Just a Horse

In telling the story of Conn-Eda in his book The Water of Life, Michael Meade pauses at the moment when the hero of the story has ridden a small, shaggy horse under the waters of a lake and over a huge, flaming mountain. The horse, given to Conn-Eda by an old Druid, is unimpressive, but as is often the case in stories like these, the unimpressive element is exactly the right tool for the job. If Conn-Eda is to find what he is looking for, Meade says, he has to put his ego aside an let the unimpressive horse take the lead. The horse knows its way and will take him place his ego would never be willing to go. When he has come through both water and fire, the horse checks in with Conn-Eda, who is badly burned, but still alive.

Meade says stories are psychodiagnostic, meaning what strikes a person most in a story, what sticks for awhile, be it an image, an emotional reaction to some element, or open question, has something to say about the condition the person is in. I love the idea of laying down the ego and riding the shaggy horse for awhile. I love thinking about the strange and frightening territory the horse might take me through. Some days, the thrill of that idea is enough. But today part of me fears, even thinks it is certain, that  when we come to the burning mountain, we will find that the horse is just a horse after all, and we will be facing the fires of the burning mountain alone.

Tank Girls

I had a dream that I was near the beach. The sand was like snow, and it made the roads slick as I drove. After getting stuck a couple of times in the deep drifts, I pulled over. People were driving fast around a curve in the road, and suddenly, a vehicle that was half camper, half army tank came swerving by. Unable to stop, it barrelled into the side of a building, then bounced, flipped, and came to a stop.

I rushed over, and when the door opened, I saw that it was a group of girls inside, about junior high age, maybe a bit younger. I looked for the driver, or the parent, whatever adult was surely in there with them. But there was no one. The girls explained, they were here for a school trip, and there had been no adult to accompany them. But they were fine on their own, they insisted, a little shaken, but not hurt. I quickly looked them over as they climbed out of the tank, one by one, and started walking down the road. I offered them my phone number, in case they needed some help. I felt they should at least have access to a responsible adult if they needed one. No, they said, we’re fine without you. Then one of the last girls, one I seemed to know from some vague time in the past, turned around and said yes, maybe I do want your number, just in case. So I wrote it out for her and watched her walk away.

It seems I have not just one determined, resilient child inside, but a whole tribe of them, riding around in a tank.

 

With a Sledgehammer

I heard from a Teacher of mine last week about an experience he had in a medicine ceremony, how he asked to be opened, either gently or with a sledgehammer. As is so often the case (we get what we ask for, and spirit is playful) he got the sledgehammer.

In my clients, I have seen that there is a wide variety of willingness to be changed by a healing process. Some approach only when pain becomes so intense they must do something. They fight me, and themselves, all the way, wanting no more change than is absolutely necessary. Others approach sensibly, calmly, having identified something they want to change and finding the time is right to deal with it. A few seem to push themselves hard, boldly and recklessly confronting everything, always wanting the revelation right now.

I’ve often been in this last category myself. For years, it seems, I thought that all my self-work must be done with a sledgehammer. Now I know a little more of gentleness, and patience. But I must confess, the sledgehammer is still my favorite tool.