When one writes publicly, one wants to be found. At midnight or just after, one reads the familiar email. "Your oldest daughter looks like you." Are you reading this yet? Have you found the more hidden sentences?
One pays special attention to the way she rolls her pant legs up. Her ankles in the shallows, and the way she looks out across the water. Yesterday a bald eagle was seen, hunting for unlucky trout. One anticipates a certain form of dialogue. One is ready finally.
Bohm demands attention and community, and frees one from the specialness that attends the personal Jesus. Psychotherapy was a critical invention, but misses the collective aspect. We are not alone. In your email, you reach, and I want to answer, but outside of want. I know my son is funny - I know that he makes hearts glad.
God is not contingent, an idea that can liberate the one who rightly sees it. We walked to the fire tower talking about narrative, and came back agreeing that good stories make "all the difference." Levels of healing rarely align, you really need to just be open, and as helpful as possible, and not worry what works or what doesn't. We create the way out, is what we never quite manage to learn. Your invitation - even now - awaits answer.