Maori creation tradition and the tradition of Therapy

Where do we start as therapists?

(Thinking in the context of the Maori creation tradition and the tradition of Therapy)

As therapists we start in a public space, that of training and professional settings. From this external space, client and therapist enter an intimate state of one to one meeting. I might say that this is the inside of an outside space (Donald Meltzer differentiates several ‘geographical’ states of inside and outside, eg. In The Claustrum). The outside quality of the space is designed to bring safety for the client, and for the therapist. There is an element of ritual in the rules, the frame, setting, methodology and so on.

Before we enter the intimate world (as therapists) I think there are two things to consider: (1) what is the nature of the public space of therapy – what is the public and societal narrative? (2) how as therapists have we considered our personal narratives?

(1). I think we have to set out our stall as therapists as ‘those who understand the original stories.’

Freud, who started therapy as we know it, chose the story of Oedipus as an important original story. Freud also wanted to include science in therapy as well as art (the story). Coming himself from a scientific background as a medical doctor specialising in neurology and as a neuroscientist, he felt that science was respectable (as we largely still do today). He wanted to include the scientific method, but this was difficult.

With his idea of three vortices and containing symbol of the tepee, Bion tried to resolve this issue of where therapy is situated in the public space. The three poles of the tepee are art, religion and science, meeting in a circular O shape that Bion referred to as his theory of ‘O’ or origin, or the original relationships.

Nevertheless, as therapists we start in an uncomfortable public space, given the current divisions of labour. What sort of ‘experts’ are we, that is if we want to think of ourselves as experts or specialists at all. And if not specialists, what is all that training and ‘hoop jumping’ about in becoming and in maintaining ourselves in the status of ‘therapist’?

This tension is usually felt, at least I feel it, at the beginning of therapy with each new client. Am I to be an expert, a medical doctor type, someone who has many answers to questions as yet unasked, or am I more like a guide, someone who is ‘being-with’ the client, a guide who nevertheless is also travelling and subject to the same pitfalls and vagaries of weather and the world as the fellow traveller?

If as therapists, as I suggest above, we are the holders and containers of ‘original stories’, was Freud right to start with Oedipus. Freud largely rejected religion and religious stories, but is the story of Oedipus the equivalent of a religious story set with a secular view for our western thinking, increasing fragmented and secular?

After throwing up these questions, I now want to seek to consider them by considering Freud’s choice of original story with the Maori traditional story of creation.

In summary:

Maori history begins in a time before creation. The old priests used to chant a genealogy which started with the first stirrings of the universe, and progressed to the birth of the mythical homeland Hawaiki:

The first period…

From the conception the increase

From the increase the thought

From the thought the remembrance

From the remembrance the consciousness

From the consciousness the desire

(from Anne Salmond, Wellington 1975,  Hui :A Study of Maori Ceremonial Gatherings).

The story is as follows:

‘Before there was any light there was only darkness, all was night. Before there was even darkness there was nothing. Of these things it is spoken in our karakia, those that were given down from ancient time that name all the ancestors of Maori People. It is said in the karakia, at the beginning of time there stood Te Kore, the Nothingness. Then was Te Po, the Night, which was immensely long and immensely dark:

• Te Po nui,
• Te Po roa,
• Te Po uriuri,
• Te Po kerekere,
• Te Po tiwha,
• Te Po te kitea,
• Te Po tangotango...

meaning the Great Night, the Long Night, the Dark Night, the Intensely Dark Night, the Gloom-laden Night, the Night Unseen, the Night to be Felt. The first light that existed was no more than the glowing of a worm, and when sun and moon were made there were no eyes, there was none to see them, not even kaitiaki. The beginning was made from the nothing.

Then Ranginui, the sky, dwelt with Papatuanuku, the earth, and was joined to her, and land was made. But the children of Ranginui and Papatuanuku, who were very numerous, were not of the shape of men, and they lived in the darkness, for their parents were not yet parted. They sky still lay upon the earth, no light had come between them. The heavens were 12 in number, and the lowest layer, lying on the earth, made her unfruitful. Her covering was creeping plants and rank low weed, and the sea was all dark water, dark as night. The time when these things were seemed without end.

At length the offspring of Ranginui and Papatuanuku, worn out with continual darkness, met together to decide what should be done about their parents, that man might arise. "Shall we kill our parents, shall we slay them, our father and our mother, or shall we separate them?" they asked. And long did they consider in the darkness.

At last Tumatauenga, the fiercest of the offspring and the guardian of war, spoke out. "It is well. Let us kill them," stated Tumatauenga.

But Tanemahuta, guardian of the forest, answered, "No, not so. It is better to separate them, and to let the sky stand far above us and the earth lie below here. Let the sky be a stranger to us, but let earth remain close to us as our nursing mother."

Some of the other sons, and Tumatauenga among them, saw wisdom in this and agreed with Tanemahuta. Others did not agree, and one, now and forever has always disagreed with his brothers, and this is Tawhirimatea, the guardian of winds and storms. For Tawhirimatea, fearing that his kingdom would be overthrown, did not wish his parents to be torn apart. So while some agreed, Tawhirimatea would not and was silent, he held his breath. And long did they consider further. At the end of a time no man can measure they decided that Ranginui and Papatuanuku must be forced apart, and they began by turns to attempt this deed.

First Rongomatane, guardian of the cultivated food of men, rose up and strove to force the heavens from the earth. When Rongomatane failed, next Tangaroa, guardian of all things that live in the sea, rose up. He struggled mightily, but had no luck. And next Haumiatiketike, guardian of uncultivated food, rose up and tried, without success. So then Tumatauenga, guardian of war, leapt up. Tumatauenga hacked at the sinews that bound the Earth and Sky, and made them bleed, and this gave rise to ochre, or red clay, the sacred colour. Yet even Tumatauenga, the fiercest of the children, could not with all his strength sever Ranginui from Papatuanuku. So then it became the turn of Tanemahuta.

Slowly, slowly as the kauri tree did Tanemahuta rise between the Earth and Sky. At first he strove with his arms to move them, but with no success. And so he paused, and the pause was an immense period of time. Then he placed his shoulders against the Earth, his mother, and his feet against the Sky. Soon, and yet not soon, for the time was vast, the Sky and Earth began to yield.

The parents of the children cried out and asked them, "why are you doing this crime, why do you wish to slay your parents' love?" 

Great Tanemahuta thrust with all his strength, which was the strength of growth. Far beneath him he pressed the Earth. Far above he thrust the Sky, and held him there. The sinews that bound them were stretched, taunt. Tumatauenga sprang up and slashed at the bonds that bound his parents and the blood spilt red on the earth. Today this is the kokowai, the sacred red earth that was created when the first blood was spilt at the dawn of time. As soon as Tanemahuta work was finished the multitude of creatures were uncovered whom Ranginui and Papatuanuku had begotten, and who had never known light.’

The most important point for therapists from this tradition in my view, is that the children separate the parents so that there can be light. I associate this with the notion of ‘original guilt’, that there is a guilt in the world that predates both the individual life and the history of human life. It is a priori. Rather like the Christian idea of original sin.

Anxiety and guilt already pre-exist in the world, as stars and the sea do before human life begins. This is an idea that Heidegger develops in Being and Time.

Bion expresses this idea by saying that there are thoughts waiting for a thinker. In other words, thoughts pre-date a being able to think them. In current western thinking we tend to take responsibility for all thoughts as if humans invented thought. Taking responsibility is important, but it is also important to take appropriate responsibility and know what is in our control as humans and what is not.

So, in my view the Maori story takes account of this idea of original guilt, in the context of child and parent relations. Children come between the parents when they are born, in a sense, and young children can sometimes feel guilty that this has happened, that it is their responsibility as children.

Ideally, if parents understand this separation, then loving relations ‘heal’ the separation.

However, when parents are not able to bear the separation, then they can exploit the guilty feelings with implications for emotional damage and the possibility of violent and sexual abuse for the children.

As a parent, understanding that ‘separation’ is a part of being a parent is important, and may come as a shock to the new parents. If I roughly model the process it is something like this: children feel that they have separated their parents in their new life. Ideally this sense of original guilt is eased by understanding parents. As adults, the children then ‘join’ again and become close to their partners. When their children are born they are parted again and it is not until the children grown up and leave that the parents join again in closeness, often a difficult period of adjustment again.

So, I am suggesting that a pattern of life is one of ‘closeness’ and ‘separation’. I’ve sketched out a broad model. I could elaborate further but for the moment I will leave the model there.

I want to turn now to Freud’s original story of Oedipus.

Summary:

Oedipus’s parents receive a warning that their new born son will bring disaster to them and their state (as queen and king). The need to avoid this is stronger for them than the need to care for their son. But fearing retribution from the gods, they don’t simply decide to kill him. Instead they have him pegged out on a mountainside to take his chance of survival as an infant.

The person tasked to do the pegging out takes pity on Oedipus and takes him to a shepherd. The kindly shepherd brings up Oedipus as his son. However, Oedipus is not satisfied with knowing himself as a shepherd’s son and sets out to find out who he really is.

On the road he encounters his father’s group, and in what we might now call road rage, kills his father without knowing that it is his father he has killed.

In an interpretation at this point, I would say that Oedipus’s parents were not able to contain him as an infant. The fear of their separation and potential disintegration as parents is overwhelming.

This lack of containment is then experienced by Oedipus. Though brought up by the well-meaning shepherd, Oedipus has not found sufficient knowledge of himself to enable him to deal with his rage and anger; not knowing himself consciously, but sensing at some (unconscious) level that he was abused by his biological parents.

As Oedipus continues his travel and search, he finds that his country is oppressed by a sphinx. The sphinx speaks in riddles. Oedipus is very clever intellectually and politically. He is able to solve the riddle of the sphinx and take control of his country. This control is cemented by marrying the queen, who, unknown to him is his mother.

The story of Oedipus I am taking mainly from Sophocles’ three Theban plays: Oedipus the King; Oedipus at Colonus; Antigone.

On a personal note here I remember very well, when I was aged around 13 or 14, my father posing a riddle: ‘when can a man marry his mother?’

I think I was vaguely aware of ‘Freud’s story’ at the time. However, I can remember not being able to solve this riddle. From what my father said, he and his colleagues at work liked to talk in riddles.

The answer to this one was: ‘when his mother is his step mother.’

Where my father worked, the relatively old owner of the business had divorced and re-married a young woman. The owner died, the business was taken over by one of the sons from the first marriage, who also married his step mother.

As we know, Freud focused on this aspect of Oedipus’ s story and interpreted it in terms of sexual rivalry of the boy with his father. As something of an after-thought – remembering that there are girl children as well – Freud interpreted the girl child’s experience as rivalry with her mother (the ‘Electra complex’).

Though I think this modelling of the ‘original story’ has significant meaning, I also think that Oedipus’s story is far more wide-ranging and ‘deeper’ if we take all of the story contained in Sophocles’ three plays.

I interpret the story in terms of ‘closeness’ and ‘separation.’ I think we can usefully use the Maori original story of separation of the parents by the children to interpret Oedipus’s story. In this way, Oedipus’s parents feared the separation that the birth of their child brought them and the possibility that it would bring down their joined state, their closeness.

In his turn, and because of the parental abuse that Oedipus suffered, he was unable to helpfully separate from his parents. From the violence done to him, he was only able to violently separate from one of his parents whilst remaining inappropriately and damagingly close to the other one.

Further violence ensues with his mother-wife killing herself and Oedipus blinding himself in an attempt to turn away from external vision and look inside.

However I would say that Oedipus is still not successful in knowing himself. He stays close to his daughters, who travel with him and guide in his blindness. This might be interpreted as Oedipus not being able to help his daughters with separation. Oedipus knows that he is going to die. At this point he leaves his daughters and is guided to his secret grave by the king of Thebes. In other words, the daughters do not know the meaning of separation.

This is played out later with Antigone. In short summary I might say that she is not able to adequately know appropriate closeness and separation in relation to one of her brothers, which leads to her death and the disintegration of the state, ruled by her uncle king Creon (see Sophocles’ Antigone).

Conclusions

So, with (1) ‘where do we start as therapists in the public narrative’, we start in the position of holders or containers of ‘original’ stories. But we can’t just hold them for clients. We need to show that we can bear to hold them and understand the nature of closeness and separations as the original parents must in ideal circumstances. Then, that this containing is possible for our clients.

I’ll consider further conclusions on (1) in my next blog, along with (2) our personal narratives and (3) how we do this in therapy.

Takapuna beach, Auckland from the beach cafe

Rangitoto

Rangitoto is a volcanic island in the Auckland Harbour.
We were in Auckland for a week, then flew down to Invercargill to visit friends, then on to Stewart Island.
The situation in Christchurch is awful. Fortunately our friends there are OK. We were due visit this weekend for a party but obviously we will not be going.
I'll post some more photos.
David

Dream Trip

Dream Trip

If we suppose that telling a story – our story, the story of ‘I’ – is a process that is important in the therapeutic healing, development and change process, then a reasonable question seems to be: how do we help clients to know of and tell their stories to themselves and  to us as therapists?

Put another way, how can we work with the aesthetic object, the symbol and container that creates itself in the telling of it?

I believe, as Bion claimed, that we dream both by day and by night. This is a process that is the nature of ourselves. As Shakespeare put it:

We are such stuff

 that dreams are made on,

And our little life is rounded with a sleep.

(Tempest, IV I, 156)

So, what is the dream and the dreaming process, a dream and the stuff of a dream?

‘The peculiar value of a dream, and the dream-level of an artwork, is that it cannot be invented by the self; it is a gift from the gods – or a curse’ (Meg Harris Williams, The Aesthetic Development: the Poetic spirit of Psychoanalysis p.135-6)

‘Dreams are the psyche’s attempt – with a varying level of aesthetic achievement – to symbolize it’s present emotional conflicts in order to reorientate itself towards external and internal reality’ (ibid p.136).

One might say that a dream is a narrative, a given narrative. There is linking (as Bion described it) between internal and external states, consciously and unconsciously. We can consciously think up a story about ourselves in the external world, for example ‘I am a teacher who came into teaching because…’ Then this story needs to match up with unconscious internal states, to link at boundaries (of internal/external; conscious unconscious; closeness/separation).

The dream though cannot be invented by a conscious sense of self. As such a self, we have to wait for the linking, the boundary area where the dream appears. This may appear as a revelation or reverie in a waking state, or a night dream in a sleeping state. The form is usually cinematic and symbolic. For example Murakmi’s description of his protagonists’ revelation of himself as a little boat, when the waters clear to reveal a great depth at the bottom of which lies a volcano (The Second Bakery Attack).

Such a story simply cannot just be made up: it’s necessary to be in a state (Bion would say reverie) which allows the possibility of such revelation. Then it is necessary to work on the possible meanings of it and how it might link with conscious, rational thought. Further, how the rational thoughts can be fed back to the boundary for absorption by dream processes.

Consciously – unfortunately or fortunately – we have the capacity to hold out against the dream process, though we are unable to stop it. It goes on whether we like it or not. And our actual situation as a person may be revealed to consciousness when, as with Murakami’s character, the waters clear and we realise the actual depth of what is happening and the strength of the volcanic forces involved.

We dream both by day and by night as Bion put it. There may now – in addition to this ‘aesthetic evidence’ – be some scientific evidence for this. I can’t quote the references for this at the moment because I haven’t got access to them currently (in Singapore). Essentially there are different states of brain activity both within sleep and in waking states. However, an underlying state has been observed in both waking and sleeping states and this may be the physical equivalence of dreaming, if such separations of the physical and the state of psychic operations is meaningful.

Quoting Murakami, from a book he wrote on the Tokyo underground gas attacks, in the context of the idea of giving up one’s ego to a guru:

 ‘If you lose your ego, you lose the thread of that narrative you call your Self. Humans, however, can’t live very long without some sense of a continuing story. Such stories go beyond the limited rational system (or the systematic rationality) with which you surround yourself; they are crucial keys to sharing time-experience with others.

Now a narrative is a story, not logic, nor ethics, nor philosophy. It is a dream you keep having, whether you realise it or not. Just as surely as you breathe, you go on ceaselessly dreaming your story. And in these stories you wear two faces. You are simultaneously subject and object. You are the whole and you are the part. You are real and you are shadow. ‘Storyteller’ and at the same time ‘character’. It is through such multilayering of roles in our own stories that we heal the loneliness of being an isolated individual in the world.’ (pp. 201-2 in translation Underground, quoted in Jay Rubin Haruki Murakami and the Music of Words p.244 quoting from Murakami’s Underground).

I might say that the multi-layering of stories is like Bion’s idea of linking containing states. We need stories for the individual, the family, society. In our western society it can be argued that our stories have become more fragmented and split off from each other. Though fairly obviously this is a broad generalisation as in a multi-cultural society there are many religious beliefs, along with scientific beliefs and literature and art continue to provide a powerful presence.

So, how can we help our clients tell their stories? How do we enter a state of reverie with our clients?  I think we have to start with our own processes as therapists. I’ll focus on that in my next piece.

Trikora beach Bintan

The Last of England

My aim in this blog is to write a series of 'occasional pieces' during our travels, with professional colleagues in mind.

This is the first one.

The Last of England

In Haruki Murakami’s story ‘The Second Bakery Attack’ the protagonist of the story and his wife are hungry in the night. There is no food in the refrigerator. But this is a special type of hunger. The protagonist experiences the special hunger in the form of a revelation, which occurs in a few seconds. I would call this a ‘reverie’. He presents it to the reader in the form of a ‘cinematic image’:

‘One, I am in a little boat, floating on a quiet sea. Two, I look down, and in the water I see the peak of a volcano thrusting up from the ocean floor. Three, the peak seems pretty close to the water’s surface, but just how close I cannot tell. Four, this is because the hypertransparency of the water interfers with the perception of distance.

‘This is a fairly accurate description of the image that arose in my mind during the two or three seconds between the time my wife said she refused to go to an all-night restaurant and I agreed with my ‘I guess not’. Not being Sigmund Freud, I was, of course, unable to analyse with any precision what this image signified, but I knew intuitively that it was a revelation.’ (p.38, The Elephant Vanishes, trans. GB 2001).

This little boat, and my leaving to travel, I associate with Ford Maddox Brown’s painting ‘The Last of England’ (Birmingham Art Gallery). The image focuses on a couple (in 1855) sitting on the open deck of a storm lashed boat on a choppy English channel with the white cliffs of Dover about to recede behind them.

I might describe this as the difficulty of leaving for an extended period, the loss and letting go of work, place and identity. I’ve jokingly thought of this as pre-holiday tension, or PHT. It’s something that Bion refers to as an experience of ‘catastrophic change,’ the fear that such change (any change) might well bring about the death of the sense of self; this sense of self. It’s what many of us fear I think, and many clients. Despite age and experience, it always surprises me that with the prospect of change and moving out of my comfort zone I can be gripped so powerfully with such fear. The volcano is perhaps not very far beneath the surface. There are plenty of them in the physical world of Indonesia, where we are going first, though not, hopefully, active on the island of Bintan.

Of course the positive and exciting side is the possibility of new experience. Sartre refers to the need to let go of the idea of having to create a substantial self. The future is always a choice of being-in-the world (ref. Betty Cannon, and I must have read that somewhere in Being and Nothingness during one of my several attempts to read it).

What we are is the ‘stuff that dreams are made on’ (The Tempest). That’s for my next ‘occasional piece’.

Later with Murakami’s ‘I’ protagonist, the sea waters cloud over (lose their transparency) again and he is less anxiously bobbing on the quiet waters.

Once I’m on the plane there then has to be a letting go – there’s nothing further one can do about what is being left behind.

Hopefully, when we take off, the clouds will form underneath and the volcano will be far below.

Bintan, Indonesia

This is where we are heading to first.

It's an Indonesian island not far from Singapore.