Dr. Michael Cørnwall

08/23/2025

. . . font matters . . .

08/18/2025

. . . we learn early in life that as long as we are heterosexual nothing else we do will ever matter as much . . .

08/16/2025

08/10/2025

08/10/2025

There Is No One and Nothing That Doesn’t Know God Exists

I overheard this statement this week: “There is no one and nothing that doesn’t know God exists.” I have since learned that this statement represents a form of theological absolutism, one that is closely tied to certain currents in religious epistemology and metaphysics. At its core, the claim asserts that awareness of God’s existence is universal and unavoidable, applying not only to all human beings but, in a broader metaphysical sense, to all of reality. While such a statement may appear rhetorically forceful, its meaning depends heavily on the philosophical or theological framework in which it is situated.

Within the Christian intellectual tradition, this assertion often reflects the doctrine of Sensus Divinitatis, most prominently articulated by the Reformed theologian John Calvin. Calvin suggested that a natural, inborn awareness of God is present in all people, functioning as a “seed of religion” (semen religionis) that no one can fully erase (Calvin, 1559/1960). Contemporary philosopher Alvin Plantinga (2000) has expanded this idea into a model of properly basic belief, arguing that belief in God can be foundational — justified without inferential evidence — because it arises from cognitive faculties functioning as they were designed. In this view, those who deny God’s existence are not lacking awareness but are instead suppressing or resisting it, a position that draws theological support from biblical texts such as Romans 1:19-20, where the apostle Paul claims that God’s “eternal power and divine nature” are plainly perceived through creation.

From a different angle, the statement can be interpreted through the lens of mystical or metaphysical traditions in which all entities, not just human beings, participate in a universal consciousness. In panentheistic or animistic worldviews, all of creation is infused with or participates in the divine, making “knowledge” of God a structural feature of existence itself (Tillich, 1951). In this sense, the claim might be read less as an empirical proposition and more as a metaphysical axiom: to exist is to be in some relation — however unconscious — to the divine ground of being.

Presuppositional apologetics takes yet another approach, maintaining that God’s existence is the necessary precondition for logic, morality, and rational thought. This school of thought, represented by thinkers like Cornelius Van Til (1976) and Greg Bahnsen (1994), would treat the statement as a transcendental argument: the very act of denying God presupposes Him. Here, the claim is unfalsifiable by design, since any counterargument is framed as evidence of the underlying truth being denied.

From a critical perspective, the universality asserted in the statement poses logical and epistemological challenges. Its falsifiability means it functions more as a confessional or doctrinal affirmation than as a proposition subject to empirical verification. If one accepts Plantinga’s or Van Til’s premises, the claim follows coherently; if not, it risks sounding circular or vacuous, since any expressed disbelief is explained away as self-deception or willful suppression. Extending the scope from “no one” to “nothing” also blurs the boundary between conscious awareness and metaphor, moving the claim from a cognitive or epistemic register into the poetic or mystical.

Thus, the statement functions less as an argument aimed at persuasion and more as a foundational premise within certain theistic worldviews. For those who share that framework, it affirms a deep metaphysical truth about the nature of reality and the structure of human cognition. For those outside it, the statement is likely to appear as an article of faith — rhetorically emphatic but philosophically unconvincing unless its underlying presuppositions are granted.

In plain terms, the person who says this is likely starting from the belief that God’s existence is so self-evident that everyone already knows it, whether or not they admit it. To them, disbelief is not a matter of lacking knowledge but of ignoring or rejecting what is already inside. Whether one finds this compelling depends entirely on whether one accepts the worldview that makes it possible — a worldview in which “knowing” God is not something you learn, but something you are born already doing.

References

Bahnsen, G. L. (1994). Van Til’s apologetic: Readings and analysis. Presbyterian and Reformed Publishing.

Calvin, J. (1960). Institutes of the Christian religion (J. T. McNeill, Ed.; F. L. Battles, Trans.). Westminster John Knox Press. (Original work published 1559)

Plantinga, A. (2000). Warranted Christian belief. Oxford University Press.

Tillich, P. (1951). Systematic theology (Vol. 1). University of Chicago Press.

Van Til, C. (1976). The defense of the faith (3rd ed.). Presbyterian and Reformed Publishing.

08/08/2025

Emotional Intelligence Improvement: An Alternative to Diagnosis-Based Mental Health Care

In the evolving landscape of mental health care, there is a growing need to reexamine how we approach emotional distress and psychological well-being. Rather than pathologizing individuals through diagnostic labels, some practitioners—myself included—have adopted an alternative framework centered on emotional intelligence (EI) improvement. Emotional intelligence improvement is not a clinical treatment for a mental disorder; it is an educational model. It focuses on teaching emotional skills, enhancing self-awareness, and promoting present-moment functioning. It regards the individual, not the diagnosis, as the foundation for growth.

The mental health industry is broad, encompassing more than forty recognized forms of therapy and at least five primary clinical disciplines: psychiatry, psychology, counseling, clinical social work, and psychiatric nursing (Norcross & Goldfried, 2019). Each of these fields offers a unique perspective, but all are governed by licensing boards and shaped by clinical philosophies. When seeking mental health support, clients are often unaware that they can—and should—ask about a clinician’s orientation and licensure. These elements determine not only how a therapist works, but what kind of help they are authorized to provide. It is more useful, in many cases, to choose a therapist based on these credentials rather than the diagnosis you may have received.

Diagnoses in mental health are largely subjective (Frances, 2013). Unlike physical medicine, which can rely on laboratory results or imaging, mental health diagnoses are constructed through behavioral observations, client self-reporting, and cultural consensus. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5-TR) offers descriptions of symptoms, not causes or cures (American Psychiatric Association, 2022). This distinction is important: what we call a “disorder” may often be a pattern of behavior that reflects an individual’s attempt to adapt to stress, trauma, or unmet emotional needs. Diagnoses may be useful in some contexts, particularly when insurance billing or psychiatric medication is involved, but they are not absolute truths. Rather, they are narrative frameworks.

Take, for example, Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder (OCPD). OCPD is characterized by a pervasive concern with orderliness, perfectionism, and control, often at the expense of flexibility, openness, and efficiency (American Psychiatric Association, 2022). Individuals with OCPD may struggle to delegate tasks, adhere rigidly to rules, and become distressed when others deviate from their standards. Within an EI model, however, these behaviors would not be labeled pathological. Instead, they would be seen as learned strategies for managing internal discomfort—symptoms pointing to deeper beliefs about safety, self-worth, or control. In this way, emotional intelligence improvement treats the person, not the label.

The emphasis on diagnosis within traditional models often creates a circular problem. A client who feels emotionally overwhelmed is assigned a disorder, which then becomes a lens through which both the client and the clinician interpret every thought, feeling, or behavior. The diagnosis risks becoming both explanation and identity. This is particularly true in clinical environments where the prescription of psychiatric medications, such as SSRIs, is expected following diagnosis (Moncrieff & Timimi, 2013). While medications may be beneficial for some individuals, they are often offered before skills-based interventions have been tried. Emotional intelligence improvement does not reject medication outright, but it does prioritize long-term skill development over symptom suppression.

Unlike medicalized approaches, emotional intelligence development is rooted in present-based, solution-focused strategies (Goleman, 1995). It equips individuals with tools to better understand and regulate their emotional experiences, communicate effectively, and respond flexibly to life’s challenges. These competencies do not “treat” a disorder—they build a stronger foundation for self-efficacy and resilience. This model operates more like coaching or education than therapy and can be especially helpful for people who are seeking practical support rather than diagnostic validation.

Ultimately, this industry is, for many, a means of paying the bills. There are incentives—whether economic, professional, or institutional—to diagnose. The more exotic the diagnosis, the more specialized the treatment may appear. But those of us who practice outside this model can be more candid. We are not beholden to insurance codes or pharmaceutical outcomes. We are accountable only to the people we serve and the skills we teach. For individuals seeking clarity, not pathology—for those looking to grow, not be defined—emotional intelligence improvement offers a grounded, rational, and empowering alternative.

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References

American Psychiatric Association. (2022). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (5th ed., text rev.). Arlington, VA: American Psychiatric Publishing.

Frances, A. (2013). Saving normal: An insider’s revolt against out-of-control psychiatric diagnosis, DSM-5, big pharma, and the medicalization of ordinary life. New York, NY: HarperCollins.

Goleman, D. (1995). Emotional intelligence: Why it can matter more than IQ. New York, NY: Bantam Books.

Moncrieff, J., & Timimi, S. (2013). The social and cultural construction of psychiatric knowledge: An analysis of NICE guidelines on depression and ADHD. Anthropology & Medicine, 20(1), 59–71.

Norcross, J. C., & Goldfried, M. R. (2019). Handbook of psychotherapy integration (3rd ed.). Oxford University Press.

08/04/2025

The Withdrawal

It took something and seven hours.

Not to forgive.

But to find out how.

Nancy was on the floor most of the afternoon. Curled tight. Knees in, arms crossed. The tile was cold. Her cheek stuck to where the spit had dried. She’d screamed herself out. Screamed in a way she didn’t even recognize herself. At first, it was loud. Then only inside. After a while, she couldn't tell which was which. Was she screaming, or was her mind screaming?

Or maybe her body was screaming at her mind.

The air conditioner cycled on and off seven times. She counted.

Claude stood in the doorway now and then. Commercial breaks. He didn’t come in. Didn’t say her name. Just crossed his arms. “You’re a fu***ng idiot,” he said. Not angry. Just like he was telling her, the temperature outside, or what Trump was up to now. “Why don’t you just get up and go to bed?” He scratched his stomach. “You’re just a spoiled teenager. Grow up.” He turned and went back into his cave.

Later, she’d think how even a stranger would’ve stopped to help a dog making sounds like that. Would’ve knelt. Done something.
Offered a cup of water.

But Claude didn’t.

Not one step.

She could have used some water.

Anyone could have seen that every drop of moisture in her body was on the floor beside her mouth.

When it passed, whatever it was—she didn’t cry anymore, didn’t scream in agony. Her body buzzed, but inside, she was gone. It was as if someone had flipped a switch off and forgotten to turn it back on.

The next morning, she made coffee. Hands shaking. She held the pot with both hands as if it were fragile. Claude came in wearing the same shirt from the night before. “You should’ve stayed in bed,” he said. He lit his b**g. Took a hit. Walked to the bathroom. Just like always.

No mention.

No concern.

It hadn’t always been that way. Years ago, he’d listened. He used to watch her talk as if trying to memorize her mouth. That was what she held onto later, when the silence crept in, when he stopped asking how she felt, when he shrugged at everything.

They stopped kissing.

Then stopped touching.

Then it just stopped.

The silence was a second skin.

Two months later, she went to the hospital. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Her mind went dull. Claude said, “I hate you,” his teeth seething his words. “I want a divorce. Now!” The doctor said it was stressful. Said her body was turning things off to survive.

Claude came once, right before visiting hours ended. Clean shirt. Jeans. She could smell his cologne. He stood at the foot of the bed like he’d been sent. Didn’t sit. “I still care for you,” he said. “I just can’t live with you anymore.” It sounded like he was talking about something dead he’d found in the garage. “I know this is a bad time, but it’s best to know we are done.” She didn’t speak. “You always want to make everything about you,” he said, as if disgusted with her. “Why can’t anything be about something other than you. You are just selfish.”

She closed her eyes and kept them shut. When she opened them, he was gone. She wasn’t sure if he’d said “selfish” or “idiotic.” Either way, it didn’t matter. A nurse touched her arm when she came in with the IV. That was the only time anyone touched her all week. She hoped the nurse would have a reason to stay with her, to help her with her loneliness, abandonment, and betrayal. That wasn’t her role. She left and shut out the light. She said, “Good,” in the doorway, and “night,” as she shut the door.

When she got home, there was a new rug. He said it was on sale. She nodded, watching a lint ball roll across the floor. Didn’t cry. That’s when she knew something was finished. Something changed. Done. Not loudly. Just done. Like a clock stopping and no one notices, because no one wants to know the time anymore.

That week, she asked about the money. Said she wanted her own account. Said she wanted to pay her own bills. Claude said, “I’ll show you.”

He didn’t.

Three days later, she logged in. Changed the password. Turned on alerts. The account had always been in her name. She just hadn’t known how to use it. That had been the point.

He liked her unready.

He liked the edge it gave him.

She asked about the woman after she had safeguarded the money. She wouldn’t have dared otherwise. If she had, she knew he would blame her. She didn’t want to hear it anymore. She told him, “I don’t approve of this. I want her out of the house.”

Claude didn’t flinch. “I can’t agree with that.” Flat voice. Like reading a traffic update. “She’s my only friend. You want me to spend my life alone and lonely. You’re just a fu***ng idiot.”

She didn’t shout. Didn’t plead. Just said, “Then we need to file.”
“OK,” he said, opening the fridge. Pulled out the juice. “Whatever I do is never enough. You’re never satisfied.” He poured. “Always bossing. Always dramatic.” He studied her subtly. “I guess I’ll just spend my life alone. You don’t want me to have any friends.” He drank.

Watched her.

Waiting.

“I used to be your friend,” she said, turning to leave.

That night, she locked the bedroom door and rewrote her will. Took out his name. Put in her brother. A cousin. A friend she hadn’t seen in four years. Wrote up other papers too. Directions. Protections. In bold. It felt serious. She thought she might cry. But she didn’t. She made tea. Sat at the table with both hands around the cup. The mug was chipped. A souvenir from Santa Fe. It was the only thing she kept from their time together.

Everything else felt like bait.

Later that week, she told him he could keep the house. She didn’t want it. Didn’t want to scrub the walls or open windows. Didn’t want to breathe in what they left behind. She found a place a few miles off. One bedroom. Yellow walls. A leaky faucet. It smelled like new paint and dust. But the windows were wide. The light came in clean. She bought new dishes. White with a pale blue rim. She only used one, but it clinked on the below when she stacked it. That sound made her feel calm. Sometimes she slid it under the stack to use the next one the next time she ate.

In the mornings, she drank tea and watched the sunlight shift on the wall. She didn’t talk much. Didn’t need to. She’d passed through something.

Not healed.

Not new.

But cleaner.

Claude texted. Updates about dogs. His job. His marriage.
She read and deleted them. Once he said, “I still care for you,” as if that alone would make everything OK again, and she would have a change of heart. He added, “If you weren’t such a baby, this would have worked out.”

She looked at the screen. Then, at the chipped mug. Then she laughed. Quiet. Almost nothing. She turned off the phone and made herself a second cup.

It took one night.

A little over seven hours.

And forty years.

And one afternoon on the floor.

And one colder-than-usual silence.

And one morning, with shaky hands.

But she knew it wasn’t the end of everything.

It was a withdrawal.

And she hadn’t died.

08/03/2025

Just Trying to Talk

They were walking around the central square in Santa Fe. Dry air, flat sun. Everything low and wide, as if they had been forced to stand too long, like an old man who’d grown used to the curvatures of age.

Eve had noticed them all day—clusters of something red, purple, yellow hanging from walls, fence lines, windows. Too perfect to be natural. Molded, almost. Like ceramic Christmas lights. She stopped under a pole with a pink-and-purple birdhouse nailed to it. A bunch of them hung there too, twisting a little in the wind. “What are those?” she asked Glenn. “I’ve been seeing them everywhere.”

Glenn paused, hands in his pockets. He squinted. “Looks like something drying. Maybe a seed pod?”

“They’re too colorful,” she said. “Too neat. They look so old and dried out. Seems like they should be colorless, but they have color. Like an old oil painting.”

Glenn laughed. “Honestly, I hadn’t noticed them until you pointed them out. I’ve been looking for something unique in these shops.”

“I don’t know how you could’ve missed them.”

Glenn was already a few steps ahead, staring into another shop window. “I wonder if they’ll have a band tonight,” he said to her reflection in the glass. It wasn’t clear if he was talking to her or into his earbuds.

She turned to go. An older woman was standing nearby, stacking clay pots beside a small cart. A wide-brimmed straw hat shadowed her face. Her hands were small and lined. “You like peppers?” the woman asked.

Eve looked over. “That’s what they are!” she said, suddenly enlightened. “They’re everywhere.”

The woman nodded. “Ristras. For blessings and protection. Mostly to remember the taste of hardship.”

“They’re beautiful,” Eve said.

“They’re honest,” the woman said.

Eve smiled a little and shrugged.

“They remind me to be strong.”

Eve nodded.

The woman turned back to her pots.

Inside the store, Glenn was already trying on a poncho. Orange, red, blue, a splash of green. Desert colors. Too much color for you, Eve thought.

“What do you think?” he asked the cashier, holding his arms out.

“Very nice,” the cashier said. She looked at Eve. “What do you think?”

Eve studied him. “Looks good,” she said. “Get it. You can wear it this fall.”

He nodded, pleased, and folded it like something he’d made himself.

Outside, the sky had cooled to a blue-gray. Shadows stretched. The ristras still hung from the eaves, faded now. “Those things again,” Eve said. “It’s like I can smell them now.”

Glenn followed her gaze. “Yeah. They’re everywhere.”

“They look different when you can smell them.”

“Less red,” he said. “Maybe they thrive on sunlight.”

She nodded.

“Still holding on,” he added.

Eve watched him as he walked toward the bandstand.

“I’ll meet you over there,” she said.

“You want anything?”

“No,” she said.

Glenn wandered off, the paper bag holding the poncho swinging at his side.

Eve stood in front of a souvenir shop. More ristras hung from the rafters. Some were bright in the storefront light. Some brown, dull. They didn’t grow. They just hung there, suspended, waiting for something, losing their usefulness, the more ornamental they became. Eve reached for one that dangled near the doorway. The skin cracked under her finger. A red flake stuck to her thumb. She put it in her mouth without thinking.

It burned.

It was drier than she expected.

It choked her.

Long dead, drier, still burned hotter, drier, over time. She plucked another from the bunch and slipped it into her coat pocket.

Glenn stood near the edge of the crowd, eating something fried from a paper boat. He had a fork but wasn’t using it. “You missed the first song,” he said.

Eve nodded.

He held out the food. “Want a bite?”

“No.”

“It’s good. I think it’s fish.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He shrugged. Kept eating. She stood beside him, one hand in her pocket, the pepper skin smooth between her fingers. The band played something slow. A trumpet. A few couples danced. “You used to like this kind of thing,” Glenn said.

“I still do.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He wiped his hands on a napkin. “You want to dance?”

“Not right now.”

“I think I’ll walk around. See what else is here.”

“Okay.”

“You staying here?”

“I’ll be around.”

He left the food on the bench. She didn’t touch it. The music ended. A man clapped too early. Then stopped. A boy danced alone. His mother laughed and tried to stop him. He kept dancing. Above the taco stand, ristras hung under string lights. They didn’t move, as if frozen in the the street lights. Eve slipped a sliver of the pepper from her pocket into her mouth and swallowed. It stung her throat. Seared as it went down.

The couple didn’t say much on the way back.

The room was small. One lamp on. Glenn set the bag on the chair and sat on the bed, untying his shoes. “You want the bathroom first?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Eve said, pulling the pepper from her pocket and placing it on the nightstand.

Glenn shut the bathroom door and locked it behind him.

Eve sat in the armchair and unfolded the bag. The poncho was soft. The tag was still on.

Glenn came out in a towel, hair wet and flat. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“You seemed off earlier.”

“I was thinking.”

“About what?”

She looked at him. “Just things.”

He pulled on a T-shirt. “Just trying to talk.”

“I know.”

He sat on the bed, back to her. “We used to talk more.”

She didn’t answer.

“I think I’ll sleep in this,” he said, lifting the poncho. “Looks warm enough.” He shook it once, lightly. “It can get cold out here at night.”

She smiled. “You’re going to sleep in a poncho?”

“It’s soft,” he said. “When in Rome.”

He got under the covers.

She brushed her teeth.

When she came out, he was turned toward the wall. She slid into her side, careful not to touch him. The AC kicked on. She stared at the ceiling. Then at his back. The poncho tag stuck out near his neck. She reached over and tucked it in. Let her hand rest there, just for a moment. He didn’t move. “Those peppers,” she said in his direction. “They’re not just decorations.”

She waited.

“They hang there looking dead, but they’re not. Far from it.”

No response.

“They still have heat. Maybe more than they did before someone hung them out to dry.”

She paused.

“They look harmless. They’re not. Don’t let them fool you.”

Still nothing.

“They remind me of something,” she said, hesitating this time. She listened. Glenn shifted slightly. Pulled the blanket higher. Settled in. She looked at his poncho. He might have been asleep. He might not have been. She’d never know. She didn’t want to know. She turned off the lamp and lay beside him, facing the dark. She didn’t reach for him. Just stayed close. And for the first time in a long while, she felt the warmth in her own skin.

Ristras, she thought, still alive.

Still burning.

07/28/2025

. . . where there is a need you will find anxiety . . . whether the need is met or it isn’t . . .

07/26/2025

Cognitive distortions are errors in thinking that paint an incorrect reality. They are irrational and usually lead to wrong conclusions. Here is an explanation and description of the most common cognitive distortions.

07/26/2025

. . . a six year old boy stood defiantly, hands on hips, looking straight into my eyes . . . a small streak of purple in his hair, he growled, “YOU are not allowed to allow me!”

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