeating my story. And, I believe it is more than that. An emotionally safe group setting allowed me to heal and re-establish the positive aspects of tribal instinct. 

There is no question - having a one-on-one therapist who is well versed in spiritual abuse, has been essential to my own healing process. And for me, forays into groups have been equally important. Being seen and accepted as part of a group, and noticing and identifying when something is “off” has unequivocally restored some of my trust in humanity in a way that was not possible through individual relationships. And, as the late, writer and playwright Anton Chekhov, once said, “You must trust and believe in people, or life becomes impossible."  Sometimes, joining a group can rebuild trust in others, making what was once impossible, possible again. ​

​shoulders, restricted breath, hardened feeling in my chest/heart and a general sensation of wanting to break nefarious bonds that were holding me. Holy cow! These are exactly the same feelings I had when I was first working through cult related trauma. But this time, no one was doing anything to me. It was just me, myself and I.  I wasn’t protecting myself from someone who might hurt me and I wasn’t expressing valid anger towards someone who had manipulated me. I was mad at myself. 
 
Of course, this is a completely different level of anger but that fact remains, I was angry. No matter how you slice it, anger is anger. And, at least in my experience, anger tends to create those unpleasant body sensations, not to mention how it can impact those around me. This realization has prompted a new inquiry as I enter 2020. Does anger fuel haste? I’ve launched an unscientific research project on myself - to pay close attention when I’m feeling pressured by time. I’m curious what will happen if I breathe deeply, relax my shoulders, place my hands on my heart and imagine the shackles of time melting away. Can anger still exist? I mean, really, what’s the hurry anyway?!? 

For years, I chased peak experiences. The man who was my teacher for nearly two decades taught me how to grow, how to become more fully alive, how to manifest my true self - through his manipulative guidance. Week after week, I chased the thrill of new insight and labored over minutia that surely hid the key to my higher self. Not one to shy from hard work, I laced up my boots, eager to climb whatever obstacle his dubious guidance revealed. I’d slide into the mud of life only to rebound in my next session, where I would catch a glimpse of the glory that awaited me. 
 
“Come early” I’ve always told travelers, “because once it’s gone, it’s gone.” I knew the first sighting on Rt 14 was the beginning of the end. “One rain storm and it’s over.”
 
Peak experiences are, by definition, transitory. Unless, that is, you have been bitten by the snake of a religion or ideology that claims otherwise. And then you chase peak, like I did, in everything you do and say, poison seeping into your bloodstream, lulling you into a zombied existence and you mistake a cultic gerbil wheel for vistas of God’s glory. I know because I’ve done it.
 
 In cultic settings, there’s often a low-level hysteria that keeps everyone on their toes: alert for a flash of wisdom, or for the other shoe to drop. Perhaps this tension makes the dangling carrot omnipresent, maintaining ‘life in the pressure pot’. 
 
Trees, on the other hand, cycle their presence with a grace of their own. They offer shelter from a blistering sun, a safe harbor for countless species. They provide sturdiness for a weary back and branches that reach for the stars. They communicate through a massive underground nervous system and drop a bounty of nutrients in their fallen ocean each autumn to nourish winter’s seeds. Humans hold sacraments of marriage and death beneath their wide refuge. The generosity of trees astounds me.
 
Cult survivors and seekers alike have much to learn from trees - to temper our lust for the heights, to welcome the ebb and flow of natural rhythms. Could we learn discernment, patience and gratitude from the leaf cycle? I watch leaves drift to earth, send you a silent prayer and breathe deeply. Through observing, tending and thanking the trees I can begin to see myself, and my brothers and sisters with humble eyes and honesty. No one can sustain peak experience year-round. We fall, we hunker down through winter, we bud, swell and leaf out. Can we also learn to recognize when the fool-hardy or dangerous ones present themselves, proselytizing and promising peak experiences? We can shake our heads and watch carefully. And we might still sometimes wish for never ending peak. But we know we won’t get it. And we do our best to find the beauty in stick season. 

Have you ever read a book and thought, if everyone read this, the world will be a better place? Me too.
 
I told Paula about Rising out of Hatred, the Awakening of a Former White Nationalist by Eli Saslow while sipping tea in the Williston Coffee shop.  The book describes the extraordinary journey of the former white supremacist Derek Black who, thanks to his college friends, came to denounce the ideals he was raised on.
 
“This book pierces my heart, speaks directly to our divided country,” I paused, “And it gives me so much HOPE!”. Paula looked at me with compassion, knowing how much Black’s story bores right into my life’s dilemma of awakening after 18 years of cultic involvement. She sighed and said “Yeah, once you see this stuff, you can’t un-see it. “
 
Rising out of Hatred expands on a scrap of news I happened upon just after my own awakening in 2014. “Derek Black, godson to David Duke (the KKK grand wizard), renounces the white supremist movement.”[1]  When I read the article describing Derek’s transformation, I was riveted, not by him, but by his Jewish friend Matthew.  Matthew’s dogged commitment to civil dialogue and refusal to turn his back on Derek, who still secretly hosted a daily talk show for his father’s Alt Right website, were essential to Derek’s slow release from an ideology that cultivates hate for non-whites.   Conversation was the weapon of choice used to ferret out the enemy for Matthew and the few others who gathered for Shabbat every Friday evening for over a year.
 
I too, believe in the immense power of civil dialogue. In my own quiet corner of Vermont, I now co-facilitate community discussion forums called Cults&Culture: exploring power, authority and control in groups. Our mission it to promote understanding and recognition of the power dynamics inherent in cults of all kinds.
 
Back in 2014, when I left a cultic self-help group, I looked around me with new eyes. I saw, felt, heard and witnessed cultic abuse all over:  in the news, in the self-help group a few towns over, in my neighbor’s complaints about the town council, in the pop-up church down the road- and in terrorist groups and gangs world wide. I coined the term Everyday Cults to describe this phenomenon – the existence of pervasive cultic dynamics through every level of society. Suddenly, I could not only relate to these diverse groups but also recognize core traits of my own personality reflected in the members. I could viscerally feel the power their leader held over their thinking and the choices they made.  The mysterious veil of humanity’s dark side lifted, and I realized I was one of a multitude. At first, I was unable to articulate what I knew to be true, but over time, that has changed. Clarity about coercive, cultic dynamics has become the air I breathe, the lens I look through much of the time. I don’t like what I see, but that does not stop me. I like seeing the truth.
 
Hearing one of my colleagues describe the specifics of how she was harmed by the leader of our group created a crack in my psyche’s well-crafted, 18-year framework. I knew she was speaking the truth but that truth did not fit with who I believed our teacher, whom I had placed on a pedestal, truly was. My entire world shifted. In a similar way, through honest dialogue with his friends, Derek Black began to see how his beliefs harmed others. Once he saw this, he could not un-see it.
 
Perhaps it will happen to you too. When you read Rising Out of Hatred, you too will see that which you can’t un-see. Together, as citizens of conscience, we can talk openly about the taboo subjects of cults and power dynamics, and perhaps our honest dialogue will help someone in need.
 
[1] Stormfront Poster Boy Derek Black Renounces White Nationalism, Landau, Erica, July 19, 2013, New Times, Broward Palm Beach.

Yesterday was the 4th anniversary of my brother’s heartrending, untimely death. A photo of him and his dog Buck sit on the little table in between my desk and meditation chair. I often find comfort in his presence here, beside me. 

I have had four years to sift through the rubble and try to make sense of his complicated death and the turmoil within my family that followed. Although there have been many experiences of healing and loving acceptance, there also remains a residue of confusion and tension in various pockets of my family life and within my own soul.

One such area is my decision to not attend his funeral in Arizona because there was a CTL* retreat scheduled at that same time. I believed I needed to be with my ‘CTL family’ in my broken hearted state of grief. I believed I needed the strength and clarity of my teacher Doug in order to process my intense emotions. I believed I needed the loving circle of people who knew who I really was. I believed they were more important than my sisters and father who traveled out there together. Without me.

I assured myself we would have a funeral in NY for him at a later date because my mother was in the hospital with a double knee replacement and could not travel. And I took comfort in a plan for me to fly out to Arizona a few days later to accompany my elderly father on his return flight. It was a perfect plan that I constructed in my own confused mind so I could swallow the bitter pill of missing my brother’s funeral – but mostly, it was the story I told myself so I could live with my decision to go to the CTL retreat instead of my brother’s funeral.

Well, there never was a funeral for him in NY. And my father flew home unaccompanied and I was left to face my decision. But it would be four more months before I could even begin to understand that my choice to go to the retreat instead of the funeral, was not fully my choice.

It was May 28, 2014, barely 4 months later, when a fissure in my 18 years of dedication to CTL erupted in my psyche and within a week, I wrote this to a friend, “There is no question in me now that Wednesday night, the dam that broke in me released me from a cult.”
And today, after 4 years and 8 months of soul searching, studying, writing and speaking about cult dynamics, I can finally offer myself a healthy dose of kindness and understanding around my decision - because, when my brother died, my mind was not fully my own. Over the next couple of months, I will write more about mind control. 

In the meantime, have you, dear reader, ever experienced or witnessed someone you love, making a choice that was not really a choice? Please feel free to share. 

* Please read my blog statement to clarify the use of names throughout my writing and my intention for this blog.