A Proliferation of Porcupines

Image via Wikipedia
I had just gotten out of the car, backpack and arms loaded down with books and miscellaneous school-related items, when I saw a shadow scoot across the ground in front of me. It was after dark, but the street light was bright enough for me to discern a basketball-size shadow with a little nubbin sticking out of one end and four legs. Then I noticed there were more of these NBA wannabees, maybe a dozen, multiplying so quickly, I couldn't keep up with their numbers. Suddenly, there were what I took for babies, hundreds of them, swarming around my feet like flocks of birds gathering to migrate south for the winter. Next, hundreds of infants swarmed behind the babies, and like Mary's lamb, everywhere I stepped, they were all sure to go.

Porcupines. Big ones, little ones, littler ones still, following me like geese in the film, Fly Away Home (1996). Sounds cute, you say? Well, I suppose it was, but cuteness wasn't going to solve the problem of getting into the house without a proliferation of porcupines clinging to my heels. Fortunately for me, dawn's early light intervened at that moment, accompanied by a full bladder and empty stomach. I didn't tell you? Shame on me. Yes, this was a dream from night before last in the wee, wee (no pun intended) hours of the morning.

Why was I dreaming about porcupines? I'm glad you asked. It all started with Freddy, a sweet little porcupine who lives under my barn, snitches apples from the tree next to the house, and has been growing increasingly comfortable having dogs and a person around. I won't use the word "tame" because he's still a wild animal, though one who's obviously nonplussed whenever the dogs and I go outside while he's gnawing away at lunch in the front yard. I speak to him, naturally, and he seems to respond to "Freddy" by looking my way.

Porcupines are supposed to be nocturnal, but this fellow's more of a day person who likes the warmth of the sun on his back. There have even been a few occasions I've discovered him lying in the flower bed, snuggled up against the house, right below my study window. The first time this happened, he had me worried because he hadn't moved in several hours and I thought, Oh, no, he's been sick, I didn't know, and now he's gone to the Happy Munching Ground in the sky. I got down on one knee, maybe an arm's length away, and gently called his name. He woke up, looked at me sleepily, and of course, said nothing, as is his way.

Now, why my dream has porcupines in such numbers is probably due to there having been another one in the yard lately, a big one, easily twice Freddy's size. He or perhaps, she -- I'm not getting close enough to find out -- lives in the forest behind the house and when the dogs and I go out at night with a flashlight, s/he looks at me as if to say, Do you mind, I'm eating here?! and ambles off into the bushes. I'm guessing Freddy's mentioned something about the quality of the menu and as with any good restaurant, the word gets around. Either that, or he's left his scent on the grass like a sign reading, Porcupines Welcome Here. The point is, now there are two -- well, actually, three. Last evening we had a new customer who took off before I had a chance to ask how they liked the service.

Jung or Dr. Freud would likely say my dream was a portrayal of how my unconscious views the coming months of board preparation, graduation, fourth year rotations, residency interviews, and the Match. I'm not going to argue; they know dreams better than me. But that doesn't change the fact, I'm honestly a bit worried. The last thing I want is to become so popular my best customer (Freddy) takes his patronage elsewhere simply because he doesn't like having to wait for a table. Porcupines are particular about these things, you know.


(GNU Free Documentation image via Wikipedia)

Psychiatric Help is Five Cents, Please

"I just needed a little psychoanalysis -- did I say that right?"

"Yes, Jake, you said it fine."

"It's my first big word, you know. Will you take me out to the bathroom now?"

"Sure, hop down and let's go."

Having a patient sit on your lap probably isn't quite what Dr. Freud would approve, but neither did he have patients with fur. Then again, the potential for soiled trousers may been precisely the reason why he insisted on sitting behind patients while they reclined on a couch. And all this time we've thought it was to avoid contaminating the transference. I mean, who knew?

Furthermore, under most circumstances the idea of taking a patient out to the bathroom is questionable, rather like taking one out to the ballgame, except there are conditions where that could be considered therapeutic. You think I'm kidding? Not at all. Exposure therapy for what most clinicians call Baseball Stress Disorder. It happens a lot in cities with major league teams, though more cases are reported in Boston and New York, depending on whether the Yankees or Red Sox won the pennant any given year. Actually, the DSM-IV labels it Post-Pennant Syndrome (PPS) -- I'm sure you've heard of it, it's been in all the papers. This morning however, since my patient was Jake the Puppy, a visit to the front yard was hardly a boundary violation.

It all came about because Jake has been thinking about a behavior problem that troubles us both. It concerns his proclivity for growling and barring his teeth when he's sitting, contentedly, on my lap and I happen to move. I thought it was a dominance issue, his answer to the age-old question, Who's the boss? But he said it wasn't that way at all.

According to Jake, he spent most of his early life scratching and clawing for his share of the food, blanket, and play toys at various adoption centers between Arkansas and Maine. It wasn't horrid, he said, but it was dog eat dog and since he was a little baby puppy, he had to learn to be tough. Now, things are different. He has his very own crate, food and bowl, a big brother, the Cat and me, and he's very happy. But when he growls, he says it's because he feels like he's back at the animal shelter. I told him not to worry, it was an unconscious response, and now that it's out in the open, he'll be more able to regulate his behavior. And since he wants to be a "good dog," like his older brother, the motivation for change is already built-in to his character structure.

It was a good session and Jake accomplished a lot. Naturally, there was the question of fee, since the therapeutic frame must be maintained. "Jake?" I asked, stopping for a moment at the door.

"Mm? Are we going out or not? You know what happens when we don't."

"I know and we are, but first, I need to be paid for my services. Psychiatric help is five cents, please."

"Grrrrr."


(Photo copyright 2011 by the author)

Osteopathic Psychiatry: It's Time to Smell the Roses

In August of this past year, the House of Delegates of the American Osteopathic Association passed a resolution supporting the use of osteopathic manipulative medicine (OMM) for the treatment of psychiatric and neurological patients. In some circles, this might be viewed as a controversial decision and for non-medical readers, I need to explain why.

To begin with, we're not really talking about neurological patients since OMM has long been used in their treatment. With psychiatric patients, however, it's another matter. You see, psychiatry has traditionally been the one medical discipline in which practitioners, apart from a polite handshake, generally tried to  refrain from touching patients as a matter of principle. Psychiatric relationships are already complicated due to their subject matter, why risk complicating them further by introducing physical contact into the mix?

Not all psychiatric writers agree, however. Irvin Yalom, MD, for example, argues physical contact shouldn't be rigorously avoided; rather, when touch has been appropriate, the next step is to talk about its meaning for the patient (The Gift of Therapy, 2003). There is a wise saying, Everything is grist for the therapy mill, which means everything that takes place between doctor and patient should be discussed as a natural part of the patient's psychotherapy. But OMM involves more than placing a comforting hand on the shoulder of a grieving patient, which is why the decision to employ it has the potential to generate controversy. From my perspective, the issue has as much to do with history as with theory.

The practice of psychiatry as it's usually conceived can be traced to the work of individuals who were adherents, so to speak, of The Indiana Jones School of Psychiatry, i.e. they made it up as they went along. That's legitimate, by the way, when you're quite literally going where no one else has gone before. You sort of have to find your own way because there isn't anyone who's done what you're about to and can advise you to take up a hobby instead, or better yet, just get a dog.

In those days, psychotherapy was the psychiatrist's primary, if not only, tool -- it would be years before lithium became the first psychiatric medication on the scene. I studied under a psychiatrist who completed her training prior the advent of psychiatric medications and I asked her what that was like. She said being thrust into a ward filled to the brim with actively psychotic patients with nothing to use but psychotherapy was a hopeless endeavor, but as they had nothing else, what else could they do? 

According to the pioneers in the field (Jung, Freud, and others), the cure to neurosis was found in the resolution of the transference (the idea that a therapist unconsciously reminds a patient of another key figure in their lives, a parent for example, and by working through their feelings toward the therapist, they are actually working through painful feelings toward the parent; past and present meet in the transference). I can't say that psychiatrists and patients didn't ever touch because there are records to the contrary; it just wasn't a formal element in the process because it was feared touch might interfere with resolving the transference. The relationship between patient and doctor, therefore, was primarily cerebral and words were relied upon to render it incarnate in flesh and blood.
 
For the most part, the osteopathic community has focused its interests on the application of OMM to promote wellness and treat physical illness, especially in the context of primary care medicine. There are references to its use with psychiatric patients in the literature, but these are few and far between. Many, if not most, osteopathic (D.O.) psychiatrists have been trained in the traditional hands-off model and hence, experience a natural reticence about using touch to any great extent as a treatment modality.

Now, here's the problem. If osteopathic medicine represents a similar but also different approach to medical practice, it only makes sense that osteopathic psychiatry should represent a similar but also different approach to the treatment of psychiatric illness. As long as our methods are identical, however, it's kind of hard to see how anyone can point out a distinction between us and our MD colleagues. If you want to claim your degree confers a measure of "something else," it's only fair to ask what that might be.

In response, many have been inclined to say, we're interested in the whole person. But here's where I run headlong into my own experience. I've trained side by side with M.D. psychiatric residents and witnessed how much they care about their patients. They may not use the mind-body-spirit terminology that is the heart and soul of osteopathic medicine, but they care and that's what matters above all. What I'm getting at is, whatever differences exist between us, they have to be real, measurable, and not based solely on a well-worded principle, as critical as it may be to osteopathic identity (see Mission Impossible, 2/5/2014).

I realize I may be treading on thin ice and not all my osteopathic colleagues are going to be comfortable with the prospect of introducing therapeutic touch into the psychiatric mix. But times change. Physicians can undergo sub-specialty training in alternative medicine. The diagnosis and treatment of psychosomatic illness has its own subdivision within the American Psychiatric Association. The landscape of psychiatry is becoming far richer and far more complex than our forefathers and mothers could ever have imagined when they invented the talking cure. I think the House of Delegates is telling us it's time we woke up and smelled the roses.

(A follow-up essay may be found here)


(Public Domain image via Wikipedia)
 

Parenting and the Lightning Thief

I was watching Percy Jackson and the Olympians: The Lightning Thief, last night when I began wondering what stories like this say about parents. I don't want to give away too much of the plot in case you're unfamiliar with either the books or the film, so suffice to say, among the things the lead characters have in common is virtually the complete absence of one parent, sometimes mother, sometimes dad. It's acutely felt and evidenced by a woundedness or incompleteness the characters act out.

The theme of being orphaned or partially so and children forced to be on their own, isn't the peculiar property of Percy Jackson. It appears in the Harry Potter series, Superman, Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings, and numerous other tales. Dickens used the device in Great Expectations and David Copperfield. In Jungian parlance, the orphan is an archetype that permits children (and adults, by the way) to envision themselves living and, perhaps, accomplishing great things independent of parental control. Mythologists see this as a key factor in the hero's journey, another archetypal image of growth and development.

In some cases, the heroic orphan is oppressed or abused by caregivers as in Cinderella and, once again, Harry Potter. In others, we see them experiencing complicated relationships with parents -- Rudy and Field of Dreams come to mind. In all of these stories, the children experience longing for the missing parent(s) and go through a process that ultimately leads to mature adulthood, often symbolized by marriage and having children of their own.

We could talk all day about the implications of the orphan archetype and its impact on the psychology of children as well as adults. That describes what I've found on the web, researching this topic, which tells me I'm either completely off base or I'm hitting on something relatively new. And that is to say, we're drawn to this motif because we've become uncertain about parenting since the latter half of the 20th century.

A person could probably count the contributing factors several times on their fingers and toes, but the upshot is, we don't live in the same world as my parents and replicating their parenting style in a new one is problematic. Furthermore, judging from conversations I've had with many of their generation, we think about relationships with our parents to a greater extent and at greater depth than they did about theirs. I don't believe Field of Dreams could have been made in 1945; very few would have understood the reason for it.

As a result, in the attempt to make sense of our confusion about being adult children of parents, having children of our own and raising them in the context of cultural change, we turn to myth and try to relive the fantasy of the parent-less child. To the extent we feel estranged from or misunderstood by our parents, we identify with Percy Jackson and his friends. Having had to find our own way or believing that we did, we feel like Harry Potter, whose idealized parents he saw in the Mirror of Erised (desire spelled backwards).

There was nothing wrong, by the way, with Harry's looking in the mirror unless it led him to do nothing beyond wishing and hoping for what he could never have. It's the same with us. Eventually we have to take the image of what we long for and translate it into something real, making ourselves more capable, more fit for parenting in the midst of change. In that case, a little "mirror time," which is what all of these stories can enable, may really be quite useful.


(Creative Commons image entitled The Lightening Thief by Cayusa via Flickr)

Lost: A Metaphor

One evening, rather late, I'd been out walking the dog, and my mind began to wander, as it often does on those occasions. When it gets dark in Maine, it gets d-a-r-k, and particularly so because of the trees. Tall white pines as straight as power poles, their needled tops intertwined and their lower trunks scraped clean, growing so close together they resembled fans in a mosh pit, formed a ceiling between me and the early stars.

How we got off our usual path, I don't know, but we did and it wasn't long before I began feeling slightly nervous. Nocturnal creatures abound up here and while "lions, tigers, and bears" weren't likely, coyotes were. Possums, woodchucks, and foxes are shy and standoffish, but coyotes run in packs and I wasn't eager to play Sharks against the Jets, especially since the rest of our gang was nowhere to be seen and Leonard Bernstein wasn't around to provide background music (West Side Story).

By the luminous dial on my new Black Dog watch I could tell we'd been 20 minutes and close to a mile into the woods when we came upon something I would only have expected from Stephen King. The trees spread apart, forming a glen, and on either side was a tall gateway with a wooden crosspiece bearing a sign beneath it. The one on the left read "Too Late" and the one on the right, "Never Too Late." Before I could say anything about the glass being half-full or empty, my dog and I both startled at the same time, noticing a man sitting on a fallen log off to the side, smoking a pipe. My dog growled, uncharacteristically.

"Easy fella, didn't mean ta scare ya," he said, in a typical Southern Maine accent. "You're new round heah, but I seen you two walkin'. Figgah'd you'd get heah sometime."

"We live somewhere nearby," I said, looking around and waving my hand in the direction I hoped was home.

"Mm. Lost. Happens a lot. Folks only think they know wheah theah goin'." He stood up and took a few steps closer, the smoke from his pipe trailing behind, he was like a locomotive getting up steam. Velvet tobacco, I thought, sniffing, the same as my grandfather. "Well, you got a choice," he said, using his pipe stem as a pointer, "one or t'other, everybody does."

Wondering if I'd inadvertently stumbled onto a scene from Our Town, I said, "Wait a minute, I'm just trying to get home."

"Home is where the haaht is and you're heah. You want ta get somewheah else? You gotta choose. I'll tell ya right now, most folks go left. Oh, they look right and some even poke their heads through -- don't know what they think they'll see -- but then pull back and go left. Guess theah too used ta things the way they ah. It's hahd to go against the grain. Anyhow, you gotta choose. May as well get on with it."

I glanced down at my dog, who glanced up at me and raised one eyebrow in response, imitating, as I like to imagine, Mr. Spock. The man relit his pipe and added, "Yoah some kind of preachah, ain'tcha? (How could he know?) Oh, I know lottsa things. You'll like this, then. Hell's motto is 'Too Late.' Yup, it is. You prob'ly knew that already, bein' a preachah and all."

"Hell's motto, eh? That simplifies everything," I said, and my dog and I headed right.

"You'd think moah folks would realize that," he said to himself, though loudly enough for me to hear.

We'd barely crossed the threshold when it became obvious we'd walked out of the woods into my hayfield, the lights of the house shining on the hill ahead of us. We'd been on my own property, all the time. I looked back, expecting to see an old man, clouded in smoke, framed by the gate we'd just entered, but there was nothing. Only the trees and a tiny glen.

Later that night, with my dog asleep by the fire and the cat curled up next to him, I wondered aloud, what would have lain in wait, had we gone to the left. "A lot of unhappiness and regret, most likely," I said, answering my own question. At that, my dog stirred, looked up, wagged his tail, and I was glad we never found out for ourselves. Some things really are best left behind in this life and the pathway marked Too Late is one of them.


(Photo copyright 2010 by the author -- double click on it to enlarge)

An Element of Coincidence

I love coincidence and Saturday evening's dance class -- my second -- cooperated nicely. After practicing the previous week's Salsa steps, we began a nameless something you'd see on syndicated reruns of The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet or American Bandstand. It was probably a variant of Swing, and to do it properly, one ought to be dressed in jeans with the cuffs turned up or saddle shoes and bobby socks. The only thing missing was Ricky Nelson singing, Hello Mary Lou. If I can get this one down, I'm either going to be very popular with the younger women at my friend's wedding whose boyfriends think it's outdated -- or their grandmothers, I'm not sure which.

An element of coincidence enters in when you recall that I was dreaming this past Friday morning about Elvis Presley, and the next night, learning to dance to his music. This has happened to me on other occasions. I'll dream about someone or a particular situation and within a day or two, the theme reappears in an unrelated, real life encounter. It's almost as if the universe is determined to reinforce a message it wants me to receive, loudly and clearly.

Carl Jung called the overlap of seemingly random and unrelated events, synchronicity. He wasn't suggesting that a mystical force engineered the circumstances of our lives, but rather our interpretation of these events can reveal unconscious material in the psyche. It's the same process that motivated his fascination with the I Ching. As with dreams, the one who is in a position to determine the true significance of apparent coincidence, is the person involved, because it's their unconscious at work. Still, I'm open to suggestions.

Reading back over Saturday morning's post, two things from my dream stand out. First, appearances can be deceiving, and second, it pays to be patient and observant. While it looked like I'd been cheated out of my opportunity to meet Elvis, in fact, by waiting rather than arguing for that which was mine by right, I gained far more. I got to make contact on a genuine human level.

Dancing can be a fairly intimate thing. While I still know comparatively little about my student-partners as persons, I'm finding out such things as how they carry themselves and who is more comfortable matching my long stride. Learning a step from Elvis' time ties the message of the dream with music and movement, making it deeply personal. Apparently, the "lessons" of this dream are ones my unconscious fully intends me to take to heart. And since I don't know when the final exam is scheduled, I'd better be diligent about studying.
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Persons of the Cloth: Evening the Score

One of my favorite comments is, "Well, Beggar, you're not like any minister I've ever met before." It's important to emphasize the second contraction in that statement, not only out of respect for today being National Grammar Day, but because that's how they say it. A little incredulous, they mimic Mr. Spock arching an eyebrow, and look at me a little sidelong, as though they're not sure whether I'm lying about my credentials.

My first inclination is to ask what kind of ministers they have met previously since you'd like to know the competition. Usually, it's either been one who was dismissive of evolution, inclined toward fundamentalism, or didn't drink, smoke, chew, or go with girls who do (spoken in jest out West) and criticized anyone who did. From that company, I'm delighted to be distinguished. Not that there's anything wrong with holding those views -- it's a free country -- but they aren't mine and if I'm going to be blamed for something, I'd like it to be true of me and not someone else.

Somewhere along the line, the idea came about (propagated mostly by ministers themselves, I'm guessing) that being a Person of the Cloth meant one shouldn't be human. The irony of it is, the model, at least in my tradition, was so incredibly human it was possible to accuse him of drinking, partying, and hanging with prostitutes and tax collectors (the ultimate low-life in those days). So, why didn't he change his ways? Basically, it was because those people were the ones most aware of their imperfections.

If one becomes a minister because they're "holy" and therefore, predisposed to a life of self-denial, I'm in deep trouble. For me, it resulted from a sense of calling, not at all dissimilar to the one we talk about in medical school. It's the kind of thing you feel like you're supposed to do even though you can't really explain why. You may have to make sacrifices to do it well, but the fulfillment you gain makes it worthwhile. It can evolve, as well, as it has in my case, leading me to medical school (see 1/16/10).

As time has gone along, I've become more aware that being a minister means being a ministering person in the larger context of life rather than being employed in a church, but it still doesn't negate my humanity. The ministry isn't about me and it's sure not about trying to make people into my image. It's about being available to people and willing to help, if and where you can. I'm bringing this up today because it occurred to me, of all the times I've mentioned it, I've never explained why I became a minister and that just didn't seem fair. I guess you could say I'm trying to even the score -- hope I done good (chuckle).

The Men in Her Dreams

One of the turning points in my own life took place in the mid-90s when I encountered depth psychology. It came about at a time when I was looking for a way to better interpret and make sense of the ways life had unfolded, and its emphasis on symbolic images within the psyche was very appealing. Even more helpful was time spent with a Jungian analyst, who insisted the image was less important than the way I took it to heart.

Two of these images are ones that appear in the dreams of men and women, usually in the form of contrasexual figures. Sometimes they are recognizable, a friend, former or current lover, and sometimes we can't place them at all. In any case, their function is to reveal aspects of ourselves that have been neglected or have the capability of enhancing our lives. They don't represent real persons, however, and instead, they are symbols of the persons we wish to become, of directions we need to take in personal growth.

Jung called the female figure, the anima, and the male figure, the animus. The former shows up in the dreams of men and the latter in those of women. Now, to be sure, there are other figures who populate our dreams, and we can get to them as time goes along. For now, though, I'd like to concentrate on the animus. Tomorrow we'll develop the anima.

The first thing to keep in mind is, these do not represent a man's "feminine side" or a woman's "masculine side." We often speak in those terms because we associate certain qualities with masculinity and femininity, something reflected in dream imagery. But strictly speaking, the attributes revealed by the anima and animus transcend gender. Personally, I think assigning gender to the traits revealed by these figures gets in the way of what we need to learn, but that's me.

It's simplest to try to visualize the animus and here the film industry comes to our aid. In the movie, Medicine Man, biochemist Rae Crane is sent by a drug company to the Amazon basin in search of a missing scientist, the reclusive Robert Campbell.
From their first meeting, Campbell challenges her assumptions. This is one of the things an animus does for a woman. She begins the film relying on a corporate image for self-definition and ends it finding one that is uniquely suited to her.

Anima/animus figures can be negative (inhibiting, persecuting) or positive (promoting growth). For Crane, the negative animus is associated with conventional thinking and represented by a wealthy young man to whom she has become engaged. Pointing out that her fiance is a major financial contributor who comes from "good stock," Campbell suggests her choice may not reflect her own preferences. When a woman chooses conventionality over originality, it's because she has given in to an image of womanhood derived from the expectations of others. Her task is to establish an identity based on what she envisions for herself, something which may or may not be congruent with an assigned role in society.

As a positive animus, Campbell forces Crane to not only examine her choices and her reasons for making them, but also to look closely at the resources she possesses for dealing with life. Hiking through the jungle, she develops a massive headache and asks Campbell for an aspirin. He brushes her request aside and hands her a more effective local remedy made from the bark of the Yoko tree. In essence, this tells us she is in a place where she needs more than what is provided by the conventional world. She needs a more instinctual approach, one in which she relies on her own very adequate resources, including her intuition and good sense.

In a late night encounter with the village medicine man, she receives a tatoo on her forehead marking her as in transition. She is moving away from the person she was toward a stronger character. By the end of the film, she has abandoned the heavy boots she wore in the opening scene, representing protection from the passion of real life, and now walks on bare feet through the jungle, more sensitive, more aware and open to possibilities. Furthermore, instead of making what she once considered the right choice and marrying her fiance, she decides to remain with Campbell, suggesting she has come to trust her own instinctive sense of what is appropriate.

Whether a woman chooses to use dream imagery or depictions in film or literature as a guide, the image of the positive animus points in the direction of wholeness. It urges a woman to be true to herself, trust her own judgment, and develop new avenues for growth and fulfillment. The women I described in my recent post on relationships are all ones who have nurtured healthy relationships with their animus, becoming not less feminine but more so, as they become more completely themselves.

Turning Point

One of the turning points in my own life took place in the mid-90s when I encountered depth psychology. It came about at a time when I was looking for a way to better interpret and make sense of the ways life had unfolded, and its emphasis on symbolic images within the psyche was very appealing. Even more helpful was time spent with a Jungian analyst, who insisted the image was less important than the way I took it to heart.

Two of these images are ones that appear in the dreams of men and women, usually in the form of contrasexual figures. Sometimes they are recognizable, a friend, former or current lover, and sometimes we can't place them at all. In any case, their function is to reveal aspects of ourselves that have been neglected or have the capability of enhancing our lives. They don't necessarily represent real persons and instead, serve as symbols of the persons we wish to become, of directions we need to take in personal growth.

Jung called the female figure, the anima, and the male figure, the animus. The former shows up in the dreams of men and the latter in those of women. Now, to be sure, there are other figures who populate our dreams, and we can get to them as time goes along. For now, though, I'd like to concentrate on the animus. Tomorrow we'll develop the anima.

The first thing to keep in mind is, these do not represent a man's "feminine side" or a woman's "masculine side." We often speak in those terms because we associate certain qualities with masculinity and femininity, something reflected in dream imagery. But strictly speaking, the attributes revealed by the anima and animus transcend gender. Personally, I think assigning gender to the traits revealed by these figures gets in the way of what we need to learn, but that's me.

It's simplest to try to visualize the animus and here the film industry comes to our aid. In the movie, Medicine Man, biochemist Rae Crane is sent by a drug company to the Amazon basin in search of one of their scientists, reclusive Robert Campbell. From the very beginning, Campbell challenges her assumptions. This is one of the things an animus does for a woman. She begins the film relying on a corporate image for self-definition and by the ending, has chosen one uniquely suited to herself.

Anima/animus figures can be negative (inhibiting, critical, persecuting) or positive (encouraging, nurturing, vitalizing). For Crane, the negative animus is associated with conventionality and represented by a wealthy young man to whom she has become engaged. Pointing out that her fiance is a major financial contributor who comes from "good stock," Campbell hints her choice was motivated by social acceptability and not necessarily her own preferences. 

When a woman chooses conventionality over originality, it's because she has given in to an image of womanhood derived from the expectations of others. Her task is to establish an identity based on what she envisions for herself, which may or may not be in agreement with the one assigned and approved by society.

As a positive animus, Campbell also forces Crane to look closely at the resources she possesses for dealing with life. Hiking through the jungle, for instance, she develops a massive headache and asks Campbell for an aspirin. He brushes her request aside and hands her a local remedy made from the bark of the Yoko tree. This scene shows how the healing of her identity, the cure of her soul, requires her to embrace intuition and become more instinctive.

In a late night encounter with the village medicine man, she receives a tatoo on her forehead marking her as a person in transition. She is moving away from the person she was toward a stronger, independent character. In the final scene, we see that she has abandoned the heavy boots she wore when arrived in the jungle that represent protection from the passion of real life, and now walks with bare feet through the jungle, like the native villagers. She's gotten in touch with her capacity for making her own choices as opposed to those made for her. Instead of returning to civilization and marrying her fiance, she decides to remain with Campbell, suggesting the changes she's undergone are permanent and there's no going back to the way she used to be.

Whether a woman chooses to use dream imagery or depictions in film or literature as a guide, the image of the positive animus points in the direction of wholeness. It urges a woman to be true to herself, trust her own judgment, and develop new avenues for growth and fulfillment. The women I described in my recent post on relationships are all ones who have nurtured healthy relationships with their animus, becoming not less feminine but more so, as they become completely themselves.

We Were Gazing at Jupiter

I had a curious experience the other night. At the time there seemed nothing unusual about it but days later, it was far different. I had taken my dog out for his last-of-the-evening prowl around the yard and while he sniffed, I looked at the stars. Living in the country, the sky is incredible most nights and this one was no different. Jupiter loomed large in the east, but as I watched it I had a funny feeling. Nothing explicable, just, you know, funny. It was almost as though I should be watching, that there was a reason for it.

Friday evening, I learned that Caroline Kennedy and her husband were looking at Jupiter at nearly the very same time. Her uncle had passed away shortly before and she was imagining him sailing away, with this brightest "star" to guide him. I didn't know -- how could I have known -- what was taking place only a few hours away on the coast of Cape Cod. But there we were, gazing at Jupiter, each lost in our own private reverie.

I'll be the first to admit, there's a great deal I don't understand. Hamlet said it, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Did he ever get that right. I was reviewing anatomy when my dog urged me to get out of my chair and attend to real life. And even as I was thinking about how the body works, the life in Ted's was slowly winding down.

Carl Jung wrote about synchronicity and the way seemingly random events may appear interconnected. Taken at face value, it was a full bladder coupled with his own inner sense of time-for-bed that got my dog to drag me outside. But knowing what I do now, I can't help wonder. Even if it was coincidental, it reminds me that so much more is going on, all the time, than life as we know it.


(Image of unknown licensure via Wikipedia)

The Soul of the Healer

Recently, I came across an intriguing comment in a local paper. "Since nobody reads poetry anymore, why should our taxes pay for a poet laureate?" At first I was amazed anyone would object to having a national poet laureate. Then I was even more amazed by the suggestion that no one reads poetry anymore.

Still, it's entirely possible this might be true in a certain sense. When was the last time a poet's work made the New York Times Bestseller list? Maybe it's the

notion that poetry is difficult to understand or that only intellectuals read it? But we love music and lyrics are poetry of a particular kind. What's so different about Ogden Nash, E. E. Cummings, or Shakespeare?

Although his name is not a household item yet (emphasis on yet), I'd like to recommend you take a look at the work of my friend, Dr. Richard Berlin (www.richardmberlin.com). A psychiatrist, teacher of medical students, and gifted writer, his work reveals the heart of the healer better than any I've ever read (William Carlos Williams just rolled over in his grave). Here's what I mean:

If You Ask Me My Name

I will say healer, priest,
turner of textbook pages,
searcher, listener, arrogant crow
costumed in white, reflecting moon,
My name is scared and foolish
and sometimes too tired to care.
I am death's reluctant lover,
a child's guide, mother, father,
hero and fool,
and if you like it simple,
doctor will do.

Poetry is about soul and poets reveal not only their own but ours as well. They open themselves to vulnerability and by exploring their internal world, we have the chance to come away seeing ourselves differently and anew. We need this from time to time; it's good for us and you know the best thing about it? You don't even need a prescription.


(Poem from How JFK Killed My Father by Richard M. Berlin; image via Wikipedia)

The Stag in the Woods

I was walking towards the sunrise, the early morning light through the trees a background ahead of me, when a stag appeared out of the woods on the left. He crossed in front of me nearly close enough to touch, stopped and looked me in the eye. Overcome with awe and wonder, I thought I must get my camera so I could share this moment with you.

And then I woke up.

I'm no expert on dream imagery -- C. G. Jung said the dreamer is the best interpreter because, after all, it's their dream. That said, my only impression was, this reminds me of Harry Potter's patronus. So, what does J. K. Rowling say? Well, Harry first mistook the patronus as sent by his father to save him and Sirius Black from the dementors in The Prisoner of Azkaban. Later, we discover Harry has sent the patronus himself in a kind of time warp. If you haven't read the book or seen the film then I've lost you already -- but keep reading while I'll try to fix this.

For Harry, the stag (the form taken by his patronus) represents both his late father and himself as a maturing wizard. His yearning to know and experience his father is expressed in a rescue fantasy that comes to fulfillment in his own actions. The one past, the other present, both together. Father and son meet in the instant Harry raises his wand.

One writer suggests the stag is an image of self-renewal, establishing territory, becoming one's truest self. Whatever it means, it's a process in which we're all engaged, every day. Transforming who we are into what we wish to become, being the best we can be for those we love as well as those we've yet to love. Those whom we know and those who remain a mystery as surely as the stag who entered my dreams all-too-early yesterday morning.

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Parallelograms

Geometry wasn't easy for me. I still remember the formulas, believe it or not, and you probably do, too. Once you learn pi times the diameter, you can always find your way around the circumference of a circle. Actually, math was never easy for me until I discovered trigonometry while doing premed studies. Trig actually made sense and it was a wonderfully validating experience.

Anyhow, back to geometry. The one figure that I liked the most was a parallelogram. Two line segments running parallel to one another, usually with legs that connected the top line to the bottom at equal, but not right, angles. They always looked to me like they were in motion. Squares, rectangles, circles -- those were either static or repetitive, but parallelograms were going somewhere.

I've noticed patterns may also parallel one another. What is taking place in one life occurs in another simultaneously, though the individuals may be unaware of it. The Austrian psychiatrist C.G. Jung used the term synchronicity to describe these seemingly unrelated elements that occur outside the realm of statistical probability. And what he meant was, things that are ascribed to chance, may not be due to chance at all. There are unseen connections, line segments that run off both sides of the paper before we see the vertical, angled legs revealing the parallelogram.

Was Jung talking about fate or destiny? I'm not certain he would describe it like that but the more apparently coincidental events pile up, the more likely it is they are not simply due to chance. He seems to suggest unconscious forces are at work and he's probably right. I just realize I'm not in Kansas anymore.

In any case, just because we can't see the connecting lines, that doesn't mean things aren't running in parallel. We just have to stick with them long enough to see how everything fits together in the end.

King, Warrior, Magician, and Lover

I mentioned in yesterday's post that I used to teach masculine psychology and someone asked how that differs from ordinary psychology. I suppose you could say it's about what makes men tick. In that respect, the only difference is the focus. But having said that, there's more.

Instead of Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, we talked about images of masculinity that are common cultural elements worldwide. C. G. Jung called these images "archetypes" and by that he meant, more or less, an unconscious template that influences conscious behavior. Our discussions focused on four particular archetypes, i.e. King, Warrior, Magician, and Lover. I'll try to give you a Reader's Digest version of these.

The King refers to a man's ability to order his life and nurture others. A well-developed King considers the consequences of his actions, accepts responsibility for his failings, and encourages his children to become their own best selves. The Warrior describes the energy of achievement and it is essential if a man ever hopes to accomplish anything of lasting value. The man in touch with the Magician is reflective and self-aware. Finally, the Lover gives passion to life and enables a man to dream.

There is no doubt one can find other ways of thinking about the male psyche, but images such as these help clarify traits and behaviors -- they get us "out of our heads" and into real life. They also help men visualize the kind of person they wish to be while confronting who they are.

In tribal cultures, the process of initiation into mature manhood brought these archetypes to life. We still have initiation rites though we call them by other names, e.g. graduation, bootcamp, and so forth. Ironically, our modern initiation rituals don't always result in persons who embody the fullness of the King, Warrior, Magician, and Lover archetypes. Women (yes, there are feminine counterparts to each of these) and men may seem adrift, uncertain, or bland. Disordered lives are fertile ground for addiction. On the surface they look fine, beneath the facade lies chaos.

Changing the leopard's stripes is what the men I worked with were all about and their drive and commitment to the process was wonderful to behold. It's what Dr. Rae Crane was about in Medicine Man. It may take a lifetime to achieve, but look at it this way, we all end up the same way, so why not end up better than we might have become otherwise?

Falling Down a Hole

There is a story I love that goes like this. A guy's walking down the street and without warning, falls into a big hole. The walls are so high and steep he can't climb out, so he begins to call for help. A priest happens by and he shouts, "Hey, Father, can you help me? I'm stuck down here!" The priest stops, writes out a prayer, drops it down the hole and walks on.

The next person by is a doctor and our guy calls out, "Hey, Doc, can you help me? I'm stuck in this hole." The doctor stops, writes out a prescription, drops it in the hole and walks on. Finally a friend comes along and the guy says, "Hey, Joe, it's me -- can you help me out?" Joe stops and jumps into the hole. Our guy says, "Oh, this is great, now we're both stuck!"

Joe replies, "Yeah, but that's okay because I've been down here before and I know the way out."

I've always felt a little sheepish as a minister and future doctor that both my career paths fail to "get it" in this tale. And of course, the story is intended to demonstrate that isn't our social role, but the consciousness of our own vulnerability, that makes us healers. I may have mentioned this in a previous post and if so, forgive me for repeating myself -- my friends will tell you I do that from time to time -- C. G. Jung said, "Only the wounded healer heals."

What he meant was, it's the conscious awareness of our own pain that renders us effective with others. In a culture that values strength, capability, and invulnerability, this is ironic, yet, true. One of my closest friends reminds me, "You can't really be a good grief counselor until you've lost a parent." I can't speak for anyone else, but I know my own effectiveness as a therapist increased exponentially following the death of my father.

It's not always what we know or who, but where we've been and what we've been through, that counts. More importantly, that we don't try to hide who we are and what we've experienced. I'm not suggesting we should wear our lives on our sleeves. We all know someone who's far more interested in being noticed for their pain than helping anyone with theirs. But between avoidance and flamboyance lies the quiet memory of what it was like down in the hole. If that doesn't motivate us to grasp someone else's hand, nothing will.

(Reference: Story paraphrased from The West Wing, Episode 32 "Noel," written by Peter Parnell)