Chapter 1. New York City, October 2010

A Taste of the Book

Monday 10/17/22

Hello dear reader! Again I offer you my heartfelt gratitude for subscribing to this newsletter.

May surfing this wave of the #RisingoftheDivineFeminine inspire you to cultivate the courage needed to be true to who you are and what you know your soul came here to express in this world—in both doing and being—which may be different from the conditioned self you may have developed while growing up, living, and working in a patriarchal society. 

This is the 10th newsletter I’ve sent out, and as you may be aware, I’ve been playing with the idea of offering a few chapters of my book here. I now want to experiment. If you would like to read a description of the whole book, please see here.

And now, drum roll please, a very brief 1st chapter for you ✨🦌✨🌷🌈🌼🌺☀️🌿🧚🏻‍♀️🤸‍♂️😎💃🕺✨🌟💖🙏

April 2023 UPDATE: In October 2022, when I first began releasing serialized chapters of The Rising of the Divine Feminine and the Buddhist Monks Across the Road: A Memoir by Camilla Sanderson (yours truly), chapters were free to all subscribers. However, chapters are now released and available to read for free for one month after publication, after which they move behind the paywall. If you like what you’re reading and want to start from the beginning, I urge you to buy a subscription to keep reading.

I also provide other free content here.

To read a description of the book, please read the bottom of the post: An Invitation. You may also visit the Table of Contents.

Copyright © 2023 by Camilla Sanderson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or reprinted without the author’s written permission.

The Rising of the Divine Feminine and the Buddhist Monks Across the Road: A Memoir

by Camilla Sanderson

PART ONE: Crisis Transmutation

“The most challenging aspects of your life’s journey have held some of the most essential elements needed to fulfill your life’s purpose.”

—Rev. Dr. Stephanie Rutt

Chapter 1. New York City, October 2010

Three young, male doctors enter the Emergency Room at the New York Presbyterian Hospital. They all wear the requisite white coats with stethoscopes around their necks, but each one of them looks pale and exhausted. Jamie sits on the sterile white sheets, his light-blue hospital gown draped around him. His muscular arms and shoulders hunch over. His normally vibrant olive skin looks tepid, his salt-and-pepper hair, wan. Even his warm brown eyes, typically brimming with a mischievous sense of fun, betray a flash of fear that gives me pause. I’m standing next to his bed. A knot forms in my stomach. 

The tallest, dark-haired doctor—clustered close together with his colleagues, perhaps for courage—addresses Jamie directly. “We’ve reviewed your case in depth, and we’re recommending biopsy surgery to ascertain the type of cancer you may have.” 

“Wait,” I say, my breath caught in my throat. “Is there any possibility it’s not cancer?” 

“Well, we never say never,” the same doctor replies. “However, the chances are very slim that it’s not cancer. We’ll find out when the biopsy surgery can be scheduled,” he says and they leave the room. 

They said that Jamie most probably has cancer.

 But what I heard was that he was going to die. 

Jamie and I sit together in stunned silence. It’s as though we’re paralyzed by the harsh, synthetic substitute for a light. Everything is artificial and sterile. The light. The room. The people. None of it embodies any vitality of life. None of it embodies any aspect of spirit or soul. Who are these doctors? Do they have any understanding of more than just the physical? Do they have any concept of emotions and spirit? How can they practice a healing art when they can’t even see the whole person? Can they even guess at the fear I feel about possibly losing him? Do they consider his age at forty-five, or mine at forty-three, and the fact that we’ve been together for nearly half of my life? Do they have any sense of Jamie as a human being other than just a patient?

I remind myself to breathe.

It’s not until about thirty minutes later that a young woman doctor comes in and tells us that this time, before the diagnosis, is the most anxiety-provoking time.

I can attest to that, I think to myself. Those first three doctors were too young and inexperienced to stick around and walk us through the future possible or likely scenarios to cushion the blow. I wonder if they teach empathy or compassion in medical school. If they do, maybe female doctors have a natural advantage. I’m so grateful for her words. 

We wait for what seems like hours to hear more about when the biopsy surgery can be scheduled. The starkness of the bare-white walls blanches the extremes of our feelings, leaving each of us numb. 

Just before noon, there’s a knock on the door.

Click to read chapter 2.