My "Li'l Darlin' Sophia Anastasia." She will be 4 in early September, and will start kindergarten next month. My grandson Kenji. He is 8 years old now, and so smart. My four granddaughters: Sophia, 3 yrs; Sarah Michelle, 18 months; Tori, 8 yrs.; Gwendolyn Rose, 2 yrs. Such beautiful and smart girls.

All things change

I've been thinking about this for quite some time now. I will probably take this blog offline very soon. It's just time. I don't have anything to say anymore, at least not anything that anyone wants to hear. Also, no one reads it anymore. My blog analysis tells me that I get the occasional "hit" from a "Google" search and the occasional "direct hit" from some people (I have no idea who would have this site bookmarked, or why), and it's just not worth it. Besides, the "blogosphere" (excepting, of course, those blogs dedicated to disseminating information) is an artificial and basically self-serving, unhealthy "entity" to which I do not belong, and to which I do not wish to belong. So, sometime in the near future, when I think of it, I will take this blog offline.

Blackberry pickin'

Storms' Debris

As I was tending to my chickens this morning, I took another notice of the giant trees and limbs, short and long, as well as the remnants of the once-living leaves torn from their links to the life of the trees that the tornadic storms of last month left in my woods. They are all over the place, these remnants of fury, and they get under my feet and roll and threaten still to bring me down. They remind me of the debris in me that has been brought out of my secret unconscious into the light of my awareness by the recent "storms" in my life. An older storm left irreparable damage, but also strength to weather the more recent and furious storm of 14 months ago. This more recent storm, by far the most devastating, left behind as much debris in my life as the tornadoes of last month; but at least this psychic debris does not get under my feet and continue to threaten to trip me and bring me crashing down again as the round limbs and sticks of the trees in my woods brought down by nature's fury. This psychic debris has been, perhaps finally, brought into the light of awareness and, now that I can see it, actually helps me walk straighter, more calmly, more quietly, and more lovingly than before. These storms have cost me many "friends," or people whom I thought were friends, and one daughter; but they have left behind the very few people who are real, and they have reunited me with an old friend with whom I had lost contact.

I have not posted much anywhere on the internet for a very long time. Actually, I haven't felt the need to as I used to. I often wonder why people post their lives at all on the 'net, and why I ever did formerly. I think it is an overwhelming sense of aloneness that is epidemic in this frantic and fake society of ours. People have an innate need to expel from their hearts the hurts as well as share the joys of their lives, and all too often there is really no one to whom they can trust these gems of their souls. So, they post their lives publicly--casting their gems out into the indifferent ether--just because their hearts can't hold it any more.

Before there was blogging and vlogging, people used to keep private diaries and journals; which, for the most part, stayed private. This I think is healthier because unfortunately very few, if any, people (including some relatives) can be trusted with these gems. I like to think that it was enough for these people in our pasts to write secretly because their slower society allowed some real people in their lives that were able to give them the companionship that every soul craves--not like today in its frantic hurry in all directions. So, nowadays we wear our hearts on our sleeves on the internet because we cannot contain our souls, and we are not made to be alone.

How the tree grows, so grows the Self.

A long time friend sent this photo as an e-postcard to my husband this morning, and I got to thinking about trees, how they grow, and how they can serve as a symbol of the Self. I think we all know intuitively what the Self is, the center of what and who we really are. This concept is defined and discussed more fully here. Briefly, though,

"THE SELF: this is, according to Jung, the most important archetype. It is called the "midpoint of the personality" a centre between consciousness and the unconsciousness. It signifies the harmony and balance between the various opposing qualities that make up the psyche. It remains basically incomprehensible, as ego consciousness cannot grasp this supraordinate personality of which the ego is only one element....To Jung the self is a representation of the 'god within us.'"

That being said, let me turn my attention to the subject at hand. While I contemplated the image of that beautiful tree in Friedrich's painting, I couldn't help but wonder about its twisted form. I remember that my Dad used to say, as he staked and supported the young trees he planted in our yard, that training a tree to grow straight is like training a child to grow straight. Sometimes pressure (in the case of a tree this takes form in ropes pulled taut by strong stakes to bend and hold it in the direction it should grow) needs to be applied for a time until the tree, or child, can stand straight and strong on its own. Surely the contortion of Friedrich's tree was caused by the weather it endured, the lack of husbandry, and possibly also by the nature and quality of the nutrients available to it. Yet in spite of wind and freezes and neglect, this tree continued to grow upward and tall, put out its leaves, blossoms, fruits, and attempted to fulfill it's purpose in the broader scheme of Nature by sending out seeds.

From here I thought about how a tree, and specifically the image of this tree, could represent in symbolic form the growth of Self. Trees have served as symbols of our Self for ages, the most famous of which is the World Tree, Yggdrasil.

"A common archetypal representation of the Self is the tree ..., demonstrated most forceably in the Teutonic myth of the world tree Yggdrasil, from which emerges the ancestors of the human race. After much study of such mythological tales and the numerous paintings and mandalas of his patients Jung summarizes his conclusions thus:

If a mandala may be described as a symbol of the self seen in cross section, then the tree would respresent a profile view of it: the self depicted as a process of growth." [Source]

We need only to look inside ourselves, if we are at all inclined toward introspection, to see how our past has formed us into our present form. The quality of our childhood nurturance, both physical and emotional; our school days' experiences, our first attempts to become adults, Life's troubles and heartaches that come to everyone all combine to form us into who and what we are today. We may be one of the few lucky ones who grow straight and strong, but we are most likely part of the majority whose form turns and maybe twists a bit from Life's buffeting. But we, like the tree, continue to grow upward as well as we know how. We still reach outward with our "blossoms" and "fruits" and hope that the next generation receives these "seeds" and may grow straighter and stronger than we. We still embody Hope.


Sources:
http://www.wga.hu/index1.html
http://www.itp.edu/about/carl_jung.php
http://www.religiousworlds.com/fondarosa/jung03.html
http://www.quodlibet.net/articles/brabazon-tree.shtml

Perpetual Motion

Eleven months old.

Drama in the Driveway

I think it's a Black Racer. At any rate, it's non-poisonous, and it's much smaller than it looks in the picture.

Catching up

It's been quite a while since I've posted anything here. That hen that was on the nest earlier this Spring did not hatch any biddies. I really didn't expect her too. She never has before. Oh, she's come close, but the only thing ever left in her nest after "brooding" for weeks has been broken egg shells. I suppose Marans just don't make good mama hens. I did have one good Marans mama hen about five years ago, but she was killed in the afternoon by some varmint wandering through. One of my older hens died recently. I found her on the floor of the henhouse one morning. It happens. Now I have only six chickens left. I wonder if I will be able to keep a small flock going? They certainly don't reproduce, and when I've added new pullets, they end up getting killed by varmints. Well, maybe that will change now that we have a dog again.


My newest grandchild, little Gwendolyn Rose (Gwen), was baptised in her mama's childhood parish by her mama's childhood priest. That is so neat. She was named after St. Gwen of Brittanny. We rented a cabin on the river and all of the family gathered there and had a wonderful time! There were cousins all over the place, and my sweet Goddaughter Sarah Elizabeth, whose Mama is now little Gwen's Godmother, was there, too. Sarah Elizabeth's Daddy is my son's Godfather.



We have now acquired my son's dog, Yoda. Yoda is part German Shepherd, but I have no idea what his other part is. He is the happiest dog I have ever seen in my life. His name should really be Tigger! He is always in motion, and I had a bit of a time getting him to hold still long enough to take his picture, or at least get a picture that wasn't all blur! He's a sweet thing, and we put him up in the poultry yard at night after we've locked up the chickens so he can run. He has kept the pesky raccoons and opossums away, which has simplified my life.