Love & Light
Leaving the Circle, Refusing a Rewrite.
A few years ago, I joined a year-long artist residency. I was excited. We had recently moved upstate, and I was craving community; connection, nourishment, and a place to explore my work. The spring session was everything I needed — new friends, potent conversation, and rest. I went from a wilted flower to a blooming rose. In our final sharing circle, I even named something aloud: I am a Temple of Flowers. It felt declarative, like the sliver of light I needed after the birth of my second child during the pandemic, a move upstate, and an open doorway to perimenopause.
Before the second session began, our facilitator told us someone else would be joining her to guide us. He was white, male, close to my age. I wanted to be open-minded, but I had already heard whispers of his name. Without permission, he touched women during ceremonies. At one point, he invited a dear friend of mine to an “all women of color” circle that he would lead — she declined. He hired my husband to play music during a ceremony, then asked if he’d like to “donate” the money that was owed.
When he appeared on Zoom, I was genuinely happy to see the new friends I’d made. I felt joy at the thought of being together again soon. We took turns introducing ourselves, and then he “popcorned” to me. Immediately, I felt unease. His eyes weren’t right.
I went back and forth about going to the summer session, but I ultimately decided to join. I told the original facilitator about his reputation and my concerns. They were met with “love and light” nonsense. My inner consent clouded by a desire to belong.
He approached me the first evening in the cafeteria. Again, my body sounded the alarm and I switched tables. When we sat in circle after dinner, he announced that he channels Messiah. He refused to participate in our collective sharing and brought a female friend who seemed to be in the grip of a severe eating disorder. I was triggered.
I didn’t sleep that night. I lay awake on high alert. The next morning we sat in circle again and then broke into small groups. Within minutes it started spilling out.
Something feels off.
I don’t feel safe.
Me too. Me too.
At lunch, one of the women told me other things — worse things. We both decided to leave.
I felt something violent rushing through me. My heart raced. My younger self rose to protect. I wasn’t calm. I wasn’t articulate. I was: Get me the hell out of here.
Of course, this was later used against me.
Maybe it’s karma from a past life, Zivar.
Maybe he is just a mirror of your unhealed parts.
Maybe your too sensitive, reactive…
Maybe the universe is simply testing you.
That’s how the story always gets rewritten.
Later, one of the women who had orginnally come forward backtracked. He’s fine, she said. I didn’t mind him rubbing my feet. She is now one of his main helpers in ceremony — a reward for her silence.
I have other stories too — men in power. Men in spiritual cloaks, hiding their darkness in plain sight. Shame runs deep: shame for not responding the “right way”, for being too emotional, too erratic, too much.
Be perfectly rational, or we won’t trust your gut.
Be calm, or you’re unstable.
Be gentle and agreeable, or you’re the problem.
I see some of the residency artists on Instagram now and then. A few have reached out. Others have said, “Well, that’s not my experience of him.” When I look back at this story, and at the stories I’ve heard from many friends, it always makes a kind of sick sense: how they get away with it. How people gather around and protect them. How an ecosystem forms around perceived power, doubt treated as disloyalty and harm reframed as misunderstanding.
It’s gross. And it’s insidious.
A few months after the summer session, he emailed me—childish, evasive, and utterly devoid of accountability. He blamed miscommunication, then ended with a threat wrapped in new age psychobabble. I never responded.
I hope I scared him away from doing worse to anyone else. I hope I protected another woman from his darkness. I know I protected myself in that moment —and for this, I am profoundly grateful to my inner wild.
Intuition never fails 💕