Tag Archives: psychology

interpreting dreams

I had a dream last night and it went like this.. I was in a vintage/flea-market type clothing store, huge, full of racks. There were three salesgirls. There were these earrings that they suddenly could not find and thought a male customer took them. They continued to ask me if I would find out if he stole them or not and if I could find the earrings. I agreed even though inside I did not want to. The girls huddled into a fitting room, chatting and suddenly everything started to shake and people were screaming. They yelled to me to go to the front and “pull the handle.” The room was now an airplane and it was going down. Everything was falling down and I saw through the windows that the plane was nose-diving toward the ground. I saw a Los Angeles freeway getting closer and closer as I was trying to reach for the emergency handle. We were edging closer and even clipped a few cars causing them to explode — I could feel the heat from the explosion. I was fighting gravity so hard to get the handle and when I finally did, I pulled it back with all my might. The plane slowed down slightly but we were so close to the ground, we skidded and the freeway turned into one big ocean. The plane, cars, people were all floating and drowning down. Everybody was upset because it was my fault that the plane fell and I didn’t save them in time. They grabbed on to my legs and pulled me down as I was trying to fight them off. In the end, I lost and drowned with them.

 

My Jungian interpretation: I feel as though things are always “my fault.” I shoulder a lot of other people’s burdens because I feel if I refuse to, I am being unhelpful. The thing is, from doing that, I cause myself to drown.

What do you think?

longing for the sea

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“For all humankind and through all the ages, the sea has been the great symbol of unconscious. The islands across the sea, the exotic kingdoms and distant lands, have always represented the Great Unknown. Our longing for these places of mystery, magic, flying carpets and genies has a deep inner meaning. It is our nostalgia for the hidden potentialities within our own souls: for what we have never known, never lived, never dared.”

 

masculine and feminine

tamaradean01

Some of my favorite bits from Knowing Woman by Irene Claremont de Castillejo. Great book… I love books about the masculine and feminine energies. Does anyone have any other recommendations?

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Psychological thinking has seeped through into ordinary life and it is so easy to explain a situation by some psychological slogan — yet the inner meaning may lie in a different place.

Perhaps man’s need is to be trusted even more than to be understood. He needs to be believed in, and his work, whether she understands it or not, to be given full value. But he needs her also to express herself. Herself. It is her own deepest self that he must know, not her opinions which she has picked up from parents, schools and the daily press, but her deepest self. How many women can give him that?

He throws light on the jumble of words hovering beneath the surface of her mind so that she can choose the ones she wants, separates light onto the colors of the rainbow for her selections, enables her to see the parts of which her whole is made, to discriminate between this and that. In a word, he enables her to focus.

Our need is to keep the balance between masculine focused consciousness and feminine diffuse awareness — or if you prefer, between the creative spirit which uses man as its vehicle and the life force which uses woman. Both of these forces are equally ruthless.

A woman’s tears accompany her deepest truth.

It is through his anima that a man receives his inspirations. She is the fountain from which he drinks. She holds the treasures in her lap and offers them when he is ready to receive her gifts. But, having received them, it is his masculine, discriminating mind which gives form to the elusive riches she offers. She is the femme inspiratrice. 

Woman needs to give. She cannot help herself. Life pours through her and she has no choice but to pass it on, or let it stagnate until it becomes an abscess in her breast. This flow of life is not intended only for her children, but also for her mate. But many a man is too proud to accept her giving, confusing it with the mother’s milk he has outgrown, unaware that it is the water of life she offers him.

It is man’s greatest task, not to learn to love, but to learn how to create the conditions in which love can alight upon us and can remain with us.

 

ben smythe

This guy is hilarious and so refreshing…

 

in her shadows


[acrylic]

Those demons never really go away, do they?

I think the human nature is amazing, if you think about it. We are always looking for the light, the hope, even in all the darkest days. I don’t know what it means but it’s either really amusing or very tragic… sometimes I think the former, sometimes the latter. I guess that’s being human.

I found this really… awesome:

“Many of us have set out on the path of enlightenment. We long for a release of self-hood in some kind of mystical union with all things. But that moment of epiphany—when we finally see the whole pattern and sense our place in the cosmic web—can be a crushing experience from which we never fully recover. Compassion hurts. When you feel connected to everything, you also feel responsible for everything. You can not turn away. Your destiny is bound to the destinies of others. You must either learn to carry the Universe or be crushed by it. You must grow strong enough to love the world, yet empty enough to sit down at the same table with its worst horrors. To seek enlightenment is to seek annihilation, rebirth, and the taking up of burdens. You must come prepared to touch and be touched by each and every thing in heaven and hell.

I am One with the Universe and it hurts.” -Andrew Boyd

 

sweet like cinnamon

I have never been a religious person, not even spiritual. I think I used to be a bit more logical (cynical, too) – I didn’t understand the “mystery” of life; I just wanted to know. That then turned into the practice of thoughts, affirmations, beliefs and self-mastery, which then turned into the study of energies and the belief of manifestations and frequencies, which has now turned into “spirituality,” I suppose. I listen to my heart more. There is no justifying or explaining it; I just follow it. I have dreams now (I used to never ever remember my dreams) that seem to tell me things, give me messages. I woke up in the middle of the night yesterday, scribbled something down and went back to sleep. This is what I had written:

Everything that we express and create is from the direct divinity of God. This universe was created for us to experience ourselves through God’s heart. It’s all just waves in a bigger ocean… every emotion, every life, every moment, every experience. Love may be the most beautiful, painful, deep, dark, amazing thing in this human life yet through this act is an exploration of getting closer to God. God, for me, is not one singular entity, one person; it is me, you, trying to find ourselves and discovering who we are whether that be through our dreams, goals, our lovers, families, children, our pains and joys. We all have our own way and our own time.

I also had another dream (dreams seem like secret out of body experiences, don’t they?)  a couple nights ago that I was the infinite light and I held a little blue marble called Earth in my palm and placed a piece of me into this body I am now. I whispered to the body to have fun, to love, to live my life however makes you happy, to worry less, to take your time and I’ll always be here.

 

“allow me to strip the definitions from your Soul, and admire your sublimely naked Spirit.”

Now my life is sweet like cinnamon, like a fucking dream I’m living in… -Lana Del Rey “Radio”

The New Psychology of Success

George Danzig was a graduate student in math at Berkeley. One day, as usual, he rushed in late to his math class and quickly copied the two homework problems from the blackboard. When he later went to do them, he found them very difficult and it took him several days of hard work to crack them open and solve them. They turned out not to be homework problems at all. They were two famous math problems that had never been solved.
[from "Mindset" by Carol S. Dweck, Ph. D]

Isn’t this little fragment of discovery inspiring?

I have been thinking a lot about the meaning of success lately. I finished a book called Mindset: The New Psychology of Success over a week ago and it really opened up my eyes to something I hadn’t thought about. The author separates ones with the Fixed mindset from the Growth; the former with examples stemming from childhoods with parents/teachers around that child astounded with their talent and praised over and over. The child is then consumed with the notion that they are born special and when they cannot reach this ill-fated trap of achievement again, he brushes it aside (“That’s not for me anyways.” “I don’t want to do it because it’s stupid.” or worse: “I’m not good enough.”)

Fixed mindsets are those seeking validation for their work; praise that they are indeed different, better, than everybody else. Success means something unique for each person but more often than not, the word evokes images of esteem, one-upping and pedestals.

And even as I write my novel, there are times where I crush myself; comparing myself to other great authors, embarrassed that I even think my writing may be considered readable, hoping my work will be acclaimed and adored — and that is the part of me I realize as my empty ego creeping in, having to prove itself over and over, anxious for the deadline.

The latter of the mindsets, Growth, considers another side: the side that says talent is not born but is built, nurtured and questioned. My own interpretation being that there is no prize, as the gift comes from the love of doing. There is no praise to be sought because it realizes that praise means something concrete, told, done, finished; something that, while nice, is already past. Growth continues, forward and onward.

What does success mean to you? Sometimes, if questioned and aggravated, one can find so many deeper reasons of how this answer came about and where the roots began; Validation? Competition? Measuring?

Some final words about doing work you love, fame and success from Paul Graham:

“What you should not do, I think, is worry about the opinion of anyone beyond your friends. You shouldn’t worry about prestige. Prestige is the opinion of the rest of the world. When you can ask the opinions of people whose judgment you respect, what does it add to consider the opinions of people you don’t even know? …This is easy advice to give. It’s hard to follow, especially when you’re young.  Prestige is like a powerful magnet that warps even your beliefs about what you enjoy. It causes you to work not on what you like, but what you’d like to like… If you do anything well enough, you’ll make it prestigious. Plenty of things we now consider prestigious were anything but at first. So just do what you like, and let prestige take care of itself…Prestige is especially dangerous to the ambitious. If you want to make ambitious people waste their time on errands, the way to do it is to bait the hook with prestige…”

“It’s hard to find work you love; it must be, if so few do. So don’t underestimate this task. And don’t feel bad if you haven’t succeeded yet. In fact, if you admit to yourself that you’re discontented, you’re a step ahead of most people, who are still in denial. If you’re surrounded by colleagues who claim to enjoy work that you find contemptible, odds are they’re lying to themselves. Not necessarily, but probably.”

 

Excerpt: Therapy and Judy Jetson’s Diary

The informant was a twenty eight year old college graduate who had just finished his masters in psychology. He seemed nice at the start but after three sessions I knew I may have been better off spending this time picking the cuticles from my nails and watching Oprah. I had always thought therapy was suppose to be about the patient…

“Try to take things less personal,” he told me. “When I was getting my masters, people told me I couldn’t do it but I didn’t let that stop me. I had a lot of obstacles but I overcame every one of them.”

He continued. “I have very high self esteem. Most people would never guess I dated a Victoria’s Secret model.”

He continued once more. “In most anger management classes, you watch a DVD and answer questions from a workbook. I work differently. I actually talk and listen to the patient so you get your money’s worth here.”

I scoffed. He made me angry in my anger management class — I didn’t care about him or his colorful dating history. Wasn’t I paying him so we could puff up my own ego, not his? 

 

I moved on to therapy. It was four times more expensive than anger management classes but I convinced myself I needed them. I was fucked up. Right?

She was “the therapist to the stars.” After leaving my car at valet, I would walk through the tall, glass doors and share an elevator with a medley of shiny shoes, faint cologne and the occasional polite clearing of one’s throat. The waiting room was crisp and white and although homely with its floral couch and empty mugs atop its designated coasters, it still was only a step below a dentist’s office, one waiting to be poked and analyzed.

There was a light by the door that shined red, meaning she was with a client and not to be bothered. I quickly scanned through Psychology Today for a bank of words I could casually throw into conversation. Interpersonal relationships, cognitive, projecting.. 

The light soon switched to green.

She was a bland, older lady with a contrast of sharp, silver bangs who listened. In fact, she listened a little too well.

“My dad was never really around because he worked so much.”

“Your dad was always working so you felt alone.” She repeated back to me.

“Yes… and I feel like I didn’t have a father figure so I just made my own rules.”

She nodded. “You had to make your own rules.”

I nodded back. “I probably project those into my interpersonal relationships.”

It was nice to be able to talk about my problems without any counter opinions attached. It was incandescent of the childhood days of nightly conversations with the many squiggly, stucco lines formed into imaginary faces on my ceiling and Beanie Baby #2, hoping they would respond back to me, not unlike the pair of talking lips named Didi on the Jetson’s that posed as her diary. I wished the sessions were hours long, not fifty minutes.

After a few sessions, she informed me, “It seems that with your case, it is a bit extreme. I would like to suggest that you come in twice a week.” She looked down at her yellow legal pad then back up at me. “I believe it will be healthier for you.”

I quickly calculated the amount in my head. $1400 a month.

I decided that becoming an alcoholic was a lot healthier for my bank account.