If tomorrow morning the sky falls ...
have clouds for breakfast.
If night falls ...
use stars for streetlights.
If the moon gets stuck in a tree ...
cover the hole in the sky with a strawberry.
If you have butterflies in your stomach ...
ask them into your heart.
If your heart catches in your throat ...
ask a bird how she sings.
If the birds forget their songs ...
listen to a pebble instead.
If you lose a memory ...
embroider a new one to take its place.
If you lose the key ...
throw away the house.
If the clock stops ...
use your own hands to tell time.
If the light goes out ...
wear it around your neck and go dancing.
If the bus doesn't come ...
catch a fast cloud.
If its the last dance ...
dance backwards.
If you find your socks don't match ...
stand in a flower bed.
If your shoes don't fit ...
give them to the fish in the pond.
If your horse needs shoes ...
let him use his wings.
If the sun never shines again ...
remember the night rainbow.
If there is no happy ending ...
make one out of cookie dough.
(From the wonderful children's book, If You're Afraid of the Dark, Remember the Night Rainbow, with imaginative words and drawings by Cooper Edens, published by The Green Tiger Press)
I know, I know! Last time, I offered you Mahon's striking poem, "Everything is Going to Be All Right;" and in this writing, I begin with a poem for children (of all ages). At this point, you may be getting ready to give up on me as someone hopelessly lost in a world that does not make sense! Well .....?????
Yes, the reality is settling in that a darkness has descended upon us. In my consulting room I have seen a flood of people filled with shock, rage, despair, surprise, tears, bitterness, confusion, depression, anxiety, and feelings with thoughts that seem to have no words for some individuals. By the way, even though those emotions have cascaded significantly since the election results, they began quite early in the unbearably-long political campaign. The campaign itself dumped on all of us gobs of vulgarity, obscenity, threats, violence, nonsense, lies, a disregard for any moral orientation, as well as extremist calls for mistreatment of people, coinciding with a spike in hate crimes.
Many of us experience this onslaught of physical, psychological, verbal violence as unbearable. And there is a clinical term for the experience of unbearable pain -- trauma. Trauma is the experience of unbearable pain, and it is cumulative. That's right, it accumulates. If I narrowly miss a traffic accident on the interstate while on my way to work, and witness vehicles destroyed, people killed, and the general mayhem that surrounds such a wreck, my whole body goes into "fight or flight" mode. The scene is traumatic and I am caught up in it even if I escape unscathed; however, not only was I in the traumatic scene, it was in me! Every cell in my body went to their battle stations and endured the stress of possibly being destroyed. The scenes of death, and especially when one has narrowly escaped being killed as well, that is the height of stress.
So imagine what that does to your body and mind if you witnessed such a scene daily on the way to work. In that case, as would happen in the experience of "Chinese torture" when only a drop of water on the head over a sustained long period of time drives a person insane, so with cumulative stress.
That, of course, is what happens to our veterans who develop post-traumatic stress disorder. The facing of ongoing stress accumulates, and at some point feels unbearable. So it has been for many of us facing the ongoing wave after wave of political machinations that make us uneasy. In the face of such an onslaught, our defenses click into place. Some of us rationalize the violence, some of us internalize and carry the anxiety, while some of us digress back to our more primitive selves and join the opportunity to fight, attacking others who become targets for blame of whatever misfortunes one feels.
What, then, do we do when we find ourselves swamped in the darkness of such deep fear? You know, as well as I, the general recommendations of self-care: turn off the ever-present news reports; get rest; exercise; eat healthy foods; do not give in to the excessive use of food, drink, or substances; find a spiritual community that supports your values; also find a group that offers a healthy outlet for your own concerns; and go back to those sources that have "lifted your spirits" over the years.
But there is one more precaution I want to emphasize today because we do not not think of this very often, if at all. That is the threat of psychic infection, the insidious creeping in of the mass hysteria polluting all of our life with toxic foreboding in the general atmosphere. And how do we take protection against such psychic infection? I will give you an example. It comes from the personal reflection of Max Zeller, a Jew born in Berlin, Germany on March 12, 1904. Max became a lawyer and practiced law in Berlin until he was forced to leave his profession by the Nazi powers, at which time he went back to school and became a Jungian Analyst. He barely escaped the Gestapo, serving briefly in a concentration camp, but made his way out and escaped eventually to Los Angeles, California, where he practiced psychoanalysis until his death. He shares with us his own struggle with psychic infection, and the way he tried to protect himself. This is the account he wrote and titled, "A Christmas Eve in Nazi Germany."
It was in Berlin, Germany, during the Nazi regime. My apartment, my four walls, was my stronghold, my temenos, my hideaway. It was small, airy, and furnished in clear, simple lines; every bit mine, expressing my inner necessities. It spread an atmosphere in which I could live.
Each day when I came home from work, I changed my clothes. I took off everything I had worn during the day in the city: shoes and socks, underwear, shirt and suit. For all of it had been contaminated, infected by the poison that was in the air, in the houses, in the streets, in the people and in their souls. Only later did I hear that there had been dreams that the land was infected with disease, with the deadly brown disease. I didn't know then about the dreams, but I knew about the disease that spread. The ritual of changing my clothes had come to me out of a need, out of an instinct. It was my way of protecting myself against the hatred and poison of the disease, and it reaffirmed my mandala.
After putting on the sweatsuit I always wore at home, I lit a candle, that it might help illuminate the inner world and show the way to meaning.
Now, it was Christmas Eve. Everyone had hurried home from offices and stores to be with their families. It was cold, and snow covered the ground. When I arrived home dusk was descending. I went through my ritual as usual. Did I know what I was doing? Deep down inside I knew; as much as we all know the meaning of the symbolic acts that we perform. I felt its effect, for it restored my calm, even my peace, helping me to find my identity. How difficult it is to find one's identity! How many steps have to be taken!
On this evening of December 24 I stayed a little longer in the twilight. As night was falling, it seemed that night might heal the wounds the day had brought. By now the city was practically deserted.
Now, into the emptiness came an old man, an organ grinder who slowly, slowly, pushed his hurry-gurdy down the street from house to house, stopping everywhere and playing. What he brought this evening, and what he played, were the age-old Christmas songs and carols.
This was the miracle, that that night the spirit used the hurry-gurdy and an old organ grinder as its vehicle. The solemn, gentle, familiar tunes rose into the winter night and climbed from story to story, from window to window. The music enveloped the whole neighborhood. I felt that the old message reached and moved everyone as much as me; moved us with the reality behind the silent night, the holy night, the birth of the divine child. Windows were opened and coins thrown down, showering the old man with thanks for what he had brought.
What was it that had come about? An encounter had taken place, an encounter between the ego on this side and the greater, the more complete personality on the other side, by whatever name we call it, whether it be self or God. In this encounter lies the hope and the anticipation of redemption, of the Divine incarnation as an inner reality that would enable you and me to deal with the great darkness of that night in Nazi Germany, and with the other dark nights of our time.
You will find Max's article in a collection of his writings published as The Dream: The Vision of the Night, edited by Janet Dallett, available through your bookstore. I thought this particular writing was important for each of us, not only because of the holiday season we are entering, but also as a hopeful way each of us may deal with our own threat of psychic infection.
have clouds for breakfast.
If night falls ...
use stars for streetlights.
If the moon gets stuck in a tree ...
cover the hole in the sky with a strawberry.
If you have butterflies in your stomach ...
ask them into your heart.
If your heart catches in your throat ...
ask a bird how she sings.
If the birds forget their songs ...
listen to a pebble instead.
If you lose a memory ...
embroider a new one to take its place.
If you lose the key ...
throw away the house.
If the clock stops ...
use your own hands to tell time.
If the light goes out ...
wear it around your neck and go dancing.
If the bus doesn't come ...
catch a fast cloud.
If its the last dance ...
dance backwards.
If you find your socks don't match ...
stand in a flower bed.
If your shoes don't fit ...
give them to the fish in the pond.
If your horse needs shoes ...
let him use his wings.
If the sun never shines again ...
remember the night rainbow.
If there is no happy ending ...
make one out of cookie dough.
(From the wonderful children's book, If You're Afraid of the Dark, Remember the Night Rainbow, with imaginative words and drawings by Cooper Edens, published by The Green Tiger Press)
I know, I know! Last time, I offered you Mahon's striking poem, "Everything is Going to Be All Right;" and in this writing, I begin with a poem for children (of all ages). At this point, you may be getting ready to give up on me as someone hopelessly lost in a world that does not make sense! Well .....?????
Yes, the reality is settling in that a darkness has descended upon us. In my consulting room I have seen a flood of people filled with shock, rage, despair, surprise, tears, bitterness, confusion, depression, anxiety, and feelings with thoughts that seem to have no words for some individuals. By the way, even though those emotions have cascaded significantly since the election results, they began quite early in the unbearably-long political campaign. The campaign itself dumped on all of us gobs of vulgarity, obscenity, threats, violence, nonsense, lies, a disregard for any moral orientation, as well as extremist calls for mistreatment of people, coinciding with a spike in hate crimes.
Many of us experience this onslaught of physical, psychological, verbal violence as unbearable. And there is a clinical term for the experience of unbearable pain -- trauma. Trauma is the experience of unbearable pain, and it is cumulative. That's right, it accumulates. If I narrowly miss a traffic accident on the interstate while on my way to work, and witness vehicles destroyed, people killed, and the general mayhem that surrounds such a wreck, my whole body goes into "fight or flight" mode. The scene is traumatic and I am caught up in it even if I escape unscathed; however, not only was I in the traumatic scene, it was in me! Every cell in my body went to their battle stations and endured the stress of possibly being destroyed. The scenes of death, and especially when one has narrowly escaped being killed as well, that is the height of stress.
So imagine what that does to your body and mind if you witnessed such a scene daily on the way to work. In that case, as would happen in the experience of "Chinese torture" when only a drop of water on the head over a sustained long period of time drives a person insane, so with cumulative stress.
That, of course, is what happens to our veterans who develop post-traumatic stress disorder. The facing of ongoing stress accumulates, and at some point feels unbearable. So it has been for many of us facing the ongoing wave after wave of political machinations that make us uneasy. In the face of such an onslaught, our defenses click into place. Some of us rationalize the violence, some of us internalize and carry the anxiety, while some of us digress back to our more primitive selves and join the opportunity to fight, attacking others who become targets for blame of whatever misfortunes one feels.
What, then, do we do when we find ourselves swamped in the darkness of such deep fear? You know, as well as I, the general recommendations of self-care: turn off the ever-present news reports; get rest; exercise; eat healthy foods; do not give in to the excessive use of food, drink, or substances; find a spiritual community that supports your values; also find a group that offers a healthy outlet for your own concerns; and go back to those sources that have "lifted your spirits" over the years.
But there is one more precaution I want to emphasize today because we do not not think of this very often, if at all. That is the threat of psychic infection, the insidious creeping in of the mass hysteria polluting all of our life with toxic foreboding in the general atmosphere. And how do we take protection against such psychic infection? I will give you an example. It comes from the personal reflection of Max Zeller, a Jew born in Berlin, Germany on March 12, 1904. Max became a lawyer and practiced law in Berlin until he was forced to leave his profession by the Nazi powers, at which time he went back to school and became a Jungian Analyst. He barely escaped the Gestapo, serving briefly in a concentration camp, but made his way out and escaped eventually to Los Angeles, California, where he practiced psychoanalysis until his death. He shares with us his own struggle with psychic infection, and the way he tried to protect himself. This is the account he wrote and titled, "A Christmas Eve in Nazi Germany."
It was in Berlin, Germany, during the Nazi regime. My apartment, my four walls, was my stronghold, my temenos, my hideaway. It was small, airy, and furnished in clear, simple lines; every bit mine, expressing my inner necessities. It spread an atmosphere in which I could live.
Each day when I came home from work, I changed my clothes. I took off everything I had worn during the day in the city: shoes and socks, underwear, shirt and suit. For all of it had been contaminated, infected by the poison that was in the air, in the houses, in the streets, in the people and in their souls. Only later did I hear that there had been dreams that the land was infected with disease, with the deadly brown disease. I didn't know then about the dreams, but I knew about the disease that spread. The ritual of changing my clothes had come to me out of a need, out of an instinct. It was my way of protecting myself against the hatred and poison of the disease, and it reaffirmed my mandala.
After putting on the sweatsuit I always wore at home, I lit a candle, that it might help illuminate the inner world and show the way to meaning.
Now, it was Christmas Eve. Everyone had hurried home from offices and stores to be with their families. It was cold, and snow covered the ground. When I arrived home dusk was descending. I went through my ritual as usual. Did I know what I was doing? Deep down inside I knew; as much as we all know the meaning of the symbolic acts that we perform. I felt its effect, for it restored my calm, even my peace, helping me to find my identity. How difficult it is to find one's identity! How many steps have to be taken!
On this evening of December 24 I stayed a little longer in the twilight. As night was falling, it seemed that night might heal the wounds the day had brought. By now the city was practically deserted.
Now, into the emptiness came an old man, an organ grinder who slowly, slowly, pushed his hurry-gurdy down the street from house to house, stopping everywhere and playing. What he brought this evening, and what he played, were the age-old Christmas songs and carols.
This was the miracle, that that night the spirit used the hurry-gurdy and an old organ grinder as its vehicle. The solemn, gentle, familiar tunes rose into the winter night and climbed from story to story, from window to window. The music enveloped the whole neighborhood. I felt that the old message reached and moved everyone as much as me; moved us with the reality behind the silent night, the holy night, the birth of the divine child. Windows were opened and coins thrown down, showering the old man with thanks for what he had brought.
What was it that had come about? An encounter had taken place, an encounter between the ego on this side and the greater, the more complete personality on the other side, by whatever name we call it, whether it be self or God. In this encounter lies the hope and the anticipation of redemption, of the Divine incarnation as an inner reality that would enable you and me to deal with the great darkness of that night in Nazi Germany, and with the other dark nights of our time.
You will find Max's article in a collection of his writings published as The Dream: The Vision of the Night, edited by Janet Dallett, available through your bookstore. I thought this particular writing was important for each of us, not only because of the holiday season we are entering, but also as a hopeful way each of us may deal with our own threat of psychic infection.
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