Every once in a while i feel compelled to dash off some writing that I don’t know what to do with – so I put it at my other blog at Subtext Consultations and release it to the wild for it to do whatever it is supposed to do on its own.
You can read it over there if you like by clicking below:
illustration by the brilliant Cranky Muse Projects
I learned yesterday that a dear friend, colleague and collaborator, Jason Evan Mihalko, Psy.D. died last week.
I first contacted Jason after I came across a stunningly brave series of essays he had written after surviving a client’s suicide, and quickly we became fellow advocates for a new kind of transparency in our profession and the value of psychotherapeutic perspectives in our national social conversation.
He was a brave, loving, radically compassionate, fierce and funny man, who will be dearly missed by the thousands of people whose lives he impacted.
But his words, at The Irreverent Psychologist should speak for him. His beautiful series of essays: “Dear Young Therapist” remind us all of the core values that sit at the heart of this impossible profession.
And this is from my favorite of those essays:
Dear Young Therapist, Don’t be Afraid To Love.
I’m old enough to no longer care how my fellow psychologists evaluate me. I’m skilled enough to know how to wield these twin tools of relational growth and change within the safe boundaries of a therapeutic relationship.
I’m thankful that I’ve never met a patient that I couldn’t love or couldn’t learn to love. It’s from that space that I begin to see the seeds of where a person might be able to go, grow, and let go. It’s from that space that I can find the confidence to let go of wanting a patient to be something I need them to be (or society needs them to be) and let them go about finding what they need themselves to be.
Still, young therapist, I don’t frequently tell my patients that I love them. It is often dangerous and disruptive to use the word. Patients can become incredibly confused and conflicted. Too many therapists also become confused and conflicted.
Just because love is dangerous, doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be thought about.
I am not afraid to love and to say that I do when a moment of genuine honesty is the best intervention. Don’t forget this, young therapist. Don’t forget that our work is built on a foundation of faith in humanity and love of the person who sits across from you.
Please go read this series and explore his blog if you haven’t.
I don’t know if this blog, What a Shrink Thinks, would exist if I hadn’t met Jason. He made me feel braver as I stuck my nose out into an online world and we made joyful noise together.
If you want to hear us gabbing and laughing our fool heads off you can listen in to the one podcast we had a chance to record before life took a detour that derailed us.
And if you feel so moved, please consider making a donation in his memory here.
Grateful for all that he gave. Words fail me.
I’ve started a project – that I will ultimately write about in some form:
I’m collecting the dreams that others have had about our current president. I have no idea where it might lead us individually or collectively. But it seems an important time for us all to listen for collective wisdom:
I’ve set up a blog for the sole purpose of gathering/archiving dreams for now.
You may share your dreams in the comments, which will be unpublished until they have been stripped of identifying information.
Click here to hear the stories of our collective dreaming…
This content is for members only. Become a member now by purchasing Seminar Level — One Month Only, Seminar Level Monthly, Seminar Level – Annual to get access to this content.
I am currently leading two depth psychology reading/study/discussion groups: One meets “in real life” in my New York office, and the other meet remotely by Skype.
We read and discuss relational psychoanalytic, Jungian, and mythological texts together – and discuss their implications in our practices and lives and communities.
The group is open to psychotherapists, clinical social workers, psychologists, counselors or clergy/pastoral counselors who would like more theoretical grounding and analytic psychology.
The groups meets once a month on a Thursday morning. If there is sufficient interest I am open to creating additional groups in the evenings. The fee is $80.
This group will be a compliment to the online subscription “Seminar” offered on the website for those who are interested in more didactic “seminar” essays on various subjects related to psychotherapeutic theory and practice.
I’d be very grateful if you’d consider passing this information on to anyone who you think may be a good fit for either group, on line or “in real life”.
I can be reached at whatashrinkthinks@yahoo.com for those interested.
Thanks so much. 😊
Martha<<<<<< ;< /p>
I wanted to let you all know about a new intention, a feature I am offering here at the blog, the What a Shrink Thinks Seminar:
The What a Shrink Thinks Seminar is a twice monthly online subscription seminar focusing on the psychotherapeutic process and the varied theoretical, ethical, socio-political, and spiritual concerns that impact psychotherapeutic work.
The seminar consists of two didactic essays each month written in response to queries and prompts submitted by subscribers. This is content that is distinct from the public blog posts at What a Shrink Thinks.
Some subjects that I can imagine we might cover:
Practice building
Specialization versus generalist practice
Archetype and myth in clinical practice
Long term versus short term treatments
Use of self in psychotherapy
Working with countertransferences
The strengths and limitations of psychoanalytic theory
Gifts and transitional objects
Psychotherapy, empathy and social justice
Bereavement, grief, and palliative psychotherapy
If you are interested in finding out more: please click on the Seminar links on the menu above.
(And thank you in advance for your patience with any technical difficulties. Old dog here, learning new tricks!)
And let’s see where this experiment takes us!
My grandmother’s teaching watch hung upside down from a long chain around her neck so that as she monitored how her lesson plans were unfolding, and scooped the watch from her bosom its face would be right side up.
It belongs to me for now. It still keeps perfect time.
My grandfather had a small chiming clock that he kept on the shelf behind his reclining chair. It chimed “Westminster Bells” every quarter hour, ringing in the hour with its rhythmic gong. The chimes reached every corner of the old farmhouse. Especially helpful if I had promised Grandma that I would be ready in time to ride into town at three o’clock, or when I woke, startled, from a dream in the big squeaky four-poster bed in “Mom’s old room” which was mine when I visited.
Ding-dong ding-dong, ding-dong ding-dong….
I had learned to play the tune on the piano, from my mother’s old exercise book found tucked inside the piano bench, yellowed and crackly at the corners, with its own lyrics:
Ding dong, dong ding
Hear the chimes ring!
We hear them now,
chiming the hour!
I never heard the time again without those lyrics: “Ding dong dong ding” were the words for quarter after. “Hear the bells ring” meant half-past. The quarter-to bells left you hanging mid-sentence: “We hear them now….” The sentence fragment let me know I had only ten minutes left to wash my face and find my shoes out in the yard before Grandma would cluck and scold me for always leaving things to the last minute.
It rings in my house now, and tells me exactly where I am in the throes of a night of foot cramps and hot-flashes, night-sweats and anxiety dreams. How many hours left of insomnia? Is it late enough that I should just say fuck it and commit to being awake for the next hour and a half before taking the kids to school? Or the clock braces me for a long night of tossing and turning when the bells tell me that I am wide awake after only an hour or two of sleep.
When I was very little my mother had a tiny diamond shaped Timex watch with a stretchy metallic band that she would hold up to my ear when I had a bad cold or a possible ear infection: “DO YOU HEAR IT TICKING?” she would holler, terrified out of her mind that I had burst an ear drum.
I never heard it, which made her more frantic. Sometimes, I’d sneak into her dressing room, find the watch on her vanity and hold it up to my own ear. I never heard a thing, which made me wonder if my mother had ever tried to listen to the damn thing herself or if she had just gone completely around the bend.
I have an indelible image in my mind’s eye of the red glowing numbers of the digital clock that sat next to my bed through high school. For years, I woke regularly to see its numbers flashing “4:00am.” My step-father told me, unhelpfully, that four in the morning was called the Hour of the Wolf.
“The hour of death and poetry” he elaborated, which didn’t make it any better.
In college, at a Bergman film festival, I learned more about the Hour of the Wolf than I ever wanted to know from the movie of the same name:
According to the ancient Romans the Hour of the Wolf means the time between night and dawn, just before light comes, and people believed it to be the time when demons had heightened powers and vitality, the hour when most people died, and most children are born and when nightmares come… ~ Hour of the Wolf
During daylight I am nearly well enough to press it out of my mind for large chunks of time – until the reality of cancer asserts itself through fatigue, neuropathy, or my daily medication reminders. But it is at this ominous hour that I begin to wonder how much time I have left, how old my children might be when I die, until I catch and collect myself, forbiding my brain to indulge in such useless, torturous thoughts.
This is the hour that I release my mind to drift over my past, now that the future has become taboo. I review and reinterpret old dreams in light of my current circumstance. Or lose myself in snippets of the deep past.
My first watch: Donald Duck in his sailor suit his puffy gloves pointing out the minutes (not Mickey, everyone had Mickey). Mounted on a wide lemon-yellow patent leather wristband that closed with a row of adjustable silver snaps and left me with a wide patch of untanned skin in the summer. My prized possession in first grade, until I lost it. And then found it a few years later and then eventually lost it again forever. I kept searching in all my secret spots until we moved away. A gift from my paternal grandfather – or rather my paternal grandfather’s second wife. Gramps would never have thought to bring his many grandchildren souvenirs from a quick trip to Los Angeles, nor would he have any idea what to select (he barely knew our names).
I visited him a few weeks before he died.
“I guess I didn’t spend too much time getting to know you.” he said.
“I guess not.” I replied.
“And now its too late…” he said.
It is the only conversation I recall ever having with him.
I wear my deceased mother-in-law’s watch for the infrequent special occasions I am asked to attend: fundraising galas and weddings. It is the smallest ladies watch ever manufactured by Phillipe Patek, with a face as small as the tip of my pinky. I don’t remember who gave it to her, but I think it was for her wedding, and who ever bestowed it upon her must have loved her very much. A mechanism so tiny that when it was given to me by my father-in-law who informed me that it was in need of a good cleaning, I had to trudge all over New York City from specialty jeweler to watchmaker before I could find anyone brave enough to open it up.
“I wouldn’t touch it with a ten foot pole.”
“No way, too small.”
“I wouldn’t do it, but there is one guy I know who might do it – he’s nuts but he is hands down the best…”
He directed me to a dingy second-hand jewelry store near Washington Square Park. The shop was dark, lit only by the sunlight from the display case filled windows. An older man behind a high counter screwed a jeweler’s loupe into his right eye, and took off the back of the watch with a special tool.
“Just look at this…” he said, his voice an awe-filled whisper. “You don’t see these running much, they were novelties really. No replacement parts and the cogs are so tiny that once one snaps or skips you never get them running again. This one is a little dirty, does it run slow?”
I nodded
“But basically its perfect. Look.” He placed a magnifier between me and the little opened watch that he had positioned on a piece of green felt. He showed me all of its delicate pulsating magical springs and wheels.
“You can pick it up next week. Fifty bucks. No guarantee. But I can do it. I’m the only guy in the world who can.”
And he did.
That was twenty five years ago and it still keeps fine time when I take it out of its box once a year and carefully wind up its miniature mechanics.
I never met my mother-in-law. She died of cancer before I met her son, before we fell in love, before he asked me to promise never to die of cancer, before marriage and careers and children. And long before I would ever have to consider breaking my promise to him when I was diagnosed myself.
When my parents married my dad’s mother presented my mother with an electric “grandmother” clock, (which I suppose just means a standing clock, smaller, shorter and less imposing than a grandfather clock) as her wedding present. It stopped running, practically predictably, shortly after my parents’ divorce, but my mother kept it anyway. She may have hated her ex-mother-in-law with an abiding passion but she liked the clock enough to keep it, although not enough to repair it.
The electric cords had been cut, the motor jammed for decades when I closed up my mother’s apartment and moved her into residential hospice care. I brought the clock to my new home and ordered a cheap set of battery operated replacement hands to put on its old face. I took a photo and showed my mother on my cellphone how perfectly it fit in the small nook between the stairs and the hall closet on the first floor. My mother was supposed to move into the house with us but she never did set foot in it.
“Perfect.” she said, looking at the photo, a week or so before she died. “Just perfect.”
A small but strange thing occurred after I started writing this, the same day that I wore my grandmother’s teaching watch around my neck. During a session with a client, I decided to check the time on my grandmother’s watch, instead of on the serviceable, everyday wristwatch on my left-wrist.
It had stopped.
I decided that must not have wound it enough (I am always scared to over wind both my grandmother’s and my mother-in-law’s watch). I set it to the correct time according to my wristwatch, silently noting that we had fifteen minutes left, and wound it some more as my client and I continued talking.
Therapists must watch the clock, surreptitiously, not merely to be vigilant about ending-times, but throughout to shape and pace the session, to be aware of how much time is devoted to each topic or resistance. And to prevent, if possible, a client from opening up a raw vulnerability too late in the session to resolve before leaving, or to avoid cutting clients off too abruptly. Errors of pacing, timing, closure, and time-telling, are often (not always) indicative of the countertransferential responses we are having toward our clients.
We have complicated relationships to our clocks.
Ten minutes later when I checked my wristwatch I saw that it had stopped at the very moment I reset my grandmother’s watch. And that my grandmother’s teaching watch on the chain around my neck was the one, now, that was keeping correct time.
“Excuse me,” I said to the client as I described the confusing coincidence, “I just want to confirm the time on my cellphone so I can be sure that we haven’t fallen into some Twilight Zone episode or that I haven’t suddenly become a ghost.”
My phone confirmed that my grandmother’s watch was the only one with the correct time to the minute, which meant that my wristwatch had indeed stopped at the very moment I had last glanced at it.
Perhaps something of us continues to tick, to spin and to ring long after our time has stopped. We are all carried by an unfolding cycle that was set in motion long before we are born, and will continue long after we are gone.
Maybe each and every one of us is a time-piece.
I have one more clock story to tell.
When we moved to the new house and my mother moved to hospice, our friend Pam came to stay with us, to help unpack, to care for the kids, to help with my mother, to keep me sane.
The week that my mother died, while I was in the middle of one of many bereavement-naps, Pam unpacked the chiming clock that rang in my grandparent’s home. My mother had inherited the clock, but had told me that it was broken, that she looked into it, and that it was not worth repairing. She had kept it, for sentiment’s sake, wrapped in a dusty blanket in her storage bin. Pam unwrapped it, knowing none of this, and activated it and forgot it as she moved on to the next box.
When I woke, I was suddenly surrounded by the sound of my childhood and my mother’s childhood. The quarter-hour bells were ringing.
I had not heard that sound in over thirty years, although the clock was present in a dream that I’d had many years earlier, just before my mother became disabled. I was in my grandparent’s kitchen, the clock chimed the dangling quarter-to “We hear them now…” And my grandparents entered the room and asked me to take care of my mother for them.
And when my mother died, I knew that it was time for me to transfer that responsibility back to them, so I summoned them for her, and told her to go directly into their care.
And she did.
So the sudden, spontaneous, self-repair of the chiming clock felt like a thank you gift, a reward for a hard task well done.
And every fifteen minutes I hear a sound as familiar to me as my hearbeat, that consoles and connects me to one hundred years of family behind and beyond me. And its chimes fill our home and keep us all oriented, the sound of my mother’s childhood, and my own, and now my children’s childhood too.
*************************
And an astronomer said, “Master, what of Time?”
And he answered:
You would measure time the measureless and the immeasurable.
You would adjust your conduct and even direct the course of your spirit according to hours and seasons.
Of time you would make a stream upon whose bank you would sit and watch its flowing.
Yet the timeless in you is aware of life’s timelessness,
And knows that yesterday is but today’s memory and tomorrow is today’s dream.
And that that which sings and contemplates in you is still dwelling within the bounds of that first moment which scattered the stars into space.
Who among you does not feel that his power to love is boundless?
And yet who does not feel that very love, though boundless, encompassed within the centre of his being, and moving not form love thought to love thought, nor from love deeds to other love deeds?
And is not time even as love is, undivided and paceless?
But if in you thought you must measure time into seasons, let each season encircle all the other seasons,
And let today embrace the past with remembrance and the future with longing.
~ Time XXI, Khalil Gibran
What if time isn’t money – but a currency of its own?
Because it is.
What if time is finite and therefore we need to curate every moment as carefully and mindfully as possible to stay aligned with our purpose, not to be diverted.
What if every minute, every second, is an investment spent out of a limited time-life-savings account? What if our holdings are dwindling? What if we waste it, squander it on crap because we never check our balance, because we imagine that our accounts are inexhaustible when they are in fact running out, fast approaching a negative balance?
What if we truly spend time and must pay out our attention?
Because that is the case.
How would you live? What would you spend your time on? What would you allow to occupy or drain you? How much of your account would you expend? What losses would you be willing to write off if you knew the truth: that death is life’s companion, that uncertainty is reality and that the notion that our time-accounts are safe and secure and abundant is an illusion?
What would you let go of? What would you commit to?
What would you allow to preoccupy you? What noise would you get caught up in? What would you do when you recognized all that you have squandered? What would you be willing to gamble on?
What if you reviewed your accounts and saw that you had been negligent, allowing your limited holdings to be stolen from you, in tiny increments, barely noticeable? What action would you take when you are shown for the first time all of the fees deducted, the secret unnamed penalties and surcharges that you never noticed were contractually attached to hundreds of daily, habitual transactions? What would change if you woke up from this indulgent dreaming and saw that every moment is both precious and able to be wasted?
How would others appear to you? How would you relate to all of those caught in the thick dreaming all around you? Everyone operating as if they have been granted an infinite and inexhaustible trust-fund of time to fritter away and squander, who take time for granted so profoundly that they don’t even know it is a limited resource, and that it will run out.
All those who have no idea that they are actually writing the story of their lives by how they spend each and every second.
This is either an initiation into a new reality, or maybe a new dream in and of itself.
Dream time is strange and non-linear, it compresses and expands, slows and speeds up, and circles back upon itself. I listen to dreams for a living – and so I have heard this statement more times than I can count:
“… and then the dream changed and I was somewhere else…”
When I received a strange diagnosis last fall, my dream changed and I am now somewhere else.
Maybe I have ten years of time and relative health left in my account. Or maybe this unique and peculiar central nervous system cancer continues to behave in an anomalous way, and slips through all attempts to treat it. Maybe next week I will find that I have a lesion on my optic nerve. Maybe I will lose the use of my legs in two years time.
Might I get to hold my grandchildren one day?
Will I live until my children graduate high school?
Will I see their thirtieth birthday?
Or, on that day, will I merely exist as a framed photo on their bureau?
A memory of having been loved.
I am living in the reality that life is an inherently insecure proposition.
And all the years I spent as a psychotherapist trying to make people feel safe, when I still believed that that safety was an entitlement and not an illusion.
I should have helped people feel brave instead of safe.
The illusions protect us from the terror, but life is more exquisite and time is more real and precious without the insulation.
There are many who live for a year or two in this dream – I watched my mother, and my chosen sister pass through this space on their way to death. They relished life, and I saw their eyes wide open drinking in every beautiful heartbreaking mundane moment.
Every dirty brown sparrow was a beautiful bird.
Every bite of food was an explosion of gorgeous flavor.
Every second counted.
And there are those who may expect to live long term, for decades in this poignant space, with the illness present, alive, but managed: People with AIDS, those with slow or degenerative conditions. Those who actively live, as Gillian Rose says, “in symbiosis with the disease.”
Will I dwell here for months or years or decades?
No one knows, because there is no knowing.
There never has been any knowing.
I’ve found compatriots in books as I always do, others who have lived connected to Uncertainty and Death as close and familiar traveling companions.
Keep your mind in hell and despair not.
A crisis of illness, bereavement, separation, natural disaster, could be the opportunity to make contact with deeper levels of the terrors of the soul, to loose and to bind, to bind and to loose.
~ Gillian Rose, Love’s Work
I only know one thing, and that is to shout to my children ‘Long Live Life!’
~ Alphonse Daudet, In the Land of Pain
And memories of friends long lost:
Mike, who died of AIDS in our early 30’s in our last phone call, a sudden chilling cry: “You don’t know what it is like to live with something in your body that is trying to kill you!”
He’d been living with it already, running from it as fast as he could, for ten years.
Bob, who died of AIDS in our 40’s. His Lazarus-like rise from the dead when protease inhibitors rescued him from a near fatal T-cell count. His insane, mischievous, provocative giggle. His deadly serious, heroic foolishness.
Their dream changed too.
Time became something else. Something other than what it was before. Friendship became something else. More essential and transcendent.
Love, pleasure, color, contact, all intensified. Everything heightened.
A life binge.
and Time becomes a sensation, a visceral bodily experience.
You live time like you breathe air.
And when the dream changes you can suddenly hear the heartbeat of the universe beating, underneath everything, the baseline pounding, the clock ticking, under all the noise and silliness and tragedy and suffering.
And the beating rhythm of life says this:
This is life. This is Life. This is Life.
And this is life too. Every single moment.
Pay attention.
Spend your time wisely.
This is life. This is time. This is life.
You are alive this minute.
This is the moment.
This is all the time you have got.
Gold
I recently came upon this passage as I was re-reading Alice Miller’s Prisoners of Childhood for a larger project.
And the words tore through me:
**********************
Many are familiar with later editions of Miller’s book: The Drama of the Gifted Child. But its first edition was drawn from her observations serving as a training analyst in a psychoanalytic institute.
So let’s be clear: When Alice Miller wrote this, she was writing about the dilemma of being a psychoanalyst.
Psychotherapists are the prisoners she is referring to. They are the ones who live in constant danger of giving out of their core, excavating treasure out of their very central nervous systems, tearing fistfuls out of their spinal cords to care for others.
It is often said that psychoanalysts suffer from a narcissistic disturbance… This can be confirmed not only inductively based on experience, but also deductively from the type of talent that is needed by an analyst. His sensibility, his empathy, his intense and differentiated emotional responsiveness, and his unusually powerful “antennae” seem to predestine him as a child to be used – if not misused – by people with intense narcissistic needs. ~ Alice Miller, Prisoners Of Childhood
I’ve read this all before. Many times over the past twenty years. I’d read it feeling smug and well-analyzed, so very processed, I had mourned, and finished with such archaic relational patterns – so relieved that I was conscious and had avoided such unconsciously created calamity.
Daudet’s original fable offered other warnings, which I’m sure I would have been just as dismissive of, if I had read it before cancer.
Before I knew had a rare and chronic cancer in my spinal cord and central nervous system, floating throughout my cerebrospinal fluid, swirling around my brain. Before lesions on my lower spine deadened my nerves and distorted my sensory perceptions.
Before I fell.
The full story of The Man with the Golden Brain tells how the man left his mother’s home and squandered his treasure. Spending lavishly on everyone around him.
“You would have thought his brain inexhaustible. And yet it did become exhausted..”
~ Alphonse Daudet, Letters from My Windmill
It tells of his horror upon realizing the enormous hole he had slowly torn out of his core. It tells of an attempt to reform and rehabilitate himself, to create a new and corrective scenario where he would set and hold self-preserving parameters. And of the lure and seduction of his central problem, his compulsion to repeat, to re-enact his core-conflict, to give himself away to death.
Daudet did not have cancer. He had advanced syphilis of the central nervous system.
And I do not have a golden brain.
Nickel or silver or copper at best. Maybe just some useful, work-a-day cooper wiring, the kind they steal from abandoned homes and sell on the underground construction market – supplies that would not buy me or others indulgent luxuries, but that could be sold for some modest profit.
And which I gave away as if my supplies were inexhaustible.
Until I learned that my supplies were exhausted.
Until I saw the gaping hole.
Until my ability to spend myself recklessly perished.
Until I fell on the ground at the crossroads.
A pile of stones marked the intersection.
There was no turning back.
************************************************************
Mercury
Everywhere that Hermes appears, even when it as “guardian,” there is an influx and invasion from the underworld. This is not an invasions of death but rather, of “underworldly life” ~ Karl Kerényi, Hermes, Guide of Souls
As I sat (and continue to sit) in meditation through this cancer I found my mind sheltering in a new imaginal space: I lay on the ground, on my back, on the floor of a contained and insulated biosphere, surrounded by plants with broad leaves and the smell of rich loamy earth. The arched glass dome above me is silvered with mercury. The quicksilver allows only a healing opaque light into the sphere while it also obscures and protects me. Its outer shell impermeable and reflective.
And for months I lay there in that spirit-bubble. Inert. Unable to move at first, and then over time, having no idea how or where to move.
I had fallen into a new world. A space between life and death.
Life inside my body was changed, confusing, unrecognizable to me in its depletion and limitation.
A life that has no prognosis. Not a bad prognosis.
Just none of any kind.
In real time I listen to others speak confidently of their long term plans, their retirements, their vacations, their children’s future college careers. They speak with a certainty that I have lost. A confidence, that I do not begrudge, but I know is illusory.
An illusion I do not get to participate in anymore. A confidence in the future that I will never have again.
This is difficult, impossible for most people to understand. Or maybe it is just intolerable to contemplate until you have to.
No one wants to imagine that I have been altered, permanently, pressed into living a new and unrecognizable life. They imagined that I would be sick for a time, and die – or be sick for a time and then “get well again” my gold, (or nickel or copper) brain restored.
Back on the ground in my domed solarium I knew that I could not move, that I was not permitted to move until I was shown a way forward.
Until it was certain that I would not go back to the road I was on before, certain I could protect myself, preserve my very spine, my treasure, and leave the childhood prison behind.
He guides souls out of his realm – the world of paths and roads – back into the warm life of the household. ~ Karl Kerényi, Hermes, Guide of Souls
And this is what I contemplated above all as I lay broken on the ground, basking in the warm light, guarded from predators, sheltered by broad leaves, near the pile of stacked stones:
Whatever labor I undertake must take nothing away from my children, my family. Any energy expended must be returned to me in full, in kind. It must provide me with more time, resources, gold to invest in my home life. I cannot afford to become depleted for their sake. My family is my primary mission on this earth. They were my ground, the rich, yielding earth that held me as I lay on my back. The soil that infused me with life and with purpose.
For months I couldn’t imagine how I could ever return the profession of psychotherapy again. I could not envision how to return to work, or make a living or pull my weight or feed my children. My old way of being, my grandiose belief that I was inexhaustible, my cocky confidence in the future, my faith in my capacity to be abiding, and consistent and to “go on being” – all of that was gone.
Stolen.
Or perhaps I gave it away.
But I was not left in a void.
I was not banished to Hades.
I was deposited in this other-world,
And the mercury sky-light guarded and protected me,
and I listened to the implicit directions and I would not move until led.
I lay there a long time.
(I am still there now)
Hermes reveals a new kind of thieving or larceny, a divine kind. ~ Karl Kerényi, Hermes, Guide of Souls
A great deal was stolen from me, and subsequently from those who were attached to me.
My children lost a healthy mother, one who could take on big ambitious projects, who planned big adventures, who was physically strong, who could support them logistically, financially, and make them feel safe. I am now a source of worry, a fragile mother, who they must stay away from when they are sick. A mother with a chronic illness that will be terminal one day but who knows when, who gets bone tired even on a trip to the nearby mall and needs to sit down to rest. Who has a doctors appointment, or another test, or who forgot to take her medication. Who needs them to get their chores done, who asks for help cooking dinner, whose limitations now impinge on their adolescence, constricting our finances, limiting our recreations and freedoms.
My husband lost a reliable partner, a fellow bread winner, and was left with a weepy, shaken wife with a damaged body numb from her waist to her feet. Who is courageous for the kids and chatty with the neighbors- but who saves up her fears and frets and floods to share only with him.
Clients in authentic states of primal dependency, negotiating psychiatric crises lost their therapist entirely – and were referred on when I was diagnosed to seek out other professional supports. I no longer have the fortitude to tend to them as their needs demand. I am too flooded with my own vulnerability to withstand, contain or carry anyone else’s profound dependencies. I am no longer anyone’s life-ring. No one can cling to me hoping that I will save them. They must find other therapists who have the resources and abundance to follow more self-sacrificing gods.
Other clients, with greater autonomy and stability, those who come to accrue wellness rather than to treat illness, will need to choose whether they want to work with me as I am now: My perspective changed, my needs more explicit: Higher fees. Fewer hours. They lost a comfortable, easily affordable, accommodating and convenient psychotherapy.
It may not be worth it for many.
Hermes is a trickster, and the paradox became clear – that “going back to work” actually meant releasing it all, letting it all disappear if need be, leaving a vacuum that may or may not be filled.
Maybe we were all fooled. Maybe the violence of this theft was necessary for us all.
Hermes is the god who leads you on. ~ Karl Kerényi, Hermes, Guide of Souls
And a stranger tweeted this to me:
J.D.@juanviejo: Hermes as ψυχοπομπός, guide of souls, conducts the soul of the dead to whatever lies beyond the wreck of this life.
J.D.@juanviejo: Hermes did not heal. Like him you are and have always been a guide of souls.
And these words were not only kind – they were relieving, enlivening. Only then did I realize I had been sheltered under Hermes/Mercury’s quicksilver sky, and that my work was simply to take up residence at the spot where I had fallen.
To live out the rest of my life at the cross roads.
I remembered how I helped my mother to cross, as she gasped autonomically, like a fish out of water, in her final hours of life. I don’t know how I knew what to do, but I knew: I told her to lay on her back, on the dirt, in the grass at her childhood home and look up into the sky. I told her to watch a hawk, circling, higher, higher into the sky, until it was just a tiny speck, disappearing in the clouds and then returning, disappearing, higher and higher until it was impossible to tell if the speck was still there or there was nothing but sky.
And I told her: Grandma and Grandpa are here to meet you. And you know that Grandpa never ever comes late. And he never comes early. He only comes right on time, and he is here to meet you now. Go straight to them.
My mother took her last breath. And shut her eyes. And went.
Gentle Hermes led them down the dank dark passage ~ The Oddessy
I remembered all the words I have written and shared here and spoken and emailed to friends and family members and clients who have died or who have wrestled with death and lived.
And the bereavements I have guided others through as I negotiated my own grief.
And I also thought about Mercury’s function as escort to the living through moments of fate filled challenge and decision. He does not travel with his charges for long distances or assume responsibility for them forever- but simply escorts them through from one state to another.
And then he is gone.
Hermes escorting men is your greatest joy, you above all gods. ~ The Iliad
Hermes the messenger. The giant-killer who destroys all states of self-inflation and aggrandizement. The guide to the underworld. The escort at the crossroads.
And from my prone position I saw a path began to open near my right side, through the underbrush. An image of a feasible, sustainable, way to work in the world. The only way that was possible or ethical for me.
I cannot carry the dependencies that I used to.
Hermes is a trickster, and the crossroads could begin to spin and send my fate flying in an entirely different direction.
There is no way back.
Only the emerging possibility of a slow road forward.
Whomever does not shy away from the dangers of the most profound depths and the newest pathways, which Hermes is always prepared to open, may follow him.
~Karl Kerényi, Hermes, Guide of Souls
This story sounds as though it were invented, but it is true from beginning to end. ~Alphonse Daudet, Letters from My Windmill
