Madonna of the Pomegranates

 

 

Growing up, the way I understood all that was numinous came through the Christian lens of our New England Congregational church. Christ and God, Father and Son, were the central players. Mary appeared in passing, the way women often did.

I do not remember my mother ever saying a word about Mary, though every Christmas she brought out a blue ceramic statue of the Mother and Child and set it beside an arrangement of greens. She embroidered that image, blues on blue with low lights of purple, an embroidery that I still hang with the season.

Two weeks ago, fortuitously I thought, I discovered deep in a drawer of the dining room hutch a small plaque of Mary and Jesus with an inscription on the back that read, “Rafael. Madonna of the Pomegranates.”

Symbolically pomegranates are known to represent fertility, abundance, sweetness, and ‘the womb’. Pomegranates are the fruit of the underworld. Its sweet seeds seal Persephone’s fate.

In Rafael’s rendition Mary’s left hand rests on a book, while in her right hand she and her infant Son together hold a pomegranate. Could this be eros and logos in the hands of the Mother?

My friend says the dead have a way of communicating with us. In an imaginal world, in a world between worlds, I find a gift from my mother that speaks to all that was unsaid between us.

But more than that. As I meditate on this image morning after morning I take solace in some essential feminine mystery that like the hero’s journey of separation, initiation, and return, speaks to change and transformation in an endless cycle of death and rebirth. So much more is written from the standpoint of masculine psychology and myth. And while the masculine and feminine do and must contain each other, what I see in this body of this Mother with the darkened heart is the unbearable wisdom of loss. Suffering through and fighting through are not mutually exclusive options, nor does or should any discussion of the masculine and the feminine principles necessarily refer to anyone’s gender. And yet, when I let this image into my heart what I feel is the knowledge of sorrow that every mother holds.

The divine speaks to us through the filter of our projections colored by our personal needs and sufferings. The Madonna of the Pomegranates I imagine is a feminine Christian image of the contemplation of the pomegranate—of unspoken sexuality, of the dark days of Demeter’s rage, of the Pieta’s eternal grief. In this study of textures and light, fingers and ineffable expressions Raphael has given us the mirror that all great art gives, a taste of eternity.

Heart

 

It is Valentine’s Day. A cold morning. I sit at the window and look out at the rooftops and the car covered in snow. The bare trees stand motionless against the flat grey sky. Silence, stillness, shelter are among winter’s lessons.

The holiday evokes Eros, and I ponder Russell Lockhart’s words “Eros means telling,” which leads, he says, to the suffering of relationship. Eros is bittersweet, writes Anne Carson; or even, rather, the “sweetbitter” of Shappo’s poem that Carson quotes, noting how here the bitter follows the sweet. Eros as the god of love, as the principle of relatedness, unmasks us and makes us vulnerable. As a counterpart to logos it balances reason with feeling.

From Russell Lockhart I learn of the relation between “courage” and the Latin word “cor” meaning heart. Both can be broken.

From where I sit the naked branches intersect to form an imperfect mandala through which I watch the swell of light.

“My story is my truth,” wrote Jung.

My memoir is a written testament of my life, no longer mine and always mine.  “The endless transformations of the individuation process include the way we meet and endure the unbearable,” I wrote.

I defend my love for my husband and his love for me and the ethics of that love and of its beginning as the truth of my heart and soul.

What do you defend? And why?

The courage of memoir, I believe, is the courage to suffer the judgments and projections of one’s readers, sometimes in silence. Sometimes not.

The Courage of Memoir

 

 

Many of the people who have reviewed my book have mentioned my courage — the courage to reveal, the courage to break rules, the courage to tell the truth.

In his February 3, 2014 Amazon review, Paul D. Sanderson Ph.D., a Jungian colleague of mine, writes “It was a powerful and sad memoir. Unfortunately, the author's attempt to heal her early childhood wounds resulted more in pattern replication and violation of the Code of Ethics of her profession than it was a deeper grasp of the ethics of love. A good read, but not a good role model to follow for anyone entering the healing professions who has to deal with sexualized transference and counter-transference dynamics or with the emergence of love within the therapeutic relationship.”

Sanderson is correct in so far as he identifies the replication of the sweet to bitter patterns of my experience that weave the opposites into that third inextricable meshing of what Jung called individuation. I perceive this as a spiraling toward the center.

Jung referred to the torment of ethical decision. As I wrote in my memoir, “he had found the essence of ethics not in the morality of collective opinion, but in the deepest tension held by the opposites within the Self. ‘Ethics are based on the phenomenon of conscience, which derives from a relationship between man and God.’...”

Sanderson’s judgment call has been predicted and anticipated. And his delivery leaves me both sad and mindful of how difficult it is to have a conversation between two people whose relationship with God, whose highest deepest truths are so very different.

I would like to believe that the intention to do no harm, as flawed as that proves to be in human interaction, is a common denominator between us.

I am reminded again of Russell Lockhart's quote, “Trusting the psyche is not an isolated or isolating act. It tends to bring us to the center and to that well at the bottom of the world. Bringing up water from there, each in his own way, with his own effort, is an eros act, not only for ourselves but also for others and for the world. It is this bringing up of psyche from the well and telling it to others that will bring us together.” Would that were true.

Spaces

In the predawn I am sitting in the cushioned wicker chair next to the window in the dining room, my new spot to watch the light rise in the sky. I look over at the doorway that opens to the front hall with the wall sconce by the stairs, at the patterns of pearly light and steely shadows against the white stucco walls, and I am captivated by the space. The wide angles of the doorframe open to the dark living room, a slice of stairway ascending to the right. I draw it, photograph it and describe it in my journal.

I move into it. Not physically. But the way one moves into a timeless moment that is numinous. And those moments, I believe, surround us.

I am reading Donald Kalsched’s book Trauma and the Soul; A psycho-spiritual approach to human development and its interpretation. Kalsched, a Jungian analyst, describes an “intermediate space between the worlds in which we are all most alive.” The “worlds” that he writes of are the worlds of consciousness and the unconscious. He refers to them in many contexts—as the inner world of imagination and the outer material world of facts, as the sacred and the profane. Kalsched acknowledges that there are many doorways that can lead us into mysterious interior spiritual realms and posits that we can evolve into both worlds, concluding “If we are going to ‘individuate’ in the true meaning Jung gave to that term, then we must let ourselves grow from these two roots.” 

In many respects this book offers a theoretical amplification of my memoir. It mirrors my final dream of a mother/child, Demeter/Persephone dream figure who “embodies the mysteries of abundance and poverty, of attachment and separation, of the reds, and the blues,” and who “carries my soul.”

Kalsched’s focus is on trauma, and on dissociation as a soul-saving defense which keeps “an innocent core of the self out of further suffering in reality by keeping it safe in another world.” In my first chapter I write about an experience that I remembered from the age of four.

 “My guess is, it was soon after we moved into the house when I began to disappear in the windowless hall between my bedroom, my parents’ bedroom, the bathroom, and the entrance into our living room; since I still needed to stand on my stool to see into the medicine cabinet mirror.

…All I can say is, in that hallway I left my body.

 …What I am trying to describe is what I believe to be my earliest reportable experiences of dissociation, a splitting off of consciousness. A vacant self.”

I go on to describe other altered states that I experienced as a child, transcendent states as well as the dark terrors of the night.

The tracks of the unseen (In the Tracks of the Unseen) are the tracks of my soul. My memoirs are stories of trauma and the healing that comes from holding the tension of the opposites, part human, part divine, in a third space, a liminal space from where looking into the front hall with the wall sconce by the stairs in the predawn can be transcendent.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Healing

As I recover from the MOHS surgery that cut out cancer cells spreading across my nose like pearly white moss beneath the skin’s surface, a cancer my dermatologist biopsied the day after I published my book, I find myself reflecting on wounds and healing. And synchronicity.

 

From Russell Lockhart’s book Words As Eggs; Psyche in Language and Clinic, I read of the synchronistic mysteries of psyche and soma and of cancer as an invitation to deepen consciousness. I am mindful of the fine line here between naming an opportunity for reflection that comes after the white space of injury’s descent and an insidious magical thinking that blames the victim. As George Orwell wrote, “To see what is in front of one’s nose needs a constant struggle.”

 

In the restful stretches of my day, transported by the sounds of the pianist Yiruma to a place of solace while the newly grafted skin roots into my face, thoughts on healing pass like the clouds outside my window. Surrender, grief, self-care that finds the maternal source of gentleness and my deep gratitude for the love of family and friends carry me forward.

 

The skin cancer rooted in my childhood sunburns that leaves a scar in the center of my face resonates with the story of my life that I have just released. Trauma and the suffering of recovery whatever its source takes us into a liminal space that defies description. It is the space that this watercolor came from a few days after my surgery. Lockhart writes, "Trusting the psyche is not an isolated or isolating act. It tends to bring us to the center and to that well at the bottom of the world. Bringing up water from there, each in his own way, with his own effort, is an eros act, not only for ourselves but also for others and for the world. It is this bringing up of psyche from the well and telling it to others that will bring us together.”

Unfortunate Love

 

Dr. Thomas Kirsch has just written a review of my book on Amazon. A respected elder in the Jungian world, past president of the San Francisco Institute and former longtime vice president and president of the International Society of Jungian Analysts, Dr Kirsch writes: I am writing a memoir myself, but it is much less personal than this one. The author writes about her falling in love with her patient and what she did about it. She went to a lot of therapy and supervision, and she was still in love with the patient. She ends up marrying the patient. She is an excellent writer, and she describes her process very well. Unfortunately, this happens too often in depth psychotherapy work. A good read if the subject interests one.

I am honored that Dr. Kirsch reviewed my memoir in spite of the line “Unfortunately, this happens too often in depth psychotherapy work.”

I rather find it unfortunate that those who practice depth psychology are unable to openly accept and honor the mysteries of love and the ways of the Self when that translates into an intimate relationship conceived in analysis and born outside its boundaries. Dr. Kirsch acknowledges this happens often. “Too often,” he says. Who knew?

It is time to ask how this happens, and how often. And why it is never discussed.

Every trained therapist knows about transference and the ethical mandate regarding the boundary between the personal and the professional. Analysts work within the tension of power and love, a tension that weaves between responsibility and compassion inside a frame of time and fee for service. The patient’s welfare, healing and individuation must be front, center and the essence of the work.

But what happens when that tension breaks the analytic vessel, when the psyche of the patient and the psyche of the analyst converge in a depth of connection that defies professional boundaries?

I know enduring and loving relationships can and do evolve out of every kind of psychotherapy. It would be interesting to hear the stories of those whose fate has led them down this road. But a seemingly impenetrable silence surrounds these stories.

Jung wrote that truth needs a language that alters with the spirit of the times and that as our consciousness increases we are confronted with new situations that require new ethical attitudes.

One could argue that indeed our greater consciousness around abuse and power has informed contemporary collective psychological codes of ethics, but what of love and healing and the individual experience of the archetype of the Self? What would a more finely differentiated ethical attitude that holds the tension of those opposites look like?

It is so easy to judge where you haven’t been.

Many thanks to Patricia Damery for her honest review of my book which she published on her blog and on the Depth Psychology Alliance blog site.

Review: Platko's In the Tracks of the Unseen

• Posted by Patricia Damery on December 3, 2013 at 8:00am
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Some topics are so controversial we cannot discuss them. Jane Davenport Platko’s In the Tracks of the Unseen: Memoirs of a Jungian Analyst brings one of those topics into full view: when the doctor and patient fall in love.

While we psychoanalysts and psychotherapists have thorough discussions as to why these kinds of relationships are problematic, we seldom have open discussions about what happens when they seem to work. Those who have entered such relationships rightfully fear judgment. I will be honest. I have a bias. Having barely survived the 1970’s in psychology after early experiences with therapists and teachers who did not know the power of the tool of the transference, I developed a healthy respect of the need for “boundaries,” as we put it in the talk of our trade. As a result, I often have had a hair trigger reaction when these boundaries are transgressed. For the most part, I think my stance has merit.

But Platko’s story demonstrates it is not so simple. What happens when the analytic vessel cannot contain the feeling within a transference format, when the Self has something different in mind? Are there times the therapeutic meeting is a springboard into the soul connection of friendship or romantic love and this is not exploitive of the patient?

With great integrity, honesty, and courage, Platko lays out her vulnerabilities and history, antecedents to both a friendship with her first analyst and then marriage to a man who had been her patient. Her decisions are not impulsive. In fact, she deeply and openly suffers them with her then current analyst and with her then husband.

In the preface she quotes Jung, “My story is my truth.” This story is Platko’s truth, and one can only feel compassion, awe and concern for a woman reveals herself so openly in order for us to understand the decisions she has made. There will be judgment!

When I began reading In the Tracks of the Unseen, I did not want to put it down. Platko is a good storyteller, and I have not read a book like it. It is well written, albeit disturbing, submerging the reader in the rawness of human attachment and the lonely quest of a woman who followed her heart. This is an important book in that it questions some suppositions of the last decades, taking the structure of love in analytical relationships down to the studs. There are no answers here, only a kind of solutio. Perhaps it is only now that we can follow “the tracks of the unseen,” to a larger playing field that may redefine ethics and the challenges of the human connection in the vessel of analytic work.