Makeup
Beauty
Is not on the surface
In people
People that I love are beautiful
To me
They shine
It doesn't matter how they
Look
In fact, scars make them more real
More human
Intimacy is knowing what this scar is from
And that
Knowing their stories
That they trust me to tell me
People that I love are beautiful
I have been wearing makeup
I never cared before really
Until a book by an artist
Showed me his vision
The beauty that he sees
In everyone
I call it my paint by numbers makeup book
Because he is a true artist
Who believes that art is for everyone
And so he includes instructions
For each picture
So that I too can dabble in his art
I will wear makeup at my family summer lake
I do not think my family
Will approve
Nor do I think that they will understand
Even if I try to explain
I may say that I am trying to catch a new man
That will confirm their disapproval
I will break the rules
By wearing makeup
Which is exactly the point
But I am also
Celebrating beauty
The beauty that the Beloved sees
In everyone
7/1/06
Monday, October 1, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
life isn't dull
I haven't posted since Sept 3 and lots happening. Two poems today, a new one and an old one. The new one is because a new goat is being scaped where I was last scapegoated. They are averaging one every two years. I wonder if anyone else has noticed a pattern. It certainly makes it feel less personal towards me and I am doing what I can to support the current victim. Ick, it's just yuky to watch. I am so glad I am not there. I wonder at the state of their souls. At least it's fair and everyone gets a turn. I'm trying to resist starting a betting pool on who will be next.
The other poem has come up because I started dating. I waited for a year after my divorce. I started dating in July. My daughter said, "Oh no," when I told her I was going on a date. I asked why "Oh, no." She replied, "I don't want a stepdad or for us to move into another house." I said, "It's just a date. It's not serious." Famous last words. Now I'm sort of wondering how to tell my children that you don't always fall for the first person you date. I am Bemused, Bewitched and Bemildered, as the bats in the Pogo cartoon were named. They couldn't remember which one had which name and the names changed. Sometimes one was Bothered. They would look at which pair of pants they had put on that day and the names were actually attached to the pants. Makes sense to me. I am happy, happy, happy but it also brings up the Fear of Loss. That brought up the second poem, titled Resistance.
Blessings!
Red Paw
The other poem has come up because I started dating. I waited for a year after my divorce. I started dating in July. My daughter said, "Oh no," when I told her I was going on a date. I asked why "Oh, no." She replied, "I don't want a stepdad or for us to move into another house." I said, "It's just a date. It's not serious." Famous last words. Now I'm sort of wondering how to tell my children that you don't always fall for the first person you date. I am Bemused, Bewitched and Bemildered, as the bats in the Pogo cartoon were named. They couldn't remember which one had which name and the names changed. Sometimes one was Bothered. They would look at which pair of pants they had put on that day and the names were actually attached to the pants. Makes sense to me. I am happy, happy, happy but it also brings up the Fear of Loss. That brought up the second poem, titled Resistance.
Blessings!
Red Paw
Resistance
Resistance
Over and over
I resist
I stand at the edge
I stare at the torrent
The cliff
The falls
The abyss
Over and over
I resist
Over and over
I let go
I fall
Over the cliff
Down the falls
Into the abyss
Over and over
I am sure
I will drown
I will lose my way
I will not surface
Ecstasy is in the air
Between trapezes
I am elsewhere
I am other
No words
No thoughts
No body
No mind
The water is cold
As I expect
When I hit
I knew by the spray
Before I jumped
Submerged
Immersed
Subversive
Over and over
I am born
From the surf
I emerge
From the waves
I am delivered
Fear is my key
Grief is my key
In the places I do
not want to go
That's where I must go
Over and over I resist
And then let go
4/3/06
Over and over
I resist
I stand at the edge
I stare at the torrent
The cliff
The falls
The abyss
Over and over
I resist
Over and over
I let go
I fall
Over the cliff
Down the falls
Into the abyss
Over and over
I am sure
I will drown
I will lose my way
I will not surface
Ecstasy is in the air
Between trapezes
I am elsewhere
I am other
No words
No thoughts
No body
No mind
The water is cold
As I expect
When I hit
I knew by the spray
Before I jumped
Submerged
Immersed
Subversive
Over and over
I am born
From the surf
I emerge
From the waves
I am delivered
Fear is my key
Grief is my key
In the places I do
not want to go
That's where I must go
Over and over I resist
And then let go
4/3/06
Scape that Goat
Scape that Goat
Raise the drawbridge, build the moat
We'll be fine once we've scaped that goat
Appease the gods by slitting her throat
We needed one so we took a vote
We're scared of lions, tigers and stoats
We won't admit how much we gloat
Throw a passenger out of the boat
Sacrifice her to the dragon's throat
We're safe for now; that's all she wrote
9/21/07
Raise the drawbridge, build the moat
We'll be fine once we've scaped that goat
Appease the gods by slitting her throat
We needed one so we took a vote
We're scared of lions, tigers and stoats
We won't admit how much we gloat
Throw a passenger out of the boat
Sacrifice her to the dragon's throat
We're safe for now; that's all she wrote
9/21/07
Monday, September 3, 2007
format
Powergirl didn't quite format right. The second line of each phrase indents. That was very satisfying to write and feels good to post too. I'm trying to sort out how often angels have turned up in my poems. Biggest thing about divorce for me was that after I tried for two years to see if we could meet in the middle (couples counseling) then the choice between modeling misery and getting out seemed easy. Modeling happy single parenting seemed like a much better idea. Took another year after that poem.
Love,
Red Paw
Love,
Red Paw
Powergirl Takes Off
Powergirl Takes Off
Powergirl have wings
to fly
She related to
Superfly
She scared when
baby almost die
She scared and yes'n'she
do cry
Husband say she much
too strong
He say she most allays
wrong
He sing and dance de
same old song
He rather she put on
a thong
He played too much with
that old bong
Now man he working
ooh he big
He have no time for
little kid
Not that he ever
really did
She researches kides
summer camps
She studies schedules late
with lamps
Pay de money, lick de
stamps
Husband say she got too
much power
He say it nearly every
hour
He grumpy sullen and really
sour
Powergirl got wings
to fly
She look with longing
at the sky
She look at husband
wonder why
She finally realized he
a pain
She take a saw to
ball and chain
Husband he whine and
complain
She wonder why he
goddamn insane
She learn divorce lawyer
nice name
Husband lie on ground and
moan
He whine and bitch all on
de phone
Powergirl leave him there
alone
He drink and fuck and get
real stoned
Powergirl have wings
to fly
She rising rising
in the sky
Kids light as she is
hollow bones
They scared to leave
familiar home
Ride on her shoulders
in the sky
She hopes that they will
learn to fly
7/15/05
Powergirl have wings
to fly
She related to
Superfly
She scared when
baby almost die
She scared and yes'n'she
do cry
Husband say she much
too strong
He say she most allays
wrong
He sing and dance de
same old song
He rather she put on
a thong
He played too much with
that old bong
Now man he working
ooh he big
He have no time for
little kid
Not that he ever
really did
She researches kides
summer camps
She studies schedules late
with lamps
Pay de money, lick de
stamps
Husband say she got too
much power
He say it nearly every
hour
He grumpy sullen and really
sour
Powergirl got wings
to fly
She look with longing
at the sky
She look at husband
wonder why
She finally realized he
a pain
She take a saw to
ball and chain
Husband he whine and
complain
She wonder why he
goddamn insane
She learn divorce lawyer
nice name
Husband lie on ground and
moan
He whine and bitch all on
de phone
Powergirl leave him there
alone
He drink and fuck and get
real stoned
Powergirl have wings
to fly
She rising rising
in the sky
Kids light as she is
hollow bones
They scared to leave
familiar home
Ride on her shoulders
in the sky
She hopes that they will
learn to fly
7/15/05
Witness
Witness
Sometimes
Even as you make
The same mistake
Cross the threshold
Open the door
Lift the glass
You feel the presence
Of angels
Drawn by the seriousness
Of your decision
Present
Not to pull you away
From the cup
The drug
The wrong man
The dire pattern
You feel their intensity
The presence
As if outer space
Has clung to their wings
Or motes from heaven
Alien
The weight of their gaze
And their interest
Sometimes
Even as you make
The same mistake
It's not the same
To sense an angel
Witness
6/25/05
Sometimes
Even as you make
The same mistake
Cross the threshold
Open the door
Lift the glass
You feel the presence
Of angels
Drawn by the seriousness
Of your decision
Present
Not to pull you away
From the cup
The drug
The wrong man
The dire pattern
You feel their intensity
The presence
As if outer space
Has clung to their wings
Or motes from heaven
Alien
The weight of their gaze
And their interest
Sometimes
Even as you make
The same mistake
It's not the same
To sense an angel
Witness
6/25/05
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Ride Forth
Ride Forth
My grandmother
Packed all her troubles in her saddlebags
And rode forth singing
My mother
Packed all her troubles in her saddlebags
And rode forth singing
My father
Was the only one
Who ever saw the contents
He tried to drown them
My mother was loved
For her charm
I ride forth
Sometimes I sing
Sometimes I weep
My saddlebags are empty
Prayer flags flutter
Slowly shred
In the wind
I write my troubles
And my joys
On cloth
And thank the Beloved
For each
My horse is white
When I sing
Black
When I cry
A rainbow of colors
In between
The whole spectrum
That the Beloved allows
After I emptied
My saddlebags
I tried to leave them
But the people I met
Most, most, most
Were frightened
A naked woman
On a naked horse
I had to leave my village
When I learned to ride her
Made friends with her
Beloved
My village does not allow tears
When she turns black
Their saddlebags squirm and fight
The people try to throw them on my horse
In other places
The horses are all black
The white aspect of the Beloved
Frightens them
And they attack
I carry saddlebags
And Beloved is a gentle dapple gray
And the illusion of clothes surrounds me
When we meet new people
Until we know
It is safe to shine
Bright
And dark
I hope that others ride with the Beloved
In full rainbow
I ride forth
Sometimes I sing
Sometimes I weep
Even the color lonely
Is a part of the Beloved
9/1/06
My grandmother
Packed all her troubles in her saddlebags
And rode forth singing
My mother
Packed all her troubles in her saddlebags
And rode forth singing
My father
Was the only one
Who ever saw the contents
He tried to drown them
My mother was loved
For her charm
I ride forth
Sometimes I sing
Sometimes I weep
My saddlebags are empty
Prayer flags flutter
Slowly shred
In the wind
I write my troubles
And my joys
On cloth
And thank the Beloved
For each
My horse is white
When I sing
Black
When I cry
A rainbow of colors
In between
The whole spectrum
That the Beloved allows
After I emptied
My saddlebags
I tried to leave them
But the people I met
Most, most, most
Were frightened
A naked woman
On a naked horse
I had to leave my village
When I learned to ride her
Made friends with her
Beloved
My village does not allow tears
When she turns black
Their saddlebags squirm and fight
The people try to throw them on my horse
In other places
The horses are all black
The white aspect of the Beloved
Frightens them
And they attack
I carry saddlebags
And Beloved is a gentle dapple gray
And the illusion of clothes surrounds me
When we meet new people
Until we know
It is safe to shine
Bright
And dark
I hope that others ride with the Beloved
In full rainbow
I ride forth
Sometimes I sing
Sometimes I weep
Even the color lonely
Is a part of the Beloved
9/1/06
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
On today's poems
My chest has been hurting for about 2 months. It's old pain, emotions, I could tell that. I tried to let it be, ie not suppress it, but didn't really go towards it. No, it's not a heart attack. On Monday I had to drive somewhere, leading another car. My daughter was with me and she is perfectly content to have the car be quiet. I decided to really open up to the old pain and the first poem I posted today started forming. I didn't drive badly, but I was so focused on it that I got us lost not once, but twice. And the friend took over for the last bit and led the way. So then I wrote the second poem, fool. I get so distracted working on some poem or thought direction that I really do trip over things, the same things over and over. When I get emotionally tired in clinic I start tripping over my own feet.
Child is also written for one of my clinic patients who told me about his childhood.
Beloved is from Rumi.
I was just loaned a copy of Joseph Campbell's "the masks of god: Creative Mythology". I'd read the first page before I wrote Child. Three pages later is TS Eliot's The Waste Land. "Here is no water but only rock." My thought was that women know rock isn't eternal and there must be something under it, bedrock or no. It's only called bedrock, right? We know there is a molten core.
Love,
Red Paw
Child is also written for one of my clinic patients who told me about his childhood.
Beloved is from Rumi.
I was just loaned a copy of Joseph Campbell's "the masks of god: Creative Mythology". I'd read the first page before I wrote Child. Three pages later is TS Eliot's The Waste Land. "Here is no water but only rock." My thought was that women know rock isn't eternal and there must be something under it, bedrock or no. It's only called bedrock, right? We know there is a molten core.
Love,
Red Paw
Child
Child
You work at healing
For years
You dive in the swamp
Of your psyche
Turn over the mud
Tunnel through it
Breathe it
See lilies arise
From the much
The Beloved is a deer
Dainty hooves
In the swamp
At last you come
To bedrock
So you rest
Bedrock
You think
Until you notice
A chink in the rock
You look away
You avoid it
At last you look
It isn't going away
The Beloved is a bittern
In the reeds
Fluid leaks
From the chink
Foul black bilious
Acidic
Etching trails in the slanted rock
Again you look away
But not for long
You step forward
Touch the rock
I am present you say
Who is there?
The stream of foul black
Increases
Pours from a widening crack
Beloved is a tiger
Paw against the rock
You see the acid burning
Her paw
But she does not run
She stands guard
Who are you?
You whisper
The rock crumbles
There is a child
"Go away" says the child
Ancient
No you say
Beloved and I
Stay present
The black is swirling around you
It's hard to keep your footing
Beloved, an orca
Steadies you, swimming
No one stays says the child
We stay present you say
I was born
I loved
I was abandoned
When I was afraid
We are present now you say
Swimming by the Beloved
Hand on black fin
I was abandoned
When I grieved
We are here now you say
I was abandoned
In my despair
We are here you say
You say
You fought
out of love
You argued
out of love
You gave
out of love
Please child
Let us cradle you
The child is silent
The tide is slowing
Clearing
The rock has crumbled away
You will stay? says the child
We stay you say
Beloved is a whale
Singing in space
Singing to the stars
Am I lovable? says the child
You and Beloved
Earth and sky
Wind and trees
Moon and stars
Answer yes
Am I loved?
yes
yes
8/27/07
You work at healing
For years
You dive in the swamp
Of your psyche
Turn over the mud
Tunnel through it
Breathe it
See lilies arise
From the much
The Beloved is a deer
Dainty hooves
In the swamp
At last you come
To bedrock
So you rest
Bedrock
You think
Until you notice
A chink in the rock
You look away
You avoid it
At last you look
It isn't going away
The Beloved is a bittern
In the reeds
Fluid leaks
From the chink
Foul black bilious
Acidic
Etching trails in the slanted rock
Again you look away
But not for long
You step forward
Touch the rock
I am present you say
Who is there?
The stream of foul black
Increases
Pours from a widening crack
Beloved is a tiger
Paw against the rock
You see the acid burning
Her paw
But she does not run
She stands guard
Who are you?
You whisper
The rock crumbles
There is a child
"Go away" says the child
Ancient
No you say
Beloved and I
Stay present
The black is swirling around you
It's hard to keep your footing
Beloved, an orca
Steadies you, swimming
No one stays says the child
We stay present you say
I was born
I loved
I was abandoned
When I was afraid
We are present now you say
Swimming by the Beloved
Hand on black fin
I was abandoned
When I grieved
We are here now you say
I was abandoned
In my despair
We are here you say
You say
You fought
out of love
You argued
out of love
You gave
out of love
Please child
Let us cradle you
The child is silent
The tide is slowing
Clearing
The rock has crumbled away
You will stay? says the child
We stay you say
Beloved is a whale
Singing in space
Singing to the stars
Am I lovable? says the child
You and Beloved
Earth and sky
Wind and trees
Moon and stars
Answer yes
Am I loved?
yes
yes
8/27/07
Fool
Fool
I am a fool
A buffoon
I fall over my son's shoes
Wondering why they are lying
In front of the door
Not once but twice
My mind is lost
In the wilds
Of thought, speculation and memory
The picture drops from the wall
I'm not even home
Kids call me
To say what happened
We clean it up
Yet I forget
And my sister cuts her foot
I didn't warn her
I understand why saints and mystics
Sometimes seem crazy
Angels hover near
The tips of their wings
Brush distant galaxies
But I am a mom
The kids need dinner now
I drop a plate
Clumsy fool
In spite of angels
I am grounded
8/27/07
I am a fool
A buffoon
I fall over my son's shoes
Wondering why they are lying
In front of the door
Not once but twice
My mind is lost
In the wilds
Of thought, speculation and memory
The picture drops from the wall
I'm not even home
Kids call me
To say what happened
We clean it up
Yet I forget
And my sister cuts her foot
I didn't warn her
I understand why saints and mystics
Sometimes seem crazy
Angels hover near
The tips of their wings
Brush distant galaxies
But I am a mom
The kids need dinner now
I drop a plate
Clumsy fool
In spite of angels
I am grounded
8/27/07
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Drug Companies
As a family doctor I am getting less and less enthused about drug companies. I do think there are some good medicines. Exercise works wonders though, and walking in the woods and on the beaches or anywhere outside. I really do read some of the junk mail from drug companies very carefully just to see what they are encouraging me to do. Some of the pamphlets seriously creep me out.
I'm listing the talky part of the blog before the poem or song starting today because I don't like reading it from the bottom up. Also, I learned to spell questionnaire. I can now rest on my laurels.
Red Paw
I'm listing the talky part of the blog before the poem or song starting today because I don't like reading it from the bottom up. Also, I learned to spell questionnaire. I can now rest on my laurels.
Red Paw
The Doctor's Educational Blues
The Doctor's Educational Blues
Helpful pamphlets
Come in the mail
Primary care
Diagnosis and treatment
For bipolar disorder
Is particularly popular
Right now
An article or journal
Arrives nearly every day
I read one
Sponsored by a helpful
Grant from Astra-Zenica
They happen to make
A drug
FDA approved
For treatment
The pamphlet says
1 percent
of the population
Is bipolar
Using the DSM IV criteria
For diagnosis
(Developed by psychiatrists
Experts in mental health)
But it says
If we use a broader definition
Than the DSM IV criteria
Then 2-8% of the population
Is bipolar
They have a questionnaire
For me to use
On patients
To diagnose
This disorder
They fail to mention
If they used the strict
DSM IV criteria
Or the looser criteria
To make the questionnaire
I can see that Astra-Zenica
Will sell more drugs
If we loosen up the diagnosis
I sit and wonder
How helpful it is
To change the diagnosis
And put more people
On medicine
Helpful to Astra-Zenica
No doubt
The pamphlet has a chart
Showing the range of feeling
Normal to manic
Normal is listed as
Happy and joyous
I sit and wonder
How many of us
Would feel that we are normal
Looking at that chart
Not me
5/19/06
Helpful pamphlets
Come in the mail
Primary care
Diagnosis and treatment
For bipolar disorder
Is particularly popular
Right now
An article or journal
Arrives nearly every day
I read one
Sponsored by a helpful
Grant from Astra-Zenica
They happen to make
A drug
FDA approved
For treatment
The pamphlet says
1 percent
of the population
Is bipolar
Using the DSM IV criteria
For diagnosis
(Developed by psychiatrists
Experts in mental health)
But it says
If we use a broader definition
Than the DSM IV criteria
Then 2-8% of the population
Is bipolar
They have a questionnaire
For me to use
On patients
To diagnose
This disorder
They fail to mention
If they used the strict
DSM IV criteria
Or the looser criteria
To make the questionnaire
I can see that Astra-Zenica
Will sell more drugs
If we loosen up the diagnosis
I sit and wonder
How helpful it is
To change the diagnosis
And put more people
On medicine
Helpful to Astra-Zenica
No doubt
The pamphlet has a chart
Showing the range of feeling
Normal to manic
Normal is listed as
Happy and joyous
I sit and wonder
How many of us
Would feel that we are normal
Looking at that chart
Not me
5/19/06
Monday, August 20, 2007
Song: Little Blue Pill
Little Blue Pill
Little blue pill
Little blue pill
Help me help me
I'm over the hill
Don't wanna have sex
Nope nope nope
Little blue pill
Gives my husband hope
Can't make a pill
Til we define the disease
Doctors would you
Hurry up please
Little blue pill
Little blue pill
Help me help me
I'm over the hill
Thought them hormones
Would make me hot
Doc was right
They did not
Hot flashes make me
Swing my fan
No help from that
Testosterman
Little blue pill
Little blue pill
Help me help me
I'm over the hill
Doctor this
Is really no joke
My husband says
He'll slit his throat
Can't make a pill
Til we define the disease
They're trying hard
Those drug companies
Little blue pill
Little blue pill
Help me help me
I'm over the hill
I think we'll know
If they define a disease
Drug companies will tell us
On tv
Doctor I found
Just the thing
A brand new stimulating
Clitoral ring
Don't wanna have sex
Nope nope nope
Little blue pill
Gives my husband hope
6/4/06
Little blue pill
Little blue pill
Help me help me
I'm over the hill
Don't wanna have sex
Nope nope nope
Little blue pill
Gives my husband hope
Can't make a pill
Til we define the disease
Doctors would you
Hurry up please
Little blue pill
Little blue pill
Help me help me
I'm over the hill
Thought them hormones
Would make me hot
Doc was right
They did not
Hot flashes make me
Swing my fan
No help from that
Testosterman
Little blue pill
Little blue pill
Help me help me
I'm over the hill
Doctor this
Is really no joke
My husband says
He'll slit his throat
Can't make a pill
Til we define the disease
They're trying hard
Those drug companies
Little blue pill
Little blue pill
Help me help me
I'm over the hill
I think we'll know
If they define a disease
Drug companies will tell us
On tv
Doctor I found
Just the thing
A brand new stimulating
Clitoral ring
Don't wanna have sex
Nope nope nope
Little blue pill
Gives my husband hope
6/4/06
Compassion
Don't gimme none o your damn compassion. Compassion is too often passion with a superiority complex. Instead, tell me what are you doing with your anger, your grief, your sorrow?
There, I probably got my R Blog rating, right? So let's go with that.
I got a guitar for Christmas. Now I know what I want to sing. I want to sing the blues.
Love,
Red Paw
There, I probably got my R Blog rating, right? So let's go with that.
I got a guitar for Christmas. Now I know what I want to sing. I want to sing the blues.
Love,
Red Paw
Gin With Mara
Gin With Mara
I was tired of running away
There was no where left to hide
So I sat down
To play gin rummy
With Mara
I had run so far
I didn't have many cards left
Only 3
Mara said, "Keep them"
She pulled a deck from her sleeves
Shuffled
Let me cut
She took three cards
I played curiosity
She played grief
I knew Mara would let me run
But I would lose, again
I was plunged
Into the place
I had avoided
A well
I thought I'd drown
As the waters closed over my head
This game is played over days
Months
Even years
I played strength
Mara played shame
I fought
I struggled
I writhed
I played tenacity
Mara smiled
She played fear
I was trapped
Overwhelmed
My heart trembled
My mind clamored
Tried to escape from my skull
I had no cards
"Draw, " said Mara
I drew
I looked at my card
I played despair
Dark, dark
I sat
I sat
I sat
Mara played want
Mara played vulnerability
Mara played
Dark, dark
Mara played joy
I stared
Mara said, "You lost the cards as you ran,
Remember?"
I touched her hand
She dissolved into me
The cards all falling about us
We picked them up
And went on
1/25/07
I was tired of running away
There was no where left to hide
So I sat down
To play gin rummy
With Mara
I had run so far
I didn't have many cards left
Only 3
Mara said, "Keep them"
She pulled a deck from her sleeves
Shuffled
Let me cut
She took three cards
I played curiosity
She played grief
I knew Mara would let me run
But I would lose, again
I was plunged
Into the place
I had avoided
A well
I thought I'd drown
As the waters closed over my head
This game is played over days
Months
Even years
I played strength
Mara played shame
I fought
I struggled
I writhed
I played tenacity
Mara smiled
She played fear
I was trapped
Overwhelmed
My heart trembled
My mind clamored
Tried to escape from my skull
I had no cards
"Draw, " said Mara
I drew
I looked at my card
I played despair
Dark, dark
I sat
I sat
I sat
Mara played want
Mara played vulnerability
Mara played
Dark, dark
Mara played joy
I stared
Mara said, "You lost the cards as you ran,
Remember?"
I touched her hand
She dissolved into me
The cards all falling about us
We picked them up
And went on
1/25/07
Poem: Puttering
Puttering
I'm puttering around in my brain
Seeing just what I find
Isn't it funny
How a bear likes honey
And how much of the time
I think in rhyme
I'm puttering around in my brain
Now it's less of a strain
To putter and play in my brain
When I was down
I went around and around
I wanted to get off that train
It's fun to be up in the light
After the long dark night
I have such a full heart
I don't know where to start
I'm glad I continued to fight
I'm puttering around in my brain
Seeing just what I find
Isn't it funny
How a bear likes honey
And how much of the time
I think in rhyme
I'm puttering around in my brain
6/28/05
I'm puttering around in my brain
Seeing just what I find
Isn't it funny
How a bear likes honey
And how much of the time
I think in rhyme
I'm puttering around in my brain
Now it's less of a strain
To putter and play in my brain
When I was down
I went around and around
I wanted to get off that train
It's fun to be up in the light
After the long dark night
I have such a full heart
I don't know where to start
I'm glad I continued to fight
I'm puttering around in my brain
Seeing just what I find
Isn't it funny
How a bear likes honey
And how much of the time
I think in rhyme
I'm puttering around in my brain
6/28/05
Not all bad
Hey, tell me if I didn't spell levethian right. Either it's not in my Webster's or I've REALLY spelled it wrong.
It's not all bad when you go to explore your unconscious. Some of it is really fun. So next is a poem about the fun part.
Love,
Red Paw
It's not all bad when you go to explore your unconscious. Some of it is really fun. So next is a poem about the fun part.
Love,
Red Paw
Poem: Unconscious Sea of Love
Unconscious Sea of Love
The brain is a vast deep sea
Mostly not accessible to you or me
The surface chop or calm or waves is all we see
And we wonder why we do the things we do
We're riding on the surface of a stew
Those brave enough to dive in deep are few
The depths are dark and levethians abide
And we wonder why we do the things we do
I was so frightened and alone when I dived
I wondered if I'd still be alive
I'm thankful there are helpers when you strive
And we wonder why we do the things we do
Pearls from the bottom of the sea
Gifts that the spirits gave to me
Back in the sun again my heart is filled with glee
And we wonder why we do the things we do
Be joyful if your depths are calling you
Those brave enough to dive the depths are few
Love and strength and stubbornness will see you through
Sometimes we have to do the things we do
6/28/05
The brain is a vast deep sea
Mostly not accessible to you or me
The surface chop or calm or waves is all we see
And we wonder why we do the things we do
We're riding on the surface of a stew
Those brave enough to dive in deep are few
The depths are dark and levethians abide
And we wonder why we do the things we do
I was so frightened and alone when I dived
I wondered if I'd still be alive
I'm thankful there are helpers when you strive
And we wonder why we do the things we do
Pearls from the bottom of the sea
Gifts that the spirits gave to me
Back in the sun again my heart is filled with glee
And we wonder why we do the things we do
Be joyful if your depths are calling you
Those brave enough to dive the depths are few
Love and strength and stubbornness will see you through
Sometimes we have to do the things we do
6/28/05
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Poem: Street Angel Crabs
Street Angel Crabs
Now
I see
The street angel crabs
Their eyes meet mine
They know
I've molted
I know they have
I acknowledge each of them
That I meet
Scarred, seared, torn in the attack
After molting
Bright angels
God loves you
Even if the world does not
8/16/05
Now
I see
The street angel crabs
Their eyes meet mine
They know
I've molted
I know they have
I acknowledge each of them
That I meet
Scarred, seared, torn in the attack
After molting
Bright angels
God loves you
Even if the world does not
8/16/05
Poem: Molting
Molting
I am growing
My shell hurts
It hurts it hurts!
I cannot shed it
I try and try and try
I fight
I seek allies and help
I fight
One year, two years, nearly three
I'm free
My shell suddenly releases and slides off
I can feel my soft body expand
To my real size
Bigger
Joy!
Oh!
They're attacking!
Why why!
My brothers! My sisters!
My partners!
No!
Your claws hurt!
They are cutting me
Ow ow stop why!
I run
Scuttle sideways
Soft and clumsy
Scurry
Hide
In the mud
Why why?
Oh, my wounds ache
Stabbed by multiple claws
Deepest pain
In my heart
At this betrayal.
I hide
I sit
I think
It was so hard
To shed my shell
Why would they attack?
Oh!
Their shells hurt too!
Their words
They were grabbing me
To see how I'd shed my shell
They were desperate
Oh they must be in such pain!
Can I forgive them?
Do they know not what they do?
I hide
I sit
I think
I heal
My shell is strong now
I am bigger
I will go forth
And see who is trying to shed their shell
I will try to protect the newly molted.
8/16/05
I am growing
My shell hurts
It hurts it hurts!
I cannot shed it
I try and try and try
I fight
I seek allies and help
I fight
One year, two years, nearly three
I'm free
My shell suddenly releases and slides off
I can feel my soft body expand
To my real size
Bigger
Joy!
Oh!
They're attacking!
Why why!
My brothers! My sisters!
My partners!
No!
Your claws hurt!
They are cutting me
Ow ow stop why!
I run
Scuttle sideways
Soft and clumsy
Scurry
Hide
In the mud
Why why?
Oh, my wounds ache
Stabbed by multiple claws
Deepest pain
In my heart
At this betrayal.
I hide
I sit
I think
It was so hard
To shed my shell
Why would they attack?
Oh!
Their shells hurt too!
Their words
They were grabbing me
To see how I'd shed my shell
They were desperate
Oh they must be in such pain!
Can I forgive them?
Do they know not what they do?
I hide
I sit
I think
I heal
My shell is strong now
I am bigger
I will go forth
And see who is trying to shed their shell
I will try to protect the newly molted.
8/16/05
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Poem: Demon Chainers
Demon Chainers
And you thought the hard work was over
Finding your demons
Facing them
Adopting them
Comforting them
Learning to love the parts that no one loved
That you hid as a child
Mothering your own unloved self
Fathering the parts he couldn't love
And to surface knowing that you are a child of God
And lovable
Only to be attacked
With a concerted effort
To return you to what you were before
Don't be frightened enough to give up
You are right
You are still a child of God
Lovable
In your wholeness
Talents and faults
Those who attack
Feel their demons
Clamoring at them
Clawing
When you learned to love yours
They want to be loved too
So badly
But their keepers are frightened
They are pressing their demons back into the depths
Desperate
Attack you for you have made them feel their sorrows
All unaware
Seek those who have also
Dealt with their demons
And they will welcome you
You are not crazy
To feel the euphoria
Of surfacing
But do not get carried away
And be kind to the demon chainers
Remember where you were before.
8/16/05
And you thought the hard work was over
Finding your demons
Facing them
Adopting them
Comforting them
Learning to love the parts that no one loved
That you hid as a child
Mothering your own unloved self
Fathering the parts he couldn't love
And to surface knowing that you are a child of God
And lovable
Only to be attacked
With a concerted effort
To return you to what you were before
Don't be frightened enough to give up
You are right
You are still a child of God
Lovable
In your wholeness
Talents and faults
Those who attack
Feel their demons
Clamoring at them
Clawing
When you learned to love yours
They want to be loved too
So badly
But their keepers are frightened
They are pressing their demons back into the depths
Desperate
Attack you for you have made them feel their sorrows
All unaware
Seek those who have also
Dealt with their demons
And they will welcome you
You are not crazy
To feel the euphoria
Of surfacing
But do not get carried away
And be kind to the demon chainers
Remember where you were before.
8/16/05
returning from the journey is just as hard
My last post was about feeling attacked and unexpectedly at work. I think that is a common experience during individuation, though not necessarily at work: could be friends or at home. To go through my process I had to go way inside and try to figure out who I was, who I was really married to (not who I thought I was married to) and what in my history and culture and family rules had led me to the really awful place that I was in. So, you do all that work, took me 3-5 years depending on when I count from and then I thought things were breaking through! I was changing! I understood some things! I didn't have psychomotor slowing for the first time in 2 years and what a relief!
That is when people around me reacted. I couldn't believe it at first. Here I was better, I was happy, I'd worked so hard and I was being slapped. Work and family. I think that the journey back from individuation is just as hard or harder than the journey into it. You have to go deep internally to look at your assumptions and your demons. When you come back, it triggers other peoples' demons and they hate that. We also as a culture say that everyone can change and be better than ever but our culture also hates it when someone does something different. I wrote a litter of poems trying to understand what had happened and why. The first one was Advice to Micheal, which I already posted. Next is another.
Blessings.
Red Paw
That is when people around me reacted. I couldn't believe it at first. Here I was better, I was happy, I'd worked so hard and I was being slapped. Work and family. I think that the journey back from individuation is just as hard or harder than the journey into it. You have to go deep internally to look at your assumptions and your demons. When you come back, it triggers other peoples' demons and they hate that. We also as a culture say that everyone can change and be better than ever but our culture also hates it when someone does something different. I wrote a litter of poems trying to understand what had happened and why. The first one was Advice to Micheal, which I already posted. Next is another.
Blessings.
Red Paw
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
For Blue Gal: Support From My Peers
I'm posting this because of my current work atmosphere and because of Blue Gal's post from yesterday.
Support From My Peers
"Now that we know
You're getting a divorce
We really want to show
Our support of course
Surprise surprise
We tell you today
Go back home
A week off with pay
And just because
You disturb our dreams
A psych evaluation
Doesn't seem extreme
We just want to be
Sure you're doing well."
"Guess what folks
Go to hell."
8/9/05
I was 3000 miles away when my "colleagues" went to the bosses and expressed concerns that they wouldn't put in writing. Interestingly the office staff let me know they had No Problem with me. I jumped through the posted hoops but held hands with my lawyer while I did it. It generated quite a few poems and this was the first. The "colleagues" have not seen it to date because they never wanted to discuss their concerns: instead they requested that we be polite in the halls. I try, honestly. I can't help it if flames dart out of my eyes.
Red Paw
Support From My Peers
"Now that we know
You're getting a divorce
We really want to show
Our support of course
Surprise surprise
We tell you today
Go back home
A week off with pay
And just because
You disturb our dreams
A psych evaluation
Doesn't seem extreme
We just want to be
Sure you're doing well."
"Guess what folks
Go to hell."
8/9/05
I was 3000 miles away when my "colleagues" went to the bosses and expressed concerns that they wouldn't put in writing. Interestingly the office staff let me know they had No Problem with me. I jumped through the posted hoops but held hands with my lawyer while I did it. It generated quite a few poems and this was the first. The "colleagues" have not seen it to date because they never wanted to discuss their concerns: instead they requested that we be polite in the halls. I try, honestly. I can't help it if flames dart out of my eyes.
Red Paw
Between Trapezes
Ok, bad work day yesterday. I need to remind myself to never ever think that things can't get worse because they always can. Also that even when they're getting worse, eventually something will get better.
Between Trapezes
Two and a half years
Between trapezes
Letting go is hard
Enough
But then to hang
Wait for the next
On faith
When you can't see your way
After a while you aren't
Flying through the air
But falling
Falling
And screaming inside
Free fall
For hours
Days weeks years
In the company of angels
Letting go
Calls the angels
I dreamt of angels
Falling in a black void
And after a while
You don't want to fall anymore
And you understand
Those who end it
It takes great strength
To hold on to the idea
That it will end.
Two and a half years
And suddenly my hands are solid
Not falling
Swinging
Joy wells up
My mind is freed
From the hard work
Of falling and screaming
And I am swinging in the air
Safe
Color is back
Sensation
Sound
Music
Taste
Food melts in my mouth
Who would not be manic?
Solstice, 2005
Between Trapezes
Two and a half years
Between trapezes
Letting go is hard
Enough
But then to hang
Wait for the next
On faith
When you can't see your way
After a while you aren't
Flying through the air
But falling
Falling
And screaming inside
Free fall
For hours
Days weeks years
In the company of angels
Letting go
Calls the angels
I dreamt of angels
Falling in a black void
And after a while
You don't want to fall anymore
And you understand
Those who end it
It takes great strength
To hold on to the idea
That it will end.
Two and a half years
And suddenly my hands are solid
Not falling
Swinging
Joy wells up
My mind is freed
From the hard work
Of falling and screaming
And I am swinging in the air
Safe
Color is back
Sensation
Sound
Music
Taste
Food melts in my mouth
Who would not be manic?
Solstice, 2005
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Dream of Fours
I dreamed that my sister was going to sing the lead in an opera that my father was directing. I was jealous. I knew the part but I hadn't tried out, so I couldn't complain, but I wanted to. I thought my range might be better for it. They were going to record the opera and my sister said she didn't want to be recorded. I offered to be the voice for the recording. They accepted. I was in a room with my sister and three other women. A trickster was there and had stolen four bells from the ocean. They were bells on long ropes that should be hanging down in the ocean but they were in the bathtub instead and were endangered. The trickster was in the tub. I went in the water and had to transform myself -- the trickster was a mat and I became a towel in the water lying over him. Instantly we were transported to the bottom of the ocean. The trickster and I were now one and the bells were safe and back where they belonged. We (the trickster and I) met a monk. He was like a cartoon drawing, a mad line drawing part monk and part rabbit. He started talking about everything and led us back to the temple. There were two fires in the front room: sanctity and purity, and two more in the back: cleaning up and cooking. There were three more monks in the back, line drawn with curly lines and round bellies, very buddha like and cheerful. One was a woman; the only way I could tell was that she had a bra made of tiny triangles that covered almost non-existent breasts. They welcomed me, were tremendously open and alert and joyful. One said that I had come at a wonderful time because they were just going to eat and they almost never ate.
incoherence and fours
Wow, so I've been traveling for three weeks and had my house broken into and all my earrings stolen. Now you think I'm a girl. Various friends kept saying "Don't you feel violated?" but I said, "Naw, I just went through airport security and that was worse." They are so good at fear mongering.
I realized after I'd left that my last post was incoherent. I talked about threes and fours and posted two poems. One had threes but the other had no fours. Ok, so since the 10,000 comments have rolled in, I feel I should provide some sort of explanation. The fours were in the dream but didn't make it into the poem. They may yet get into a poem because they keep cooking in my head, sort of a steamy swamp and mysterious ocean of intuition. Or a toaster, where I put stuff in and a poem eventually pops up like a pop tart.
The dream follows.
Hej, hej det var dejligt at se mit danske bror og hans familie.
Ro/d fod.
I realized after I'd left that my last post was incoherent. I talked about threes and fours and posted two poems. One had threes but the other had no fours. Ok, so since the 10,000 comments have rolled in, I feel I should provide some sort of explanation. The fours were in the dream but didn't make it into the poem. They may yet get into a poem because they keep cooking in my head, sort of a steamy swamp and mysterious ocean of intuition. Or a toaster, where I put stuff in and a poem eventually pops up like a pop tart.
The dream follows.
Hej, hej det var dejligt at se mit danske bror og hans familie.
Ro/d fod.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Poem: Forgiveness
Forgiveness
I want to forgive something
Someone
In fact a group
Something that hurt a lot
I've tried logic
I tell myself
"It was an expression of concern"
My heart doesn't agree
It is sullen
Immobile and grumpy
It whispers
"They have not apologized"
It whispers
"When people say you're crazy
It could be a joke
An expression of concern
It wasn't
It was a palm held out
At arm's length
To distance me."
My head argues
"That's what it felt like to you.
You don't know their intentions."
I want to write
A poem of forgiveness
Hoping my heart will follow
My conscious doesn't write my poems
My conscious wrestles with an idea
The poem comes out of this struggle
I look at the poem I've written
I think,
"That is what I would like
my conscious heart to feel."
My poem is often more generous
Than my conscious feel
My poems are not mine
They are a gift
From the unconscious
It is much larger
Than the small conscious me
I dream of feeling envy
I climb into a bathtub
And transform myself
To battle a trickster
We are transported
To the bottom of the ocean
In the ocean
The trickster and I are one
It is unlimited
It is not my unconscious
There is no separation
It is all unconscious
I did not think
A poem would give forgiveness
But pain drove me
Into the sea
I am connected
You gave me these pearls
Thank you
5/27/07
I want to forgive something
Someone
In fact a group
Something that hurt a lot
I've tried logic
I tell myself
"It was an expression of concern"
My heart doesn't agree
It is sullen
Immobile and grumpy
It whispers
"They have not apologized"
It whispers
"When people say you're crazy
It could be a joke
An expression of concern
It wasn't
It was a palm held out
At arm's length
To distance me."
My head argues
"That's what it felt like to you.
You don't know their intentions."
I want to write
A poem of forgiveness
Hoping my heart will follow
My conscious doesn't write my poems
My conscious wrestles with an idea
The poem comes out of this struggle
I look at the poem I've written
I think,
"That is what I would like
my conscious heart to feel."
My poem is often more generous
Than my conscious feel
My poems are not mine
They are a gift
From the unconscious
It is much larger
Than the small conscious me
I dream of feeling envy
I climb into a bathtub
And transform myself
To battle a trickster
We are transported
To the bottom of the ocean
In the ocean
The trickster and I are one
It is unlimited
It is not my unconscious
There is no separation
It is all unconscious
I did not think
A poem would give forgiveness
But pain drove me
Into the sea
I am connected
You gave me these pearls
Thank you
5/27/07
Poem: Advice to Micheal
Advice to Micheal
Neverland
Is such an ironic name
Can't they hear?
Can't they think?
The land where boys never grew up
The Lost Boys
And you
Are not molesting
Boys
You are
Searching
When I heard
About your childhood
I knew
They were wrong
They've missed the boat
You sang
Like an angel
And the world
Stole your childhood
Hotel rooms
With older brothers
Sex
Drugs
Alcohol
Money
Chaos
And you must have been
So frightened
Lost
Pressure to sing
As the star
Locked your core self away
To keep it safe
My childhood
Was scarey too
I started my search
With a dream
Of a dark hole
From which came the sound
Of monsters
Howling
I was scared
I went to the hole
anyway
scared
of the howling
The hole was dark
And roots stuck out of the side
Like reaching fingers
I got a flashlight
And looked
It wasn't as deep
As I thought
And the roots worked as
A ladder
I climbed down
Into the hole
I found three monsters
Howling
Baby monsters
I put them in my pack
And carried them up
Into the light
They howled
I bathed them
And diapered them
And fed them
And rocked them
They howled
They didn't know what to do
When taken care of
I named them
Fear
Grief
Shame
At last they stopped howling
And sat
Warm
Wrapped in blankets
Ugly
Sullen
Lower lips thrust out
And I found a shrink
To talk about my dream
And to help heal the monsters
That I had rescued
We always have more
Work to do
But now I have a little girl
Inside me
Who came to greet me
When I had healed the monsters
Enough
She is beautiful
You won't find
The Lost Boy
That you are looking for
Outside you
He is inside
He is innocent
And beautiful
You may have to face
The monsters
Of your childhood
To reach him
Yours was worse than mine
I'm sorry
You may have to face
How much people you loved
Hurt you
Even though they loved you
I'm sorry
Find help
And rescue
The Lost Boy
And joy
Good luck.
8/10/05
Neverland
Is such an ironic name
Can't they hear?
Can't they think?
The land where boys never grew up
The Lost Boys
And you
Are not molesting
Boys
You are
Searching
When I heard
About your childhood
I knew
They were wrong
They've missed the boat
You sang
Like an angel
And the world
Stole your childhood
Hotel rooms
With older brothers
Sex
Drugs
Alcohol
Money
Chaos
And you must have been
So frightened
Lost
Pressure to sing
As the star
Locked your core self away
To keep it safe
My childhood
Was scarey too
I started my search
With a dream
Of a dark hole
From which came the sound
Of monsters
Howling
I was scared
I went to the hole
anyway
scared
of the howling
The hole was dark
And roots stuck out of the side
Like reaching fingers
I got a flashlight
And looked
It wasn't as deep
As I thought
And the roots worked as
A ladder
I climbed down
Into the hole
I found three monsters
Howling
Baby monsters
I put them in my pack
And carried them up
Into the light
They howled
I bathed them
And diapered them
And fed them
And rocked them
They howled
They didn't know what to do
When taken care of
I named them
Fear
Grief
Shame
At last they stopped howling
And sat
Warm
Wrapped in blankets
Ugly
Sullen
Lower lips thrust out
And I found a shrink
To talk about my dream
And to help heal the monsters
That I had rescued
We always have more
Work to do
But now I have a little girl
Inside me
Who came to greet me
When I had healed the monsters
Enough
She is beautiful
You won't find
The Lost Boy
That you are looking for
Outside you
He is inside
He is innocent
And beautiful
You may have to face
The monsters
Of your childhood
To reach him
Yours was worse than mine
I'm sorry
You may have to face
How much people you loved
Hurt you
Even though they loved you
I'm sorry
Find help
And rescue
The Lost Boy
And joy
Good luck.
8/10/05
threes and fours
Lets talk about numbers. Early in this individuation mid-life crisis I had a dream which contained three monsters. More recently I dreamt about fours: four women, four bells, four monks and four fires. The fires were sanctity, purity, washing up and cooking. I emailed a psychiatrist friend and asked about threes and fours and he said, basically, that fours were good. Another friend lent me a book by Robert Johnson, MD which talks about threes and fours. The book is Transformation.
Irritatingly enough, the book had another number: seven. He writes that sections of the process can take 7 weeks, months, years, or a multiple of 7. I thought, well, thank goodness it's taken seven years instead of 21. Then I remembered that I did one year in counseling, how long ago? Well, exactly 21 years.
I'm going to post both poems.
Yours,
Red Paw
Irritatingly enough, the book had another number: seven. He writes that sections of the process can take 7 weeks, months, years, or a multiple of 7. I thought, well, thank goodness it's taken seven years instead of 21. Then I remembered that I did one year in counseling, how long ago? Well, exactly 21 years.
I'm going to post both poems.
Yours,
Red Paw
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Jung Made Easy
First the disclaimer: I'm not a shrink, nor a psychologist, nor have I read all of Jung and particularly not in the original language. However, I keep tripping over Jung's ideas in all sorts of settings. I've also been reading about the brain and memory and we seem to be able to remember large hunks of information by filing them under simple words. Our brains can keep about 7 ideas in present memory at any one time, but some of those ideas can be really large: a piece of music, for example. I keep adding to the memory file I have labeled "Jung" and revising it, and I tend to try to simplify things down to where they feel coherent to me.
One idea that Jung had, nicely explained in Robert Johnson, MD's book Transformation, is that we have three stages of development. Two are well publicized and the third is not. The first is the savage. Anyone who has had a child and pictured a perfect sweet loving obedient little angel knows what I am talking about. We are born uncivilized and our parents and culture try to civilize us. That is stage two: being civilized. Growing up, learning how to be polite in one's culture, getting through school, getting a career or job, keeping from starving or being killed in lots of parts of the world and then having some savages of one's own and discovering that civilizing them is harder than it looks. Stage three is the mysterious one. I don't understand why. The public name is a midlife crisis and the therapist name is individuation or differentiation. My impression is that therapists think that most people don't do it, or rather, they don't do it Right. Stage three is when the ego is all built up to satisfy family and culture and as functional as it can be (which may not actually be very functional or may look extremely functional) and all of a sudden the self says, is this all there is? Then the self starts making trouble and starts deconstructing the ego. This can come in all sorts of forms: trotting off to therapy (me), having an affair, buying a convertible, quitting one's job and running off to some other land, acting out, changing careers. By doing it wrong, so far as I can tell, the therapists mean that some people do it unconsciously: their lives look like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde are fighting it out for control. Sometimes people are caught doing exactly the thing that they have publicly said is terrible, evil, they've spent their lives campaigning against it (yes, certain politicians come to mind). I'm not sure there really is a wrong way to differentiate, but I am hopeful that consciously doing the deconstruction might cause a little less collateral damage, though I may be wrong. I am told that individuation doesn't end, either, one doesn't wake up one day and suddenly think, wow, that was intense, but it's over.
My trip started right when I felt like things were a bit under control. Home had settled a bit after much fighting about moving, kids were doing well, work had settled down after a business crash, I had friends, I was more or less healthy and I'd just been made chief of staff. I thought, cool! Within 2 months everything crashed and I could feel it starting with something called disassociation: I felt stupid and terrible every time I tried to do one part of my job and I became slow as molasses. I knew it wasn't real, so to speak. When I would go back and look at what I'd done, it was fine, but it was like pulling teeth to do it. My main thought was "uh-oh" and I promptly scheduled with a counselor. Dreams and poetry helped me through this. They may not help other people, each person has to find their own path. More on that later, but there are all sorts of helpers out there and not always who or what you would expect.
I think that one signal that a person is entering this stage is that practically everyone who knows them will tell them they are acting crazy. Jung thought the first half of life was to build up the ego: and the second half is to deconstruct it and let the self take over. The self is our whole self, not just the parts that were allowed to stay conscious while we became civilized. The other half was stored in the unconscious and it will out! There are some dark things there and stuff we are ashamed of but the unconscious is also a rich swamp with beautiful growth hidden in the muck.
That's enough for today!
Yours,
Red Paw
One idea that Jung had, nicely explained in Robert Johnson, MD's book Transformation, is that we have three stages of development. Two are well publicized and the third is not. The first is the savage. Anyone who has had a child and pictured a perfect sweet loving obedient little angel knows what I am talking about. We are born uncivilized and our parents and culture try to civilize us. That is stage two: being civilized. Growing up, learning how to be polite in one's culture, getting through school, getting a career or job, keeping from starving or being killed in lots of parts of the world and then having some savages of one's own and discovering that civilizing them is harder than it looks. Stage three is the mysterious one. I don't understand why. The public name is a midlife crisis and the therapist name is individuation or differentiation. My impression is that therapists think that most people don't do it, or rather, they don't do it Right. Stage three is when the ego is all built up to satisfy family and culture and as functional as it can be (which may not actually be very functional or may look extremely functional) and all of a sudden the self says, is this all there is? Then the self starts making trouble and starts deconstructing the ego. This can come in all sorts of forms: trotting off to therapy (me), having an affair, buying a convertible, quitting one's job and running off to some other land, acting out, changing careers. By doing it wrong, so far as I can tell, the therapists mean that some people do it unconsciously: their lives look like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde are fighting it out for control. Sometimes people are caught doing exactly the thing that they have publicly said is terrible, evil, they've spent their lives campaigning against it (yes, certain politicians come to mind). I'm not sure there really is a wrong way to differentiate, but I am hopeful that consciously doing the deconstruction might cause a little less collateral damage, though I may be wrong. I am told that individuation doesn't end, either, one doesn't wake up one day and suddenly think, wow, that was intense, but it's over.
My trip started right when I felt like things were a bit under control. Home had settled a bit after much fighting about moving, kids were doing well, work had settled down after a business crash, I had friends, I was more or less healthy and I'd just been made chief of staff. I thought, cool! Within 2 months everything crashed and I could feel it starting with something called disassociation: I felt stupid and terrible every time I tried to do one part of my job and I became slow as molasses. I knew it wasn't real, so to speak. When I would go back and look at what I'd done, it was fine, but it was like pulling teeth to do it. My main thought was "uh-oh" and I promptly scheduled with a counselor. Dreams and poetry helped me through this. They may not help other people, each person has to find their own path. More on that later, but there are all sorts of helpers out there and not always who or what you would expect.
I think that one signal that a person is entering this stage is that practically everyone who knows them will tell them they are acting crazy. Jung thought the first half of life was to build up the ego: and the second half is to deconstruct it and let the self take over. The self is our whole self, not just the parts that were allowed to stay conscious while we became civilized. The other half was stored in the unconscious and it will out! There are some dark things there and stuff we are ashamed of but the unconscious is also a rich swamp with beautiful growth hidden in the muck.
That's enough for today!
Yours,
Red Paw
Sunday, June 3, 2007
A map for the journey: Prayer to a Rock
I'm back. This is fun.
I've been writing poems since I was about nine. I love words and rhymes and nonsense poems. The trigger for my differentiation was moving close to my mom, who was dying of ovarian cancer. I moved, I hoped we'd have a year, I watched her walk and knew we wouldn't and she died 5 1/2 months later. It has made a mess of May: her birthday is the 31st, she died on the 15th and there we have Mother's Day and Memorial Day, how nice.
Anyhow, I wrote this poem two years after she died. It was one of those poems that just pops up for me, like my unconscious is some sort of whacko toaster. Put enough stuff in and eventually something pops out. In retrospect it is rather a map for my individuation, but certainly my conscious brain didn't know that. I really did do the run, though, and sang to the eagle and had the confusion about the footprints. That still seems peculiar but perhaps when the Self is battling the Ego it uses whatever is at hand.
Here it is:
Prayer to a Rock
I went running
along the sunny beach
and ran into shadow
I kept running even though
there was beach with sun
because the shadow felt right
I ran towards a dead snag
Huge rocks were scattered on the beach
I stopped and placed my palms on one
And asked the rock to take away my grief
And then thought, no, that wasn’t right
I asked the rock to lend me its strength during grief
I ran on
I took some comfort that there were
footprints in the sand
Someone had preceded me
I ran to the snag
an eagle sat on top
I sang America the Beautiful
to the eagle
and bowed
when I looked again
the eagle soared, wings spread, out of sight
I turned to run back
and now there were only my footprints
I thought I’d imagined the other set
in my grief
Then I passed the woman and her dog
who now were tracing my footsteps
I had passed them
I ran within my grief
I let it rise
and dissipate
I stopped twice more at rocks
One to change my prayer again
ask the rock to inspire me with its strength
Once to thank the rocks
I passed from the shadow
again into the light
3/3/02
Yours,
Red Paw
I've been writing poems since I was about nine. I love words and rhymes and nonsense poems. The trigger for my differentiation was moving close to my mom, who was dying of ovarian cancer. I moved, I hoped we'd have a year, I watched her walk and knew we wouldn't and she died 5 1/2 months later. It has made a mess of May: her birthday is the 31st, she died on the 15th and there we have Mother's Day and Memorial Day, how nice.
Anyhow, I wrote this poem two years after she died. It was one of those poems that just pops up for me, like my unconscious is some sort of whacko toaster. Put enough stuff in and eventually something pops out. In retrospect it is rather a map for my individuation, but certainly my conscious brain didn't know that. I really did do the run, though, and sang to the eagle and had the confusion about the footprints. That still seems peculiar but perhaps when the Self is battling the Ego it uses whatever is at hand.
Here it is:
Prayer to a Rock
I went running
along the sunny beach
and ran into shadow
I kept running even though
there was beach with sun
because the shadow felt right
I ran towards a dead snag
Huge rocks were scattered on the beach
I stopped and placed my palms on one
And asked the rock to take away my grief
And then thought, no, that wasn’t right
I asked the rock to lend me its strength during grief
I ran on
I took some comfort that there were
footprints in the sand
Someone had preceded me
I ran to the snag
an eagle sat on top
I sang America the Beautiful
to the eagle
and bowed
when I looked again
the eagle soared, wings spread, out of sight
I turned to run back
and now there were only my footprints
I thought I’d imagined the other set
in my grief
Then I passed the woman and her dog
who now were tracing my footsteps
I had passed them
I ran within my grief
I let it rise
and dissipate
I stopped twice more at rocks
One to change my prayer again
ask the rock to inspire me with its strength
Once to thank the rocks
I passed from the shadow
again into the light
3/3/02
Yours,
Red Paw
What is this site about? Individuation and midlife
What is this site about? Bad poetry? Yes, but it's really about individuation and differentiation, for which one popular name is "midlife crisis." I've been having mine, thanks, and a very messy process it has been and no doubt will be. However, instead of buying a sports car and having an affair I went into counseling, did dream therapy and wrote poetry. The poems are an ongoing record of the places I've been on this journey. I'm not done with individuation, according to the shrinks and counselors one never is, but I've just done a big piece.
I'm also writing this because I'm pissed. The shrinks and counselors say that differentiation is terribly hard and painful and that our culture doesn't support it (I agree on the latter) and they act like it's some special thing that the ordinary person won't and can't do. I think their egos are too big. I think that it can be supported and it doesn't have to be that hard: but no one is really writing a good map. So, another name for this site might be "Jung made easy" or "Differentiation for Dummies," me being one of them.
Why am I pissed? When I first went to counseling I saw three different counselors in the space of a short time, mostly because the one I really wanted was out of town for 6 weeks. All three mentioned individuation. The third one, the one I wanted, actually laughed and said, "My, aren't you right on schedule!" That comment has stuck like glue. I hate to be predictable AND I had never heard of individuation. Why would that make me so mad? Because I'm a family practice doctor, for goodness sake, and supposedly had been trained in a reasonable amount of psychiatry. Currently that would mostly consist of "how to give out pills", but that is another topic. So here I was, early 40s, apparently entering an ENTIRELY PREDICTABLE stage of my mental processes and I had never even heard of it. So, I think the word needs to get out. I used to get in trouble all the time in medical school for simplifying jargon -- I got scolded by a resident 4th year for describing a prostate exam as "squishy" instead of "boggy". I didn't care, because that resident had not earned my respect. I feel very good about trying to simplify Jung's ideas.
What it comes down to is deciding whether to have a conscious midlife crisis or an unconscious one. Both choices suck, but I think that you will come out the other end in better shape if you choose a conscious one.
Yours,
Red Paw
I'm also writing this because I'm pissed. The shrinks and counselors say that differentiation is terribly hard and painful and that our culture doesn't support it (I agree on the latter) and they act like it's some special thing that the ordinary person won't and can't do. I think their egos are too big. I think that it can be supported and it doesn't have to be that hard: but no one is really writing a good map. So, another name for this site might be "Jung made easy" or "Differentiation for Dummies," me being one of them.
Why am I pissed? When I first went to counseling I saw three different counselors in the space of a short time, mostly because the one I really wanted was out of town for 6 weeks. All three mentioned individuation. The third one, the one I wanted, actually laughed and said, "My, aren't you right on schedule!" That comment has stuck like glue. I hate to be predictable AND I had never heard of individuation. Why would that make me so mad? Because I'm a family practice doctor, for goodness sake, and supposedly had been trained in a reasonable amount of psychiatry. Currently that would mostly consist of "how to give out pills", but that is another topic. So here I was, early 40s, apparently entering an ENTIRELY PREDICTABLE stage of my mental processes and I had never even heard of it. So, I think the word needs to get out. I used to get in trouble all the time in medical school for simplifying jargon -- I got scolded by a resident 4th year for describing a prostate exam as "squishy" instead of "boggy". I didn't care, because that resident had not earned my respect. I feel very good about trying to simplify Jung's ideas.
What it comes down to is deciding whether to have a conscious midlife crisis or an unconscious one. Both choices suck, but I think that you will come out the other end in better shape if you choose a conscious one.
Yours,
Red Paw
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
why red paw?
Red Paw
Red Paw
Is a snow leopard
Rare strong and beautiful
She is fast and fierce
Quick to pounce
No one has noticed
That the paw is red
From blood
She does not limp
Denies pain in public
The paw bleeds
When I am hurt or sad
She leaps to my defense
She is the second line of defense
After Ogre Anger
I am learning to control
Ogre Anger
When she rages
I step back
Say: what hurts?
Am I sad?
I can hold Ogre Anger inside
As she subsides
Then for a moment
There is a voice who turns against me
My fault that I am hurt or sad
Do I deserve it?
Red Paw
Will not stand for that
She attacks that voice
She is viciously funny
Sarcastic and ironic
If Red Paw
And Ogre Anger aren’t enough
My third defense
Is illness
I get a cold
I lose my voice
When it is too painful
To speak
Red Paw runs in the snow
Leaving a print
With blood
She reassures me
That it doesn’t hurt much
I am deeply grateful
To Red Paw
When I am calm again
She will curl in front of a warm fire
And lick the wound
6/19/06
Red Paw
Is a snow leopard
Rare strong and beautiful
She is fast and fierce
Quick to pounce
No one has noticed
That the paw is red
From blood
She does not limp
Denies pain in public
The paw bleeds
When I am hurt or sad
She leaps to my defense
She is the second line of defense
After Ogre Anger
I am learning to control
Ogre Anger
When she rages
I step back
Say: what hurts?
Am I sad?
I can hold Ogre Anger inside
As she subsides
Then for a moment
There is a voice who turns against me
My fault that I am hurt or sad
Do I deserve it?
Red Paw
Will not stand for that
She attacks that voice
She is viciously funny
Sarcastic and ironic
If Red Paw
And Ogre Anger aren’t enough
My third defense
Is illness
I get a cold
I lose my voice
When it is too painful
To speak
Red Paw runs in the snow
Leaving a print
With blood
She reassures me
That it doesn’t hurt much
I am deeply grateful
To Red Paw
When I am calm again
She will curl in front of a warm fire
And lick the wound
6/19/06
Monday, May 28, 2007
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