A good writer can convey this feeling, as can a great actor. One of the most intense experiences intimacy can provide is that of love-at-first-sight. Fact is, any charismatic man or woman can deliver on intimacy’s promise – the feeling of union that it offers. Those who are able to engender this powerful, nostalgic sensation have a tremendous advantage over those who cannot, because, for better or worse, life is a popularity contest.

Lovers are won over; business deals are sealed; best sellers are created; box office records are smashed; elections are clinched; and history is made – the world’s fate turns on this elusive, most intangible thing called intimacy, and it belongs to those who can create it.

Why? Because we live in a world of “others,” our energies constantly mingling.  The quality of our interaction plays a vital role in determining the quality of our lives.  The moments we share, both personally and professionally, deeply alter the nature of our reality – heaven or hell, literally determined by the character of our connections.  If this is true, what experience should we aim for to get the most out of life?

To put it in visual terms, if interaction had a target, intimacy would be the bull’s eye.

My colleague, Jerome Feldman, MA, and I are creating a series of interactive talks on the subject of Intimacy called, “Invitation to Intimacy – The Only Way Out Is In”. In the early days, these will be completely without charge, as you and we will be pioneering what we hope to be a new spiritual path. Jerome and I will approach the subject of Intimacy in a unique way, exploring both the myths and the mystery that surround this powerful experience. Anyone who has an interest in attending can email me at: geoffrey@geoffreyrose.com, and I will give them more of the details.

I just graduated from college six months ago, and I’m terrified. I’m no more ready to take care of myself or take on the world than climb Everest. I live with my college sweetheart in a dilapidated cockroach-infested apartment building on Chicago’s near north side – affectionately known as the Gypsy Hilton. Bobbi is infinitely more grown up than me. That’s why I chose her.

I sit on the couch, somewhat stupefied, having just gotten home from my job as the only male in the customer service department of Playboy magazine. Our office is in the same building as the Playboy Club. Beautiful women surround me, yet I am miserable. A lifetime of tenacious self-loathing has reached critical mass and has begun to weigh impossibly heavy on me. Intense anxiety pours through my body and mind, and I begin to panic. I want to run away, or better yet, crawl out of my own skin. I need to escape from this horrible, horrible feeling. “Help me, I’ve got to get out of here!” Who am I talking to? What do I expect? The panic is excruciating. I assume the fetal position, and then… Poof, the feeling is gone. Huh? What the…? Where…?

I begin to take stock of things. I look around me. Yep, this is my living room all right. Wait a second. Something’s not right here. I don’t… I don’t feel like “me” anymore. Where is my inner judge? Where are my incessant, destructive self-limiting thoughts? Wait a second… where is my life-long anxiety – that horrible sensation with which I identify myself? Where am I…?

Gone. Now I’m really scared.

I’m sucked into the vacuum created by the loss of my “self.” I free fall into the void of not knowing. Terrified and confused I try to make sense out of what has just happened. I must still be “me” because I can remember things… like the name of my first grade teacher, Mrs. Lebow. See, I’m still me. I must be. Who else would know that? And I can recall my phone number. Yep, got it. And I’m sure that this is my apartment; these are my things; and that Bobbi will be home soon.

But I don’t feel like “me” anymore. In fact, I am devoid of feeling. Then I realize that I’m pretty much devoid of thinking, too. Bobbi’s late. I always worry when she’s late, convinced she’s been in an accident, or worse… she is cheating on me. Yes, that’s it. But now… now I don’t care. What the…? Did someone slip me some drugs or something? Is this a bad acid trip?

No. I am to discover that what I’m experiencing is called, in early ‘70s psychological parlance, a psychotic split. My essential, or true, self can or will no longer take the abuse dished out by my conditioned, or false, self – my fear-based ego. And so, it is opting out, leaving me sans ego, sans personality, sans identity. Emotionally, psychically I am a blank slate – tabula rasa. I have unconsciously given myself a brand new beginning. In one foul swoop I’ve wiped away years of conditioning and, along with it, years of body knowledge. All my “knowing” is gone. Yikes! I’m not sure of anything. Maybe that’s good. A lot of what I think I know makes me hate myself. Talk about the best of times and the worst of times. I immediately begin psychotherapy.

Fifteen years pass… Los Angeles: Winter

It’s 6:30AM and I’m at a meeting of the Inside Edge, a group of forward thinking, spiritually minded individuals who regularly meet at this ungodly hour to network and share high-minded ideas. I’m here at the invitation of a very gifted woman singer who is the musical inspiration for the morning.

Following a good breakfast and a thought provoking guest speaker, I thank my hostess and rise to leave. Another woman, who I have never met, hurries toward me. “You’re a walk-in, aren’t you?” she says excitedly. “Why yes,” I admit. “I’ve come with my friend here.” “No, no, not that kind of walk-in,” she admonishes me. “You’re a star seed.” “I’m sorry, I’m a what?” I ask incredulously, having no idea what the woman is talking about.

“Well,” she asserts, “you aren’t afraid of death anymore, are you?” Whoa, now things are really getting weird. “No, actually, I’m not.” “And you did have a nervous breakdown, didn’t you?” “Well, actually, yes I did.” “Well, that’s when it happened,” she announces triumphantly.” “What happened?” I ask, starting to get a bit short with her. “That’s when you became a star child.” “A what?” I snap. “You’re a star child, young man,” the woman chirps. “You’re here to help others overcome their fear of death.” And with that she vigorously shakes my hand, wishes me luck, and walks off.

One year passes… Los Angeles/Chicago: Fall/Winter

I’m still searching, still in therapy… still confused. But I know one thing for sure: I can no longer bear at least one vestigial aspect of my mutilated self-image – my life-long asthma. So, one night while meditating, I propose a deal with God. I tell Him that I will never again doubt His existence (something I am perpetually prone to do), if I can get rid of my asthma. I think this is pretty presumptuous of me – expecting God to work a miracle on my behalf (that is, if He exists at all). But I am at my wit’s end and desperate to be rid of this chronic respiratory nuisance, once and for all.

Weeks pass… and nothing. Then, one day, I run into an old friend who I haven’t seen in over a year. I quickly become aware of an incredible, yet inexplicable change in her. At a break in the catching up, I ask if anything has happened that would account for what I am sensing.

She enthuses that six months earlier she had not been feeling particularly well, and so had decided to see a “healer”. “Within a month,” my friend crescendoed, “I felt better than I ever have.”

Well, I may not literally be from Missouri, but I might as well be. This is plenty to swallow. Yet, I can see with my own eyes that something remarkable has taken place in my friend’s life. So, I ask for the healer’s name and number; the air of mystery and magic is simply too much to ignore. Besides, maybe this chance meeting has something to do with my deal with God. I make an appointment for the following week.

I enter Stephanie’s house on a cool, crisp autumn morning, not knowing what to expect, but feeling slightly taken aback when a pretty woman in her late twenties introduces herself to me. She has the disposition of an elf, laughing loudly and often, but quickly gets down to business and asks the purpose of my visit. Timidly, I reply, “I’d like to get rid of my asthma.” She laughs a wonderfully loud belly laugh, and then looks at me very seriously, as if sizing me up. “Alright,” she announces, “We can do that.”
Her certainty quickly becomes my disbelief. “Oh really,” I mock, “How can you be so sure?” Stephanie gently turns to me, and with a “Glinda-the-Good-Witch” enchanted sort of smile, says ever so matter-of-factly, “Because you are ready to give it up.”

Within ten minutes she is finished examining me (using muscle testing), and rises to remove a single bottle of pills from one of her cabinets. Putting the tiny glass vial in my hand and my hand on my abdomen, she briefly re-tests. Then, giving an affirmative sort of grunt, she speaks, “In addition to this, I want you to pick up some Bach Flower Remedies. They’ll treat the asthma from the vantage point of your personality.”

Whoa! What the heck is she talking about?

I am in a daze as I leave Stephanie’s house. Dazed and confused for sure, and certain really of only one thing: This has to be the most bizarre approach to healing I have ever encountered. I am totally unconvinced of its merits and doubly doubtful of any favorable results. But then, I remember my deal with God, my friend’s story, and the transformation I witnessed in her that spirited me to Stephanie in the first place. I decide to go to the homeopathic pharmacy, buy the remedies, and begin the simple two-week regime.

Because late autumn usually signals the end of my asthma “season,” I am unsure of the effectiveness of Stephanie’s program until mid-winter, when I travel to Chicago to visit some old friends – friends who own both a cat and a dog. I sleep soundly the first night in their home; oddly, not even thinking about the animals nor the fact that under “normal” circumstances I would be having an asthma attack by now, unable to sleep without medication. The next night proves the same, and by the following morning it finally dawns on me what has happened. I go over to the animals and begin to pet and play with them, and to my utter amazement, do not wheeze, sneeze, itch or twitch one single bit.

I am filled with joy – I mean real euphoria. I thank God. I thank Stephanie. Then I cry.
And then, I remember what I promised in return: I will no longer doubt God’s existence.

Thirteen years pass… Los Angeles: Winter

I’ve been in private practice as a metaphysical counselor for seven years. Not only have I immersed myself in spiritual thought, I have made a livelihood out of it. By now, I am convinced that some amazing, unknowable intelligence exists from which I am inseparable. This omni-present genius created me (and everything else), animates me (and everything else), and co-creates with me (and everyone else). I’m finally comfortable in my own skin, having spent eighteen of the last twenty-nine years in some sort of therapy, mentorship, personal growth seminar or alternative school. Two years ago my self-help book, “When You Reach the End of Your Rope, Let Go!” was published, chronicling and systematizing my spiritual journey from breakdown to breakthrough.

I find myself at a weekend-long class taught by an unusually gifted healer. During one of the breaks, I pull Mary aside and tell her the story of my breakdown and of the woman who approached me so long ago at the Inside Edge. She listens poker-faced, with the wisdom of a woman who has heard just about everything. She smiles knowingly and says, “One of your other-dimensional selves saw that you weren’t going to make it. Your Pleiadean self stepped in and took over this dimensional ‘Geoffrey.’ That’s why you feel so different, and that’s why you are no longer afraid. Your guides are very powerful, indeed. It is good to meet you. There are many of us here.”

Look, I’m as big a skeptic as the next guy – none of this airy-fairy stuff for me. That said, this is what I know: I grew up in a house where I didn’t feel safe or loved. I met the world head on, and the impact knocked me unconscious. When I came to I wasn’t sure of anything. A lot of that was a blessing, as I had been so sure of my own worthlessness for so long. With a clean slate I could paint all sorts of new ideas onto the canvas of my consciousness, without having to battle the screaming fear and paralyzing doubt that characterized my former self. I made a deal with God. I didn’t pray in the traditional sense. I made a declaration: If You take my asthma away, I will believe in You. Holding up my end of the bargain has been a never-ending life-long process, but it has changed everything. Now I help others help themselves. That’s what I know. That’s what I know.

Seven years pass… Los Angeles: Spring

I sit at my computer, typing away at this “Thank God I…” story I’ve agreed to write. It’s been over fifteen years since I first hung my shingle out and began offering back the gifts that came along with the breakdown/breakthrough. Over the years, I realized that the “fear of death” I am here to help people overcome is not their physical death, but rather the death of their egos. I realize, too, that telling my story is an important part of the work that I do, because it gives others hope. If I turned lemons into lemonade, so can they.

Because of the “gift” of my abusive childhood and the subsequent life-crushing toxic consciousness with which it left me, I speak the language of hopelessness, fear and anger fluently. Having undergone a complete breakdown and a subsequent rebuilding, I find that I am uniquely positioned to help others transcend their fear and pain – their identification with ego – and reach the inner peace that comes with connecting to their true, spirit-based selves. Having reached the end of my rope; having made that deal with God; and having done my best to keep my end of the bargain, I now move through life a little more gracefully, with a strong working personal philosophy: I am you.

Wow… What a ride. And on and on it goes. Thank God I had that nervous breakdown!

©2010 Geoffrey Rose, Ph.D.

When life hands us lemons as children, we typically do one or two things. We learn to make lemonade and/or we “sour grape” what we aren’t getting. “Love? Who needs love? I’ll show you. I don’t need your stupid love anyway.” We learn to do without and not risk asking for more. 

One member of my Vision Circle, the amazing Diana Loomans, said that we’ve got to tug on the apron of the universal mother when we want something. She called it volition. We lose this volition if, when we tugged on the apron of our early caregiver, our needs weren’t met. We must override the disappointment and sense of dread we may now feel in asking for more of what we want. We must learn how, and then be willing, to tug at the apron of the universal mother. This mother will not deny us.

When life hands you lemons… ask for oranges.

We have made ourselves “heavy” and “small.” Maybe we thought this left us tougher targets for the inevitable slings and arrows of misfortune that were sure to rain down on us at any moment. Maybe at some point in our lives we truly were in danger, or maybe we just thought we were. It doesn’t matter. The preemptive girding of the loins (and various other portions of our anatomy) is completely understandable in light of a world in which fear is the primary motivating force.

Our work in yoga, indeed our work in life, is to wake to a new reality, or more accurately, to create a new one – to move from the closed posture of fear into the open one of love. By creating room in our bodies for this new possibility, we are sending an unmistakable signal to ourselves: that deep and profound change is possible. The metaphysician is interested in the very same result, only she is working on the body of her beliefs. The question then becomes, how do we do for our minds what we are doing for our bodies?

How do we heal our consciousness? We heal by distinguishing ourselves from our thoughts and feelings. When we can do this we get a full-on Here/Now experience of who we actually are, without the historical prejudice. The reason I wrote “When You Reach the End of Your Rope, Let Go!” was to facilitate this process for you. I’m honored and quite thrilled to tell you that Dr. David Hawkins (Power vs. Force, The Eye of the I) recently recommended “When You Reach the End of Your Rope, Let Go!” as an evolutionary tool in his latest book “Transcending the Levels of Consciousness”.

That’s all for now. Be Well…

Over the years, the term Pollyanna has come to refer to a person who is cheerfully optimistic to the point of naiveté. But this entirely misses the metaphysical point of the story. Pollyanna alters the town, making it happier and healthier, by perceiving it and its people through forgiving and appreciative eyes – or as quantum physics would say, “the observer altering the observed.”

We must all be Pollyanna’s. We must forgive ourselves, forgive ourselves for not knowing sooner, for not getting it right yet, so that we can finally stop beating ourselves up, let go of the past, and relax into the here and now… ‘cause that’s where our power lies.

And we must appreciate what we have. There is magic in this. When we appreciate what we have, what we have appreciates…we literally get more of it.

Let’s risk leaving the fearful, negative, unhealthy tribal thinking we all grew up with. Let’s be positive and raise our consciousness. Thinking positively doesn’t mean we need to wear a silly grin on our face all day long. It simply asks that we put our attention on what is, rather than on what is missing. Nobody ever made anything out of something that wasn’t there.

Concentrating on what is wrong or missing is a complete waste of time, and can only lead to disappointment, stress, and ill health. Our attention must be on what is if we are to build a happy, healthy, successful life. This is positive thinking.

And here is the secret and the magic and the sheer common sense of Pollyanna. So, let them call us Pollyanna. She healed an entire town. Maybe we can heal our world and ourselves.

Recognizing the relationship between my thinking and my reality, as painful as that recognition was at the time, proved a turning point in my life. Then, learning to take charge of my consciousness, and thereby take charge of my condition/experience, proved to be an even more empowering lesson.

Today, in addition to my private practice, I meet with several like-minded people on a weekly basis. We discuss the mechanics of change and creativity – sharing our wins and challenges with each other. I invite you to surround yourself with people who “get it.” The more time you spend in the company of men and women who are actively taking responsibility for their lives, the sooner you will be willing and able to do the same. Conversely, I invite you to spend less and less time with those who blame others for their life circumstances. Victimhood is so passé.

“Freedom is responsibility”- Thomas Jefferson

♡ Namaste