An Ode to the Unknown

Reflective Essay of Learning Through Integrative Practice

As part of my MSc Consciousness, Spirituality and Transpersonal Psychology with the Alef Trust, I completed a module called “Learning Through Integrative Practice”, I was invited into a six month container for transformation. We had to choose a practice from the five domains (physical, emotional, intellectual, spiritual and interpersonal) and dedicate ourselves to embodied enquiry. We became the research. This was my final reflective essay, which was submitted and marked in May.

Integrative practice can be understood as a pathway for personal transformation, grounded in committed and experiential engagement with diverse practices across multiple modalities (Ferrer, 2003). In a culture that often privileges analytical reasoning, this approach invites individuals to engage with more holistic ways of knowing. According to Malkemus and Romero (2012), human cognition is inherently multidimensional, encompassing intellectual, emotional, intuitive and embodied modes of understanding. Engaging with these varied epistemologies honours the fullness of human experience, which is considered fundamental when exploring deeply personal experiences such as transformation (Ferrer, 2003; Schlitz et al., 2008).

By the conclusion of the first half of the LIP, I had begun to cultivate a deeper engagement with my overarching theme of yielding to the unknown. This period marked an increasing awareness of the behavioural patterns that underpinned my desire to control the outcome and maintain an image of perfection. Through bringing compassion to the practices, I was able to begin to soften these expectations. This shift facilitated a recognition of the ways in which the sacred can be integrated into the mundane. In this essay, I reflect on my further engagement with my five practices, examining how they align with theoretical frameworks of transformation, and how, in their interrelation, they have contributed to reframing my understanding of approaching the unknown.

The Vessel

Contemporary theories of personal transformation posit that such change is often catalysed by a significant event that alters an individual’s worldview (Campbell, 2008; Metzner, 1998; Murdock, 1990; Schlitz et al., 2008; Rebillot & Kay, 2017; Vieten et al., 2016). In my case, the sudden death of my mother, coupled with the dissolution of a long-term relationship, constituted a profoundly disruptive experience. It highlighted, with painful clarity, my fear of the unknown and need to control the outcome of events. While this initiation into grief and loss undeniably shifted my perspective, it was not enough to provide the structure necessary to sustain this new insight. Schlitz, Vieten, and Amorok (2008) suggest that transformative experiences require ongoing practice to become fully embodied; they require a container. This idea is further supported by Weller and Réa (2017), who acknowledged that after a profound loss, “we are invited to slowly build a vessel spacious enough to contain all the wild movements of a soul in grief” (p. 72). It was through the process of the LIP that I began to build this container.

Transformative theory, particularly within integrative contexts, emphasises certain conditions that facilitate lasting personal change. Vieten, Wahbeh, and Dakin (2016) identify the four key elements of attention, intention, repetition and guidance, as essential for transformation. While I initially regarded these elements as equal in importance, my lived experience revealed that each plays a distinct but essential role; they became the various building materials for my vessel. Intention and attention came to represent the most foundational elements, akin to the solid teak planks of a ship’s hull, the ones laid first to provide stability and direction.

As discussed in the process report, I initially experienced challenge in simultaneously maintaining my awareness on my internal and external experience, particularly in salsa, which requires embodied presence alongside social interaction. However, through continued engagement with the physical domain, I began to observe a direct relationship with the clarity of my intention and the quality of attention I was able to bring to the practice. Shapiro, Carlson, Astin, and Freedman (2006) suggest that approaching a mindful practice with patience and a non-striving attitude enhances the quality of our attention, fostering openness and receptivity. Similarly, Schlitz, Vieten, and Amorok (2008) describe curiosity as a doorway to presence, enabling individuals to remain with their experience rather than attempting to control the outcomes.

Influenced by these insights, I consciously reframed my approach to the physical domain. I began each class by placing my intention in my heart, asking, “I wonder what my body has to teach me about the unknown today”. In alignment with Kabat-Zinn’s (1990) assertion that intention serves as a compass, by reminding you “from moment to moment of why you are practicing in the first place” (p. 32), this shift in focus transformed my experience. The perceived dichotomy between internal and external awareness began to dissolve, giving rise to a more integrated sense of embodiment. I found myself more able to attune to the nuanced textures of my internal sensations while engaging with my partner. This evolving capacity reflects what Hübl (2023) referred to as “inner and outer coherence” (p. 57).

As I deepened my relationship with both intention and attention in the physical domain, a recurring theme began to emerge. Each time I danced with a partner, I became increasingly aware of the sensations that arose; my skin would tingle, drawing attention to itself as a medium of communication . My skin was no longer a protective boundary, but an active, perceptive interface through which connection was facilitated (Hartley, 1995). As McClure (2014) notes, attunement to the quality of touch is essential for receiving non-verbal cues from a leader. This enabled a shift from anticipatory thinking to embodied listening; I was no longer guessing what move would come next but was able to sense it with my body. While this process arguably led to the technical improvement in my dancing, what became more significant, was my growing relationship to spontaneous creativity in salsa. As I released my grip on perfection, I found joy. McClure (2014) highlights this shift, suggesting that the essence of salsa lies not in precision, but in its capacity for co-created expression.

While the pillars of intention and attention formed the solid teak wood planks of my vessel, repetition became the rope that held the form together. As discussed previously, navigating the tension between structured repetition and organic unfolding became a rich site of learning in my process report. Within the spiritual and intellectual domains, bringing compassion and surrender allowed these practices to evolve into micro-practices. These smaller gestures wove themselves into the everyday, reflecting Shapiro, Carlson, Astin, and Freedman’s (2006) notion of everyday mindfulness, where awareness is cultivated beyond formal practice. In this sense, repetition was not about rigid consistency but about rhythmic return, which is essential for sustaining transformation (Schlitz et al., 2008). Like rope binding the vessel, it offered quiet coherence, holding together the structures of my practice while allowing room for movement.

Lastly, guidance was integrated into my LIP experience through the reflective sessions and webinars. These served as the sails of my vessel, catching the winds of collective learning and shared inquiry. They provided not just accountability, but a mirror of reflection where sharing in others’ processes deepened my own understanding of my experience. As Campbell (2008) and Murdock (1990) suggest, our connection to our threshold guardians is fundamental for individuals embarking on transformative journeys. The metaphor of the vessel, which emerged during the Change, Integration, Synthesis webinar (Linders, 2025b), provided a powerful framework for understanding the integration of Vieten, Wahbeh, and Dakin’s (2016) four key elements for transformation. Yet, what feels even more significant, is recognising the vessel as an ever-evolving structure. Through ongoing reflection and a sustained devotion to the process, I tended to the materials of the vessel, reinforcing weak points and replacing planks that threatened to splinter under pressure. In doing so, the vessel was able to contain and support the transformative experiences, particularly when facing challenges (Murdock, 1990; Weller & Réa, 2017).

The Uniform

Despite beginning to craft a seaworthy vessel, there were moments when it seemed destined to sink. As Vieten, Wahbeh, and Dakin (2016) note, navigating obstacles is a common feature across models of transformation. Metzner (1998) highlights that such challenges are represented across various frameworks through symbols such as the “shadow” (Jung,1968), the “descent” (Murdock, 1990), the “belly of the whale” (Campbell, 2008). In my own experience, this stage could be aptly named the “uniform”.

In my process report, I reflected on the key challenges that emerged, including maintaining consistency in sadhana, focusing excessively on the aesthetic aspect of salsa, and experiencing shame around kink and pleasure. However, it was during the Introduction to subpersonalities webinar (Linders, 2025a), that I recognised a unifying thread linking these challenges. I encountered a child version of myself, dressed in a school uniform, anxious about making mistakes and appearing imperfect. This figure resonated with Cortright’s (2007) concept of “core wounding” (Cortright as cited in Linders, 2025a). Similarly, in non-dual Kashmir Shaivism, this is understood as a “samskara”, an energetic imprint that distorts our perception (Wallis, 2013). Metzner (1998), suggests that once a core wounding is identified, the transformative task is to integrate it. Jung (1968) refers to this as integrating the shadow into consciousness, a process mirrored in Wallis’ (2013) view that awareness is the first step in dissolving “samskaras”. Bringing the image of the uniformed girl into my awareness became a pivotal element of my process.

Within the emotional domain, therapy became a place to explore the origin story of the little girl. Our sessions revealed how early parental influences shaped my perceptions of success and self-worth. My inner child, who had her homework torn up and had to re-do it until it was perfect, continued to live through my adult experiences. Through this, I began to understand my deep fear of the unknown, rooted in a need to control outcomes to ensure success and maintain a flawless image for others. Murdock (1990) asserts that many women internalise this drive for perfection as a response to perceived female inferiority within patriarchal structures. Recognising the roots of this fear enabled my development of “self-reflexivity” (Schlitz et al., 2008). By observing the little girl’s impact on my daily life with objectivity, I was able to meet her with compassion and begin to grieve the aspects of her childhood sacrificed in the pursuit of perfection.

Little girl, you were meant to be messy, to slide into the mud, to have tangled hair.

You were meant to be the mischievous fairy, who played in the rose beds, thorns and all.

You were meant to scream and be loud, to delight in puddles, to laugh at the silliness of being small, and curious, and alive.

But you swapped your wings for a uniform, top button done up, Windsor knot tie.

You swapped your wand for a backpack, full of perfectly written notes, and A* grade exam papers.

Your magic dust, used to put to sleep all your wildness.

You were meant to fly. But instead, you were caged and taught to speak quietly, to strive for perfection, to answer when spoken to, to go above and beyond.

Little girl, don't worry, I will be the fairy now.

Consistently bringing my attention to the little girl, also deepened my understanding of why repetition within the spiritual domain became so difficult. As noted in my process report, I initially struggled with the rigidity of my expectations. Drawing on Shapiro, Siegel, and Neff’s (2018) expanded model of mindfulness, I brought compassion to the part of me striving to control outcomes, allowing me to approach these self-imposed narratives with greater objectivity. Shapiro, Carlson, Astin, and Freedman (2006) described this process as “reperceiving” (p. 377), a compassionate standing back that enables deeper insight without disconnection. Gradually, I began to offer my spiritual practice to the little girl within. Each repetition of the mantra became a song for her, a prayer to my deepest Self (Easwaran, 1977). In this, I discovered the playful spirit of both Ganesha and my inner child, expressed in vocal improvisation, deliberate mistakes and childlike artistic expressions. While my exploration of the balance between effort and non-striving continues, I now feel a deepening devotion to evolving a middle path (Shapiro et al., 2018).

Upon reflection, my inner child also influenced how I approached the intellectual domain in my process report. While I acknowledged the initial tension I experienced when reading The Bible (King James Bible, 1611/2017) and highlighted passages that resonated with me, I minimised the embodied discomfort I felt. In striving to appear open and capable by my LIP supervisor, I prioritised perceived depth over authentic vulnerability. This mask of perceived perfection and success had seeped into the very place where I was encouraged to be vulnerable (Metzner, 1998). Coming from a non-dual perspective, I had hoped that meditative awareness would allow me to move beyond religious associations and access the text’s deeper spiritual meaning (Flinders et al., 2010). Yet, even now, I feel tension as I turn the delicate pages. Following the Introduction to subpersonalities webinar (Linders, 2025a), my understanding of this tension deepened. Reading The Bible (King James Bible, 1611/2017) unconsciously evoked memories of my Catholic schooling, steeped in rigidity, shame and the belief that worthiness required perfection. Although I still feel disappointment at not having transcended this discomfort, I am beginning to understand that the tension itself is the practice.

I take a breath and try to settle into the awareness of my seat. But there is an itchy feeling in my brain. It extends to my skin, and I shiver to try and shake it away. I take one final deep breath and open my eyes, so that my gaze falls on the Bible. I reach my hand out towards it and the air between feels like thick tar. I stay here for a while, playing with moving my hand closer to and further away, noticing the gripping sensation in my palms. I can no longer bare the tension, and my hand grabs for the book quickly flipping the pages open. I run my fingers along the thin pages, noticing a feeling of anger at their fragility, how I am forced to hold them with care, to consider whether I will rip them with the wildness in my fingertips.

As uncomfortable and paradoxical as it may seem, acknowledging the influence of the little girl also transformed my engagement with the interpersonal domain. While this may be a culturally taboo association, emerging research supports the therapeutic potential of kink and sexual fantasy in healing trauma and inner child wounding (Baker, 2021; Domingue, 2024; Gutiérrez-Glik, 2019). These practices create somatic and relational containers that support the re-authoring of internal narratives (Gutiérrez-Glik, 2019). After engaging with Polysecure (Fern, 2020), my partner and I were inspired by Anderson’s Want (Anderson, 2024), which proposes that exploring sexual fantasies can reveal and validate emotional needs. Following this, we each wrote our deepest fantasy. This process was a form of catharsis, allowing me to confront the part of me that seeks to control how I am perceived and offered a space to embrace my imperfections (Cherry, 2025).

The Wings

As explored in this essay, confronting challenges on the transformational path offers an opportunity to integrate fragmented aspects of self and move closer to wholeness (Metzner, 1998). The movement towards integration is a central theme across diverse theories of transformation and is often considered the final stage of the journey (Campbell, 2008; Ferrer, 2017; Metzner, 1998; Murdock, 1990; Schlitz et al., 2008). Moving from separation to wholeness is also a fundamental aspect of integrative practice, in the way that initially separate practices are encouraged to unfold independently before coalescing into a cohesive whole (Ferrer, 2003; Wilber, 2000).

Throughout this module, I observed each practice unfold, as if they were each living beings. Yet, it was the symbol of my inner child, who emerged across all domains, that revealed their interconnectedness and softened the boundaries between them. Alongside this exploration, myth and symbol offered a powerful means of understanding the domains as interrelated aspects of a larger journey. Myth and symbols serve as a bridge between the personal and the numinous, offering a framework for connecting individual narratives to something greater than self (Metzner, 1998; Schlitz et al., 2008). Jung (1969) furthered this proposition by describing myth as the language of the collective unconscious, through which archetypal experiences surface. Thus, they act as connecting links between varying levels of consciousness in the psyche, elucidating elements of the unconscious experience that may not be accessible through conscious thought (Jung, 1969).

Within my emotional domain, therapy and poetry became key pathways for engaging with myth and symbol, offering a means to integrate my experiences across the programme. In one of my final sessions, I laid out my journals, poems, and drawings across the floor. As we read them, I felt exposed and seen. Re-visiting my poetry illuminated unconscious material that had surfaced through my creative expressions (Raab, 2015). While my process report had already identified a theme of holding the tension between the sacred and the mundane, a deeper polarity of the dichotomy between aliveness and death was beginning to emerge.

The experiences I encountered through the LIP process evoked a simultaneous sense of aliveness and fear. The only symbol that could capture this sensation was the myth of Icarus. However, I wasn’t interested in the standard cautionary tale of restraint but was drawn to the symbol of the wings and the moment before the wax on his wings melted. Metzner (1998) identifies the symbol of wings and flight as representing the integration of unconscious material and the capacity to view oneself from a higher perspective. This was indeed what was unfolding, as I sat on the floor of my therapist’s room. I could feel the exquisite warmth on my skin; Icarus’ desire to travel towards the brilliant aliveness of the sun, only a breath away from death. In that moment, my understanding of yielding began to shift. What had started as a desire to soften into the unknown evolved into a willingness to embrace the risk of aliveness. Yielding, as I have come to understand it, is not passive surrender, but the courageous act of stepping towards the brilliant unknown; of daring, like Icarus, to bask in the sun, if only for a moment.

My body knows the liminal space, before the mind can follow. In mantra, in dance, in kink, in the holy terror of surrender, I touch something that sings back. Not boundaries, but aliveness.

They both live in me, Icarus and the little girl,
as a question, longing to be spoken: What if the point isn’t to survive, but to feel everything so fully, I dissolve into it?

I stand at the threshold, between the brilliant unknown and the fear that keeps her small.
And I choose to burn. Not all at once, but slowly, like wax surrendering to flame.
I stop running from the edge and step toward the sun with eyes wide open,
To hold the little girl’s hand and tell her that we are not too much.

And so, we fly, into life and into the remembrance of what it means to be here and full of aliveness. Before the burn, there is a breath and, in that breath, a becoming.

Conclusion

Writing this conclusion has been the most persistently delayed part of the essay writing process, perhaps because what remains of this LIP journey is not a tidy conclusion, but an ever-deepening relationship with the unknown. Reflecting on my journey has highlighted how each domain contributed uniquely to this relationship, while also existing in dynamic interplay. Anchored by the elements of attention, intention, repetition, and guidance, the process revealed how cultivating curiosity and devotion can support our deepening into relationship with the self (Vieten et al., 2016). One of the most integral parts of the process was the emerging image of the little girl, a symbol of my need for control. Integrating this shadow aspect of self into my practices transformed the way I engaged with challenge and uncertainty. The process has not concluded, but opened a pathway, where aliveness and uncertainty co-exist.

This process of weaving together the threads of my experience gave rise to my creative synthesis, An Ode to The Unknown, an audiovisual piece, originally conceived as a poem. Emerging organically after a therapeutic session exploring the myth of Icarus, the piece reflects the dichotomy between aliveness and death, an insight that fundamentally reshaped my relationship to the unknown. However, the decision to move from voice to visibility, by placing myself in front of the camera, became an extension of my interpersonal exploration. Standing in front of the camera became a metaphor for surrender, a relinquishing of the mask of perfection. As Metzner (1998) reminds us, transformation often lies in the tension between paradoxes. In surrendering to the tension between aliveness and death, I am discovering how to embrace the unknown.

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