This post will make more sense if you read The Calling: Part 1 first.
The year before my soul quest journey, our family was visiting the colonial town of Antigua, Guatemala, before spending a month living on Lake Atitlan. Little did I know, one seemly innocuous event would create a subtle shift that would change my life’s direction.
The morning was surreal in its perfection. Brightly painted, centuries old edifices in this historical community perfectly complimented the blue brilliance of a cloudless sky. The town’s guardians, three massive volcanos, majestically stood watch over the festivities as residents prepared for Semana Santa, Holy Week.
During the week between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday, over a million tourists flock to Antigua to witness its intricate alfombras (carpets made of flowers, colored sawdust, fruits, vegetables, and sand) and opulent religious processions.
My three children and I walked through the streets, enjoying the electric atmosphere as restauranteurs, shop owners and street vendors bustled about in preparation for the crowds of festival-goers that would soon descend upon the city.
Up the street, a make-shift garbage truck, whose truck bed was made of wide wooden planks extending 6′ high, stopped to collect a pile of trash. One man stood atop the heap of rubbish, as two helpers down below tossed up garbage bags. The three men bantered jovially, and my heart smiled at their camaraderie.
The truck was already nearly full to the brim when one man grabbed a particularly heavy bag of trash. Struggling under its weight, he staggered for a moment, then hoisted it over his head. Just as his companion lifted it into the truck, the bottom of the bag ripped open, spilling the contents of the sack over the man’s head.
Anyone who has traveled in Latin America knows that many municipalities lack the septic capacity to accept toilet paper. Such is the case in Antigua. For this reason, not only was the sanitary worker doused with 20 pounds of ooze and filth, there were bits of soiled toilet paper clinging to his hair and shoulders.
The street that had seconds earlier been filled with voices raised in excitement and revelry was suddenly silent. Aghast, we held a collective breath of horror for the garbage man, who was frozen in disbelief.
Then, the man started laughing. It was a laugh that started as a cough, then a chortle, then boiled up from a deep reservoir of self-assuredness into a boisterous, carefree bellow. The balloon holding our collective breath popped and everyone on the street laughed along with him.
At the time we witnessed this event, my middle daughter was struggling with debilitating OCD, which included 30-40 minute rituals for tooth-brushing and showers. Looking up at me aghast, she asked, “Mom. How can he be laughing? He has other people’s poop on his face!”
“Take a good look,” I said. “That man is one of the most special human beings you’ll ever meet. I’m going to remember him for the rest of my life.”
And I was right. This brave man’s laughter greets me whenever I’m going through a particularly unpleasant experience. He stands as a reminder that laughter through pain is a choice, one that I’m free to accept or reject at any time.
But in a dream last night, I realized the garbage man’s example continues to work on my heart.
It’s been over five years since my soul quest in the Inyo Mountain Range. In the months following the disturbing end to my ceremony in the desert, I lost the ability to feel emotion of any kind. The Invasion of the Body Snatchers seemed more truth than fiction as the thoughts and feelings I associated with “me” evaporated into thin air. It was deeply disorienting. I had the sensation that my soul had departed, leaving this shell of a body on the planet. My marriage faltered, then failed.
Cast adrift, I spent four months traveling 18,000 miles with my middle daughter in a minivan pulling a pop-up trailer. Then my three kids and I spent the better part of eight months in and out of Costa Rican and Mexican youth hostels before doing a major high altitude trek in Peru.
All the while, I wrestled, yielded, battled, surrendered, and wept tears of gratitude as revelation upon revelation was emblazoned on my heart, my mind and my spirit. These spiritual epiphanies were rare moments where I finally felt the emotions that were largely absent for two solid years. And when the epiphanies descended… or rose up from the earth… the power of their glory was so profound, I simply wept.
I began to suspect that something very unusual had happened on that vision quest. For lack of a better way to put it… my soul’s train skipped the tracks. Normally, a soul needs to ascend to be released from karmic debt. As I understand it, this only happens to individuals who are spiritually evolved. I am NOT spiritually evolved. In fact… I lack the clarity, wisdom, humility, and empathy that is the hallmark of those enlightened masters. But for some reason, I think the Pachamama decided I’d be of more value to her outside the normal course of spiritual evolution. My entire spiritual course load changed.
In early 2022, I went back to Costa Rica for three months with my three teens in tow. After an attempt to run fast enough to keep up with horses on Tamarindo’s beach, followed by an intensive self-healing “system upgrade” ceremony in my hammock, something strange happened. I stopped feeling physical pain.
Imagine what you would do if you started to suspect you could run, bike, swim or climb as hard as you wanted, without fear of sore muscles? At first, I spent hours running on the beach or swimming out into the ocean. Later, the kids and I spent 8-10 hours ascending volcanos or hiking to remote waterfalls. I lost 30 pounds.
Returning home to northern Minnesota, I entered mountain bike races, and even took 4th place overall in a state-wide cross country mountain bike race. No matter how hard I worked, or how fully my muscles were depleted, I would wake up the next day as fresh as a daisy.
The only experience more bizarre than the complete absence of pain in 2022 was surviving two high-speed car accidents. Neither resulted in injury. Both felt like spiritual attacks. The first was a 70 mph car accident where our Honda Odyssey pulling a pop up trailer flipped three times through the median and came to rest on the other side of the freeway. My daughter and I were unharmed. The exact date of the car accident had been predicted by a psychic two weeks earlier. The full story of that experience can be found here.
The second was on Christmas Eve day when I was driving to the airport in Minneapolis to pick up my oldest daughter. At 55 mph, a truck driver lost control of his vehicle on black ice and t-boned my new Subaru Outback into the guardrail. Despite totally destroying two cars in six months, the day after that second accident, I was in yoga class, marveling that I felt no stiffness or soreness of any kind.
These bizarre events made me wonder if there was something special I was supposed to be doing with my life. Maybe I should be writing a book… starting a podcast…. developing an online course… becoming a life coach… public speaking. I could teach other people to tune into their own inner guidance.
This line of thinking appealed to my ego. After all, everything happens for a reason, right? If I parlay these transformative events into something that helps other people, those earlier years of pain and suffering will have served some greater purpose.
My first program, called “Soul-Mending“, is described as follows:
“Soul mending is an immersive healing practice. It isn’t about fixing what’s been broken. It’s about slowly awakening to truths you’ve forgotten. Soul mending is a treasure hunt, a game to reclaim pieces that are inherently yours. It’s a joyous process of discovery, as the wonder and glory of the truest version of yourself is revealed. Often, these missing pieces are your most authentic parts, the parts that reveal your most profound truths and are connected to your deepest intrinsic desires.”
My second program, called “Fear to Freedom“, is described as follows:
“Freedom is the ability to move through this life experience without lack or limitation. Freedom is your natural state of being. It is your birthright as the boundless, limitless creator of your life experience. Your dreams, your unique desires, are sacred. They were written on your heart by a soul that is boundless and limitless. There is nothing standing between you and absolutely anything you desire.
Any perceived roadblock is simply an illusion. These roadblocks are all smoke and mirrors, fabricated by fear. And fear is NOT limitless. You can get to the bottom if it. You can get to the end of it. Because fear, my friend, is finite.”
I created a website… spent countless hours in contemplation… posted meditative writings on Instagram… generated volumes of content… with absolutely no success.
I wanted to become a teacher. Teachers are respected. Good teachers – especially ones with books, podcasts, online courses, coaching practices and speaking gigs – make good money. And that’s where this very long story comes full circle.
Last night, I had a dream. In my dream, a baby armadillo sprayed his scent on my leg… and I laughed the exact same laugh as the sanitation worker in Antigua. Upon waking, I looked up “armadillo'” in an animal codex. The armadillo is a sign to stop doing what you are doing and evaluate whether or not it’s in alignment with your highest calling.
The truth is, I’m not ready to be a teacher. Something inside isn’t fully cooked. The Pachamama wants me to be a sanitation worker… or maybe a spiritual plumber. To put it simply (and vulgarly), I’m here to process man’s collective emotional shit. Here’s a secret. Maybe you know it, maybe you don’t.
When we heal our own sacred wound, we heal on behalf of the planet. It has to do with collective karmic debt. All of humanity shares it. Maybe I “skipped the karmic track” to process loneliness, which I wouldn’t have experienced as deeply on my pre-soul-quest-track. And in healing my own loneliness, I heal global loneliness.
Through ceremony, cosmic forces convert humanity’s emotional garbage into light. The process is as natural as a tree converting carbon dioxide into oxygen. This work is not done on the world’s stage or in the public eye. It’s done behind the scenes, in prayer, meditation, contemplation… and laughter.
Though this is the work of renunciates, priests, and gurus, neither you nor I need to be spiritual masters to do this work. We don’t need to follow a prescribed doctrine and we don’t need to look to anyone else for permission. Anyone can be a spiritual garbage worker! It doesn’t require a spiritual pedigree. That’s the work we do when we address our sacred wound. And like that precious soul in Antigua, Guatemala, we’re at our best when we don’t take our jobs too seriously.
