The Bird and the Cat-- A Dream

I dreamt I was living in my childhood home. I went into the basement to get something-- I don't know what-- and was startled to find a large bird cage holding my Blue and Gold macaw. (In reality, I had owned the macaw twenty years ago but sold her when I left the country to accept a job in the Middle East.)

The bird was still alive, after all these years! Furthermore, she looked none the worse for wear, albeit slightly thin and dull of feather, but perfectly alive. Amazed, I talked to her, saying, "You poor dear, have I neglected you all these years? I am sorry! I will bring you upstairs into the light. I'll feed you, give you water, stroke your feathers, and make your life healthy and pleasant again, like it was when we were together twenty years ago."

I dragged the cage upstairs, put water into a small bowl and inserted it into the cage. The bird drank it with a croak of thanks. Then, I found some bird food and put it into another small bowl. As soon as I opened the cage door, she approached the food and started eating. I knew she'd recover. I was so happy!

The sun was shining, and the bird sat in the sunny part of the cage, rocking from foot to foot, just as she used to do when she felt energetic.

Just then, a big orange cat entered the front door, which had been left open. Immediately, I saw trouble. The cat would notice the bird and try to jump in the cage to kill her, so I distracted the cat, herding it back in the direction of the door. The cat did see the bird, and the bird saw the cat, but the bird was captive in the cage and couldn't fly away. The cat tried to approach the bird, but I scooped it up and carried it to the still open front door. I started to throw the cat out the door, but it turned on me, extended its claws, hissed, slapped me and grabbed me just as I slammed the door. It still clung to me, and the door was shut half on its body.

The cat was half in and half out of the house, with the door (and my body) holding it in place. All I could think about was protecting my bird, but how would I continue? The cat was strong and determined to get back into the house. I was strong and determined to finish ejecting him. We were matched, and the dream ended here, with me in turmoil, not knowing how to resolve the conflict, how to protect my bird.

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This is an example of how we record dreams in Progoff's Intensive Journal. We write the dream, or fragment thereof, as we remember it, without embellishment or explanation. We record the facts as well as the feelings of the dream in the Dream Log section. We date it, and leave it.

Later, we work with it in another part of the Journal.

Progoff, Marie, et. al.

I have remained loyal to Progoff all these years, and I've tried to ignore my suspicion that his method might not be the best one for the atmoshpere of this century. Personally, I respond best to Progoff's method, in the workshop setting, but I know that most people would not want or be able to devote the time and attention needed to attend workshops.

In the past, I've perused the practices of contemporary leaders in journal practice, specifically Kathleen Adams and James Pennebaker. I am impressed, probably because I detect strains of Progoff's theories threading through the work of these leading journal writers. I considered using Adam's method instead of Progoff's method, with respect to how I might enter the field of conducting journal workshops. Jon talked me out of it. He commands complete loyalty, and I understand that. The Intensive Journal offers the most benefit in terms of non-analytic pschological work, but the newer methods are more accessible.

If I blast through bedrock, will I discover that I no longer really want to offer The Intensive Journal, but another one, or perhaps craft my own method? Will this realization stress me even more than the familiar possibility that I may not be as good as I'd expected in offering Progoff's method?

The only way to get the answer is to take the ride. I will continue to survey the field of journal writing for personal growth. One sure conclusion is that I will not be ready to enter the field in a public way until after retirement. I admit and embrace that my good mental health hinges upon keeping my commitments somewhat flexible, and my schedule full of free time in which to do my personal reading and writing. I am who I am-- a person who needs lots of private time in which to read and write according to the needs of my nature.

I will still use this blog to explore publically the ways in which Progoff's method interacts with my life, to work out my relationship with The Intensive Journal, and to explore the ideas of Carl Jung, from which Progoff drew much inspiration for his Intensive Journal. I will also remain open to the ideas of Adams, Pennebaker, and others who draw upon the work of Progoff, and/or who duplicate his findings through academic research.

Resting on Bedrock

It's been nearly ten years since I attended my first Progoff workshop, and seven years since I attended my last.  It's been nearly five years since I started this blog. When I started it, I anticipated having become a leader for the Intensive Journal by now. Nothing has stopped me except myself. I'm simply not ready.

Will I ever lead a workshop? Jon Progoff encouraged me strongly. When I entered the Advanced Study program, he asked me, "What took you so long?" After spending eight months doing the preliminary work, he said I was ready to organize a workshop.

It's true that my father became ill, lingered and then died. It's true that my four grandchildren were born one right after the other. It's true that my job claims the best of my energy. It's also true that I dislike the prospect of having to organize my own workshop. I made some contacts, attended some meetings, and tried to interest appropriate people in sponsoring workshops, and wasted my time. 

Then I froze.

I disliked the phone calls, the publicizing, the selling, organizing and all the rest of what must be done before a workshop occurs, and therein lies the ostensible reason for my failure to have become an active leader by now. I'm an introvert.

If I dig deeper (and I have) I make contact with the part of myself that thinks I'm not good enough, and that people will not only not attend, but worse, will attend and not have an enriching experience, because I will not have done a good enough job.

If I dig deeper than that (and I have) I find that I've already reached bedrock. Blasting through bedrock would not be an advisable venture at this stage of my development. I think I'll rest here somewhat longer. If anyone wants to know, I will say that my father became ill and died, my grandchildren were born, and my job claims the lion's share of my energy.

The rest of it is mine, and mine alone, to accept and work with when I'm ready. If I am never ready, I will have to accept that, too.

Writing Silently, in Longhand

One of the Intensive Journal's important guidelines is maintaining complete silence. The first workshop I attended had more than fifty participants. We all sat at tables, in a huge meeting room. We didn't converse with each other, not even by the obligatory social greetings.  As a tool in maintaining silence, we wrote in longhand. This, too, is a founding principle of the Intensive Journal-- writing in longhand.

Silence and longhand are two qualities that may discourage people from attending an Intensive Journal workshop. People gather together as strangers, and they remain strangers, yet they sit together and write in longhand about the most acute aspects of their lives. Sharing is not encouraged. In fact, sharing occurs at the invitation of the leader, and only then at fixed intervals. When sharing occurs, response is not allowed. When a participant reads a small portion of what he or she has written, the group does not show a reaction. The leader may ask one or two questions, like, "To what is this drawing your attention?" or, "Where else in the Journal might you go with this?" 

The idea is to provide a space in which threatening psychic material can emerge without threat, and be processed within a framework that does not overwhelm the participant. In practice, a charged atmosphere grows out of the combination of people keeping silence and writing in longhand. Each person supports and witnesses the efforts of the others, but without having to risk judgement or rejection.

One might ask, "In what way does the Journal atmosphere differ from that of a library?"

People who sit in silence and write in libraries do so with differing goals. One person might write a resume, another a novel, a letter to Grandma, or a term paper. Some people use computers, others use pens and paper. They sit in silence, yet they do not enter into a psychic meeting ground, and they do not effect each other's efforts.

In a Journal workshop, however, all participants are writing from their own personal resources; they're writing about the conditions of their lives. They are writing in response to prompts arranged in a particular order within the structure of the Journal. A trained leader facilitates the flow of exercises. A sort of entrainment grows out of the silence, as if all participants unite somewhere in an area not defined by the walls of the room. Progoff offers the metaphor of the underground stream, to which each person is connected by a private well, the well into which they descend whenver they participate in a Journal workshop.

They write in silence. Sometimes they pause to think, to feel. Sometimes they write so fast their wrists become sore. Each knows the others are experiencing the same process, and each respects that the emotions of the others are strong, and sometimes not pleasant. That's OK. The atmosphere of the Journal workshop holds everyone together in silence.The soft pushing of pens along lines of paper is the predominating sound.

The Frustration of Potentiality

“The frustration of potentiality is the root of neurosis.  The implications of this view are large.  Individuals are not a bundle of repressions but…of possibilities, and the key to therapy lies in reactivating the process of growth.”

Source:  “The Psychology of Personal Growth,” by Ira Progoff, Ph.D., Atlantic Monthly, July 1961, p. 103.

Early in adulthood, I discovered that I hated working for a living. Friends and counselors have suggested that I never found the right jobs, work that would stimulate my talents rather than suppress them. Chronic job misplacement has kept me on the treadmill of mediocrity, if not outright neurosis (which is now called "dysfunction".)

Ironically, I've never had difficulty getting hired, and I've worked in more "career fields" than most people would care to try. I've never made a major mistake, but I've never excelled, either. I've quit nearly all of my jobs, been fired only twice-- once for attitude and once for slacking. Most of my bosses did not want to lose me. I have never regretted leaving a job, and have never gone back to say hello or discover what had happened after my departure.

Currently I am working at what I hope is my last job of necessity. I've been at it for eight long years. I have four more to endure before retirement. I don't dislike the job; it's not a bad job, and the pay is adequate. I offer no complaints about it-- I simply don't want to do it.

What I want to do is what I've always done in my "spare time" -- read, write, and create art. Those are the activities that bring out my talents, nourish my soul, and energize my spirit. Those are the activities in which I have always excelled, even on an objective level. Other people have recognized my accomplishments in art, music and writing, since childhood. I look forward to retirement, in which I plan to be free of the suffocating need to earn money for my support.

In spite that I have been able to organize and lead workshops for Progoff's Intensive Journal, I have not done so. I don't have the energy or the focus. Other workshop leaders can maintain their "day jobs" and do Progoff workshops periodically. I cannot, because I am working at a job that enervates me rather than energizes me.

The process of growth, for me, begins at quitting time, expands on days off, explodes exponentially during periods of unemployment, and will resume its trajectory the day I retire at the age of sixty-six or sooner if I can make that happen. I haven't given up on leading workshops, but I won't do it until I can devote myself to it with the attention it deserves.

Figure Eight

My life has been characterized by wide swings in attention span with regard to the passions that are closest to my heart. When I write, I write consistently, prolifically, and effectively. Then I don't write. When I take photographs, I spend hours at the camera, then in Photoshop, editing, creating, transforming, making art. Then, I put the camera away and forget about it for months.

When I apply myself to Progoff's Intensive Journal, I do so elegantly, and I dig deep into its techniques and its theoretical underpinnings. Then, I come up for air.

My life is like a figure eight, with passionate loops punctuated by a still, stable center.

Wholeness would be characterized by spending more time at that center. Could I harness the loops and pull them in, or must I let them go, along with their products?

Rediscovery

I've rediscovered my own blog.

Life proceeds in cycles, many of which loop back and forth through a central fulcrum. The goal is balance, wholeness, stable attachment to a place from which one can move in directions that call of necessity, without severing the rope to the anchor.

Some people identify religious belief as their fulcrum, some refer to the family. Others find their essential identity in career.

I've used a few markers of my own, one of which is Progoff's Intensive Journal. My concept of fulcrum has expanded, however, as a result of my work in the Journal. I'm not sure where the new boundaries of fulcrum reside. Perhaps the concept of rediscovery is the essence of the fulcrum.

Kronos and Khairos

Time can be considered in two ways---Kronos and Khairos---both of which function in the life of the human being. Some of Progoff's Intensive Journal exercises are linked to Kronos, and some to Khairos. We needn't be aware of the difference in order to lead satisfying lives; we experience them both, as a quality of human nature. Once we become aware of the difference, however, we can learn to work with them, to maximize our avenues for growth, and develop our ability to experience both to the fullest.

Kronos refers simply clock time, measurable time, predictable, reliable, regular and steady. We measure of it by means of clocks and calendars, which are divided into units of minutes, hours, days and years. Kronos can also be conceived and measured at its extreme boundaries of space-time and nanoseconds, but we are not concerned with that here. Suffice it to say that our lives proceed along the unalterable rate of Kronos, and that we have nothing to say about it. We do not, and cannot, alter it or manipulate it. We participate in it willfully only to the extent that we use it to organize the activities of our lives.

Khairos is marked not by minutes or months, or years, but by events, changes in the basic conditions of our lives, or even by emotions, when emotions intensify into self-sustaining sources of energy. Khairos is fluid and flowing, but like water, not held in any particular form. Each person perceives it differently, because it functions as a unique segment of an individual's life. The concept of Khairos suggests the presentation of an auspicious moment, an opportunity, and a gate through which an individual can enter into something greater than him/herself. Khairos, unlike Kronos, requires conscious participation. Khairos intersects Kronos, contributing depth and meaning to Kronos.


Both words originate from Greek mythology. Ancient Greek thinkers contemplated Khairos extensively, and sought to apply it in all manner of life situations--legal, political, social, personal. Over centuries, the concept evolved into a more specific notion. We now think of Khairos as the experience of losing the sense of time, as occurs when one fully enters an experience of the moment, an experience of intense involvement with someone or something. The experience of prayer and meditation can fall into the category of Khairos, when the practitioner becomes fully engaged in the activity. Many Kronos minutes or hours can pass before the person experiencing Khairos is aware that they have passed. This is the intersection of Kronos and Khairos.


In Progoff's Intensive Journal, we work with both Kronos and Khairos. Some of the exercises are linked to one and some to the other.

Possibility

Progoff is all about possibility. I don't mean the kind of possibility that leads you to buy the winning lottery ticket, or see pipe dreams come true, or wallow in wishful thinking. I mean the possibility that arises out of your organic nature, your genetic heritage interfaced with the circumstances of your world. This is the kind of possibility you can work with, if you dare.

Why a Blog?

In July, 2002, I attended my first Progoff Intensive Journal, in Evanston, Illinois. The work I did there infused me with a sense of purpose. I didn't know at the time where the experience would take me, but I knew it would take me, and it would take me by the written word. That workshop reaffirmed a lifetime of intuitive prodding that I had nurtured and neglected, in cycles, for all the usual reasons people vacillate between the world and the whispers of the soul.

According to Progoff, the intuitive process is catalyzed by an "image of intimation," which is an image of what a person might accomplish or become in the future. It refers to a work of art, in contrast to a work of practical necessity, though, in some people, the image of intimation is felt so strongly that it becomes a work of practical necessity.

Generally, however, the image of intimation is more of a feeling than a goal, at least when it first becomes manifest in the intuition of the person who experiences it.

I am a writer, though not in the vocational sense of the word. I'm a writer in the ordinary sense of the word. I sit at the keyboard and write. Years ago, I filled notebooks using any kind of pen my hand landed on. The impulse to write arose within me repeatedly, even after periods during which I wrote nothing and didn't think about writing. I never understood why I always returned to the pen, especially when no tangible good came of it. As a matter of fact, my writing got me in trouble once, when my mother poked around in it sometime during my adolescence.

I finally understand. This blog is just another step in turning my image of intimation into a work of practical necessity.