Hope, revisited

This is the second week of my latest bout of writer’s block. It’s all the more devastating because I had finally, finally, been making progress on the draft of the whole dissertation. The end was in sight, or so I thought. Then, for reasons known only to Psyche and the Ladies (those imaginal women with whose collaboration this work is being done), I hit a brick wall.

The first inkling I had that something was wrong was after I updated my bibliographic software, thinking to use the latest and greatest version for the final push. Bibliographic software, for those folks who have never used such a thing, saves the writer enormous amounts of time by collecting all the information about each book—author, date, title, publisher, etc.—in one place, and letting you pull in the reference each time you need to cite something from that work. Most importantly, the software collects all the citations in your paper, formats them properly, and then creates the bibliography at the end of the document automatically, right down to all the nit-picky details for the particular style you’re required to use. Anyone who’s ever typed a term paper can relate to this!

The software does this automatically, that is, when it’s working. I loaded up the new version, went to re-format the existing bibliography, and … the entire thing blew up. Locked up the computer, corrupted the files, and then refused to work any longer. Imagine my surprise, dear reader….

Once I got over the sheer horror of it (the files were, thank the Goddess, backed up), I was pissed. Royally pissed. It wasn’t like I hadn’t checked the software’s website for compatibility. Yes, it’s compatible with Windows Vista, and compatible with Word 2007. Hell, it’s compatible with everything! Except, it seems, my versions of Vista and Word. If you drill down on their web site about four levels, there’s this tiny little paragraph that says, “Oh, by the way, it’s not compatible with Vista X.X and Word 2007 X.X. We know about this, but we don’t know why it happens, and we don’t have a patch or a work-around. Sorry….” OMG!

All right. I can type in references, I can enter the code from the database (which I can still view, for some reason). I can live with the fourteen error messages that appear when I open or close any file that contains the codes, since the errors don’t seem to affect the document itself. And I can hope to be able to figure out how to format the whole thing down the road. No worries, mate!

But my momentum has vanished. Between the software fiasco and ten days of nursing a partner sick with the flu, momentum is a thing of the past, and I’m back to aimlessly turning electronic pages and feeling utterly, utterly overwhelmed by the magnitude of this process.

So I’m stuck again, trying to make sense of these events. My best guess is that by trying to “power through” to a first draft, I stopped “listening” to guidance from Psyche and the Ladies. That feels uncomfortably right. But it’s hell! Psyche doesn’t understand dissertation clocks. Mine runs out at the end of September, and the end of September is only a few heartbeats away….

The only bright spot in all of this is that I’ve had “touches” from some of my imaginal friends—a story by Kate Chopin, an email from a friend that references Susan B. Anthony (who showed up early on in this infernal process), some life events, several dreams—that seem to be pointing out what the Ladies want emphasized among the ocean of tears and dreams and data. If only I could get this depression to lift enough to keep my head above the water….

A new friend, a young man who’s also one of Robert Romanyshyn’s students, emailed me the other day to say he’s in a similar situation. We’re both, it seems, in the depths of what he has aptly termed “the Romanyshyn dungeon of despair.”

If I ever mention doing an imaginal research project again, someone please just shoot me. Matter of fact, just do it now and get it over with.

But whether or not I feel able to believe in a flower, in the midst of the frost and chill, the witch hazel blooms outside my front door, perfuming the air with its sweetness.

Hope

Blue and silent, a winter’s night.
Black branches sketched against the snow and stars.
I walk in the chill, alone, silence falling around me.

Spring, some spring, will come—
must come—
But my breath freezes on my lashes.

How can I believe?
How, in the frost and emptiness, can I believe in a flower?

Tarot reader

Is this a scary thing, or what? I normally photograph the day’s tarot reading, but today Miss Ellie refused to let me take the shot without her in it. And what a reading!!!

Did I mention that transformation is hell? More soon….

Keikimanu

Friends have asked about Keikimanu, the costume I wore at Halloween this year. Keikimanu, whose name means “little bird” or “baby bird” in Hawaiian, is an imaginal figure who appeared to me back 2000, toward the end of my first quarter at Pacifica. Part of the final exam for Robert Romanyshyn’s “Intro-duction to Depth Psychological Research” was to give a presentation that expressed in some way our understanding of the material we had covered.

My topic was clear. My mother had died from complications of Alzheimer’s disease in December of 1999. I wanted to talk about our culture’s ways of dealing with illness, dementia, and death, and I wanted to do so from an imaginal perspective. Pacifica had opened up the imaginal world to me once more, and given me a framework and tools to explore psychological issues through artwork, dreamwork, and other non-rational modes of experiencing which my 20-year career in the “hard” sciences had not allowed me to express.

As I began to think about what I wanted to say, it was clear that the topic was still very “hot” for me—my emotions were close to the surface and threatened to turn any presentation into a flood of tears. Yet the experience of watching my mother marginalized, institutionalized, and medicated into oblivion demanded to be spoken and explored.

One day as I sat pondering this dilemma, I heard the word “keikimanu.” Not knowing what it meant, but recognizing that it as Hawaiian, I looked it up and discovered the meaning. Over the next few days images began to appear in connection with this word, which I now recognized as a name, and finally I went down to my studio to see what would emerge when I began to try to give form to this being who seemed to be visiting. Keikimanu’s mask was the result.

Masks are wonderful things—they allow us to become something or someone different from our ordinary selves. When I put it on, it terrified Wendy the dog, who would not stop barking and snarling; she had to be shut up in another room. I felt different—more powerful, less vulnerable. But more than that, as soon as the mask was completed, the presentation fell into place: a three-act “play” in which I told the story of my mother’s illness and death from the perspectives of my mother, her doctor, and myself. In between acts, Keikimanu provided narrative and interpretation of the larger psychological and archetypal perspective. Keikimanu also introduced and closed the play with a Hawaiian chant honoring the ancestors. Anyone who knows me today will recognize how out of character that would be even now, and seven years ago I was far more shy and introverted. But Keikimanu gave me courage and the ability to watch and witness rather than simply experiencing the emotions.

Keikimanu also took part in my final presentation at Pacifica in 2003—it seemed fitting that he/she help me express what those three years of intense learning had meant to me. Again, he/she chanted in honor of the grandmothers and grandfathers, offering thanks to those who had been present with my classmates and me during that time. And since then, the mask has been hanging in the foyer here at home, reminding me of the imaginal friends and guides who accompany me on my journey.

So this year, when I started thinking about Halloween, Keikimanu volunteered to be my “costume.” It was great fun putting the rest of him/her into physical form. Now, if I could only fly!

Blessings

A conversation with a friend and counselor this morning helped start me on the road back to center after three or four of the most difficult weeks of my life. Events recently on all levels and in all areas of my life have provoked a crisis of faith for me. I had begun to question the reality of what I call “guidance” in my life—my contact with the Divine and the reality of the imaginal world—and without the certainty of guidance, my life would be a series of random, meaningless events. In response to the conversation, and in gratitude and love for all my fellow-travelers, I offer this prayer:

Thank you, God, for this miracle that is my life. Bless all of us who walk this path together. Be with us in this difficult time. Thou knowest my inmost heart, oh Lord—I pray for the highest good for us all. Grant us strength, love, and insight in all we do. Mitakuye oyas’in….

Help us find the courage to walk forward with open eyes and bright faces. Grant us wisdom and compassion for ourselves and for each other. Guide our way, oh Lord, hold us and show us the next step on our soul path. Mitakuye oyas’in….

May we be a light for each other; may we be a blessing for each other; may we be angels for each other as we walk through dark times. Bless us, Great Spirit, and guide our path. Mitakuye oyas’in….

Falling apart

In his new book The Wounded Researcher (2007, Spring Publications), Robert Romanyshyn (my dissertation advisor at Pacifica) presents a way of doing psychological research that keeps soul in mind. The book landed in my mailbox on Monday, at a crucial moment when my life and my research both seem to be falling apart. Romanyshyn’s words remind me that this falling-apart is part of the work of soul, the work of life itself.

Romanyshyn’s approach to psychological research is an imaginal one, in which the researcher is understood to be chosen or claimed by the research topic rather than choosing the topic herself. Rather than being the author of the work, the researcher becomes the agent, the one who listens and gives voice to what the work itself wishes to say. As Romanyshyn points out, in the process the researcher is worked on, or worked over, by the soul of the work. Transformation is inevitable—and almost never pleasant. This is the approach I’ve used in my dissertation. Next time I suggest an imaginal research topic, someone please just shoot me.

When we undertake a research project from an imaginal perspective, we have to give up our ego’s ideas for the work because we’re not the one in charge. As with anything else when you’re truly in the imaginal, the ego isn’t driving, and that is difficult to comprehend, much less to accept. When the work falls apart and simply will not go where we want it to, it’s a reminder that we’re not listening to the voice of the work itself. I’ve experienced this again and again in my dissertation process. Every time I’ve thought I “had it” and understood what the dissertation was about and how to say it, whatever “it” was has dissolved and vanished, leaving me confused, grieving, and emotionally worked over. Only now (four years into it) have I finally given in to the necessity of letting go of my own desire for this work to be something that serves my own ego.

On page 45 of this new book, Romanyshyn says, “An approach to research that keeps soul in mind has to make a place for the soul of the work to speak beyond the calculus of a researcher’s subjective prejudices.” I’m beginning to realize that my dissertation, the work itself, has been speaking to me all along but I’ve failed to listen adequately. I wanted something different, something “bigger,” something that fulfilled my ego’s needs but obviously not the needs of whoever or whatever it is that wants to speak through me.

This experience has been profoundly painful, but I find myself finally moving beyond denial and into acceptance—-and into the mourning that the loss requires. Romanyshyn describes a similar experience in the process of writing his own book. “Certainly for me the many false starts, each of which began with enthusiasm and clarity and ended in ashes, were a slow process of letting go, a slow and difficult process of mourning” (p. 62).

The process of mourning, Romanyshyn suggests, is both essential and transformative to the process of research:

The researcher whose work has collapsed and resists all efforts to restore it falls into . . . an abyss. It is the dark night of the work. It is the moment when loss becomes a descent into the as-yet undreamed possibilities in the work, a descent from the researcher’s hold on the work to the soul of the work. It is a descent into the complexities of the claim that the work has made upon the researcher and a descent into that place where this complex claim might be dissolved and transformed into the unfinished business in the soul. . . . (p. 68)

When he speaks of research, I believe that what he says is just as valid for all deep experiences in our lives, certainly all deep losses. Mourning any profound loss or change in our life—-death, loss of a job, failure of a relationship, our heart’s desire seemingly crushed—-is an opportunity to descend into the abyss and there, perhaps, find as-yet undreamed possibilities. The experience of loss gives us the chance to see that something of soul is guiding this life of ours, and we can’t force it into a known form.

One thing that Romanyshyn repeats again and again: “What we love we lose, and in that moment we begin to see the love that claims us . . . through different eyes.” And again, on the next page: “What we love we lose, and mourning is thus an inevitable aspect of love. . . . Mourning is a tricky business—-a business in which the desire to restore what once was and has been lost outweighs the hard task of re-membering the loss” (pp. 64-66).

To be true to our soul, though, we need to be willing to release our ego’s attempt to hold on to what we love and what we most fear to lose. We must somehow be willing to experience the pain, mourn the loss, and be transformed in some way.

For we can’t escape the loss we fear so much: loss and change and falling apart are inevitable. Death, after all, is only life’s other face. Somehow we have to continue the life our soul has placed in our path and let it lead: we have to let this drama, this journey, this encounter, have its own way with us. Marianne Williamson says, “There is a principle in A Course in Miracles stating that it is not up to us what we learn, but only whether we learn through joy or through pain.” If we don’t learn whatever it is that’s being offered this time, with this experience, we’ll be given yet another opportunity; will it be a joyous one? Each experience of deep loss or great change presents us with an opportunity, whether we like it or not, and very little choice but to learn another way of being. Transformation: this is the profound and painful gift that falling apart offers.

Have I mentioned that transformation sucks rotten eggs?

Assassin assassinated!

Hope no one here is squeamish about spiders and bugs….

This lovely lady, probably the common Hentz’s orbweaver (Neoscona crucifera), lives right outside my dining room window. Legs and all, she's probably a little larger than a dime. The other night she had herself quite a feast! The victim was an assassin bug. This I determined only after locating the remains the next morning on the ground below the second-story window. I felt like a CSI digging around in the dirt with my forceps and magnifying glass looking for body parts! Once I knew what it was, I was able to identify its face through the silken shroud.

For those as ghoulish as myself, here’s the shot. (The bug is nearly upside down; locate one of the eyes to the right and just below the center of the picture to orient yourself. If you’re really curious and want to know what it looked like before its demise, google “Reduviidae Zelus” and look at some of the images there.)


Death is, after all, only life’s other face.