Even I, the Dude, could not have imagined what was about to unfold for me as I walked through the entrance to the McDonald’s. In hindsight, the three months since Beck had dropped off the listserve had been anything but easy for me. Not even all my experience in league play could have prepared me for the gutterball that came my way when my Internet access was lost. I had grown to like my time on the list and roaming the myriad of bowling websites and chatrooms. It had allowed me an outlet for some of my opinions and had begun to open me up to a world beyond LA, something that I – or any of my friends, for that matter – wouldn’t have even begun to contemplate before that.

To say that my life began to deteriorate in an unexplainable fashion would be an understatement – man, it fell apart like a 7-10 split. In the month following my loss of Internet access I noticed that I began to experience isolation and disenchantment. I responded to this by overinvolving myself in summer league play, but I found that my conversations at the lanes were just going in circles and I was even beginning to question what I was doing at the lanes. I mean, I'm the Dude, bowling is my life. But even so, my drinking increased, and with it my disenchantment, isolation, and preoccupation with sex. I'd spent the last four days at the Free-Way Motel with a long-legged Italian babe named Angel sucking on white Russians, smoking Columbian, eating Mexican take-out, and listening to Celine Dion CD’s on a pink Barbie boom box, while she continued to take me "around the world". I awoke and found myself walking down Santa Monica Boulevard late this morning wearing a badly wrinkled bowling shirt and a stiffening pair of chinos – and sporting a United Nations hangover.

While lying in bed the night before I had decided that if I was going to live in this hedonistic hell that everyone calls the 90's, I should do it as tastelessly as possible. To this Dude, that meant getting back on the Internet – maybe even getting a website. If that meant I had to sell my soul to the Devil to get it, then so be it. I mean, like, the Dude abides! It was an empty and defeated Dude that had walked into the gray and smoggy overcast of a humid LA morning in search of the Prince of Darkness. It was a hungry and aimless wanderer who found himself passing the play area in front of the McDonald’s, who thought that maybe a little food would relieve his spaciness and help him regain his bearings. It was a wide-eyed and sobering malcontent who would have told you as he walked through those front doors, never to doubt the power of your intentions, because he was sitting right there waiting for me.

Had I not been looking for him already, I might have been surprised at the force that pulled my eyes to the seating area to the right side of the service area. There he was, the Devil himself, his dark brown eyes piercing me as they met mine. Like he had been expecting me, he nodded his head and motioned for me to come over to his table. Standing behind him were three well-groomed men dressed in dark suits, accessorized with pagers, cell phones, and a generally purposeful demeanor. Two of them were positioned to protect his space in the restaurant, the other seemed to do his bidding with the restaurant staff. The Devil himself was attired all in black, sporting a pair of pleated Hugo Boss slacks, silk Polo shirt, and a pair of Lei Le Viv casual loafers. As I got close to the table two things took me totally by surprise. The first was that despite his firm, regal facial posture, his eyes had now softened and were actually warm and loving. The other thing was just as unexpected: the Devil was eating a Happy Meal. He must have seen my astonishment because he spoke.

"Don't look so surprised. Everyone's got to eat. They're actually the best value on the menu here. Please sit down, I know you've been looking for me." He extended his arm towards a chair positioned at the left side of the table as one of his associates pulled it back for me to sit in. I tried to say "Thank you" but nothing audible came out. I pulled myself back into the chair trying to get my bearings. He whispered something into the other associate’s ear, who then took off toward the counter. I was beginning to wonder about the reality of all of this, but figured I would just let the scene play itself out. This was LA. I'd already spent the summer bowling against Jesus.

I motioned towards his tray. "I can't believe the Devil is sitting here eating a Happy Meal."

His face took on a stern but playful look. "From the look of that shirt, it’s been a pretty tough summer of league play. Looks to me like you could use something to eat." He chuckled softly. "Besides, it won't cost you a thing . . . yet." His hands dropped down to his lap as he laughed. He pulled himself back slightly, so that his now returning associate could place a tray with an identical Happy Meal in front of me. The assistant offered me some napkins, placed a straw in my cup, and before he backed away, picked up the toy that came with my meal and placed it on the Devil’s tray. "Dig in," said the Devil.

"What about my toy?" I asked.

He looked at me with some frustration. "We’ll get to that later."

For the next three minutes I immersed myself in the food. True, I hadn’t eaten well in almost two days, but it seemed that my famishment was also driven by the need to reaffirm my sense of control by doing something that came so naturally – slamming a couple of burgers. I began to feel a little more grounded in the field. I mean, this was just a burger meal. It was just a McDonald’s. Those were just pagers and cell phones that his associates wore. And Lord knew who this really was sitting in front of me. It was in that evolving moment of clarity that I noticed the fries. I pointed a fry towards him and said, "You know, these fries are a little overcooked." A sharp belly laugh came from deep within his stomach and he responded, "Given the way you have been living your life, I thought maybe you should begin getting used to eating your food cooked that way!" His associates were chuckling behind him.

I was starting to get pissed off. I said to him firmly, "Look, here in Los Angeles we have certain standards. You just expect your fries to come a certain way. These are not good fries. And this really is not a Happy Meal, because I didn't get a toy. Now cut this crap out. If you are the Devil, then you know I’m here on business. And as a guest, I would think that you’d treat me with a little more courtesy."

I thought that a little firmness might force his hand, but he didn't seem to falter. "I know why you've come. You want me to make a deal with you for your soul." He paused and drew in a breath as he held my eyes with his and then continued, "I am simply trying to get a sense of connectedness with you."

He stopped speaking but kept looking at me. He seemed sincere but I wasn't about to buy it. "I don't want a sense of connection with you," I said angrily, " I want to make a deal with you. My soul for Internet access – and a website." He leaned back in his chair and shook his head from side to side. "Look, Dude, you came here because you are in trouble. Big trouble from what I can tell. Seems you've lost your inner spark. You are soulless." He leaned forward and folded his hands across his chin and continued, "Now this is typically when I show up in a person’s life. But I can't buy a soul from you when you no longer possess it. And besides, I don't deal in that kind of soul."

I looked at him angrily and said, "What kind of frickin' Devil are you, anyway? You sit here dressed up like Neal Frickin’ Diamond, feedin’ me burnt fries, you won't give me a frickin’ toy, talking about connection, and telling me you don't trade in that kind of soul? Look man, you either start making some sense or the Dude is gonna walk!"

He didn't seem at all flustered by my remarks. In fact, his eyes softened again, and he continued, "Look, Dude, I can't buy your soul because that is not what the Devil does. My job is to get in the way of people like yourself, who are about to leave a more connected path. Over the course of my history I have used several different techniques to do this, whatever works really, but over the past two years I have been actively practicing the tenets of Self-Relations Psychotherapy. And in SR there is no soul!" He reached over into his black computer bag and pulled out a book I recognized to be The Courage to Love and handed it to me. "Look for yourself," he continued, "if you look through the index you will find not one cite for the term soul. It doesn't exist."

I quickly checked the index, not a cite for the soul. This guy was really pissing me off. Then it hit me. He's just testing me. Well, two can play at this game. "So if you’re practicing SR, how come I don't ever see you post on the listserve?"

He laughed that soft laugh of his. "Look, Dude, I am a man of many talents. I post there all the time. I just don't use my own name. Sometimes I post as Beck, sometimes as Gilligan, sometimes as Abbe. I pick whatever voice fits what I need to say at that moment."

"I can't believe what I am hearing," I said angrily. "The Devil is a lurker on the listserve! Well, doesn’t that just seem to fit with this whole damnable presentation. I've had it. Give me the toy that was supposed to come with this meal. I'm out of here. I shouldn't have expected to find the real Devil at McDonald’s, anyway. How desperate could I have been?" I began to move my weight forward in an effort to get up, but found that I could not move forward. I looked across the table. As my eyes met his again he said firmly, "I am not ready for you to go yet." It felt like I was being pushed back into the chair. "There are a couple of things I need to tell you about the soul."

With that, he took out of his pocket the toy that had come with my happy meal, and placed it on the table in front of us. It was a short, owl-like creature with large mouse ears, about the size of a baseball.

"This is a Furby," he said. "Do you know what they do?"

I shook my head no, and he continued. "Basically it is a program to do. What it is programmed to do is to listen to what is said, how it is said, and the frequency with which it is repeated. Then it begins randomly voicing what it has heard, thus becoming a program to be."

"To be what?" I responded. "A frickin’ parrot?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. Because of the limitations of the program, there is very little difference between its doing and being states. In essence, there is no difference between its inner and outer states. What you hear is what you get. Did you ever hear Jung talk about persona?

"Jung saw the persona as a complicated system of relations between individual consciousness and society – fittingly enough, a kind of mask, designed on one hand to make a definite impression upon others, and, on the other hand, to conceal the true nature of the individual. Jung thought that the construction of a collectively suitable persona meant a formidable concession to the external world, a genuine self-sacrifice that drives the ego straight into identification with the persona, so that a person begins to believe that what they pretend to be is who they are. A whole part of what is generating for the person is not shown. The hard logic of the person (animus) dominates the field of the presentation, while what generates underneath (anima) stays hidden, isolated, and unclaimed. Jung suggested that cultivating the relation between these two complements promotes the development of a healthy person."

"So what is so significant about that idea? So a bowler in a bowling shirt is not just a bowler. Most bowlers I know do have day jobs!"

"Look, Dude, what Jung is suggesting is to look at this postulation as a description of what really happens in evolving phenomenology of human experience – an invitation to listen deeply. A person’s soul actually manifests itself in the action of listening deeply, sensing what is generating inside and all around the person – the field of the person’s soul is actually moving!"

I looked at the Devil straight on. "You know, this idea that my soul is all over everywhere and moving is a bit too ‘90s for me. Kind of like telling me that John Tesh makes really good music. Maybe it’s non-offensive music, but I want a soul I can stick my fingers in – like a bowling ball!"

The Devil leaned forward and pushed the button on the back of the Furby. The eyes fluttered wildly. "Look, you big Polock, I am not making this up. The soul is simply bigger than what you can touch within your immediate grasp. Hillman has written ingeniously about this kind of soul. He stated ‘by soul I mean, first of all, a perspective rather than a substance, a viewpoint towards things rather than a thing itself. This perspective is reflective; it mediates events and makes difference between everything and us that happens. Between us and events, between doer and the deed, there is a reflective moment – and soul making means differentiating this middle ground.’

"Hillman continued, ‘It is as if consciousness rests upon a self-sustaining and imagining substrate – an inner place or deeper person or ongoing presence – that is simply there even when all of our subjectivity, ego, and consciousness go into eclipse. Soul appears in descent as a factor in which we are immersed.’ In another attempt upon the idea of soul, Hillman suggested that ‘the soul referred to that unknown component which makes meaning possible, turns events into experiences, is communicated in love, and has religious concern. First, soul refers to the deepening of events into experiences; second, the significance soul makes possible, whether in love or in religious concern, derives from its special relationship with death. And third, by soul I mean the imaginative possibility of our natures, the experiencing through reflective speculation, dream, image and fantasy that mode which recognizes all realities as primarily symbolic or metaphorical.’"

"So the soul is kind of like that moment right before and right after you make a good shot in bowling?"

"No, the soul is the thought, the felt experience of making the whole shot! All of Hillman’s work presupposes what he calls a ‘poetic basis of the mind’. This is a psychology rooted not in science but in aesthetics and imagination. By taking everything as poetry, Hillman frees consciousness from the thin crust of literalism to revel in the depth of experience. The soul turns events into experience. But it is image that is experienced, not literalism. Hillman treats words as beings, as emissaries, not as tools or functions!"

"So the imagining of making a good shot is sometimes as good as making it?"

"Come on, Dude, I'm on the listserve. We talked about this for two months last winter – nothing is ever as good as making it!" He began laughing wildly. "But to answer your question, yes, it is, if the image is experienced in relation to the deeper self in field."

"So where does that leave the Furby personas?"

The Devil’s face lit up with a smile and he replied, "Well, on their own, absolutely nowhere. First they have to be noticed. In psychology this noticing is sometimes called a symptom. Hillman thought that all symptoms lead to the soul. On the other hand, he noted that curing symptoms may also lead away from the soul, getting rid of what is just beginning to show – at first tortured and crying for help, for comfort and love. But it is the soul in neurosis trying to be heard, trying to impress the stupid and stubborn mind. He suggests that the right reaction to a symptom may well be a welcoming rather than complaints and demands for remedies, since the symptom is the first herald of an awakening psyche which will not tolerate any more abuse. Through the symptom, the psyche demands attention. Attention means attending to, a tending to, a certain tender care of, as well as a waiting, pausing, listening. Precisely what each symptom needs is time and tender care and attention. Just this same attitude is what the soul needs to be felt and heard."

I was beginning to feel tired with all of the Devil’s scholarly semantics. His thoughts seemed to flow logically, but it was all getting too scholarly and intellectual. I took a sip of my Coke as my hands raised out from my shoulders in a questioning fashion. "This all sounds kind of Jungian, kind of like depth psychology. I’ve always thought depth psychology was practiced by middle-aged men who charged lots of money of other middle-aged men who had lots of money, and who liked to remain fairly neurotic while doing a lot of posturing about ‘getting back in touch’ with dead men they hadn't taken the time to get to know when they were alive. What has this got to do with you practicing Self-Relations?"

The Devil let out a small laugh as he shook his head back and forth. He looked a bit troubled by my sarcasm. He took a sip from his Coke and set the cup down, moving the straw up and down through the hole in the lid while he collected his thoughts. He lifted the cup up to his mouth and took another sip. He set the cup down and began to speak. "The last century has seen lots of brilliant contributions to the field of knowledge we know as Western psychology. With thinkers like James, Freud, Jung, Mahler, Skinner, Mead, Bateson, Milton Erickson, Hillman, Wilber, and really hundreds of others, there has been an explosion of thinking about what constitutes the consciousness of being human from all of the arts and sciences. Given the electronic evolution of telecommunications, East has met West, island has met mainland, and the formally educated have been introduced to the wisdom of the hunting and gathering tribes. This ‘deep witnessing’ of all that generates and calls to be listened to has led to an abundance of models that tend to explain away this human presence – away to the naive oversimplifications like ‘This is all well understood’ and ‘These things are all unified’. This has often led, though unintentionally, to a rather rigid and static description of what is phenomenologically human, of what is symptomatic in human experience, and of what might help."

An air of calmness came over his face. He took another sip of Coke. "I became fascinated with Gilligan's Self-Relations model because it made possible a ‘being with' without necessitating making it into the model. Putting it another way, the therapeutic conversation can develop without being held captive by the model! In The Courage to Love, Gilligan states, ‘clients come into therapy already engaged in a process – some important change is in process – that cannot be stopped. Something is ‘waking up’. In Self-Relations problems arise when the client resists this ‘awakening’.’"

I was getting a little tired of his preoccupation with everything fitting together. I had lived in Southern California most of my life and had grown accustomed to these pseudo-Buddhistic drifters, the kind who had done a little too much acid or Esalen, and were a little too good at pulling their listener’s attention into how everything fits together into a pretty cosmic puzzle while they continued to look for a place to land in the real world. I looked him straight in the eyes as my open right hand pounded the table. "What practical application has this got to anything that a common man, a bowler like me, could put to any use when he has a real problem?"

He continued quoting Gilligan as if I had not interrupted him. " ‘The Self-Relations conversation between the therapist and the client suggests that the client’s relational self is a field that holds two selves, one to be mindful of what is, and the other to experience the river of life running and moving through. From this relational field/self, a middle way between repression and acting out is cultivated and then life is no longer a problem.’ Going a step beyond the postulates of Hillman, SR sees a major goal of poetry is to reconnect language with felt experience, and to liberate meaning from fixed assumptions. The field is seen as a-live. A force that wants to help you become more of your Self."

"So look, Devil Guy, all of this natural wonderness and growth is putting me to sleep faster than a half-hour infomercial on vacuum food storage. To sleep, damn it. Give me something practical. How do you apply the techniques?"

"You really are such a logical bastard," he responded snidely. "What does your mother say when she sees you channeling your father in that manner?" His associates rolled their eyes. "Look, Dude, in Self Relations you don't so much apply techniques as you apply principles, and stay curious about whether this principle, this question, allows you to feel more or less connection with the client. Look, without getting into the many possibilities of ‘being with a client within a generative field of the thought/felt conversation’, a few practical principles of SR practice might be: 1) Connect to your own center; 2) Connect to a felt sense of the client – and don't use the model if you can’t feel that connection; 3) Join and sponsor the presenting self; 4) Access the complementary self; 5) Treat what generates between the self and client with loving respect and curiosity – honor the generative human presence of the field; 6) Develop a relational self that connects the two selves; 7) And remember, as you proceed, thinking and feeling, ‘not too tight and not too loose!’ "

"So to the well-trained practitioner of SR, being with the client and their problem is just a matter of using the principles. Sort of a cookbook."

The Devil’s right hand went to the top of his forehead and moved all the way through his hair. If this gesture relieved any exasperation he was feeling, the pointedness of his next sentence did not show it. He had not looked so intently at me since I first entered the restaurant. His gaze was piercing and I knew I’d best not look away. As he cleared his throat, he held this gaze, and I knew it was a warning to pay close attention. His eyes softened slightly and he began to speak. "Look, the field being experienced is not static, and it is certainly not implicitly integrated or knowable. This is due in part to a human’s natural tendency to dissociate. Jung stated that ‘if tendencies towards dissociation were not inherent in the human psyche, fragmentary psychic systems would never have been split off; in other words, neither spirits nor gods would have ever come into existence. That is the reason why our time has become so utterly godless and profane: we lack the knowledge of the unconscious psyche, and pursue the cult consciousness to the exclusion of all else. Our true religion is a monotheism of consciousness, a possession by it, coupled by a fanatical denial of ‘fragmentary autonomous systems’.’

"Hillman defined polytheistic psychology as referring to the inherent dissociability of the psyche, and the location of consciousness in multiple figures and centers. He thought that a psychology of psychological polytheism provided archetypal containers for differentiating out fragmentation. But, more significantly, he offers another view of psychopathology. The interconnection between the ‘splinter psyches’ of our multiple persons and many gods and goddesses of polytheism suggests a field of disintegrated integration."

Clearly, my agitation with this line of thinking was beginning to move through me, as without so much as a thought, my hands moved up to my eyes, my thumb and index finger coming together in circles over my eyes, and my three remaining fingers spreading out across the side of my head, giving the appearance of a winged mask as I began to mimic the Robin the Boy Wonder himself. "Holy polytheistic vibrating fragments, Batman! Quick, Devil, to the Batmobile! Some poor soul in Gotham City needs an application of SR techniques to facilitate their disintegrating integration!"

I looked back at his assistants, who were smirking slightly, and then back to the Devil. Surprisingly, his face held no emotion. His eyes met mine and held them in silence for what seemed like a lifetime. He took a short breath and began to speak. "What I am trying to tell you is that to experience the soul is to appreciate, on some level, its animating nature. How the soul presents, the doorways it makes open to you, the techniques one needs to stay connected to it, are based in part on the nature of the person, their place in the lifecycle, and the situation they are currently experiencing. Other phenomenological events outside of them – family dynamics, community dynamics, and world social and environmental variables can change how the soul presents. To constantly fill one's self with life from the soul requires living with a certain life-giving intention. A dominant principle underlying SR practice is sponsorship. The act of mature sponsorship requires a mature human presence grounded in love.

"’A basic premise of Self-Relations is that the river of life courses through each of us, bringing every known experience known to humankind. In this sense, life is out to get us, helping us to become more and more of a human being. Life cannot be fooled: we cannot avoid the basic experiences of fear, joy, anger, excitement, envy, and so forth. Our basic question is our relationship to the river of life. We can fear it, damn it, ignore it and exploit it, or accept it and work with it. It is the latter relational skill that SR calls love.’" He looked across the room momentarily at a small girl who was playing with her Furby. As their eyes met, the Devil gave her a pinky wave with his right hand. The entire family giggled as the little girl pinky-waved back.

Smiling slightly, seemingly refreshed by that interchange, his eyes returned to mine and he continued speaking. "Erich Fromm stated that ‘love is a productive form of relatedness to others, and to oneself. It implies responsibility, care, respect, and knowledge, and the wish for the other person to grow and develop. It is the expression of intimacy between two human beings under the condition of the preservation of each other’s integrity.’

"SR sees the dominant principle underlying effective love as mature sponsorship. Effective sponsorship is thought to 1) awaken you to the goodness and intelligence of your own being; 2) awaken you to the goodness and intelligence in the world all around you; and 3) introduce you to some practices and traditions for developing a relational self that connects ‘self-in-world' and ‘world -in-self’. In other words, sponsors encourage devotion to self-realization, service and contribution to the world, and appreciation of the integral relationship between the two. Sponsors know that the river of life runs through everything and everybody, bringing those experiences needed for growth and development. They know that mature human presence and attentiveness are required to realize the human value and forms of these basic life energies, and seek to pass on this realization and its corresponding skills and traditions to others. As any parent will attest, how this is effectively done is forever changing. Just when you think you've got it figured out, the rug is pulled out from underneath you again. SR allows for the therapist to be with the client who is experiencing the symptom/crisis while also experiencing the living field that exist within them and around them in a manner that is loving and relational." The Devil paused and took another sip of his Coke. After a short sip he was sucking air. Without looking he held the cup out to his right side where an associate’s hand was waiting to take it. He nodded with his head that he did not need another and looked back to me.

I cleared my throat, as he had been going on for a long time. "So you mean to tell me that the end result of practicing SR is to allow the person to transcend limitations of normal human consciousness – like the prosaic nature of everyday a language?"

He nodded his head. Apparently pleased that my agitation had momentarily cooled and that I was still listening, he responded, "Well, yes and no. To both Hillman and Gilligan poetics signifies a ‘state of being’ in experience, and connected to a force larger than one's self. Poetics, however, is not the end point. To make it so would be to negate both the relational selves in the field and the nature of the field of life itself. By picking poetics only the connection to the deeper soul would cease and any generative poetic experience in the moment would not be possible."

He waved again at the little girl. She hid behind her mother’s purse that was sitting on the table. When she looked around the corner of the purse, it was clear they both agreed that she could not be seen when the purse hid her head. As the girl continued to move her head out from behind the purse, testing this agreement, both of them laughed as their eyes met. This was clearly a warmly felt exchange for both of them. He pinky-waved to her one more time and then blew her a kiss off his fingers. She hid behind the purse as if to protect herself from a snowball. Laughter came from behind the purse. Seconds later her small arm came out and hugged her mother. The Devil was clearly intoxicated with happiness from this exchange. Almost embarrassed, he turned toward me and almost sheepishly admitted, "I see them in here every Tuesday. Her mother told me once that I reminded her of her grandfather who was very playful, but who died last year. I sort of feel he is in here guiding me after I have gotten too wound up with her." He went inside, pausing as if to travel back in time. He seemed far, far away. Shortly, he lifted his head toward me. "Excuse me, I've always been a sucker for the open spirit to life experienced by children. So where were we? Oh, yes, transcendence. Hillman had a very stern warning for the theoreticians that would define the ultimate evolution of human experience as the need to transcend the limitations of daily human endeavor. "It is a lofty, high-reaching, transcendent brand of spirituality or philosophy that gains a monopoly and bruises the soul. When the spirit is imagined as above human life, as fundamentally masculine, as abstracting and distancing, and as pure and uncontaminated, the soul is particularly disintegrated. For the soul is always in the thick of things: in the repressed, in the shadow, in the messes of life, in illness, and in the pain and confusion of love. To transcend these positions is to lose touch with the soul, and a split off consciousness, with no influence from the soul, readily falls into extremes of literalism and destructive fanaticism."

This actually made sense to the Dude, and I asked, "So poetry is the language of ‘being’ and prose is the language of ‘doing’?"

The Devil responded as though he had answered this question a thousand times. "Yes, but it is more than that. Even the best poetic solution has to be integrated into daily life – a daily life that includes the larger field of the community. To live with soul is to honor this movement between the poetry of being and the prose of doing. To live life with an animating soul is to be present and relational in the larger social community!"

The Devil turned to one of his associates and said something I could not hear. The associate walked over to the little girl and handed her a black Furby with large pink ears. She pushed the tail and the eyelids blinked. The Devil and the little girl looked at each other, fondly smiling across the room towards each other. She blew him a kiss and with her right hand gave him the thumbs-up sign. He returned the gesture and held her eyes with his. He turned towards me and smiled unabashedly. "Even in a wasteland like McDonald’s there is so much human presence, if one stays open to it."

He put his hands back together and folded them on the table and began speaking. "Sponsorship in SR works to give dimension to the true self of each individual. Anima in its basic usage means ‘true inner self'. To animate means ‘to fill with life’. SR looks to sponsor life moving through and around you. A key principle in understanding the animating soul is movement. The field of the soul is full of life and is thus constantly moving, changing form. It requires the individual to hold the intention of a relational self if it is to feed and nourish itself."

He looked at me as a loving father would look at a prodigal son. "That is why I cannot buy your soul. Dude, you are a victim of your own capitalistic culture. It is not about what you have to sell, but rather about we have in the community to offer you that sponsors your acceptance and nurturance of your true nature. Dude, there is no fixed path to the soul – and yet the path is fixed by the simple fact that the path is always found by discovering who you are in relation to the bigger world around you."

He looked at me suddenly as a man on the gallows might look at his jailers as he walks through his final moments. With a soft but firm voice he stated, "There is great danger when the world defines you differently than who you really are! You must never accept that." He seemed to be pleading with me from a very deep place. Dude, for the past 1700 years I have been known as the part of the soul that no one wants to claim. As a result, I have been portrayed as one who stand s against all that is human, against all that is life-giving." He clearly looked older now. Not disheveled and tired like myself, but ancient. He continued to speak, "As a consciousness I have been around for almost all of time. In the Western part of the world I began to animate with a clearly defined role about 300 BC. Before that, I was what you might understand here as a Furby consciousness, present but not quite defined with human attention, loving curiosity and sponsorship. It was about 300 BC that I began to be sensed clearly as one whom stood in the inner circle with goodness, with God. Thus, I was given the name Lucifer, ‘one who stands in the light’ or ‘light bearer’. My role was clear: To leave the circle whenever it became clear that someone like yourself was about to commit that most original of all sins, when they were about to lose connection forever with the river of life that held them. Given that they were often caught in very logical, worldly positions (animus), my assignment was to get them moving back to what became known, for better or worse, as the righteous path – the path on which God walked, the path of loving compassion! Ironically, I was empowered to use whatever means it took to turn the person back towards the path that allowed them to stand in their own reflecting light.

"For about 500 years I was dispatched out into the world to get in the way of those who had lost the more poetic connection to the field of life. Like the archetypal magician, I was asked to hold a connection with their wound, and to then begin to show them different faces, personas – images, if you will – that demanded they stay present with the dangers of their situation and with a way back to God's loving energy. This worked well until about 300 AD, when the Christians decided that to survive against the Romans, it was necessary to create a diversion. They split my consciousness away from the forces that give life, and made me a fundamentalist outcast whose presence was diametrically opposed to all that sponsored human presence."

I was taken aback by the look of loneliness that came across his face. He looked like a man who had just let go of a secret that he had been holding most of his adult life.

"It's been pretty rough going since then. I still sit in God's inner circle. And the task he gives me is still the same. What has been difficult is that it has gotten harder and harder to get humans to see me for the true nature of what I stand for – all that is human by nature, and unsponsored and disconnected in the present moment from God's loving presence. I am the darker half of the soul’s field, but I am the other half that makes the experience whole."

"So why keep doing this, then?"

"After all that we have discussed, I am surprised that you would ask that. It is my nature to be this way. To live otherwise would be to not honor the gifts I was given at birth – the very gifts that need to be sponsored and celebrated by my life in the community." A smile crept over his face. "Besides, given my mischievous nature, the job offers lots of opportunities for enjoying myself!"

He extended his hands out to the Furby on the table and began marching it towards me in a side-to-side fashion. "That gets us back to the Furby. By itself, it is just a plastic figure. Add a computer program and it becomes persona-like entertainer, isolated in the field. Meaningless. Given Hillman’s thinking, a Furby that generates from your unconscious should be treated as real, as a being, as an emissary of something in your soul that is in need of attention. Given the tenants of SR, holding this Furby with a loving curiosity in a relational field will allow for the sponsorship of the consciousness that is generating. Over time, your relationship to this once ‘inanimate’ object can become one that has a sensed relational field, words, and even a culture that feeds your entire self. It can become an opening into the field of your animating soul."

I pulled back in the chair and looked at him. "Come on, man. I have kind of been getting into our conversation, but that is a stupid piece of plastic."

The Devil leaned forward, lifting his hand to within a foot of my face. An ugly little Furby was now dancing in his hand, impossible to ignore. The possibility of these little guys representing something that is real for you – being real for you, is not something you should ignore. When a Furby generates in your field, or anything like a Furby, it's best you pay attention. Got it? This is your life and it is not a drill."

I couldn't believe that he was actually shouting at me. "Look, I have been pretty patient with you, but I’m getting to the point where I want some frickin’ action. I came here to sell my soul to you and all it has got me to this point is a happy meal with a stupid plastic toy. This doesn't cut it. And you, you don't even act like the Devil!"

He looked amused. "Why should I? You’re doing a pretty good job of acting like a daemon yourself."

"I came her for some help, you cocky bastard."

"Look, Dude, why don't you get down off of that cross. We could all use the wood. What gave you the idea I wasn't here to help you? I let you find me, remember?"

I was kind of taken back by the sudden force of his demeanor. I was speechless. The feelings of hopelessness and fatigue that had been with me when I entered the restaurant were with me again, and I was suddenly very confused. The conversation’s earlier eloquence had worked to fill my mind with hope. Now his adamant tone about the Furby's animating possibilities seemed to reawaken the emptiness of my body. I raised my head and asked him, "What is that I have got to do to get you to help me?"

The Devil leaned forward, his hands folded in front of him on the table. "Look, Dude, you do not seem willing to accept the nature of the human soul. On its most basic level an animating soul is about a felt human presence. It gets more elaborate than that, but it doesn't really need to." A look of kindness swept over his face. "Look, is there a place where you go to let down? You know, to get some relief?"

I thought about it for a minute and replied, "Bowling."

"I mean a little deeper than that. A place where you really find some peace?"

"Well actually, when I go to the lanes, I like to go to the bathroom. I know it sounds weird, but it’s a nice quiet place where I can reflect. Kind of like a little sanctuary inside a bigger universe."

"Well, go there right now."

"I don't get it."

"Dude. Take a couple of breaths and let yourself go there. Come on, this is what you came for!"

I have to say that statement confused me. But I wasn't at all confused by the intense sparkle in his eyes.

"Just close your eyes and take a couple of deep breaths. Let your breath drop your consciousness a little lower into your body, and just let yourself settle into that familiar space . . . "

He stopped speaking and I began to imagine myself back at the lanes, quietly standing in the bathroom.

"What are you aware of right now?" he asked. "Really let yourself go with whatever comes through the field for you." His voice had grown soft but also had developed a quality of holding and supporting me.

"I hear water noises," I responded. "God, I think I am urinating!" I expected him to tell me to get serious, and was relieved that he didn't.

"Take another breath and allow your consciousness to experience whatever it is that it needs to. It is your birthright to experience this sensation as fully as possible." That's right, just let it flow through you. What are you experiencing?"

"I see myself standing at the urinal, on the wall are all sorts of scribbles, most of which are unreadable or not worth reading. I close my eyes to get away from this and the sound of the water seems to pull me deeper into the filling pool of my imagination. There is a park. The park has a waterfall emptying into the lake. There's a playground near the lake and a little boy, about 4, is being pushed on the swing by his grandmother. The expressions on his face are ecstatic. Over the running water can be heard her singing to him. He's getting off the swing and giving her a big hug. You know, the kind of hug only little kids can give, so freely given and caring. My God, it’s me! I'm hugging my grandmother Rosie."

"Just let yourself stay with it, Dude."

"The image is kind of fading, but I can still hear the water. I'm getting an image of a swingset again. This time I’m older. Nineteen maybe. Gosh, I'm pushing Sue Jacobs in the same swing. It's summer. She's wearing a peasant dress. Her face is tanned and there are freckles all over her face. She’s smiling as she looks at me. I’m dodging her as she swings towards me."

"You are opening in your heart. Just let it move through you in its own fashion."

"We are lying on a blanket now, later the same day. She is reading poetry to me. She is lying next to me on the blanket. A little cleavage is showing across the top of her dress. I can't take my eyes off of her. She keeps reading. She won't let me kiss her because she thinks it’s her duty to educate me. She laughs when she says this. Her eyes are deep blue oceans. My God, they are animating . . . "

"Keep breathing."

"Her image has disappeared. I'm looking at the wall in front of the urinal. There is a poem written there. One that Sue used to read to me."

"Can you read what it says?"

Now this is where it all began to get real weird. I started to read the poem aloud and while I felt my voice in my throat, I heard the poem spoken in Sue's voice!

Kabir saw that for fifteen seconds, and it made him a servant for life.

My eyes blinked repeatedly. I was standing facing the urinal, my thing in my hand, reading poetry aloud in a woman’s voice. Over to my right stood my Sue, and to the left stood my grandmother and my four-year-old self. As if that was not strange enough, the images were oscillating in and out of focus. Suddenly I noticed that my grandmother was looking at my hands and smiling slightly. Her eyes were still warm and loving. Embarrassed, I closed my eyes and shook myself off. As I began to zip up my pants I opened my eyes, ready to begin speaking an apology, but they were all gone. I blinked a couple of times and found myself sitting back in the restaurant with the Devil. His eyes continued to softly hold the field with me.

We just sat there taking it all in. The space that made up the field between us was radiant. Rules of time seemed suspended, giving way to what was being experienced in the moment. There was a clear distinction between all of the different forms that made up the field, yet all forms seemed connected, luminous, vibrating, and ever-changing. I had words for all I was experiencing, and I enjoyed them, and I had connection to all that wasn't words, and was both held and was holding an experience of rapturous communion with these different dimensions of my human experience. My breath centered me and it was impossible not to find love for all that was around me – and perhaps most importantly, for myself.

The Devil's face held a tender smile. There was no need to speak. When he did, it was in soft, brotherly tones. "This is the experience of your animating soul, Dude."

The energy of my heart moved up to my head, causing the eruption of a wide smile. It was very hard to talk aloud, and what did come, came out softly, slowly. "Some water noise, eh? Frickin’ Furby power. The water was my frickin’ Furby, man."

The Devil just sat there with his eyes and his heart wide open. Obviously, he was in the midst of completing another successful assignment. He had blocked my path of hopelessness and self-loathing and had allowed me to move back into my heart.

"Just let the river of life run through you, Dude. Let your body remember what it is to live in the world with your heart open."

Across the restaurant, the little girl and her family were standing, getting ready to leave. The Devil gave her his bright eyes and an extended pinky wave. The girl and her parents returned the wave and then turned to go. I looked to him. His look was now fatherly.

"How did you know how to help me?" I asked, somewhat to my surprise.

"I didn't know, really. The anger and hopelessness in your presentation told me a lot. Anyone who is going to sell their soul to get on the Internet has got to be pretty empty in their belly and disconnected from their heart. But basically I worked the SR model. I had to connect with you and experience the field that generated between us. If one stays open, they will always find a connection to the animating soul."

I was feeling sheepish about my earlier behavior when he began speaking again. "You really shouldn't beat yourself up about your earlier anger about losing Internet access. What you need to learn to do is to drop a little lower into your body and give that anger some consciousness. " He started to smirk slightly. "I don't know about the web page, but I’m sure you can talk Beck into giving you access to the Internet and the listserve again. It's just that you’re going to have to trust that consciousness to guide you while you’re having a conversation with him. When you feel like backing away and isolating, that should be your cue that it’s time to talk."

I was beginning to feel a little alarmed at how much I had grown to like this guy over the last hour. But I was liking him, and I felt connected to him. I wanted his life to turn out okay. He wasn't "the other guy" anymore. He was my friend, the Devil. "I've got one more thing to ask you. Why do you keep doing this? You know, being the Devil, practicing the SR model and all of that? You could do so many things. What's the point?"

His face and voice now carried a friendly tone. "I do it because it is the path to my redemption, Dude. I trust that if I continue to be true to myself, animating with the larger soul of the life, that it will not be possible for anyone to continue to dismiss me as being dark or evil. I will be seen for who I am, one who lives as a bearer of consciousness, a member of the inner circle of light, and a brother of all who live connected to the soul."

One of his associates came up, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to his watch. The Devil motioned to give him just a minute and then turned to me. "Looks like it is time for me to go. I've got a racquetball game at one o'clock and I've got to meet Carl Whitaker at three. He's invited me to sit in with a family team that’s doing some intergenerational work with a family stuck in Purgatory. Today he's going to tell the mother that if she doesn't butt out of her daughter’s and son-in-law’s lives, that she's going to go to Hell!" He erupted in laughter. "I wouldn't miss that for the world."

Across the restaurant there was a loud crash. A booster chair had come crashing down on the floor next to the table where the little girl had been sitting. Another family was looking alarmed. The manager and an assistant were rushing over to see that everything was being handled. Another employee was cleaning the table where the little girl had sat. There in the middle of the table was the Furby the Devil had given her. What was weird about this was that as he cleaned off the table I realized that he did not see the Furby. To him it wasn't there. I watched in disbelief as he walked away from the table, totally unaware of what he was not seeing. I turned to the Devil to ask him if he had seen what I had and he was gone.

On the table was an envelope with a note written on it and three Furby's. I picked up the envelope and read the note:

I took a deep breath, but it felt more like a sigh. I didn't even get to say goodbye. I put the envelope in my back pants pocket. I took the three Furby's and put them inside the large front pockets of my chinos. As I walked towards the front door I saw that the Furby was still sitting on the little girl’s table. I walked over and picked it up. It was real. I put it in my front pocket with the others and began walking towards the front door. I heard my Grandmother’s voice say something that wasn't audible. I stopped to listen. I faintly felt her to my side, but there was nothing more. When I got to the front door I turned and looked back at the entire scene. The Devil, the little girl, the associates, they were all gone. It was just McDonald’s. Maybe I had made it all up. But I knew better. Something felt different.

I stepped out onto the front patio of the McDonald’s. As I looked down into the valley I could see that the cloudy gray haze of the early morning had cleared to a radiant and familiar orange smog. I took in a deep breath. The Dude Animates, I thought to myself. Yes, I thought, I’m beginning to get it. No, to feel it. The Dude Animates. I thought about heading over to Beck's house to talk to him about getting back on the Internet, but that would have to wait. League bowling wouldn't start until five. If I caught a bus I could get over there and get in a couple of practice games. Maybe even shag a 7-10 split.

As I got to the edge of the patio I ran the phrase over in my head again. The Dude Animates. Yes, I do feel it. From inside my left front pocket I heard one of the Furby's say something, but I couldn't quite make it out. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I didn't have to ask who it was. My breath was down a little lower into my heart. It was going to be a good day. The Furby said it again. This time I knew what he had said. As I stepped down onto Santa Monica Boulevard a smile swept over my face. It was a beautiful world that I was walking back into – the Furby really didn’t have to remind me. I am the Dude and the Dude Abides.