We come into this world as infants who will eventually be programmed into believing in their inadequacy to face this world of pain and terror. In my case, being a sensitive child, I tried my best to be “a good person.” Mostly, my childhood was good except for brief periods when my father would roil the waters of our family. My mother never defended herself, so I sought to step into the gap. I was the eldest child and tried to protect my brother from my father’s maltreatment of him.

The “good person” that I became finally experienced full-grown agoraphobia at the onset of puberty. I knew that my social fears were irrational, yet they choked me with their threats whenever I had to be with other people my age. I feared throwing up in front of my peers at any kind of social interaction. And this neurosis followed me into college, where the head of the psychology department urged me to get a master’s degree because I was so bright.

I married one Bob Woodyard, who lived a few blocks away from me, and we moved to Atlanta from my childhood home of Memphis, Tennessee. We had two children and one of them died, as most of you know. Today, Bob has been dead for sixteen years and my son and I live together in this house we had moved into 40 years ago.

I have always written, wanting to be a humorist; my child’s illness closed the door on that. Instead, I began a dogged pursuit of God. My mother was interested in esoteric teachings; she was fascinated by Gurdjieff. I shared her enthusiasm and now I give my best shot at writing about the inner world.

I keep my writing simple; I keep my eye on brevity, as it circles back on itself if it is done correctly. I have read so many books on spirituality that I was forced to write a few of my own.

Let me describe to you briefly where I am today as far as spirituality is concerned. The books have been read and the talks listened to. Few spiritual teachers address what it is like to lose a child and I am good at that. I know the terror-tory, if you will.

I have almost no social interaction with people; they seem not to be important to me. Instead I write essays prompted by whatever is going on with me at the time. It feels good to do this.

The inner teachings are found within and when this fact is focused on, simplicity is the direct result. I study my barren landscape;for me it is a fruitful expanse of nothingness. I look out the window and see the tall tulip poplars; I watch as the world descends into madness and I am powerless to prevent it. I am powerless in the best sense of the word; I do not come from here. I have always been alone, as have you. Solitude is an endless encouragement to surrender everything but that. Then the thorns are seen as necessary steps to the rose.

Vicki Woodyard