Category Archives: Stories and Fables

The Second Stream

The Monks’ Pilgrimage

Personal Conflict, Stories and Fables

Pilgrimages often reveal their most poignant insights during the journey, rather than at their destinations. The demanding physical ordeal of the trip itself poses a trial of perseverance. For cloistered monks, though, the quest offers additional challenges. The journey often exposes them to the temptations, distractions and aggravations from which the monasteries have shielded them. Unplanned and unanticipated events along the way test their commitment to their spiritual paths. In the process, the monks have the opportunity to renew and deepen their spirituality.

The Two Monks on a Pilgrimage

Such was the case with two monks who embarked upon this quest. Brother Kim was a novice, relatively new to the monastery. He looked upon Brother Lee as his mentor. In particular, he admired his elder’s equanimity in his deep spiritual practice within the sheltered confines of their monastery. Their pilgrimage was their first venture outside the monastery together, opening up opportunities for spiritual teaching. Little did they know just how this quest would test their fraternal bond.

The Course of the Pilgrimage

We withhold the pilgrimage’s route and destination so as to protect its sanctity for this order of monks. Recognize, though, that it is a strenuous journey, crossing two ridges and two valleys before arriving at the sacred grotto. As it turns out, each descent and river crossing embodied a particular trial. The preceding day’s torrential rains made the trails muddy and slippery. The rivers in the valleys had become swollen, making ferry crossings impossible and ford crossings treacherous. Still, with diligence and caution, our two monks could wade across. Others, particularly those of slight or frail build, found the crossings impossible – but we get ahead of ourselves here.

The First Crossing

After descending into the first valley, our two monks catch sight of the swift-flowing stream. There, on the riverbank, they catch sight of a fair young maiden, one of radiant beauty. She – the proverbial damsel in distress – sought their help in crossing the river. She explained that the swift current blocked her access to her ailing father across the valley. Without even thinking, Brother Lee lifted her up in his arms and proceeded to carry her across at the river ford. He noted to himself  how her additional weight, however slight, lent greater stability to his footing. He felt his feet pressing into the muddy bottom, grounding him and helping him to resist the current.

Meanwhile, Brother Kim was quite unsettled by her beauty, leading him to avert his gaze from her. He was ever so aware of his vow of chastity, and he fought hard to honor it. Eventually, he managed to regain sufficient composure to allow him to navigate the swirling waters to the far bank. There, the maiden and the two monks parted ways, she into the valley, and they up the path to the next ridge.

The First Reckoning

The monks proceeded on their journey, climbing the next ridge and following it a ways. Brother Lee was rather nimble and light on his feet, while Brother Kim was downright klutzy. The young novice was constantly tripping over twigs, brushing against tree limbs, and getting snagged in vines. Soon, his aggravation was readily apparent to his mentor. Brother Lee inquired, “What’s wrong? Why are you so out of sorts? You weren’t like this at the start of our trip.”

After a deep sigh, the novice spewed forth, “How could you? We are supposed to be on a sacred quest, and you grab that beautiful girl and lift her to your bosom – I mean, chest.– Then caress her in your arms as you sway about in the churning torrent. What happened to your repudiation of the flesh, and your vow of purity? Does that mean nothing to you? And to think that I looked up to you and sought your guidance!”

When Brother Kim’s rant subsided, a tense silence followed. Then, Brother Lee casually noted, “My young brother, I left that young maiden back at the riverbank. You’ve been carrying her with you ever since.” Gradually, the silent pall lifted, and they continued on their way.

The Second Crossing
The Second Stream
Downed Suspension Bridge at the Second Stream Crossing

Before long, our two monks descended into the next valley. There, they soon approached its river, just as swollen as the previous one. As they neared the bank, a shriveled, contorted figure slumped before them. Here was likely the vilest, most ill-tempered curmudgeon that either of them had ever encountered. And that was before the wretch had even opened his mouth! His screechy voice conveyed utter contempt as he demanded immediate passage to the other side.

Whereas most would be taken aback by this demeanor, Brother Lee acted without hesitation. He heaved the wretch over his shoulder and proceeded into the swift stream.  The monk immediately noticed that the riverbed consisted of slippery, loose rocks, requiring constant adjustments to stay upright. These maneuvers provoked the wretch’s barrage of complaints, curses, and insults, liberally punctuated by jabs and slaps. In his passage across the river, Brother Lee maintained an acute focus on maintaining his balance. He came to a startling realization – all these adjustments were actually helping to center him in his body! He even felt a hint of exhilaration, as a bronco-busting cowboy might experience.

Meanwhile, Brother Kim grew increasingly impatient with the abusive wretch. This frustration was no doubt built on the foundation of his earlier disappointment with his mentor. (Although he had come to understand and appreciate his mentor’s stance, his body still retained a substantial residual tension.) And while he was rather indignant on behalf of Brother Lee, he was also quite disappointed in him for tolerating that abuse.

The Second Reckoning

Upon reaching the far shore, the monks parted ways with the ill-tempered curmudgeon. They could hear his nagging complaints faded off into the distance as they headed down the trail to the grotto. The monks still had more ground  to cover to reach the grotto by nightfall, so they hurried down their path. And as before, the mentor was fleet of foot and poised, while the novice was klutzy. This time, Brother Lee cut to the chase, “What’s the matter now, Brother Kim? You seem all out of sorts.”

After a deep sigh, Brother Kim let out a yelp. He then exclaimed, “This pilgrimage is not going at all as planned. I came looking for a deeper spirituality, and this is what we get – nagging complaints from that ingrate. He has totally ruined any possibility of spiritual transcendence that I was hoping to find. And as for you, how can you have any respect for yourself? You allowed that pathetic idiot to abuse you – both physically and verbally. Now, I’ve lost all respect for you.”

After a lengthy pause, Brother Lee responded, “My young brother, I left that poor wretch back at the riverbank, but you are still carrying that load with you. What a burden that must be for you, especially since you seem resigned to keeping it the entire journey.” After a while, he continued, “You know, you have a point about my tolerating abuse from that poor soul. I had not experienced such condemnation, I guess, since earlier today, when you denounced me for helping that young maiden. Now, that abusive wretch is no longer here with us, so it makes no sense to fret over him. But you are here with me. So how would you have me respond to your harsh judgment of me, both now and earlier in the day?”

The novice was stunned and speechless, and had no answer. Brother Lee allowed him his space, and the two completed their pilgrimage to the grotto in silence.

The Descent into the Grotto
The Shrine at the Pilgrimage's Destination
The Shrine near the Grotto, at the End of the Pilgrimage

Upon arrival, the two monks descended deep into the dark recesses of the grotto to complete their pilgrimage. There, they entered an extended silent retreat. Brother Lee, grounded and centered in his body from the stream crossings, sat in utter stillness with a quiet mind. Brother Kim, on the other hand, had some sorting out to do.

Danger: Proceed with Caution
The above parable, like The Monks’ Interesting, Not-So-Silent Retreat, is an adaptation and embellishment of a spiritual story in the Buddhist tradition. Minor variations of the original can be found by googling “fable monks taking maiden across the river” or similar phrases, so I assume that this story is in the public domain. You will also see that “The Second Crossing” in my story adds one or two new dimensions to the tale. Spelling them out is somewhat akin to explaining the punchline of a joke. Just as such an endeavor can spoil the humor, explanations can disrupt the story’s impact. So, if you share this concern, I advise you to skip the following commentary.

If you have resisted the urge to indulge in the following objective interpretation, I want to hear from you. How were you able to accomplish that? (Or are you just delaying it?)

Commentary on the Original Tale

The original tale follows the Buddhist tradition in dramatizing the spiritual path as a river crossing. It addresses the pitfall of fantasizing in desire for this pursuit, whether of deeper spirituality or simply serene mindfulness. This message is obviously relevant for monks and nuns with their vows of chastity and purity. Yet it is also relevant for those of us who have not disavowed our sensuality. Here, the challenge is to keep the sensuality embedded in a personal relationship, rather than expressed in unadulterated lust. This presents a more daunting challenge than faced by the monks. A secondary theme is the importance of honoring the vow’s spirit, not just the “letter of the law.” When we focus too much on the latter, we miss the forest for all the trees.

Commentary on my Embellished Version

This embellished version’s addition of a second  river crossing expands upon how judgmentalism disrupts spirituality, or mindfulness. Such a constraint is implied in the “letter of the law” approach, as dramatized in the original version. My amended version notes how we can be intolerant of others’ shortcomings. Brother Kim was paradoxically hypercritical of the curmudgeon’s harsh treatment of Brother Lee. He also revealed his criticalness toward Brother Lee, both for presumed carnality and for tolerating abuse. Brother Lee modeled living in the moment by focusing on Brother Kim’s judgmentalism, as the curmudgeon was long gone. He further highlighted the challenge posed in responding to abuse, while modeling equanimity in the face of it.

I also snuck in a secondary theme, as well. This addresses the paradox that deeper spirituality often involves greater “embodiment.” Note how Brother Lee’s focus on his body experiences (both groundedness and balance), helped him maintain his poise. Thus, he could resist the distracting influences of sensuality, annoyance, and criticalness in his spiritual crossing.

If you decided to entertain the more objective perspective in this commentary, I welcome your feedback, as well.

The Monks’ Interesting, Not-So-Silent Retreat

General and Miscellaneous, Stories and Fables, , ,

Just as the former Soviet Union banished its dissidents to the Siberian gulags, so, too, did the Vatican exile its freethinking clergy to settings where they would cause minimal disruption among its faithful. Such was the case with Brother Costello, whose natural curiosity led him to question all matters, even what the Church considered to be established doctrine. In his case, the Church not only exiled him to a remote cloister in rural Ireland, but also promoted him to the position of abbot. This particular monastery experienced considerable tension among its monks, and the Church establishment apparently intended to give Brother Costello a taste of his own medicine with his new assignment.

When the new abbot arrived at his post, he found the monastery in total disarray, with its few remaining residents constantly bickering. After a few weeks of trying to achieve harmony among the friars, the new abbot was at his wits’ end. Still, he needed to address the crisis at hand, and the monks’ rancor interfered with his clarity of judgment and ability to devise a strategy. It was at this point that the abbot imposed an overnight silent retreat upon his subordinates, if only to allow him a brief reprieve from the chaos.

The Retreat

On the evening of the retreat, Abbot Costello had the monks, Brothers Thomas, Paul, Sean, Michael, Richard, and Patrick, sit in a small circle in the chapel, facing inward. The retreat was to begin at dusk, with silence imposed upon the monks until dawn. He began the event by lighting a candle, which he placed at the center of the circle. He then got up from his seat, indicating that he would return at sunrise.

The retreat was rather uneventful for the first several hours, until the candle burned itself out, plunging the chapel into total darkness. This had an unsettling effect on the monks, who became quite squirmy and fidgety. Finally, Brother Thomas could stand it no more, breaking the restless silence, “Brother Paul, go get another candle and light it – I can’t stand the darkness!”

Brother Paul fired back, “Go get it yourself, if you can’t stand it – I’m not your servant!”

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, Brother Sean blurted out, “Brothers, we’re supposed to keep quiet!”

Then Brother Michael chastised them, “You losers can’t even keep your mouths shut for a few hours! Now you’ve messed things up for all of us.”

Brother Richard quickly countered, “Not if we keep quiet about it. We don’t have to tell on ourselves.”

Brother Patrick was feeling rather smug at this point, as he was the only monk who had kept his silence. Still, he was rather miffed that the other brothers apparently didn’t realize this. “Hey, don’t include me in this – I’m the only one who hasn’t talked.”

This exchange transpired in a matter of minutes, after which they said not another word until dawn. Still, it was a rather noisy silence, as they all mulled over in their heads the blame for disturbing the peace. The remaining hours until sunrise seemed to drag on forever.

The Review

When Abbot Costello returned at dawn, he sat down in the empty seat and asked them how the retreat went. All hung their heads and no one spoke up. At this point, the abbot realized that extracting any confessions from them would be counterproductive. “Very well, then, we can start the second part of the retreat. Even though you’ve remained silent, I trust that you have all had your meditations disrupted by intrusive thoughts, even if you haven’t spoken them out loud. Or do we have any living saints among us who weren’t bothered by disruptive thoughts?”

Still, the monks remained silent. Perhaps they considered the question rhetorical, but more likely they suspected it a trick question.

“Very well, then, we’ll proceed. It really makes little difference whether you’ve spoken your thoughts out loud or kept them to yourselves. In a way, though, it’s unfortunate that you kept your silence, as speaking your concerns out loud would have highlighted the more troubling challenges to your serenity. So who would like to start us out by sharing the thoughts that disrupted your tranquility?” The monks’ silence continued, yet the abbot remained patient, waiting out the monks until they could no longer stand the tension.

The Reckoning

Finally, Brother Sean spoke up, stating how it was quite upsetting to him when others could not or would not obey the rules and guidelines. The other monks glared at him for implicating their breach of silence with his admission. The abbot ignored the implied accusation, instead directing his curiosity toward how Brother Sean developed this obsession with unquestioning obedience. Brother Sean explained how his parents were quite strict with their rules and severe with their punishments. Thus, he learned to obey the letter of the law and to become quite anxious when his brothers and sisters broke the rules.

Abbot Costello reflected upon this, only commenting, “Interesting.”

Soon, Brother Richard chimed in, noting his having had similar parents and rather unruly siblings. He noted how his parents had punished all the children when anyone got into trouble. While he could not control his siblings, he encouraged them to be sneaky, in order to escape detection. He recognized how he developed a habit of “playing with his cards close to his vest”, such that he was wary of revealing too much of himself.

Abbot Costello considered this, then commented, “Interesting.”

Next, Brother Michael related his similar experiences with parents who were quite demanding and critical. Thus, he learned that he could never do anything adequately. Michael had decided that the best defense is a good offense, and his parents were excellent role models for this. Thus, he learned to be highly critical, with both himself and others. He noted how he often caught himself being just like his parents in his judgmentalism, a trait he despised in himself.

Abbot Costello pondered this, then commented, “Interesting.”

Brother Thomas then noted how his family background was chaotic and at times even violent. He described how his parents often fought over the kids. As the oldest, Thomas tried to impose order on his younger siblings to keep them from upsetting their parents. He acknowledged his bossiness, but had felt it justified in order to keep the peace.

Abbot Costello thought about this, then commented, “Interesting.”

Brother Paul shared how he could relate to Brother Thomas’s family situation, though from the standpoint of the youngest child. As a child, he had resented his older brothers for bossing him around. This developed into a gnawing resentment toward elders and authorities.

Abbot Costello contemplated on this, then commented, “Interesting.”

All the monks had spoken, except for Brother Patrick, who appeared deep in thought. He then admitted how he, an only child, had difficulty relating to the others’ stories. Furthermore, his mother teaching him at home allowed only limited contact with his peers. Patrick felt rather awkward interacting with other children, who often teased him for his lack of social graces. The young boy heeded his mother’s counsel, that he was special and others were simply envious of him. Thus, he learned to discount others, if not outright ignore them.

Abbot Costello meditated on this, then commented, along with the chorus of the other brothers, “Interesting.”

The abbot then shared his opinion that the brothers had made good use of their silent retreat. He noted, though, that the larger challenge lay ahead of them. One particular goal is to keep the lessons fresh in their mind. A second task is to apply this understanding to their relationships with one another. The brothers agreed to continue with the retreats and to apply the new insights about themselves and each other to their daily lives.

The Issue of Darkness

Before adjourning, the abbot noted a key feature of the retreat that the brothers had not addressed. He asked the  monks about their reactions to darkness when the candle went out. The brothers were rather wary of this inquiry, as they had not mentioned it in their discussions. Still,  the experience had been so unsettling that they decided that it deserved further attention. This unfinished business also allows us to explore the meaning of  the darkness for ourselves.

The above story is an embellishment and Westernization of a popular Zen parable. The original can easily be found on the internet by googling “Learning to Be Silent parable.” 

Nostalgia – It’s Not What It Used to Be

Stories and Fables,
This short skit is not so much about nostalgia as it is about appreciating what we have when we have it, and not just years afterwards. It also suggests how conflict can add spice to life, as long as we don’t view it as an ordeal merely to endure. Often it is only later that we see the adventure in it.
Nostalgia at retirement
Vern and Ollie Waxing Nostalgic

Recently retired and former coworkers Vern and Ollie find themselves sitting on a park bench, reminiscing over the “good ol’ days” and pondering what to do with all the free time on their hands.

Vern:
Well, here we are at retirement.
Ollie:
Yeah, we’ve finally arrived. It seemed like we’d never make it.
Vern:
Well, we went through 30-some years of hell to get here.
Ollie:
All that company politics, all the backstabbing, scheming, manipulating, scapegoating, passing the buck, forming cliques, haggling, backstabbing, . . .
Vern:
And don’t forget “leveraging.”
Ollie:
Oh, you mean the blackmail, bribery, and extortion?
Vern:
Now, it sounds like a bad thing when you say it like that.
Ollie:
If it quacks like a duck and it waddles like a duck, then . . .
Vern:
Well, all that’s behind us now. We can do whatever we want, and no one’s here telling us we can’t. Not a care in the world. We can get up whenever we want or stay in bed all day. We can go pretty much wherever we want, or just stay put, and there’s not a dang thing anyone can do about it.
Ollie:
You’ve got that right!
Vern:
Damn straight!
Ollie:
Well, Vern, what do you want to do today?
Vern:
I don’t know, what you want to do?
Ollie:
Well, something with a bit of adventure.
Vern:
You mean like that trip you took seeing all those sights in Europe with that alumni group of yours?
Ollie:
No, not like that. It was interesting and all that, but I kinda got bored after a few days. All those churches and museums started looking the same. Nothing really grabbed me. Know what I mean?
Vern:
Oh, you mean like the time you convinced Richard that he’d made the mistake in accounting, when you’d actually given him the wrong numbers? Did he ever catch on?
Ollie:
I certainly didn’t tell him. Oh, do you remember when Margaret complained about the dirty dishes always being left in the lunchroom sink? She swore she’d never wash another one.
Vern:
And you kept putting more of them in there when she wasn’t looking.
Ollie:
Well, she eventually ended up washing them all.
Vern:
Not only that, but’d she cleaned the refrigerator and the microwave, too – muttering under her breath all the while.
Ollie:
I think that’s the only time I ever heard her cuss.
Vern:
Her face turned as red as a beet.
Ollie:
Yeah, those were the days.
Vern:
Well, I sure do miss ‘em.

President Bush – Lost in Cyberspace: Can You Help Find Him?

Stories and Fables, , ,

by Robert Lowell Daniel, Ph.D.

The following anecdote, inspired by a cyberspace entry, can be categorized as political satire, yet  this is a rather narrow view of its message. Rather, I propose that this offers an example of the phenomenon of “unintended consequences.” This frequently occurs when one adopts a simplistic cause-and-effect perspective on a rather complex issue, rather than appreciating the overall context, involving a  complex interplay of various factors that culminate in unforeseen outcomes.

Fiction writers are our true anarchists. Who else can reduce our esteemed leaders to mere mortals by telling blatant lies about them, while escaping accountability by confessing to their lies? As a case in point, I recall stumbling across an entry in cyberspace by a self-professed hacker who claimed to have eavesdropped on President George W. Bush’s instant messaging with his daughter. He provided supposed transcripts of their conversation, in which Jenna voiced her frustration to her father about a video war game that “totally” vexed her. In particular, she complained that one of the features of the game was that whenever you killed one of the enemy combatants, two other terrorists rose up in its place. The supposed hacker then had President Bush respond that the answer was simple—just kill them twice as fast. And of course, Jenna gushed in admiration of her father’s brilliance.

I have often regretted that I had not thought to save that particular entry, as my vague memory of it loses much in translation, leaving too much to the imagination of whoever might listen to this account. I have since tried to retrieve this particular work of fiction, to no avail. That was before the age of Twitter and YouTube, and I fear that it is forever lost in cyberspace. But then, I heard the announcement for the three-minute fiction contest on NPR, with its proposed theme of presidential stories, which motivated me to share this anecdote. I submitted it, wondering if anyone out there had the tech-savvy to find this lost jewel. My submission apparently didn’t even make it into cyberspace. (I wonder if it did not meet the standards of political correctness?) In any event, I am resubmitting it on my own website, and I have received word that it has been accepted, at least until any pending review by the NSA. So I am again asking for assistance in finding the original work, so that I might credit the author.

And can you imagine if this were a true account of an actual hacking? How funny would that be?

[whohit]president bush – lost in cyberspace[/whohit]

The Man Who Lost His Key

Stories and Fables

The following story is an adaptation of an old Middle Eastern tale, one version of which is about Nasrudin, who has been alternately characterized as a wise buffoon or a foolish sage. This setting has been changed so that it relates more to the modern world, and a new ending has also been added.

The story begins, not with the man who lost his key, but with a conscientious preacher in a small town, with his parsonage at one end of town and the church and vestry at the other end. As such, each day he would walk across town to get to work and back home again. Each day he would take the same route – six blocks down and three blocks across on the way to the vestry, and the reverse of that, three blocks down six blocks across on the way back home. On this particular night, he reversed his route, going six blocks down and three blocks across. (And if you know anything about fables, you might recognize that this portends something rather unusual occurring.) He also made his journey particularly late, such that there were no lights on in the houses and there was no moon in the sky.  Thus, it was practically pitch dark, except for the streetlamps on each corner.

As he was making his way back home, he saw a dark figure under the street lamp a block or so away. At first he thought it might be a large dog, but upon approaching, he discovered it was a man on all fours, combing his fingers through the grass under the street lamp. He slowed down as he approached, until he stopped in front of the man.

“Lose something, did you?” he greeted the man.

“Brilliant deduction” came the surly reply.

“What did you lose, if I may ask?”

“A key – if it’s any business of yours,” with this reply punctuated by his piercing glare.

Undaunted, the preacher offered, “Can I help you look for it?”

“It’s a free country – do what you like,” came the flippant response.

The preacher was perplexed, yet not discouraged, and with his being a kindly sort, he was soon down on his hands and knees crawling under the street lamp looking for the key. For some time, the two of them were searching through the grass, under the nearby shrub, along the sidewalk, and down the curb and gutter of the street, looking for the key. After a half hour with no success, the preacher suggested that they search in a more orderly fashion, making swaths to cover the area under the street lamp. The man followed suit, with a shrug of his shoulders, so as to say “whatever.” When this strategy failed to produce the key, the preacher suggested they make their swaths in the perpendicular direction, so as not to overlook any ground. The man complied with neither protest nor enthusiasm.

After considerable time without success, the preacher finally announced, “Sir, I don’t think your key is out here, or else we would’ve found it by now.”

The man responded with a casual, “I know.”

Perhaps too casual, as it aroused the preacher’s curiosity, with his asking, “And just how long have you known this?”

“Oh, since before you came, and I guess since before I even started looking.”

“What? If you knew it all this time, just why have you been looking in this particular spot?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” the man replied as he pointed up at the street lamp, “because this is where the light is.”

It is at this point where the traditional tale ends, yet we discover that there is yet more to this tale, or as Paul Harvey might have added, “Now for the rest of the story.”

The befuddled preacher, tired as he was after this long day at work, could not let go of this conundrum, and so he asked, “If you didn’t lose your key here, do you know where you lost it?”

At this point, the man’s demeanor made a dramatic shift, with his nonchalant attitude turning to anxiety and wariness. He raised his arm and pointed back over his shoulder, to the backyard of the house on the corner, as he stammered “B-b-b-back there.”

The preacher squinted into the dark, with just enough light penetrating the depths to reveal just how neglected and overgrown this backyard was. (At this point, it should perhaps be pointed out that the man lived in the house on the corner, and it was his own backyard he pointed to.)

The preacher readily offered, “Why didn’t you say so? I would’ve gladly gone back there with you to look for your key.”

At this point, the man’s eyes widened and he jumped back, as if he’d seen a ghost, and with his frightful stare at the preacher, he protested, “You gotta be out of your mind, if you think I’m going back there, in the pitch dark, with you, a perfect stranger, to look for my key. Go on home, and leave me alone.”

Here are some proposed study questions, to help tease meaning out of this frivolous tale.

What might the key symbolize? And what might it unlock?

What does it mean that the man and the preacher were searching in the light, and in the man’s front yard?

What does the man’s backyard symbolize?

What is the nature of your darkness, where you might have a key hidden away?

[whohit]the man who lost his key[/whohit]

How can we stop beating up on ourselves?

THE MAN WITH A MONKEY ON HIS BACK: A STORY OF THE STRUGGLE WITH SELF-BLAME

Stories and Fables

by Bob Daniel, Ph.D.

There once was a man with a monkey on his back – well, not a real monkey, but he thought it was real – at least, I think he thought it was real. (But I’m getting ahead of myself now.) Anyway, he came to me to help him get rid of his monkey. It wasn’t just his having this monkey on his back that was the problem – he could probably handle that. Rather, it was how his monkey treated him – that is, if you believe his story. He complained about how his monkey kept a running commentary on his life, and it was all negative. For anything that he would do, say, or even think, his monkey always found something bad to say about it: he was always too stupid, clumsy, too lazy, too weak, too immature, too crazy, or whatnot. Everything he did, he messed up in one fashion or other, and he always felt the harsh scrutiny of his companion. Finally, he reached a level of desperation he could no longer tolerate.

It was at this point that he found his way to me in his quest to rid himself of his monkey. Now I did as I usually do when seeing a new patient – I took his social history. When I got around to asking him about how long his monkey had been with him, he told me that he couldn’t remember ever being without him. He then recalled how he had told his classmates about the monkey. Nothing he would say could convince them of the reality of his monkey. And the way they ridiculed and teased him when he mentioned it rivaled even the monkey’s worst criticism. So he learned the hard way not to complain about his monkey. It wasn’t long before he stopped trying – he even scoffed when someone brought it up. “Monkey?” he’d ask, “What monkey? There ain’t no monkey. You got to be crazy!” After enough denial, he himself even questioned whether this monkey actually existed. So he bore the judgment and ridicule in silence, until he could stand it no more.

At this point, though, he had no doubt about the reality of his monkey. While he trusted me with his secret, he staunchly maintained this conviction. As we psychologists often do in such circumstances, I challenged the reality of his irrational beliefs. First, I asked whether others saw his monkey, to raise doubt in his mind. He paused, before replying, “No, I can’t recall that anyone else ever has.” When I asked what this suggests to him, he responded, “I don’t know, Doc, but you’ve got to get rid of him for me.” Then, I got much the same response when I asked whether anyone else ever heard his monkey. All he wanted to know was if I’d rid him of his monkey.

At this point, I decided to play my trump card, “You say your monkey criticizes you for what you do or say or even think? Now, how does your monkey know what you’re thinking? He can’t read minds, now, can he?”

He paused for quite a while, then spoke, “I don’t know how it works, Doc. It’s just like the monkey says – that  I’m too stupid to figure it out. All I know, is that you’ve just got to get rid of him for me.” Well, so much for my “gotcha” question.

Having been unsuccessful at probing and challenging his reality, I felt stuck as to what else to do next. So I did what most self-respecting psychologists do in such situations – I referred him to a psychiatrist, who could prescribe medication to rid him of his hallucinations. He was excited about this prospect and readily agreed to the appointment. So he showed up for his appointment as scheduled, and I saw him about a week later. When I asked him how the medication worked, he replied, “Nah, it didn’t do any good at all.” When I asked him how long he had been taking it, he appeared perplexed, “What do you mean, Doc? I thought the pills were for the monkey. And I couldn’t get him to take them.” When I explained that he was to take the medication himself, he appeared startled. He was quite mistrustful about being drugged, and he simply could not understand how taking the medication himself would make the monkey go away.

He repeated his request that I rid him of his monkey, and then he asked me to perform an exorcism. I attempted to refer him to a priest for such matters, with no success. He explained that he had already tried that route, to no avail: the priests limit these rituals to casting out devils, and his monkey posed a more secular dilemma. Having no other options in mind, I returned to my drawing board. Eventually, I cooked up a half-baked plan to perform a ritual. In part, I drew upon my knowledge of hypnotic techniques for this procedure. During my graduate class in hypnosis, I had succeeded in inducing a negative hallucination (i.e., an inability to see an object which is actually there), so this background offered some plausibility for success. Maybe I could induce an inability to see an object which is not there! I studied up on esoteric rites, and agreed to perform an exorcism, even though I knew very little about such procedures and I doubted my own ability to pull it off. I figured that the ceremony might do him some good, and probably would do no harm. After all, it was hard to imagine him being any worse off than he already was. And if it somehow worked at ridding him of his phantom, the procedure might provide some relief, even if he still believed in his monkey.

The exorcism worked beyond my wildest expectations. The next week he reported that his monkey had totally vanished, and that he experienced freedom as never before. There was no one to put him down or tell him how he messed up. While he was ecstatic, I was more cautious, asking him to return the following week. Then, he still appeared content, though not quite so excited. The next week he appeared rather bland, and then downright miserable the following week. Eventually he seemed about as depressed as before, and I had much less access to his problem than before. After all, at least as long as he experienced the monkey with him, I could question that. But how can you effectively challenge a belief in a monkey that had disappeared? Still, I had to probe, so I asked him what was the matter. He confessed that he was lonely and aimless, and that he missed the monkey, his closest companion. Even with all the abuse, the monkey had stayed with him and had given him a sense of direction, even if he could never seem to follow it. Without his monkey, he was utterly lost. At this point, I encouraged him to stay with his grief and assured him that he would eventually feel better after mourning his loss.

Well, the following week the man returned in better spirits. Naively, I assumed he had somehow turned the corner and I confidently asked him what had happened. He sheepishly looked away and sighed, “He’s back – the monkey.” With his head lowered, he finally admitted, “I invited him back.” I was torn with doubt – perhaps my excursion into magical ritual had been foolhardy, and I should have stuck with my traditional therapeutic tools. On the other hand, I could once again challenge his delusional belief in the reality of his monkey. Still, I realized that I would have to wait until he again felt sufficient distress to want to rid himself of his monkey, whether real or not. I didn’t have long to wait, for in a couple of weeks he was just as despondent as before. Again, I applied all of my challenges involving empirical tests, consensual validation and logic. I remained hopeful that such reality testing would dispel him of his delusional notions. Alas, it was all futile, just as before. He again asked me to rid him of his monkey. Having again made no headway with my usual methods, I figured that I might have greater leverage in granting his second request. I again agreed to perform the exorcism, but only under the condition that he agree not to invite the monkey back. I explained that he would have to mourn the loss of his fiendish friend before he could eventually settle into his more solitary existence. He agreed, and I again performed the exorcism, still unsure of the outcome.

To my surprise the procedure worked a second time: the man was again happy, though not as euphoric as before. And in the succeeding weeks the happiness gradually faded into despair, as before. But this time he persisted, though not without complaint. He pleaded with me to tell him what he should do, and he was obviously frustrated when I refused to answer or simply suggested that he should just wait it out. Sensing his pain and desperation, I finally relented and offered what I considered to be a few helpful suggestions for stress management and emotional regulation, but they only backfired. When he found that he couldn’t follow them successfully, he felt terribly inadequate. He was sure that I was despising him for his shortcomings, even speculating that I had gotten somehow in cahoots with his monkey. I had almost gotten stuck in the web of paranoia that I had implicitly condoned with the exorcism experiment. Still, I managed to extricate myself by observing that he was treating himself just as badly as his monkey ever did and that he was assuming that I would do the same. This reassured and comforted him, and he again promised to try my suggestions.

The following week he returned, glaring and fuming, reporting that he had tried my techniques and that they were utterly useless. He accused me of gross incompetence and quackery. With the failure of my unorthodox measures, I was now doubting myself. Then it occurred to me that this must be how he continuously felt with his monkey on his back. I must have muttered this under my breathe, for he remarked, “You get it, Doc.” A burden was now lifted from both of us, and he again vowed to persist in his struggle to endure without his monkey.

After a few more weeks his mood improved, and he appeared relaxed and free. I was again pleased with the results, though more cautious about my assumptions. So I asked him what happened. And again he gave me that sheepish look and lowered his eyes. He must have read the dismay on my face, for he reassured me, “No, not the monkey.” After a pause, he beamed, “It’s my fairy godmother.” I was crestfallen, for I felt I had only entrenched him further into his psychotic world. It was little comfort to me that his phantom friend was now a more benign creature, for she would be even more difficult to dislodge.

The man saw my shock and dismay, despite my efforts to hide my reactions. He tried to reassure me, “Doc, thank you for your tremendous help. Whereas I had the burden of an abusive monkey as my constant companion, now I have a helpful, supportive fairy godmother. Sure, she doesn’t tell me exactly what I should do, but she does give me confidence for making my own decisions. Even when I make a mistake, she is supportive. She even asks me what I might learn from it. Sure, it’s difficult not having the sense of direction implied by my monkey’s criticism, but I’m learning to accept that. I’m even enjoying a sense of adventure in not knowing the right way, and surprise with not knowing what to expect. Yes, it was even more difficult to deal with the loneliness after the monkey left and before she came. The silence, day after day, was unnerving. I longed for some voice, any voice, for company, if not for direction. If it weren’t for you, Doc, I would have gone back to that monkey. But you encouraged me to persist, until I found my fairy godmother. I’ll be eternally grateful to you, and I want to let everyone know what you’ve done for me.”

While I was pleased with his apparent improvement, it also raised my apprehension. I imagined his unsolicited testimony reaching my colleagues. I then fantasized their amusement over this so-called “success,” which actually involved my patient becoming further entrenched in his now-expanded delusional system. I pictured their ridicule and taunting, and perhaps even their professional censure. How would I justify my unorthodox techniques? Afterall, I know of no studies supporting exorcism as an “evidence-based” psychological intervention. A wave of humiliation swept over me over this scenario, which so far existed only in my overactive imagination.

Gradually, my shame gave way to incredulity. I now suspected that these reported companions were simply figures of speech, rather than true apparitions. I felt compelled to probe: “Do you see your fairy godmother as plainly as you see me?” “What does she look like?” “Do you see her out there, or is she like on a projection screen inside your head?” “Do you hear her voice out there, or is it just inside your head?” “Can you describe what or who she sounds like?” “Do you hear it with your ears, or is it more like a thought?” I tried all angles I could imagine to determine just how real these figures were for him. I rephrased the questions a number of ways, and I again asked similar ones about the monkey. Regardless of my approach, he simply smiled in response. I could not tell whether his smiles expressed mirth or mischief, and he refused to answer me. Finally, in my impatience, I demanded, “Look – bottom-line, are the fairy godmother, and the monkey, for that matter, real for you?”

Finally, He responded. He looked me square in the eye and asked, “Doc, why is that so important to you?” I wish that I could share some clever rejoinder with which to punctuate this story, but I was speechless. And that is where the story stands, even to this day.

[whohit]the man with a monkey on his back[/whohit]

THE ESKIMO WHO LOST HIS ART AND SOUL

Self-esteem, Stories and Fables, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

By BOB DANIEL, Ph.D. 

projection of images onto objects

Every now and then we are blessed with some unique experience which may profoundly influence our lives. The events seem to fold together as neatly as any story ever told, yet they come out of our day-to-day reality. There is a dreamlike quality to them, though they occur at full wakefulness. These occurrences happen in a state of grace in which reality is saturated with enchantment. Just how frequently they occur is hard to say – perhaps they are happening all about us, though usually without our notice. And sometimes they descend upon us before we are ready, and only later do we discover the lessons contained within these experiences. Such is the case with my encounter with an Eskimo artisan who lost his art and soul, whom I met during my training phase in clinical psychology. I never could pronounce his native name, but it translates into English as “One Who Releases Spirits from Rocks.” Besides, he asked me not to share his Eskimo name, expressing a belief roughly comparable to those of indigenous groups who refuse to have their photographs taken, for fear of being robbed of their spirit. He actually anglicized his name himself, and permitted me to refer to him by it, “Hugh Livingstone.”

As I look back now the whole sequence has a surreal quality, such that I sometimes question whether the encounter actually took place at all. Then I wonder if it might have all been a dream, one which at best only distilled my more mundane training experiences and cloaked them in the dramatic excesses of fantasy. I reveal these occasional doubts with some apprehension, a concern that others who pride themselves in their firm objective grounding will readily dismiss this tale as merely the product of an overactive imagination. And yet one of the lessons that I learned years after that encounter is the futility of such skepticism concerning the actuality of events, as long as the remembrance has a ring of truth to it. And I must confess that even I was rather skeptical of this Eskimo’s tale, though he consistently assured me that his story was totally true. When I brought up the issue that the events seemed to violate the physical constraints of reality, he refused to argue – all he’d say was, “Don’t confuse Fact with Truth.” So with this caution, I will dispense with my idle philosophical musings and commence with the story, to the best of my recollection.

totem carving
This soapstone piece, “Cormorant,” is fairly typical of Hugh Livingstone’s early work, although he smoothed the surface out to conceal the chisel marks.

Hugh Livingstone was a sort of hermit who devoted most of his fifty-some years to the ancient craft of stone sculpture, which had been passed down for many generations in his family. The people of his village all revered the fantastic figures that he carved from what appeared to be rather ordinary stones. His process was always the same: he would take his time examining the stone, focusing very intensely on it, yet keeping his mind open and receptive, until the image that was locked inside the stone revealed itself to him. Then he would take his hammer and chisel, which he claimed were magical but which in fact appeared quite ordinary, to hew a few precise cuts into the stone, and the animal form emerged from the rock. A whole array of walruses, seals, polar bears, whales, yaks, marmots, eagles, ravens, and caribou came forth from the stones. Some of the forms were quite exotic to the Alaska tundra – tigers, boars, pythons, gazelles, kangaroos, and jackrabbits. The villagers were amazed by the extraordinary figures – they sometimes wondered how these strange stones found their way to Alaska from such faraway shores.

Hugh’s life was in harmony with his world, as were the lives of the other villagers – in harmony, that is, until the past few years, when the “ghost people” invaded the region to extract the natural resources from the land. The invaders from the lower 48 states found the name “ghost people” rather quaint, assuming that it referred simply to their lighter complexion. The villagers, however, based their perception of ghostliness not so much on skin color as on the unworldly mannerisms of the visitors: blank facial expressions, mechanical gestures and movements, and restricted vocal inflections. The villagers also noted that their landscape now appeared rather bleached out and deadened. Though disturbed by these changes, the villagers offered limited resistance, for they were comforted by the material prosperity and security which the invaders provided in exchange for the resources which they took from the land. The invasion apparently had a dramatic impact on Hugh’s art: many of his figures now were terrible and monstrous – dragons, gargoyles, dinosaurs, and gremlins – yet they all possessed the eerie beauty that marked his craft.

The invaders generally had little to do with the Eskimo culture: rather, they brought their own culture with them through VCR’s and satellite dishes, as well as the newly established taverns and chapels. Hugh’s craft offered the primary exception to this trend: many visitors found his figurines rather stylish or amusing, and they offered considerable money to possess them. A few of the ghost people actually became enchanted with the sculptures, some even noting that his stone figures were so life-like that they actually appeared to breathe. Hugh was initially perplexed by their response: their amusement and desire for possession were quite different from the awe and reverence his villagers bestowed upon his work. He was not used to the adulation doted upon him by the invaders, and he was quite taken in by it. His reputation quickly spread, such that scores of tourists went way out of their way to admire and buy his works. Others bought his pieces from a mail-order operation without even having seen them. He attained a celebrity status in his region of Alaska and became very proud of his fame and accomplishments.

Eventually Hugh was invited to present his works at a very prestigious art show in the lower forty-eight, without even having to apply for entry. The organizers even paid his expenses to attend. He was quite excited about making the long trip south, for he had never left his native village any farther than what his two feet could carry him in a week’s time. When the departure time approached and Hugh was busily packing, he discovered that he had few pieces remaining – he had sold practically all of his sculptures to the acquisitive tourists. It was too late to back out of the show, for he had committed himself to his village and his patrons, and he certainly did not want to disappoint them.

For the three remaining days and nights he worked constantly to produce an adequate stock for the art show. He no longer took the great care to discover the unique forms locked inside the stones. He had his customers to please and his own image to uphold, and that was foremost on his mind. So instead he took some of the standard forms that seemed the favorites of his customers, and he shaped the rocks into them. His attempts were by and large dismal failures. Most of the rocks turned out grotesque and malformed, yet lacking in the eerie elegance of his earlier monsters. Many of the stones fractured or crumbled under the impatient blows of his tools. Though he came up with a sufficient quantity of figures, they were quite disappointing to his fans and patrons, and a target of mockery for the art critics. Few bought his works, and in his shame he became as still and lifeless as the stones that he carved.

An example of hasty work to satisfy others, rather than shaped from the heart
Hugh Livingstone entitled this piece “Rockfish.” He noted that it represented his work at his rock-bottom, when he was desperate to win others’ approval. While displeased with this work, he agreed to my sharing it so that others might benefit from a lesson he had learned the hard way.

His stupor was so intense that his patrons could not even get him on the plane back North to his home. For weeks he refused to move or talk, sitting perfectly still. Having no other obvious recourse, his patrons had him admitted to the nearby state hospital, where he was diagnosed as having Catatonic Schizophrenia, Rigid Type. In the customary order of the hospital, I was assigned to work with Hugh. (Being at the bottom of the pecking order, trainees are routinely assigned the least promising cases, with the usually unexpressed attitude that there is less chance of doing harm.) I was content with this state of affairs, for a mute patient offers fewer opportunities to mess up, and I was just getting my feet wet with some real work. After a couple of weeks of regular daily sessions Hugh began to talk, yet all the while maintaining his rigid posture. He disclosed that he had become possessed by a terrible monster that could destroy anything or anyone in its path, and that the only defense against it was to lock it up inside a rock – hence, the catatonic rigidity. He revealed that the powerful medication put the monster to sleep, so that he could now talk in a whisper, so as not to awaken it. Hugh was quite taken with my interest, curiosity and patience, such that he referred to me as his shaman.

While I felt that Hugh was putting an inordinate amount of trust and confidence in me (and thus exercising poor judgment and reality testing), this did not stop me from proudly exhibiting my success in grand rounds. This move proved to be my undoing, for I emerged from my anonymity and received all sorts of encouragement and guidance as to how I should proceed with this now workable patient. In particular, I was encouraged to use the cognitive behavioral approach I was studying in my graduate training to challenge the patently irrational to outright delusional beliefs that Hugh was espousing. I must confess that at this point I was charged with enthusiasm, for now I would be doing real therapy, rather than merely supportive therapy, which I experienced as little more than faking it. Hugh’s trust and confidence were soon dispelled, however, when I began challenging his belief in the sleeping monster as no more than an irrational delusion. At that point he became highly volatile and explosive, destroying the furniture in the room and yelling out, “Sham, sham, sham.” After this outburst subsided, Hugh explained that I had awakened the monster, who then went on his rampage. If anything, my intervention had merely validated his delusion. These events had not escaped the notice of the ward staff, the training program, or my colleagues, and I received considerable attention, ranging from criticism and ridicule to condescension and sympathy. (I’m not sure which hurt worse.) Just as I had risen with pride, so had I plunged into despair. At the time I took little consolation from Hugh’s empathy, with his observation of the parallel between his own humiliation at the art show and my shame over his response to my intervention. (I’m not sure whether the role reversal or the accuracy of his comment troubled me more.)

Well, as for Hugh, the authorities at the state hospital did not appreciate his abdication of personal responsibility for his destructive actions, and they resented providing treatment to a nonresident who was so uncooperative with the program. They quickly arranged for his transfer back to Alaska. Not much is known about Hugh from this point on, for he returned to his village rather than being transferred to another state hospital. He did send me back a brief note, indicating that he was being treated by the shaman in the region. The monster had not been exorcised, but it had been tamed, such that Hugh viewed him as a faithful companion and protector. He was again sculpting stones, including some rather large boulders, but he was adamantly refusing to sell any of the pieces, for he now viewed that as a violation of his sacred pact: it was unfair to release the animals from the stones if he were only going to sell them back into captivity. I was pleased that he was again productive, though disappointed that he was not producing income and that he continued to be delusional.

Years later I have a fuller appreciation of my encounter with Hugh Livingstone. I address the lessons I have learned with some reluctance, for fear of reducing the experiences to a cold, abstract moral. Those readers who share this concern are invited to stop here, and others are advised to proceed at the risk of diminishing any air of enchantment derived from the tale. Though I still do not take all of Hugh’s pronouncements at face value, I generally view them as possessing a certain truth – even the “delusional” beliefs he espouses concerning his demon and the spirits he releases from rocks. This outlook can certainly be viewed as an argument against ethnocentrism and for multicultural relativism, thus endorsing the politically correct values of academia. Yet my realization concerns neither politics nor philosophy nor sociology, but personal reality (or phenomenology, to use the technical term). We could argue that his demon was simply his own rage over humiliation which he had refused to acknowledge as his own, and which therefore appeared alien to him. Or we could make a point that the spirits that were released through his sculpture came not out of the rocks, but from his own fertile imagination, and only resonated with the largely dormant spirituality of the so-called “ghost people.” Yet whatever such a translation gains in rational logic, it loses in access to a rich and unique perspective on the world. I see little to be gained from translating such poetry into prose, or from a related debate over literal versus metaphorical truth. I suppose these issues have their place, but not here, not now.

The primary lesson that I have learned is quite personal in nature, concerning an internal struggle for integrity, one that pits the ego against the broader self. I might paraphrase the message as, “Don’t sell your soul to boost your ego.” I grant that Goethe dramatized this lesson much earlier, but it was Hugh Livingstone, not Faust, who started me on the very personal quest of discovering the spirit hidden within mundane daily experience, both for myself and for the people I work with.

Bob Daniel, Ph.D. is a retired clinical psychologist who has been practicing in Virginia Beach for over thirty years. There, he worked in private practice with adults with mental health and substance abuse issues. Dr. Daniel has long valued stories and myths as vehicles of personal transformation, as noted in his post, Coping with Reality Through Enchantment: The Healing Power of Myth. He has been accused of being an unabashed prevaricator, but he insists that his stories are 100% true, even if not factually accurate. Another of his “true tales” is The Man with a Monkey on his Back, which addresses being our own worst critics. Still other tall tales, such as The Man Who Lost His Key and The Monks’ Interesting, Not-So-Silent Retreat, he borrowed and embellished from older folk and spiritual traditions. Dr. Daniel further explores our ability to infuse reality with our imagination in Are You Afflicted with Pareidola? .  

[whohit]the Eskimo who lost his art and soul[/whohit]

COPING WITH REALITY THROUGH ENCHANTMENT: THE HEALING POWER OF MYTH

Stories and Fables, Stress, , , ,

by BOB DANIEL, Ph.D.

Long before psychotherapy was invented, healers have been using stories to help their people cope with life’s adversities. More recently, storytellers such as Joseph Campbell, Robert Bly, and Clarissa Pinkola Estes have demonstrated the power of myth for attaining personal transformation. Fannie Flagg dramatized this process in Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe. Here, the elderly Mrs. Threadgoode inspired Evelyn, a dowdy, submissive housewife, by recounting her family tale. Through this encounter, Evelyn was able to discover her own inner strength (Towanda!).

Many such tales have been recorded and preserved as folklore. Countless others, though, are simply passed down orally from generation to generation. Many of these secret treasures risk oblivion in our mass culture, much as medicinal herbs are threatened with extinction from industrial society’s denudation of the tropical rain forests. I wish to share a particular tale from the Daniel family which has proven quite helpful for coping with stress and avoiding the pitfalls of “codependency” in helping others with their problems. So here’s the story of “The Quicksand Beds of Caramba Flats,” as told to me by my Uncle Lester:

The Quicksand Beds of Caramba FlatsSinking in Quicksand

“For generations, since long before the Europeans invaded the New World, people have been drawn to the quicksand beds of Caramba Flats. Not that anyone actually wanted to get stuck there, mind you. For miles around, as far as the eye could see, there is only desert, with little life. But here there is water, with its promise of restoration and renewal. Thus, people have sought out these potholes of clear, cool water that pocket the sandy beds. The Native Americans were well aware of the hazards of the quicksand. Yet through their caution and reverence for nature, they could reliably retrieve the water without being sucked under.

“For the Europeans it was quite another matter. Steeped in generations of civilization, they had lost touch with the ways of nature. They had neither the wariness nor the respect that such natural phenomena warrant. After days on the arid plains, they would catch sight of the shimmering water, and it was no mirage. Then they would dash down the nearby dunes and plunge headlong toward the pools. Before they knew it they were chest-deep in quicksand. More often than not, they would panic. And the more they panicked, the quicker the slurry would suck them under. Often, for just long enough to drown before their limp corpses float back up to the surface. From such instances came the lore of quicksand as the great gobbler of life.

“Now, I include these grizzly details because they convey a tragic irony. Namely, we are lighter than this mixture of sand and water. As such, we naturally float in it. Only by struggling and thrashing about do people dig themselves in deeper. 

“With so many having lost their lives in these beds, authorities posted wardens to rescue the unsuspecting pioneers. While knowledgeable about quicksand, the first wardens had little understanding of rescue techniques. Legend has it that several early wardens had lost their lives, pulled under by the very victims they were trying to save. Tales provide graphic details of  desperate victims clutching at the wardens and climbed up their backs. Thus, they submerged the hapless wardens, drowning them. With no printing presses there at the time, it is now impossible to separate history from myth.

“Whether these tales are actually true, later wardens developed rescue techniques to avoid the desperate clutches of the victims. Rather than venturing into the slurry themselves, they heaved ropes out to the reckless pioneers. Then, they anchored the other end of the rope to a boulder or a stump. This measure allowed the victims to pull themselves out with their own strength.

“Now it would be imprudent to say that the settlers actually tamed Caramba Flats. After all, nothing natural can be truly tamed. Still, they developed a respect for those quicksand beds that allowed them to establish the nearby community of Caramba Flats, right out there in the middle of the arid wasteland.”

The Moral

Now, my Uncle Lester is not the sort who leaves it to your imagination to fill in the moral of a story. So at the end he’d pause and lean over to say, “Now, Bob, I want you to remember this story whenever you feel overwhelmed, up to your neck in muck, so to speak. Just lean back, take a deep breath, and say to yourself, ‘Relax, no reason to worry . It’s only quicksand. I can float in it, and someone will come along to throw me a rope – maybe sooner if I holler.'”

And then he’d cock his finger and add, “Now if you see one of your friends thrashing around in the muck, so to speak, don’t you go jumpin’ in after ’em. Just remember – all you gotta do is throw ’em a rope. They can pull themselves out.”

Tall tales can be true!

Bob Daniel, Ph.D. is a retired clinical psychologist who has been practicing in Virginia Beach for over thirty years. He has worked in private practice with adults with mental health and substance abuse issues. While he has been accused of being an unabashed prevaricator, Dr. Daniel insists that his stories are 100% true, even if not factually accurate. Other such true tales include THE ESKIMO WHO LOST HIS ART AND SOUL and THE MAN WITH A MONKEY ON HIS BACK: A STORY OF THE STRUGGLE WITH SELF-BLAME. Still other tales in the “Stories and Fables” category are elaborations of older folk tales.

[whohit]the quicksand beds of caramba flats[/whohit]