The Playground of Archetypes

Hurricanes on the Broken Road

Hurricanes on the Broken Road

I’m writing again. I had been writing, prompted by the annual NaNoWriMo event, what I had thought would be book three in my “Broken Road” series. I even had a photo picked out, a photo found somewhere, to potentially serve as a cover image for the book. Then at 24,000 words, the whole thing came crashing down. Why? What was going on within me to result in the crash. I knew it couldn’t be the book. What was different this time in comparison with the previous two books? And so I look for answers.

The other two books had been based on so many attempts over a period of fifteen years. Each failed attempt had one thing in common, the fact that primary actors were still alive. Of course I am speaking of either my father or mother. I had no objective distance. The third book finds me still within the story that has actors that surround me in my day-to-day life. I realise that I really can’t write this book, perhaps will never be able to write book three.

The decision made, I found myself picking myself up and dusting myself off. The past has taught me that the urge to write will not be silenced, so I just had to find a better way to tell the story waiting inside me. I needed to find a way to protect my face-to-face world self and the people so precious to me in this face-to-face world. Thoughts of abandoning the writing and shifting to something “safer” had me think that perhaps I would write another novel, perhaps with the protagonists of the last novel. It would satisfy the urge to write and hopefully silence the shadows that wanted to escape and cause damage, collateral damage. I was seriously tempted to use a sleight-of-hand tactic to silence the shadows. Of course, anyone who understands how we work as humans knows that this never works well. As soon as we delude ourselves that we have built secure barriers to keep the hungry shadows at bay, they find other ways to escape. We effectively blind ourselves to the shadows.

Finally, I reached a compromise. I will do both at once. By writing a novel and not a biography, I will be able to build a bit of objective distance. Making sure that no one character copies a real person in my life, I am able to have my characters reveal the stories. For example, I am in the story, obviously. But who am I in the story? I am everyone in the story. And of the others that belong in my story? They are there in bits in pieces in various characters. This is where Jungian psychology, Archetypal psychology comes into play.

Each of us is host to many archetypes which we find in our dreams, archetypes that reveal their presence in our moods and our reactive responses to the world and the people around us. I am the fool, the wise man, the saint, the sinner, and even the warrior. And, I am more than that for there is a feminine side of my psyche – my soul. I usually connect with her through dreams, both daydreams and night dreams, even at times in nightmares. And so, I find a path through imaginary figures to tell my truths, universal truths, and perhaps my lies as well. After all, like everyone else, there is a demon within me waiting for my ego to self-destruct. I could, like you, become a monster who destroys more than he creates.

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Thou Dost Protest Too Much


L’Homme – a statue found across the Seine River, on the shore opposite the Eiffel Tower in Paris.

Before returning to Canada from the long walk of the Camino de Santiago with my wife, we found ourselves with a few days of free time in Paris. Basically, it was the first time we had to explore this city without being trailed by teenagers. This was an “adult” appreciation of the city. We discovered new places in the city even though we had been in Paris four times previously. Maybe it’s because we are older, but parks, museums, statuary, and art was much more interesting. As well, we had a lot of time to simply hang out at cafés or saunter down narrow streets which had no tourist significance with the only objective being that of seeing perhaps a more authentic face of Paris.  We’ve been home more than two weeks and I’ve just started to look at the photos taken in Paris, for example this statue  in front of the Palais de Chaillot, across the river from the famed Eiffel Tower.

Female study in the Musée Rodin, Paris

Female study in the Musée Rodin, Paris

Walking through the city, the abundance of statuary that featured nude women and men was surprising, not something we had noticed before on previous trips. Yes, we saw them, but with adolescents trailing behind us, we focused on more active adventures. The nudity told a different story of the city, its history, and about the human condition. So many emotions were evoked when looking at these statues. The message of “sex” was not included. It didn’t matter if the statue was of a man or a woman. The statues held value.

It made me think of how Jung basically avoided sexuality yet used so many images that had man and woman unclothed. I then thought that perhaps on one hand he was consciously rejecting the psychological foundation of Freud, yet unknowingly giving that psychological foundation a voice, rooted deep in mythology. The son of a Protestant clergyman, Jung had little to say about “sex,” and focused on the dreams of his clients. In my experience as a human and as a therapist, dreams often do have sexual content, yet in Jung’s work, those dreams don’t have a voice.

Humans are sexual beings, social beings, and at the same time so lonely stuck in their heads and bodies. Humans are drawn to all manner of sexuality, a fact that the consumer industry capitalizes on through advertising that embraces the denied sexuality of humans to sell just about anything. The idea is that if a “luscious” female is depicted, men will buy; and if a man is flaunted in physical perfection, women will buy. Yet the advertising industry doesn’t stop there. Advertising for men includes more than its fair share of men who subconsciously promise . . . ; and ads directed at women work hard at portraying models of women that subconsciously promise . . . .

What is heard both consciously and unconsciously? Why do these ads work so well? Perhaps the answer lies in part with a recent study that suggests strongly that there is no such thing as a 100% heterosexual human. Humans are drawn to both to some degree. I know that many will be quick to deny that this applies to them. Yet I know that the stronger the protest, the presence and power of a complex is validated. The old expression “thou dost protest too much,” is seen as a truth. There is a lot to think about here, a lot more to be discussed.

Until the next time.

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Beyond Good And Evil

Beyond good and evil as dualities

Beyond good and evil as dualities

This image was posted by a ‘friend’ of mine on one of the Jungian discussion groups at Facebook. At this point in time I don’t know the artist or the title of this image. It is enough to know that the image has drawn me in and demands my attention.

Rather than see this image as two nude beings in a surreal scene with the intention of bringing yet another ‘New Age’ statement to a select few, I found these images which are duplicated with the outline of faces to be an expose or exploration of the human soul. Darkness on the left and light on the right – darkness the realm of the unconscious, and light as the kingdom of consciousness. The masculine and feminine are interchanged so that both are found in each realm. The shadow dominant, the hidden presences trying to awaken in the light – images that evoke both good and evil which reside in each of us. This is what talks to me. Somehow, there is a lack of ‘balance’ though balance between masculine and feminine is carefully constructed. Darkness is predominant.

This painting from 2012 (I can distinguish that much from the image) perhaps shows our modern condition where the human race is living and acting more out of dark shadow than conscious awareness. The painting also tells me that we have to get down to the bare truths, not philosophies or ideologies that cloak ignorance and evil intentions. We now live in a world that celebrates the lack of awareness, anti-science, anti-everything that is based on reason. Religion is a battlefield for end times dominance, not about the real cultivation of peace, harmony and good will that has every human a gift from the universe. Dare we expose our own shadows? Dare we become so vulnerable so that whatever light is left can shine out to guide others through small flames of hope and love? Dare we show the naked truth of who we are, shadows and all?

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Self Discovery Along the Camino

On the path to Santiago

The journey through Northern Spain walking the Camino de Santiago, is now a memory. As I walked with my wife for forty days at a relatively slow pace, I was able to take too many photos. More often than not, they were simply recording the scenes and events, usually with her in the images. On occasion, there were scenes that I captured because of some inner compulsion that flashed within. This image was one of these ‘extra’ images that are ‘personal’ in relationship to my ‘inner self.’

It was a surprise to me that I had been able to stay in the outer world for most of the hours and days of we followed the Camino Francés, the original Camino route followed by millions of pilgrims for almost a thousand years. It doesn’t take much for me to simply retreat into inner spaces as most of you know based on all that I have written here over the years. My Camino efforts in 2012 are a prime example of just how I tend to plumb the depths of the psyche while walking long distances. So. what was different this time?

I walked with my wife. I guess that you could say that her presence kept me grounded. However, that is rarely the case as, if anything, there is a sense of safe container with her presence that allows me to risk the descents. Less than halfway through the pilgrimage, she developed pain in her right foot. My attention shifted to doing what I could to allow her to finish the Camino. My inner world was set aside for attention until some future time. Yet, it wasn’t abandoned completely. I allowed my eyes to record the sensations and the scenes that would facilitate future reflection and wonder, images such as this tree which I took one early morning when we had about 115 kilometres left to walk to reach Santiago.

The tree. It’s a tall tree, much taller than the abandoned and broken building that lies to the right side. For more than a few years, the house had been the centre of a family’s universe though now it stands empty, a sight too often seen during the walk. The setting evoked a sense of loss for me. The shifting centre of my world is littered with abandonment. For a long time, I mourned all that I had abandoned and that which seemingly had abandoned me. It took a long time for me to realise that rather than abandonment, I had subtly  been moving closer and closer to the core of ‘self’ and away from the dominance of ‘ego.’ The tree. The self that remains standing as life twists and turns gifting us with relationships and all the treasures of a material world and then strips the ego of certainties such as relationships and the things built and gathered over the years.

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Shadows Threatening at the Fringes

The sign of things to come?

The sign of things to come?

A break from the story is in order as I have other themes that are begging to be considered. I will return to the story at another point in time that is undetermined. The truth is, I don’t know when I will return here with the story. I think I need to take it off line and let it simmer for a while. There is no time for me to engage fully with the story as there are only four weeks remaining until we begin hiking the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain.The subject that jumps out at me at this point is the problem of evil, of darkness that appears to be gathering too many into its fold.

Life in Canada is good, perhaps one of the best places in the world to live if we accept popular opinions and various measures at the international level. Yet, even here, there is a growing shadow that is creating some unease. The economy, politics, poverty, and crime are just some of the problems that are becoming problematical. Democracy seems to be eroding due to the deliberate actions of political and economic interests. People have more material goods than at any time in the past with more time to enjoy those possessions. Yet, our levels of satisfaction are not what one would expect to have given that we are one of the best places to live on the Earth.

What is it that we sense that is threatening our sense of wellness and happiness? Why are we becoming distrustful and insular, a sharp contrast from the past when as a country we were held in high regard by other countries, a feeling that we shared in and believed about ourselves regardless of whether that regard was justified or not? Collectively, we cling to the pride of being Canadians. Yet individually, we feel threatened by threads of darkness that would strip us of happiness. The falling value of the Canadian dollar, the severe drop in oil prices, even the weather seems to be conspiring to bring a good thing to a messy end. And so we worry.

Happiness has abandoned us and we rush to deny it by filling in the growing empty spaces with all sorts of diversions and new possessions. Yet buying something not really needed only because it is the latest version that promises us a way into the happiness that left while we weren’t paying attention, just doesn’t seem to soothe the angst. Why? Who’s to blame for this?

The last place we look for answers is within ourselves. We want others to “fix it” so that we can return to the paradise we seem to have lost. Yet, if we are honest with ourselves, there never was a paradise. It doesn’t help that our media encourages us to find the “fix” in the outer world. It is even made worse when our political structures are eroded by leaders who then encourage us to believe that it isn’t our fault but the fault of the poor, the foreigners, the dispossessed First Nations peoples, in other Canadians who stand in the way of progress that is never explained, never defined.

When I look at what is happening quietly behind the scenes in both Canada and the U.S.A. the image emerges of the “Hunger Games.” Is this our future? In the posts to follow, I want to look more into the “Shadow” that is looming, a collective shadow.

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Two Become One and Holy

The union of opposites to create the holy whole.

The union of opposites to create the holy whole.

The source of life transformed itself again and again and flowed through countless beginnings and endings as forms rose and fell until life filled the water, the air and the land.

Though seemingly fractured into separate parts, the unity and wholeness remained below the dawning level of awareness of the life forms that had emerged. The shiftfrom simply being into consciousness was the creation of an inner light that touched the eternal and universal presence that found a mirror in man, a temporal form that was both male and female.

“Ah, so is this supposed to be Adam and Eve?” questioned René?

“Yes – or perhaps you can see it as Adam in Eve, or Eve in Adam, a whole that exists when both become one. I like to call it a ‘holy’ wholeness,” the voice elaborated. That was my finest moment when I manifested as human.”

“Two as one?” René said startled by what he had just heard. “This sounds like alchemy to me.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” admitted the voice. “But I want you to focus on two becoming one, a man and a woman cleaving together. Apart they are suffering and incomplete. Think of this as both a truth about humans and as a metaphor for holiness.”

“Metaphor?” puzzled René. “You mean like the union of darkness and light, of night and day, of consciousness and unconsciousness, or any sort of duality conjoined?”

“I knew you would get it,” chuckled the voice. It is only in the union of the parts that the whole is found, made conscious.”

“I noticed that there was no mention of Adam and Eve being naked,” noted René.

“Don’t worry, we’re not done here. There is more to come. I’ll give you a break until you have returned to your home. That said, until then, keep track of the dreams I bring to you.”

* * *

Frieda sat in the lounge restaurant with René at the airport. René’s flight was to leave in a little more than hour left until his flight left, an early morning flight on Scandinavian Airlines. He was to have a stop over with a connecting flight at Heathrow to an Air Canada flight with arrival in Ottawa in the afternoon. He had checked his bag and backpack, more than he had with him when he left Ottawa in order to walk the Camino.

“So you think it will be about a week to get everything taken care of before you come to Ottawa?” asked René.

“Likely a week, ten days at the most if I run into unforeseen issues,” Frieda confirmed. “But I don’t anticipate any issues,” she added with a smile as she squeezed his hand. “I’m really looking forward to meeting your children and your adorable grandchildren.”

Their conversation continued until it was time for René to go through security and proceed to the gate where his plane was waiting. René held her tight not quite believing he had somehow found this goddess who had accepted his love with a love equally as strong. She was beautiful beyond belief, she was wealthy, yet didn’t flaunt that wealth nor did she have an attitude of entitlement that frequently angered René when he met it with the rich and almost rich that he had met in Ottawa and in his work as a psychotherapist.

“Text me when you land at Heathrow,” reminded Frieda.

René smiled as he replied, “With three hours in the airport, I will probably wear out the tablet with messages. Love you, Babe.”

A final hug and kiss left René feeling filled with a warmth that went deep within him. Taking his small pack containing his new computer, his tablet and his camera, René walked to take his place in the line to go through security.

* * *

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Land, Sea, and New Life Forms Born in the Presence of Light

A gift of light, earth, and water.

A gift of light, earth, and water.

“Frieda,” René began, “what did you say was the name of your home? You know, it’s not all that usual to give a name to a home.”

“It’s called Sessrúmni and the land around my home is called Fólkvangr,” Frieda replied. “So did you do some writing on the darkness story?”

“Yeah,” René admitted, “but it isn’t just about darkness anymore. All of a sudden light makes an appearance. Do you want to tell me why the house is called Sess . . . Sessrúmni?”

“It’s always been called Sessrúmni, nothing much to say about it.”

“Strange,” wondered René. Changing the subject he grinned and asked, “What’s for supper?”

A glass of Malbec preceded the meal which somehow mysteriously appeared as if just prepared in the dining room. René knew that Frieda had servants that kept the house, or as she called it, the Hall, running smoothly though he had yet to meet these servants. Though it hadn’t shown up when she walked the Camino with him, Frieda was rich, likely an inherited wealth. They sat at the table in an alcove of the dining room, a small table that oozed intimacy, and relived the events of the day and René’s introduction to Eidfjord.

With the meal done, they sat on cushions before a fireplace that had logs already turning to coals with a few extra logs set to the side in order to keep the fire going for as long as they needed it. The outside temperature had cooled off significantly, nearing the freezing point. The past few days had been unseasonably warm according to Frieda, and she warned that René would have to be tough if he was going to meditate outdoors for the next several days. After all, Norway was a northern country. Two cats curled near the warmth of the fire looking at René with suspicion.  These were Frieda’s pets, if they could be called pets. They seemed to be feline body guards in his opinion.

“Three more days in your paradise,” began René, “before we head to Ottawa. I can hardly wait to have you meet my children.”

“I’m going to have to delay going to Ottawa with you,” apologised Frieda. “Some estate things have come up that will be needing my attention next week.”

“Uh, okay. I can reschedule our flights. Just tell me when you expect to be ready to fly,” René spoke with obvious disappointment.

“No, no!” Frieda quickly interjected. “You take the flight planned, you know your kids are anxiously awaiting you. After all, they haven’t seen you in over a month. I’ll fly to meet you as soon as things are all taken care of here.”

“You sure?” René said with a mixture of relief that he hoped didn’t show up in his voice.

Frieda smiled, leaned closer and kissed him on the lips and said, “Of course I’m sure. Now put those two logs on the fire and cuddle closer. I’m getting a chill.”

In the small hours of the morning, René was again wakened from a dream. When he saw Frieda sleeping peacefully beside him, he was relieved that he hadn’t woken her as he had the three previous nights. With practiced skill he recorded the dream in his journal before attempting to return back to sleep. He lay still for more than an hour before deciding he may as well get up and work on the story of darkness and light, a story he knew was connected somehow with his dreams.

“You’re right,” the voice confirmed. “Your dreams are connected. But then again,” and René could have sworn he heard a laugh, “everything is connected and is one. And that includes you. Now, back to work. There’s a story to tell.”

René opened the file that was waiting for him on the desktop of the screen. He reread the words already entered and found that there wasn’t all that many words written at all. Taking a clearing breath, he began, again, to write:

Light touched forms and changed the forms, transformed them into solids. liquids and gases. Each touch of light inspired yet another variation of energy, rising and falling and shifting with the unceasing caress of light, a light that retreated into darkness as the Earth spun. Day and night alternated as the planet rotated. And that varying blessing of light created newer forms of energy the sought to become something more.

Inanimate forms emerged only to become birthing grounds, whether on land or sea, for forms that approached animation, forms that were fragile. A dance of increasing complexity birthed plant life on the Earth, life forms that blazed for a few moments in order to recreate themselves in the constantly changing conditions of the Earth.


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Let There Be Light In The Darkness

It begins, this thing called conscciousness

It begins, this thing called conscciousness

So tell me,” continued Freida. “How is the story going?”

“Uhm, nothing new to add yet. Something tells me that more is just bubbling under the surface. You know,” added René, “I just realised that my nightmares and the story seem to be connected. I mean, I only began to write this stuff about darkness since coming here. Weird, isn’t it?”

“Hmm, you might be on to something with that thought. Breakfast will be ready in a half hour. Go and meditate and then meet me on the patio out back.”

René grabbed his tablet from the bedroom and took it out to a spot in the garden which he had adopted as his meditation corner. The tablet had a meditation timer program that used Tibetan bells to mark ten minute intervals for his meditation. Taking his seat in an open area near flowering plants, he closed his eyes, focused on his breathing and was soon immersed into an alternate world. And, as was not all that unusual, a flood of thoughts assaulted his mind. Bit by bit he released these thoughts until he found himself centered barely aware of his breathing though intimately aware of even the faintest of breezes that wafted across his skin. All became silent with the exception of occasional bird sounds and the normal pulse of life.

“So, did you get the message last night?” asked the voice in his head. Why René called it a voice was difficult to understand as there was no sound of a voice. Rather, it was as if a passing thought had imposed itself on his mind which had cleared itself of restlessness.

“Can’t you see I’m meditating?” muttered René a bit crossly. “Can’t you wait until I have finished?”

“Well, it is when you are meditating or sleeping that I can best get passed your defenses so that the messages can be given to you.”

“Yeah, I got the message. What do you want me to do with it?” complained René.

“Write it of course. You know what you have to do with it.”

“How about I wait until after we get back from town? Freida is looking forward to showing me her town.”

“Suit yourself. You know that there is much more yet to come so you don’t want to fall too far behind.”

“Okay, when I get back. Now leave me in peace so that I can finish my meditation.”

It wasn’t a long drive to Eidfjord just up the coastline. Freida drove her Jeep since she knew all the twists and turns of the journey having made it so many times in the past. The drive was filled with small talk about what she was going to show René. It didn’t take long before she realised that he wasn’t really listening to her. René’s mind was somewhere else.

“What is it?” she quizzed.

“What is what?” asked René slightly puzzled by the question.

“You’re not really here. At least your mind isn’t here. “What is it?”

“It’s a combination of the dream and the voice which came back while I was meditating. It appears that there is more that has to be written about the darkness.”

“Tell me about it,” suggested Freida.

“Later, okay? When we get back to the house. Right now I just want to enjoy being with you and seeing your home town.”

It was late afternoon by the time they returned to the house. No sooner had they entered when they discarded their clothing. Freida promised tea while René took out his laptop to begin writing:

A light emerged out of the darkness. The light moved through the darkness as though an intimate partner with the darkness. Though it moved, it appeared to be motionless. Yet ever so gradually, the uncountable points of that light illuminated uncountable solid spheres stirring them to resonate with their own slow movements.

The Earth received the light and was transformed. A violent shaking that cracked the still young surface and brought the inner core to the surface which further transformed the globe. All this was done in silence for there were no ears to hear, nor eyes to see this birthing of a world.


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The Story Continues With a Nightmare

Simadalsfjord, Norway

Simadalsfjord, Norway

Chapter One

René woke up as Frieda gently shook his shoulder. It was still dark in their bedroom, still night time. Though he had been in Frieda’s bed back in her home for more than a week, he still felt disoriented. It seemed that the only real thing left in his life was the physical presence of Frieda.

“You were having another nightmare, René.”

“Sorry that I woke you up,” apologised René.

“Do you want to talk about it?” asked Frieda as she held him close in the darkness.

“No, I will in the morning,” he said as he reached for his journal that he always kept beside himself at night, his dream journal. “Go back to sleep, I’ll be fine. Love you, Babe.”

René wrote in the darkness what he remembered of the nightmare. It wasn’t much nor did it make any sense. Strange how he had been having these wild and tumultuous dreams ever since he and Freida had moved into her home in Norway three days ago. When the dream’s scenes captured as best he could, René put his journal back on the table beside the bed and turned to Freida. He spooned to fit closely behind her, holding her as he felt his heart rate begin to ease as sleep approached. He knew that the rest of the night would be free of dreams, it always was.

In the morning, sitting in the solarium as the early morning sunshine added warmth to the early autumn chill, René slowly sipped his coffee. Frieda’s home was perched on a meadow that was perched at the edge of a range of high, rocky hills.  with the waters of the Simadalsfjord still dark in shadows because of the hills that delayed the touch of the sun’s rays on the water. Hearing the pad of Freida’s footsteps on the hardwood floor, René turned to see his goddess carrying her own coffee mug into the room. Rather than taking a nearby chair, she sat beside him curling her long legs under her and setting the coffee onto the glass-topped table in front of the love seat.

“Morning, Babe,” whispered René as he embraced her following the words with a kiss.

“Mmmm,” returned Freida as she reached for her coffee. “So, you ready to talk about the nightmare?”

“It is basically the same as the other nights, mostly just darkness, a living darkness that wraps itself around me, consuming me.”

“Mmmm, that’s all?” asked Freida.

“Well, it seemed that the darkness was trying to talk to me.”

“Weird,” Freida commented. “Anyways, I have to go into town, to Eidfjord, to get some fresh fruit and vegetables today. And, I want to show you around town. What do you think?”

“Sounds like a good idea,” smiled René. “That means you are finally, going to have to put on clothes, not that I’m complaining of seeing a naked goddess,” he grinned.

“Not naked, jerk!” Freida teased, “Natural. Besides, it also means you have to put on some clothes as well or haven’t you noticed you haven’t been wearing any clothes since we’ve been here.”


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Creation of the Heavens and the Earth

The reluctant writer

The reluctant writer

René Beauchemin leaned back in his office chair rubbing his temples in search of relief from too many hours at the keyboard with nothing to show for his efforts. The fact that he had written next to nothing during that time which was spent perusing the tweets and Facebook posts of his friends and followers, as well as playing a few games of Hearts against the computer only made him feel guilty. His headache didn’t go away. He knew that the only way he was going to ease his sense of guilt as well as his headache would be to return to the story that demanded to surface from someplace deep within himself.

With his training in Jungian psychology, it didn’t take much for him to realise that he had tapped into something deeper than his own unconsciousness. There was an archetypal feel for roots of the images that sought to be expressed in words. And, René sensed that he had somehow accessed the central core of whatever it was that lay as a foundation for life, both conscious and unconscious life. Perhaps it was that all-encompassing whole that Carl Jung called SELF, that wholeness also envisioned by humans as God in a myriad of forms over centuries and millenia. Whatever it was, it seemed to possess him with a will that superseded his own will. Why was he resisting so much was the uppermost question on his mind. Perhaps, it was fear. After all, becoming the voice for this inner voice that came out of darkness meant that he had to give up control, not something so easy for him to do. With a sigh, René turned back to the computer and brought up the document he had begun earlier, reading what he had already written down:

It was dark. Darkness was all that there was, an infinite darkness that was unbound by time and space and place. The darkness was anything but empty. All that was to be, all that would never come to be, everything was already in the darkness simply being unformed. It was dark, always had been dark.

Sitting still he heard the echoes of the voice which had demanded that these words be written just this way. Letting his guard down, the words began to flow again as he listened to the voice.

Time was unmeasured in the darkness. The dark pulsed as though alive which it was in a way that defied definition, an unconscious and unformed soup of invisible movement. The whole was alive with no parts. All was simply being, not becoming, not regressing or differentiating or birthing or dying. The darkness just was, and knew it just was.

There came a moment of almost awareness for that darkness, and in that moment, an agitation began to disturb the eternal sameness and sublime nature of simply being. That moment of almost awareness gave birth to form which gave birth to matter. Yet, in spite of the creation, the whole was still as it always was.

So it came to be that the whole became a universe in which a gathering of energy birthed  planets, and moons, and other sterile forms with the space between them remaining a darkness that had no definable substance.

“You know,” observed René, “If I didn’t know better, I would say that this is just a complicated way of saying the first line in the book of Genesis in the Bible.”

“You’re right. I knew that you had it in you to write this. By the way, you kept your ego out of the way and wrote it just like I wanted it written.”

“But why bother with re-writing what already has been written. You know that it will only create a boatload of misery for me and most of the world. I will likely be terrorised and likely even murdered when, and if, this gets published,” moaned René.

“Having doubts?”

“Well, not that I have any choice,” René admitted , “but no. I guess I just want to understand what I am doing and why I am doing it.”

“Well, the times have changed and fewer and fewer people have a clue of what I had written for me in the past. You know that Genesis wasn’t the only version that was recorded. I have been explaining to animate life that was able to grasp at least a small part of the story in multiple versions suited for the time and place of those who would hear it. That time has rolled around again.”

“But why me?” asked René puzzled and surprised with what he was hearing. René knew he was either stark-raving mad or . . .  a thought he didn’t dare complete.

“Well, just think about it. You’ve had a good life, of sorts – family, a career, love, and all that have ever needed. You have spent a lot of time exploring where not many dare to look. True you got seriously lost a few times, but here you are now doing my work.”

“That’s it?” quizzed René.

“Well, there is also the fact that your boundaries between yourself and me have weakened enough to let you hear me. Your willingness to be vulnerable in search of meaning and truth, a vulnerability that shows up in your poetry, your photography and your embracing the natural body you were gifted with. Is that enough?”

“Yeah,” admitted René. “I think I get the gist of what you are saying. But, something tells me I will have more to ask you as the story gets told.

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