Fear and Primordial Trust: From Becoming an Ego to Becoming Whole [1 ed.] 9781032009636, 9781032009643, 9781003176572

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Monika Renz’s work is at the forefront of those thinkers who are outlining a new concept of humankind, a concept that is based on movement and on a connection with the cosmos while accounting for what makes us special as human beings. Her inspiration and certainty are rooted in a field that might be said to constitute “pure,” unmistakable movement: music. Music can be grasped, yet not touched. Music, moreover, is perhaps the most recognized reality, which, although it is related to material structures, is not itself material. Experiences of music and music therapy form the basis for Dr Renz’s search for a new concept of the human being, a concept of our becoming, suffering, and healing. This basis has rested on experiences of music since antiquity. It is also highly relevant for our eventful times, which are characterized by upheaval and by a departure to both a new unity of the world and the associated dimension of our responsibility as humans and that of society. Prof. Dr. med. Heinz Stefan Herzka, Zurich “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself,” Franklin D. Roosevelt observed in his inaugural speech as the 32nd President of the United States of America in 1933 in the midst of the Great Depression. What Roosevelt articulated as a political issue is also a fateful theme of being in the world, as Monika Renz impressively explains in her latest book Fear and Primordial Trust. Her approach, which is grounded in developmental psychology and in spirituality, assumes that a state exists before and beyond fear. She understands this condition as being connected with the One, the Whole—in religious terms, with God. And yet, she is not concerned with dogmatic reflection, but with experience, which each of us can make. Starting from being contained in the Whole, human development leads to limitations and separateness of our every-day consciousness, in which we live because we are an “I.” In addition to primordial trust, in which we originate, we experience primordial fear already at an early age in becoming an ego. We take this fear with us, along with its problematic consequences, as we move through life, bearing our load. Yet development leads, if permitted, to maturation processes beyond life-determining fear, in perfect agreement with Richard Rohr’s words: “It is not necessary to be perfect but to be connected.” By this, he means being connected to our roots in the Whole, in God. Dr Renz illustrates her reflections with examples and experiences from day-to-day hospital life. This book is a must-read for anyone seeking to better understand the phenomenon of fear. Prof. Dr. theol. Paul M. Zulehner, Vienna A hugely significant contribution to our understanding of psychospiritual development in terms of the dynamics of fear and trust and the process of maturation through suffering and ultimately the dying process. Just as the ego unfolds and differentiates itself from the nondual ground or whole, so we have an inherent longing to reunite with and refold into this same Divine Unity—an illuminating read at many levels. David Lorimer, Programme Director, Editor, Paradigm Explorer

Fear and Primordial Trust

Fear and Primordial Trust explores fear as an existential phenomenon and how it can be overcome. Illustrated by clinical examples from the author’s practice as a psychotherapist and spiritual caregiver working with the severely ill and dying, the book outline theoretical insights into how primordial trust and archaic fear unconsciously shape our personality and behavior. This book discusses in detail how in our everyday world, we lack primordial trust. Nevertheless, all of us have internalized it: as experiences of another nondual world, of being unconditionally accepted, then sheltered and nurtured. The book outlines how from a spiritual viewpoint, we come from the non-dual world and experience a transition by becoming an ego, thereby experiencing archaic fear. This book explains fear in terms of two challenges encountered in this transition: firstly, leaving the non-world world when everything changes and we feel forlorn. Secondly, on awakening in the ego when we feel dependent and overwhelmed by otherness. The book also helps readers to understand trust as the emotional and spiritual foundation of the human soul, as well as how fear shapes us and how it can be outgrown. The book makes the case that understanding fear and primordial trust improves care and helps us to better understand dying. It will be of interest to academics, scholars and students in the fields of psychiatry, counselling, psychotherapy, and palliative care and to all those interested in understanding fear, trust, and the healing potential of spiritual experiences. Monika Renz is a psychotherapist, music therapist, and spiritual caregiver. She leads the psycho-oncology unit at a clinic of oncology/hematology, Cantonal Hospital of St. Gallen, Switzerland. She is the author of several books and her research focuses on dying, spirituality, forgiveness, and fear.

Explorations in Mental Health

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Fear and Primordial Trust

From Becoming an Ego to Becoming Whole

Monika Renz

First published 2022 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2022 Monika Renz The right of Monika Renz to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him/her/them in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. With the exception of Chapters 1 and 3, no part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Chapters 1 and 3 of this book are available for free in PDF format as Open Access from the individual product page at www.routledge.com. They have been made available under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non Commercial-No Derivatives 4.0 license. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-1-032-00963-6 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-00964-3 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-17657-2 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003176572 Typeset in Bembo by MPS Limited, Dehradun

Contents

List of Figures List of Tables Acknowledgments

1

Introduction

1

The human being: a citizen of two worlds (claim)

9

1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.6 1.7 1.8 1.9

2

xii xiii xiv

Humankind, an explosive concept 9 Non-dual existence: participating in the Whole 11 Ego-bound existence: facing the world as who we are 15 … and in between lies a formative transition 18 Liminal sphere and liminal experiences 21 We are beings of longing: thinking in terms of psychic layers 24 Music and music therapy: approaching the deepest psychic layers 27 Mirjam: “I don’t want to live—I don’t want to die—I want to be in paradise” 31 “Participation in the Whole” and a model of conscious realization (overview I) 33

Our beginning: non-dual, unitary reality (a completely different way of being) 2.1 2.2 2.3

“Your core has existed since time immemorial” 42 Everything is inside and accepted unconditionally 44 Original wholeness: primordial order instead of chaos 45

42

viii Contents

3

On the threshold (Stage A of conscious development during transition) 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8 3.9 3.10

4

4.3 4.4 4.5 4.6 4.7 4.8 4.9 4.10 4.11 5

Initiating the dynamics 49 Vanishing non-duality 52 Mr Fehr: “I looked across the threshold—and many of my fears have since gone” 52 Psychic images and symbols of non-dualism, its disappearance, and the dynamics of roundness 53 Images of God for non-dualism and the dynamics of roundness 55 Experiences of music on the threshold: beyond time and individuality 56 Primordial trust, primordial intuitions of happiness 58 We are born with the gifts of wholeness 60 Bettina (1): breaking through into confidence 61 We do not always manage to bid farewell to non-dualism 64

Wholesome containment (Stage B of conscious development in transition) 4.1 4.2

66

Oscillating between two modes of being 66 Primordial shelteredness: where dependence on the environment is not yet felt 67 Experiencing wholesome containment through music 69 Older than all power problems: wholeness as nurturing motherly envelopment 71 The masculine within the feminine: a pictorial analogy 72 Goddess and son, grandmother and undefiled devil 73 Announcing sheltered containment: images of God 75 Primordial trust, the early form of being loved, and psychic images/symbols 77 Dying and becoming: deliverance from evil by returning to good motherliness 78 Bettina (2): “I am lying on the Great Mother’s love” 79 “Called into Life” 82

Ambivalent containment (Stage C of conscious development during transition) 5.1 5.2

49

Unpleasantness versus pleasantness 86 How old is fear? 87

86

Contents ix

5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 5.7 5.8 5.9 5.10 5.11 5.12 5.13 5.14 5.15 5.16 5.17 5.18 5.19

6

“Falling into Unshelteredness” and the first sense of threat: the two faces of primordial fear 88 Awakening under the sign of curiosity or fear? 89 The ambivalent Whole and the overshadowed feminine 90 The endangered ego and masculinity: threatened self-esteem 92 Atmosphere and “music” trigger fear 92 Experiences of music: fullness of sound, absence of sound, chaos 94 What does earliest distress feel like? 95 Understanding the phenomenon of primordial fear 97 Inner images and symbols of primordial fear 99 Later-recurring primordial fear: experiences and victims of violence 101 Realistic ambivalence versus internalized evil 103 The fascination of power and violence and its opposite: shame 104 Primary sense of guilt and guilt as a coping pattern 106 Images of God: the primordial fear of God as culture-specific imprinting 107 From paradise to fall: a myth or more? 109 First splittings: inner images and symbols 112 Bettina (3): the fire in the dragon’s mouth and its impressive eyes 113

Entering the ego: primordial trust and primordial fear move into the background (Level D of conscious development during transition) 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 6.5 6.6 6.7 6.8 6.9 6.10

The ego emerges: from the Whole to the concrete 118 Ego-formation between detachment and rapprochement 119 Music-based experiences of entering the ego: rhythm and melody 120 Childhood between two worlds 123 Childhood between two fears 124 The birth of culture 125 Trust or fear: coping patterns 127 Inner images for entering the ego: symbols of the primordial force of emergence 129 The symbol of the snake 130 Witch and devil: inner images of the cursed primordial forces in the background 131

118

x Contents

6.11 6.12 6.13

7

Post-transition: the ego and the unconscious in the dual world 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 7.6 7.7 7.8 7.9 7.10 7.11

8

Images of God from coming into the ego: on this side of frightening numinosity 132 The individual remains fatefully connected to the Whole 134 Abraham: becoming an ego against a life-affirming background 135

Ego and distress-ego: perspective, music, symbols 139 Being our own lord and master—alienation 141 Types of fear 142 Progressive and regressive forces 144 Coping patterns become normal 146 The Whole: a God who either leads us to self-responsibility or is dead—images of God 147 The atmospherically overshadowed 149 The topography of the unconscious—psychic layers 150 Working with the model: therapists, pastors, doctors, nurses 152 Coping patterns as an impasse 155 Behind all taboos lies a central taboo: the Whole and its immediacy 156

From becoming an ego to becoming Whole (selectively integrating the Wholly Other into this world) 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 8.6 8.7 8.8 8.9

139

The suffering ego once again turns to the Whole 160 Primordial fear is relativized: the new connection to the Whole 163 Conscious realization as process: finding words and speech via music, symptom, and symbol 166 Images of God in suffering: the missing, afflicting, and approaching God 167 The virgin: a symbol of openness toward the Whole 171 Symbolic announcements of the future 172 Experiencing music under the sign of integration 174 New spirit in old reality: in the aftermath of near-death, illness, or liminal experience 175 The question of meaning: development in wholeness? 177

160

Contents xi

9

The question about the goal 9.1 9.2 9.3 9.4

Index

182

The future—beyond fear 182 The non-dual and personal God: a new spirituality 183 Covenant and relatedness—symbols 185 Eschatological dreams 186

191

Figures

1.1 1.2 1.3 3.1 4.1 7.1 7.2

Psychic Layers Everyday Consciousness, Ego Consciousness (1) Human Development Dynamics of Roundness Oscillation between Two States of Being The Distress-ego Everyday Consciousness, Ego Consciousness (2)

26 27 34 50 67 140 153

Tables

1a Levels of Conscious Realization: Dynamics and Medium of Music 1b Levels of Conscious Realization: Experiences and Images 7.1 Levels of Conscious Realization in Human Development and Dying

35 36 154

Acknowledgments

I am deeply grateful to everyone who has contributed to the writing of this book and to articulating its theorem, either by offering encouragement, by engaging in discussion, or by relieving me of certain duties and responsibilities. I wish to thank my translator Dr. Mark Kyburz. Warm thanks also go to my team at St. Gallen Cantonal Hospital: Claudio Gloggner, Anne Duveen, Julia Herkert, Dr. med. Urs Rüegg, and my former research assistants Dr. Miriam Schütt and Oliver Reichmuth. I wish to thank my superior Prof. Dr. med. Christoph Driessen, as well as my former dissertation supervisors Emeritus Prof. Dr. med. Heinz Stefan Herzka and Emeritus Prof. Dr. Max Küchler. I am grateful for the many discussions on psychological, theological, and medical issues with Dr. Susanne Hürlimann, Dr. med. Christian Lenggenhager, Prof. Dr. Roman Siebenrock, Prof. Dr. Adrian Schenker, Prof. Dr. Paul Zulehner, Dr. Ursula Speck, Prof. Dr. Thomas Cerny, Dr. Daniel Büche, PD Dr. Florian Strasser, and Prof. Dr. Beat Thürlimann and his wife Anne. My thanks also go to my supervisor Dr. med. Gisela Leyting. I am grateful to Manuel Herder and Simon Biallowons at Herder Verlag, and to Emilie Coin at Routledge. I am indebted to my family and, in a very special way, to my elderly mother, who is still prepared to place herself in the service of my work, by suggesting corrections, by discussing the manuscript, or by remaining silent. She has taught me, time and again, what it means if we risk ourselves even in love. I am profoundly grateful to my husband Jürg and to my many patients and seminar participants. They have entrusted me with their precious experiences for this book. I am deeply committed to them and their well-being.

Introduction

Abstract The introduction raises the two main questions of this book: What is fear, what is trust? Fear has many forms, which all seem driven by an incomprehensible force in the background: primordial fear. How old are fear and trust? What are our earliest impressions of being, of “ourselves,” and of a “Thou”? Did total serenity precede such impressions? Primordial fear coincides with our awakening ego, that is, when the unborn, the baby, and the small child (or, phylogenetically, early humankind) become self-aware. Fear begins when our ego-based needs (e.g., hunger) and our feeling for dependency awakens. It first appears as bodily reaction (e.g., as trembling). However, deeper than fear lie sensations that are rooted in non-duality: being, peace, trust, and being loved. As an endof-life carer, I ask myself: Do we return to such original impressions when we die? Primordial trust and fear may partly become conscious through dreams, meditation, and the experiences of the dying. This book is structured along the major lines of evolution, that is, of the development of consciousness. First, we awaken in the ego and leave nonduality. Next, we strengthen our ego, and finally we undergo—mostly suffering—processes of maturation and reconnection with non-duality.

What is fear? And how might we overcome it? Almost 30 years have lapsed since I was catapulted into the topic of fear. My own fate, my first therapeutic work (as a music therapist with people suffering from early childhood imprinting and disorders), and my first dissertation, led me to these fundamental two questions. In the meantime, fear in the world has not diminished, but rather increased. And yet, this phenomenon remains largely misunderstood to this day. So what exactly is fear? Fear is always existential. It is the profound concern for our own existence. Like extreme stress, it first appears as a purely bodily reaction: as shuddering, freezing, sweating, eye twitching, heart palpitation, trembling, seizure, paralysis, muscular tension, nausea, disgust, and numbness. Our tension and adrenaline levels rise. Our emotional life is confused. We feel triggered, affected, and unfree. Gerald Hüther (2004, p. 25) has argued that fear stands at the beginning of all stress reactions. It is an archaic feeling, comparable to a DOI: 10.4324/9781003176572-101

2 Introduction

reflex, a rapid, involuntary response. In dying persons, this fear manifests as sheer body language. As it does in newborns, I suppose. Etymologically, the word fear is related to angustus (Latin for constriction and distress; see angina as an illness) and angor (strangulation, anguish, torment). While German Furcht relates to an object (Latin timor, the fear of something specific), Angst (angor) is unspecific, intangible. Although many forms of fear exist (see section 7.3), they all seem nurtured or driven by an incomprehensible background, by the original form of fear, which I here call primordial fear. Primordial fear is still unrecognized and largely taboo. I first came across this concept in the work of Eugen Drewermann, who spoke of the “primordial fear of God” (1987, pp. 27 and 40). This primordial fear, so Drewermann, is the primary human distress that underlies many other afflictions (ibid.). But who knows what such primordial fear is? What does it feel like? When and how did it emerge? If I asked a hundred people what they were feared most, I would doubtless receive many different answers: spiders, confined spaces, war, unemployment, alienation, illness, and death. One answer, though, would probably not be given: the fear of God. In this book, I attempt to understand fear also in its original form: as sheer excitation. It is nameless and boundless—and often a purely bodily reaction. The expression “a primordial fear of God” articulates this feeling in its very own way: it has neither a beginning nor an end, neither a face nor any causality. And yet, the term is too abstract in itself. Instead, the phenomenon first captures—what are perhaps physical—impressions, stressful circumstances, and a sense of strain or burden. All of which occurs when perception in the developing human being is still only rudimentary. Perception is a key concept in this respect, since it points to feeling or experience. When, for instance, does a child realize the meaning of the word “mother”? When does “relationship” begin? What are our earliest impressions of a “Thou”? What do we see, hear, or feel before we gain such impressions of an otherness, for instance, on a vibrational level or by simply being? Did total serenity precede any awareness of an “I,” of a “Thou,” and of fear? And do we return to such original impressions when we die? As an end-of-life carer, I suspect that the self- and world-experience of the dying resembles that of early becoming. This book is about an awakening in the ego and about the earliest sensations that are experienced in this process: sensations of being, of peace, of trust, of being loved … and later also of distress and primordial fear. These first impressions imprint themselves on us. They are the source, the primal ground of future experiences. They only become conscious much later—perhaps through dreams, music, or meditation. They offer us a sense of an immeasurably serene, non-dual reality, and of complete protection, even if we do not know what we are contained in. Similar to a dramatic weather change, these impressions also indicate severe disruption. They make us realize—all of a sudden—that we are utterly helpless. Does or did fear begin here?

Introduction

3

The awakening in the ego means that, in the early days of human history, the unborn, the baby, the small child, or the adult suddenly became aware of themselves, and thus also of their ego-based needs (e.g., hunger), of existential fear, and of so many stimuli and sensations. Listening closely to many personal accounts has taught me that this existential fear has two aspects: first, being forlorn in emptiness and privation (i.e., with “too little” love, togetherness, and nurturing); second, being surrounded and hence overwhelmed by “too much” sound, vibrations (in the womb!), stimuli, early distress, double binds, and so on. The first aspect means complete godforsakenness, an infinite void. The second involves too much pressure. Here, everything is too confined and comes too close, perhaps even too stressful. It amounts to an overwhelming numinous Other. The second aspect might be our first impression of an opposite. We shudder. So does the concept of “a primordial fear of God,” or a fear of the numinous, perhaps apply nevertheless? Earliest human development is determined by both primordial trust and primordial fear. The word “primordial” (German ur-) or archaic always concerns the great dimensions of existence and of the Whole. It does not just mean “God” in the sense of a distant, supernatural being, but rather an experience of the numinous. After many years of delivering continuing education programs, and of working with cancer patients and with the dying, I am deeply convinced that experiences of the Whole and of the unfathomable (i.e., God) precede concrete, tangible experiences. These deepest experiences profoundly influence us. The Whole fulfills and at the same time overwhelms us (through its presence and its absence). It needs to be understood as substance and as energy. We emerged from this Whole—and will return to it when we die. Through this greatest proximity to this One, we once began to become ourselves. Distant dreams or intuitions of such a spiritual origin, of such closeness to the Whole and separation, have imprinted themselves on us. This also means that overcoming fear has to do with reconnecting with the Whole. It thus concerns spirituality. How does this work? Reconnection might happen when we find our way back to our spiritual roots, when we outgrow ourselves, or when we have deep transcendental experiences. Reports of the dying and of near-death experiences indicate that we can understand these experiences religiously or merely phenomenologically. They describe a non-dual reality in which we find ourselves for moments, or hours, or even days, free of fear and perhaps even free of pain—sometimes even amid the most dire symptoms and circumstances. This much we know from the reports of the severely ill and dying, and even from some victims of violence and torture. The phenomenon of being-out-of-fear occurs in different contexts. It is most obvious in near-death experience. Analogously to “out-of-body experience,” I speak of “out-of-fear experience,” which emphasizes experiencing freedom from fear. Once again, we may understand this religiously, as an absolute closeness to God, as grace and mysticism, or as determined by brain physiology. Patients and seminar participants describe their experiences as follows: “I am beyond pain but still here”; “I am beyond symptoms and violence”; “I am surrounded by a white-and-

4 Introduction

yellow light”; “I am beyond the threshold.” While its descriptions are manifold, the phenomenon—freedom from fear—remains the same. Dissociation, the term that is often used in connection with the victims of violence and torture, is not so much mistaken as misleading: it blots out the deep experience of being rooted and nurtured. It devalues experience, unnecessarily, as if what is a deeply spiritual reality could be produced purely mechanically. And, moreover, as if such experience could be created willfully. As drug addicts tell us, this might sometimes happen, And yet, they also report that “it” cannot be “made,” that nine out of ten attempts to free oneself from everything and return to our spiritual roots (e.g., by using heroin) fail. Hence, dealing with medication is equally difficult and amounts to more than a missing neurotransmitter. Saying this, spiritual interpretation might ultimately also be a confession: I believe that “out-of-fear experience” is a culminating experience, a matter of being completely accepted and protected, and hence of sheer primordial trust. I have experienced this myself several times, for instance, during a skiing accident: I saw myself heading directly toward a snowboarder. I was afraid and realized within seconds that a collision was inevitable: there he was, barely a yard away, on a very steep slope, hurtling toward me. On impact, all I felt was that I was moving “heavenwards.” An unspeakable lightness. I felt as if I were losing myself amid an army of the deceased, at whose front I recognized my father… light, yet not even more light, which became pure light.—I realized that I was lying in the snow, about three yards beside the sharply inclining ski run. I groped for my helmet, my sunglasses lay somewhere in the snow.—The accident affected me for a long time: I was hospitalized and afterward spent weeks recovering at home. Psychologically, it forced me to work through the unfathomable. It might be somewhat daring to claim that we need to seek what overcomes fear in the spiritual realm. No such claim should lead us to approach fear naively, according to the motto “meditate to heal yourself.” Fear demands respect and caution, which is sometimes even its purpose (see Kast, 1996). Words such as restraint, courage, medication, jogging, eating, fasting, waiting, and breathing describe an adequate way of coping with fear. Some people regain their balance through distraction, others through closer, deeper introspection. Arguably, none of these approaches is necessarily spiritual. So let me make an important distinction: we can cope with fear in a specific situation if we are strongly connected to reality. Yet when we consciously realize (self-awareness) and even attempt to overcome fear, this occurs through maturation and spirituality (Wirtz, 2014). Just as fear involves a minimum degree of subjectivity (i.e., human and animals experience fear only if they perceive themselves as themselves). Thus, freedom from fear involves overcoming subjectivity and the ego. This happens when we are once again close to God/the Whole/the divine, and to his/its non-dual reality.

Introduction

5

This book seeks to help readers better understand the phenomenon of fear and how it became to be what it is. I trace the early development of human consciousness, since this illumines when and why fear once arose. I also show how fear was worked through,1 and how it might one day be overcome. And yet, rather than confining myself to early individual development, I also look beyond, to our collective becoming. I claim that primordial fear is the archaic experience that underlies Western cultural development.2 Many of our individual and cultural developments and sufferings are only understandable against the background of fear; and so, too, are the more important questions of existential meaning and transformation. I have structured this book along the major lines of evolution, that is, of the development of consciousness. I begin with what lies deeper than fear and precedes it: primordial trust. I embrace this comforting certainty as the starting point for each and every one of us, to which we can later find our way back in maturation processes. Next, I develop the concept of primordial fear. Finally, I consider the major lines of life, the future, and the search for meaning. Connected or disconnected? This remains the single most important question of life, love, and serenity. Various subjects and authors have guided me in writing this book: • • • •

• • • • •

Fear, primordial fear: Eugen Drewermann; and also the earlier classics on this subject: E. H. Erikson, F. Riemann. Trauma research: J. Herman, M. Huber, U. Wirtz, and others. The neurobiological foundations of subjective experience: D. J. Siegel, G. Hüther, N. Doidge, L. Cozolino, M. Opendak and R. M. Sullivan. Intrauterine hearing, intrauterine experience, the sense of self in infants, preverbal dialogue, music therapy: A. Tomatis, A. J. DeCaspar, R. M. Sullivan et. al., D. N. Stern, M. Papoušek, G. K. Loos, W. Strobel, B. Nitzschke, M. Nöcker-Ribeaupierre, and others. Music in healing rituals: B. Ebersoll, I. Eibl-Eibesfeld, and others. The early development of consciousness (ontogenetic, phylogenetic), its symbolism and, in this context, also fairy tales, myths, the Bible and their interpretations: C. G. Jung, E. Neumann, H. Kessler, and E. Drewermann. Near-death experiences, death-bed visions, dying research, spiritual experiences in dying: P. van Lommel; C. Zaleski, P. Long, P. Fenwick, and S. Brayne; A. Kellehear; M. A. S. Holloway et al.; B. L. Arnold and L. S. Lloyd; and M. Renz. Non-dual consciousness, extrasensory states of consciousness: S. Grof and C. Grof, S. R. Joyce, C. Scharfetter. Spirituality, mysticism: R. Rohr, H. Nouwen, A. Grün, P. Zulehner, F. Jalics, C. Rutishauser, and others.

Beyond these sources, many of the insights in this book are based on personal experience: mine and that of the many dying patients to whom I have provided end-of-life care for over 20 years.

6 Introduction

Deeper than me is fear. Deeper than fear are you All is embraced by you – You.

Notes 1 In this perspective, influencing factors may have consequences that are not recorded as such in memory or that have thus far not been proven by memory research, notwithstanding the discussion on the astonishing human capacity to remember from the earliest times (see Rovee-Collier & Bhatt, 1995). While many phenomena that I and other therapists encounter again and again in our daily work cannot be explained, they suggest that “early material” manifests itself in therapy (Petzold, 1991/92, pp. 102–103). In order for “earliest memories” to emerge, a trigger is needed, such as seeing a bassinet pattern, facial features that activate recollection, a dream motif, or a strangely familiar bodily feeling (on the meaning of associative links, see Rovee-Collier & Bhatt, 1995). 2 On fear in animals and humans, see Drewermann, 1993, pp. 309–310.

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Introduction

7

Holloway, M.A.S., McSherry, W., & Swinton, J. (2011): Spiritual care at the end of life. A systematic review of the literature. Retrieved from https://www.gov.uk/government/ publications/spiritual-care-at-the-end-of-life-a-systematic-review-of-the-literature Huber, M. (1995): Multiple Persönlichkeiten. Überlebende extremer Gewalt. Frankfurt/Main: Fischer. Huber, M. (2003): Trauma und die Folgen. Trauma und Traumabehandlung, 1. Paderborn: Junfermann. Huber, M. (2004): Wege der Trauma-Behandlung. Trauma und Traumabehandlung, 2. Paderborn: Junfermann. Hüther, G. (2004): Biologie der Angst. Wie aus Stress Gefühle werden (6th ed.). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Hüther, G. (2005): Pränatale Einflüsse auf die Hirnentwicklung. In: I. Krens & H. Krens (eds.): Grundlagen einer vorgeburtlichen Psychologie (pp. 49–62). Göttingen: Vandenhoeck u. Ruprecht. Jalics, F. (2011): The contemplative way. Quietly savoring God’s presence. New York, NY: Paulist Press. Joyce, S.R. (2017): Tuning the mind in the frequency domain. Karl Pribram’s holonomic brain theory and David Bohm’s implicate order. Cosmos and History, 13(2), 166–184. Jung, C.G. (1983): Memories, dreams, reflections (A. Jaffé, recorded and edited; R. and C. Winston, transl.). London: Fontana Paperbacks. (Original work published 1961). Jung, C.G. (2010): Answer to job (Vol. 11 of the collected works of C.G. Jung). In Bollingen series XX: Vol. 20. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1952). Jung, C.G., von Franz, M.L., Henderson, J.L., & Jaffé‚ A. (1964): Man and his symbols. London: Aldus Books, W.H. Allen. Jung, E., & von Franz, M.L. (1986): The grail legend. Boston, MA: Sigo Press. Kast, V. (1996): Vom Sinn der Angst. Freiburg: Herder. Kellehear, A. (2014): The inner life of the dying person. In K. Anderson (ed.): End-of-life: A series. New York: Columbia University Press. Kessler, H. (2006): Den verborgenen Gott suchen. Paderborn: Schöningh. Lommel, P. van (2010): Consciousness beyond life: The science of the near-death experience. New York, NY: HarperOne. Long, P. (2010): Evidence of the afterlife. The science of near-death experiences (with P. Perry). New York, NY: HarperOne. Loos, G.K. (1986): Spiel-Räume. Musiktherapie mit einer magersüchtigen und anderen früh gestörten Patienten. Stuttgart: Gustav Fischer. Neumann, E. (1949): Ursprungsgeschichte des Bewusstseins. Zürich: Rascher. Neumann, E. (1956): Amor and Psyche. The psychic development of the feminine. A commentary of the tale by Apuleius. Princeton: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1952). Neumann, E. (1973): The child: Structure and dynamics of the nascent personality (R. Manheim, transl.). London: Karnac. (Original work published 1963, posthumously published 1980). Neumann, E. (2015): The Great Mother: An analysis of the archetype (R. Manheim, transl.). Princeton: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1956). Nitzschke, B. (1984): Frühe Formen des Dialogs, Musikalisches Erleben – Psychoanalytische Reflexion. Musiktherapeutische Umschau, 5, 167–187. Nöcker-Ribaupierre, M. (1986): Ontogenese des Hörens – Mögliche Konsequenzen für Entwicklungsförderung und Therapie. Musiktherapeutische Umschau, 7, 93–101.

8 Introduction Nöcker-Ribaupierre, M. (1992): Pränatale Wahrnehmung akustischer Phänomene. Eine Grundlage für die Entwicklung der menschlichen Bindungs- und Kommunikationsfähigkeit. Musiktherapeutische Umschau, 13, 239–248. Nöcker-Ribaupierre, M. (2003): Hören – Brücke ins Leben: Musiktherapie mit früh und neugeborenen Kindern. Forschung und klinische Praxis. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Nouwen, H.J.M. (1992): Life of the beloved: Spiritual living in a secular world. New York, NY: Crossroad. Opendak, M., & Sullivan, R.M. (2019): Unique neurobiology during the sensitive period for attachment produces distinctive infant trauma processing. Developmental Cognitive Neuroscience, 36. Art. no. 100637. Retrieved from http://www.elsevier.com/wps/find/ journaldescription.cws_home/722734/description#description. Papoušek, M. (1994): Vom ersten Schrei zum ersten Wort. Anfänge der Sprachentwicklung in der vorsprachlichen Kommunikation. Bern: Hans Huber. Petzold, H. (1991/1992): Bemerkungen zur Bedeutung frühkindlicher Gedächtnisentwicklung für die Theorie der Pathogenese und die Praxis regressionsorientierter Leib- und Psychotherapie. Gestalt und Integration, Zeitschrift für ganzheitliche und kreative Therapie, 1, 100–109. Renz, M. (2018): Hinübergehen: Was beim Sterben geschieht Ein Lehrbuch mit Graphiken. Freiburg i.Br.: Kreuz. Riemann, F. (2009): Anxiety. Using depth psychology to find balance in your life. München: E. Reinhardt. Rohr, R. (2011): Falling upward. A spirituality for the two halves of life. San Francisco, CA: Jossey Bass. Rovee-Collier, C., & Bhatt, R. (1995): Langzeitgedächtnis im Säuglingsalter. In: H. Petzold (ed.): Die Kraft liebevoller Blicke. Psychotherapie & Babyforschung, Vol. 2 (pp. 143–166). Paderborn: Junfermann. Rutishauser, C. (2011): Vom Geist ergriffen dem Zeitgeist antworten. Christliche Spiritualität für heute. Ostfildern: Matthias-Grünewald-Verlag. Scharfetter, C. (1994): Der spirituelle Weg und seine Gefahren. Stuttgart: Enke. Siegel, D.J. (2012): The developing mind. How interrelationships and the brain interact to shape who we are. New York, NY: Guilford Press. Stern, D.N. (1985): The interpersonal world of the infant: A view from psychoanalysis and developmental psychology. New York, NY: Basic Books. Strobel, W. (1988): Klang-Trance-Heilung. Die archetypische Welt der Klänge in der Psychotherapie. Musiktherapeutische Umschau, 9, 119–139. Sullivan, R.M., Perry, R., Sloan, A., Kleinhaus, K., & Burtchen, N. (2011). Infant bonding and attachment to the caregiver: Insights from basic and clinical science. Clinics in Perinatology, 38, 643–655. Tomatis, A. (1987): Der Klang des Lebens. Vorgeburtliche Kommunikation – Die Anfänge der seelischen Entwicklung. Reinbek: Rowohlt. Wirtz, U. (2014): Trauma and beyond: The mystery of transformation. New Orleans, LA: Spring Journal Books. Zaleski, C. (1987): Otherworld journeys. Accounts of near-death experience in medieval and modern times. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Zulehner, P. (Ed.). (2008): Werden, was ich bin. Ein spirituelles Lesebuch. Ostfildern: Schwabenverlag. Zulehner, P. (2018): Ich träume von einer Kirche als Mutter und Hirtin. Die neue Pastoralkultur von Papst Franziskus. Düsseldorf: Patmos.

Chapter 1

The human being: a citizen of two worlds (claim)

Abstract Before and behind our normal, ego-bound mode of being lies a non-dual, timeless world. This lies beyond sensory perception and consciousness and is the spiritual origin of humankind. This chapter discusses the two modes of being (non-dual and ego-bound) and the transition between them. We internalize these modes, which thus become part of our soul. I conceptualize these two modes in terms of psychic layers: the non-dual is our basis, while the ego-bound mode of being corresponds to our everyday consciousness. In between lie various stages of changed perception, such as dream consciousness and musical sensitivity. Near-death experience (NDE) illustrates the non-dual modes of being and our longing for this other world. Especially music touches us deeply: we are capable of hearing even in the non-dual mode of being. Our sensitivity for sound and music increases in the liminal sphere. These two facts provide music therapy with a special opportunity to reach deeper levels of the psyche. Chapter 1 concludes with an overview of the developmental perspective, and of different experiences of being and their respective psychic layers, language, and symbols.

1.1 Humankind, an explosive concept What or where were we before we became human? Does human existence begin with procreation and end with death? Or does something inside us transcend our existence and its duration? Our concept of humankind de­ termines whether we assume that nothingness begins and ends life, or whether something final and whole epitomizes substance and energy. Although ex­ periences shape us and our view of the world, the opposite also applies: our concept of humankind determines how we interpret our experiences and whether these perhaps represent quite another reality, that of a sacred and spiritual realm. In this book, I speak of a non-dual, timeless mode of existence. This lies beyond sensory perception and is the spiritual origin of humankind (section 1.2). Although this mode lies beyond consciousness, non-dual “rea­ lity” is ubiquitous—and might be understood as a “completely different way DOI: 10.4324/9781003176572-1

10 A citizen of two worlds

of existence.” Within us, something knows (about) this utterly different state, from which we emerge—and to which we return. The child emerges from this Wholly Other and gradually enters our world and mode of perception. The beginnings of human development are de­ termined by our closeness to this entirely different realm. Human develop­ ment (individuation, socialization) means that we must first enter the human mode of existence—with our body, our senses, and our feelings. Our organism develops, and our self-awareness must first awaken. Only this enables us to perceive, to feel, to react, and to convey messages of our own.1 What follows explores our ego-bound existence. Being a person represents the ego-bound mode of being. Basically, our sensory and even our bodily sen­ sations and reactions are ego-bound (section 1.3). Ego-bound means sub­ jective. In general, perception thus refers to an ego, to rudiments of an ego, and to our own body. Consciously or unconsciously, we perceive from our own perspective, on our own terms—rather than, for instance, as a medium. We see, hear, smell, and feel with our body—and as such experience ourselves more or less consciously as an ego. We also communicate and act as who we are. We protect ourselves and eat to satisfy ourselves. We act on our own accord and fulfill our instincts. Our body embodies us. We have our own voice, odor, and brain. Our life is guided, consciously or unconsciously, by the fact we are ourselves, that is, individuals. Thus, our ego-boundness or self-centeredness, which seems self-evident to us in the Western world, is neither the solely valid nor the purely original mode of being. It is instead already an important outcome of early human development. The child gradually grows into this state, the dying person leaves it again. When emerging from the Wholly Other into this world and into itself, the child undergoes a transition (section 1.4). This begins in the womb, where it experiences the first kinds of differentiation. Ego-boundness and the various preliminary stages leading to this state develop long before we can speak of an ego. This transition takes a long time. It is not completed until ego-bound perception has asserted itself in the waking state—and until the child has adopted that relationship with reality that our everyday consciousness and perception consider valid. In our culture, this transitional process as a rule ends at school. The child, now living entirely in the ego, knows that night equals darkness, and that ghosts are fairy-tale figures. By transition, I mean an inner process, one that occurs as our body forms. The main feature of this process is that the mode of perception changes completely. I call this a transformation of perception. My approach divides transition into different stages of becoming conscious, which in turn constantly transform the child’s (infant’s, toddler’s) experience (chapters 3–6). The transition takes place in the liminal sphere between non-duality and ego-boundness. Even after the transition has been completed, the liminal sphere still belongs to the world of human experience (section 1.5). Far

A citizen of two worlds 11

removed from consciousness, it is ever present within us. We fall into this liminal sphere whenever we enter deep sleep or a coma (section 1.6), and above all in the process of dying. I speak of liminal experiences (Renz, 2016). However different, the experiences of the newborn and of the dying are si­ milar in that they are shaped by their closeness to the Wholly Other.2 The preliminary stages of ego-boundness are also experienced by animals, and even by plants. They, too, react in their own interests, as is evident in the animal’s self-preservation instinct or in plant growth. It is thus perhaps more appropriate to speak of “self-centeredness.” Adult humans speak about themselves and know themselves. The animal acts in its own interest. The flourishing or withering plant indicates that it, too, has a sense of well-being and discomfort. Ego-boundness, a significant achievement of evolution, is inconceivable without its preliminary stages. A transition also occurred in collective development: namely, during those evolutionary eras in which a consciousness of self and its threatened existence, of material things and in­ dividual objects, of the ego and its realities, and of the patterns of nature gradually developed. This phylogenetic process of gaining consciousness may be assumed to have extended across millions of years.

1.2 Non-dual existence: participating in the Whole “Holistic” has become a catchword in our culture. Many of us long for more holistic forms of life and for holistic healing. It is a sign of our times that we feel that our worldview and way of life lack something fundamental. The word “holistic” is associated with our physical-psychic-mental unity (headheart-hand). But its meaning is much more far-reaching. The word “whole” is therefore more productive, as it means “all-embracing” and “encompassing polarities.” The Whole encompasses more than our earthly reality and tem­ porality. Nothing is missing nor split-off from the Whole. Here, no duality exists (i.e., black versus white, top versus bottom). I therefore also refer to this mode of being as non-duality. This is bound neither to the ego nor to the body. Eluding neurophysiological grasp, it describes an ultimately unfathomable state in which everything is one and whole.3 Consequently, it means participating in God as the Whole. In the pure non-dual mode of being, the human being as such does not yet exist or no longer exists. Part of what enters nascent human life, and which belongs (or belonged) to it, is still or has always been present. It belongs to the Whole, although differently. As human beings, we are always unconsciously related to this non-dual mode of being. We are citizens of an ego-bound world and at the same time forever part of the Whole. In non-duality, however, we do not feel as an ego. Our body has no boundaries. We are neither fully aware of “ourselves” nor able to pursue our own intentions. Inasmuch as we are guided or governed by our own consciousness, the Whole (God) remains inaccessible to us. Even if we somehow “re-experience,” “sense,” or “integrate into” non-dual states,

12 A citizen of two worlds

these only ever affect us fragmentarily, from our momentary perspective. In absolute wholeness, there is only that which is, the all-encompassing, allpervasive One. Thus, while we can never consciously feel the Whole, we can delve into another world to a limited extent and experience the mode of experience valid there. Sometimes, this happens during meditative immersion, in hallucinogen-induced experiences, in sexual union, in trance-like states, or in extreme shock or ecstasy. Dreams and imaginations may also sometimes lead us into the liminal sphere of the Whole and into non-duality. Here are two examples: During therapy, Christoph, aged 45, had the following vision: The scene is a large round square surrounded by a city wall. A female and a male path lead around the square at whose center lies a black sphere, embedded in a triangular cubic-like igloo tent. Despite its blackness, light emanates from the central sphere. The light now approaches me. Touched by this, I can no longer tell whether this Something is sound or light. I am no longer able to distinguish opposites like motion and rest, above and below, left and right, individual colors, or different sensations. Here is how one woman described what she felt while listening to continuous, pulsating drumming during two hours of music-assisted relaxation: I am physically so full that I feel empty at the same time. Everything flows. I feel so full of life that I almost lie there as if I were dead. I could barely lift my arms or legs. I no longer know whether I am lying on my stomach or back, whether the drum is outside me or identical to my heart. It is neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It simply is and yet still fine. As if my body had fallen asleep, and as if I was still completely conscious. In non-duality, and already in its liminal sphere, the limits of feasibility, of gravity, and of our body are eliminated. Individual aspects have blurred, op­ positions are no longer perceptible, and the laws of cause and effect are invalid. Our own shape, if it exists at all, seems altered. Here, in non-duality, the atmosphere is important: a solemn event, a blue light, a clear vision. Atmospheric tensions also become apparent, and therefore are omnipresent (muggy air, a brewing storm). Unlike atmospheres, forms and shapes have contours and boundaries, and hence are further removed from the Whole. The spatial dimension plays a more important role than the temporal one in the liminal sphere. Time seems suspended. Past, present, and future act in unison—while temporal boundaries blur (see the notion of oceanic bound­ lessness (Dittrich & Scharfetter, 1987, p. 38)). However, in the pure non-dual state, spatial experience is also overcome and no longer bound to any locality. Experience is now non-local, all-encompassing.

A citizen of two worlds 13

In deep dreams, the impossible becomes possible: people fly across the sky and the deceased come to life. The dream-ego is active and at the same time observes events from without. Previously unseen animals and hybrid creatures now appear. Some dreams take place on two distinct levels: one lower, the other higher; one superficial, the other enigmatic. The dream-ego is situated on both levels. The stranger dream patterns seem, the closer a particular dream approaches non-duality. This mode (i.e., the Whole) also consists of what the ego perceives as utterly foreign and extrasensory. Even if the ego acts out, perceives, and thinks all its possibilities, it only ever grasps a part of the Whole. Although it is inaccessible to the ego, what exists beyond ego-bound realities—in the Whole, in God—is nevertheless part of non-duality. The ego can only ever touch the liminal spheres of the Whole and thereby be touched. My work as a therapist and spiritual carer has taught me that clients who make such limit-experiences often also experience themselves differently. For instance, “I no longer exist, but I am there, part of the cosmos.” Or “I feel what the tree feels, but I am not a tree.” They feel connected to stones, animals, and spirits. As if they knew—to cite Goethe’s Faust—“what in its innermost gathers the world and holds it fast” (Part I). And yet, words alone never suffice to describe what we feel in such moments. Seen thus, those who make such experiences are both celebrants and sufferers. They are filled with the enthusiasm, peace, and tension that inheres in the Whole. So close to and so entangled with the Whole leaves their feelings brimming, making them no longer distinctly perceptible (for examples, see Renz, 2015). Everything be­ comes part of the all-encompassing Whole. Nothing remains outside, nothing emerges as itself. In this state, we have lost any sense of self, any sense of form and purpose. Non-duality—as near-death experiences, among others, tell us—is central to human longing and nevertheless overwhelms us. We find this state intol­ erable for as long as we are human. Our sense of absorption, of sinking into this condition, and of completely losing our sense of self overpowers us. While we can participate in the mystery of the Whole, we can never really feel or understand it. Human consciousness is too limited. Even liminal experiences “tell” us that we can neither “stand above” nor “talk about” them. The mystery of the Whole eludes us. It simply exists, and we must accept it as precisely that. Across the world, what I am calling the Whole has many names: God, Yahweh, Allah, Mother Earth, Great Mother, undivided being, energy, light, life. Although these designations capture the underlying concepts, at least in part, they fall short of what the Whole ultimately is. Common to these various ideas is their sense of the Whole as all-encompassing, as complete, as eternally true, as infinitely large, and as unfathomable. In face of the Whole, we feel small. Depending on our culture and background, we feel safe and secure, borne, or instead sinful or even futile toward the Whole. Rudolf Otto (1923,

14 A citizen of two worlds

p. 10) referred to the latter experience as “creaturely feeling”—that is, how the creature feels when it descends into its own nothingness and fades away from what defines all creatures. Otto describes this greatness in terms of several qualities: the numinous, the terrible, the overwhelming, the energetic, the Wholly Other, the antinomic, the mysterious, the wonderful, the sacred, and so on (ibid.). We struggle to grasp, in broad enough terms, what the Whole might be, or indeed what it might be like. It is first and foremost whole and thus contains everything and lacks nothing. None of its contents are super­ fluous. And it is undivided. As such, we might imagine the Whole as the in­ explicable coincidence of opposites or as unquestionable distinctions. Otto speaks of “contrast-harmony” (p. 36). What is the Whole? I have observed that many people are less afraid of terms like “cosmos,” “transcendence,” or “creative nothingness” (Schellenbaum, 1991, p. 175) than of the word “God.” In search of spirituality and the expansion of consciousness, many people prefer not to enter into a relationship with God or to commit themselves to the Whole. In doing so, however, they not only reject religion but also face a deep emotional problem: they can neither bear to feel nor to endure a Thou. What, I wonder, makes this so difficult? As I wish to show in this book, more lies behind our unease to call God by name than merely an enlightened or esoteric zeitgeist. Our plight in this regard reveals that the relationship between the human being and the Whole has been unsettled. In the past, the Whole was experienced increasingly as a threat: during transition (in the history of humanity and individually). It therefore needed to be played down—and still is. If, on the other hand, we speak of “cosmos” (instead of God/Wholeness), the ego feels less obliged to commit to absoluteness. While we feel freer to breathe, live, and create, we do not realize that or when our ego overestimates itself (inflation, megalomania).4 The ego is easily misled to shirk the necessary developments and feels free. And yet, this freedom is il­ lusionary. For no commitment means that the ego is neither relativized nor limited. There is neither a vocation nor a higher mission, nor any experience of being loved and addressed by an outermost counterpart. The Whole is whole. It dissolves boundaries within us and means that God is an autonomous force. It comprises both a pantheistic and a personal aspect. Wholeness is everything: being, relationship, energy. It encompasses being and becoming, the protective and the emerging, that which grants, eternally, and that which calls. Every image of God concerns the unviewable in its own particular way and foregrounds a part of the Whole. No matter how cultures and people call this Other, it is important that images and designations ap­ proach what connects the essence of the Whole and polar opposites. Even the original Whole contains the seemingly “Other,” the antinomous, or that which emerges only later. Otherwise, it would not be complete. Rhythm inheres in primordial sound, time in primordial space, transcience in eternity, the son in the mother, the human being in God. Only an outermost and at the

A citizen of two worlds 15

same time innermost relatedness of polar opposites really makes the Whole whole. Holistic means all-encompassing in an inconceivable totality. Holistic being is undivided participation in the Whole because it means being part of God. In non-dual reality, even good and evil are inseparable and therefore neither exists on its own. There is no question of good or evil. Perhaps a primordial state, palpable in the togetherness of good and evil, is to some extent unsolved and unredeemed. Does the unresolved exist in God? Or an original tension in the original state? Does a force inhere in the Whole that urges toward de­ velopment and humanization ?… So that creatures may themselves help shape creation and become God’s counterpart? Does a striving for consciousness inhere in the Whole? God Creator of all things You are not Good You are not Bad You are Rose Ausländer (1988, p. 124)

1.3 Ego-bound existence: facing the world as who we are Ego-bound existence and experience develop and are distinct from timeless nonduality. The former refers to our familiar—physical and sensory—existence in the here and now. We become ego-bound as soon as we are capable of unconscious or conscious perception, and of reactions of our own. We take for granted that we live and experience as who we are, and possess our own center. We feel united with the world and other living beings at best momentarily or during temporary liminal experiences. Deep mediumistic abilities, dreams, visions, or psychotic liminal states are long-awaited or even feared exceptional states. They confirm that ordinary human feeling is different, more limited, centered, and structured in its own particular way. By ego-bound, I mean precisely this structured existence. According to Daniel Stern (1985), we process our experiences instinctively, so “that they appear to belong to some kind of unique subjective organization that we commonly call the sense of self” (p. 6). He also speaks of an “invariant pattern of awareness,” of a “form of organization” (p. 7). Ego-boundness (i.e., ego-centeredness) is the basis of human feeling. In terms of developmental psychology, it is the precondition for egoconsciousness.5 For me to feel like an individual on my own terms requires a corresponding perception of the world. To the ego-bound person, the world appears as the surrounding world, as the world around us. And we obviously consider our fellow humans to be a counterpart, a “Thou.”

16 A citizen of two worlds

The ego corresponds to everyday consciousness. Christian Scharfetter (1994) has connected the ego, perception, and the state of consciousness as follows: We do not have consciousness, but are embodied consciousness. This consciousness is in constant flux …. If we are awake and focused on everyday reality, we are in so-called day-consciousness or everyday consciousness, in which the categories of space, linear time, and causality … apply. In this everyday consciousness we experience our personhood, … the temporary constellation of characteristics and func­ tions, which we call “ego.” Our orientation in this … day-consciousness is … rational. (p. 16) The mature feeling of being an ego is preceded—as many processes of de­ velopment and maturation reveal—by the development of ego-boundness: already the unborn child, which hears and moves, “develops toward itself.” Likewise, the newborn, which feels hungry or cries to express its needs, is egobound in such moments, whereas in others it is still in the non-dual state. Even animals and plants grow partly into this mode of being. They, too, are or­ ganized by a center within themselves. According to Stern (1985), a sense of self also exists in preverbal form (see pp. 6–7). This tangible experiential reality of substance, action, sensory impression, affect, and time (p. 71) also develops in numerous higher animal species. With plants and animals, we do not speak of an “ego.” Precisely this, however, shows that the ego needs not be fully developed for ego-bound perception6 and reaction to begin functioning. When the plant reaches up toward light out of the shade, this indicates its ability to differentiate and its tendency to ensure its own well-being. This is even more evident with the animal as it prepares to fight. Only the extent of “ego-bound” feeling and consciousness differs.7 However, varying degrees of consciousness in humans and animals do not change the fact that the evolutive process from non-duality to ego-boundness also includes animals and plants. The fact that egoboundness begins to develop so early suggests that important experiences, either part of our individual life history or of cultural and human history, occur before our ego has fully developed: ontogenetically, in the womb, as a fetus; phylogenetically, in the life of plants, animals, and primitive humans. The leap from the Whole to ourselves is and remains a mystery. Selforganization might be said to always involve drawing boundaries to the Whole. The extent to which an organism functions on its own, or how a creature perceives, senses, feels,8 and emits signals of its own, indicates that it is no longer connected to the Whole. This progression also involves isolation, filtering, and selection. Becoming an ego, we are no longer able to feel the Whole in its holistic character, be­ cause it is too numinous and appears threatening to the emerging ego.

A citizen of two worlds 17

Eternal fullness or wholeness leave no scope for ego-development. For the ego to become an ego requires new, ego-bound perception to emerge. Yet this kind of perception, rather than serving the Whole, serves individual well-being. This shift in perception means that individual aspects of the Whole can be selected and foregrounded, and thus become conscious, while others remain deeply unconscious. This selection precedes subsequent re­ pression. It also involves tabooing: whatever is considered too threatening for the ego may neither be perceived nor become conscious. As perception shifts, the original Whole splits into many individual aspects (heart sounds amid the intrauterine background noise, the mother’s uncertain eyes, stars in the night sky). The entire world becomes the sum of many details (mountains, trees, animals, the sun, storm clouds, etc.). The forever in­ comprehensible or too threatening is excluded from the visual field, yet remains invisible as an “outside reality.” Polarities emerge. Light stands out from darkness, water from air, movement from stillness, the pleasant from the unpleasant, good from evil. Instead of unity in primordial wholeness, an ego increasingly faces material surroundings with which it must come to terms. Ego-boundedness is a natural part of being human and should not be equated with egoism. The term ego-bound is non-judgmental, unlike ego-centric or egotistic. It also means something else than subjective. Subjective refers to in­ dividual differences and draws attention to the contrast between subjective and objective. Ego-bound means subject-related and refers to what all human per­ ception has in common: every person who has their mental faculties (senses!) re­ cognizes objects, which stand out against the background, and, for instance, experiences air differently than water. However, ego-bound perception does not assert itself in the same way in all individuals and cultures. Less pronounced ego-boundness does not mean that people (e.g., a medium) are sick, or that animals and plants are inferior, or that cultures are underdeveloped. Rather, this raises a basic question: What is real, what normal, what healthy? Do these (humanly defined) values perhaps ex­ clude what a collective neither tolerates nor knows? Individual and cultural differences with regard to more or less ego-boundedness refer to ancient imprintings: while human becoming was determined by heightened fear and threat from the outset, subsequent development brought forth coping strate­ gies such as flight and defense. Ego-boundness is both limitation and opportunity. This kind of perception enables the ego to perceive individual aspects of the Whole and diverse phenomena, for instance, creatures and things. These are accessible to human consciousness, while the undivided Whole remains unconscious. Our egoboundedness enables to grasp, assess, shape, and relate from our own per­ spective. We receive freedom, and thus also responsibility. Various creation myths attempted to vividly describe the shift of perception from Wholeness to ego-boundedness, which began asserting itself in humankind

18 A citizen of two worlds

(in Genesis 1–3, Adam and Eve had “their eyes opened” and were expelled from Paradise; see section 5.17). Such myths also differ according to culture. One Indian creation myth, for instance, speaks of a more or less reversible “accident.”9 Nevertheless, I remain cautious about assuming cultural differences, because cultures have several and quite different creation myths. Today, we can once again sense what it means to have lost non-dual unity, as happens to many of us in the Western world: for we learn only then, through detours and catastrophes, what we have inflicted upon nature and other creatures. We were unable to see with the eyes of nature nor feel united with dying trees, suffering animals, and exploited humans. Our distinct ego-boundness means we are unable to feel part of the connections inherent in the Whole. This explains why—unlike animals—we are capable of such hubris and ruthless exploitation. Environmental destruction expresses our broken relationship with the Whole. Help might come from becoming conscious and from gaining insight into the relativity of ego-bound perspectives (see endnote 9): whenever we endure the constant presence of a completely different way of being, while remaining connected to the here and now, both worlds cross-fertilize each other. In everyday life, coping with reality can stand beside contemplation and ecstatic experiences, progress beside an affinity with nature.

1.4 … and in between lies a formative transition As a citizen of two worlds, we are at home in both ways of being: we are ourselves, as much as part of the Whole, even if we do not feel the latter. Unconsciously, we carry within ourselves something that participates forever in the Whole and in non-duality. Our earliest childhood also continues to affect us: “The child that I was” and “the way in which my inner child ex­ perienced the transition from non-duality to ego-boundness.” The entire sphere in-between, in which the non-dual and ego-bound way of feeling come into contact, or indeed merge, is of utmost importance—also with re­ gard to human imprinting and disorders. Experts keep debating whether predisposition or rather the environment accounts more for human imprinting. In this book, I assume that three factors are jointly responsible for early imprintings: besides individual predisposition and environmental influences, the mode of perception at the time of a formative event is hugely significant. Together, these three dimensions determine how gently or traumatically, how pleasurably or anxiously, we experience. Our experience of transition is crucial for early imprinting and disorder. By way of illustration: depending on the child, environment and predisposition fit better or worse. A dreamy child’s energetic mother once told me: “I’m probably the wrong mother for my child.” She added that she could not connect with her child. Considering the interaction between environment and the mode of perception, we ought to bear in mind that not every environment accounts for the fact

A citizen of two worlds 19

that children still live in the liminal sphere to non-duality. How spontaneously can a particular environment empathize with a child’s challenges during its transition from non-dual being and perception to ego-boundness? How much scope does society, with its norms and worldviews, provide for presensory and extrasensory experience and reality? How hectic and overcrowded is a specific day and age? Today, even the child’s weekly schedule is overloaded, just as the boundaries between supportive and overwhelming surroundings become blurred. Overburdening may stifle one child’s development, yet accelerate another’s. Thus, already the unborn child, the fetus, and the infant might be excessively strained by an overstimulated environment, as well as by the unconscious messages, feelings, and tensions that are conveyed to it. Its transitional process may be hampered as a result. When the child hears, it focuses more on messages that are transmitted atmospherically rather than verbally. It senses the comfort or discomfort that resonates in a person’s tone of a voice, or that looms in the family room, yet ought not to exist. For one intelligent and gifted woman, this meant that she was affected more by the unconscious heaviness of her whole family system than by being wanted by her loving mother. Her body had grown very tense already when she was a baby, and she later suffered from a numbness and despair that she was unable to understand. The interplay of all three factors—predisposition, environment, and perception—also includes the observation that adverse experiences affect comparable environ­ ments differently. And yet, predisposition alone does not explain such differ­ ences. Instead, we need to ask how a child felt when it made an adverse experience. Therapy later in life might help to illumine matters: A woman who was aware of the detriment that she had experienced as an infant (a narcissistic mother and extended stays at a children’s home) wondered why she still was so trusting. She was seldom afraid, had no problems with her appetite and digestion, and rarely had problems sleeping. Later experiences at school seemed to have affected her much more lastingly. During musicassisted relaxation, she received an answer to her question: an angelic light appeared several times. She felt reassured (“at home”) whenever it appeared. Along with this light, the children’s home and her mother were present, and yet they were not. This woman had evidently lived through her transition slowly and had often felt safe and secure in the Wholly Other during infancy.10 Why, however, do some children undergo their transition quickly and others slowly? While environmental influences impair or accelerate transition, pre­ disposition also plays its part. For instance, our desire to live or our longing for the Wholly Other varies depending on our predisposition. Their predisposi­ tion, then, makes some children more or less vivacious. An intelligent child,

20 A citizen of two worlds

for instance, might enter the here and now sooner than others. Does it catch on more quickly? Does it undergo its transition swiftly? Does this characterize what we call intelligence? And yet, the child that enters the here and now quickly is also more exposed (and hence at risk) during this earliest stage of life: it is dependent on its environment and vulnerable; and because it awakens sooner and more often, it is no longer safe and secure in the Wholly Other. It feels more powerless, more afraid, and more imposed upon both earlier and more absolutely than a child that undergoes its transition slowly. So are some intelligent children particularly susceptible to early disorders? I suspect that a similar early sensitivity to environmental influences also exists in musically sensitive children. Their predisposition makes them parti­ cularly vulnerable during their transition, as they are more sensitive to noise levels and atmospheres, as well as to the double binds that are conveyed im­ plicitly by an adult’s tone of voice. My experiences as a music therapist and as a psychotherapist confirm my suspicion that people who suffer early disorders are often either intelligent or musically sensitive, or indeed both. What characterizes predispositions in contrast to early imprintings or disorders? Once again, I am cautious. Therapeutic processes with many patients have taught me that what was first called predisposition was in fact early im­ printing. All of a sudden, these patients sensed that they were neither who others said they were, nor who they themselves believed they were. They asked themselves: “Do I really have a learning disability, or am I normally intelligent?” “Am I lazy or full of energy after all?” “Am I orderly or chaotic?” Even gifts like musicality, creativity, sensitivity, assertiveness, or an exceptional memory are not always congenital. They may also have been developed as a strategy to compensate for early distress. I often experience how people marvel at themselves when they realize how much they have made of themselves and their imprinting. They have developed in the truest sense of the word: they have freed themselves from old entanglements by acquiring skills and abilities. Contrary insights also emerge: some people are startled when they realize how many gifts and joys they lost during their earliest childhood. Buried skills and talents reemerge during the therapeutic process or after a major crisis. Mirjam, who was extremely sensitive to noise, rediscovered her musicality. Bettina became creative. Julia discovered her intellectual giftedness after years of being unable to read books. In every single case, we must ask ourselves: What is predisposition? What imprinting? What was this person’s environment really like? How did they perceive it? How strongly do predisposition, environment, early imprinting, and development converge with what is “meant for” us from within, either by destiny or by God? Which imprinting do we want to, or indeed can we, become conscious of and change—for instance, through a therapeutic process? We often cling to a mistaken image of so-called good parents, to avoid feeling the pain we felt at the time.

A citizen of two worlds 21

No environment consists merely of a mother, father, siblings, animals, air, and so on. Our environmental systems (Bronfenbrenner, 1979) include im­ mediate life spheres (our parents’ home, school, residential area), indirect in­ fluences (our parents’ workplaces), societal conditions and—I would add—our collective heritage of millions of years. All of this resonates atmospherically. Every one of us enters a collective that long ago belonged to the evolutionary process and that has developed cultural peculiarities before we come into this world. Western people go through their transition differently than Eastern ones already on account of their specific cultural precepts. Socialization always also means entering cultural specificities. While we undergo our individual transition, we also adopt the traces of collective transitional events. Profound imprintings were initiated long before our consciousness and volition became able to codetermine our development. Early imprinting can change (only) to the same extent as it once developed: in the liminal sphere between us and the Whole/God. In this book, I wish to show through which depths healing paths lead. I also wish to show that however difficult such changes may be, they are possible. And I wish to show that at the beginning of early imprinting lies archaic fear.

1.5 Liminal sphere and liminal experiences The child in transition lives between two worlds. Even in the adult, this liminal sphere is a permanent reality beyond what we normally perceive and what we believe is true. The boundaries between ego-bound and non-dual ex­ istence blur in deep sleep, in a coma, amid convulsion. Early imprintings were initiated in the liminal sphere, from where they can also be relativized and corrected again. The liminal sphere (like the non-dual state of being) is deeply unconscious. It belongs to what our everyday consciousness usually finds unbearable and what we are unable to reason out: namely, whatever is too close to the Whole, the numinous, fullness, monotony, the (almost) eternal. On the other hand, this is where we may also experience infinite hap­ piness, wonderful fullness, and primordial peace. Here we may discover the deepest invigorating forces and ultimate experiences of being loved. During liminal experience, the liminal sphere fragmentarily breaks into human consciousness. On one occasion, the emotional aspect is foregrounded: letting go—enduring—becoming new. On another, the spiritual aspect is central: the boundaries of everyday perception protecting the ego are exploded. I am thinking, for example, of profound dreams, of key experiences during therapy or spiritual retreats, of awakening from a coma or being close to death. Liminal experiences also occur through the body: for instance, as a bodily experienced “resurrective force,” or as a physical expanse where a moment ago there was nothing but tension. Since the ego’s boundaries, safeguards, and behavioral patterns risk collap­ sing in the outermost liminal sphere, we are only ever prepared to let ourselves

22 A citizen of two worlds

fall into liminal experience in great distress. Too great is our fear of becoming totally powerless (i.e., of losing our ego-bound power, defenses, control, and drive). And so, too, is our fear of losing our ego. The liminal sphere is any­ thing but harmless. And yet, I wonder whether we might not consider emotional disorders such as depression, delirium, and psychosis also in terms of potential liminal experience: depression as the crippling of driving forces and almost extinguished spiritual longing. Delirium and psychosis as states lacking an intact perceptual basis in the ego (ego-bound perception). In depression research, Daniel Hell (2005) has advocated the therapeutic treatment of depression, especially when emotions become numb, in addition to physical treatment (psychopharmacological, light therapy, sleep depriva­ tion). Depression is more than a pathological change of the metabolism (p. 271). Hell speaks of a profound “overall change in experience.” Moreover, “Persons with depression have lost something that they took for granted be­ fore. They are shocked to discover that they are no longer able to perceive, feel and think as they used to” (p. 261).11 Therapy should not be limited to treating depressive episodes (p. 263), but also needs to explore patients’ specific characteristics and resources. In many cases, these include their essential clo­ seness to non-duality—that is, their pronounced, yet withering spirituality. These people would have something important to contribute to our society, which it lacks—because of its total separation from the non-dual and sacred (see section 7.4).12 As early as 1984, Reinhart Lempp described psychosis as a type of reaction that “may occur in every human being.” The decisive criterion is the “degree to which the relationship with jointly experienced reality is disturbed” (1984, p. 11). Besides a functioning ego, and the ability to function in everyday life and in society, “jointly experienced reality” also includes ego-bound perception. Phenomenologically, psychosis involves the blurring or blending of an egobound and a non-dual reality. In this state, no clear boundary exists between the ego and the Whole. Once again, the “distress-ego” (German Not-Ich; see section 7.1), which stands on shaky ground anyway, is flooded. The selection mechanism preceding ego-formation and socialization is broken, and the view of the Whole expands. In light of my approach, two aspects are interesting in this respect: first, psy­ chosis as a rule occurs on the level of perception (distorted impressions and sen­ sations); and second, the contents of crisis and delusion are often spiritual (people attribute God-like powers to themselves). Not just the ego, but already its foundation is disturbed; this happened in a spiritual realm, during the spiritual challenge of transition. Consequently, healing would also presuppose the spiri­ tual dimension (i.e., being rooted and related to the Whole, yet not identified with it). This process is often difficult and overwhelming. I would define the therapeutic goal quite modestly: it is already sufficient to develop a capacity for reality. Its attainment turns the spiritual receptivity of psychotic persons into a potential (on early disorders and resources, see Renz, 2007, p. 54).

A citizen of two worlds 23

Finally, I am also cautious about using the term delirium, not least due to its stigmatizing effect. In my field of work, I encounter the phenomenon of mental confusion in three settings: •

• •

the terminal communication of the dying (Daniel Büche, a palliative physician and colleague at St. Gallen Cantonal Hospital, reports—based on Breitbart and Alici (2008)—that 60 to 85 percent of patients are delirious); patients suffering from acute leukemia, for instance, who need high-dose chemotherapy and then develop aplasia (the condition in which patients lack antibodies); in people with psychotic disorders in the proper sense of the term: here, recourse to symbolism, such as associative work, usually does not help. Many of these people were psychotic before they developed cancer. Cancer often even “provides” mentally ill persons with stability.

Scharfetter (1994) and Jacobowitz (1994) distinguish psychotic and spiritual crises, despite these states seeming to be similar. Spiritual crisis is less about the survival of the ego, its value and power, than about rooting oneself in higher, transpersonal consciousness (Jacobowitz, 1994, p. 88). In the context of this book, this is exactly what happens in liminal experience: we do not fall out of the world (i.e., our ego-bound relationship to reality), but “only” back into unitary reality. Under certain circumstances, we even regain our sense of home and might know what we thirst for. Through spiritual crises—that is, liminal experiences—a needy distress-ego living on brittle primordial ground finds a new foundation. This is and promises more than mere scaffolding. Such a fundamental “restructuring of personality” shows that liminal ex­ periences are uncompromising—and not simply a trip to self-discovery. Before the outermost limit lies—figuratively speaking—the gate. On one of its sides stands the ego with its corresponding action competencies. “Here you must let go of your shape,” one patient was told in a dream. Thus, before the gate, we must let go of many insights and skills (even of basic personality traits) that we have acquired during our lifetime: professional skills; thinking skills; special gifts and talents; the need to plan ahead and to be beautiful and glorious; previous standards and ego-centered values. These all become meaningless in the face of spiritual crisis or liminal experience. Figuratively speaking, we sink into the underworld without knowing whether and how we will reappear. According to a Sumerian myth, the goddess Inanna was made to abandon all her divine at­ tributes at the gates to the underworld on her way to Ereshkigal (Brinton Perera, 1981, p. 13). And so, too, must we, at the entrance to the outermost liminal sphere, as a rule let go of what our ego was most attached to.13 Under certain circumstances, this applies even to our sense of being an ego. Nevertheless, in my present logic, we ultimately experience the state that we previously feared as pleasant. Whoever passes through the lowest

24 A citizen of two worlds

point, and whoever is allowed to pass through it from within (Kairos), touches “bottom,” and thereby finds new ground (justification) and identity. We resurface when the time is ripe. Every ascent is different to the previous descent. The way down was traumatic. It involved, symbo­ lically speaking, being plunged into a fountain (see the old German fairytale about “Mother Hulda,” Grimm & Grimm, 1884) or being swallowed by the fish (Book of Jonah, chapter 2). The ascent, if guided from within, becomes a natural entry into life. As Golden Mary passes through the gate, a shower of gold pours over her, while the fish spits out Jonah over dry, safe ground. What does a liminal experience change in a person’s life? Energies re­ constellate themselves. Exaggerated resistance transforms into strength. Splitoff rage becomes channeled. Sadness becomes longing, as well as a driver of future commitment. The feeling of primordial security is rekindled, while fear is relativized. Yet in spite of earlier healing liminal experiences, the outermost sphere never ceases to instill respect. The fear at the gate recurs every time. Previous healing liminal experiences, however, convey the in­ sight and serenity that fear is not the last thing. It is similar with dying: death never loses its awe-inspiring face. Fortunately, although dying cannot be optimized, past liminal experiences still seem to extend a helping hand to the dying.

1.6 We are beings of longing: thinking in terms of psychic layers Long did I not let go off my angel, and he sank into poverty in my arms and became small and I became large: all of a sudden I was compassion, and he nothing but a trembling demand. Thus I gave him his heavens and he left me all that is close, from which he vanished he learned to walk on clouds, I learned to live, and slowly we got to know each other Rainer Maria Rilke, Early Poems Those who return to life after a near-death experience know this longing, just as former drug addicts sometimes do. Rilke “realized” what he longed for and how, reaching out to what lay “close,” he had abandoned and lost his angel. Is it meant to be like this, to the point where even the ego, shaped by reason, stops longing? What might remain is emptiness, addiction, aimless roaming. So why does the primordial ground close itself off to us at some point in our ego development? And how might we explain what the primordial ground is, and what, in contrast, the world of the ego? As a rule, I begin my

A citizen of two worlds 25

further training programs about end-of-life care, spiritual care, fear and trust, and processes of maturation by introducing the concept of psychic layers.14 These lie one upon the other and, together, they form our unconscious (see “On the Topography of the Unconscious: Psychic Layers,” section 7.8). Next, I briefly explain that the various media with which I work (the word/ rational comprehension – the dream/working with symbols – receptive music therapy – spiritual experience) touch our soul in different ways. When I approach patients, I ask myself: Where (on which level) might this person be touched? Where lies his or her hidden distress and need? It is precisely there, in the corresponding psychic layer, that I search for an answer together with that person and offer them, if possible, the opportunity to experience a process. Thus, I focus less on additive, accumulated achievements, in terms of a biopsycho-socio-spiritual approach, than on indication. Because rather than needing every kind of treatment (e.g., spiritual care, music therapy, psy­ chotherapy, occupational therapy, physiotherapy, therapy dog, Tai Chi, ho­ meopathy, social services, etc.), patients mostly require something quite specific. Can we draw closer to what patients need and, if so, through which medium? Thinking in terms of psychic layers also helps us grasp the profound effects of music-assisted relaxation: it undergirds thought structures and defense me­ chanisms. It touches us, wordlessly, and opens us up to find words. I leave it to other forms of therapy to determine their respective media and their specific benefits. Below, I offer a schematic illustration of this thinking, which also structures this book (chapters 2–9). I discuss the individual psychic layers, and what happens in each of these, in more detail as this book unfolds. I also illustrate what this model means for working with patients (section 7.9). Various visuals complement my reflections (chapters 2–9; I also refer to the film, “A loose connection with eternity”; see www.monikarenz.ch/therapy) (Figure 1.1). The striking feature of this illustration is the black area. It represents darkness, the abysmal, primordial fear, and early imprinting. It often blocks the ego’s natural connection with its primordial ground (see video a loose connection with eternity: monikarenz.ch/Therapie.php?Sprache=en). It does so to such an extent that, in our present times, we normally no longer know anything about. We have lost our deeper relatedness and sense of belonging. We are, as I tend to say, no longer “connected,” even if the grid (to use an electrical metaphor) still exists. A dying media celebrity once observed: “To be connected or disconnected—that’s the question. I was disconnected all my life and lost what would have been most important.” On his deathbed, he mourned his self-indulgent, at times excessive life, which had lacked religio (reconnection). And yet, at some stage, he nevertheless found serenity. It becomes a question of fate whether the ego, in the course of its (later) development, reconnects with non-duality, at least rudimentarily (the above illustration shows that the mature ego is connected to the Whole and thus strengthened). This path leads inward and follows deepest longing. C.G. Jung

26 A citizen of two worlds

Figure 1.1 Psychic Layers.

spoke of the first half of life as ego-time and of the second as self-time.15 Richard Rohr (2011) talks about a spiritual journey into the second half of life. According to the evangelist Mark, Jesus’s teaching began with the words: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news” (Mark 1:15). The figure below, in addition to psychic layers, introduces a developmental psychology perspective and an energetic perspective: some energies seek to strengthen the ego and increase awareness, while others strive for wholeness. The latter are effective in the mature ego’s renewed devotion to the primordial ground, but also in the dying process and its three phases: pre-transition – transition – post-transition (Renz, 2018). Dying often confronts us once again

A citizen of two worlds 27

with primordial fear. Maturation strengthens our so called ego-self axis (C.G. Jung); it reconnects us increasingly with the Whole and makes us more conscious of it (see section 7.8) (Figure 1.2).

1.7 Music and music therapy: approaching the deepest psychic layers Music has opened up deepest feelings and images to me. It is the most im­ portant medium in my work. When I was working with children and young people with learning disabilities, as well as now, for over 20 years, in my work

Figure 1.2 Everyday Consciousness, Ego Consciousness (1).

28 A citizen of two worlds

with cancer patients, dying people, and in training programs with professionals and interested laypersons. Music can be understood as the all-encompassing sonic and rhythmic di­ mension. It includes silence and noise, intonation, inaudible plant sounds, rhythms in body movements, and speech. Traffic noise influences us as much as symphony concerts or Indian ragas. Music can be divided into various parameters: sound, rhythm, melody, dynamics, and form (Hegi, 1986). It is, however, also a self-contained whole, one that takes effect—just like that. In terms of my model, we need to understand music as being perceived by humans—depending on the degree of differentiation:16 the fetus hears something different than the toddler or the adult, who combines dissonances and harmonies. We hear differently in a trance than in waking consciousness. Words are islands of consciousness in the midst of music. Their meaning sets them apart from the background of sound and rhythm. Music, including si­ lence, embraces. Music, understood thus, is omnipresent and occupies more space than words, just as the unconscious occupies more space than con­ sciousness. As an incomprehensible to unbearable atmosphere, music threatens to flood knowledge. Every vibration can be regarded as music; everything that vibrates has its own sound (Berendt, 1991). Sound and rhythm are the basic elements of music. Sound is substance, matter. Processes and movements are rhythms. Being and space recall the acoustic dimension, while what becomes, pulsates, structures, and occupies time recalls the rhythmic one. It is a law that inheres in all life, according to which pairs such as sound and rhythm, space and time, being and becoming are mutually dependent and complement each other: rhythm becomes audible through sound and takes effect as sound fades in and out (temporal dimension). Sound is the acoustic, space-filling thing that we perceive through our ears or skin. We do not hear rhythm; it is an expression of time and structure. In order to perceive rhythm, we need a sense of time and transience, at least some kind of memory, however hazy. Rhythm without sound resembles a deadly silent temporal order. It is structure without substance. It is like riding the train opposite a teenager wearing noisecancelling headphones: the teenager’s head moves to the rhythm (or pulse) of the music without us being able to hear why. The opposite, sounds without (perceptible) rhythms/time/regulation, is equally unnatural: a never-ending hammer drill, a continuous buzzing, or endless silence! But even these noises contain rhythms (in the form of minute vibrations and their periods), but they are not audible as such. The sense of “static sounds” at best approx­ imates non-duality. Every melody is already a connection of sound (audio material) and rhythm (emphasis). Its force is never as archetypal as sound and rhythm, yet nevertheless embodies the individual. Rhythm urges us to arrive in life on our earth. It places us in the here and now, as well as pulls, beats, and rocks us into the flow of life. Rhythm moves and is the structure within which movement happens. The dimension of

A citizen of two worlds 29

sound, on the other hand, hints at the vastness of the cosmos; sounds represent devotion to the infinite. Sound fills structure, the individual sound is moved. This happens when music fades in and out. The interaction of sound and rhythm creates music. The more excessively we live in acoustic spheres (sound), the more we lack any reference to reality, to the heaviness of the earth, to our subjecthood. Our experience of reality will be listless, powerless, and somehow unrealistic or diffuse. Although physically present, in this state we will not be permeated by pulsating life. If we overemphasize rhythm, we will be less likely to experience the depth (of thought) and flights of fancy into larger dimensions. We might lack sen­ sitivity for the underlying contexts of life and meaning or for the nuances of our emotions. Our relation to reality will remain purely functional, and our life will become monotonous. A fulfilled life needs both: rhythm and sound, structure and feeling, reality and enthusiasm. Music is the first and universal mother tongue, the medium of earliest com­ munication. Sounds and rhythms already surround the embryo. Especially the ear develops very early as an organ of perception. We can imagine the unborn child’s experience of the world as vibrational. What goes on inside it? What and how does it hear? Such questions lead to the outer limits of what can be studied.17 In the dialogue between mother and infant, not the abstract word is effective, but rather how it sounds, what resonates and lies wordlessly in the air. It has been speculated that the basic patterns of preverbal com­ munication are closely related to the basic patterns of music.18 Besides what people experience during music therapy, healing rites also illumine archaic sound experience. Music plays a crucial role in the cere­ monies of different peoples (e.g., in Papua New Guinea, in the Amazon re­ gion, or among Australian Aborigines).19 Frescoes dating back to the 4th millennium BCE suggest that Egyptian priest-doctors used musical incantation in the context of medical treatment. Assyrian cuneiform tablets from Mesopotamia attest that music was included in medical treatment to banish evil spirits. The fire dance, which developed in the Balkans in the 3rd mil­ lennium BCE, and eventually led to the worshipping of Dionysus (Bacchus) and served to banish disease-causing spirits, was preceded by a three-day in­ itiation in which archaic musical elements were significant. In the 2nd mil­ lennium BCE, liturgical chants and hymns were sung in India to invoke Indra and Rudra, the gods of healing (Spintge & Droh, 1992, p. 6). Although rites have varied over time, music has been used for similar purposes in different eras and regions. It banishes spirits and facilitates inner purification (catharsis)—yet how exactly? Concretely, it guides us into an­ other state of consciousness (e.g., rapture, enthusiasm, deep relaxation). As such, it is used at the beginning of rituals, either for the healer or for the person seeking healing. Next, contact is established with the spirits or the deity, often without the use of music. From this emerge concrete answers to the welfare of those seeking healing. The person who has been put into a

30 A citizen of two worlds

trance then finds their way back to the here and now—again under the influence of music. On the whole, music has the task of returning us to a different mode of perception and from there back to everyday conscious­ ness. Music is a bridge between two worlds, a medium of transition. What, then, could be more obvious than to attribute a bridging function to music in early human development, moreover also in comas and in death? In this context, I speak of auditive phases of life. Music therapy works with the manifold effects of music: • • • • • • • • • •

Music activates the joy of life at the deepest level. It creates tension and relaxation. It enables us to experience the child’s speechless suffering and unspeakable joy: unfathomable fears, deepest feelings of security, and the unheard all become audible. It leads into salutary regression (into preverbal dimensions reaching deeper and beyond any trauma). It touches us and opens us up across great distances and through (inner) walls. It make us playful (e.g., the transition from the preverbal to the verbal). It opens us up to physical proximity (the boundaries between music and bodies are fluid). Through rhythm, it helps us discover measure, structures, and a relation­ ship with reality. It helps us deal with boundless states such as noise, sound, and silence. It touches the sacred and transcendental.

All in all, music promotes awareness and processing, and thus complements the spoken word. As in any other form of psychotherapy, the ultimate concern is the individual process. While knowledge and professional experience help us as therapists to offer interpretations or experiences, spontaneous intuition re­ mains crucial. We can make suggestions, for instance, recommend a “Dialogue with the Father” or “listening to a lullaby and being touched by my hands.” And yet, patients, children, and inwardly even many dying persons, decide for themselves whether they can accept our offer. My work often combines music, the body, symbols, and finding words. It involves the body through bodily perception (music touches us physically, all music-making takes place through the body), and symbols through the combination of music and imagination, for instance, in so-called music-assisted relaxation.20 Dreams can be deepened through the imagination or restaged through music in active forms of music therapy. Music triggers and carries; the body feels and is the vessel of our soul; the symbol brings a certain energy into the picture and into consciousness; the word names and makes understandable. The basis of all therapy is the therapeutic relationship. This provides both a framework and a projection screen. The therapist’s empathic participation and

A citizen of two worlds 31

belief in healing processes are decisive. The difference between music therapy and purely verbal therapy is that the music therapist must also grasp the re­ lationship with the patient musically and, if necessary, be able to engage in a “primitive,” musical dialogue (Nitzschke, 1984). The therapist’s own capacity for regression then becomes what he or she may “lend” the patient. His or her respectful attitude toward non-verbal patient signals, and his or her inner awe of the unspoken, influence the process just as much as any active measures. Such qualities enable music-assisted relaxation or musical dialogue to become effective. The rule is: the more powerless the patient, the more sensitive and careful the therapist needs to be. Throughout, music is not one medium alongside others (e.g., painting, painting therapy, occupational therapy). Rather, its specific qualities of being archaic, removed from consciousness, are now called for (see the model of psychic layers, section 1.6). Music also reaches the patient when other media no longer do. Music therapy can trigger a lot and help patients come to terms. It is the astonishingly deep effects of music that make this form of therapy so special. And yet, improvements (progress!) cannot simply be attributed to therapy alone, because steps toward healing as a rule require many factors to interact. Changes in our deep psychic layers are a matter of grace. Suddenly, what we have long fought for arises from within and from without.

1.8 Mirjam: “I don’t want to live—I don’t want to die—I want to be in paradise”21 Mirjam’s story provides an impressive account of the liminal sphere. Today, Mirjam is a young woman with learning difficulties. Before her car accident and the resulting brain contusion, she was a normally gifted schoolgirl. The accident left her unconscious for weeks. There were serious doubts about whether she would ever return to life. Now, Mirjam is back, and yet she is not “here.” She is forgetful and finds no joy in life. When I asked her about this, she replied: “If only the people in the hospital had known that everything was much too loud. I couldn’t say anything, I wasn’t actually there, but I suffered.” After her accident, Mirjam experienced a harsh second transition, another profound shock. Is that why she now has a learning disability? Has something frozen inside her, out of fear? Mirjam’s experience shook me: The accident happened when I was trying to cross the road. Before the accident I was angry. After the accident, I was gone for a long time. I remember waking up briefly and praying that I wouldn’t have to die. Then I was gone again. At some point I woke up in the hospital. At first, I saw something that seemed far away. A wooden hut with a thatched roof in Paradise. Three or five trees

32 A citizen of two worlds

stood in front of it. There was a river full of water lilies and a meadow with beautiful flowers. Insects, bees, butterflies, and birds were flying around. There was a man and a woman, Adam and Eve. There were no mountains, only gentle hills. Eve sat down by the river. Adam was not there at first. Maybe he was behind the hut. Suddenly he appeared and sat down above Eve on the edge of the river. I looked into the hut, there was no door. Suddenly the expression on Mirjam’s face seemed sad. She told me something about the hospital. I interrupted her: “You are running away. Are you afraid?” She nodded, taken aback, and said: “Yes, I’m very scared.” She seemed close to tears. Then she continued describing her experience of paradise: “Birds and bees flew toward Adam and Eve without stinging them. The birds chirped quietly. There was a beautiful silence. Adam and Eve loved all the animals, everything was so beautiful. Angelic melodies came from afar. I asked myself: from where? It was Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik.22 Apparently, this was played to me in the hospital. It brought me back into life. When I awoke, I could barely breathe. Even today, I often have difficulty breathing. I am very afraid of dying. I would like to cry, but can’t. I wish reality were as it was there (in Paradise). I am always disappointed and sad about what I find. Even today, I need people who don’t speak to me loudly, but as gently as the atmosphere was back there. If people speak loudly, I am frightened. Back then, everything was suddenly loud. From the moment I opened my eyes, even before that, I was surrounded by terrible noise. Every kind of stress reminds me of this moment. When I woke up, I saw a person lying in the opposite bed, surrounded by many people. When I woke up, I also felt the warmth leave me. Even today, I am often cold. I don’t want to die, but I don’t want to live either. I want to be in Paradise. I hadn’t eaten in the hospital for a long time. I had to learn to write, to walk, and to eat again. Even today, I am often in another world. I don’t feel understood. Everything is too much for me. I have no desire to do anything, but I have even less desire to die than to live. That’s what I’m afraid of.” We talked for a while about this experience and about her condition today. When I mentioned God, she interrupted me, horrified, and said: “I also saw a light. It was very bright and hurt my eyes. At the same time, it was pleasant. It was this light that gave me warmth. As soon as it went away, I froze. I sometimes see this light even today. Then I get scared, it almost shakes me.” Mirjam has been unable to cope with the world ever since her accident in two ways: on the one hand, she cannot understand what happened to her during the coma. She can barely remember anything about that time. In this state, however, something incomprehensible, God-like seemed to have been pre­ sent. Mirjam often wished she could understand her condition at the time. Yet

A citizen of two worlds 33

she knows very well, having been so close to the incomprehensible, that this will forever overwhelm her. On the other hand, she can understand neither the hectic behavior nor the values of her environment. She has become an entirely different person ever since experiencing the Wholly Other: other things are important; the here and now is too loud. Strikingly, Mirjam’s images, her very own paradise, arose shortly before she awakened from her coma. Images and dreams only appear when dif­ ferentiations (colors, forms, objects) are once again possible, that is, close to waking consciousness. Nothing can be seen amid non-duality (“It hurt may eyes”), where everything is full, whole, and eternal. Presumably, people in a coma participate in the Whole, which explains why this ex­ perience remains deeply unconscious to them. Was it abundance or emptiness, wholeness or nothingness? Mirjam only says: “Indescribable, timeless… and this light.” We return to life from the Whole already before we are visibly awake. The ego-bound basis of perception begins to reappear in the unconscious state: from sleeping consciousness through dream consciousness to everyday consciousness. When we leave behind the Whole, we experience something of that quality of being—although deeply unconsciously. We can experi­ ence the former, or traces of it, on the threshold, where a second, con­ trasting quality emerges. This helps us understand that images like Paradise always thematize a wonderful, serene atmosphere, as well as the painful farewell from or the falling out of that state. We are about to lose the paradisiacal happiness, which we see before us. It is precisely when the fullness characterizing the Whole empties itself, and when the peace of primordial unity begins to shift, that we experience part of what is losing itself. It is stored and now epitomizes all longing. At this point, the function of archetypal images (e.g., Paradise) also becomes clear. Mirjam was not describing the reality of the hospital. At best, this be­ came integrated into her dream image through the theme of Mozart’s music. The images of paradise stand for inner, unspeakable experience. In the process of becoming conscious, images are created long before words and concepts are possible. Symbolic reality lies far deeper than the word (see the model of psychic layers, section 1.6). It is amazing how a young schoolgirl un­ consciously found her way to such classical images. Mirjam allowed me to publish her experience. She was even pleased and said: “Maybe I am not alone with this experience after all.”

1.9 “Participation in the Whole” and a model of conscious realization (overview I) My lectures and courses have never stopped teaching me that, as human beings, we seek final answers and need help imagining these. Even though words and graphic representations lag behind the essence and are only

34 A citizen of two worlds

human conceptions, they help us understand. Thus, we ask ourselves: “What does participation mean?” “How should I imagine this?” “Where is the boundary between God and myself? After all, I am different to HIM.” “How can all of us participate? Don’t we get in each other’s way? I feel claustrophobic.” “Is God outside or inside me? Or is one inside the other?” “Why am I so far away from God although I am participating in him? Why don’t I feel anything? What separates us and since when?” “Does the path to God lead through my unconscious or is it a conscious search?” In this book, I attempt to describe both our (ultimately) unfathomable participation in the Whole and human development in various ways: the pyramid-shaped figures presented above (section 1.6); various sketches and tables (see below). My working hypothesis is: we are citizens of two worlds. Our roots reach into unfathomable depths, where our primordial trust lies rooted (Figure 1.3). Left: The origin: the One, the Whole, the undivided unity, participation. Center: The crystallizing individual is both itself and limited, and yet part of the Whole. Right: The ego, conceived of as deeply connected to the Whole. Here lies—or would lie—the source of our primordial trust. Or as a dream told me one night: “Your core has existed since time immemorial.” The following table provides an overview of the levels of conscious reali­ zation (see chapters 2–9 and Tables Ia and Ib, section 7.9). It lists corre­ sponding topics, musical experiences, psychic images, symbols, experiences of wholeness, and images of God—each based on therapeutic experiences and deep dreams. It does not wish to encourage schematic thinking. As we mature, each of us traverses the larger trajectory delineated here in our own way and at our own specific time. The consecutive stages shown here may also occur simultaneously or one within the other.

Figure 1.3 Human Development.

A citizen of two worlds 35

Table Ia Levels of Conscious Realization: Dynamics and Medium of Music

36 A citizen of two worlds Table Ib Levels of Conscious Realization: Experiences and Images

A citizen of two worlds 37

Notes 1 Neurobiological research distinguishes ego-bound experience and older forms of ex­ perience that precede the experience of selfhood. D. J. Siegel’s summary account (2012) holds that while “implicit” processing systems—behavioral memories, emotional memories, perceptual recollections, and possibly also somatosensory memories—exist at birth, they are as yet not tied to an actual self, to “explicit” memory, which is associated with the experience of selfhood. Thus, the human being is imprinted on entering the world. 2 In this respect, we might note the charisma of people with premonitions of death (Renz, 2008). 3 Pim van Lommel (2010) speaks of an endless, non-local consciousness beyond what can be scientifically proven. The aspects of memory (see Siegel, 2012) presented as “im­ plicit” by neurobiology in its distance from the ego can at best reflect approximations and the most distant presentiments from a threshold area of such being (see also Long, 2010;Joyce, 2017; Zaleski, 1987). 4 The danger of a megalomania (inflation of the Mana personality according to C.G. Jung) exists whenever humans are close to the Whole. Delusions of grandeur and the excessive fear of it, however, also suggest that we have not encountered the messages of the absolute and unconditional (e.g., via dreams). Such messages always contain lim­ itations and trigger decisions. 5 The concept of the ego has been defined variously. Philosophical considerations differ from depth-psychological ones. I refer to Dorsch’s Psychologisches Wörterbuch (1982): “According to philosophical interpretation, the ego is 1. the subject of all perceptions, ideas, thoughts, feelings, actions (= theory of the subject, Saint Augustine, Kant), 2. an immaterial substance (= theory of substance, Berkeley, Descartes, John Stuart Mill), (…) Freud characterizes the ego as an instance beside the superego and the id. These in­ stances are functional systems, and the ego (…) has the task (…) of establishing a relation to the outside world, to the superego and to the id” (p. 295). — In the personality model of analytical psychology (C.G. Jung), the ego is the perceiving, decisive, and consciously acting instance and, as such, the polar opposite of the self. Both poles to­ gether control the play of mental forces (cf. Hark, 1988, p. 71f.). — Regarding the ego, my model in this book refers neither to Freud nor to Jung, and instead asks more everyday questions: What precedes the “feeling of being an ego?” How is it that the ego becomes the “subject of all perceptions” (see theory of the subject)? Etymologically, according to Dorsch (1982), “I” means as much as “my here-ness” (p. 295). This book asks: “How does this here-ness arise?” In this respect, it is similar to the work of Christian Scharfetter (1994, p. 16). 6 This book and my model speak of ego-bound perception instead of self-centeredness because the concept of self is used differently in Jungian psychology (see chapter 2, endnote 2). 7 W. Obrist (1988) measures the degree of consciousness among other things by our ability to become aware of our own projections: “It can also be stated (…) that seeing through the fact that one has projected is synonymous with becoming conscious” (p. 96). Thus, knowing that what we see and experience, we emerge from phylogenetic unconsciousness and leave the stage of archaic, unconscious insertion in the environ­ ment that is characteristic of the magical epochs. According to Obrist, biological cognition researchers have not only observed unconscious states in chimpanzees, as in other higher animals, but for the first time also signs of something like sparks of consciousness.— would add that becoming aware of our projections also means rea­ lizing that our ego-perspective is entirely relative. 8 Emotions are meaningful. They have a process-triggering, evaluative, filtering function in the earliest processing of external impulses. D.J. Siegel (2012, pp. 146–185) has

38 A citizen of two worlds

9

10

11

12

located such impulses in non-verbal social communication. In terms of my present approach, especially the existence of extreme liminal states, I even assume that impulses precede all interpersonal human relationships. In particular, I understand the (still) undivided, undifferentiated Whole as a source of impulses. It triggers primordial ex­ perience. Considering the mythology of Vishnu, Heinrich Zimmer (1972, p. 42f.) refers to the adventures of the mighty sage Màrkandeya during the pause of non-manifestation between the dissolution and the recreation of the universe. By a wonderful and strange coincidence, Màrkandeya sees Vishnu in a series of archetypal transformations: “first in the elemental cladding of the cosmic sea, then as a giant resting on the water…” (p. 42). “Alone, a gigantic figure on the immortal substance of the ocean, half submerged, half flooding the waves, he enjoys his slumber. No one can see him, no one can understand him…” (p. 45). Then Màrkandeya traverses the interior of Vishnu’s body. “But now an accident occurs. In the course of his endless walks, the sturdy old man [Màrkandeya] accidentally slips away from the mouth of the universal God [Vishnu]. In the tre­ mendous silence of the night, Vishnu sleeps, with slightly opened lips; his breath makes a deep, sonorous, rhythmic sound. And the astonished saint, falling from the sleeper’s giant lip, plunges headlong into the cosmic sea” (p. 46). At first, Màrkandeya does not see the sleeping giant at all, “but only the dark sea extending in all directions into the starless night. Despair seizes him and he fears for his life. Swimming in the water at night, he suddenly becomes thoughtful, broods and begins to doubt. ‘Is it a dream? Or am I under the spell of an illusion? Truly, all this alienation must be a product of my imagination, for the world, as I have observed it in its harmonious course, does not deserve this destruction, which now suddenly seems to befall it. I see no sun, no moon, I feel no wind; all the mountains have disappeared and the earth has dissolved. What kind of universe is this in which I find myself here?’” (p. 46). We sometimes hear similar things from women who were raped, either as children or as prisoners of war: in therapy, they report not only how awful everything was—this too, of course—but sometimes also that the proximity of a strange light (i.e., a luminous figure) helped them to survive at all. There were moments when they were there and yet not. So-called dissociation may also be spiritual experience. Many patients also exhibit various other disorders (appetite, digestion, sexuality, con­ centration, and sleep). The ground has been swept from under their feet. Hell (2005) observes that feelings lose clarity: “Sadness turns into diffuse sorrow, nausea into sallow weariness, anger into disgruntlement, fear into fuzzy anxiety, shame into embarrass­ ment, guilt into accusation” (p. 262). It is extremely difficult amid all of this “to stand up for oneself or to make decisions” (p. 261). According to Hell (2005), modern psychiatry tends “to interpret depression as a chemical-physical event. (…) Even psychotherapeutic researchers search for physiolo­ gical equivalences—such as altered brain activity” (p. 259f.). The disturbance of certain brain functions is located particularly in the middle and anterior areas of the brain, that is, in the medial prefrontal cortex, the amygdala, and in the horizontal stress axis. “Genetic or psychosocial strain leaves the neuronal system unable to process or cushion a stressful event in such a way that brain functioning is not disturbed” (p. 259). Accordingly, the therapeutic goal is “to correct the dysfunctional neuronal changes with biological or psychosocial means” (p. 259). Hell does not reject this view, but extends it to the relational and emotional aspect: “We are more than a poorly functioning body; we are capable of coming out of ourselves and of facing others and ourselves. Thus, for instance, important developments have occurred if hidden anger, frozen sadness, or split-off disgust finds expression” (see p. 265f.). Because depressions are contagious, the therapist’s mindfulness and gathering ourselves is so important. Only this enables therapists to protect themselves against overreaction (contagion or counterattack).

A citizen of two worlds 39

13 14 15

16 17 18

19 20

21 22

Hell takes the spiritual aspect, which he does not dwell on conceptually, from the insights of the desert fathers, for instance, who were also concerned with correctly countering the temptation of so-called akedia (ancient Greek for tedium, disgust) and its depressive side (p. 269). Hell quotes Evagrius: “Just accept what temptation brings upon you! Above all, look the temptation of akedia in the eye, for it is the worst of all, but also produces the greatest purification of the soul.” Following Evagrius, Hell recommends “tears,” that is, sadness, then perseverance, patience, and, moreover, awareness of one’s own finiteness. See also the biblical text of the rich young man and his disciples and of the camel and the eye of the needle (Mark 10:17–31). For instance, at the Royal Society of Medicine in London in March 2019. According to Jung, the ego is the center of consciousness and only a part of the total personality. “With the concept of the self, Jung tries to describe the wholeness of the human personality as a whole” (Hark, 1988, p. 150). “The beginnings of our whole spiritual life seem to spring inextricably from this point, and all the highest and ultimate goals seem to run toward it” (p. 152). See sections 3.6, 4.3, 5.8, 6.3, 7.1, and 8.6. See Tomatis, 1987, p. 54f.; DeCaspar, 1983; Salk, 1973; Kisilevsky et al. 2003; Lecanuet & Schaal, 1996. On the limitations of what can be researched at all, see Stern 1985, p. 237. See Papoušek, 1994, pp. 13, 128f., 148: “Today it is assumed that musical and linguistic perceptual abilities are based on common organizational principles (…) Infants process melodic contours as global patterns, as ‘shapes.’ (…) In the infant’s natural auditory environment, the conditions of form perception are optimally fulfilled by the proto­ typical melodies of the mother’s way of speaking. In addition, parents ensure the basic prerequisites for (…) successful learning through slow pace, frequent repetitions with attention-modulating variations and recourse to a few high-contrast prototypical con­ tours. (…) The melodic contours (…) enable the infant to detect, perceive, and cate­ gorize global basic units of language” (p. 148). See also Nöcker-Ribaupierre, 2003. See Ebersoll, 1985; Simon, 1983; Spintge & Droh, 1992. Music-assisted relaxation begins with guided physical relaxation, mostly lying down. It often includes visual stimuli. I invite patients to look around: “Where am I? What does it look like here? Am I doing something? And if so, what? Are there other people, animals, living beings, important objects? Visual stimuli must be open to contrasting, so as to avoid manipulation. After music-assisted relaxation, I play a purposefully chosen instrument or several ones. The patient engages with the quality of feeling, body sensations, and images that now arise. He or she becomes his or her own observer. If this becomes active imagination (a concept developed by C.G. Jung; see Maass, 1989, p. 152f.), what is experienced assumes the depth of a dream: the images arising during music-assisted relaxation are not created, but occur unexpected. Unlike in dreams, we can follow the event with our waking consciousness, enter into active contact with dream figures, and even, if desired, interrupt the process. It goes without saying that transmissions and countertransferences enter such “journeys.” Why do I need to play loudly or particularly quietly? Why do I want to change the instrument? Why do I get a headache? In seminars, participants can review their music-assisted relaxation, while this method often sends seriously ill patients to sleep. The names of patients have been altered throughout. Tomatis used ear training to let people re-experience the sound of life. Apart from the patient’s mother’s voice, Mozart’s music proved most appropriate (see Tomatis, 1987, pp. 30, 78, 192).

40 A citizen of two worlds

References Ausländer, R. (1988): Und preise die kühlende Liebe der Luft. Gedichte 1983–1987. In: H. Braun (ed.): Gesammelte Werke in sieben Bänden: Bd. 7. Frankfurt/Main: Fischer. Berendt, J.E. (1991): The world is sound: Nada Brahma: Music and the world of consciousness. Rochester, VT: Destiny Books. Breitbart, W., & Alici, Y. (2008): Agitation and delirium at the end of life: “We couldn’t manage him.” Journal of the American Medical Association, 300(24), 2898–2910. Brinton Perera, S. (1981): Descent to the goddess. A way of initiation for women. Toronto: Inner City Books. Bronfenbrenner, U. (1979): The ecology of human development: Experiments by nature and design. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. DeCaspar, A.J. (1983): The intrauterine heartbeat: A potent reinforcer for newborns. Infant Behavior & Development, 6, 19–25. Dittrich, A., & Scharfetter, C. (1987): Phänomenologie außergewöhnlicher Bewusstseinszustände. In: A. Dittrich & C. Scharfetter (eds.): Ethnopsychotherapie: Psychotherapie mittels aussergewöhnlicher Bewusstseinszustände in westlichen und indigenen Kulturen (pp. 35–44). Stuttgart: Enke. Dorsch, F. (ed.). (1982): Psychologisches Wörterbuch. Bern: Hans Huber. Ebersoll, B. (1985): Musik der Geister und Menschen in indianischen Heilriten, Teil 1, 2. Musiktherapeutische Umschau, 6(1–16), 101–120. Grimm, J., & Grimm, W. (1884): Household tales by the brothers Grimm (M. Hunt, transl.). London: George Bell and Sons. Retrieved from https://www.worldoftales.com/fairy_ tales/Grimm_fairy_tales_Margaret_Hunt.html#gsc.tab=0 Hark, H. (1988): Lexikon Jungscher Grundbegriffe. Olten: Walter. Hegi, F. (1986): Improvisation und Musiktherapie. Möglichkeiten und Wirkungen von freier Musik. Paderborn: Junfermann. Hell, D. (2005): Geistig-seelische Momente in der Depressionstherapie. In: P. Bäurle, H. Förstl, D. Hell, H. Radebold, I. Riedel, & K. Studer (eds.): Spiritualität und Kreativität in der Psychotherapie mit älteren Menschen (pp. 259–271). Bern: Huber. Jacobowitz, S. (1994): Die dunkle Nacht des Johannes vom Kreuz. In: Ch. Scharfetter (ed.): Der spirituelle Weg und seine Gefahren (pp. 76–85). Stuttgart: Enke. Joyce, S.R. (2017). Tuning the mind in the frequency domain. Karl Pribram’s holonomic brain theory and David Bohm’s implicate order. Cosmos and History, 13(2), 166–184. Kisilevsky, B.S., Hains, S.M., Lee, K., Xie, X., Huang, H., Ye, H.H. Zhang, K., & Wang, Z. (2003): Effects of experience on fetal voice recognition. Psychological Science, 14(3), 220–224. Lecanuet, J.P., & Schaal, B. (1996): Fetal sensory competencies, European Journal of Obstetrics & Gynecology and Reproductive Biology, 68(1–2), 1–23. Lempp, R. (1984): Psychische Entwicklung und Schizophrenie. Die Schizophrenien als funktionelle Regressionen und Reaktionen. Bern: Hans Huber. Lommel, P. van (2010). Consciousness beyond life: The science of the near-death experience. New York, NY: HarperOne. Long, P. (2010): Evidence of the afterlife. The science of near-death experiences (with P. Perry). New York, NY: HarperOne. Maass, H. (1989): Wach-Träume. Selbstheilung durch das Unbewusste. Olten: Walter. Nitzschke, B. (1984): Frühe Formen des Dialogs, Musikalisches Erleben – Psychoanalytische Reflexion. Musiktherapeutische Umschau, 5, 167–187. Nöcker-Ribaupierre, M. (2003): Hören – Brücke ins Leben: Musiktherapie mit früh und neu­ geborenen Kindern. Forschung und klinische Praxis. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.

A citizen of two worlds 41 Obrist, W. (1988): Neues Bewusstsein und Religiosität. Olten: Walter. Otto, R. (1923): The idea of the holy: An inquiry into the non-rational factor in the idea of the divine and its relation to the rational (J.W. Harvey, transl.). Oxford: Oxford University Press. (Original work published 1917). Papoušek, M. (1994): Vom ersten Schrei zum ersten Wort. Anfänge der Sprachentwicklung in der vorsprachlichen Kommunikation. Bern: Hans Huber. Renz, M. (2007): Von der Chance, wesentlich zu werden. Reflexionen zu Spiritualität, Reifung und Sterben[mit CD]. Paderborn: Junfermann. Renz, M. (2008): Zeugnisse Sterbender. Todesnähe als Wandlung und letzte Reifung. Ergänzte und überarbeitete Neuauflage. Paderborn: Junfermann. Renz, M. (2015): Dying: A transition (M. Kyburz with J. Peck, transl.). New York, NY: Columbia University Press. Renz, M. (2016): Hope and grace: Spiritual experiences in severe distress, illness and dying (M. Kyburz, transl.). London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Renz, M. (2018): Hinübergehen: Was beim Sterben geschieht Ein Lehrbuch mit Graphiken. Freiburg i.Br.: Kreuz, Rohr, R. (2011): Falling upward. A spirituality for the two halves of life. San Francisco, CA: Jossey Bass. Salk, L. (1973): The role of the heartbeat in the relations between mother and infant. Scientific American, 228, 24–29. Scharfetter, C. (1994): Der spirituelle Weg und seine Gefahren. Stuttgart: Enke. Schellenbaum, P. (1991): Abschied von der Selbstzerstörung. München: dtv. Siegel, D.J. (2012): The developing mind. How interrelationships and the brain interact to shape who we are (2nd ed.). New York, NY: Guilford Press. Simon, A. (1983): Musik in afrikanischen Besessenheitsriten. In: A. Simon (ed.): Musik in Afrika (pp. 284–297). Berlin: Museum für Völkerkunde. Spintge, R., & Droh, R. (1992): Musik – Medizin. Physiologische Grundlagen und praktische Anwendungen. Stuttgart: Gustav Fischer. Stern, D.N. (1985): The interpersonal world of the infant: A view from psychoanalysis and de­ velopmental psychology. New York, NY: Basic Books. Tomatis, A. (1987): Der Klang des Lebens. Vorgeburtliche Kommunikation – Die Anfänge der seelischen Entwicklung. Reinbek: Rowohlt. Zaleski, C. (1987): Otherworld journeys.Accounts of near-death experience in medieval and modern times. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Zimmer, H. (1972): Indische Mythen und Symbole. Düsseldorf: Eugen Diederichs.

Chapter 2

Our beginning: non-dual, unitary reality (a completely different way of being)

Abstract The non-dual mode of being exists beyond time, space, and body awareness. Thus, something within us—our core—has existed since time immemorial. As an utmost experience of being, we feel unconditionally accepted and part of the original Whole. Contrary to what several myths suggest, a primordial order rather than chaos exists in the non-dual mode of being.

2.1 “Your core has existed since time immemorial” Taking seriously the idea of the Whole and its implications leads to the inevitable conclusion that we originate in the Whole. Out of this we cannot fall—not even after death. This inner certainty becomes the indispensable inner ground and the crucial impulse for therapy. Thus, we have existed since time immemorial in that part of ourself that participates in the Whole. The first and ultimate reality of all creatures is a unitary reality with/within the Whole. This means both being and relationship (i.e., relatedness). Erich Neumann (1973) speaks of a “primal unitary reality,” in which the polarized experience of the world with its subject-object separation is not yet present (p. 11). This unitary reality, so Neumann, is a reality that exists before the division into body and psyche, outside and inside (p. 18). In this book, I speak of the Whole and of wholeness, that is, God or the divine. Unitary reality also includes the extrasensory state: in our essential core, we take part in God, and yet are never identical with what remains forever greater than ourselves. The expression “essential core” has revealed its meaning to me in dreams: It was, as I sensed in my dream, about my origin: “I just am. Then I hear the following sentence (in High German): ‘Your core has existed since time immemorial.’ I also see the image of a special globe, which is both large and tiny. Its size is unimportant and intangible. There is movement inside the globe, and I now recognize a distribution of white and black that reminds DOI: 10.4324/9781003176572-2

Non-dual, unitary reality

43

me of Yin and Yang. The globe turns out to be a black-and-white light, and yet not; black-and-white matter, and yet not. Black and white turn. A ‘moving polarity!’” A year later, the same image recurred in another dream: The same light-and-dark globe, except that now it is as if I myself were the globe. I feel spherical from head to toe. No longer my own matter, but united with other people, animals, and plants. Everything is a formless Whole and at the same time “my Whole,” “my core.” I also hear the words: “In the beginning you were whole.” As this globe begins turning, and then turns ever faster, I become more and more just a separated part of this original Whole, and I sense a formless counterpart opposite me. We are still inseparably connected. We are one, whole, and round—and yet impending separation is palpable. To live means to be separated. Even weeks after this dream, I still feel a sharp pain near my sternum.1 These dreams left me intuiting that we are connected with the Whole and therefore feel safe and secure. And yet, our relationship with the Whole is also one of tension. My dreams also made me realize that our immortal core is not only “good,” but above all “dark and brightly unifying.” We will never fully grasp what exactly constitutes this core. While it is not the ego, this core is an essential, unconscious, and central part of us. Church doctrine speaks of the immortal soul. C.G. Jung introduced the concept of the self,2 which he described on several occasions in his work. Some associate this idea with reincarnation. I, however, am cautious in this respect, even if reincarnation cannot be ruled out purely ontologically. I am skeptical in particular when this notion is integrated seamlessly (unthinkingly!) into our culture, as if it promises having more of life. Yet no “having” mindset (on the structure of desire, see Renz, 2017) can evade human finiteness? In my view of human beings, we do not need the idea of reincarnation to explain what many humans experience in their past life. We have such experiences because we are essentially able to participate in both: in the Whole and in the here and now of our personal life. We may experience earlier epochs even without a past life, simply because we are present in the Whole, eternally and essentially. The consequence of this primordial unity is important: the idea of an eternal core implies that neither the individual nor their environment can determine life to the last detail. Moreover, our essence is conceived of in terms of God, or is inherently related to our primordial unity with the Whole. Our core contains our very own secret. If we embrace the idea of an essential core, we also accept the task of developing it. In this light, living our own life means becoming ever more essential. Personal dignity, then, concerns the inviolability of our core and involves more than what the ego can decide.

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2.2 Everything is inside and accepted unconditionally The idea that our essence participates in the Whole is also liberating. In the beginning, there is neither nothing, nor coincidence, nor merely procreation. Ultimately, life is neither groundless nor senseless. It is instead embedded in a larger, more profoundly effective Whole. There is a place, moreover, in which we are contained and accepted, in spite of our shortcomings and suffering. The globe—or roundness—has long served as a wonderful metaphor of our containment in the Whole. We cannot fall out of roundness but are contained therein in ever new ways. Something round is self-contained. It has no before and after, and no outside. Roundness describes a non-linear quality of being. It is timeless. It has no beginning, no end, and no causality. The round or spherical is an image of feeling safe and secure in the Whole—in which all life is at home. Linearity, on the other hand, is an image of whatever seeks to force its way into time. It is the path of the ego, which develops out of roundness and into a new existence as an individual. Behind this development lies an urge or longing for newness. Finally, the ellipse is an image of this newness (section 9.4). It has two centers and represents that quality of being that, one day, will unite one polarity with another, roundness with linearity. If everything were linear, we would never feel unconditionally accepted. Linearity implies conditions, whether explicitly or not: to be good, we must be clever, productive, and beautiful. What makes our surroundings or the collective uncomfortable becomes what we are ashamed of. We are too slow, too sensitive, too brilliant, too fat, and so on. In roundness, on the other hand, we are not judged by ego-bound standards. Participation in the Whole lies beyond good and evil, and is older than all human activity. Engaging with this being as the origin of all life means feeling accepted from our roots (i.e., from the ground up, rather than being grounded solely in achievement and merit). In our essence, we have always been “inside,” at all times and with no ifs and buts. Unconditional acceptance need not, as is customary in a competitive, achievement-oriented society, result from good performance. Rather, it is the natural seedbed on which the zeal to work, the courage to develop, and the need to turn to others, arise in the first place. Rooted in this emotional soil, we need not vie for recognition, power, and possessions, because we are also accepted without these values. Our inner knowledge of unconditional acceptance, and of an essential core that is rooted in the Whole, shifts the emphases in education. The child becomes both gift and imposition. This view may relativize both parental achievements and feelings of guilt. The question, then, is less whether the child was wanted, but whether its first attachment figures were able to convey the feeling of being accepted by our primordial source (by God, by the Whole). The child is lovable, even if it sometimes overstrains its surroundings or even if it is unwanted. The feeling of not being all right (“okay”) the way we are reappears when our connection with the Whole and its messages is broken. Unfortunately, this

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happens frequently in our self-alienated culture. Even then, however, we can find our way back to the certainty that, ultimately, we are contained in the Whole. Biblically speaking, we can accept being a “child of God.” For if we assume the quality of being “whole,” then no creature is ultimately excluded or lost. Our participation in the Whole bursts open (and in) again at the latest at the outermost limit. Do we believe in this? Our unconditional containment in roundness is older than all fear! It reaches even deeper than all fears of death, because it existed before the beginning of time. It helps many dying people to hear such a message amid their distress. Sometimes I place my hands beneath their backs so that they can physically settle into a lying position. I also play music. Sometimes symptoms like bouts of coughing, allergies, or itching seem to be “produced” as if automatically, so as to enable us to find our way through fear to a deeper, primordial trust. Therapy may become a corrective experience. Some patients need to be understood 20 or even 50 times in their distress and be rescued by the supporting ground (caught by the “safety net”)—until, at some point, answers are “there” as a basic feeling of one’s own. Understandably, relatives wish to cut such healing dying processes short. Helplessly watching their loved ones suffer overwhelms them: they ask for symptom control; the sufferer either ought to be able to function again soon, or be able to die, or at least become calm. Relatives also reach their limits and lack the support of society. Today, moreover, we lack an understanding of the spiritual processes during suffering—in particular those occurring beyond our ego competencies.

2.3 Original wholeness: primordial order instead of chaos Unconditional acceptance is only possible in the Whole. We are never able to entirely mean a child, a partner, or even ourselves. Even motherly and fatherly love are limited. We therefore need to understand deep acceptance as an experience of wholeness rather than as an experience of a mother or a father. We can only convey our own basic trust or our trust in God to each other. Ultimately, it is not an attachment figure, but the Whole that accepts and absorbs us completely. Experiences of wholeness (as I call our experiences with the Whole as we develop consciousness) are central in this book. In light of my present approach, our relationship with the Whole is older not only than differentiation but also than our relationship with our mother or father. Our mode of relationship—of being related—changes as we develop. And so does our view of the Whole and the world. The more the maturing ego differentiates, the more it experiences the Whole in new ways, and the more the Whole changes its face: from non-duality, of which we were part, to the world with its myriad of details, which we encounter as an “I.” All these experiences leave traces within us, even those that are older than our ego and that thus reach deeper than our memory. Even the Whole and non-duality, which outlive us, exist somewhere and are retrievable. Our later, more recent experiences of

46 Non-dual, unitary reality

wholeness superimpose themselves on those (meanwhile) internalized experiences that we made during our earliest development. What emerges are psychic layers. These are activated much later, for instance, in therapeutic work, meditation, contemplation, music-assisted relaxation, but also in deep experiences with nature or with a loving person, as well as in regressive or reactive experiences during severe illness. Thus, seriously ill persons feel “as powerless as a little child,” yet also “as sensuous, safe, and secure as a baby.” They may be our teachers and help us to learn about our oldest internalized experiences of the Whole. I also dare to speak of analogous experiences of wholeness in the early development of human culture. Just as humans became conscious of themselves in their individual development (from feeling secure through being at the mercy of others to becoming strong), so experiences of wholeness also changed collectively in the course of evolution. According to my model, both individual and collective experiences—broadly put—occurred according to an inherent logic during human development. Individually and collectively, we transition from participation in the Whole to conscious existence in the ego. In the course of human development, the various experiences of wholeness brought forth images of God. These reflect how people felt or feel in the world. Such images are shaped by religion and culture, by climatic and many other conditions, and by the spirit of the times (zeitgeist) in which they originate. The changing images of God in a specific culture reflect collective developments. Heaven is experienced differently in the age of space travel and moon landings than in ancient Egypt. An agricultural culture is connected differently to Mother Earth than our present age of asphalt. Additionally, divine images also suggest how human beings experienced their earliest existence. Does God represent indescribable greatness or rather nothingness? Is he the image of a protecting mother goddess, a threatening nature goddess, or a judging father god? Do we believe in a creator, his order and his spirit? Or are we shaped by the image of a world created by coincidence? The images of God prevailing in certain times and peoples enable us to draw conclusions about primordial human sensitivities, about their basic feeling of being allowed or forbidden for no reason. And yet, all of this barely reveals the mystery of God or of wholeness itself. We need to imagine the Whole, in its original state, as that which is, as what is undivided. Even before we are capable of experience (because as yet nothing exists that can “experience”), our core is part of the Whole and participates in the utterly incomprehensible, which is neither male nor female. Participation in the Whole is a first and final state. Even if it is unfathomable, it is: it is being that is reconciled and founded in God himself! This state of wholeness is older than any feelings of chaos and darkness. In many creation myths, chaos and darkness become images of the origin.3 And yet, strictly speaking, chaos and darkness are images of transition. They are descriptions of a time when the rudiments of ego-boundness already begin emerging. They do not represent the primordial state, but an intermediate state of transformation,

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figuratively speaking, the original “leap” (origin): Intimations of the ego rise out of chaos, while sparks of ego-bound consciousness illuminate what is now experienced as darkness. From an ego-bound perspective (!), the primordial ground appears chaotic, a primordial event enveloped in darkness. This, however, tells us nothing (at least not yet) about the essence of the Whole, nor about that of the primordial ground: non-dual, primordial unity is never chaotic, but grounded in itself. It is neither bright nor dark, but contrastless. It is characterized by ego-distant patterns and by a corresponding primordial order. How might we understand this? The opposite of coincidence is order. A non-coincidental life is necessarily founded in an order hidden behind things. The Whole seems to have its own order. How might we imagine an ego-distant order, one that is remote from ourselves? Some people find physics or mathematics helpful, for instance, chaos theory (see, among others, Walter, 1992, pp. 21–22). Personally, I find the idea that the Whole is sound or a universe of sound helpful (Berendt, 1991). Sound sometimes seems chaotic, for instance, traffic noise. And yet, sound is never chaotic. Tones have overtones, which different living beings perceive differently. Tones and overtones are related in simple numerical proportions, which correspond to other proportions (planetary distances, body proportions, golden section, etc.).4 Such astonishing similarities rule out coincidence and chaos as explanations. Our thinking needs to become much more open to ego-distant orders, that is, to patterns of life that elude the eye and transcend understanding, yet which modern technological means might partly help us understand (Walter, 1992, p. 13). It is characteristic of an ultimate reality (i.e., both the original state and the final state of all becoming) that part of us, which I call our core, participates in such an ego-distant, cosmic order. If, by way of analogy, we consider our spiritual state to be our ultimate reality, then we might say: “I am in order and therefore so is my essence.” Below, I follow a line of development that somehow presents itself if we assume a shift in perception, even if this can barely be proven.5 This shift in perception is the hallmark of the transition from the non-dual to the ego-bound “world”! Transition falls into four levels of consciousness: • • • •

Stage A: On the threshold: Here a “dynamics of roundness” projects into life. This oldest life impulse coincides with a farewell: non-duality disappears and is rudimentarily experienced as such. Stage B: Wholesome containment: being embraced by protective greatness, that is, being “in the midst,” being loved by a motherly god or by the Great Mother. Stage C: Ambivalent containment: the primordial experience of fear (being totally forlorn and overwhelmed). Stage D: Entering the ego: the new experience of differentiation and of the world in its details “prevails” over previous experiences of ambivalent containment and helplessness. Instead of the big Whole, we perceive in an ego-bound way and thus recognize more and more concrete details.

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The overview (see section 1.9) and my subsequent reflections dispense largely with age indications, since the ways and means of perception—whether increasingly non-dual or ego-bound—depend not only on the age and state of the developing sensory organs. Significant individual and cultural variations are evident.

Notes 1 Many seriously ill persons also seem to experience this trigger point in connection with their longing or feeling of “no longer being whole.” One child, tapping this point, told me: “I have a hole here.” 2 The self is the midpoint or center of personality, the ordering, controlling, symbolic authority, the central, particularly numinous archetype. The depth-psychological concept of the self is a construct and refers to consciousness-transcending possibilities of relating to God and the cosmos, to crystals and animals, to being and all that exists. The beginnings of our spiritual life seem to spring inextricably from this point, and the highest and ultimate goals seem to run toward it (Hark, 1988, pp. 150–152). Jung’s concept of self is not identical with Stern’s (1985, pp. 5–6). 3 Lissner and Rauchwetter (1982): the Greek creation myth, as recorded by Hesiod, “begins with chaos, which was originally understood as a divine name and from which Gaia, the earth, originated” (p. 192).—According to Hetmann (1986), the creation myth of the Sumerians stated: “AN was the first-born of the primordial sea. He was the upper heaven, the firmament, but not the air that sweeps over the earth. He copulated with the earth and begot Elil, the god of air. “At that time there was still darkness and Elil, the air, was trapped between the dark ceiling of the sky, a night sky without stars, and the surface of the earth” (p. 59). 4 According to Keppler, as described in Kayser (1989) and Hegi (1986, pp. 71–72). 5 Stern (1985) writes: “We have almost no evidence about the infant’s capacity to take in external stimulation or to engage in any of the of the perceptual processes” (p. 237). This can happen during “the high activation states of distressful hunger” or during “the very low activation states of somnolent satiation” (ibid.). “Current methods of experimentation have not permitted access to these states” (ibid.). Quite probably, intrauterine sensitivities or the assumption that we originate in the Whole lend themselves even less to research.

References Berendt, J.E. (1991): The world is sound: Nada Brahma: Music and the world of consciousness. Rochester, VT: Destiny Books. Hark, H. (1988): Lexikon Jungscher Grundbegriffe. Olten: Walter. Hegi, F. (1986): Improvisation und Musiktherapie. Möglichkeiten und Wirkungen von freier Musik. Paderborn: Junfermann. Hetmann, F. (1986): Die Göttin der Morgenröte. Frankfurt/Main: Fischer. Kayser, H. (1989): Akroasis. Die Lehre von der Harmonik der Welt (5th ed.). Basel: Schwabe. Lissner, I., & Rauchwetter, E. (1982): Der Mensch und seine Gottesbilder. Olten: Walter. Neumann, E. (1973): The child: Structure and dynamics of the nascent personality (R. Manheim, transl.). London: Karnac. (Original work published 1963, posthumously published 1980). Renz, M. (2017): Erlösung aus Prägung. Botschaft und Leben Jesu als Überwindung der menschlichen Angst-, Begehrens- und Machtstruktur (2nd rev. ed., including a CD with musicassisted relaxation exercises]. Paderborn: Junfermann. Stern, D.N. (1985): The interpersonal world of the infant: A view from psychoanalysis and developmental psychology. New York, NY: Basic Books. Walter, K. (1992): Chaosforschung und I Ging und Genetischer Code. München: Diederichs.

Chapter 3

On the threshold (Stage A of conscious development during transition)

Abstract How does eternity begin to move? Through a big bang, by sheer coincidence, or by an act of creation? How the ego and ego-bound consciousness came about and continue to come about remains a mystery. I assume that a force inherent in the Whole is at work behind all becoming. Becoming an ego involves leaving the non-dual world. On the threshold, when any dynamics are initiated, we gain some sense of the nondual world that we are leaving behind (e.g., paradise). On the threshold lie our deepest personal experiences (e.g., being in order, being at peace, being utterly and completely happy). Primordial trust is rooted in experiencing a state outside the ego and beyond fear. In a spiritual perspective, we are all part of and connected with the Whole. No one is without primordial trust. I illustrate such deep sensations and experiences with two examples from clinical practice. However, the sensations and experiences on the threshold also include longing for what we have lost. This chapter also considers the phylogenetic perspective and mentions symbols, experiences of music, and images of God/the divine that are typical of threshold experiences.

3.1 Initiating the dynamics How does eternity begin to move? What initiates what? How is a process set in motion? Through a big bang, by accident, by sheer coincidence, by an act of creation, or simply by procreation? How the ego and ego-bound consciousness come about and continue to come about remains a mystery. One Indian myth says that the god Shiva appeared as Nataraja (“lord of dance”) and sent a pulsating sound (!) through inanimate matter, thus bringing it to life. He both created and destroyed the world through his dancing, only to re-create it (Spintge & Droh, 1992, p. 3). In this book, I assume that a force inherent in the Whole is at work behind all becoming. We can experience this force not only as a life impulse that comes from within, as a motivation that urges toward individual life, but also as a force that irrupts from the outside. It is dynamis (Greek), energy. Thus, inside and outside seem to be united. DOI: 10.4324/9781003176572-3

50 Threshold: round dynamic

Figure 3.1 Dynamics of Roundness

In outermost dream images, this force is sometimes glimpsed for a few seconds, for instance, as a breath, a flash of lightning, a ray of light, as falling tongues of fire, or as a process-inducing snake. One man saw a fire snake in a dream. The following morning, he knew instantly what he needed to do that day and was bubbling with energy. The primordial force is sometimes heard like “a shot,” “a voice,” or a “primordial word.” Today’s dream images even choose technological motifs, such as an ultra-fast red subway train. One of my patients dreamed that a high-speed elevator was propelling her upward in the world’s tallest skyscraper and through its roof into space. The force inherent in the Whole manifested itself in this dream in the lightning speed, whose immediate impact “provides a new lease on life,” as well as in the motif of larger-than-life dimensions (tallest skyscraper). We are most likely to recognize this force or spirit in terms of its effect: all of a sudden, something has started becoming. Energy becomes kinetic. Something completely new is

Threshold: round dynamic 51

triggered. All of a sudden, something makes sense. The invigorating and in­ spiring have broken into life, unconditionally. We are unable to fathom how, at the beginning of a new life, something individual (“our very own”) comes into being. Nor are we able to grasp how outer impulses connect with inner events. This is precisely why we need symbols, images, and metaphors to approach the individual aspects of this mystery. As the chart below suggests, I understand the incomprehensible beginning of new life as a dynamics of roundness (Figure 3.1). This representation does not claim to be exhaustive. The aspects juxtaposed here, and which I consider one after the other, may occur simultaneously. Various aspects are mutually dependent. Hence, we will never know what came first (as with the chicken and the egg). The dynamics of roundness are selfcontained and may be depicted as a uroboros—as a snake biting its own tail. In the image of the uroboros, forces later appearing separately are still undivided. The uroboros, therefore, is not only represented as a snake, but occasionally also as one or two dragons, as one or even as two long-necked birds (see Herder Lexikon Symbole, 1978). The uroboros is a symbol of infinity, of eternal return, of the descent of the spirit into the physical world and its return. According to Neumann (2015), it is the symbol of the initial psychic state. And yet, the dynamics of roundness not only thematize self-containment, but also opening. Time and the future start becoming. An urge toward life that is inherent in all development begins to take effect. Is it a masculine spiritual force? One of my assumptions is that feminine and masculine primordial forces are at work from the very beginning, even if the latter at first remain invisible, as they seem to be contained in the feminine. Finally, the image of a dynamics of roundness suggests that the beginning of individuality (“our very own”) amounts to complete transformation. As if the path, symbolically speaking, leads through seven gates or themes, which se­ parate the underworld from the upper world. The Sumerian myth of Inanna and Ereshkigal (section 1.5) speaks of seven gates or portals (Brinton Perera, 1981). The number Seven is not chosen by coincidence. Neumann (2015) speaks of seven aspects or manifestations of the Great Mother (German: Great Feminine) and the corresponding ancient ideas of the underworld. The number Seven (or 21) refers to matriarchal lunar mythology (the underworld of Osiris has seven halls; in the Ishtar text the number Seven is multiplied). The number Twelve, on the other hand, characterizes the later, patriarchal mythology of the sun, where everyday consciousness is assigned to the masculine (Neumann, 2015). Seven gates or seven manifestations must be regarded at least as seven aspects of the same event, here of the nascent transition. Among others, Seven is the number of fullness, perfection, and completeness. Seven gates separating the upper and lower world, ego-bound consciousness and non-dual being, suggest that at this boundary we are subject to “sevenfold = total transformation,” that is, to a dynamics of roundness. Roundness means that everything begins simultaneously and is undivided. We

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are only ever able to grasp this when one aspect follows the other. Round, yet dynamic, because something of the eternal Whole begins to become itself, and begins to live. Roundness now becomes linear. Time begins to take effect. We may therefore consider development to be a continuous process. What is triggered in the origin begins to develop.

3.2 Vanishing non-duality Every beginning is also a farewell. Non-duality dissipates with the first sparks of ego-bound sensation and nascent self-awareness. As soon as individuality (“our very own”) constellates itself, it is as if the door to the Whole closes. The Whole is no longer whole whenever rudiments of the ego appear and whenever experience differentiates, however slightly. Eternal being ends as soon as our own life, our path into temporality, begins in deepest un­ consciousness. On the one hand, the rudimentary ego makes experiencing (the Whole) possible for the first time, while on the other it makes the Whole become unbearable. We first enter the liminal sphere when we start becoming conscious,1 onto­ genetically mostly in the mother’s womb. On the threshold, the force of the Whole, or at least part of it, flows into us and becomes effective. Bidding fare­ well, we take a notion of absolute undividedness with us into our own future. What was once a state now becomes experience, even if deeply unconsciously. Then, as in Mirjam’s experience of paradise (chapter 1), part of disappearing nonduality is simply “there,” as the content of our oldest, deeply unconscious psychic layer (on the experience of wholeness A, see Table, section 1.9). Memory traces from such an outermost liminal sphere later manifest themselves in dreams, bodily sensations (e.g., hot and cold), and symbols (section 3.4).

3.3 Mr Fehr: “I looked across the threshold—and many of my fears have since gone” Mr Fehr spent a longer period in hospital for acute leukemia and to receive the required high-dose chemotherapy. One night, he had a dream whose effect resembled a near-death experience. He saw death as a threshold and behind it a wonderfully blue, sacred space. Nobody knew about the dream. Next morning, the nurses observed a strange thoughtfulness. But the doctor sounded the alarm, as Mr Fehr’s resting heart rate had dropped below the tolerance limit for no apparent reason. He needed an emergency examination (heart echo). Over the course of the day, his heart rate normalized, and Mr Fehr wished to speak to me. He wanted to understand his experience: There was a strange threshold, which seemed to consist of ethereal air. I knew the threshold was death. At first, I only looked at it and felt as if I

Threshold: round dynamic 53

were being pursued by all sorts of enemies. All my tormentors passed by again and struck me. All of a sudden, the threshold lowered, and I came into a wonderful sacred space. Amid its blue atmosphere stood a peculiar light. I fell silent, awe-struck, and looked toward this centre. The torment was over. Only this light mattered now. More and more, it manifested itself as a throne-like chair. I knew—without seeing anything—that this was the throne of God. God had called me to Himself. He told me that I had done well. Not a bad judgment. On the contrary, it was unspeakably beautiful, true. I knew immediately that I did not need to fear death. With that, I was already behind the threshold again and awoke. Mr Fehr was so moved when he told me this that he cried. Would we ever understand this? I encouraged him to internalize his experience, to write it down, or to paint it. The liminal experience took effect: Mr Fehr hardly ever experienced any more fears, and certainly not of death. This anxious man, who was easily frightened, now emanated calmness and ser­ enity. He did not respond well to high-dose chemotherapy, leaving him only a few months to live. He went home, where he was also free from his fears and compulsions. He lived the final stretch of his life consciously. He enjoyed eating, cycling, playing music, painting, and had meaningful con­ versations with his adult children. “I have been given the opportunity to be a father to them once again, and to tell them about life and death,” he remarked.

3.4 Psychic images and symbols of non-dualism, its disappearance, and the dynamics of roundness The transitional stage has its specific images and symbols. Through these, the human and collective unconscious seeks to express the incomprehensible and indescribable in images, and thus also in words. These images address both the wonderful primordial state and often also the impulse of bidding this state farewell. Below are various recurring themes, as well as particularly impressive patient statements, that may help us understand our own dreams and visions. •

•

A garden with trees and fruit. An abundance of possibilities and delicacies. We may take as much as we wish, because no “having” exists here yet. What matters most is the atmosphere: it is peaceful, even sweet. It makes the garden a paradise. Creatures are simple.—Farewell: the fruits, especially the apples, tempt us to take a bite, which also announces our entry into (new) life. Also present is the symbol of the snake (see section 6.9) as the life force that shoots out of the dark earth. A freshly made bed in the remotest corner of a castle, in which one descends into deep sleep.2 Timelessness!—Farewell: all of a sudden, a

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•

•

•

•

clock strikes. It is just before 12, the hundred years are over. Time begins to take effect. Pure, undefined, shapeless color. Colors may also “lie waste,” so to speak. Frequent ones include blue, violet/purple, yellow, golden, silver, some­ times red or eggshell white. But a black light or a red force field may also appear. Violet is sometimes associated with a sacred, almost forbidden atmosphere. We are often impressed by the intensity of a particular color, for instance, “an incredibly bright, indescribable silver” or “a deep blue resembling the eternal cosmos.” Or: “The atmosphere is blue; blue as an aura shining in the darkness. The atmosphere surrounding the globe is blue, and so, too, is the candlelight, the entire atmosphere.” Or: “A blue altar surrounded by ethereal light.” This kind of blue (sometimes also violet) stands for the sacred, and triggers a “sacred timidity.” “A concentrated red” might represent energy: a potential of unshaped possibilities still waiting to be called upon in non-dualism.—Farewell: color transitions (a dormant violet is suddenly covered by spring green) and emerging polarities (yellow versus black, light versus dark). Ah, green: “A green apple falls into the picture.” Yet also: “The concentrated red starts gushing like a fountain.” “In the midst of the calm blue, it begins to flow.” Extraordinary experiences of light or sound. The light that is often described in near-death experiences. A ball of light. The image of a sea of lights replaces our sense of inner chaos, “as if the brain had split into 1,000 sparks of light.” A ladder of light or sound as a connection between heaven and earth (see Jacob’s ladder to heaven, Genesis 28:12–13). Light may also be sound, the sea of light a static sound. This refers to an unreal sound, as it were, which neither swells nor diminishes. Potential energy! Static sound, as yet unmoved by rhythm, is instead an un­ moving and sounding mass of air. Static sound waves. Unexpanding vibrations. Under certain circumstances, we become the vibrations of a particular sound.—Farewell: Movement and rhythm are perceived. For instance, light begins to spray, optical flashes or illuminated snakes appear in the sea of light, or sound begins to swell and diminish. We feel the desire to move. Spherical events. “Drifting clouds that are nothing but static air.” “Being consisting of nothing but small particles of water or light.” We feel weightless, spherical. Rainbows appear in slow motion or our body dissolves. Movement can stand still.—Farewell: Movement or flowing sets in. In dreams, we see the primordial order as a wonderful (meaningful) order of stars, as a mosaic, as a mandala, as a labyrinth in a sacred space, as interwoven mantras. Behind the chaos, we suspect a profound order (ice crystals, flower petals, etc.) (chaos theory now begins to make sense). This experience, as well as the image of the ladder to heaven, is often triggered

Threshold: round dynamic 55

•

•

•

by monochord sounds. Characteristically, the monochord enables us to hear overtones, which correspond to the same numerical proportions as planetary distances and body proportions.—Farewell: Something moves, and might turn into restlessness or chaos. Images of perfect, good being, also of as yet unopened round being. The eternal roundness to which everything belongs. “Roundness” may be either a feeling or an image in our imagination. Like the uroboric snake, which bites its own tail and thus remains round. Sometimes square rooms are round or persons spherical. A state of being, in which opposites (above and below, floor and ceiling, right and left, back and forth) have dissolved.—Farewell: roundness opens up; before and after, causality and normal physical boundaries, exist once again. The serenity of deep peace. Everything stands still, is contained in the existing order. Everything rests: matter, stone, sound. Heaviness and lightness are united.—The farewell manifests itself in various ways: in peace suddenly becoming uncanny or too sacred, in a wonderful quality “losing itself,” in sounds beginning to live, or in the stone beginning to breathe. A warmth and softness that simply are; physical well-being. Comatose patients are often carried by inner warmth and seem to be warmed by divine light also in the cool atmosphere of the intensive care unit (!). Even in deepest winter, some dying persons feel happiest naked. They are warm.—Farewell: as soon as the coma subsides, cold sets in (again).

These themes and statements point indirectly to the dynamics of roundness and its symbols. Taken together, they touch on seen forces and movements (e.g., lightning, bite, shot, fountain, or snake; see section 3.1). They also imply emerging limitation, difference (several colors), the earth’s gravity, and coldness. They concern vitality, but also our everyday laws of per­ ception and consciousness. It is obvious that something numinous inheres in all of these images and body sensations. And yet, this is seldom immediately evident to dreamers. The narrative is quite simply foreign to us. We are even more astonished when the numinous addresses us directly.

3.5 Images of God for non-dualism and the dynamics of roundness Deep psychic images such as those above are always also images of God, while such dreams are religious experiences. Sometimes, we are dealing with statements about a wonderful state of being and about a specific quality of the divine. Sometimes, the pain of disappearance is addressed. Then, however, flashes of light illumine the mysterious events, when being blends into becoming. This is what I call the dynamics of roundness. The following statements, from biblical and apocryphal texts, describe the state of being:

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• • • • •

• •

Silence: “For God alone my soul waits in silence” (Psalm 62). Death as sleep (Lazarus, John 11:11–13). Primordial order: “Look towards heaven and count the stars” (Genesis 15:5). “Have you commanded the morning since your days began, and caused the dawn to know its place” (Job 38:12). Truth: God as the ultimate point of reference, for truth (John 7:14-30) and as inherent law. Alpha and Omega. Fullness: God as life in abundance (John 10:10). The wedding to which we are all invited. Kingdom: The state of consciousness of an unfathomable unity that precedes any duality (Gospel of Thomas, Saying 22). Following the mystic Jakob Böhme, van Ruysbeek and Messing (1993) call the Kingdom the “ground without a ground” (Ungrund). This encompasses all and nothing, the ground without a ground, and the ground of all beings (p. 19). Jesus’s unitary reality with the Father (John 14:9–10; John 1:1–2), inasmuch as Being or the Wholly Other is emphasized (in contrast to the aspect of dual unity and security; see section 4.7). Jesus’s message about the Kingdom (Basileia) and its completely different non-dual workings and qualities of being.

The following formulations, from creation myths or prophetic visions, help us imagine and grasp the dynamics of roundness: • • • •

On separation: “Let there be light…”; “Water shall part from land, (…) top from bottom.” Images of procreation, conception, fertilization, incubation under cir­ cumstances that do not obey the laws of causality (e.g., overshadowed by the Holy Spirit). As energetic events: “big bang,” dancing the world into being, creatio continua (Augustine), being “called” to life. As a spiritual act: “And the Word became flesh” (John 1:14), as the original word also in Isaiah 43:1 (“I have redeemed you; I have called you by name”).

3.6 Experiences of music on the threshold: beyond time and individuality Which musical experiences lead us to the border to non-duality? In parti­ cular experiences of sound. In deep relaxation, we are able to let ourselves be touched so profoundly by sounds that our sense of containment and deli­ mitation dissolves. Sounds then seem to be eternal, simple, and spherical. They are so intense and yet so calm that they are “neither full nor empty.” We no longer feel afraid, even if this experience of sound only occurs after we have endured extreme or intense fear. Sounds then feel like paradise,

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even if they are chaotic from an objective standpoint: at this outermost threshold of consciousness, beyond time and ego, the interweaving, com­ mingling, and even muddling of sounds is pleasant, peaceful, and spherical. We feel in harmony with music. Some people literally even feel that the world is also sound. Time and rhythm, even if objectively present, are no longer felt. In extreme cases, some people can neither count nor beat rhythms, but experience them instead as qualities: seven-beat rhythms (re­ presenting the matriarchal) arouse different feelings and images than 12-beat rhythms (representing the patriarchal order). We are able to experience eternity, momentarily, precisely because time seems to be switched off. Melodies and certain instruments, like other musical details, are also un­ important; everything is immersed in the basic sound of being. The experience of this outermost border is called sound – space – being – wholeness – non-duality. In itself, it is bound neither to volume nor to silence, because in this state we have let go deep down. We perceive volume as in­ tensity, silence as a space that is given to us. No commotion or ego-bound values exist here. So close to the Wholly Other, nothing is able to wrench us from peace and being. Which instruments can trigger sensitivities beyond time and ego via musicassisted relaxation? They include the monochord, standing bells, sometimes a softly sounded gong, the didgeridoo, and electronically produced, seemingly spherical sounds. Sometimes, shamanic rituals involving drum music, rattling music, or special songs also lead into such depths (Ebersoll, 1985; Gerber, 1980, p. 34; Simon, 1983). These instruments and songs are salubrious because they reconnect us with our depths (non-dual reality A, wholesome contain­ ment B; see chapter 4). G.K. Loos (1986) has linked the monochord to the first phase of pregnancy; the drum to the second phase, in which the mother’s heartbeat is perceived; and the gong to the third and last phase, which also includes an unpleasant shift (oral information). The standing bell takes us into transpersonal spheres (Strobel, 1988). My observations tend to confirm this classification. Nevertheless, I find a thematic perspective more obvious than a temporal one: we experience transition individually, as we do periods of time, such as losing an inner paradise. If music is going to guide us into dimensions beyond time and ego, it must be continuous, even monochromatic. It is precisely when it extends beyond the personal sphere that music grants us intuitions of something greater, something eternal. Therapists must also be able to engage with a greater Whole when they play music. Comfortingly, music has no necessary effect and therefore does not compare with medication or drugs. What is decisive, however, is our perception as listeners, as well as what lies deep “inside” us. If we are permeable, we might even experience birds chirping in the forest, the silence of a church or a meditation room, or immersion in deep sleep as allembracing music.

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3.7 Primordial trust, primordial intuitions of happiness On the threshold, emotions become possible for the first time. We are now able to feel—deeply unconsciously—what simply was before. The permission to be, which is granted to us in the Whole, becomes our own emotional reality. Our initial participation in the Whole becomes our own internalized primordial trust. In essence, we now experience being inside the primordial order as being in order ourselves. Good and evil are not opposed in this utmost experience of the Whole because we do not differentiate at this stage of de­ velopment. Consequently, we associate this primordial experience with feeling totally serene, wonderful, pleasant, and good. We are “neither related nor unrelated,” which is synonymous with “both related and unrelated.” Since we recognize no human counterpart, this stage is not yet about a personal quality of relationship and relatedness. The ego, which would be able to enter into a relationship, does not yet exist or no longer exists. And yet, existence is neither accidental nor chaotic. It is instead characterized by relatedness—perhaps of being related to an order that inheres in the Whole. We sense this order, which leaves behind a feeling of primordial trust: we are embedded in the threads of fate, and everything simply is. The order of the Whole also includes the meaning of our own becoming. It is in these depths that our sense of being meaningful and essential lies rooted. Feeling at one with this deepest psychic layer opens up the order of nature and things, like Golden Mary in the folktale of Mother Hulda (Grimm & Grimm, 1884). We now understand the language of bread, apples, and ani­ mals. At one with ourselves, we are also at one with the Whole, the world, and our fellow creatures. We are satiated, nourished, happy, and active from within ourselves, because we are connected with the Whole. The great words that emerge from this stage of gaining consciousness are order, peaceful atmo­ sphere, and self-evident being. Here, moreover, arise intuitions of our own place, and of our own meaning. Everything in the Whole has its task. And yet, the sheer premonition, that this happiness will disappear, and thus has already disappeared, is itself also painful. At the threshold, time bids farewell to eternity. In its place emerge first polarities and the two qualities of being (nondual and ego-bound). Premonitions of happiness are gifts from the gods that accompany us throughout our life. That formerly blissful state seems everlasting, and yet has long passed. Correspondingly, flashes of light from this primordial ex­ perience suddenly appear. Although incomprehensible and sometimes al­ most unreasonable, they are inner sources of contentment, confidence, and joie de vivre; inner experiences of “being at one with ourselves and with what is essential.” Unexpectedly, we simply feel good, beautiful, alright (“in order”). Laughter and crying are often closely related in therapy. Fleeting happiness, lasting a few seconds. Perhaps a moment of intense hope amid extreme tribulations. Our basic psychic states seldom have a causal

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explanation. They are not produced. They are. Premonitions of happiness emerge amid certainties like: • • • • • • • • • • •

Feeling safe and secure. Gratitude. Holding the thread of our own development (figuratively speaking, the thread of the divine weaver). Being contained in a cosmic order and—in spite of our mistakes—being alright (German in Ordnung sein); being beautiful. Becoming whole and healed in spite of all splitting; being irrepressible in spite of all inner blemishes. Being grounded: feeling solid ground beneath us; existing for good reasons, that is, being neither accidental nor random. Being a precious part of the Whole; fulfilling an important task, however small, for the Whole. Simply being allowed to “be,” without having to legitimate our right to exist or having to earn that right based on achievement. Being connected to the deep forces; feeling a zest for life in spite of tribulations. Having confidence amid dying and becoming; feeling that nothing essential can be lost. Intuiting a great order, and thus meaning, amid apparent futility.

Dying persons once again come to this outermost threshold. Their final states compare with those mentioned above, and yet are terminal and often also have a transfigured or redeemed aspect: at some point, and time and again, the time of suffering, confusion, and fears is over (see “post-transition”; Renz, 2015). Many dying persons signal peace, being, celebration, and belonging. Moreover, they react impressively to a dignity that is either experienced in­ wardly or expressed by us. Others are simply serene. We may have primordial intuitions of happiness also in the midst of life. Light comes into darkness in many ways: a sunny day, a beautiful natural landscape, a child’s laughter, an impressive dream, or when we look up into a wonderful treetop. Such intuitions come from within and cannot be conveyed by well-intended words or pious sayings. Our own trust and confidence are most likely to grant those of us seeking healing the space in which our own certainties may shine. During therapy, our sincere opinion, uttered at the right moment and from (our own) great depths, can work “miracles.” Primordial intuitions of happiness are deeply religious, since they originate in that dimension toward which all religio strives: participation in God/in the Whole. Sometimes profound answers break into consciousness through dreams or during creative work. Then, the ego is moved, seized, shaken. Here are three dreams:

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I am looking into a large room that is suffused in intense blue light. I feel the presence of a woman, who might be a priestess. The light is particularly bright in the middle of the room. It falls on a square. I sense my task: I must place a shrine that is sacred to me back where it belongs: in the middle of this room. I do so. Then, I step back a little and feel: It—everything—is good the way it is. An unspeakably blissful, peaceful atmosphere emanates from this room. I am standing on a large, round church square. Large crowds have gathered for a penitential service that is dedicated to reversing environ­ mental destruction. The organist is indisposed, and so there is no music. Should I, or indeed must I, perform this task in his place? A priest, whom I perceive merely as a shadow, tells me up on the gallery: “Do what you can do deep down, and be who you are deep inside yourself.” I know that I have been able to do this since my childhood, and so I do it. All of us take on those tasks of which we are capable. One woman decorates the square with flowers, another listens, everyone does exactly what they are able to. This creates a serene atmosphere, one in which those present simply are. The service—despite being about a hopeless matter—concludes with an Easter song: a sign of a new beginning. I see Jesus. He has neither a face nor hands nor feet. He simply “is.” I put my head in his lap, where I am also safe and secure in my imminent death.

3.8 We are born with the gifts of wholeness Primordial intuitions of happiness resemble the godparent gifts of the Whole. These gifts are the theme of the fairy tale about “Sleeping Beauty” (Grimm & Grimm, 1884).3 It is the story of several wise women who bestowed their blessings upon the king’s child. They wish that the child possesses virtue, beauty, and wealth, and that every other imaginable wish be fulfilled. Only one fairy godmother was not invited and therefore wished the child’s death. Who are these wise women? Marie Louise von Franz (1993, pp. 28–29) has observed that the theme of the forgotten fairy or godmother is that of the forgotten goddess. The SwissGerman word for godparent (Gotte, Götti) also suggests this. Godparents have a protective function and assume responsibility if a child’s parents are unable to perform their duties, for whatever reason. This is how we might imagine the “godparent gifts of the Whole.” They include what parents are unable to give their children—be it primordial trust, the atmosphere of simple goodness, or a mission in life. And yet, what becomes the child’s fateful predicament, that which causes its death, is also laid in its cradle. What has no place in the parental (pa­ triarchal) order of 12, yet belongs to the Whole, is expressed in the

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thirteenth fairy’s curse. So, too, does what an ego-bound perspective can never accept: for instance, spinning or dying. In the moment of baptism—which may mean the transition from the nameless and in­ comprehensible to the nameable and recognizable—the thirteenth fairy is eliminated. It resists integration into the consciousness of the 12. The number 12 is associated with solar consciousness, 13 with lunar con­ sciousness. The latter, as it were, is the incomprehensible, the excessive, the ego-transcending, and perhaps also the non-dual. This becomes evil, or at least ambivalent, through its differentiation into opposites and through the polarity that emerges during transition. Thirteen stands for the tabooed and uninvited. When the time is ripe (in the fairy tale, this is the fifteenth year of life), this force initiates development and once again leads the ego out of its limited, ego-bound thinking. The thirteenth drives us toward liminal experiences. In spite of promising death, it does not spell the absolute end, merely the relativization of ego-boundness. Against the background of non-dual primordial unity, there is no death. In “Sleeping Beauty,” the image of such a liminal experience, into timelessness, is a deep sleep that will last a hundred years. Besides primordial premonitions of happiness and suffering, the legacy of the outermost liminal sphere includes an almost lost desire. Something inside us still yearns incessantly for non-dual existence. Many people rediscover their very own visions and hopes during therapy. Our core, which has never completely ceased believing, now comes to bear. It becomes conscious and even takes concrete shape. Godparent gifts—the gifts of the Whole—form an entirety. Not only welcome traits are “good” gifts. Our very own secret and mission also lie in the Whole. We must therefore ask ourselves, time and again: What wishes to be realized, loved, or thrown overboard by me, or be induced in others? These reflections remind me of therapy sessions with desperate young people and social outcasts. Their existence, too, has its backgrounds and meaning. Accepting the Whole as the ultimate reality means believing that it includes all of us. It also means that gifts and graces, blows of fate and burdens, are given to us as divine godparent gifts.

3.9 Bettina (1): breaking through into confidence Bettina, a young adult woman with learning disabilities, came to have therapy with me. I helped her walk a (figurative) tightrope, back to that point where, after many attempts and great anxiety, she touched “bottom” and found primordial trust. In the course of this book, I will keep returning to Bettina’s impressive experiences during therapy. She repeatedly faced the abysses of her life, and how she had become what she was. Her inner experiences and ar­ chetypal images, which she described very aptly, are astonishing and help us understand, on a symbolic level, what is otherwise barely rationalizable.

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Bettina came to music therapy with a severe learning disability. At first, she was unable to follow conversations, nor could she carry out simple instructions (e.g., “bring me that pencil”). She taught me to completely trust her inner forces and inner guides. Her preferences, body signals, and blocks determined her path. She enjoyed dancing from the first session. Her movements were so differentiated that I soon realized that her learning disability involved a tre­ mendous fear of daring to live. Her initially distraught or shy facial expression seemed to change when she was playing music: then, she was present and approachable. Bettina’s birth had been difficult. Her mother’s waters had broken far too early. Soon after birth, divergent developments became evident. At the age of six, Bettina had music therapy for the first time. As a 17-year-old she suffered from anorexia. Her therapy with me focused on overcoming her learning disability and on her desire to become a strong woman. She also developed a new sensitivity for her body. Musical vibrations enabled her to closely ex­ perience herself and her body: “Now I am far away from myself.” She felt, physically, that these were two different states: one dull and learning-impaired; the other alert, yet also easily scared. The gong became her strong woman’s instrument, that part of her that “never had learning difficulties.” For hours she sought to make contact with this strong being. She approached the gong, sensed her fear, and withdrew again. She gave her fear many names: the fear of not being alright, the fear of closeness, the fear of going to pieces, or of being at fault for her learning disability. Bettina had a boyfriend at the time. He brought joy into her life, but also an omnipresent fear that she was pregnant. She should probably have been re­ assured a hundred times an hour that this was impossible: she had recently had a three-month contraceptive injection and had not slept with her boyfriend. I had to stay out of this game. Yet why did Bettina have this fear? And why so psychotically? I sensed a problem with her deepest possible boundary. Had her boundaries been severely violated as a little child? Or had her intrauterine distress and traumatic birth made it impossible for her to establish stable boundaries and feel protected by them? Bettina did not even know what trust was, neither in her doctor, nor in my verbal assurances, nor in anyone else.—Below are some excerpts from Bettina’s therapy: In one session, I really let her be afraid and encouraged her to progress in her ima­ gination: “Imagine you were pregnant now. How does that feel? What is happening?” She said, falteringly: “Wet, cold… but now, suddenly, no longer wet. The baby in the belly feels uncomfortable.” Bettina interrupted herself, rolled around on the floor and added: “Now it keeps

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hitting (pounding?). I am being beaten up.” She trembled, sneezed, and bent over double. She was sweating, but continued: “I’m afraid, I’m going to pieces. The baby in me is going to pieces. Everything seems to be dead.” When I told her that she was talking about herself, and about a baby, she realized: “I am also the baby.” Bettina’s state worsened. She oscillated between suicidality and psychosis. She almost became unbearable for her surroundings. Even admission to a psychiatric hospital was considered. Although I felt suspended between fear and trust, I decided in favor of the future. But what was I hoping for? Can primordial fear become primordial trust? Bettina began the next session with body awareness exercises. Could she feel herself? Her stomach hurt, she said. “So am I pregnant after all?” Was she pregnant with herself? A little later: “Today I have no learning disability. I don’t feel numb. I’m afraid.” She hinted at the two different states and cap­ tured them in words: a. “A learning disability is when one is empty and feels nothing. Then one feels better.” b. “When the learning disability disappears, one feels afraid.” c. All of a sudden, I said: “There are not only two states, there are three. The third one is called: Trust is greater than fear.” Bettina sat up and listened carefully. What did trust mean in her life? She said: “Trusting that what others are saying is true.” Cautiously, she added: “Trusting that I am loved.” I asked Bettina to locate her answers in her body. Where did she begin to feel trust? Bettina: “It’s filled up, closed; the pain is here—in my stomach.” “What color is your trust? Do you see anything inside you?” Bettina saw a yellow surface in front of her, far away, yet buried beneath a huge black mass of fear. She tried to draw closer, but could not. In between lay a wall, a “grey abdominal wall”(!) Bettina had another panic attack, ac­ companied by shivering, disgust, and nausea. I am sitting behind Bettina touching her back (the place of reconnection). She describes what she sees: “The yellow trust is now approaching.” But the next panic attack follows and the “grey abdominal wall” reappeared. I work round the difficulty: “For me there is something like a rear umbilical cord in the back. It leads to something bigger, and also to life.” Bettina’s back muscles start loosening beneath my hands. Silence. I ask: “Where are you now?” She replies: “I have gone through the wall and see the dear Lord.” “What does he look like?” “He is a man with a beard. Now I am in a garden with trees, humming insects, and many flowers. It is peaceful here.” I ask if anything is particularly important. “Yes, two trees; and the dear Lord is somehow in the air.”—Bettina cries. She is gasping for breath again and is afraid—as if she had no space. She sees the garden again: “I

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feel as if I were in paradise with Adam and Eve…” (she stammers) “… has she—have I—bitten the apple?” She cries even harder: “Since that moment everything is suddenly broken—rotten—learning disabilities—fear everywhere.” Bettina wants to lie down and put up her legs. More convulsion. “Just let it happen,” I encourage her and ask: “What do you see now?” “Still the apple, just the apple.” More convulsion. It takes a while until she continues: “I can’t, I can’t bite the apple.” Silence. I ask: “Would you like to know what the apple means to me?” “Yes.” “It means: I want to live.” Bettina: “My apple is also as green as spring.” I continue: “If you bite it, it means: I want to live.” Bettina is blocked. I begin stroking her feet. She sees a small golden snake coming out of the apple and curling up. She oscillates between fear, pain, and fascination. She does not understand, and yet she does: “The snake wants me to fight and be a strong woman.” We let things settle and sound the gong together. I was also overwhelmed by this session (which lasted an hour and a half). It gave Bettina and me insight into her paradise and into the life force within the symbolism of the apple and the snake. Still, I was worried whether Bettina could cope with such breakthroughs. The next day, her carers told me that she had slept better and was now more present and calmer.

3.10 We do not always manage to bid farewell to non-dualism The apple of life is sour, and reality is harsh, not only for Bettina. She is not alone in longing for the Wholly Other, for a non-dual state. The fact that entering this world also means bidding farewell to our first home helps to explain, in a new way, that not all of us really find our way into life. Some leave the world already in the womb, others after birth, unexpectedly, and yet others are constantly longing for it as adults (see also my interpretation of regression and depression, sections 1.5, section 1.6, 7.4). When children return to their former home, we speak of early infant death. Arno Gruen (1987) has interpreted this as the child’s “premature farewell.” Infant death, according to Gruen, results from the interaction of neurophy­ siological, psychological, and social factors. Parental behavior, for instance, unperceived anger, splitting-off tendencies, unconsciously rejecting the child: all of these forces may make a child die suddenly. Parents who have suffered such a loss have refuted this theory, because it risks blaming parents. The model that I am presenting in this book offers a similar, yet different ex­ planation to Gruen’s: not so much arriving in this world may become the problem as bidding farewell to the non-dual world. While environmental circumstances may complicate matters, this step is also difficult in itself. As we know, some of us find farewells more difficult than others. This is particularly true for the subject of this book: bidding farewell to the primordial unity in non-duality.

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Notes 1 See also the formulation “began to think” in the Indian creation myth, as explained in section 1.3 2 See “The Water of Life” (Grimm & Grimm, 1884), “Sleeping Beauty” (Grimm & Grimm, 1884), and the legend of the Holy Grail (Jung & von Franz, 1998, p. 70). 3 See also the Slavic fairy tale “The three golden hairs of the old man who knew every­ thing,” as recounted by Sirovatka and Luzik (1977).

References Brinton Perera, S. (1981): Descent to the goddess. A way of initiation for women. Toronto: Inner City Books. Ebersoll, B. (1985): Musik der Geister und Menschen in indianischen Heilriten, Part 1, 2. Musiktherapeutische Umschau, 6(1–16), 101–120. Franz, M.L. von (1993): The feminine in fairy tales. Boston, MA: Shambhala. Gerber, P. (1980): Die Peyote-Religion. Nordamerikanische Indianer auf der Suche nach einer Identität. Zürich: Völkerkundemuseum. Grimm, J., & Grimm, W. (1884): Household tales by the brothers Grimm (M. Hunt, transl.). London: George Bell and Sons. Retrieved from https://www.worldoftales.com/fairy_ tales/Grimm_fairy_tales_Margaret_Hunt.html#gsc.tab=0 Gruen, A. (1987). The relationship of sudden infant death and parental unconscious conflicts. Pre- and Peri-natal Psychology Journal, 2(1), 50–56. Herder Lexikon Symbole. (1978): Freiburg in Breisgau: Herder. Jung, E., & von Franz, M.L. (1998): The grail legend. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Loos, G.K. (1986): Spiel-Räume. Musiktherapie mit einer magersüchtigen und anderen früh gestörten Patienten. Stuttgart: Gustav Fischer. Neumann, E. (2015): The Great Mother: An analysis of the archetype (R. Manheim, transl.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1956). Renz, M. (2015): Dying: A transition (M. Kyburz with J. Peck, transl.). New York, NY: Columbia University Press. Ruysbeek, E. van, & Messing, M. (1993): Das Thomasevangelium. Seine östliche Spiritualität. Solothurn: Walter. Simon, A. (1983): Musik in afrikanischen Besessenheitsriten. In: A. Simon (Hrsg.): Musik in Afrika (pp. 284–297). Berlin: Museum für Völkerkunde. Sirovatka, O., & Luzik, R. (eds.). (1977): Slavische Märchen (4th ed.). Hanau: Werner Dausien. Spintge, R., & Droh, R. (1992): Musik – Medizin. Physiologische Grundlagen und praktische Anwendungen. Stuttgart: Gustav Fischer. Strobel, W. (1988): Klang-Trance-Heilung. Die archetypische Welt der Klänge in der Psychotherapie. Musiktherapeutische Umschau, 9, 119–139.

Chapter 4

Wholesome containment (Stage B of conscious development in transition)

Abstract Becoming an ego involves a shift in perception: from participation in the Whole and in the non-dual world to ego-boundedness. This shift occurs gradually and involves a constant back and forth. The infant appears to be sprightly, as if this little person were “here.” Then it dozes off. In this states, the infant experiences the world differently than in waking consciousness. We can assume that, depending on the sleep phase, children and even adults once again become immersed in the liminal sphere to nonduality. The time spans during which the child participates in the Whole decrease as it develops, while ego-bound wakefulness increases. The infant experiences a unitary reality before and beside its waking inactivity. It is a oneness with the Whole (nonduality), and not merely with the mother. While differentiation continues, a second experience of being entails primordial warmth and security. We feel deeply nurtured and contained, and our primordial trust grows as a result. As clinical examples il­ lustrate, being comforted by the Great Mother (C.G. Jung) is a typical metaphor of these experiences. This chapter also considers the phylogenetic perspective and presents symbols, experiences of music, and images of God/the divine that are typical of experiencing sheltered containment.

4.1 Oscillating between two modes of being Our shift from participation in the Whole, that is, in non-duality to egoboundness occurs gradually and involves a constant back and forth. The nascent embryo (and later the infant) appears to be sprightly, as if this little person were “here”—before it either dozes off again or sleeps. In the twilight state, the infant experiences the world differently than in waking conscious­ ness. It lingers, dozingly, in greater closeness to the Whole. We can assume that, depending on the sleep phase, children and even adults once again be­ come immersed in the liminal sphere to non-duality. We need to understand the child’s transition as an alternation between emergence (rise) and subsidence (fall). The time spans during which we participate in the Whole decrease as we develop, while ego-bound wakefulness increases. DOI: 10.4324/9781003176572-4

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Interestingly, Erich Neumann (1973) uses the image of an island that emerges from the sea to describe the process of ego-formation: The ego “achieves an insular consciousness—first for brief moments, then for longer periods” (p. 12). Stern (1985) speaks of the experience of the “emerging self” (pp. 9, 37–38). Instead of asking whether the self once again “sinks” back into the twilight state or sleep, he bases his findings entirely on the infant’s waking inactivity. He believes that the infant assimilates its environment actively, indeed even eagerly, and emits signals via various activities (e.g., turning its head, sucking, looking) (see pp. 39, 232). Stern refutes both the claim of undifferentiatedness in the beginning (pp. 46–47) and traditional psychoanalytical approaches.1 My approach might help clarify the explosive question of whether the infant experiences a unitary reality or not: we need to imagine oneness as a reality before and beside the infant’s waking inactivity. It is a oneness with the Whole and not simply with the mother. While I am not questioning the numerous differentiations of which the newborn is capable,2 I argue instead that the infant oscillates back and forth between two very different states (Figure 4.1). This gradual shift—from participation in the Whole to ego-boundness— involves moments of awakening, which trigger astonishment, fascination, and fright. New perceptions can change everything from one second to the next: at some point, the mother’s voice feels familiar for the first time; the infant now experiences its body’s heaviness (also for the first time). A face suddenly seems strange. The toddler discovers, unexpectedly, that roads and paths are not simply grey. Stones and flowers that it discovers along the way become interesting playthings. Heat hurts, and so forth. Every change of environment, attachment figure, or rhythm (daily, eating, and sleeping rhythms) is alienating. Every new perception is a momentary insight. Perceptions occur abruptly, arousing curiosity, yet also fear. One day, even adults may be astonished to realize: this tree has always stood there, so why am I noticing its beauty only now? The dying are confronted with the fact of extinction, not only in coping with life, but even in their familiar ego-bound perception.

4.2 Primordial shelteredness: where dependence on the environment is not yet felt Unitary reality (the oldest mode of being) is followed by wholesome containment in greatness (an intermediate state of being). The rudimentary ego is already

Figure 4.1 Oscillation between Two States of Being

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capable of differentiation to the extent that it instinctively distinguishes be­ tween itself and the Whole. But it is not yet able to break the environment down into individual components. The environment is the encompassing greatness. In it, the rudimentary ego is enveloped and borne, protected, sheltered, and nourished. It is nurtured—just like that—without doing anything itself. While its relationship with greatness is symbiotic, or almost, the rudimentary ego no longer fully participates in the Whole. The previous primordial unity has become a dual-unity. Intuitions of unitary reality have given way to feeling contained in something greater. This state, although still deeply unconscious, is slightly closer to consciousness. At first, our containment in encompassing greatness feels utterly wholesome and congenial. This is because the growing child is still so strongly at home in the Wholly Other that it feels nurtured by it. Negative influences (e.g., the mother’s stress during pregnancy) are part of this environmental experience, but are not registered as such. As yet, the child does not feel dependent on its environment. Nor does it feel its affliction, neediness, or even anomaly. Even death still means returning and is accepted based on a deep connection with the Whole. Obviously, every child experiences this state in its own duration, at its own time, and in its own particular back and forth. It remains open and varies in­ dividually when and how often the embryo/fetus/infant dozes in wholesome containment, or how often its rudimentary ego already feels ambivalent and signals joy, curiosity, pleasure, or fear. Presumably, children growing up in our culture today experience wholesome containment for the first time in the early intrauterine period. This extends—depending on predisposition, experiences, and environment—far beyond birth. It recurs, for instance, after a new fearful experience. Babies, for instance, repeatedly fall asleep amid the greatest com­ motion. When they seem to be deeply happy, and yet not quite present, they may once again be close to the Wholly Other (i.e., in unity reality), either on the threshold (level A) or in wholesome containment (level B). However, some children’s and some adult’s later reactions and disease symptoms suggest that they experienced—and endured—great fears already intrauterine. Did they have to leave—at least temporarily—their wholesome containment so early? Transition is experienced individually also later. Soon after birth, some chil­ dren seem to perceive many things objectively. They frequently signal hunger, pain, curiosity, or anxiety and therefore depend completely on an empathetic environment. Others remain dreamy, in fact increasingly, for months, sometimes even for years. Even with dreamy children, we may interpret twilight states both as flight from or as connectedness with the Wholly Other. The collective and its incentives may also accelerate or slow down transition (see section 1.4). I believe that a shift in perception, and thus transition, tends to begin ever earlier and occur ever faster: nowadays, some things take place intrauterine that previously happened during infancy (unitary reality, initial differentiation). Today, the small child’s experience of the world compares

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with that of prehistoric adults. This perspective helps us to understand the emergence of myths and fairy tales in a new way: they are expressions of human feelings in transition. Originally told and written down by adults for adults, today they are understood immediately, in particular by children. If perception shifts increasingly earlier in life and occurs ever faster, we also become dependent on our environment and susceptible to disruption ever earlier. As a result, child-friendly environments and empathetic care are be­ coming increasingly important, especially during early child development. This, however, also means that early disorders are also becoming more pre­ valent (e.g., eating disorders). Moreover, in particular themes of beginning will gain increasing importance in our civilization: • • • • •

Connectedness and our addiction to this state (the age of the mobile phone). “How can I get enough?” “Becoming aware of ourselves (e.g., the age of mindfulness) Primordial fear and all its compensation patterns. Disappearing primordial trust or the challenge of regaining it.

4.3 Experiencing wholesome containment through music I understand the greatness encompassing us in terms of physics, as a world of atmosphere, vibration, and sound. This world might correspond to the ori­ ginal experience of the Whole. The child—no matter whether intrauterine or extrauterine—is surrounded by atmosphere, vibrations, and sound. Physically speaking, it lives in vibrations, figuratively speaking in a musical uterine space, inside. It is susceptible to atmospheric and vibrational information long before it recognizes objects and persons. Matter and life are ultimately atmosphere and vibration. The world of atmosphere and vibration, as I call it throughout this book, includes all those influences that are not yet perceived as such, that is, in terms of differentiation. Objects and persons that are already recognized are, although still atmosphere and vibration, no longer part of the original atmospheric and vibrational environment, as they are registered primarily as concrete and close to consciousness. Thus, I am using the world of atmosphere and vibration to mean the unconsciously encompassing, that which takes atmospheric and energetic effect. As such, it precedes concrete experience. For the nascent ego, what to the world outside means “abdominal wall,” “amniotic fluid,” “mother’s and father’s moods,” “grandparents,” or “hectic society” for the time being becomes part of the surrounding atmosphere and vibrations. Vibrations are music. An atmospheric and vibrational environment is music in the broadest sense of the word. In essence, transition occurs through the medium of music. The more ego-bound we become, the more we perceive music differently. Based on my longstanding experience as a music therapist, I

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therefore claim: at this stage of becoming conscious, in wholesome contain­ ment, a minimal sense of rhythm and time has set in. Consequently, the basic sound of all being begins to fade in and out. It becomes earthlier, more lifelike. We still mainly perceive sound and space. And yet, the character of this sound space changes. It is no longer a greatness that simply exists, but becomes the big shell, the sheltering uterine space, the primordial space (the space inside the grandfather clock, in which the youngest of the seven little goats in the fairy tale finds refuge).3 The mother’s heartbeat (pulse) becomes the ticking, reliable something within. Thus, in the great sound (in the mass of vibrations), we perceive traces of something individual, something that is entirely our own. We no longer perceive the great sound as “static” or eternal, but as embedded in rhythmic swelling, in an up and down movement. But rhythm is not yet dominant and cannot be perceived as its own temporal force. Our rudimentary ego is too small, our feeling for rhythm and time emerging. Our experience of rhythm, which presupposes a minimal memory, a sense of before and after, is only just emerging. Rhythm, therefore, first appears imperceptibly in sound, as belonging to it. Our nascent self experiences itself as warm and secure amid sound. It is stimulated, swayed back and forth, and animated by the power of rhythm within that sound. The concepts of sound and rhythm are less clearly distinct in everyday life. Even music therapists sometimes consider rhythm synonymous with paradisiacal warmth and security, or believe that rhythm offers the significant possibility of regression (Loos, 1986, p. 109). Such views, however, neglect the fact that we only ever hear rhythm as sound (section 1.7). They also forget that not time markings (e.g., drumbeats) provide space, but the time-spaces in between. Not the rhythmic aspect of music, but rather its acoustic aspect creates a space in which we can feel safe and sheltered. Sound, not rhythm, envelops. Sound, more or less intense, decides how gentle this shell feels and how soft this primordial cave. Rhythm—in this early stage of development—is important also in another way: it causes things to rise and fall, to swell up and down. Eternity begins to pulsate (see the Indian myth in section 1.3). Sound is embedded in the structure of our pulse. This lends our sense of envelopment a constant, reliable, transient, as well as a recurring and living character. And yet, this musical whole is—in this early stage of development—still perceived as sound. Rhythm also plays a role when the child that is maturing in the womb begins reacting to its mother’s voice. This voice is melody, that is, a connection between sound (acoustic material) and rhythm (experience of time, accentuations). Similarly to rhythm, the mother’s voice also takes effect. At first, however, it is not recognized as a voice that belongs to an individual. Instead, as I claim, this primordial melody is for the time being perceived as the “voice of the Great Mother.” This figure carries, “loves,” comforts and—importantly—simply is. Which experiences of music can later activate—for instance, in the context of therapy or spiritual care—our former wholesome containment? Well, these are sounds into which enter our earliest sense of rhythm and time. They often

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occur during music-assisted relaxation, which conveys the feeling of a great pulse and of the sound unfolding in it. Embedded in eternal rhythmic re­ currence, we can once again be carried within the womb of the Great Mother, as well as close to her heartbeat. Rhythm within sound, the heartbeat inside the abdomen, early premonitions of individuality within infinity. Various instruments and musical styles are able to induce premonitions of containment in greatness/the Whole: a softly pulsating gong, the surdo (or another large drum placed at the middle of a circle), or any ritual that is performed in a circle. Another is the six-eight meter, which is common in lullabies and pastoral music (Loos, 1986, p. 105). Others include pastoral tunes, horn sounds, the alphorn, the didgeridoo, flute/panflute music, Mozart’s music,4 or Gluck’s “Dance of the Blessed Spirits” (from Orpheus and Euridike). It is, of course, important to play music that is close to patients and therapists. The following also deserve special mention: lullabies, chil­ dren’s songs, folk songs, Christmas songs, Easter songs, or Mother Hulda’s well-meaning voice on a children’s record. Songs and voices draw on the experience of the Great Mother. No longer experiences of “the great sound” or pure sound are now important, but the voice of the Great Mother.5 As if, according to Bonhoeffer, we were hearing once again: wonderfully protected by good powers.

4.4 Older than all power problems: wholeness as nurturing motherly envelopment In wholesome containment, the original Whole becomes the encompassing greatness in which our small rudimentary ego is contained. Here, for the first time, appears a polarity that is essential for all further development: tiny versus gigantic, contained versus encompassing, emerging versus sheltering. Nor do we experience any fears or power problems in this relationship, since we are as of now safely and securely contained in the Wholly Other. The rudimentary ego experiences this dual-unity as a peaceful-symbiotic togetherness. It stands in an early relationship with the Whole/God. Already evident is a vibrational exchange of sorts, a natural flowing between becoming and envelopment, a mutual organic adaptation be­ tween mother and child. Even phylogenetically, we may speak of the adaptation of organisms to increasingly complex circumstances. One example is the de­ velopment of the ear. Alfred Tomatis describes even this organic adaptation as “communication” (1987, pp. 103–104). This stage of development is highly explosive, for all cultural development and for all further relationships between the sexes (e.g., the shift from matricentric to patriarchal stages of culture). Containment means that the first re­ lationship, between the masculine and the feminine, is not one between equals, but symbolically between mother and son. Mythologically speaking, the relationship between the Great Mother and her son now begins—even if the term “relationship” is too conscious for the symbiotic coexistence meant

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here. The archetypal figure of the Great Mother is said to give birth to all life and to graciously reabsorb the mortal remains. She nurtures, bears, and pro­ vides warmth and security. Due to her death-bringing aspect, she is later feared as threatening and devouring, and thus casts shadows and triggers projections between the sexes. Who is such a Great Mother? The world of atmosphere and vibration that I mentioned above concretizes the “Great Mother.” She was experienced as a reality by the child or, aeons ago, by adults, as the all-encompassing. She embodies sheltering and nurturing wholeness. In her, imageless memory traces from earliest times take shape. On the other hand, the Great Mother is more than what the individual can concretely experience. She epitomizes a certain, sheltering energy of the Whole and as such already contrasts with another energy. At this stage, the energies of the Whole—originally undivided, and forming a single unified Whole—already begin developing dual tendencies: the energy that emerges, begets, and is later associated with the masculine beside that which surrounds, nurtures, and animates (i.e., the Great Mother as the sheltering, protective energy). In the phylogenetic transition, the two energies may have manifested their polarity for the first time. Energetically, these two forces are also an inherent part of the Whole. It is precisely because the Great Mother not only symbolizes personal experience, but also contains primordial energy, that she becomes alive in ever new ways in our time. Energy urges toward creation. I understand containment in sheltering motherliness as a type B experience of wholeness (see overview 1, section 1.9). This specific experience of wholeness (B) (wholesome containment) represents a peacefully coordinated duality of mother (body) and child, phylogenetically of creation and creature, nature and creature. In this symbiosis, the nascent ego—phylogenetically, the animal or prehistoric human endowed with increasing consciousness—experiences itself as nurtured, sheltered, and protected. Now, warmth and security can be ex­ perienced in the proper sense: because an encompassing dimension is vaguely intuited and because containment is felt more corporeally, more concretely.

4.5 The masculine within the feminine: a pictorial analogy It is neither coincidental, nor a typically patriarchal or feminist view, that the encompassing dimension is characterized as female and what is contained—and emerges later—as male. Rather, this classification is based on nature. The shel­ tering and encompassing quality of wholeness recalls the feminine. The mother encompasses the nascent child, while the female embraces the male in sexual intercourse. The female principle in woman and man receives, enfolds, and carries to term (i.e., gives birth). This unconscious proximity of the feminine to encompassing greatness means that containment in greatness is associated with containment in the feminine. This is a symbolic reality. Associations and analogies such as “the feminine” or “the motherly” do not emerge until the

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later phases of the transition, when the ego lives in symbolic references and can express itself in images.6 Looking back, they then best approximate what has been experienced. The same holds true for the image of the hero. This represents the nascent, rudimentary ego (i.e., that which is about to emerge as itself) and subsequently also the heroically protruding ego. From a later viewpoint, the ego is asso­ ciated with the masculine. The image of the hero expresses his struggle to free himself from his original containment. The male body visualizes the capacity for erection, for assertiveness. In man and woman, both the ego and egobound consciousness develop symbolically in the sign of the masculine. The symbolically masculine later develops out of the feeling of containment (i.e., out of the sheltering feminine and the unconscious). In terms of this analogy, the striving for life and form, the particular energy of the Whole, which is part of all ego-formation, and which (co)initiates and advances development (en­ ergy of emergence, evocation), stands in the sign of the masculine. Obrist (1990) speaks of two primordial forces as the basic forms of archetypes: “Thus, for instance, there is an archetype of sheltering and one of stepping out into the unsheltered (also called the archetype of the feminine and the mascu­ line) (p. 53).” Music helps us to understand how these two energies—the so-called pri­ mordial forces—affect us and how we experience them. Sound is a primordial experience of the sheltering feminine. Sound is substance, being; matter sounds. Sounds represent devotion, a commitment to infinity. They open up spaces, widen, and connect with an abundance of possible being. Rhythm is the primordial experience of symbolic masculine power. But we should not confuse rhythm with the cycle of death and becoming. It is sound or being that really dies (fades away), once again becomes (fades in), and yet is immortal (vibrates eternally, inaudibly). Rhythm makes, sound is made. Rhythm moves (i.e., sends on the way), sound is moved. Rhythm offers temporal structure, sound is structured. We can recognize the nature and effect of the masculine primordial force exactly in rhythms: they bring life and movement into what is, transience into eternity, regulation into tonal substance. Rhythm leads out of the holistic primordial order into a new order: time. Rhythm is the force that urges toward entering earthly life. Rhythms draw, whip, suck, and sway us into the flow of life: this is the essence and task of the primordial masculine energy of the Whole. Although this second force is powerfully effective from the very beginning, it is at first not perceived as such (i.e., in its own right). It still stands in the sign of containment. It fertilizes within the primordial feminine and only later emerges and becomes itself.

4.6 Goddess and son, grandmother and undefiled devil We are familiar with the archetypes of symbiotic relatedness from various sources: myths, rituals, the Bible, fairy tales, and dreams. Sheltering/nurturing = female,

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contained/then emerging = male is merely an analogy. Some pairs of symbols express precisely this transformation, of becoming or emerging within the other. Examples include shepherd and herd, soil and plants, goddess and ear, vineyard and vine, rose and thorn. They all concern the great, the nourishing, the sheltering, the existing, as well as the small and dynamic, which belongs to the Great.7 It is a dual-unity of the encompassing and the contained. Such pairs of symbols recall the primordial times of wholesome containment in greatness. One particularly expressive image of the still peacefully conjoined primordial forces is the grandmother and the devil, who is not devilish in the least. Here is a corresponding Slavic fairy tale: “Of the three golden hairs of the old man who knew everything” (Sirovatka & Luzik, 1977). This fairy tale is comparable with “The devil with the three golden hairs,” a tale collected by the Brothers Grimm (Grimm & Grimm, 1884). Yet the threatening aspect is depicted much more positively in the Slavic version. The fairy-tale hero must go to the omniscient old man (instead of the devil) to bring home three of his golden hairs. This old man is a sunball: a boy in the morning, a man at noon, and an old man in the evening. Every night, his mother, the goddess of fate, bears his golden head in her lap while he sleeps the sleep of renewal. She takes care of, watches over. However, she takes in the young hero, who also sought her advice. She conceals him. The old man comes home and smells blood and human flesh. He is described as a good soul provided that he is not too hungry. At night, the old mother tears out his three golden hairs and seeks his counsel rather than that of the fairy-tale hero. In the morning, he rises from his mother’s bosom like the wind, is moved and revived. In the fairy tale, this couple defines the hero’s most extreme liminal experience. From here, eternal renewal proceeds. The old wise man’s mother benevolently takes in death and candidly sets it free. The old wise man embodies that which always enters life in ever new ways and undergoes transformation. She guards and ensouls, he inspires. The couple links the primordial feminine and the primordial masculine, and thus is the source of all life. We need to understand the energies of the Whole exactly in this way, as an unequal couple. This couple is even older than all bewitchment and demonization. Both parties or poles simply are, and renewal happens selfevidently. Neither mother nor son need act or react in any particular way. Their simple existence and eternal renewal recall the life of plants. Dying and becoming also happen in the plant world just like that—without any special effort, without anger, without seeking revenge, and without de­ manding gratitude. Not only plants, but also we carry within us the attri­ butes of the vegetative level—simple being and eternal renewal—as part of sheltered, wholesome containment. We encounter this primordial experi­ ence in dreams about the grave and the Risen One, about eternal greenness, about the rose king and his unbloody meal. Unbloody means older than all

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experience of violence and distress. As yet, nothing urges toward response and vengeance, nor has anything become bloodthirsty. There is neither fighting nor slaughter. The question of power does not (yet) arise here—but why not? In this dual-unity, the masculine, although imperceptibly at work in the feminine, is still so strongly connected to the feminine that any question of power is superfluous. What belongs to the mother also belongs to the son or the nascent ego. It experiences containment (“being inside”), “being protected,” “serving,” and “cave”—yet not “I am inside the cave.” This explains why this state seems and has seemed—against all real threats—to be wholesome: we are never really threatened, but instead belong to the Great, which outlasts all threats. When it dies, it “survives” as part of the imperishable Great Mother and participates in her immortality.

4.7 Announcing sheltered containment: images of God Memory traces of wholesome containment are later developed and processed into corresponding images of God through mythical-pictorial experience. I distinguish two kinds of images: 1. Images of God that express how we experience ourselves as safe and “wholesomely contained”: • • • •

•

• • •

A divine primordial ground that carries us. Eternally green meadows. God who creates space. Creation can happen when God withdraws.8 The sublime, great, and magnificent God (Job 38:1–41). Images of the Great Feminine, and later of the Great Mother. The Kingdom of the Father, which resembles a woman (see Gospel of Thomas, Saying 97, cited from van Ruysbeek & Messing, 1993). Praising and worshipping the secret of fertility. Goddesses of fertility. Mother goddesses to whom humans, animals, and plants are attributed. The Virgin of Mercy9 or Mary with her child, who emotionally exceeds the figure of the Mother of Jesus. The sheltering and merciful God (Hebrew rehem, womb), who receives all and everything, without asking about good and evil. God as a mother who does not forget the child (Isaiah 49:15–16); the protective hand of God (ibid.), or the bosom of the Great Mother or Father (John 1:18, literally: “the father’s breast”). The mystery of death and resurrection (by returning to God/the bosom and becoming new). Images of survival on the water (Moses in the rush basket, Noah in the ark). The comforting, healing, and answering Godhead. “Hide me in the shadow of your wings” (Psalm 17:8).

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• • • • • • •

Dwelling, finding shelter, and being allowed to live in the house of the Lord (Psalms 4, 5, 27). The nurturing God and the wonderful food. The bread10 that does not run out. The communion, although at first only as a deeply unconscious togetherness. The gentle and reassuring God. God who tempers the storm (Mark 4:35–41). God who comes in the wind (Elijah, 1 Kings 19 and 20). The divine child’s surroundings close to nature (stable and shepherd). The good shepherd. The nurturing aspect of Jesus’s message of the kingdom (Basileia). Jesus’s benevolent, deeply maternal (i.e., merciful) Father-God and Jesus’s relatedness to the Father as a dual-unity. What belongs to the Father, also belongs to the son. Jesus as the door to the Father (John 10:7–10).

2. Images of God in which God appears as “divided,” as a couple or dualunity. These images of God also express the different primordial forces at work in God, and thus also point to a nascent dynamics and relationship within God: • • • • •

God as the one who is and who becomes. The sheltering and the emerging aspects of God: Mother-Child, Father-Son. Fertility in God himself. Being-with-God (“… and the Word was with God,” John 1:1; in Greek, “with” is a relational word). Dürckheim (1985, p. 72) speaks of a trinity or triad (Dreieinheit): fullness (= Father, Creator) — Law (= Son, Word, Logos) — Unity (= Oneness of Father and Son). The relationship between Father and Son is represented in the mystery of the trinity. We may consider the Holy Spirit as the bond or the flowing between the two, as represented in the symbol of the dove (see the Baptism of Jesus, Luke 3:21–22; Mark 1:11–12; Matthew 3:16–17).11

Many women struggle to find themselves in the images of Father and Son. They resist patriarchy, under whose influence many maternal deities took on paternal traits. Awareness of the symbolism and what it conveys makes matters easier: the ego-bound and emerging is analogous to the “son,” the encompassing to the “mother.” If we are to find ourselves again in our culture’s images of God (e.g., the good shepherd), under no circumstances should we lose the images of masculine protection. Nevertheless, the ma­ ternal character of these images also wishes to be acknowledged. Whether maternal or paternal, the essential message of all these images of God is that we know we are “inside” (i.e., contained), nurtured, borne, sheltered, and protected.

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4.8 Primordial trust, the early form of being loved, and psychic images/symbols The experience of wholesome containment is reflected in our soul as our pri­ mordial trust of being loved. It is as if the gentle envelopment “loved” the nascent ego—and, vice versa, as if the ego were facing the Great Mother. Although the word love is too conscious for the exchange that takes place in this stage, this peaceful giving and taking is reminiscent of love. It is an early form of love and being loved. It is not about motherly love, but about a loving atmosphere, about God’s love, and about an inherent relatedness to all creatures. This love is allencompassing. Like the even older experience of “being in order,” it is not bound to achievements, gifts, or possessions. It applies to all of us and, biblically speaking, also reaches lepers, prostitutes, and tax collectors. It is the basis for the later capacity to love others. Like the even older “being in order,” it is the source of our primordial trust and gives rise to various certainties: • • • • •

Being Being Being Being Being

safe and loved. borne regardless of all our burdens and problems. protected and under a good star. nourished, satiated, comforted, and connected to the pulse of life. fruitful in many ways.

Relevant symbolic images include: • • • •

• •

The mother’s sheltering womb, the great hand, the parental home, the loving mother. Being shielded by a protective cloak, umbrella, or hat. One woman dreamed about being sheltered in her father’s oversized coat, another about a large protective hand. Cave and uterine cavity. The cave offers protection against wild animals, the cold, or evil persons. A child once dreamed about its father’s armpit, under which it could hide. The water of life, the mother of water, the great pond (i.e., ocean),12 the inexhaustible source of water from which all of us can drink. Sometimes, it gives milk. Contained in the waters, where no orientation is needed (does this recall our prenatal life in the amniotic fluid?).—Different kinds of exits: the water forms channels,13 rivers14 are formed, as well as banks, land, and roads. “Nourished by a heavenly meal.” In extreme cases, we physically experience being nourished, yet without needing to eat. Feeling the presence of a guardian angel or the deceased. Various people have told me that they survived the most difficult situations as children because they knew they were loved by a particular person or by a divine figure.

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•

• •

•

The celestial dome and lucky star. Medieval people still regarded heaven as a sheltering dome. Today, some people also dream about the firmament that wanders protectively above them. Like the star of Bethlehem, stars and shining comets also become our guides. Other people feel like the girl in “The Star Talers,” a fairy tale collected by the Brothers Grimm (Grimm & Grimm, 1884): the stars fall into their laps. Where real clothes are missing, the Whole provides protection. Mother Earth, the black, fertile, reliable soil. The good second mother, also grandmother, who takes over and nurtures when food is missing, or who loves when love is absent. Fairy tales tell us that the deceased mother leaves behind something precious that fulfills a mother’s task (see “Cinderella,” Grimm & Grimm, 1884). Mother Hulda (Grimm & Grimm, 1884) epitomizes the helping Great Mother with her lower realm, while the upper world fails. Or a grazing cow or goat offers to feed the rejected child (“One-Eyes, Two-Eyes, Three-Eyes,” Grimm & Grimm, 1884; see also the sounding lime tree in the Slavic tales collected by Sirovatka & Luzik, 1977). Brigitte, aged nine and a half, staged the same puppet play for several weeks: about a child that never found its way home. On one occasion, it roamed the woods; on another, it lost its way in a department store, always desperately facing the same problem. On one occasion, I thought of playing the monochord while Brigitte was playing with the puppets without her noticing. During this session, the child in the puppet show found its way home for the first time. The mother was not at home, but the grandmother was sitting in a rocking chair in the parlor.

In wholesome containment (B), a rudimentary distress already exists—in contrast to unintentional, peaceful, and well-ordered unitary reality (A). The premonition of a certain evil or deficiency plays a role insofar as love, pro­ tection, and food are desired and needed.

4.9 Dying and becoming: deliverance from evil by returning to good motherliness No subsequent human failure is able to obliterate our oldest experience of love. It can at most bury it. Thus, we can draw on this experience also in great suffering, amid our own malevolence and apparent cursedness. This primordial experience enables reversal, which we can experience as both external and internal reality. In letting go, we are taken in (i.e., accepted) by the Great Mother, whose kindness we once experienced, and who also willingly releases us into new life again. Similarly to Mother Earth, who gathers the remains of the dead plants in fall, prepares new humus, and lets all life grow again in spring. Her sheltering womb is a vessel of transformation. In it, the son regenerates until life impulses push out again by themselves. Dying and becoming occur in this psychic layer. Where there was fear, trust now breaks through; where there was anger, there comes strength; where

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there are no driving forces, new assertiveness awakens; from our own evil comes redeemed (i.e., reconciled) love. Even the energies of the Whole, the primordial feminine and the primordial masculine, can thus become fertile again. Grace, which is important in Christian denominations, as well as baptism and forgiveness, address this process: suffering, experienced and inflicted, is released into a greater, enduring, and eternal motherliness and mercy. By returning to the womb, death and resurrection become possible time and again. Fragments of a new inner ground emerge. A young woman had the following dream: “I am crouching down in the most fertile part of my mother’s garden. Something causes me to become angry. I feel my malice, it keeps me spellbound. I am trapped behind five panes of glass. Then I hear an omnipotent voice speak in the dream: ‘Your evil is based on the suffering that was inflicted upon you as a child.’ I can feel physically how something I experienced as a child catches up with me time and again and makes me angry. I grow deeply sad, look at the garden soil, and see my mother’s face: she has impressive eyes, which, despite my evil impulses, simply remain affectionate (symbolism of the eye, section 5.20), until one glass pane after another dissolves. Then my mother disappeared again, and I see the fertile garden.” Aline came to me for therapy because of her psychosomatic disorders. She had pronounced memory gaps and soon confessed that she became malicious from time to time. She liked listening to music, which calmed her. Through music she came into contact with the Great Mother within herself several times. Otherwise, she resisted, and experienced herself as evil. On one occasion, I confronted her: “Aline, behind your evil lie a child’s feelings and experi­ ences.” “Yes…”—she felt sick—“… earlier… strange feeling in the stomach… knocking somewhere, constriction… only darkness, everything is evil, I am very small… now it is like before the paralysis.” I praise Aline for enduring her feelings. After a while, I ask her: “Would you like some music or that I touch you?” She wants to try being touched. She likes it at first, feels warmth, and then pushes my hands away again. “I’m much too angry. I don’t want to infect you.” After a while, I try again and sing the children’s song “Heile, heile Segen” (i.e., healing, blissful healing). Color comes into her face. She sums up: “It’s as if there’s an earth mother who transforms everything. Evil becomes good. The earth mother comforts me, no matter how evil I am.” And later: “If I am loved by the earth mother, then even I am kind.”

4.10 Bettina (2): “I am lying on the Great Mother’s love” Many weeks have passed since that memorable session during which Bettina dared to look beyond her anxiety blockage to her paradise for the first time,

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and to bite into the green apple of life (section 3.9). When I continued working with Bettina, I used active imagination: Once more, the grey and black stomach wall confronts her inwardly. She must, as she puts it, go fetch the trust that lies behind her fear. “What color is your confidence?” “Yellow.” Another blockage. Bettina wants to run away. The wall is moving closer, she says, and there are walls everywhere. “May I touch you,” I ask. “Yes, where the reconnection is on my back.” As soon as she feels my hands, an intense violet, pure color, appears inside. “I must free the violet,” she remarks and is catapulted back into the middle of the grey and black wall: “The wall is like grey cardboard… the water has been lost….” This makes me think of the amniotic fluid that broke far too soon at Bettina’s birth. We remain silent for a while. She sees her mother in front of her, her abdominal wall. That was the wall, she says, and adds: “It’s blocking up.” I am amazed at Bettina’s ability to combine things and even more at what she associates with the color violet: the violet she now imagines is unbearable. “It’s like sexual intercourse, but another… one with something different,” she says. “Something tremendous?” This is what Bettina is afraid of. She trembles. Had her learning disability been her only way of protecting herself from non-duality (the undivided One that had enveloped her tightly at the beginning of her becoming and that was too tremendous)? I long pondered Bettina’s experience of violet, which I am familiar with from other people's liminal experiences as the color of the mystical, at times sacred, and still undivided sphere. In it, red (power) and blue (depth, also heavenliness) coalesce. Ingrid Riedel (1992, pp. 94, 211, 263) speaks of the creative tension inhering in violet, indeed of the unconsciously shadowed, which urges toward transformation (p. 171). Bettina (her inner baby) almost seemed to go to pieces when she was confronted by the overwhelming closeness of the still formless violet, which I interpret as a dangerous closeness to the numinous. She does not yet seem to have drawn a healthy boundary, as happens in the context of ego development. Was this the sheer primordial fear of God? Bettina must now, as she puts it, “free the violet.” But why? Was transformation about to occur? Violet is also the color of transforma­ tion. Does Bettina—her inner baby—need to re-experience her original environment in order to live more freely?—The colors change and the first forms (spots) stand out from sheer color: Bettina sees “green and turquoise on a violet background, not everything is violet anymore.” This catches my attention. The “yellow trust” (the contrasting color to violet) also intensifies, while the wall turns into a “thick board.” Although this could be removed, she is still afraid. She wants to break

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through the board (her learning disability) to go fetch something unknown. Loved by the Great Mother? Symbolically speaking, as our next session showed, the path leads through the Great Mother. At first, Bettina seems absent-minded. “Yes, I haven’t yet quite come down to earth. I’d rather be in heaven or far away,” she replies. “What’s so bad about our world?” She says: “Everything’s black, just black. This is fear.” Everything remained black for at least 15 minutes. Then she saw violet again, with green dots or small clouds on it. “Now I’m in the water. I’m freezing,” she says. When I ask her where she is, she says: “I’m not lying in the sea, but in a sack. Above me is water, below me the seafloor. Its consistency is special.” An embarrassed silence. “No one can make this ground. It contains love and stuff like that. The ground is grey and green.” I ask what kind of stuff this is. “There’s great love. There’re triangles and squares in the ground. It’s as if I were lying on the earth. The earth is kind. On earth’s love! Just like on a very great invisible mother. It is beautiful.” Quietly and shamefacedly, she adds: “I’m loved.”—Bewitched as it were! Now the phone rings. “Too bad,” Bettina says. The inner images change into green and blue, and then—as in the past—into a scene of paradise: The two trees in the garden: In Bettina’s inner scenario, a beautiful tree with blue-colored berries appears: “Blueberries. I want to eat berries,” she says and wants to taste some. They are sweet. “The tree is standing in the middle of a meadow. It looks at me intensely, has big eyes… It is satisfied with me because I have eaten from it… Funnily, the berries tell me to fight and look into fear,” which also brings back the feeling of being a baby in her mother’s belly. Bettina is freezing. I ask: “Apart from the tree in the picture, is there anything else that makes you freeze now?” “Yes, there’s another tree opposite. It less tall and less beautiful than the other one. It’s wine-red, as red as wine.” Bettina is tired. I suggest she says good-bye to both trees and gives them names. She calls one of them “summer tree”: “I’m allowed to take some of its fruits. The other is the winter tree. It wants me to come back later.” Sadly, she adds: “I must leave it; that’s what it wants.—There begins the road.” Several weeks later, she summed up her experience: “I’m carried by something other than my parents. The earth carries me like a mother.” I am amazed. How does Bettina “know” the deeper meaning of the two trees in the second creation myth of Genesis? She could have impossibly understood what the tree of knowledge or the tree of life are about when she heard these

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stories as a child in her religious education classes. Nevertheless, she under­ stood: not rationally, yet intuitively. As she was close to paradise, she in­ tuitively interpreted matters correctly, although in her own way: those who bite the green apple or pick blueberries dare to become conscious (i.e., learn to distinguish good and evil); instead of remaining incapacitated, they dare to leap into real life. According to Genesis 3:24, the taboo “tree of life,” which a flaming sword protects from human grasp, represents participation in the Whole, in eternity. Bettina knows that she will “be allowed to return home someday.” Yet, for now, she takes her longing for this other being into life. I was also amazed at Bettina’s puzzling comment when she bid farewell to the trees: “There begins the road.” A street is an attribute of culture, in contrast to nature. As such, it is based on prevailing ego-boundness. Roads exist to be walked down and provide direction. Bettina must head in the direction of life and leave behind her wholesome containment in motherliness. According to developmental psychology, it ought to be like this; otherwise, her learning disability will persist, and she will remain unconscious. In contrast to the usual interpretations of Genesis 2 and 3, reaching for the fruits at the appropriate time is the will of God. Bettina seems to know this intuitively and follows, although falteringly, the force that is urging her to leave paradise…

4.11 “Called into life” Who would leave their wholesome containment in motherliness and decide to develop further unless something were not still deeply seeking development? This joy of life and driving force animate us simultaneously, from without and from within! It is also the desire to eat apples or blueberries from the tree of knowledge, so that one day we will recognize what is good and evil. Is this a longing for consciousness? We keep experiencing this primordial force, which was at work already in the dynamics of roundness. It is the innermost impetus toward life with all its chances. It is an urge for ego-boundness (i.e., self-centeredness) and isolation! We may also experience this as being drawn to something greater, which calls the nascent individual into life. Let me associate this experience with a sense of vocation and promise. I do so even if I am well aware of these concepts perhaps sounding elitist15 and too conscious for what inheres in the beginnings of de­ velopment. This concerns a certain force, one already deeply motivates the life of the unborn, the infant, and the child. It is the archetype of emergence.

Notes 1 There is no question of a stimulus barrier, as Freud (1920/1975) claimed: If “a pro­ tective shield against stimuli” exists, then (…) its threshold sinks to zero at times (…)” (Stern, 1985, p. 232). 2 For instance, newborns are able to distinguish their mother’s milk and voice from that of another mother (Macfarlane, 1975; DeCaspar & Fifer, 1980; Kisilevsky et al. 2003).

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Infants also soon exhibit a special interest in the human face in contrast to other patterns (Stern, 1985, pp. 64, 97). Infants aged two to three days are even able to distinguish smiles, frowning, and surprise in a living person’s facial expression (Stern, 1985, p. 63). See also the term “sensitive periods” in Sullivan et al. (2011) and Opendak & Sullivan (2016). See Grimm and Grimm, 1884. Is one reason for the much-cited great effect of Mozart’s music perhaps his own basic trust? The following extract from his letters (1866) suggests that Mozart seemed to have overcome his fear of death already at a young age: “I never go to bed without thinking that maybe I won’t be alive the next day. And no one who knows me will be able to say that I am grumpy or sad in everyday dealings. I thank my Creator every day for this blessedness and with all my heart wish that all my fellow men may have it” (Letter to his father Leopold Mozart, April 4, 1787, p. 243). The significance of the filtered mother’s voice (Tomatis, 1987, pp. 29–32, 192) might also be included here. We can imagine development as a path from sleep consciousness via dream con­ sciousness to day consciousness, also from the imageless through pictorial analogy to rationalism. Discussing human history, the cultural philosopher Jean Gebser (as cited in Teichmann-Mackenroth, 1992) distinguishes different phases of development, whose traces are still layered as structures in every human being today. Today’s (…) rational culture is purposeful and based on bright day consciousness. The preceding mythical structure is pictorial, guided by the great archetypes that are reflected in dream images and myths. It corresponds to today’s dream consciousness and historically belongs to the pre-Greek epoch. The even older magical structure is oriented toward currents, while images lack content. It corresponds to our sleep consciousness today. Historically, it goes back to the Stone Age, whose remains continue to be ethnologically researched in our century. Magical natural healing practices such as rainmaking indicate the direct connection of force centers in humans and nature (see p. 252). What Gebser seeks to describe phylogenetically—and merely broadly—is also part of the personally experi­ enced transition. Closer examination suggests that some pairs of symbols more strongly address the in­ dividually experienced dual-unity between the Whole and the nascent ego (herdsman–­ herd, pasture–lambs, soil–plants), along with others that emphasize the energetic aspect, the connection between the sheltering female and the male still contained in her (mother goddess and son-spouse, priestess and inspiration, goddess and ear of corn, Great Mother and the transpersonal male spiritual power embodied in Dionysus; see Neumann, 2015, pp. 72–73). Thereafter, this only meant that part of the Dionysian force that has since not keeled over into the negative pole of madness. A third group of symbol pairs appears under both aspects (vine and branches/grape, rose and thorn, tree and snake). Hillman (1967) refers to the Jewish mysticism of the tzimtzum (contraction): God, omnipresent and omnipotent, was everywhere. He filled the universe with his being. How then could creation take place? Not by radiance, by God emanating from Himself, for there was no space; and if there had been space, it would have meant an im­ perfection of God, an empty place where HE was not. That is why God had to create by withdrawing. Through self-contraction, self-concentration, he created the non-He, the Other. The picture of Mother Mary (with people sheltering under her large cloak) was first illustrated in 1348, after the great plague. In contrast to bread, fish does not belong to the vegetative level in the same way. Silvia Schroer (1992, pp. 18–19): “The baptismal event reveals that Jesus is the man in whom the wisdom/spirit finds rest. As a symbol of Sophia, as a message of her love and as a sign of her presence in Jesus, the dove equals the ‘goddess’ Sophia/Pneuma.”

84 Wholesome containment 12 Discussing the symbolism of the uroboric state of containment in roundness, Erich Neumann (1973, p. 15) observes that the term “autism” is inappropriate for this phase. Further: “The relatedness and Eros-character of the primal relationship is manifested cosmically and transpersonally and not personally. That is why Paradise and Primordial Home, Roundness, Ocean or Pond are among the symbols of the remote past.” 13 See the fairy tale about Imap Ukua (Gebert, 1989, p. 144). 14 See also Genesis 2:10–14. 15 Vocation is often rashly associated with delusions of grandeur and inflation. In fact, however, it lies so close to the Whole, from where it must be gathered, that there is a great danger of it being inflated. But should we ignore the healing impulse of re­ cognizing our own importance? Vocation may also be concrete, for instance, when unseeming tasks (e.g., mothering a handicapped child, or working as a caretaker or auxiliary nurse) are experienced as coming from within. Vocation concerns mesmer­ ized, awestruck hearing. It as much about revaluing ourselves as limiting what we claim for ourselves.

References DeCaspar, A.J., & Fifer, W.P. (1980): Of human bonding: Newborns prefer their mothers’ voices. Science, 208, 1174–1176. Dürckheim, K. (1985): Mein Weg zur Mitte. Gespräche mit Alphonse Goettmann. Freiburg: Herder. Freud, S. (1975): Beyond the pleasure principle. New York, NY: Norton. (Original work published 1920). Gebert, H. (ed.). (1989): Woher und Wohin? Märchen der Frauen. Weinheim: Beltz. Grimm, J., & Grimm, W. (1884): Household tales by the brothers Grimm (M. Hunt, transl.). London: George Bell and Sons. Retrieved from https://www.worldoftales.com/fairy_ tales/Grimm_fairy_tales_Margaret_Hunt.html#gsc.tab=0 Hillman, J. (1967): Insearch: Psychology and religion. New York, NY: Scribner’s. Kisilevsky, B.S., Hains, S.M., Lee, K., Xie, X., Huang, H., Ye, H.H., Zhang, K., & Wang, Z. (2003): Effects of experience on fetal voice recognition. Psychological Science, 14(3), 220–224. Loos, G.K. (1986): Spiel-Räume. Musiktherapie mit einer magersüchtigen und anderen früh gestörten Patienten. Stuttgart: Gustav Fischer. Macfarlane A. (1975): Olfaction in the development of social preferences in the human neonate. Ciba Foundation Symposium, 33, 103–117. Mozart, W.A. (1866): The letters of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1769–1791), Vol. 2 (trans­ lated from the collection of Ludwig Nohl by Lady Wallace). New York, NY: Hurd & Houghton. Neumann, E. (1973): The child: Structure and dynamics of the nascent personality (Ralph Manheim, transl.). London: Karnac. (Original work published 1963, posthumously published 1980). Neumann, E. (2015): The Great Mother: An analysis of the archetype (R. Manheim, transl.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1956). Obrist, W. (1990): Archetypen. Natur- und Kulturwissenschaften bestätigen C.G. Jung. Olten: Walter. Opendak, M., & Sullivan, R.M. (2016): Unique neurobiology during the sensitive period for attachment produces distinctive infant trauma processing. European Journal of Psychotraumatology, 7, 31276. Retrieved from https//doi.org/10.3402/ejpt.v.7.31276

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Riedel, I. (1992): Maltherapie. Stuttgart: Kreuz. Ruysbeek, E. van, & Messing, M. (1993): Das Thomasevangelium. Seine östliche Spiritualität. Solothurn: Walter. Schroer, S. (1992): Gott, die Taube und die Liebe. In: H. Meesmann (ed.): Publik-Forum Materialmappe. Oberursel: Publik-Forum. Sirovatka, O., & Luzik, R. (eds.). (1977): Slavische Märchen (4th ed.). Hanau: Werner Dausien. Stern, D.N. (1985): The interpersonal world of the infant: A view from psychoanalysis and de­ velopmental psychology. New York, NY: Basic Books. Sullivan, R., Perry, R., Sloan, A., Kleinhaus, K., & Burtchen, N. (2011). Infant bonding and attachment to the caregiver: Insights from basic and clinical science. Clinics in Perinatology, 38, 643–655. Teichmann-Mackenroth, O. (1992): Zum Konzept der hilfreichen Beziehung in der Musiktherapie. Musiktherapeutische Umschau, 13, 249–257. Tomatis, A. (1987): Der Klang des Lebens. Vorgeburtliche Kommunikation – Die Anfänge der seelischen Entwicklung. Reinbek: Rowohlt.

Chapter 5

Ambivalent containment (Stage C of conscious development during transition)

Abstract Whether or not we feel afraid is a matter of perception. As perception shifts, nondual, unitary reality subsides and we become increasingly ego-bound. At some point, everything changes and we feel dependent. In this third stage of conscious development, we are still unable to discern individual factors in our environment. We feel still contained inside the encompassing Whole and surrounded by vibrations. Nevertheless, the nascent ego experiences more consciousness-like impulses. The baby drinks, smiles, and screams as an individual. It increasingly distinguishes pleasantness and unpleasantness and finds the latter unacceptable. Hence, containment, metaphorically speaking the Great Mother, now becomes ambivalent. Archaic fear (primordial fear) stands beside primordial trust. Archaic fear can be summed up as the too little (being forlorn) and the too much (being overwhelmed and thus threatened). Yet the nascent ego is not strong enough to endure, withstand, or process this early emotion. No one knows what archaic fear is because it has been split off. This chapter explores the world of archaic fear and offers many clinical examples to illustrate the incomprehensible. Considering the phylogenetic perspective, it also presents typical symbols, experiences of music, and images of God/the divine.

5.1 Unpleasantness versus pleasantness The shift in perception advances. We become increasingly ego-bound and centred on our own body. Non-dual, unitary reality subsides more and more. I call the third stage of this shift “ambivalent containment.” In this stage, we are still unable to distinguish individual factors in our environment. We are still contained inside an encompassing Whole and surrounded by vibrations. Nevertheless, we increasingly become ourselves. The nascent ego experiences more and more consciousness-like impulses, which strive for well-being. The baby now drinks, sucks, smiles, and screams as an individual. At some point of human development, however, ego-bound perception also means dependency: all of a sudden, we become concerned about ourselves. This happens when we begin distinguishing pleasantness increasingly DOI: 10.4324/9781003176572-5

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from unpleasantness and find accepting the latter more and more difficult. The nascent child and, phylogenetically, the primordial human being have begun to establish themselves in their new way of being. Suddenly, although fleetingly, a different quality of existence emerges! One side effect of this new interest in the ego is that containment has lost its exclusively congenial nature. Ambivalence has replaced happiness and shelteredness: primordial fear now stands beside primordial trust. Life becomes ambivalent, and we struggle to simply accept unpleasantness. As the nascent ego is not yet strong enough to withstand and process adversity, all that remains is splitting off. Divisions are initiated early on! We already switch to the “escape” mode as our nascent ego begins to emerge: the child (phylogenetically, primordial humanity) flees from unpleasant things. Thus, the peacefully sleeping baby begins shifting or becomes restless, its eyes open and present in the here and now. I observe something similar in the dying. Is this an expression of natural awakening or rather a fearful reaction?

5.2 How old is fear? We easily recognize the baby’s awakening ego: in its curiosity and then, all of a sudden, similar to a dramatic weather change, in its distress and irritation. It cries. From the outside, we often do not know why. Fear is already avoided intrauterine: the distinction between pleasant and unpleasant becomes evident, for instance, in the unborn child reacting increasingly to vibro-acoustic stimuli or hearing selectively. The fact that the unborn child hears its mother’s heartbeat or voice indicates that it is able to differentiate. Moreover, it no longer seems to subordinate these sounds to the intrauterine world of noises, to sound per se. Selective hearing is not only about preference. It is also about dampening the meanwhile threatening soundscape. These ambient noises might at times be too close, too loud, too chaotic, and too constricting. Selective hearing is an understandable protective mechanism, particularly if we assume that a uterine world of sound is perceived as threatening at some point. The mother’s heartbeat and voice provide orientation. During phylogenetic development, human beings perceived and shaped, increasingly consciously, their struggle against nature and animals in the course of evolution. They could no longer simply experience themselves in their own becoming and dying as protected by nature. Humankind, about to gain knowledge, experienced itself as nourished and loved, yet also as threatened. It began to be taken precautions. And yet, the distinction between pleasant and unpleasant—and thus also fear—dissipates time and again. Even the toddler still oscillates back and forth between worlds. Every awakening raises the question whether this occurs out of interest or rather out of stress and anxiety (fear avoidance). We move back and forth between pleasantness and unpleasantness.

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5.3 “Falling into unshelteredness” and the first sense of threat: the two faces of primordial fear Fear means self-concern. Already its early form needs to be understood as a fear of death or as existential fear. We only feel concerned because our perception is ego-bound. The dying teach me every day that we have no reason to be afraid beyond ego-boundedness. Every mood swing (from wholesome containment to fear) is individual and sudden, like a weather change. Moments in which we are present in ourselves resemble “falling out of shelteredness.” Creation myths speak of an accident or a fall from grace (see section 5.17). All of a sudden, we register a bodily sensation (e.g., flatulence pain; intrauterine, the terrifying closeness to an abdominal wall [see Bettina’s case]; or being surrounded by water). The stronger our ego-based perception and our sense of self, the less the nascent ego is connected to the Whole, and the more it is thrown back upon itself. As the rudimentary ego is still emerging at the same time, and thus void (“naked”), we readily experience all external influences as frightening or even as threatening. Fear becomes present in two ways: 1. The primordial fear of being lost, of having too little (or not enough): the nascent ego experiences lack for the first time, because it is suddenly severed from the Whole. The encompassing Whole no longer nourishes us beyond actual food. We are no longer connected to happiness, which simply is, nor to love, which simply loves, nor to the ground, which simply carries. This dearth may feel like falling into reality and physical limitation. Mythologically, it resembles forbiddance: we may no longer pick fruit from the fullness of the Whole as we did in Paradise (Genesis 2:17). Cutting the cord throws the nascent ego back upon itself. Being so small and defenseless, it also feels completely lost. Falling leads into no man’s land. 2. The fear of the numinous, of too much. This form of primordial fear is not yet present in collective consciousness. It is also somewhat more difficult to derive in terms of developmental psychology: the encompassing Whole is increasingly experienced as alien, as sustaining, and yet also as overwhelming or even as threatening. Outside our ego, it becomes a counterpart, a Thou, and as such leaves behind im-printings(i.e., impressions). The term imprinting might closely approach original experience: physically perceptible pressure or constriction accompanied by an increasingly developing sense of touch and hearing. Something foreign acts upon us, although we are as yet unable to recognize any details. It is therefore neither clear nor bearable (e.g., the fetus knows neither what “amniotic fluid” nor what “mother” means). According to this approach, the oldest imprintings are internalized as if they were caused by the Whole itself. This makes these formative influences even eerier and inscrutable. Thus, although it is already a counterpart (outside our ego), the Whole still envelops us, as none of its details are yet perceptible (i.e., differentiated in detail). What emerges here is a premonition of the gigantic,

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numinous, of an infinite Thou—both pleasantly and unpleasantly. In contrast, our own beginning, our rudimentary nascent ego, our nothingness are devastating. Thrown back upon ourselves, we now face powerlessness and nothingness—a state that is expressed in Genesis as unprotected nakedness. Yet why powerlessness, moreover in both aspects of primordial fear? Neither the awakening unborn child nor the baby is unable to do anything to restore its disappearing connectedness. The fetus is unable to leave the mother’s increasingly constricted womb. Hunger, pain, and lack of love makes the baby depend entirely on the help of others. Even if it screams, it cannot evade a difficult surrounding atmosphere. The toddler is also totally defenseless, whenever it is physically, mentally, or spiritually crushed or abandoned by its surroundings. Primordial humans, who were also at the mercy of their surroundings, faced biting cold, persistent droughts, and natural disasters. The nascent ego and, phylogenetically, “the primoridal human being about to gain knowledge” probably sense(ed) how little they can/could contribute to their own well-being. Everything becomes an early form of powerlessness. Stansilav Grof (1985) associates powerlessness first and foremost with the hopeless situation immediately before biological birth (see his Matrix 2, pp. 111–116). The first chemical signals and muscle contractions end wholesome containment and announce approaching birth. The cervix, however, is still closed and therefore no exit, no alternative, is in sight. According to Grof, this hopelessness is serious. He claims that numerous later fears and corresponding diseases are linked to this relatively brief primordial event (Grof, 1985, pp. 111–113). It seems to me that the laws of perception determine—via biological birth and physical imprisonment—whether the baby or already the fetus experiences itself as connected or lost (first aspect). Or whether they feel connected or atmospherically overwhelmed and constricted (second aspect). I interpret this confinement or imprisonment, as Grof describes it, as musical and inner experience: being surrounded by vibrations—amid an atmosphere, soundscape, or mass that is experienced as threatening—or by the pain of a physical disorder, also constitutes an inevitability. Unable to differentiate our surroundings into individual understandable factors, we remain powerless. Be it the first or second aspect: being more present in ourselves means that we experience distress as such from one moment to the next. Our readiness for fear has awakened (i.e., we are now ready to encounter fear). Falling into unshelteredness seamlessly blends into dreading what lies opposite—the numinous—and vice versa. In between, carefree existence continues to prevail, only to suddenly be interrupted again because the awakening rudimentary ego falls into fear.

5.4 Awakening under the sign of curiosity or fear? The moments of awakening are particularly formative because the nascent ego is so fragile. In retrospect, fear and the readiness for fear do not seem to have affected all peoples and cultures equally. Looking back, we must ask ourselves:

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how much awakening happened joyfully, out of interest, naturally? And how much out of fear and fear avoidance? In other words: did trust form the backdrop to human reaction? Or rather fear? The question remains open because, in retrospect, we can no more than assume (see section 1.4). The fetus/baby/toddler and, phylogenetically, the primordial human never depended quite so much on an empathetic, circumspect environment as in these decisive moments of awakening. Qualities such as “mother,” “father,” “hospital atmosphere” and phylogenetic factors such as climate, enemies, and barren nature determine an individual’s or a culture’s future imprinting. The moments of awakening in the ego determine how positively our life is occupied or how burdened and “under which star” our relationship with ourselves, others, and even with the Whole/God begins. Those who, like Adam and Eve, experience their starting point as threatening cannot help but fear God and feel “expelled from paradise.” It is decisive whether primordial fear (of the too little or the too much) was experienced merely occasionally, or whether it was pronounced or persistent. In the unfavorable case, it is as if primordial trust has been lost. The Whole is suddenly experienced as threatening or even exclusionary. Thus, not only that which directly frightens us (the too little, the too much, the Whole), but also everything that is connected with the Whole—including all previous states (i.e., oneness, primordial shelteredness, paradise)—is blanked out, excluded, and tabooed from future conscious realization. We struggle to grasp primordial fear. Who knows its original form? Who really knows what they are afraid of? When I give lectures, I often realize that we do not understand what fear actually is. We seem to fear emptiness in life, or snakes, or a crowded elevator. But such concrete forms of fear (section 7.3) already involve coping with a far more diffuse primordial feeling, which simply overwhelms us: primordial fear. We do not know this fear because it is unbearable. What we do know very well, however, is that something inside us drives, preoccupies, and moves us. Primordial fear works in the background and forms a background of fear. It enters life—along with curiosity, joie de vivre, and interest—as a precondition of development. Where fear increasingly becomes the unconscious force that drives future generations and civilizations, it determines the world of atmosphere and vibration into which children are born. And it will continue to do so in the future. At times, this disastrous mechanism may feel like original sin. “Primordial fear” and its “crossgenerational imprinting factor” have become more important in my thinking, the greater my interest in the sick and the dying (see Renz, 2017: deliverance from formative influences).

5.5 The ambivalent Whole and the overshadowed feminine In ambivalent containment, all experience is still total. Whatever causes the misfortune that befalls us (expulsion, rupture, threat), we do not recognize our

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distress in detail, but associate it with the Whole. The key to understanding primordial fear is the shift in perception: wherever our limited capacity for differentiation prevents us from attributing a danger to individual realities, wherever we subjectively still feel “inside,” we experience the entire world of atmosphere and vibration, the Whole as such, as capricious or even as threatening and violent/violating. God becomes ambivalent: pleasant, then dangerous, bringing blessing and curse. We now experience the Great Mother not only as life-giving, but also as life-destroying, devouring, and famishing. She stands opposite our rudimentary ego. The relationship may be formulated thus: omnipotence beside powerlessness—without nuances. The question about the lust for power and God’s goodness arises so early, both individually and in human history. This is how old our distress—at being held captive in the all-encompassing, and thus at being helpless—is. In this book, I call the containment in an ambivalent world of vibrations and its power an experience of wholeness C. Our experience, that wholeness is suddenly ambivalent, also changes our perception of the two primordial feminine and masculine forces: enveloping primordial femininity suddenly remains capricious, at first seemingly granting, yet then famishing, petrifying, and devouring. Primordial masculinity, as yet unable to assert itself as the emerging force, becomes trapped and arrested in the primordial mother’s mouth. The power and desire that is eager to advance development is as if dammed up and, in extreme cases, appears to be cursed. This concentrated load may later become effective beneath the surface, beneath the devil’s magic hood. This stage of development, too, has made history in myths: Eros, the god of love, is condemned to shoot wicked arrows, while Venus locks up her son in the secluded chamber of her house (see the fairy tale about “Amor and Psyche,” Neumann, 1956, pp. 32–33). The peaceful symbiosis between mother and son becomes a tense relationship, their connection terrible instead of fruitful. Expressed in fairy-tale images, the fountain from which wine once poured has dried up, just as the tree once carrying golden apples no longer even grows leaves (see the “Folktale about the devil with the three golden hairs,” Grimm & Grimm, 1884). The sudden change and the new connotations of the Whole become tragic, especially for the feminine. But why? I suggest that this is due to shifting human perception. Just as this symbolic pair’s way of working in the previous stage was attributed entirely to encompassing motherliness, so the feminine is now seen as the cause of all evil. Thus begin later projections and misunderstandings, as a result of which the feminine connotes the uncanny in the future. The ambiguous meaning of the Great Mother has long been known in myths and fairy tales. She is depicted both as gentle-hearted Mother Hulda and as a woman with frightening teeth, as a helpful and as a wrathful Baba Yaga. Barely grasped to this day, however, is the fact that the archetypal figure of the primordial mother is also an image of the personally experienced world of atmosphere and vibration. During transition, we really experience and have

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experienced ourselves as profoundly sheltered, nourished and enlivened, yet also as exposed or threatened, or indeed as both, throughout our entire existence. What at first simply takes place in ambivalent containment, and is unconsciously stored, later expresses itself in images and projections.

5.6 The endangered ego and masculinity: threatened self-esteem Surrounded by an ambivalent Whole, our containment and self-becoming also assumes an ambivalent character. “Inside is still analogous to outside.” And vice versa. “It is good” means “I am good,” “I am fine,” “Everything is good.” Conversely, “It is bad” and “I am threatened” means “I am bad,” “I am not fine,” “Everything is bad.” In this stage of perception, things are either entirely good or entirely bad. Both sensations are unfounded, and simply exist. Our sense of time, sense of rhythm, and memory have developed only rudimentarily, which explains why sensitivities are still largely eternal. These total and baseless experiences are later processed to mean “fundamental.” And our threatened self-esteem will later be associated with threatened masculinity, which we will compensate (e.g., by excessive masculinity). A particular rule applies to imprinting: the earlier the unborn child perceives ambivalences, the earlier it comes to depend on its real environment, and the more inevitable its experiences of misery and its own ambivalence become. The discrepancy between what is perceived, and what we can change or communicate to our surroundings, is greater, the smaller the nascent ego is in these fragile moments of fear emerging in the ego. In such instances, we palpably experience our own incipience, nothingness, and powerlessness. This is the fate of many bright, intelligent, and/or musically sensitive children. It is also the fate of cultures like ours, in which consciousness awakens either early or abruptly.

5.7 Atmosphere and “music” trigger fear Sounds and vibrations once kindled primordial fear: in the womb and in the expanded uterine space, in the family room and in our social network. This consisted and consists of sound and atmosphere. We are contained in sound even before we start breathing. Yet the more ego-bound we become, the more opposite sound becomes. In this state, we become sensitive and vulnerable. Sound, which at first has no opposite, and subsequently provides warmth and security, suddenly, traumatically, becomes too much, too little, or both: fullness of sound, absence of sound, chaos. Of course, sounds are sometimes also wholesome, and carry us, yet our uncertainty about the next “weather change” has been kindled. Significantly, everyday language calls too much sound noise, thus qualifying it. As a rule, too little sound is referred to as monotony. The too intense, “too perpetual,” too empty, and too chaotic world of sound makes the small ego-

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bound being feel powerless. We feel things are chaotic when order seems to be lost. Concretely, this happens when we lose our holistic sense of primordial order and barely perceive our ego-bound structure (rhythm, time, form). Chaos characterizes the intermediate state. It is not surprising that music, in particular extreme sounds, enables us to experience primordial ambivalences even later. Seriously ill persons teach me every day that their startled responses (i.e., jumpiness) indicate their inner state of perception. They, too, oscillate between time and timelessness, between containment either in a wholesome or in an ambivalent atmosphere. They of all people show me that primordial fear exists when they say, for example, “I’ve been waiting for ages,” while their wife (or husband) left their room merely for five minutes. Or: “Help, I’m disappearing,” “darkness is devouring me.” Such statements are triggered by the atmosphere (“the weather”) or by music. Some patients perceive this in a differentiated way and formulate their inescapable sound-induced distress: “I have a claustrophobic fear of air masses”; “that sound (i.e., the bubbling noise of the oxygen machine) is eating me up”; “the doctor suddenly stood there like a burglar and his thunderous voice was much too loud; he lacks sensitivity.” Regardless of fullness, emptiness, or chaos, such states once again make us feel utterly dependent on all-encompassing greatness. Powerlessness beside omnipotence. Naked defenselessness in the midst of sprawling acoustic intensity. Deafening sounds made Bettina feel “confused.” Intense sound led Christoph to experience threatening numinousness: On his imaginary journeys, he was confronted with sound several times. A screen separated him from this sound so that he could not see the sacred center. Then the screen was pushed aside: “Now the sound (of silence!) swells. I see the black globe. The waves are at the tolerable upper limit. The sound is so strong that it almost blows me away.” I have to yell to reach my companion acoustically. He says: “If you want to see the center, then these waves are part of it. They come from the center.” Considering the intrauterine events, the changing meaning of acoustic wholeness makes sense. According to current opinion, the soundscape is anything but quiet, even in the mother’s womb. As perception continued shifting, the acoustic surroundings must have been perceived increasingly as intense, loud, and very close. We can understand this keeling over especially on a musical level: sound becomes omnipresent, and hence dominant, because unitary reality and wholesome containment have disappeared. It turns into pressure and leads to the call for change and transformation (i.e., birth). Whereas physical birth is unique, the ego probably experiences several psychological births, both intrauterine and extrauterine.

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5.8 Experiences of music: fullness of sound, absence of sound, chaos In terms of patient support, we need to be sensitive to the changing perception of sound. In music therapy, experiencing sound stands for the inevitable. However, such experiences can also urge toward transformation and departure—in a positive sense. Long before I worked with dying people, I had an initial experience of “sound” with a young boy: Ten-year-old Manuel often disrupted lessons. In group music therapy, he could not wait his turn. Time and again, I was unable to explain why Manuel suddenly began screaming at the top of his voice and left the room. Only a musical perspective offered an explanation. He would jump up and head for the door whenever a gong, cymbal, or singing bowl was sounded (when played, all these instruments sound for extended periods). Manuel seemed unable to endure waiting until the sound had died down. What next? Basically, in the midst of the unbearable, either fleeing back (into wholesome containment or even older oneness) or fleeing forward (into understanding, rationalizing, and vehemently blocking out the source of noise) helps. Manuel now received individual therapy. I gave him a box with the word “Stop” written on it in large letters. We agreed that as soon as he showed me the box, I would stop the music and we would stop playing for the moment. At the beginning of each lesson, I asked him to guess how often he would use the box. Manuel was happy about this idea, and already from the second session he managed to pretty much weigh things up and to shape the music. This instrument of power enabled Manuel to better cope with the fact that music doesn’t just stop at will. He practiced enduring sounds, sat down next to the gong, and touched it gently. Would Manuel have preferred to run away from the boundless sonority of the world of atmosphere and vibration that had surrounded him as an embryo/ fetus/baby? Although universal, experiences of sound are also individual. In every sound, wholeness sounds in a new way: peaceful to warlike; careful and protective to devouring; supportive to baseless; harmonious to chaotic; colorful to greyish. As a music therapist, I ask myself in every single case: which sounds did this person’s uterine world of atmosphere and vibration consist of? Which the postnatal? Were sounds well embedded in swaying rhythms or instead crowded into booming beats or lost in infinity? Both extremes become unbearable, the more ego-bound we become. Only the gentle and yet lively middle range1 seems congenial to the nascent ego.

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Instruments that often enable us to experience primordial distress in a new way include a loud or persistently sounded gong, singing bowls, tin rattling, cymbals, booming bells, but also startling drumbeats. These sounds are unstructured, which means they lack recognizable rhythms, forms, and melodies. As does rhythmic music, which many young people enjoy most when played loud and very fast. Here, too, the feeling for structure can be lost at some point: the listener goes through the point of chaos and experiences a change of consciousness (i.e., transformation), ecstasy. Not so much rhythm as speed and volume become inevitable. Fast, repetitive rhythms contribute to letting go. They enable change by being simultaneously stimulating, constant, and predictable. If primordial fear is an issue in a patient’s unconscious, it is often triggered by everything and everyone. Such patients need a protected stress- and “trauma-free” space (also a period of time), in order to reconnect with themselves deep down and to regain their trust. Can we as therapists and caregivers create such a space, for instance, by providing silence?

5.9 What does earliest distress feel like? Unborn children and babies are unable to share their experiences. So let me instead provide some accounts of adults whom illness, dreams, or therapy immersed into the deep layers of their unconscious: “I was overstimulated and am extremely irritable today. Was it like this in the past?”—“I grew scared and I’m still scared.”—“I always feel disturbed in my peace. And that makes me angry.” Many describe feelings of being irritated, intimidated, despondent, impressed, blocked, and godforsaken. A young woman with a learning disability said: “I think I got totally confused. But I am not confused, as everyone seems to believe.” Karin reported feeling powerless when she awoke from a long coma after an accident: “Suddenly, I was in the here and now but also felt completely unable to move. It was so awful and unbearable. I immediately fell into a coma again. And that happened several times.” Barbara, who had been having therapy for some time, approached the incomprehensible distress lying behind her physical symptoms through gong music. She found two words to express her feelings: “dark” and “sticky.” My own dream the next night (countertransference) clarified matters: “A knotted mass is expanding from bottom left to top right. The mass, called Barbara, does not yet feel like an embryo, but only like a mass. It can neither cry nor be angry, but is becoming more and more tense, overstrained.—Then the tension gradually subsides, and I hear the redeeming words: ‘The mass is happy.’” Barbara recognized herself in this description. Bettina and her temporarily pronounced sensitivity to light, noise, and cold: Sometimes, her room needed to be darkened. She had goose bumps, trembled, and wrapped herself in blankets. She experienced bodily reactions and discomfort. And only gradually did she feel that all of this was actually fear.

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Irene’s experience during 20 minutes of gong music: “At first, the gong was quiet; I felt as if I had entered a pleasant state of suspension. The beating grew louder, and I found myself facing a huge clock. I wanted to get out but realized that I was trapped inside the clock. Strangely, the clock stood opposite, yet I was inside it. That was terrible. Fortunately, the music stopped. For half an hour, I felt paralyzed and could not get up.” Mr Kleger and the reasons for his claustrophobia: tunnels, train rides, and tight spaces caused him existential distress. His brain tumor had reactivated very old things. He felt relief when he lay on the floor and felt carried, as if forever. It also helped him if I repeated that no one had ever fallen through the earth. On one occasion, he suddenly imagined being in a narrow, cellar-like hole. Susanne’s cave-like cellar: She, too, was claustrophobic and therefore lived “in her head.” She made plans (e.g., about how to cope with her mother’s approaching death) to evade any kind of feelings. During therapy, her eyes twitched. She broke out in sweat and felt a strong, indefinable homesickness. During gong music, she imagined being in a cave-like cellar: “It’s mossy, wet, and eerie here. Everything is dripping like in a limestone cave with rolling rocks. The walls are uncanny, as if there were horrible animals inside. I have goose bumps, I feel sick, my head feels as if it wants to burst, and I can’t do anything!” A little later: “The rocks are rolling past me, but do not hit me.” A dream series of a so-called “single-celled organism”: One woman had similar dreams over a longer period of time, about a mass coming toward her, only to wobble away again. It looked like water inside either skin or a thin plastic bag. She felt creepy and incredibly afraid. Her hair stood on end. On one occasion, this menacing “thing” approaching her looked like fermenting yeast. The dream told her to place this organism two meters farther away, into the flower window, where it could serve ecosymbiosis. But how should she do this without touching it? Its skin was so thin, and the liquid inside as corrosive as mercury. The word “single-celled organism” aptly describes what primordial fear of the numinous (the too much) involves: a threatening primordial opposite, against which our small ego cannot defend itself. While we distinguish the alien from ourselves, we perceive what does not belong to the ego as one giant cell. On the plant level, which ends where ego-boundedness begins, a good symbiosis with this single-celled organism was possible (eco-symbiosis). Now, however, in ambivalent containment, its fluidity has a corrosive effect on the nascent ego. The approaching organism becomes threatening. Was this an image of the confinement in the womb? The emerging ego needs distance, demarcation, and precaution in dealing with the surrounding “mana”containing substance (which contains divine power). Mercury, the metallic element, is assigned to Mercury, the planet closest to the sun. It symbolizes primordial matter while representing the fleeting and spiritual. Mercury proves dangerous when delimitation is incipient and merely fragmentary (thin skin). Do many of us experience an early form of fear already as babies, or even intrauterine? A daring claim. And yet, when I hear reports like those above, I can

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draw no other conclusion. Inner presence determines when blissful shelteredness turns into ambivalence, when we experience peace, fulfillment, and sleep, and when the “too little” or the “too much” (specifically, hunger, wetness, “singlecelled organism,” tension, and panic). Tension, depending on the child and the situation, may become problematic very early on—in the “fish stage,” as one of my own dreams told me. I saw a fish head with haunting eyes in the middle of a uterus-like creepy cave. And the dream was literally saying: “Highly gifted children suffer from an intrauterine counterpart-disorder.”

5.10 Understanding the phenomenon of primordial fear “What are you afraid of?” When we meet people who are afraid, at patient bedsides or in daily life, we mostly ask this question. And yet, we have no idea how much this question misses the point about the deeper experience of fear. In acknowledging our fear, for example, of confined spaces or failure, we have already begun coping with that fear (at least in one way or another). I cannot emphasize often enough that fear simply occurs: either as an emotion that washes away our foundation or—as often happens in everyday hospital life—as sheer bodily reaction, as an anonymous phenomenon. Mr Hobi was trembling. Sweat was pouring down his face. A coughing fit left him breathless. Sharing his despair, I said: “Mr Hobi, what you are experiencing is naked fear, which simply is. We can no longer understand ‘why.’ There is simply fear.” “That’s how it is,” he says to my astonishment and coughs. I continue: “Mr Hobi, your fear is normal. Try to stand outside your fear and watch it, like a passing train that makes a thundering noise but doesn’t kill you. Most of all, don’t jump on the train, don’t jump onto your fear. If you don’t jump on it, the train will move on at some point.” I held him and guided him to let himself be carried by the bed, by the floor. Slowly, he calmed down. The image of the train was appropriate, he told me a few days later. That day, 50 trains rolled past, the next day only two. Many dying also confirm the phenomenon of primordial fear: nowadays, we rarely fear the hereafter or the Last Judgment. Instead, we fear pain, powerlessness, and forlornness. Moreover, many of us are caught up again by a nameless fear, which is evident, for instance, in terminal staring. One patient stared at a wall for hours, while another looked diffusely into the room. The nurses, doctors, or therapists could do nothing to change this: “It” stared. In such situations, I have begun to stare myself, in countertransference, until the wall dissolves into pure horror or the room into an empty moon landscape. Such empathizing helps me to feel my way into a patient’s reality. What might he or she be feeling? In particular terminal staring has taught me that nameless, two-faced primordial fear really exists: the too close or too distant, the too full or too empty, the too chaotic. The phenomenon occurs exactly when the mode of perception changes: on the one hand, the ego still has its needs and fears, yet the surroundings dissolve, leaving the picture indistinguishable from the wall. In

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such a transition, our experience of the world feels like a state between primordial fear and primordial trust. At some point, the dying surrender and fall into trust. Primordial trust is more ultimate than all fear. Dying (yes, indeed) also involves a shift in perception. I distinguish three stages: pre-transition (the state before an inner threshold of consciousness); “transition itself” (crossing this threshold); and post-transition (the state after this threshold, yet still clearly in this world). In pre-transition, the dying are sometimes afraid: when they look ahead, they only see their decaying ego. “In transition itself,” fear may increase and become autonomous: a pure bodily reaction. In post-transition, the dying have attained their primordial trust, through their ultimate participation in the Whole. Many dying move several times from pre-transition—sometimes via “transition itself”—to post-transition, and back again. Regardless of the images and descriptions: if these address not only a single form of fear, but primordial fear, then they express our sense of a hopeless, inescapable situation. Precisely this turns dreams into nightmares. We are neither able to run away nor build protective walls around ourselves, nor, faster than this occurs, to escape into temporality. We are left to finality, must wait (deprived), consent to death, and surrender, until transformation occurs unexpectedly, either from outside or from within. Interestingly, the same person experiences similar motifs: some choose light both for beautiful nonduality and for the suddenly dazzling; others choose saturation and poverty, and yet others peacefully splashing water and, immediately thereafter, the roaring primordial sea (I have discussed typical symbol sequences experienced by the dying elsewhere; see Renz, 2015, chapter 5). We can also explain the shift in perception—pre-transition, “transition itself,” and post-transition—to patients (see the film “A loose connection with eternity,” www.monikarenz.ch/therapy). Understanding helps the dying, as well as their relatives and carers. And so does the practical, experience-based knowledge that fear is a transitional reality. Mrs Alfons grips the bed rails, her gaze facing the wall. She rings for attention. The nurse complains that arriving five minutes late is a disaster every time. She has other patients to attend to. I explain Mrs Alfons’s changing sense of time: like babies, seriously ill patients sometimes have no sense of what or how long five minutes are. I ask the nurse what she would do with a baby. She replies: “I would attend to it as soon as possible. And if that doesn’t work, then I would stay in the room, comfortingly, protectively.” She makes a loving gesture. Wonderful! That’s exactly what she should do. As soon as the nurse changed her approach, Mrs Alfons became more approachable for several days. Then she began staring holes into the wall again. She feels crushed. At some point, my touch reaches her, and so does my encouragement (which stems from experience): “Take heart, let yourself fall completely and be carried. If you do, the oppressor will become something beautiful, for example, light.” “Hhh.” She nods off. After discussing my research on “Dying: a Transition” with her, Mrs Tanner, a terminally ill, non-religious young woman, understands why—as she put it—“the

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nightmarish process of letting go” is so important: “Because beneath waits another experience, that of primordial trust.” Mrs Tanner died peacefully a few days later. Even if explaining the shift in perception makes it easier for many seriously ill persons to approach death, such explanations do not help us in the middle of life. For then, no escape, into non-duality, is in sight. Some people need medication against fear, others therapeutic and social support. Quite a few repress their primordial fear all their lives. Primordial fear is abysmal. It seizes us, like a nightmare, leaving us at the mercy of fear. The first experiences of powerlessness and primordial fear are older than the ego and are rooted deeper than what an ego can want and influence. Even before the ego really exists, the seedbed on which it should stand and grow is, metaphorically speaking, perforated, cursed, swampy, blood-soaked (Genesis 4:10), brittle, and too barren. This, however, does not prevent me from claiming that an even older primordial trust exists for all of us. Understanding primordial fear is one matter, finding our way back to the trust that we have lost another (chapter 8).

5.11 Inner images and symbols of primordial fear Primordial fear, too, later expresses itself in images and symbols. But how? Images of forlornness: • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Wasteland, desert, desert existence, the great barrenness of nature. Hunger, the starving inner child. Vacuum, monotony. Desolation. The lost gold/green, everything appears grey in the sense of unreal. Homelessness, exile, banishment. Cold. The ice cave. God-forsakenness, total solitude (see initial situations in fairy tales). Expulsion. Being expelled and therefore “leprous, contagious.” Emaciated addicts (drug addicts, alcoholics) or starved animals. They live in nothingness and are addicted to the lost. Chaos, inasmuch as it expresses the vanished primordial order. One woman imagined her head breaking into a thousand pieces. A chaos in which she was lost. The lost mother. The vanishing, perforated ground, the infertile seedbed on which nothing thrives. A boy described his forlornness as follows: “The floor just goes away. It was exactly the same when my mother died.” The end of the world inasmuch as we are forlorn. Being doomed. “The World is Doomed” (see the German version of the Christmas carol “Oh how joyfully”).

Images of being overwhelmed by the numinous: • •

Primordial ocean. Deluge. Storm.

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•

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Dragon. It devours, and we are sucked into its mouth. Fire, also hellfire. It scorches. Even light can scorch. Hell, abyss, end. Poison. Poisonous mercury. Poisonous needles everywhere. Grey (inside greyishness and creepiness); the world may suddenly darken. Chaos as a yawning chasm.2 Dirt, disgust, the clinging clod of earth, the dirty beast. The steamrolling or chopping machine. Giant excavator. Being buried beneath a grimy mass. One patient kept being buried beneath fluffy eiderdown. Being inside an animal’s mouth, the narrow birth canal, feeling confined in the midst of a large crowd. Dyspnea (shortness of breath). During 20 minutes of music-assisted relaxation accompanied by the sound of a gong, one woman only felt one thing: “Escape, but I don’t know what I’m in!” Devouring animals. Primordial mother. The devouring, fat, dark Great Mother. The darkness that lays itself powerfully upon the landscape. A boy once said, “Darkness is even bigger than an elephant.” A dying man: “The darkness is devouring me.” Figures such as the wolf, elephant, giant, magician, dark man, witch, and giant spider, inasmuch as these symbols represent fear—and not a helpful spiritual guide.3 The elephant embodies greatness, the magician magic. The end of the world as being devoured or being killed some other way. Terminal staring. Symbol of the eye (section 5.19).

Most images of primordial fear are a mixture of ego-bound and non-dual perception. They are illogical because primordial fear is older than the ego’s logic. And yet, such images do not emerge by chance, but based of analogies, symbolism, and inner laws. To quote Shakespeare’s Hamlet: “Though this be madness, yet there is method in it” (Act 2, Scene 2). False conclusions—for instance, “This person or the whole world is against me,” or “I have cancer and am on God’s launch pad”—emerge similarly to a projection. Something unbearable from the past is transferred onto the here and now, something from the inner world (e.g., our own anger) to the outer world. In other dream images, for example, of the end of the world, we falsely believe that matter is active (!), for example, that “the clod of earth eats.” This triggers pure fear. At times, our mind is endangered, our head feels flooded or almost somewhat psychotic, and our ability to take decisions is slowed. At other times, we are emotionally triggered and feel infiltrated, lost, ashamed, and threatened. Horror scenarios are often dissolved by letting go (section 8.2). Victory occurs in decline. This pattern also characterizes apocalyptic visions,4 which in turn arise from the mixed realm of two different perceptions. Victory means: the Whole/divine gains the upper hand over the powers of division.

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The ego, abandoning its struggle, is again part of the Whole and its ultimate victory. Ambivalence and as such also images of primordial fear are thus overcome.

5.12 Later-recurring primordial fear: experiences and victims of violence Ambivalent containment does not end with birth, nor after we have completed the first years of life. The ego is contained in the Whole for as long as it remains unable to make out individual influences. Step by step, insight after insight, in a constant back and forth, the ego enters the new territory of our common reality. A baby is far away from having a constant, objective image of the world. In play, a building block becomes a car, the big coat a giant. So much in this world eludes the baby’s understanding. And some things that it does know (e.g., the dog does not bite, the man dressed in black is not evil), it is unable to classify emotionally. Only those who are mature enough inside can understand. One important claim of this book is that everything we fail to recognize as distinct or individual remains “total,” also later. Failing to understand, prehistoric humans, the growing child, and even the adult simply remain(ed) “inside.” Everything indistinguishable and unconscious remains subsumed in the world of atmosphere and vibration and in the primordial mother, that is, in ambivalent greatness. As such, it remains indirectly effective. The imperceptible aspect of a family system and diffuse social influences are part of such greatness, whether pleasantly or unpleasantly. Thus the schoolchild remains involved in its mother’s dull sadness, its father’s moods, the tensions smoldering in the classroom, as well as in various collective taboos (e.g., sexuality, death, the effect of extrasensory forces or forbidden guilt).5 If conflicts or tensions are eased, the child—without knowing why—feels liberated. If the child experiences serious distress or great misfortune also after infancy, if it experiences traumatic abandonment, if it faces threat and existential suffering, then something is inflicted upon it that exceeds its comprehension. The child no longer experiences individual factors or persons (e.g., the hospital, a famine, or an offender), but once again the totality, as threatening or even as violent. All of this, moreover, is split off from what is familiar. I am thinking of accidents, war, concentration camps, terrible sexual and physical abuse, of the sudden loss or immeasurable, lengthy absence of a mother or father, of hospital stays and other trenchant experiences (e.g., moving home). I also have in mind years of awful school experiences or family tensions, of being an outsider, of the sensory overload caused by today’s digital media. Even adults sometimes lose their ego-bound perception—for example, during torture—so that they temporarily become incapable of perceiving individual environmental influences. Both during traumatic experiences and never-ending states of emergency, we once again feel exposed to omnipotent numinousness. We feel fatefully contained

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therein without ever having been asked. Accordingly, the consequences of such experiences are devastating and comparable with disruption suffered during the first months of life: we once again find ourselves within the primordial theme of omnipotence-powerlessness. If we understand childhood as the transition from non-duality to egoboundedness, then the consequences of such experiences are not exhausted by the idea that the child has experienced unhappiness. Rather, its transitional process, which was once completed, has since been disturbed. Or the child was thrown back into experiences and perceptions of nascent ego development (transition). In the wake of such plight, its primordial trust becomes overshadowed or buried. Early distress (e.g., a difficult birth, the baby’s frustrations), which could have been coped with as such, now intensifies beyond measure. Primordial fears become oversized (on the consequences of child violence or sexual abuse, see Herman, 1997; Huber, 1995, 2003, 2004; Pittet, 2017; Wirtz, 2014). Immediately after trauma has been experienced, its consequences are often not considered to be so adverse, even less so in an environment that lacks the necessary awareness. Trauma is often played down or split-off already when it occurs. The schoolchild says that the accident was not that terrible, although it was in fact very serious. The toddler, who no longer recognizes its parents after a hospital stay, soon starts playing again as if nothing had happened. Only in rare moments, for example, when looking at a hospital bed, does something incomprehensible surface. The sexually exploited child takes feelings of shame and guilt upon itself and denies what it does not understand. As a rule, violations occur in the split-off sphere, in the perpetrator as in the victim. And if sparks of consciousness break through later, then not the grandfather was the perpetrator in the victim’s memory, but the black animal or the devil. Some victims are later able to recreate feelings and partly reconstruct events through dream images, active imagination, and hypnotherapy. Their dissociation at the time of the crime can partially dissolve, and they understand that they had escaped into non-duality, spirituality, and light already at the time. Not really being “there,” they no longer “knew” they had been abused. Perhaps they fell ill in the following weeks, suffered from sleeping disorders or mental absences, became inexplicably malicious or painted sad faces. That aside, however, as children they laughed as they always had done. No one would have suspected such events in the background. Appearances, however, are deceptive. Traumatic childhood experiences or never-ending tensions corrode existing ego structures. Earliest trauma means that ego structures cannot properly be established; the same event, experienced somewhat later, may constitute a subsequent shock. The boundary between the ego and the Whole is perforated, “the skin torn,” “the house of my childhood is broken into,” “the ego’s intimate sphere is disrupted.” Or the ego, which once stood under a good star, now seems to be cursed. What has been split-off takes effect subterraneously. The child or even the adult was subsequently caught up and overwhelmed by the numinous and its force.

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Fortunately, bad experiences do not become equally traumatic if time and understanding (i.e., empathetic surroundings) at least partly allow sufferers to process their experiences.6 Or if attachment figures are once again there for the child afterwards and tolerate its incomprehensible reactions, give it their love time and again—even if they have no idea what actually happened—and thus provide the child with a sense of familiarity and reassurance. Siblings often intuitively come to the rescue in emergency situations: they are a bridge to the familiar and childlike, to everyday events (playing, school, etc.). Siblings who are still able to access non-dual perception and the liminal sphere of transition unknowingly become confidants. They can take on symptoms, and thus enable their sibling or family to survive the terrible events. As such, however, they, too, are marked by evil that did not happen to them. The child, for its part, perceives differently and different things as long as it remains in the transition between non-duality and ego-boundedness. It is often more intensely connected to its parents’ unconscious than the parents are themselves. It absorbs what it is shown, but also what is withheld. It senses what is lived and what is taboo. It must learn to accommodate taboos and maintain them. In this way, it becomes part of the collective while also being overshadowed by what has been split-off in the background. Only over decades and, culturally, over centuries of gaining consciousness, do these influences stand any chance of being released—consciously—from the diffuse grey area and thus to cease burdening future worlds of atmosphere and vibration (see, for instance, the German post-war generations and their struggle to come to terms with what their parents were unable to talk about). A comprehensive understanding of the environment as a world of atmosphere and vibration also becomes an opportunity for empathetic educators and for one who are willing to engage in processes. One’s own limits and past errors can be left standing. They are “only” an (admissible) part of the Whole. Perhaps they occurred at a favorable time, since the child was dozing in wholesomeness. Not “forever new educational methods” are needed, but empathy, a child-friendly, hopeful atmosphere, and the archetypal, comforting “material” of religion and culture. Parents contribute a lot to damaged children recovering from trauma by working on themselves and their foundation of trust.

5.13 Realistic ambivalence versus internalized evil There are different ways of processing ambivalent containment: at best, difficulties merely join the experience of being in order (“okay”) and loved. All reality is ambivalent and experienced as such. Accordingly, difficulties prepare us to later endure frustration and to cope with life. Fear mobilizes the necessary caution. The child learns: noise is intense. People are ambivalent. Fire is interesting, but also burns. Falling down is dangerous. In unfavorable or traumatic cases, the negative or evil can neither be recognized nor classified as an external reality. Instead, it remains omnipresent,

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incomprehensible. Reality cannot be assessed realistically. Accordingly, real dangers are simultaneously overestimated and underestimated. Excessive primordial fear shapes the further development of the ego like a curse: thriving healthily on this basis is almost impossible. Under such conditions, a so-called distress-ego develops (see section 7.1) and must permanently protect itself against projection. The future ego’s self-esteem is bruised. We feel—as one boy demonstrated during role play—like a “flea facing an elephant.” The consequences are vulnerability, susceptibility to mood swings, feelings of inferiority and powerlessness, as well as compensatorily overestimating our own abilities. The same boy said: “All my classmates are afraid of me, and that’s good. I’m the Superman XY.” The suffering inflicted upon them as children remains present in many people. Unconsciously, yet nevertheless diffusely present. It becomes internalized evil. The outer evil becomes the inner evil. Energies are trapped or perverted. Eugen Drewermann (1989) aptly observed: If someone else deeply injures us so that it offends us to our core, the insults inflicted upon us become deformed into a chronic woundedness, into a kind of smouldering spite, into a suppressed or more or less admitted need for revenge; the real problem is mostly that the foreign evil almost always turns into its own malice. (p. 201) Even if evil has been processed into excessive good, and even if the individual no longer feels any evil, something inside remains permanently guarded, defensive. We believe, self-righteously, that not our ego is evil, but rather the Thou, the world, and everyone else.

5.14 The fascination of power and violence and its opposite: shame Contemplating ambivalent containment also involves considering the disorders that are rooted there. Many persons who were disturbed or violated at an early age are characterized by all sorts of extremes. Their mood is either dark or euphoric, and plain joie de vivre is foreign to them. But why these extremes? Something inside such persons is far too close to what was previously overdimensional, too forceful, or too holy—while their self-esteem is bruised. Something inside them feels as futile as “a flea beside an elephant”; and yet, they are excessively fascinated by the magnificent. Thus, the supreme primordial counterpart prevails in such persons, along with their experience of powerlessness. The attraction of the magnificent comes to the fore, as does the feeling of shame. Wilhelm Hehlmann (1968) described the state of fascination as “being spellbound by experiences that are both terrifying and captivating, horrifying and delightful” (p. 153; my translation). Whether self-evidently or not, people who are determined by an overwhelming ambivalence only seem able to choose between extremes: “dictator or underdog,” “omniscient doctor or hopeless patient.” The danger of

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megalomania or inflation (a Jungian term) lurks everywhere. Inflation leads us back into the grey area between the ego and the Whole. The boundary between I and Thou, between the ego and the Whole, is blurred. The ego feels too similar to the Whole, which is therefore neither really an opposite nor a covenant partner. The binding, and also limiting, aspect of being God’s (minuscule) counterpart can be endured too little. For people who are determined by an overwhelming ambivalence, the energies of the totality, whether devilish or sacred, are highly attractive. There is a danger that such energies exist, yet without being channeled. While these energies stimulate the ego (e.g., megalomania), the actual encounter with the Whole (which would relativize the ego and prompt it to take responsibility) is shirked. The energies of the totality thus lead to unnoticed self-overestimation, excessive identification and, in extreme cases, the delusion of election and leadership. They constitute the mass effect at demonstrations and rock festivals. They fuel the passion of fanatical groups and kindle the electric atmosphere at the gatherings of extreme movements. The energies of the totality also make violence and politics so exciting as sites of exerting power. They fascinate us in a psychic layer that is both older and deeper than rational thinking—and also than the level on which the ego stands and makes decisions in the here and now. Some people struggle to understand themselves in such situations: “It” makes them become violent; “it” attracts them almost magically to certain things or events; or only politicking really “gets me going.” Touched by totality, we lose our sense of being ourselves. The step from selfinflation and distorted perception to committing atrocities out in the world is small. Why are the energies of the totality so attractive? Making contact with the totality returns us to the origin of our energies and provides the greatest possible proximity to the Whole. If we are unconnected to the energies of the Whole, much that is essential remains dead, desiccated, small-minded, and rigid. Life, then, lacks joy and enthusiasm. It is boring. And yet, drawing too close to the Whole overwhelms the ego. Regardless of megalomania, fear-inspiring moods, violence, thoughtless followership, or “sheer” narcissism: the boundaries between the ego and the Almighty always need to be redrawn afterward, moreover at the deepest level. One boy, with a flea’s self-esteem and an elephant’s demeanor, always wanted to “mix new potions” and “create new scents” during role-play—until one day he said: “Now the air is pure.” The ego must once again dare to be close to wholeness. Not to identify with its energies, but to be touched anew, and in a way that enables it to become itself and to mature in freedom. Only thus can we grasp the totality as what it ultimately is: the epitome of non-duality, the Whole, the divine, as well as the appealing, yet highly dangerous. In short, the awe-inspiring. Not so far removed from the “shame-less” dealing with the eternally greater lies its opposite: the shame of existence (see Loos, 1986, p. 7), in which the feeling of total nothingness sometimes becomes very concrete (flea). Shame may

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result from both faces of primordial fear: first, “I should not exist at all, because I have a learning disability, am unsightly, and not worth loving.” Second, “I feel so insignificant in the presence of Professor XY (who is particularly clever and eloquent) that talking to him overwhelms me; I get wobbly knees.” The emerging ego, as we have seen, first experienced nothingness when it faced the numinous. We often experience embarrassment physically (“on our skin”): as a primordial irritation of our body and feeling of life. The shame of being unworthy of life says nothing about our own dignity or unworthiness, but rather about our subjective feeling of not being worth more: unworthy of being nurtured, looked at, loved, of earning good grades, of deserving a place in the sun. This feeling makes us feel utterly “forbidden.” Shame has different facets. It concerns the intimate sphere and may also mean that something essential (i.e., intimate) has been touched. Bettina had hot flashes when she said: “I’m actually a beautiful woman.” Andreas, a highly gifted young woman, was ashamed of her ingenuity. Others blush, are embarrassed, or choke with emotion. Those who are deeply ashamed—of existing and of who they are—are incredulous when we making corrective (i.e., healing) experiences of being loved. They immediately feel ashamed again and may react defensively. While feelings of shame may embarrass those who make this experience, they are nevertheless beautiful: they draw our attention to our “intimate sphere”—psychologically and spiritually. They are among the most vibrant, original, and sincere of human feelings: shame never lies.

5.15 Primary sense of guilt and guilt as a coping pattern The shame of existing often leads to a primary sense of guilt. How so? When a deeply irritated person—whose ego or distress-ego has been overshadowed by primorial fear—enters increasingly into ego-bound existence, including its explanatory patterns and causality, they seek to find a cause for evil. As a rule, we search for causes in order to control and neutralize the unbearable. We do so according to the motto: understanding helps, rationalizing empowers. The question of whether this helps is justified, and yet futile, because this coping mechanism simply happens. I have spoken elsewhere of “guilt as a coping pattern” (Renz, 2017, section 3.2.2). Primary feelings of guilt, and guilt as a coping pattern, are attempts to come to terms with anonymous, primordial fear. Wherever primordial fear is pronounced, and yet no specific external cause exists, or if no one can be held responsible, the as yet rudimentarily perceiving ego (distress-ego) sees no other alternative than to conclude: “It’s my fault.” A devastating verdict then towers over that person: “I’m guilty because I exist.” Here are two examples: Sarah, aged 17, said: “I want to put an end to life and eternal fear. I’m afraid that it’s my fault that I was given up for adoption. I often think that my biological mother noticed that I would end up in a special needs class. She knew that I would be a burden to her. That’s why she gave me away. It’s all my own fault.”

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Mr König, a seriously ill patient, was staring spellbound into the corner of his room. He sensed something atmospheric in the room and trembled. “There’s nothing, and yet there’s something. But I have no idea what it is. I just can’t put my finger on it!” He repeated this sentence several times. The telephone rang. He was frightened. “Gosh, not that as well. It all fits. Why does everyone want to frighten me? Yes, the absurdity in the atmosphere doesn’t exist, but it still frightens me. I’m afraid.” A little later: “I’m crazy, aren’t? It’s just my problem, isn’t it?” The knee-jerk, short circuit reaction—“It’s my fault”—corresponds to a child’s normal experience. Children relate everything to themselves. A child psychiatrist illustrated this reaction pattern as follows: “When children constantly ask ‘Why?’, they are concerned less with a causal relation than with ‘What does this have to do with me, how is this related to me and my life?’ If a child asks us, ‘Why is the fire burning in the fireplace?’, we don’t need to say, ‘because I lit the fire,’ but ‘to keep you warm.’” Such answers, he added, quickly satisfy children. However, 20 years of providing end-of-life care at the Department of Psycho-oncology at St. Gallen Cantonal Hospital have taught me that not only children “refer to themselves.” Seriously ill or deeply affected adults, for instance, when they are diagnosed with cancer, also often react this way. This reaction seems to occur on a primary level: … A guilty person must be found (one’s gynecologist, ex-wife, etc.). And even if we know how absurd this reaction pattern is, it occurs nevertheless. Guilt is an ancient coping pattern in cultural history and best understood as a scapegoat mechanism. This reaction pattern, which is how many tribal feuds ended, was often coupled with projection. Myth has it that this pattern began in our cultural history with Adam and Eve, and hence still in Paradise (whereas Adam said “Eve had…,” Eve said “the snake” had caused the misfortune; apparently, both were guilty; see section 5.17). What do we gain by finding a scapegoat for diffuse evil? It saves us from enduring difficult affects and compulsions (e.g., sheer and utter fear, greed, rage, or totally consuming envy). And it saves us from having to cope with this freely wandering, eagerly consuming energy. Instead, as in the myth, we have loaded it onto the scapegoat, which is supposed to bring the burden to Azazel, the desert demon (Brinton Perera, 1986). The French anthropologist René Girard (1987) regarded the scapegoat rite as a means of discharging the accumulated human potential for violence, as a collective transference of diffuse violence onto a more or less accidental victim (Schwager, 2000, pp. 18–27). The irrational and emotional has become what seemingly lends itself to rational explanation.

5.16 Images of God: the primordial fear of God as culture-specific imprinting Ambivalent primordial experiences produce—in addition to denigrating self-perception—ambivalent images of God, ontogenetically as well as

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phylogenetically. Our cultural history has involved coming to terms with (i.e., “processing”) excessive primordial fear. For instance, the Whole/God assumed the face of one who judges, curses, avenges, and casts out even in a human perspective. As long as we remain unable to differentiate individual circumstances, and to hold them accountable for fear, stress, and threats, two projections emerge: according to one, God/the Whole is perceived as distorted, while, according to the other, we see ourselves as distorted and devalued. Dark images of God (e.g., of the angry, expelling God) have made history. Such images suggest that excessive primordial fear initiated such a cultural development and shaped culture. Images of God tell us less about the Absolute/God per se than about human perception, that is, about human fear. Various religions and epochs have processed age-old experiences of ambivalence into images of God, in both a culture-establishing and religious way: gods who give life next to ones who bring death; Mother Hulda, who intends us to have both gold and misfortune; deities of the upper world such as Inanna and her sister Ereshkigal, a goddess of the underworld. Brahma (Creator) – Vishnu (Preserver) – Shiva (Destroyer). Kali and her bloody sanctuaries. Yahweh is marked as a holy God who is also angry, punishing, and jealous; a God who speaks out of fire, yet also throws destructive fire from heaven (Elijah, 2 Kings 1:10).7 According to the psychology of religion, the decisive question is probably how much a people (united by a common culture, tradition, and so on) can accept ambivalence, which in turn concerns how much primordial fear it has experienced. Can a human collective or individual fit into capricious nature or into fate, into the laws of dying and becoming? Or must we, in battling these forces, split off all evil and cast it into hell? The Indian deities Brahma (Creator) – Vishnu (Preserver) – Shiva (Destroyer) suggest a different dynamics than the Greek deities Apollo and Dionysus: with Apollo, the god of light and the origin of religious legislation prevailed, that is, the Apollonian and the masculine gained supremacy over the Dionysian. Dionysus, the god of ecstasy, cheerfulness and melancholy, became the wild god of frenzy and excess, who represses things into darkness, nature, and the unconscious. The masculine (reason) triumphed, the feminine (flux) was defeated. Similar questions arise from an intercultural comparison of dragon symbolism,8 or of sound and its inherent effect.9 Do such cultural peculiarities permit drawing conclusions? Do such metaphors enable us to imagine that not all cultures and peoples lost their feeling for non-duality in equal measure? Are mentalities therefore also different—and allowed to be different? In our cultural sphere, a mechanism of displacement, division, and projection seemed to have determined further development. Deities of light shone even brighter: • •

The righteous God. God, who makes order out of chaos.

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• • •

God, who casts his adversary into hell/Hades and who thrones in heaven or on Mount Olympus. God, who rules through commandment and prohibition, who rewards the good and punishes the evil, and thus demands service. God, who legitimizes power structures.

These images of God indirectly announce a God who restrains, controls, excludes, and becomes an accountant. Human beings experience themselves as sinful instead of primarily as accepted and loved. They must achieve and perform instead of simply being allowed to be, at least to begin with. Nevertheless, I am also impressed by Western cultural development: the heightened primordial fear that must have initiated Judeo-Christian development made Western peoples take unique steps toward conscious realization and achievement. Primordial fear is also a driving force. Our development is also development, that is, pro-gress from the confusion of earliest imprinting—and we have thus become a culture of the way. Perhaps the question of deliverance from ancient imprinting (Renz, 2017) is decisive for the survival of our planet: can people (individuals), peoples, and cultures find their way out of the shadows of their earliest becoming?

5.17 From paradise to fall: a myth or more? The creation myth of Adam and Eve, upon which rest Judeo-Christian and Islamic culture, is about primordial fear and an ambivalent experience of God. Sinful, guilty, naked, cursed: such must be the basic feelings of a people that privileges such creation myths over its own prehistory. We can understand Genesis 1 to 3 as two different attempts to explain why a people must suffer a miserable earthly existence (i.e., live in exile). Why is life so hard, and distress so great? The answer, which was found looking back and that becomes increasingly evident in Genesis 2 and 3, is because a self-inflicted curse stands above everything. And yet, are human beings to blame for this? Developmental psychology offers a different explanation: namely, as a pictorial description of a traumatically experienced transition from non-duality to ego-boundedness. This transition was described retrospectively, that is, from an ego-bound patriarchal perspective. “God saw that it was good”

We can understand the first (and at the same time younger, priestly) creation myth (Genesis 1) in terms of its magnificent description of the act of creation, and its seven days, as an atmospheric picture. The first contrasts—light versus dark, water versus land—emerge. Life is about to become and to detach itself from the undivided Whole. The Great Round has opened up. Looking back, this appears as chaos and darkness, as wild and confused. This means that the ego-bound gaze has lost sight of the non-dual order. In between, wonderful statements shine through: God saw that things were good, even very good.

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God blessed man and woman and told them: be fruitful. Accordingly, this text, although written down only later, was placed before the other creation myth (Genesis 2:3). Experiences of wholeness A, B, C. Paradise that is no longer paradisiacal

One sign of increasing differentiation is that a center now exists alongside a periphery, the permitted alongside the tabooed: Genesis 2 speaks of two trees in the middle of a garden. God the Lord forbids eating from the tree of knowledge and indirectly initiates the next step of development himself by formulating this prohibition. This, too, is most appropriate, because the impulses to become and to recognize stem as much from the Whole as from ourselves, from within and without. The taboo is heeded when the time to look at it is ripe. God wants humans to realize, to become conscious. The snake seduces

What for? The Bible suggests “evil” (because you did that, you are cursed; Genesis 3:14). Given the meaning of snake symbolism, the answer should be different: the snake brings into play joie de vivre from a deep psychic layer, and a curiosity about becoming an ego. Our eyes “open” when we bite into the apple, thus alluding to changing perception. The rudimentary ego suddenly experiences itself as mortal. Guarding this boundary, the snake can relativize this fear (“No, you will not die”). It knows the secrets of death and becoming. Eve, the woman, is closer to this knowledge than Adam. They realized that they were naked…

… sewed together fig leaves and made themselves an apron: still enveloped in the Whole, we (the nascent ego, mythologically speaking Adam and Eve) have nothing of our own yet, neither something intimate that seeks protection, nor something that is forbidden. This state—simply being allowed to exist and becoming fertile—is represented by the unity of tree and snake, God and humankind, man and woman. The peaceful symbiotic couple (experience of wholesome containment, B). Being (the sheltering) and becoming (the emerging) are together, as yet undesirably, created by God and thus good. Nothing must stand out or distinguish itself. There is no reason for shame. This changes, all of a sudden, when we (the nascent ego, mythologically speaking Adam and Eve) become more present in the ego: we now experience everything ambivalently. Unease and anxiety appear, and the forbidden even moves center stage. Newly awakened, we are ashamed to be ourselves, to procreate our own kind, to feel lust and curiosity. All of a sudden, we feel as if after a weather change, futile in the presence of God. This force becomes forbidding, fear-instilling. Shame and the fear of the divine are connected: negated shame—shamelessness—also means irreverence.

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Fear of God

Genesis 3:8–10. When they heard God, the Lord, “walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze” (their experience was acoustic!), Adam and his wife hid themselves from God …. God the Lord called Adam and said: “Where are you?” Adam replied: “I heard the sound of you in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked” (my emphasis). Here sensitivities have changed, from congeniality to ambivalence. The fear of God becomes the certainty that God is angry and curses. Scapegoat mechanism

We must find excuses. Causal thinking and the scapegoat mechanism have set in (the woman, the snake is to blame). This mechanism reveals that the line between inside (in paradise) and outside has already been drawn. When humankind resorted to causal thinking, it had already abandoned paradise. It was lost and guilty. God sets enmity between man and woman. The man will rule over the woman. God curses the soil

Evil is not over, but is shifted: instead of experiencing itself “inside,” and instead of being at the mercy of a ubiquitous curse, humankind embraced flight and battle. It did, once again, under the sign of projection: the necessity to fight is not experienced as coming from within, but from without (God causes, curses). The ensuing struggle is an attempt to combat, and to overcome, our distress with the Whole. Precisely this explains why we fight anything that reminds us of whatever threatens envelopment (the feminine, nature, darkness, chaos, or, in other myths, the dragon). The fight is also directed against the potentially seductive (the snake, sexuality, lust for life). Only achievement, service is now felt to legitimize existence: By the sweat of our brow … The lost paradise and the flaming sword

The tree of life is tabooed, the Garden of Eden is closed and guarded by the blazing sword. Where primordial fear was experienced very strongly, the nascent ego no longer has an abode. Distress urges forward, toward the path, even if in the projection it is once again God who casts out. The Garden of Eden is closed for a long, unfathomable time. The ego is left to its own devices and to its pro-gress. Cain kills Abel (Genesis 4:1–16)

Leaving Paradise expresses division: the ego has split itself off from the Whole. As soon as the Garden of Eden is abandoned, the conflict between Cain and

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Abel arises, that is, outer separation also becomes inner separation. That part of the human soul that is called Abel (German Windhauch), which always knows that it is participating in non-duality, and which can accept its transience like a breath of wind, is slain by its brother. Cain represents sedentariness and city building. He stands for those who have just recognized themselves (their ego) and who find themselves outside the closed Gates of Paradise (apparently God did not respect Cain’s sacrifice). We may compare him with the “distress-ego,” which must now toil on the cursed seedbed. He who fights for survival cannot bear his inner brother (that part of the soul that is still connected to the Whole). Psychologically speaking, he splits off this part of the soul and reacts jealously. We need to understand jealousy as a zealous search for the lost divine fullness. It is older than sibling rivalry, even if it later becomes part of this. Jealousy concerns the plight of the vanished Whole, the unequal closeness to God. Cain grew furious when he saw that the Lord was looking at Abel’s sacrifice, but not at his. In sum

… the second biblical myth of creation describes the shift in perception (i.e., the change of mood and its effects) so blatantly that primordial fear and its consequences were considered a formative factor in all further development. Moreover, the older, more wholesome experiences largely grew darker. Evil and the struggle against it became the new starting point. Mythologically speaking, the future development of culture and the ego took place on “cursed, blood-soaked” ground. One question this leaves us with is what caused this tragic turn of events: Was external distress so total in primordial times? Did the rudiments of awareness develop particularly early in our culture’s ancestors? Or has God—through human distress—always sought development, as suggested by him making aprons for Adam and Eve and “putting a mark on” Cain to protect him?

5.18 First splittings: inner images and symbols The total loss of paradise, yet also particular image sequences (e.g., the division into light and darkness, upper and underworld, land and water), suggest that the mechanism of splitting commenced early in our culture. Many descriptions of inner images, of dreams and visions, contain one-sided, biased evaluations. Light is associated with goodness, consciousness, heroism, and masculinity. It stands for the prevailing ego. The dark, chthonic, primordial, and feminine, which is associated with the encompassing, was overshadowed and the image of God was split: God’s abode is in heaven, yet other aspects of the Whole have been cast into hell. While division as such occurs in ambivalent containment, evaluations (e.g., the devaluation of darkness) are added later, from the ego and its ego-bound perspective (Claret et al., 1998).

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When I accompany therapeutic regressions or dreams, I always ask myself: Which perspective, which psychic depth does a particular inner image speak from? Is there an ego that is looking back? Is a particular evaluation egobound? Is anything split-off? Does an image speak from the perspective of ambivalent containment, from wholesome containment, or perhaps from even older non-duality? I distinguish the following states of splitting: Before splitting: no evaluation (Stages A and B of conscious development): A. Christoph, who attended one of my training programs, dreamed of a deep order within blackness. He imagined the black center. Black or golden is the same in this psychic layer, and expresses the same mystery. Nonduality! B. The mother’s dark womb or the dark clod of earth contains everything, even what only emerges later as our own life impulse. Darkness is the goddess of the underworld and the goddess of the black moon. One seminar participant painted a “congenial, fertile blackness,” another imagined “the cozy and warm feeling inside a dark cave.” Initial distinctions may already exist, but they are not yet problematic: Mother Hulda already lives in a lower world, but a good life can be lived with her. Splitting: evaluation sets in or appears totally changed (Stage C): In ambivalent containment, development is directed toward the birth of the ego, and thus splitting begins. Darkness, however, is still positively connoted. In the fairy tale about “Mother Hulda” (Grimm & Grimm, 1884), Golden Mary longs for the upper world again. Between the worlds lies a gate. One woman painted yellow primordial ground and, emerging from it, a black tree. Another woman dreamed: “There is a big festive dance. I sense that a big, ‘jealous mother’ stands invisibly above the event, including my mother. I dance in a black festive dress. My joy of being a black dancer is physically, energetically tangible. Three times I come second, and every time I hear mention of a woman who wins first prize.—I meet this woman and am startled: she has my face, my hairstyle, and my body, yet is wearing a golden-yellow dress. I ask her if her mother, too, is jealous. She replies: ‘I have the same mother as you, but mine is golden yellow.’ I yearn to touch the golden dancer.” After splitting: ego-bound evaluation (Stages D and E): Blackness now stands for the overshadowed. In the fairy tale about Mother Hulda, the lazy daughter returns home covered in pitch (a sign of ill fortune).

5.19 Bettina (3): the fire in the dragon’s mouth and its impressive eyes Bettina also reached that point where she imagined a yellow kingdom beside a black one. She had to choose the black one several times, although she did not

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really like black. In Bettina’s active imagination, black had a different, preegotistic meaning: it stood for the struggle to live (splitting takes place): “Before me lies the yellow kingdom on the left, the black kingdom on the right.10 I am in between. Then everything is black. I have to decide for the black kingdom, the path leads to this kingdom.” Bettina trembles, is afraid, and would rather break off the session. But at some point, she allows herself to “sink into the black realm.” She no longer sees yellow. Instead, a monster stands in front of her. She describes it as follows: “It looks like a dragon,11 its wide-open mouth is as large as a house. It has giant teeth and wants to eat me.” Bettina trembles. I encourage her to ask the monster if it really wants to eat her. She replies: “The monster can’t say anything, it’s a passive monster.” I suggest that Bettina tell the monster that she doesn’t want to be eaten. She manages to do this: “It understands me, it doesn’t say anything, but I see it in its eyes. The monster is looking at me with its big eyes,”12 she says thoughtfully. A little later: “I can bear this. The animal looks at me with big eyes. It wants to play with me.” Bettina is frightened, but bravely stands her ground… and says: “The animal is silent and looks at me sadly.13 I must probably give it a bright-eyed look but…” Bettina is afraid: “The animal is as big as the earth, like the giant mother… There’s no such thing as… or is there?” At some point, lying inside even becomes comfortable. Bettina finds her way back into wholesome containment and says: “I’m lying on the Great Mother again… the same as back then” (section 4.10). Bettina sees a fire in the middle of the beast: “Beautiful, a large light. I’m meant to take some of it with me.” She evidently needs to go outside again. Significantly, the fire is called the “fire of life.” I advise her to say goodbye to the animal and to give it a name: “Bye Fauchy,” she says. I remind her of the acoustic level(!): “You scare me, but your fire is beautiful!” Weeks later, the dragon reappears in Bettina’s imagination: she looks at it. Later, it is separated from her by bright orange. She comments: “Now the fire is burning between him and me, it’s hot.” Has a necessary boundary arisen between the ego and the numinous (see the blazing sword at the Gates of Paradise)? Here, too, I am impressed by the accuracy of Bettina’s imagination: the dragon as an image of the Great Mother that is suddenly experienced as terrifying, the fire in the dragon’s mouth, and Bettina’s experience of being looked at. Does this open up a new relationship again? As if the baby, merely a few weeks old, perceives its mother’s luminous eye (see Kohut, 1973, cited in Asper, 1987, pp. 170–171) and increasingly finds its way to itself in that light? One recurrent dream motif is that of pleading or sad eyes, also in the maturing processes of older people. Mostly, this concerns something other than the

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familiar meanings of the eye symbol (i.e., the desire to be mirrored, the controlling eye). It instead implies something unconditional. We can no longer rid ourselves of this dream image, which breaches all defense mechanisms and pierces the heart. It is a different kind of gaze: not that of an earthly human being or animal, but one that refers to the Whole, the divine, from which it even seems to emanate. This gaze often stands for the profoundest conceivable request, which comes from God himself: namely, that we should dare to become conscious and new; that we should dare to make steps toward life, integration, and reconciliation; and that we should dare to encounter him—God—one day. Theologically speaking, God longs for relationship.

Notes 1 The preference of the unborn child for Mozart’s music, as observed by Alfred Tomatis (1987), can also be interpreted as a preference for the middle range. Mozart’s music is neither frightening (in terms of noise) nor does it lose itself in soundlessness. It conveys little of the “suspense of life” and thus simply allows us to dwell in it. 2 The word chaos is related to gap or gulf (Kluge, 1975). The corresponding verb “to gape” is reminiscent of yawning. 3 The wolf partly symbolizes the devouring, yet partly also our own instinctive forces, which may have become dangerous through splitting, dissociation (see the fairy tale about the forgetful Joseph and the grateful animals in the “Slavic folk tales” collected by Sirovatka & Luzik, 1977; Estés, 1993). What applies to the wolf, also holds true for other figures (e.g., lions, tigers, and bears)—unlike the dragon, which, symbolically, is older than the wolf, lion, tiger, or bear: this probably explains why the dragon only very seldom becomes a spiritual guide (i.e., part of the ego). The dragon is a priori the other, in our cultural context mostly in a threatening sense (in contrast to the East). 4 Eugen Drewermann (1985) interprets the apocalypse as an escalation of fear to the point where the coming Messiah (i.e., the embodiment of self) constellates the new unity of all psychic opposites between consciousness and the unconscious (pp. 436–437). 5 Who is capable of admitting their guilt before themselves and others (e.g., of committing evil, of being guided by jealously, of lacking empathy, of becoming conscious too late)? Being guilty is more than knowing that one has made a mistake. Collective crimes are also repressed and trivialized. 6 In this regard, it is worth considering the significance of chains of events in contrast to trauma considered in isolation (Petzold et al. 1993, pp. 461–462). The sum of factors over long periods is decisive. 7 In Israel’s understanding of God, such images became acceptable insofar as humankind in its wickedness needs to be punished by God. Once again, the same mechanism is evident: we rationalize, and thus overcome, incomprehensible ambivalence by locating guilt entirely in ourselves. 8 In Eastern cultures, the dragon is also part of the Whole, which includes light and darkness, good and evil. In our culture, it usually epitomizes devouring evil (see also Steffen, 1984, p. 26) and is widely associated with the devouring female (the shrew, the nagging wife; the German word Hausdrachen, literally “house dragon,” captures this meaning). 9 In Western music (Apollo is also the god of music), sounds are usually incorporated into forms and simple rhythms. On the other hand, we are barely familiar with the inherent effects of sound (i.e., sounds lacking tangible structure), for instance, in symphony

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concerts. We are familiar with harmonies and disharmonies, yet barely hear the individual sound with its resonating overtones—or, for that matter, are only beginning to discover this (overtone singing, Chinese singing bowls, Chinese/Burmese gongs). Note this division of space and color: it concerns the contrast between yellow and black, and not, as at a later stage of development, light versus dark or white versus black. As a rule, the line of development is interpreted from left to right. Here, this means that yellow is even more unconscious than black. Everything suggests that this vision still concerns the perspective before we decide to embrace life. Interestingly, the Latin word draco, which gives us English “dragon” and is borrowed from Greek draxor, means “sharp-eyed” (Früh, 1988, p. 15). This is an important relativization of the apocalyptic fear that matter is active (section 5.11). This probably refers to the eyes of God, and about being looked at by the Whole itself. In Christian culture, we are familiar with the eye set within the triangle from 17th- and 18th-century representations of the Trinity. The symbol refers to the omnipresent and omniscient, yet perhaps also to the questioning eye of God the Creator. This eye shines through the Trinity triangle and reminds us of our origin in unitary reality (Schneider, 2001, pp. 54–56 and 95–96).

References Asper, K. (1987): The abandoned child within: On losing and regaining self-worth. New York, NY: Fromm International Publishing. Brinton Perera, S. (1986): The scapegoat complex: Toward a mythology of shadow and guilt. Toronto: Inner City Books. Claret, B.J., Funke, D., Schnocks, D., & Schlagheck, M. (eds.) (1998): Theologie und Psychologie im Dialog über das Böse. Paderborn: Bonifatius. Drewermann, E. (1985): Tiefenpsychologie und Exegese. Vol. II. Olten: Walter. Drewermann, E. (1989): Ich steige hinab in die Barke der Sonne. Olten: Walter. Estés, C.P. (1989): Women who run with the wolves: Myths and stories about the wild women archetype.Boulder, CO: Sounds True. Früh, S. (ed.) (1988): Märchen von Drachen. Frankfurt/Main: Fischer. Girard, R. (1987): Things hidden since the foundation of the world. London: Athlone. Grimm, J., & Grimm, W. (1884): Household tales by the brothers Grimm (M. Hunt, transl.). London: George Bell and Sons. Retrieved from https://www.worldoftales.com/fairy_ tales/Grimm_fairy_tales_Margaret_Hunt.html#gsc.tab=0 Grof, St. (1985): Beyond the brain: Birth, death, and transcendence in psychotherapy. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Hehlmann, W. (1968): Wörterbuch der Psychologie. Stuttgart: Kröner. Herman, J. (1997): Trauma and recovery. New York, NY: Basic Books. Huber, M. (1995): Multiple Persönlichkeiten. Überlebende extremer Gewalt. Frankfurt/Main: Fischer. Huber, M. (2003): Trauma und die Folgen. Trauma und Traumabehandlung, 1. Paderborn: Junfermann. Huber, M. (2004): Wege der Trauma-Behandlung. Trauma und Traumabehandlung, 2. Paderborn: Junfermann. Kluge, F. (1975): Etymologisches Wörterbuch der deutschen Sprache. Berlin: Walter De Gruyter. Kohut, H. (1973): Narzissmus. Frankfurt a. M.: Suhrcamp. Loos, G.K. (1986): Spiel-Räume. Musiktherapie mit einer magersüchtigen und anderen früh gestörten Patienten. Stuttgart: Gustav Fischer.

Ambivalent containment 117 Neumann, E. (1956): Amor and Psyche. The psychic development of the feminine. A commentary of the tale by Apuleius. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Petzold, H., Goffin, J.J.M., & Oudhof, J. (1993). Protektive Faktoren und Prozesse. In: H. Petzold (ed.): Frühe Schädigungen – späte Folgen? Psychotherapie & Babyforschung, Vol. 1 (pp. 345–498). Paderborn: Junfermann. Pittet, D. (2017): Pater, ich vergebe Euch! Missbraucht, aber nicht zerbrochen. Freiburg: Herder. Renz, M. (2015): Dying: A transition (M. Kyburz with J. Peck, transl.). New York, NY: Columbia University Press. Renz, M. (2017): Erlösung aus Prägung. Botschaft und Leben Jesu als Überwindung der menschlichen Angst-, Begehrens- und Machtstruktur (2nd rev. ed.) [mit einer Klangreisen-CD]. Paderborn: Junfermann. Schneider, H. (2001): Das Auge – sichtbare und unsichtbare Wirklichkeit. Diplomthesis, Zürich: C.G.-Jung-Institut. Schwager, R. (2000): Must there be scapegoats? (M.L. Assad, transl.). New York, NY: Crossroads. Sirovatka, O., & Luzik, R. (eds.) (1977): Slavische Märchen (4th ed.). Hanau: Werner Dausien. Steffen, U. (1984): Drachenkampf. Stuttgart: Kreuz. Tomatis, A. (1987): Der Klang des Lebens. Vorgeburtliche Kommunikation – Die Anfänge der seelischen Entwicklung. Reinbek: Rowohlt. Wirtz, U. (2014): Trauma and beyond: The mystery of transformation. New Orleans, LA: Spring Journal Books.

Chapter 6

Entering the ego: primordial trust and primordial fear move into the background (Level D of conscious development during transition)

Abstract Ego-bound existence becomes prevalent. Entering the ego is the last stage of transition. The baby, that is, the toddler, becomes “present.” The baby smiles at its mother, the toddler shows that it is a little person in its own right: it fights for its place and one day refers to itself as “I.” Not to mention the older child. The increasing presence in the ego breaks the environment down into its components: mother, colors, and toys; later the street outside the house. Impressions become realistic, while the world of atmosphere and vibration fades. This relativizes both our sense of containment and our impression of archaic fear. Primordial fear gives way to tangible fears (e.g., of a thunderstorm). Basic trust also concretizes itself in real persons. Although the Whole is no longer perceived by the ego, it continues to take effect. How does non-duality influence the increasingly “self-conscious ego”? In addition to these questions, this chapter considers the process of phylogenetic development, during which we progressively enter our ego. It presents symbols, experiences of music, and images of God/the divine that are typical of experiencing our entrance into the ego.

6.1 The ego emerges: from the Whole to the concrete Ego-bound existence becomes increasingly prevalent. The time is ripe, over and again: the ego is visible, as if “born.” Such signs or moments are already evident intrauterine because the fetus focuses on its mother’s heartbeat and voice. Extrauterine, the baby is more and more present from week to week. And so is its gaze. All of a sudden, its smile is clearly directed at its mother. Martin Buber’s dictum “The I becomes through a Thou” now becomes fully meaningful and applies to the Thou of the child’s first attachment figure. A little later, the child shows that it is little person in its own right: it fights for its place and, one day, begins referring to itself as “I.” The child’s horizon of experience expands. The increasing presence in the ego, and every new differentiation, breaks the environment increasingly down into its components: mother, father, sister, colors, toys, later the apartment, the street outside, and so on. The child’s impressions become ever more realistic, while the world of atmosphere and vibration DOI: 10.4324/9781003176572-6

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becomes the concrete environment that is filled with a myriad of things. This relativizes both our sense of containment in the Whole (i.e., the wholesome Whole, the ambivalent Whole) and our impression of a numinous counterpart. The archetypal, encompassing dimensions begin to fade. Fear, too, changes: primordial fear gives way to tangible fears (e.g., the fear of being abandoned by one’s mother or the fear of a thunderstorm). Basic trust also concretizes itself ever more in real persons, cuddly toys, and spaces that the child (re)cognizes and trusts. Our connection with the Whole becomes a love for the concrete. Whether in terms of knowledge, feeling, or existence… the shift from the Whole to the individual takes place everywhere: reality detaches itself from the incomprehensible world of atmosphere and vibration, just as the child perceives its parents as becoming separate from the Great Mother. None of this, however, detracts from our primordial trust nor from our trust in God. This remains alive through human love and devotion, through consistent communication, through rhythms, and through tangible certainties. In this book, I do not intend to delineate concrete stages of development. I focus instead on the two worlds—the non-dual and the ego-bound—and on the question of fear: What does it mean for a child to lose its feeling of containment and to ever more obviously become an ego? How does non-duality influence the increasingly “self-conscious ego”? What effects do primordial distress and primordial fear have now? Although no longer visible, the Whole remains a formative factor. It continues to take effect, even if this is no longer perceived by the ego.

6.2 Ego-formation between detachment and rapprochement It takes years for us to enter our ego, and we do so through constant oscillation between the two modes of existence: non-duality and ego-boundness. The more conscious it becomes, the more the child distinguishes the “familiar” from the “unfamiliar.” It feels and reacts increasingly as an ego—and experiences itself and its relationships more and more consciously. Now this ought not hide the fact that in-between also lie phases in which even the toddler is closer to non-duality, especially in a deeply relaxed sleep. In this state, the child is again part of the Whole. This also happens in the twilight state (dozing), when the child is immersed in play or listening to (and thus experiencing) a story, as well as during illness-induced regression. Here, in its “original home,” the child regenerates and, soon afterward, again dares to reenter the ego and the here and now. Non-duality accompanies the child and, unconsciously, remains available even for the adult (see the word of Jesus: The Kingdom of God is “near,” Matthew 4:17). Thus, the ego forms through a constant back and forth, through an “out into the real world” and a “back into (internalized) non-dual being.” Impulses

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that edge us away from the Whole alternate with ones that seek its proximity. Every detachment and differentiation is followed by renewed coalescence or rapprochement, and vice versa. Both the ego and the primordial masculine force of emergence urge into autonomous life. As early as 1955, Mahler and Gosliner hypothesized the “universality of the symbiotic origin of the condition humaine” and postulated a “process of detachment and individualization in normal development” (Mahler, Pine, & Bergman, 1975, p. VIII). They contrasted detachment and reattachment tendencies in terms of a phase theory.1 On this basis, they identified the back and forth occurring over longer periods of time. Was there symbiosis in the beginning? Yes—yet with what? In terms of the model that I am developing in this book: originally, there was the primordial unity with the Whole, whose face changed in the course of earliest human development with every new differentiation (simply existing – nourishing/ enveloping – ambivalence) and was gradually replaced by the mother or a primary attachment figure. We only become able to distinguish experiencing our mother and father from experiencing the Whole, the more capable we become of differentiation. Yet where differentiations are possible—and several occur already after birth (Stern, 1985)—we need to ask to what extent the term symbiosis still applies (sections 4.1 and 4.2). What is symbiosis? Does it involve suspecting an even more original unitary reality behind so-called mother-child symbiosis? This unitary reality exists before and besides all egorelatedness. Connectedness exists without the child asking what it is connected to. The dozing and sleeping child, and even the adult, is “contained,” unquestionedly. I argue that the tendencies toward detachment/differentiation on the one hand, and toward renewed coalescence on the other, begin much earlier than was assumed by Mahler et al. (1975), namely, through our participation in the Whole. These tendencies, moreover, occur throughout life. Becoming conscious, too, is a lifelong process. We experience our environment and our personality increasingly differentiated. Our attachment figures assume ever clearer contours and personality characteristics. Just as our need for delimitation, reconnection, and connectedness never ceases. It becomes at least partly more conscious: the ego establishes connections, and binding love grows from the toing and froing of life. The medium of dialogue also changes: from the vibrational, musical dimension through the analogous, pictorial dimension to the verbal one. We become more and more conscious of dialogue. This shift reveals particular lines of development: from the Whole to the individual, from nondifferentiation to differentiation, from the unconscious to consciousness.

6.3 Music-based experiences of entering the ego: rhythm and melody When we enter the ego, we no longer experience music as enveloping, as a world of vibration, or as booming sound. Already intrauterine, the child

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focuses on its mother’s heartbeat and voice, the more it enters the ego. This focus paves the way for the birth of the ego, that is, for the post-intrauterine, egobound state. And yet, the meaning of the mother’s voice may change and fluctuate: whereas in the experience of wholeness B (section 2.3), this was the Great Mother’s voice, it now becomes more recognizable, an individual melody within the Whole and thus the bearer of personal love. After birth, music becomes the medium of pre-verbal dialogue. And even later, it accompanies the spoken word, either underlining or—as in double binds—contradicting it. The more we enter the ego, the more we are able to experience rhythm and time in their actual sense. Now, “before” differs from “afterward.” The unintentional opens up onto a path, toward a goal. Amid chaos, the pulse has a centering effect. The masculine primordial force of emergence now sets the tone. With increasing development, rhythm also becomes the primordial element of cultural creativity. Reconsidering the essential nature of rhythm, in contrast to sound, gives us some idea of the specifically masculine versus the feminine order. Rhythm is time. Rhythms are composed of units of time (elements), which can be structured, described, and arranged in this way or in another. Rhythms embody the idea of the elementary, small, and human. As such, they form the basis of diversity and communication. The cyclical, recurring nature of rhythm provides the ego with orientation and helps it to stand and understand. While sounds remind us of the non-dual primordial order of eternal being, and are always perceived as a whole, rhythms represent an elementary order we are capable of grasping. Whereas we can intuit acoustic order only through centering (sounds and tones are tuned, i.e., brought closer together), we can calibrate, analyze, measure, count, and compare rhythms. The order underlying rhythm lies close to that of the ego. Finally, rhythm acts as an elemental force that lures us into life. In listening to rhythms and their power, we are not suspended as we are in acoustic spheres. Rather, we are fully “present,” carried along, and moved. Of course, individual rhythms have different effects, just as musical statements vary depending on accentuation.2 And yet, both the fact that we are generally able to accentuate, create, and shape music, as well as the fact that there is pulsation, has to do with rhythm. Sound is being, rhythm is life. As such, rhythms already urge the nascent ego to be present, to become creative and active as an ego, and to leave the state of containment. Thus, rhythm covers the entire range of the symbolically masculine: in its own way, rhythm is not only primordial power and thus an aspect of the Whole, but also a form of experiencing the small, the human, and the ego. It drives processes and provides security. The emerging sense of rhythm and time means that the Apollonian order has prevailed. The successful interaction of sound (acoustic material) and rhythm (emphasis) brings together Dionysus and Apollo. However, if rhythm dominates sound, music seems lashing, dead, and stubborn. That certain something is missing. Associations with such music include “uninhabited hierarchy” or “robot age.” This is the danger of both

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one-sided masculinity and our culture! Already the child is involved in our one-sided culture—not only through sounds, but also through rhythms. Free improvisation often reenacts the transitional process and entering the ego, as this musical sequence shows: • • • •

Congenial sounds (see experiences of wholeness A and B). Noise/chaos, which trigger the process (see experience of wholeness C). Order-inducing rhythm (see entering the ego: D). Communication.

Here is an example from my previous work with young women with learning disabilities: I was late getting to the therapy room, where each young woman in the group was already playing music on her own. With this sight, I associated paradise. Their playing was subtle and blurred: sounding metallophones, a gong, a monochord, and flutes. Every sound seemed to fit the others; dissonances and harmonies had their place. I felt gently surrounded, and yet not quite present. Suddenly, the loud beat of a gong startled even the girl striking it. Everyone was astounded and present. Our playing became a loud chaos. One group member took the drum and began beating it regularly, as if she wanted to escape or order the chaos. Other players changed their instruments and brought in rhythms. A pulse developed and from this pleasurable action and reaction ensued communication. At the end, I asked the women what they had experienced while making music. “First they were birds, then an elephant, and then different animals.” “Many people had gathered on a large square. Suddenly, everything grew loud and uncomfortable, and they started dancing.” “It was butterfly atmosphere. I was intoxicated. Suddenly, I was startled. Everything was confused. Other animals arrived and began talking to each other.” “We were fish under water. Suddenly, we went ashore, turtles came, and eventually an owl.” “There were many people and fruit trees. Suddenly, the people went wild; that was unpleasant. But at the end they partied.” Melodies and, intrauterine, the mother’s voice also become important when we come into the ego. A melody stands for the personal and individual. It combines sound and rhythm, tone and (temporal) emphasis. It is a distinct figure. There are countless melodies, just as there are many different kinds of people. Melody, therefore, stands for the individual (Hegi, 1986, pp. 98–99). In terms of developmental psychology, it stands on the threshold from the Great to the

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Individual and introduces the “aspect of love” (the love of the Great Mother, and later individually experienced motherly and fatherly love). Melodies can comfort, enchant, and lovingly reach into life. After hearing a melody, a preschool child whose mother had recently died said: “This one (the melody) loves me.” Various kinds of instruments (vocals, flute, violin, cello, saxophone, etc.) fascinate us in such a personal way. Melodies scale heights and fathom depths, and yet remain in the very simple, human sphere. Located between heaven and earth, they transmit their message from one soul to another.

6.4 Childhood between two worlds Why can we enjoy a child’s radiating face amid hectic everyday life? Why are we fascinated by its mesmerized playing with water and sand? By its laughter, joy of discovery, and unspoilt nature? This, I believe, is because the child still lives close to the source of life. It marvels at flowers and a rainbow, hears the trees talking, lives in the world of stories and symbols, and understands, as simply as that, so much that adults no longer understand. Its joy is unbroken. The child enters life anew morning after morning. It is close, in a natural way, to its emotions. It shows feelings (e.g., pain, anger, and reverence) that many sober-minded adults barely know anymore. The child approaches people and things unbiased, and remains unquestioned. All of this characterizes its unbroken closeness to non-duality. The child still lives close to the Whole. It can still be comforted by the Whole, believes in guardian angels, asks which heaven animals go to, and feels what makes a church atmosphere special, regardless of whether its parents talk about God or not. And yet, a child’s life is not sheer bliss. Distress persists. The nights and dreams, the fears experienced down in the dark cellar and in the eery forest speak for themselves. The fact that children’s happiness always prevails (which is often the sole truth for outsiders) cannot be interpreted as distress being insignificant. On the contrary. It is still existential and not always as easy to explain as often happens (screaming = hunger, defiance = stubbornness). As yet, the child is close to non-duality and thus still lives in a different sensitivity: its neediness exposes it to deficiency, its powerlessness to the powerful. For the child, the uncertain and the unfamiliar, the wolf and the nightman still exist. Its sense of the length of night, of the solitary hour, and of its own body is still uncertain. How, for example, must entering gravity (i.e., the transition from weightlessness to body weight) for the first time feel? One relevant image is “the fall.” Interestingly, this image or sensation also occurs in the dying, who often experience their bodily heaviness dissolving (see Renz, 2015, chapter 5). It might also belong to the child’s experience of transition: How often do we fall down as children until we are able to stand safely on our own feet and move along? Do babies experience something similar to falling into the suddenly perceived force of gravity? Does this fall induce fear?

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Lea, a four-month-old baby, needed to be carried around a lot. Her mother noticed that Lea held her breath whenever they climbed down the stairs. Her face screwed up and was cramped. Her hands and arms moved as if they had to cling tightly. Had Lea experienced descending the stairs as falling? Later, Lea was now 18 months old, her mother observed a Moro reflex while Lea was dreaming. Lea screamed, sat up, and spread her arms looking for something to clutch. She calmed down as soon as she could grasp the bed rails. Lea’s mother placed her back on her stomach, and Lea continued sleeping peacefully. Had Lea experienced an inner fall? Finally, children also perceive what has been split off by their mother and father. They silently sense double binds and diverging, conflicting opinions in their surroundings—and thus are exposed, uncomprehendingly, to what encompasses them. In fairy tales and dreams, fears and dangers take shape, are given names, and thus are defeated. Both the play stage and dream consciousness hold such opportunities in store.

6.5 Childhood between two fears Understanding the small child’s fears requires to looking at children’s fairy tales. For these illustrate how the carefree child, exhibiting a tireless zest for action during daytime, is plagued by fears and needs on the edge of consciousness. Between these two worlds, the child is not only with itself, but also lost and “beside” itself: beside the great Other, outside interesting events (e.g., when its mother is on the telephone). It is now seized by the fear of forlornness and deficiency—of not having enough! In dreams or fairy tales, when their parents die, children find themselves either alone or out in the forest or the snow with their siblings. When the child enters the ego, it loses the fullness of the Whole, the love of the Great Mother. All that remains is reality. This loss is significant in the child’s life. As it does in many fairy tales, the small child’s unconscious resonates with primordial pain,3 with a yearning for harmony, and sometimes with basic anger. In its first aspect, primordial fear is often processed into an undefinable homesickness. Other fairy-tale motifs address the second face of primordial fear: the fear of perishing as an ego, of being devoured, crushed, or poisoned. The fear of the menacing counterpart increases whenever consciousness increases. In contrast to earlier stages of conscious development, the child now has something to lose: itself. It feels what it wants to fight for: itself, its survival, its well-being. For many years to come, the child ever more consciously experiences what once happened self-evidently, intrauterine and to the baby: the reliable feeling of being “inside.” Children are always caught up again by envelopment, by the great incomprehensibility of the world, or, quite concretely, by the dark night. They must free themselves and assert their ego. We find the ego in the image of the hero, whose emergence from all-encompassing unconsciousness is symbolically equal to defeating the dragon.

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Just how much such struggles on the symbolic level represent actual coping or self-defense, remains subject to debate. In human development, backgrounds manifest themselves much later, sometimes even only after generations. For the child, it is about entering (i.e., arriving in) the real world, and to decide in favor of what appears on the surface and its environment’s standards. The child learns to limit itself to the ego’s small possibilities, that is, desire beside frustration. Coming into the ego also means limitation, growing apart from our origin, and often coincides with taboos: All of a sudden, four-year-old Ivo began reacting ambivalently toward his beloved grandmother. He refused to go near her, eyed her suspiciously, and stopped asking about her. How to explain this change? Nothing concrete had happened. Ivo’s mother, a sensitive woman, went into the matter. She observed Ivo more closely and concluded: his sudden realization how old his grandmother was, and hence how close to death, had frightened him.

6.6 The birth of culture Phylogenetically, human history may also be described in terms of a shift in perception and of coming into the ego. Even if it remains open when exactly and where within evolution (with hominids, prehistoric humans, etc.) the individual stages of consciousness occurred, phylogenetically a tremendous development of consciousness becomes evident: over time, rudimentary egobound behavior, feeling, and eventually thinking emerged. More and more humans and animals grew more self-conscious and thus more self-concerned. Prehistoric humans increasingly recognized their distinctness. They could no longer simply entrust themselves to nature, but began struggling for survival, alone and in groups. The concern for, yet also taking pleasure in oneself, awakened. Concretely, people may be assumed to have realized not only their distress, but also their triumph and potency. They gradually understood that they could leave inhospitable land, defeat animals and foreign peoples, make arable land fertile, and produce weapons and tools. The unpredictability of nature was defeated by recognizing the laws of day and night, the annual cycle of seasons, and so on. In discovering male potency, they experienced the victory over the mystery of fertility, over the great goddess, and over the symbolically feminine. Thus, the masculine in both man and woman plays a part in this victory. Ego-bound progress also manifested itself in the skills acquired, in a sense of property, and in the emergence of communal structures. Individuals could relate ever more consciously to each other and order their coexistence. From such realization emerged an increasingly ego-bound quality of consciousness. Ego-bound progress was passed on from generation to generation as cultural heritage. The birth of culture! As theories of evolution have suggested, the transition in human history may be said to have lasted millions of years. The Creation is not a unique work of God that he performed in seven days.

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How does ego-boundedness assert itself in the collective process of becoming? Let me list some characteristics: • • •

•

• •

• • • •

The perception of temporality in nature, of laws, rhythms, cycles. The perception of the finiteness and irrelevance of the ego, the fear of death. Reactions indicating defense or a struggle for survival. The new meaning of the ego or, collectively, of the clan, tribe, and herd as opposed to the Whole. The ego, or in its place the protecting community, is referred to as the new regulatory center. The Whole is divided into particular interests and individual factors. The world becomes the surrounding world. The Whole and nature are seen, feared, used, and fought in an ego-bound way. Images of God are created. Human beings begin to define themselves increasingly in terms of themselves, their territory, possessions, and history. Ego-bound perspective, judgment, hierarchies: everything is judged from an individual perspective and ego competencies are promoted. Although the ego achieves and decides, the boundaries between genuine expertise and the abuse of power are fluid: the ego or the leader of a collective feels called upon to enact laws serving their own purposes, to “administrate” conscience, and to subject not only others but also the earth. The emergence or recognition of polarities, splittings. An ambivalent assessment of the world. Friends and foes. Good and Evil. Male and female. The appearance of fears, of self-concern. Instinctual reactions become consciously perceived anxiety and precaution (Drewermann, 1993). Collective coping patterns also emerge: rationalization, safeguards, taboos, defensive mechanisms. One side effect, as it were, is that whatever recalls the Whole (nature, the feminine, the irrational, darkness, the animal, the chthonic), which is experienced as threatening, is devalued. The emergence of cultural assets as achievements of the ego. Action instead of being. The ability of independent individuals to consciously engage in relationships ousts self-evident connectedness. The conscious search for religion as an expression of the loss suffered. Becoming conscious as a possibility for the ego to recognize and work through unconscious material. Thirsting for knowledge.

Collectively, we may also speak of a shift from sleeping consciousness through dream consciousness to waking consciousness. Symbolic experience, rites, fairy tales, myths (dream consciousness) precede the awakening of the ego. This meant, for example, that intrapsychically a powerful king stood for and took the place of a strong ego. And where one hero defeated the terrible animal/dragon, he did so, symbolically, for everyone. To this day, football or music fans are still engrossed with their stars in this psychic layer. If their star

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wins, they win too. Individual figures act as proxies for the prevailing ego, and for everyone else. This also explains the great importance of the cult of kings in different epochs and traditions. And it explains why collective archetypes from myths and the Bible are more than mere religious or historical traditions. At work behind archetypes are primordial forces (see Abraham’s departure, section 6.14).

6.7 Trust or fear: coping patterns Under which star does a particular development occur? What has already been initiated in ambivalent containment, thanks to a more or less congenial atmosphere—namely, the extent of the primordial fear suffered (section 5.4)—now also determines the increasing awakening of the ego. Development continues, either based on trust or in coping with fear, while fear itself is still barely visible. While every person and every culture travels both paths, trust or fear dominates: Trust-based: • The primordial state of mind: primordial trust becomes trust in that world that one trusts. The child and later the adult are still somehow nurtured and borne by being allowed to be and by being loved. • Motivation: Activities are performed with pleasure. Motivations are appropriate. • Energies, primordial forces: everything flows. Primordial forces continue to work together fruitfully. • Relationship level: the affection for people and the world springs from the natural joy of life and relationship. The “I” becomes through a “Thou.” • Self-esteem and the right to exist are unquestioned, plainly and simply. • Dealing with difficulties: we are more or less able to handle other people’s whims and stress. Fear-based: • Primordial state of mind: the world appears as if it were lying behind shadows. The realities of this world are more or less distrusted. The child and later the adult seem to be disconnected from divine fullness, from the sustaining soil and greater (as yet pure) love. What remains is longing and—even if this may no longer be true as time passes—addiction. • Motivation: development is either delayed or forced, and occurs under pressure. Primordial fear, in its manifold disguises, needs to be diminished, conquered, and defeated. Life becomes a permanent struggle against an internalized and at the same time outwardly projected evil. • Energies, primordial forces: the primordial force of emergence is characterized increasingly by violence or paralysis. The sheltering becomes devouring, clinging, and famishing. The bewitched female goes

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hand in hand with the devilish male: where the primordial mother holds fast, the primordial force of emergence is trapped and unable to truly assert itself: as masculinity striving for life, inspiration, and creativity. Vice versa: where the primordial masculine force neither emerges positively nor find its way to itself, the sheltering primordial mother becomes a witch and is marginalized (witch = fence rider).4 Masculine and feminine primordial forces are then fixated upon each other in mutual struggle. The individual is merely the site of such pent-up rage: “It” acts. Relationship level: the affection for others and the world is either reserved or forced. Encapsulation. Too few nurturing relationships. Self-esteem and the right to exist: The lost raison d’être must be painstakingly regained through glory and achievement, through patterns of compensation. Failing affirmation, self-esteem collapses. New evidence is sought addictively. Dealing with difficulties: instead of enduring dearth, people compensate and compete; they thirst for “more and more.” Instead of enduring ambivalence and misfortune, things are rationalized (causes and culprits are sought). Instead of allowing chaos to happen, one strives to contain it within rules and guidelines; many creative life impulses, which naturally germinate in chaos, are killed. Stress becomes stressful.

In turn, an atmosphere of constantly coping with fear shapes the emerging child’s world of atmosphere and vibration. The child also increasingly loses its primordial trust in the Whole. Earliest infant behavior is noteworthy in this respect. Mahler, Pine and Bergman (1975) reported that a fear of the unfamiliar (xenophobia) is more likely to occur more strongly in those whose emotional past is anxiety-laden (pp. 77–78). Some children seem disturbed, frightened, turned off, or tense already as newborns (section 1.4). Special gifts, preferences, early satisfaction mechanisms (e.g., thumb sucking), even certain character traits (e.g., charm, cunning, stupidity, or bravery), might also be a sign of coping with primordial fear as much as a character trait. A young patient was suffering from being unable to see things clearly. This affliction sometimes surfaced so strongly during therapy that it transferred itself onto me. In this state, I could no longer see the table or the window clearly. When I raised the issue, he was able to feel his need to blur boundaries—and I could once again see clearly. One of our sessions touched on the atmosphere at his parents’ home when he was a boy. I asked what was taboo amid this atmosphere. To his own astonishment, the young man said: “The intellect,” which had meant “not being allowed to see clearly.” I have met people who attribute their perfect pitch to fear. They had confronted their fear very early on with an ordering acoustic structure. This absolute pitch promised them orientation. In general, compensation patterns point to background anxiety. One boy constantly had to draw superfast cars, another to wildly collect things, simply

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to own them (having and coping instead of being). Yet another played a policeman every week for two years. Other children withdraw and cut themselves off or become little show-offs. In our culture, it is normal to banish all emotion. This belief is also passed on from generation to generation. We come up against ourselves in coping with primordial fear. It is enough to ask ourselves: How do I react in a hopeless situation? Do I still feel trust and peace? Do I grab the bull by the horns? Or am I blocked? Do I tend to blur or dramatize realities? Does distress make me creative? Do I become an even greater stickler for rules or a rebel? Do I seek togetherness and closeness or solitude and distance? When I seek help, do I behave like a child or like an adult, because I expect even greater protection from my partner? Do I cry, do I eat chocolate, or do I lose my temper?—One question, among several others, pervades this book: How healthy or how sick is a child, a person, a people? How strongly shaped are we? Seemingly predispositional, early imprintings may also characterize entire cultures, as suggested by the predominance of a large number of brilliant people within a population that is affected increasingly by primordial fear. Flight, exodus, may—positively or beset by difficulty—become development, dis-entanglement.

6.8 Inner images for entering the ego: symbols of the primordial force of emergence Which inner images and symbols express that the ego has become itself? On the one hand are images that depict the process of successful emergence: • • • • • • • •

Birth. The Fall/falling (section 6.4) and standing upright again. Finding our way out of chaos, the emergence of an elementary egobound order. Coming ashore/stepping onto land; one boy began building landing stages. Defeating darkness; dawn or entering a new day. Biting the apple; the ego has “bitten” into ego-bound reality. The leap of faith, the path that opens up (linearity). The transition from animal to human.

During an hour of music-assisted relaxation, one woman felt “like a gorilla walking on all fours; my arms are so long that I am still semi-upright. My skin is covered in dark hair. I hear the sound of drums and find the drummer in the jungle: a magician with a black face. He drums, I dance. Inwardly, I see how the stone columns were brought from Egypt to Rome with the help of rhythm and how the slaves rowed in the galleys under the yoke of rhythm. My

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back feels how long it took people to finally stand upright. Rhythm also helped them.” Also during music-assisted relaxation, another woman experienced this: “In the beginning, I heard distant sounds. They came closer and became a weightless being and sea of stars. With the onset of the first slow pulse, something moved back and forth within me: I saw a stone. More rhythms were added, and I saw plants growing. These became numerous and varied. Then a monkey jumped back and forth. Everything was still peaceful. When even more rhythms were added, I felt overwhelmed. I felt the need to stand upright. Everything became chaotic, even the stone stopped moving back and forth. I wanted to stand upright, but instead fell deeper and deeper, and felt: everything is much too fast for me.” Among others, symbols of the born ego and its protection include: • • • • • • • • • •

The little hero and his birth. The small ship out at sea, which safely floats in the waters. “The sea ends, there’s a road here” (the words of a six-year-old girl). “Here” is the bridge; a boy built bridges across the sea. The appearance of the color green as the color of life (interestingly, people are often unable to bear the color green when they do not really want to live). The plant sprouting from the dark earth. The blazing sword; whenever a fire occurs at the limit, it banishes the heat of the Whole (see Bettina, section 5.19). Skin is discovered, the face is veiled, clothes are donned (delimitation from the Whole). The distance to the dragon is ensured, thus relativizing its size. Signs of blessing (e.g., the cross or circle), which protect us against evil.

Symbols of the prevailing primordial force of emergence include the lion and the tiger. They urge, royally or predatorily, toward ego-formation.5

6.9 The symbol of the snake No other symbol quite so strongly urges toward ego-formation as the snake. Originally belonging to the undivided Whole, and lying close to the dragon symbol,6 it assumes different guises with the coming of the ego. The snake symbolizes that power which—coming from outside as much as from inside— wants life: the beginning of ego-based life, perception, consciousness and individuality. It rises, spirally, from the primordial ground, emerges from chaos as a snake of light, and initiates life in various myths of creation. Snake forces strive for consciousness, if necessary cunningly. As a sexual symbol, the snake refers to the zest for life and to the beginning of becoming, that is, nascent growth. It is a symbol of constant renewal through molting, death, and transformation (Egli, 1982).

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With Adam and Eve, the snake was depicted and cursed as a temptress. In the history of religion, it became the archetype of sin and Satan. As late as Middle High German, the devil was also called Slange, Hellewurm, Helletracke, or Lintwurm (Früh, 1988, p. 18). Yet what exactly was demonized (section 6.10)? Lindworms are not exactly the same as snakes (see footnote 6). The place of the snake’s captivated power is also a place of renewal. Symbolizing the beginning of life, the snake guards the spring, the tree, the water of life, and the herb of life. It knows how the withered come to life and travels the path of renewal through molting processes. Being close to the gate to non-duality, the snake knows about the connection with the Whole. It guards the holy precincts and appears at oracular sites. It is able, moreover, to reconnect the ego-bound, the split-off to the Whole, to saints and healers. According to the fairy tale “The White Serpent,” whoever eats of the snake understands the language of birds (Grimm & Grimm, 1884). In summary, the snake is in many ways the animal of the transition from non-duality to egoboundedness.

6.10 Witch and devil: inner images of the cursed primordial forces in the background Who is the devil? And why do witch and devil belong together? I have previously mentioned the salutary or disastrous combination of the two primordial forces: the masculine primordial force of emergence and the feminine primordial force of what shelters. Now, as humankind comes into the ego, predisposition becomes evident. In the creation myth, Adam (the ego gaining self-consciousness) experiences existential fear (threatened, they hid when they “heard the sound of the Lord God walking in the garden at the time of the evening breeze”; Genesis 3:8a). Eve (the feminine, as well as the primordial sheltering and birth-giving force) is accused, while the snake (the impulse to become conscious and the primordial force of emergence) is cursed. The cursing of the feminine and the demonizing of primordial masculinity belong together. They remain chained in the curse, in the consequences of primordial fear. These dynamics also point to the origin of diabolical action: excluded time and again from conscious realization, the thwarted primordial force of emergence becomes the spirit of negation, of the hostility to life, the greed for life, and the desire for blood. The castrated zest for life becomes perverted lust. The problem of diabolical action is its autonomous activity. It is split off from, and thus no longer serves, the Whole: “it” acts in man and woman as an expression of an ancient split-off life force. “It” rages, avenges, schemes, and rapes—mostly unconsciously. The same applies to the cursed primordial sheltering force: here develops a basic rage, a paralysis, and abysmal sadness. Who is a perpetrator? Who a victim? Regarding witch and devil, attributions of guilt are impractical: SHE holds on violently, while HE asserts himself brutally and destructively. HER lips

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are covered in blood. HE acts, bloodthirstily, inside her. Cursed above all are the relationship, the pair of primordial forces, and their relatedness. Once fruitful in the cycle of eternal renewal (section 4.6), the couple became mutually destructive: the fruitless apple tree (see the fairy tale “The Devil with the Three Golden Hairs,” Grimm & Grimm, 1884), and the snake banished into the soil. At the beginning of this tragic development stood nothing other than the human being’s fearful primordial experience amid a world of atmosphere and vibration. Fear turned into projection, as well as into coping strategies and development under false premises. Fairy tales suggest that ways out of such cursedness lead back to the bewitched mother’s womb (section 4.9). There the transformation of the feminine and the liberation of the masculine may occur simultaneously. In the fairy tale “The Water of Life” (Grimm & Grimm, 1884), the king’s son must fetch the healing water in the cursed castle (symbol of the primordial mother). This is guarded by lions that have turned to stone. There the condemned virgin must be fetched, and the trapped brothers must be freed on the way home. In the fairy tale “Of the Blacksmith’s Daughter who Could Keep Silent” (Sirovatka & Luzik, 1977), the Great Mother ekes out a shadowy existence in the forest as a black woman. With her are cursed 13 male figures, which have convened for communion in the outermost, tabooed room. Cursed communion, cursed power of Eros. The fairy tale “The Devil with the Three Golden Hairs” (Grimm & Grimm, 1884) deals simultaneously with the devilish and golden, which are part of the Whole. At night, the devil sleeps in the grandmother’s lap (the witch-like Great Mother). They become effective as a couple. The young fairytale hero crawls into the folds of her skirt and becomes as small as an ant. Sheltered in her lap, he hears the devil’s advice. She provides primordial trust, while the devil and his counsel prove to be lifesaving, that is, the source of new life. Diabolical forces, freed from the curse, can restore life from its origin. Does even the devil need “redemption”? Or—as I prefer to ask—is he at all open to redemption? Funke (1998) has raised the question about the place of evil in God. Does this place exist? Characteristic of evil (symbolically the devil) is its splitting from the Whole. As such, it—as the metaphor of a fallen angel shows—is unable to find its way back into life by itself (Renz, 2021, chapter 7). Can evil become accessible to grace? Can or should we contribute to redemption, for example, by becoming conscious of our shadow?

6.11 Images of God from coming into the ego: on this side of frightening numinosity When we come into the ego, our interest and viewing direction change. We are no longer focused on the Whole, nor on dual-unity, but on ourselves and our ego. This shift in focus manifests symbolically, for instance, in new

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connotations of light (which now stands for the ego, while darkness is shunned; see section 5.18 for a discussion of the ego-bound perspective). The shift in focus also becomes evident in the meanwhile established splitting-off of the shadow world and the underworld. Once the ego has left its envelopment, and once ego-boundedness has developed—individually and collectively—self-experience, the experience of the world, and the experience of wholeness are no longer identical. Whatever the becoming ego can recognize detaches itself from the Whole and arranges itself into a worldview based on ego-bound criteria. The ego no longer experiences the Whole (i.e., non-duality, wholesomeness, ambivalent containment), but increasingly concrete reality. It now has its own image of the Whole and its own images of God. These images also stem from the egobound perspective. The incomprehensible and mystical is now separated from the ego’s field of experience (i.e., eternity) and is located outside the world: in heaven, yet also in the underworld. As a result, we no longer feel that the Whole is whole. Nor does it appear whole in our images of God. God is enthroned in heaven. The devil is banished, and the gods of death live in the underworld. Divisions, already initiated in ambivalent containment (sections 5.16, 5.18), now become concrete. Everything numinous is shifted into the distance. We think about God. Moreover, our thinking places us “above” God, and we need no longer experience ourselves as touched directly by the Whole. No longer feeling connected with the Whole through our inner hearing, we instead seek God by looking outside. The now-distant God becomes the God who veils himself and is worshipped on the mountain (John 4:19–24). Sophia withdraws from the people. The Apollonian rises above the Dionysian, while male deities displace female ones. In a positive development, the monotheism of the people of Israel gave rise early on to new forms of relatedness between the nascent ego and its God. “I will take you as my people, and I will be your God” (Exodus 6:7). Why is a monotheistic image of God so important? Tracing the process of consciousness helps us to understand this: just as the child finds itself (i.e., its substance) when turning toward its mother, so a group of people gathered around “its” God becomes a “people.” Through its mother, the child experiences itself as loved into life. The mother rejoices heart and soul in the child’s existence and progress. Exactly this promotes its development and coming to consciousness. By way of analogy, this also happens in a people’s monotheistic relationship with its God. Seen thus, God himself detaches us from the anonymous mass and lures us into isolation and individuation. He helps us leave envelopment (see Abraham: “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house…” Genesis 12:1; section 6.13). He delights in every progress (i.e., stepping forward, away) and in our leap into autonomy. This is not yet about distinguishing our ego, but about experiencing our exodus from envelopment

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(biblically, for instance, from slavery; or, in Abraham’s case, from the symbiotic clan, the father’s house, and being bound to a plot of land). It is therefore about entering our ego as initiated by God. This later becomes the certainty of faith in an autonomy willed by God. The monotheistic emphasis on one single God and his people presents not only the danger of arrogance, but also the chance of personal address (of being meant) and development. Blessing and the tragedy of splitting are often juxtaposed in divine images of departure—of this stage in the development of consciousness: •

• • •

• • •

Wholeness, which, under the sign of blessing or curse, expells from primordial shelteredness, forces departure, and opens yet also overshadows the path into the future. God who curses and banishes Cain, and yet marks him with a protective sign. Jacob scrounges the blessing, yet must nevertheless flee from his brother Esau. The God of departure as one who stands behind the human being (Abraham). God as a covenant partner, through Abraham and Moses, on Mount Sinai. With Noah (priestly writing), God gives humans a habitat under the sign of the rainbow; to makes this possible, he even holds himself back and withdraws into his primordial dimension (Zenger, 1987). Once again, God enters into a covenant with the human being: no more shall a flood come and destroy humans and animals (Genesis 9:1–17). God promises that egobound existence will persist with everything that is part of it. God, who frees from captivity, as demonstrated impressively by the liberation from Egypt and by the rescue at the sea of reeds (Exodus 6–7). God, the savior, who gathers his people around him, and thus creates the chosen people (the ego that gains self-consciousness) (the song of Mirjam in Exodus 15). The Whole taking effect on the level of instincts (see snake symbol, section 6.9, lion symbol, section 6.8, and the lion of Judah).

6.12 The individual remains fatefully connected to the Whole The Whole transcends the individual image of God. It is the All-One, the timeless Whole, in which all evolution takes place. The Whole and its inherent powers may and must be reckoned with forever. This raises various large questions: • •

Are certain patterns of development inherent in the Whole? From the source or, as Pierre Teilhard de Chardin posited, also teleologically, that is, from the goal? Can life, on the surface of things, be seen in terms of a greater dimension of ordering forces? Can it be newly understood when seen from such a

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•

divine or theleological viewpoint? Can God be experienced and, if so, how? What interweaves individual destiny with that of generations?

In addition to facing reality, every individual is embedded in these large-scale questions and dynamics. Being part of the Whole, we also carry with us, through atmospheres and vibrations, the tension of cultural and ancestral history, the mystery of life and the Whole. We become more and more individual, yet remain connected with the Whole—or with what we call God, with the past and the future. We thus absorb, unconsciously, the unresolved aspects of the Whole, the tragedy of its division, or the tension of the originally undivided opposites. The antinomies of being and becoming, darkness and light, female and male, persist within us, unconsciously and urgingly. Seen in this way, this original tension seeks to emerge in every life and to find ways of consciously connecting the opposites (chapters 8 and 9). It is as if every individual were given part of a greater energy, of a greater concern for becoming conscious. Does an urge inhere in the Whole? Does this seek the space needed to become conscious in the human being? What was unconscious and tensionladen in one generation easily becomes a life topic for subsequent generations. These, in turn, shape and process some aspects of life, and pass on—unresolved—ones to their children and grandchildren. The still undifferentiated also belongs to the world of atmosphere and vibration. From it emerge ever new impulses for conscious realization. What previously resonated atmospherically, now strives for differentiation and processing. Because things are passed on atmospherically from generation to generation, entire cultures may still be lastingly imprinted by the legacy of primordial times and by the effects of the primordial fear existing since the beginning of our cultural development. Therefore, we may ask if development—seen on a grand scale—inheres in God, and thus is more than sheer coincidence? What seeks development and consciousness?

6.13 Abraham: becoming an ego against a life-affirming background The Bible places the narratives about Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and their families at the beginning of the history of Israel. In terms of developmental psychology, these stories illustrate ego-formation. His people gather around Abraham the forefather. As he is promised fertility, he becomes the future’s new center. The same applies to the ego at the heart of a personality. Abraham stands for the ego that becomes through God: Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show. I will make of you a great nation. (Genesis 12: 1–2)

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If the biblical text says that God speaks directly to someone, in terms of depth psychology this (unconditional) address amounts to an inner experience of God. Abraham may, or indeed should, leave his country, and his path to freedom will be marked out for him by God. The Whole opens up to him as a land of future possibilities. The primordial experience of being allowed to be becomes the certainty that God will also accompany future paths: “Do not be afraid, I am your shield” (Genesis 15:1). Abraham begins his journey imprinted. In the sequence of myths, a piece of Adam, Cain, Noah, and the Flood lives on in him. Abraham’s path of development will not be entirely harmless. It is depicted as a lifelong traversing of the desert—as a liminal experience. During his lifetime, Abraham will not inhabit the promised land. And he will need to wait a long time for Isaac, the only son conceived with his wife. Maria Kassel (1980, pp. 220–221) has suggested that Abraham’s inner path leads him in various ways through confrontations with the individual and the collective shadow. In Abraham, however, prevails the certainty—as the fruit of his primordial trust and the image of his intact reconnection with the Whole—that God “stands behind” him: “Walk before me and be whole.”7 Abraham relies on this God. Believing this promise, he dares to follow the path and thus himself becomes one who trusts. He trusts the world, and thus a land of unlimited possibilities opens up for him: The Lord said to Abram, after Lot had separated from him: Raise your eyes now, and look from the place where you are, northwards and southwards and eastwards and westwards; for all the land that you see I will give to you and to your offspring for ever […] Rise up, walk through the length and breadth of the land, for I will give it to you. (Genesis 13: 14–17) The fourth stage—coming into the ego—completes the transition from nonduality to ego-boundedness. And yet, the process of becoming conscious continues, individually as well as collectively. Ego-boundedness unfolds. Cultures develop. Coping patterns become refined and normal. The Whole in the background initially serves to strengthen the ego and will later also urge toward dis-entangling the entangled.

Notes 1 Mahler, Pine, & Bergman (1975) divide human development into several phases: • • •

Normal autistic phase (first weeks of life). Symbiotic phase (approx. 2–5 months). Phase of detachment and individuation (4–5 up to 30–36 months): • •

Subphase of differentiation (distinguishing the mother from others, but also the mother from oneself);

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Subphase of practicing (the child is immersed in autonomous functioning); Rapprochement (precisely because the child more clearly perceives its separation from the mother and once again draws closer to her); Beginning to feel like an autonomous entity and the beginnings of emotional object constancy.

Both the symbiotic phase and rapprochement are expressions of the same tendency (coalescence). The phases of differentiation and practicing belong to the other tendency (detachment/autonomy). 2 On the difference between beat and off-beat, see Hegi (1986, pp. 32–33) or Flatischler (1992). 3 For an example of primordial pain, see the fairy tale about “The little brother and sister” (Grimm & Grimm, 1884). In everyday child and adult life, this pain is often appeased with sweets. 4 In German, witches are also known as Hagreiter (i.e., figures that cross fences). Where a “hedge” or fence is erected, a taboo arises. In English, a “hag” is an ugly woman; see also the German adjective unbehaglich, “uncongenial.” To be “hag-ridden” means to be tormented by something (see Hoad, 1986, see also Kluge, 1975). 5 The lion is the king of instinctual powers. Yet, as a sun animal, it also refers to a spiritual aspect. Lions appearing in dreams urge toward self-confident ego-formation. At the transition, the lion introduces the courage to jump. Tigers are also predatory animals, elegant and nevertheless less royal than the lion. They embody wild craving. In the therapeutic process, the tiger often symbolizes the first predatory force struggling for liberation. Forces pace up and down, like tigers, either due to our rigidity or due to splitting. If tigerish forces receive attention, they often become self-confident lionish forces. 6 Herder’s Encyclopedia describes the dragon as follows: “… in the mythical ideas of many peoples, a hybrid creature formed of snake, lizard, bird, lion….” In many religions, the dragon embodies (often closely related to the snake) primordial powers hostile to God that must be overcome. While lindworms (i.e., wingless dragons), cryptids, and the uroborus (Früh, 1988, p. 7) are also reminiscent of snakes and dragons, they are not identical with the life-renewing power of the snake. 7 A modern translation of Genesis 17:1 (as cited in Kassel, 1980, p. 233). On the Hebrew word tam, see Renz, 2017, section 2.2.8.

References Drewermann, E. (1993): Glauben in Freiheit oder Tiefenpsychologie und Dogmatik. Bd.I. Solothurn: Walter. Egli, H. (1982): Das Schlangensymbol. Olten: Walter. Flatischler, R. (1992): The forgotten power of rhythm. Mendocino, CA: LifeRhythm. Früh, S. (ed.). (1988): Märchen von Drachen. Frankfurt/Main: Fischer. Funke, D. (1998): Der Platz des Bösen in Gott? Psychoanalytische und theologische Erwägungen zum halbierten Bild vom “guten Gott.” In: B. Claret., D. Funke, D. Schnocks, & M. Schlagheck (eds.): Theologie und Psychologie im Dialog über das Böse (pp. 93–144). Paderborn: Bonifatius. Grimm, J., & Grimm, W. (1884): Household tales by the brothers Grimm (M. Hunt, transl.). London: George Bell and Sons. Retrieved from https://www.worldoftales.com/fairy_ tales/Grimm_fairy_tales_Margaret_Hunt.html#gsc.tab=0 Hegi, F. (1986): Improvisation und Musiktherapie. Möglichkeiten und Wirkungen von freier Musik. Paderborn: Junfermann.

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Hoad, T.F. (1986): The Concise Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Kassel, M. (1980): Biblische Urbilder. München: Pfeiffer. Kluge, F. (1975): Etymologisches Wörterbuch der deutschen Sprache. Berlin: Walter De Gruyter. Mahler, M., Pine, F., & Bergman, A. (1975): The psychological birth of the human infant: Symbiosis and individuation. London: Hutchinson. Renz, M. (2015): Dying: A transition (M. Kyburz with J. Peck, transl.). New York: Columbia University Press. Renz, M. (2017): Erlösung aus Prägung. Botschaft und Leben Jesu als Überwindung der menschlichen Angst-, Begehrens- und Machtstruktur (2nd rev. ed.) [mit einer Klangreisen-CD]. Paderborn: Junfermann. Renz, M. (2021): The mystic man from Nazareth. New York: Crossroad Publishing. Sirovatka, O., & Luzik, R. (eds.) (1977): Slavische Märchen (4th ed.). Hanau: Werner Dausien. Stern, D.N. (1985): The interpersonal world of the infant: A view from psychoanalysis and developmental psychology. New York, NY: Basic Books. Zenger, E. (1987). Gottes Bogen in den Wolken: Untersuchungen zur Komposition und Theologie der priesterschriftlichen Urgeschichte (2nd ed.). Stuttgart: Katholisches Bibelwerk.

Chapter 7

Post-transition: the ego and the unconscious in the dual world

Abstract The ego has ended its transitional process. Now more or less stable, it discovers the world through the five senses. Its clear relationship with reality equals the completed separation between consciousness and the unconscious. Capable of dual perception, the ego judges accordingly: rational versus irrational; bright versus dark. Ontogenetically (over decades) and phylogenetically (over millenia), the focus lies on strengthening the ego. Symbolically, the ego is the hero who secures his existence and has tri­ umphed over the powers of darkness. Non-duality is far removed from the ego. What once proved threatening during transition now seems banished: the primordial atmosphere (i.e., the non-dual and wholesome atmosphere) is repressed or tabooed. Nevertheless, the ego is mostly both rooted in trust (healthy ego) and determined by primordial fear (distress-ego). Lacking solid foundations, the distress-ego is constantly fleeing, yet without knowing what from. It must keep protecting itself, as well as legitimize itself from the outside. Many unhealthy coping strategies, defense me­ chanisms, and one-sided views emerge. This chapter also presents symbols, experi­ ences of music, and images of God/the divine that are typical of our alienation from the non-dual dimension.

7.1 Ego and distress-ego: perspective, music, symbols This side of transition, the ego has achieved a certain stability and discovers the world through the five senses. A clear relationship with reality is synonymous with the completed separation between the conscious and the unconscious. The ego lives in dual perception and judges accordingly: rational versus irrational; bright versus dark; man versus woman; good versus evil; congenial versus threatening. Over a long period of time (ontogenetically, over decades; phylogenetically, over millennia), strengthening the ego takes priority. The ego is symbolically the hero who secures his existence and has triumphed over the powers of darkness. Non-duality is far removed from the ego. What once proved threatening during transition is now banished, while the primordial atmosphere (also the non-dual and wholesome atmosphere) is repressed. DOI: 10.4324/9781003176572-7

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From a musical perspective, we no longer perceive the omnipotence of sound due to the dominant sense of time. Music and atmosphere are subjects of conversation and analysis. Music becomes a human art, as well as a form of composition. On a symbolic level, the hero or prince needs to prove himself.1 His po­ tentials, weapons, or means of transportation—from horses (hp) to cars and high-speed trains—become important. We may assume that in the phyloge­ netic process new cultural achievements were constantly made. The forces of nature became ever more predictable. The illustration below shows that the distress-ego is uncoupled from its primordial ground in contrast to the healthy ego (as illustrated in section 1.6) (Figure 7.1). In reality, the ego is mostly both a healthy ego and a distress-ego.2 The healthy person is rooted in trust, whereas the distress-ego stands on unsustainable, brittle ground. The distress-ego lives in makeshift edifices lacking solid foundations. It works on infertile arable land and is constantly fleeing, yet without knowing what from. Questioned by fears and doubts, it lacks both a sense of being permitted (i.e., reconciled existence) and healthy self-confidence. It must keep protecting itself, as well as prove and legitimize itself from the outside. One adolescent girl’s dream describes what a distress-ego feels like: I’m on a steep alp and can barely stand. Thunderclouds race past. A rough wind is blowing. The pastures are barren, the grass pale and listless. There are no cows. I feel threatened and have no house. Other people are also ill

Figure 7.1 The distress-ego.

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and are standing around like leprous soldiers. They, too, can barely stand and have no house either. From such an unhealthy development emerge many coping strategies, defense mechanisms, and one-sided views of life that protect the weak distress-ego. Retrospectively, duality, one-sidedness, and a person’s or a society’s taboos may all indicate the plight of the distress-ego. Various kinds of dominance come to mind: • • • • • • • • • • •

Ego-boundedness over non-dualism. The material over the spiritual dimension. Rationality over irrationality. Time over space. Rhythm over sound. Male over female. Culture over nature. The human over the animalistic and instinctual. Consciousness over the unconscious. The ego over the primordial ground and omnipotence. The ego over death.

7.2 Being our own lord and master—alienation The fissure For it is written in the fissure between the shadow side and sunlight that some few came across — who does not believe this? Ursula Renz (1992) Which fissure? Karlfried Dürckheim regards our severance from the all-healing Supreme Being as our primary suffering (1985, p. 62). Who can still feel this severance and consider it to be true? Who still feels how alienated and homeless we are? Who suffers from no longer being able to bide their time alone? We switch on the television to ensure that something is “on” and that someone seems to be at home. And yet, if we are unable to be alone and quiet, our life remains superficial. Deeper down, we are a mystery to ourselves. We no longer even dream—and when we do, we devalue the nocturnal messages of the unconscious. Not only have we lost non-duality, but often even our longing for it. Mythologically speaking, the ego lives in exile. It has “made

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itself at home” to such an extent that it no longer recognizes either any state of exile or any primordial ground. The ego behaves as if it were the lord and master of its own spiritual home. But does this correspond to our mental and spiritual health? Our previous suffering has not become superfluous, but has merely shifted: instead of primordial fear, we now suffer from the consequences of our coping patterns: from a power-based and stressful atmosphere, from destroyed nature, from the fact that our soul has lost its depth, as well as from addictions that seem to be divorced from our underlying longing. Do we, as alienated humans, still find our way home? And where is this? Here is a dream of a patient in her mid-40s: I’m as ill as I am, back in my hometown where I was supposed to meet my parents. They are also everyone else’s parents: they are an ancestral mother and father. I have checked into a hotel, am sitting at the bar and listening to what others are saying about their happiness. Longingly, I go out onto the streets looking for my parents. We have arranged to meet. But don’t they recognize me? Have I come to the wrong place? I make detours, and the bus I take drives around aimlessly. I smoke (although I’m a non-smoker). I snack, drink wine, and listen excessively to music. But I don’t find my parents. I grow very sad and sit on the street. Then my parents come toward me and want to comfort me. They take me home. Here there is bread, bread, bread.

7.3 Types of fear This side of transition, we only know concrete types of fear. We have names and terms for what we fear. And yet, our fears would not be what they are without the energy of the primordial fear that is contained within and lying behind them. For it is primordial fear that makes our small fears so large and incomprehensible. Below are various types of fear (according to the two faces of primordial fear): Types of fear and feelings related to forlornness • • •

The fear of loneliness and emptiness, of the unknown, monotony, and nothingness. The fear of blackness and darkness, inasmuch as these states are intuited as nothingness. The fear of not being in order or of being beside oneself (not being inside the non-dual order); fear of chaos, inasmuch as this means a loss of order.

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• • • • • • • • • • • • • •

The fear of falling, if this means falling out of order and out of communities. The fear of standing out; cowardice; the fear of entering the world of individualism and isolation; the fear of distinguishing oneself, of fighting back and becoming exposed. The fear of losing touch (e.g., with one’s youth group, with the world outside the nursing home; in dreams, we might miss our railway connection). Not feeling in good hands, feeling unjustified, without grounding and meaning. The fear of being exposed, leprous, outcast, contagious. The fear of being homeless; of not finding one’s way home. The inability to healthily detach oneself, to leave one’s home, clan, and tradition; homesickness. The fear of tension, challenges, and decisions; of ending a relationship, of distance. The fear of being forgotten (a common form of anxiety in old age). The fear of insecurity, of being outdoors, of cold weather; the fear of barren, sterile surroundings. No longer feeling loved anymore. The fear of hunger and thirst, or of suffering even greater dearth. No longer feeling whole. The fear of death, of “being lost over there.”

Types of fear and feelings related to being overwhelmed by the numinous • • • • • • • • •

The fear of being eaten or sucked dry. The fear of narrowness and confinement. The fear of the Thou, of relationships, of closeness, commitment, and contact. The fear of death, of perishing; fighting for survival. The fear of self-weakening, exposure, shame, inferiority, and power­ lessness in the face of others. The fear of greater powers, of the forces of nature, of blows of fate. In fairy tales, the fear of dragons, elephants, giants, wolves, and the fear of the spiritual dimension. The fear of the (dragon’s) mouth, of the gaping hole in the ground, of the vortex or of chaos/the devouring. The fear of falling, if this means falling into the (strangle)hold of a dreaded power. The fear of everything that, in terms of analogous thinking, recalls wholeness or envelopment. • •

The fear of the irrational, of the spiritual. The fear of moods, unpredictability, the treacherous and insidious;

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• • • • • • • • • •

The fear of the feminine and witch-like. The fear of the natural, animalistic, and instinctual; The fear of blackness and darkness that devours light and life. The fear of “dirt,” the clod of earth, and cobwebs. The fear of being beside oneself, of the Dionysian. The fear of the ego being consumed by fire; images of hellfire. The fear of transformation, of turning into ashes. Images of being swallowed by the fish (see Jonah). The fear of sound and noise, yet also of total silence. The fear of fullness, thickness, the sea, and so on.

As a rule, we are involved simultaneously in primordial fear, even if we tend to be more affected by one of these aspects. Both aspects may even converge in one and the same form of anxiety. At the same time, we are afraid of falling out of being loved into undefinable narrowness. Chaos is the gateway not only to the too much but also to the too little. Both states leave us powerless.

7.4 Progressive and regressive forces The primordial forces, mentioned above several times, are also effective be­ yond the transition, as progressive and regressive forces. Progressive forces urge us toward ego-bound life and action. At work behind them is the masculine primordial force of emergence: inspiration. These forces seek to master the struggle for survival. They manifest themselves as the lust for life, in sensual experience, in understanding, and in cultural production. They become concrete in the joy of rhythm, in movement, in our motivation to work and tackle things, and in our relationship with reality. Besides urging toward de­ marcation, they seek to avoid too much solidarity and closeness. They also dare to fight and risk conflicts. And they strive for autonomy, external selfrealization, and freedom in the here and now. Communication proceeds from the “I” to the “Thou,” in ego-bound concretism. After we have completed our transitional process, these progressive forces adopt naturally a distance to the Whole. Yet where primordial fear has been experienced in a pronounced way, this tendency also becomes an escape: the Whole/the numinous remains excessively fraught with anxiety. Regressive forces seek that which shelters. They are still urging, even after transition, toward the Whole and the greatest shelteredness. At work inside these forces is the primordial feminine force. While it once simply existed and carried us (in the state of envelopment, in the womb, in the world of at­ mosphere and vibration, in sound), now, after our transitional process, this force acquires a different character. In the best case, it manifests itself as longing. Often, however—for instance, either in individuals who are strongly determined by alienation and separation or in those who are part of collectives

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that have been shaped in this way—this primordial force lives as if under false premises: as undefinable sadness, addiction, smoldering anger, or unlived potential. One-sided, ego-bound judgment leaves regressive forces not un­ derstood. Instead, we first need to grasp their nature: they seek protection in what shelters, as well as profound connectedness, spirituality, an atmosphere of peaceful being—and so not merely in terms of regression to early childhood sensitivities. We recognize this positively in religious searching, in maternal love, in deep friendships, and when we are close to our own inner being. The longing for connectedness and deep relationship entails that we more strongly perceive misalignments within and around ourselves and suffer from the world’s unpleasantness. These needs motivate our maturing process from within, as well as encourage us to work for a more healed and a more whole world. While progressive and regressive forces may fight each other, they may also complement each other. Their fruitful cooperation enables us to be both ourselves and part of the Whole, striving forward and yet rooted, realitybound, and oriented toward the Whole. Fritz Riemann (2009) distinguished four basic types of fear (see below). They underlie all other fears and can also be understood as forces: 1. The fear of a possible loss of self, of dependence and self-devotion. Formulated in terms of power: striving for individuality, self-sufficiency, delimitation. The schizoid personality. 2. The fear of standing out from others, the fear of emerging as ourselves, the fear of ego-formation, of loneliness, insecurity, and otherness. Formulated in terms of power: the striving for connectedness, the ability to surrender and integrate into the collective. The depressive personality. 3. The fear of change, which is experienced as a fear of insecurity, incalculability, and transience. Formulated in terms of power: the striving for constancy, security, and predictability. The compulsive-obsessive personality. 4. The fear of necessity, of harsh finality, of being determined, of responsibility, tradition, and fixation. The fear of the finality of death. Formulated as power: the striving for change, freedom, the courage to take risks. The hysteric personality. The schizoid parts of the personality can be readily associated with the pro­ gressive primordial force: as a striving for form and life, yet also, as this book suggests, as an escape from the Whole/God due to pronounced primordial fear. This flight is older than interpersonal boundaries. The depressive parts of the personality can be found with the regressive primordial force. This concerns long sought-after proximity, yet not only to other people. The depressive aspect emerges when a person yearns for the Whole, as well as for a different quality of life and connectedness, and yet feels

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blocked to act out their longing. Are they too weak? Too alienated from their origin? Or do they live in a dominant, ego-bound environment, in which their essence withers? In my approach, Riemann’s third type of fear—of change or the willingness to be compulsive-obsessive—is already a secondary type of fear: shaken by primordial fear (both aspects), the later ego avoids situations that recall that old fear (including change: the fluidity or fragility that already characterized transition at the time). Compulsion is a coping pattern for evading pri­ mordial fear. I consider Riemann’s fourth type of fear—of finality, attachment, and constancy—also a secondary type. Shaken by primordial fear, the emerged ego avoids attachment (e.g., situations in which we encounter ourselves and face responsibility). Behind the avoided finality lies the fear of the primordial counterpart (e.g., God, the numinous, nothingness, or death). The word hysteria itself, deriving from uterus, captures the fear of the encompassing, feminine numinous.

7.5 Coping patterns become normal Coping patterns have determined and continue to determine all development and life, individually and collectively. What during transition was still flight from and reaction to primordial fear has in the course of progressive devel­ opment long become normal and accepted in society, as a lifestyle or per­ sonality trait. The former capacity—to leave behind the inhospitable primordial atmosphere and desert existence—became an invisible obsession with mobility. The defeat of Mother Nature became the powerful conquest and cultivation, and yet also the exploitation of the earth. The growing pre­ dominance of thought pushed feeling and sensing into the background. The collective identification with powerful masculinity as the vanquisher of en­ velopment resulted in patriarchy. In individual experience, this made man and woman identify with the powerful and willing to unthinkingly adopt patri­ archal patterns. Technology has become unmanageable and inscrutable. Humankind has increasingly penetrated the secrets of space and the atom. It has discovered space travel, yet also the atomic bomb. In becoming more efficient and purposeful, we have accepted stress and the achievementoriented society. We have developed laws, dogmas, and hierarchies for or­ ganizing the collective. These, however, have also come to straitjacket life. In all these developments, the healthy exists beside the sick, and valuable discoveries and cultural assets beside civilizational diseases, because they are motivated at one and the same time by the ego and the distress-ego. And yet, no one perceives primordial fear as the driving force behind of all these de­ velopments. Thus arises the illusion that primordial fear is defeated and not even worth mentioning, while the extreme and at times pathological has long since become normal. So many people live on limited terrain and forbid

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themselves their deeper potentials and desires, not knowing that so much more would be possible. Today, we are able to explain and talk about our problems without needing to feel them. But is this really a victory? The more we try to evade primordial fear, the more it confronts us in a new way: never before have apocalyptic visions been as real as today. Nor has nature, our original habitat, been so destroyed. Nor has the music of our world of atmosphere and vibration been so over­ stimulated. Religious wars and eschatological scenarios have become truly menacing. Perhaps we are gradually growing aware of our total powerlessness, of our creaturely feeling as our starting point par excellence.

7.6 The Whole: a God who either leads us to self-responsibility or is dead—images of God Which images of God can we attribute to that period in the development of human consciousness in which the ego no longer defines itself in terms of the Whole, but entirely in terms of its own possibilities and earthly past? These are positive images of God, in which autonomy, ego-strength, individuality, and the capacity for life appear as God’s will. Negatively speaking, these are images of a God whom we no longer honor or fear, to the point that God ceases to exist. In either case, we have long since bid farewell to a direct and experi­ enced relationship with God, to the Whole and non-duality. In terms of the history of religion, God is only experienced by some few individuals (pro­ phets, the sick, mystics). Here are the corresponding images of God: •

• •

• •

The positively experienced God as a Thou. The idea of the one and absolute person of God, upon whom the dignity of the human being and the absoluteness of individual consciousness are founded (Drewermann, 1988, pp. 256–257). God as a man, in the sense of a leader figure, as a model for what has become ego-bound. God the Father. In the protective and merciful God as Father also lives a sheltering motherliness (experience of wholeness B). Images of a fatherly or motherly God emphasize that we are children of God who need protection, and yet are also immature (Wöller, 1989, p. 231); the ancient experience of the mother (experience of wholeness B) also lives in the God who nourishes in the desert (Manna, Exodus 16). The God of the way, the mission, and the struggle. He accompanies humans through the desert and supports his people in times of war or in their life struggle. The emphasis on freedom, achievement, and responsibility (the parable of the talents in Matthew 25:14–30). Laws now document the covenant between Yahweh and the people of Israel. God thereby also becomes calculable, reliable (i.e., the numinous withdraws). In the covenant,

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humankind feels taken seriously as God’s counterpart. The rational level of thinking and language takes precedence over feeling. Jesus demands of us avowal, vigilance, alertness, as well as consequence (ego forces). God, who calls people by name; baptism and naming. Samuel’s calling as incubation. In becoming ourselves, we experience ourselves as willed by God. God dismisses and releases the share of the inheritance (the parable of the lost son in Luke 15:11–32). The God of chosenness. He stands on the side of the elect, the righteous, the strong, and the successful. As the divine moves further away inwardly, external authorities appear and speak in the name of God. Prophets, mediators. Life in foreign lands raises the question of faithfulness to or aversion from God (i.e., the enduring question of the ancient people of Israel: Moses, Elijah, Tobit, Ruth). God, with whom we argue (see Abraham’s conversation with God, Genesis 18:23–33), and to whom we oppose our ego. The harmless, kind God. The dogmatically defined God. His sources of grace are administered by the institution of the Church. Such a God is believed only outwardly (exoterically), through proclamation; the immediate experience of God becomes suspect. The God who is explained solely by the Word. The mystery is not celebrated through rites. The irrational is excluded from schools and universities. God as a purely neurophysiological product, through which the hypoth­ esis of the “primordial relationship” and the “primordial ground” becomes obsolete.

Which forms does the ego’s non-relationship with God take? What do myths tell us? God can be outwitted, rejected, and negated: Prometheus, the son of the Titan lapetus, steals the fire in Olympus and brings it to the people. Goethe has him say: “Here I sit, shape men… not to respect yours as I do.” Gilgamesh (ca. 3000 BCE, Babylon) rejects Ishtar’s courtship and wants to defeat death. Hans Küng has summarized this as follows: “Isn’t God from the very begin­ ning a projection of man (Feuerbach), the opium of the people (Marx), the resentment of those who have come a little short (Nietzsche), the illusion of those who have remained infantile (Freud)” (1980, p. XXI). It seems to me as if modernity has not finished writing its myths about the distant God. The “heroes” live both among and within us: perhaps in uni­ forms or white coats, perhaps in purple and mitre. They hold the reins of power, determine the goods of this world, and issue decrees and directives, in order to maintain order in the ego. Their gods are called money, technology, science, and prestige. The hero’s innermost temptation is the greed for power.

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A culture’s image of God also includes whatever people worship, for example, the golden calf, the superstar, black magic. And yet—amid all of this—God himself is far away. He has been usurped. God is dead and faceless. But is God, whom we no longer speak about, dead? How does the absent God, or the Whole that is itself split-off, take effect? One answer is: through the atmospherically overshadowed. But what does that mean?

7.7 The atmospherically overshadowed What is split off inwardly is known as the unconscious. Less well known, yet no less important, are the shadowed aspects around us. Every collective, every culture, and every religion is characterized not only by what it teaches and knows, but also by what it emanates, fears, and taboos. The child not only learns what it is shown. Like the environmental toxins in the mother’s milk, it also absorbs what it is denied or what its surroundings are completely unaware of: the shadows of a collective or a clan, a society’s stress factors, an era’s temptations, and ancient fears. Such shadow aspects of a culture (e.g., the postwar silence in Germany; negated suffering) belong to what the strengthened ego normally no longer sees. Thus, for instance, we can engage with conscious tensions in our surroundings (e.g., a baby that is born at an inconvenient time). On the other hand, deeply unconscious tensions and needs exist even if they should not be allowed to. Their ambiguity is passed on to future generations, and they become atmospherically cursed and elusive. Let me introduce what I call the atmospherically overshadowed. This includes what is excluded from the collective.3 It implies more than merely what is unconsciously at work in the individual. Although evident, for instance, in individual violence and intrigue, it is far greater, sometimes even atmo­ spherically omnipresent. Does what takes autonomous effect also exist outside us? I believe it does. For better or for worse, we are not alone with ourselves, but moved or even confronted by external forces. Still, assigning them “de­ termination” or “willpower” would be overstating the case. These energies urge toward development, to the point of remaining unredeemed. They even include those aspects of the Whole that the ego has pronounced dead and locked out (see the thirteenth fairy godmother in Sleeping Beauty; Grimm & Grimm, 1884). And they include that which fascinates, drives, and fixates us, against our own will or far removed from consciousness. It overwhelms us from behind, for instance, as suffering, and seizes children when adults choose to repress. Let me illustrate what works autonomously inside us by considering the victims of violence: many affected persons are later fascinated by violence or counterviolence. They embrace radicalness while barely being to endure powerlessness and slow processes (i.e., counterqualities of violence). Some be­ come perpetrators themselves… and some later have no recollection of their

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actions. Previously nondescript men and women may suddenly mistreat children or beat up defenseless people—as if they had do (compulsive-obsessive). And we ask ourselves: Why doesn’t the perpetrator remember his or her actions after­ ward? Apart from individual formative influences, such examples also require us to bear in mind the “atmospherically overshadowed”: for this takes hold of the individual, who, imprinted early on or traumatized and thus split, is mostly at its mercy. At some point, such persons lose any feeling for their victims and for themselves, for what is right and what wrong. An individual’s violent “im­ printing” becomes an entry point for collective elemental forces.4 Vice versa, the crimes committed by individuals, and their media coverage, charge the collective atmosphere with cursed energies. The inside and outside, our own anger and the collective’s split-off energies, as well as our actions and our determination by others (i.e., heteronomy), work together. What I have illustrated with the example of violence is also evident in many other situations, whether negligible or not. “It does” something to our de­ bauchery, our intrigues, our paralyzed life force. We can be triggered, utterly and completely: all of a sudden, we “must” have this stuff (and none other) or watch the latest film, or belittle those whom we envy. Others are over­ whelmed by listlessness, headaches, or greed. Suddenly, we “must” spout evil or slam down the accelerator. In many such situations, we are determined by external forces; and by concealing our own weakness, we continue to proffer our hand to the “atmospherically overshadowed.” As dangerous as the overshadowed is, it is neither the first nor the last reality. Even deeper lie magnificent primordial powers and potentials. Yet the unconscious and the atmospherically overshadowed are not only repositories of frustration and resentment. They also recover a treasure trove of buried primordial trust and lost joie de vivre. In the innermost and in the outermost, nothing but the Whole is at work: urgently, redeemingly, and sensemakingly. God seeks an abode within us. He himself urges that which is unconsciously passed on from one generation to another to come to consciousness.

7.8 The topography of the unconscious—psychic layers The various schools of psychology have developed different models of con­ sciousness and the unconscious as the basis of human action. Sigmund Freud claimed that the unconscious contains censored or forgotten content, that is suppressed by the ego, and that is deemed of­ fensive and unsettling within existing norms. This content affects the ego’s sphere through dreams, compulsive repetition, through projection and fascination, through parapraxis. For instance, people repeatedly choose a partner with similar character traits. Or the same authority problems arise with every new boss. Or we locked ourself out of the car at the decisive moment. Such unconscious mechanisms, which Freud al­ ready described at the beginning of the last century, 5 are, if laid bare,

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usually rationally comprehensible. This conception of the unconscious leaves little room for the irrational, nor for what the child experiences in its earliest development through atmospheres and vibrations. C.G. Jung expanded the concept of the unconscious. Through the col­ lective unconscious and his doctrine of archetypes, he opened up diseases and disorders that originate in such deep psychic layers. He located in the col­ lective unconscious those archetypal contents that people of all times and continents have in common. The self, as the central archetype, contains the divine and is the place where we make contact with it. Thus, Jung accom­ modated the eternally unfathomable, which can be experienced within the soul. According to Jung and his student Erich Neumann, this dimension is about having a good relationship with the self (ego-self-axis). Stanislav and Christina Grof’s topography of the unconscious coincides with Jung in several respects, yet uses others concepts. They refer to the deepest layer as the level of transpersonal experiences, which connect historical figures, earlier lives, and so on across time, genres, and developmental stages. This is also the level of archetypes, of the encounter with devils and gods. It holds great ther­ apeutic potential. Here occur the deepest healing and transformation of per­ sonality. Here arises a feeling of unity with the cosmos, and with the spirit of the universe. It is also where the supracosmic and metacosmic void are experienced (1989, 1985, p. 131). Following Freud and Jung, the Grofs also claim the ex­ istence of an individual unconscious that is endowed with biographical material. New in their conception is an intermediate area, which they call the perinatal layer, in which experiences around birth are stored. The topography of the unconscious that I am presenting in this book includes non-duality and the liminal sphere as a place of spiritual healing. I am thinking of a set of working tools with which I orient myself within the deep layers of the unconscious and also in the liminal sphere to religion with the corresponding symbolism. Aside from Erich Neumann’s (Jungian) developmental psychology (1973, 2015), no such perspective has yet come into view. While my model adopts essential Jungian contents and concepts, it differs from Jung’s thinking in one important respect: not ambivalence is our deepest ground, nor does good ultimately stand beside evil. In my eyes, non-dual existence (chapters 1–4) is older and more ultimate than feeling in terms of opposites, as well as older than all ambivalence. Even in a final perspective, I dare to speak of participation in an eschatological being and of ultimate relationship (chapter 9). There, ambivalences are outgrown. Concretely, the concept of humankind presented in this book models the unconscious in terms of layers (section 1.6; see also the enclosed DVD). More recent impressions are stored above older ones. Possibly, older layers, such as that of primordial trust, were buried by younger ones, and yet are still “present.” No clear boundaries exist between the layers. In deeply unconscious layers, energies tend to be more total (e.g., primordial fear) and contents more formless than in more conscious layers (e.g., types of fear). My approach acknowledges (and that

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also defines its logic) that our deepest unconscious touches the Whole. Thus, the unconscious never exhausts itself, nor is it ever fully illumined. In this perspective, dying offers a great opportunity. Not only do we near death, but as we do, we also approach the Whole and undergo liminal experi­ ences. In dying processes, a shift in perception, with its typical stages of transition (Renz, 2015), once again occurs. Now, however, this shift takes place in the opposite direction than during ego development. This does not necessarily mean that dying is identical with regression. It may also represent a new opening to­ ward the Whole in the sense of progression (see the pyramid below). Nor does this final transition proceed in linear fashion. It instead involves oscillating be­ tween both modes of being: non-duality and ego-boundness. Near death, the intervals of submergence (i.e., toward non-duality) often become longer.

7.9 Working with the model: therapists, pastors, doctors, nurses How is this layer model part of my daily work? When I meet a patient, I am confronted at the same time by the here and now and by the deeply un­ conscious. I engage with the present (e.g., a patient’s shortness of breath, fear, individual history of suffering, and a particular family environment) and keep asking myself: “What lies behind? What must this person deal with in the face of finality? Is there a family taboo?” Immersing ourselves in the earliest worlds of sounds and symbols stands immediately beside questions about coping with life or illness. It is not about an either-or, but about a both-and. Present distress causes us to unearth or even to discover the past. The “it” inside the patient steers, seemingly of its own accord, toward the next step (Figure 7.2). For me as a therapist, tacit approval, support, and confrontation lie close together. I try—within my limits—to capture the signals emanating from the different levels, to take note of dream messages, tone of voice, and body language, and to remain aware of transference and countertransference. At a dying patient’s bedside no dif­ ferently than in other therapeutic situations. Can we offer an inner—or perhaps even a real—space for transformation processes to take place? I make concrete suggestions (e.g., a breathing exercise, music-assisted relaxation or active imagination, a con­ versation about coping with the disease or family circumstances, trauma therapy, and perhaps a prayer or a depth-psychological interpretation of a biblical text). Throughout, I am present as a person, both in what I can allow or from what I delimit myself. Besides my counterpart’s individuality, I am guided by the model presented here. Knowing how deep a dream motif runs (e.g., a snake symbol, the color sky blue) or a dying person’s symbolic utterance (“masses of water,” “darkness”) enables me to react in terms of the logic of the same psychic layer. I always ask myself: 1. What are this person’s conscious and unconscious themes (e.g., the abandoned inner child, poverty, a high susceptibility to spirituality)? Hurt, coping patterns, and (hidden) potentials are all part of us.

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Figure 7.2 Everyday consciousness, ego consciousness (2).

2. How do energies work? Can I sense a constructive energy? Or has something blindly identified itself with archaic anger, greed, or envy? Do I suspect latent depression or aggression? Is there projection? Energies must be detected, channeled, and liberated. 3. In which psychic layer does present experience take place? (Overview 2) (see also section 1.9, Table 7.1)

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7.10 Coping patterns as an impasse Primordial fear and our experiences during transition have a long-lasting in­ fluence. Innumerable sufferings, forms of illness, even characteristics of whole civilizations become newly understandable as a consequence of archaic events (see the notion of “formative influences/imprinting” in Renz, 2017), in whose course the unbearable was marginalized as soon as possible. Defensive mechanisms are the ego’s coping strategies. They liberate—yet only for a while. At some point in our maturing process, we begin to suffer from our deficiencies and imprintings and from those of others. Such superficial patterns of coping include: •

•

•

•

Normality: Norms govern human coexistence. If, however, normality is related to persons, it is questionable (someone who is uncomplicated is also normal). Striving to be normal is a coping pattern. What for? This side of Eden, where we are no longer at one and contained, we compensate and wish to be present in human groups and “to be okay and trendy” within their specific orders. And yet, this does not lead us back to our original feeling of being-in-order as who we are.—Redemption will happen through reconnecting with the Whole and its primordial order. Attribution of guilt, scapegoat pattern, projection, primary guilt feelings: Instead of being exposed to the unbearable, or of enduring it with all our might, we escape into causal explanations, seeking either a guilty party or a scapegoat. Unable to blame someone else, we blame ourselves (section 5.15). This coping pattern has made cultural history in the three Abrahamic religions (blood feud, scapegoat rites), even to the extent of institutionally regulated forgiveness (confession as a compulsory pre-Easter exercise). We remain unredeemed to this day (see further Renz, 2017, chapter I.3; see also Girard, 1987).—One day, redemption will be possible by ever more individuals of a collective becoming conscious, through devotion and forgiveness. Approaching Jesus in terms of this coping pattern reveals that his life, death, and redemption were both exemplary and unprecedented (Renz, 2021). One-sidedness: Much of our collective’s one-sidedness represents coping patterns (see section 7.1). For instance, overshadowed femininity shows that it is not really helpful if women merely follow the example of men, define themselves accordingly, and become co-rulers in today’s power politics.—Redemption takes place through the maturing processes of numerous women and men, in that they dare “go it alone” and individuate, and increasingly embrace (their) lost femininity (sensitivity, warmth, devotion). Similar paths of liberation and new connotations are needed by the misunderstood depressive, by the lost silence in the world of sound, by threatened nature, and by the tabooed holy, spiritual sphere. Relationship disorders: Does excessively experienced primordial fear make it so difficult to engage in relationships, to feel another person and ourselves,

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indeed to be faithful? For instance, autism as an extreme relationship disorder indicates that not only relationship but also its avoidance begins in the earliest period of life. Autistic children are often musical. It is quite conceivable that they, trapped in sound and incapable of drawing boundaries, constantly escape their overbearing world of atmosphere and vibration (do they do so already intrauterine?). This “too much” could never be relativized and remains omnipresent. Or: What lies concealed behind the phenomenon that certain people must constantly avert their gaze instead of looking others in the eye? Which gaze do they fear? Being looked at or looking at? Even narcissism, now almost a popular disease, is a profound relationship disorder, or what I call a “counterpart disorder.” Was such people’s first counterpart (i.e., the numinous Whole) also too close, too abrupt—and thus unbearable? Such persons will avoid actual encounters or facing others (i.e., experiencing another person as a Thou and oneself as their opposite). The earlier unsuccessful delimitation (from the Whole, from the early atmosphere, from mother and father, and so on) became permanently excessive. We can outgrow narcissism and relationship disorders if we recognize their roots in our disturbed relationship with the Whole.

7.11 Behind all taboos lies a central taboo: the Whole and its immediacy Taboos are internalized prohibitions. Tabooed spaces contain the deeply feared, the unredeemed, as well as that which urges toward integration and is ultimately healing. The mechanism of exclusion extends so far in the taboo that it is no longer perceived as such and becomes a self-evident part of the ego’s behavior. Ingrid Riedel (1985) describes this as follows: “Taboo—a Polynesian term—refers to what … is so explicitly prohibited that it could, in early cultures, lead to illness or, if violated, even to death. Thus, that a person could die out of sheer horror and inner fear if they broke a taboo (…) even if nothing evil happens to them from the outside” (p. 7). Tabooing, too, is a coping strategy. According to my model, it already begins before an ego is sufficiently developed and capable of repression. The tabooed was forced to leave the sphere of future consciousness already at the onset of ego-formation. In its oldest function, the taboo protects us from being too close to what overwhelms us. That, in the first instance, is its purpose. In fairy tales, the deeply hidden and the forbidden appear in far-flung places: behind seven mountains, at the bottom of a lake, in the dark forest, in the thirteenth or one hundredth room of a hidden castle. Fairytale heroes grow aware of the taboo through a strange encounter, for instance, with a dreaded spirit-being or a shadow figure. Such figures may be a beggar possessing a knowledge of magic in the Nordic folktale “Zottelhaube” (van Leyen, 1922, No. 32, pp. 186–193), or an animal, for example, a stag appearing as a spiritual

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guide (“The Glass Coffin,” Grimm & Grimm, 1884). These figures often appear precisely when people are in need. At first, they bring help and wealth, yet at the expense of a promise, mostly of a future child. This is subsequently brought into the taboo region (e.g., the cursed castle or the deep forest), in order to bring consciousness into the darkness of something taboo. What do taboos contain? Generally, what is prohibited from being true outside a collective, a clan, a religion, or an individual, but which is never­ theless vital for future life. Hence, every taboo urges toward conscious reali­ zation. Where a mermaid appears, for instance, a new zest for life seeks to enter an impoverished marriage (“The Nixie of the Mill-Pond,” Grimm & Grimm, 1884). Blood and children’s corpses in the taboo rooms of Bluebeard figures address society as a whole: here light seeks to penetrate a community’s perverse sexuality (“Fitcher’s Bird,” Grimm & Grimm, 1884). Some fairy tales bring to light the animalistic or savage (“Iron John,” Grimm & Grimm, 1884). The “deeply tabooed” is directed at an even more central, more extreme theme: the numinous, the overpowering, the holy, which fascinates and threatens us at the same time. Expressed in fairy-tale motifs, Grimm’s “Mary’s Child” (Grimm & Grimm, 1884), for example, concerns the mystery and unbearable splendor of the Holy Trinity (Riedel, 1985, p. 10). Other tales deal with aspects of the divine that are suppressed within a religion (e.g., the fe­ male, natural, and chthonic aspects of the deity; of a deity undergoing trans­ formation). The 13 knights sitting at the round table in the castle from which springs the water of life (“The Water of Life,” Grimm & Grimm, 1884) raise the question about the effectiveness of communio in the Holy One. In terms of this book, it almost amounts to a pattern that a taboo is more profoundly excluded from consciousness, the closer it touches the essence of the Whole. Behind every taboo lies one central taboo: the immediacy of the Whole, the Whole undergoing transformation, the Whole and its over­ whelming aspects: the sacred, the enormous, or perhaps both in one and the same. Nowadays, this extreme energetic urge is still palpable—in the images of mystics, poets, artists, and in the dreams of individual prophetic people. In conclusion, let me cite from Missa Mundi, a poem by Thomas Immoos (1989, pp. 14–15), who spent many years after World War II as a priest in Japan: Are you really A consuming fire, O God? Were you in the white embers? The terrible heat, In the black ashfall, In the deadly ray? (…) You are truly a terrible God, Terrible in your love! Is there no other means,

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To melt The icy cold of our time As the ghostly pigeon in the Atomic cloud? Do you only speak to us now In the fiery tongues The split atoms? Nagasaki, 1960

Notes 1 Here it is important to speak only in the male form, since the analogy concerns the victory of emergence. Even though girls are heroines and princesses in their own right, of course, they celebrate the victory of ego-bound, symbolic masculinity. 2 The concept of the distress-ego was introduced by Erich Neumann (1973). It refers to the child’s ego being “marked by negative primal relationship” (p. 74). The experience of the world, the Thou, and oneself stand under the sign of distress, if not even of doom. According to Neumann, a disturbed primordial relationship forms the basis of psychotic illness and many neurotic disorders (pp. 74–75). This is experienced above all as “not being loved” and is often associated with an insatiable longing (ibid.). 3 This refers to Jung’s notion of the collective unconscious (Hark, 1988), in that the at­ mospherically overshadowed strives to more strongly emphasize the unconscious and permanent present surrounding us. 4 James Hillman (1967) concludes that the devil also becomes incarnate in and through the human being. 5 See Freud (1966); see also Freud (2001) and Anna Freud (1967).

References Drewermann, E. (1988): Tiefenpsychologie und Exegese, Vol. I. Olten: Walter. Dürckheim, K. (1985): Mein Weg zur Mitte. Gespräche mit Alphonse Goettmann. Freiburg: Herder. Freud, A. (1967): The ego and the mechanisms of defense. In: The writings of Anna Freud, Vol. 2. New York, NY: The International Universities Press. (Original work pub­ lished 1936). Freud, S. (1966): The psychopathology of everyday life. London: Benn. (Original work pub­ lished 1904). Freud, S. (2001): An outline of psycho-analysis. In: The standard edition of the complete psy­ chological works of Sigmund Freud: Vol. XXIII. Moses and monotheism. An outline of psychoanalysis and other works (J. Strachey, transl.) (pp. 139–207). New York, NY: Vintage. (Original work published 1938, posthumously published 1940). Girard, R. (1987): Things hidden since the foundation of the world. London: Athlone. Grimm, J., & Grimm, W. (1884): Household tales by the brothers Grimm (M. Hunt, transl.). London: George Bell and Sons. Retrieved from https://www.worldoftales.com/fairy_ tales/Grimm_fairy_tales_Margaret_Hunt.html#gsc.tab=0 Girard, R. (1966): The psychopathology of everyday life. London: Benn. Grof, St. (1985): Beyond the brain: Birth, death, and transcendence in psychotherapy. Albany, NY: State University of New York Press.

The ego in the dual world 159 Grof, St., & Grof, Ch. (1989): Spiritual emergency: When personal transformation becomes a crisis.Los Angeles, CA: Tarcher. Hark, H. (1988): Lexikon Jungscher Grundbegriffe. Olten: Walter. Hillman, J. (1967): Insearch: Psychology and religion. New York, NY: Scribner’s. Immoos, T. (1989): Missa Mundi. Messe der Welt. Graz: Styria. Küng, H. (1980): Does God exist? An answer for today (E. Quinn, transl.). Eugene, Oregon: Wipf & Stock. Leyen, F. von (1922): Nordische Volksmärchen. (Tl. 2). Norwegen, Jena: Eugen Diederichs. Neumann, E. (1973): The child: Structure and dynamics of the nascent personality(R. Manheim, trans.). London: Karnac. (Original work published1963, posthumously published 1980). Neumann, E. (2015): The Great Mother: An analysis of the archetype (R. Manheim, transl.). Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1956). Renz, M. (2015): Dying: A transition (M. Kyburz with J. Peck, transl.). New York, NY: Columbia University Press. Renz, M. (2017): Erlösung aus Prägung. Botschaft und Leben Jesu als Überwindung der mens­ chlichen Angst-, Begehrens- und Machtstruktur (2nd rev. ed.) [mit einer Klangreisen-CD]. Paderborn: Junfermann. Renz, M. (2021): The mystic man from Nazareth. New York, NY: Crossroad Publishing. Renz, U. (1992): Gedichte. Unpublished manuscript. Riedel, I. (1985): Tabu im Märchen. Olten: Walter. Riemann, F. (2009): Anxiety. Using depth psychology to find balance in your life. München: E. Reinhardt. Wöller, H. (1989): Ein Traum von Christus. Stuttgart: Kreuz.

Chapter 8

From becoming an ego to becoming Whole (selectively integrating the Wholly Other into this world)

Abstract Maturing and transformation, individually and collectively, happen in suffering. This process leads to experiencing meaning and new perspectives. For many people, distress and hardship initiate a new opening toward non-dual dimensions. The one-sided emphasis on the ego becomes relativized. Growing older encourages maturation, since we look death more closely in the eye in the second half of life. This entails change and often regret, or biblically speaking metanoia (reversal). Inwardly, the ego accepts that it lacks something. This leads to questioning coping patterns. We begin seeking new ways in life and meaning, above all in suffering. And yet, we not only “search” but also “find.” This process takes place deep inside us: we can return to our primordial state of trust while moving forward into a new relationship and participation in the Whole (i.e., a final state). Reapproaching the Whole demands courage and humility. This chapter also presents symbols, experiences of music, and images of God/the divine that are typical of our maturation and integration amid suffering.

8.1 The suffering ego once again turns to the Whole Suffering moves. Maturing and transformation—individually and collectively— happen in suffering (see, for example, Rohr, 2011; Nouwen, 1992; Grün, 2008). Suffering and illness may lead to experiencing meaning and new perspectives. For many people, distress and hardship initiate a new opening toward non-dual dimensions. The one-sided ego-emphasis becomes relativized. Growing older encourages maturation, since we look death more closely in the eye in the second half of life. The biblical expression for such processes is metanoia (reversal, conversion, or change). Inwardly, the ego admits that something is missing. Longing for the Whole, we begin searching. But because we are disconnected, our search becomes addictive and leads to questioning our coping patterns. In this respect, I like the image of the spiral: it can be opened up toward the Whole and combines the surging, progressive force with the regressive, which strives for DOI: 10.4324/9781003176572-8

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the Whole. Nevertheless, we strive not only for the primordial state but also for new relatedness and participation. We seek to attain (or at least approach) a final state. It takes courage and humility to once again draw close to the Whole. Just as we need courage and a strong personality to engage with what is eternally too great and too hot. We need humility to question the ego (in its superiority and its defense mechanisms) and, time after time, to let go of or even “sacrifice” part of it. What I thought, what I wanted, where I felt safe and at home, what gave ME prestige: time and again, we must let go of what partly constituted this ego. One of the hardest things is to look at our own life story: to feel, once more, what has overwhelmed or hurt us. In other words, to look at how I came to be what I am. Reversal, conversion, or change never lead past the personality, but merely through it. The new path leads through our own life story, through our own coping patterns, indeed even through what has become as the respective collective emerged. This requires the ego to retroactively consent to its own becoming, even to family and cultural influences. Other cultures can sensitize us in the Western world to what we lack. It would, however, be mistaken to believe that we can lastingly resolve our selfsuffering by turning completely to the unfamiliar. One woman in her mid-50s dreamed about a radical change and spoke after of “metanoia”: I am standing in a spring-like forest. Next to me is a huge tree waiting to be split. I feel guilty: a child was murdered here, and I am its murderer. My guilt is so terrible that I can only run away, 20 miles to a town where I now live. No one ever recognized me. Years later, I feel the urge to return. The seemingly forgotten cannot be forgotten. And yet, the felled tree, the terrible feeling of guilt persists. Again, I run away. The dreamer awoke. She was so frightened that she felt she could not go on living like this. She returned to the dream in her imagination: The feeling of being a murderer becomes unbearable. Nothing could be worse. I decide to walk back to the scene of the crime, to confess simply by being there and to leave open what happens next. Now I am there, disconcerted and humble. Time passes. I build a hut from the wood lying around. I am sad. I wait and live. Occasionally, someone passes by, also the police. They recognize me. But since I am staying here, atoning, no one finds me “dangerous.” I am at home in the hut. I am fine. Here is what she associated with the murdered child: This is my desecrated natural soul and the femininity that has been violated in the course of patriarchy. I followed the pull of the city, did what one “does” in life, and thus betrayed my innermost.

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When we return to the place where we were hurt, we also reencounter the child that we were, that child that may have been injured or failed to live up to expectations. We must once again “pick up” our inner child, lovingly, where it was left behind. We must embrace and take it with us back into life. Little Bettina, little Roger. That child longs for the reinvigorated personality to at long last understand it, to feel its pain, to nurse its wounds, and to understand its reactions. Our inner child, now allowed to live with us, can help our adult ego to empathize with others and their unredeemed inner child. It is precisely in this way that we become creative amid distress. Metanoia (conversion, reversal, or change) also leads to the “perpetrator inside me.” This part of me also wants to be understood in terms of its background. From suffering grew evil and the tendency to perceive the environment as “evil.” Peace will enter our soul and human history only if we free internalized evil from its split-off position. And yet, how might we do this? What if that evil is still raging, either inwardly or outwardly? My experience with people from different backgrounds and with different life stories has taught me, paradoxically, that we must recognize evil as power and potential (in this regard, it is worth recalling the perseverance of people who were either disturbed or severely traumatized at an early age; see Renz, 2007). Evil can turn good if we rely on greatness, if we invest the greatest possible effort and energy in attaining this goal (for instance, by giving our life plan a new focus, by envisioning a better world, by being loyal, or by embracing faith, which is capable of moving mountains). In the tale of “Rumpelstiltskin” (Grimm & Grimm, 1884), split-off evil may be considered the heroine’s creative aspect. She knows how to spin straw into gold (i.e., to make the impossible possible). Like Rumpelstiltskin, the evil inside us claims a share of our golden future (see the child symbol, as well as Rumpelstiltskin’s interest in the child, in the living). Interestingly, Rumpelstiltskin tears herself apart in the end. Is this generally true of split-off evil? Is its time over at some point? We must, however, first identify Rumpelstiltskin (i.e., call her name). What has been split-off cannot be integrated, blindly, and played down; it needs to be seen through and recognized in its becoming. Dealing with our own evil becomes the ultimate struggle. People of all ages ask me: “How, how, how?” This struggle means enduring, night after night. It means suffering from being the way we are, knowing that we will be appreciated and hoping for a new future. Evil impulses need not be carried into action. This proves easier one day, yet more difficult another. We can observe ourselves, including our evil impulses (i.e., being constantly aware and alert), and sense how evil that remains untranslated into action wanes after a while (perhaps the next morning, or after three days). This path of integration is not one of weakness, but of strength. It also means shouldering guilt. The perpetrator within us wishes to repent and change, the victim within us to be heard and healed. Both find their way back to

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their dignity. Such a path is piecemeal, as every stage involves painstaking, taxing work. Integration may shatter entire worldviews. Moral precepts become shaky, friends break up. On this path, we often feel alone with ourselves and become aware of our “exile.” And yet, new inner and outer ties evolve simultaneously. The new opening toward the Whole becomes concrete in various ways: we turn to nature and to everything that is; we experience a new bodily feeling or become more consciously empathetic; we gain access to cosmic connections, to meditative silence, and to Kairos (a deep intuition for the right moment, or the right action). This is grace! Lived presence. As we open ourselves up toward the Whole, we listen to our dreams, become attentive to synchronicities, and are able to accept the extrasensory bit by bit. God appears wholly different and inevitable, outwardly and inwardly. Faith is the state of being seized by what concerns us absolutely (Tillich, 2001, p. 1). Our sense of inner and outer connections grows. To the extent that as individuals we place ourselves in the service of the Whole, we experience ourselves as placed within larger contexts. We feel meant, in our essence, and rooted in the primordial ground. And yet, daily life remains difficult. Grace exists side by side with reality.

8.2 Primordial fear is relativized: the new connection to the Whole Understanding fear is one matter. Finding even more basic trust another. This means the experience that beneath and beyond all fear, before and after, there exists a profoundly beatifying existence and shelteredness. In my experience, primordial fear, at its extreme, always transitions into the even older experience of trust. Mr Steiner, an 84-year-old, distinguished man, for whom religion no longer meant anything, lay in a dark room, depressed and terminally ill. He began trembling again, for hours. Yes, he was afraid, without knowing what of. Listening to classical music with me invigorated him. He conducted passage after passage and seemed to know many pieces. He grew talkative. His gaze was present, and his trembling subsided. He loved Handel’s oratorios and hymns, and recalled venerable church services. Was Mr Steiner perhaps religious after all? The next day, his condition suddenly changed: he was dying and mostly no longer present. He recognized me as “the woman with the music.” His eyes shone, but he immediately grew restless again. Something on his back bothered him as if things were congested. The nurse and I checked whether he was lying uncomfortably, but found nothing. So, I shifted to symbolism and “removed” the disturbance with gestures. I told Mr Steiner that, symbolically speaking, “something like an umbilical cord to God” (religio = reconnection) often lay concealed back there. He listened, almost certainly without understanding me,

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and repeated: “Congested?” We remained with the inner image, of “cleansing” and “flushing,”… and he relaxed. He died the following night: reconnected? Bettina—several years after her crises—also saw an inner umbilical cord again. Playing the gong, she felt: “The power of the sun is here in my belly… but the heart hardly dares to beat.” She grew fearful again because, as she put it, “I am not in order.” Indeed, Bettina still “fell out of” every norm, even out of those norms for people with learning disabilities. I asked her whether she could express or bring to the heart what her stomach knew? Bettina closed her eyes, placed one hand on her stomach, the other on her heart… she was embarrassed and said: “What do we call what a little child has when it is born? Like a string? I have one like that here. It is telling my heart: ‘You are alright, keep beating.’” Mr Manser, a terminally ill patient, had incomprehensible nightmares. Apocalyptic fears seized him even during daytime: the world was coming to an end, and opposite him stood a steamroller with large prongs. His impulse was to flee! Yet machines were closing in on him from all sides.—At one point, he managed to engage with the images: “The machines are rolling toward me, their jags are piercing me, everything’s grey. If only I could die….” Then: “It can’t get any worse. It’s as if I were saying yes. But to what?… Now the prongs are like fine musical particles, wonderful. But I don’t understand what’s happening.” In Mr Wittmann’s case, his wife carried him through his fear in his place. He needed human closeness. When his wife slept next to him at night, he was relaxed. Sometimes, he felt as if his wife took some of his suffering away from him. Then he could be cheerful. During therapeutically guided active imagination, a young woman recovering from a long crisis saw herself in a giant dragon’s mouth… as a baby. Fear gripped her: What if the dragon suddenly became active and bit her? Courageously, and yet deeply afraid, she touched the inner wall of the dragon’s mouth, but nothing happened. The dragon breathed peacefully. Slowly, she began trusting: inside the giant breath felt like lying in a cave or upon Mother Earth. Outside, summer and winter emerged from her breathing rhythm. Still, relativizing fear is not always quite so simple, in particular not on command. In the everyday reality of acute care, fear is a constant companion, even in its original corporeal manifestation (primordial fear). What to do? Sometimes, discipline helps, and so do long nights of wanting to trust: I sometimes advise patients to think “yes” or “I trust” every time they exhale. As Mr Kleger, a man from a humble background, said aptly amid his claustrophobic fear, it was about “the lost trust in God.” This a personal decision, he said, yet also more: with every breath, he needed to realize that

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God existed and that HE already helped him (Mr Kleger) to have enough (air, space). Together with God, he practiced riding the elevator and inwardly traversing confined spaces. This was easy at times, but less so at others. What Mr Kleger practiced by breathing, others experience by trying to relax one muscle after another, or by imagining a light inside their own body. Whether it is experienced religiously or not: trusting is a decision and, beyond that, grace. Mr Monn (about 60 years old), a former drug addict with a criminal record, had been clean for years. In prison, he got an education, discovered music, and had since been able to work normally. Being diagnosed with cancer had shaken him. He had sworn to himself that he did not want his old life back. Since his diagnosis, he was afraid of himself, of the disease, of life. He cried. What else had helped him during previous crises? He faltered: “There’s something else. I’m an amateur horn player.” More tears: “When I play the horn, I feel a brightness—and no fear. I later realized that this brightness is called God… I got baptized a year ago. Not everything has been bright since, but the brightness has stabilized. It took a conscious decision.” I am amazed. I was interested in the quality of Mr Monn’s decision. Could he tell me more about it? “A few months before getting baptized… After visiting a man in hospital (he was partly blind and paralyzed), I dreamed about him. I thought: I’m not alone in this world, it’s not just about me. A year later I felt a ‘jolt.’ I knew there was only either yes or no. Just as I had once said no to my parents (both alcoholics) and ran away, I had to say yes this time, even if there was no one. It was not primarily about saying yes to God—I had grown up without God—but about saying yes to… I don’t know… to life. When I was baptized, I said yes again.” I was amazed. Every day, Mr Monn now repeated his “yes” while practicing his breathing. Every individual case raises the question about the appropriate answer. How can we react meaningfully to reflex-like primordial fear? Can we endure this state if we are properly supported? Or can we actively address the non-dual world, for instance, in music-assisted relaxation, active imagination, and meditation? But what if pain and symptoms make this impossible? Sometimes, all that is possible is meditation, utmost love, and being. And yet, there seems to be something else, in the midst of medication or without it: grace, kairos. Without this recurring experience, I would never have managed to work in acute oncology care for over 20 years. Our studies (Renz et al., 2013, Renz, 2017) have offered me and my (physician) colleagues two insights: first, human beings make profound spiritual experiences, of being beyond fear, precisely in severe illness. Second, peace and freedom from fear as a rule grow more intense near dying. Medication is important at culmination points, yet thereafter no longer at some point. Although

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the disease remains unchanged and symptoms often persist, they may subside. Thus, near death, medication can often be considerably reduced.

8.3 Conscious realization as process: finding words and speech via music, symptom, and symbol Sometimes we need to become conscious very deep down. But how does this become possible? For the time being, we are unable to reach deep psychic layers with words, unless they are “effective words” (Schellenbaum, 1990, p. 28). We must capture a child’s speechless suffering, unspeakable joy, or spiritually rooted primordial trust in corresponding language. Such processes are sometimes tantamount to physical, mental, and spiritual incubation, in a shift from speechlessness to discovering shape, for instance, in dreams, to more and more conscious feeling, until ultimately we find words. Bodily symptoms are also often part of such conscious realization. They are already more concrete than speechlessness. As carers we can express the impressions that we gain through empathy, transference, and countertransference. They may help our counterparts to find their own words. Sometimes, I encourage patients to voice a concept with closed eyes or by assuming a corresponding posture, in order to sense whether their concept is coherent and how it changes. Thus, concepts imprint themselves. Mr Kleger, lying on his bed, said that the earth was now carrying him. This state—being carried, against all fear—manifested itself physically. Or when he was standing upright, he said: “I stand by it.” When he stood up, he said: “I’m plucking up the courage.” Naturally, such processes should not lead to manipulation. Even if words are borrowed, experiences may remain intimate or be interpreted differently. At a deep level of consciousness, processes take place slowly. Very gradually, something shifts from the unconscious to preconsciousness, and later perhaps to consciousness. If verbalization occurs at the appropriate time, our personality expands. Gaining consciousness requires an inner path and should not be equated with appropriating knowledge. Heightened acoustic sensitivity and symbolic experience are often intermediate stages (on experiencing music and on symbols, see sections 3.4, 3.6, 4.3, 4.8, 5.8, 5.11, 6.3, 6.8, and 7.1). In collective conscious realization, religious rites emerged from a people’s symbolic experience. Like symbols in deeper psychic layers, these rites also resonate in modern people, whereas reason is often unable to access those layers. Blessing, anointment, communion, and baptism hold considerable power: they bring renewal, wordlessly grant protection, offer fulfillment, and perhaps even forgiveness. As celebrated symbols, they represent the connection with the Whole (see Kassel, 1991, p. 53). Or they lead—accompanied by corresponding conscious realization—to new experiences of the Whole.

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8.4 Images of God in suffering: the missing, afflicting, and approaching God Experience at Night I admit: I am hurt. I stray, exposed to the mocking and the walls of silence. The freedom is mine, arising on the narrow toeboard of being loved, to get to the heart of my suffering and to offer it to the night itself, to the non-existent — In the morning, I am “found”, not knowing by whom, by YOU. Monika Renz (2016) Images of God arising from conscious suffering are present-day images of God: a God who is absent and makes us suffer, wait, and die. The German author Wolfgang Borchert has a soldier returning from war ask: “Who called you that, dear God? People? (…) Yes, they must be quite strange people who call you that. These must be the satisfied, the satiated, the happy ones and those who are afraid of you (…) But I do not say Dear God, you know, I do not know anyone who is a dear God (…) When are you kind, dear God? Were you kind when you let my boy, who was just one year old, (…) be torn apart by a screeching bomb? (…) Where were you when the bombs roared, dear God? Or were you kind when eleven men were missing from my reconnaissance troop? (…) Were you kind in Stalingrad, dear God (…)? (…) Oh, you are old, God, you are not modern, you can’t come up with our long lists of the dead and fears (…) You are a fairy-tale kind of god. Today we need a new one (…) You know, one for our fear and distress. An utterly new one.” (cited in Drewermann, 1989, p. 211) At some point, those who suffer begin, if necessary, to actively miss and seek God. They find him in other places—and differently—than they might have expected. It is a God who not only allows disasters to happen, but who also heals in unexpected ways and turns our fortune. Or they experience

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themselves as assailed by God and, if permitted, also as found again. We not only actively move toward God, but also allow ourselves to be moved (i.e., passively): one process takes place inside the other. Today, sufferers find themselves again in various images of God, from the missing to the dead God: •

•

• • • •

The persecuting God, from whom we flee: Saul fell to the ground, surrounded by light, and heard a voice: “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” He replied: “Who are you, Lord?” The reply came: “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting” (Acts 9:3–5). Jonah was caught up by the storm as he fled from God and was swallowed by the fish. The God who is worth questioning. Asking God questions means engaging with him. The Catholic priest Romano Guardini is quoted as saying that one day he will not only be questioned by God, but have questions of his own to ask. Jacob, having to fight a nocturnal battle at the Jabbok river, had to remain steadfast. At night, he wrestled with God: “I will not let you go, unless you bless me” (Genesis 32:26). Suffering from losing God and from longing for the lost Father (parable of the lost son, Luke 15:11–32). The maltreated Son of God on the cross and the missing Father: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Mark 15:34). The God at whom we vent our anger and despair.

Many people’s development path even includes being angry at God and despairing about him. Time and again, giving such feelings space in encounters—unembellished, with no pious banter, or beating about the bush—has enabled me to experience that anger and suffering are not final. Leaving aside the question of theodicy (Is there God in suffering?) again at some point is a mature decision and often leads directly or indirectly to divine experience and grace. Mr Kleger: “I have suffered long enough that HE does not exist. Now I have decided that HE exists; if necessary I will invent HIM, but to my astonishment something was really there….” Is this what Job experienced, too? The Old Testament Book of Job (a doctrinal narrative and one of the greatest works of world literature) describes the visitation of a righteous man: the frame narrative introduces Job as a devout, rich man (Renz, 2017, p. 187 for a discussion of the attribute tam), who, however, is characterized by his avoidance of evil, and thus by corresponding images of God. Deeply suspicious, he wishes to “make good” by sacrificing what could prove adverse in his children’s life, and thus seeks to appease his fear of the angry God…. this man was the greatest of all the people of the east at the time. His sons used to go and hold feasts in one another’s houses in turn; and they would send and invite their three sisters (…) And when the feast days

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had run their course, Job would send and sanctify them (…) offer burntofferings according to the number of them all; for Job said: “It may be that my children have sinned, and cursed God in their hearts.” This is what Job always did. (Book of Job 1:3–5) Making such preventive amends, Job nevertheless needs redemption, in spite of his righteousness. Satan, one of God’s sons, seeks to tempt the God-fearing Job, and the Lord lets him have his way: “Very well, all that he has is in your power; only do not stretch out your hand against him!” (1:12). Job loses his possessions, sons, and daughters; outer suffering reveals inner suffering. Abandoned by his wife, disfigured by illness, and misunderstood by his friends, Job finally turns to God himself as a “lawyer against God.” Is this the turning point? God answers Job in two speeches: Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding. Who determined its measurements (…) Or who stretched the line upon it? (…) Or who laid the cornerstone when the morning stars sang together (…) Or who shut the sea with doors when it burst from the womb?—when I made the clouds its garment, and thick darkness its swaddling band (…). (Job 38; note the primordial images) How might such momentous words provide comfort and change a person’s fortune, such that Job’s later life would be more blessed than his former one (Job 42:12)? What has brought about healing here? I believe this concerns the tone of voice in which we hear God’s words within ourselves. Are they mocking or can we hear them as deeply loving? Job, shaped by an ancient experience of ambivalence (C), along with correspondingly one-sided images of God, finds his way back, through suffering, to deeper experiences of wholeness (A, B): he experiences a God who accepts him in all his nothingness (“Where were you when…”) and who reminds him of a primordial order in which even ravens, lionesses, and wild asses have their place. Exactly this frees us from the compulsion to be good. In the deepest sense, this is not division, but oneness. A second detail points in the same direction: “I had heard of you by the hearing of my ear, but now my eye sees you” (Job 42:5). Job makes his way from God, as he was taught at the time, to seeing God—and thus to experiencing him in his own depths. Amid all this questionability, God has once again become immediate. In Answer to Job (1952/2010), whose publication created quite a stir, C.G. Jung referred to God’s dark sides. “Yahweh is not split but is an antinomy—a totality of inner opposites—and this is the indispensable condition for his tremendous dynamism, his omniscience and omnipotence” (§ 567). Thus, Jung challenges us to grow aware of the divisions within our ideas of God, to reverently endure antinomy, and to bring opposites together again. This opens up a space in which we may experience healing.

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Which images of God stand for the psychic integration, reconciliation, or overcoming of splitting? Where, and in which ideas of God, does God himself come toward us, once again overcoming his alleged absence? Where do we find these dynamics toward an ultimate goal? God as a final reality and as an eschatological force: • •

•

The hidden God, the Creator of the Creation, which is still in the process of becoming (Kessler, 2006, p. 79). Creation spirituality. God/the Whole, which comes toward us from the goal: the Father toward the lost Son, the Cosmic Christ (Christogenesis, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin), Sophia, who seeks abode among humankind (Sirach 24:7–8). God, who, in our technicized age, draws close to us in nature and through cosmic laws, who teaches us reverence and moderation, and moves us to align ourselves (i.e., bring ourselves into order).

The Whole that once again overcomes all splitting and egotistical power dynamics: • • • •

The God who descended into the realm of the dead, as utmost empathy, or as the one who overcomes all splitting—compassion (Metz, 2006). The One who once again encompasses hell. The dark deity, the dark Christ, or the green Christ (see Chagall, as cited in Riedel, 1985). The God who comes toward us “from below” (grassroots churches, Third World countries, women), also the rediscovered God of all. The powerless God (as a child, as a sufferer, as a fellow sufferer, and as a non-violent God on the cross), who thus becomes the “God in our midst” (Renz, 2016) and works from within. Christ. He who is still present in this world, in powerlessness, in the remoteness from God, and in death (Blaise Pascal).

God as the innermost dynamics of the world: • •

He who incarnates himself in a human being and thus in the humanityaffirming God of Christmas. Age of the Holy Spirit. The God who takes effect in the human being (i.e., in those who are open to him) (Kessler, 2006, pp. 86–87). The divine spiritual power that brings about love, wisdom, and transformation through dying and becoming. God as an integrating force. The one who redeems all in the last days.

Does this mean that evolution is driven by an urge toward conscious realization that inheres in the Whole? Does God also “need” humankind?

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I am hinting at all these dimensions of God with Christianity in mind. I consciously leave open the question to what extent other religions have integrating images of God that come toward the human being. I must leave the members of other religions to work out for themselves those images that are importance for them. As I have shown elsewhere, every religion must measure itself against its own underlying imprinting and then question its answers, its healing potential (cf. Renz, 2017, chapter III).

8.5 The virgin: a symbol of openness toward the Whole Symbolically, the human being who faces the Whole in radically open and responsible way is a “virgin.” What does this symbol mean? What does virginity stand for in the human being? In myths and fairy tales, it is often a virgin who must be freed from the dragon’s power. The virgin represents an attitude, not abstention (Mulack, 1986, p. 87). First and foremost, she stands for a receptive vessel in which new life may grow over time: she symbolizes renewal and is a bearer of future hope. She is open to the divine—as she is not yet “occupied,” nor married to the people, nor to the values, nor to the idols of this world. The virgin resists being bound to conventions and is autonomous. A vessel contains, holds together. It also has a concrete shape and definite limits. The virginal within us is characterized by a knowledge of our limitations and by our capacity to differentiate ourselves from the Whole. In the sign of the virgin, we may engage in silence and in our dreams amid the world’s commotion. Here, oriented toward the Whole, inner freedom and availability, personality strength and openness find each other. The strong personality enables the virginal to let itself be touched by the Whole, without losing its relation to reality. The virginal knows the powers and dangers of the underworld: for—as the myth says—it has even been snatched from the dragon’s claws. And yet, a strong personality is also needed to protect what has been received, to allow it to grow inside, against all dangers, and to release it into the world when the time is right. Some people (including men and elderly women) dream that they are “virgins” or “Mary.” Those who do not allow themselves to be fixated on external statements about Jesus’s mother will recognize coherence in statements such as “received by the Holy Spirit” and “born of a virgin.” It is precisely the virginal within us that engages with messages from the depths (the angel’s proclamation) and makes contact with the Other (“the spirit will overshadow you”). Some people also dream indirectly of the virgin, in motifs such as: • •

The both strong and weak vessel. The oversized task that dreamers take upon themselves, yet delimit themselves from at the same time;

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The invading, overwhelming God/spirit; the numinous is felt behind reallife burglars/rapists, yet the intrusion is not experienced as hurtful in spite of its numinosity; God asks to be admitted. Being overwhelmed by dream motifs such as “10,000 bee stings,” “being raped by a tiger,” “being overshadowed by an elephant, etc.” Replying to a deity’s gaze or that of a corresponding animal; placing oneself in their service (see section 5.19). Dream statements, such as: “Barrenness will green again through you and with your help.”—“Good Friday becomes Easter.”

At the latest in the post-therapeutic follow-up, dreamers feel something unconditional. Some, like Mary (“How should this happen?”), wonder how to concretize a task that has announced itself: “What must I do now?” “What does this mean in my life? What for my future?” “How do I associate this with husband and child?” Answers arise while we wait and persist at the same time.

8.6 Symbolic announcements of the future In many shadow dreams, integration with what has been overshadowed since time immemorial gradually occurs. Or we traverse the dark realm and thus bring it into a new Whole. Here, for example, is one woman’s dream: I find myself in a familiar circle of friends on a porch. The eldest woman, a mother figure, who seems to get the process started, is about to leave. She seems to be going up a mountain, but says: “The way leads to the lower church,” and with those words she is gone. Now the room divides. I experience myself between two halves. On the right is the light side of the Sun King, on the left a dark, black side. I am turned toward that side. A quake. Fear! I feel chased by ghosts and am desperately looking for my way. Laura, a dark friend, is missing. Making an utmost effort, I try to pronounce her dark sounding name: L-a-u-ra. With that, she appears and, liberated, I hear the words: “A gong is standing at the transition.” In the passage to the dark realm I now see a large gong. I have already entered the dark realm no sooner do I see it. What curdled my blood has passed. Everything seems devout. Lower church? Laura is the goddess of this kingdom and stands beside me. Now reversal occurs. I am looking toward the Sun King. I must also stammer his bright name: “Philipp.” This time, however, I see shining snake trees, tinglingly alive, in the transition. I am standing in front of such a tree. It carries something precious in its crown. If I look against the light, this precious thing is an egg, the world egg—the beginning of all becoming. But if I look toward darkness, this thing is a”hole” that reminds me of the gong. The light and dark sides have found one another in the world egg.

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In this dream, the outward journey is filled with fear, while the journey back is marked by lust, joy, and the beginning of the world. I frequently observe this pattern, which seems to be an inner law. Some dream and fairy-tale symbols also urge toward “integration.” Thus, corresponding symbols, which always also carry energy, include: Bird: A raven searches for land in the myth of Noah’s Ark. The dove then brings the message of new life. Its message is: land in sight. God has made peace with humankind and will seal this in a covenant. The dove is also the messenger bird of the ancient oriental love goddesses. In the dove of the Holy Spirit, God’s message of love approaches us. Understanding the language of birds, and a bird’s eye view, means (once again) being more connected with the Whole. Black birds are sometimes seen as messengers of death. However, closer scrutiny reveals that they (only) concern the end of ego-dominance. Birds live in the spiritual dimension of air and fantasy, also the fantasist’s “birds.” Birds wish to fly. From being broken-winged to upbeat. Angels: People sometimes dream of angels and spirit-beings as messengers of God; or they hear a corresponding voice in their dreams. Symbolically, angels are not limited to the meaning of the guardian angel. Drewermann (1988) interprets the encounter with the angel as the awakening of what secretly guides our being. He adds that the angel is the image of being, our primordial figure. In the image of the angel, God speaks to us in the shape of our own deep essence (pp. 509–510). The angel approaches us from the deepest unconscious. It admonishes, warns, interprets, and keeps us away from harm. Is it heard? Phoenix: In rare visions even the Phoenix heralds the arrival of the powerful. He roars like a jet plane or comes as a sun- and ash bird. One woman, facing a difficult life task, dreamed that “the Phoenix was looking for space to land among human beings.” The Phoenix can burn and periodically renew itself by rising from its own ashes. It announces processes of dying and becoming, yet first and foremost that God is involved. The fire at the border stands for demarcation, but also symbolizes the border to non-duality. Marking the sacred, yet simultaneously dangerous divine precinct, it represents part of the divine energy. We must remove our shoes (Moses) not only before God, but already when we are confronted by fire. In the fire, however, what has rigidified may also be made to flow. If the ego has traveled its path, into a remoteness from God, and has grown stronger in the process while also rigidifying, then fire offers itself as the ultimate purification (cleansing fire, purgatory). The fire gives new energy and wishes to be taken from the dragon’s mouth, in the smallest possible portion, as the bearer of the divine substance. Spider: The spider, too, ultimately wants integration, in particular where its web appears as a mandala. From the ego’s point of view, this is an ensnaring, blood-sucking mother symbol. One dreamer described a spider descending from the black sun at night as a monster. The spider indeed moves us toward

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the edge of madness or holds us captive. Only the strong ego may experience the spider as an aid for overcoming gaping chasms, for instance, as a weaver of fortune capable of providing meaning. Sense always only becomes evident retrospectively. Where paths have almost been endured to their end, the spider appearing in our dream might reveal that it drove us mad—not to pester the ego, but to connect it to the Whole, to the non-duality, lying behind. Through the suffering we have endured, we see a mysterious power and order at work in the background, as the image of the spider’s web beautifully expresses. Fish: The fish appearing in a dream reminds us of our initial, embryonic position. It connects us emotionally with our own existence in the womb, with the original element of water, and thus with our primordial closeness to non-duality. The split tail fin or the body slashed open manifests how we suffer from splitting. The fish wriggling on dry land and gasping for air takes up the theme of alienation. The silent fish often stands for speechless suffering. Announcing the secret, it symbolizes Christ and the holy meal. Music: Like the angel, the music we hear in our dreams brings to life a special atmosphere: sacred or awe-inspiring mightiness. In a dream, a seriously ill man heard the beginning of the finale of Tchaikovsky’s 5th Symphony “as if in a triumphant entry.” The man died unexpectedly the following day. Music often allows a dream message (e.g., promise, the promised land) to reach us at all.

8.7 Experiencing music under the sign of integration Barely any other medium enables so much personal and cultural integration as music: Arabic melodies combine with rock rhythms, Asian sounds and instruments with Western ones. Dissonances combine with harmonies, Gregorian chorales with pop, the alp horn with the saxophone. For the strengthened personality, which is once again able to turn to the Whole, music opens up a space of countless possibilities. For the artist, music becomes a creative medium between the spherical and the real. It reveals itself again to the listener, as in the beginning, as an experience of space and being par excellence (e.g., in the sound of singing bowls, in overtone singing). Music expresses the entire spectrum between despair and hope—from the ordeal or funeral music through joyous dancing to blissful extinction. All of us know which music comforts us. Biographical effects of music stand beside archetypal ones. The personally and biographically founded (our favorite childhood song) dominates; the archetypal—such as the suprapersonal effects of sound or rhythm—is recessive and, as such, “present” beneath the surface. The music that is performed in today’s concert halls, churches, and discos encompasses everything that moves us. In contrast to symbols, however, music always remains encoded. It complements the realm of what may be captured in words and, in particular, it is a means of expressing the unsayable.

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8.8 New spirit in old reality: in the aftermath of near-death, illness, or liminal experience “How can I go on living?”: I am often asked this question by people who have made devastating experiences (of illness, the liminal, or transformation). What they have gone through, and what was imposed upon them, lies between them and others. How can I continue living if my previous circle of friends means nothing to me anymore? How can I endure my heightened sensitivity and permanent health impairments? How can I balance things out? Profound illness and liminal experiences, which lead us to the edge of nonduality, are indeed difficult to cope with. When we return from experiencing the Wholly Other, ego-bound reality strikes us as meaningless. And yet—if the world is to change its face, it needs people who are touched by the Wholly Other while being steadfast in their ego. It needs people who know the sufferings of this world and who have experienced mental or emotional renewal of their own. A new world may only emerge through new people (Dürckheim, 1985, pp. 34–35), through their life and testimony. The following guiding principles help not only my patients but also myself: 1. Real vision: we are better able to return to our ego-bound reality if we are able to experience words like fulfillment or promise also in small things (I remember a man who loved being a janitor; after he recovered from a longer crisis, which included deep spiritual experience, he loved his occupation even more). After a liminal experience, we find ourselves in another place and know what we long for. It helps if everyday life becomes transparent in terms of meaning. Or when what has been experienced can be brought into the here and now through oases of silence or through changing our way of life. 2. Double life: in everyday life, in the midst of unchanged surroundings, all we can do is to endure the tension of a double life: within we are committed to the new life whereas dealing with reality requires us to be ego-bound. Moreover, we must cope with our surroundings by balancing the new spirit and our old concept of reality, between resistance and conscious adaptation. 3. Silence: to live in the midst of unchanged surroundings often means remaining silent. We deliberately remain silent about taboos, which others may neither understand nor endure. By keeping silent, we are not crushed by others’ insensitive reactions. Reflecting on the long-term consequences suffered by soldiers returning home from the front, a very elderly survivor of World War II observed that he and many others had remained silent because they had no chance of being understood, not even by their loved ones (Christ in der Gegenwart, 2017, p. 550). Often, silence must also be maintained about deeply religious experiences or the secret will otherwise be profaned (see Erich Neumann’s discussion of “Amor and Psyche”; 1956, p. 50).

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4. Permitted imprinting: the basic assumption that we are fundamentally permitted by the Whole, by God, and by life allows us to be gentle and kind-hearted also with ourselves. Thus, our imprinting is also permitted. While this does not justify not having to work on ourselves, we are free to live as who we are. Permitted fear, permitted shame, permitted jealousy, and the permitted love of magnificence. All of this is permitted, if it is lived responsibly. Only such assurance enables us to jump over our own shadow time and again. 5. Rooting ourselves in the future: at some point, after working on ourselves for a long time, impulses or dreams emerge that announce both a new direction in life and a new future. One woman dreamed: “I’m standing outside my parents’ house and am asked to leave.” Upon which ground can a person who lets go in this way stand in the future? Another woman’s dream answered this question as follows: “I need to move to the city. When I get there, I see my future apartment in a tower house and am happy. There is only one thing I am not allowed to do: look back.” 6. Not wanting to be right: not looking back also means: not settling accounts, not searching for proof, but instead standing and leaving matters be as they are, being, and letting be. One woman said: “Don’t explain why things are different now. Don’t justify myself, don’t think about what I want to say next time, or I’ll already have fallen back into my old ways (coping pattern). Just live.” The future wishes to be lived in this attitude, in equal measure between seriousness, responsibility, and composure. Biblically speaking, this is a life in the sign of the Risen One. Believing in this spirit (which is the key Pentecostal experience) means acting as if. As one patient said: “If I seriously prepare for the test and keep my feet on the ground, I will be helped.” Or: “He will speak from my mouth in a difficult hour.” It also means believing in our fellow humans, our way and our being led, even if this seems incomprehensible. Faith already gives us a piece of the future. 7. A new way of dealing with anger: although we may keep getting angry, this remains—as patients sometimes point out after such experiences—a detour, time and again. Whether or not we can spare ourselves this is both decision and grace, and ultimately about overcoming ourselves. We are sometimes able to “let go” of our anger for our own sake, to sacrifice it, to channel it into sports or professional activity, or to keep it in check with discipline. 8. Saying yes, time and again (see Messrs Kleger and Monn, section 8.2). Opening ourselves up to trust sometimes contains a yes (to ourselves, to the present situation, to the Whole—whether in religious terms or not). 9. “Making” the next step, even when understanding is impossible. By consciously engaging with what seeks engagement (e.g., housework, waiting, mourning) and by daring to take the step forward, not only ideas and help but also God and the world come toward us in a new way.

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When we “work over” things in this way, we move between utmost effort and experiences of grace, including temporary relapses. Times in which newness carries us forward exist beside ones in which we could despair. The experience that newness subtly grows stronger and distress—simply because it is familiar—more foreseeable must suffice. Therapist-led groups are helpful: distress and new hope meet in the same room.

8.9 The question of meaning: development in wholeness? “What do these things mean and whom do they serve?” This is the question that—according to the legend of the Holy Grail—we need to ask ourselves (Weinrich, 1988, p. 153). The question of ultimate meaning is also one about God. In my search for the reasons that lie behind human suffering, my dreams have frequently pointed me toward a tension that seems to inhere in the Whole and urges toward development. And yet, is it not presumptuous and disrespectful to speak of an urge in the Whole? Is God unfinished? The geologist, paleontologist, and theologian Pierre Teilhard de Chardin1 describes cosmic evolution as follows: consciousness, striving upward, rests on an inner attraction, which emanates from a longed-for final destination and object: Omega/Christ. This attraction, also describable as a “tension of consciousness,” is the ultimate force driving human energy and more than blindly advancing instinct. Corning (2008) speaks of a synergetic effect. Teilhard de Chardin is not concerned with God making a limited intervention, in a fatalistic sense, but with an evolution that we may think of as great. Everything is related to everything. There is one center of all centers: all conscious states are “dominated, influenced, and directed” by a higher consciousness. What makes the Whole whole? Is the Whole originally identical with wholeness as a target state? Or might a path lie in between—evolution? Is it conceivable that behind everything lies an urge to become conscious? Or, more boldly, is a need for transformation at work? Conceiving of the Creation as “developing” would mean that the Whole, too, is transforming. Nonduality is not perfection, yet completeness. For a perfect God, humankind and the Creation would be playthings, random products, or by-products. This, however, cannot be the background of the enormous evolutive process of gaining consciousness. On the other hand, the idea of a tension inhering in the Whole and driving consciousness becomes the individual’s experience of meaning. Bettina, Mr Fehr, Mr Kleger, and many others wished to hear that their humanity matters in spite of suffering and endurance. Not only for themselves, for their self-realization, but also for their fellow humans, for the Creation, and thus also for the Whole/God. As such, their “Why?” becomes a “What For?” We are the place where consciousness happens. We are essential, as who we are and become, within a great process of becoming.

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Those who assume that a deeper meaning lies behind life experience themselves as free only to a limited extent. One patient said: “After every deep experience, the leash on which I am kept grows shorter.” Or as Christian Geulen has observed: “It is only if human beings voluntarily choose what they absolutely must do that they will possess any free will at all” (cited in Steffen, 1982, pp. 25–26). Is that a slap in the face of us freedom-loving people of the 21st century? Or does it rather express the hope that the human greed for power and total destruction is not final? Voluntary devotion in accordance with the Whole instead of misunderstood freedom! Stanislav and Christina Grof (1989) speak of a strongly moving spiritual force, to which they assign the “quality of intention” (p. 74). Are there visions of what an urge in the Whole/ God might be directed at? What “wants” to transform through individual and collective processes of becoming conscious? If we consider developmental tendencies on a large scale, our answers will need to sound a bit like this: from original “participation” emerges “relationship,” from “speechlessness” “dialogue.” Unconscious oneness turns into “consciousness in connectedness,” conscious love.2 A relationship structure inherent in the smallest particles of our universe seeks direction (Görnitz & Görnitz, 2007). The primordial tension of the undivided opposites evolves into conscious opposition. The polar primordial forces (male archetype of emergence, female archetype of shelteredness) unfold. The Whole/God seeks a counterpart. Thereby, vast periods of entanglement and tragic one-sidedness are accepted, so that development may finally succeed. According to one fairy tale, the goddess transforms via the human path of maturation and consciousness: the black woman (the shadowed Great Mother) at last shines anew in white.3 Does even the goddess need integration? Is this how transformation occurs? Does this need the human being? Does God need the Creation as a place of his own becoming? Do oppositions concretize within and through us: in our individuation, in our relationships, in the peace among nations, in the capacity of superiors and subordinates to engage in dialogue, in our measured way of dealing with nature and animals? A vision? Dream images say more than words: Amid various severe blows of fate, an older woman had the following dream: “The path leads through a gate, which the woman interpreted as a gate to the underworld, and behind which a crowd of Far Eastern children are gathering. I must let go of my figure. My path leads down a dark corridor into a foggy, steam-filled hall. As if the vapors were ghosts. An evil slipstream almost sucks me in. I remember the saving word ‘to consecrate.’ I try to pronounce the words of the sign of the cross but find this almost impossible. Fa-th-er, Son, Hol… Then I am freed from the maelstrom and taken by the hand, guided by good spirits. We glide weightlessly past locked doors. Twice the invisible leader says: ‘Not here.’ Now I am in a narrow room. A huge hammering machine pounds up and down. I am standing on

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a small ledge, wondering what would happen if one came under the hammer? With my foot I push an empty tin can into the depths. One blow of the hammer and the can is flattened.” I awaken briefly. ‘I know it was the hammer of fate.’” Was that an activated intrauterine state?—A second part of the dream follows immediately: “I have intensive bodily feelings and hear the sentence: ‘In essence there are two tensions’: I now see my hand before me holding a ‘measuring cord.’ This is the small visible measure. Then a second longer string is stretched diagonally from top to bottom across my back. I ‘know’ this is the large invisible measure, a tension that I feel on my back, but do not see. The words Father, Son, Holy Spirit, which I could not even stammer before, are now audible. I hear the Amen in a wonderful melody. Sheer bliss.’—Awakening, I feel as if the ups and downs of God had come together.” Is there a tension that fatefully lays itself “upon our back” (or double-crosses us as the German expression aufs Kreuz legen suggests), concretizing itself differently in each and every case? And is there also a small, understandable tension (the tension in our own life) that is inconceivable without the greater tension that becomes the invisible cross of life? We carry with us—and carry out—what inheres in the Whole. The cross-shaped lower back is that place where our (bodily) center can be struck, where we once used to straighten ourselves up during transition. The cross, however, is also a symbol at whose center are located heaven and earth, consciousness and the unconscious, man and woman, white and black, the “sun king and the dark goddess”—or, depending on our viewpoint,” the ups and downs of God.” Christoph reported a vision: “Now I see into the black sphere: inside is a light green sphere, pervaded by a light green beam. This goes from pole to pole. There seem to be two poles within the center and, as I see later, also within every object: in every tree, every person, every worm. All are images of the great polarity.”—In later music-assisted imagination, Christoph experienced the center as a mighty static sound, with a lonely little sound, evidently his own, beside it. He described this impression as follows: “The mighty sound is so loud that it almost knocks me over. My little sound supports me. It encounters and is able to equalize the great sound. This astonishes me. A wise companion tells me: ‘The great tone does not wish to drown everything out but to meet a countertone.’ I am meant to be a countertone. Now I turn to the great sound. I am both inside it and opposite it. Standing opposite is beautiful.” A woman in her 50s dreamed: “In the basement of an old house I come across my daughter’s untidy room. A chaos through which I battle. I advance as far as the back door, which opens into a sauna. The name of a revered woman crosses my mind. She is in the sauna. Yet I can only see

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the wooden grate and, lying upon it, something resembling a pile of misery, wrapped in a shiny black-green bath towel. I am frightened and know: it is the transforming goddess. I receive instructions not to say a word to the woman about what is at once shameful and numinous.” Listening to singing bowls, one woman imagined: “I am in a round room, with my grandmother, who caused me a lot of suffering as a child. A fence consisting of various people separates us. I close my eyes. But my third eye remains open. Now the scene lightens up: the grandmother, evidently bewitched, becomes a rotating cloud formation. The rotation means dewitching.4 I am affected and know: this is the Great Mother undergoing transformation. The physical grandmother now stands near the fence and the goddess at the center of the other half of the room. I am at her service.—The physical discomfort that had disturbed me for weeks is suddenly gone.”

Notes 1 These passages are from Kopp (1964), Teilhard de Chardin (1969, 1975), and Schiwy (1987). Teilhard de Chardin lived from 1881 to 1955. 2 According to Teilhard de Chardin (1969), love is “a higher form of human energy” (pp. 145–146). 3 See also the Great Mother’s need for redemption in fairy tales such as “The Smith’s Daughter who Could Keep Silent” (Sirovatka & Luzik, 1977); see also “The Green Damsel” (cited in Kast, 1987, p. 109) or “At the Black Woman’s House” (cited in Riedel, 1985, p. 12). 4 Rotational movements sometimes occur in dreams of transformation. The entangled becomes disentangled, that is, develops!

References Christ in der Gegenwart 49 (2017). Corning, P.A. (2008): What is life? Among other things, it’s a synergistic effect. Cosmos and History, 4, 233–243. Drewermann, E. (1988): Tiefenpsychologie und Exegese, Vol. I. Olten: Walter. Drewermann, E. (1989): Ich steige hinab in die Barke der Sonne. Olten: Walter. Dürckheim, K. (1985): Mein Weg zur Mitte. Gespräche mit Alphonse Goettmann. Freiburg: Herder. Görnitz, T., & Görnitz, B. (2007): Der kreative Kosmos. Geist und Materie aus Quanteninformation. Munich: Elsevir. Grimm, J., & Grimm, W. (1884): Household tales by the brothers Grimm (M. Hunt, transl.). London: George Bell and Sons. Retrieved from https://www.worldoftales.com/fairy_ tales/Grimm_fairy_tales_Margaret_Hunt.html#gsc.tab=0 Grof, St., & Grof, Ch. (1989): Spiritual emergency: When personal transformation becomes a crisis. Los Angeles, CA: Tarcher. Grün, A. (2008): Die hohe Kunst des Älterwerdens (6th ed.). Münsterschwarzach: Vier-Türme Verlag.

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Jung, E. (2010): Answer to job (from vol. 11 of the collected works of C.G. Jung). In: Bollingen series XX: Vol. 20. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1952). Kassel, M. (1991): Traum, symbol, religion. Freiburg: Herder. Kast, V. (1987): Die grüne Jungfer. In: M. Jakoby, V. Kast, & I. Riedel (eds.): Das Böse im Märchen (pp. 109–129). Fellbach: Bonz. Kessler, H. (2006): Den verborgenen Gott suchen. Paderborn: Schöningh. Kopp, J.V. (1964): Teilhard de Chardin: A new synthesis of evolution. Glen Rock, NJ: Paulist Press. Metz, J.B. (2006): Memoria Passionis. Ein provozierendes Gedächtnis in pluralistischer Gesellschaft. Freiburg: Herder. Mulack, Ch. (1986): Maria, die geheime Göttin im Christentum. Stuttgart: Kreuz. Neumann, E. (1956): Amor and Psyche. The psychic development of the feminine. A commentary of the tale by Apuleius. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. (Original work published 1952). Nouwen, H.J.M. (1992): Life of the beloved: Spiritual living in a secular world. New York, NY: Crossroad. Renz, M. (2007): Von der Chance, wesentlich zu werden. Reflexionen zu Spiritualität, Reifung und Sterben [including CD]. Paderborn: Junfermann. Renz, M. (2016): Hope and grace: Spiritual experiences in severe distress, illness and dying (M. Kyburz, transl.). London: Jessica Kingsley Publishers. Renz, M. (2017): Erlösung aus Prägung. Botschaft und Leben Jesu als Überwindung der menschlichen Angst-, Begehrens- und Machtstruktur (2nd rev. ed.) [mit einer Klangreisen-CD]. Paderborn: Junfermann. Renz, M., Schuett Mao M., Büche, D., Strasser, F., & Cerny, T. (2013): Dying is a transition. American Journal of Hospice and Palliative Medicine, 30(3), 283–290. Riedel, I. (1985): Marc Chagalls Grüner Christus. Olten: Walter. Rohr, R. (2011): Falling upward. A spirituality for the two halves of life. San Francisco, CA: Jossey Bass. Schellenbaum, P. (1990): Gottesbilder. Munich: dtv. Schiwy, G. (1987): Das Teilhard de Chardin Lesebuch. Olten: Walter. Sirovatka, O., & Luzik, R. (eds.). (1977): Slavische Märchen (4th ed.). Hanau: Werner Dausien. Steffen, U. (1982): Jona und der Fisch. Der Mythos von Tod und Wiedergeburt. Stuttgart: Kreuz. Teilhard de Chardin, P. (1969): Human energy (J.M. Cohen, transl.). New York, NY: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Retrieved from https://ia600501.us.archive.org/28/items/ HumanEnergy/Human_Energy.pdf Teilhard de Chardin, P. (1975): My fundamental vision. In: Teilhard, toward the future (R. Hague, transl.) (pp. 163–208). New York, NY: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. Retrieved from https://archive.org/details/TowardTheFuture/page/n3/mode/2up Tillich, P. (2001): Dynamics of faith. New York, NY: HarperCollins, Sons. (Original work published 1957). Weinrich, H. (1988): Der Kelch und die Schlange. Selbstfindung in der Therapie. Olten: Walter.

Chapter 9

The question about the goal

Abstract Being whole differs from being healthy. Even the severely ill, they of all people, are sometimes whole. Etymologically, “whole” comes from Greek holos. It expresses wholeness, intactness, and redemption. We may become newly connected. From within develops the desire to start life over again. Fear is no longer the imperious underlying reflex. Instead we find ourselves time and again beyond fear: trusting or interested in (turned toward) life. Coping patterns subside: rather than fighting adversaries, opposing positions enter into dialogue. Questions of guilt and justice are replaced by feelings of dignity. The need for revenge yields to the need for life and love. Dream images speak to us, for instance, of the roundtable, where we all have a place, or of victims of violence, who encounter their perpetrators in a new way. The latter can partake in communion, as long as they feel what they have done to others. Being whole and healed in our soul and spirit is ultimately a vision, behind which we always lag. And yet, precisely this vision enables us to perform our daily chores. This chapter also presents typical symbols, experiences of music, and images of God/the divine.

9.1 The future—beyond fear Being whole is different from being healthy. Even the severely ill, they of all people, are sometimes “whole”—similar and yet different to small children. Etymologically, “whole” comes from Greek holos. It expresses wholeness, also intactness and redemption in a religious perspective. Historically related words in English include whole, hale (fresh, unweakened), holy (sacred, consecrated), and Old English hael (make whole). Physically speaking, wounds and broken bones heal. We may transpose this idea to the psychic realm: injuries and fractures become whole, are healed and connected in a new way. Dried up sources begin flowing again. Thoughts encircling the same themes open up. From inside develops the desire to start life over again. Not only children’s tears, also their joys once again begin flowing (see biography of joy; Kast, 2003, pp. 38, 54–74). DOI: 10.4324/9781003176572-9

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At some point, fear is no longer the imperious underlying reflex. Maturation processes always involve moments when we find ourselves, surprisingly, beyond all fear, trusting or interested in (turned toward) life instead. At some point, coping patterns (e.g., power or guilt; section 5.15) subside. Rather than fighting adversaries, opposing positions enter into dialogue. Instead of guilt, we inquire into the deep truth. Questions about justice are replaced by feelings about our own dignity. The need for revenge gives way to the need for life, vigor, and love. Dream images speak of the round table, for instance, where we all have a place and are important in very own way. In dreams, victims of violence sometimes even encounter their perpetrators in a new way. The latter may also partake in communion, as long as they realize what they have inflicted upon others. Not punishment, but feeling is decisive. The victims are protected spiritually, while the atmosphere is characterized by a freedom from fear. Being healed in our soul and spirit (i.e., being whole) is not least also a state within ourselves, one in which exchange occurs between our newly strengthened (i.e., matured) part and our persistently wounded part. Being whole and healed in our soul and spirit is ultimately a vision—one that we always lag behind. And yet, precisely this vision enables us to perform our everyday chores, to empathize, or even to repent. Visions give us the courage to take the hazardous step into emptiness. In Manès Sperber’s (1980) image, the bridge, which does not yet exist, is built beneath those who have the courage to set foot across the abyss (p. 22). Bit by bit, those who endure, experience healing. Fragments, too, are parts of the Whole.

9.2 The non-dual and personal God: a new spirituality New people need new images of God, just as new images of God bring new people into being. Today’s images of God show that more people are growing increasingly mature. Many people are again experiencing God beyond duality and with a degree of consciousness that corresponds to the modern person. These images of God are only new to the extent that the vast majority of us are only now (emotionally) grasping what was said 2000 or 3000 years ago, for instance, by the forefathers, prophets, and Jesus. At that time, only few understood. In terms of developmental psychology, the Whole and the strengthened personality work together. From this unison emerge promising images of the found God, who is “whole” in a new way. For instance: Divine images of the One, Whole, First, and Last: • •

The God who is, who was, and who is coming (Revelation 1:8). That which is valid across space and time. Alpha and Omega. God as truth and being per se.

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God in whom splitting is overcome: • • •

In God, above and below, bright and dark, male and female are united in a new way. God, who can be experienced via immanence and transcendence, inside and outside, pantheistically and personally. The God of the mystics as well as of philosophers and theologians.

God as the epitome of power and at the same time beyond power: • • •

The unviewable one, the secret. The Risen One, Christ, the transfigured wounds. The God of new love and unity among humankind. The God who invites communio in the Last Days. … and what about the human being? Are we taken inside? May we refer to ourselves and to our contribution in this context? Against the background of the aforementioned images of God, we should neither overestimate nor underestimate our significance. We are—and will remain—small compared to God’s greatness and omnipresence; human activity at this level of consciousness (again) serves the whole Creation/Creator and the creature. And yet, we are, in all modesty, uniquely and immensely valuable. (humankind in the image of God, an autonomous partner in the New Covenant, Jeremiah 31:31–34)

The key aspect is the renewed relationship with the Whole, which has begun flowing again: spirituality, pure presence (Rohr, 2011). Through it, we overcome alienation and primordial fear from the origin, even if such grace only happens here and there. Finding our way home Everyone will find their way home. And no one will be right. All will fall into trust, into their God. and they are honored, as if purified, being and related, full and empty, blessed. Monika Renz (2008) Some people find themselves in nature, others in music or literature, and yet others need a counterpart. Already conceptually, therapy gravitates around

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relationship and becoming new. Nevertheless, not therapy heals primarily, but relationship and being related, and the spirituality that occurs in such experiences. The most important counterpart, whom we reencounter in deep experiences, is the Whole, God. The primary occasions for maintaining salubrious contact with the Whole are religious rites. Liturgy means “to remember.” This, too, is a vision: a church, priests, and priestesses who celebrate the mystery in their rites so reverently that people are seized and gather around the mystery.

9.3 Covenant and relatedness—symbols The days are surely coming, says the LORD, when I will make a new covenant with the house of Israel and the house of Judah. It will not be like the covenant that I made with their ancestors when I took them by the hand to bring them out of the land of Egypt—a covenant that they broke, though I was their husband, says the LORD. But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days, says the LORD: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hears; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people. No longer shall they teach one another, or say to each other, “Know the LORD”, for they shall all know me, from the least of them to the greatest, says the LORD; for I will forgive their iniquity, and remember their sin no more. (Jeremiah 31:31–34) Newness is born out of necessity. This applies both to Jeremiah’s vision of the New Covenant and to our struggle today to establish a new way of people dealing with other, as demanded by dialogics. Heinz Stefan Herzka (1989) explains dialogics as follows: Dialogics postulates that two thoughts that none of us can think at the same time, or two aspirations that can never be realized at the same time, or two concepts, which mutually exclude each other and mark out an area for themselves, constitute a whole, both simultaneously (i.e., not one after the other) and equally (i.e., without claiming superiority and subordination). (pp. 19–20) In this book, dialogics describes a final redemptive outcome in which extreme opposites, even antinomies, which are originally incompatible, yet nevertheless united, can develop (Fischer, Herzka, & Reich, 1992). The new covenant (see Jeremiah) is one example. Another image is calmness amid tension, spirituality amid the hectic pace of modern everyday life. The origin of all polarity refers to the Whole, which forever transcends human limitedness and comprehension. The primordial polarity—God versus humans (being versus becoming)—concretizes in the individual, as well as

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between people, between the sexes, between nature and culture. Can it become creative? Dialogics is a creativity-enabling attitude to life. It strives for the other’s constant involvement. On the one hand, it allows us to get to know ourselves ever more deeply, to learn to love ourselves, and to engage in the world; on the other, it summons us to develop a new consciousness for the Thou. We are equal, and yet so different. The ellipse is an image of the dialogical attitude: the new Whole revolves around two centers. While these stand for themselves, they are related. Another image that takes up the connection between eternal roundness and linearity is the spiral (for other meanings of the spiral, see Riedel, 1985, pp. 113–114). A third symbol is the sign of the cross, in which the vertical meets the horizontal. Dialogics envisages the capacity for encounter. It includes the encounter with what is forever greater, as well as with the new way of dealing with primordial fear. Yes, it begins there. In particular, dialogics is an answer to the problem of power, and thus offers a vision of the future on the relationship level. It postulates relationship instead of power. As a young woman, I heard people say that the opposite of love is not hatred, but power. Why power? If we disregard and hurt someone (e.g., the bullied teenager), it is not because they are not worthy of love. No, we mean to humiliate them and to prove we are stronger. Or we do so to please others, loved ones, or those with power, in order to gain a share of their power. The individual person is not primarily hated. Far more seriously, their personality is completely disregarded. Today, I would say: the opposite of love is also fear, as this repeatedly urges toward power. Wherever fear is overcome, however slightly, it needs to be compensated less by power games—and thereby makes more love possible. Other relevant symbols and dream images include the golden city, the reopened paradise, the court (in the sense of truth and appreciation), everyone’s home, the meal (i.e., holy communion), the transformation of bloody into bloodless sacrifice, the feast, the wedding, the redeemed table fellowship, the divine child, and a web of light.

9.4 Eschatological dreams Eschatological dreams express that something in our unconscious knows that fulfillment will occur when time ends. These are always dreams about ourselves as well as visions of a future wholeness. They are often dreamed in times of great crisis, with a view to bringing light into darkness. A final state is again non-dual, and yet includes the personal dimension, ego-bound perception, and what has become an individual personality. What we have painstakingly created, or have endured in our suffering, is not lost. What has come into being, through causality and through culture, has also become part of eternity in the new Whole. All human beings and creatures are honored for the distress they have suffered on their path. Power structures fall away, and yet there is

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not chaos but a new order. What we deeply long for comes about without the earthly being lost. The dreamer may feel born, at one with humans and animals, and yet essential as a person in their individuality. The relationship with God is experienced both panentheistically and personally. The image of tensions may also be discernible in eschatological visions. These are premonitions of what a tension inherent in the Whole is directed toward: for instance, toward a web of love. Dreams find playful solutions: a ball game between opposites, or music in which harmony and dissonance come together. Eschatological dreams are highly charismatic, not least because the overshadowed no longer exists as such. Not that the dream-ego has fathomed all the chasms. Rather, the nature of this community is that everything is allowed to be and has its place. There is no longer any reason for evil. Eschatological dreams proclaim peace. The plan works out, the impossible becomes possible, Christmas takes place. The prodigal son finds his way home, and the father eagerly awaits him. Workers receive their wages, the hungry their food. The outcast is included. And yet, the dreams of modern people say more than words: The one light

“There is a great light. Moving substance. I am carrying myself in a golden bowl toward the light. Something clicks, and I am touched. I no longer know what the beginning was, what the end. Fear has dissolved in the haze. I AM, and I am happy.” The eschatological city

“Before me lies the golden city: people come flocking from all directions. A red road, like a carpet, leads there. I am invited to go: directly to the throne in the heart of the city.” “I am dying, one part of my body after another. I still need to make amends with one person. It hurts physically. I say ‘Yes.’ Death now leads into the city at the end of life. A voice sounds: ‘Your task is to build golden roads to the people.’” Paradise reopened

“Everything here is green. First a green mosque, then things grow greener and greener. I see vegetables and fruits and the invitation: ‘Here you may take’” (A Muslim woman). “Scene: a large staircase. I am playing there with my sick friend’s girl and at the same time hear that her suffering can never be healed. I grow sad. But the child is healthy. Again and again, it looks out for its mother. Now

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I hear the words: ‘The mother is also alright because her child is.’ Now the mother comes to us and knows everything. The stairs lead further. I see the reopened gates to the Garden of Eden. Behind everything is green!” The sheltering motherly womb

“There is an infinitely large womb into which I enter. It is both Jesus’s bosom and a mother’s womb. In it, even dying is alright.” The judgment as becoming dignified

“I see a chair like a throne. A voice speaks to me: ‘Karl, rise.’ It is as if I had passed a test and may now enter the eternal hall.” “I see a chair… and hear unspeakably beautiful music.—It is only when I follow this feeling that I notice that I was appreciated there. I always heard the same words: ‘You have done so well.’” “I see a threshold, it leads into nothingness, and is hard to cross. Thereafter lies nothingness. I ‘am’ no longer, and yet I am still standing. There is room to stand. I listen and say: ‘I stand by it’” (an agnostic). The solution between two levels

“I am out searching with my boy, who has lost his home. The weather is strange, the air pressure extreme. I now see two levels: the ground is one level. As for the second, I can only feel people being thrown back and forth. Now my boy and I reach our destination: before me lies a playgarden. It is the home of all people and nations. The two levels are now visible. The upper level is a web of pipes that stretches across the surface of the earth, similar to a railway network. What was previously bad (being tossed back and forth), now occurs playfully: my boy swings happily back and forth between the levels on a swing.” “I see a power plug, similar to an adapter. Knowing I must insert the plug, I realize that it has been installed on my back and that I am now ‘connected.’ I am scared, but then the current flows so very easily through me from one level to the next.” “I am lying at the place of death in the dark layer of soil, for a long time. A large, square observation tower rises up from my pelvis. I am this tower. For thousands of years, I remain alone, the only existing tower. Seasons pass by, schoolchildren playing outside, swirling autumn leaves, snow flurries. I am a high-voltage mast. Bit by bit, many masts sprout up from

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the ground. A high-voltage network is created that spans the globe: a communication network of global love.” The eschatological community

“After an adventurous up and down, I find myself in the house where all humans, animals, and plants live. The people look emaciated. The animals are poorly. We can barely breathe. The animals enter and I follow them. The animals gather and sit in a circle: cats, dogs, lizards, beetles, birds, lions, snakes, and rats. They sing ‘Deep peace of the running wave to you’ (Gaelic blessing by John Rutter) so very beautifully. I am amazed. I am inside, and yet I am myself; and I understand the animals’ language. A blue aura surrounds us. The animals tell me: ‘What you are looking for, you will find with us.’ I know it will take a long time for the world to understand the animal community.” “I look in the mirror and see myself wearing a festive dress. Then, immediately thereafter, I am a beggar with my problem child tied to my back. I walk down many narrow streets bearing my heavy load. Nowhere is there food. I come to a round square. A long staircase leads up to a temple forecourt. The gates open, a procession steps into the temple. I am bearing my heavy load and walk with them up to the meal. I recognize my place in the semicircle and sit down on the floor. I hear an immense fugue, played by many instruments, from the alphorn to the blaring trombone, with the ever-same entry: ‘Nobody, nobody gets lost in my covenant.’ Harmony and dissonance have come together. I cry with happiness.” “I rush to reach the last circus performance. A shadowy companion is with me. I enter a tent suffused with blue light. Everyone is sitting in their seats. Everything is arranged as if in a spider’s web around a center consisting of bluish, ethereal light. As I enter, everyone sings: ‘Silent Night, Holy Night.’ I am honored, and yet no one looks especially at me. Only the center merits attention. I go to my seat, the twelfth one at a table is still free. I assign it to my companion and sit down on a folding seat. A chair three meters tall with a good backrest is brought to me for my damaged back, while everyone is still singing.1 The atmosphere is indescribably beautiful.” Fear or trust? I began this book with this question. Fear is part of all life that becomes aware of itself. It is a corollary of early human development and prevails in what happened to it during individual and collective development. Fear is bound to subjective experience. It is only when we “perceive” with our body and senses, when we have our own feelings, mind, and spirit, that we can

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feel threatened. Primordial fear is an early form of subjective experience; even unborn babies and animals can feel fear. Beyond ego-bound feeling, however, fear was and is not an issue. While we are barely able to rationally comprehend this statement, it is one to which liminal experience—near-death experiences, deathbed visions, yet sometimes also dreams (like those earlier in this chapter)—bear witness. Spiritually, there is neither a beginning nor an end to life. There is only the eternal here and now. So where does fear have its place? In his model of development, Erikson posited “primordial trust versus primordial fear” (1964). This claim attracted much attention in the early 1980s while I was studying for my first degree. Either primordial trust inheres in the primary stage of human development or primordial distrust. Even today, I rebel against having to view primordial trust and mistrust as alternatives. What might this mean for those whose life begins under unfortunate circumstances? This book is about primordial trust as a spiritual basis for all of us. It is as such also about an ultimate solution “in the Whole” for each and every one of us—whether formulated religiously or otherwise. Interpretations (how do I explain the Why?) remain open. Necessarily so. What is decisive, however, is our own inner experience of a final redemptive outcome. Primordial trust lies deeper than all fear.

Note 1 The symbolism of the numbers 12 and 13 is significant: the thirteenth, also non-dual and Dionysian, which bursts asunder the Apollinian order of 12, is (only) integrated as an utmost consequence, and thus rightly into an eschatological dream. Non-duality unites with what has become ego-bound.

References Erikson, E.H. (1964): Childhood and society. New York, NY: Norton. Fischer, E.P., Herzka, H.S., & Reich, K.H. (eds.). (1992): Widersprüchliche Wirklichkeit. Neues Denken in Wissenschaft und Alltag. Munich: Piper. Herzka, H.S. (1989): Die neue Kindheit. Basel: Schwabe. Kast, V. (2003): Joy, inspiration, and hope (D. Whitcher, transl.). College Station, TX: Texas A&M University Press. Renz, M. (2008): Zeugnisse Sterbender. Todesnähe als Wandlung und letzte Reifung (Rev. ed.). Paderborn: Junfermann. Riedel, I. (1985): Formen. Stuttgart: Kreuz. Rohr, R. (2011): Falling upward. A spirituality for the two halves of life. San Francisco, CA: Jossey Bass. Sperber, M. (1980): Gespräch mit Manès Sperber. In: U. Hommes (ed.): Es liegt an uns. Gespräche auf der Suche nach Sinn (pp. 15–24). Freiburg: Herder.

Index

A Abel 111–112; see also Cain Abraham 134, 135–136 ambivalence 87, 101, 105, 108, 169; internalized evil vs., 103–104 Angels: as symbols 173 anger 176 angor 2 angustus 2 anorexia: music therapy 62 anxiety 79, 87, 110 Apollo 108, 133 Arabic melodies 174 archetypes, doctrine of 151; feminine 73 atmosphere: children 128; fear and music 92–93; and vibration 69, 72, 90, 91, 101, 103, 118, 119, 135 B baptism 61, 79 Bird: as symbols 173 Borchert, Wolfgang 167 Brahma (Creator) 108 Buber, Martin 118 C Cain 111–112; see also Abel chaos theory 47, 54 children: atmosphere and vibration 128; awakening ego 87; conscious development 124; development 19, 69; distress 101, 123; ego and 124; environmental influences 19; fear and 124; musical uterine space, 69; musically sensitive 20; rhythm and 70; senses 19; transition, 19, 123; trauma 102 Christ 170, 174 Christian denominations 79

Church doctrine 43 claustrophobia 96 coincidence 46, 47 communication 71 conscious development 124, 152 conscious realization: Human Development and Dying 154; levels 35–36; as process 166 conscious tensions 149 contemplation 46 coping pattern 146–147, 182 cosmic evolution 177 creation myths 17–18 culture: birth of 125–127; development 46, 71 curiosity 89–90 D de Chardin, Pierre Teilhard 134, 177 deliriu, 22, 23 depression, 22 devil 131–132 Dionysian 133 Dionysus 29, 108 dissonances 174 distress: child 101, 123; feeling of earliest 95–97; sound-induced 93; violence and 75; Whole, concept of 91 distress-ego 22, 139, 139n2, 140; ego and 139–141 dragon 108, 108n8 Dream images 183 dreams 12, 33; and ego 13; levels 13; and symbols 173 Drewermann, Euge 1, 104 dual-unity 68 Dürckheim, Karlfried 141

192

Index

E early imprinting, 20–21 ego 2, 3, 14; children and 124; distress-ego and 139–141; and dream 13; healthy 139; inner images and symbols 129–130; and non-duality 11; threatened self-esteem 92 ego consciousness 15n5, 27, 153 ego development 24 ego-bound existence 10, 15–18; preliminary stages, 11 ego-bound perception 16–17, 22, 33, 88 ego-distant 47 ego-formation 67 egoism 17 Egypt 134 ellipse 186 environment: and children 19; perception and 18–19; predisposition, 19 Ereshkigal 23, 51, 108 eschatological city 187 eschatological community 189–190 Eschatological dreams 186–190 essential core 42–43 eternity 49 everyday consciousness 27, 153 evil: suffering and 162 existential fear 88 experiences: primordial fear 101–103 F farewell 54 fascination, state of 104 fear 1, 87; atmosphere and music 92–93; awakening under 89–90; and childhood 124–125; of death 88; of God 111; inner images and symbols 99–101; motivation 127; overcome 4; phenomenon 97–99; self-esteem 128; trust or 127–129; types 142–144 feminine: archetype 73; masculine within 72–73 fire dance 29 Fish: as symbols 174 forces: progressive and regressive 144–146 Freud, Sigmund 150 G Garden of Eden 111–112, 188 Gates of Paradise 112 Genesis 81–82, 88, 110, 111, 131, 133 Girard, René 107 God: as innermost dynamics 170

Golden Mary 24, 58, 113 Great Mother 51, 70, 71, 81, 119, 132; rudimentary ego and 91; transformation 180 Great Round 109 Grof, Christina 151, 178 Grof, Stanislav 89, 151, 178 Gruen, Arno 64 Guardini, Romano 168 guilt, sense of: attribution 155; scapegoat mechanism, 107; shame and 106 H happiness: ambivalence and 87; primordial intuitions of 58–60 harmony 57 healthy ego 139 Hehlmann, Wilhelm 104 Hell, Daniel 22 Herzka, Heinz Stefan 185 holistic 11 Holy Grail 177 Holy One 157 Holy Spirit 170, 171 Holy Trinity 157 Horror 100 house of Israel 185 house of Judah 185 human development 10, 34; Whole 34 humanization 15 humankind 9–11 Hüther, Gerald 1 hypnotherapy 102 I Images of God 46, 55–56, 75–76, 108–109, 132–134, 183; self-responsibility or dead 147–149; in suffering 167–171 imaginations 12 Immoos, Thomas 157 immortal soul 43 imprinting 88 Inanna 108 infant death 64 Inflation 105 inner images: and ego 129–130 Inner presence 97 inner process 10 intelligence 19, 20 internalized evil: ambivalence vs. 103–104 isolation 82

Index 193 J Jonah 24 Jung, C.G. 27, 43, 151, 169 K Kali 108 Kassel, Maria 136 Kingdom 56 L laws of perception 89 learning disability 26, 31, 62, 82 Lempp, Reinhart 22 Light 54 liminal sphere: early imprintings 21; and experiences 21–24 linearity 44 Loos, G.K. 57 M Mark, John 26 Mary 171 masculinity: within feminine 72–73; threatened self-esteem 92 maturation 27, 178 meditation 4, 46 melody 28, 57; rhythm and 120–123 memory 52 metanoia 160–161 Moses 134 Mother Earth 78 Mother Hulda 58, 78, 108 Mother Nature 146 motivation 127; trust 127 Mount Olympus 109 Mount Sinai 134 movement 54 Mozart’s music 33 music: experiences of 94–95; fear and atmosphere 92–93; harmony, 57; medical treatment 29; and music therapy 27–31, 61; parameters 28; sign of integration 174; as symbols 174 musical uterine space 69 musically sensitive children 20 music-assisted relaxation 30, 31, 46, 129 N narcissism 105 nascent ego 86 Neumann, Erich 42, 67, 151

New Covenant 185 Noah 134 noise 92; and rhythms 28 non-dual existence 11–15, 64; and ego 11; Images of God 55–56; personal God and 183–185; psychic images and symbols 53–55; vanishing 52 non-dual unity 18 normality 155 O Olympus 148 one-sidedness 155 order 47 orders: ego-distant 47 Otto, Rudolf 13–14 overtones 47; see also tones P panic attack 63 paradise 110 perception 2, 67; ego-bound existence and 15–16, 22; environment and 18; fear and 91; shift in 47, 112; transformation 10 permitted imprinting 176 personal dignity 43 phoenix: as symbols 173 phylogenetic development 87 phylogenetic transition 72 pleasantness: unpleasantness vs. 86–87 predisposition 19 primal unitary reality 42 primordial distrust: primordial trust vs. 190 primordial fear 1, 2, 88–89; see also fear; and culture-specific imprinting 108–109; experiences and violence 101–103; grasp 90; relativizing 163–166; shame and 106; trust and 63 primordial force: witch and devil 131–132 primordial intuitions: of happiness 58–60 primordial order 47, 54, 56 primordial trust 1, 3, 58–60, 61; see also primordial fear; primordial distrust vs., 190; psychic images/symbols 77–78 progressive forces 144; see also regressive forces Prometheus 148 psychic images 53–55 psychic layers 25, 26, 46 psychosis 22; and non-dual reality 22 psychosomatic disorders 79

194

Index

R real vision 175 regressive forces 144 reincarnation 43 relationship disorders 155–56 relaxation, music-assisted 30, 46, 129 rhythm: children and 70; melody and 120–123; sound and 28–29, 54, 70, 73; noises and 28; time and 57 Riedel, Ingrid 80, 156 Riemann, Fritz 145 Rohr, Richard 26 roundness, dynamics of 50, 51–52; Images of God 55–56 rudimentary distress 78 rudimentary ego 67–68 S Satan 131 scapegoat mechanism 107, 111, 155 Scharfetter, Christian 16 selective hearing 87 self, concept of 43, 43n2 self-organization 16 self-awareness 4 self-centeredness; see ego-bound existence self-concern; see fear self-esteem 127; endangered ego and masculinity 92 self-responsibility: Images of God, 147–149 senses 18 seven gates 51 Shakespeare’s Hamlet, 100 shame: primordial fear and 106; sense of guilt and 106 Shiva (Destroyer) 108 siblings 103 sign of the cross 186 silence 56, 175 single-celled organism 96 snake, symbol of 110, 130–131 socialization 21 Son of God 168 sound 28–29, 54; distress 93; experiences of, 56; fullness and absence 94–95; rhythm and 28–29, 54, 70, 73 space 28 Sperber, Manès 183 Spider: as symbols 173–174 spiral 186

spiritual crisis 23 spirituality 184 static sound 54 Stern, Daniel 15 stress 32 suffering 160; and evil 162; from losing God 168 symbolic announcements 172–174; dreams 172 symbols: dragon 108, 108n8; ego and 129–130 T taboos 156–58 technology 146 tensions: unconscious and conscious, 149 time 28; rhythm and 57 time immemorial 42–43 Tomatis, Alfred 71 tones 47 torture 3 traffic noise 47 transformation: of perception 10 transition 10, 31, 46; of children 19; phylogenetic 72 trust: motivation 127; primordial fear and 63, 127; self-esteem 127 truth 56 U unconscious tensions 149 unconscious–psychic layers 150–152 unpleasantness: vs. pleasantness 86–87 uroboros 51 V verbal therapy 31 vibrations 28, 54, 62, 86; atmosphere and 69, 72, 90, 103, 135; children 128 victory 100 violence 3, 4; and distress 75; power and 104–106; and primordial fear 101–103 virgin 171–172 Virgin of Mercy 75 Vishnu (Preserver) 108 visions 183 von Franz, Marie Louise 60

Index 195 W Whole, concept of: development in 177–180; distress and 91; dreams and 43; experiences of, 45–46; linearity, roundness and ellipse, 44; suffering ego 160–163; virgin and 171–172 Wholly Other 56, 57, 64, 68, 71, 175

witch 131–132 Y Yahweh 108 Z zeitgeist 14