Mastermind Studios

07/04/2025

🌱 Planting Seeds for New Stories or Projects

Every great project starts with a spark — a conversation, a connection, a moment of timing. This is one of those moments.

As it happens, I have a rare window of availability, and I'm feeling energized to dive into something meaningful. If you're looking for a writer, filmmaker, or creative collaborator to help bring a story to life — whether it’s a script, a documentary, a campaign, a proposal, or a brand narrative — I’d love to explore how we might work together.

Let’s create something that moves people. Let’s plant the seed. 🌿

📩 DM Peter J. Cameron-Inglis, or feel free to reach out directly.

05/22/2025

🌿 Full Recording Now Available! 🎥

Medical Cannabis and Recovery Forum | Thompson Rivers University – Alumni Theatre 📍 Kamloops, BC | 🗓️ from April 26, 2025 | ⏳ 3-Hour Event

We’re proud to share the full video of this groundbreaking public forum on the role of medical cannabis in addiction recovery and harm reduction — featuring leading researchers, clinicians, and courageous voices with lived experience.

Hosted by TRU’s School of Nursing in partnership with the Maverick Research Project and ASK Wellness Society, this powerful event explores a 90% success rate in an innovative cannabis-assisted treatment protocol — all developed and delivered without external funding.

🧠 Topics include:

Cannabis and the overdose crisis
Trauma-informed, culturally grounded care
Indigenous perspectives on healing
Firsthand stories from people in recovery

👥 Panelists & Presenters:

Dr. Floriann Fehr • Dr. Ian Mitchell • Michael Koehn • Dr. Zach Walsh • Dr. M.J. Milloy • Bob Hughes • Taylor Pridy • Jordy Cates

Maverick Lived Experience Panel

🙏 With gratitude to the Secwépemc Nation, on whose unceded territory this event was held.

▶️ Watch, learn, and share this important conversation reshaping addiction care and community recovery in BC.

📌 Timestamps & speaker segments in the video description
🔔 Subscribe for more powerful stories, research, and solutions

👇 Click to watch and be part of the change.

Medical Cannabis and Recovery Forum | Full Event Recording📍 Thompson Rivers University – Alumni Theatre, Kamloops, BC🗓️ Saturday, April 26 | 3:00 PM – 5:30...

04/02/2025

Two quick announcements for everyone about the Sewing for Films and Fun program. Tonight (Wednesday April 2nd) from 7:00 pm till 9:30 pm we will be having a drop in for anyone who is interested in the Sewing for Films and Fun Course which starts on Thursday April 17th. More information on the course even can be found here: https://www.facebook.com/events/1076628060940733/

03/24/2025

We are looking for interested people who would like to attend a Dale Carnegie training program at Mastermind Studios. If you are interested please contact Peter at (250) 574-6902 or [email protected] or dm Peter J. Cameron-Inglis

Fast-changing work conditions require leaders who are equipped to not only keep up, but excel in the today’s business environment. This requires persuasive communication skills, creative problem solving methods, and extraordinary confidence and enthusiasm.

While many may think they possess these skills now, through this unique three-day experience, even the best and brightest discover opportunities to grow and improve the skills required to outdistance the competition. Aspiring leaders in all professions learn to connect with people more skillfully and lead organizations to higher levels of productivity.

This inspirational seminar is a life-changing event not only for business people, but for world leaders, professional athletes and entertainers, who while coming from diverse specialties, have one thing in common -- an intentional goal of outperforming their personal best.

Leaving, you’ll feel revitalized, equipped with a new vision for the future. What’s more, you’ll leave with a plan for implementing that fresh vision with the verve and vigor needed to perform on today’s center stage.

Discover and master the same skills and attitudes for achieving amazing results, and join the ranks of the world’s most successful people!

Learn How To:
• Energize your career
• Build confidence and break down belief barriers
• Create an intentional, sustainable future
• Strengthen key relationships
• Resolve conflict and build consensus
• Influence others
• Maintain a positive outlook on challenges and change
• Excel as a communicator
• Stand head and shoulders about the crowd!
• Lead more Effectively
• Communicate with Clarity
• Create an engaged work teams

03/17/2025

The first Class of Sewing for Film & Fun is complete and it was a blast! For the next two Wednesday nights from 7:00pm to 9:30pm at Mastermind Studios we will be opening it up for drop-ins before we start the next program. Drop by and bring your sewing projects and your sewing machine if you’d like some input and advice. Come check out the program at the studio and meet the instructors to see if it’s something you might like to be part of. All skill levels. Mastermind Studios is located at 1130 Tranquille Road in Kamloops.

03/04/2025

Sewing for Film & Fun continues this Wednesday evening. We are considering starting another class soon please message us if you are interested.

02/07/2025

THE BIGGEST SALE OF MY LIFE

Sales isn’t just for salespeople—it’s everywhere. From job interviews to dating, even convincing your kids to eat their vegetables. And if you want to master it, the best lesson comes from the greatest sale of my life: convincing a woman to marry me.

Wouldn’t it be great if there was a secret to learn from the most successful salespeople on the planet? Well, there is.

At its core, sales is about relationships. It’s about how we show up. It’s a proposal and eventually a marriage. We’re asking someone to trust us, to believe we’ll be there for them, to see that they matter to us.

So that begs the question—how are you showing up? Are you making the effort to look your best? Are you rising to the occasion and putting your best foot forward? Are you working through challenges with love, patience, and compassion? Are you proving, every single day, that you’re worthy of trust and making the effort?

I thought I understood all of this. And then, I tried to propose to the love of my life. In my mind, I had the perfect plan. It was bold. It was romantic. It was unforgettable. And, like any great sales pitch, it involved taking a risk.

THE BATMAN PROPOSAL

The woman I married almost 32 years ago used to call me “Batman” when we were dating. She said I reminded her of Michael Keaton from Tim Burton’s Batman—brooding, mysterious, darkly charming. And I’ll admit, I liked the nickname.

At the time, she was living with her friends Roz and Vince in an apartment complex. I wanted to surprise her with a grand gesture. So, naturally, I tracked down a spandex-and-plastic Batman suit in Toronto and decided the best way to propose was to climb up the side of the building—balcony by balcony—until I reached her.

I was convinced it was the perfect plan.

There was just one problem.

I didn’t tell anyone.

Not my soon-to-be fiancée. Not her friends inside. And certainly not the neighbours, who, upon seeing a masked man scaling their apartment complex in the dead of night, did exactly what any sane person would do.

They called the police.

By the time I was just below her balcony, chaos had erupted below. Sirens wailed. Police lights flashed. A megaphone crackled to life.

“Sir, get down NOW!”

A crowd had gathered—neighbours, passersby, even people inside the building pressing their faces against the windows. Some cheered. Some screamed. Someone actually yelled, “Jump, Batman, jump!”

I tried to explain, but I was flustered and tired from the climb. Instead of “I’m proposing!” it came out as “I’m imposing!”

Not quite the message I was going for.

Before I could reach her, the police grabbed me, pulled me down, and cuffed me on the spot. Inside the apartment, Roz, Vince, and my future fiancée were watching the whole scene unfold, utterly confused—and, frankly, a little terrified—wondering who this masked lunatic in spandex was.

It wasn’t until I got to the police station that I was finally able to make my case.

I called her from the holding cell.

“Hey… so, uh, can you come bail me out? I want to propose.”
I might not have had the support of Commissioner Gordon that night, but I’m happy to say, eventually, she said yes.

The Moral of the Story

In the end, I didn’t close the deal as Batman. But I learned something valuable—whether it’s sales or relationships, it’s not about the gimmicks. It’s about showing up, being persistent, and proving, beyond a doubt, that you’re worth the trust.

And sometimes, it’s about knowing when not to wear spandex.

Peter J. Cameron-Inglis
Writer, Director, Producer
Mastermind Studios

01/30/2025

Guilt and shame can be relentless forces, shaping our lives in ways we don't always recognize until it's too late. Left unchecked, they can cloud our judgment, crush our self-worth, and seep into our relationships like poison. This is the story of how guilt and shame nearly destroyed me—and how I fought to reclaim my life.

A Childhood Overshadowed

Being the eldest child lost its charm quickly for me as a boy. My three sisters—each with their own medical challenges—monopolized much of my parents' attention. Heather, the oldest after me, suffered from unexplained seizures and the constant pain of eroding enamel on her teeth. Despite her near-constant discomfort, she remained cheerful, full of love, and fiercely adored me. Doctors dismissed her pain as mere “convulsions,” leaving her without answers and me helplessly watching.

Hazel, the middle child, was allergic to life itself—wheat, dairy, eggs, pollen, dust mites, peanuts, animal dander. She spent more time in hospitals than at home, her skin a battlefield of swollen welts and raw, scratched flesh. She longed to play outside with the other children, but her body kept her confined, her nose pressed against the windowpane, watching life pass her by, while she sucked on two fingers for comfort.

Then came Lillian, my youngest sister by way of the foster system. Her medical needs were so severe that even her birth mother couldn't cope with her fragility and complex care. Spina Bifida and Hydrocephalus meant her existence was a never-ending struggle, a fact that consumed our family’s daily life. With my parents stretched to their limits, I was expected to be the “easy” child—the one who didn’t need anything. But how do you expect a restless, imaginative boy to make himself invisible?

A Misfit in the Nicola Valley

Life in the Nicola Valley was isolating, especially for me. I never quite fit in. My skin was brown, yes, but not because of Indigenous heritage. My mother, Evelyn, grew up in the poverty and deprivation of World War II Coventry after the bombing. My father, Gordon, was born in Georgetown, Madras—now Chennai, India—and immigrated to England in his early teens. Despite being educated there, he traded a career in accounting for carpentry when he immigrated once more, this time to Canada. Often saying he was “following in his master’s footsteps,” he also pursued ordination as a minister, like his father and grandfather before him, often holding service in the Indigenous parish of the Shulus Indian Reserve.

With no extended family nearby, we relied on Nłeʔkepmxc elders, who became my surrogate aunts and uncles. They did their best to protect me from the relentless bullying by other kids on the reserve, but even their kindness couldn’t fully erase the fact that I was an outsider. Still, they nurtured my growing love for storytelling, instilling in me a deep respect for Indigenous culture, values, and knowledge. They raised me in their own way, offering comfort when people in town would spit on me, kick me, and hurl racist slurs, assuming I was just another "dirty res kid." Through these harsh experiences, I was baptized by fire and quickly learned who the real savages in this world were.

A Brother’s Cruelty and the Price Paid

As the world pushed me down, I took my anger out on the one person who never deserved it—Heather. She adored me, even when I betrayed her trust. I tested the limits of our parents' patience, setting her up for blame just to see what would happen. And still, she never wavered in her love for me.

One evening, I did something small but unforgivable. I knocked some of Heather’s dinner onto the floor and let the dog eat it. Then, I lied, telling our father that Heather had broken the rule. He sent her to her room while I sat smugly at the table, finishing her dessert.

Minutes later, my father went to check on her. Moments after that, he was carrying her shaking, seizing body back into the kitchen. Her small frame convulsed violently as strangled sounds escaped her clenched mouth. He laid her on the floor, calling for an ambulance.

I knelt beside her. Through the spasms, her hand found my leg and squeezed. It was as if, in her last desperate moment, she was telling me, “It’s okay. I love you.”

Before the ambulance arrived, Heather was gone.

With her, any shred of self-worth I had left me too.

In Memory of Heather Lorraine

The following week my father wrote this poem which was published in the Merritt Herald:

The patter of her little feet...
The patter of her heart
As she rushed to tell her dad
What a busy day she’d had.

As I sat upon the stair
Taking off my boots
Dirt and dust upon my face
A stranglehold she took.

“I love you dad,” She’d say,
“I walked to town (she did this every day)
With mum and Aunty Hannah,
Won’t you come and play?”

“Dance with me daddy...”
Not now my love, as I struggled with a lace,
Let me take off my boots
And wash my dirty face.

My little Hazel by her side,
Fighting for my arm
And Peter cutting paper planes,
Both miss her cheery charm.

Both Eve and I will not forget
Those few years of her life
She gave us much and much she bore
And never did complain!

You know, good people, friends and all
The greatest thing she gave
Was our belief in Jesus Christ...
For her He came to save.

As Daddy Remembers.

Drowning in Guilt

After Heather’s death, I was no longer the wild, attention-seeking boy I had been. I withdrew. I poured my energy into caring for Lillian, the only place I could direct my need to make amends. I learned to change her catheter, feed her, comfort her. She was my silent confessor, the only one who heard my darkest thoughts.

And then, just before her third birthday, Lillian died too.

I lost whatever small anchor I had left. I hated myself. I couldn’t bear my own company. The weight of my guilt became unbearable.

I fixated on one escape. I had heard that a deep, clean cut along the artery—not across—was the most effective way to go.

When I woke up, it wasn’t to peace, but to the cold sterility of a psychiatric unit. My pain hadn’t ended. It had only deepened.

Running From Ghosts

Small towns hold no secrets. In Merritt, population 6,000 (at the time), everyone knew. The whispers followed me. My parents, still broken from losing their daughters, fractured even further. We tried running—from Merritt to Williams Lake, then to Quesnel, then to Toronto. But you can’t outrun grief, shame, or anger. They live inside you, no matter where you go.

For years, I carried that burden. For decades, I loathed myself.

Finding My Way Back

It’s funny how life brings you full circle. My healing didn’t come from the church, despite being raised in it. Instead, it came from reconnecting with surrogate brothers and sisters—many of whom are Indigenous—who taught me what my heart had been searching for all along.

They showed me that guilt and shame are burdens we choose to carry, but we don’t have to. They gave me good teachings, good medicines for my mind, body, and soul. They taught me that self-forgiveness is not just necessary—it’s sacred.

I am grateful beyond words for those who walked this path with me: Michael Koehn, Shawn Wiesner, Phyllis Webstad, Agnes Jack, Kathaleen Shannon Loutitt, Margaret Vikars-Hyslop, and Justing Young. They showed me how to start within myself, how to let go of the ghosts that haunted me, and how to live a guided path, honoring my relationships—including the one I have with myself.

For the first time in my life, I understand: I am worthy of love. I am sacred.

And so are you.

Peter J. Cameron-Inglis
Writer, Director, Producer
Mastermind Studios

01/29/2025

I first shared this story on August 29th, 2022 but thought some of you may like to give it a read here.

I lost my belly button when I was in my late thirties.

Surgery after surgery the scars ran up and down my torso like train tracks destined for places unknown. The surgeon came to speak with me before my next journey, with him as the train conductor, on the way to Repaired Junction. “Peter, it’s getting very difficult to cut through all the scar tissue. We need to do something different.” Colostomies, ileostomies, urostomies, and resection after resection - my health and life had continued to go off the rails.

On this occasion Dr. Baughan, Dr. James Baughan (pronounced like the 007 character but without the “D” at the end), said, “We’re going to cut straight through the center this time and I’m afraid you’re going to lose your belly button”.

“Is that a problem?” I asked. “I mean, is that something I need to be worried about?” With all the confidence and swagger of Sean Connery he replied, “Not at all. It’ll be neat and tidy and one less scar for you to contend with,” referring to the belly button being considered everyone’s very first scar.

Before that, I can’t recall ever really ‘contemplating my navel’. I didn’t think it was ‘a big deal’. ‘Sort of cool,’ I thought at the time. I could tell everyone ‘I don’t have a belly button because I’m a marvel of science - custom manufactured in a lab. They broke the mold, so I’m the only one, one-of-a-kind!’

I didn’t realize that being without a belly button would have such a profound psychological impact on me. I was fine with it at first, but gradually I began to feel a sense of loss. Like I had taken something for granted until it was too late. I felt disconnected.

After a while, I thought about my lost belly button. I became a little obsessed over it. What meaning may it have had to me, without really being conscious of it? It was a connection – to life, to where I came from. It was a reminder that I was the result of two people coming together who, at one time, loved each other. It was symbolic of new life being born out of a painful experience. It rooted me to place, time, the earth, love… meaning.

It was my first connection to another human being, the woman who gave birth to me. I was already becoming further and further estranged from my mother before the loss of my belly button, but the irony of losing my original physical connection to her, in parallel to the distance growing between us, was not lost on me.

I wasn’t extremely overweight, probably because Crohn’s Disease makes it hard to keep weight on. Before its removal my navel was an “innie”. I thought it made my tummy look like a puffy doughnut, especially when I had inflammation and a distended abdomen from my affliction. When my umbilicus was gone my mid-section looked more like a loaf of baked bread, complete with the scoring on the surface to stop the bread from cracking when it rapidly expands after first being placed in the oven.

I became very emotional over my loss, and I felt ridiculous being so upset over such an inconsequential thing. I remember, when it was time for my next surgery, apologizing to Dr. Baughan for appearing so ungrateful after he had saved my life so many times. Little did I know that when I would wake from this surgery Dr. Baughan, Dr. James Baughan, would surprise me with a brand-new belly button – a brand new center point. A skillful twist of skin with some creative knots and surgical sutures gave me back my health – physically, mentally, and emotionally. I was reconnected! Recentered!

It isn’t perfect. It’s lopsided and off-center. It’s up against the side of my tummy that has a mesh reinforced hernia from a previous surgery. Beside the ostomy scars, where my stoma had previously connected to a bag – it’s NOT the stuff that graces the front covers of Sports Illustrated Magazine. But, I like my new navel. I have a new-found appreciation for the gift of my belly button. A gift that I now recall being given to me, outside of my birth experience, not once but twice. Once on my tummy by a skilled and compassionate surgeon and once on my soul by a caring and compassionate community of indigenous people that helped to raise me.

The Nlaka’pamux people of the Shulus Indian Band in Lower Nicola, British Columbia left a belly button on my soul. They say ‘it takes a village to raise a child’, and my childhood was no different. My parents emigrated to Canada when I was two years old leaving everything they knew - their families and community were left behind. It was just the three of us.

As a child I was surrounded by aunties and uncles that were not related to me by blood, but who loved and cared for me all the same. They fed my mouth with good food and my soul with spiritual things - stories, ceremony, laughter, teachings. They taught me to look at the world differently, although I didn’t realize it at the time. I learned to look to my Mother Earth. To see and hear the wind, the water, the trees, the plants, and the animals. This was the world to which I belonged. Their nurturing gave me roots and a sense of belonging that left its mark – a belly button on my soul. It testifies to a deep connection, full of wonder, and meaning, and purpose. A gift that was given with no expectation.

My friend Kathaleen Shannon Loutitt has a beautiful and inspiring connection with her grandfather – an umbilical across time and place, to the spirit world, by which her grandfather speaks to her. To see and hear her talk about her connection to her grandfather fills my heart. They speak to each other. I never met either of my grandfathers, but I now find myself thinking about how I can be a good one. I don’t know much about mine, but I now have my first grandchild and I want to leave her with a deeper connection full of wonder and meaning and purpose like the Nlaka’pamux people, and more recently my friend Kathaleen, have done for me.

I am so grateful to have found my belly buttons.

Peter J. Cameron-Inglis
Writer, Director, Producer
Mastermind Studios

01/28/2025

I’ve wrestled with anger for as long as I can remember. Even as a child, it burned inside me like a tiny ember, ready to ignite. Of course, anger wasn’t the only emotion I felt, but it’s the one that shaped many of my memories—and it’s the thread of this story.

These days, anger feels like the soundtrack of the world around us. Bitterness, fear, and frustration seem louder than ever. That’s part of why I’m sharing this story—not just for others, but for me, too. Writing this feels like breathing life back into my own spirit before it’s choked by the noise of division and disconnection.

This is a story about anger—but also about love, patience, and lessons I never understood until much later.

As a kid, I was a handful. Scratch that—I was an outright menace sometimes, full of wild ideas and zero sense of consequences. My antics were legendary. For example, when I was eight, there was the time I decided to explore an abandoned coal shaft near Merritt, BC. The shaft had been smoldering for decades, and I thought it would be fun to crawl around in it. By the time I got home, I looked like a chimney sweep—covered head to toe in soot, my clothes ruined. My dad was furious. Rightfully so. He lectured me for hours about the dangers of toxic fumes, unstable ground, and my complete lack of common sense.

Then there was the infamous laundry chute incident. I was maybe nine, and I had a huge crush on this girl, Alexia. Her family had come over for a visit, and I was desperate to impress her. My dad had just built a laundry chute from the upstairs bathroom to the laundry room below, and in my infinite wisdom, I thought, Wouldn’t it be cool to show off by diving through it like Superman? Spoiler alert: It was not cool. I got stuck halfway through, arms dangling out of the bottom while my feet flailed upstairs. I ruined the visit as the adults scrambled to free me. The second they left, my dad unleashed another epic lecture.

But my pièce de résistance came when I was ten years old. I’d just finished reading The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and decided that I, too, was destined for a river journey. Early one Saturday morning, I lashed together a raft using plywood and truck tire inner tubes and set off on the Coldwater River. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going—just drifted off with my imagination running wild. The Coldwater fed into the Nicola River, and before I knew it, I was navigating rapids, weaving through islands, and marveling at canyons. It was glorious.

By the time I reached Spences Bridge, the sun had long since set. Exhausted but exhilarated, I abandoned the raft, climbed up the embankment to a gas station, and called home.

“Hey, Dad… can you come get me?”

When he showed up, he didn’t say a word. The silence during the drive home was deafening. But later that night, he came into my room, sat on the edge of my bed, and said, “You know I love you, son. But we need to have a very long talk.”

And talk we did. For hours. His words carried the weight of fear, frustration, and, underneath it all, an unshakable love. I hated those lectures. At the time, I couldn’t understand why he didn’t just yell at me or, like other dads I knew, resort to a quick slap. But my dad wasn’t like other dads.

As I grew older, the lectures got shorter, then stopped altogether. Life went on. I didn’t think much about them—until the day my daughter was born.

At the hospital, my dad took me aside for a walk. We strolled slowly around the building, and out of nowhere, he asked, “Do you remember all those long lectures I used to give you?”

“How could I forget?” I laughed. “They went on forever.”

He smiled, but there was a softness in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. “Peter, those lectures weren’t for you. They were for me.”

I stopped walking. “What do you mean?”

He looked at me and said, “I promised myself, and God, that I would never hit any of you out of anger. That I wouldn’t let anger control me. And, boy, you made me angry sometimes. Those lectures were that long because that’s how long it took me to calm down.”

I felt tears well up as the weight of his words sank in.

“I need you to promise something,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Promise yourself that you won’t let anger control you.”

Thirty-one years later, I still hear his voice when I feel anger creeping in. I don’t always succeed in keeping it at bay, but I try. And when I stumble, I remind myself that I had an incredible teacher—a man who didn’t just tell me, but showed me, what it meant to love with patience and restraint.

Peter J. Cameron-Inglis
Writer, Director, Producer
Mastermind Studios

01/27/2025

Last week I wrote about beating the odds and getting out of a hospital bed to start a mastermind group and to start Mastermind Studios. Here is the continuation of that story about how I found a deeper understanding of my life’s purpose and the purpose of Mastermind Studios.

FINDING A SYMBOL FOR LIFE’S PURPOSE

After our first few Mastermind Group sessions, the six of us had become more comfortable with each another. The atmosphere grew more open, and we began to share freely. Shawn Wiesner (aka Wise Nerd) spoke up, his voice calm yet filled with enthusiasm.

“I’d love to do something special for everyone in our group—if you're all comfortable with it,” he said, looking around at the others. “It’s a visioning exercise, I learned through the Jack Canfield Organization, that can help people gain clarity by revealing a symbol that represents their life purpose. How do you all feel about exploring this together today?

The group exchanged excited glances. It sounded intriguing, something beyond the typical discussions we’d had so far. I, especially, felt a surge of anticipation. The idea of discovering a symbol that represented my life purpose filled me with curiosity. I couldn’t wait to see what the exercise might reveal.

Once everyone was ready, Shawn began. “Get comfortable in your chair,” he said, his tone soothing and steady. “Close your eyes so you can focus inward, away from distractions. We’re going to do a short meditation or guided visualization—a kind of daydream—that will help you uncover the symbol that represents your life purpose.”

We settled in, eyes closed, ready to follow Shawn’s lead.

“Become aware of your body in the chair,” Shawn continued. “Relax your facial muscles, your jaw, your shoulders, and neck. Let your arms hang loosely. Soften any tension in your muscles. Feel your legs and feet relax… relax… relax. Take a deep breath in… and out. Then breathe normally, deeply. In and out, slowly. Again.”

Shawn’s voice guided us gently. “Now, imagine we’re going on a journey to a place of perfect peace. A place where you feel completely safe, calm, and powerful. This is your special place. As you journey deeper into this peaceful place, feel the warmth of the air around you, the beauty of your surroundings, and the sense of wonder that fills you.”

We were immersed in the mental landscape Shawn was creating for us. He continued with his visualization exercise and took us further into this imaginary voyage full of beauty... warmth... wonder... colour... and emotion. I am not going to share it all here because it’s something that each person should experience for themselves, when they are ready.

At the end of this vision quest, Shawn’s voice softened, “you encounter a special being. You feel safe. You feel this being knows you very well and deeply understands you and your purpose. The being presents you with a box. Inside is a symbol, a gift, meant just for you. This symbol represents your life purpose.”

I sat quietly, feeling the weight of anticipation. What would my symbol be? Would it provide the clarity and direction I had been searching for?

Shawn invited the group members to imagine their box, to see its colour, its texture, and its shape. “Now, in a moment I will invite you one at a time to open your box,” he said. “What’s inside? What is the symbol this special being has revealed and given to you through your subconscious? Take a moment to visualize your box very clearly.”

The room was silent except for our soft breathing, each of us lost in our own moment of discovery.

One by one, Shawn invited us to describe our box, open it, and reveal the symbolic object inside. Paula, Michael, Bernie, Colin — each shared what they had found in their box. Every object was deeply personal and profound, uniquely representing each person’s life purpose. I listened intently, captivated by how meaningful the symbols were to my friends. My anticipation grew, and by the time it was my turn, I was practically vibrating in my seat, an energy racing through my entire body as if I were holding a Van de Graaff generator.

“I have goosebumps,” I murmured, my voice tinged with excitement.

“I like to call them truth-bumps,” Shawn replied with a knowing smile. I couldn’t see it but I could feel it and hear it in his voice.

I couldn’t wait to see what my symbol would be. The others had resonated so deeply with their personalities and paths that I felt certain mine would offer me the clarity I was seeking — perhaps even a revelation. Shawn gently prompted me to describe my box.

I was almost at a loss for words. “It’s... it’s about the size of a cigar humidor,” I began. “It’s made of this beautiful reddish wood — maybe mahogany, or cedar? And it’s covered in intricate carvings, like indigenous patterns. It’s stunning.”

“It sounds breathtaking,” Shawn encouraged. “Alright, Peter, when you’re ready, go ahead and open it. Tell us what you see inside.”

I nodded, feeling the weight of the moment. “Okay... I’m lifting the lid. It has golden hinges. The inside is lined in red felt...”

And then I fell silent, the pause stretching longer and longer.

Shawn finally spoke, his voice soft. “What else, Peter? What’s inside the box?”

I hesitated, then answered, “Shawn, I am not making fun of this exercise. I know I’m trying to do everything right. I can see the box very clearly. But, there’s... there’s nothing inside my box.”

The silence in the room felt deafening. Everyone was still, the air thick with uncertainty. Shawn, always patient, urged me gently. “Look again, Peter. Look closely.”

I took a breath, picturing the box in my mind as vividly as before. “I’ve looked,” I said, my voice quieter now. “I’ve even put my hand inside it and felt around. I’ve flipped it upside down and shaken it. But I’m telling you, there’s nothing there. It’s empty. Either it’s completely empty, or someone’s stolen this symbol of my life purpose.”

A ripple of unease moved through our group. Shawn, unshaken, asked me to close the lid and imagine placing the box in my lap. “Take a deep breath,” he said, “and return to a calm state.”

I breathed in deeply, centering myself. When I was still again, Shawn spoke with quiet conviction. “Peter, you’ve been given a rare gift. I’ve done this exercise many times with many people, and though I’ve heard of this happening before, I’ve never witnessed it firsthand. Your symbol, Peter, IS there. You’ve been given the gift of ‘space for others’.”

I let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Nice spin and recovery, Wiesner,” I said with a light-hearted smile, though I’m sure everyone could hear more than a hint of disappointment in my tone.

Shawn asked everyone to open their eyes. When I opened mine, I was looking directly at Shawn and I said, “I’m feeling a little ripped off.”

Shawn met my gaze with understanding. “I get that. But I invite you to sit with it over the next week or two. Stay open. Maybe the meaning of this rare, beautiful symbol — this gift — will reveal itself to you in time.”

I nodded, but my mind was churning already. What did it mean to hold space for others? Was that really my purpose? Did I lack the ability to do this exercise? The emptiness of the box seemed to mirror something I couldn’t quite grasp yet.

Over the next couple of weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking about my imaginary box — the one with intricate Indigenous carvings etched into its surface. It lingered in my mind, almost haunting me. I reflected on the Nłeʔkepmxc people in Shulus who had once carved out space for me in their lives, welcoming me into their community. Their teachings had helped to shape me, given me a deeper understanding of connection, culture, and spirit. Then, there was that gaping hole I had felt during my years in Toronto — a void left possibly by my disconnection from Indigenous community that had helped to ground me through traumatic moments as a youth. That too felt carved – away. What was the significance of the indigenous carvings on my imaginary box?

What did it really mean to have space for others? Was the box a symbol that I was meant to ‘be’ that space for others? Or did it mean that I had the capacity to hold space for others? And what kind of space was it — a safe one, a healing one, a physical one, an emotional one? I turned these questions over and over in my mind, searching for answers that wouldn’t easily come.

The more I thought about it, the more I wondered: Doesn’t everyone have space for others? What made my box, my space, different? Was there a purpose to this emptiness? This idea gnawed at me, not quite fully formed, but growing in meaning each day. I didn’t know it yet, but the symbol was starting to reveal its deeper layers. Something significant lay within that emptiness — Was it just a matter of time before I would understand it more fully?

By the time the next Mastermind meeting arrived, I no longer felt disappointed or shortchanged by my symbol. I eagerly shared how the box had stayed with me for days, lingering in my thoughts. I explained the questions that had circled in my mind, each leading me closer to an important revelation.

I now believed that the empty box symbolized my unique gift—the ability to hold safe space for others. Not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. In part, it meant being a vessel for others, a container for their emotions and experiences, when they could no longer bear the weight alone. It was about being there for someone when they needed someone to walk beside them, to help them understand and give voice to their feelings, or sometimes simply to listen and truly understand.

As I shared this realization with the group, I was being honest about the darker thoughts that had followed me for so long. I had often wondered if I was cursed, somehow responsible for attracting the misfortunes in my life. I even questioned whether God might be a mischievous woman with a wicked sense of humour, making me her court jester, and laughing at my calamities and foolishness.

But with this newfound symbol of my life’s purpose, my perspective was beginning to shift. Instead of seeing myself as the target of some cosmic joke, I began to ask different questions: Am I my Master's creation? Were my unique experiences preparing me for something greater? I began to see that the pain and challenges I had faced weren’t curses, but instead the very things that had carved and stretched me, giving me the capacity to understand others more deeply. How could I truly empathize with someone else if I hadn’t experienced something like what they had? How could I offer others safe space if I didn’t know what it meant to be fully present—physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually?

As I embraced this understanding, I began to love my empty box that had once left me feeling uncertain. It wasn’t just a symbol anymore—it was a part of me, a reflection of my purpose. When I had been well enough to leave the hospital, I had started a production company and film studio called Mastermind Studios to remind me of my role in storytelling and create films that matter. Now, with the clarity brought by my empty box, I realized that even the physical film studio itself was an even bigger “empty box”— to hold safe space for others. However, they needed me to. To help them discover their own story. To help them understand their own story. To help them write or narrate their own story. Or, to help them possibly even share their own story to help others.

It had all been unfolding on its own, evolving without my full awareness, but now I saw how everything had been leading me to this moment of clarity. My purpose was finally clear, and the symbol of the box was no longer empty — it was full of meaning. It was full of people. Each person brought into my life was the real symbol of my life’s purpose.

Peter J. Cameron-Inglis
Writer, Director, Producer
Mastermind Studios