That's how I'm coming to think of this place, though the reason has nothing to do with the overt expression of magic. It's more about finding oneself, like Harry Potter, in an environment where others have similar abilities as yours and have also had difficulties using them to their best advantage.
In other words, stuck out here near the mid-point of the mid-west, is a haven for conceptual thinkers and intuitive types, your typical odd-persons out. These are the people who, upon entering a home, notice a potted plant and begin talking about Africa, while everyone else is discussing home decor. The reason is, the plant reminds them of an article they've read in National Geographic about native flowers in Gambia. In other words, they deal in connections in much the same way as analytical types deal in facts and figures.
In the real world of clinical medicine, the ability to establish relationships between seemingly random pieces of information is important. As a result, my classmates will find they possess a definite advantage when it comes to determining what we call a differential diagnosis, i.e. one that rules out various possible explanations for a disease in the effort to establish the one that is most likely to be correct.
In medical school, however, especially during the years devoted to the basic sciences, conceptual types appear to be at a disadvantage. For one thing, they generally need more time to think through the implications of the material before them and under the pressure to digest massive amounts of it, resort to memorization. You'd think this would be a viable solution; it's not, however, because information thus acquired lacks the organizing principles these types rely on to make sense of things.
Enter a program such as this one, which not only celebrates conceptual-intuitive thinking, but teaches us how to use it effectively in the service of mastering physiology, the most basic of medical sciences. Not only that, it supports our need for interrelatedness by pulling pharmacology, anatomy, and all of the other subjects we rely upon as future doctors, into the overall approach. So, rather than thoroughly tackling one subject at a time, which appeals to linear thinking analytical types, we do better by taking on several at once, in order to help determine patterns that aid retention and deepen understanding.
In psychoanalysis, we call those instances when a patient arrives at a new insight about themselves, the "aha" moment. Many of these occur in the course of a typical day here. Concepts we've learned, relearned, examined, and dissected, are revealed as processes we can think through, demystifying them and helping us realize we really knew far more than we imagined. It's still a lot of work but it's not drudgery. Instead, there is an excitement involved in discovering our strengths are not the liabilities we feared. They are assets that just need affirmation and further development.
Welcome to Hogwarts West.
(Image of unknown licensure via Wikipedia)
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)
If you've ever gotten the impression that I'm not exactly up-to-date on the movie scene, you're absolutely right. I've got a list of excuses as long as my arm -- in excess of three feet, shoulder to fingertips -- but lack of interest is nowhere on it. I love movies and the latest Harry Potter flick got me hooked on IMAX and 3-D. All I have to do is walk into a theater and smell fresh popcorn, and it never fails, somewhere down inside I'm ten years old again.
Ultimately, the main reason I'm behind is cost. I'd betray my age if I told you ticket prices I recall, so as singer Jim Croce would say, "let's forget all that." My point is, it's darned near prohibitive, on a medical student's salary, to see first-run movies. And, unfortunately, the neighborhood movie house, as they used to be called, is a fond memory tucked away in American history. In case you don't know what I'm talking about, movies used to arrive first at downtown, upscale theaters. There they'd run for a few weeks before transferring to smaller, less expensive and less fancy theaters down the street from where most of us lived.
As a kid, Saturday afternoons were easily spent with my best buddy at the Woodlawn (isn't that a great name?), munching candy and watching double features. With the advent of the shopping mall and multiple screens, the local guys could no longer compete. Now, at least in my hometown of Denver, many of them have become venues for live music. That's a good thing, really, because it preserves the art deco architecture that was in its heyday in the 1920s and has become part of our cultural heritage.
Some towns, Dallas for example, have or used to have, dollar theaters. The seats weren't quite luxurious and the sound systems usually dated, but, hey, for a buck what can you expect? It was cheap and it beat paying several times that amount to see a film that had yet to go to DVD. The closest I can approximate that today is the automated dispenser at the grocery up the street.
True, my living room isn't the Paramount and the lounge chair I inherited from my parents isn't fitted with cup holders. Nor do I have the experience of surround sound and a screen wide enough to lose myself in the drama. But I can hit the pause button while I take my dog outside or skip backwards to hear a line that bears repeating in casual conversation. Peter Jackson and the Olympians was out in June and now it's available on DVD -- two months, that's not too bad.
The disadvantage isn't so much that I'm at a loss when someone asks what I think of the newest blockbuster. It's more that I don't have anyone to come around after "a night at the movies" to vacuum the carpet and collect the trash. I know, I need to have kids.
(Creative Commons image of Denver's Gothic Theater by DenverPam via Flickr; Operator by Jim Croce, copyright 1972)
Dear Doc Beggar:
I realize you're not a doctor yet, but I have a problem and I hope you can help. I've tried to talk with my friends about it, but they all look at me strangely. My family won't even talk to me anymore, not since this all started. When I mentioned it to my therapist, she said, "You what?" and then reached for a teddy bear and began sucking her thumb. Is that what they mean by regression? Anyway, the thing is, I hate Farmville -- no foolin'. Is that wrong of me? I like some Facebook apps, but when people ask me for a cow I want to moo-ve away. Do you think I may have a chemical imbalance?
Sincerely,
Fed Up With Farmville
Dear Fed Up:
Thank you for noting my not-as-yet degree status -- the last thing I want to do is risk my license before I've had a chance to get it! That said, if disliking Farmville is evidence of a chemical imbalance, it's a new one on me. Instead, it sounds like you've made a conscious decision to like certain things and not others. From where I sit, and I am sitting, by the way, that's a fairly healthy approach to Facebook. I mean, unless you have a lot of time on your hands, in which case you could read a book (ahem, mine is one suggestion), you can get lost in App-ville.
The truth is, most apps are no doubt created by ordinary people who want to have a little fun and express their creativity. For example, no one, I hope, takes seriously the idea that one's personality type can be determined by which Harry Potter character they admire the most. Meyers-Briggs would be a better choice if you're into self-exploration. As far as games are concerned, some people derive a lot of pleasure from offing one another in Mafia Wars while others would rather watch The Godfather trilogy and call it good. I'm not much of an organized crime fan, so I tend to ignore both and go for 007, but that's me.
You don't mention whether your family and friends actually play Farmville -- clearly, your therapist does (yes, that's regression, all right) -- but I'm assuming they do. To maintain these relationships, I think the advice given me by a good friend might come in handy: "Keep a smile on your face and your big mouth shut." If that sounds a little too much like bottling up your emotions, you can always go for catharsis. Threaten to join Mafia Wars -- I'm guessing they'll really be sorry, then.
I hope this helps.
Beggar
anshu_si via Flickr
I was just listening to the opening title sequence for the Kenneth Branagh version of Henry V (1989) and realized I've never written about this film. Branagh is probably far better known to my medical school peers for his role as the flamboyant Professor Gilderoy Lockhart in the 2002 film, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. But I think he's at his best when playing Shakespearean characters and in Henry V, he is awesome.
The setting for the story is the English invasion of France in 1415 during the Hundred Years War. The capture of the city of Harfleur as well as the Battle of Agincourt are key events that reveal the leadership capabilities of young (age 29) Henry. At Harfleur he rallies his troops crying, "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more, or close up the wall with our English dead," and leads the charge into the city. Prior to engaging the more numerous French forces at Agincourt, Henry delivers what has become known as the St. Crispen's Day speech in which he declares, "He who sheds his blood with me this day, shall be my brother, be he ne're so vile."
Henry V provides us with a visual image of healthy kingship, a concept which functions psychologically in humans, both female and male, to bring about self-organization, calm determination in the face of stress, and the willingness to assume responsible leadership. Children whose parents are unaware of, or unable to access, their inner king or queen, grow up in environments that tend to be chaotic and stressful, where limits are either unknown or extreme and boundaries often non-existent.
Parents who model kingly and queenly virtues, demonstrate self-control, healthy coping skills, and encourage their children rather than acting as obstacles to the achievement of their own unique potential. Even in the absence of children, couples who access kingly energy create an atmosphere of welcome and peace within a home, making it a place where you feel good just being a guest.
Faced with a new year and all that it may bring, being mindful of the inner king or queen can exert a stabilizing influence on our lives. Imagining ourselves as capable, centered, and adequate to the tasks ahead helps free us from feeling uncertain and overwhelmed. We don't know what Henry felt that day, seeing thousands of mounted French knights charging toward him across the Field of Agincourt, but we know he didn't lose his nerve and we know he didn't run. Accessing our inner royal presence can have the same effect on us.
I've never known a single person who sounded glad when admitting they couldn't sing. Many have joked about it, covering over their off-key efforts with humor (a healthy thing to do, by the way), but no one has ever said they were happy about it. They've all loved music and I'm sure they sang privately, but in public, they refuse. I've always wished I could wave my Harry Potter wand (or its equivalent) and put in what nature had left out.
Sleigh bells ring, are you listening? I have a strip of them hanging on my front door and my dog has one he loves to wear around his neck. A beautiful sight, we're happy tonight, walking in a winter wonderland. Unable to sing doesn't mean musically disinclined. Ever wonder why so many lead guitarists avoid the microphone while playing? Uh huh, that's right. I've heard some great songwriters perform in concert and found myself wishing I'd never bought a ticket.
But whether Luciano Pavarotti or the poorest of imitations, there are times when we can't do anything else but. Even if, on our best days, we couldn't "carry a tune in a bucket," as my father used to say, when experiencing joy, we want to sing. More pervasive than pleasure and far deeper than happiness, joy fills us up until there's no room at the inn for anything else. It's what my friend was feeling yesterday when she announced she was pregnant and it's what I felt as I read her news.
A frosty Christmas Eve, when the stars were shining, I traveled forth alone, where westward falls the hill, and for many, many a village, in the darkness of the valley, distant music reached me, peels of bells were ringing. It was 1913, on the eve of war, when poet Robert Bridges left the warmth of fire and home and journeyed into the night. Then spread my thoughts to olden times, to that first of Christmases, when shepherds who were watching, heard music in the fields. And they sat there and they marveled, for they knew they could not tell, whether it were angels or the bright stars a singing.
In the presence of joy, even if the voice is silent, the heart sings unbidden.
(Noel: Christmas Eve 1913, by Robert Bridges, adapted by Lee Holdridge; Walking in a Winter Wonderland by Felix Bernard and Robert B. Smith)
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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I don't recall exactly when the term myth became part of popular parlance for a misconception or outright falsehood, but it's used that way so often one feels almost embarrassed using it any other way. The primary meaning of myth, however, suggests that it is a story concerned more with truth than falsehood.
Mythic tales like Beowulf and the Odyssey tell us about the human condition and communicate themes of love, conflict, loss, and triumph. In the Odyssey, for example, the more fantastic elements such as the encounter with the cyclops are intended to show the extent to which Odysseus will go to be reunited with the woman he loves. It is the story of a soldier's journey home and it tells the tale of anyone who has found themselves far from the person they wish to be and the things that matter the most. It describes a journey of the heart and soul.
Another mythic theme is the story of the Phoenix, the creature that rose to new life from the ashes of its own demise. Many of the films to which I've referred in previous posts are modern versions of the Phoenix myth. The Rocky series depicts a man from nowhere who achieves a dream, falls into defeat, and rises again. In the final installment, his battle is as much with himself, grief, and age, as it is with a younger, presumably more powerful and agile, opponent. Unlike Odysseus, who used cleverness and guile to overcome his enemies, Rocky relies on something within. He is an incredibly deep character who draws upon unseen resources time after time.
Perhaps it's because of the aging Baby Boomer population that film and fiction seem to be taking a second look at the Phoenix in the guise of the older heroic figure. Consider Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Here we find an obviously greying Professor Dumbledore engaged in a battle of Wagnerian proportions with Lord Voldemort who finds himself outmatched.
There really is something to be said for experience. In the fall, back home in Colorado, you can drive up to Rocky Mountain National Park and watch the elk rutting season unfold. Younger, seemingly more virile elk challenge the herd elders for supremacy and the rumble of antlered heads butting echoes across the valleys sounds like canon fire. It's always inspiring to me to see an aging, powerful elk hold the field while all the "boys" have withdrawn in defeat.
Maybe we're becoming more comfortable with myth once again or maybe we're just beginning to realize there is more to a person than appearances. In any case, the essential truth of the Phoenix is, it's never too late until it's over and, like Will Smith's character in Independence Day, "I ain't heard no fat lady yet."
An event in the news yesterday got me thinking of persons I've run into, usually by accident, over the years. One evening in Dallas, while working at a Bennigan's restaurant, I turned around and met the ABC sportscaster Pat Summerall as he walked in the door after a Cowboys' game. Just this past fall, I happened to be at an Obama campaign meeting and shook hands with Senator Ted Kennedy, something I'll never forget.
In years to come, Michelle Obama will no doubt describe for her daughters what it was like meeting Elizabeth II and the Duke of Windsor. Moments like that are encounters with living history. But this time, upon her return to the White House, I imagine a slightly different conversation.
"Mommy, Mommy, did you really meet her? What was she like? Did she give you an autograph? Tell us, tell us!"
"The Queen? Oh, she doesn't give autographs, but she was delightful."
"No, Mommy, not the Queen -- J. K. Rowling!"
It seems the First Lady was seated next to J. K. Rowling at a dinner for GD-20 spouses and I have no doubt the Obama daughters can hardly wait for their mother's detailed description of their meeting. They may have discussed Rowling's involvement with charitable causes and I wouldn't be surprised if she received an invitation to visit the White House at some point. But for her daughters, knowing their mother spent the evening with the creator of Harry Potter, it has to have been nothing short of magical.
In the midst of all our appropriately laiden concerns about the environment, the war in Iraq, and the future of the economy, it's wonderful having young children in the White House once again. The First Family being a family helps create a sense of proportion and optimism that we've badly needed. We can be battered but not defeated, stressed but not in despair, down but not out.
I'd like to be a fly on the wall when Michelle tells her daughters about J. K. Rowling and it does my heart good to think of the Harry Potter novels on a bookshelf in the White House. I hope it does yours good as well.
That's how I'm coming to think of this place, though the reason has nothing to do with the overt expression of magic. It's more about finding oneself, like Harry Potter, in an environment where others have similar abilities as yours and have also had difficulties using them to their best advantage.
