Be The Dawn In The Darkness: The Relentless Pursuit of Becoming Who We Are Meant To Be

By J.H. Parker

Pay attention to the people you meet by chance.

Often they are messengers sent to help you along your way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harvesting Wisdom
• Release date: Mar 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9781544536477

J.H. Parker

J.H. Parker has worked in the field of behavioral assessment analysis for more than three decades, helping business leaders and organizations recognize and accept how they get in their own way and what they can do about it. As a writer, John combines his passion for transformational and spiritual growth to convey personal life lessons with a narrative approach. As a survivor of childhood and adult trauma, he brings reality-based insight to the field of recovery and mental health. He is a former marine and father of a fallen army veteran who served two deployments in Afghanistan.

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Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: Gladys

Chapter 2: The Roots of Suffering

Chapter 3: Normal Chaos

Chapter 4: Discovering My Sense of Knowing

Chapter 5: Chipping Away All That Is Not Me

Chapter 6: Surviving the Neighborhood

Chapter 7: Finding My Internal Compass

Chapter 8: Retribution Is Far Beyond Rage

Chapter 9: The Dude from Philly

Chapter 10: Jump Wings

Chapter 11: NATO Exercises

Chapter 12: Gon’ Kick You Out Ma Marine Co

Chapter 13: An Interruption to My Life’s Trajectory

Chapter 14: Homecoming

Chapter 15: The Warrior’s Wisdom

Chapter 16: Finding Danny

Chapter 17: Success Strategies

Chapter 18: The Law of Reciprocity

Chapter 19: Finding Meaning and Purpose

Chapter 20: Discovering Ease and Growth

Chapter 21: Danny’s on a Bus to Come Live with You

Chapter 22: Dad, I Want to Join the Army

Chapter 23: My Conflicting Diagnosis

Chapter 24: Glad’s Passing

Chapter 25: The Call from Afghanistan

Chapter 26: The Study of the Nature of Being

Chapter 27: Danny’s Passing

Chapter 28: The Wounded Healer

Chapter 29: Be What the World Needs

Chapter 30: Vision Quest

Chapter 31: The Plant Medicine Journeys

Afterword: Harvesting Wisdom

Author’s Ending Note

About the Author

Introduction

Michelangelo’s Statue of David, Completed in 1504, Florence, Italy

Each year of my early childhood, I received three books for Christmas from my great-aunt Gladys. They were timeless chronicles of great adventures, like Gulliver’s Travels , The Iliad , The Trojan Horse , and stories of exceptional leaders, artists, and sculptors from ancient times. Before I could read, I studied and dreamt about the powerful illustrations on their pages.

One Christmas, when I was seven, I found a handwritten note tucked into the pages of one of the books about Michelangelo. At the time, I didn’t realize my hero’s journey had already begun and that Glad was provisioning me for the odyssey that lay ahead.

Folded into a page next to an illustration of Michelangelo’s Statue of David, her note read:

Remember the story of the sculpting of David;

through your most challenging experiences

you must chip away all that is not you

to discover your true self and your life’s purpose.

David is a biblical hero who slew Goliath with a rock and sling. In 1464, artist Agostino was commissioned to create a statue of David from a massive block of Carrara marble. After beginning the project, Agostino discovered a significant crack in the stone and abandoned the endeavor. Several other master sculptors turned down the commission, as they, too, considered the crack a fatal flaw. As a result, the block of marble sat unfinished and exposed to the elements for decades.

But in 1501, a young Michelangelo saw what others could not. He viewed the stone’s flaws as strengths and could clearly see David trapped within the marble and began the work of freeing him.

In 1504, when the statue was unveiled, Michelangelo was asked how he was able to create such a beautiful likeness of David.

His answer:

David was always there in the marble; I just chipped away everything that was not David.

The story of Michelangelo’s David has stayed with me, forever etched into my mind, as has Aunt Gladys’s gentle instruction. My marble was also weathered and imperfect. I have endured a life of trauma, depression, anxiety, grief, and loss. Some cracks ran so deep that they threatened everything.

I must chip away all that is not me.

Like Michelangelo, I sought the story within the stone and sculpted until I found my true self and purpose. When I look back now, I see that the cracks and flaws of my past have fallen away, revealing wholeness, fulfillment, and joy.

CHAPTER 1

Gladys

In the early years of my childhood, my great-aunt Gladys would stay with our family for a month or so during the holidays to escape the harsh Canadian winters of Ottawa.

Glad, as we affectionately called her, is the voice of wisdom I carry with me to this day. Of all the women in human history, she was my heroine. Now, she is the angel on my shoulder.

Glad and I shared a secret, and my sister and brother never caught on. Each morning just before dawn, I would sneak out of my room to the kitchen while she made her breakfast. I enjoyed her company and treasured this special time together. I remember one morning, at the first glimpse of the horizon’s orange blush, Glad pointed and said, You see, John. There it is; the dawn of a new day is being borne from the darkness. In my life, there have been times when I was not sure if I would survive the night. The only thing that gave me a hint of hope was the first glow of dawn.

I always found the way she spoke to be so interesting. It was different. She would often start or end her comments by saying my name. It was her way of getting me to look straight at her, though she always had my undivided attention whenever she spoke.

These were formative mornings during my early and impressionable years. They were my escape and my private time to be in Glad’s angelic presence. I soaked up her love and wisdom like a flower responding to water and sunlight. Little did I know, she was equipping me for a great journey ahead, one that would last my entire lifetime.

Glad’s life was full of perilous experiences. Many of the stories she shared with me in my early years I later read as historical facts captured in her book, One Woman’s War. Many years later, I was even more astonished to see her book brought to life when she was depicted in a documentary, Eyewitness to War.

Glad had been a journalist during the time building up to the Nazi invasion of Europe and throughout World War II. During the rise of fascism and the occupation of Paris, Glad was Canada’s only war correspondent stationed in France and England. For her journalism, support of the Free French, and steadfast reporting of Canada’s war efforts, Glad was awarded a Legion of Honor medal by the French government. This was bestowed upon her a few decades after the end of the war.

I would often ask to see her medal, and she would let me hold the jewel box as we talked. It was beautiful lying against the black velvet cushion—gold, white, and green with a dark red ribbon—and when I held it in my hand, I was there, living her stories. It was magical.

I remember how, in fifth grade, I brought her to visit my class as a special guest. She showed my classmates her medal and talked about having the courage to follow our dreams, doing our part to make peace in the world, and why we should not bow down to bullies.

I had never seen our class so enthralled. Even the most rambunctious students sat still and silent, transfixed, with their mouths open and amazed. Glad allowed each of my classmates to hold the open jewel box containing her medal, and we passed it around the classroom with reverence as she spoke.

When she finished her talk, the teacher dismissed the class for recess. All of the boys immediately ran out to play, but nearly all the girls stayed to hear more and ask her questions. The girls remained with Glad all through recess until the teacher called the class to begin.

I beamed with pride and made a few new friends that day, mostly girls.

Coffee, Cream, and Maple Syrup

It had been a year since Glad’s first visit. My six-year-old self agonized in anticipation of her arrival, counting down the final weeks, days, hours, and minutes before her return.

When the day finally came, I eagerly awoke at dawn and raced to the kitchen to help Glad prepare her breakfast, a ritual of cheddar cheese, thick-cut bacon, toast, and coffee. As she carried her tray of food, I glanced over at my father and back to Glad.

Can I have a taste of your coffee? I asked.

Of course, John. I’ll teach you how to have a proper tasting of coffee, she said, as she took another cup out of the cupboard. She poured it half full, added some cream, and smiled as she looked down. Here’s something we Canadians love in our tea and coffee: maple syrup. She stirred in a few drops while placing the cup on our food tray.

We settled into the living room. Glad occupied her favorite chair, a high-back Victorian with gold-stitched material. There were carved designs on the ends of the arms, and its dark, wooden legs curved into clawed feet. She looked so regal, like a queen presiding over her court. I positioned myself on a pillow at her feet in order to be close to her. All was right with the world whenever I was in her presence.

May I show you how to appreciate coffee, John? Glad asked.

Sure, I replied, eager to learn.

She raised her cup and shared, Before you take a sip, you must take in the aroma and the qualities of the coffee. She put her cup to her nose, closed her eyes, and began a long, slow inhale. She tilted her head back with a joyous smile as she paused, then she let out a long, luxurious sigh.

Heaven, she said. She slowly opened her eyes and looked upward. John, there is a god, and God must love coffee. It’s as if He created this magical potion just for me.

She gazed down at me again. The smell and taste of coffee has been my faithful friend and comforted me through the worst of times. Now, it’s your turn. She gestured for me to put my cup to my nose. Inhale slowly and deeply through your nose, allowing your senses to fill with the aroma and all of its qualities. Feel the warmth of the vapors filling your nose and lungs, then pause to take it all in. That’s right. Good job, John. And now slowly exhale and relax.

She paused and asked gently, What are you experiencing?

I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. I smell maple syrup.

Good. What else are you smelling and experiencing?

Creamy…nutty…yummy, I said with a giggle.

Now, open your eyes, and take a sip.

I smiled and let out a long Mmmm as we savored the moment together.

And what are you experiencing now? she asked, beaming. The promising light of morning spilled into our living room as if her smile alone had summoned it.

Yum, I said, and then suddenly, "Happy. It tastes happy."

Glad chuckled. You see, God must have created coffee to make us happy.

She handed me a piece of cheese and bacon and said, Now, take another sip and savor it for a few seconds, and then take a bite of each and chew slowly. Take in all of the flavors.

I did as she directed and moaned as my senses filled with comfort and pleasure.

We sat almost in total silence, sipping and nibbling as we enjoyed our breakfast, chuckling and savoring the moment.

This was, by far, my fondest experience with Glad.

If God Is Love, Why Is This Happening to Me?

The second morning of Glad’s visit, I woke to the smell of bacon, and a smile came over me, inside and out.

Glad! I quietly climbed down my bunk bed’s ladder, tiptoeing to the door so as not to wake my brother.

As I approached the curtain separating the living room from the dining room and kitchen, I could hear Glad and my father having a conversation. I waited nervously for a lull between words and slipped through the curtain to find her holding her breakfast tray. My father was sitting at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.

Hi, Aunt Glad, I said excitedly.

Oh! Hello, John. How are you this morning? she asked in her usual cheery way.

I’m fine, I replied.

Come with me. I was just going to the living room to have my breakfast.

I nodded as she passed by me and through the curtain. My father sent me a stern look of disapproval as I followed her; I think he was annoyed I had taken her attention off of him.

Glad took her seat on her throne, the high-backed Victorian chair, and again, I sat at her feet—her faithful subject.

Glad was beautiful and regal. She dressed every day as if she were preparing to meet foreign dignitaries at the French Embassy in Ottawa or to meet them for lunch at the Chateau Laurier Hotel.

I think what I enjoyed most about Glad was that she always saw the good within me. She convinced me early on that I would make something extraordinary of my life. She was the only person in my childhood who sat with me and asked how I was doing and feeling. I liked myself best when I was with her.

The quests and noble deeds that I fantasized about were all in my head, but hers were real. Glad’s life had been full of danger. Once again, I would ask to see her medal, and she would let me hold the jewel box as we talked. I was there, living her stories.

I wanted to dive into her stories partially because I was suffering so badly in mine. Aside from spending time with my grandparents, the relief Glad’s annual visits provided me were some of the only times of relative safety I can recall of my childhood years. My father’s presence was terrifying, but he would not dare show his violent temper in the slightest degree around Aunt Glad.

Before Glad’s arrival each year, my father would march my sister, brother, and me into the hallway and pin us against the wall at attention. He’d get down on one knee to tell us how we would be and act with Glad during her visit. As he spoke, he looked us in the eyes. The threat promised there punctuated his words, and they were delivered in a deep and terrifying tone. He would make a fist with his middle finger’s knuckle sticking out to emphasize his point. As he spoke, he jabbed his protruding knuckle into our chests. You could hear a painful thump each time he poked us.

"Keep your mouths shut! Don’t you say a thing to Gladys about what happens in our home. We don’t talk about anything that happens here."

The pressure he applied to our chests sent us sliding down the wall to the floor, screaming in agony. Undeterred, he’d stand us back up and continue his unrelenting abuse.

"If I hear even a whisper to Glad about me, you will pay. I promise you this. He took a long, dangerous pause and scanned our terrified eyes. Do you read me?"

Yes, sir, we replied, trembling.

And from the moment Glad arrived at the airport, we felt the menacing presence of his surveillance.

To Glad, my father acted gallant and charming. To us, he was a violent prison guard, and we were frightened, helpless inmates. Whenever we were sitting with Glad in the living room, he would smile and give her wonderful greetings and compliments. He also made a habit of settling in at the kitchen table. It was behind a curtain he’d put up as a makeshift separator. The fabric provided a false sense that our conversations with Glad were private.

Every few minutes, he would ruffle his newspaper unnecessarily or smack his coffee cup on the saucer to send my siblings and me the unspoken threat that he could hear even a whisper.

One morning, Glad settled into her throne and said, I have something to tell you, John, and I want you to listen closely. Her tone was wise and serious. In my early years, religion was very confusing to me because I just couldn’t understand why there were so many.

I stared at her, listening attentively.

Glad continued, "My advice to you is simple. If you find a faith that you want to devote yourself to, then do so, but do not judge or build barriers in your heart toward other faiths. Wars have been fought since the beginning of religion itself because of these barriers. I have made the choice to not be bound by the religious doctrine of any faith. Instead, I am a spiritual person who believes there is a universal force for good beyond our understanding. I am deeply spiritual and have found peace and forgiveness in my heart while appreciating and accepting people of all faiths."

My father cleared his throat from the kitchen, sending a spike of anxiety all the way through me. However, Aunt Glad registered no interruption.

There is a universal truth I have discovered that I believe will serve you, John. Throughout my lifetime, I have learned many things about most of the world’s great religions and found one absolute truth in all of them. It made all the difference to me. At the heart of all religious teachings throughout human history, there is a goodness and a truth that runs like a thread between them: God is love.

She smiled lovingly as she looked into my eyes. Do you understand what I am saying, John?

I paused and thought for a moment. I think so, I responded, but I’m sure she noticed me squirm as my eyes darted toward my father behind the curtain.

God is love? I repeated, confused. Inside, my stomach went into a knot. I wanted to scream, No! The introduction of her worldview was at odds with my experiences and sent my mind racing with anxiety. No, this isn’t true! I screamed inside. What I couldn’t say out loud was, You can’t be right. This isn’t real; I’m frightened all the time. Why does my father hurt us? I was not permitted to give away any sign of trouble.

She patiently gazed at me, her face alight with a nurturing smile. Glad lived by her principles, and she was the embodiment of love.

This has to be true, replaced my previous internal dialogue and echoed in my mind. Still, I struggled to grasp the important message she was giving me. It was like an unsolvable riddle.

But I couldn’t see it because I couldn’t believe it. Outside of Glad’s presence, my fear was too raw and too real to feel anything but sadness and suffering.

Puzzled, I silently stared off into space, pondering her question as she continued to nibble on her food. She shared some with me. It was incredibly delicious; the bacon and cheddar anchored me forever in gratitude for the safety and wisdom she provided.

My pain, suffering, and fear were like a three-headed dragon, standing sentinel and in direct opposition to my ability to know and believe this truth Aunt Glad wanted me to understand.

If God is love, why are these bad things happening to me? I wanted to scream the question out loud to Glad, but when a look of empathy came over my great-aunt’s face, I realized we both felt my captor’s silent and ominous presence.

Concerned, Glad put her hand on my shoulder, and she sent me a half-smile of encouragement.

I slumped and rested my head on her knee. I felt a deep sense of hopelessness as I ruminated, If God is love, why is this happening to me?

Glad, sensing my despair, seized the moment and asked, John, would you get my coat and walk me to the park?

That perked me up right away. Sure! I leapt to my feet in excitement, my focus shifted to our magical walks. I darted down the hallway to get changed, grabbing her coat as I returned to her. I didn’t have to ask the monster for permission because if Glad wanted something, she didn’t ask—she just nicely shared what she was going to do.

We will be back in a while, she declared to my father as we departed through the door. A rustling of his newspaper was his only response.

The air outside was cold but refreshing. Walking with Great-Aunt Glad always presented me with an opportunity to show her I was a gentleman. My grandmother had taught me to take her by the arm and escort her on the left. In the old days—before paved streets, she would remind me—men always walked on the left side of a woman just in case a car would come by, threatening to splash water and mud.

When we rounded the corner from our home, Glad said, John, I can see you’re struggling with what I said—God is love—but don’t worry. You will find this truth for yourself. I promise you this.

It was nice strolling with Glad. She walked as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Even the bullies who routinely picked on me didn’t dare say or do anything when they walked by or watched us from across the street. Being in Glad’s presence was like having a force field of peace and tranquility.

As we walked, she shared, John, I know it is difficult for you to speak freely when we are around your father; I can sense your fear of him. But these moments alone together, this is our time, and you must learn to trust that I am here to listen and to help you whenever I can.

We arrived at the park and found a bench in the sunlight for Glad to rest on. The wooden slats were ice cold at first. It was crisp but not freezing, and the sunshine was starting to warm the air, so it was bearable. As we sat for a few moments, I could tell she was studying me.

What’s on your mind, John? she asked. I can tell you have been deep in thought since breakfast.

I can’t talk about anything, I said cautiously.

What do you mean? Talk about what? Did your father tell you this?

I can’t talk about anything, I grumbled. Just thinking about my father was enough to make me anxious.

I see, she replied slowly. Anything? Well, we’ve talked about a lot of things since I arrived. What about what we talked about this morning? Your father was close by and didn’t seem to mind.

I shook my head. That’s different.

So, we can talk about some things but not other things. Is that what you mean?

I let out a sigh of relief. Yes, I guess so. That made sense to me.

"Alright then, let’s continue with God is love. Earlier, you became very quiet for a long while. You seemed deep in thought. Troubled. She paused, but I remained silent. Eventually, she asked, How did you feel?"

I couldn’t find the words.

It’s alright, John. Just tell me what you think you can share. I promise this is just between us.

I wanted to trust Glad, but my father’s terrifying warning—Not a whisper to Glad, do you hear me?—was still fresh in my mind. Finally, I said, When you say, ‘God is love,’ I believe you. I looked up at the trees and the blue sky. It must be true…but not for me. I’m sad and scared all the time.

Glad studied me and nodded. These are certainly mysteries I’ve often wondered about, too, she answered. Let’s start with the feeling of love. Love is something you feel when you care deeply for someone. Do you care deeply for someone, John?

You…and my mom, I guess, I replied.

Good. Does it make you happy to know we are safe and cared for?

Yes, I said.

Is there anyone else you love?

Our cat, Tiny. She lies on my chest and purrs and squeezes her paws to wake me up every morning for school.

Glad chuckled. Wonderful. See, you do understand love. Well, John, I’m sorry you feel sad and afraid.

I’m afraid all the time, I lamented. If God is love, why am I afraid all the time?

I have been afraid most all of my life, she said softly.

I gaped at her. "You? Afraid?" I replied, astonished.

Yes. You see, we have more in common than you think. When I was a young girl, my father passed away. My mother had to go to nursing school far away to find a way to support your grandfather and me, so I was sent to live with relatives for many years. I was not much older than you, and I didn’t know them very well. I was terrified I wouldn’t fit in. And when I was in France during the war, I spent a good part of my time being afraid of not having enough food, of freezing, or afraid of being captured or killed—these were very real dangers.

I was captivated by the thought of her being in danger. She was the bravest and most amazing person I knew.

She continued, But if all I had done was focus on my fear, I would not have been able to do anything in my life; nothing would have ever changed for me, and I may not have survived. It is what we choose to do with our fear that matters most, John. Instead of being frozen in my fear, I was able to find a purpose greater than myself. That gave me the courage to do things I never thought possible. Finding courage is about finding something that means more to you than what you fear. Whenever you find yourself feeling fear, you must find your courage and act—even if that means simply taking one more step, one foot in front of the other. Sometimes, the courage to continue is all you have.

Several birds gathered near our feet, looking for food. Glad was focused on me, though, and she added, My purpose, as I discovered, was to seek the truth and share what I found with others through my writing. For me, this meant going places all over the world to discover what was true and important that needed to be shared, and then I would write about it. My writing has provided my purpose, and it has carried me through my darkest and most fearful and even heartbreaking moments. Have you discovered your purpose yet, John?

No, not yet. I watched the birds hop around our shoes. I think I’m too young to have a purpose.

You’re probably right, she agreed. "Now is the time to be a young boy. These are some big thoughts for you at your age, but remember this: you are never too young to dream big dreams and to have courage to follow them—no matter what your life feels like right now. You have lots of courage inside of you, and I know this is true already, John."

For the life of me, I couldn’t see how she knew that. How? I asked.

When you talk or think about your father, she explained, you get very quiet and a little stubborn. You also frown a bit. I’ll bet you imagine that, someday, you will be a grown-up and free from him. Do you ever think this?

Yes, a lot, I agreed.

Glad nodded. It seems far away right now, but before you know it, you’ll be a man, and you will live your own life. I want you to put your hand over your heart and promise me you’ll always remember what I’m about to tell you. Can you do this, John?

My heart swelled at the opportunity to do something for Glad. I placed my hand on my heart. I promise, I vowed.

"Someday, you will have children, and you’ll be a father. But you can choose to be a loving and gentle father. You will have the wisdom to know how afraid a little boy can be of his father. You will remember growing up in fear, you will remember how difficult this is for a child, and that wisdom will serve you. You have the power to choose to be a kinder, gentler father—this is your power, the power to choose how you will be different. You have goodness in your heart. I see who you really are, deep down. You are playful and gentle, and part of you is also afraid of your father. Your fear is not who you are, John. Always, always, remember that. You are not your fear. We feel fear, but this must never be confused with who we are deep down. Don’t reproduce how your father has made you feel with your own children someday."

She paused, finally giving the birds at our feet a glance before returning her attention to me. Here is the promise I want you to keep: promise you will be a kind, gentle, and loving father to your children. Promise you will never strike your children in anger, and you will never cause your children to live in fear of you. You have the power to see and understand how your father raised you and how your grandfather raised your father.

She had my full and undivided attention. Glad put her hand on her chest, smiled, and gazed into my eyes. Will you promise me this?

It felt as though I had been knighted by the queen and entrusted to safeguard an extraordinary treasure. I knew she could see the future.

I promise, I responded, nodding.

My great-aunt glowed with approval. John, this is our sacred promise to each other. You may choose to share this with your father someday, but not until you are fully grown. For now, you must hold this promise between us. Can you promise me this as well?

Yes, Glad.

Someday, you will pass this promise on to your children, and the cycle of violence of your father—and his father before him—will be broken. And this, John, is the secret to creating your future. You hold the power to choose how you will live your life, regardless of the fear you have experienced in these early years.

For the first time I could recall, I felt calm and still. I had no fear and no anxiety.

So, what do you see when you think about being a grown-up? she asked.

I replied excitedly, Someday, I will leave home on a great adventure, and all of this will go away.

That will require a lot of courage, she responded. As I said, I think you possess a great deal of courage inside of you already. What do you think about this?

I stared back, puzzled. "Courage? You mean like the lion in The Wizard of Oz?"

Glad chuckled. Exactly, just like the lion.

I thought about it for a moment. I don’t know, I responded.

"Would you like me to show you how to find your courage, John? Just like the lion in The Wizard of Oz?"

Astonished, I broke into a grin. You can do that?

Absolutely, she replied. Let me show you. Have you ever had an experience when you felt strong or courageous?

I thought for a moment, tracing the lines of the wooden bench with my finger. No.

Surely, there must be something you’ve done or accomplished where you felt strength or courage?

A picture popped into my head. The circus! I shouted. Some of the birds squawked in protest, startled. "I got to ride in the Ringling Brothers Circus parade for winning a drawing contest on The Wallace and Ladmo Show."

Oh, that sounds exciting, she told me. Tell me more about that!

"My father helped me draw a tiger with a top hat, and I colored it all in. I got to go on The Wallace and Ladmo kids show and got a bunch of prizes and a Ladmo bag of toys. But the best part was I got to ride in the big circus wagon in the parade at the start of the show. We were all clapping, and I waved at the people sitting down."

Glad smiled. That’s amazing, John, and a very important example of when you weren’t afraid. You stepped into your courage. It took a lot to do that, don’t you think?

It did, and I wasn’t afraid, I said proudly, remembering how powerful I felt standing and waving to the crowd.

Would you like to play a game with me? Glad asked.

Sure!

We’re going to play a game where you imagine you can go back to that powerful experience you had in the circus wagon. Close your eyes and stand up. Imagine you are back in that powerful moment right now and stand with your hands up, waving, just the way you did, John.

I hopped off the bench, sending the birds flapping away. I stood tall, waving my hands wildly over my head.

Try to see the people waving and smiling at you. Hear the sounds again, the ones you remember, just exactly the way it happened at the circus. Now, John, what are you experiencing?

I felt elation swelling in my chest. I excitedly replied, Power.

Good, John. Now open your eyes.

I opened my eyes to see Glad’s angelic face smiling back at me. You see, this is the game I wanted to play with you. Even though you weren’t really back in the circus parade, you are able to experience being powerful right now. You were here, but your imagination was there, making you feel powerful right now. Is this true for you?

Wow, I said, surprised. It works! I am!

You have just learned a little magic for when you need to find courage or power. Now, let’s do it again. Close your eyes, but don’t stand up. Just imagine you are standing and waving at the crowd, seeing what you were seeing, hearing what you were hearing, and feeling what you were feeling. Go back, and float back into yourself and into that moment. Imagine all the powerful feelings at that moment. What are you experiencing right now, John?

Just as before, a joyous sensation bloomed within me. I feel powerful! Wow! I said in amazement.

"That’s right. You can feel powerful and courageous just by imagining or remembering a moment when you felt powerful, like when you were in the circus parade. This is important, John. Whenever you need to find your courage, it is right here. She placed one hand over my heart and the other cradled the side of my face. It’s right here, deep inside of you already, waiting to come to your aid. And it can happen in a blink of an eye if you simply use your imagination. As you grow throughout your life, you will collect more powerful and courageous memories that will come to your aid. How are you feeling right now, John?"

Powerful…and hungry, I added with a grin.

Good, John. Well done! You are a very fast learner, she praised me with a smile. Then, An Army travels on its stomach. Let’s go get something to eat.

CHAPTER 2

The Roots of Suffering

My early years read like the warning sign on the edge of the haunted forest in The Wizard of Oz : I’d turn back if I were you.

My earliest childhood memory was seared into my being around age five. I was playing with my mother in my room, and the safety of the moment felt impenetrable. Together, we would escape into a magical world of play and adventures. She loved stories about heroes and knights and would tell me about them while showing me illustrations, pictures, and movies. I can see this is where my love for film and art took root. Her curious nature cultivated my imagination.

My mother was tall, blond, and slender. She was good-natured and friendly with a slightly crooked smile. I think because of her natural nervousness—and the Parkinson’s that later developed—she didn’t have many close friends.

As we were playing and laughing, suddenly, there came a loud, explosive voice from the other side of my bedroom door—it was my father. As his voice came closer, my mother’s sweet smile evaporated. Her hand began to tremble as she slowly stood and turned toward the door. Though she glanced back at me with a reassuring smile, I will never forget the way fearful tears flooded her eyes and made them shine.

My father was a monster, and we were terrified of him. He was heavyset, with tattoos up and down both arms, and his face held a mean, scowling look most of the time. As a family, we were especially afraid of him when he was drunk—a nightly occurrence my mother, brother, sister, and I collectively dreaded.

He tore the door open, slamming it into the wall as he stormed into the room. His eyes