Dear Sigmund:
It's that time of year again, when the early sun reflects off the trees in the back yard, turning my north-facing bedroom window into a visual alarm clock. 6.00 AM this morning it "rang," and things are only going to get worse with the approach of summer. For a night person, this is cause for serious groaning. Naturally, I've tried to stave off the inevitable intrusion with a set of curtains, but they only seem to magnify the effect. Since fighting with Mother Nature seems futile, I've decided to use your defensive strategy of sublimation -- converting my resentment into productivity and hence, this letter.
Wherever you are, I hope you are well and find the company to your liking. Mine, at the moment, is a male turkey in the backyard beckoning for his lady friends to the delight and fascination of my cat, sitting in the window, watching. Personally, I love the progression of life that presents in these simple ways. It's a wonderful corrective to all the stress I manage to accumulate in the hours before sleep once again relieves me of the burden of consciousness. You like that, I know, because then the real drama begins.
I came across a quote by French author and filmmaker, Marguerite Duras, that I also think you'll like. She said, "I believe that always, or almost always, in all childhood, and all the lives that follow, the mother represents madness. Our mothers always remain the strangest, craziest people we've ever met." I know nothing of the relationship between her mother and she, but mine had ways of making me wonder, occasionally, whether I'd been born on another planet and was just visiting this one.
For instance, I recall her belief that some children were genetically predisposed to become academic high achievers. That little tidbit followed me into adulthood, fortunately to be torpedoed amidships by the realities of medical school. Genes are great, but hard work brings home the bacon. And besides, we all have to find ourselves and that, too, is a work -- one in progress for most of us.
Child rearing can drive anyone crazy once in a while, no matter who they are or how well they do it. I couldn't have been the easiest task mine ever undertook and that we both got through my youth with most of our marbles still in the bag is nothing short of miraculous. Mothers and madness? Shoot, I think it comes with the territory and God bless any woman who's nervy enough to give it a try.
All the best,
Beggar
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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I was having an imaginary conversation with my imaginary daughter this morning while walking the dog -- typically, an excellent time for imaginary conversations. She was around nine and informed me, rather solemnly, that she'd realized the Easter Bunny was make-believe. I asked her how she felt about that and she replied, "A little sad." I understood very well, having felt similarly when I was her age, and told her so.
She said she still liked hunting for eggs, especially since her brother was too young to know "the truth." At this point, I decided to take a leap of faith and try to put into words a nine-year-old could grasp, why I thought the Easter Bunny was important. "Believing in him teaches us how to see the magic and wonder that are all around us, not just on Easter morning, but every morning."
I've had friends who were persons of faith and had serious difficulty allowing their children to embrace such mythic characters as the Easter Bunny and Santa Clause (oops, sorry Santa -- I meant "Claus"). They were concerned that the religious significance of Easter and Christmas might be overshadowed by a preoccupation with more secular figures. For the longest time, I really didn't have a good way of responding to them, but perhaps I do now.
Developmentally, children have a limited capacity for understanding symbolic representation. It isn't until around age 13 that sufficient neural connections have been established in the brain to permit abstract thinking. Until then, children depend a great deal on imagination to enrich their experience of life. "That's fine, but I don't want to lie to my children; I want them grounded in reality," one might say.
It's not a lie to relate to children in ways that make sense to them. As a matter of fact, it's unreasonable to do otherwise; they aren't little adults, no matter how precocious some may appear. They grow up fast and before we know it, they're telling us things we'd prefer not to know. In the meantime, when we allow ourselves to become simple enough to play with our children, to let the Easter Bunny live in their imagination (and ours, if need be), we help them grow in their capacity to view life with hope and anticipation. It's one of the best things we can do for them.(Creative Commons image via Wikipedia)
I don't keep a dream diary, although some writers have suggested it's as a good idea. They say one ought to place it on the night stand so dreams can be recorded upon waking. I tried that once; the next morning what I'd written made absolutely no sense whatsoever. It was gobbledygook -- word salad, we call it in psychiatry. Some people can be coherent at 3.00 AM but apparently, I'm not one of them.
Fortunately, I was doing a little better when I dreamed about Elvis Presley last night. Now, as best I can recall, Elvis has never dropped by for a nocturnal visit with my unconscious. John Denver, yes -- and often -- The King, no. Nor have I been thinking about him lately. Since I don't usually listen to oldies stations, how he found me out in heaven's left field is a mystery.
Anyhow, the dream went like this. A friend of mine had won an internet contest for an opportunity to meet Elvis after an upcoming concert. Having already met him once previously and wanting to share his good fortune, he passed the winning email announcement on to me. Talk about a pal. The next thing I knew, I was backstage, but Elvis' manager was trying to impress some gorgeous babe he'd brought along with him, and presented her as the winner.
I watched all this unfold with the kind of detachment we try to maintain in psychotherapy -- not unfeeling, but withholding judgment. Eventually the room emptied and Elvis was left alone, at last able to fill a plate of snacks from a buffet that had been prepared and enjoy a little solitude. I walked up and introduced myself as the real winner and gave him a printout of the email as proof. Reading it over, he said, "Looks like you got short-changed."
"It depends on how you look at it," I replied. "At least I don't have 10,000 people around while I'm talking to you." It was one of those times when being "last" really meant being "first."
"Mm. Okay, I'll give you time for one question. What would you like to know?"
I thought for a few seconds and said, "You've got to have people asking you for something all the time. How about, what can I do for you?"
He was taken aback, fell silent, then said, quite seriously, "Don't be impressed with me."
I thought about all the disguises he surely had to wear in order to have a little anonymity. "I can do that. It must be hard, when you're not able to pull on a pair of jeans and walk down the street unnoticed." He looked at me and nodded. He had ceased being royalty and I had ceased being a peasant. We were just two guys talking about life.
The first thing that came to my mind on waking, was how impressions create expectations and expectations inhibit a person's ability to be themselves. Perhaps without even realizing it, we find ourselves fulfilling a fantasy rather than being genuine. Some relationships won't permit anything else, partners or whomever having become so invested in our fulfillment of an image. Others, the kind in which we thrive, support us as individuals, encouraging us to take risks and grow. I know which one Elvis wanted and since it was my dream, he's offered a clue as to which ones are best for me, too. I guess you never know what's going to result from a late night chat with The King.
(P.S. A "guilty pleasures" admission: I love "Jailhouse Rock.")
(Creative Commons Image by hlima via Flickr)
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Writing about Holy Week presents difficulties, no matter how you slice the Easter egg. The most obvious one is, not everyone is concerned about its religious significance or implications. For some of my friends, the best thing about it is a three-day weekend. They've been working their hearts out or their buns off in a hospital or clinic somewhere, and frankly, they deserve a break. Some are also persons of faith, and while they appreciate the time off, they're thinking about what these days mean to them in a different way. In either case, they are my friends and that is what counts.
In the second century A.D. (or C.E., if you prefer), a style of theological literature came into vogue that has become known as apologetics. The word itself is derived from the Greek word apologia, meaning a reasoned explanation or defense. Accordingly, apologetics refers to an effort to explain the rational basis for the claims of faith.
The problem is, I can't really say it was anything particularly rational that led to the development of my own convictions. It was more an intuitive sense of the way things are and how faith is an appropriate response to them. Now, viewed from that perspective, it does reflect a rational process, but not necessarily one characterized by logical argument.
Truth be told, I'm not sure it's strictly possible to arrive at a position of faith by means of reason alone any more than it's possible to think oneself into being in love. We can persuade ourselves that we feel a certain way, but after all is said and done, loving is a matter of the heart. We bloody well ought to use common sense to avoid getting ourselves into a situation we could come to regret, but common sense doesn't operate in place of love, but rather alongside it. I suspect that's how reason and faith work together for me, each complimenting the other, one keeping my heart warm, and the other, my head clear.
(Creative Commons image of balance by Stefan Mendelsohn via Flickr)
My dog and I were on our way to the post office when my cell phone went off. I looked at the number and not recognizing it, did a stupid thing: I clicked "answer."
"Hello, Beggar speaking."
"Who?" responded an unfamiliar voice.
"Beggar. Who's this?"
"Oh, yeah, you the guy who called about the boat?"
I may have a lake for a hayfield right now, but that doesn't mean I intend to canoe it. "No, I'm not, sorry," I said, hoping to bring what I assumed to be a wrong number conversation to a quick close.
"Well, would you like a boat?" he asked.
"Nope, not today."
"I'll throw in a bag of McDonald's."
If this guy's not in sales, he's missed his calling, I thought, adding, "Definitely not, thanks anyway," before hanging up. I could have informed him I was a medical student, had studied nutrition, and generally tried to avoid fast food (nothing personal, Ronald), but my best lines always seem to come after the fact.
Then it occurred to me: today is April 1st -- oh, brother, did I ever fall for that one. So, what do you think? Should I call him back, apologize for missing the joke, and ask him to put me on his list for next year? Or maybe call and ask if he really is the guy with the boat for sale? See, I've got this lake...
(Creative Commons image by The Consumerist via Flickr)
As you can see from my photo, the ordinarily well-behaved stream that runs behind my house, through the hayfield, and down to the river, had a tantrum last night. The ground was already soaked from heavy rains a week ago, so what fell the past two days just skipped merrily along, obliterating the banks of the stream. Birds have been having a heyday, nabbing worms floating in the newly-formed Lake Hayfield, which was taken over this afternoon by a pair of ducks looking for a bed and breakfast. I told them there was no charge, just change the linens when you leave.
Seriously, though, I wasn't expecting quite this degree of flooding, but it's nothing compared to the rest of Southern New England. At least there wasn't tree damage or power loss, and for that, I'm grateful. Things could easily have been much worse.
It's a tribute to Mainers that the most I've heard anyone say is, "That's a lot of water." I think that's one of the things I appreciate about them, it takes a lot to get them agitated. Admittedly, I've only lived up here four years, but I've yet to meet Chicken Little. If there's a blizzard in the forecast, people stock up on candles, flashlight batteries, and lantern oil, but otherwise they're pretty calm. The day after, my snowplow guy drops round and comments, "Yep, that's a lot of snow."
Before coming here for medical school, I'd only visited coastal Maine on vacation. During the summer the seacoast towns are so crowded it's hard to tell the locals from the tourists without a program. In the off-season, however, Mainers come into their own, and for the most part, seem to cultivate a coping lifestyle. They remind me of the ducks out in the hayfield. It rains, the stream overflows, and instead of wringing their hands and wondering when the next shoe's going to drop, they invite a flock of Canadian Geese to join them. I like that.
As long as they change the linens when they leave, that's all I'm asking.
(Photo by the author)
