I've just returned from my time in the mountains, the place where God speaks back to us. I have spent time among my other relatives – hawks, elk, eagles, coyotes, raccoons, and crows – and found myself refreshed and guided forward with a clearer sense of purpose and joy about my life. From the insecure, troubled tumult of my teen years to the more relaxed happiness, humor, and purpose I have now seems like such a tremendous change; I can now fully accept and believe that I am someone, I am not a nobody. I am a good man, a loyal and pleasant friend, a safe and gentle companion, and I am able to see the value and potential of others who are so often overlooked even by their own friends and family. I will forever be proud that I have grown into a man who can befriend others who are both strong and delicate at once, and be absolutely gentle, kind, supportive, positive, patient, and loyal to them. I can walk in quiet solitude among trees, or crack jokes and tease loved ones (and get teased back) around the table at dinner, and either feels like holy time. Can you understand that? Do you have that?   I also realized, though, that a lot of what had driven my fast-paced success in life (as a therapist, a writer, a composer, an artist) wasn't passion only, but also the remnants of insecure belief that if I wasn't doing something fascinating, the people I loved would not stay nearby for me. These remnants of my youthful defects came tumbling back to mind this year, which marked not only the proudest accomplishments of my life, but also some sad and baffling losses, which my "stuck points" offered up as proof: "See? You really don't count. You are replaceable. You clearly aren't worthwhile enough that the loss of you would be grieved. You can lay your best efforts out, and still be found unnecessary." I've been pounded by these thoughts and I've pounded back at them in the fight for some sense of meaning beyond the external esteem of being liked or popular.    I left for the mountains heavy with burdens, but I am returning much lighter and more spiritually invigorated. When I wrote RAR, I was truly moved beyond expression by the bursting sense of awe and love I have felt for these special, remarkable people who have entered and departed my life for the past ten years. I am proud to say that this book was not written in an act of self-interest, but as an authentic and pure reflection of my deepest reverence for the ones who have so profoundly touched me and shaped my life. I have no codependent yearning to find special status and popularity at the expense of my patients or friends; this work is nothing less than the sincere response of my very personhood to their years of trust, sweat, tears, prayers, and bonds offered back to me.   Back to the point. What frustrates me is to see how psychology, as a science, unintentionally takes the pearls that good religion offers us, and casts them before swine as pathology. For example, the religious ethic of loving others, being long-suffering, going the extra mile for the hurting, tending to the wounded, loving and respecting the outcast, loving the woman who men misuse, standing up to abuse and exploitation, and giving of one's own time and even one's home to the benefit and welcome of others—these things become "codependent" in the language of psychology, and those who have starved their entire lives to receive this kind of love are warned away from it as a trap when they do find it. Codependency is a real phenomenon, no doubt, but I am saddened to see how often psychology mis-labels love and connection. The result of this tragedy is that those who most deserve, and need, a boundless and gentle source of love and support in their lives are cajoled into detaching from it, abandoning it, and setting out once again, alone, across the desert of another decade of emotional drought.    I have to present two very difficult seminars at a state conference in October, the second of which is supposed to include former patients of mine to assist in preparing fledgling therapists to more sensitively and correctly work with survivors of trauma. I have some fears about this topic.   One thing I have realized is that there are several mistakes I have made as a therapist and  potential mentor that I should acknowledge and address. For one thing, I tend to set the bar too high as far as the commitment of time and energy to this work goes. I hadn't realized this, but from the outside I can appear to be "gung ho" 24/7 to take these issues on, and make it a life's work in a truly oppressive sense of the term—becoming literally, my life. This work brings with it an immense sense of joy and purpose, but that won't ever be felt by someone scared away from it by the belief that it is an evangelical calling that will consume every bit of their time, dreams included.   The truth is, I am seeking better balance in my life for the same reason. I don't want to suggest to others that their life should be constantly spent in contemplation of rape, trauma, therapy, activism, and research. If I were a student (or survivor) and I saw my own example, I might feel intimidated and worried that this pace is the expected one of the therapist, social worker, healer, and philosopher they are eager to become. It isn't so, thank God. If people are holding out for the perfect, flawless human to be their therapist, or even friend, or husband, or father, or mentor, or ally, they are bound to remain lonely. If we can accept others who are as flawed as they are warm and loyal, though, then perhaps there is hope for humanity. What I have found is that despite my flaws, I am an immeasurably wealthy man.   I have seen the truth of my wealth over the past year. Victoria told me that she considers me one of her best friends, and will not leave that friendship for the rest of her life ("you're stuck with me until you tell me to $^!# off!"). Danee's oldest daughter said to me, "Thank you for helping my mommy." A former patient once told me that I was "the best man I know" and "I look up to you so much" and is "so proud to be my friend." Kaye stuck up for me to a critic this month by telling her that I was a real man, gentle and understanding, and she has come to respect me. Leitha credits me for saving her life. I recently held the hair of a patient of mine in the ICU as she vomited, having nearly ended her life with an overdose, while she cried and looked to me and said "thank you for not giving up on me" between her heaves. Can you understand that this is not a moment of anguish, but of blessing? I have been surrounded by buffalo after an evening purification ceremony, while my son snuggled against me in simultaneous fear and awe. The therapist I respect most in my state told me, "Matt, you are the healthiest person I know. And you are the best therapist I have ever seen." Tonight my 8-year-old son said "I'm so lucky to have you for a daddy." I recently received an 1800's beadwork regalia item given only to holy men/healers in my tribe, handed down for generations. Am I not immensely wealthy? I know millionaires who are impoverished.   To that end, I have decided that after my difficult presentations in October, as successful as I expect them to be, I will retire to the wilderness like I did at age 20, to spend days of fasting and prayer on tribal land. We do this at critical times of growth, gain, loss, and development in our lives as a way to set aside our own narcissism and return control of our lives to God. One of my character faults is that I tend to take too much control over events and relationships; fortunately, God asks us to strive for improvement, not perfection, and I am eager to use these acts of prayer and humility to restore some of my own humility and peace of mind.   I will be alone, but all of you will be with me.