Claire-Dee Lim

writer, teacher, traveler, and lazy gardener

Who’s Behind the Public Persona?

As more and more celebrities, cultural figures, influencers, and people in general, depict themselves online, I wonder how true those portrayals are. Are they facets of their real selves or are they playing into carefully crafted roles? Or a little of both?

The Goddess

It starts with the voice. A girlish timbre, a charming sing-songing cadence when she gets excited. It’s infectious, it makes you smile, it pulls you in. But what really gets everyone, and that means, everyone … her voice oozes compassion. She gets you, she has been there, she understands. You want to wrap yourself in her voice. It comforts, it soothes, and most of all, it loves you.

For behind the voice is someone who has lived through trauma, tragedy, and heartache. Who has taken all these experiences and transformed them into a life of wisdom and grace. It is a life overflowing with material success and ceaseless generosity. It is a life that many admire, that many envy.

Then there is her beauty. The moment you see her you can’t help but be enthralled by the thick hair, cascading over her shoulders, glass-skin complexion, dark deep-set eyes and full mouth. Her facial symmetry is mathematically exquisite. Her beauty is overpowering. No one is immune to it.

The woman is a goddess. Is it a surprise to anyone that her name is Athena? The goddess of wisdom and war. This Athena goes to war all the time. She is fighting for you.

With no fanfare, no introduction, for she needs none, Athena strides to the center of the stage. She is flanked by two large screens, projecting her larger-than-life image. The auditorium is at full capacity, six-thousand plus people jump to their feet. As the standing ovation rumbles on, she appraises the audience. Her smile warm and serene.

She wears a midnight blue jumpsuit, the monochrome color and long lines of the garment accentuate her 5’8” height, shapely silhouette, and short sleeves reveal defined arms. Many women in the crowd make mental notes to start working out the second they get home.

The venue is comprised of men, women, and young adults, from the entire socio-economic and ethnic spectrum. This is the second of three free events that Athena is offering. All are welcome. And all do come. She can afford to put on the free events each quarter; her regular corporate clients, the online academy, her books, media appearances, and pricey, bi-monthly retreats, more than make up for the costs.

The applause dies down, the audience settles into their seats. Wearing an imperceptible headset, artfully woven into Athena’s hair, she says, “Welcome to ‘Change Your Story: Change Your Life.’” As her voice floats across the auditorium, a hormonal rush of oxytocin surges through the audience, causing palpable feelings of giddiness, wonder, and excitement. Some begin to tear up, so overwhelmed by what is about to happen, what they expect to happen.

The stage is bare except for two burgundy-colored club chairs, which have been angled toward each other. Between the chairs is a small table with a pitcher of water, two glasses, and a thin stack of index cards. Athena sits down. She reaches for the top card and reads it, “Will Raymundo N., please come up and join me.”

Polite applause as a man in his mid-forties, stocky, intimidating buzz cut, and ram rod straight posture, walks down the aisle to the stage. He takes the empty seat. His face is creased with pain and something torturous.

“Good evening, Raymundo,” Athena says.

“You can call me Ray,” he says with a rasp.

“Ok, Ray … what brings you here tonight?”

“I want to change my story,” he says, eyes shining with emotion.

She leans toward him and lets the full power of her voice, and her confidence, born out of countless interactions, envelope him with the assurance he so desperately needs. “I will help you.”

Taylor and Makenzie burst into the palatial suite at the Four Seasons. Both in their early thirties, big toothy smiles, and high energy bordering on mania.

“The best show ever,” squeals Taylor.

“Oh my god,” Makenzie squeals back at an even higher volume. “When the guy with the super weird co-dependent thing with his sister revealed that he tried to smother her with a pillow when she was a baby —”

“— did you hear the audience. They died! … I died.”

“Me too!”

“I kept thinking, how the fuck is she going to handle this?” Taylor marvels.

Makenzie shakes her head. “Yeah, people’s lives are so messed up.” Then she brightens. “But our girl did it. She turned that shit around and …” She sighs with relief, hand clutching her heart. Something occurs to her. She looks about and realizes the living room is empty. It’s also in immaculate condition, unlived in. She looks at Taylor. Something telepathic passes between them.

Suddenly, they’re racing through the rooms, both calling out, “Athena, are you here?”

No one is in the bedroom, but there are signs of human intervention. The jumpsuit is on the floor in a crumpled heap. Their lithe bodies sag with relief. Taylor picks up the garment and surveys the floor for any more clothing cast-offs. “Get the laundry bag,” she says, motioning to the built-in armoire.

Makenzie does as she is told, produces a large mesh bag and stuffs the jumpsuit inside. She spots a thong, twisted into unrecognition under a silver metallic sandal. Puts it in too.

The sound of a door opening catches their attention. Athena emerges from the bathroom wearing the hotel’s plush bathrobe. Hair wet, make-up free, she has showered off the sheen of perfection.

As if something is unleashed, the superlatives pour out of the pair.

“You were amazing —”

“The emotion, the drama, you’re changing lives —”

“You are healing humanity —”

“You are the goddess —”

Athena wearily holds up her hand, silencing them. She sits at the edge of the king-size bed, her posture rounding forward. All the alacrity she had exhibited on stage thirty minutes ago is gone. She looks depleted, she looks different. As if by magic or a cruel trick, Athena barely resembles who she is supposed to be.

This transformation is happening more and more often. For along with Athena’s dull eyes and low affect, comes talk about “shutting the whole thing down” and doing something else like “escape to a beach in Ibiza.” Taylor handles this line of talk the only way she knows how. She responds with a few sympathetic mews about the burden of responsibility when one is a self-actualization icon. Then she proceeds to behave like the conversation never happened. In other words, she ignores it.

Taylor has worked with high-profile clients before and in her experience, she knows they don’t really mean it. One second away from the attention and adoration, they crumble, their lives empty and meaningless, they only exist as a designed and orchestrated persona. A Cartesian version for the age of celebrity: I exist in the public eye; therefore, I am.

Athena’s mouth tightens as if coiling, about to strike with words Taylor does not want to indulge anymore. So, she overwhelms her with an admin update.

“Ok,” Taylor says cheerfully while pulling out her phone. “For tomorrow, we’ve got the planning meeting for the Google leadership seminar. Then lunch with your publisher about the new book —”

“— new book?” Athena snarls. Her effervescent voice replaced by an angry vocal fry. “I just delivered the new fucking book. They already said they loved it.”

Makenzie pipes in. “They mean the next new book … after this new book. They’re already planning for that release.”

“Fantastic, more planning.” Athena grumbles. “Is this meeting at least over lunch? My energy is so slow these days. All these events and the stress, and trying to concentrate while I’m absorbing everyone’s pain and anger … when all I want to do is lump the whole thing —”

“— no wonder your energy’s flagging,” Taylor reacts, cutting her off. She dares not let Athena’s thoughts spiral down the negativity drain. “All that empathy burns calories like crazy!”

Makenzie picks up on Taylor’s distraction technique and lunges for the phone. “I’m calling room service. What would you like?” She punches the speed dial.

Athena turns to her underling and takes a moment to digest the question. She then replies, “Ribeye, rare, a cheese and charcuterie platter … a bottle of Zin.”

Makenzie looks to Taylor for approval, who ever so slightly shakes her head. Athena typically does not drink during events. She likes to keep her empathic senses and pathways open especially when engaging and changing the lives of her public.

Taylor notes her desire for wine. It is a good barometer of Athena’s mental disposition. She realizes she must take a different approach to her troubling malaise. She says carefully, “Maybe have the Zinfandel after we’ve wrapped up tomorrow night. In fact, let’s throw a wrap party.”

“Yeah, a wrap party! That would be awesome,” says Makenzie, interrupting the food order. “I’ll take care of everything.” She goes back to her room service call. “So that’s a ribeye, rare, charcuterie platter. Also, add two quinoa salads with baby greens, hold the chicken, with extra aioli and one super chunk brownie.”

“Make that two,” Taylor calls out. She turns to Athena. “You want one?”

Athena looks at her with scorn. “You know I don’t eat chocolate. Too many oxalates.”

“Right,” says Taylor, a bit relieved that at least Athena is sticking to her dietary regime, minus the booze request. Things are not nearly as bad as they first seemed. She flashes Makenzie two fingers, who then amends the brownie order. She turns back to Athena, confident that she’s back in control of the situation. “So the wrap party … you up for it?”

Athena sighs. “Instead of a wrap party … why don’t we just cancel the rest of the year. Make it a good-bye party.”

Taylor’s even demeanor belies the klaxons going off throughout her nervous system. Okay, if Athena wants to go there, let’s go there, she thinks. She turns her phone to Athena, then calmly scrolls through the calendars for the coming months. “You are booked to the end of the year. The Aspen retreat, the one in the Berkshires, the J.P. Morgan interpersonal development executive seminar … you are the main event. Plus all the appearances and meetings in-between. If you don’t show —”

“— then what happens? The world stops turning?” Athena flounces back onto the bed, drapes an arm across her face to hide from it all.

Taylor sits next to Athena. “No … but your world might.”

She and Makenzie exchange a steely look. The two women both know where this is heading, and it’s a calculated risk that must be taken.

“Is that what you want, Athena?” asks Taylor in a sympathetic tone that comes quite close to sounding like Athena’s caring voice. “If you do, we can totally make that happen. Just say the word.”

Taylor and Makenzie hold their breath, waiting for Athena’s response. The ticking seconds are interminable.

Athena lets the arm covering her face fall to the side. She pushes herself upright. Smiling wanly, she pats Taylor’s knee. “You know I don’t want that.”

Taylor nods and out of the corner of her eye sees Makenzie suppress a grin. “So, we good?”

Athena stares off, considering something. Taylor and Makenzie brace themselves again for whatever mortar may be lobbed their way.

She refocuses on them. “Can we reduce the free events to two nights rather than three and cut the overall dates by half?”

“No problem,” says Taylor. “We haven’t locked in the venues for the back half of the year …” She looks to Makenzie for input.

“We can stick to the 1st tier markets and cut the 2nd tier,” confirms Makenzie.

Athena begins to show an uptick in energy. “Then we’re good.”

“Great,” says Taylor.

“Awesome,” chirps Makenzie.

“For the party,” says Athena, color coming back to her face, “let’s have it in my suite. Get a case of that Zinfandel from that winery in Sonoma with the two vines, old vines … you know the one. Invite our people and everyone from the venue … especially that cute stage manager … Jeff.”

“I think his name is Josh,” corrects Makenzie, who taps the name into her phone. “Cute stage manager is on the list.” She smiles up at Athena, who has drifted back into the bathroom.

“I need to put on a face mask. Let me know when my steak’s here.” After that last directive, Athena shuts the door.

Catastrophe averted, the pair collapse into each other’s arms. Their stress and tension about to explode into a fit of giggles. They shush each other and tiptoe away from the bedroom suite into the living room.

Taylor checks the time on her phone. “Now where are those goddamn brownies.”

Aloe vera, manuka honey-infused, ultra moisturizing. I can’t decide, as I look through the box of face masks. While they each advocate different skin conditioning benefits, I think they’re all the same, so I just pick the one with the pretty flowery packaging.

Before applying, I study myself in the bathroom mirror. The lighting in here is warm and flattering. It makes me look not as tired as I feel. And I feel so tired. Tired of all of it. I want to quit … but I can’t quit. I have become an enterprise, an entity, a construct that has become something to too many. People are relying on me: to fix them, heal them, mother them, love them.

Taylor and Makenzie work hard to keep the machine on track. That’s why I employ them, to keep things running, to keep me running. For without this … What would I do? What would be my purpose?

I once knew, but as I’ve gotten further away and more removed from who I really am, my sense of self has slipped away. I stopped paying attention to me … or the me at the time. I have only been existing to serve the Goddess. One thing is for sure: the real me, whoever that is, is not a goddess.

The face mask is a slimy, white membrane. The eyes, nose and mouth openings align with my features, and I smooth out any creases. I look like a chic burn victim.

Complaining and threatening to end the empire I’ve created is a hollow exercise. If I’m honest with myself, I’m afraid to find out what lies beneath. What if there’s nothing? The thought gives me a slight cramp in my chest. At some point, I too will have to change my story. Just not today. I’m way too tired, and very hungry.

There is a soft knock at the door. “Athena, food’s here,” calls out Makenzie.

“Finally,” I mutter, and fling the door open. All smiles beneath my mask.

◊ ◊ ◊

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A Modern Take on the Seven Stages of Alchemy

Spiritual alchemy has been inspiring me lately as I’ve been thinking about how this ancient philosophy — to transform the soul — applies to a 21st century life. 

The Alchemist’s Fool

“I am an alchemist,” he said on their first date. His blue eyes flickering with sincerity.

This might have been a red flag for some women, who would have mentally sorted through excuses for a quick exit. For Cassie, she was used to men making grandiose pronouncements about themselves.

“I am an existentialist,” “I am a nihilist,” or the ever tedious, “I am an atheist.”

But an “alchemist?” she wondered as her eyes drifted around the nearly empty bar. That one was new and it intrigued her.

“Do you turn metal into gold?” she asked.

Alan’s face lit up. “So you know about alchemy.”

She shrugged. “Just the headline.”

“It’s metaphorical rather than literal.”

He pulled up the sleeve of his white linen shirt, revealing on his inner forearm, a tattoo of a green snake coiled around three symbols.

He pointed to them, starting from left to right. “These are the alchemical symbols: salt, sulfur and this one is mercury. They represent the body, spirit, and mind.”

“And the snake means … ?”

“Knowledge … see snakes and serpents have always gotten a bad rap because of Adam and Eve. When symbolically they mean the opposite.”

Cassie studied Alan. He was around forty. His cleft chin, mop of curls, and easy smile, more than made up for the fact that the conversation had turned Biblical.

“As we gain knowledge about ourselves,” he continued, “we can strip away whatever is holding us back, what’s negative within us. We then have the power to create a more authentic and honest life. When that happens — it’s all golden.”

Cassie traced the condensation forming on her beer glass. She couldn’t decide if what he was saying was new-age nonsense or a revelation.

“Ah, so you’re turning yourself into ‘gold’,” she said with a teasing smile. “How’s that working out for you?”

“It’s a process for sure,” he said. “The best part about being a modern alchemist is helping turn others’ lives into gold.”

You do this as a therapist?”

“I do my best.” He drained his glass of sparkling water, lemon wedge tumbling amongst the ice.

He looked around the bar. She followed his eyeline. The happy hour crowd was starting to show up. She became aware of their chairs scrapping across the floor and the rising chatter. He seemed to notice it too.

Alan turned to her and leaned in close. Faint notes of cardamom and leather wafted off him. Cassie found it instantly alluring.

“So what do you think?” he asked. “We could end this now or we can go somewhere else, get dinner and keep talking.”

A rectangular mirror hung on the shiplap wall behind Alan’s shoulder. Cassie took in her reflection, her naturally curly auburn hair, tortured into flat-iron straightness, and light brown eyes, which showed signs of weariness. It occurred to her that she may not have known much about being an alchemist, but she knew what it meant to be a pragmatist and a realist.

For here she was: 35, single and a police helicopter pilot … and she wanted to have a baby. Before this moment, her life had taken an unexpected turn. About a year ago, on patrol over the city, the chopper had malfunctioned and plunged downward. She managed to slow its descent but the crash landing, onto a grassy football field, fractured her pelvis and broke her arm.

During her five months of recovery and arduous physical therapy, she took stock of her life, pinpointing all the areas that needed improvement. Eat better, cut down on stress, learn to meditate, be in nature more … and the big one. Have a baby. She had never thought of being a mother until then. Maybe it was the horrific image of the crash, the ground rushing up to meet her that skipped the needle on the groove of her ordinary life

Once she was back on her feet, and cleared to resume piloting, all the self-improvement promises faded away. Only one lingered — I want a baby. She had to find a mate before her chance of getting pregnant dropped another five percent.

So she formed a plan, and more edicts: no more mindless hook-ups and definitely no more dating in her cop gene pool. While she had fundamentally loved the intensity and loyal spirit of these men, she had seen the world and its dark corners. So had they. This mix could not find the light.

And light was what she wanted.

Cassie joined a few dating apps. For six months, she dated practically everyone who pinged, poked, winked and DMed her. A jujitsu instructor, an unemployed H&M manager, a finance bro, a high school math teacher — some were fascinating, a few were funny, and a couple had the potential to be stable providers and fathers. But none had the spark. Until she saw Alan’s profile.

How had he described himself? Raising the vibrations of humanity one person at a time. She had liked the sound of that. Her life needed an injection of good vibrations. Could he help her bring in the light? Coupled with his photo, those lively eyes, and a casual pose against the red rock of Sedona offered this promise to her.

“My life could use a little gold,” she said, leaning in closer.

Alan stood up and offered his hand. She took it and said, “Lead the way.”

Cassie’s alchemical journey had begun.

Falling in love with Alan was one of the easiest things Cassie had ever done. He was kind, smart, and exuded a confident manliness that made her feel safe and protected … rather than anxious and uncertain like most men she had been involved with. What sealed the deal in her heart, was the day he eagerly climbed into her chopper for a city tour.

During a stunning sunset, the sky a gradient blend of oranges, reds and golds, he grinned as she pointed out the city’s landmarks: Grauman’s Chinese Theater, 3rd Street Farmers Market, the Getty Museum. Then without warning, she tipped the nose of the helicopter downward and accelerated. The speedy drop in altitude, and the overwhelming sensation of weightlessness would typically cause the uninitiated to gasp — out of fear and alarm. She glanced at Alan. He looked like he was having the time of this life. Just when it got a tiny bit dangerous, she pulled the chopper out of the dive. He let out an exhilarated whoop. If Cassie was the burst-into-song type, she would have. Instead she asked him, “Wanna do it again?”

“Now I get it,” Alan said, after they had landed and had settled into a cozy booth at a Hollywood Thai restaurant. “Why you love flying so much.”

“The department’s psychiatrist was amazed that I wanted to go back in the air so quickly,” said Cassie. “He just assumed I’d have PTSD from the crash.”

His lightheartedness took a turn. “If you ever want to talk about it … I am a professional.”

“I’m fine,” she said, waving him off.

She sensed he would press the issue and reached for his hand. “What I do want to talk about is alchemy.”

He raised an eyebrow. He couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.

“Teach me,” she said, her face alive with enthusiasm. “What do I need to know? What books should I read? What’s the process?”

“You serious about this?”


“It’ll take a commitment.”

Cassie picked up on his skepticism and decided to flex her bona fides. “You don’t get to be the youngest, female helicopter pilot in the LAPD without a sense of commitment.”

He laughed, impressed. “Well, in that case …”

The server appeared with a plate of larb and piping hot spring rolls, straight out of the deep fryer. Then he set down a large Singha for Cassie and a water for Alan.

“For starters, you have to give up that.” He pointed to her beer.

“I have to give up beer?!” she snorted. “What kind of bullshit spiritual philosophy is this?” She reached for the bottle and took a big swig to underscore her faux outrage.

“Not beer per se, but what beer represents.”

She squinted her eyes at him. “Go on.”

He adopted his soothing, what Cassie would later call, his therapist voice, “Alchemy involves seven stages …

Stage One: Calcination

The spiritual process of breaking free from superficial and worldly attachments to help awaken one’s true spirit.

Cassie’s alchemical tutelage involved reading books about its mystical and scientific history, practical spiritual development, and to her surprise, fiction novels, like Frankenstein by Mary Shelley. “An alchemical classic,” Alan said, as he thrust his copy into her hands. She read and studied everything with the determination of an overachieving student.

In between learning about transforming the soul, she gobbled up pregnancy books: How to Maximize Your Fertility, Prepare Your Body for Creating Life. She kept this extracurricular activity from Alan. They had only been involved for two months, and the relationship was moving forward nicely: she stayed at his Brentwood condo over the weekends, and one night a week he stayed at her Silver Lake bungalow. Springing the “let’s have a baby conversation” would have been a tad premature.

These books all recommended that prospective mothers turn their body into a temple of good health to maximize the chance of pregnancy. Cassie knew she had to clean up her diet; there was no avoiding it. On her day off, she went on a kitchen rampage, tossing out her coffee, her beloved blue corn chips, and go-to frozen burritos. Out went the chocolate-covered pretzels and a half-eaten boule of sourdough bread. Rifling through the cans in her panty, she read through every food label; if they had seed oils, soy, unpronounceable chemical additives, into the bin they went.

Lastly, she reached for the six-pack of her favorite IPA. She was tempted to drink the whole sixer as a last hurrah but decided against it. Instead, she marched over to her next-door neighbor’s house — she fed his cats when he traveled —and left it with a note on the porch. “I’m detoxing. Enjoy! Cassie.”

When Alan came over a few hours later, he could not help but notice Cassie’s kitchen counters: free of the usual snacky clutter and coffeemaking accouterments. He cocked his head at her. “Why the purge?”

“Check out the frig,” she said.

He opened the door. Inside he found pristine shelves lined with bottles of Gerolsteiner mineral water rather than expired hot sauces, mustards, and soggy take-out containers. His then noticed two New York strip steaks, marinating in garlic and rosemary, in a shallow pan.

“And you’re cooking?” he said. “Cassie, what’s going on?”

Her eyes opened wide. They seemed to radiate with an inner glow. “Let’s just call it calcination.”

Stage Two: Dissolution

This stage involves the process of freeing oneself from suppressed trauma and past wounds.

“Cassie …” Alan gently nudged her.

She awoke with a start. “Huh …”

“You were moaning in your sleep.”

“Sorry,” she said, rolling away from him. “Go back to sleep.”

“Another nightmare?” Alan asked, caressing her shoulder.

“I can’t remember.” But she did remember.

He knew she wasn’t telling the truth. This had been the fifth, maybe sixth time, her groaning and thrashing had awakened him. Those times he cradled her, and let her stiff limbs soften. The first time it happened he asked her in the morning what she had been dreaming about.

She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know … the crash … maybe.” She didn’t want to talk about the crash then, and she didn’t want to talk about it now. Especially at two in the morning.

“You don’t have to be tough all the time,” he said. “I know it’s a cop thing.”

Not answering, she pretended to fall back asleep. Alan settled back into the bed.

While Cassie continued to play off the significance of her near-death experience, her subconscious was screaming louder and louder to take notice.

One night, she was in the air following the pursuit of a hit-and-run driver on the 101 freeway going northbound. The chopper’s spotlight was focused on a silver BMW X3, its blazing circle of light exposed a crumpled corner bumper. It weaved erratically in and out of traffic. The driver was either drunk, panicked, or both.

Along the freeway, a billboard emerged from the night’s sky. Two blocky words — Buy Local — surrounded by a wreath of sticky cannabis buds. Cassie squinted at the smaller words in hot pink at the bottom of the signage: Free Delivery.

She started to snicker. Legal weed and free delivery?! What a world, she thought. When a memory flashed before her. She had seen this billboard before elsewhere — the night of the crash. She had clipped it as she wrestled with the spinning chopper for control. Suddenly, her field of vision began to close in, tunneling at the edges. And she felt her chest tightening. Alarm bells blared inside Cassie’s head. She was on the verge of a panic attack. Realizing this, she blinked rapidly to bring her focus back.

Her co-pilot Marc noticed they were starting to veer off course. “What’s up, Cass? You’re losing him.” He looked over at her, saw she was struggling. He wasn’t quite sure with what. “You, okay?”

Cassie steadied her breathing, like she had done so many times before when in fight-or-flight situations. Keep it together, her inner voice repeated over and over. With each breath, she could feel the world coming back to her.

“Want me to take the stick?” Marc was already reaching for the cyclic, the curved lever between his knees, which controlled the chopper.

“I got it,” she said, back in control of herself, and the memory, which had leaked into her waking life. She decisively banked the aircraft and caught up to the BMW, now dead center in the spotlight.

The next morning, Cassie made an appointment with the Dr. Yoshida, the department psychiatrist.

Stage Three: Separation

In order to connect with one’s higher self, one’s false personas and fabricated identities must be shed.

“Alan …”

He finished typing a few words on his laptop and looked up at Cassie. He sat on one end of the couch, she on the other end. Their socked feet comingled in the middle. While she was probably interrupting him, Alan was preparing a talk about therapeutic shamanism for a conference, he showed no signs of impatience. He always gave her his attention when she asked for it. One of the many qualities she loved about him.

“Can I ask you something?”

He shut his laptop, preparing himself for what he could tell would be an involved conversation.

“I’ve been thinking about the separation stage,” she said. “Like you suggested, I’ve been journaling. To help me figure things out. Who I am, what I want.”

“I’ve seen you furiously writing away in that Hello Kitty notebook.”

“I know. It’s childish but I was in Japantown and that’s all they had. Anyway, remember when you said, I don’t have to be tough all that time? Well, you’re right. It’s a cliché. That’s not who I want to be anymore.”

She dropped her gaze and started picking at a small hole, opening on the big toe of her orange and grey striped sock. She needed to distract herself from the wave of vulnerability that swept over her.

“Cassie,” Alan said. He folded his long legs under him and moved toward her. “Who do you want to be?”

She kept on picking. Her toe began to poke out. She wanted to prolong the moment as long as she could. For she had no idea how he would respond. Once she said “the words,” she and Alan could be over. But she had to say them. In the four months they had been together, if she learned anything about alchemy thus far, she knew she must be honest, to be true to her needs and desires.

She slowly raised her eyes to meet his and said, “I want to be a mother.”

Stage Four: Conjugation

The spiritual process of unifying the body and soul by combining what has so far been revealed about one’s authentic self.

Alan squeezed Cassie so hard she thought she might pass out.

“You’re hurting me,” she squeaked.

“Sorry,” he said, backing off. “Wow, a baby … it’s going to be amazing. I can’t wait.”

She then planted kisses all over his face. “I’m so happy.”

“Me too … and I’m relieved,” he said. “I thought you were going to break up with me.”

She pulled back. “Why on earth would you think that?” This was the first time she had seen a chink in his confidence.

“Because it has happened before.”

“Look at you,” she said, now more bewildered. “You have a successful practice, have a lovely home —”

“— all important things to Angeleno women,” he said with a touch of uncharacteristic sarcasm.

She ignored him. “You’re smart, caring … you’re a good man.” She shook his shoulders for emphasis.

“To some women, I’m a lot … and to others I’m not enough.”

She scrunched up her face. “That’s terrible.”

He shrugged. “Sure, break-ups are unpleasant but I always learn something about myself after. Like … what did I want from that person? What can I be accountable for?”

“So you shifted and elevated your vibration.”

“You, my darling,” he kissed her on the forehead, “are catching on. See … that shift attracted you.” He gently let one of the loose curls framing her face slide between his fingers. “You love me for who I am.”

“Who you are is wonderful.” It was her turn to squeeze the air out of him. He pulled back slightly.

“We need a plan,” Alan said.

“The plan is to have as much sex as possible, starting now.” She quickly straddled him and nuzzled his neck.

He looked upward, mind buzzing with ideas. “Should we move in together? My place is bigger but yours is closer to your work. Oh, Lord and the commute from the Westside to Hollywood will be a daily disaster …”

Suddenly, Cassie slid off him as her amorous feelings faded into the background. “Once I get pregnant, I’d like to quit. Be a stay-at-home mother.”

“But you love your job.” Alan gaped at her. “And you’re making such progress with Dr. Yoshida …”

“Yes, my sessions with him are helping, but I’m also changing. I can’t put my life at risk when there will be another life that depends me. I want to give our baby the best possible chance …” Emotion caught the words in her throat.

He understood and pulled her in close.

Stage Five: Fermentation

One of the more challenging stages. As the higher self begins to emerge, so can lingering aspects of the lower self. Recognizing and ruminating on these qualities, allows for them to ultimately be abandoned.

Cassie sneered to herself as she thumbed through Home Haven’s glossy real estate book. A catalog of premiere listings, in the multimillion-dollar price range, issued monthly from the tony realtor. The images exalted style, aspiration, and wealth … and incited nagging feelings of FOMO, longing, and lack … which she suspected was its intention. Since progressing on her alchemical path, she became steadily more aware of what emotions the culture’s focus on material attachments inspired in her and in so many others.

She tossed the hefty publication aside. “I think you’re getting ahead of things. We’ve been trying for over three months, and I’m still not pregnant. I never thought having so much sex could be so frustrating.”

“It’s going to happen.”

This did not mollify her.

“In the meantime, we have to keep moving forward with the logistics,” Alan said.

Logistics. The fourth time he had said the term, one mostly used for large scale military and manufacturing operations. She had been counting. The hyperbolic way he characterized their lives had started to test her patience.

Alan pulled a sheaf of real estate listings from a yellow plastic sleeve. She eyed it with venom. He organized all his papers with specific color coding. Yellow stood for “things that make us happy.” Talking about buying a house together, did not make Cassie happy.

His penchant for micro details added to her growing displeasure. Lately, all he could talk about was the housing market, interest rates, and top performing school districts. When he unfurled a map of Los Angeles County that covered the entire dining tabletop — to show her neighborhood crime trends — a poisonous emotion, deep in the recesses of her psyche, exploded into her consciousness. You are so annoying. Sure, Cassie liked to plan, make a to-do list here and there, but all this overthinking. How had she not known this about Alan? … Before she designated him as the father of their currently non-existent baby?

Immediately, her negative thoughts shifted to shame and remorse. I suck, I’m a horrible human being, she chastised. How could she think these things about Alan who was so caring and trustworthy, and who only wanted vibrations to thrum at maximum positivity? Where were her low vibrations coming from anyway? She thought she had been making progress.

Cassie closed her eyes and took in a breath. A slow exhale released the dark clouds in her mind. As she opened them, she saw Alan putting the listings back into the sleeve. “We can do this another time. You don’t seem that into it right now.”

“I am,” she said, nodding with extra conviction and a smile. “Let’s get logistical.” She reached for the happy yellow sleeve and began to look through it.

Stage Six: Distillation

At this stage, one’s true essence emerges in pure balance and harmony as the lower self or shadow self is assimilated into the higher self.

Her car keys in hand, Cassie headed to her Yukon in the department parking lot. Marc yelled at her from a few cars over.

“Hey, Cass, we’re all meeting up at Mama Shelter for drinks. You should come.”

It had been an uneventful shift; the city had been uncharacteristically quiet. She didn’t feel the least bit tired. Alan was sleeping at his own place that night so the late evening was all her own.

Already suspecting she would decline, Marc cajoled, “C’mon, you never come out anymore. What’s wrong with you?”

Good question. It had been seven months, and she still was not pregnant. All efforts to create the light inside of her as she moved through the steps of transformation had not paid off. What was the point of doing something … or anything if there was no pot of gold at the end of it? Couldn’t she at least reward herself now for her efforts?

Besides she hadn’t had a drink this whole time … maybe she could just tag along for the fun of it. Have a sparkling water with lemon, perhaps? Yeah, she could already hear the razzing she’d get from her colleagues. Then it occurred to her how much she missed the camaraderie of her police brethren. She’d been so swallowed up in her Alan cocoon of support, love, and open houses. It would be good to mix things up. She needed this. She deserved this.

“Ok, twist my arm,” she said. “See you there.”

Cassie pulled her SUV to the curb across the street from the bar, located on the fifth-floor rooftop of a boutiquey hotel in Hollywood. Instead of cutting the engine, she looked up at the globe lights circling the perimeter of the venue like a twinkling necklace. She could already hear boisterous male laughter, echoing into the night.

Just one beer, she negotiated with herself. But she already knew where this path would lead, having been down it many times before. One beer would lead to another, and another. At night’s end, she would wind up having sloppy sex in someone’s bed. Most likely that someone would be the hot new guy from Narco. She had noticed him checking her out on more than one occasion as they passed each other at the station. She had already clocked his parked pick-up truck when she turned onto Selma. No, she decided, shaking the darkness out of her head. This brief lapse would only make the light more difficult to come by. She must stay true.

She glanced back up at the roof, then shifted into gear and sped off.

Stage Seven: Coagulation

In this final stage, one’s true and higher essence emerges as the mind, body and spirit have become one.

Cassie wandered around the house as her eyes took quick snapshots of the expansive living, kitchen and dining areas, all merged into one. Textured glass pendant lights hung over the kitchen’s marble island, and the zellege tile backsplash — a soothing watery aqua — contrasted with the gleaming gold fixtures and bright white everything throughout the space. She moved to the multiple bi-folding doors, which had been opened to better showcase the panoramic view of the ocean. She felt the sea air on her face and wondered if she lived here, would she eventually get tired of the vista? … If one day she’d simply stop seeing and acknowledging its majesty?

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Alan, joining her. “You love it, right?”

Before she could answer he took her hand and led her to a bedroom through an airy hallway. It too had a spectacular view.

“This would make a good home office,” she said.

“I’m thinking that’s the room out front.” He pointed in a vague direction behind her. “This could be the nursery.”

Suddenly, Cassie felt a flutter inside of her and her hand instinctively touched her belly. “She heard us talking about her.”

Alan leaned down and spoke to her womb. “What do you think, baby girl? You like this room?”

Cassie cringed. She hated it when Alan did that and as her belly grew larger, he did it even more. She moved away and pretended to look at the vaulted ceilings. “It’s a nice room. But God, all this white. We’d have to paint.”

“Whatever you want,” he said.

No, she already had what she wanted. After a year and a half of trying and one miscarriage, the light was finally growing inside of her.

Alan wanted the baby too … but he also really wanted this house by the ocean. While she would have been more than happy to stay in her Craftsman-style bungalow with its scuffed hardwood floors and pitifully small closets. When she floated the idea by him — “Why don’t you move in here instead?” — he looked horrified, like she had suggested they live in a tent under the Harbor freeway. She never brought it up again.

Cassie knew the score: to sustain and protect this light she would have to shift her priorities. So right then and there, surrounded by the blinding walls and ceilings more suitable for giants, she made a pact with herself. No longer would she focus on Alan’s annoying quirks — like the “therapist’s voice” he fell into whenever providing unsolicited advice — but the life inside of her, nurturing it with as much care and love as she could muster. And how could she do that if she allowed those dark thoughts to consume her, to impede the way?

“Let’s make an offer,” Cassie said.

Alan practically leapt out of his skin. “Shall we offer list or overbid?” he said, scrolling through his cell phone for the number of their realtor. Not waiting for her answer, and phone pressed to his ear, he left the room to engage in what she presumed would be a lengthy discussion about negotiating tactics.

The sound of crashing waves drew her attention back to the view. Looking out, her thoughts drifted to Alan. He must have made a similar agreement with himself … about her. He had recognized and accepted her foibles, long before she saw them in herself: her initial reluctance to address her PTSD; her impatience; her single-minded behavior, often bordering on obsessiveness; and her uncanny ability to kick off her shoes and leave them scattered throughout both of their abodes. Well, he had been at this longer than she had. Then she fondly remembered what he told her on their first date: “The best part about being a modern alchemist is helping turn others’ lives into gold.”

She came back into the living area. Alan was still on the phone, intently listening. He noticed her entrance, and gave her an assuring thumbs up.

Things will be different now, she thought. Everything will be perfect. She laughed to herself. Only a fool would think so.

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Drawings created using colored pencil, pen, crayon and digital illustration tools.
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Being vs Doing: Is There a Difference?

During the past few years I've been learning how to draw, using traditional and digital tools. Here are a few images to go with my latest short story.

The Cosmic Ocean

What started out as a father-daughter thing turned into Kalani’s obsession. Growing up in the North Shore of Oahu, a surfing mecca, seven miles of coastline with breaks for beginners to Class-A pros, many surfer parents wanted their children to develop a kinship with the ocean. It was for fun and play but it had to be respected. It could also drown you. In a snap.

This education would start when they were merely babies. They’d be carried into the surf to feel its power, its primal energies, as the frothy waves lapped at their kicking feet. Some babies screamed, “danger, danger,” their tiny brains shot signals throughout their bodies as they tried to wriggle away. These parents quickly retreated to the shore. Their child wasn’t ready. Too much too soon. They’d try again later, or maybe not at all. They’d let the child decide when the time was right, when the relationship with the ocean could begin.

Not Kalani. At one year old, she didn’t scream when her father, Cris, led her into the surf. She laughed and laughed. Her chubby arms reached into the water, splashing. Her round little face lit with joy. Her father looked back at the shore where his wife, Malia, and Kalani’s mother watched, and flashed her a wide smile. They both knew Kalani would be a surfer.

More impressive than Kalani’s early surfing skills — at four she could easily pop up on her board and ride a small wave into shore — was her affinity with the ocean. She learned how to feel its ebbs and flows, how to count wave sets, predict its moves.

And when she got it wrong, the wave did something unexpected, closed out on her, tossing her into the powerful depths, she didn’t fight the agitating action. She went with the flow of the wave’s energy, rocking and rolling, until the time was right to break free of its grip, and suck in air. Throughout her childhood, every free moment was spent surfing. First one in, last one out.

By the time Kalani was sixteen, surfing was no longer this cool activity she was good at. It was part of her being, her emotional retreat. As she glided over the blue glass, velocity building, all distracting grievances about her parent’s divorce, high school cliques, late homework, her untamable hair, boys! … she’d find herself in the wave’s pocket, entering the cosmic ocean of no thinking, no worries, and no ego.

Once she trotted out of the water, board under her arm, everything would come flooding back to her. But it was mostly her ego which took hold, a competitive nature that she picked up from her over-achieving Japanese-Filipino mother (one of Hawaii’s top cardiologists, no surprise there!), rather than her “hang loose” Filipino-Hawaiian father. Unlike her mother, competition was always with herself.

She wanted to improve her surfing skills, take on bigger waves, and be in the cosmic ocean longer. She watched the sponsored amateurs on the verge of turning pro that would come to experience the many North Shore breaks, and asked for their advice. Many were only too happy to impart their wisdom to a teenager, with eager brown-eyes, caramel-colored skin, and a smile that could melt a taciturn soul. Cris kept a sharp protective watch over Kalani. He knew what was on their minds at that age, what they thought, about pretty surfer girls.

One evening Kalani went down a cyberhole. She had discovered big wave rider Laird Hamilton. She read every online article about him, watched every documentary, featuring him ride the most dangerous, massive waves from Tahiti to Portugal. She absorbed YouTube videos about his breathing techniques, ice bath training, and underwater weight lifting regime. She lobbied her father to send her to Malibu to take Laird Hamilton’s 3-day training experience.

 “You want to be like Laird Hamilton?” asked Cris, brows knitted together in a frown. “You want to die?”

“Laird hasn’t died,” shot back Kalani.

“Not yet.”

Kalani rolled her eyes.

“Besides, Laird’s a big dude. Have you seen the video where he’s dragging a log? With his neck?! You’re barely one hundred pounds. No way can you control a big wave.”

“It’s not about the big waves.” Kalani sighed. “I want to be better. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Cris said “Being better at what you do is always good …”

Kalani stared at her father, waiting for more. Finally, he said carefully, “You want to compete? Is that what this is about? No more school, no college, you’ll just surf your whole life?”

 “Dad, don’t be so dramatic,” she answered fast. “I’m not talking about planning out my whole life. I just want to be better, to shred it up.”

Cris looked like he was mulling it over, but Kalani knew he had already made up his mind.

She said, “If I can’t train with Laird Hamilton, then how about I get a coach?”

“I am your coach,” Cris snapped. “I’m not good enough for you anymore?”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of Kalani’s mouth. Cris had his answer.

So that’s what her father did. Cris asked Terry, an old surfing buddy to watch Kalani surf.

A retired military man, Terry now ran a surf camp for rich kids who came to Hawaii for vacation with their parents. Cris believed Terry had the chops and tough-love temperament to take on his strong-willed daughter.

One Saturday morning Kalani stumbled out of the water after getting pummeled by a gnarly wave. She shook her head to eject the water from her ears. Terry had been on the shore, watching her the entire time.

“Not bad,” Terry said. “The timing of your cutbacks are lagging. That’s why you ate it. But otherwise, not bad.”

She eyed him with suspicion as she took in his faded board shorts, and ratty tee. Who was this old geez to critique her?!

Terry pushed his sunglasses on his head. He revealed the sun-crinkled skin around his hazel eyes.

“Who are you? asked Kalani.

“Your new coach.”

Under Terry’s guidance, Kalani improved fast! Her cutbacks were smoother, and better timed. She could pull into an overhead barrel with no problem. She rode the line longer, bolder, and faster … deeper into the cosmic ocean she went.

 Buzz about her started to develop. Terry had been sharing videos of Kalani surfing on social media as promos for his surf camp. Her videos were getting tons of hits. The bookings for his camp were blowing up, and Terry was stoked.

“Get your own Instagram account,” Terry encouraged. “We can tag each other.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Kalani said with obvious derision.

Terry looked at her like she just said the dumbest thing. “Oh, I don’t know. Get a massive following, attract sponsors and shit, which you know, you need when you wanna turn pro.”

For a quiet moment, she allowed herself to imagine that reality. Becoming a pro. What would that involve? For Kalani, surfing was always about being rather than the doing. Now it would become a process: strategies to enact, expectations to meet, people to satisfy, competitions to enter, feelings to manage, followers to amass … her relationship with the ocean would never be the same.

Kalani smiled at Terry and said nothing. She grabbed her board and walked back into her cosmic ocean.

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