We covered a lot of ground in part 1, including:

* Jim’s journey from megachurch pastor to an expert on religious trauma and deconstruction

* Meaning and existential health

* What are the core components of existential health?

In the full conversation, we also:

* Went deeper into the idea of if there is objective meaning in the world

* Talked about the 10 Religious Ideas We No Longer Need to Believe

* The human problems that religious ideas try to solve

* The fact that those human problems don’t go away when we shed religious baggage and/or traditions

Watch the Full Conversation: https://sherikling.substack.com/p/jim-palmer-full

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Jim Palmer is a writer, teacher, and founder of the Center for Non-Religious Spirituality. A former megachurch pastor, certified spiritual director, and existential health counselor, his work explores meaning, identity, purpose, belonging, mortality, and the challenges of being human in a rapidly changing world. He is the author of six books and writes extensively on non-religious spirituality, religious deconstruction and reconstruction, and existential health. Through his writing, teaching, and public engagement, Palmer helps people navigate life’s deepest questions without outsourcing their authority to institutions, ideologies, or inherited belief systems, fostering greater self-authorship, reality contact, and human flourishing.

Read “10 Religious Ideas We No Longer Need to Believe” at

Deconstructionology with Jim Palmer

10 Religious Ideas We No Longer Need to Believe

Religion is often evaluated as though its primary purpose were to provide accurate information about reality…

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a month ago · 134 likes · 26 comments · Jim Palmer

See Jim’s work on Substack:

Deconstructionology with Jim Palmer

Writing on existential health, meaning, and self-trust in a post-religious world.

Visit the Center for Nonreligious Spirituality:

https://www.nonreligiousspirituality.com/

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**NOTE: All videos, podcasts, services and products are for education, spiritual growth, and entertainment purposes only and are not intended to replace the work of medical, legal, or psychological professionals.

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We covered a lot of ground in part 1, including:

* Jim’s journey from megachurch pastor to an expert on religious trauma and deconstruction

* Meaning and existential health

* What are the core components of existential health?

In part 2 we:

* Went deeper into the idea of if there is objective meaning in the world

* Talked about the 10 Religious Ideas We No Longer Need to Believe

* The human problems that religious ideas try to solve

* The fact that those human problems don’t go away when we shed religious baggage and/or traditions

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It was watching a video with Paul Wallis about the possibility that Jesus spent time in India before beginning his ministry that led me down today’s recorded rabbit hole. Of course, it’s a rabbit hole I love to explore and a question that I think a lot of people – Christians included – wonder about.

In this video and podcast, I explore a wide-ranging territory, including:

· Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus (Acts 9:1-19)

· Was what happened to Paul both a near death and a shared death experience?

· What does scripture say about Jesus’ resurrected body?

· What about the effects on Paul’s life?

· How did the Jesus event radically change the people around him?

· Does this connect with the idea in process theology about Christ as creative transformation?

· What does resurrection mean for us today?

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Did this resonate with you? Download Dr. Sheri’s FREE guide, “Awakening to the Sacred,” here: http://subscribepage.io/jaCwFD

Watch Paul Wallis talk about Jesus in India:

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But what happens when we listen to what we need, move into how we feel about it, and ask for help from the people we know and love?

Sometimes, the results can be surprising.

In this video and podcast, Dr. Sheri Kling talks about projection, synchronicity, feminine vs. masculine (or lunar vs. solar) power, questioning our trauma-based lies and illusions of separation, and about sacred listening, asking, and the healing she received.

Asking for help can be a radical act of self love. Do we love ourselves enough to ask for what we need? Even when it’s scary?

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Did this resonate with you? Download Dr. Sheri’s FREE guide, “Awakening to the Sacred,” here: http://subscribepage.io/jaCwFD

Watch Kyle Cease talk about How Complaining Blocks Healing:

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**NOTE: All videos, podcasts, services and products are for education, spiritual growth, and entertainment purposes only and are not intended to replace the work of medical, legal, or psychological professionals.

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I first encountered Jane through a short film on the YouTube channel Reflections of Life, and immediately felt a kinship that led to this conversation.

Did this resonate with you? Download Dr. Sheri’s FREE guide, “Awakening to the Sacred,” here: http://subscribepage.io/jaCwFD

Jane Kennedy has been using storytelling for a long time as a path of integrity and authenticity. Her work journey began in the early 80s with photography. Over time, she expanded her skills across various mediums, including audio-visual, video, filmmaking, documentaries, and television production.

For 30 years, Jane’s professional life was primarily focused on directing and producing reality television and factual storytelling. In the latter part of her career, she honed in on directing food shows — and as a result, she is a pretty accomplished cook!

Within that context, she interviewed hundreds of people about their emotional states, their dreams, fears, and hopes for their lives. Through these experiences, Jane came to understand and deeply appreciate the gift of inquiry — essential both for storytelling and for understanding the human condition.

Now Jane continues to refine and extend these skills in new and meaningful ways. Her background in visual storytelling enables her to assist others in understanding — and sometimes transcending — their own narratives. Jane holds space for others and is also currently in training to become a Somatic Experiencing practitioner.

Jane Kennedy: https://janekennedy.co.za/

Jane is featured in two films with Reflections of Life:

What Happens When You Stop Forcing Life

Why I Chose to Not Panic

**NOTE: All videos, podcasts, services and products are for education, spiritual growth, and entertainment purposes only and are not intended to replace the work of medical, legal, or psychological professionals.

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Watch the full episode here.

Did this resonate with you? Download Dr. Sheri’s FREE guide, “Awakening to the Sacred,” here: http://subscribepage.io/jaCwFD

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Dr. Philip Clayton works at the intersection of philosophy, theology, and science. He has published several dozen books and some 350 articles. Most recently, he and C. S. Pearce co-authored Science and the Sacred: Beyond the Gods in Our Image. Although he continues to work on fundamental questions that arise within each of these fields and at their intersections, his more recent focus has turned increasingly to the intersection of climate science, ethics, religion, and social philosophy, or ecotheology.

He is the Ingraham Chair (emeritus) at Claremont School of Theology, where he founded the PhD program in comparative theologies and philosophies. Philip is also the founding president of the Institute for Ecological Civilization, now known as the EcoCivilization Coalition (EcoCiv.org) and served president of the Institute for the Postmodern Development of China, which works with universities and government officials to promote the concept of ecological civilization through conferences, publications, educational projects, and ecovillages.

He has previously served as a Dean, founding Provost, and Executive Vice President of a multi-religious university, Claremont Lincoln University.

Philip enjoys cycling, sailing, refereeing competitive soccer, and wilderness camping with family and dog.

You can learn more about my work at

https://sherikling.com/

Download Dr. Sheri’s FREE guide, “Awakening to the Sacred,” here: http://subscribepage.io/jaCwFD

You can also follow me on:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SheriDKling

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sherikling/

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/sherikling/

X: https://x.com/sherikling

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**NOTE: All videos, podcasts, services and products are for education, spiritual growth, and entertainment purposes only and are not intended to replace the work of medical, legal, or psychological professionals.

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A video called “Horsepower: How Horses are Therapeutic” from CBS Sunday Morning showed up in my feed the other day and I watched it with interest. It focused on stories of what’s called “equine therapy” – settings where horses are used to assist people with physical disabilities or emotional struggles like PTSD.

It was very moving to see children, veterans, and imprisoned women all being helped by such noble beings. Horses seem to have an uncanny sense of understanding the interior lives of humans.

A woman in the video attributes such a gift to the fact that horses are herd/prey animals and so it’s necessary for them to tune into what’s happening in the environment around them to be able to sense and predict danger.

But I wonder if there’s not a lot more to it than that.

You see, I had my own experience of equine therapy – long before I’d ever heard of such a thing – as a preteen growing up in New Jersey.

Like many young girls, I was obsessed with horses as a child. I devoured my copies of Black Beauty, the 1877 book by Anna Sewell, crying at every abuse that noble being suffered. I also wore out my copy of The Black Stallion’s Ghost by Walter Farley, one of many in the Black Stallion series. Black horses were something to behold, no doubt, but my heart fell for the palominos. The blond beauties that shone like gold in the sunlight.

Growing up in a small town in the industrial geography of NJ, and not being a child of a wealthy family, having my own horse was out of the question. I tried to ride whenever I got the chance, but blossoming allergies made it impossible for me to pursue my horse passion.

Around that same time, I became somewhat allergic to my church youth group, surrounded by kids who were sneaking cigarettes and alcohol, things I had little interest in.

In those days, the only way I knew how to matter was to follow the rules, get top grades, and be the “good girl” that didn’t cause any trouble.

One Saturday, somebody suggested the youth group take a field trip to a small horse farm to spend the day. As soon as we arrived, the group headed to the back of the pasture and the teenagers pulled out their cigarettes. I hovered at the periphery for a bit and then wandered back to the main house.

Halfway there, I noticed a palomino coming right at me.

There were no other horses in the pasture, and the only other people were still at the far end. I couldn’t believe my luck when that horse walked right up to me and stopped. We spent the rest of the afternoon together, the palomino my constant companion. And later, when they saddled him up for riding, I was the first to be invited, and the one they gave the reins to when he needed to be walked afterward to cool down.

I’m not sure I’ve ever been happier.

That horse saw me and my lonely heart and came to make it better.

Years later, I became friends with a woman named Chiquita Berry who owned a hundred acres called Twelve Stone Farm in northwest Georgia. She boarded horses there, and I rediscovered the joy of their nuzzling noses. (Chiquita passed away in 2011, but you can read an interview with her here and hear the song I wrote about her here.)

Maybe it’s simply that horses are herd animals who can sense potential danger in their environments. Maybe it’s also true that they can feel our souls and the ragged holes they contain and offer themselves as the balm that can heal.

I know I experienced a kind of healing with that dear palomino.
I know I felt witnessed and loved.
And at the end of the day, isn’t that really all we need?

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My stepfather passed away early in the morning of May 7. He was 92 years old, and while of course his passing is sad, it was sadder and harder to witness the suffering he was in for the last several months. So it was ultimately a mercy.

I’m currently serving as interim minister of the Lutheran church that my mother and stepfather have been members of for over forty years through a turn of events that I never would have predicted. While I don’t see ministry as my long-term path, it has been a gift to serve this community and to be loved by them.

So at my stepfather’s celebration of life service yesterday morning, I was both stepdaughter and minister. Because so many people commented afterward that my message was meaningful, I decided to share it here.

We are gathered here today to honor and remember my stepfather, Richard Arnold Bayne. In times of grief, we are strengthened and comforted by sharing stories that help us remember the lives of those we love.

Richie came into our lives when I was about 11 years old — a striking figure on a Honda motorcycle. While I met him early in my life, it wasn’t until much later that I came to understand some of the experiences that shaped him so deeply.

He grew up in Keyport, New Jersey, entered the Air Force, and served during the Korean War as an airplane mechanic — work that left him with significant hearing loss. After his military service, he worked for many years as a machinist in New Jersey. He married my mother, Lucille, in 1973 – they’d spent the last 53 years married to each other. Then in 1980 they sold the home in which my brother Jeff and I grew up in Roselle and moved to Bradenton, Florida, starting over with new jobs and a new home. I always joked that they ran away from home.

They joined Redeemer Lutheran Church in 1981 and became active in the life of the congregation through fellowship and service. It was an interesting and unexpected turn in life for me to later become the interim minister at Redeemer — a church I had been visiting for over forty years.

Photography was one of Richie’s greatest loves, and he was a longtime member of the Suncoast Camera Club. Their home was filled with his photographs, especially beautiful wildlife shots and travel photos from the many trips he and my mother enjoyed together. One of my favorites was a photograph he took of boats along the Nile River in Egypt.

In the early 1990s, Richie underwent surgery to remove a brain tumor from his acoustic nerve, and the procedure left him with lasting stroke-like symptoms. His ability to work changed dramatically, and he was forced into early retirement. I don’t think he ever fully recovered emotionally from that loss. But once my mother retired, the two of them devoted many years to volunteering together at Blake Hospital.

In 2018, they moved here to Freedom Village, where they built strong friendships and enjoyed a full social life — card games, dinners, events, movie nights, and Friday evening entertainment. I moved to Bradenton in 2021 and often joked that they had a better social life than I did.

Even after Richie moved to the Health Center, he still would mosey over to my mother’s apartment in his electric wheelchair and spend the day with her. But even that became impossible in the last several months, limiting his world even more.

As our bodies weaken and losses accumulate, it is easy for our worlds to grow smaller. Illness can narrow our lives. Fear can narrow our lives. Hurt and disappointment can narrow our lives too. And sometimes emotional wounds we carry for decades can quietly limit our ability to give and receive love freely.

But one of the beautiful things about God’s love is that it is always trying to widen our world again — widening our compassion, widening our understanding, widening our capacity for mercy.

In the days since Richie passed, one thing that has deeply struck me has been the reaction of so many people here who cared for him during the last year and a half of his life. Several people had tears in their eyes as they offered condolences to my mother. Even young dining room staff spoke about how much they would miss him.

I think people loved his kidding spirit — the way he teased his friends and tried to make people laugh. Even when his speech became difficult to understand and he could barely hear what anyone was saying, he still wanted to bring humor and connection into the room.

I couldn’t always laugh with Richie, because my early life with him wasn’t easy. But there came a point when I knew I needed to let the past go — to forgive what had hurt me and embrace the love that was possible. I needed to find peace.

As I grew older, I came to understand that many of the things that were difficult about Richie came from hurt, fear, and limitation. His own mother abandoned him as a baby, and he also lost his beloved older brother early in life. I didn’t learn those things until well into adulthood, but that knowledge changed the lens through which I understood him.

Sometimes the people who struggle most to give love are the very people who went without it themselves.

What is undeniable is that Richie loved my mother deeply. He served his church. He volunteered faithfully. Maureen Bennett from Redeemer, who supervised his volunteer shifts at Blake Hospital, remembers how kind and supportive he was toward patients with disabilities like his own. He had many interests, many friendships, and many ways of contributing to the lives around him. Those things mattered. They were authentic parts of who he was. But so was the woundedness that shaped him.

We often come to memorial services wanting a simple story about a person. But most human beings are not simple stories. We are mixtures of love and limitation, tenderness and hurt, generosity and fear. And the beautiful thing is that the grace of God is large enough to hold all of that.

I believe most of us are doing the best we can with the lives we were handed — shaped by what we received, and sometimes by what we never received. Richie loved in the ways he knew how to love. Imperfectly, yes. But then again, so do all of us. And perhaps one of our deepest spiritual callings is to learn how to hold one another with mercy anyway.

In the Gospel of John, Jesus says, “Do not let your hearts be troubled.” Not because life is easy, but because love is stronger than fear and even death itself. In another passage from John, Martha speaks words of faith right in the middle of grief and confusion: “Yes, Lord, I believe.” And in Romans we are reminded that “whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.”

Today we gather not because a life was perfect, but because it mattered. Relationships matter. Shared years matter. Laughter, routines, photographs, teasing, companionship, and even difficult journeys all become part of the fabric of a human life.

The older I get, the more I believe that compassion is one of the holiest things we are capable of offering one another. To look beyond someone’s rough edges into the deeper story of their humanity — that is sacred work.

Jesus says, “In my Father’s house are many dwelling places.” I have always loved the wideness of that image. A home large enough for all of us. Large enough for our beauty and our brokenness. Large enough for grief, regret, gratitude, forgiveness, and love.

And perhaps that is part of what grace does throughout our lives: it keeps trying to widen us. To widen our hearts beyond resentment. To widen our vision beyond judgment. To widen our lives beyond fear.

So today, we commend Richie into the ever-widening and ever-lasting mercy of God. He loved, he was loved, and now he is held in the love of God. And that is all we can ever ask.

Amen.

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In a couple of hours, I’ll be sharing more on this topic from a process-relational perspective with the Process Explorations group for the Center for Process Studies and inviting participants into the conversation.

In a time of rising global conflict and polarized rhetoric, this presentation explores the enduring question, Is there ever a “just” war? Drawing on process-relational theology and engaging voices such as Alfred North Whitehead, Thomas Jay Oord, Walter Wink, Catherine Keller, and Parker J. Palmer, Sheri D. Kling, director of Process & Faith, reframes traditional just war thinking through a relational lens that challenges assumptions about power, control, and violence.

Rather than asking only whether war can be justified, it invites a deeper question: what kinds of futures are our actions bringing into being? The presentation concludes by exploring how practices of relationality, humility, and nonviolent engagement—especially within democratic life—can serve as pathways toward healing in an interconnected and evolving world.

If you’d like to be part of this conversation, visit this page to register and receive the Zoom link.

*Note, if you’re still able to register even after the fact, you should get the recording link.

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For the full episode, visit: https://sherikling.substack.com/p/have-we-got-the-bible-all-wrong.

Doug King began his religious life in a very conservative denomination and deeply studied the Hebrew and Christian texts, later finding that systems like spiral dynamics offered a transformative lens through which to look at the texts.

Doug and his wife, Denée, live in Dacula, GA. Doug serves as President of Presence (presence.tv), a non-profit dedicated to fostering individual and collective spiritual evolution under the banner: A Global Conversation For A New Earth.

He is co-author of Awakening of Humanity: the Dawning of a New Earth and Unitive Age, as well as a contributor to The Holomovement: Embracing Our Collective Purpose To Unite Humanity. Doug also wrote the Forward for Irrevocable: Paul’s Radical Vision in Romans 9-11.

His work is dedicated to writing and research, podcasting and videocasting in the emerging field of trans-religious theology. His work includes cross-disciplinary approaches utilizing models such as Spiral Dynamics, worldviews and hermeneutics as well as the holomovement in the field of science and spirituality.

You can find his work at these links:

Website:

https://www.presence.tv/

Podcast: https://www.presence.tv/podcast

Did this resonate with you? Download Dr. Sheri’s FREE guide, “Awakening to the Sacred,” here: http://subscribepage.io/jaCwFD

**NOTE: All videos, podcasts, services and products are for education, spiritual growth, and entertainment purposes only and are not intended to replace the work of medical, legal, or psychological professionals.

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We are living in maddening and distressing times. Every generation likely feels this in its own way, but it’s hard not to feel a rising sense of panic when bombs start dropping and war rhetoric goes into full force. I feel it in my body—the tightness, the unease, the sense that something fragile in our shared humanity is being stretched to the breaking point.

My rule of thumb is simple: never uncritically accept what any administration says when there’s a war agenda at work. In such moments, critical and prophetic voices are often dismissed or silenced—even when you’re the Pope. Suddenly, it seems, everyone becomes an expert in “just war theory.”

But is there ever really a “just” war? And how might we approach that question from a process perspective?

Before turning to those points, let me say a word about why I’m drawing on a process perspective at all. I don’t see this as abstract philosophy, but as a way of making spiritual sense of the world we actually inhabit—a world revealed by modern science as dynamic, relational, and still unfolding. If reality itself is not static but participatory, if we are shaping the future moment by moment in relationship with one another, then our moral and spiritual frameworks need to reflect that. Process thought offers one such lens—grounded, relational, and deeply attuned to both science and lived experience—and it can help us ask better questions in moments like this.

First, war begins in the illusion of control, not in the reality of relationship.

The rhetoric surrounding the Iran conflict—on all sides, but especially from U.S. leadership—has leaned heavily on dominance, deterrence, and the supposed necessity of force. Pope Leo, sounding a lot like theologian Thomas Jay Oord, has named this a “delusion of omnipotence.”

Process thought helps us see why. For Alfred North Whitehead, reality is not made up of isolated things, but of relationships—moments of experience shaped by what has come before and what is possible next. We are not disconnected actors imposing our will on the world. We are participants in a shared becoming.

In that kind of universe, coercion is always a distortion. Whitehead contrasts coercive power with persuasive power—the kind of power God exercises—not by force, but by offering possibilities, luring each moment toward greater beauty and harmony. As Oord puts it, God’s power is uncontrolling love.

Which means war is not just a tragic necessity—it is often the fruit of a false metaphysics: the belief that control, domination, and destruction can secure the future.

But the future is not something we impose. It is something we co-create.

I wrote a song called “Love is Perfect Power” where I’ve tried to express these truths. One verse says this:

Our God does not dominate the world;
We choose each realization.
For perfect love seeks not control,
God’s power is persuasion.

Second, a process perspective shifts the “just war” question itself—from rules to relational outcomes.

Traditional just war theory asks: Is the cause just? Is it proportional? Is it a last resort? These are important guardrails. But process thought presses us even deeper. The question becomes: Does this action increase or decrease the possibility of life, relationship, and creative transformation? And isn’t the answer to that question pretty obvious?

Whitehead acknowledges that there are moments of real impasse—situations where every available option carries loss. In such cases, one might choose what he calls “the best for the impasse.” But even then, the choice is not clean. It is not fully just. It’s only the least damaging among tragic possibilities.

War may sometimes be unavoidable. But it is never without cost—not only in lives lost, but in possibilities foreclosed. Violence reverberates. It narrows the future.

So the deeper question is not simply, “Is this war justified?” but: “What kind of world is this action helping to bring into being? And what possibilities are we closing off by choosing it?”

We see the stakes of that question all around us. Another verse of my song says this:

This world is full of fear and rage;
Domination steals all choices.
Compassion, boldness, hope, and strength
Empower silent voices.

Finally, a process lens suggests that God is not on the side of war, but within the suffering it creates.

Political rhetoric often implies divine backing for military action—as though God stands behind one nation or another, sanctioning their cause. But both the Gospel and process theology reject this outright.

God does not control history or sanction violence. Full stop.

Instead, God is present in every moment as the one who feels the world, suffers with it, and works within it to bring about healing, beauty, and reconciliation. Whitehead called God “the fellow sufferer who understands.” Tom Oord reminds us that God’s love is steadfast and uncontrolling—always seeking the good, never imposing it.

God is not the author of war. God is the companion within its consequences. Which means that even here—especially here—God is luring toward repair, toward what our Jewish friends call tikkun olam, the mending of the world.

As my song says,

So we stand and meet all force with love,
Tending seeds of transformation.
We bring the power that can redeem;
God’s reconciliation.

Most wars can be avoided—especially when the wider community responds to injustice early, rather than waiting until violence seems like the only remaining option. A process perspective calls us to attend to those earlier moments, those smaller ruptures, where different futures are still possible.

Yes, war may sometimes be unavoidable. But in a relational universe, it is never truly “just.” It is always a rupture God is working, moment by moment, to mend. And perhaps the deeper question for us is this:

Will we align ourselves with the forces of coercion and control—or with the quiet, persistent lure of healing that never gives up on the world?

Because in the end, the deepest truth is not domination, but love.

Love is perfect, perfect power,
Perfect, perfect power is love.

Love is perfect, perfect power,
Perfect, perfect power is love.

As I was reflecting on all of this, I was reminded of the song I wrote a while back that tries to put this theology into simple, embodied language. If God’s power is not domination but persuasion, not control but love, then the deepest power in the universe is not force, but what I call “perfect power”—love itself. Here’s Love is Perfect Power.

May we each find ways, even now, to embody that kind of power.

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**NOTE: All videos, podcasts, services and products are for education, spiritual growth, and entertainment purposes only and are not intended to replace the work of medical, legal, or psychological professionals.

Note: A full-content version of this article with a telling of some of the stories by Dr. Sheri is available in audio podcast and also in video form for paid subscribers.

Are we all just victims of random acts of suffering?

Sometimes it seems that way, for sure. Often, we can feel like we’re buffeted about by chaotic winds, blown to and fro like rag dolls. But is that really the way life works?

I used to think that was the story. But in my own psycho-spiritual journey, I’ve learned that it’s not the deeper Story.

My first introduction to the presence of archetypal patterning in human life came through the book Women Who Run with the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype, by Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, a Jungian analyst. The book came out in the 1990s and as soon as I read its opening pages, I was hooked. It begins with these words:

Wildlife and the Wild Woman are both endangered species.

Over time, we have seen the feminine instinctive nature looted, driven back, and overbuilt. For long periods it has been mismanaged like the wildlife and the wildlands. For several thousand years, as soon and as often as we turn our back, it is relegated to the poorest land in the psyche. The spiritual lands of Wild Woman have, throughout our history, been plundered or burnt, dens bulldozed, and natural cycles forced into unnatural rhythms to please others.

It’s not by accident that the pristine wilderness of our planet disappears as the understanding of our own inner wild natures fades…My life as a Jungian analyst and cantadora, storyteller, have taught me that women’s flagging vitality can be restored by extensive ‘psycho-archeological digs into the ruins of the female underworld.

My own “psycho-archeological dig” began when I was in my early 20s. I knew something wasn’t right in my inner life – I was emotionally numb and locked up inside like a bank vault. And just like an over-guarded vault, I knew I had inner riches that I was unable to access.

In her incredible wisdom, Estes presents a collection of myths and fairy tales and then interprets them psychologically, as most Jungians do. The story of Bluebeard reveals the “natural predator of the psyche,” The tale of Vasalisa shows the intuitive presence within us, and The Red Shoes teaches about loss.

But it’s the story of the Skeleton Woman that gripped me with the greatest power. It’s all about “death in the house of love,” and shows the life/death/life nature of reality.

As I read these tales, and the way Estes unpacks them, I began to see my life not as a series of random acts of suffering, but as a thread woven into a much greater Story. I began to understand that the forces moving through my life – and those that move through most every human’s life – were bigger than me. And I could finally feel myself to be part of that Story.

These patterns and movements are what Swiss psychologist Carl Jung referred to as archetypes. Jung believed that our unconscious has two layers. The personal unconscious holds our emotionally charged memories and patterns—what he called “complexes.” But beneath that is something deeper: the collective unconscious. This is where archetypes live—basic patterns or organizing forces that shape how we experience life. Jung noticed that people often dreamed or imagined symbols that matched ancient myths, even when they had no exposure to those stories. That led him to believe these patterns don’t come from personal experience alone. Instead, they seem to arise from something deeper in the psyche itself—what he described as built-in, myth-making structures. He called these structures “archetypes,” meaning pre-existing patterns that help organize our inner world.

Jung also believed there is a central archetype he called the Self—a kind of inner center that holds everything together. He noticed that the Self sometimes shows up in dreams as animals, which led him to think archetypes have both a bodily, instinctive side and a spiritual side. As one interpreter, Morton Kelsey, put it, these archetypes can break into our awareness with a powerful, almost sacred pull. They don’t just appear—they can change the direction of a person’s life. Sometimes they show up mixed with our personal memories, and other times they arrive on their own, with surprising clarity. For Jung, this was important evidence: the unconscious isn’t just a place of buried wounds or primitive impulses. It also carries creative, transformative forces—ones that can be wiser and more expansive than our everyday conscious thinking.

It’s this connection to the bigger Story that I believe many people are missing today.

This is a function that for much of our history has been carried by religion, but in the shifting sands of modern culture, people no longer embrace religious pathways. At the same time, our hunger for deep mystical experience is evident in the exploding popularity of hallucinogenic substances. Sadly, much of religion has focused more on the moralizing aspect and not on the mystical aspect. As I recently heard Richard Rohr say in a video, moralizing religion will invariably lead to violence. Mystical religion, on the other hand, leads to unitive consciousness and nondual thinking.

Sometimes, stories find us. They plop into our world like a crashing meteorite and change our inner landscape forever.

The ancient myth of the descent of Inanna was one such story for me. In the podcast version of this piece, I’ll share how it rocked my world when I first heard it and how it has continued to work its healing in my life.

What stories have found you that have become a sacred presence? If you’ve not yet had such an experience, I encourage you to ask for your story to come to you. Allow it to find you and when it does, meet it like a new friend.

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Welcome to The Sacred Everywhere and thanks for liking, subscribing, and sharing the videos here. (Be sure to hit the little bell at the subscription button so that you get all the notifications for new videos).

MY STORY: My name is Dr. Sheri Kling, and I’m interested in helping you discover a whole-making Sacred in your own sacred life.

I’ve spent my life walking the journey I teach. It’s been a path shaped by deep questions, hard-won insights, and moments of grace that awakened me to new, life-giving images of the sacred. These shifts didn’t just change my thinking—they gave me the strength to face profound adversity and the joy of finally feeling at home in my own life and body.

Whether you’re seeking personal healing, professional clarity, or a more meaningful spiritual path, I offer grounded, heart-centered tools to help you thrive—and to remind you that wholeness is not just possible, it’s your birthright.

You can learn more about my work at

https://sherikling.com/

Download Dr. Sheri’s FREE guide, “Awakening to the Sacred,” here: http://subscribepage.io/jaCwFD

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**NOTE: All videos, podcasts, services and products are for education, spiritual growth, and entertainment purposes only and are not intended to replace the work of medical, legal, or psychological professionals.

Both Philip and I question the dominant worldview of Western culture. Process thinkers have been doing the same as well for a very long time. What Philip calls “The Story” asserts that “humans stand as independent of nature as our skyscrapers do; that the head should be in charge of the body, just as a CEO is in charge of a corporation; that we can own trees, land, and animals; that self-mastery is the means to success; that what we feel as ‘the self’ lies within the boundary of the skin; that the pursuit of happiness is the primary goal of our lives; and that money buys security.”

What led him to question this story in the first place? That’s part of our conversation, as is the whole notion of wholeness and our immersion within it, and how Philip’s thinking intersects with the process thought of Alfred North Whitehead and my own work on the whole-making sacred.

You can watch the video of this first half of our conversation on YouTube at

* * * * * * *

Philip Shepherd is recognized as a leader in the global embodiment movement. He created The Embodied Present Process™ (TEPP) in partnership with Allyson Woodrooffe, and as co-directors they provide practices and new perspectives on our culture to help people come home to the body’s deep presence and wisdom. They share the work of TEPP online, in one-on-one coaching sessions, and worldwide in workshops, retreats and Facilitators Trainings.

TEPP is also supported by Philip’s two books – Radical Wholeness and New Self, New World – which articulate the causes, perils and personal challenges of our culture’s disembodiment. Philip’s own journey to embodiment includes cycling alone as a teenager through Europe, the Middle East, Iran, India and Japan; studying classical Japanese Noh Theater; co-founding an interdisciplinary theatre company; writing two internationally produced plays and a television documentary; and playing lead roles on stages in London, New York, Chicago and Toronto.

The TEPP website and online courses are found at EmbodiedPresent.com. Philip’s most recent book, Deep Fitness, was co-authored with Andrei Yakovenko and offers a revolutionary and highly effective approach to fitness. He is currently working on a new book, Remembering Ourselves: A Guide to Our Lost Intelligence.

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Both Philip and I question the dominant worldview of Western culture. Process thinkers have been doing the same as well for a very long t…

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I did something this past Saturday that I’d been forestalling for a while. I adopted a dog. His name is Toby, he’s eight months old, and he’s some kind of terrier mix, I think with a bit of retriever thrown in for good measure. I got him at a Bradenton-based organization called Nate’s Honor.

I live in a rented condo, and adding a dog to the mix can make housing much more complicated. Especially since I already have two cats. But honestly, it seemed like a necessary step for my mental health.

But let me share a bit more of my story with cats and dogs.

Growing up in NJ, we had cats first. My favorite was a white, long-haired girl named Silky. After my father died, we adopted Cuddles, and referred to her as a Heinz 57 varieties dog. My high school friends referred to her as the walking ottoman due to her boxy shape.

My mom and stepdad moved from Roselle, NJ to Bradenton, FL when I was in college at Purdue. Cuddles went to live with Aunt Helen, and only Silky went to Florida. As an adult living in Marietta, GA, I had several cats. And in 2006, when I packed up and moved to the home of my embodied soul in the northeast Georgia mountains, sibling cats Carly and Phoebe moved with me.

But the expanse of the eight acres of land that came with the 100-year-old farmhouse I rented in Demorest, GA called out for a dog. So I adopted Cotton from the shelter. Cotton grew to be 50 lbs. – a mix of Labrador Retriever and Husky I thought.

Cotton was my soul dog. I always joked he was my 1950s guy – stoic, not prone to public displays of affection, but completely devoted. When I decided to go to graduate school, he moved with me to Chicago, then to Claremont, CA, and finally to Sewanee, TN.

While we were in Claremont, I had to say goodbye to Carly and Phoebe within the same year, losing them at over 17 years of age. And then I adopted a cat named Chelsea. I have always believed that Chelsea understands every word I say, and she’s still with me at 13. A year or so after she joined the family, another dog named Bobby literally ran into our lives. I always told Bobby that while I found Cotton and Chelsea, he found me.

Bobby was my heart dog. When I was lonely for embodied affection, Bobby showed up and adored me with his whole being. He was like a little plush toy – I think a mix of Westie and Pomeranian, though no one knew for sure.

Saying goodbye to Cotton before I left Tennessee in 2021 was excruciating. I wrote this piece about him at the time. He was fourteen and a half, so at least he had a relatively long life. But I had to say goodbye to Bobby much too soon. He’d developed a heart problem and then the meds damaged his kidneys. Sadly, at only eleven and a half, his little body gave out. I wrote this piece for him.

After a while, I adopted Finnegan, an orange tabby cat that I hoped would be a playmate for Chelsea. I always feel like a house without a cat just isn’t a home, and these two give me a lot of joy. They tolerate each other, and even chase each other a bit now.

But here’s the thing. I still felt a deep need for more embodied affection. Years ago, when I first adopted Cotton, he and I would spoon, and later, Bobby would lay on my chest with his little heart beating with mine. There’s something very medicinal about that kind of body-to-body affection. And as a single woman, there’s currently no options in my life for that kind of full-body touch.

Hence, the online searches on Petfinder and at the websites of local rescue and adoption organizations.

It’s been just a few days since Toby came home with me, and of course at first there was lots of drama. Finnegan – who has never lived with a dog – believes I have brought a satanic beast into the house. Chelsea, who lived with Bobby and Cotton, just sighs and seems to say, “oh great, here’s another one to train to respect me.”

And yes, there was a bit of buyer’s remorse for the first day or so. Why did I do this? Did I really need this stress? But yesterday, when Toby laid across my chest and looked up at me with those adorable and adoring eyes, I knew it’s all worth it.

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