Miss Ladie

A Stage Play

By David D. Wronski

Just some old lady with a firm grasp of the plain ol’ obvious . . .

So she know a thing, or more.

CLICK to read

 

 

𝐃𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐝 𝐃. 𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐤𝐢’𝐬 𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀

David D. Wronski's

CINDERELLA

[Rumour has it that James Wood literary critic du jour of The New Yorker Magazine says ... "Wronski at his 'Wrambling' best!"]

On an average every day basis, she came off like you would say, she ain't "all that". As plain as a mud fence pretty much sums it up. Whatever prettiness was even there at all was scrubbed clean off with all the drudgery she had been put to. 

Her hair was naturally straight, which didn’t add anything to the facial picture. It was just there. Somewhat a scarecrow cut even by the standards of the time. How that little mess on top of her keppe came to be, that’s for later. Just saying, our Girl had a couple of what you call “evil” Sisters. But, not to worry, this "Cinderella" knew how to make lemonade from Lemons. You'll see. 

She slept on hay in the barn with the animals. Oh, the Sisters slept on hay too; but stuffed into burlap, then again covered with sturdy muslin, and again covered with high count cotton. Pretty swell by the standards of farm folk working their allotted parcel rented to them by the Kingdom; rent which was collected as a good portion of their crop and livestock productions. One wonders, how many turnips does one King need anyway? Or, even a whole Kingdom. Huh?

And, speaking of Kingdom ...

It was a time when it seemed everything was white alabaster or marble, gold and silver, ornate gilded plasterie, draperies woven with scenes of ultra luxe fanciful courtly lives; floor to ceiling mirrors, crystal chandeliers lit with colorful and fragrant beeswax candles. Ladies outfitted in period correct finery. The fashion called for costume changes appropriate of course for virtually every distinct hour of the day. With all the changes of wardrobe you can imagine the demands on the ladies who waited on M’Lady. And the demands of such a job for precision and jig timing. You want your Lady to be on time to the party, to do the jig. And, to be sure, looking like someone that stone good looking Prince might want to get jiggy with her jiggly. Mind you this was an earlier time, way before alliteration was even a thought.

It’s hard to pin down the historical time period we’re in with this story. The elites were at the zenith of their hoity toitiness and splendor; somewhere we can imagine mid-15th to 18th centuries. At the beginning of the so-called Renaissance they had just about had it living in close quarters with the hoi polloi. Not that it wasn’t fun. Picture a Tom Jones style bash. Bruegal’s Wedding Dance also comes to mind. The wheel of history moves, of course. Those Dark Ages coarse ways took a sharp turn, and then came all the fancy schmancy. That which is when this story is handed down with its peep into the high times back then.

The gents. In those days it was either black or a dark grey. Blue, only if it's a dark, dark blue. Any of the natural colors and lighter tints were for as the occasion dictated. Like don’t wear brown to a palace ball. And you don’t go on the Hunt with pajamas. That latter which were in the upper circles of the finest silk and designs which would make Hugh Hefner look like a hobo hermit. Net, net ... some duds. On those dudes.

Speaking of “Balls”. [Were we?] Wasn’t it some balls for Travis Kelce to go face to face with the coach on national live television. And now we're reading in the gossips how he and that Taylor Girl are gonna paint the town red — what color but that would you choose for the "Big Apple" — for the festivities in and around their historic modern day fairy tale nuptials. But, back in the day of our featured Princess//ingénue-in-the-rough, going to The Ball — at the palace, silly, where else do you think a ball should be. Or, even could be. Huh? Back then, with all the aforementioned excess of ladylike fuss, it's a hard act to follow. Especially for that gutter snipe of an Eliza Doolittlesque Cinderella. Looks wise, anyway. As far as erudition, Grrl done her homework. On the sly, mind you. Those evil Sisters were all about making sure Cindy knew her place, and stayed. Like how they would play what we in our day would call the game "Idea Man". "Hey Cinderella. There's a pile of poop over there! I have an idea! Why don't YOU go and clean it up?" To make matters even worse, those two evil Sisters were given to slinging shovels of literal shit through the window in the barn whilst our beleaguered heroine Girl was in dreamland. And, don't you know Mama expected that shit to be gone come the cockadoodledo. 

What do you call an artistic Rooster?

Look here! Don't go all critical and complaining about how this is going. It's my story. If you're not savvy enough to dig it — like in "scoop my shit" — then go play with the surprise toy in your MacDonald's happy meal. You have to be square to be cool; or, haven't you heard?

Like was said, it was a time of alabaster, marble, fancy gilding, big mirrors, high ceilings, and who could not be amazed at those crystal chandeliers. Makes Swarovski look like something you'd find in those bin-trays of plastic jewels on tables at the Five and Dime. Fancy. Fucking fancy!

Like in the original telling, our Prince of the evening was without a shadow of a doubt the most handsome sonuvabich on the known planet. Ever? Words don’t even come close. Seeing is believing. We'll leave the details to your imagination. Just let's say, he's a "catch".

Of course he had to show up dressed in the most beautiful sky blue uniform with white accents and trim, a full chest of colorful medals, a ceremonial sword which would later be removed after the opening ceremonies for better to shuck and jive at the socializing period of the event. And, you bet your booties there was dancing. Live band. In those days they knew how to rock it on a harpsichord, with plenty of various types and sized of circle drums. There were strings and pipes too. The music itself was even for those times a real mixed bag. There were the melodic and sometimes rousing standards of course; for couples' dances, and for groups. Their idea of jazz was for different: musicians each playing his own selected tune. Talk about jazz! There was also a type of Karaoke [hip-hop?], but with the player acting out a story to music with many times including some dancing too. 

Party! PARTY!!!

So you’re probably wondering by now since you already know the bones of how this story goes, you be asking how we get our Girl to the ball ... The Ball.

[At this very moment of writing this I have no idea how that’s gonna go. I’m having my own ball writing this.]

Whew! The fog has lifted.

How about she shows up in full on Goth? That would really stop them cold. Whether or not it would heat up the Prince, we haven’t gotten to that yet. Never mind the prancy uniform, our Prince was one [Prince]. 100%. He put the "balls" in The Balls. And, this was The Ball, so you can be sure his pants were especially extra tight. You get the drift. And, for sure, looking like that you could certainly get his "drift".

As Goth girls go, she was the shizz. She had a good body. Not too short, not too tall. Not too skinny, and not too fat. Goldilocks! No! Cinderella! Okay, already.

And for sure Goth ain’t Goth if it ain’t black. Kapische? That assertion there comes right out of the Goth handbook. The age of which latter be unknown and going back to the mists of pre-history. Yes, there is one. Book, that is. Her straight hair with that loose haystack styling was just her everyday. Black, naturally. Lovely sheen though; it testified to her health and strength. Like I said, lemonade from Lemons.

Clothes, get up-wise. That’s really a whole other story. How she got her get up, that is. Turns out our lowly Lass was born gifted with skilled hands. And, a smart head. She made her outfit herself. All hand sewn. With a flair for styling that was what probably turned his head when she showed up like Lady Gaga in a Pumpkin-like coach. I know. Hey! She's supposed to get home at the midnight hour sharp or it is said to have turned into a Pumpkin. But, this is my story. Loosen up your brain some. Okay?

This is getting a little hairy-dog, so I'll fast forward some. She shows up, heads turn, the Prince's too. They dance, love blossoms, she leaves. He's bereft. How come. She left! Get with the program!

Now, of course, the Dénouement.

Long story short ... He scours the land. He finds her. He whisks her away. They live happy ever after. The evil Sisters brood; but quickly fall back to character and begin picking on that other Sister. Rapunzel. 

It's a whole other story. Same structure, but with juicy other specifics and details and minutia. Like putting nasty stuff in her shampoo. Teasing her tresses whilst she sweetly dreams, only to have that Girl to spend the good part of the next morning brushing out that mischief. Scissors for some reason hard to fathom were off limits with Rapunzel's tresses. On account no doubt there's an evil Witch in that storied brew, and you know how persnickety witches can be when it comes to hair and all kinds of other growing things. They say Vidal Sassoon's Ma was a real one. No wonder. That would explain it.

Like that.

Basta!

𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐤𝐢 𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐎𝐡 𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐤𝐢 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐲 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

 

We Wronski's are widely represented in all fields. The arts. Letters. Science. But, with the "Wronski" genetics you can bet there's gonna be a twist or two in the mix.

Meet Uncle Samuel B. "Wrong Way" Wronski. He got the nickname "Twippler" on account of all those W's; "VTrip" to friends. That's on account of the "W" in the Polish tongue is pronounced like a "V". Kapishe? 

Purely as an aside, he was regularly dressed from Tripler, New York City. Mad Ave, don't you know; midtown. He was a class act sartorially, and the name of the shop had a sort of kismet thing going on with him. You know the store? They say it made Brooks Brothers look "racy". For those in the unwashed hinterlands, that's like saying the new-on-the-scene singer Aurora makes Taylor look like a school dance wallflower.

Girls will be girls. Thank heavens for them. Such a lovely garden of variety. Huh?

Anyhow ...

Seen here in the lab watching those dials and tweaking those buttons. As brainy a Wronski there never was one more so; but, like I said, things "Wronski" come with a twist. Which, by the way, is the way he likes his Martinis; 3 olives and a twist. Shaken or stirred? No. "Just pour that stuff in the glass, I know how to stir that shit by my own self". Out of his starchy lab coat and premises, our guy wasn't shy with the lingo.

Okay. That Wronski "twist". Seems Uncle, as good a scientist there was never another one to top him, he had unusual choices when it came to research study topics. While you would expect someone of his lofty caliber, academically and scientifically, that he would be out to find something to save the world, or maybe something that would top sliced bread or the classic mouse trap. No. He for reasons known only to hisself he chose from the other side of the scientific menu. "How many Angels fit on the point of a pin?" He's the leading scholar in that area of inquiry. "Why meatballs don't bounce." That's him too. The list is long. "If you're French in the kitchen, in the bathroom you're European?" The humorous aspect of things was not lost on him. In fact, that factor may be a clue to his mental metrics for selecting topics for his studies. 

It should be noted that there are some in the scientific community who are so gonzo over doing research as a thing to do in itself, that areas of inquiry are not so much a consideration on where to investigate. The critical factor has more to do with if anybody else would buy it. Science has its political side. If there was enough interest you can be sure-as-shootin' that someone would launch a serious investigation as to which tastes better; Dairy Queen with a twist this way, or the other way. This point by way of caution to not just take it as gospel when you hear that "scientists say" or "science has discovered"; and variations of such claims. Someone, given enough interest, would spend long hours and big money finding out the tensile strength of pubic hairs. And, to be sure, with all the variables such as hair color, twist, coverage. Maybe throw in the variable when the carpet don't match the drapes. 

You've been advised, Pilgrim. Be like King Kong, don't take no guff from the airlines.

Uncle Sammy was not one of those sort. He marched to his own drum. No politic kissing up for him. No one knows how and why he looked into what he looked into. He did fall short on the popularity index given his rather left field choices. 

Perhaps the area he is best known for in the realms of science is his extensive body of research work on the subject arena of which way to face the Cow as a determinant of the sex selection of the Calf. North, or South. And — hey, this is science! — the range of angles to the East and West from those cardinal points. Well, that's the general area of study anyway. His laser focus specialty was even more rarified: "How Many Wrinkles In A Bull's Ass?" That's right. Why would anyone choose that as a research study subject? It's called "pure" research. You know like how all that grant money that goes to looking up stuff that seems to have no particular application that anyone can think of. But, you never know. The shape of fish fins may in fact have influence on the currents of the oceans. You never know until you check it out. Now what do Bull ass wrinkles have to do with anything?

Bend over, drop trough; let's find out. Uncle will log the count.

CLICK to get to know all us Wronski's

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐮𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐆𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐎𝐥𝐝 - 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠

 

𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐍𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐏𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 𝐋𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧 ...

 

𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐲 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 ...

Most people associate stability with mass. We imagine buildings standing because materials are stacked, reinforced, and anchored. Yet across advanced engineering, biology, and planetary physics, stability often arises from a more subtle principle: equilibrium between tension and compression.

Buckminster Fuller called this principle tensegrity, a term blending “tensional integrity.” In a tensegrity system, compression elements do not carry the structure alone. They float within a continuous network of tension. Cables hold rods in place. Forces distribute through the entire structure rather than moving in straight lines downward. The result is efficiency, resilience, and adaptability. When one part shifts, the whole network redistributes stress rather than collapsing.

Engineers use tensegrity models to design lightweight yet durable frameworks. The concept has also reshaped how scientists understand living organisms. Inside cells, the cytoskeleton forms a dynamic network of protein filaments that behaves much like a tensegrity structure. Instead of being rigid scaffolding, it maintains shape through balanced tension across the entire cell. Mechanical forces applied at one point can influence processes elsewhere, allowing cells to sense their environment and regulate behavior. This field, known as mechanobiology, continues to reveal how distributed tension guides growth, signaling, and adaptation.

The same logic appears at planetary scale. Earth’s magnetosphere maintains its form through a balance of pressures: solar wind pushing inward, magnetic tension pushing outward. The structure remains stable not because it is rigid, but because forces are held in equilibrium across a field. From cellular networks to planetary boundaries, stability emerges from dynamic balance.

Across scales, a pattern becomes visible. Form does not always arise from accumulation. It often arises from relationship. Compression gives shape. Tension provides coherence. Structure persists where forces meet in balanced exchange.

Tensegrity reframes how we think about design, biology, and even environment. Stability becomes an active process rather than a fixed condition. Systems remain resilient when forces are distributed and balanced across the whole. Where tension is organized and compression is well placed, form endures with efficiency and grace.

From: OmniCorp Tech on Facebook

Sources
https://www.sciencedirect.com/topics/engineering/tensegrity
https://www.bfi.org/about-fuller/big-ideas/tensegrity

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐬𝐲𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐨𝐨 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩

 

"𝐖𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞."

JETSUNMA TENZIN PALMO

Most people feel cozy enough in samsara. They do not really have the genuine aspiration to go beyond samsara; they just want samsara to be a little bit better. It is quite interesting that “samsara” became the name of a perfume. And it is like that. It seduces us into thinking that it is okay: samsara is not so bad; it smells nice! 

The underlying motivation to go beyond samsara is very rare, even for people who go to Dharma centers. There are many people who learn to meditate and so forth, but with the underlying motive that they hope to make themselves feel better. And if it ends up making them feel worse, instead of realizing that this may be a good sign, they think there is something wrong with Dharma. We are always looking to make ourselves comfortable in the prison house. We might think that if we get the cell wall painted a pretty shade of pale green, and put in a few pictures, it won’t be a prison any more.

"𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐬, 𝐰𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐮𝐩𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝."

Full transcript:

Sit with me a while. Let the room grow quiet. And let us begin where all real beginnings begin. Not with what you know about yourself, but with what you have spent your whole life refusing to know. 

There is a man inside you that you have never met. A woman perhaps whose face you would not recognize if she passed you on the street. Though she has lived in your house since the day you were born, you feed her. Though you do not know it, you give her your sleepless nights, your sudden angers, the strange melancholy that descends without invitation on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. You have built your entire respectable life as a fortress against her. And yet, and this is the bitter joke of the soul, it is she who holds the keys. 

The shadow you avoid is running your life. I want you to understand that I do not say this to frighten you nor to flatter you with mystery. I say it because I have seen it in myself first of all and then in the thousand souls who came to my consulting room in Zurich believing they had a problem with their wife, their work, their nerves when what they truly had was an unmet appointment with themselves. 

Let us be honest about what the shadow is because the word has been worn smooth by careless handling and people imagine it to be something gothic and theatrical, a villain crouching in the cellar of the mind. No, the shadow is simpler and far more terrible than that. The shadow is everything about yourself that you have decided you are not. It is the sum of all those qualities, impulses, desires, and capacities that did not fit the image you were taught to present to the world when you were a child. 

You came into this life whole, a small total being who could rage and love and grasp and weep without apology. And then slowly the world began its necessary wounding work of education. Your mother frowned at the cruelty in you. And so you put cruelty away. Your father praised a gentle agreeable boy. And so the defiant boy was sent below. The teachers, the church, the village, the whole great machinery of becoming acceptable. Each took its turn telling you which parts of yourself were welcome at the table and which would have to wait in the dark. And you obeyed. You had to obey. A child cannot survive the loss of love. So you built a persona, that bright presentable mask you wear into the marketplace. And behind it in the cellar, you locked away everything that contradicted the mask. 

But here is what no one told you. Nothing that is alive will consent to die merely because you have refused to look at it. The qualities you banished did not perish. They went underground and they grew. They grew the way anything grows in the dark, pale, distorted, hungry, twisting toward whatever light it can reach. And the light it reaches for is the light of your daily life. 

This is why the shadow runs you. Not because it is stronger than you, but because it operates from a place you have forbidden yourself to enter. You cannot govern a country whose borders you refuse to cross. You cannot negotiate with an ambassador you will not receive. And so the shadow, unheard unmet, takes its revenge in the only language available to the unconscious. The language of symptom, of slip, of compulsion, of projection. It speaks through your body when you fall ill for reasons no physician can name. It speaks through your dreams, sending up its strange emissaries while you sleep. And above all, it speaks through other people. For the shadow is a master of disguise. And its favorite costume is the face of your neighbor. The ones you cannot stand, not those who have genuinely wronged you. That is a different matter. But those who provoke in you a hatred out of all proportion to their offense. The colleague whose ambition disgusts you. The relative whose vanity you find unbearable. The stranger whose loud confidence makes your skin crawl. 

I want you to notice something. And I want you to notice it with the cold honesty of a man examining his own corpse. The intensity of your reaction is the measure of your own buried material. We do not hate in others what is foreign to us. We hate what is intimate and forbidden what we ourselves contain and have refused to own. The ambitious man you despise carries openly the ambition you have buried beneath a mask of humility. The vain woman wears for all to see the longing for admiration you have starved in yourself and called modesty. This is the mechanism the soul uses to show you your own face. It hangs your disowned qualities upon the world like coats upon a row of hooks. And then it makes you furious at the coats. 

Every man and woman who has ever enraged you beyond reason has been without knowing it a mirror. The world is full of mirrors and we spend our lives smashing them, never understanding that the cracked and bleeding face we keep finding is our own. I learned this not from books, though I read more than was good for me, but from my own descent. 

There came a time in my middle years when the ground gave way beneath me. I had achieved everything a man of my profession might want. I had my reputation, my family, my position. And yet something in me had begun to die, or rather to demand. I dreamed of corpses and of houses with floors below floors, descending into older and older foundations, down past the Roman cellar, down to the cave where the bones lay scattered. I did not know then what I know now, that the psyche was showing me the architecture of myself. That beneath my polished upper rooms lay strata upon strata of the forgotten, the ancestral, the primordial, I was being summoned downward. And like every soul who is summoned downward, I resist[ed] it with all my civilized strength, because the journey into the shadow feels at first exactly like madness. It feels like dying. The ego which has spent decades convincing itself that it is the whole of the personality experiences the approach of the unconscious as annihilation. This is why so many flee. This is why a man will do anything, drink anything, buy anything, blame anyone rather than turn and face the thing within that is asking to be known. 

And yet I want to tell you something that took me years of suffering to understand. And I want you to hold it close because it changes everything. The shadow is not your enemy. The shadow is not the devil in you, not the evil to be exercised and burned. The shadow is the rejected God. It is your own banished vitality, your unlived life, the energy you have spent so much of your strength holding underwater. Yes, it contains what is dark. Yes, there is cruelty there and greed and lust and the capacity for violence. I will not lie to you and call the cellar a garden. But there is also gold in that darkness. There is the gold of your authentic anger which you need in order to set a boundary and protect what is yours. There is the gold of your sensuality without which love is only a polite arrangement. There is the gold of your refusal, your defiance, your capacity to say no and mean it with your whole body. All of this you buried together, the precious with the dangerous, because the child could not sort them and the world demanded you bury them all. And so the tragedy of the well adjusted person, the respectable person, the person who has never caused anyone any trouble. 

The tragedy is that they have buried themselves alive. They are correct. They are good and they are not there. There is no one home behind the pleasant face. Only the machinery of compliance grinding on. While in the cellar the true self howls. 

I think now of a woman who came to me. I will change her circumstances to protect what was hers. A woman of perhaps 45, married to a decent man, mother to grown children, respected in her town for her kindness and her tireless service to others. She came to me because of a paralysis in her right arm that no doctor could explain. There was nothing wrong with the nerve, nothing wrong with the muscle. The arm simply would not lift. And as we worked, as the dreams began to come, a picture assembled itself that she had never permitted herself to see. This kind woman, this saint of her parish was full to the brim with a rage she had never once allowed to surface in 50 years of being good. She had swallowed every insult, absorbed every slight, given and given until there was nothing of herself left to give. and called this virtue. The arm that would not lift was the arm that wanted to strike. The body had said what the mouth would not. Her shadow fierce, furious, magnificently alive, had been buried so deep and held so long that it could only reach her through the language of paralysis. And do you know what healed her? Not more goodness, not more service. What healed her was permission. Permission to feel the rage that was hers. To know it, to let it move through her at last, to discover that she would not be destroyed by it, and neither would anyone else. The arm lifted when the woman finally allowed herself to exist. 

This is the work. This is the only work that finally matters. And I call it individuation. This long [and] often frightening process of becoming the whole person you were born to be. Of taking back into yourself everything you sent into exile of standing at last in the full light and the full dark of your own nature without flinching and without apology. It is not a comfortable journey. I will not sell it to you as comfortable. The way the cheap prophets do to meet your shadow is to suffer the collapse of the flattering portrait you have painted of yourself. It is to discover that you are not after all the patient and reasonable person you believed that you are also petty, that you are also envious, that you are capable of the very things you have condemned most loudly in others. 

There is a grief in this. There is a real mourning that comes when the ego loses its innocence and learns the truth of its own divided nature. But on the far side of that grief lies something the innocent can never possess. The strange and durable peace of a person who has nothing left to hide, not even from themselves. 

There is a question that begins everything. And I want you to let it disturb you because a question that does not disturb you has not yet touched the place where you actually live. The question is this. What in you have you been so determined not to be? And what has that determination cost you? Sit with it. The shadow is already listening. It has been waiting all this time for you to finally turn around. I want to speak now about how the shadow first comes into being. Because if you understand the wound, you will understand the medicine. 

No child is born divided. Watch an infant and you will see a creature of magnificent totality. It wants what it wants with its entire being. It rages with its entire being. It delights with its entire being. And a moment later, it has forgotten the rage entirely and gives itself wholly to the delight. There is no sensor in there yet. No inner judge sorting the acceptable from the forbidden. The child is in the truest sense whole though it is an unconscious wholeness. A paradise of which the child itself is not aware. And like all paradises it cannot last. And it is not meant to last for the child to become a person. The child must be expelled from this Eden of undivided being. It must learn that there is a world outside itself with its own demands, that not every impulse may be acted upon. That love is given on conditions. This is the necessary fall and I do not lament it. For without it there would be no consciousness at all. No civilization, no self that could ever turn around and know itself. But every necessary thing exacts its price. And the price of becoming someone is the burial of everyone else you might have been. 

Picture it concretely. A small boy perhaps four years old is overflowing with a wild and tender feeling. And he reaches to embrace his father to press his face against him to be held. And the father himself the wounded son of a colder father himself, long ago exiled from his own tenderness, stiffens, pulls back, says something gruff about not being a baby. And in that instant, a decision is made beneath the boy's awareness. A decision he will not remember making but will spend 40 years enforcing "this tenderness of mine is dangerous. It is not wanted here. It brings rejection. I will put it away." And so the tenderness goes down into the cellar and the boy learns to be hard. Learns to win the father's approval through hardness. Becomes in time a hard man himself who cannot understand why his own children flinch from him. Why his wife weeps that he is never truly present. Why a great loneliness sits in his chest like a stone he can neither swallow nor cough up. He has done everything right. He has been strong, competent, reliable, and he cannot fathom that the loneliness is the precise shape of the tenderness he buried at the age of four, calling to him from below, asking only to be let back into the house. 

The shadow is patient. It will call for a lifetime. It does not give up on you even when you have entirely given up on it. Now multiply this single moment by 10,000. Every no, every frown, every withdrawal of warmth, every lesson in what is shameful and what is proud. Each one sorts some living piece of you into the cellar. And the sorting is not done by you. It is done by the world acting upon a creature too small to resist. This is the crucial thing to grasp your shadow was not assembled by your conscious choices. It was assembled by your adaptations, by the survival strategies of a child who needed love and learned with the terrible cunning of the helpless exactly which parts of itself to amputate in order to keep that love flowing. 

And here is the cruelty of it. Those amputations served you. They were intelligent. The child who learned to hide his anger in a violent household was a wise child. His hiding kept him safe. But the strategy that saved the child imprisons the adult. The fortress that protected the four-year-old becomes the prison of the 40-year-old. And he stands inside it, baffled, rattling the bars, never recognizing that he himself built the walls long ago for reasons that no longer apply. 

So we carry our shadow. And because we cannot bear to look at it directly because to look at it is to feel again the old terror of rejection. The original wound we develop the great and universal art of projection. I have already told you that we hate in others what we have buried in ourselves. Now I want you to feel how total this is; how it shapes not only your enmities but your loves, your politics, your gods and your devils. 

The unconscious does not keep its contents to itself. What we will not consciously hold, we unconsciously throw and we throw it onto the screen of the world. The man who has buried his own dishonesty becomes obsessed with the dishonesty of others. He sees liars everywhere. He is forever uncovering deceptions. And he never once suspects that his certainty about everyone else's lies is the buried knowledge of his own. Return to him in the third person. The woman who has exiled her own sexuality becomes the one most scandalized by the sexuality of others. Most vigilant, most punishing, and the heat of her condemnation is the heat of the very fire she has spent her life sitting upon. 

We are surrounded always by the externalized contents of our own cellars. And we call this surrounding reality and we have no idea that we are looking into a mirror that has wrapped itself entirely around us. This is why I say, and I say it with the full weight of everything. I have witnessed that the man who is unconscious of his shadow is the most dangerous man in the world. Not the man who knows his own darkness. That man is cautious, humbled, slow to cast stones. For he has met the murderer in himself and made his peace with the knowledge that he too could kill under the right pressure. No, the dangerous man is the one who is certain of his own goodness. The one who has placed all his evil outside himself onto the enemy, the heretic, the inferior race, the political opposite. For when a man has convinced himself that he is pure light and the darkness lives entirely in the other, then there is no atrocity he cannot commit in good conscience. He may murder by the millions and feel himself a servant of the good because he has projected his shadow onto a people and now believes that to destroy them is to destroy evil itself. I live through such a time. I watched an entire nation possessed by its collective shadow. A whole people seized by the disowned barbarian within, who denied and unacknowledged did not vanish but rose up and took possession of the conscious life. The blonde beast stirred beneath the disciplined surface, and because no one would own him, he owned everyone. This is not poetry. This is the gravest political fact of the soul. What we refuse in ourselves, we are condemned to enact upon the world. The shadow denied becomes the shadow incarnate. 

And so the work of facing your own darkness is not a private indulgence, not a luxury for the comfortable. It is in the end a moral duty you owe to every other living being. Because every fragment of shadow you can consciously hold is one fragment that will not be acted out blindly upon someone who did not deserve it. 

Let me return to the consulting room. For the abstractions must always come back to a particular human face or they are worthless. A man came to me successful admired a pillar of his profession and his complaint was that he could not sleep. Beneath the sleeplessness, as we worked, lay a great contempt. A contempt for the weak, the failed, the ones who could not master their lives as he had mastered his. He spoke of such people with a coldness that chilled me. This otherwise cultivated man. And then the dreams began to come. And in the dreams there appeared again and again a beggar ... ragged, broken, sitting in the doorway of the very building where the dreamer worked. The dreamer in his sleep would try to enter his grand office and the beggar would block his way would reach out a filthy hand would look up at him with eyes the dreamer could not bear. He woke from these dreams in horror. And it took us a long time, a long and resistant time before he could see what the unconscious was laboring to show him that the beggar was himself. The beggar was the part of him that had once been weak, frightened, in need; the small abandoned boy he had triumphed over by becoming strong. The soft self he had murdered in order to become the Iron Man the world applauded. He had not killed that boy. One cannot kill what is real. He had only exiled him to the doorway. And now the boy sat there in rags, begging to be let back into the building of the self. The contempt this man felt for the weak of the world was the exact and unfailing measure of the contempt he felt for the weak exiled child within. He could not be kind to a single failing soul on earth because he could not be kind to the failing soul in himself. And his healing when at last it came, and it came slowly with much grief. His healing began on the day he could weep for that beggar on the day he could kneel in the imagination before the ragged boy in the doorway and say come in. You belong here. You always did. I am sorry I left you outside so long. 

Do you feel what happens there? It is not that he became weak. He did not lose his strength by reclaiming his tenderness. He became for the first time whole. And a whole man is stronger than a divided one. Immeasurably stronger because he is no longer spending the greater part of his energy holding half of himself underwater. 

This is the secret. The divided person can never guess that the strength required to keep the shadow buried is enormous is in fact the very strength they complain of lacking. They feel tired, depleted, joyless and they cannot understand why because on the surface they are doing nothing strenuous but underneath every hour of every day they are holding the cellar door shut against the rising pressure of everything they have refused to be. 

Open the door. Let the contents up into the light where they can be seen, sorted, integrated, lived, and the strength that was wasted on suppression returns to you 100fold. People who do this work always report the same astonishment. They expected to be destroyed by what they found in themselves, and instead they were liberated by it. They had been told the cellar contained a monster. And when at last they descended with a lamp, they found their own imprisoned vitality. Weeping with relief that someone had finally come, but I will not pretend. The descent is [not?] gentle and I want to prepare you honestly for what the descent demands. For there is a particular darkness one must pass through. A place the old Alchemists knew well and called by a name that means the blackening the Nigrado. The necessary night in which everything that seemed solid dissolves. 

There is a stage in this work that no one wishes to enter and no one can avoid. The Alchemists, those strange and lonely men bent over their furnaces in the Middle Ages, believed they were transmuting base metal into gold. And in a sense they were fools. for no lead ever became gold in any retort. But in another sense, they were the deepest psychologists who ever lived. Because what they were truly doing without quite knowing it was projecting the drama of the soul's transformation onto their bubbling vessels. And so they left us a map of the inner journey more precise than anything the academies have produced. And the first stage of their great work, the indispensable beginning, they called the Nigrado, the blackening. 

Before anything can be transformed, it must first dissolve. Before the gold can appear, the false structure must rot. The matter in the vessel turns black. Putrefied, falls apart into a formless darkness. And the Alchemist watching must not despair must not throw out the vessel must understand that this rotting is not the failure of the work but its very commencement. So it is with you when you descend into the shadow in earnest. Not as an idea, not as a clever theory about yourself you can discuss at dinner; but as a lived reality that takes hold of you You enter the Nigredo. The flattering portrait of yourself dissolves. The certainties that organized your life come apart. You discover that you do not know who you are. That the person you took yourself to be was a costume and beneath the costume there is what you cannot yet say. There is darkness there and the darkness has no name. This is the dark night that the mystics of every tradition have described. The desert into which the soul is driven. the belly of the whale where Jonah sat for three days in the dark. And I tell you plainly, it feels like depression. It feels like meaninglessness. It feels at times like the beginning of madness. The ground that held you no longer holds. The meanings that warmed you have gone cold. You stand in a wasteland of your own dissolved certainties. And every instinct screams at you to flee back upward, to rebuild the old fortress, to reach for anything. Drink, distraction, a new love affair, a frenzy of work that will let you escape the unbearable formlessness. 

And most people do flee. This is the tragedy I witnessed again and again. A soul would come right to the threshold of its own transformation, would feel the old structure beginning to dissolve as it must, and would mistake this necessary dying for a catastrophe to be averted at all costs. They would run. They would find a way to reseal the cellar, to plaster over the crack through which the light and the darkness were pouring. And they would call this recovery. They would say they were feeling better. And in a sense, they were. The dreadful pressure of the dissolving had eased, but they had purchased their relief at the cost of their wholeness. They had turned back at the gate of the only thing that could have made them real. And they would return to me years later. Often when the symptom that had driven them out the first time returned with greater force because the shadow I have told you is passion, and it does not accept a permanent refusal. It will dissolve your structure again and again throughout your whole life if necessary, waiting for the one occasion on which you will not flee, but will instead stand still in the darkness and let it do its work. 

For here is the secret hidden inside the Nigredo. The secret that distinguishes the transformation of the soul from mere collapse, mere breakdown, mere madness. In ordinary disintegration, a person falls apart and there is no one present to hold the falling. But in the conscious descent, in the work, something remains awake within the dissolution. A small flame of awareness persists even as the structures dissolve around it. You are dissolving. Yes. But you are watching yourself dissolve. There is a witness and it is this witness, this thread of consciousness that does not let go even in the deepest blackening that makes the difference between a man who is destroyed by his unconscious and a man who is reborn through it. 

The madman is drowned by the flood. The initiate learns to swim in the very same waters. The waters are identical. The flood is the same flood. What differs is whether there is a consciousness present, steady and humble, that can say I am in the dark now and I do not understand and I will not flee and I will wait to see what wishes to be born. 

I know this not as a doctrine, but as a man who nearly drowned in the years of my own descent. When I was cast out from the structure of certainty that another man's system had given me, I was assailed by images from the depths so vivid and so autonomous that I feared, genuinely feared that I was losing my reason. Figures rose up before my inner eye and spoke to me. Voices came that were not my own. The boundary between the inner world and the outer grew terrifyingly thin. And I had a choice in those years that every soul who descends must make. I could have fled into the safety of an explanation, declared myself ill, taken the cure, sealed the cellar, returned to respectability. Many urged me toward exactly this, or I could do the other thing, the dangerous thing, the thing that felt at every moment like stepping off a cliff. I could descend deliberately into those depths. I could let the figures speak. I could engage them, question them, treat them not as the meaningless static of a diseased brain, but as the autonomous inhabitants of a real and objective psyche with something to teach me. I chose the descent I held with everything I had to that one thread the witness the small persistent flame of an eye that would observe and remember and not be wholly swallowed. And in that darkness I met the figures who became my teachers. the inner personalities who carried the wisdom my conscious mind did not possess. There came to me in those depths a figure, an old man with the wings of a king fisher and the horns of a bull who walked beside me in the inner landscape and spoke to me of things I did not know and could not have invented. He represented a force within me and within all of us that is wiser than the ego, older than the personal life, a current of knowing that does not originate in what we have learned but seems to flow up from some deeper source. He taught me the most decisive lesson of my life. That the thoughts which appear in the psyche are not all my own making. That there is an objective inner reality which produces its own contents independent of my will and that the proper attitude toward this reality is not control but relationship. I had thought like all modern men that I made my thoughts. He showed me that thoughts also make themselves that they come to me the way animals come into a clearing with their own life and that my task was not to command them but to learn from them. This is the gold that lay waiting in my own Nigredo. I went down expecting to find a sickness. I found instead a source. 

Now I must speak carefully because what I describe can be misunderstood and the misunderstanding is dangerous in either direction. Some will hear me and think the descent is a romantic adventure, a thrilling exploration to be undertaken lightly. It is not. To open the unconscious without sufficient consciousness to hold what rises is to invite genuine catastrophe. There are souls too fragile for this work and forcing it upon them is a cruelty. And others will hear my warnings and conclude that the descent is therefore to be avoided altogether. That safety lies in keeping the cellar sealed. This too is false and false still because the sealed cellar does not in fact keep you safe. It only postpones the reckoning while the pressure builds. The truth lies in neither recklessness nor avoidance, but in the slow, attended, patient work of descending only as far as you can hold. Of building consciousness strong enough to meet what you summon. Of going down with a lamp and a thread and a witness and coming back up to the surface of ordinary life between descents to integrate what you have found. This rhythm, down into the depths back up into the day down again. Up again is the very pulse of individuation. 

One does not move to the underworld and live there. That is psychosis. The witness drowned. One does not seal the door forever. That is neurosis. The vitality entombed. One learns instead to travel between the worlds. A citizen of both carrying up from below the treasures one has reclaimed and laying them into the structure of a conscious life. And what are these treasures? I have called them gold. And I want now to be concrete about the gold. For the word is too easily left as a pretty abstraction when a man reclaims his buried anger. The gold is not the anger itself raw and destructive. The gold is the capacity for boundary for self respect for the clean "no" that protects what is sacred. The energy that was anger once owned and integrated becomes the strength to stand for something. When a woman reclaims her buried sensuality the gold is not mere appetite. The gold is her aliveness, her capacity for pleasure and presence and embodied love. The return of color to a life that had gone gray with virtue. When the iron man reclaims his exiled tenderness, the gold is not weakness. It is the deepening of his strength into something that can finally hold another human being. The transformation of brittle hardness into a flexible and living power. 

Always the shadow material when it is met consciously and integrated rather than acted out blindly releases the precise quality the personality most needs in order to become whole. The unconscious is not arbitrary. It buries with unfailing intelligence exactly the thing the conscious life will one day need to recover. The cellar is not a random dump. It is a treasury whose contents have been chosen, as it were, by a wisdom that sees the whole ark of a life and knows what must be kept in reserve until the soul is ready to receive it. This is why I say the wound and the gift are the same thing seen from two ends of the journey. The very quality that was too much for the child that had to be banished for the child to survive. That banished quality is the seed of the gift the adult is meant to bring into the world. The sensitive child overwhelmed by a world too harsh buries his sensitivity and becomes numb, reclaimed in adulthood. That same sensitivity is the source of his art. His empathy, his capacity to feel into the depths of things. The willful child whose will was broken because it threatened the parents buries her will and becomes compliant. Reclaimed. That same will becomes the spine of a sovereign life. What broke you and what can heal you are not two different things. They are one thing met first as wound and met again on the far side of the descent as if — and this is the deepest meaning of the alchemical promise — that the gold is hidden in the very blackness. That you do not find your treasure by avoiding your darkness, but only by entering it. That the thing you have most refused to look at contains the thing you most need to become. 

The Alchemists after the blackening, and the long labor of dissolving and recombining, spoke of a final stage they called the Rubedo the "reddening"; when the matter in the vessel took on the color of blood and of dawn and the great work was complete. And this "reddening" was for them. Not a retreat from the world, but a return to it, transfigured. The gold they sought was not meant to be hoarded in the laboratory. It was meant to be the philosophers's stone. The agent that heals, that turns the base into the noble wherever it touches. 

So too the integrated person does not withdraw from life into a private perfection. The whole point of the descent is the return. You go down into yourself so that you may come back up and live more fully, love more truly, work more freely, stand more solidly upon the earth that is your home. 

The mystic who never comes back down from the mountain has failed. However high he climbed. The measure of the inner work is always finally the outer life. How you treat the person across the table from you. Whether you can hold your own anger without exploding or imploding. whether you can let yourself be seen. 

So let me speak now of what changes concretely in the life of a person who has done this work, not completed it. For it is never completed. One does not finish becoming whole any more than one finishes living. But a person who has truly begun, who has met the shadow and made the turn from fleeing to facing, such a person lives differently and the differences are recognizable. The first thing that changes is the quality of one's relationships because the great consumer of human relationship is projection. And the person who has begun to withdraw their projections begins for the first time to see other people as they actually are. 

Consider what your relationships have been until now. You have not in truth been relating to your husband, your wife, your friend, your rival. You have been relating to a figure you painted over them. A screen onto which you cast your own unlived material. The woman who marries believing her husband will be the strong protector her own buried strength refuses to be. She has not married a man. She has married her own projected image of a man. And she will be bewildered and betrayed when the actual man, the limited mortal man, fails to carry the god she hung upon him. The man who is enraged by his wife's coldness may be enraged at the coldness he has buried in himself and cannot bear to see reflected. 

We do this constantly. We live surrounded by the cast figures of our own psyche and call it love, call it friendship, call it enmity. And the slow patient withdrawal of these projections ... the daily discipline of asking when a person provokes in me a reaction out of all proportion. What is this in me? This withdrawal is the beginning of real relationship. For only when I have taken back what is mine can I finally see what is yours. Only when I stop demanding that you carry my buried light or my buried darkness can I meet you at last as the genuine and separate other that you are. 

This is the gift the shadow work gives to love. It clears the air between two people of all the phantoms and lets two real human beings for the first time stand in each other's actual presence. 

The second thing that changes is one's relationship to one's own suffering. And here I must be careful for I do not promise you the end of suffering. That is the lie of the cheap healers. And it has done untold harm. The integrated life is not a painless life. To be whole is to feel more not less. The person who has reclaimed their banished feeling feels everything more keenly. The joy and the grief alike. What changes is not the quantity of suffering but its meaning. The neurotic suffers without meaning. They suffer the pointless circular suffering of a soul at war with itself. A suffering that goes nowhere and teaches nothing. and merely repeats. But the person who has turned toward their own depths begins to suffer meaningfully, which is to say their suffering becomes the very path of their becoming. Every neurosis I came to understand is in the end a substitute for legitimate suffering. We invent our symptoms, compulsion, our endless anxieties in order to avoid the real and legitimate pain that growth requires. The man will suffer the pointless agony of his insomnia for 30 years rather than suffer. The legitimate grief of facing the exiled child within him and the whole of the work in one sense is the exchange of pointless suffering for meaningful suffering. The willingness to feel the real pain that leads somewhere rather than the false pain that only protects us from it. 

This is not a small thing. To suffer meaningfully is to have a life that means something even in its darkness. It is perhaps the most that any of us can ask. And the third thing that changes the deepest thing, the thing toward which all the rest has been moving is one's relationship to the center of the personality itself. For I must now tell you something that I have held back because it could not be understood until we had come this far. The ego, the I with which we began. The conscious self that has been doing the descending and the facing and the integrating. The ego is not the center of the personality. It believes itself to be. It has spent your whole life believing itself to be the whole of you, the master of the house. But the descent reveals to anyone who goes far enough that the ego is only a small lit room in an immense and mostly darkened mansion and that there is a deeper center, a greater organizing principle which I have called the self and which is to the ego as the sun is to the earth that circles it. The self is the totality of the psyche. Conscious and unconscious together. The whole of which the ego is only the conscious fragment. 

And the goal of individuation in the end is not the triumph of the ego but its right relationship to this greater center. The ego learning at last that it is not the king but the faithful servant of something larger than itself. A wholeness that has been guiding the entire journey from below. This is why the dreams come. This is why the shadow rises. This is why the symptom appears and the projection casts itself and the whole drama of the psyche unfolds because the self, the deep center is forever working toward the wholeness of the person. Forever sending up from the depths exactly what the conscious life has refused and needs. Forever pressing the divided soul toward its integration. The neurosis you have cursed as your affliction is the self summons. The depression that flattened you was the self refusing to let you continue in a false and partial life. The shadow that has been running your life. Who the one I named in the first moment we sat down together. It has been running your life on behalf of a wholeness you did not know was seeking you. You thought you were being persecuted by your darkness. You were being called by your own totality. The hound that pursued you through the years was the hound of heaven. And what it wanted was not to destroy you but to make you whole. 

So we come at the last to what I would ask of you when you rise tomorrow and step back into your ordinary life. For I promised you that this would not remain a beautiful intoxication and I will keep that promise. I ask three things and they are simple to say and the work of a lifetime to do. When someone provokes in you a reaction out of all proportion, a hatred too hot, a contempt too eager, a fascination too strong, stop and instead of asking what is wrong with them, ask what in you has just been touched. Let every strong reaction become a doorway back to yourself. 

Pay attention to your dreams, those nightly emissaries from the deeper center, and do not dismiss them as the random noise of a tired brain. For they are the letters the self writes to the ego. And a man who ignores his dreams is a man refusing to read his own mail. 

And hardest of all, when you find in yourself something you have always condemned, some pettiness, some envy, some cruelty, some desire you have called beneath you. Do not look away and do not act it out blindly either, but hold it. Hold it in the light of consciousness. Say, "This too is mine. This too is human. This too I will own rather than project, contain rather than inflict. For every fragment of darkness you can consciously hold is a fragment that will never again be cast upon an innocent face. And in the holding the darkness itself begins slowly to release its hidden gold. 

I do not promise you that this will make you happy in the small sense that word has come to carry. I promise you something better and more difficult. I promise you that it will make you real, that you will become at the end of this long labor a single person rather than a divided one. Not the bright mask alone and not the buried cellar alone, but the whole, the entire, the undivided human being you were born to become and have spent so long refusing to be. The shadow you have avoided has been running your life. But the moment you turn and face it, the moment you descend with your lamp and your thread and your one unbroken flame of awareness, it ceases to be your master and begins to become your teacher. And then in time, for your strength, the room has grown dark while we spoke. That is fitting. We have been in the cellar together. And now I send you back up the stairs into your life into the morning that waits. Take what we found here. The journey inward is the only journey that finally matters and it is waiting for you. It has always 

been waiting in the one place you have refused to look. Go there. Bring back the gold and become at last the whole of what you are. 

This has been Cao Yong original, a space where the patterns most people live through can finally be named. Voice and imagery AI assisted. Interpretation and framing original work. Until next lecture.

Source Link: YouTube The Psychoanalysis 

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐑𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞

It is said the gates of Heaven are narrow. You can't pass through carrying arm loads of baggage. Kapische Itraliene? Sprechen das Deutch?

So that's lesson enough! How about a story?

A true story ...

Once uponce a time I visited Boulder Colorado. Of the several visits to that magical land* I'm zeroed in on this one time. When I was there for the Rolf Institute of Structural Integration annual members meeting in 1983, followed by a 6 day Workshop on the subject "The Heroes Journey" lead by Tom and Heather Wing; both luminaries in the world of Rolf.

"Boulder Colorado" ... "27.8 square miles surrounded by reality".

There are hills there, and one sunny weekend I went hiking. Could have been Mount Sanitas. Never got the name. 

There was one place overlooking the city where there was a opening between two massive rocks. Just enough to squeeze a body through, but narrow enough to make getting through a nervous challenge. I made it!

Like I said, Boulder is a magical place. Up on that mountain there was a running stream. I took some of its water in the cup of my hand and drank. A white light shot up through me. There was some wild Lavender, just a bit to taste ... an exquisite purple light.

Laying there in the sun drenched tall grass I looked over and there was a stag Elk resting himself not 30 feet to my left. As soon as I spotted him, he got up and calmly moseyed away. Walking through town coming from a party late evening on another day what I imagined must have been that very same beast crossed the road in front of me. Spirit Animal? For sure!

I'm remembering all that magic now, and thinking maybe I should call that narrow passage between those "boulders" Heavens Gate. But let me make something clear about that name. What's in a name? Huh? Being a New Age swingy town I wouldn't want to get it around that there's a "Heavens Gate" up in those hills. Those crazy mofo's would likely go there looking for some spiritually connected magical experience. Fortunately, Naropa University is right there in Boulder so to remind you that you shouldn't make a big deal because after all there's that Buddha's "emptiness" in there. It's a magical town, but let's not get into magical thinking. Kapische Itraliene? You don't need a special something, or place, to have an encounter with the magic of the Mystery. Sit down and be quiet with yourself. There you are. Bada Bing! Bada Boom!

At a party following the 6 Day Workshop we had a circle with a "Talking Stick" passed among the attendees. A Talking Stick is a shamanistic tool for granting the right to speak, speaking truth. I don't recall what I may have said. 

The atmosphere that evening was as you might expect, magical. The Spirits were among us. I met a beautiful, free spirited woman there. Next day we went skinny dipping in the Boulder Reservoir. She led the way, striding confidently over that rough, Cactus grown terrain. Me, I kept up, even wearing Birkenstocks. That one time I followed that lovely lady, but that was that. I had other fish to fry, and my own Path to follow. "The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep."

Boulder Colorado sure serves up the magic! Inspiring.

"... 𝐦𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲" — 𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐡𝐮𝐣𝐢

“Why do the enlightened ones, Gurus, prophets, religious leaders always wear glamorous, ostentatious clothing, robes. Could it be to impress the gullible?”

Question from Carlos Alberto Cubias Lara [via Facebook]

Prabhuji’s answer:

"Maybe so, Carlos; perhaps you are right. Look, I have not even spoken yet, and my robe has already impressed you. Perhaps it has not impressed you devotionally; it has impressed you by irritating you, but, after all, an impression is an impression. One way or another, you cannot deny that the fabric did its job.

"I do not wear robes to impress the gullible; I wear them to expose them, because both the one who falls to his knees before the robe and the one who rejects it are equally gullible. The difference is that, while one worships the fabric, the other fights with it, but both are gullible because neither of them looks at the human being inside the robe. Jung would call this getting trapped in the persona, in the visible mask, without daring to look at the shadow stirring behind the judgment.

"You also wear a robe; the only difference is that you call it “normal clothes.” Look, Carlos, the judge wears a gown, the soldier a uniform, the banker a suit, the priest a cassock, the academic a tie, the rebel a torn T-shirt, the police officer a uniform… everyone is in costume. Only when I wear a robe do the textile philosophers appear, analyzing my garments. Lacan would laugh: a single gaze from the Other is enough for the subject to begin organizing an entire judgment around a piece of fabric.

"It is extremely strange: if I dressed in rags, would you say “he is acting humble”? Or if I dressed in silk, would you say “he is acting grand”? And if I appeared naked on YouTube, would you call the police? Could you tell me what you think I should wear to satisfy your fashion criteria? Winnicott would say that sometimes we defend our “true self” so much that we end up living from a “false self,” carefully dressed in normality.

"Now, seriously speaking, the truth is much simpler: I simply dress however I feel like dressing. Your problem is not my robe, but that my freedom touches your slavery. And remember: just as a robe can deceive a simple fool, suspicion can also make a more sophisticated one fall. The first sees a saint and the second sees a fraud, and although both react, neither one sees.

"The fabric is on the outside, but our wounds are within."