You may recognize the title of this blog as a line from Abba's "Happy New Year." But in case you have forgotten, or never heard the song, here are the lyrics form the first verse: 

       No more champagne
       And the fireworks are through
       Here we are, me and you
       Feeling lost and feeling blue
       It's the end of the party
       And the morning seems so gray
       So unlike yesterday 
       Now's the time for us to say ... 

Abba, the Swedish pop music group that originated in Stockholm in the 1970's, released this hit song in 1980 as part of an album. Against the backdrop of the 1970's, the lyrics above assume an even greater poignancy. With the war in Vietnam, the Iranian Revolution, the conflicts in the Middle East, the rise of terrorism, and the energy/oil crisis, the "party' did seem to be over in many respects.

Apart from the cultural and societal turmoil, Abba itself would suspend its work, and the two couples in the group would each divorce in the late 70's and early 80's. But this blog is not intended as a psychological analysis of the 70's or of Abba's psyche, collectively or individually. They appear to have gotten on with life very well. 

So it is the poignancy of the lyrics in themselves that draws my attention at the moment. Also, there is one additional factor at play for me personally. This comes from a holiday visit with our daughter and her family on the west coast, a visit that gave opportunities for singing and making music with our piano, cello, guitar, tambourines, and voices! This is part of our family tradition. On most occasions when we get together, there will be songs, impromptu performances, laughter, and the challenge of trying new songs to add to our repertoire.

It was at such a moment when we were congratulating ourselves on how well we sounded (to ourselves!) when the suggestion arose that we should do Abba's "Happy New Year." Sober reflections prevailed, however, and we gently let that prospect for our ourve fade away -- at least for the moment and perhaps for all time. 

Why?  

Well the first and obvious answer is that we could not reach the pinnacle Abba achieves in their arrangement. But there is something else going on in our reflections on the lyrics of that song. I have referred to the poignancy of the lyrics, but "poignancy" does not contain the deep emotion of the images evoked in those words to the second and third verses:

       Sometimes I see
       How the brave new world arrives
       And I see how it thrives
       In the ashes of our lives
       Oh yes, man is a fool
       And he thinks he'll be okay
       Dragging on, feet of clay
       Never knowing he's astray
       Keeps on going anyway

       Seems to me now
       That the dreams we had before
       Are all dead, nothing now
       Than confetti on the floor
       It's the end of a decade
       In another ten years time
       Who can say what we'll find
       What lies waiting down the line
       In the end of [twenty-nine]

The words are written as if for today. Here we are, you and I, facing a political process in crisis, unending wars of brutalization of armed soldiers and civilians, an opioid crisis whose real cause has not been named because of what it would reveal about the spiritual vacuousness of our society, an upswing in suicide rates for our children and young people, the creeping ecological changes, the destruction of habitats for wildlife and humans who migrate to our neighborhoods and shores, and the engines that drive our production and marketing of distractions which anesthetize our consciences.

But Abba's song does not end in despair, and neither must we resign ourselves to the distressing way of things we are experiencing as 2018 becomes 2019. We are free to envision another world, a kinder and more hopeful world. Here is the way Abba ends their lyrics: 

       Happy new year
       Happy new year
       May we all have a vision now and then
       Of a world where every neighbor is a friend
       Happy new year
       Happy new year
       May we all have our hopes, our will to try
       If we don't we may as well lay down and die
       You and I

For 2019, I am choosing to believe the party is not over, that all of our dreams are not like confetti on the floor, and that we do not have to stand on feet of clay, because our feet are made for dancing!

I invite you to join me in the dance, as I wish you a happy new year!

(Happy New Year lyrics by Benny Andersson and Bjorn K. Ulvaeus, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group)

            They who speak do not know;
            They who know do not speak.

I adapted those lines above from the fifty-sixth chapter of Tao Te Ching. Written by Lao-tzu in the late fifth century B.C.E., just before he went up into the fog of an unknown where-about, he had left his post as historian with responsibility for official records in Loyang, a Chinese imperial capital. 

Legend describes Lao-tzu's unhappiness with the political intrigue of the Chinese Chou (Zhou) regime. Abandoning the political turmoil, Lao-tzu was passing through the Hanku pass of Loyang and stopped for the night at an inn. He obviously impressed the innkeeper, perhaps with tales of adventures in the capital, as well as commentaries drawing from his down-to-earth philosophy of life. Somehow in their exchange, the innkeeper persuaded Lao-tzu to write down his observations of life. The result was a book of sayings that came to be called the Tao Te Ching, "The Book of the Way and its Virtue." And it is from the events around this legend that the Chinese school of Taoism came into being. 

Now I return to my opening lines,

            They who speak do not know;
            They who know do not speak.

In Lao-tzu's case, he no doubt was pointing to the bizarre political developments in China that led to what historians call "the Warring States period" (475-221 B.C.E.). The cacophony of voices formed a backdrop of military confrontations, bureaucratic wrangling, ever-changing power plays, and a decline in civility and meaning in which "bad" people speak in bellicose voices while the "good" people say nothing.

That brief introduction serves as a backdrop to our present moment. Have you noticed how the most outlandish actions and words increasingly seem to pass by us as if unobserved? Where is the outrage when mothers and children are gassed on our southern border? When there will be more and more caravans of displaced people arriving at our borders as more and more homes are destroyed by the catastrophes of fires, hurricanes, floods, destruction of fertile lands, and unspeakable disruption to the natural habitat of our wildlife? When the gap between the "haves" and the "have nots" continues to widen while the advertising machinery of our merchandising industry floods us with images of the "beautiful things" many people can never hope to obtain? When our infrastructure crumbles while profits of our conglomerates escalate? When wars in foreign neighborhoods continue on as a kind of accepted business-as-usual news blurb while we busy ourselves with the mundane affairs of the markets? When one of our political parties remains basically silent in the face of monstrous acts of inhumanity, separating children from mothers and embedding those children in prison-like barracks for indefinite periods of time, making impossible the psychological reunion of parent and child even should they be physically reunited? And again, I call attention to our absence of outrage, the shrugging off of what I believe in times past would have been recognized as moral failures and criminal offenses in many cases.

Yes, people who do not know speak, while the people who do know say nothing. But events may have arrived at what could be a tipping point. For example, consider some stories in the news of our past two weeks.

First is the report that life expectancy in the United States declined again in 2017, a statistic not seen in the U.S. since 1915 through 1918, (see The Washington Post, November 29). In this annual report from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, we learn that "life expectancy is improving in many places in the world and wonder why it should be declining in the United States." 

Then, in another report we learn the ongoing growth of deaths from suicide has "climbed steadily since 1999 and grown worse since 2006." Most disturbing to me regarding the increase in suicides is the fact that suicide is the leading cause of death among young people between ages ten and twenty-four. Consider that number and add the 5.7% increase of self-inflicted, near-fatal injuries among young adults and children, some as young as age five, and we see a deeper concern emerging as to the health of our society.

The deeper concern is for our soul. I understand "soul" to mean the "spiritual or immaterial part of a human being or animal, regarded as immortal," having to do with a human being's moral or emotional nature and sense of identity (Oxford Dictionary of English). What happens to us when we lose a basic sense of safety, when sanity and civility are drowned out by words and events of violence and/or deadening triviality? And what happens when education is underfunded, when public spaces are filled with commercial developments, when religious institutions preoccupy themselves with their own growth and marketing of self-serving dogmatism, and governing is seen as a never-ending game of charades with preening politicians? 

Largely, these are questions people bring to my consulting room. Anxious about our drift toward authoritarianism, depressed about the seeming inability of good people to bring about change, the absence of moral leadership to speak in behalf of our children and our planet, our society's fascination with technology's parade of new gadgets, and the deceptive experience of a pseudo-connectivity with one another made possible by the wide web of social media, we appear to be immersed in a fog of soul-less unconsciousness.

How do we escape this numbing unconsciousness? As powerful as these forces of death-dealing unconsciousness may be, a much greater power is the striving of the human soul. And the human soul wants to be free. Entangled in the bind of collective forces, whether the binds be those of family, work, government, or social group, the soul yearns for a felt sense of safety to be free. 

So... how do we arrive at a state of mind in which the soul experiences a felt sense of freedom? I am not talking here about a social program to bring about such a state of mind. Nor am I speaking of turning our backs on the injustices I have described and the disturbing silence of those who might be able to make a difference. Apparently we have arrived at a moment in time when we have to establish an internal base of safety to be free, sane, and clear.

And that is the promise of what I am calling "Zen." Arriving in Japan from China in the twelfth century, Zen had been formed in a cradle of Lao-tzu's Taoism. Zen is a sect of Mahayana Buddhism that aims at enlightenment made possible through meditation, a form of meditation that draws upon each human being's innate intuitive sense. But Zen is also a state of mind, a state of calm attention in which one's focus is guided toward a deeper consciousness by which we find our true self, our deep being not conditioned by the world, making possible a life of service to others while living from an "oasis" within ourselves.

Zen reminds us of Christianity's Kingdom of Heaven which, Jesus says, is within each of us. It also reminds us of Carl Jung's description of individuation, a term he applies to the experience of "becoming whole." Psychologically, this happens when our minds become clear of our complexes, where we attend to the messages of our dreams, when with art, music, journaling, and creative play, we integrate conscious and unconscious, when we come home to ourselves.

We may call this "home-coming" by many names. It is a return to the deep nature of our soul, where it experiences safety to become oneself. However we name it, soul is recovered. And at this moment, I call it Zen, a call to step beyond the commonplace into a world where the moon rests peacefully upon the calm water.    

Sometime around the age when my daughter was four, something she said to her sitter confronted my life and changed it forever. This is the story, and what follows are my reflections upon a child's capacity to know a lie and our growing awareness of the savage assault taking place today upon our children, our grandchildren, and their very fragile worlds.

The incident between my daughter and her sitter, briefly stated, was this. The two of them were discussing the time her mother and I would be returning from a brief weekend trip out of town. The sitter had understood one time -- late afternoon on Sunday -- and my daughter another time -- early afternoon. As the sitter reported the story of their little disagreement, she warmly recounted how our daughter held to her understanding (which, incidentally, was the correct one), as she said, "I am right because my daddy told me, and he never lies to me"!

Prior to that time, I do not remember ever having thought that much about how and when a child developmentally comes to understand the meaning of lying and truth-telling. I am sure we had talked about telling the truth, but there had never occurred an incident in which we had reason to give the matter extra attention. 

But there it was in a very strong jolt for me to reflect upon the way in which a child observes everything, especially what parents do and do not do, what we say, how we say it, and the importance of appropriate honesty with our children and adolescents. 

More than we might think to be the case, children learn early on about lies. Recent research by child psychologists and educators informs us that children learn to lie between the ages of two and four. Then, between ten and eleven, they have actually begun to perfect the art. For the most part, these lies of childhood are the "fibs" that we have all engaged in and continue as adults in order to achieve some reward (saying we were sick from work when we actually were sneaking out for a trip to the coast or mountains) or to protect ourselves from some feared retaliation (saying to our supervisor we are late at work because we were stuck in traffic when actually we overslept).

But the important thing regarding children's views about lying is that they know it is wrong. As one five-year-old child said, "You should never tell a lie because the brains inside grown-ups heads are so smart, they always find out." Yes, and there could be unpleasant consequences. Morality is shaped in this instance because there is a "grave danger" for the child, so they will tell you, if they are caught lying. (See the research and educational materials of Scholastic at scholastic.com, where they provide more information on children and lies. See also the outstanding work of the Greater Good Science Center at Berkeley, located online at greatergood.berkeley.edu.)

So what we are learning is that children early on determine who is trustworthy and who is not. The older I get and the more people I see in my consulting room as a Jungian psychoanalyst, the more I turn to look at the dynamic of trust, or the absence of it, in shaping a person's life. It is trust that propels a child's life forward, and it is mistrust that drives the child's emerging life off the rails, into the tall weeds, sidetracked and vulnerable to all the mishaps of life: lying, addictions, incompetence, vagrancy, alliances with others whose lives have been sabotaged by the early failure to form trusting relationships in other persons, as well as in our primary institutions that ensure a social contact for life, safety, happiness, and fulfillment in vocational choices.

It is most astounding that we find so little attention paid to trust in the theories of psychotherapy. However, there is one major exception among the theorists of mental health, and that is Erik Erikson (1902-1994). In his book, Identity and the Life Cycle (1959), Erikson outlines his psychosocial theory on the eight stages of life. I will list these stages, and you will note what Erikson calls a "crisis" at each stage, a "fork-in-the-road," so to speak. It is a "crisis" inasmuch as the child's direction reaches a formative point. The child develops along the lines of health and wholeness or veers off into maladaptive patterns. Should the child's life stumble into the unhealthy trajectory, then the outlook for life becomes increasingly dim as each succeeding stage builds upon the preceding stage. But if the outcome of the crisis is successful, then there is developmentally a "virtue" that arises in the child's cognitive and emotional development. By "virtue" Erikson means a moral quality that shapes character and solidifies its further formation, such as hope, love, purposiveness,, etc. 

So here are the stages, virtues, and ages proposed by Erikson:

Stage    Psychosocial Crisis                          Basic Virtue                         Age
  1.       Trust vs. Mistrust                              Hope                                    0-1 1/2
  2.       Autonomy vs. Shame                         Will                                     1 1/2 - 3
  3.       Initiative vs. Guilt                             Purpose                               3-5
  4.       Industry vs. Inferiority                      Competency                         5-12
  5.       Identity vs. Role Confusion                Fidelity                                12-18
  6.       Intimacy vs. Isolation                        Love                                    18-40
  7.       Generativity vs. Stagnation               Care                                     40-65
  8.       Ego Integrity vs. Despair                   Wisdom                                 65+

It is the first stage of trust vs. mistrust that concerns me at this moment. If the child is fortunate enough to have loving care from one or more parents, then the child has hope for himself/herself. The world is seen as a good place, a safe place, an inviting place that encourages one to go forward, to take appropriate risks, and to seek relationships with others. How beautiful it is to see children play, to explore different roles, to experiment with objects, art projects, "work" assignments.

And how terrible it is to see children striving for life in a foreboding cloud of anger, war, divisiveness, and alienation from others they learn to hate and mistrust. This is the cloud hanging over our world today. One's race is projected as superior, money and wealth are upheld as the supreme value, the world is described as an unsafe habitat, and violence is practiced as a way of life to justify any means for obtaining what one believes is entitled.

But, thankfully, not everyone lives by that destructive credo. There still are some among us who, like the little five-year-old, believe that "... the brains inside grown-ups heads are so smart, they always find out."

Fear is the perception of danger. But what if the perception is an illusion; that is, a false idea or belief? And what if that illusion (the false idea or belief) "infects" a group of people or even a state? And what if the illusion is used as a weapon by an individual to manipulate the people who are thus "possessed" -- like a lynch mob can be urged on to do heinous things because those persons in the mob are under the influence of the manipulator?

So where am I going with this? Here, I refer to Bob Woodward's latest book, Fear. He introduces his book with the following quote:

       "Real power is -- I don't want to even use the word -- fear."

                Presidential candidate Donald J. Trump in an interview with
                Bob Woodward and Robert Costa on March 31, 2016, at the 
                Old Post Office Pavilion, Trump International Hotel, 
                Washington, D.C.

Woodward never develops this idea as such. Instead, he proceeds to demonstrate with quotes how fear was used in the service of one individual's seemingly enjoyment of brandishing power. The book's descriptions of attempts to portray fear are not for the faint of heart. The chapters throb with bellicose language, profanity, the shaming and berating of individuals in front of their peers, accusatory and demeaning tweets, unpredictability in following a schedule as well as changing ideas regarding policies, lies, firing individuals without facing them, disregarding tradition and time-honored institutions of government, and an ongoing cacophony of false, self-serving descriptions of achievements. 

What are we to make of such behavior that appears as irrational, aggressive, militant, without regard for individuals or institutions, paranoid, self-centered, callous, and unconscious -- while also enjoying this display of so-called "manliness." But even more puzzling and disturbing is the question that follows: What are we to make of those persons who participate in this carnival of insanity; individuals and groups of people who occupy positions of respect, power, and responsibility -- and yet do nothing. In fact, some of these even appear to curry the favor of this self-appointed leader! How can this be, we ask. It makes no sense. 

It makes no sense. At least from any psychic island of sanity where this bizarre phenomenon has not yet taken hold, it makes no sense. But for those so possessed, for those under the thrall of this madness Woodward describes, those persons appear to overlook the immoral and irrational behavior through the use of rationalization. Each of us can rationalize doing absurd things if we are driven by fear. 

Fear is the most basic, primal emotion. Most of us know fear very well. We come into the world afraid to live; we leave this world afraid to die. And in between, we move in a serpentine path, dodging fear here and there, facing our fears on some occasions, suppressing or repressing them at other times, in which case they take up residence in our unconscious and re-appear in an array of symptoms, maladaptive behavior, self-medicating attempts, and actions taken in behalf of the fears now turned into psychic deities who command our thoughts, emotions, and patterns of behavior. 

It seems to me that that we here in the U.S. have yet to come to terms with the 9/11 attacks on Manhattan's twin towers and our Pentagon. So shocking was this first attack on what we thought to be our unapproachable, impregnable mainland, that we collapsed into a histrionic fear of deep vulnerability, of not feeling safe, of having a faceless enemy who worked in fiendish ways to destroy us and our way of life. Villains lurked everywhere; no place was safe; "if you see something, say something." Paranoia grabbed us by the back of our necks and dragged us into a "war of terror" with shades of color to signify the level of danger, and an international hunt to capture Bin Laden -- the only face we could stick on this new world of terror.

Worse, there welled up from our collective unconscious a dark force that possessed us. Possession is a psychic state in which people are controlled by a strong inner drive, a dark, irrational power that could be described as a spirit, demon, god, or other supernatural force. (American Heritage Dictionary)

You recognize that feeling, that state of mind when you are "scared senseless," so to speak. To be "scared senseless" is in fact a very apt description for what I am attempting to describe here. Carl Jung calls that power by the name of "archetype." The Jungian analyst, Anthony Stevens, defines "archetypes" as: 

       Innate neuropsychic centres possessing the capacity to initiate
       control and mediate the common behavioural characteristics
       and typical experiences of all human beings irrespective of 
       race, culture, or creed.       (Archetype Revisited, p. 352)


Of course, these "neuropsychic centres" do not "scare us senseless" as a rule. The emotions and cognitions vary from person to person, experience to experience. But the point is that the "felt sense" of an archetype intervenes in our conscious state of mind. Jung explains it in the following metaphor, taken from his essay, "Wotan," published in 1936, for the purpose of trying to describe what he saw happening in his neighboring country, Germany.

       ​Archetypes are like riverbeds which dry up when the water deserts 
       them, but which it can find again at any time. An archetype is like 
       an old water course along which the water of life has flowed for 
​       centuries, digging a deep channel for itself. The longer it has flowed
​       in this channel the more likely it is that sooner or later the water will
​       return to its old bed. ... Thus the life of nations rolls on unchecked, 
​       without guidance, unconscious of where it is going ... . Political events
       move from one impasse to the next, like a torrent caught in gullies,
       creeks, and marshes. All human control comes to an end when the 
​       individual is caught in a mass movement. Then the archetype begins to
       function, as happens also in the lives of individuals when they are 
       confronted with situations that cannot be dealt with in any of the 
       familiar ways.  (para. 395)

In other words, an archetype arises in an individual person, but when the same archetype occurs within a group of people, even a nation, then there develops a kind of psychic infection, a "group-think" a movement that usually carries the name of some kind of "...ism," e.g., communism, fascism, racism, etc. And for this to happen, the circumstances in the life of an individual must have reached a point of vulnerability in which the person seeks some kind of explanation, a savior, a cause, someone to blame, something that awakens strong emotion -- thereby opening the mind to an invasion or psychic infection. In this case, a charismatic person who poses as a heroic savior may infect a group, an entire nation. Jung goes on to say: 

       ​The impressive thing about the German phenomenon is that one man
       [Hitler], who is obviously "possessed," has infected a whole nation to 
       such an extent that everything is set in motion and has started rolling 
       on its course toward perdition. (para. 388)

Thus did Carl Jung in 1936 anticipate the catastrophic collapse of a nation in 1945, of educated, civilized, technologically advanced citizens whose fear turned into anger, opening the windows of their souls to be filled with their most primitive instincts under the influence of an archetypal god, a warrior god, who had possessed a leader capable of charming them into a mass hysteria. He promised them economic relief, power to rule the world, and a privileged place within his illusion.

So,no, real power is not fear. But real fear can possess us; it can expose our souls to the invasion of a dark power that ever so slowly erodes our sense of right and wrong -- even our humanity.
    

                        Now is the time to know
                     That all that you do is sacred.
 
                        Now, why not consider
               A lasting truce with yourself and God.

                        Now is the time to understand 
                   That all your ideas of right and wrong
                      Were just a child's training wheels
                              To be laid aside
                        When you can finally live
                               With veracity
                                   And love. 

                          Hafiz is a divine envoy
                            Whom the Beloved
                     Has written a holy message upon.

                            My dear, please tell me,
                                Why do you still
                         Throw sticks at your heart
                                    And God?

                      What is it in that sweet voice inside
                               That incites you to fear?

                     Now is the time for the world to know
                    That every thought and action is sacred.

                                     This is the time
                  For you to deeply compute the impossibility

                                  That there is anything
                                         But Grace.

                              Now is the season to know
                                That everything you do
                                           Is sacred.

              (Poem by Hafiz, Trans. by Daniel Ladinsky, The Gift)

This remarkable poem by the Persian poet Hafiz arrests us on many levels. Had we time here in this blog, we might spend the night musing together about the meaning of each verse. But, for the moment, I am thinking about the sixth verse that slips in unexpectedly with a startling question:

                        What is it in that sweet voice inside
                                 That incites you to fear?

With this one sentence, Hafiz turns the table on us, prompting us back to the preceding verse for a slower rereading:

                                  My dear, please tell me,
                                       Why do you still
                                Throw sticks at your heart
                                             and God?

Now we realize Hafiz has gotten very personal! I did not realize I was throwing sticks at my own heart, much less throwing sticks at God! And, while we're at this unveiling of "secrets," what makes you, Hafiz, think I have been covering over a voice that "incites" me to fear?

Here I was looking forward to enjoying a comforting, "spiritual" poem by this fourteenth century poet, and suddenly the cat is out of the bag, to insert yet another metaphor. And, as happens with our dear cat Sheba, there is no rest until her meowings and nudgings are investigated!

So here we are with Hafiz who, not unlike an insightful psychotherapist, slips in a question that moves us into the subterranean depths of our psyches, leading us down through the cobwebs of long unattended memories, the shadows of play between light and dark, and the creepy descent through realms we may not even knew existed.

Hafiz is extending an invitation to put aside his book of poems for the moment and reflect back through the long, dimly-lit corridors of our lives to the basic fear that has incited our histories of fears. For fear is not just a primal emotion, it may be the primal emotion. We come into the world afraid of life, and we leave the world afraid of death. And each step  along the way has been preceded by the fear that we do not know what lies ahead, we may not like what we find, we may not be up to what the new thing demands of us, or we might not do it as well as whomever it is we are falsely setting up as the measuring rod for our life, or we may fear that we will have to give up whatever we find -- the treasure, the lover, the distraction that covers up our fundamental fear!

Our fundamental fear: What is it? We probably first think of fear as an emotion arising from a sense of danger, a threat of some kind -- physical, emotional, mental. But there is another way that we use the word to describe something of another nature. This connotation of fear might be most closely associated with the experience of awe or reverence. We fear the most basic objects that we believe might threaten us in some way; but we also "fear" those objects, places, and/or experiences that connect us with the deepest and highest aspirations of life. This is most fundamental because it is archetypal, "hard-wired" within the neural networks of our psyche.

Looked at this way, we may understand "fear" as the primary emotion that anchors our humanity. Without fear, we would be vulnerable at the point of not recognizing the dangers that can kill us. But, also, without fear we would miss that magnificent dimension of life in which our humanity flowers. For example, think of how we welcome home those persons who have faced danger in whatever arena, prevailed, and returned to remind us that the highest point of human achievement is the "baptism by fire" in which we face the "dragon of death" and overcome. Daily, often without fanfare or recognition, persons around the world encounter their deepest fears, and in their acts of courage find their lives to be ennobled. Without these heroic acts, we would be enshrouded in cowardice and unconsciousness.

Which brings us back to the question Hafiz raises, "What is it in that sweet voice inside that incites you to fear? Why does he call it a "sweet" voice?

I think the voice is "sweet" because it prompts us to face not just the surface level of our fears but the archetypal level of fear, which we know as awe, reverence, the dimension of depth. On our long journey through space and time, it is the nature of our species to recognize danger, feel fear, and make adjustments. But is is also our nature not to fear fear! 

To be conscious of this is to escape the paralyzing fears of childhood in which we feared the "bogeyman" in our closets and underneath our beds. To be conscious of this is to escape the suffocating imprisonment of relationships in which "love" is lived out as control and the need to carry the others' feelings. To be conscious of this is to recognize the dehumanizing policies of dictatorial regimes and would-be dictators who exploit others in the service of their own narcissisms.

To be conscious of this is to experience the grace of being fully human.
                        

What could be more settling during these dwindling lazy, hazy, quiet evenings of summer than to sit on your deck with a cool glass of fresh lemonade and allow your mind to ponder the "basic facts of human existence?"  Growing up in coastal Carolina, and having settled here in the central part of the state, my memories have been woven into the threads of a way of life now passing over the horizon.

It was -- and still is, for the most part -- a way of neighborliness without nosiness, kindness without expectations, faithfulness without pompous religiosity, straight-speaking without condemnation, and a kind of eager anticipation of each season without the boredom that comes when a visitor has lingered to the point of wearing out the earlier welcome.

Late summer evenings epitomized this last experience. Trips to the beach, playing in the pools and rivers and surf, roasting oysters, fishing, wearing the skimpiest of clothes without shoes when possible, cook-outs, playing hide-and-seek in the dark -- each of these set up the following quiet times after twilight watching the fire flies in their hopeful mating dances, listening to the harmonies of the cicadas and bull frogs as they sang us back to a time before memory, when the structures of life that gave birth to "the basic facts of human existence" that are visible to us now only in our dreams and our deepest undisturbed self-reflection.

How sad it is to live our lives skipping along on the surface. How trivial it is to occupy ourselves with the distractions that arise to mask our anxieties and provide some kind of meaning to what we fear would otherwise be experienced as a vacuous meaningless existence! How dangerous it is to discover new and great powers in the substance of our material world, atomic powers that can destroy our world. How tragic when these powers are exploited and manipulated for political gain and marketing profits, rather than to channel them through a funnel of restraint in the service of protecting our material world while providing care for all sentient beings. 

But we are out of touch with our depths, seduced by our flirtatious mind's courtship with the intoxicating power of the machine, gadgets, the artificial intelligences of our manufactured clones. The robots are winning.

But here is the thing: Robots cannot dream. Of course, it is true that they can consolidate "memories." And as is true with the human psyche, the consolidated memories may be recalled. But they have no moral center except what has been introjected by human programmers and reworked in the circuits of memory consolidation for the purpose of accomplishing tasks -- which may even include their own survival.

But that is not dreaming. Dreams arise from the "two-million-years-old self" in the depths of human unconsciousness from which human consciousness evolved, giving formation along the way to the psycho-neural substrata of the human psyche, called archetypes, countless in number, signaling the meanings associated with human speech, behavior, thought, feeling, and images. 

C.G.Jung, whose birthday we celebrated this week and the pioneer of research in archetypal symbolism, referred to dreams as a "communication from the unconscious, unitary soul with humanity."

       It reflects not on the ego but on the self; it recollects that strange self, 
       alien to the ego, which was ours from the beginning, the trunk from
       which the ego grew. It is alien to us, because we have estranged ourselves 
       from it through the aberrations of the human mind.
       (The Meaning of Psychology for Modern Man," Civilization in Transition, 
       Collected Works, Vol. 110, para. 118)

Hold tightly to this thought because it sounds strange to our modern consciousness. Consider the phrase, an "unconscious, unitary soul of humanity;" consider also that our "unitary soul of humanity" sends us several "messages" each night in the form of dreams! Let this possibility seep into your idea of yourself and whatever it is you think makes you human. Very likely this is a thought and a possibility you have never entertained, and if so probably did not admit to many people for fear you would be either ignored or pigeon-holed as "odd." But the role of dreams in human development is a basic fact of human existence.

But we experience this fact of human existence as strange because, in the first place, we live in a society and a world in general that does not take our dreams seriously. They are considered to be meaningless, a random firing of neurons, at best a gathering of the day's residue in order that we might sleep better tonight and work more productively tomorrow.

So this basic fact of human existence, that dreams bring us important messages, varying in urgency of cause from "very important" to "not-so-much," this reality is discounted today as is the reality of an "unconscious, unifying soul of humanity"  residing in each of us. That too is discounted.  

The result is we are left adrift in a universe of shrill voices, jingoism, narcissistic posturing, a rejection of scientific research, a politicizing of media, the demagogic attacks on honest journalizing, a religious establishment that has sold its soul to the marketing experts to increase numbers, profits, and ideological ends, in which a pompous poser calls "up" "down" and "down" "up," while few dare call the lie what it is.

Would it not feel good to center down again on what is real, what is authentic, what is most basic in our existence. I have no easy recommendations for how you might find your path toward that lost world. However, I do think we can begin with the basic facts I have presented here. Tonight, you will have a dream that brings a message of some concern from your deep unconscious in order that you might live your life more joyfully, realistically, and meaningfully.

So I will call on Jung to say what he said earlier, but with slightly different coloration:

         A dream is nothing but a lucky idea that comes to us from the dark, 
         all-unifying world of the psyche. What would be more natural, when
         we have lost ourselves amid the endless particulars and isolated details
         of the world's surface, than to knock at the door of dreams and inquire
         of them the bearings which would bring us closer to the basic facts
         of human existence? Here we encounter the obstinate prejudice that
         dreams are so much froth, they are not real, they lie, they are mere
         wish-fulfillments. All this is but an excuse not to take dreams seriously,
         for that would be uncomfortable. Our intellectual hubris of consciousness
         loves isolation despite all inconveniences, and for this reason people will
         do anything rather than admit that dreams are real and tell the truth. ...
         Even if the whole world were to fall to pieces, the unity of the psyche
         would never be shattered. And the wider and more numerous the
         fissures on the surface, the more this unity is strengthened in the depths.
         ("The Meaning of Psychology for Modern Man," Civilization in Transition,
         Collected Works, Vol. 10, para. 305)

The battle began on December 16, 1944, and ended January 25, 1945. "The Battle of the Bulge," as it came to be named, marked Adolph Hitler's attempt to surround the four allied armies advancing into the heartland of Germany. Hitler planned to destroy them and sue for a negotiated peace and the end of WW II. The German dictator threw most of his remaining resources at the allied front in the Ardennes region running through southeast Belgium through Germany into France. The German resources initially included 410,000 men, more than 1,400 tanks, tank destroyers, assault guns, 2,600 artillery pieces, 1,600 anti-tank guns, over 1,000 combat aircraft, and other miscellaneous pieces of military equipment (wikipedia.org).

The allies defeated the Germans in this climatic battle but with great costs to its troops: 20,000 killed, 40,000 wounded, and 20,000 captured or "missing-in-action." Among these missing-in-action, later determined to be captured, was my mother's young brother, Victor Mace, not yet 20 years old. He survived but barely. Following the "Battle of the Bulge," the war dragged on until May 7, 1945. During those horrific months, Mace who had been captured on January 21st, survived with little food, sole-less boots in the German winter, ragged inadequate clothes, always on the run, hiding with his German captors who retreated at night from the advancing allied forces, dodging the U.S. airplanes during the day as they bombed and strafed anything moving that looked like German troops.

To have survived those conditions of war seems like a miracle. Not all prisoners were as fortunate as Mace. Many died trying to endure the harsh weather, a lack of adequate food and clothing, constantly on the run, and never knowing if and when their captors might kill the prisoners who were making the German retreat even more complicated. To have kept alive the sick, wounded, and ragged prisoners was in its own way an act of mercy by those German troops.

But not all of the captors were that merciful. At 4:30 on the afternoon of December 17, 1944, a premier German SS unit captured and machine-gunned 84 prisoners. This war crime, known as the Malmedy massacre, was one of many atrocities committed against civilians as well as soldiers under the orders of Hitler to display brutality as a show of intimidating force.

But Mace survived. On the morning of Tuesday, May 8, 1945, Mace said he woke up to a strange silence -- no sound of guns or airplanes, no chatter by the German soldiers, no automobiles. He looked around and saw no German troops at all; they had thrown down their weapons and deserted. Then, straining to make sure of what he thought he heard, Mace listened to a far-away human whistling, but coming closer and closer. Joining other U.S. prisoners who had rushed to the fence where they had been crammed inside the night before, they saw striding easily up the road, approaching the camp, a British soldier, whistling as he led his unit up to the gate of the fence which they quickly opened. Mace was liberated; he and others across Europe  celebrated VE Day, Victory in Europe, joining hundreds of thousands of people not only in Europe but around the world. On stretchers and cots, canes and crutches, those who had been prisoners and "missing-in-action" began their journey home.

The war does not end here, however, not for Mace, his family, nor his many fellow prisoners of war who suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. His health was fragile, and his vulnerability surrounded him like a light transparent gauze wrap that covered him as a mosquito net would, shielding him but trapping him as a prisoner yet again.

Most often he soldiered through his trauma. But sometimes not, as for example when the family had gathered at my grandparents' for dinner on a lovely summer afternoon, and a low-flying small airplane flew just over the top of the house for no apparent reason. Perhaps it was some "cowboy" crop duster showing off his dare-devil skills. But for whatever reason, the plane dipped down and seemed to buzz the house close enough to get the attention of all of us who stopped eating momentarily, looking at each other in apprehension. Then, in a flash, Mace fell out of his chair and huddled underneath the table -- leaving an image that was seared into my memory forever as a reminder of the psychological ravages of war.

The memory is also for me a testament to the capacity of the human spirit to survive and prevail. Mace lived on into his sixties, rearing three fine kids, my cousins, Roger, Bonnie, and Gail -- now living their lives of which Mace would have been proud -- and celebrating a marriage which survived the trauma and endured for the good times. 

I share this remarkable story with you on this Independence Day when we press the pause button in our busy lives in order to reflect on who we are as a people. In my personal reflection on Mace and his battle, I find it remarkable that I cannot remember even one word of resentment or regret for what he suffered on behalf of his country. Nor did I ever hear any vitriolic criticism from other family members. This does not mean that they could not be quite vocal about certain politicians and certain actions taken with which they did not agree. And my comments are not meant to color the family as people who glorified the ways of war and the sacrifices made by those who are touched by war. 

They just simply went about their business. And if the "business" called for sacrifice, they rallied from some deep moral core to do what they thought right. And this is the battle for civilization, is it not? You will indulge me, I hope, if I stress this particular point at this particular time. 

For we are now living in a strange time. The egotistical drive for "progress," for power, for domination over others and nature itself, for ideological purity, for walls that separate people, for profit at any cost of ethical responsibility, for the dismissal of institutions that provide safe and sane boundaries for our public life, for the display of appearance over substance, and for the apparent lack of regard for a moral center -- these and other manifestations of the "spirit of the times" run counter to the very structure of human existence. 

And what is that "structure?" Apparently, if the witness of time and the evolution of the human spirit are to be considered, there is at the core of our existence a human civility that was worded for us 242 years ago:

            We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal,
            that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights,
            that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness. -- That
            to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving
            their just powers from the consent of the governed. -- That whenever any
            Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of
            the People to alter or abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying
            its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as
            to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.
            (From the Preamble of the Declaration of Independence, in Congress, 
             July 4, 1776)

And this, as Mace would attest, is a battle for our civilization.

                        Be forewarned! What follows is a joke.

Oliver, a forty-something failed salesman felt down on himself. He considered his life a failure. He had failed to get promotions, failed to make a salary comparable to others in his position, failed to connect with a meaningful relationship, and so on. But Oliver also failed to take care of himself, what he wore, what he ate, the need to exercise and develop healthy self-care habits. And so, he despised himself, ruminated over how life was unfair, obsessed on how bad things always happened to him.

While he was thinking those thoughts, he stepped outside his car onto a very busy street, not paying attention to the traffic, and was struck by a speeding bicyclist. Falling hard on the pavement, Oliver fell into a deep coma that lasted a couple of days during which time God had an opportunity to squeeze between Oliver's obsessional thoughts and ruminations.

God had been trying for some time to speak to Oliver but could never get a word in edge-wise, so persistent was Oliver to preoccupy himself with his negative self-talk. So now God had a chance, and this is what God told Oliver. God said, 'Oliver, you paid no attention to where you were going so captivated were you by your thoughts, and you paid no attention to what you were doing. Now you are in a coma and could die, but I am going to have mercy on you and give you another shot at life. In fact, just to make sure you have an adequate cushion, I am going to grant you forty more years to live!

Perhaps it was this grand gesture by God that jolted Oliver from his coma! In any case, Oliver wok up and said to himself, "Was that really God who spoke to me? And do I really have forty more years to live?" Ruminating on this possibility, as Oliver was wont to do, he decided might as well take a chance on it. "After all," he thought, "what do I of all people have to lose?"

And thus it was that Oliver shifted his obsessional thinking and self-preoccupied ruminations to consider what a special person he was, blessed by no one other than God! Granted to have forty more years to live! Led by those thoughts, Oliver began to change his outer life. He bought a whole new wardrobe, updated his automobile to a luxury model, joined an exercise club that provided a trainer, nutritionist, and a full curriculum of self-help classes. His sales went up, he got a promotion, and he even got botox -- later granting himself the gift of plastic surgery, an investment that paid off, he felt, with a trim figure, a prominent chin, a youthful hairline, and abs that would be the envy of any man twenty years younger. 

Work colleagues were astonished, prospective dates badgered him for attention, and Oliver's thoughts dwelt on what a grand man he had become. In fact, Oliver was thinking exactly those thoughts when he stepped outside his car on the same very busy street where he had been struck only three years earlier, and as bad luck would have it, struck again by a speeding courier-bicyclist.

Once again, Oliver fell hard on the street and went into a deep coma. This time, death was more imminent and Oliver found himself at the Pearly Gates where God was on duty, having given the gate-keeper a thirty-minute break.

Oliver felt confused. How could this be? He was dying, about to pass through the Pearly Gates. And Oliver was also very angry. He yelled over to God who was busy at the moment with some book-keeping triviality. But Oliver persisted. "God," he called. "Look over here; it's me! You promised me forty more years and I have thirty-seven left! What happened? What kind of mistake is this?!"

So God looks over toward Oliver, and comes even closer for a better look. "Oh my," said God, "this is a terrible mistake! I did not recognize you!"  1

A funny story, you may think, but what is the point? And I share the question with you. The story is funny but sad, comedic but tragic, drawing from the realm of our deep humanity but also quite archetypal if you reflect on it. This "joke" is certainly not a morality tale, but yet it does strike a moral chord. There is in each of us a "radio station" playing in our mind all the time with messages from its "sponsors," such as neurotic guilt, shame, envy, pride, anger, loneliness, fear. To draw upon another metaphor, each of us in the dark night of our souls has murmurings from the shadow-land of our deep unconscious. Perhaps as children and young people, we may have thought that as maturing adults we would have those voices tamed or at least have the volume turned down.

But we make a mistake if we think the voices are gone. We may not hear them but the "radio station of unconscious ramblings" goes on and on, twenty-four/seven. And apparently our mind's subliminal hearing of these messages pulls us into the distractions of an on-going replay of the soul's morose messages or of the ego's attempts to cover them up with games of power, materialistic yearnings, sexual exploits, or even religious ideologies. 

And so, a "spell" is cast that guides our minds into the dark caverns of neurotic preoccupations or to the airy flights of distracting adventures that take us away from our deep, true self. If this is the case, which I believe to be true, then it is fitting to ask this question: "Are you mindful of your mind?" Or, "Who is watching over your wandering mind?"

And how might one engage in this practice of paying attention to our minds? You might consider these two ideas: Observe your dreams closely. What is your "mind" doing or saying, not doing or not saying? Yet again, try this. Sit quietly for a period of five to twenty minutes. Observe the thoughts, feelings, and perceptions that come to your attention. But do not engage them. Simply observe.

Through our dreams and our sitting mindfully, we learn to gain some objectivity about our mind, our thoughts, our perceptions, ad our feelings. It is not that we are trying to control our mind as much as it is to see that our mind does not control us! I have a mind; it does not have me ... as it did have with poor Oliver! 


FOOTNOTE
1      
Paul Gilbert. In a seminar presented by the Cambridge Health Alliance and Harvard Medical School. (With some revisions to Gilbert's original telling and my own adaptation of meaning.)

I am going to give you two images of fear and a question. The first image of the nation of Germany that smoldered in desperation between the two great world wars. The second image is from the American South.

So, first, the image from Germany. It is not a pretty one, disturbing even ninety-four years later. But you must remember how brutally the Germans were treated by the Allies following the collapse of Germany and the end of World War I. Humiliated, starved, bankrupt, without the support of economic means for recovery, the land and the people were left broken, attended primarily by their devils while the world watched. 

Here is the image. It comes to us from the observing pen of D.H. Lawrence, a "Letter from Germany," which he wrote March 1924, while traveling the "heavy, ponderous round hills of the Black Forest." Lawrence notes the "dreary fields," the "smashed houses," and says this:

            The moment you are in Germany, you know. It feels empty and somehow
        menacing. So must the Roman soldiers have watched those black, massive
        round hills with a certain fear, and with the knowledge that there were at 
        their own limit. A fear of the invisible natives. A fear of the invisible life
        lurking among the woods. A fear of their own opposite.
        __  __  __  __  __  __  __  __  __  __  __  __  __  __  __  __  __  ... .
           
            At night the place is almost dark, economizing light. Economy, economy,
        economy -- that too becomes an insanity. Luckily the government keeps bread
        fairly cheap.
            But at night you feel strange things stirring in the darkness, strange feelings
        stirring out of this still-unconquered Black Forest. You stiffen your backbone
        and listen to the night. There is a sense of danger. It is not the people. They
        don't seem dangerous. Out of the very air comes a sense of danger, a queer,
        bristling feeling of uncanny danger.   (Phoenix: The Posthumous Papers, 1936,
        pp. 108-109)

Lawrence is describing so well the feeling of fear when it enters our lives, either because we no longer feel safe due to the perception of an obvious threat, or because of a feared threat we cannot even name because no perception of it exists. Like a child at night feels unsafe, fearful that somewhere in the room -- under the bed, in the closet, somewhere -- something very dangerous is lurking!

Each of us is susceptible to such fears. The reason is because fear is archetypal and the bumper sticker says it very well: "Just because I am paranoid does not mean they are not out to get me." Sanity and insanity lurk very close together here, do they not? This is because fear is one of our primal instincts. How could it not be? When a child is born, leaving the (generally) hospitable, safe womb of the mother, it falls into a harsh existence of strange sights, sounds, sensations. And there is no retreat, no going back, only forward into a mysterious and uncertain future. 

So we come into the world afraid, and we face death afraid. In between, there are encounters with fear, some of them fact-based, and some of them neurotic. Some of them are quite personal, and some of them are collective, experienced in groups or even nations, as was true in the Germany described by Lawrence in his letter.

Now I will give you another image of fear, closer to us in time and geography. The New York Times ran an article on April 25, 2018. The article, "So the South's White Terror Will Never Be Forgotten," written by Brent Staples, details the opening of The National Memorial for Peace and Justice in Montgomery, Alabama. Erected on the six-acre Memorial grounds is the Legacy Museum, housing 800 steel pillars hanging from the ceiling with the names of more than 4,400 African-Americans, mostly men, but included as well are the names of women and children, family members of men who were sought for so-called "crimes" against whites. 

The events would sometimes be advertised in local papers as "lyhnching bees" or Negro barbecues." Mr. Staples' article begins with the chilling description of the "carnivals of death where African-American men, women, and children were hanged, burned, and dismembered as cheering crowds of whites looked on . ..."  This, Staples goes on to say, was "the cornerstone of white supremacist rule in the Jim Crow-era South."

This "Jim Crow-era South" refers to a climate of terror int eh Southern United States when state as well as local laws enforced racial segregation. The name "Jim Crow" was created by a white actor, Thomas D. Rice, who toured the region with a minstrel show, using the stage name of Jim Crow to portray the newly-freed slaves as dull-witted, lazy, leacherous individuals who could not be trusted. This caricature appealed to the former slave owners suffering themselves from defeat, hardship, and fear that the African-Americans would retaliate for their years of slavery and mistreatment. These discriminatory laws ruled the southern states from the period between the end of "Reconstruction" in 1877 until the 1960's.

It was an era of fear in the southern United States. You can imagine the terror felt and experienced by the African-Americans during that time. Fueled by ignorance, the fear cascaded into layers of prejudice, hatred, and mistrust that dominated a region and impacted the entire nation. How can that be? How can the human species so capable of genius, generous in outreach, and compassionate in sickness, tragic loss, and death -- how ca this species of creatures behave so abominably toward others in their fellow creatures. We are flawed in this manner, there is no question. We are capable of exemplary acts of heroism but also of despicable acts of barbarism. 

The danger is a phenomenon we call mass hysteria, collective hysteria, moral panic, mass psychogenic illness. It is a disorder in which fear arises within a group or nation and takes possession of the people. The ruling cause is fear, arising from a specific perceived threat or from some vague sense of danger that may be projected upon other persons, groups, or objects. The symptoms are the diminishment of rationality, the demonization of the perceived cause of the threat, and violent actions to subdue the threat.

In my field of analytical psychology, we call this phenomenon a collective complex. It is a psychological complex because it draws its energy from the unconscious depths and is ruled by the archetype of fear. And it is collective because it has spread from the individual to a group. Carl Jung describes the phenomenon like this:

            In my view, this happens when the life of a large social group or of a
            nation undergoes a profound change of a political, social, or religious
            nature. Such a change always involves an alteration of the psychological
            attitude. Incisive changes in history are generally attributed to external
            causes. It seems to me, however, that external circumstances often merely
            sense an occasion for a new attitude to life and the world, long prepared
            in the unconscious to become manifest. (Collected Works, Vol. 8, para.594)

By "new attitude," Jung does not mean it is necessarily good or appearing for the first time. He is referring, rather, to a change in the over-all values and direction of a people at a given moment. Something arises from the depths and seizes control, often under the sway of a "leader" who gives voice to what is bubbling in the unconscious of the people.

And so we ask, why are we now living in a world of fear? What has happened to us? What deep forces within us are stoking the fires of anger, prejudice, and violence? What is the meaning of this nightmare we are living?

This is a poem by David Wagoner from his book, Traveling Light, in which Wagoner draws from one of the many tales by the British author, soldier, explorer, and advisor to Margaret Thatcher as well as Prince Charles who regarded Laurens van der Post (1906-1996) as a spiritual advisor. Known to be relatively free in his accounts of travels and experiences, van der Post nonetheless stirred the imagination of those who met him, as they often came away from those encounters with a deeper sense of meaning and the numimous mystery of life. What follows is Wagoner's poem. 

                                        The Silence of the Stars

                             When Laurens van der Post one night
                           In the Kalahari Desert told the Bushmen
                                       He couldn't hear the stars
                    Singing, they didn't believe him. They looked at him.
                              Half-smiling. They examined his face
                                     To see whether he was joking
                     Or deceiving them. Then two of those small men
                               Who plant nothing, who have almost
                                      Nothing to hunt, who live
                                On almost nothing, and with no one
                                     But themselves, led him away
                                From the crackling thorn-scrub fire
                               And stood with him under the night sky
                                And listened. One of them whispered,
                                        Do you not hear them now?
                               And van der Post listened, not wanting
                                  To disbelieve, but had to answer,
                                      No. They walked him slowly
                                  Like a sick man to the small dim
                                   Circle of firelight and told him
                                       They were terribly sorry,
                                       And he felt even sorrier
                             For himself and blamed his ancestors
                                 For their strange loss of hearing,
                          Which was his loss now. On some clear nights
                       When nearby houses have turned off their televisions,
                           When the traffic dwindles, when through streets
                              Are between sirens and the jets overhead
                                Are between crossings, when the wind
                                      Is hanging fire in the fir trees,
                             And the long-eared owl in the neighboring grove
                               Between calls is regarding his own darkness,
                                     I look at the stars again as I first did
                            To school myself in the names of constellations
                      And remember my first sense of their terrible distance,
                                       I can still hear what I thought
                            At the edge of silence where the inside jokes
                                  Of my heartbeat, my arterial traffic,
                            The C above high C of my inner ear, myself
                      Tunelessly humming, but now I know what they are:
                             My fair share of the music of the spheres
                                     And clusters of ripening stars,
                           Of the songs from the throats of the old gods
                               Still tending even tone-deaf creatures
                                  Through their exiles in the desert.

Reading the poem closely, we are moved by the Bushmen's deep sorrow for the truncated spiritual life of van der Post. He cannot hear the music of the stars which, to them, is the great symphony of their being, their connection with the Divine Spirit that sounds throughout the universe, evoking wonder, awe, and a reconciling Presence, which unites all human beings -- all sentient beings -- indeed all creation.

You and I might think it folly, that these quite simple people in the remote region of southern Africa actually believe they are hearing the stars singing. On the other hand, perhaps they would believe that the silence of the stars we experience is folly, driving us to fill that emptiness with the 10,000 distractions of modern civilization. Yet again, it may well be that the music of the singing stars is the music within the human soul, a music evoked by a worshipful epiphany when gazing at the star-lit sky, away from the deafening cacophony of our planes, lawn mowers, blasting radios, and televisions, and automobiles racing down the ligaments of our collective life in neighborhoods of ever-glaring light and raucous noise.

In some sense, we know like the Bushmen that the stars pull us upward toward a wondrous envelopment of what, for the moment, we might call a sense of Mystical Being. We lack the scientific knowledge to fully understand this phenomenon. But as we grow older into the wisdom of older age, the reality becomes clearer as distractions fade away, making life grander, life more precious, and the later years of approaching death a catastrophe were it not for this deeper knowing and the inner hearing the music of the stars.

Carl Jung in a personal letter written in 1950 put it this way:

                  "The spectacle of old age would be unendurable
           did we not know that our psyche reaches into a region
           held captive neither by change in time nor by limitation of place.
           In that form of being our birth is a death; and our death a birth. 
           The scales of the whole hang balanced."