I’m sitting under a towering three-hundred-year-old oak on a summer afternoon, in a group listening to an esoteric astrologer expound on the evolution of the soul. I’m dazzled by his intellect, not to mention his good looks. When he begins to speak about the potential for the lesser ego to subvert the evolution of higher self—that is: when sexuality serves the lower self rather than the higher self’s role as the emissary of light—an acorn drops from above, hitting me on the head. I take this gift from the wise old oak as a reminder that I used to be such a sucker for passionate eloquence, especially when it came out of the mouth of babes or handsome men.