We are all breakable. Or maybe it is more accurate to say, we are all broken, each in our own way.
And our attachments to each other are no less fragile.
They can be broken outright and permanently.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;
All the King’s horses, and all the King’s men
Cannot put Humpty Dumpty together again.
Therapeutic alliances can fail, collapse under their own weight. Sometimes the death of a clinical relationship happens so slowly that it is imperceptible – the poison, so diluted accumulates incrementally, so neither therapist nor client can detect it until the connection has withered away. Hopeful attatchment shriveled into something dry, thin, brittle.
Other times therapeutic relationships can erupt, explode – felled by a single, violent event.
A therapist can destroy relationship out of their own limitations, unprocessed injuries, or simply because they are knocked off their pins by events in their own lives.
Sometimes therapeutic relationships are completely devoured by a client’s insatiable hunger that no psychotherapist can ever (nor should they attempt to) fill. And sometimes it is because the therapist sat back and didn’t try and they should have at least tried and failed. Or because they tried too hard, foolishly, and frustratingly when they should have left well-enough alone.
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell;
The reason why I cannot tell;
But this I know, and know full well,
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell!
Sometimes you can make sense of it all later – and sometimes it will never ever make any fucking sense at all.
In Restoration of the Self Heinz Kohut asks: “Why does one layer become actively engaged in the therapeutic work, while the other sinks into darkness and remains out of sight? ”
When I first began this work, as a therapist on an outpatient day treatment unit for adults, most of whom were diagnosed with schizophrenia by psychiatrists, I had a dream, that still makes me hold my breath when I recall it.
A kind, twinkly, toothless older woman, who who I believed I had a warm, amiable alliance with knocked on my apartment door. I greeted her happily, and began following her down the apartment stairs. At the next floor landing she turned to face me – and I saw a look in her eye that terrified me: She had no idea who I was. No understanding or trust, or even memory of who I was at all. Her look was suspicious, paranoid, rage-full – I saw that I had somehow, without realizing it – become her enemy. My intentions, my labors on her behalf, the real and positive effects that had come from our work together – a new and supportive living situation, a lowered medication regimen, a romantic partnership that was stabilizing and growing sweeter – all lost – entirely. Deleted. Erased.
Horrified, I realized within the dream, that not only was she unable to retain a consistent sense of who I was – but that she was also unrecognizable to me. Perhaps that she was even unrecognizable to herself. She was not at all who I had understood her to be, and our relationship had instantly dissolved because we could not now comprehend who the person was in front of us.
In waking life our relationship remained stable enough – but I’ve seen, over the course of my work on that unit, in this field, in my own therapy and in my life – this dream play out many times, as repressed, or minimized shadows suddenly race forward from the far horizon to the looming foreground.
The shadow relationship – the one that lives on the other side of the looking glass – can reach through, can take over. And then the relationship you thought you were in seems to disappear entirely, and often over a trifle.
Molly, my sister and I fell out,
And what do you think it was all about?
She loved coffee and I loved tea,
And that was the reason we couldn’t agree.
The greater our hope that we will never be disappointed the more assuredly we will be. The more we yearn for someone to be All Things, Abundant, Unlimited, the more injured we will be by their inevitable failures.
Psychoanalytic theorists might talk at this juncture about lack of “object constancy” – as the child struggles to keep the depth and force of their hate from contaminating their admiration and love of the parent.
Winnicot might talk about the “good enough” parent needing to engage in a commensurate process in order to metabolize and guard the child and themselves from their maternal hate. A primal hate called forth by the depth of the infant’s hate and frustration.
When the force of our hate has not been metabolized and modulated – we fear that our hate and sadism could:
– annihilate our loved ones
– destroy their love for us
– or ruin our own ability to love them anymore.
So often (but not always) a client’s attempts to destroy the therapeutic relationship are pre-emptive strikes – attempts to drive the therapist away – rather than wait to be abandoned or injured when they are unprepared.
But that is not always the case.
Clients may be trapped within an obedient, compliant, pseudo-alliance. And then lashing out may be healthy: self-respecting emotional violence. Rage, aimed squarely at the therapist, may be the most authentic gesture they can muster.
And sometimes clients know, better than we do, exactly what they need to survive or heal –
and it is not us.
And the only way they can sever the weighty attachment and the unrelenting pressure of your good intention is to break it off,
to break you off, to break you into pieces.
There was a little girl who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead;
When she was good, she was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid.
In Kohut’s words: “While a rapport between patient and therapist may be established, the diseased, or potentially diseased sector of the self does not enter” into the therapeutic relationship. ~ Heinz Kohut, Restoration of Self
Sometimes hatred and sadism are unleashed upon the therapist because it is the first real relationship where it is safe to do so – rage and destructiveness cannot be calibrated or modulated without someone to be injured, to survive the injury, to forgive and to accept reparation.
You tolerate your client’s illogicality, unreliability, suspicion, muddle, fecklessness, meanness, etc. etc., and recognize all these unpleasantnesses as symptoms of distress (In private life these same things would make you keep at a distance.) ~ D. W. Winnicott, The Maturational Processes and the Facilitating Environment: Studies in the Theory of Emotional Development
And lets face it. Sometimes we just deserve it. Certainly, we all know that psychotherapists can be totally fucking insufferable. But hopefully not always unforgivably so.
But still, there are many instances where you are damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Absorbing, deflecting, reflecting upon, and attempting to survive hurtful, destructive rage is unavoidable as a psychotherapist because unmodulated, rage is often, precisely what has brought the client into therapy to begin with – expressed as dysfunction in relationships, or internalized and disguised as nihilistic, suicidal despair.
A client’s rage can activate our own – just as maternal hate can be triggered by a child’s rage.
There were once two cats of Kilkenny.
Each thought there was one cat too many;
So they fought and they fit,
And they scratched and they bit,
Till, excepting their nails,
And the tips of their tails,
Instead of two cats, there weren’t any.
It is then that the psychotherapists job is to buckle up, hang on for dear life, try not to defend or retaliate – absorb the blow, protect ourselves against the sharp bite, become curious about the cutting contempt, or go home and have a good cry and try to put ourselves back together again so that we can return to session ready to connect again, to sort out abuse from necessary corrective experiences, sadism from developmental maturational process, angry breakthroughs from pointless, relationship destroying temper-tantrums.
You accept hate, and meet it with strength rather than revenge. ~ D. W. Winnicott, The Maturational Processes and the Facilitating Environment: Studies in the Theory of Emotional Development
It is not easily done. And often you rotate though a series of attempts at empathic guesses, hunches, theories and formulations before you find the one that might transform destructiveness into connection.
If you can find the one that fits. Before the relationship breaks.
Before the client breaks. Before you break.
Before your capacity for on going concern is broken. Before their faith in you is lost for good.
But none of this teaches therapists what it feels like:
I pull over into a roadside attraction. There is a large hand painted sign, of a wolf with a vicious mouth – dramatic “all the better to eat you with” teeth, and the words: SWIM WITH WOLVES. The doors open on to a large indoor pool, where a pack of wolves are swimming like a school of fish. There are “experienced guides” overseeing the experience but they do not actually get in the pool with you – and as I inch into the deep end I realize that they will be of little use if this actually starts to head south. I wonder what I am doing, and why the hell I am doing it. But the wolves are wild and gorgeous, and I am drawn into the waters by their fear, their vulnerability, (they are profoundly out of their element after all) by their beauty, and power and by their exhaustion as they swim and swim in circles. I am concerned for them, I want to help to keep the wolves afloat. I want to be near them, to be accepted by them, trusted. Do I want to tame them? Not necessarily, but I surely want be seen as their ally. I swim in deep. One, so exhausted it is near drowning, lets me hold it afloat while it gasps for breath and takes in oxygen. Yet, I must also be skillful enough to let go the split second that the wolf regains its full energies – because I am supporting it before it can possibly have any reason to actually trust me. I smell its hot breath, I feel a low growl gathering deep in its belly I feel its dog-paddling legs gather strength and I swim away before it can go for my jugular. I hear it SNAP just milliseconds after I have kicked toward the far side of the pool. I look at the old, white-haired, experienced guides – who are gathered drinking coffee and see that they are all scarred, and have survived many deep and tearing bites. It is part and parcel of the work.
I get out of the pool, exhilarated to have been of use, to have been close to such an extraordinary creature, grateful that the wolf, and I have both survived.
Therapists can be seduced by the client’s idealization – or by the therapists own inflation and narcissism in to enjoying their own prowess and brilliant interpretations – We can over identify, assume that we understand what we do not, we can wander, unwittingly into a minefield – believing the relationship is on solid ground when it is not.
A wise old owl sat in an oak,
The more he heard, the less he spoke;
The less he spoke, the more he heard;
Why aren’t we all like that wise old bird.
As clients we can come to believe that we need to find therapists who are perfect mirrors of ourselves, and therapists can also attempt to cull clients who are the very easiest for them to treat.
Birds of a feather flock together,
And so will pigs and swine;
Rats and mice will have their choice,
And so will I have mine.
But are psychotherapists really fulfilling our moral commitments , are we truly engaged in the work if we restrict ourselves to the most domesticated and shallow end of the pool?
It is the therapists job to pace themselves – to alternately invest and divest – step in and step-back – in order to preserve their empathy for their client over the long haul. To do all they can make sure that resentment never accumulates or toxifies in any way that could undermine their ability to continue to empathize with the client’s experience.
But not every relationship makes it that far, and some last for years and still end before they have begun.
In all these respects you are, in your limited professional area, a person deeply involved in feeling, yet at the same time detached, in that you know that you have no responsibility for the client’s illness, and you know the limits of your powers…..” ~ D. W. Winnicott, The Maturational Processes and the Facilitating Environment: Studies in the Theory of Emotional Development
For every evil under the sun
There is a remedy or there is none.
If there be one, seek till you find it;
If there be none, never mind it.
Never mind it?
Maybe. One day.
But not anytime soon.
DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so.
~ John Donne, from The Holy Sonnets, Death Be Not Proud
When I met my husband, his mother had been dead for four months. After a short time, he took me to meet his father, and to see the home that he had grown up in, the home that he had moved back into during the the last year of his mother’s life.
When he opened the door, and I stepped into the foyer, I had the sensation that comes when you walk into a room that someone else has just left seconds before. A palpable electromagnetic wake – the air molecules moving in eddies behind some recent but unknown activity. A purse plopped in the chair near the door. A gum wrapper folded neatly and placed in a decorative dish. A sweater with a tissue peeking out of the pocket slung over the arm of the couch in the living room. She was still there. Her presence, in her absence, remained everywhere, in every nook and cranny of the house.
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
~ John Donne, from The Holy Sonnets, Death Be Not Proud
A cook book with a page booked marked in the kitchen. A paperback novel, its spine cracked, pages splayed faced down on the coffee table.
It would be several more months after that, long enough for our relationship to consolidate, and for me to understand more about the family’s grieving process, before I would ask David and his father politely and tentatively, if it would be helpful to them in anyway, for me to pack up her things. Yes, they said, it would be very helpful. They were clearly emotionally and logistically at a loss.
When his father was away for the weekend – I spent two full days boxing up a woman’s life while David hid out, painting and listening to Frank Sinatra on the radio up in the small spare bedroom that had been set up as a studio. He had worked hard enough trying to support her through a long and painful dying process.
I began on the lower floors, collecting the objects that were most obvious to me whenever I entered the house. Her purse. Her coats, scarves, mittens and hats. The minty scent of her purse and the perfume lingering on her scarves and coat collar were the first visceral initiation into the profoundly intimate act that I had undertaken.
After gathering the downstairs items, I took them upstairs to set up base-camp, assembling cardboard wardrobes and packing boxes in her bedroom. I opened her closet doors, and discovered her sense of style, her clothes and shoes. I saw that she kept her things carefully and in good condition and had thrown nothing out for many many years – dresses from the 1950’s, 60’s 70’s and 80’s hung throughout the closet, all in the exact same size. She was long, slim, tall, small-breasted, large footed. Her shoes were comfortable and expensive. She wore dresses primarily. Some slacks, but not so many. No blue jeans. Her smell grew stronger, more personal, closer to her skin as I sorted through the clothes.
She liked bright colors, nice textiles, weavings, hand knitted sweaters, clothing embellished with folk lace-work, needlework and embroidery from every culture and tradition. She had formal wear and cocktail wear that was clearly required by her life and her husband’s life in academia – but most of her clothing was beautiful, simple, comfortable, useful, special, one of a kind. No designer labels. Nothing frilly. Never fancy.
Her wardrobe and everyday jewelry showed signs of her Czech-Hungarian upbringing, her familiarity with Europe, the many languages that she spoke, as well as her extensive world travels and time spent living in Israel, in China. Pieces of tile, or hand made ceramics set in silver or mounted as pins.
And collections. Never just one of anything but many: a drawer filled with embroidered handkerchiefs, chests and closets in every room filled with hand woven fine fabrics and textiles. Hand hewn wooden bowls, baskets filled with delicately painted eggs from all over the world, another with hand made painted tops, another with ceramic mushrooms. A box filled with hundreds of carefully wrapped tiny blown-glass animals. Decorative boxes everywhere, painted, or carved, or upholstered in silk – one filled to the top with jade rings in every size. Another with tiny turquoise pins.
I threw nothing away. I placed items that might not want to be saved or given away, in their own marked boxes for her sons and husband to look through for themselves. In this box I placed her tooth and hair brushes, make up lotions, perfumes, powder deodorant, razors and tweezers. The pill bottles from her long sickness. Her under-the-sink-things, her feminine hygiene products, her underwear, slips, socks, bras and panty hose.
I was told to set anything aside that I might want to keep for myself: I selected some textiles and scarves, a yellow linen dress with flowers embroidered around the yoke, a terry cloth housecoat from the 1950’s that was in the back of the closet and had clearly not been worn much at all and not in many years. A short black dress, with a white satin collar and cuffs, also from the late 1960’s, a blue and aqua hand knitted cardigan that fit me perfectly, and that I knew from her basket of yarn and the buttons in her immaculately organized Swedish sewing table that she had knitted herself. They offered me her 1947 Singer Featherweight 221 sewing machine, which is, to this day, my most prized possession.
As the intimacy of these items and this act revealed itself to me, I realized that although I had begun these labors to support those who were grieving: David, his father, I was really doing it for her. This thoughtful meticulous dignified woman, never met, who would have wanted her things collected, regarded, distributed, sorted, as thoughtfully and carefully as she had selected and tended to them in life. Who would have wanted to protect her family from the overwhelm and sorrow of packing her life away.
I imagined who I would want to wrap up my my unfinished business one day, and how I would want them to tend to it.
There is always an aftermath.
And although I do not believe that grief should be pathologized as a diagnosis or a medical condition, there is no psychotherapist who does not contend with the life-long implications of death or the processes of bereavement in some form every single day.
Memories of a weekend spent with the personal effects of the dead woman who would one day become my mother-in-law, are activated whenever I find myself professionally involved in the shockingly intimate processes of supporting people as they mourn the death of people that I have never met. And my mother-in-law’s specter spurs me, as it did that long ago weekend, to remember that in order to support the bereaved, we must, on some level enter into an internal relationship to the deceased ourselves, to understand who they were, to clean up the mess and the grief, to contain the emptiness and tie up the loose ends left behind with the living.
Over the years I’ve sat with parents grieving children, and children grieving the loss of parents, sometimes both at once. Adoptees mourning the death notices of first family members never met. I’ve listened to the unfolding evolving eulogies of siblings, grandparents, extended family, partners, best friends, classmates, chosen family, colleagues, neighbors, acquaintances, friends of friends.
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and souls delivery.
~ John Donne, from The Holy Sonnets, Death Be Not Proud
We can mourn total strangers too. Death impacts many people who may not ever know the names of those they mourn: eye-witnesses, doctors, nurses, soldiers, first-responders and psychotherapists can be changed forever by intimacies with those who have left their bodies behind.
I hear these sorrows and traumas too.
And although I remain firmly agnostic about such things – I have on more than one occasion had the sensation that the dead have led a client to my office, so I would care for the the good and bad, light and shadow, that they have left behind in the hearts of others.
And as I support the bereaved, I inevitably wonder: What would the deceased wishes be – how should they, would they have wanted the person in front of me cared for? How would they respond if they were here to witness what I am seeing? How would this client’s mother want me to deal with the rage and pain her death has left behind? How would that dead man want his son treated? How would a deceased husband respond to his wife’s relief at his passing? What might that young woman feel if she saw how her brother suffered after her overdose? How would the dead want me to understand them through the things they have left behind? How would their best-self – or their worst, most-defensive aspects – respond to their survivor’s anger, betrayal, relief, sorrow, terror, pain?
I don’t work from a distance. I frankly don’t know how to – the only way I know to support those grieving and bereaved is to try to learn about the size, shape and feel of their loss as specifically as possible. To use my heart and imagination to understand as much as I can about the person being mourned. To sit with those who mourn by entering into relationship with the dead myself. To allow myself to be affected by their life, their absence, their death.
To be caught in their wake.
I’ve listened to death-tales of suicide, murder, illness, accident, chronic self destructiveness, heroic sacrifice, masochism, police intervention, terrorist attacks, and statistically improbable, impossible deaths, as freakish as lightening on a sunny day.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
~ John Donne, from The Holy Sonnets, Death Be Not Proud
I’ve learned how they faced death, who they were before death struck and the consequences that followed their lives and deaths through entire communities of people known and unknown to them.
Loss and life spreads out in concentric circles – in waves, in ripples through time and across communities.
This has happened several times, maybe more times than it should:
I have listened to people, who do not know each other and who do not know that they all know me, as they sit in my office and describe the life and death of the same person. Like the proverbial blind men describing the portion of the elephant that they can touch – I hear from one what it was like to be an eye-witness to the accident, from another what it was like to miss them in an exercise class, from a third how it feels to lose the most important relationship in their lives, from a fourth the shock of hearing of the death of a professional colleague, from a fifth sorrow of losing an old college friend.
And like my mother-in-law, I have come to know them intimately, through their most personal details, their character and their residuum.
We all cut a broader path, leave a larger wake, send out more ever widening rings than we can ever realize.
I imagine such circles of inter-connection surround us all the time. Perhaps I have as many interconnections with the man at the deli, the crossing guard, the woman in the high heels in the elevator who smells of strong perfume. If my job were not to sit still in my office, and listen to what emerges, unmasked, unfiltered by social convention I might never consider this.
And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated;
~ John Donne, Meditation #17 From Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
The dead have taught me lessons I could learn from no living person.
Just as my mother-in-law departed before I entered the family, many years later my father-in-law died, just four months before our son came into this world. They never met each other either.
Shortly after my son came home I had this dream:
I was staring into a fireplace – watching the flames, and the logs spark and crackle. My father-in-law’s voice is behind me, a voice-over really- he is present and not present simultaneously. An accomplished scientist, pioneer in artificial intelligence, a biological reductionist my father-in-law believed in nothing romanticized or spiritual about death. Brain and mind were the same thing -and souls were non-existent. And as I watched the fire his voice said: “When you teach the boy about death, or when your own comes it is just like this: The fire converts the composition of the wood into another form of energy. See that spark? It breaks away from the body of the log, is carried upwards in the waves of heat and warmth, it burns out, and seems to disappear. But the warmth stays with you, is absorbed by you and those who are near, you inhale the carbon, the charcoal with all is uses remains long after the fire goes out ”
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then;
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.
~ John Donne, from The Holy Sonnets, Death Be Not Proud
Whatever I believe or you believe or don’t believe I have no question that life doesn’t disappear. We leave trails, waves, wakes, after-shocks, hang-overs behind us.
Our lives keep living, unfolding long after we are dead.
And we are all unquestionably of eternal consequence.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were: any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
~ John Donne, Meditation #17 From Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
…another mechanism used by some organisms… is that of dormancy, during which an organism conserves the amount of energy available to it and makes few demands on its environment. Most major groups of animals as well as plants have some representatives that can become dormant. Periods of dormancy vary in length and in degree of metabolic reduction, ranging from only slightly lower metabolism during the periodic, short-duration dormancy of deep sleep to more extreme reductions for extended periods of time. ~ Encyclopedia Britannica
I spent the summer in a state of pleasant dormancy, following the Lethargian’s schedule:
At 8:00 we get up and then we spend
From 8 to 9 daydreaming.
From 9 to 9:30 we take our early mid-morning nap
From 9:30 to 10:30 we dawdle and delay.
From 10:30 to 11:30 we take our late early morning nap.
From 11:30 to 12:00 we bide our time and then eat lunch.
From 1:00 to 2:00 we linger and loiter.
From 2:30 to 3:30 we put off for tomorrow what we could have done today.
From 3:30 to 4:00 we take our early late afternoon nap.
From 4:00 to 5:00 we loaf and lounge.
From 6:00 to 7:00 we dillydally.
From 7:00 to 8:00 we take our early evening nap and then for an hour before we go to bed at 9:00 we waste time.
~ Norton Juster, The Phantom Tollbooth, pp. 26-27
Actually: I attended and presented at two conferences, I began volunteering my easy, instinctive labors with a new (to me) non-profit organization, I attended a children’s summer camp that is under the auspices of that organization. I did a little work compiling contacts for a benefit committee that is honoring a friend of mine. I watched a lot of Korean dramas filled with beautiful actors in lovely clothes wandering through gorgeous apartments. I read the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes out loud with my family. I stayed up late. I slept in. I went on vacation.
I met with my clients. I took care of my children.
Here is what I didn’t do: I didn’t read anything longer than a magazine article, I read no psychoanalytic theory. I didn’t write more than a single essay. I didn’t challenge myself, I didn’t worry or strain. I didn’t recall or record most of my dreams unless they felt big and vivid and clear and even then I’d let it slide for a few days. I didn’t see my analyst. I didn’t meditate much. I couldn’t run or practice bagua because I injured my foot, so I walked when I felt like it, and didn’t calculate or worry overmuch about how I was going to get “enough” exercise.
I didn’t try to get better at anything. I didn’t practice anything or try to learn something new. I didn’t challenge or press myself. And I didn’t think about anything that I didn’t have to.
“No one’s allowed to think in the Doldrums,” …. “It shall be unlawful, illegal, and unethical to think, think of thinking, surmise, presume, reason, meditate, or speculate while in the Doldrums.” ~ Norton Juster, The Phantom Tollbooth, p 24
Growth and challenge are not always sustainable. And sometimes self-care means not having to think so hard about caring for oneself. Sometimes it means switching off, and staying that way for a bit.
And if not, the switch can flip on its own, a fuse blown protectively and there is nothing you can do about it but bide your time and perhaps even learn how to enjoy the wait.
I went proactively, contentedly dormant. But when dormancy takes over without volition, we often fret and fuss, strain and thrash about, fearful that we will never ever be “productive” again.
A fallow period is has come to mean a period of shameful unproductivity but it actually refers to field that as been plowed but unsown. The ground is in a state of active waiting, resting in service of eventual generativity.
A plateau in the vernacular may be a “stage at which no progress is apparent” But it is also a flat, clear highland. A leveling, a tableland which requires no ascent or descent. In the Americas such mesas are sacred spaces that put humans close to the sky, near to where Coyote dwells – and other supranatural entities of the Navajo – Changing Woman and the Hero Twins return to restore themselves every dozen years under exposed skies.
The doldrums has become a phrase associated with depression and lethargy – but it is in fact a low-pressure area around the equator where the prevailing winds are calm. A zone where sailors dependent upon moving air for income and livelihood pass through a state of enforced stillness.
“The Doldrums my young friend are where nothing ever happens and nothing ever changes.” ~ Norton Juster, The Phantom Tollbooth, p 23
Seeds will germinate again in fertile soil, the grade will steepen, and the winds will pick up in good time.
But there are times when there is nothing to work at. when the hamster wheel stops spinning. When the most natural thing is to disengage, to shut off the motor, and drift, rolling along in neutral, without burning any fuel.
“We don’t want to get anything done, ” snapped another (Lethargian) angrily: “we want to get nothing done, and we can do that without your help.” ~ Norton Juster, The Phantom Tollbooth, p 24
What is happening when we pass for months with unrecalled dreams? What goes on when we are stalled, bored, or blocked in our march toward our chosen goals or estranged from our creative force?
We still dream. Even if our dreaming self is simply doing its work without our awareness or involvement. Unproductive periods may ultimately be more life-enhancing and generative than you can imagine.
I hear this all the time:
“Um, nothing much is going on… same old shit I suppose”
“Everything is good. Fine. Hmm, what to talk about…”
“Nothing wrong really. I haven’t had any dreams. Work is fine. Nothing new there. Stuff is okay at home. This is going to be a boring session I guess…”
“And if he wasn’t entirely happy, he wasn’t unhappy, either. Rather, he found himself inhabiting the vast, empty plateau where most people live, between boredom and contentment” ~ Jess Walter on Pasquale Tursi, Beautiful Ruins
Many in my field are trained to pathologize unproductivity in life and in psychotherapy as defense or resistance. But a pathologized “defense” can be viewed instead as an adaptive “security operation.” And resistances can be respected and honored, rather than confronted.
What if, periods without words, without intense self-scrutinty, without probing active exploration or self-examination were treated as valuable rather than problematic? What if conscious productivity is only a small and culturally, economically over-emphasized part of life and not the most important bit?
“Well if you can’t… think what can you do?” asked Milo.
“Anything as long as its nothing, and everything as long as it isn’t anything.~ Norton Juster, The Phantom Tollbooth, p 26
Jung’s conception of the Self places Consciousness – “ego” our identity, thoughts, recognizable feelings, known beliefs, accessible memories and chosen persona as the smallest capstone on top of a large pyramid:
(I know, I know. This attempted illustration is so so sad. Feel free to take a short break to laugh and mock my stunted graphic and technological skills)
Most of the Self, in Jung’s view is unconscious.
Preconscious perceptions and unrecalled memories are stored out of awareness, as is Jung’s Shadow – the repressed, rejected, or unknown aspects of our personality. Anima and animus energies are more easily understood as the realm of unconscious complimentary opposites the strengths which lie under our perceived vulnerabilities, and the weaknesses that live underneath our conscious capacities; the yang to our yin and vice versa; which we project on to our partners, and which assert themselves at mid-life and in our dreams guiding us toward wholeness.
And the Collective Unconscious: ancestral knowledge and the instinctive energies and archetypes which the human species organize themselves around collectively, in much the same way that migrating birds order themselves hierarchically and instinctively in V formation. This is also the transpersonal space – where we are in direct relationship to a whole that is larger than our individuality, to humankind, the Earth, to the Universe, or to the gods.
If most of the Self, most of our organism is operating underground, out of awareness, and without our conscious consent, then the unconscious aspects of our psyche must be quite busy – whether we know it or not – continuously making adjustments, metabolizing traumas great and small, preparing for growth and transformation, compensating and correcting our conscious course.
So whatever it is that we think we should be producing, is really just the smallest tip of the iceberg. We are mistaken, and in Jung’s view, and in a state of dangerous ego-inflation if we believe that the conscious aspects of the individual can control the whole Self. We can no more control our unconscious than we can urge our digestion to hurry along or will our eyes to never blink again.
“It is the almost universal mistake of the ego to assume total personal responsibility for its sufferings and failures. We find it, for instance, in the general attitude people have toward their own weaknesses, an attitude of shame or denial. If one is weak in some respect, as everyone is, and at the same time considers in ignominious to be weak, he is to that extent deprived of self-realization.” ~ Edward F. Edinger, Ego and Archetype, p 153
The Self has autonomic functions to perform. Processes which don’t require our conscious approval or interference. Hunger, appetite, craving and digestion are unconscious processes. Hunting, gathering healthy food, preparing meals, and eating are conscious acts. In healthy organisms these functions work together in mediated concert toward mutual satisfaction. In symptomatic creatures, the conscious and unconscious are operating at cross-purposes.
And egos that have no humility with respect to the totality of the Self will soon find themselves devoid of meaning. Imbalances in either direction will create symptoms: anxieties, despairs, depressions, neurosis – or external conflicts which are symptoms projected out, on to others, or created unconsciously and experienced as ill-fortune.
Just as there are times when we need to exert significant conscious effort to ensure our logistical and psychological survival, and some unconscious forces which need conscious channeling or restraint in order to uphold our part of the social contract – there are also times when our psyche needs our conscious agendas to get the hell out of the way.
While our ego may feel we’ve been stalled, it is oftentimes in service of deeper functions that our ego’s cannot fathom. Fighting against flat, fallow, and windless periods may be as disruptive and endangering to our psychological organism as insisting upon running a marathon with a high fever or immediately following a feast.
It is the ego’s job to be fit and strong enough to bring itself into alignment with and to serve the entire Self as an organism, as an individual and as part of a larger collective. Our unconscious purposes do not perform merely to satisfy our puny egos, or our personal, or culturally instilled “sense of accomplishment”.
In the fall just after the first frost – the North American Tree Frog freezes solid. It just has to touch one single ice crystal and its organism begins the process of sinking into a shocking and complete death-like dormancy.
I don’t know much about frog-egos, or frog-cortexes. Yet I imagine that there is likely a small piece of even a froggy-psyche that would – if given a choice – prefer to keep hunting down juicy crickets and enjoying the full-belly-rewards of its labors.
What does it feel like to the frog, whose body has begun to shut down its brain and bodily functions? First, a slowly mounting paralysis, and then complete gross and small motor shut down, a stoppage of neurological functioning, sight, smell, hearing and tactile senses fade. No heart beat, no respiration. No work of any kind.
Is there a little froggy panic? Any anxiety that it will go hungry if it doesn’t keep hunting? A sense of frog-failure for not living up to its summer-time work ethic? Is it frustrating? Terrifying to feel the pseudo-death begin? Is there an internal protest? Does it put up any internal fight? Or has evolution and Nature herself structured its dormancy so that it feels no discomfort, or maybe even pleasure as it falls into a hard, icy rock-like sleep?
I imagine that animals in their natural state are organized more efficiently than we are – and that some kind of neurological “acceptance” or systemic surrender is activated that is easier and more efficient than fighting against these extreme death-like life-preserving processes.
But we humans fight, fret and judge ourselves – usually without ever assessing the whys or wherefores of our systemic shut-downs. And although that frozen frog looks as dead as a doornail – as close to death as a still living thing can be – it has moved into this inert state to preserve its vitality, its ability to hunt and feed and do its frog work for another season.
Just because it is apparently lifeless and inactive, doesn’t mean that it isn’t still chock full of life, a seasonal clock still ticking, a system waiting for an external signal, a thaw, the opportunity and the conditions for activity and labor to begin again.
“To be aware of individuality is to realize that one has all that one needs. It also means that one needs all that one has, namely, that every psychic content and happening is meaningful.” ~ Edward F. Edinger, Ego and Archetype, p 168
And maybe what isn’t happening is as essential to us as anything that ever happens.
“There is perhaps one attitude toward that environment which can be said to be characteristic of the emotionally mature human being… however widely and richly his feelings in this regard may fluctuate, over however wide a range, in the varying circumstances of his everyday life. One can think of this basic attitude as a firm island upon which man grounds himself while directing his gaze into the encircling sea of meanings, more or less difficult of discernment, and some no doubt inscrutable, which reside in this area of human existence.
This basic emotional orientation can be expressed in one word: relatedness.”
~ The Nonhuman Environment, Harold F. Searles, MD 1960
I am simultaneously being pressed by internal forces and consciously resisting writing this. Perhaps that is always the case – but this one feels both like it needs to be written, and that maybe this is not the place.
Is it really about psychotherapy as a practice? Or is it just about me? And to what degree is that the same thing anyway? I seem to understand my client’s experience most when I reach down through some deep point of heavily processed identification, broken down to its nearly universal archetypal core.
So this is personal. And perhaps as it helps me to listen more deeply, reach for unprocessed content, and feel my way into the stories and memories my clients share with me more specifically and thoroughly – it is also professional.
I was raised, as we all are, in a particular place, in a specific environment, with objects, landmarks, buildings, animals, trees, roads, yards, sidewalks, walls, bus stops, schoolyards, playgrounds, woods, bugs, beaches, and homes – my own and others.
And I see, in my own children, the intense and self-regulating meaning that rivers and bridges, neighborhoods and subways stops – and our little house-like apartment hold for them.
We live in a peopled and people-focused world, and traditional psychoanalytic models focus primarily on our relationships to other human beings – but sometimes we need to value and talk about our relationships with creatures, non-human living things, inanimate objects, places and whole environments.
Winnicott speaks of the almost magical properties that transitional objects – lovies, blankets, pacifiers and teddy-bears have- to soothe and self-regulate – as well as to absorb our aggression in the form of chewing, yanking, pulling, biting, dragging, wearing down and using up. Yet, for Winncott these are symbols, developmentally useful displacements for content that would be otherwise directed toward our caretakers.
They are not relationships in and of themselves. Object-relational theory refers to human objects, and any non-human object is most-likely merely representative of a human one.
You can’t have relationships with a non-human thing – can you?
Jungian clinicians might reach beyond the personal, childhood human caretakers, and explore our relationships to the non-human aspects of our environment – approaching the relationship as a symbolic, numinous manifestation of archetypal content.
I once knew of a client in a psychiatric day treatment program whose psychiatrist wanted to increase his medication because the client held on to a persistent belief that all pens, rings, and water had magical, sacred properties. When this was discussed in team-meeting, I suggested: “Well, then I suppose you will have to medicate me as well, along with every poet and writer, anyone who has ever worn or removed a wedding ring, and all the people who have been baptized or been immersed in a mikvah.”
The universal archetypes that live embedded in the psyches of the human species that organize our instincts around forged metal, perfect circles, writing implements, and purity are present, to some degree, in every ring, pen, and pool of water.
But Searles suggests there is another layer as well, a simpler one:
“…man relates to his nonhuman environment on a dual level. That is, however important is the level of his relating to, for instance, a cat or a tree in terms of their constituting, in his perception of them, carriers of meanings which have to do basically with people (by way of displacement and projection of his own unconscious feelings on to the cat, or the tree, transference of interpersonal attitudes on his part on to them, perceiving them through various cultural distortions and so on), there is also another level on which he relates to them: to the cat as being a cat and to the tree as being a tree.”
~ The Nonhuman Environment, Harold F. Searles, MD 1960
And not a cat that is universally representative of Cats as an archetype, but a cat with a name, and multi-colored paw-pads, and spots and stripes and a temperament that are all unique to him, and a tree that is a certain size, with branches positioned in a specific way, leaves of a certain type and color, that becomes a tree that is known, nearly memorized in all its specificity – loved, that grows with us over-time – and is not merely representative of The World Tree – although perhaps that is present too.
When animals die, trees are torn down, old homes demolished or renovated beyond recognition there is a self-consciousness to our grief. I too often hear clients say: “Its silly of me to be so upset! Its just a…” dog, tree, house, neighborhood…
Kohut might see some of these relationships as self-objects – as experiences and transactions that help us to understand, organize, experience our Selves, discover the shape and size of our identities.
Searles might agree:
“The environment can be seen to provide a milieu… as contrasted to to the interpersonal milieu, in which the child can become aware of his own capabilities (referring here to physical strength and dexterity, ingenuity, and various intellectual abilities) and of the limitations upon those capabilities. In his relatedness to the environment he has opportunities to see, in a particularly clear-cut, realistic fashion, that he is in various ways powerful, but not omnipotent.” ~ The Nonhuman Environment, Harold F. Searles, MD 1960
And most of us feel strange and self-conscious speaking of such relationships.
I do to. (See, this hasn’t gotten very personal yet, has it?)
So I’ll wade in:
A book I read over and over as a young child made perfect, exact sense to me for many years:
A friend is someone who likes you.
It can be a boy…
It can be a girl…
Or a cat…
Or a dog…
Or even a white mouse.
A tree can be a different kind of a friend.
It doesn’t talk to you, but you know it likes you, because it gives you apples….
Or sometimes a place to swing.
A brook can be a friend in a special way. It talks to you with splashy gurgles.
It cools you toes and lets you sit quietly beside it when you don’t feel like speaking.
The wind can be a friend too.
It sings soft songs to you at night
when you are sleepy and feeling lonely.
Sometimes it calls you to play.
It pushes you from behind
as you walk and makes
the leaves dance for you.
It is always with you
wherever you go,
and that’s how you know
it likes you.
A Friend is Someone Who Likes You,
~ Joan Walsh Angulnd, 1958
And certainly our relationship to non-human organic systems or time spent at your favorite sitting rock cannot entirely compensate for the lack of healthy human love.
“I have no illusion, for example, that a beautiful maple tree, beloved to one’s childhood, can really have made up for the lack of a childhood friend.” ~ The Nonhuman Environment, Harold F. Searles, MD 1960
Culturally, we see the idea of having living relationships with non-human objects as childish, as unreal, as not valid, as unimportant, as pretend, as mere anthropomorphizing.
But perhaps we need not think so hierarchically. Maybe all of it is important. Maybe it is all part of how we come to know ourselves, to be soothed, to give back, to experience the limitations and finiteness of the world, and of our own resources.
“Thus the exploration of this whole subject… impinges upon a deeply rooted anxiety of a double-edged sort: the anxiety of subjective oneness with a chaotic world, and the anxiety over the loss of a cherished omnipotent world-self” ~ The Nonhuman Environment, Harold F. Searles, MD 1960
What if our expansive childhood sense of connection to the world is a naive template for healthy relatedness to our environment, the first step that can later be forged into mature understanding of our connection to the natural world we are embedded in, and which is too often derailed and subsumed by cultural and economic pressures and demands?
Sometimes you don’t know who
are your friends.
Sometimes they are there all the time,
but you walk right past them
and don’t notice that they like you
in a special way.
And then you think you don’t have any friends.
Then you must stop hurrying and rushing so fast…
and move very slowly,
and look around carefully,
to see someone who smiles at you in a special way…
Or a dog that wags its tail extra hard whenever you are near…
or a tree that lets you climb it easily…
or a brook that lets you be quiet when you want to be quiet.
A Friend is Someone Who Likes You ~ Joan Walsh Angulnd, 1958
So, I stopped hurrying and rushing so fast and looked around very carefully on a recent visit to the home of my childhood: a very small lake community outside of Minneapolis.
At the age of fifty, I had no remaining connections to any people left in the area – the humans and pets that I had been attached to had all died, relocated, or our paths diverged to the point of well-established disconnection. I had only returned once, for four hours, about ten years earlier – and that was my only visit since my early twenties.
I was able, without the distraction of relationships to humans from the past – to visit the town, as anonymous as a tourist, to a place, a location, a lake, an ecosystem, that had introduced me to myself and the larger world – that had given to me, and terrified me and taken from me, and introduced me to my powers and my limitations, and that had vulnerabilities and strengths of its own.
I lived lakeside for a decade – walked barefoot or bicycled down every narrow street, the hot, melting tar left sticky spots on my toes. I knew every dock, every patch of sand, every good swimming spot, every duck nest, every climbing tree, every chipmunk hole in the square mile around my home. I knew where the snow banks gathered, the best spots to make snow angels, the secret pathways through the trees into neighbors lawns and the short cuts home when the dinner bell rang.
I haven’t thought about, haven’t spent time remembering this relationship in years. As I sat by the lake, under the railroad overpass, near the old people fishing for sunnies- I realized that I had been to many many lakes in the past thirty years – but none of them was my lake. And, not mine in the possessive sense, but my lake in the relational sense. I had a relationship with this lake, that was like no other, and was representative of nothing else and was too specific to be merely symbolic. It is a relationship, in and of itself.
The lake was as alive as any person to me. A babysitter who rocked and cradled me while floating on my back, or dozing in the sunny bow of a bobbing whaler. A lake that sung me to sleep through my bedroom window with splashes, lappings against the shore rocks. A being that loved and consoled all that was inconsolable. An entity that was always present, and always accepting of my return. A playmate to re-create myself with and within, a toy box filled with shiny rocks, agates, treasures and mysteries, salamanders and snapping turtles.
A mentor that challenged me to strengthen my skills and test my capacities: How long could I hold my breath? How far I could swim?
A being that tolerated no hubris – when I tried to walk across the lake on the muddy bottom and breathe in water as I’d seen in Tom and Jerry cartoons, I learned quickly what I was and was not capable of.
An organism that taught me about the earth’s vulnerability – as one weekend we all awoke to the lake belching up green sludge, a shocking, overnight algae overgrowth, provoked by an imbalanced and ill-use of its waterways. The towns around its shore began to feel sympathies with the “ecology” movement of the early 1970’s and we all donned patches on our jeans and bumper stickers which read “What you take to the lake – TAKE IT BACK!” to discourage polluters and dumpers. Endangered fish, and rare water lilies grew in ponds and inlets – and we hammered signs into the trees warning others not to tamper with the lake’s delicate balance
A teacher who taught me my first lessons about fate, error, injury and death – as children and adults alike succumbed to its powers: drownings, boat accidents, and floods. The lives of people and animals swallowed through thin ice in the winters or summers’ destructive storms that we watched come toward us across the lake – a violent wall of wind and water, lightening and thunder, snow and hail and ice.
A punitive authority figure: arbitrary and unyeilding, drawing down lightening strikes, tornadoes, slicing uncareful toes on sharpened rocks unseen in muddy shallow water.
A transforming creature, whose shores and trees and wildlife shifted and adjusted with the years and the seasons from liquid to frozen and back again.
A location that instructed me about theft and injustice and my own complicity – as it retained is Dakota name with no trace of the Dakota people, except for a few remaining ancient mounds and middens.
The more we are able to relate ourselves to this environment as it really is – the more our perception of it becomes freed from seeing it to be bathed in Evil or Good or what not – the more satisfying and rich is our relatedness to it. ~ The Nonhuman Environment, Harold F. Searles, MD 1960
It was, and is, a relationship – although I own no property there, have no lake access or boat, and have only visited substantially once in thirty years. I had an effect on that non-human entity – I threw rocks, and caught fish, and cleaned trash from its shores, guarded and disrupted its wildlife, tended to it and harmed it as it soothed and warned, scolded, frightened and instructed me in the realities of life and the challenges of living.
I suspect we all have such primal relationships with some environment or non-human relationship specific to us – a city block, a park, a summer camp, a rosebush in the back yard – and it is part of the work of the psychotherapeutic process to help us identify the imprint we leave upon our environment, and the imprint it leaves upon us.
And whatever happens next, as this world heats, and storms, and floods, and bakes – we should not miss a chance for intimacy, for relatedness with the living world around us.
We live in a world of human relationships. And we must all, at this historic crossroads, come to recognize the relationships that we have, as human beings, with the world. We have affected each other. We have been affected.
Whatever happens next: That is relatedness. That is intimacy.
Some say that originally every proper dragon carried a pearl under his chin… ~ Ernest Ingersoll, Dragons and Dragon Lore
When a pearl oyster is injured, it will form a pearl sac to contain the wound…. as part of the healing process.
For wherever there is a pearl there is a monster lying on it, wherever there is a treasure, there is a snake wound around it… You cannot get near the Self and the meaning of life without being on the razor’s edge of falling into greed, into darkness, and into the shadowy aspect of the personality. One does not even know if it not necessary sometimes to fall into it, because otherwise it cannot be assimilated.
~ Marie Von Franz, Individuation in Fairy Tales
I wake in the middle of the night from a dream:
A young man, dressed in dark clothes, lurks nearby on a dark street, slithering in the dark silently, tight next to the buildings he passes. He is following me. I think nothing of him, I feel safe and at home, until I suddenly lose track of myself and drop my wallet, change spilling all over the street, shining in the moonlight. I stoop down to gather the coins, and feel suddenly uneasy – I lift my head up to see the young man charging toward me, at a remarkable speed, with the wide-mouthed unhinged jaws of a serpent. Glistening teeth the last thing I see before I awake terrified, frozen – heart pounding.
After a few minutes – I drift back asleep – wondering about the young man, and before I know it, I have gone in search of him. I find him in a cave along the banks of a lake near my childhood home. He is hiding, and has made himself a shelter there, in the damp and dark. I notice an elaborate graffiti mural, a beautiful work of art on a cement wall with a word painted at its center: “Wound.”
I assume this is his tag, and it becomes the dragon-boy’s name to me.
I climb with Wound up a steep hill and show him up into my self-made childhood tree house. I bring him blankets and bologna and white bread sandwiches.
As we sit together in the tree he says: “You didn’t come and visit me for a long time. I think you forgot about me.”
I admitted that I had.
“If you promise to come back sometimes I’ll give you a gift.”
“I’ll come visit again. I’m sorry I forgot. I don’t need a present.”
He insists on giving it to me anyway: He pulls out a red-velvet bag and tugs open the drawstring to reveal an enormous pearl.
In the weeks that followed, I found myself thinking about the sacred gifts that our wounds can sometimes bestow and the dragons that threaten to devour us.
So this is the roundabout story of a dream and where it led me: on a long adventure of mythic research and psychoanalytic theory, in search of an unknown treasure. I got lost along the way in tangential explorations. I forgot my original mission as I wandered through many not-obviously related texts and was engrossed by them. I became deflated as I gathered more and more snippets, pieces and fragments, uncertain that I would ever be able to create one whole cohesive thought. My spirits rose as I saw glimmers of a unifying notion on the horizon, although as I write I remain unsure as to whether or not I have uncovered anything new or valuable, or if I’ve surfaced with any pearls of wisdom at all.
Pearls have not only been seen as archetypal symbols of healing and wholeness- but have been used through history as actual medicine: ground into powder, dissolved in water, ingested and applied to the skin. It is thought that pearl powder soothes pain, slows aging, coats and heals intestinal distress just as it tends to the oyster’s wound.
Perhaps pearls do have healing properties. Or maybe our very wounds grant us magic gifts. Or both.
And maybe the mini-myth that emerged in my sleep is connected to ideas and images that could be of some value for others as well as myself, about treasure seeking journeys, wounds and dragons, as well as the gnostic awakenings and creative processes involved in psychotherapeutic healing.
Knowledge of the Heart
One of my first associations, as I sat with the dream and began to work with it, was a decades-old memory of the Gnostic poem: The Hymn of The Pearl. It took me several weeks to get around to pulling the text off the shelf, and a week or so more before I had the time and clear head to read it.
Gnosticism refers to a cluster of second-century mostly, but not entirely Christian religions, for there were Jewish and Manichean Gnostics too. Gnosis means knowledge and in this context it refers more properly to revelatory knowledge, or insight. We rely on gnosis as a root word daily when we speak of cognition, agnosticism, and recognition as ways of knowing, not knowing and re-knowing. For the Gnostic sects, the ability to see into our sacred “fullness”, our most whole, authentic self, and our divine, incorruptible nature – is true spiritual awakening.
This knowledge, or Gnosis, they did not see as a rational knowledge or even a philosophical knowledge of truth, but rather a knowing that arises in the heart in an intuitive, mysterious manner. ~ Stephen, A. Hoeller, The Gnostic Jung
And of course we should remember here that in Judeo-Christian texts it is the serpent that leads humanity to their first taste of gnosis from the fruit of the tree of knowledge.
Unsurprisingly, Gnosticism had a profound impact on Jungian thought, and Jung’s conception of the individuation process: sorting through and becoming aware of our “fleshly” ego-consciousness and complexes, the public persona that confirms to socio-cultural norms and pressures, and the call to apprehend something of our whole encompassing Self, which contains all of our conscious and unconscious aspects.
The Hymn of the Pearl, found in the Apocryphal Acts of Thomas, recounts the mythic journey of a divine youth, sent by his heavenly parents down to the earthly plane in order to:
“Bring back the one pearl,
which lies in the middle of the sea
and is guarded by the snorting serpent.”
The descent is treacherous. The guides who accompany him at the start of the journey leave him to complete his trial alone, as he draws nearer to his destination.
“I went straight to the serpent
and settled in close by his inn,
waiting for him to sleep
so I could take my pearl from him.”
But the young hero is waylaid, as anxiety pressures him to conform to the cultural requirements of the nearby villagers.
“Then I put on a robe like theirs
lest they suspect me as an outsider
who had come to steal the pearl;
lest they arouse the serpent against me…
…And they gave me their food to eat.
I forgot that I was a son of kings,
and I served their king.
I forgot the pearl
for which my parents had sent me.
Through the heaviness of their food
I fell into a deep sleep.”
The divine Father and Mother see what has occurred, and write a magic letter to their boy:
“Awake and rise from your sleep
and hear the words of our letter!
Remember the pearl…”
The letter magically descends to earth in the shape of an eagle – the rustling of its wings wakens the nameless hero.
“I took it, kissed it
broke its seal and read…
I remembered the pearl…
And I began to enchant
the terrible snorting serpent.
I charmed him into sleep …
I seized the pearl
and turned to carry it to my Father.”
The hero then casts off the “filthy” borrowed robe, and begins the ascent back to his heavenly parents, where the glorious pearl is added to his jewel encrusted royal robe, a robe vibrating with living, divine awareness of all things.
(~ The Other Bible, Willis Barnstone editor)
Decades ago, I’d read The Hymn of the Pearl as historical theology in a comparative religions course – and always found it a disappointment. I yearned for it to move me somehow, but it hadn’t. A title so beautiful, yet as allegory it lacked interesting tension for me. Divine plane: Good. Material plane: Filthy. Appetite-laden, debased. A call to humanity to shake off contaminated earthly garments in pursuit of being enrobed in divine salvation. I liked my religious philosophy more ambiguous than that. Less dualistic. I’d known about, but had never shared, Jung’s identification and passion for the Gnostic literature.
And I’ll admit that re-reading the hymn this time left me just as flat. “Oh, yeah” I thought, “I remember, I never really did like this poem.” But I certainly noticed much in common with my dream: A dangerous serpent, a descent, a deep body of water, enchanting the dragon (although I am not sure that white bread and bologna sandwiches would constitute “enchantment” by any good Gnostic’s standards) an ascent, a forgotten promise, a pearl. So I re-read it several more times and – remained unmoved.
But a few days later, the ball dropped, and flipped my usual orientation on its head: I commonly look to myth to clarify dream content, but perhaps the dream was the key to my understanding the myth itself, as well as the ways that it plays out in my life, and in the psychotherapeutic journeys I undertake in my office each day.
Perhaps mythical dragons are related to our very wounds – and must be pursued, encountered, and contended with before we are granted their treasure.
So maybe this is one way of many to understand pearls and serpents: when we descend to the watery, dark unconscious, to make contact with our wounded, hungry or unacknowledged self-aspects, we fear we may be completely devoured or destroyed.
These dangers are psychologically all too real. The internal energies that are released, the flood of emotion, rage, anxiety, adrenaline, and terror when we approach our most personal vulnerabilities can threaten to consume, flood and drown us.
Fairy-tale and folklore tell us of multitudes who were eaten by dragons, and lived experience has shown us that people can be consumed by their wounds and weaknesses. Too many of us know, among our families and friends, those who go to battle with such dragons as trauma, despair, addiction, denial who do not succeed, who never return, or are never whole again after their encounter. There are many who die of their wounds and the serpent’s bite – some instantly, some all too slowly.
And unsurprisingly, during the arduous process of thinking and writing about this dream and this myth, I would be reminded, both in and out of the office, about how threatening the demons lurking in our psyches can be, how overwhelming the contact with a core-injury, and how visceral the experience of being devoured can be. But they can also serve to peel away the finite, enfleshed self, revealing something beautiful, valuable and timeless hidden under our hard work-a-day armor, growing out of our soft mortal flesh.
The oyster is a fitting symbol of the corruptible fleshy animal nature, but out of it is produced, or there exudes this incorruptible thing… Just as the pearl comes out when you open the oyster, so in death our fleshy existence would fall away and decay, and the immortal part of our personality, the pearl, would become visible.
~ Marie Von Franz, Individuation in Fairy Tales
Our most frightening wounds may be the only things that can ever make us whole.
And what of the pearl itself? In the Hymn of the Pearl it is a symbol of gnosis: hard won insight into the luminous Center, the fullness of being, Wholeness. In Quakerism it is called the Seed. Some call it Buddha-nature others call it Christ-consciousness. Jung saw it as the transcendent Self at the center of the mandala, and the Gnostics call it the Pearl.
Only what is really oneself has the power to heal. ~ C. G. Jung, Two Essays on Analytical Psychology
Why a pearl and not a ruby, a diamond, a lump of gold or some other treasure? And what kind of pearl (for there are many in ancient texts)? The Vedic text the Garuda Purana lists a group of pearl stones, all blessing their possessor with various virtues and fortunes: Conch pearl, Boar and Elephant pearl (growing out of tusk roots), the Bamboo pearl, the Whale and Fish pearl (intestinal bezoars swallowed by the animal to aid digestion) and the mythical, powerful Cloud Pearl. The Serpent Pearl, also known as Cobra pearl, is probably also mythical – or perhaps grew as an organic stone from the snake’s gall.
The possessor of the serpent pearl meets with rare good fortune, and becomes a pious and illustrious king in time, with a treasury full of other species of precious gems… Neither the serpents nor the Rakshas (demons), nor diseases, nor disturbances of any kind would assail the man amidst whose treasure such a snake pearl would lie. ~ Garuda Purana Chapter LXIX
It was also common for any large sea animal – whales for example, to be categorized as serpents and dragons throughout antiquity
.…Pearls were regarded as in the special possession of the sea-gods and water-spirits; and these beings were often pictured in forms far more fishy, or crocodilian, or shark-like, than were the terrestrial, serpentine dragons ~ Ernest Ingersoll, Dragons and Dragon Lore
The archetypal serpent-goddesses, the Naga of the Mahabharata wear strands of pearls in their underwater palaces. In Buddhist teachings the third eye of wisdom and self-knowledge is represented as a pearl, as is the “jewel in the lotus.” (~ J. E. Circlot, A Dictionary of Symbols) Krishna wears the entire universe strung around his neck as a string of pearls ( The Archive for Research in Archetypal Symbolism, The Book of Symbols) The Tao is also a pearl, and in traditional Christian texts it emerges as an image of the kingdom of heaven:
Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto a merchant man seeking goodly pearls who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all that he had and bought it. (~ Matthew 13:46)
We are cautioned in The Book of Matthew not to “cast our pearls before swine”– offer up our souls most sacred, True Self to those who will trample it, and “turn again and rend you” (7:6) – while the Book of Revelations summons an image of the gates of the New Jerusalem, each carved from a single pearl.
One of the most stunning images of pearls as immortal transcendent bodies crystallized within the mortal body was documented in the film The Unmistaken Child following the aftermath of the death of Lama Konchog. The monk’s disciples sift through his cremains for a handful of sarira pearl-like objects left behind after the funereal flames have burned out, viewed as a pure embodiment of the master’s accumulated spiritual knowledge and teachings.
So is this what we are seeking? Is this what we may receive after facing down a deadly dragon? Self-knowledge? Gnosis? Immortality? Vitality? Power, Wealth or Wisdom? And/or something else entirely?
Pearls, unlike other jewels, are created gems. They are not discovered, mined, or extracted pre-existent from the earth’s crust. Our personal pearls of wisdom, our sarira, should not be cast before swine, because they heal from and grow out of our very wounds. They are valuable, sacred even, because they encapsulate, emerge from, soothe, and heal our injuries.
They are made, formed, and manufactured: a creative response to damage inflicted upon living flesh. The pearl has an embodied and literal function, more primal that its decorative value. It is a creative and created response to injury, and as such represents healing as an inherently creative act. And indeed, we often experience artistic and creative inspiration as something akin to divine revelation, a passing up of deep mysterious knowledge from the unconscious, to the consciousness, and sometimes onward to the benefit of the community at large.
The First Danger: Refusing the call
The mythological literature suggests that there is no easy way to apprehend your own vital, transcendent, creative core. There will always be a serpent wrapped around it.
To have eyes and not see, to have ears and not hear; these are the typical unmistakable symptoms of occlusion to the call of creative vitality” ~ Erich Neumann, Art and The Creative Unconscious
And some will not return, as we know, and others won’t set out on the journey at all.
Which is the greater danger? Is it more dangerous to risk being devoured, destroyed, to face the annihilation anxieties that are activated by the serpents at our wounded core? Or to avoid the central tasks of healing and creative living entirely?
Let’s say that in the severe case all that is real and all that matters and all that is personal and original and creative is hidden, and gives no sign of its existence. The individual in such an extreme case would not really mind whether he was alive or dead… ~ D. W. Winnicott, Playing and Reality.
The Second Danger: The Descent
And even if we do decide to set out on the journey and seek out a life worth living, the descent can be both steep and treacherous. We may require the assistance of guards, sherpas, and guides who know the path and have skills to usher us over the early obstacles, ward off predators and keep us from getting lost along he way. This may be part of a psychotherapist’s function, although not exclusively. There are all kinds of teachers and elders familiar with the twists and turns, slippery spots and predators that lie along the path to Self-Knowledge.
But no matter how far we are led, at some point we will find ourselves facing the central task of forging a meaningful life on our own recognizance with nothing but our courage, cleverness, and resources.
The Third Danger: Forgetting, Sleeping and Waking Up
There is more than one way to get lost.
The hero of the Hymn falls into full-belly sleepiness – losing track of his mission entirely – as my own dream-myth was disrupted by startling fearfully awake out of my unconscious processes. Whether becoming engrossed in earthly realities is experienced as a falling asleep or as a waking up, the compelling realness of the “real world” poses its own threat to undertaking the journey toward Self-Knowledge.
Money, power, governments, the raising of families, paying of taxes, the endless chain of entrapment in circumstances and obligations, none of these were as rejected as totally and unequivocally… as they were by the Gnostics. ~ Stephen, A. Hoeller, The Gnostic Jung
The pressures to conform to cultural and societal expectations (wearing robes like the others) the sleepy seduction of hedonism (satiated by a heavy meal), or chasing after earthly treasures (in the form of scattered coins on a dark street) can all distract us from the central purposes of our lives.
Whereas the normal man to a great extent pays for his adaptation to life in Western civilization with a loss of creativity, the creative man, who is adapted to the requirements of the unconscious world pays for his creativity with loneliness, which is the expression of his relative lack of adaptation to the life of the community. ~ Erich Neumann, Art and The Creative Unconscious
To withstand the solitary aspects of the journey, to reject the comforts of conformity, to pursue Jungian individuation does not mean merely to live a selfish or unrelated life. The call of individuation, the pursuit of gnosis, puts us in deeper contact with our creative generativity, our most authentic business in this world, a clearer sense of who we are, and what we actually have to offer others.
Although we are all certain to fall asleep and lose the thread of what is important and most central to us, moments of grace also intervene: Grace descends, sends us letters, and rustles its feathers re-awakening us to our life’s purpose. And sometimes, late at night, we can drift back to sleep and Grace may lead us back toward the fading wisp of a dream so that a story can continue to unfold.
The Fourth Danger: Drowned, Destroyed, Devoured
Then there is the danger of becoming lost at sea, flooded, drowned or devoured in the under-water kingdom of the Sea-dragon. The realm of the archetypes lurks deep in the bottom of our watery Unconscious, and our wounds often reside in dark hidden caves. This is Jung’s Collective Unconscious – where instinctive archetypal forces can grant us extraordinary transformational energy – but only if we have the strength, savvy, cunning, skill and humility to prevent those same energies from taking full possession of us, and tearing us to bits in their mighty jaws.
What does this mythological flooding, drowning, entrapment under the sea look like clinically? What happens to clients, or to ourselves when we tangle with archetypally primal forces and they take us over? It looks like experiences of madness and psychosis, transitory or enduring. Voice-hearing in which the voices have full control. It looks like states of depression, of anxiety, of despair so powerful that we could die from them. It looks like soul-shaking panic attacks, annihilation anxieties in all their most flooding forms.
We need sufficient strength, support, and maybe also some accumulated skill and practice at facing down smaller more manageable reptiles before we descend into the watery realm of the Dragon King. Jungian “ego strength” is measured by our conscious and accrued ability to contain, tame, endure, negotiate, withstand, and survive the dangers that lurk in our Unconscious.
We know that the creative power of the unconscious seizes upon the individual with the autonomous force of an instinctual drive and takes possession of him without the least consideration for the individual, his life, his happiness, or his health. ~ Erich Neumann, Art and the Creative Unconscious
But no matter how strong we are, no matter how skilled, practiced, or well-analyzed, none of us makes it through this life without some profound vulnerability or limitation. We are all weakest at the site of a previous injury, and this is where both the dragon and its treasure settle: nearest to our most fragile and broken bits, in the weakened places that require the greatest courage for us to move toward, alongside our most stunted and undeveloped aspects. Only if we can face down powerful archetypal forces in our most vulnerable states will we really have a chance at a life worth living.
And maybe this is also the sacred function of the dragon and the unconscious forces that call attention to the wounds: So that we remain cognizant of them, so we recognize that our injuries and our vitalities are always intertwined, so that we remember to return and visit and comprehend that life without our wounds really just means that we are less alive.
The Fifth Danger: Repression and Defeated Dragons
But if dragons serve their sacred functions, if they are representative of our extraordinary and simultaneous capacity for destruction and creativity, of the forces of woundedness and healing, what future treasures will we lose when the serpents are slain, driven out, or overpowered?
Repression by… consciousness creates an underworld with a dangerous emotional charge, which tends to erupt, to overpower and destroy the world of the victors, this underworld is inhabited by the vanquished and suppressed gods… the dragons which form the perilous substructure of the dominant world of the victors. But as the myth implies, this repression does not transform the powers; it merely chains them temporarily. ~ Erich Neumann, Art and the Creative Unconscious
In “Western” cultures organized more explicitly on dualistic Judeo-Christian religious myths – hanging out in trees accepting the gifts of serpents never leads to good outcomes. That is just simple, obvious heresy. That is what gets you cast out of paradise and sentenced to life long toil. Potentially disruptive gnosis must be repressed and overcome.
…And the powers that had been repressed but not transformed must again – at least according to an absurd dogma – be repressed but now forever. ~ Erich Neumann, Art and the Creative Unconscious
Dragons can be vanquished in too many ways, and there is a danger not only of killing off a powerful source of vitality, but killing off essential aspects of ourselves in the process. In the Yoga Upanishads - Kundalini, serpent power or life force is depicted as a snake, “coiled round upon herself she holds her tail in her mouth and lies resting half asleep”
Perhaps there are better and worse ways to gain the prize.
Why in tales of European dragons is the dragon vanquished, murdered, and her treasure claimed as booty? How is a treasure transformed or contaminated when it taken by violence, trickery, or enmity rather than given freely as a gift?
Perhaps we never get to travel to the depths just once; maybe there are many serpents to contend with, many pearls. Or what if we only have one dragon within us, that produces a
multitude of pearls? One way or another, life may require this journey of us repeatedly.
The heroes that rely on violence and theft are young, untested, frightened men – encountering their dragon-wounds for the very first time. Maybe fear leads to them to overkill, to theft, snatch-and-dash.
Whereas I am a white-haired woman who has spent many years studying the ways of dragons and the energies that surround our wounds. And although I try never to underestimate the feral power of such wild forces, I may have learned through the years of my own therapeutic process and soul-work, that bologna and white bread sandwiches often comfort dragon-wounds. Perhaps without realizing it, I’ve become a little bit of a wound-whisperer, a dragon tamer. I can sometimes teach others how to enter, – cautiously, carefully, respectfully- into relationship with fearsome creatures who may offer up their fortune freely, without need for theft or bloodshed.
So many come to psychotherapy seeking assistance to kill off their wounds, to repress their distress, to eliminate symptoms, to find a way to get away from their pain and somehow snatch happiness from its jaws. They are convinced that the serpent is the enemy. Just like those who petitioned Asclepius, (the Greek God of medicine) for healing, they stare at me flabbergasted when I suggest that they must sleep among the snakes and enter into relationship with their wound in order to be healed. Psychotherapy (as I practice it) is not, after all, the business of dragon slaying. It can only teach us the language of the serpents.
And maybe we will also return from the trial with a treasure: the psychic victory of the creative gesture.
Creative transformation on the other hand, represents a total process in which the creative principle is manifested not as an irruptive possession, but as a power related to the self, the center of the whole personality. ~ Erich Neumann, Art and the Creative Unconscious
This pearlescent “creative principle” is the source of artistic work, both profound and personal. In “From The Wrong Side: a Paradoxical Approach to Psychology” Adolf Guggenbuhl-Craig distinguishes between “personal creativity” and “transcendent creativity.” Personal creativity occurs “everywhere human beings are found” in his view; however, transcendent creativity, is rare, moving beyond the creative processes of personal healing, serving a symbolic function for the community as a whole through works of true art. Transcendent creativity is as uncommon as a pearl in nature.
Let us consider the psychological ideas of the majority of us psychologists and psychiatrists. By and large, our ideas are completely unoriginal and collective! We can hardly recognize any kind of creativity and even less something truly new in them. In form and content, these ideas are but repetitions or simply plain hard work. They are not genuinely creative, something really rare. ~ Adolph Guggenbuhl-Craig, From The Wrong Side
So the treasure, the gift, the mystical pearl we receive is unlikely, for most of us, to manifest as a great work of art, although the journey, trials, obstacles, blocks, and dangers are similar. The psyche of the artist offers up pearls of a truly transcendent quality.
Yet, healing is itself a creative act, as is living.
Not an artistic one, in all or even most cases, but a creative act nonetheless.
The creativity that concerns me is a universal. It belongs to being alive. ~ D. W. Winnicott, Playing and Reality
There is a final task, as well as some potential pitfalls once the pearl is in our grasp. The jewel must be acknowledged as coming from, and belonging to forces beyond our conscious ego.
The impulse to keep the gift, hide, bury, or hoard it, constitutes a psychological danger and a severe distortion of heart-knowledge. A corresponding trap is when we succumb to the narcissistically inflating illusion that we have conscious control over the creative process. Grace has always played a hand. The muses must be courted, and dragons must be honored as magical creatures who grant us talismans from realms beyond our own.
Creativity happens outside of the individual psyche. Phenomenologically, at least, it seems that a power external to the one creating is at work, that the creator is but a tool or a vessel. ~ Adolph Guggenbuhl-Craig, From The Wrong Side
Moreover, as any devoted reader of fairy tales knows, the gift we receive, must be given away and passed onward or upward in some form, or its powers will turn against those who pretend to own and control it. The hero ascends with his booty, his gnosis, and although he is allowed to adorn his robe with it, it is clear that the robe itself carries a mantle of responsibility along with it. We must make sure that the wisdom we accrue serves purposes far larger and more sacred than our own interests – or it is not wisdom at all.
This is part and parcel of the work of a psychotherapist – to offer up the gifts we have received to strengthen not only ourselves, but also others who have begun their own quest.
In the office, I am always fearful when the descent begins. I am both confident and I tremble inwardly as I accompany clients through the familiar obstacles and dangers, although I try not to show it. I am often speechless and awe-struck when, after long and strengthening testing, we encounter the wound directly. And I am always grateful when we survive, and I have the honor of watching clients move more fully, more deeply and creatively into a life worth living.
I laugh, and sigh with relief, as I watch a client take possession of the treasure, and begin to carry it out into the world with them:
“I hoped that this is what would happen!” I hear myself saying “I had faith that it would, but nevertheless, it is always a relief to see it become reality right in front of me! These are the times when I wish I had a time machine, and could record this moment, and travel back to the beginning of this process so I could show us both what amazing things would grow out of the journey. It might have been relieving to you, but it sure would have been relieving to me too!”
It is a fear that I have grown used to, and one that no longer threatens my faith too intolerably. And both the receiving and the giving of the gift are always miracles.
So I share the long and winding story of my dream, and its mother-myth here.
I do this because I was reminded, and perhaps others need to be reminded as well, that the processes of healing, self-knowledge and creative insight always depend upon heroic acts of bravery and Divine Grace together.
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful—
The eye of a little god, four-cornered….
~ Sylvia Plath, Mirror
We all know the story of Narcissus, and the dangers of falling too deeply in self-love, mesmerized by our own reflection.
And we all know that fairy tales warn us of the black arts of deceptive mirrors which seduce us into the belief that we are indeed the “fairest of them all”
Psychoanalytic theory has wrestled with the idea of the reflected self – and the hunger we all have to see ourselves accurately and completely. The need to gaze at ourselves is simultaneously labeled as narcissistic disease, and the same mirroring gaze is the cure itself.
Self-involvement, self-regard, self-love, self-awareness, self-negation, self-esteem, selfishness and self-reflection. Our fascination with mirrors speaks to our archetypal hunger to see ourselves in both a flattering and an accurate light, our fear of what we may find, the tricks and dangers that lurk through the looking-glass and the wish to know realities that require the aid of the reflecting glass.
For without such reflections we cannot begin to know ourselves at all.
Relationship as Mirror
I your glass Will modestly discover to yourself
That of yourself which you yet know not of.
Shakespeare ~ Julius Cesar
The first literal and metaphorical mirror we encounter is “the gleam in the mother’s eye” – a glimpse of our infant-selves, feeding, reflected in the dark pupil of a care provider. For those lucky enough to first see themselves in an eye-mirror that is smiling, admiring, bonded, and loving our most primordial sense of Self will be surrounded in adoration and security. For those with depressed, absent, distracted or indifferent care takers the first glimpse of ourselves may be anxious, disrupted, hopeless or fragmentary.
And some cannot find themselves there at all.
Mothering and mirroring are archetypal functions entangled and intertwined long before psychoanalysis conflated them:
In Christian art the mirror came to represent the eternal purity of the Virgin Mary. As the medieval writer Jacobus de Voragine wrote:
“As the sun permeates glass without violating it, so Mary became a mother without losing her virginity… She is called a mirror because of her representation of things, for as all things are reflected from a mirror, so in the blessed Virgin, as in the mirror of God, ought all to see their impurities and spots, and purify them and correct them…” ~ The Fitzwilliam Museum
Over time early caretakers wield their parental power with “an increasing selectivity of responses.” As the mother’s face-mirror shifts from admiring to disappointing, approving to disapproving, flattering to shaming it prunes our sense of our own strengths and weaknesses, and helps us to assemble a socialized self – a mask, a false-self, a personae to introduce ourselves to the world.
The first experience of a disapproving mirror casts us from the garden, initiates us into the processes of repression and introduces us to sin and shame.
The most destructive energies within us must first be met with some approval for their self-preserving, evolutionary function in order for us to integrate them into our own self-image, and learn to modulate them and use them effectively.
The consequence of the parental self-objects inability to be the joyful mirror to a child’s healthy assertiveness may be a lifetime of abrasiveness, bitterness and sadism that cannot be discharged- and it is only by means of therapeutic reactivation of the original need for the self-objects responses that the actual lessening of rage and a return to healthy assertiveness can be achieved. ~ Heinz Kohut, The Restoration of Self.
In Kohut’s model, the psychotherapist creates an opportunity for a corrective experience by assuming transferred responsibility for these mirroring needs – as a self-object that helps to repair and integrate distorted or unmirrored aspects of the Self. The therapist offers an accepting, admiring gaze, one that allows the client to shed the distorting self-representations left over from being raised surrounded by fun house mirrors.
For Kohut, the need for healthy self-mirroring objects, accurate enough, even through its imperfections, is life long. Psychotherapies that span a life-time are not seen as failed – but as necessary compensations for our ongoing need to see and accept ourselves as we are over time.
No one looks in a mirror just once. We feel the need in to check in on ourselves, to peer and peek, take in and groom our reflections, sometimes several times a day, every day as we grow, mature and decline over for the course of our lives. We wonder if we could know ourselves over time, if we could have a sense of how life passes through us at all without our mirrors.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish. ~ Sylvia Plath, Mirror
Mirrors & Shadows
In myth, scripture, fairy tale and legend, the mirror as archetype serves far more uncanny functions, functions more dangerous, ambivalent, sacred and transcendent than merely regulating our self-esteem.
Mirrors reveal to us what cannot be shown to anyone else, what we do not know, and perhaps don’t want to know about ourselves at all.
Whoever looks into the mirror of the water will see first of all his own face. Whoever goes to himself risks a confrontation with himself. The mirror does not flatter, it faithfully shows whatever looks into it; namely, the face we never show to the world because we cover it with the persona, the mask of the actor. But the mirror lies behind the mask and shows the true face. ~ CG Jung “Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious”
Our truest face, our whole Self includes a shadow that is terrifying to us, as almost every scary movie will attest to. What is more frightening than staring in a mirror, alone, in an empty house, at night with nothing to encounter except yourself in the quiet dark? What horror will be revealed? What chilling doppleganger lurks underneath our daytime persona?
We are horrified and titillated by seeing our denied, demonic shadow selves reflected.
There are destructive creatures lurking in our personal unconscious that can only be vanquished, by taking indirect aim through their reflection, as Perseus defeated Medusa. Complexes that are so potent, that if we attempt to face them too squarely, too directly we could be turned to stone.
There are monsters and entities which are only recognized by empty mirrors which reveal their soul-lessness. Our undead selves, the haunting self-apsects not alive but not dead either, vampiric states that drain us when we are unaware, our eyes closed to what has emerged to feed when we were not awake to ourselves.
In Psychology and Alchemy, C.G. Jung details a dream in which a mirror appears as “an indispensable instrument of navigation” referring “to the intellect which is able to think, and is constantly persuading us to identify with its insights (reflections).”
Metabolizing shadow content is one of the functions of psychotherapy too, as well as safely and incrementally, breaking down the repressions, fear, and judgement which caused those self-states to find themselves banished to the mirror-lands to begin with.
Here the focus of psychotherapeutic work is less on the psychotherapist as corrective mirror, but more as a warm and accepting guide, who’s job is to usher us into active relationship with our own Unconscious.
Mirrors can also show us glimpses of worlds far beyond our personal unconscious.
Mirrors, Soul and Spirit
For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.
~ 1 Corinthians, 13:12 King James Bible
Mirrors are windows into alternate universes, to magic realms, to the upside down places, and can transport us to the dream-lands and spirit worlds. They are the looking-glass we can fall through, and the portal which both dark and benevolent spirits pass through to contact us.
Faust on his journey with Mephistopheles first falls in love with face of Divine love – Heavenly beauty, the Anima, manifest as the face of Helen of Troy when her image emerges in a magic mirror. It is this contact with his own soul and the redeeming spirit which, in the end, will ultimately save him.
And from her living body, lying there
Comes there indeed all heaven my soul to bless?
~ Faust, Goethe
Mirror phenomenon are also representative of the intuitive function: To look in a mirror lit only by candle light reveals the spirits of those who have died. Or practice mirror gazing, catopromancy, as Pythagoras did, and divine your fate as it emerges in the glass. Reflection under the moonlight opens the mind’s eye to the images, intuitions, and guidance of larger psyche: the instincts and perceptions unconsciously repressed or consciously dismissed in the light of day.
Without the silvered glass we may never retrieve unknown, forgotten or lost pieces of our own soul.
It was a maxim both in ancient India and in ancient Greece not to look at one’s reflection in the water and …the Greeks regarded it as an omen of death if a man dreamed of seeing himself so reflected. They feared that the water-spirits would drag the person’s reflection or soul ‘under water, leaving him soulless to perish. This was probably the origin of the classical story of the beautiful Narcissus, who languished and died through seeing his reflection in the water ~ Paula Elkisch, The Psychological Significance of the Mirror
Like photographs, when isolated cultures without mirrors were introduced to them for the first time, it was often assumed that the reflection was their actual soul, having left the body.
We cover mirrors following a death so the soul does not become lost within them and a broken mirror is an image of a shattered soul in pieces, and it will take seven years before its wholeness is restored.
If the mirror is “‘a thing that has been made the screen for man’s projections” (Elkish) then through the processes of projection we lose some part of our soul.
So, what then are psychotherapists as personified blank-screens and mirroring-objects gathering up client’s projections and transferences – but soul-stealers and head-shrinkers, holding our client’s souls hostage for a weekly ransom? As psychotherapists we must always acknowledge the darker aspects of our powers and the archetypes that are present in the therapeutic transaction. As clients, the mirror as archetype reminds us that we must remain always cognizant of the dangers of becoming trapped, lost, hypnotized by images of our own projected soul.
It seems that the fear of loss of self (or soul) together with the attempt at retrieving the lost makes the mirror so fascinating ~ Paula Elkisch, The Psychological Significance of the Mirror
Mirrors, Tricks and Miracles
The universe is at root a magical illusion and a fabulous game ~ Alan Watts
Of course stage magicians also rely on mirrors to create pleasurable tricks and amusements. It is a deception that we participate in happily, willingly, suspending our disbelief to delight in the hidden mirrors ability to make things appear or disappear, or to make something or someone dense, burdensome and heavy transform into something as light as a feather. As we watch the volunteer from the audience levitate, mirrors obscuring the mechanisms of suspension, our own burdens feel lighter too.
Mirrored tricks and illusions can have profoundly healing effects: Mirror-boxes are used to effectively treat phantom limb pain following amputation. The intact limb is placed in front of the mirror box, which masks the missing limb. The patient watches the mirror while they stretch, unfurl, scratch, or massage the intact limb, relieving the discomfort of the missing limb. The mind is not fooled into the literal belief that their missing limb has been restored, but the brain is fooled and the illusion soothes and relieves.
And perhaps psychotherapy is at its very best, a similar curative illusion, a healing trick, a soothing substitution – rather than a literally corrective experience for losses incurred in the past. A trick which both participants must remember is both an illusion and a cure.
Or maybe it is something else:
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes….
~ Sylvia Plath, Mirror
An image presented itself to me in a hypnogogic state recently – as I drifted in between sleep and waking:
I sat in my office chair, my face hidden from view, my head behind a mirror inside a box much like a medicine cabinet. I sat across from an unknown Other, who I could see only dimly, but who saw their soul reflected when they faced me. They were transfixed, filled with yearning, with deep hunger for more contact, to forge a deep and lasting relationship with the face in front of them. I was not fooled. I knew that I was not what they sought. But it was nearly impossible to impress the truth upon them: What they thought they could only access through “me” was merely a reflection of their Self: “wholeness, totality, the union of opposites, the central generative point where God and man meet… the fountain of our being which is most simply described as God” ~ Edward Edinger – Ego and Archetype
“Mirror”: from the Vulgar Latin, “mirare” to look at,” variant of Latin mirari “to wonder at, marvel, be astonished” – also the historical source of “Miracle” and “Miraculous”
What you seek is already within you. This reality is subjective, not the outer, objective reality. ~ Ram Dass, Polishing the Mirror quoted in Parabola vol, 39, issue 1
It is your own lush self
you hunger for
~ Lucille Clifton, Eve’s Version
Anger (v) c.1200, “to irritate, annoy, provoke,” from Old Norse angra “to grieve, vex, distress; to be vexed at, take offense with,” from Proto-Germanic *angus (cf. Old English enge “narrow, painful,” Middle Dutch enghe, Gothic aggwus “narrow”), from PIE root *angh- “tight, painfully constricted, painful” (cf. Sanskrit amhu- “narrow,” amhah “anguish;” Armenian anjuk “narrow;” Lithuanian ankstas “narrow;” Greek ankhein “to squeeze,” ankhone “a strangling;” Latin angere “to throttle, torment;” Old Irish cum-ang “straitness, want”). In Middle English, also of physical pain. Meaning “excite to wrath, make angry” is from late 14c. ~ ( http://www.etymonline.com)
So someone is always angry at me about something. At least one person a day, often more than that.
Often enough with good, fair reason and because of something I have done or not done, said or not said. I am running late. I push when I should have held back, or held back when more was needed from me. I can make my own errors, stumble about, bang into a painful bruise. Sometimes I am clumsy, slow, frustratingly thick-headed. Or lost in my own projections, operating on an erroneous assumption, or stuck in my own subjectivity.
Sometimes people are angry because they have been sold a bill of goods, hopefully not by me, although I am probably also a participant, that psychotherapy can offer them a cure, some relief, when the truth is less certain. Sometimes it can and sometimes it can’t.
People get angry that I don’t have the magical powers to take their pain, their confusion, their ambivalence, to heal the wound away.
Some become angry that I don’t just know. Right away, instantly, what is needed and how to provide it. Sometimes people become angry because they have told me what they want from me, and they believe that I am withholding, refusing to cough it up.
Some want to control, extract, command that I fill their need to their exact specifications and are enraged at the dereliction of my professional duties when that need remains thwarted, unfulfilled, exposed, empty when I can’t. Or won’t.
Some become smaller, exceedingly polite, self-diminshing in order to metabolize the anger that a mis-attuned moment has activated. And then I have to drag it out of them:
“I wonder if something I said made you feel angry?”
“No. I am not angry….”
“Well, something shifted in our conversation and it seems like maybe I said something that hurt? Maybe anger is a strong word for you? How about annoyed?”
“Well, okay. Yes. Maybe I was a little annoyed”
Some become angry because I can see the pathway in, I have gazed at a vulnerable and naked space in them – and they want to cast me out and drive me away. Some are secretly terrified that I will go and their anger helps them organize a pre-emptive strike. Sometimes anger helps people self-regulate, manage their dependency, separate.
Sometimes the anger that emerges in session, or is directed toward me is obviously displaced, patently unfair. A lashing out. And still, somehow, it is almost always understandable to me when I can hold, or uncover the subjective context that it is embedded in.
Usually I am a participant. I bear at least some responsibility. At the very least I lit the fuse, even if I didn’t build the bomb.
Sometimes the client is angry or disappointed that I have my own wound. And they have found the very spot where my needs, my history, my trauma, my vulnerability lives and they want something from me in the exact pocket of my psyche where I have nothing to give at all.
Some attack or express contempt for my core values, my stance, my beliefs, my sense of what is right. Some reject the models of psychotherapy I have embraced, the patch of ground I stand my professional identity upon.
And of course, I get angry too.
I breathe and do my best to stay cool. I contemplate the tightness in my chest: What am I responding to? Where do I feel strangled, offended, tormented, grieved, distressed? What needs to be opened up between us in order to be released from this constriction? Where has our relationship grown too narrow?
If I am caught off-guard, or feel too reactive, too agitated, I may ask to table the discussion until I can think with a cooler head. But the arrival of anger must never be ignored or forgotten. It is a sacred signal and attention must be paid. We must return to it, examine it, discover its gifts and lessons once our nervous system and our heart-rates have settled.
Anger and aggression have important, constructive functions too: to establish boundaries, to protect privacy and autonomy, to fight for justice, to correct imbalances, to guard vulnerability, to take risks, to hunt for prey, to compete for resources, nurturance and provisions, to challenge and surpass ourselves.
And sometimes to forcibly remove obstacles to intimacy and wholeness.
In relationships, anger points our attention toward the tight, narrow, constricted, strangled, tormented, wanting aspects of ourselves and others so we can broaden and console our hearts, release our fears, open wide our souls.
As frightened as we are of it, anger is a sacred energy – and a central one in the psychotherapeutic process.
I don’t ever intentionally provoke a client’s anger, but I am not fearful of it. I don’t avoid conflict, because I know the gifts that it can bestow.
I try to inform every new client that comes into my office that anger has a place in our work:
“There will be times when I disappoint, disturb or upset you. I won’t have done it on purpose, although it might feel like I have. Sometimes you may not notice it while you are in session – as most of us are taught to be agreeable and polite and avoid talking about such things – but it may strike you after you leave – on the subway ride home or even the next day. You may notice something sticking in your head, something I said or didn’t say that struck you the wrong way, that feels off, or annoying, or wrong. You may think to yourself ‘Why the hell would she say or do that?’ If you notice any feelings or thoughts like that it will be extremely valuable and important, if you can, to bring that back in to our next session, or even to jot down a quick note so it doesn’t get lost in the weeks events- so that we can remember to talk about it. It may be hard and uncomfortable, but its really valuable – and its an essential part of how therapy works.
It helps me to understand you as precisely as possible, to be a better therapist for you. You may point out things that I haven’t recognized or considered- or that I had a different perception of. Sometimes you may be distressed by some real limitation or blindspot I have, or even some core value that I hold that you disagree with. That is okay too. I can’t promise that I can always change or stop it whatever has been upsetting, but I can promise that I will always do my best to examine my part of any divergence that comes between us and I will absolutely care about how it makes you feel. And if we can talk about it frankly, it may give us a chance to find a new way through, a new solution, a new space.”
It seems that whenever I have neglected to invite anger to enter into the process as a welcome guest, conflict barges in unannounced and unexpectedly, harming the therapeutic relationship – sometimes irreparably. Anger and conflict are experienced then, as definitive proof that something is wrong in the therapy, rather than as a vital component, a therapeutic mechanism of healing and connection.
Or, the relationship proceeds walking only the most avoidant and domesticated paths, making the woods and the wilds of our innate aggressive impulses appear more terrifying, a place too dangerous to ever venture.
Conflict is part of the therapeutic process, not a failure of it. And part of this job is to initiate people into the generative, creative, and intimate uses of anger, and to learn how to move through the angry states in our psyche and our relationships in order to live, to love courageously, fearlessly, and honestly.
And Jacob was left alone; and there wrestled a man with him until the breaking of the day.
And when he saw that he prevailed not against him, he touched the hollow of his thigh; and the hollow of Jacob’s thigh was out of joint, as he wrestled with him.
And he said, Let me go, for the day breaketh. And he said, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me. ~ (Standard King James Version Genesis Chapter 32: 24-26)
Even when seems to have knocked us out of joint, conflict can bring blessings. Owning our anger explicitly, consciously, and constructively makes us more whole, and less afraid of ourselves.
And other times my job is just to survive it, withstand it, not be destroyed by it, and not let my love or my empathy be destroyed by it. To continue to have compassion for the distress that is present in front of me, to take all the responsibility I can for my part, and to understand that the rest is not about me at all.
If I can. I can’t always.
And sometimes even that is not enough.
It does neither of us any good for me to merely withstand abusive energies. Limits must be set. There are things I can’t accommodate. Angers I cannot absorb. It is my responsibility in those moments to set limits, protecting us both. I cannot let a client who needs me, harm me or compromise my integrity or we are both lost.
Anger is at once an energy which destroys and derails, and one which creates, strengthens, and fuses and purifies, through its refiners fire and alchemical heat.
Part of my job, as I see it, is to initiate clients into the constructive, transformative, generative uses and processes of anger.
Any one can get angry- that is easy- or give or spend money; but to do this to the right person, to the right extent, at the right time, with the right motive, and in the right way, that is not for every one, nor is it easy ~ (Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, Book II, 1109a.27)
If we can manage to wrestle through conflict squarely and bravely together – operating in good faith – or setting limits when anger has temporarily washed good faith away – certainly it is not difficult to see how to carry those processes out into the world, into other relationships.
The word wrestle, derives from “wrest” from the Old Norse, meaning “to bend” and the healing forms of anger make way, when we have listened to each other deeply, for us to release our tormented tightness and constriction, and discover how to bend toward each other.
What is external occurs internally as well, so our well negotiated conflict also becomes model, a mirror to help us sort through purely internal arguments between conflicted self-states.
It is exactly as if a dialogue were taking place between two human beings with equal rights, each of whom gives the other credit for a valid argument, and considers it worthwhile to modify the conflicting standpoints by means of thorough comparison and discussion or else to distinguish them clearly from one another. ~ C. G. Jung, The Transcendent Function.
How else will we change each other? How else will be transformed?
If we avoid what we fear in ourselves, and in each other – what will be possibly be able to learn about ourselves?
The shuttling to and fro of arguments and affects represents the transcendent function of opposites. The confrontation of the two positions generates a tension charged with energy and creates a living third thing… A movement out of the suspension between opposites, a living birth that leads to a new level of being, a new situation. ~ C. G. Jung, The Transcendent Function.
But first we must embrace the wrestling match.
Let us pause in life’s pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There’s a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh hard times come again no more.
Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,
Hard Times, hard times, come again no more
~ Hard Times lyrics by Stephen Foster
I didn’t mean to write this, or intend to write anything – it is probably unwise to publish it, but I suppose I will anyway. Frankly I’ve been thinking I should take a break from writing altogether for a bit.
I’m just not so filled with easy inspiration, or reassuring confidence, or heart warming feel-goodisms.
My husband and I are in midlife and are, like many of our peers, sandwiched in between caring for our elders and our children. All of whom, for the time being are in significant and legitimate need of our support through some more and less challenging medical realities. Testing, appointments, evaluations, treatments, follow up, referrals. We are in the thick of it and it looks like we may be for a while.
A summer which felt like it was ripe with openings, fortune, potential and new growth crashed into a shocking and frightening fall which will unavoidably open up to a tiring cold winter.
It happens sometimes. We’ve faced such things before, and will again. I’ve seen and supported clients and friends and neighbors as they’ve passed through similar hard times.
Just as all human beings do.
But psychotherapists are supposed to be invulnerable, no? Fully actualized? Enlightened? Able to absorb anything that comes their way?
And who would want to see (or read) a psychotherapist in the midst of hard times?
Better to source out some therapist who is perky and happy! Who feels in control of life! Who can make you feel better!
Yet, sometimes life gets heavy. Sometimes there is work to be done. Sometimes we are pulled in many directions. Sometimes our choices are narrowed down by circumstances beyond our control. Sometimes a great deal is required of us. Sometimes, despite our plans and intentions, our possibilities restrict themselves to a very few or none at all. Sometimes our external freedoms become constricted. Sometimes the wolf is at the door.
So, for me, this isn’t a silly, playful, easy season filled with boundless, bouncy energy.
I am sometimes weary. I am sometimes overwhelmed. Sometimes I want to run. Sometimes I am incredibly proud of myself and my ability to keep moving, to get done all that I need to, and stay connected to myself and others. Sometimes I want to spend a day in bed with the covers over my head. Sometimes I am swelling with appreciation for the tender comforts around me, the honesty and intimacy and contact that the relationships in my life, personal and professional, offer me whether they know it or not.
Sometimes this season has offered me glimpses of deeper truths, timeless ones, that transcend and soothe through the rough and jumble of the road I am on for the moment.
I am all right. I’m okay just as I am. Where I am feels healthy and appropriate. To be too cheery right now would be denial of reality, a self-deception, and would pull me further away from the phase of life and the external challenges I am passing through for the foreseeable future. But certainly not forever.
Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;
Oh hard times come again no more. ~ Stephen Foster
Happiness doesn’t last forever, but nor does sorrow, and neither does trouble. All states have gifts to offer, lessons to teach, blessings to bestow.
Things get heavy sometimes. Its just a fact.
Sorrow has its season.
Even for psychotherapists.
Energy retreats, retracts, and peace can be found in small, still moments, in quiet spaces deeply internal. Fake smiles, chit chat, false reassurances would make me less present, banish me, send me away, exhaust and deplete me more and make me abandon myself, thinning out my resources to connect to others.
“How are you?” Some clients routinely ask – usually I respond, honestly, “Fine! How are you?” Now my response is more subdued, but still honest. “I’m okay. And you?” or “I’m hanging in. What is happening in your world?”
Though her voice would be merry, ’tis sighing all the day,
Oh hard times come again no more. ~ Stephen Foster
To do this work I need to be in contact with myself, and I need to stay in contact with myself, and remain loyal to my own energies, even when it is not comfortable.
Through my professionally arranged face, through my slower, quieter responses, through the circles under my eyes, (which can betray me – no matter how much “concealer” I apply) some still feel the shift in my energies. Some, especially those who come for time limited short term work, to focus on a single issue, or who use therapy as a problem solving space, take it as their cue that it is time to finish up, assuming that if I am offering less, that it is a signal that our work is complete.
Some clients know part of the story, as medical appointments for family members have caused me to cancel, reschedule and rearrange appointments more than I have ever before. Some know the whole story because they dream of it, or read me so closely, and so hard that it frightens them more not to be told what is happening.
Some don’t know anything, or know a little, but need me to protect them from thinking too much about me – as it is hard enough for them to stay loyal to their own experience.
Some become angry with me, without knowing why, because they sense, unconsciously, in their pre-verbal places that part of my psyche is working on my own challenges and conflicts. For those who had depressed or preoccupied early caretakers it is especially threatening, as they are sure that if they sense any dip in my energies that I will become unable, unavailable, to sustain my caring, loving attention.
There are those who are immersed in much harder trials, more consuming, more traumatizing, more violent conflicts, more emergent circumstances and more acute crisis than mine and it snaps my perspective into place, as I move my own experience further down the triage list – and immerse myself in the need that is in front of me with the skills I have accumulated over many years.
Some, who perhaps I have enabled by being more active than was necessary when my tank was full to overflowing, are being given more space to take up the reflective, interpretive work as their own, as I hold back to listen more, perhaps offering less direction or guidance than I might in a more buoyant time.
And there are many moments through my workday which lift and inspire me: A client falling in healthy reciprocated love. Another who feels ready to marry. The birth of babies through hard pregnancies, the courageousness of a client trusting me enough to share the ways that they do not yet trust me. The bravery and integrity of another in the face of danger. A piece of creative work shared, beautiful and transforming. The incredibly powerful, awe-inspiring imagery of dreams. Undeniable growth, accomplishment, achievement, mutual admiration, appreciation. Closeness in all forms, shapes and sizes.
While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting at the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh hard times come again no more. ~ Stephen Foster
And then there are actual gifts that come with hard patches.
When the ability to engage in the Extraneous is eliminated, the Essential reveals itself more quickly and incontrovertibly.
Priorities become crystal clear. And when you trust your exhaustion, you know that it will steer you away from the superfluous, unnecessary.
And when you feel alive and engaged you know you are in the presence of something vital and healing for all involved.
I can feel when I am barking up the wrong tree almost instantly. I can tell when it is better to wait something out, rather than bang my head against the wall. I can spot any opportunity for relieving contact with the healing processes of Life as they move continuously between and around us all.
I have more compassion for myself: if I have a harder time organizing, scheduling, getting my bills done, or it takes me a beat or two longer to understand what is playing out in the room, I know that I am doing my best. I accept and take responsibility for my errors without being tempted to punish myself for them. I am doing what I can do. I can model self-compassionate behavior, a way of being that is less concerned, for now, with pushing past limitations than accepting them.
I may now have less energy for heroic maneuvers, for flashy interpretations. I will not be leaping over tall buildings in a single bound or pulling a rabbit out of a hat in the season ahead – I am currently unable to be seduced by inflation or grandiosity, it is just too tiring – and life is simply too humbling at present. I cannot over-extend, bite off more than I can chew, or take on anything that could prove to be too much later.
I am in exquisite and direct contact with my own needs, and the fact that I am finite.
I treasure and value the impact and the necessity of stillness like never before.
And I understand “self-care” less as a discreet activity or a scheduled event and more as an on-going way of being, moment by moment, in the presence of people who need me – as I negotiate the balance between their needs and my own and attempt to honor them both.
We will all pass through such times. And we can receive something from them as well. And if I can do nothing other than try, and fail, and try again to model an experience of being simultaneously intact and overwhelmed, of staying in caring and compassionate relationship to myself, my family and my clients, perhaps, through hard times that is more than enough.
Never to ask for easier circumstances, but for greater strength, and to accept gladly, (when they come) rest and ease along the road. ~ Pierre Ceresole
Jung hung a plaque on his threshold which read:
“Invited or Uninvited: God is Present.”
The sign that I’ve often imagined placing over my office door, not quite as cozy and inviting as Jung’s, would read as follows:
“Surrender Hope Ye Who Enter Here.”
Although I suppose that a slogan lifted straight from Dante’s Gates of Hell might be a little daunting for new clients.
For some Hope may float, spring eternal, and be a thing with feathers. But very often my job seems to be to squelch, sink or pluck it.
Hope is an angel, but also a demon.
Nearly everyone who walks into this office does so because, whether they know it or not, one way or another, they are trapped in Hope’s dark clutches.
Pandora brought the box of ills and opened it. It was the gift of the gods to men, outwardly a beautiful and seductive gift, and called the Casket of Happiness. Out of it flew all the evils, living winged creatures, thence they now circulate and do men injury day and night. One single evil had not yet escaped from the box, and by the will of Zeus Pandora closed the lid and it remained within. Now for ever man has the casket of happiness in his house and thinks he holds a great treasure; it is at his disposal, he stretches out his hand for it whenever he desires; for he does not know the box which Pandora brought was the casket of evil, and he believes the ill which remains within to be the greatest blessing, it is hope. Zeus did not wish man, however much he might be tormented by the other evils, to fling away his life, but to go on letting himself be tormented again and again. Therefore he gives Man hope,- in reality it is the worst of all evils, because it prolongs the torments of Man. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche (Human All Too Human, 71. Hope)
Hope, may be the center of the three theological virtues along with Faith and Charity, but it carries dangerous and pathological aspects as well.
Hope, misdirected, misplaced, can cement our attachments to people and places that are destructive to us. Hope can dangle, like bait, with a sharp hook embedded inside to keep us waiting for transformations that will never come. Hope gone haywire lurks at the root of all addictions – and we all know the “definition of insanity” is doing the same thing over and over and hoping for different results.
Hope can block out necessary grief, forestalling or arresting entirely, the sweet release of necessary loss and healthy mourning. Hope can deceive us, obscuring realities that we need to face. Hope can keep us waiting for Godot, who will never come. Hope to “get out of” is the root of all denial.
Pernicious hope lures the gambler to go “all in” on a long shot, and invites cowardice to search for means of magical escape. Hoping for divine intervention, waiting passively to be lifted out of circumstances that require our labor and our conscious intention, Hope can bind and paralyze us.
Youth is easily deceived because it is quick to hope. ~ Aristotle, Rhetoric
Hope can keep us places that we need to leave, and seduce us into leaving places where we should stay.
Hope futurizes, pulling on us to abandon the present moment, and numbing us to it.
Hope insinuates that we can get out of our distress – when our soul’s only salvation may be to go through it.
Where Hope is, fear lurks just below.
We dread the dark lessons, the painful transformations, the inevitable losses that life requires of us. We do not want to give up on the dirty well. Pernicious hope tempts us to return to it over and over in search of clean water.
Hope is grippy, sticky, grasping.
It sneaks up quietly and carries a big hook:
Shenpa is the urge, the hook, that triggers our habitual tendency to close down. We get hooked in that moment of tightening when we reach for relief. ~ Pema Chodron
Hope is the ally of quacks and con-men, and the sidekick of all duplicity. We cannot be tricked if we do not hope for an easy solution or a free lunch. Hope helps Illusion disguise itself as Reality.
Hope can distract, divert, drain our energies away from dreaded but unavoidable responsibilities, stealing our focus, and our acceptance of the task at hand.
Every defense, every resistance, every form of self-sabotage contains, at the bottom of the box, Hope in some form.
Many describe themselves as hopeless, who are in truth, being tortured by pathological hopes that they cannot let go of.
To surrender hope is an exhausting and terrifying process. Hope is a habit that is hard to extinguish, a fix we can’t stop jonesing for. It reasserts itself, stubborn, persistent, sneaky, a craving, a crutch.
The work of psychotherapy is often to chase down and sort through the flock of slippery and Pernicious Hopes in all their diverse and daemonic aspects. To capture one at a time, examine it, to challenge and question its true mission, to uncover exactly which god this particular Hope obeys.
To exorcise it.
And the therapist’s hopes can have as much destructive power as the client’s. To hope too much on behalf of a client is a rejection of where they actually are. To hope to cure a client is inflated and grandiose as that prerogative is theirs alone. To hope to rescue someone from their circumstance is avoidant and can instill more fear in the client toward what may lie ahead, implying that it cannot be faced. Therapists may also hope to escape the painful or frightening aspects of a client’s journey and wrestle with the tempting hope, like Jesus did, that the dark cup will taken from them both.
Surrender All Hope Ye Who Enter Here.
And much maligned Hopelessness, always given short shrift, can bring sweet relief. Giving up, surrender, admitting defeat, hitting bottom, allows us to lay on the damp earth, face down, grounded, maybe bloodied, but on the earth, and of the earth for good, for ill.
We can breathe again when Hope releases us from its clutches. When there is nothing left to lose, we are no longer afraid. We can rest, heal up, and when we have gathered our energies, face what is real squarely and without letting Hope deceive us. Without Hopelessness we cannot embrace our fate or face our destiny.
The great gift of angelic Hopelessness is Acceptance.
To write without hope is the very best way to write.
Dante passed through the Gates of Hell, and descended through its terrible rings before he was permitted to rise up through Purgatory to glimpse Paradise.
True, angelic Hope lives on the other side of Hopelessness. It does not protect us from hopelessness or help us avoid it. It is the gift we are sometimes given when we have withstood hopelessness past the point of what we thought we could endure. It is often hidden, buried, or dwelling just past the horizon line of our limited perceptions. Sometimes it is just the sound of water, the smallest trickle, in the far distance. It is hard to hear, impossible to see, and rarely obvious.
Angelic Hope descends as an unexpected visitor, as a moment of grace as something we can never expect, demand, and will turn destructive if we cling to it too tightly.
It comes on its own. And not when it is called.
And we must too often abandon it, surrender it, kill it, in order to receive it again, anew.
And to extinguish hope is no guarantee of its arrival.
It will come in its own time anyway.
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
~ T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets
Someone asked me to write this. Sort of.
They asked me if I could state, in tangible terms, the kinds of healing that I have seen take place in my work as a therapist.
And I can’t. Because it didn’t and doesn’t somehow seem to be my prerogative to codify or co-opt my client’s experiences to say how I think they have been healed, or not. That is up to them to define. I have no idea what they think has helped about therapy unless they tell me.
Sometimes they point to powerful defining words – for good and ill – that I said, years, even decades earlier, that I have no recollection of ever saying.
I do this to my psychotherapist too. If you’ve read my writing over time you’ve seen me do it, and you should know he is a very good sport about it.
Is healing always even the goal? Sometimes the goal is just surviving.
Some weeks, it is an extraordinary accomplishment and more than enough that we are all still here, and still pursing hope, meaning and connection and living out of our values in the face of life’s suffering.
Certainly I’ve seen people transform their lives in front of me: Leaving abusive scenarios behind, finding love, healing relationships with partners, becoming parents and more attuned parents, getting through school, sorting through confusion, negotiating and resolving crises, mourning deaths and other unfathomable losses, facing down fears, coming out of all kinds of closets, changing careers, owning their true identities, at first managing, and eventually shedding symptoms and anxieties.
But I don’t think these accomplishments were because of me. Sometimes the client does though. When they thank me, I try to stay gracious and not too self-effacing and accept their gratitude as a sign of appreciation of my sticking near them through it.
But often that is all I am doing. Staying near. Bearing witness, and letting what I am seeing change me. Staying out of the way, and trying to clear some thickets here and there that may be blocking their true path. Babysitting their most vulnerable needs until they are ready to value and care for them on their own. Making a dark time a little less lonely, and a little less terrifying. Normalizing some stuff that they worry is crazy. But the growth is theirs and may have happened without me. Maybe I made the unfolding a little easier. So I try to accept the gratitude – but it always feels strange to do so. Like a plant thanking me for its growth and harvest when all I did was water it once or twice a week.
But here is what I can talk about – and will try to do so briefly. Briefly. Ha!
I will try to talk briefly (that is hilarious) about almost thirty years as a client in my own psychotherapy.
I arrived in New York City in the year after my 21st birthday, to work in the theater and to be near a boy – who I thought was a man, a few years older than me – but I see now was just a boy. The boy fell in love with someone else, and for some reason didn’t tell me. I don’t know why. We weren’t living together, we weren’t committed – perhaps he felt bound by an underlying and crushing dependency that I barely contained – as I lashed myself tightly to any peer, friend, lover that I could, hoping to survive the sinking ship of a family that I had left behind. Perhaps he feared that if he left he would sink me. And he was kind of right. But he still should have left for the girl he did love rather than making me feel increasingly crazy, confused, burdensome and complaining about my “jealousy problem.”
I had other problems, certainly. I had inherited them. My father had come from a deeply abusive, very wealthy and epically pathological family – and spent his life trying to expel his pain with unnecessary surgeries – over 20 times under the knife – narcotics, religion and rage. He remarried to a woman with three sons who became his real family and I was at best a tolerated guest. My mother had left him when I was ten, after falling in love with our parish priest, who was also a terrifying narcissist, and ultimately “defrocked” by the Episcopalian diocese. He also eventually left, taking the house out from under us.
So maybe that is why the boy was scared to leave me. But he agreed to go to couples therapy. So we went. We were matched at a fee for service clinic with a young man fresh out of his internship, maybe about the boys age – 25 or so – much older than me, so I thought. I don’t remember much of these sessions, except that they eventually helped me to tell the weak scared boy to go, for Gods sake.
And then I sunk. Which was necessary. Which was practically mandatory – because I thought, up until that loss, that the life I had inherited was sustainable. That it was wacky, funny, unconventional perhaps, but I was sure it was all fine. And that life would keep unfolding that way and that I could keep making a funny story about it at cast-parties after rehearsal, and that there was no harm done.
And suddenly, it was clear to me that something had happened again, that I never ever ever wanted to happen again, and that there was plenty of harm done. Plenty.
I began seeing the 25 year old therapist myself twice a week. I began noticing that I had symptoms, which I had never noticed as symptoms before. I would spend hours getting dressed, unable to see myself accurately in the mirror not because I was fussy about clothes but because I unable to tell what I looked like. I was not a night owl, I had regular, and pretty severe insomnia, terrible nightmares, intrusive memories, flashbacks, night-shame from my increasingly obviously not-so-normal childhood.
I began trying to tell the kind young therapist the story so far – to recount, recall and reorder for myself what exactly had happened. I came in to each session and told some other part of the story. I told him, and myself for the first time what it actually felt like, parts of the story that I had ignored, the distressing, disturbing, terrifying, traumatic memories that swirled in my head instead of sleep. There was no familial or social relationship that would have listened. And my own shame and dissociation made it impossible to tell even if there had been.
This was it. Psychotherapy created the space for me to locate myself in the middle of a swirling tornado of chaos and confusion.
It took me years to tell it all. I barely noticed the young therapist because the need to tell it all was so overwhelming.
At the end of seven years, I said: “I think I am finished telling you what happened.” And I noticed that he was still in the room. And that he hadn’t left, or become terrified himself, or ever once looked away. That he had stayed through all of it. That I finally had a witness, who had heard the whole story, who had traveled from my first home, and then after my family exploded, back and forth, between my parents houses with me – who had made it through with me, and this meant that perhaps, I had made it through as well.
Then there was the present to deal with. How would I protect myself and how could I exist outside of the chaotic family that I loved and was attached to? How could I separate and individuate – and jump into the void and all the unknowns of adulthood from a platform so unstable? How had I been and how would I continue to repeat this story? How had I projected it on to others? How was I, without realizing it, recasting the characters from the original script in my adult narrative? How could I do something new, create something healthier for myself? Would I even recognize, or be attracted to available relationships when I encountered them? Would I always over-adapt to compensate for the wounds of others?
The flashbacks receded. I slept soundly through the night most nights. I could get dressed and leave the house easily enough. The panic attacks faded away. I don’t know when. I wasn’t paying attention. I didn’t come to therapy for symptom reduction. I came to save my soul.
And eventually this (although for many years this was too terrifying): How did this all show up in my relationship to my therapist himself? How did fear, distrust, anger, injury, paranoia, anxiety, chaos affect my ability to see him clearly, to connect to him? I began to actively use the therapy as a chance to watch the slow-motion replay: I could see my error, my out-of-bounds, my avoidance, my need, my indirection, my suspicion, my fear as it effected my participation, my attachment, my authentic presence in therapeutic relationship right in front of my eyes. I saw what triggered my reactions and over-reactions, and learned that forgivable acts can activate memories of unforgivable ones.
This felt like a super-power, x-ray vision. With this discovery I was suddenly able to see myself, and others – and assess if I was giving what I should, if I was receiving what I needed. I could sense balance and imbalance, sustainable mutuality, and untenable lopsidedness in my relationships. I began to seek out others who could sense and speak of this too.
My joys and sorrows were increasingly responsive to the real events and stressors in my daily life – and less and less and less about an unprocessed past bleeding out all over a messy present. I created reliable, loving, respectful relationships with friends, and chosen family in the present and the salvageable and loving members of my family of origin.
I mourned for all of those I had to let go.
I took up the profession for myself somewhere along the line, graduating from social work school just after I turned thirty, and eloped, marrying a man I had met five years earlier, the summer before graduation. And I continued in therapy to deepen my examination of how my limitations and history were activated and projected into the therapeutic relationships in my own office and to keep my relationship with my husband and my in-laws – another family! – growing and healthy. And that parallel process – of being a psychotherapist – and being a client – strengthened and healed me even more.
And the relationship still exists, and always will. I don’t know how a 25 year old boy was able to contain a deeply traumatized 21 year old girl. But he did. And we have grown up together, and practiced parallel to each other now for over twenty years. I see him when life permits or requires. And that is less important than all that is absolutely permanent between us.
So: Can I say, in tangible terms, how I have seen psychotherapy heal, as a psychotherapist?
I guess the answer is yes.