The Shell and the Kernel – an Easter reverie

Celebrating my birthday on Easter at the ocean gave me a chance to check in with my Self and open to rejuvenation, resurrection. This Easter reverie reminded me of a time a few years ago in which my understanding of Self and ego centered around symbols of the egg. May Easter unfold for you throughout the years to come.

The changes in perception I’ve been experiencing are connected to the ongoing Egg series. I just read a bit from the Sanford book, Mystical Christianity that somehow I missed in Edward Edinger’s The Bible and the Psyche:

“As Jungian analyst Edward Edinger pointed out, the Center consents to being broken and divided symbolically in the breaking of the host, so that his reality may be disseminated within and among the worshipers. All of this is part of the Christian mysterion which is further described in verses 17 and 18, that reality we call Christ is available to us in very small portions, of which we partake inasmuch as we are able, and it is like a sacrifice made by God for our sakes that this can happen. And in fact in all psychological and spiritual advances in consciousness it works this way; the truth is assimilated only bit by bit.”

This relates directly to the breaking up of the egg that is an ongoing symbolic progression. The ego as the egg, changing as the Center grows within, then cracking open and being disbursed throughout as a universal awareness of the Center in all. Yesterday as I was riding the bus I saw the shell of the ego/egg changing and dissolving, becoming luminous like a star, with some discrete boundaries but soft and light, not fragile and brittle. Our essential nature as it shines forth from the Center is light. This is the message that just keeps unfolding. Incorporating the shadow has continued growing the awareness of the center as it is disbursed throughout humanity as it was shown in the last part of the dream I had last December. As I held on to the shadow and walked into the light outside I saw kaleidoscopic scenes of humanity from all parts of the earth. This is something I’ve been working on for so many years, finding it in myself to love all people. I swear if there ever was a beautiful mandala it is the earth.

One day as I sat in the back yard I experienced myself fragmenting, emotionally, like shards of glass exploding in slivers, piercing my awareness like knives. This searing, painful recognition of brokenness, of imperfection gave way to a healing fountain from the Center, flowing through the separation, bringing healing in its wake. I felt like the butterfly I saw drinking in the water from the sprinkler. It would just stretch its wings out and drink in the living water, the Holy Sprit drenching the soul with love. This is the love I must feel for myself. Looking outside doesn’t work. This love from deep inside, from my heart of hearts is for me too. This is something I haven’t learned from my family although my daughter experiences this love of self without the overtones of its shabby pretender, Narcissus. Our culture is infested with this case of mistaken identity, the confusion of the inflated ego with the wholeness of Self. Now is the time for reconciliation and for love and forgiveness, starting with myself.

The shell image came to me months before I read this book. The ego is handled in the same way I saw it, as the brittle shell of time surrounding the eternally evolving self within.

Excerpts from The Shell and the Kernel by Nicholas Abraham and Maria Torok with my commentary:

Introjection represents both the aim and the specific course of psychic life from birth to death. It is a constant process of acquisition and assimilation, the active expansion of our potential to accommodate our own emerging desires and feelings as well as the events and influences of the external world. It is the psychic counterpart of the child’s biological development and continues through the various stages of maturation, including adulthood. As a result, the repressions and psycho-sexual anxieties and experiences of childhood continue on and do not dominate the unfolding consciousness of the individual. They view sexuality as an expression of the energy of the psychic-somatic, not the cause and cite any number of traumas to the process of introjection as inhibitory toward integration.

Introjection is the process of psychic nourishment, growth and assimilation, encompassing our capacity to create through work, play, fantasy, thought, imagination and language. It is the continual process of self-fashioning through the fructification of change, whether the modification is biological and internal (i.e. sexual maturation) or external and cultural (child detaching from parents). At the same time, it represents our ability to survive shock, trauma or loss; it is the psychic process that allows human beings to live harmoniously in spite of instability, devastation, war and upheaval.

Three stages of introjection:

1) Something new or foreign (good or bad) occurs in or to me
2) I turn myself into that which this new “thing” has done to me. I familiarize myself with it through play, fantasy, projections, etc. I appropriate it for myself.
3) I become aware of what has occurred and of my own gradual encounter with it. As a result, I am now able to give the whole process a place within my emotional existence; I also understand why and how the scope of “myself” has been modified and expanded. The purpose of psychoanalysis is to intensify the process of introjection in order to effect healing of life traumas. Some of the obstacles to introjection are the phantom (undisclosed family secret handed down through generations), illness or mourning, an untoward sexual outburst at the time of loss, a secret or alien identity which “entombs” an unspeakable consummated desire.

The shell and the kernel in dynamic relation:
How the ego is represented (p80):

The ego struggles on two fronts: toward the outside it moderates appeals and assaults – turned inside it channels excessive and incongruous impulses. Freud sees this as a protective layer, an ectoderm, a cerebral cortex, a shell. The role of the shell is also to conceal and yet reflect the nature of that which it protects. They are very clear about this; the kernel is “unbendingly resistant to encyclopedic systemization.” The authors admitted the possibility of a conceptual organization of psychoanalysis but its inherent unity cannot be found in the bounds of traditional thinking, its apprehension requires a new dimension to be found.

Stage 1

The question: “If Freud’s theories form a protective shell around his intuition, simultaneously concealing and revealing it, what of the actual kernel? For it is the kernel which, invisible but active, confers its meaning upon the whole construction. This kernel, the active principal of psychoanalytic theory, will not show through unless all the apparent contradictions have found their explanation in the unity I ascribe hypothetically to Freud’s intuition. (Abraham and Torok)“

Semantics play a large part in conveying the contradictions inherent in posing opposites for reconciliation. For instance, Pleasure and Discharge refer not to the conscious experience but to that which may be experienced as pain/pleasure simultaneously. In this way they approach the new dimension of unity in polarity. A & T accuse philosophy, which is reflexive (reflecting upon thought itself) of being naïve, ignoring the mystery of the “opaque indeterminacy of the distance that separates the reflecting subjects from themselves, a distance endangering even patent notions founded on an illusory proximity to self, or the space that separates the “I” from the “me”. In this space, in this non-presence of the self to itself – the very condition of reflexivity, psychoanalysis stakes it domain – on the ground of non-thought. The challenge: how to include the very thing which is a precondition of the discourse and which fundamentally escapes it. If nonpresence, the kernel and ultimate basis of all discourse is made to speak, can it – must it- make itself heard in and through presence to self? Such is the paradox inherent in psychoanalysis”.

AntiSemantics: they go to great lengths to establish the “designification” of words like “pleasure”, Unconscious, Id, Self, Conscious, in an effort to return again to the mystery of meaning arising from non-being or un-thought. This is valuable in setting up the relationship between the ego and the self, as layers of interpenetrating psychic envelopes.
The messenger and sender are used to describe the process of establishing meaning as it stems from that which the two have in common, but remains yet in mystery. The poles of somatic (body but not just body) and psychic (mind but also designified) are the opposites, with the representative or messenger more clearly visible as the mediating entity. Poetry uses symbols to convey a meaning, which is alluded to but never fully articulated or revealed. “The philistine claims to translate and paraphrase the literary symbol and thereby abolishes it irretrievably.” The mystery remains but the desire to possess it, to describe it is just as powerful. We can view this process as Adam’s challenge as God asks him to name what he sees. Naming includes both the desire to possess something or limit it while simultaneously admitting the futility of absolute definition. Something always remains unspoken.

Abraham combines the two ideas of the unconscious and the symptom as more than a way of treating neurosis. The unconscious, with its ability to overwhelm the conscious mind and its historical self-reference is shown as the incoherent basis of self-identity. Symptoms allow us to track down the disruptions in conscious development and track them to the source of origin in the unconscious, establishing maps, as it were into our mystery of being.

Anasemia is introduced as a way to define the paradoxical status of thinking and interpretation. Abraham maintains that psychoanalysis is mainly an interpretive science, but anasemia allows for the interpretation of that which is not available to direct interpretation, the apparent with not apparent, observation and non-observation, speech and silence, and so on.

Symbol and Anasemia enable us to look at fantasy as a symptom of a desire that seeks solution through expression. He pairs it with the symbol of the messenger, which can also be seen as instinct or drive. Fantasy creates the message that links the envelopes of the somatic (organic source of drive or message) to the psychic or conscious/body awareness. The somatic is alluded to by the messages conveyed to the psychic outer envelope. In this way the kernel is expressed to the ego or shell. Sexual fantasies are represented as contact between the phallic nature of the unconscious Kernel with the envelope or Ego. The embedding and interrelationship of the kernel in successive envelopes or layers produces on the surface, the ego or epidermal expression of the Self (kernel). Again, that which the envelope (ego) conceals it simultaneously reveals as the kernel is implicit in every envelope and interpenetrating all, including the unconscious receptacle of itself. It arises in the unconscious but stems from a deeper organic source: God, the manifest Center as Christ.

April Fools saunter Johnson City

Sunday drives were a family way of life for boomers, like road trips and burger joints. While I don’t eat beef, I did enjoy the really tasty baa baa black sheep burger with goat cheese, stone ground mustard, tomato and pepperoncini peppers at Pecan Street Brew Pub. Couldn’t resist the Sisyphus Barleywine Real Ale, a nice compliment to my burger and sweet potato fries. Walking through the low trafficked, unrented stores and the open streets of Johnson City (where everyone knows each tree) fed my nostalgia for small town life. Taking an out of the way road back to 281 presented us with a romanticized family idyll: a dog swimming in a creek with mom, dad and two laughing kids. The green, rolling hills of the hill country are a welcome harbinger of spring, more wild flowers will come. Rain has caressed the land and given us a delightful bouquet.

Crab-N between Rockport and Aransas Pass on Hwy 35

Sitting at the bar at The Lighthouse Inn in Rockport sipping a luscious Chocolate Martini, I happened into a conversation with two San Antonians who were determined to try Crab-N, a restaurant that several friends had recommended. I had some fresh, juicy oysters at the Boiling Pot that evening with a nice hot shrimp gumbo but I was ready to enjoy the inside scoop on locally preferred seafood that came in options other than fried, not that I object to the occasional crispy treat.

Although I checked a map for the Crab-N, I didn’t see it until I was headed back to Rockport from Port A on the south side of Hwy 35. They are open for dinner from 5:00-8:30 or 9:00, depending on the day. I arrived around 5:30 and by 6:30 the main dining room was full. I immediately noticed the music -gypsy guitar- melodic but not overbearing, a nice compliment to the white linens and fresh flowers. My server, Kim, was knowledgeable about which fish was fresh, and what was locally farmed, and gave good suggestions about the various entrees, wines and salads. When I return I’ll make a meal of the appetizers and try the Crab and Shrimp Bisque, but I only had eyes for the Lump Crab Meat (sauteed) with Crab and and Shrimp Butter cream Sauce. Sound decadent? Ahhhhh. It was surprisingly light and delicately delicious, nicely offset by a side of long grain and wild rice with roasted pecans. Crab and shrimp morsels languished seductively in the butter cream sauce while the rice had great definition and texture with a decidedly nutty flavor. This luscious main course was preceded by a very nice salad of fresh greens with homemade blue cheese dressing. Fresh mixed greens might be more of a rarity than the hunka burning crab love, a welcome relief from southern fried cuisine.

I heartily recommend a stop at the Crab-N if you are staying in Port Aransas or in Rockport/Fulton. The menu is posted on their facebook page, linked above and offers tantalizing crab, fish and meat options (for those unfortunates who eschew bottom feeding). There are vegetarian plates at the Crab-N and a plethora of gluten-free options as well. My trip to Rockport would have been much less satisfying without the fresh oyster and crab delights I enjoyed, all locally caught. While Kim was kind enough to serve me a glass and 1/2 of Sauvignon Blanc, I spied a full bar just around the corner. I was too full for dessert, but word is the key lime pie is worth leaving room for.

Port Aransas Winter Saunter

I love winter trips to the beach, the quieter the better and this December proved to be no exception. I’ve taken to staying in Rockport on the bay, which attracts many birds and not the party crowd that Port Aransas sometimes does. Of course, that means I don’t get to hear the ocean waves crashing off my balcony, but sauntering a few miles down the road to the ferry is no big whoop. The sound of the waves, their incessant ebb and flow speaks to the most essential human experience: simply being in the vastness of time and space. We are reminded of our status as drops in the big bucket of life. Of course the ocean changes, as does the earth, but it remains the primal abyss, the womb from which we have all crawled onto the land.

Who does not identify with the little Sanderling below, a small bird facing the challenge of waiting for random tidbits to wash ashore? Certainly, if time is the cosmic ocean, then much of our lives are spent running around looking for these moments of discovery, of existential nourishment.

May we find peace in the ebb and flow of whimsy, in the depth and breadth of an ocean of time and space we can never fully apprehend or elude. Spending a few minutes with a little bird might be just the thing to ward off the demons of discontent and bring the gift of humility into our hearts.

11-11-11 in the Texas Hill Country

Contrary to popular belief, there is water in the hill country.  Colleen and I had to go to Hunt, Texas to find it, but Autumn cypress foliage rivals northern forests for flaming reds, orange and shades of gold and rust.  Taking a break from the routine, 11 brings an opportunity for balance, recalibration and strength.  For fun, we went to Stonehenge II (now in Ingram, Texas) to stand among the stones and release the old, walking counterclockwise around the circle, then ushering in a new energetic cycle by strolling clockwise among the stones.  The creeks and rivers offered peace – lush grasses and languid flowing waters the dry beds closer to town have lost in the drought. Ingram has a few shops, including the Copper Cactus, whose humorous mural is featured below.  If you are looking for a good German meal in Fredericksburg, I recommend Friedhelm’s Bavarian Restaurant.  Schnitzel, ja voll! All in all a lovely day touring the gently rolling hills and dales of Central Texas. May peace remain and pass on to the warriors who have gone before us this Veteran’s Day 2011.

Castroville and the Orient Expressed at the McNay in San Antonio

Tasty tour of Castroville, the charming Alsatian village with the ever enticing Old Alsatian Steakhouse and Ristorante. Tito’s tip of the day: 2010 Victor Hugo Viognier from the Paseo Robles region (yelp reviews), paired with flounder – resonant! The old world charm of this unique village is understated enough to provide a welcome reprieve from the standard issue box houses that line the I-35, 410, I-10 corridors. Historically strategic during the civil and Indian wars, the city has kept many historical dwellings intact along with the French/German (Alsace) heritage that distinguishes it from the Germanic dorf of Fredricksburg.

The McNay Art Museum in San Antonio took us back into the tine of Japonisme and its influence on Art Nouveau and Impressionism in Europe in the 1890’s and 1900’s with drawings of Mary Cassatt featured. While no pictures of the exhibit were allowed, I include a few whimsical shots below.

Living the disco dream

After walking the many acres of shops, restaurants, whistling, tweeting and ringing bells at Caesar’s Palace, I sought refuge at the Bellagio. The 110 degrees on the strip touched my skin for an hour at 7:30 in the morning and never again until I fled to the airport. For a naturalist, this was not my usual saunter. I had to call on subterranean memories of disco nights, bring out my Evelyn Champagne King buried four decades deep. It took me three days to orient myself to the twists and turns of the Roman holiday mall, convincing peasants like me that we are living large – like Caesar, probably Augustus not Julius. While I didn’t follow my impulse to sneak into the Wedding chapels and take some photos, I would expect something along these lines. The Bellagio was more modulated than the Palace, but the atrium pictures shown below rival the kitsch of Caesars, family style. For a tourist once removed (I was attending a Sociology conference) from the many dubious pleasures of Sin City, I did find a taste of something savory here and there (Palm, Joe’s Stone Crab and Steakhouse, Payard Pastiserei and Yellowtail). Cocktails, while expensive, were a delicious and medicinal balm for my irradiated senses. I include snapshots of the Bellagio and Caesar’s in colorful tribute to my Vegas mall walk about.

Well Vegas, for the record, let me just say Danke Schoen. It’s been surreal.

Vegas, Mt. Olympus or Hades?

Good thing I was reading Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott whose words of wisdom: “I thought such awful thoughts that I cannot even say them out loud because they would make Jesus want to drink gin straight out of the cat dish.” prepared me for Las Vegas, which I had not visited since 1975. Humor thrives on incongruency and there is plenty of it here.  Flying in at sunset, I was awed by the miles of canyons advancing on the desert, stopping just short of the lakes created by Hoover Dam.  I didn’t see the city from the air at night but I’m sure it sparkles like an 8 karat pinkie ring.  Weary from 6 hours of travel by plane and shuttle, I stepped onto the lobby of Caesar’s palace and into a full frontal assault on my senses.  Greeted by a cacophony of clinking, buzzing bells and whistles, my eyes provided no refuge from the din, begging me to use my sun glasses to ward off the devils of much too much.  Caesar’s Palace covers acres of the Las Vegas strip, a labyrinthian testament to our very human desire for excess and immortality.  While the overall aesthetic is a sumptuous parody of classic Greek and Roman motifs, it’s clear who truly presides over the pantheon: Rod Stewart, don’t you think he’s sexy? In the objectification of everyone and everything, this shopping mall of dreams evokes lust in some and panic in others, but the undercurrents are more complex. The service sector is very strong here; ants working to maintain the glistening objects of desire while the visiting moths flit in crazy spirals around the bright lights. When I asked the friendly servers and hosts sprinkled through the casinos how long they had been in Vegas, all of them said 18 or 19 years. They had come during the boom and for family reasons or a decent job, they stayed. Some enjoyed the glitter and others orbited the city. There is less of a race and class schism in Vegas than in New Orleans, a far more soulful city with a strong service sector. People of all colors, ages and nationalities work and party in this strip club mall of America. The genuinely open people I met here more than offset the hideous beauty of Viva Las Vegas. I admit I still enjoy 60’s era Vegas entertainment, a luscious chapter in American pop culture. It might be obscured by the hysteria of the 21st Century, but burbles sinuously underground, beneath the smoke and mirrors and the watchful eyes of ancient Gods of yore.

More to come, including 5 Elvis’ at dinner.

Glen Ellyn and McKee Marsh

The Village of Glen Ellyn is a pretty suburb west of Chicago, surrounded by nature preserves. Bill, Jean and I took a walk in nearby McKee Marsh, on a trail that cut through marsh and grassland. Watching the cattails sway in the wind and listening to the red-winged blackbirds in the cottonwood trees was sublime, luscious. Walking to dinner in lovely Glen Ellyn was another small town pleasure, a perfect saunter.