Category Archives: Dreams

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HOW DO YOU KNOW YOUR ARCHETYPE?

John B Rowe, PhD

 

            One way to know your archetypes is by paying attention to your bouts of depression or to your moods. Often, some image or some emotional-laden problem is crying out for attention. And as James Hillman (Re-visioning Psychology, 1997) reminds us, the voice of psyche is often first heard in our pathologies, our sufferings.

            Archetypes transcend rational thought. They are more akin to the imagination, which is why archetypes often shine through, not in what we know or think we know or want to know, but in the language of dreams – images. These images are often depicted in extreme forms – psyche’s way of saying, “Hey! Are you paying attention?”

            Not only do archetypes transcend and challenge rational thought – the language of the ego – but they speak to us in the language of opposites. For example, a dream image may present an anima image as insisting on a divorce (eg. A wife tells her husband abruptly that she wants to end the marriage); but the scene takes place with the husband sitting on a couch with his friend at the other end of the couch, providing solace and advice about what to do. The wife tells her husband she has exhausted all means she knows of to imitate the marriage of her parents, which is not anything close to what the husband wants for marriage. And then there’s a discussion between the husband and his friend about not fighting the anima’s demand but seeking a third way through marriage counseling. Opposites abound! You could say, here, that the image of “marriage counseling” is the primary form of unconscious language: presenting opposites, not for the purpose of integration – though that may, indeed, occur – but for the purpose of creativity and transcendence. By holding the tension between a marriage that feels confining versus a marriage that leans toward dissolution and freedom, is a place for the mystery of love. It is not so much a space that requires marriage manuals as much as psychic room for the imagination to consider and work with the opposites.

            A marriage based on ego is typically one based on adaptation, but also one that tends towards disassociation – repressing vital energies of the psyche for the purpose of keeping the peace or maintaining a semblance of love, which is actually closer to accommodation. Real marriage between real souls involves both love and hate, by necessity. We might re-label archetypal hate as momentary or chronic friction, relational spats, or all out warfare. But love and hate are potent forms of psychic energy that require mature adults to exert enormous strength and magical creativity in order to prevent their repression. Loss of the tension of love versus hate, can devolve into passivity, accommodation, and depression and anxiety, not to mention loss of trust that your partner is really there for you as an authentic individual, but only as an extension of themselves or some compromise manifestation of adaptive love. A divorce, then, from the point of view of psyche could represent a psychological split and a failure of imagination – a decision to forever separate love from hate, in favor of the hated marriage and a longed for freedom accomplished through destruction of the marital container.

            Archetypes, then, find their way into consciousness through our pathologies or sufferings, through imagination and non-rational creativity, through honoring and working with the tension of opposites, and through trust in the enormous energy experienced while engaging with archetypes. For example, love grows when hate is honored as a legitimate voice within psyche. And hate diminishes when it doesn’t have to squash itself. The archetype of the Self which represents cosmic, universal love and the unification of all opposites becomes the compass of a marriage, representing the Great Mother, who maintains and regulates the ecological balance of all psychic energies. You see this clearly in the myth of Psyche and Eros where Eros must descend into the Underworld in order to provide wisdom and strength and creativity so that Psyche can overcome her dark ordeals, and so become a suitable equal for Eros and their eventual marriage.

            It takes a very strong Ego to accomplish all of this. Archetypes can destroy a marriage, to stay with this example, if the Ego has not developed adequately. One of the most important functions of individual psychotherapy is to repair developmental wounds that hinder the Ego’s ability to work with archetypes. And one of the most important capacities of the an individual psychotherapist is the capacity to embody the energy of the Wise Sage, the Explorer, and the Wounded Healer in order to provide a loving container where individuals and couples can go deeper into the unconscious in order to bring up from the depths the reality of the Cosmic Self and the archetypal energies that can both deform and transform a human being. This is the work of alchemy, which requires careful tending and an ability to resist simple solutions or quick fixes in service to the individual soul as well as the soul of a marriage.

 

 

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Understanding Dream Symbolism: The Role of Maternal Imagery

Every night recently, they offer themselves to me – a beautiful woman arrives, baring her breasts. The women entice me, willingly surrendering a view of their bodies for my pleasure. What’s up with this already?

My personal trainer, Sal, with whom I work out twice a week early in the morning, is a sharp cookie. A side benefit of having someone who knows how to keep my body healthy is that we have a shared interest in psychology and dreams.

“So Sal, what do you think it means that I’ve had multiple dreams this week of women baring their breasts?
Erik doesn’t miss a beat as I apply a foam roller to my quads. “Something to do with your mother!”

What a comedian, I think, and we laugh. But he’s probably right.

“That’s what they say,” I reply. “If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother.”

My psyche of late seems to be indulging in these symbols of maternal care. When I take the time to meditate on these sensual images, they calm me more than they arouse me. I feel strangely nourished and satisfied.

I try to imagine it – mother and child at the breast. What a lovely experience it must be! The giving and receiving of warm milk, the infant’s face against the soft, smooth skin of the mother, the scent of maternal care. This primal sustenance must, for the child, feel like the taste of eternity. For whatever time it takes to fill the child’s tummy, the outcome is that there is no unmet want or need. There is only pure joy. The ultimate in transcendence, an oxytocin dream. Is this, I wonder, a child’s earliest experience of God? A thing larger than life, something felt, momentarily and with reliable regularity until the day the child grows out of it, or the mother grows weary? Whatever time it lasts, a child knows what it is like to be one with mother and one with God – mother as priestess. And when all goes well, the child learns to remain one with the Source even when she is gone – an internalized connection to her Presence even in her absence. Mother and child have become One.

I imagine that I felt that way before memory and before time and before loss. Before the arrival of words and understanding. Mother as substance and touch and smell and experience. Mother as the taste of transcendence and eternity. Mother as symbol. But because of the necessity of separating from mother, in order to grow and become an individual, those earliest desires and needs have to be relinquished and, to some great extent, grieved, never ever returned to. Never, ever again to be repeated.

And yet, we remember and we long to return, not to the past but forward to current-day sources and presences, replacing maternal nourishment and ease with suitable substitutes: relationships, religion, academics, and nature. Seeking that which satisfies ultimately and eternally. For men, certainly, women often carry the hope of transcendence through love and sexuality. A rescuing from the pain of loneliness and emptiness. The bare-breasted women in my dreams seem to be participants in healing those ancient wounds. And so, I welcome them as they welcome me.

But I welcome them not just as symbols of Mother, but also manifestations of Sophia, the feminine face of God. This was where Jung argued with Freud and his propensity for reducing all dreams to infantile sexual wish fulfillments. Jung said that our dreams are more than regressions. Dreams are also expressions of a soul’s urge to be fully alive. It is the nature of our souls to want to suck from life as much juice as it can. The unconscious doesn’t just lead us back to the past. We are also continually being drawn toward a future where life is lived with zeal, with meaning, and with purpose. When we can get out of our own way and stop making excuses for not living more fully, the psyche offers it’s reservoir of energy for our creative imaginations. A woman might help a man with this, but it is the divine Self from which he needs to drink. A woman can often point the way to the Self, the God within, but every man has to take up the challenge of living courageously and creatively. Otherwise the man simply projects on a woman a weight no woman can or should bear.

So I am happy with these dream-women who show up now and then: these angels of the night, guardians of eternity and divine love. It’s as if they are saying to me, “You’re on the right track. Keep going. Keep loving what you love and keep giving your love in whatever ways and to whomever you can.”

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Unlocking Dream Insights: Discover Hidden Aspects of Yourself

Where do they come from? These characters, images, and emotions that show up nightly in our dreams? And what purpose do they serve?

When a female acquaintance, whom I had not seen in years, showed up in a dream and nonchalantly mentioned she was closing her counseling practice for a couple of months, I was shocked. But then, as we continued our conversation, I exclaimed, “I’d love to take two months off from my counseling practice!”

I would? I wondered doubtfully when I awoke from the dream…. “Yes, I really would!”

But where had that burst of enthusiasm come from? It’s not anything that had been on my mind. I’d taken as much as two weeks off for vacation before, but never have I imagined closing up shop for two whole months! If you had suggested I take such an extended break from counseling 20-25 clients a week, I would have immediately thought you were crazy. Where would you even come up with such an idea? I can’t afford to take off that much time.

But here is this woman – a therapist I greatly respect – rising up from my past, completely out of the blue, planting a seed in my mind that immediately formed roots. I could visit Rome for a week, then drop down into Florence or Barcelona or go over to Greece. Or I could plan a visit to my favorite ocean village, Ocracoke, where I could read, write, ride my bike, and walk my dog while getting my fill of scrumptious seafood. Or go camping in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Or all of the above!

The obvious conclusion is that there is a person inside of me whom I forget exists, until a character in a dream wakes him up.  Someone who is capable of challenging my daytime self-image and habitual routines. He can turn my life upside down, yet he also wants to make of my life an adventure. At 71 years of age, there’s only so much time left to visit places I want to see and to do things I’d like to do outside of the metronome-like schedule of work and the rather mundane rhythms and rituals of life.

Who is he, this guy who is usually asleep? A risk taker, for sure. Edgy, spontaneous, fun, and a little nuts, this alternative version of myself. But imminently likable, this fellow. He would take off to Rome, for example, not for a quick tour of all the usual sites. But a languishing, sinking into, and savoring of the rich and glorious culture, the architecture, and the tastes and aromas of Italy; deep dives into ancient stories that were formative for Western civilization, along with ample space for wandering and experiencing whatever wants to be discovered. This unknown guy would be a blast to travel with. The contagion of his effervescent energy is palpable.

But then, what about her, the woman in my dream. Who is she and where does she come from?

Jungian psychology posits the notion of archetypal patterns of behavior and energies that are universal – they appear in the consciousness of every culture and civilization. Archetypes aid and influence our mental, emotional, and spiritual growth. They show up in dreams, such as the archetype of Healer or the Divine Feminine, embodied in the quite human image of my female friend inspiring me to tap into her kind of energy. Archetypal energy – say, the energy of adventure or rejuvenation or, in Tarot, “the Fool” – might be thought of as precious ore lying buried in our depths. Indeed, maybe that’s what we are, really – alchemical mixtures of necessary but yet-to-be discovered and yearning-to-be-developed energies. Places inside of us, hidden or barely recognized, subterranean streams and wondrous terrains that reveal novelties and experiences waiting to be mined.

The gift of the night is that we get to go there, not just to uncover precious ore, but to bring it back up to the surface for the betterment of our lives, our relationships, and our souls.

What characters in your dreams are waiting to be awakened?

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Therapy as Poetry

Poetry can be a form of therapy. But have you ever thought about how psychotherapy itself is a lot like poetry? Yeah, me neither.

Until the other night in a dream, I was telling a group of other psychotherapists that “Therapy is like poetry?” I sounded as if I knew what I was talking about.

But truthfully, before my dream, I had never considered the analogy.

It’s not so unusual for dreams to reveal knowledge that seems like uncommon wisdom — similar to the kind of wisdom found in poetry. Once I had a dream in which I heard the distinct voice of a German woman, with a thick German accent, telling me, “Whatever you do that is not from a place of authenticity, will incur a debt!” She sounded like she meant business, so when I woke up, I wasted no time calling a woman whom I had been dating for a short time to say what I had been afraid to say before my dream: “I’m sorry, but it’s over.” It was the right decision, though awkward and sad.

Dreams and poetry can do this for us, can’t they? Images and metaphors clarify and penetrate us in a way like no other forms of communication. Images speak to us, disturb or enlighten us, and they can transform us. Through images, we are able to imagine what’s going on with our souls and what our souls actually desire — authenticity, for example, as in the dream of the German woman’s warning.

A long time ago, I was in a marriage that would eventually dissolve, and I had a dream in which a man who was suicidal split himself, right in front of me, into multiple clones of himself. If it had been a poem, it would clearly have been a poem of travesty and despair and deep internal conflict. But, at the time, I didn’t interpret the dream, nor did I present it to my therapist. Only two years after my wife left me, did I dare open my dream journal to review what had been going on inside of me prior to my marriage’s demise. When I finally looked into the frightening image, I saw the self in me I had been afraid to face at the time I had the dream. I saw that my sadness, fear, and anger had escaped my conscious awareness because I did not want to see it. I had been holding onto my marriage too tightly, ignoring problems that were festering underneath what seemed like an otherwise very good relationship.

“Therapy is like poetry,” then, in the sense that therapist and client listen to the spoken images and the unspoken ones. Often, for example, it is the image of the “inner child” who has been forgotten and ignored. He or she will show up in symptoms such as burn-out, or irrational anger or overwhelming anxiety because that part of the self has not been given a voice in the cadence of our lives. Just as poetry can stir up emotions and thoughts we didn’t know we had, so does good psychotherapy make space for spontaneous thoughts and emotions that lead to healing and hope. It’s as if we need to speak out loud in order to know ourselves in the presence of someone who cares to hear our deepest inner rhythms.

I recall these lines from Rainer Maria Rilke’s poem “The Man Watching”:

How small that is, with which we wrestle,
what wrestles with us, how immense;
were we to let ourselves, the way things do,
be conquered thus by the great storm,—
we would become far-reaching and nameless.

What we triumph over is the Small,
and the success itself makes us petty.
The Eternal and Unexampled
will not be bent by us.

Think of the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when his opponent’s sinews
in that contest stretch like steel,
he feels them under his fingers
as strings making deep melodies.

Whoever was overcome by this Angel
(who so often declined the fight),
he strides erect and justified
and great out of that hard hand
which, as if sculpting,
nestled around him.
Winning does not tempt him.
His growth is: to be deeply defeated
by ever greater things.

Rilke is referencing the story of Jacob wrestling with the Angel of God in the Old Testament; but even if you aren’t familiar with that story, you can probably feel it’s sense in the “sinews” of your body and soul — especially during those times when an illness or a relationship or a loss has wrestled with you all night, or for weeks, or years. Or you’ve wrestled against something, as in my marriage, that you wouldn’t or couldn’t face — until, if you were to move on with energy and desire and hope, you had to come to terms with your own dark Angels.

So if we listen deeply, as in therapy we try to do, we may hear the sounds, the images, the hidden rhythms of our lives seeking to sing songs of our souls. We may have to let go of something precious — like our egos, or a relationship that’s run it’s course, or a dead-end job — but what we find may be far greater than we could have ever imagined.

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Unwanted Dreams and the Freedom of the Soul

In a recent dream, I was in the act of taking black and white snapshots of my father (long deceased) who was behind bars. He looked forlorn there, standing in a tiny jail cell where apparently he had been sentenced for an unknown crime.

I don’t like these kind of dreams. They’re disturbing and depressing. Though my father and I were never close, I still would never want him to be jailed. But I also know that in my dream my father’s image is actually a stand-in for a part of me. So what’s up with that? What part of me is feeling sentenced?

I have a new appreciation of late for people who suffer with chronic pain. When my orthopedist, who has already replaced my right hip with an artificial joint, looked with me at an X-ray of my arthritic left hip, it made perfect sense why I had been having lots of pain and lots of difficulty walking. Bone on bone! A cortisone shot would help to tide me over for a few months, but a second hip operation is definitely in my future.

Pain does things to the mind. It makes me feel old at 65. Even though I work out, try to eat right, stay active, work five days a week, and basically have a very positive outlook on life, I have been feeling much more “mortal” recently. I’m quite unhappy about what I refer to as “design flaws” in the human anatomy — those much too human vulnerabilities that seem to rear their heads more and more among almost every friend I know.

When friends and colleagues are stricken by illness, I automatically assume that I am immune from such things because I take such good care of myself. Wrong though this thinking is, I hold onto it like a cherished possession, creating a neat image of immortality and invulnerability….And, apparently, setting myself up for this other dream-image of being sentenced behind bars.

But as I worked with this dream and after sharing it with my therapist, I realized that actually I am not sentenced. I have choices: a great surgeon whom I trust, a wonderful job that I find fulfilling and doesn’t require a lot of physical strength, and retirement savings that I can use to get me through a time of rehabilitation after surgery. I am blessed with caring friends, a loving and supportive relationship, and a wonderful family. So with a new hip, if all goes as well as the first hip replacement, I should be pain free again. But obviously, I am entering a phase in my life when I will need to alter my delusional expectations of invincibility as I make some adjustments to my level of activity.

Growing old gracefully is not necessarily for the weak of heart. But it seems now to be a better challenge than kicking and screaming against reality. I won’t, obviously, live forever; but neither am I sentenced to the jail of my own making.

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THE SYMBOLIC LIFE: HOW I GOT INTO DREAMWORK

Jacobs Ladder - Chagall  Before beginning group dreamwork, I had a dream. I had heard Joyce Hudson speak at the Summer Dream Conference at Kanuga, and when I came home, I began to wonder how I could develop a dreamwork community in my hometown. So, here’s my dream:

I am in a bookstore in an old two-story house, and I’m upstairs on the second floor. There are tables of books throughout the room, and an elderly gentleman, dressed in a grey suit and white shirt is standing behind me. I turn and ask him: “Do you know where I might find a book called ‘The Symbolic Life’?” He points to the table beside of me and says, “Sure, it’s right there.” I look, and there on the table is a large volume with the title, ‘The Symbolic Life.” I wake up from my dream.

When I awoke, I felt as if I had received an important message, but I had never heard of a book called “The Symbolic Life.” I had a few minutes before seeing my first client for the day, so I decided, “What the heck! I’ll glance through the titles on my bookshelf to see what I might find.” So, there on the shelf where I keep a number of Carl Jung’s volumes from his collected works, I found a book with the title, The Symbolic Life (Jung, 1939/1950, [CW 18, pra.638]). I attached no real significance to this discovery. But I was certainly curious, so I opened the book. There, in the table of contents, was a chapter entitled, “The Symbolic Life.” Now I was excited. What had my dream done?

Later that day, I took time to read this chapter. It was a presentation that Jung gave in 1939 to a group of Catholic and Protestant clergy in London. In it, Jung outlines his basic approach to the psychology of the unconscious, but it’s the ending of his talk that hooked me. Jung tells these clergy that Christianity must stop looking to Jesus to save us from our sins. Instead, Jung went on, the faithful must be as courageous as Jesus was so that they might “take up their own crosses.” This idea is Jung’s basic view of individuation. But Jung goes on to say that the path of individuation leads straight through “the least of these” Jung says, “What if ‘the least’ of these is actually in me?” What if what is most valuable and most essential to my own path of individuation is what I consciously or unconsciously reject or dismiss?

To say that a lightbulb went on for me is an understatement. In reading Jung’s words, I knew what it meant for me to do group dreamwork. I would equip others with the tools they need in order to connect with their own shadows – the “least of these” in me and in them, so that we, too, might live courageously and live with a sense of meaning and purpose, just as Jesus teaches us to do.

So soon after my discovery, I invited people in my church and community to a public presentation on “Dreams as a Spiritual Path.” I put together a PowerPoint presentation, and about 50 people attended. Afterwards, 10 people signed up to study Joyce Hudson’s book, Natural Spirituality (2000), and we agreed to meet every other week for two hours to learn about Jungian psychology and to practice dreamwork by using the projective method taught by Joyce Hudson.

Over the ensuing years, enough people took the course that I offered, that I started two dreamwork groups. I later moved to Charlotte, losing touch with the dreamwork community for a while. But since then, I was invited back to Davidson to join a dreamwork group made up of some of my original group members plus some new folks. This has been an amazing journey and a wonderful coming full circle for me. I continue to be in awe at the ways in which our dreams guide us and serve us in the life and work of the soul.

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Hudson, J. (2000). Natural spirituality: recovering the wisdom tradition in Christianity.                 Danielsville, GA: JRH Publications.

 

Jung, C. G. (1950). The symbolic life. In R.F.C. Hull (Trans.), The collected works of C.G.                 Jung (Vol. 18, pp. 267-290).

John Rowe is a psychotherapist and spiritual director in private practice in Charlotte, NC. John is also an ordained United Methodist clergy (since 1978) and received his Ph.D. in Depth Psychology from Pacifica Graduate Institute in 2007. He has participated in several Summer Dream and Spirituality Conferences and he completed the Spiritual Direction training through the Haden Institute in 2016. John now serves on the board of the newly formed Haden Foundation which raises funds to provide scholarships for those who wish to receive dream leader or spiritual direction training through the Haden Institute.

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CALLING ALL DREAMERS

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