Twilight of the Psyche's Immaturity

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Last June I published a post about how a mother bear raises her cubs. The first and most difficult lesson she teaches her baby is to stay hidden and quiet high up in a tree while she searches the forest for food. Soon the baby learns to stay in the tree until mother comes home and they are joyously reunited. This goes on for about two years and then one day the mother bear trees her cub as usual. She goes out into the woods as usual. And she never comes back.
It may seem cruel, but the good mother’s job not only is to protect but also to liberate. If she does not leave her cub when the time is right, and if the cub does not disobey the good mother and climb down from the tree, it will never mature into a responsible mother herself. As a species, humanity is like that cub. The dark night is upon us and if we cannot awaken from our dreamy dependance on outer authorities and develop our own authority and individuality, we will be unable to contribute to the evolving consciousness which alone can birth a hopeful new dawn.  It’s time we left the tree and became good mothers to ourselves, each other and the planet. 

 

TREE MOTHER

There was a time when time stood still as death.

I shinnied up the mast of an oak tree,

breezes ruffling my leafy sail; there I

floated dreamily through life. One branch was

a mustang. We raced through the Western plains

herding cows, chasing rustlers in black hats.

A three-pronged fork was an eagle’s aerie

where I snuggled to savor a new book…

as I awaited my mother’s return.

There was a time when time stood still as death:

when I outlined log cabins on the ground

with fallen twigs that trapped mother inside

arid walls. We cooked supper together

from crushed acorns and mud, swept dirt-hard floors,

made beds with sheets crisp from sun-warmed breezes,

slumbered beneath quilts fashioned by her hands…

as I awaited my mother’s return.

Once, time moved as slowly as a glacier

and waiting and pretending were enough.

Now time surges like a raging river;

my gut growls and I am hungry, restless

to leave this tree despite the father bears

who crave me and my heresies for lunch.

But, oh, the bliss of frozen fantasy…

as I await my mother’s return!

 

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