The Emerald Covenant

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

This book’s story isn’t over yet. It’s just beginning and is still going on. I’ve stopped the action long enough to tell you about what’s happening, somewhat like a live action news report.

The people you’ll read about are ordinary people like you and me but in extraordinary circumstances. I’ve changed some of their names to offer the participants some measure of privacy despite this exposure.

I am the author of this adventure, and yet I am a participant as well. I am probably one of the least gullible people you’ll ever meet. My engineering background has not made me rigid, but it has trained me to be logical and discerning. Although I like to think of myself as reasonable and sensible, much of what you will read will hardly seem reasonable or sensible. I would scarcely believe it myself, if I hadn’t experienced it firsthand! The story is absolutely true and describes how ordinary people decided to shift from their normal experience of life to extraordinary adventure.

There is so much self-help information out there from which to choose, and much of it can be contradictory. It reminds me of going to a new restaurant in New York. When the menu is large, the decisions can be agonizing, especially if you’re not sure what you want or need to eat. If you’re like I am, your arms go into the air and you ultimately rely on a friend’s good recommendation.

I think choosing paths in Life is like that, too. We spend so much time trying to figure out which is the best way to live that we lose precious living time, holding back our enthusiastic energy, not investing, not experiencing life to the fullest!

One of the most important things I have learned from my teacher Yokar is:

The danger is not in choosing the wrong path in life but not choosing at all. Any path is as good as another! It is better that you go down the wrong path, and so discovering it, you have learned more, rather than to enter onto the right path and not know anything for sure!

This book will probably surprise you because my story will stretch your belief envelope and it could change your perspectives on life if you allow it. It will perhaps disconcert you and undoubtedly it will make you scoff and you’ll have a hearty laugh on me.

If after you’ve read this book cover to cover you’re still not sure, go back and read it again. Savor the parts that upset you. Highlight the parts that amaze you. These are the important parts to consider. Rest assured that my intention is not to put you to sleep with a fantasy, but to awaken you to the magical reality of the rest of your life.

Michael E. Morgan

PROLOGUE

My story begins in the fall of 1972, early one morning . . .

It was now 7 a.m. and my shift was almost over. The night had been unusually busy in the studio, and my body was beginning to ache. The day crew was beginning to straggle in, and the hush of night was giving way to the hustle and bustle of the day shift madness.

I had one more adjustment to make on the editing recorder before the early news break. Often the smoothness of a show depended on many of these unseen tasks. Then I suddenly remembered that the tool I needed, my adjusting screwdriver, was still in the shop located on the opposite side of the lobby from the editing room. I stood in silence for a moment, angry at myself for being absent-minded. I figured that my efficiency had reduced to about twenty percent.

Time was running out. The opportunity to make my adjustment was almost gone. I needed my screwdriver and fast! To get to the other side of the building and back in time, I needed to rush. Within moments, I was running through the hallway and down the ramp toward the main lobby. By the time I reached the lobby area, I was at full gallop.

With added momentum, I flew up the second ramp and into the shop, grabbed the screwdriver, and was back to the lobby in a heartbeat.

My mission was halted abruptly. There were urgent warnings coming from the people standing nearby. Stop!

I came just short of lurching headlong onto an empty wet floor. Some of the day crew, as well as the remaining night crew, were staring at me. I struggled to regain my balance.

What’s up ? I asked.

Take a look at the floor, someone responded.

The floor had been recently mopped. I could see that my tracks had obviously marred the handiwork. I shifted my focus around the circle of onlookers until I found the night porter standing, mop in hand. Sorry, Karl, I said sheepishly.

Now there was only silence, as the bewildered faces waited for me to discover what they already knew. All eyes were fixed upon the floor. Then I looked again.

My Nike running shoes had defined a stylized trail across the wet black tiles. Next to them was another set of tracks, larger and more spread out: bare feet with a view of all the toes. I strained to see. Daylight and artificial light had mixed together, making my view of the lobby floor difficult. The additional prints were wide and giantlike, suggesting someone very tall, weighing several hundred pounds.

This isn’t possible! I thought. Then I vented my disbelief. Okay. Who’s fooling around . . . playing Bigfoot? Come on, I want to see the rubber booties.

Joel’s expression turned fearful. His voice carried a suspicious tone. Hey, Morgan, who’s your friend?

Everyone’s eyes turned upon me with equal suspicion as I began to squirm. This is ridiculous! I protested.

The mounting tension shattered when the night guard, Scotty, cracked a joke about the Jolly Green Giant being a personal friend of mine. Everyone laughed nervously. Then Joel, the sound man, stepped cautiously onto the wet floor. He stretched out his legs alongside the strange footprints to measure the distance between them. Even with best efforts, his feet couldn’t match the distance. Joel had become spread-eagled on the floor.

Damn it, man! he said, astonished. This dude is big!

The atmosphere again seriously chilled, but the tension was cut short by the sound of the front door opening. The chief engineer had entered the building, bringing with him his usual air of impatience. Everyone turned away as if to ignore what had happened. No one had the courage to mention this piece of news to him. He strolled over to the site with an easy gait, completely unaware of the prints or their significance. I leaned against the wall and observed the enigma fade slowly from view as the moisture evaporated.

When I glanced at my watch, my attention shifted back to my work duties. I hurried on to make my last-minute adjustment. Soon, all was back to normal. Later, in quiet reflection, I decided there was probably some simple explanation. It just wasn’t obvious to me at the time. Other pressing matters demanded my atention. There was still a meal and some much-needed sleep to be had. I made no further attempts to pursue the events of that day. For the present, it would remain strangely inexplicable.

Five years later . . .

In the summer of 1978, I picked up an ad about a medium who was coming to New York. The young woman allegedly could go into trance and at the same time produce a measurable physical phenomenon. The ad went on to say that the phenomenon had been documented by experts in the field of parapsychology at Duke University. I became very excited at this information. It was unusual for this kind of thing to be studied under the scrutiny of academic research professionals. It suggested authenticity.

The story aroused my curiosity and I had a hunch this event would be fun. I called my girlfriend’s attention to it. She also seemed excited about the prospect of meeting this medium. She enjoyed anything that involved the psychic or paranormal, so I made arrangements.

The event took place in a posh loft apartment, on the Upper West Side of New York. Since the loft was quite close, we were able to walk there after some light dinner. We walked up three flights, I rang the doorbell and a smiling young girl answered the door. She motioned for us to enter.

The lights in the living room had been dimmed and augmented by candlelight. The apartment was all white, decorated in Art Deco fashion. There were no chairs in the living room. A lush white carpet sprawled throughout, contouring over steps leading into a conversation pit. Soft pink and blue silk pillows were sprinkled strategically, inviting us to sit and to relax.

There were about forty or fifty people in attendance. The atmosphere appeared dreamy, but everyone’s mood was electrically tense. I suspected that many did not know what to expect. To my girlfriend’s surprise, the loft belonged to a friend, so we easily mingled with the crowd.

There was no large seance table. People were sitting around in concentric semicircles, holding hands. Olivia, the medium, asked that everyone join in a gospel hymn as she entered into the trance. It was just an hour beyond dusk, and the room was already dark except for a few well-placed candles. After we sang a few verses, Olivia began to speak in a rather husky voice. The voice had the distinct intonation of an elderly male person, one Doctor Malone. I watched in awe, struggling to match the male voice with the female body.

Good evening, he (she) said. We seemed to be transported magically to another place and time. We learned that the good Doctor Malone, allegedly, was alive on the Earth during the 15th century and functioned then as a bone doctor. We listened for hours to the antics of an old bard weaving tales of mystery and wonder. The crowd was miraculously transformed into a group of eager children lapping up every word of this aged pied piper. I listened with amusement while Doctor Malone issued friendly jibes and comical anecdotes that kept everyone laughing.

People began to ask personal questions about their relationships, troubles with work, and financial difficulties. I found some of his answers to be quite moving. For instance, one man couldn’t get along with his boss and wanted to quit his job. Doctor Malone suggested that the man was actually competing with his boss as though his boss were his father. The man began to cry and admitted that he always wanted his father to recognize him for his own worth.

Often the seriousness would be interrupted by trivial and comical questions. One man wanted Doctor Malone to suggest a way for his mother-in-law not to visit so often. During one of these lighthearted moments, my girlfriend was inspired to poke me sharply in the ribs.

Ask about the footprints, she whispered loudly. Well . . . go on!

At first, I felt foolish and flushed with embarrassment. I thought the evening was enjoyable, but I wasn’t ready to offer my own personal questions. I just wanted to observe quietly. She wouldn’t let up. Finally, my fear of getting involved was dismissed.

Oh, well . . . okay! I thought. What the hell.

Hello, Doctor Malone, I said, smiling. So, tell me about those footprints? I looked over to my girlfriend and winked. I left out certain details to test the true psychic ability of the entity.

Well, Michael, he said. These footprints were made by your spirit friend. His name is Yokar, an Atlantean, I believe . . . a good friend of yours, too. I think you’ll be seeing him a lot more later on.

Astounded at the answer, I was stone-silent, although I held onto my smile. Moments later, I recaptured my composure enough to thank the entity. I turned to my girlfriend and offered a shrug of my shoulders.

Well, what do you make of that?

Her eyes twinkled the brightest blue as she smiled proudly at me. It’s exciting, don’t you think?

Yeah, I guess . . . if you can believe in this sort of thing!

I felt vulnerable and tried hard not to reveal my fear. My smug reaction didn‘t work with her or myself. I retreated behind a thin veneer of calmness that I quickly molded over my face. My belief system sagged under the strain of this new information. The problem was, it seemed to make some sense! The memory of that odd experience involving the strange footprints flashed before me over and over, like still frames from an old movie projector. Somehow, I couldn‘t remain the same.

SHATTERED ILLUSIONS

This all started when I wanted to meet and talk with God. Sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But it’s true! For a boy my age, ten years old, it wasn’t crazy. I sat patiently listening to the stories in Bible class about Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Elijah and the other prophets. The stories amazed me.

I began to wonder how it was then. Why was it so different now? I wondered why they were able to see and speak to God and we don’t now. In my innocence, I asked if my Bible teachers spoke to God. They smiled and said no. They were quick to add that they did pray to God every day. I asked them if they had heard Him answer. They declined to give me a straight answer.

Before long I began to realize that no one spoke to God anymore . . . not like it was in the old stories. I was disappointed. Something had changed. All that remained of God were the stories!

I wondered, where’s God now? Had He taken a long vacation and forgotten we were here? I questioned my Bible teachers about this issue. They said that my faith was more important; it would be enough. Then the preacher told me I didn’t need to actually see or speak directly to God if I had faith. He scolded me, adding that it was prideful and ambitious of me to want more. He promised that on the great day of resurrection, the faithful would see God. So when would that be, I asked. The preacher said when the world comes to an end!

I considered this for a time and returned later to ask why didn’t the spiritual leaders in the past have to wait until resurrection to speak to God? I think my teachers were thunderstruck by my question. They didn’t answer. Before long, the deacons of the church surprised my parents with talk about grooming me to become a minister of the church. I wasn’t interested!

I actually felt guilty for asking such questions, but, deep inside, I wasn’t satisfied with their answers. There were other burning questions that I never had a chance to ask. Why did God appear to the men of the ancient past as a wrathful, vengeful God and then to Jesus as benevolent, kind, and forgiving? Had the God of our fathers changed so much? I was taught that God was unchanging and perfect. I concluded that what they taught me had something missing or was wrong. I was going to find out for myself what it was.

I often thought of my grandfather. He died when I was ten years old. I had good memories of him. There were stories to tell, real adventures, like some of the stories from the Bible. No, my grandfather didn’t part the Red Sea or lead thousands of people out of slavery, but he was my hero and I can still remember the adventure I felt with him.

I learned how to call birds with a leaf whistle and how to amaze my friends by balancing a leather belt from the tip of my finger with a piece of wood he cleverly carved for me.

He once told me about meeting the James brothers on the trail one night. Even though his life was in mortal danger while he was with them, he offered Jesse and Frank a hot cup of coffee. Yeah, my grandfather was a cool customer. The James brothers declined, but that’s another story.

I remembered and missed our talks together. Later, I compared those memories to the stories of the Bible. I wondered if my grandfather’s impact on my life would’ve been the same had another relative simply told me stories about him, instead of my experiencing him for myself. Perhaps it’s not a fair question . . . or is it? I concluded that, as in my experiences with my grandfather, we should all have our own stories about direct experiences with God!

I remained obedient, a faithful follower until my teens. By then, my rebellion had taken root and I was more outspoken. I was fed up with all the fake religious morality and blind faith rhetoric. I could see hypocritical behavior in all the people around my family and me too. Why didn’t everyone else feel the way I did? Maybe they just wouldn’t or couldn’t admit such feelings, even to themselves.

It was okay to be unloving and unforgiving during the week but on Sunday, a sacred day, all imperfections were wiped out or appeared to be.

Like many others’, my innocence was shattered by a series of unfortunate experiences. I discovered that double standards existed everywhere—for example, my parents’ attitude toward race.

At the age of eleven, I met an old black janitor at my father’s place of business. He worked at the store every day, was well known and liked by everyone. Soon, we became quick friends, but it was an ill-fated friendship from the beginning.

One day, he had taken his coffee break time to show me some drawing techniques. I wanted to learn more. We agreed that I would continue my lessons over hamburgers, my treat, during his lunch break at the dinette next door.

I learned quickly, from my mother, that he was not a fit luncheon companion for me. I asked why. Then, I was informed that I was white and shouldn’t be seen eating with a black man in public! I couldn’t understand what our color had to do with it. The whole thing seemed stupid to me, and I protested her outrageous inconsistency. I quickly directed attention to the black family who came to our home for dinner every weekend. The adults sat around and swapped stories or watched the T V, while I played games with the other children. Sunday dinner was always a great event and a regular feast. I easily accepted them into my life. My mother became angry with me and declared there was a difference. I pressed her for an explanation, but she could not tell me why.

I was forced to tell the janitor I couldn’t eat with him and broke off our friendship. He told me not to worry myself about it, but I couldn’t shake my feelings of anger, disgust, and shame. I stopped my drawings in protest.

Every day I grew less tolerant of the corruption around me. I imagined myself above and beyond the Earth in a kind of spiritual utopia. There, all people said what they meant and kept their bargains without hurting or deceiving others. It was a noble fantasy but, deep within my heart, I felt despair. I knew my life on Earth could never be anything like my fantasy!

My church was a branch of protestant fundamentalism that taught that every male member needed to be circumcised and that mixed bathing, dancing, and unchaperoned dating outside of church socials was forbidden.

I felt restless. It all seemed boring, a lifeless tedium that offered only restriction without meaningful cause. I never met anybody who truly wanted to embrace all that idealized moral structure. It was supposed to be satisfying, but this kind of spirituality had become just words to me, old worn words that had all the feelings sucked dry from them. Maybe, I thought, it was like eating flour paste soup with greater expectations.

A good friend, whose family raised him in the Lutheran tradition, was as curious about my church rituals as I was about his. One day, we decided to attend each other’s Sunday religious services to see and understand the differences.

I went first. There was much more pomp and circumstance in his services. It seemed similar in fashion to a Catholic service. I liked it and took communion along with the rest of the congregation. I felt very comfortable with the universality of communion ritual. The following Sunday, my friend joined me at my church services. Afterwards, one of the deacons approached me to inquire about my absence. I proudly told him about my visit to my friend’s church, expounding on the similarities and differences. He stopped me in mid-thought.

Michael, we are happy that you shared fellowship with your friend, but it was not wise to miss your communion here.

I quickly asserted, Oh. I didn’t miss anything. I took communion with my friend during their services!

After a moment of silence, the deacon went on.

Michael. That was not a good idea! You have sinned against your baptismal vows to this church!

Now I was silent. Disturbed by his comment, my mind turned to thoughts of Jesus and the Last Supper, the event on which this ceremony had been based. A provocative thought struck me. I couldn’t wait to speak my mind.

My head cocked to one side, as I sized up my new adversary. Then I let him have both barrels! So how do you account for the fact that it was a rabbi that was offering the last supper to Jews in the first place?

This time the deacon was silent. I knew that I had struck a sensitive and vulnerable target. There was no turning back. I was on a roll and couldn’t hold myself back from attacking this poor man. The break for me from the church had begun as surely as the walls of Jericho had tumbled down. I continued to rub his nose in his pious morality.

Now I’ll tell you one more thing, preacher. Picture this! It is a Sunday or any other fine morning. I am in the gutter with another man and we have only saltines and a bit of Ripple wine to share between us. If we share that bounty with love and respect for the grace from God, then that is Holy Communion as far as I am concerned!

I walked out and never returned. To this day, my preferences still lean toward Jesus’ teachings, although one could not call me a devout Christian in practice.

By the age of sixteen, I was struggling to stay in school while I watched my parents sink deeper into self-destructive alcoholism. My personal life was in shambles. My sense of self-esteem was crumbling, and I desperately needed something or someone to cling to. I considered Western religion bankrupt and defrocked. I decided to thrust myself into Eastern religious mysticism.

I fell in love with Egyptian history. I had been religiously tutored about the negative interactions between the Jews and the Egyptians. Now I wanted the Egyptian version of the story. The Egyptian mystery schools fascinated me, especially since I already knew that Moses trained to be a high priest in one of these schools as a favored son of the pharaoh’s household, before he was cast out of Egypt. Then it occurred to me that he also ended up speaking directly to a burning bush that was never consumed--viz., God!

Maybe there’s a connection, I thought.

By chance, I met an old friend of the family shopping for some music at my father’s store. He was a well-known and respected pillar of the church community. John and I talked in private about my parents and their difficulties. He was mostly interested in their impact on me. He offered to come and see my parents at my home and give some friendly spiritual comfort. Although I agreed, I expressed serious doubts about the significance of his gesture, certainly about the outcome.

Meanwhile, in my spare time during my passion for Egyptology, I had been sculpting large replicas of the Egyptian gods out of paper maché and mounting them in my bedroom. Curiously, I found a certain solace in their presence.

On the eve of John’s arrival at our home, it soon became apparent that John’s efforts to bring my parents around to a resolution about their drinking problems were fruitless. I decided to invite John to see the marvels I had constructed in my bedroom. He was very surprised by what I had done. He seemed suddenly nervous and acted strangely, asking me questions about my interest in Egypt. My curiosity was piqued by his behavior.

As he departed, he took me aside and told me we needed to discuss Egypt again. We need to talk more privately about some of these things very soon, he said with an urgent tone to his voice.

I agreed with some enthusiasm.

Weeks later we met again. Our next meeting was on a Sunday at his house, after church services. He took me to his cellar, where he revealed to me a secret sanctuary. This time it was my turn to be surprised. As it turned out, the church had disenchanted John many years before. Now he directed all of his enthusiasm to the mystical spiritual path. He was a Rosicrucian!

I learned that the Rosicrucian brotherhood was an ancient fraternal order dedicated to the principles allegedly taught in the original mystery schools of Egypt under the directorship of Amenhotep I V. According to John, the Rosicrucian order claimed lineage that could be traced directly to the temples of Karnak and Thebes. The bells went off in my head. I knew that these were the same temples that had supposedly taught the mysteries to Moses. Now I wanted to know more . . . much more!

Our meetings continued in secret as he introduced some of the Rosicrucian teachings. John revealed that he had learned to travel astrally, or what he called controlled Soul travel. I was excited to know more about this out-of-body work and to learn the techniques as well. As he began to teach the basic principles, I couldn’t help feeling that I was putting one over on the Church. The clandestine nature of the whole experience was great!

Soon I discovered that the practice wasn’t so easy to accomplish. My ability to focus and concentrate was weak, and my patience was short. John concluded that I needed to begin the study from the beginning and develop my ability slowly, as he had done years ago with the order.

He sponsored my entry into the order, and I began to receive monthly training material by mail. The thrust of the training centered on a philosophy that life was a wonderful mystery. Further, that the lack of understanding of the mystery was not a drawback but could actually be enjoyed. The lessons seemed to be more or less a set of moral attitudes directed from a mystical and fraternal point of view. There wasn’t much in the way of uncommon psychic experiences within the material that John was talking about.

The next shock came when I learned that John was gay and many of his mystical inclinations were a backdrop for his sexual interludes with young boys in his secret sanctuary. That revelation, along with a subsequent play for my sexual favor, ended our friendship. I continued the Rosicrucian training for two more years, looking for any signs of extraordinary psychic develop-ment. I learned nothing significant from them.

Later, I had to conclude that John was just a frustrated believer who had become attracted to a spiritual tradition of ancient legends about magic. More stories! This path also failed to offer any direct experience of the holy of holies. So I believe he sought, in its place, the short-term gratification of his sexual fantasies. I continued to seek, hoping to find the missing keys to communicating with God.

The crisis around my parents’ drinking finally exploded into a massive legal confrontation with my father at the age of 17. I moved out to live with my aunt and her family. I knew they kept apart from my parents, and I felt assured I would not have any contact either.

My aunt’s husband, Henry, was a dynamic and often charismatic individual. He was a handyman by trade, a self-made philosopher, and a mad inventor of sorts, a skill he developed while serving in the Army. He controlled his family with an iron will and sometimes by an iron fist, his temper matched only by his cruelty. Henrys’ volatile disposition was often crested by a touch of genius and genuine psychic ability. I found him at once fascinating and terrifying. Living with him was an emotional roller coaster ride. Sometimes, he was forced to enter hospitals to restore his psychic and emotional stability. These mental health episodes caused tremendous financial difficulties for his family. This added to the general stress.

I lived with my aunt for a year, until I finished high school. During that time, I learned about the power of my mind through painful and emotionally trying experiences under the brutal tutelage of Henry.

One notable instance occurred when a chronic nervous affliction flared just before I entered my last year of high school. My hands would break into a condition called palm pox. The skin condition presented a series of small red blisters covering my fingers and palms. Eventually, the blisters would break, spreading a drying fluid that destroyed the first layer of skin. After the dead skin peeled, the symptoms would repeat their cycle until bleeding resulted, and did so throughout the school year. It was itchy, painful, and generally debilitating.

I believed that the impetus for this affliction was the stress of performance and competition I often felt while in school, as the condition arose only around the beginning of school.

When Henry first discovered my condition, I was doing my chemistry homework at the kitchen table. He noticed that I was having difficulty holding my pencil without some pain. He grabbed my hands forcefully, seizing upon me with the fierceness of an angry tiger.

What are you doing to your hands? He suddenly bellowed with a heart-stopping scowl.

Henry strongly believed that nothing was an accident. Any illness, in his opinion, was always psychosomatic. His meaning was that I self-generated my condition by intention, regardless of the circumstances.

It’s a problem with my nerves I’ve had since I was small. My brother has it, too, I reported anxiously. I had a fleeting hope that a condition shared by another family member would lessen the terrible confrontation that was on the rise.

As his grip tightened, I knew I was not off the hook.

He hammered at me verbally, as his eyes blazed with disapproval. Why are you doing this to your hands?

Tears flooded my eyes but I tried to hold them back. I knew Henry well enough by now to know that tears would have no effect on my case. I was in for the worst of it. Fear began to rise within me as my heart readied my body for a fight. A small shiver traveled quietly along my spine.

I don’t know exactly! I said sobbing.

You know how I feel about this sort of thing, don’t you?

Yes, sir, I said.

You are responsible for this carnage! I want you to stop it right now! Do you understand?

Yes but . . .

Now my tears began to flow uncontrollably down my cheeks as my voice shook under the strain of my fear. I don’t know how to stop it!

You must find the reason for doing it in the first place, Henry demanded. Then he went on. That will be a good place to start. You’ve got just one hour to tell me the reason. Otherwise, you’re out of here and back home by tomorrow! His words left the air still and cold. The silence lingered for a moment. I will not tolerate this kind of behavior in my house, around my family . . . you understand?

Perfectly, I said.

Henry left the kitchen with such energy that I could almost feel the vacuum follow close behind, taking the wind from my lungs. I thought I would never breath again. I knew I was alone. My aunt could not come to my defense or she would certainly suffer also from his terrible rage.

I sat in my room quietly picking through my feelings, desperately trying to find the reason I would or could harm myself in such a way.

I never questioned the validity of Henrys’ charges. He was too intimidating. I would not risk re-entering my parents’ home, not since I had had to humiliate my father in front of a judge to break free of that horrible environment.

Henry was scary enough, but my father was crazy and proven dangerous. I quickly concluded that the alternative was too awful to think about. I would find an answer to Henrys’ liking. And I would do it quickly!

My time was nearly over and I was crazed with fear. Then, in a sudden rush of insight, a reasonable cause for my problem unfolded like a flower before me. I wasn’t sure if it was the right reason, but it was close enough.

My feelings revealed that I was angry with myself for not being the kind of son my father wanted me to be. I couldn’t do physical things with the same finesse as my brother. I was awkward at everything. The most terrible string of words I ever heard my father say to me was you’re as worthless as tits on a boar hog. I hated that. I couldn’t do anything well, so I attacked my useless hands! I was sure it was close to the truth.

After I recounted my explanation to Henry, he seemed stunned by my answer. I must’ve hit the mark. He was satisfied. He then proceeded to work on my feelings.

He explained that I had to release my anger and begin to forgive myself for not meeting my father’s expectations. I had to apologize to my hands and forgive myself. It was to become a mantra of sorts, which I spent the rest of the night uttering to myself