sexta-feira, 5 de dezembro de 2025

Bypass – The Two Voices







 Like a man and a woman – arguing
The ego’s two voices do their thing
All day and night, the story goes
Like a river, a continuous flow

A conflicting conversation as old as time
Yet told with the subtlety of an ancient rhyme
The first one says it’s never enough
The second calls the former’s bluff

And thinks itself on a higher plane
But it’s really just the first again.
Playing the trickster, making a fool,
Turning your intentions back on you.

Using an insidious form of bypass,
To avoid looking in the looking-glass.



Aaron Waddell





Spiritual Bypassing





 

Spiritual bypassing is 
the use of spiritual ideas and practices to avoid or suppress unresolved emotional issues, psychological wounds, and difficult life experiences. 


Instead of addressing pain, a person might retreat into practices like prayer or meditation as an escape, which can prevent deeper healing and growth. 

The term was introduced by psychologist John Welwood and can manifest as avoiding personal responsibility or using faith to dismiss uncomfortable emotions, as seen in instances of "toxic positivity". 

How it works

  • Avoids emotional pain: It uses spiritual beliefs to justify ignoring or denying emotions like grief, anger, or trauma.
  • Hinders growth: By sidestepping uncomfortable but necessary work, individuals can develop a false sense of enlightenment without true inner healing.
  • Shuts down healing: Instead of processing experiences, it offers a superficial layer of escape, preventing deeper, more integrated healing.
  • Manifests as toxic positivity: In some cases, it appears as a belief that one should always feel good or "above" pain, suppressing valid negative feelings. 

 

Examples of spiritual bypassing

  1. Telling someone to "just have faith" or "give it to God" instead of acknowledging their pain or working through it.
  2. Using affirmations to avoid confronting a difficult reality or a psychological wound.
  3. Focusing solely on spiritual practices as an escape from challenging situations, rather than engaging with reality.
  4. Dismissing one's own valid negative feelings by saying they are not "spiritual" or "good" enough.
  5. In a relationship, failing to take responsibility for one's actions and instead blaming spiritual, not personal, reasons for bad behavior. 

How to avoid spiritual bypassing

  • Acknowledge all feelings: Accept all emotions, positive or negative, as valid and temporary.
  • Face the "shadow": Engage with and integrate the difficult parts of yourself rather than trying to suppress them.
  • Use spirituality as a tool, not an escape: Spiritual practices can be powerful, but they are most effective when used to support, not replace, the hard work of emotional and psychological healing.
  • Embrace discomfort: Use uncomfortable feelings as a catalyst for positive change and action, rather than as a signal to escape. 

Created by IA





Spiritual bypassing is a term I coined to describe a process I saw happening in the Buddhist community I was in, and also in myself. Although most of us were sincerely trying to work on ourselves, I noticed a widespread tendency to use spiritual ideas and practices to sidestep or avoid facing unresolved emotional issues, psychological wounds, and unfinished developmental tasks.

When we are spiritually bypassing, we often use the goal of awakening or liberation to rationalize what I call premature transcendence: trying to rise above the raw and messy side of our humanness before we have fully faced and made peace with it. And then we tend to use absolute truth to disparage or dismiss relative human needs, feelings, psychological problems, relational difficulties, and developmental deficits. I see this as an “occupational hazard” of the spiritual path, in that spirituality does involve a vision of going beyond our current karmic situation.

Trying to move beyond our psychological and emotional issues by sidestepping them is dangerous. 
It sets up a debilitating split between the buddha and the human within us. 
And it leads to a conceptual, one-sided kind of spirituality where one pole of life is elevated at the expense of its opposite: Absolute truth is favored over relative truth, the impersonal over the personal, emptiness over form, transcendence over embodiment, and detachment over feeling. 
One might, for example, try to practice nonattachment by dismissing one’s need for love, but this only drives the need underground, so that it often becomes unconsciously acted out in covert and possibly harmful ways instead.

I’m interested in how spiritual bypassing plays out in relationships, where it often wreaks its worst havoc. If you were a yogi in a cave doing years of solo retreat, your psychological wounding might not show up so much because your focus would be entirely on your practice, in an environment that may not aggravate your relational wounds. 

It’s in relationships that our unresolved psychological issues tend to show up most intensely. 
That’s because psychological wounds are always relational — they form in and through our relationships with our early caretakers.

The basic human wound, which is prevalent in the modern world, forms around not feeling loved or intrinsically lovable as we are. 
Inadequate love or attunement is shocking and traumatic for a child’s developing and highly sensitive nervous system. 
And as we internalize how we were parented, our capacity to value ourselves, which is also the basis for valuing others, becomes damaged. 
I call this a “relational wound“ or the “wound of the heart.”

There is a whole body of study and research in Western psychology showing how close bonding and loving attunement— what is known as “secure attachment” — have powerful impacts on every aspect of human development. 
Secure attachment has a tremendous effect on many dimensions of our health, well-being, and capacity to function effectively in the world: how our brains form, how well our endocrine and immune systems function, how we handle emotions, how subject we are to depression, how our nervous system functions and handles stress, and how we relate to others.

In contrast to the indigenous cultures of traditional Asia, modern child-rearing leaves most people suffering from symptoms of insecure attachment: 
self-hatred, disembodiment, lack of grounding, chronic insecurity and anxiety, overactive minds, lack of basic trust, and a deep sense of inner deficiency. 
So most of us suffer from an extreme degree of alienation and disconnection that was unknown in earlier times— from society, community, family, older generations, nature, religion, tradition, our body, our feelings, and our humanity itself.

Being a good spiritual practitioner can become what I call a compensatory identity that covers up and defends against an underlying deficient identity, where we feel badly about ourselves, not good enough, or basically lacking. 
Then, although we may be practicing diligently, our spiritual practice can be used in the service of denial and defense. And when spiritual practice is used to bypass our real-life human issues, it becomes compartmentalized in a separate zone of our life, and remains unintegrated with our overall functioning.

In my psychotherapy practice I often work with students who have engaged in spiritual practice for decades. I respect how their practice has been beneficial for them. Yet despite the sincerity as practitioners, their practice is not fully penetrating their life. 

They seek out psychological work because they remain wounded and not fully developed on the emotional/relational/personal level, and they may be acting out their wounding in harmful ways.

It’s not uncommon to speak beautifully about the basic goodness or innate perfection of our true nature, but then have difficulty trusting it when one’s psychological wounds are triggered. 

Often dharma students who have developed some kindness and compassion for others are hard on themselves for falling short of their spiritual ideals, and, as a result, their spiritual practice becomes dry and solemn. Or being of benefit to others turns into a duty, or a way of trying to feel good about themselves. Others may unconsciously use their spiritual brilliance to feed their narcissistic inflation and devalue others or treat them in manipulative ways.

Meditation is also frequently used to avoid uncomfortable feelings and unresolved life situations. 
For those in denial about their personal feelings or wounds, meditation practice can reinforce a tendency toward coldness, disengagement, or interpersonal distance. They are at a loss when it comes to relating directly to their feelings or to expressing themselves personally in a transparent way. It can be quite threatening when those of us on a spiritual path have to face our woundedness, or emotional dependency, or primal need for love.

I’ve often seen how attempts to be nonattached are used in the service of sealing people off from their human and emotional vulnerabilities. In effect, identifying oneself as a spiritual practitioner becomes used as a way of avoiding a depth of personal engagement with others that might stir up old wounds and longings for love. It’s painful to see someone maintaining a stance of detachment when underneath they are starving for positive experiences of bonding and connection.

To grow into a healthy human being, we need a base of secure attachment in the positive, psychological sense, meaning: close emotional ties to other people that promote connectedness, grounded embodiment, and well-being. 

As John Muir the naturalist wrote: 
“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find that it is bound fast by a thousand invisible cords that cannot be broken, to everything in the universe.” 

Similarly, the hand cannot function unless it is attached to the arm—that’s attachment in the positive sense. 
We’re interconnected, interwoven, and interdependent with everything in the universe. 
On the human level we can’t help feeling somewhat attached to people we are close to.

From my perspective as an existential psychologist, feeling is a form of intelligence. 
It’s the body’s direct, holistic, intuitive way of knowing and responding. 
It is highly attuned and intelligent. And it takes account of many factors all at once, unlike our conceptual mind, which can only process one thing at a time. 
Unlike emotionality, which is a reactivity that is directed outward, feeling often helps you contact deep inner truths.

The truth is, most of us don’t get as triggered anywhere in our lives as much as in intimate relationships. 
So if we use spiritual bypassing to avoid facing our relational wounds, we’re missing out on a tremendous area of practice. 
Relational practice helps us develop compassion “in the trenches,” where our wounds are most activated.

I help people inquire deeply into their felt experience and let it gradually reveal itself and unfold, step by step. I call this “tracking and unpacking”: 
You track the process of present experiencing, following it closely and seeing where it leads. 
And you unpack the beliefs, identities, and feelings that are subconscious or implicit in what you’re experiencing. 

When we bring awareness to our experience in this way, it’s like unraveling a tangled ball of yarn: different knots are gradually revealed and untangled one by one.

As a result, we find that we’re able to be present in places where we’ve been absent or disconnected from our experience. Through reaching out to parts of ourselves that need our help, we develop an intimate, grounded kind of inner attunement with ourselves, which can help us more easily relate to others where they are stuck as well.

I see relationship as the leading edge of human evolution at this time in history. 
Although humanity discovered enlightenment thousands of years ago, we still haven’t brought that illumination very fully into the area of interpersonal relationships.

John Welwood









Spiritual bypassing is the pattern where people leap into spirituality prematurely - adopting spiritual language, rituals, or identities without doing the necessary shadow work, character work, or the slow, uncomfortable process of addressing unresolved emotional material and restoring energetic balance.

We see spiritual bypassing especially in healer and spirituality circles - astrology included - where many of us quickly slip into “God talk,” high-vibration language, or spiritual practices before completing the important work of shadow confrontation.

Spiritual bypassing can manifest as:

the “I’m above this” stance, or
the more service-oriented form that stems from the Wounded Healer archetype

Carl Jung was one of the first to articulate the “Wounded Healer” concept - the idea that healers often project their own abandoned, victimized inner child onto the people they want to help, unconsciously attempting to heal themselves through others.

The issue is that when healers themselves are wounded, their helping can come from a place of bias or narcissistic injury.

This can manifest as rescue fantasies, control dynamics, blurred boundaries, or a subtle need to be needed - where the ‘healer’ can do more damage than good, by passing down their own wounded material to the people they are trying to help.

We all know people like this…

And if we’re really honest, we can probably recognize a few of these patterns within ourselves too.

Auch.

That “auch” is actually the most important moment.

If you’ve ever felt that tiny sting of “ouch… this might be me,” then welcome to Shadow! 
That flash of self-recognition is the very essence of Shadow work.

“This might be me” is the most difficult moment in any inner journey - yet it’s also where the most growth happens. 
This moment of self-recognition is what makes the difference between spiritual bypassing and genuine transformation.

Trauma, Shadow, And Spiritual Bypassing

Perhaps this is why the term “Shadow” is so often confused with trauma or with the difficult things that have happened to us.

When we focus exclusively on trauma - which, being rooted in one’s past, is astrologically linked to the IC - we cannot move forward to the next stage of the individuation process: confronting the Shadow, which corresponds to the Descendant.

This is not to minimize the role of trauma or its damaging effects. 
It’s a well-known fact that people who have experienced severe trauma have a far more complex task ahead of them - emotionally, psychologically, and somatically.

But it is important to conceptually differentiate between the 2, because Trauma work and Shadow work require very different approaches.

Trauma calls for trauma-informed support - therapeutic, somatic, or clinical frameworks that help stabilize and heal the nervous system.

Shadow, on the other hand, is encountered through projection - through what we see in others, react to in others, idealize in others, or feel pulled toward in one-on-one relationships.

Trauma is rooted in the past. 
Shadow is activated in the present.

While trauma requires healing, 
Shadow requires integration.

If we consider the psyche developmentally, trauma comes before shadow. 
Here is the “formula,” translated into astrological language using the 4 angles of the natal chart:

Ascendant (Purpose → Ego development)
→ IC (Past / Trauma / Early conditioning)
→ Descendant (Shadow work and relational mirrors)
→ Midheaven (Individuation OR spiritual bypassing / virtue signaling).

Sometimes, when we can’t deal with trauma directly - or when the usual coping strategies stop working - what does work is moving to the next step in the individuation process: Shadow.

Shadow work can be the bridge between trauma and genuine individuation.

Spiritual bypassing, however, is a sign that true Shadow work has been skipped. 
The person has moved straight from IC/trauma to Midheaven/Higher Self, bypassing - or doing incomplete work on - the Descendant stage of Shadow integration.

People who struggle with compulsions, addictions, temper tantrums, or a general sense of “not having grown up yet,” are operating primarily from the IC stage of individuation.

They haven’t done Shadow work because they don’t know how, haven’t been taught how, or haven’t yet developed the internal motivation or psychic structure required to move to the next stage.

Spiritual bypassing is something different.

It mimics Shadow work - or does it halfway.

Unlike people who are stuck in the IC stage, the spiritual bypasser has developed strategies that function well on the surface. They can delay gratification. They can present well socially. They can achieve, succeed, or even inspire others.

But something fundamental has been skipped along the way.

True Shadow work.

When we don’t do shadow work - which is ultimately the process of embracing our whole Self, the good and the bad, the flattering and the unflattering - we cannot be whole.

Even if we achieve success, we don’t fully enjoy it. 
We feel like impostors. We feel anxious, restless, or vaguely unfulfilled. There’s a lingering sense that “there must be more”.

So what happens when Shadow work is skipped?

The Cost Of Skipping Shadow Work

A split occurs - the classic good vs. bad divide in the psyche. The “good” parts are embraced, and the “bad” parts get projected outward.

The spiritually bypassing person naturally places themselves among the “good ones”. And everyone who doesn’t share their views, methods, or level of “awareness” becomes one of the “bad ones”.

The “enemy” becomes the dumping ground for all the negative material the psyche cannot bear to contain on its own.

This splitting strategy kind of works - at least for a while - because it creates a sense of meaning, coherence, and legitimacy. And the psyche loves coherence: “That’s me.” “I’ve always been like this.” “This is who I am.”

But there is a cost.

The cost of not dealing with the Shadow is massive energy consumption.

It takes enormous psychic effort to exile parts of yourself, keep them unconscious, and continually project them outward onto others. There is only so much pressure the unconscious can absorb - only so much our psyche can stuff down and hide in the dark.

At some point, the bubble has to burst.

Eventually, the facade collapses. 
By then, we are so entangled in our own story of who we are - the identity our psyche has carefully constructed to give our life coherence - that we no longer know who we really are.

Because that virtuous, spiritual Self is only half of who we are. The other half sits in a kind of psychic exile, a hole within us that will eventually press to be reclaimed.

And it will be reclaimed. Sooner or later. In this lifetime or the next.

By us - or by our partners, children, or the people closest to us.

Because not dealing with the Shadow has repercussions far beyond our own psychological comfort.

Shadow - Nothing Is Lost, Everything Is Transformed

According to one of the basic principles of physics: nothing is lost - energy is either transferred or transformed.

When the energy 
is not transformed, 
it is transferred. 

This principle explains so much of what we call intergenerational trauma.

Unintegrated psychic material doesn’t disappear - it spills into the relational field, shaping family dynamics, attachment patterns, emotional wounds, and even entire lifelines.

This is why so many children of high-caliber celebrities, successful entrepreneurs, scientists, or public figures - people recognized for excellence, achievement, or “high vibration” virtues - end up stumbling into addiction, emotional volatility, or tragic life stories.

Because the more the parent constructs a facade of being extraordinarily evolved, moral, spiritual, or exceptional, the more exiled the unintegrated material becomes - and that exiled energy has to go somewhere.

Often, it is the people closest to them who unconsciously absorb what the parent refuses to integrate. The child becomes the carrier of the unresolved.

It is this paradox that rings painfully true: 
the more virtuous the parent appears, the more burdened the child often becomes.

The issue, as we can assume, is that the parent is not truly virtuous. This virtuosity has been constructed - achieved by skipping the necessary steps of genuine self-confrontation, genuine humility, and genuine transformation.

It’s the same principle behind spiritual bypassing. In nature - and in life - nothing can truly be bypassed.

Acting from a “higher self,” feeling morally superior, or imagining ourselves as the “better person” can often be signs of an unintegrated Shadow.

Integrating The Shadow

Human nature is messy. We are not born evolved human beings. Of course, Shadow work is not an excuse to throw tantrums or justify bad behavior - at least not beyond our Saturn return.

But it is an invitation to accept our humanity, to welcome the parts of ourselves we might find less desirable, less flattering, or less convenient.

It means paying attention to what we don’t want to deal with. 
To what irritates us. 
To what makes us angry. 
What gets under our skin. 
What we judge. 
What we idealize. 
What we can’t stop thinking about.


The solution is not always to “take a deep breath”. 
Sometimes, no matter how much meditation we do or how many positive affirmations we repeat,
 “this shall NOT pass” - because it’s not meant to.

Sometimes the inevitable next step is to do the real, uncomfortable, liberating work of Shadow integration.



in, Astro Butterfly




terça-feira, 2 de dezembro de 2025

No Closure

 




Not had closure cannot be enough
You always were a guy tough
Smoothened the diamond rough

And then I was left second guessing
The sky the clouds the rainbows
the sunrise increasingly distressing

Love we cannot have
Friends we cannot be
What else is left for me to be?

A writer of pomes and dreadful tomes?
Explain where the deceit came in?
When lies were hidden from the beginning?

What am I to you?
Just another lark a song?
Why did you do me this wrong
Why did you pick me from the throngs?

Tell me all for I cannot hold it longer
I will take it to my resting place
Please tell me all Can things get any wronger?
For once revive me from this daze


The Muse




Closure Is a Myth


Freepik



 Moving forward without 
resolution, understanding, or apology.


The last conversation you had with your brother was an argument about something neither of you can remember now. He died three weeks later in an accident that gave neither of you time to fix anything. No reconciliation. No final understanding. No chance to say what needed to be said.

You keep replaying that argument, searching for the moment where you could have chosen differently. You imagine the conversation you would have had if you’d known it was the last one. You construct elaborate scenarios where he apologizes, where you apologize, where both of you finally understand each other and the tension that defined your relationship dissolves into clarity.

These imagined conversations feel necessary. 
Like if you can just figure out what should have been said, you can somehow retroactively complete the relationship. Like understanding why things went wrong will allow you to file the experience away in some organized mental cabinet labeled “resolved” and move on with your life.

But that conversation will never happen. 
That understanding will never arrive. 
The relationship ended mid-sentence, and no amount of analysis will add a period to that hanging clause.

This is the reality most of us spend enormous energy avoiding: 
  • Some stories don’t have endings. 
  • Some conflicts don’t get resolved. 
  • Some relationships don’t achieve understanding before they terminate. 
  • Some people who harmed you will never acknowledge what they did. 
  • Some questions about why things happened the way they happened will never be answered.

We’ve been sold a therapeutic fiction that healing requires closure. 
That you can’t move forward until you have resolution. 
That emotional health depends on achieving understanding about past events and receiving acknowledgment from people who hurt you.

This fiction keeps people trapped for decades, waiting for something that isn’t coming so they can finally begin the life they’ve put on hold until they receive it.

  1. What if closure isn’t something that happens to you? 
  2. What if it’s something you construct internally, regardless of whether external circumstances provide resolution?

The ancient Stoics lived in a world where closure was rare. 
People disappeared into slavery or exile without goodbye. 
Loved ones died suddenly from plague or violence. 
Political allies became enemies without explanation. 
Betrayals went unacknowledged. 
Injustices remained unanswered.

Yet Stoic philosophy doesn’t include a chapter on achieving closure. 
There’s no technique for getting the apology you need or the understanding you deserve. 
Instead, there’s a relentless focus on how to live well when circumstances don’t provide what you need from them.

Chrysippus argued that we suffer not from events themselves but from our judgments about what events should include. 

When you insist that you need closure to move forward, you’re not describing a psychological requirement. 
You’re describing a preference you’ve elevated to a necessity.


The difference matters enormously. 
A preference, you can work around. 
A necessity, stops you completely.




in, Stoic Wisdom


segunda-feira, 1 de dezembro de 2025

Praise Song for the Day

 




Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other’s
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what’s on the other side.

I know there’s something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.


Elizabeth Alexander




Thanksgiving & Belonging



Danny Raustadt





Who matters in your life today and
 how has it changed? 



Every year, as the leaves pile up on the ground here in New York, these questions begin to peak for me. 

  • To whom do I want to reach out for a holiday check in? 
  • Whom do I want to dance with on New Year’s Eve? 
  • Where do I want to focus my relational energy? 

As lives change, so do the answers, but 
what stays the same for me is what I seek in all my relationships: 
belonging, connection, honesty, loyalty, support, adventure, (and sometimes commiseration).

Belonging has long been at the heart of my work. 
Belonging is that sense of safety, comfort, and happiness that we feel when we are part of a group, place, tradition, relationship, or friendship. 

Our identities are intertwined with our experiences of belonging. 
Have you noticed how different parts of yourself become activated with different people and places? 
At home, I’m a mother and a partner. 
At work, I’m a therapist. 
In New York, I’m an immigrant. 
In my native Belgium, I’m an expat coming home for a visit. 

I speak nine languages and in every one a different part of me is expressed. 
Whenever my American and Belgian friends meet, they often compare notes. Long lasting friendships bring the many parts of us into alignment, grounding us in continuity. Old friends remind each other of who we were then and how much we’ve grown. 
We’ve been there for each other in excitement and boredom, in celebration and tragedy.‍

Decades ago now, after living in America for seven years, it seemed as if all my friends were leaving. I socialized then mostly with other foreigners and many were going back—to Amsterdam, Paris, Tel Aviv, to where they were from or to the next place they would call home. 
I suddenly felt like I was the only one who didn’t know where they belonged. 

When a friend of mine generously lent me his house for Thanksgiving, I wasn’t sure whom to invite. 
So I thought of the people whom I wanted to get to know better. 
Along with a few close friends, ten new ones came. 
None had ever met but they were all game to spend five days together. 
Thirty years later, that same group still meets every year for Thanksgiving. ‍

We’ve seen partners come and go. 
There are now fourteen children amongst us, many of whom join each year. 
I didn’t know what “chosen family” meant before this group. 
Having my own has created a whole new definition of what “family” can mean. 

Recently, I asked one of my friends in the group to reflect on this. 
She focused less on the Thanksgivings we’ve shared and more on how the group has been there for each other when our families of origin could not. She lost her mother during the social-distancing era of the pandemic. Members of the Thanksgiving group gathered outside her apartment, apart but together, for a small service. When she could finally travel to clean out her mother’s home in Florida, two members of the group came with her.

We all weren’t always this close. 
Thirty years of Thanksgivings together made us fixtures in each others’ lives. 
In our secular and transient modern world, the holidays have become for many the only time in which gathering is ritualized. 
So make it a ritual. 
Come together with intention. 
Come prepared to participate—to prep, to cook, to clean together. 

You never know how these relationships might evolve. 
It’s never too late to start your own Thanksgiving group. 
Any combination of family, friends, and strangers will do, as long as you remember why you’re doing it. 
Co-creating a sense of belonging is one of the most satisfying aspects of having relationships at all.



Let’s Turn the Lens on You

Think about the people in your life.

  • Whom would you like to have at your Thanksgiving table? Why?
  • What would it mean for you to open your home to them? Or to ask one of them to host a group in their home?
  • Find a collaborator to share the organizational load.
  • Both of you can invite 5 people who’d be fun to bring together. They can know each other or not.
  • Invite everyone to bring one dish that is traditional for them.
  • Invite everyone to join early to prep. Make sure they know everyone will be cleaning up together too.
  • Consider having a few prompts for dinner conversation, perhaps about the year behind and the new year ahead.


Esther Perel


sábado, 29 de novembro de 2025

Exile


Thomas Toft



As a man approaches thirty he may
take stock of himself.
Not that anything important happens.


At thirty the mud will have settled:
you see yourself in a mirror.
Perhaps, refuse the image as yours.


Makes no difference, unless
you overtake yourself. Pause for breath.
Time gave you distance: you see little else.


You stir, and the mirror dissolves.
Experience doesn’t always make for knowledge:
you make the same mistakes.


Do the same things over again.
The woman you may have loved
you never married. These many years


you warmed yourself at her hands.
The luminous pebbles of her body
stayed your feet, else you had overflowed


the banks, never reached shore.
The sides of the river swell
with the least pressure of her toes.


All night your hand has rested
on her left breast.
In the morning when she is gone


you will be alone like the stone benches
in the park, and would have forgotten
her whispers in the noises of the city.


R. Parthasarthy



Levarei o Fogo Comigo

 

Foto de capa: 
Leïla Slimani em Paris, aos 18 anos. 
Foto do arquivo pessoal cedida pela editora Gallimard





O que fica de alguém 
quando deixa um lugar?


O título do livro ecoa uma promessa e uma herança: 
Uma descendente que recolhe o que ainda queima, fere, foi silenciado da sua história pessoal e coletiva, e que tem um peso que faz com que não volte.
Ela teme os objetos, as heranças, e desconfia de tudo o que se prende com o passado.

Assim, arrumou a infância e levou o que importava.

"Mia, vai e não voltes!
Não guardes forças para o regresso, e nada o mais longe que puderes.
Percebi tudo sabes, e vi tudo.
O que te fizeram sofrer e o que dirão de ti.
Deverás pensar como uma mulher a monte, minha filha, porque é a nostalgia, sempre, a perdição dos criminosos em fuga. Um aniversário, um enterro, a saudade do país onde se nasceu. A nostalgia fá-los regressar e arrependem-se. Não deves regressar a Ítaca, mas sim encontrar para ti uma ilha como a dos Lotófagos, uma ilha para esquecer o regresso, para nem sequer sentir vontade de regressar. 

Sim, as pessoas tentarão convencer-te.
Pensarás que terás alguma coisa para fazer aqui, que podes ser útil.
Mas, não acredites nisso!
Enfia cera nos ouvidos, amarra-te ao mastro, lembra-te do que te disse.
Não voltes!

Essas histórias de raízes não passam de uma maneira de te pregar ao chão, portanto não importa o passado, a casa, a herança, os objetos, as recordações.
Ateia um grande incêndio a tudo, e leva o fogo contigo!

Não te digo até um dia, minha querida, digo-te adeus.
Empurro-te do cimo da falésia, solto a corda e observo-te a nadar.

Meu Amor,
Não cedas no que toca à Liberdade.
Desconfia do calor da tua própria casa,"

A questão é: 
  1. Como manter a chama acesa? 
  2. O que é que recebemos e deixamos em herança? 
  3. Como nos incendiamos depois das cinzas?



O romance acompanha o crescimento de Mia e Inès, duas irmãs que, embora criadas no mesmo ambiente, seguem caminhos distintos. As diferenças entre elas servem como metáforas para o confronto entre tradição e modernidade, entre o peso da herança cultural marroquina e o desejo de emancipação individual. Slimani explora com sensibilidade as tensões familiares, as frustrações geracionais e os dilemas identitários que atravessam as personagens.


"Este livro é escrito não com sangue, mas com lava em ebulição. O que é que nos acontece quando já não temos sangue nas veias, mas apenas uma erupção imparável e incandescente? Leïla Slimani escreve com a fúria de alguém que escava um buraco com as mãos no jardim e que, muitos anos depois, sucumbe ao medo, ao medo paralisante que apaga a memória. Esta fúria e esta lava estão latentes. São sedimentos que resultam da sensação de se ser estrangeiro no seu país, de ser desconforme aos comportamentos de género socialmente aceites, a uma sensação de estranheza e despertença.

"Levarei o Fogo Comigo" é um livro de mulheres que são Ulisses, que inventam o seu próprio destino e que recusam ser a mítica Xerazade, que encantava tiranos e assim salvava a pele. Nesta "Odisseia" chamada "O País dos Outros", trilogia que se encerra com este volume, procura-se menos o regresso a casa, questiona-se: onde é casa? E entende-se casa, se não como sinónimo, como palavra-irmã de identidade, memória, integração.

Nas epígrafes, somos introduzidos a noções fundamentais: casa, raízes, incêndio. É um prenúncio de desgraça, que tem, como aqui se escreve, um cheiro particular. 
Consequentemente, coloca-nos uma pergunta: 
Como fazer o caminho para a frente, como prosseguir depois da hecatombe?"

Anabela Mota Ribeiro



"As pessoas como ela.
Havia, algures, pessoas que se lhe assemelhavam e ela forçava-se a esquecer que, se estavam unidas, era pela infelicidade. Pessoas como ela, e fingia ignorar a que se referia a mãe. Mia não se autorizava, nem em pensamentos, a dizer a palavra [lésbica], a qualificar-se.
Repetia para si própria: sou normal, e não fiz nada de mal.
A mãe queria que ela fosse feliz.
A mãe não acreditava na sua felicidade. Ela tem medo, pensava Mia, que eu seja estranha, travesti, sidosa, marginal. Preferia mil vezes que eu fosse conformista e banal.
Ama-me, repetia Mia para dentro, mas amar não tem nada que ver com palavras.
Amar era não fazer perguntas, não abrir os armários que o outro tivera o cuidado de fechar à chave. Não teimar em desenterrar os segredos.
Amar era guardar silêncio, juntos, deixar pairar perguntas sem respostas e aperceber-se de que isso não tinha importância nenhuma.

Amar e saber eram duas coisas muito diferentes."

O retrato de Marrocos nos anos 80 é rico e crítico. 
A autora não se furta a abordar temas delicados como o islamismo, o extremismo, a repressão política e a liberdade de expressão. 
A pergunta “Seria Marrocos uma verdadeira democracia?” ecoa ao longo do texto, revelando o desencanto de quem vive entre fronteiras físicas e simbólicas. 

Mia e Inès nasceram em Marrocos na década de 80, num país dividido entre o desejo de modernidade e o medo de perder a sua identidade. Enfrentam o preconceito e o desprezo, mas alimentam-se do fôlego que já havia movido as gerações anteriores das mulheres da família, a avó Mathilde, a mãe Aicha e a tia Selma. 

"Para uma mulher, envelhecer era a melhor vingança de todas, porque finalmente as pessoas a respeitavam.
Davam-lhe um beijo no ombro, e abençoavam-na.
Assim que os seios murchavam, o sexo de fechava, o rosto se sulcava de rugas e preocupações, finalmente, os outros aceitavam levar a mulher a sério. No crepúsculo da vida, acabavam por reconhecer que sim, ela tinha dado muito, tinha precisado de resistência e ternura para que os filhos crescessem e tivessem eles próprios filhos. A idade conferia-lhe o poder que sempre lhe faltara, o respeito pelo qual aspirava. 
As velhas podiam ser tiranas, autocratas, soberanas absolutas, podiam usar a bengala para bater e ralhar, gritar, reclamar, e ninguém se atrevia a dizer nada."


"Sempre detestei a ideia de traçar uma linha e dividir o mundo a preto e branco, de um lado as mulheres e do outro os homens. Ou dizer que o patriarcado é os homens no topo e as mulheres na base. A vida é muito mais complexa. Conheço mulheres que são muito patriarcais e conheço homens que foram destruídos pelo patriarcado. Tentei neste livro ser mais subtil e mostrar, através da personagem de Mia, uma mulher que, quando é jovem, despreza as mulheres e a feminilidade."

Leïla Slimani

"Quando era criança, não queria ser mulher. Odiava as mulheres. 
A vida das mulheres é muito trivial e pouco interessante: Elas passam o dia a falar sobre o preço das cenouras e das batatas, só querem ir ao mercado e tratar do jantar e estão sempre a perguntar-me pelos trabalhos de casa. 
O meu pai nem sequer entra na cozinha. É tão livre e tão egoísta. 
Quero ser egoísta e livre como o meu pai." 

A Mia pensa que, para ser livre, tem de ser um homem. 
Ao mesmo tempo, Mia encarna um pouco a masculinidade tóxica, porque é bastante violenta com as mulheres e aceita coisas horríveis da parte dos seus amigos homens, que fazem muitas piadas e vêem filmes pornográficos. 

Sim, as mulheres preocupam-se com o preço das cenouras e das batatas, mas estão tão vivas, profundamente enraizadas. Estão cá e, aconteça o que acontecer, adaptam-se. 
Não se preocupam com o progresso porque elas são o progresso. 
Estão no presente e estão no futuro. 

Os homens, falam e falam e falam...têm muitas teorias sobre tudo. 
As mulheres não falam assim tanto. Elas agem.


A memória, tema recorrente na obra, é tratada como um fio condutor entre gerações. A autora questiona o que resta da identidade quando a memória se esvai, e como o exílio — seja geográfico ou emocional — molda a forma como nos vemos e somos vistos.

É uma reflexão que explora o contraste entre Marrocos e os estados ocidentalizados, onde a liberdade parece mais tangível, mas também mais complexa. Slimani não idealiza o Ocidente, mas usa-o como contraponto para explorar o exílio, a perda de raízes e a reconstrução da identidade.


"Podemos amar um país que não nos ama?
Podemos ser, ao mesmo tempo, daqui e de lá?

Para que servia tentar saber qual era o meu lugar, qual era o meu país, quando eu nem sequer sabia quem era?
Que quer dizer "identidade" quando perdemos a memória?
Não a memória dos povos, essa pouco me importava.
Mas sim, as histórias que a minha avó me contava, as fábulas que o meu pai inventava, esses íntimos "era uma vez" que constituem quem eu sou e com os quais cubro as paredes.

Quando me perguntam de onde eu sou, nunca sei o que dizer, como o balbuciar de um gago tentando pronunciar uma palavra e que, exausto, acaba por desistir.
Tal como o meu pai, faço-me passar pelo que não sou, tornei-me a minha própria falsária, cópia de má qualidade de um quadro de mestre, falso bilhete que nada vale, a não ser para os ingénuos que merecem ser roubados."


Esta trilogia, que começou com O País dos Outros, depois Vejam Como Dançamos e, por fim, Levarei o Fogo Comigo, estes 3 livros são inspirados na vida da autora e na sua família. É a história dos seus avós, dos seus pais, a sua história. Esta trilogia é sobre família e é sobretudo sobre as mulheres, e sobre a ideia que as mulheres têm dos homens. Mas é também sobre identidade, emigração, sentirmo-nos estrangeiros - seja uma europeia em Marrocos, seja uma marroquina na Europa. E é sobre o que levamos quando partimos e aquilo que não podemos, ou não conseguimos ou não queremos, deixar para trás.

"Este livro não é só sobre viver", diz Leïla Slimani sobre "Levarei o Fogo Comigo". 
"Viver o nosso país, viver a nossa cultura para chegar a um novo mundo. Queria falar sobre o regresso. Regressar: gosto muito deste verbo português. É difícil e melancólico. É impossível regressar. Nunca se regressa, pois a pessoa que regressa não é já a mesma. O país para onde se regressa mudou enquanto estivemos fora. 
Quando Ulisses chega a Ítaca, no final da sua odisseia, depois de inúmeras aventuras, de tantos sofrimentos, ninguém o reconhece. Só a ama, já muito velha, e o cão dão sinal de que é ele. Eu passei pelo mesmo. À chegada, deparamo-nos com uma emoção muito forte. É o nosso país, é a cor do céu, a luz, o cheiro das coisas, a língua. Ao mesmo tempo, as pessoas olham para nós e pensam que somos turistas, perguntam se queremos uma visita guiada. Sentimos que há ali qualquer coisa que se desfez para sempre. Queria falar sobre esta mágoa de não ser possível voltar. Sempre me senti uma estranha.

Achava que não pertencia totalmente ao meu país, Marrocos, onde nasci e cresci. Provinha de uma família muito diversa, original e marginal na maneira de viver. A minha avó era da Alsácia, adorava beber vinho branco e comer salsichas durante o Ramadão. O meu pai, embora sendo muçulmano, nunca praticou o Islão. E eu não sabia nada sobre o passado do meu pai. Nunca tinha visto uma fotografia do meu pai em criança. Ele vinha de uma família pobre e frequentou escolas colonizadas. Foi muito influenciado pela cultura ocidental. Era uma espécie de Grande Gatsby, reinventou-se. A minha mãe foi criada em Meknès por uma mãe cristã e um pai muçulmano. As pessoas olhavam para nós com a sensação de que não pertencíamos ali. Éramos demasiado franceses, demasiado ocidentais, demasiado livres. Dávamos imensas festas onde havia álcool e os meus pais eram feministas. Não espanta que sempre me tenha sentido uma forasteira.

Chegamos a um país e tudo é diferente, fisicamente diferente. A imigração não é algo abstracto. Tem directamente a ver com o corpo. E é por isso que escrevo sempre sobre o corpo. O clima não é o mesmo, a comida não é a mesma, a forma como as pessoas se vestem não é a mesma. Foi muito violento chegar a França nos anos 90 do século passado. As pessoas eram bastante racistas e diziam coisas sobre os árabes sem sequer pensarem que podiam fazer-nos sentir vergonha ou tristeza.

Sou uma nómada. Não sei onde é o meu lugar. A minha casa é o corpo das pessoas que amo. Os meus filhos são a minha casa, o meu marido, os meus amigos, a minha família. Não é bem um sítio. A literatura também é a minha casa. Eu habito os livros, habito a ficção.

Por outro lado, não me identifico minimamente com a forma como as pessoas e a política que nos rodeiam falam de raízes, de identidade. Tentam definir uma identidade, dizem-nos que temos de ser assim ou assado. Não é sobre quem somos: o que importa é o que fazemos, o modo como agimos. 
Acho ridículo dizer: “tenho orgulho em ser desta nacionalidade ou daquela”. Orgulhem-se de serem boas pessoas. Não se orgulhem de ser ganeses, portugueses, franceses ou ingleses, se forem más pessoas. Isso é uma estupidez.

É apenas a minha história e não quero passar a minha vida inteira a pedir desculpa por ela."

"Quanto mais envelheço, mais me sinto frágil, vulnerável. 
Mas não o encaro como fraqueza. 
O que sinto é que agora posso partilhar a minha vulnerabilidade com as outras pessoas. 
Quando somos jovens, não queremos ser vulneráveis. Queremos ser fortes, sair e curtir, queremos que as pessoas nos amem e admirem. 
Agora quero olhar para as pessoas e dizer: também tens medo?"

Leïla Slimani


Leïla Slimani nasceu em Rabat em 1981. 
Recebeu o prestigiado prémio Goncourt aos 35 anos. 
Vendeu mais de um milhão de livros no mundo todo. 
Vive desde há quatro anos em Lisboa.




domingo, 23 de novembro de 2025

Trust


Pexels



Oh we've got to trust
one another again
in some essentials.

Not the narrow little
bargaining trust
that says: I'm for you
if you'll be for me. -

But a bigger trust,
a trust of the sun
that does not bother
about moth and rust,
and we see it shining
in one another.

Oh don't you trust me,
don't burden me
with your life and affairs; don't
thrust me
into your cares.

But I think you may trust
the sun in me
that glows with just
as much glow as you see
in me, and no more.

But if it warms
your heart's quick core
why then trust it, it forms
one faithfulness more.

And be, oh be
a sun to me,
not a weary, insistent
personality

but a sun that shines
and goes dark, but shines
again and entwines
with the sunshine in me

till we both of us
are more glorious
and more sunny.


D H Lawrence



Analysis (AI): 

This poem emphasizes the importance of genuine and unconditional trust in relationships. It suggests moving beyond transactional or conditional trust and embracing a larger, cosmic trust that reflects the boundless nature of the sun.

The poem's language is clear and direct, avoiding flowery or sentimental language. This simplicity highlights the poem's central message: trust should be based on the inherent goodness and reliability of the other person, not on specific actions or expectations.

Compared to Lawrence's other works, this poem reflects his ongoing preoccupation with relationships and the search for authenticity. It also resonates with the broader themes of cosmic consciousness and the interconnectivity of all things that characterized his later work.

In the context of its time period, the poem's emphasis on trust and interdependency stands out against a backdrop of social and political upheaval. It offers a vision of hope and resilience, suggesting that even in turbulent times, the power of genuine trust can sustain and nourish human relationships. 




Burning Questions. Complicated Answers

 


Sveta Zi



Relationship dilemmas 
 are not problems to solve. 
They are paradoxes to manage.


People always want tips and tricks for making their relationships better… but often, what they really want are answers. And the answers they want are usually to life’s biggest questions:

  • How do I find “the one”?
  • How do I heal after being hurt?
  • Why does desire fade over time? Can it come back?
  • Should I change careers?
  • Should we move closer to my partner’s family or mine?
  • Should we have kids?
  • Should we open our relationship?
  • Should we be exclusive?
  • Should I stay or should I go?

Behind each of these questions is a story about love, loss, hope, and fear. 
These stories have densely layered plots with surprising character arcs, villains, victims, and redeemable antiheroes. There are miscommunications and missed connections. 
There is rupture and repair. There are grudges. There is forgiveness.

No Easy Answers

Under the surface of each of these questions—and the stories that shape them—is the absolute mess and tremendous beauty of intimacy. 
There’s no easy answer, no simple truth. 
It’s enough to make one shut down or turn away from love altogether. And yet, it is the act of exploring these big questions that keeps us connected not only to others but to ourselves.

So, we keep searching. 
And because we search, we allow ourselves the pleasure and the pain of discovery. 
It is that curiosity which keeps us connected to our sense of aliveness.


  1. How do I live with unrequited love? 
  2. How do I build community? 
  3. Should I keep waiting for my partner to be ready to have a child? 
  4. Will I ever heal from the reality-shattering impacts of betrayal? 

Let’s Turn the Lens on You

When we keep asking, the question itself becomes the teacher.

  • Pick one of the “big questions” that resonates with you (e.g., Should I stay or should I go?).
  • Write your answer in a few sentences, honestly and privately.
  • Then re-read your answer and ask yourself: “What question is hiding underneath this one?” It might be: What do I fear losing if I leave? or What part of me is asking to grow?



Life is a game of risk

From the moment we come into this world to the moment we die, our survival instinct acts as a silent captain navigating every situation we face or desire. And at every step, a subconscious calculation is operating in the background:

  • Is this a harmful situation to avoid?
  • Will I get hurt?
  • Do I want to get hurt?
  • Could there be a payoff?
  • What if it’s great?What if I fail?

Is It Worth the Risk?‍

We focus a lot on red flags, particularly while dating and early on in relationships. 
Often, our ability to recognize a red flag is because we’ve experienced it before. 

When we’ve dated a few too many narcissists, our eyebrows might perk up if our date is bragging a little too much. If a former partner struggled with substance abuse, we might overly-chastise our new mate for occasionally overindulging. When we’ve had past experiences in which our partner was too needy or we felt too needy, we may find ourselves seeking “situationships” where we don’t have to get deep enough to develop any level of dependence. And when we’ve experienced trauma, we will either try to avoid anything similar—or find ourselves experiencing it over and over again without totally understanding why. ‍

It’s crucially important to look for red flags. 
But hypervigilance can also leave us feeling constricted and avoidant. 

How many of us have wanted to run and jump off the dock into new depths of our relationship—only to stop ourselves at the edge because the proverbial water might be too cold, too murky, too mysterious? 

It’s that mystery that triggers our risk calculations—but it’s also what helps build sustainable desire that allows us to go deeper together over time.


Taking Risks Helps Build Trust Over Time

Over the course of a long partnership, issues can pile up, whether it’s major transgressions or minor mistakes that have compounded. 
Even small mistakes can be corrosive when they happen again and again. 
And even when the offending partner is working to heal the wounds, the other partner’s confirmation bias will insist “they’re just going to do it again.” 

If any of this sounds familiar to you, the last thing you probably want to hear is that it’s on you to open back up to the possibility of being hurt or disappointed again . . . but taking that risk is the only way to build trust in a possible alternative: that things can be better. ‍

Deep intimacy, as author Eli J. Finkel explained in The All-or-Nothing Marriage, requires some tradeoff between relationship enhancement and self-protection. 
He asks: 
“Are you more willing to let yourself be highly vulnerable in pursuit of deep intimacy, or are you more willing to sacrifice some level of intimacy to avoid being highly vulnerable?” 

This paradox is also at the heart of the Catch-22 posed by trust researcher Rachel Botsman
"Can we take risks without trust? 
Or is it the act of risk-taking that allows us to develop trust?” ‍

Taking risks is not the same as being reckless. 
We all need both security and adventure in this life. 
It’s okay to stop at the edge of the dock and assess the dark waters below . . . but it’s just as important to take the leap of faith.


Trust Falls—They’re Not Just For Corporate Retreats

Botsman defines trust as “a confident engagement with the unknown.” 

Trust is the confidence that even if the water is freezing and something bites our toe, we’ll be okay. 
And if it ends up better than we could have expected, we’ll always remember that day at the lake where we held hands and plunged into the reinvigorating waters together. ‍

In relationships, trust isn’t a promise to never hurt each other. 
It’s the risk that we will hurt each other and the confidence that, if we do, we will come together to heal. 
We will support one another. 
We will be kind. 
We will have each others’ backs. 

And it’s not just something that happens because we’ve decided to be together, or to move in, or to say “I do.” Cultivating that level of trust requires millions of micro-risks that show us we’re not foolish for being confident in our relationship. It requires taking risks together that show us our partner isn’t the same as the people from our past who hurt us.

Most importantly, trust requires taking risks together that help us grow into better partners for each other. 

If we let each other fall in the past, it’s going to take a lot of trust falls to show that we’re committed now to always catching each other, to really holding each other at our most vulnerable. 
The worst case scenario is that they drop us so many times that we finally understand we can’t trust them. That’s important to learn, too. 

But if we don’t take the risk at all, we might never know either way.


Esther Perel