The symbolic meaning of hair is both personal and cultural. It serves as an expressive medium through which we silently communicate. Sporting bed-head might convey a carefree attitude, while a polished prom-night hairstyle expresses maturity. Hair carries various announcements to our community. Its historical significance reveals ancient values that continue to influence our self-presentation. It is a malleable medium. Unlike body parts such as fingers or feet, it constantly grows, allowing for continuous transformation, and it resists decay. These universal attributes make hair an archetype. Haircuts often feature in rites of passage, like a baby’s first trim, symbolizing a transition from innocence to cultural accommodation. Since hair grows directly from our bodies, it’s seen as an immortal extension of one’s self; imbued with primal magic, it retains its form on mummies or in lockets. Voluntary hair removal can signify sacrifice, as seen with monks and nuns shaving their heads to submit to religious constraints and a return to purity. Conversely, uncut, untamed hair represents casting off sexual restraints and embracing instincts, as observed during the 1960s Hippie movement. Depending on the era, body hair has been perceived as virtuous or demonic. Early 20th-century beauty standards associated minimal body hair with femininity and high moral character, while substantial beards indicated masculine virility. In various cultures, hair possesses spiritual power. Samson’s uncut hair connected him to God and, when removed, left him helpless. Hair has also denoted status and roles throughout history; Samurai hair knots commanded respect, Roman women wore wigs to display wealth, and medieval women let their hair flow freely to indicate marital availability. From vibrant punk rock mohawks to a baby’s soft curls, from intricate Mesopotamian royal braids to beehive hairdos, hair continues to captivate us. It speaks on our behalf and changes along with psyche.

HERE’S THE DREAM WE ANALYZE:

 “I am in the garden of the house where I grew up, looking at a huge blooming flower bed with my mother, who is telling me how to garden while she is away for some time with my father. It is an extremely hot summer day, and she wants me to remember to eat the ripe oranges and yellow tomatoes. When I first look at the tomatoes, I think some of them are rotten, but it tums out that they are perfectly ripe. She also wants me to replant a blackberry bush, which I do immediately. I go inside the house, up the staircase, and get frightened. Suddenly a weird little creature (knee height) crawls up the staircase after me. It is black and has a tiny faceless head on a broader body. I know it is a mutated blackberry. It reaches out for me and begins to crawl my leg, I kick it down, but it keeps coming. It is needy and begins to lick my leg like a tiny dog. It wants me to take care of it, but I don’t want it to depend on me. Finally, I feel desperate and call for my mother’s help.”

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We are born with a drive to connect meaningfully with our caregivers. When that is thwarted by fate, deprivation, or hostility, our psyche rallies, it redirects our instincts to the imaginal world where archetypal forces can care for us, and our intolerable feelings can be hidden in a cast of inner characters. We still long for compassionate connection, but the inner figures of our caregivers are intolerable, so sometimes the archetypal mother hides in food—and we follow.

 In the recent film “The Whale” starring Brendon Frasier, we meet his character Charlie, an English teacher trying to motivate his online students. With his camera off, his disembodied voice admonishes them to communicate clearly with him. This foreshadows his great struggle to make contact. When the class finishes, the scene expands, and we slowly see Charlie, a 600-pound man struggling to meet the last few needs he permits himself.

 Unresolved relational trauma is like a slowly shrinking room. Year by year, in tiny increments, without noticing it, we give up choice after choice until we are boxed in. The few thin channels of life that can reach Charlie are his friend Liz and his online students. The remaining totally unobstructed channel to take in goodness is food, his lifeline beyond the shrinking room.

 Unlike his troubled caregivers, food can be controlled and so rendered harmless; it’s allowed in and brings relief and pleasure. All of us cornered by trauma find a secret tunnel through which some small goodness can touch us. Throughout the movie, life tries to rescue Charlie, walking through his front door despite his frightened protests. Characters storm in, demanding acknowledgment. Through these encounters, Charlie is forced out of his shrinking life.

 Obesity is never a choice; it is a sign that other paths to receive have been ruined. Many fight their way free, some are rescued by love, and some seek promising new medications. Charlie fights for love and finally resurfaces, drawn by his daughter’s fierce eyes demanding engagement.

 “The Whale” depicts a real-world problem and is also an allegory, a contemporary retelling of an epic story. When we learn to see beyond the surface of people’s specific struggles, we can recognize the great human endeavor we all share-- to love and be loved, to know and be known.

 HERE’S THE DREAM WE ANALYZE:

 “I just moved to my childhood neighborhood with my best friend, and I wake up before dawn. As I walk home to school, my legs melt, and I fall to the floor. A classmate finds me lying on the floor and takes his chance to try and have sex with me. I beg him to please carry me home. Inside, my ex-boyfriend and family became concerned about my state. I need to rest; everything is fine. This new house is big and has a beautiful light, yet it seems old and dusty. There are several pieces of wood of unfinished furniture that I cannot work on now. I leave the house again; everything seems nice, but on my way home, my legs stop working, and I desperately start to crawl. Now I seem not to find the door to the house; luckily, a cleaning worker comes up to help me, then she hands me a caterpillar having babies. She tells me had I been lying on my bed for more time, I would have woken up surrounded by them.”

 REFERENCES: THE WHALE (film, 2022)

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Piping through mountains and glens, the great god Pan carries the relentless procreative power of nature. He symbolizes the archaic level of psyche from which all wild instinct rises; feared during war as his panic could undo even the Titans and attacked in the Common Era as the image of the devil. 

Half man and half goat, Pan’s untamed sexuality evoked rapture and impulsivity. As the god of shepherds, he ushered young men into puberty, introducing them to the spring rut in their flocks and their own bodies.

In the first 30 years of the Christian era, Plutarch wrote that a sailor heard a divine proclamation, “The great god Pan is dead!” This foreshadowed the fate of natural sexuality as it encountered the ascetic demands of Christianity. The anthesis of Christ’s innocence and virtue, the lustful goat-foot-god, was recast as the prime cosmic offender.

And so, Pan-ic was slowly redirected from fear-driven flocks racing from danger to the human conscience fleeing from the evils of the flesh. The triumph of ego control over instinct was the goal of many religions and philosophies. Civilization itself rose from repression and redirection of primal instincts. The great god Pan was yoked to the engine of art and industry, providing seemingly endless energy.

 Freud named the cost of strangling Pan’s lust as he developed his concept of the pleasure principle and psychosexual theory. Neurosis was the strange revenge of cut-off sexuality creating symptoms from hysterical blindness to intolerable moods. Jung understood that banishing images and rituals representing archetypal forces left humans vulnerable to dangerous affects both individually and collectively.

Today, mass Pan-ic dances through social media setting off one frenzy or another. The renewed demonization of sexuality and the deification of malignant innocence is an old tactic made new again. Panic disorder has its roots in the same inner conflict. Jung warned that cutting off conscious access to archetypal forces leads to the rise of fascism and other rage-driven mass movements.

If we can welcome the renewing powers of nature and restore the medicine of healthy instincts, we may yet avert the worst repercussions of killing Pan. It is not enough to champion ecological causes in the outer world; we must extend that to our inner landscape. The divine beasts that graze in our imaginal meadows and the strange gods that beckon in our dream forests also require careful tending. The way we treat Pan inside us is mirrored in the way we treat nature around us. Then we might join the poet h.htm">Eleanor Farjeon and say,

 “Arcadia! it is the very music

Of the first spring-tide rippling its first wave

Over the naked, laughing baby world ...

Come again, thou sparkling spring-tide, come again,

Rush in and flood this autumn from my soul!”

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It seems that an intrepid consortium of impact investors, real estate developers, and the Swiss Tourism, Farming, and Dairy Products Oversight Authority have created a juggernaut heading for Jung’s home in Kusnacht and his famous tower in Bollingen. The enterprise called Große Böse Wölfe Hinein Unterwäsche has announced its plans to finalize the acquisition of Jung’s estate and transform it.

The modernization of revered sites is familiar across the world. Saddled with mounting maintenance costs and increasing government regulation, British Estates have been repurposed as luxury hotels and sacred temples into coffee houses. Ineligible for inclusion as a UNESCO world heritage site, the Jung properties were placed in a precarious position and seemed to be headed for a similar fate. The consortium has leaked plans to position the properties within a large compound inspired by the successful Disney Adventureland highlighting fairytale motifs.

While Jung himself might have delighted in bringing the archetypal themes in the Grimm’s tales to life, it is hard to imagine he would have tolerated the intrusion into his sanctuary, Bollingen. Analytic psychology has long understood the role of liminal spaces that straddle two states of consciousness. One could argue that the developer’s plans will likewise provide a transitional space between the quaint blend of medieval and Heimatstil Architektur of the original buildings with innovative technology and luxury hospitality.

Like Jung himself, this venture suggests a battle between the Voice of the Times and the Voice of the Depths. To capture the interest of the modern collective, focused on boutique experiences, the creative team is including a luxury hotel compound, a spa centered on historic Swiss folk remedies, children’s camps inspired by Jung’s boyhood experiences, and an immersive virtual reality-enhanced tour based on Emilie Preiswerk’s spiritualist practices.

Perhaps to mollify the expected outrage, the consortium plans to support the Analytic community by digitalizing the Jung library and reproducing artifacts from the homes for sale abroad. Finally, as a bow to the Voice of the Deep, there are plans to organize a nonprofit extension of the new corporation that will fund quantitative research into the efficacy of Jungian Analysis—a long-awaited tool to protect the integrity of analysis.

Holding the tension of the opposites, modernization vs. heritage, may help our community envision the transformation of the Jung properties as a kind of symbol that blends both values without diminishing either. Or we may find our memories, dreams, and reflections trampled by monetization and exploitation. Only time will tell.

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Schadenfreude, the joy in someone else’s misfortune, is a common human experience. We often feel it when someone we believe deserves it embarrasses themselves or is caught in a scandal. Nietzsche once said, “Humor is just schadenfreude with a clear conscience.” This is true, as many comedic scenes involve some form of hilarious undoing. However, when this pleasure becomes malicious, it can be troubling.

Some rules govern schadenfreude. We feel pleasure when an envied person is shamed because it tarnishes their status, making them seem less superior. We delight in the failure of the opposing team because we feel enhanced by the success of our side. Distributing humiliating information about a public figure across social media delights certain influencers, and those who pass it on feel a secret joy in expanding the denigration. Dehumanization is at the core of this kind of schadenfreude.

Children as young as six display signs of pleasure in seeing peers fail but are pressured to hide their glee. Compensation restores inner balance when we go too far, and we’ll dream of arriving naked for a test to put us back in our place. Contemporary culture encourages schadenfreude when historically unsuccessful groups, carrying painful feelings of inferiority, externalize their anger towards a competing group. When the latter is harmed,  rage can convert to pleasure. It temporarily relieves inner anguish.

However, we should feel sobered by all antisocial qualities and meet them with ethical restraint. Religious texts offer warnings that suggest the unconscious will react to unrestrained schadenfreude.

“Rejoice not when thine enemy falleth, and let not thine heart be glad when he stumbleth…”

(Proverbs 24:17-18, King James Version).

Delight in our enemies’ harm can turn the Self away from its preserving and protective role, leaving the ego vulnerable to collective shadow and unpredictable tumult. The only remedy for schadenfreude is empathy.

When we outgrow our feelings of inferiority, rage, shame, competition, and malice, we may discover a grace that emanates from the Self. A spiritual quality of kindness that grants us the ability to suffer-with. Grounded in understanding, we can find the power to stand side-by-side with the accused, the misfortuned, the scapegoated, the exiled, the abandoned, and the shamed. Offering them comfort and good counsel as they go on to what lies before them.

HERE’S THE DREAM WE ANALYZE:

 “I am in my childhood bedroom with my boyfriend. He is lying on the bed, and I am standing facing him. I wear lingerie, white fishnet stockings, and a cobalt blue lace bra. I felt good about how I looked, and I felt desired by him. There was sexual energy and anticipation. I said I’d be right back; I needed to go to the bathroom. I exit the bedroom, turn the dark corner, and stumble upon a creepy doll in the darkness. She was hand sewn, looked like a kind of rag doll or like Sally from A Nightmare Before Christmas, and she notably had two embroidered circles on the top right of her head, which were unfinished, the needle and thread still hanging from there. I wasn’t scared of how she looked, but this doll evoked a faint sense of horror in me. Her presence felt jarring, emotionally charged, and possibly ominous. I turned around the corner with it in my hands to show it to my boyfriend.”

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The Pied Piper story holds a dark secret that has repelled and fascinated us for over 500 years. It asks, "What does it cost to banish our shadow?"

 At its surface, it looks like a simple morality tale cautioning us to be prudent and fair. Rats overrun a town, and the locals are beside themselves. A magical piper vibrantly dressed offers a solution too good to be true. His pipe weaves a tune that leads rats to their doom – and they drown in the ocean so neatly. Thrilled at first, then cunning and foolish, the town leaders refuse to pay the piper for his service. In turn, he entrances all but three children and takes them away forever.

Historians wonder if the account is an artifact of a devastating plague. The Lueneburg manuscript from about 1440 CE records the following event: “In the year of 1284, on the day of Saints John and Paul on June 26, by a piper, clothed in many kinds of colours, 130 children born in Hamelin were seduced, and lost at the place of execution near the koppen.” But tragedy was common in the middle ages, and death a constant companion, so why has this account remained vital?

The enduring interest in the Pied piper lies in its symbolic resonance with psyche. When we place the events in our imaginal world, our curiosity is liberated, and our questions become more interesting. What are the pestilential rats inside us? What happens when we ask another person to solve our inner problems? How does the unconscious react when we trick and devalue the inner and outer figures who help us along our way?

Rats populate our inner and outer world. We use them as pharmacological proxies and share about 69% of the same DNA. We keep them as pets even as others work tirelessly to exterminate them from our buildings. In some cultures, they represent prosperity and are tended to as the reincarnation of family members. But foremost, they are survivors and adaptors living side by side in every human endeavor.

We project much shadow on rats accusing them of spreading disease and taking our food without permission – those ratfinks. They hold our unsavory instincts; like all shadow-invested objects, we want them gone! But why are we thankless when someone helps us achieve that? Freud’s Taboo insights suggest anyone associated with our ‘filth’ becomes impure, so degrading them engenders relief.

Complications with money play another part. We’re quick to promise payment when our need is aroused but grim when it’s time to write the check – our mounting credit card debt bears witness to that. Paying the piper evokes dread when we fail to imagine the complete cycle of exchange, and our inner infant is indignant being charged for restoring comfort. Shouldn’t it be free?!? We project our psyches into money and use similar terms for its fluctuations – inflation, depression, and devaluation. Handing over our cash feels like we’re sacrificing an inner potential, surrendering it to our creditors.

 This may be a key that unlocks the fairytale.

 Perhaps it’s warning us that there’s a cost to banishing our shadow. Strangely, rats, money, and children carry a similar symbolic valence. They all suggest unrealized potential. The vitality in our rat-shadow could have fueled a midlife renewal. Money could have turned our desires into realities. And our children could have carried our hopes into the future.

 Perhaps demonizing any aspect of our potential puts all of it at risk, and banishing it to the unconscious may trigger strange, irresistible compulsions that can lead us astray.

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The archetype of the orphan, closely related to the hero, evokes powerful feelings of abandonment, deprivation, and hope. From Harry Potter to Little Orphan Annie from Daenerys Targaryen to Cinderella, orphans who triumph over adversity remind us that healing the inner child is possible.

The factual history of orphans is frequently heartbreaking. In the ancient world, unwanted infants were subject to abandonment or death through exposure. In the US, Orphan Trains moved 200,00 children from NE coastal cities to live with farm families between 1853 to 1929. Journalists exposed the nightmare of Romanian orphanages in 1989, rousing adoption efforts and fundraising efforts. The Canadian government forcibly took native children and placed them in Christian boarding schools under the pretense of assimilation. This tragic history lives on in the collective unconscious.

Many of us have inner orphans. The unloved parts of us shipped off to the unconscious exert a powerful influence over our moods. Our adult selves may feel resilient and resourceful most of the time, but a cruel tone of voice as we’re dismissed from work or a cold shoulder from a lover can awaken our inner children putting us in a tailspin. When threatened by abandonment, they can trigger profound feelings of dread and even panic.

In the grip of our inner orphan, we may find ourselves pining to rewrite our childhood, including a cast of perfect parents. Some of us may even question whether we’re adopted because the feeling of belonging somewhere better haunts us. We can suddenly feel desperate and likely to starve even though we have substantial assets in our accounts. Finally, and most painfully, we can feel unloved and unlovable.

We may scramble to find reassurance from outside sources – asking our family if they really do love us or fawning over a new acquaintance in hopes they’ll stick around. We might hoard food or money, reassuring ourselves that we won’t need to rely on anyone, which is best because no one stays with us anyway. In the grip of this complex, our bodies ache, and we may even feel invisible or unreal.

Working through these feelings seems daunting at first because a moat of distress surrounds the inner child. But if we persevere, we may find an inner treasure. On the far side of our remembered suffering is a part of us that recalls how to love and be loved. And when they return, we will wonder how we ever forgot.

HERE’S THE DREAM WE ANALYZE:

“I am in an orphanage. There are many other children with me as well. I am the oldest of the group; I feel responsible for the group’s well-being since I am the oldest. We are together in a room with wooden floors and ceiling. Suddenly an evil man and strange appears out of nowhere. He is our master. He teargases us; we cannot see or breathe. The gas makes what is in our pockets fall out, knick-knacks, little toys, memorabilia, coins little notes on crumpled paper. What is in our pockets does not have high monetary value, but it is meaningful to us since we are orphans and have nothing else. The evil master collects our belongings that are falling to the floor from the gas. He makes them his. I ache with sadness to lose what was the only remnant of our identity. Suddenly, Komitas (he is a famous Armenian composer and ethnographer) breaks through the door of the room we are in. He charges aggressively toward the evil master. Komitas has a gun; he points and tries to shoot at the evil master. He misses. Komitas turns toward me. His eyes are full of rage but feel vacant and maniacal. I feel Komitas is in a psychotic state. Komitas takes my hand and places it on the gun. He is standing behind me, I am holding the gun, and he is holding my hands. He points the gun at the evil master. He asks me, “Is this the man? The one I need to kill?” I say yes in agreeance. I know this is what needs to happen. I am sad and afraid.”

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The word test originally referred to an earthenware vessel in which metals were smelted to separate ore from dross. Like ancient vessels holding the heat of the refining fire, our task is to contain the tension of the test. Tests smelt fantasy from the ore of reality and force us to adapt. If a test feels arbitrary or unfair, we may be failing to dissolve the dross of inadequacy, limitation, or shame. Tests require us to develop the ego strength to put our courage, morals, and perseverance on the line—and withstand the ego wounding of failure. Ultimately ego itself is put to the test. Jung says, “Only if we know that the thing which truly matters is the infinite can we avoid fixing our interest upon futilities, and upon all kinds of goals which are not of real importance.” The archetype of the Self undergirds testing, first to help distinguish ego from unconscious, and then to relinquish ego’s illusion of supremacy.

 HERE'S THE DREAM WE ANALYZE:

“I’m in our living room hanging up laundry, when a large bird (maybe half my height) flies through the open glass door to our terrace and perches on a cupboard. It looks into my eyes, and I look into its eyes. At this point I think, I’ve got to tell my wife about this. I run into our bedroom and tell her about the bird. She looks through the doorframe, sees the bird, and says, “Oh, that’s a type of penguin.” I had thought it must be a hawk or an eagle. (In retrospect, it looked like neither of these, but was sort of lanky and cartoonish.) I reply, “Are you sure”? She says, “Yes, do you see how its mouth is open like that”? I look at the bird and see that its mouth is indeed open, in a strained, fixed, almost comical way. For whatever reason this was proof to me that it is, in fact, a penguin.”

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Despite volumes written on morality and ethics, how do we determine what’s right? Values distilled over time by family, faith, and nation define and denounce wrong, but the effort to banish shadow only allows it to emerge as projection onto others. We decry in ‘them’ what we deny in ourselves. Jung says, “The shadow is a moral problem that challenges the whole ego-personality…for to become conscious of it involves recognizing the dark aspects [of oneself]…as present and real.”

 We have all faced a moral dilemma at some point in our lives, questioning our own judgment and rectitude. This internal conflict is a result of our shadow self, the parts of ourselves we keep shamefully hidden and refuse to acknowledge. In order to make ethical decisions, we must discover our shadow and integrate it into our decision-making process. This is called shadow work, a psychological practice that requires facing our fears, insecurities, and doubts. We can genuinely understand our moral philosophy only when we engage our inner conflicts.

 Sages have long debated the nature of ethical decision-making. Some argue that morality is objective and universal, while others argue that it is subjective and relative to each individual. The ancient Greek philosophers reasoned it is crucial to consider the impact of the decision on others, both in the immediate situation and in the broader community. This involves empathizing with those affected by the decision and seeking to minimize harm while maximizing societal benefits. Jung believed that religious codes provide an initial framework for the developing child and facilitate cultural adaptation. As our ego individuates from instilled norms and submits to the Self, our allegiance shifts, and our attitudes become increasingly unique.

 Making ethical decisions is not always easy. We often face conflicting duties and obligations, and we must weigh the consequences of our actions. In these moments, it is essential to approach the situation with humility and consciousness. We must recognize that our decisions may have unintended repercussions and be willing to take responsibility for our actions. Careful deliberation requires us to embrace uncertainty and trust our intuition.

 The definition of morality is not fixed but rather constantly evolving. It is influenced by cultural norms, religious doctrine, personal beliefs, and individual experiences. As such, it is vital to approach ethics with tolerance, curiosity, and courage. We must be prepared to challenge our own beliefs and biases and be open to new perspectives. Only then can we make truly ethical decisions that are grounded in empathy, insight, and compassion.

 Jung’s ethical stance is rooted in recognition of our disowned qualities and the influence of the emerging Self. Morality may be relative but requires thoughtfulness, humility, and a willingness to explore ambiguity. As we navigate the complexities of decision-making, we must approach the world with an open mind and a readiness to learn. Only then can we awaken to the world and make truly ethical decisions that honor our larger Self.

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Invitations are a subtle siren song, tapping into our primal human need to be chosen combined with our thirst for novelty, making them an irresistible force.

When you receive an invitation, it is a moment of recognition, an invitation to be a part of something greater, to feel wanted, valued, and accepted. In the hierarchy of human needs, the sense of belonging takes a top priority, surpassed only by our basic requirements for survival.

There is power in inviting and being invited. The myth of Baucis and Philemon, who innocently invited Zeus and Hermes to dine in their humble cottage, and were blessed for their generosity, reminds us that the right invitations can bring abundance and joy into our lives. But, like the cautionary tale of Sleeping Beauty and the curse of the uninvited fairy, withheld invitations can also be dangerous, hiding the potential for envy and retribution.

An invitation can be a fateful call to action, tapping into our innate desire to be heroic and admired. It’s difficult to resist such a call. But, just as the hero must leave the safety of their home and venture into the unknown, so must we when we accept. Invitations promise a world of possibilities, whether we’re being asked to join a cause célèbre, fight for change or seek personal meaning.

However, not all invitations are created equal. Some are manipulative, depending on our naivety, susceptibility to feeling special, or sense of obligation. Some may only lead to an evening of mind-numbing boredom. Therefore, it is essential that we take a step back and evaluate each invitation objectively, wisely, and carefully considering the implications and outcomes before accepting. We must understand that invitations are not simple requests but symbols of growth and possibility.

 So, join us as we explore the unpredictable consequences that come with each invitation and embrace the opportunities that await us. The irrefusable invitation awaits, and the choice is yours. Will you accept?

 Here’s the dream we analyze:

“Me and three old friends are at a fair-like event. One of the friends comes to the three of us and suggests that we should try out the batting cage, which we are all excited about. We start heading to the batting cage and the friend that suggested we go is not going with us. We get to the batting cage and the guy running it says the speed of the balls is 91 mph and asks if we can hit that. My other two friends seem confident, I am not. I was never a good hitter when I played baseball. We head to the batting cages, I notice everyone else is paying in tickets and we didn’t. My friends get slightly ahead of me and a worker points me towards a ladder that is going up about three stories. I am terrified of heights. I climb up the ladder and I’m at the top but there is a worker’s desk right there. She seems nice and unbothered by the fact that I’m climbing up a ladder to get over her desk. I try for several minutes, while at the top of the ladder, to climb over her desk to get to the floor with the batting cages. I am unable to do it. My leg is not flexible enough to reach over the desk. I wake up breathing heavily.” 

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