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|Michael Fordham||Karnac Books||ePub|
Child analysis has only just begun to engage the serious attention of analytical psychologists. I shall maintain that it can make a significant contribution to individual child therapy and to our culture as well. That it has not done so until recently, at least in respect of the Jungian framework, is curious. So I shall devote the first part of this chapter to reflections upon why this is so; in the second part I am going to review some of the discoveries and findings of play therapy that have led me to conclude that radical child analysis is possible and indeed sometimes the treatment of choice. Finally, I shall show that child analysis is not in principle different from its adult equivalent, though both technically and emotionally it is more difficult.
Child analysis has hung behind the analytic therapy of adults even though theory would suggest it should have forged ahead. At first it was thought to be the parents who were the cause of their children’s neuroses and even psychoses: it was they who seduced, threatened, neglected or over-protected their children and caused repression. But it was not long before it was shown that the reconstructions produced by adult patients, on which this theory was based, were as much the product of infantile fantasy as accounts of the real behaviour of parents themselves. This discovery contributed powerfully to Jung’s theory of primordial images and by 1912 he had established that they underlie the conflicts under consideration. Then, as the result of long, intensive and wide-ranging research, he went on to formulate and develop his concept of archetypes and to postulate not the inheritance of the images themselves, but of patterns of psychic functioning analogous to instincts and having spiritual potential. The theory of the inheritance of psychic functions had important bearing on child psychology and Jung was fully aware of it. He was even led to state that ‘dreams and images appear before the soul of the child, shaping his whole destiny as well as those retrospective intuitions which reach far back beyond the range of childhood experience into the life of our ancestors’ (1948, p. 52) and again, ‘The child’s inheritance is highly differentiated and consists of mnemonic deposits accruing from all the experience of our ancestors’ (ibid, p. 53).See All Chapters
|Martelli, Alex||O'Reilly Media||ePub|
Credit: Paul F. Dubois, Ph.D., Program for Climate Model Diagnosis and Intercomparison, Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory
This chapter was originally meant to cover mainly topics such as lexing, parsing, and code generationthe classic issues of programs that are about programs. It turns out, however, that Pythonistas did not post many recipes about such tasks, focusing more on highly Python-specific topics such as program introspection, dynamic importing, and generation of functions by closure. Many of those recipes, we decided, were more properly located in various other chapterson shortcuts, debugging, object oriented programming, algorithms, metaprogramming, and specific areas such as the handling of text, files, and persistence Therefore, you will find those topics covered in other chapters. In this chapter, we included only those recipes that are still best described as programs about programs. Of these, probably the most important one is that about currying, the creation of new functions by predetermining some arguments of other functions.See All Chapters
“Write!” “For whom?” “For the dead, for those whom you have loved in some past.”
—JOHANN GOTTFRIED VON HERDER,
“A free man thinks of nothing less than of death”1 according to proposition 47 of Spinoza’s Ethics, in which death is portrayed as a saddening thought, one which, moreover, depletes our potential to work and to think. The refusal to think about death, and specifically its association with sadness and pain for those left behind, is a constant theme in the history of philosophy. The image of Socrates presented in Phaedo, happy to accept his own death, is emblematic of the philosopher who has learned how to die. Xanthippe, his wife, is expelled from this scene in which philosophy and death come together.2 Xanthippe is not excluded just because she is a woman, but because she allowed herself to be affected by the excessively painful nature of death, and particularly the death of the Other whom we love. At one end of the spectrum stands the figure of the free man, the philosopher, who has no fear of death; at the other, in stark contrast, the figure of Xanthippe, slave to her passions, who stands as a reminder of the fragility of our relationship with death—and with life.See All Chapters
xxvi. in which the rastaman gives a sermon
The rastaman says: to get to Zion you must begin with a heartbless, a small tilt of the head, a nod, thumbs and index fingers meeting to take the shape of I blood, then raised like a badge to I chest, then you say it:
Heartbless. A simple word that don’t cost nothing to give but is plenty to receive – like sometimes you meet an I-dren at your door who come not only with a gift from his own acreage but also a word: how well you look, how prosperous, how beautiful the likkle children, or the house, how well appointed – an I-dren with whom hours pass too quickly and who upon leaving offers yet another word: how good it was to see you and for bredrens and sistrens to sit in the simple of each other’s love, so that it strike you how both his coming and his going were announced by blessings.
My bredda, a man like that is already well on his way to Zion. So begin like that – a heartbless, the old rastaman’s chanting up of goodness and rightness and, of course, upfullness – how excellent is that word – upfullness – as if it was a thing that could be stored in the tank of somebody’s heart, so that on mornings when salt was weighing you down, when you feel you can’t even rise to face Babylon’s numbing work, you would know, at least, that should the day wring your heart out like the chamois towels of streetboys, then out of it would spring this stored portion of upfullness, and so anointed by your own storage, you would able to face the road which is forever inclining hardward. Know then that every heartbless given is collected by Jah like mickle and muckle, or like a basketful of cocoa, and comes back to you like a dividend. You find your feet at last straying off the marl roads, the bauxite roads, the slaving roads and the marooning roads, and you would beSee All Chapters
|Richard Wunderli||Indiana University Press||ePub|
Saints in heaven were honored on earth by feast days. Most saints had a single day, some had two. But the Virgin Mary, as suited her position as the Queen of Heaven, had seven feast days. Throughout the Middle Ages, people celebrated the Virgin’s Birth (September 8), Purification (February 2), Annunciation (March 25), and Assumption (August 15): one feast day for each season of the year. During the fifteenth century, to match the great upsurge in Marian sentiment that swept over all Europe, there were added three more feast days: the Engagement of Mary (January 23), the Offering of Mary in the Temple (November 21), and the Visitation of Mary (July 2).
The Visitation refers to a passage in Luke (1:36–45) in which the young, pregnant Mary “visited” Elizabeth, an old, erstwhile barren woman, who now also was miraculously pregnant. In Elizabeth’s womb was the future John the Baptist, who leapt for joy in the womb at Mary’s greeting to Elizabeth. The fetal John announced Jesus the Messiah through his movement, and “Elizabeth was filled with the Holy Spirit.” In the later Middle Ages, the Franciscan friars treated this moment as worthy of a feast day: Mary’s visit marked for them a special moment of ecstatic joy that heralded—and heralds—a new messianic age. The old age is over. A new age, one of renewal, hope, and the outpouring of the Holy Spirit, begins.See All Chapters
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