THE ANIMAS/BELOVED

~ One of Jung's interpreters held that the anima/animus character
was only understandable to those who have known true love. ~

I am no Jungerian scholar
I comprehend his thoughts in mist and metaphor
His concepts in analogy and image
I met him in the Dreamtime, walking

But I understand the anima/animus
Down to spit, pith and marrow
It is a weaving I like, a net for thought
I find attractive and entrancing, more so because
It holds water

~

I.
I projected what I wanted, I loved what I had
Projected because it was already
Mine

The times we said we were too close to be
Two people, too much to be apart,
We were simply
Right

And what I loved so much in you, was mine
All along
Animus/beloved the other side of who
I am

I will take your laughter,
Your quick mind,
Vivid dreams, creative spark,
Your utterly unique expression
And string them like pearls
On a wire of living light
I will add your gentle hands,
Ingenious ideas,
Soft words,
Sharp wit,
The love in your eyes and
I will tie a circle with your tears

Then I will compass my throat
With this circuit of pearl
And push them through ‘til they
Click on bone
Breathe bone, become bone
From this bone they were birthed
From this bone they became
Now they are
Recalled
Returned
Restored
To make
Me
Whole

Friend/lover
Brother/sister
Soul-mate

Mine


II.
Speak from my dreams, my mythic muse
The other side of the mask
Speak leather to lace, bone to breast
A shadow that’s harlequin cast

The dynamic strength of words
The powerfulness of action
Stretch sinew to my curving
Blend strength to my compassion

Mixed potency of power
Splice spirit to my sensitive soul
Sculpt something clear and round
Translated, vibrant, whole

Coming at last to understand
I needn’t fear the other part
It is no hostile generic specter
But half of my harmonic heart



III.
The dream picks the form - sign, symbol, persona
Surfing through mythos on a rainbow wave of vision

“How the anima/animus appears reflects either the condition or needs of our soul presently” ~ That’s what the man said.
You gotta listen to what the man said. Besides

Jung said that the animus is more likely to be personified by multiple male figures, while the anima is frequently a single female. The anima/animus appears in Symbolism in Dreams and Narratives: a peer figure of the opposite sex to the ego-bearer to whom he/she has a strong and compelling tie or bond, mythological attachment, often a lover, brother/sister, soul-mate.

He dips the quill into the ink, which sloshes across his already stained fingers. I look over his shoulder. “Whatcha writing?”
He looks back at me with a small smirk. “Words. words. words.”
“Smart ass.”
He laughs through his nose and continues to scribble.
“I’ve got this incredible story . . .” he says. “Well no. It’s not that it’s an incredible story, it’s that the characters and starting to come alive here, which is MAKING it an incredible story.” He dips into the ink again. His eyes look bright and slightly fevered, his hands are moving so fast that the ink is splotching and splashing. “My hands won’t keep up with my head!” he exclaims. I know the feeling. I know the look in his eyes. I decide to leave him alone. I walk to the window to see that the world is swathed in a soft grey fog.

While my back is turned the Bard becomes a Wizard. It is always happening, doesn’t bother me in the least. I turn around to the smell of apple blossoms and find him examining his hands. “Ink. It never really comes off you know. Why does he have to be such a slob?”
“Ink. I don’t think it’s been invented, dear. I think you have to write on wax with a stylus, but I’m not sure.”
“Doesn’t help my cuticles.”
“Humm. Merlin?”
“Humm?”
“When does a story become a myth?”
“Oh, goodness, I think you are assuming some things here. What makes you so sure a myth starts out as a story?”
I raise an eyebrow. “But myths ARE stories. What else would they start as? I mean, even if they are true stories, they are still stories.”
“Even so, there are all sorts of places that a story has to go before it becomes a myth. You can’t discount legends, folklore, fables . . .”
“Right. That was my point. When does something cease to be a story and become something else?”

He is patting him self all over his robe with a distracted visage.
“What are you looking for?”
“Pipe and tobacco.”
I shake my head. “Don’t go turning into Gandalf while I’m talking to you. Merlin doesn’t smoke.”
“Right. Well. Look here above your desk. Frazer, Graves, Campbell, Estes. Briggs. Don’t you find that a rather unholy combination if you are trying to make up your mind about story and myth?”
“No, because I’m not going to make up my mind from what one person says.”
“Not even me?”
“Most definitely not even you! Though, I’ll add your opinion to The Powers-that-be.” I jerked my head at the books above the desk.
He laughs softly “You are not going to make up your mind at all. You just like kicking the idea around. Your stories are all mixed up with dreams and fantasies, reveries and illusions anyway. Bubbles. Speaking of which, where is Jung?”
“Laying open on the desk.”
“Figured he had to be around here somewhere.”

I pick up the book, but when I turn back he has changed again. I smile slowly. “Hi Pal.”
“What are we reading?”
“Jung.”
“Oi vey. Too much brain work. I vote for Yeats.”
I reach for another book and hold out my hand.

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth wood in the lake
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats
There we've hid our fairy vats
Full of berries
And of Reddest Stolen Cherries.

Come away oh human child
To the waters and the wild
With a fairy hand in hand
For the world's more full of weeping
Than you can understand
(W.B. Yeats)


©Edwina Peterson Cross