the collective unconscious

I lost my keys a little while ago. I was on my way out the door to go and soak in wild hot springs with my young stud, so I didn't let it bother me. I knew they would turn up when we got back.

But as we camped and hiked and soaked I turned the problem over in my mind. I'd checked the drawer, all my bags, the table, the counter...I mean, come on, it's a 12-foot house. How hidden could they be? Of course, with Anainn around, 12 feet might as well be a series of echoing caverns. Those keys could very well be wadded up inside my favorite shirt, wrapped in cash nipped from my wallet, and buried under the floorboards with my cell phone on top. Dipped, naturally, in hummus. That's NOTHING to him. Would take him the minute-and-a-half I've pared my bathroom visits down to (any longer, and who knows what could happen! I'm going to break a minute by February, I can feel it...).

Then, one night, under the clear stars of the desert, I had a dream. Carl Jung was crooking his finger at me from a chair near a window.

"Pssst," he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. "I know where your keys are." He pointed to the wardrobe, which flew open, and I saw my grey corduroys there. of course! I had been wearing those cords the day before! The keys must be tucked into the pocket!

I was so excited the next morning. A personal message from Jung himself! I babbled excitedly to Stud about how Jung's theory of the collective unconscious and the mysterious synchrony of dreams was always taking flak from the scientific community for being "unprovable." Well here I had the means to prove it. Should I return home and find the keys in the pocket of my cords, it would PROVE that there is a collective wisdom larger than ourselves that can transmit messages in dreams!

"Or," remarked Stud calmly, "That some part of your brain remembered where you'd put them and, once the constant buzz of your consciousness was out for the count, was finally able to make itself heard." I narrowed my eyes at him. 'Constant buzz'? 'make itself heard'? What, exactly, were we talking about here?

He smiled at me and nudged my arm. "You have to think of all possible ways of interpreting the evidence, or you haven't proved anything at all." He's a rocket scientist. (No, really. He's a rocket scientist.)

Finally our lovely journey to hot springs by way of snowy mountains by way of thin-walled hotel rooms (THAT, dear reader, is story for another time!) came to an end, and I eagerly raced to my wardrobe to feel in the pockets of my cords. I was really rooting for Jung, here.

But--strike one for mysticism. The keys were not there.

I was disconsolate all day. So much for my personal connection with Jung. So much for being able to stick my tongue out at all those überrational pooh-poohers out there.

Finally I dragged myself to the table to study for my finals. I opened my Theories of Personality text to review the reading.

And there, tucked into the pages of the chapter on Jung and the Collective Unconscious, were my keys.

the final final.

They are all over. And I'm pretty confident that I aced them all, so it seems my studying style of soaking in a bubble bath eating toast (with flashcards somewhere in the general vicinity) WORKS! Isn't this great news?

I sacrificed a lot these past few weeks, though. My daily meditation. My bouts of kung fu and hill running. Healthy eating. Equanimity with my children. So it seems that perhaps the benefits of taking so many courses at once do not outweigh the costs. I think I'll take on a lighter load next semester.

And by the by, in all of my research I discovered this interesting tidbit: a fully-functioning adult has, in general, only about 50% of her attentional processes free to devote to the needs of another. A young child, however, who is unable to care for himself, is hardwired to demand 100% of his caregiver's attention. Therefore, that niggling feeling that we can never give our kids all that they want---that we are never ENOUGH, somehow---is not a shortcoming in our parenting ability. It's biology. This is where those of you with caring and committed mates cash in---50% of you plus 50% of him/her is a pretty nice equation for your offspring.

There are certainly moments when I am utterly convinced that I am not equal to the task of raising my boys. Now I know why. And it helps, oddly.

This is getting long, but I wanted to relate this story:

This time last year, I had just initiated divorce proceedings from my husband of five years and moved out into a large sublet I could ill-afford. I had a barely-one-year-old and a traumatized, angry five-year-old and a daunting bicycle commute and a lot of emotions. I desperately wanted to create a memorable, warm, loving Christmas for my children. I needed to prove to myself that I could create a joyful family on my own.

So, when my then-5 year old begged for a Christmas tree (my ex had never allowed one) I was determined to make it happen. We walked a few miles to the closest purveyor of trees and I juggled a fussy infant while trying to talk my excited son down from the $80 eight-footer to the only one in my budget, a puny 4-foot fir. I paid for the tree and we started down the sidewalk, my son skipping with glee. That's when I realized there was no way I could carry my baby and that tree at the same time. Oh, I tried! I lashed the thing to my back---boughs scraped the baby's face. I rigged up a little towline---the friction tore off needles and branches. I alternated tucking it under my arms and hugging it with the baby on my back---too dangerous. Couldn't see. Finally I announced that we were going to take the tree on the bus. I got change from a very nice storekeeper and we waited a while at the stop. The first bus was too crowded to even think about shoehorning my suddenly multi-speciate family in there. The next bus didn't come for another half an hour. Baby was shrieking. Boy was restless and whiny. I stepped aboard the bus and put my change in. Then I went back for the tree, and the driver stopped me.

"You can't put that thing in here," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Please," I said, "It's our Christmas tree. I have to get it home. I'll just pop it in the way back and make sure it doesn't hit anybody and we're only a few stops away and it's their first tree..." I must have babbled for a few minutes at least, but the driver was unmoved. He drove away without us.

"Well, the next driver will be nicer," I said to the boys, mustering up some false cheer. In truth, I was near tears. That's when I realized I had put the last of my money in the Meanie's fare box. We couldn't afford another bus.

I don't know what I would have done next. I was at my wit's end.

(If you are wondering why I hadn't simply called a friend from the beginning, I can explain. It hadn't occurred to me. Remember, I wasn't sleeping---baby! new house! divorce!---and also, I was under the severe misapprehension that I had to prove, in these first few months alone, that I was TOTALLY self sufficient and could do EVERYTHING perfectly all by myself, or I would lose my kids.)

That's when the angel showed up.

She drove a blue SUV with a 4-year-old boy in the back. She pulled right up to the curb alongside me and called out "Do you need a lift with that thing?"

She helped me tie the tree to the top of her car. She made room inside for my entire brood and even shifted her son out of his carseat so we could put the baby in it. She told me she had seen me walking out of the tree lot and was shocked when she saw I was going to try to carry the thing home.

"Oh, were you buying a tree too?" I asked.

"No, we're Jewish," she laughed. "This is probably the only chance I'm ever going to get to tie an evergreen onto my car!" My heart spilled over. I felt like Mary being offered the stable. I felt like the beaten Jew who was helped out of the gutter by a despised Samaritan. All those holiday-good-cheer-fellow-man cliches suddenly seemed true and present and real. I did tear up, but she was nice enough to pretend not to notice.

They drove us right to our door, that wonderful family, and we waved goodbye with real warmth. I swept Xir up in a hug and said "Wasn't that AMAZING!"

"What do you mean?" he said. "We needed help and they helped us. That's how you be nice."

Amen.

Thank you, unknown woman, for the kindness you showed that day. You cannot know how much it meant. May everyone "be nice" to you forever and ever, and happy Hannukah.

empty love.

I have finals next week. Hence the dearth of posts of late.

My professor went on at some length last week about the importance of finding one's particular "studying style" (quotation marks his) and then sticking to it.

I am proud to announce that, as of this evening, I have discovered my "studying style". Here it is:

1) turn on the toaster oven (it's cold in my house and this is my main source of heat).

2) make and eat sequential toast (so as not to feel wasteful for running the toaster oven).

3) lounge in a hot, glittery bath with a wineglass of red cranberry juice (it looks like wine so I feel decadent, but does not make me drowsy or intoxicated, neither of which work for my particular "studying style").

4) have a box of flashcards in the general proximity of the bath.

5) from the bath, between sips of cranberry juice, organize a party for the post-bath evening.

I really like my "studying style". I'll let you know how I do on my finals.

That said, I wanted to share with you this rather interesting chart of Sternberg's Triangular Theory of Love. This is based on longterm studies of healthy relationships (according to whom? why, white western men with psychology degrees of course, so naturally it's universal). The basic theory is that there are only three essential components to a healthy love relationship. And here they are:

Having lived most of my twenties in the "Empty Love" scenario---commitment for commitment's sake--I suppose it is not surprising that I now find myself in a "Romantic Love" scenario: physical and emotional attraction sans commitment, ot the other two points of the triangle. Prior to my marriage I was involved in a "Fatuous Love" scenario, in which the object of my affection and I had committed blindly to each other without giving ourselves the time to form any true intimacy. My marriage was, essentially, a rebound from that one. Fatuous love: I don't recommend it.

Of course, none of these three situations is ideal. Studies show that companionate love (a long term relationship based on friendship and commitment, and the model followed by countries in which marriage is arranged) and the infrequently attained ultimate (consummate love, in which passion, intimacy, and commitment unite) are the only two models that predict long term health and happiness.

What do you think? Does this fit your understanding of love?

As for me---- I'm just memorizing the stuff. I'll form opinions after the final!

thanksgiving in the 12x12

For those of you who were wondering how one cooks a twelve-course meal, including a 12lb. bird, in a kitchen that looks like this:

Fear not. I'm about to enlighten you. As this was my first attempt at cooking for more than 4 people, I proceeded by trial-and-error. Error: blowing a fuse by baking a turkey, sauteeing onions, and boiling water all at once. Error: blowing a fuse yet again by baking a turkey, boiling potatoes, and listening to the radio all at once. Error: blowing the fuse once more by baking sweet potatoes, reducing gravy, and checking email all at once. Gak. Having, FINALLY, learned from my mistakes, I pushed the estimated serve time back about five hours and cooked one. thing. at. a. time. The boys were occupied by creating a paper tablecloth for the outside table (the only one that could hold us all!)

I put the dishes that were finished on top of the toaster oven to stay warm while other things cooked. I let go of my need to make everything from scratch and allowed my friends to bring rolls and pie. I listened to the Nat King Cole station on Pandora for 12 hours straight, long enough for 13 versions of "Baby, it's Cold Outside" to cycle through.

We had a wonderful time. The table the boys decorated turned out beautifully,

everyone had plenty to eat, and the storebought rolls were, predictably, the biggest hit. After twelve hours of prep, the meal was over in about 15 minutes. Then came cleanup. In a sink the size of a thimble.

And, just for the sake of science, here is what the dish drainer looks like after the detritus of a wonderful, joyous meal has been run through a thimble-sized sink. My cup--and my counter---runneth over.

I learn so much about the true nature of ritual and celebration every time I try to create one in limiting circumstances. I learn that joy has little to do with the setting and everything to do with the participants. I learn that little boys can make a celebration out of ANYTHING (including an old washcloth, a handful of chicken feathers, and some lego pieces). I learn that the less I worry about getting everything right, the more fun everybody has.

This year, I also learned that escaping right away to play in the snowy mountains with one's boyfriend is a great way to dissipate any accumulated stress.

I have so much to be grateful for.

when anainn came into the world

up from the ocean the mist finds its way

it blankets the earth at the dawn of the day

over the east, the sun burns through

a band of gold in a bed of blue

down by the shoreline the pelicans sweep

plunge through the heights and down to the deep

all i know is when the birds fly free

my heart sings along like a wild gypsy

now that you're here i'll take your hands

and lead you through this wondrous land

every moment is shining and new

and you're in the power, and the power's in you

up from the ocean and down from the hills

throughout all creation the power spills

all i know is when the power's in me

i fly like a bird through the high country

*****

Happy second birthday, Anainn. You've changed everything in my life for the better, simply by existing.

Here is what I wrote hours before you came into the world:

...The changes are coming, I feel them without fear or anticipation, just a steady knowledge of the shift to come. Perhaps Anainn chose me, now, to help usher me out of this place I have been stuck, to spur me for love of him to to make the changes and impossible choices I haven't made for love of myself.

Xir rustles and wakes. All the questions--his strength astounds me. Always ready to love, to readjust, to understand. I hate for him to see my mistakes, to suffer the effects of my bad choices. I wanted to spare him that. We all must, we mothers. How do we bear it, generation after generation, this terrible, painful love? What I have done to my mother. What we all do to our mothers. And what is done to us in turn. Yet the love, that wonderful love and those tiny hugs and kisses! Perpetuation of life, drudgery, all of the pitfalls and immensities of existence for the sake of that love.

It's all worth it. I love you, Anainn.

xir's world

Xir fished around under the refrigerator with the broom this morning to retrieve a car that had rolled underneath. What he came up with was:

-two toy mice

-a marble

-a Sacagewea dollar

-a koosh ball (has it been under there since the '80s, I wonder?)

-myriad hair bands

-several magnets

-dustballs enough to insulate a smallish shed

-a lost bakugan ball.

The way he greeted this bakugan ball was downright lyrical. He sang to it. He carried it around murmuring to it that this was the happiest day of his life. He carried out a little ceremony honoring the car that had rolled under the fridge in the first place, for 'rescuing' the bakugan. He took it into the bath with him. He tucked it into bed beside him.

However, this was the first I'd heard of it. I had no idea that a) the bakugan was his favorite toy or b) that it had been lost. Lately I've come to understand just how circumspect this extraordinarily special and exasperating six-year-old is.

"If Baba gets remarried I'll have a step-sister," he mentioned as we walked to the store today. (How long has THAT been percolating?)

"ladies and gentlemen", he announced into his sing-along-cassette-player mic, "the world will now be ending because of meteors and climate change. But the Andromeda galaxy will be all right."

"Do you know what Juan Pablo did one time? He held my arms down so I couldn't block Kenny Rey when he punched me. He was making me the victim. But that was a long long time ago when Kenny Rey was my enemy." Whoa, whoa, you had an ENEMY? Someone PUNCHED you? "It was a long time ago mom. When we still had drama class." You had drama class?

This child growls along behind me on hands and knees, biting the clothes that hang from the racks, as I try to buy him shoes. When I hiss under my breath that he should stand up because he is embarrassing me, he responds "I am a saber-tooth cat and they do not care about embarrassment." When I use my banshee voice to tell him that saber-tooth tiger or no, he is not getting any shoes until he gets up out of the middle of the aisle and removes his teeth from the merchandise, he doesn't bat an eyelash as he responds "you mean saber-tooth CAT. You always get that wrong. There was never any such thing as a saber-tooth tiger."

He happily wears the waldorfy linen tops and chunky knit scarves I make for him, though I don't know how much longer that will last. He believes in the Tao but not the tooth fairy. He hums his own theme music as we walk along, pretending his hands are men, engaged in an eternal fight against one another using anything we pass as weapons: sticks, acorns, blades of grass, bougainvillea flowers. He has firm plans to save the world by a) gathering up all of the garbage humans have piled into landfills and loading it into a spaceship bound for incineration by the sun and b) sailing a ship equipped with two extremely large cups, which he will fill repeatedly with water from the sea and deliver to villages around the world that do not have enough drinking water.

I will discuss the difficulties of desalinization with him at some future time. Though, for all I know, he's already got that angle figured, and is just playing his cards close to his chest. I wouldn't be surprised.

a night at the museum

It is amazing to me how quickly one can go from scrubbing a kid's vomit from the floor to having giddily insightful conversations in a secret restaurant with world-class artists, conductors, and editors.

There seem to be moments in my life when charm flows through me like a river and I can keep company with anyone. I can't control when they come and don't ever anticipate them, but when they occur I am so grateful, and overcome with the remembrance that life is like this: flooring us with sudden shifts and new directions. It is so easy to think that the breadth of one's experience is always only going to be just what is happening now. But it has always been so much more than that; and the changes can take your breath away.

I have been extraordinarily lucky in the people whose lives have crossed mine. They remind me every day what is possible, how very much we can make of our lives. If not us, then who?