Full moon, and female rain–that’s what the Dineh call these long, soaking, gentle days: as opposed to male rains, which are the lightning storms, sudden and dramatic, an onslaught that is quickly over.
I lost my keys a little while ago. I was on my way out the door to go and soak in wild hot springs with my honey, so I didn’t let it bother me. I knew they would turn up when we got back.
But as we camped and hiked and soaked I turned the problem over in my mind. I’d checked the drawer, all my bags, the table, the counter…I mean, come on, I live in a 12-foot-square house. How hidden could they be?
Then, one night, under the clear stars of the desert, I had a dream. Carl Jung was crooking his finger at me from a chair near a window.
“Pssst,” he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I know where your keys are.” He pointed to the wardrobe, which flew open, and I saw my grey corduroy pants neatly folded on the shelf. Of course! I had been wearing those cords the day before! The keys must be tucked into the pocket!
I was so excited the next morning. A personal message from Jung himself! I babbled excitedly to H about how Jung’s theory of the collective unconscious and the mysterious synchrony of dreams was always taking flak from the scientific community for being “unprovable.” Well here I had the means to prove it. Should I return home and find the keys in the pocket of my cords, it would PROVE that there is a collective wisdom larger than ourselves that can transmit messages in dreams!
“Or,” remarked H calmly, “That some part of your brain remembered where you’d put them and, once the constant buzz of your consciousness was out for the count, was finally able to make itself heard.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. ‘Constant buzz‘? ’make itself heard‘? What, exactly, were we talking about here?
He smiled at me and nudged my arm. “You have to think of all possible ways of interpreting the evidence, or you haven’t proved anything at all.” He’s a rocket scientist. (No, really. He’s a rocket scientist.)
Finally our lovely journey to desert hot springs by way of snowy mountain roads came to an end, and I eagerly raced to my wardrobe to root around in the pockets of my cords.
But: strike one for the collective unconscious. The keys were not there.
I was disconsolate all day. So much for my mysterious connection with Jung. I admit I actually felt he’d let me down.
Finally I dragged myself over to the kitchen table to study for my finals. I opened my Theories of Personality text to review the reading.And there, tucked into the pages of the chapter on Jung and the Collective Unconscious, were my keys.