The wellspring of consciousness has long been located in word. Once words were etched on clay or inked on papyrus, a new way of knowing was born. Writing ordered and expanded language, captured ideas, bloomed imagination, and preserved human experience.
Writing is an encounter like no other with oneself and inner others, light and dark. Whether we meet the page in a personal journal or as professional necessity, we discover that ego alone does not do this job. Some days words leap like dolphins; other days find us becalmed on a flat sea. To create through writing is to encounter self and depths, and Lisa shares experiences of writing her forthcoming book, Motherhood: Facing and Finding Yourself. Her words for the creative and challenging process of mothering map a path to soul and greater wholeness.
Here’s the dream we analyze:
“I was attending a house party, and I was in the kitchen. I was wearing a skirt and all of a sudden I realized I had pooped without realizing it and the poop was on the floor of the kitchen. It was like a long light beige dinner roll in size and shape, and there were large batteries in the poop. I quickly picked it up, hoping no one saw me and turned to put it in the toilet, but there was someone in the bathroom, so I wrapped the poop in a yellow garbage bag and dropped it in the garbage can. At some other point in the dream, I had to collect many things I had strewn about in the home because I had to leave to make a train journey. I often have elements of my dream where I’m hustling to get somewhere to be on time for a leaving train or bus, but I can’t find my belongings. At another point I was in a van with many people driving along a bumpy dirt road. For the majority of the dream, I was surrounded by people but feeling alone.”
Lisa Marchiano. Motherhood. https://www.amazon.com/dp/1683646665/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_JT0S2NJKGY81FQKGW49J
Barbara Hannah. Encounters with Soul. https://www.amazon.com/dp/1630513504/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_DFC87E2T6FYFDNAPAKY2
Rollo May. The Courage to Create. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B011MEFW4Q/ref=cm_sw_em_r_mt_dp_KVHB37BZ6E5B2DEK516F
Learn to Analyze your own Dreams: https://thisjungianlife.com/enroll/
Long ago, i was in the throes of a stormy “middle passage” having just gone thru an unexpected divorce after 15 lovely years of marriage. One day, while my nerves were still raw and i had lots of bones left to pick with my former spouse, i was overcome with rage after having seen her in town with a new lover. I sat down to write what i thought would be a cathartic, vitriolic letter about my visions of us as older people when i was sure she would eventually look back on a life of regrets while i would live content in my smug and glorious vindication! 40 minutes later i sat blinking at a poem that had somehow completely transformed itself into something much softer and sweeter. In less than an hour, i could feel a deep heartfelt change in my entire demeanor and outlook from that point onwards. It was a poem of letting go and the beginning of healing for me– and for us –and we have remained fast friends and fine co-parents now years later. Here it is:
75 at Tea
a fine grit covers this shabby old couch
pouffing up as i plop my fat, flat ass down on it
the grey green canvas, dusty as my skin now
replete with the troughs of old age.
i lean my head back finding that old familiar indentation
And you are there before me,
infinite in your youth, tangled hair a mess
energetic, so full of life‘s timeless beauty.
when we whispered sun dappled oaths barefoot in the orchard,
a full moon and its crickets bearing us good fortune.
whatever the future would withhold from us
it could never deny us laughter
Yet all too soon mischievous minstrels found willing ears
to woo us
with promises of hotter tropics
and bluer seas.
But how could the skies have been
bluer than those we had reveled beneath?
or another ocean
contain the immensity of our joy?
Indeed these long years, laughter was not denied me
echoing off these farmhouse walls
evening, morning, noon and night
the laughter of children… of family… of friends.
But what wouldn’t i give to walk again with you
dottering down this misty country lane, leaning in close
sharing a knowing glance
a chuckle at some private, distant joke.
The moody November twilight
your blue teapot perched on my plant stand
like some steaming blue parrot
Miles and Coltrane suspended in the vapor.
I hope that life has brought laughter
to your house… upon your loves
and that you have not lived with a desire
to rewrite the drama of life’s final act.
Such a sweet melancholy to see you again in all your glory,
before i knew you were to be gone so soon.
i smile at the thought that, had that moon
and those crickets spoken true,
you would have loved living in this old house
Peaceful and solid,
infused with leather and bergamot
with me savoring the chill evening that once left me shuttering.
Scrawling poems, sipping tea!
Walking… Thinking… Singing…
playing with the dog.
The dust on the sofa is, again,
a tiny bit out of hand.
Loved this episode! It was really helpful as I’ve been thinking about my own journaling and writing process.
Reflecting on the dream interpretation: While the interpretations were fascinating, the presentation of a yellow colored garbage bag may not be so curious. In medical settings, yellow garbage bags are used specifically for biological waste (including human feces). So while the waste was disposed of where others may not find it, it was still in an appropriately conspicuous bag. Perhaps this is because the need to follow appropriate health precautions (concerning others’ wellbeing) was more compelling than the need to hide the bag entirely.
I’m going to try putting your journaling ideas into practice as I tend to swallow my anger.
In terms of the dream, she thinks she’s too old at 39? I’m finding that funny as I have the same idea but I’m 57.
I have just pre-ordered your book Deb and I am very excited to read it. I really appreciate this podcast, especially the dream section.
Sorry I meant Lisa!