Authoring Self

By Pearl Gregor

Is God a baptized Catholic? What do we know before we are taught the "right" answers? How does "woman" come to know her own instinctive wild feminine self within the constraints of a patriarchal culture that defines her as flawed from birth? This is the second in a three-part series of one woman's independent and courageous journey to heal clinical depression and weave body, mind and soul into wholeness. Pearl speaks in her own voice through many dreams that offer deep insights over years of writing. Eventually, she begins to recognize vestiges of the Sumerian goddess, Inanna, Queen of Heaven, as strange, weird symbols emerge from the depths of her psyche.
In Authoring Self: A Journey through Dreams to the Feminine, Pearl struggles to the edges of consciousness to uproot and heal deeply embedded unconscious beliefs in a vengeful punishing Old Testament God. Authoring Self begins in Maryknoll Center, Ossining, New York, 4,000 miles from her Alberta farm home where she experiences deep archetypal dreams and visions and learns about the transpersonal. In search of her self, Pearl must learn a whole new language and excavate the many layers of embedded patriarchy to become her own authority. Many Jungian thinkers, such as Sylvia Perera, identify these patterns as the emergence of the sacred feminine.
Pearl Gregor was born and raised in northern Alberta. She became an educator, administrator, provincial government consultant and along the way, a radical feminist. She came to writing late in life.
At age 43, in a desperate search to heal clincial depression, Pearl found the inner world of meditation and dreams. The story begins in Book I in the Dreams Along the Way series, I, the Woman, Planted the Tree: A Journey through Dreams to the feminine, which was published in December 2018.
Now, healing the aftermath of repressed trauma takes Pearl even deeper into the uncharted territory of psyche. Authoring Self: A Journey through Dreams to the Feminine is the next part of the story of that navigation as told through deeper and deeper work with each new dream experience.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9780228810513

Pearl Gregor

Pearl Gregor is a lifelong seeker. She began working with her dreams in 1988 in her desperate search for a way through clinical depression. In her journey in the world of dreams she has pulled together the threads of her inner world through multitudes of excellent works on dreams, Jungian psychology, spirituality, Catholicism, religion and history. Using every resource that came to hand, she filled dozens of journals over many years. This work forms the bedrock of I, the Woman, Planted the Tree: A Journey through Dreams to the Feminine.She completed her doctorate at the University of British Columbia in 2008. Her dissertation, The Apple and the Talking Snake: Feminist Dream Reading and the Subjunctive Curriculum arose through her own dreams and the novel, Unless, by Carol Shields.Pearl has two sons and a daughter, six grandsons and one granddaughter. She lives on her Alberta farm. She is a woman of the earth, a dream workshop leader, operates the Dream Sanctuary and works with women and men to help them understand their own inner world through dreams. Her website is www.dreamsalongtheway.com.

Book preview

Authoring Self

Copyright © 2019 by Pearl E. Gregor

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-0-2288-1050-6 (Paperback)

978-0-2288-1051-3 (eBook)

Table of Contents

Dreams Along the Way

Book Two

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Section I

Maryknoll

Chapter One The Too-Good Girl Goes to New York

Chapter Two Voice Lessons

Chapter Three Spiral Dancing: Faith, Feminism and the Catholic Church

Section II

A Dream Sequence

Chapter Four Processual Ground

Section III

The Elusive Feminine

Chapter Five Not Silent, Not Good

Chapter Six Gentle Woman, Guiding Light

Chapter Seven Of Torture, Blood and Birthing Woman

Chapter Eight Creation Woman

Chapter Nine What to Keep and What to Discard

Chapter Ten Never-ending Beginnings

References

Dream Index I, the Woman, Planted the Tree (Book I)

Authoring Self (Book II)

DREAMS ALONG THE WAY

BOOK TWO

In every adult there lurks a child—an eternal child,

something that is always becoming, is never completed,

and calls for unceasing care, attention, and education.

That is the part of the personality which wants to develop and become whole.

–C.G. Jung

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my parents,

Caroline (née Miller) and A.J. Kramps,

who did not get to see it.

I am forever grateful for their loving support through

the unknowingness and the dark days and long years of depressions.

Acknowledgements

I acknowledge Anne Champagne, copy editor and Michael Kenyon, structural editor. Their skills, knowledge and expertise removed many obstacles on this journey to publication.

Photo Credit to my great-niece, Cecile Zenner of C’Zen Photography, Grande Prairie, Alberta

I acknowledge my inner voice, soul voice—the voice that would not rest until I wrote and that continues to guide my life.

SECTION I

MARYKNOLL

Chapter One

The Too-Good Girl Goes to New York

In the Inuit story of The Stone Child hot tears cause a cold stone to break open. C.S. Lewis said that one drop from a bottle of child’s tears heals any wound! In ancient women’s religion, the young sapling is pruned with a double-headed axe in order to grow fully.

Tears and pruning. Spiralling stone softening tears. Merge. Merge again and yet again, birthing self to merge with Self.

Leaning in through dreams. A flyer comes from Maryknoll. A simple, golden rod triple-fold flyer. I struggle with the usual guilt and inner accusations of selfishness. I remember the dream of stealing Coke and cinnamon buns and fear of risk. My husband Bill pushes a little and on July 28, 1991, I fly to Ossining, New York, Maryknoll Seminary for immersion in a Dream Intensive. Before going, I read Roberto Assagioli, Transpersonal Development: The Dimension Beyond Psychosynthesis.¹

Over and over I claim love, support, understanding and courage. I read about the interpretation of dreams in Daniel 2–30. … but in order that its meaning may be made known to the king, that you may understand the thoughts in your own mind.

I, 1

The hour is striking so close above me,

so clear and sharp,

that all my senses ring with it.

I feel it now: there’s a power in me

to grasp and give shape to my world.

I know that nothing has ever been real

without my beholding it.

All becoming has needed me.

My looking ripens things

and they come toward me, to meet and be met.

I, 1 by Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Book of Hours, translated from the German by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy. © Riverhead Books, 1996.

Apparently, the story comes down circa 538 BCE via the Jewish people. Yet I learned about dreams through synchronicity arising from desperation. Now, three years later, I will have a full two weeks to study my innermost thoughts with learned and wise guides. I sing inwardly, Birds and flowers, bless the Lord. Trees and grass, bless the Lord. A hymn from a lifetime of Sunday mornings. I will go home to peace inside Maryknoll Center. I see the links to the Mother. And the king? Suddenly in a flash of blue I see the King. The old King must die. Chaos and a metaphoric death always precede transformation.

When I meet the workshop leaders, I am drawn to Father John Rich, and to Sister Sylvia. The third person, Harold, the director, makes me uncomfortable. Too rigid, too scientific, too theory bound. Too much like me? Ha. Or not Catholic? Is this my insistence on Catholic authentication? Is God a baptised Catholic? I laugh at myself.

The workshop begins early the next morning with prayer and meditation. Then, simple imaginal work. Drawing the image of my childhood home, age 10–12, a heavy pulsating cranial pressure begins. Stays relentless. After lunch, I lie down to meditate and eventually fall into a restful sleep. A dream comes.

The Cup, July 29, 1991

I am driving my Jetta. Suddenly four vehicles appear. I try to brake but I am certain to run into the vehicles. A hand appears offering a cup filled with something through the window of my still moving car. I am aware that if I take my hands off the steering wheel to accept the cup I may crash and at the same time am concerned that I may spill the contents of the cup. The cup is white ceramic-like stone. I accept the cup into my right hand managing not to spill a drop. Suddenly I find I can manoeuvre around the vehicles in front and go around to the left.

The dream is filled with symbols, the most significant being the cup, the hand through the window and the right/left movement. I write the dream and go straight to the first session.

Guided Meditation

Soon, a black car with no doors appears. My first thought is self-hatred. There is no way in and no way out. As I focus on the car, it dissipates into a swirling spectrum of purple light. Can self-hatred be transmuted into wisdom? Or is this resistance? Is self-hatred healed when opened to the light? The black car disappears, replaced by a brown one. My colour of rebellion. Thoughts of careening fast around corners and over hills. Jesus comes with me. I think it is safe to rebel against institutionalized rules that no longer serve inner growth. I am in the driver’s seat. I drive at amazing speeds, hair flying, down the highway whizzing around curves. I am careful not to jeopardize other drivers. The brown car disappears replaced by a white car with beautiful red velvet, plush interior. Jesus says, It is safe to be joyful. This brings floods of real physical tears. My whole body is convulsed and suffused with intense warmth and I break into a hot sweat. My eyes feel funny. The right eye seems to move and see cross-eyed. The healing of inner vision is an incredible process. I sense that my Inner Christ has told me this before and feels it bears repeating. Now I am seeing joy. To see joy, to feel joy, to grant myself the freedom to feel joy is wonderful. Joy floods over me and I have a strong desire to laugh. Then, deep inner peace and I am in a different car, white with blue interior. I ask, Jesus, who gave me the cup?

Your father gave you the cup. The cup, which I now allow to overflow, contains peace, joy, wisdom, harmony, love and understanding. I am open to receive. It is the cup of blessing given by my father. I sense that Dad blesses the journey I am on. This sense has been with me since I began in 1988. I am reminded of the Blessing Cup in 1 Corinthians 10:16–17: Is not the cup of blessing we bless a sharing in the blood of Christ? And is not the bread we break a sharing in the body of Christ?

I remain silent, unmoving for a long time, pondering and feeling. I could so easily flow over and out of myself into the flowers and beautiful trees surrounding Maryknoll. I want to let go and simply write of harmony, home and harvest. Somewhere inside of me is home. Come home brings more torrents of tears in the joy car. Where is home? Inside my heart. The kingdom of heaven is within. I can turn around and there is home. Come home, my father says.

Silently, I pray. Mother Mary, patron of Maryknoll. Mary, Mother of Wisdom. Lady Mother, guide me within the many mansions of my Father’s house.

The language and images of childhood are indelibly embedded. This journey to the feminine is couched in patriarchal male-centred God language. Until it isn’t. That is, each time I read my journals, I find new depths based on the learning since the previous reading. Today is April 7, 2017. I last read this work with deep intent, further dream work and research, in November 2016 and realized that the cup, the Grail, the cave were all feminine. Between dreaming the dream in Maryknoll and now I have had dreams of horned cattle, large furry animals, cows, pigs and an owl. The Triple Goddess, the Terrible Mother, and so many more facets of pre-patriarchal goddesses have emerged in dreamwork and reading. Maryknoll is symbolic of the home of the Mother. My prayers and feelings of flowing over, into and out of, all partake of feminine water symbols. Yet, the language of the Father God remains. I wonder why. I could simply write it differently. No. That would be untrue.

"Blessed Alexandrina Maria da Costa, from Balazar, was a Portuguese mystic who reported many private apparitions, messages and prophecies received directly from Jesus and Virgin Mary. In June 1938, based on the request of her spiritual director, Father Mariano Pinho, several bishops from Portugal wrote to Pope Pius XI, asking him to consecrate the world to the Immaculate Heart of Mary.

"In June 1938, Father Mariano Pinho conducted a retreat at Fátima, Portugal, for the Portuguese bishops, at the end of which the bishops forwarded their own request to Pius XI for the consecration of the world to the Immaculate Heart of Mary. This request was renewed several times.

"At that time Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli (later Pope Pius XII) was the secretary of the state of the Vatican. On October 31, 1942, Pius XII made a solemn Act of Consecration of the Church and the whole world to the Immaculate Heart of Mary, joined by the bishops of Portugal, gathered at the Cathedral in Lisbon. Pius spoke by radio, in Portuguese, to an audience of thousands of pilgrims who had come to Fatima to celebrate the twenty-fifth anniversary of the last apparition of Our Lady.

"At that time, German troops under General Rommel had conquered strategic parts of North Africa while advancing towards the Suez Canal and in Russia fighting continued against an expanding German invasion. On October 31, 1942 Pius XII called for a prayer crusade to Mary the Queen of Peace, and stated that only her intercession could save the situation. He then dedicated the whole human race to the Immaculate Heart of Mary. He renewed the consecration again on December 8,1942."

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pope_Pius_XII_Consecration_to_the_Immaculate_Heart_of_Mary

As I lay silently after the guided meditation, peacefully recounting the experience, I saw a purple heart floating just above the small bedroom. I turned to the director. Harold, do you see the purple heart?

No, but what’s the purple heart?

The Sacred Heart?

He laughed, Or the purple heart we give to wounded healers?

I don’t understand the brown, why brown?

An earth colour, he said.

Ah, so I can be grounded in my rebellion? I was reminded again that the Christ said and did outrageous things; he earned sufficient institutional enmity to be crucified. Rebellion requires courage.

Now, in 2017, I ask myself, Is the purple heart really that of the Christ? Or is it the Immaculate Heart of Mary, Queen of Peace. Queen of Justice, in accord with the papal declaration of 1942?

My childhood revolved around prayers to Mary but obviously without thought to the automaticity of patriarchal consciousness. Conclusions colonized by patriarchal thought are easy, but the end result is the dreamer’s fallacy. The biggest task of working with dreams is to trip up my daytime consciousness again and again in order to unhinge my fixed positions. It is an unpleasant kind of work that often feels like torture to my habitual consciousness. I need to learn to avoid self-congratulation or shifting responsibility to someone or something other than myself.

Sometime in those first days of the Dream Intensive, in a lecture session, we learn guided imagery using mythical symbols from transpersonal psychology, including the meadow, the forest, the cave, the mountain. There is no mention of their link to earth-based goddesses or pagan, earth religions.

Guided Imagery

The meadow is very lush, green and peaceful. A deer grazes. Small, very delicate, very purple violets grow. Roses. Wind rustles tall grasses, blowing gently.

In the spruce forest beside the meadow, a squirrel and bear appear. Why are you here in my forest? Why have you come? The squirrel scampers over my shoulders and down my arm, Wanna play? Wanna play? I am your spontaneous self. I come to play. The bear speaks of courage as he yawns, showing wondrous white teeth. You usually don’t even know I’m here but I am.

The squirrel leads out of the forest, the bear ambles along behind. As we return to consciousness, the meadow remains peaceful. I know that bears are not always ambling. Constellate my inner Mother Bear? Not a good idea. The feminine? Stay out of her way when she is guarding her children. Small child ideas are born and grow to maturity. Interfere at your peril.

The meditation ends. Nothing more is written.

Later, I explore the seminary. When I walk into the chapel, tears flow. My ears hurt and I am again suffused with the most intense warmth. My vision lightens. Love roots me to the ground. There in front of me is an Icon of the Theotokos (Mother of God) with the inscription Exodus 3:2–5—the Burning Bush. I am reminded of the Red Fires of Insight dream on Pentecost Sunday and the water well experience in April 1988 when the well drilling spot was marked by a small, burning white caragana bush. I would like to stay here in the chapel forever. I have never heard of or seen the Theotokos.

A few years later I read Woodman, The Pregnant Virgin:

It is in the Eastern Church that we find the profound and mystical meaning of Mary, Seat of Wisdom. In recalling its ancient traditions, which are also our own and in its great veneration of the glorious Mother of God, the Theotokos (the one-bearing God), we may realize the fulfillment of the hope expressed by Pope Paul VI that we come closer to our brothers and sisters of the Orthodox Churches in which devotion to the Blessed Virgin finds its expression in a beautiful lyricism and in solid doctrine.²

In summer 2016, I search the internet for Maryknoll Center to find Father John Rich. Amazingly enough, he is still there and responds to my questions about the presence of the Theotokos in Maryknoll and he sends me a most amazing gift.

The inscription on the back of the picture of the Theotokos reads:

According to the historical chronicle, the Vladimir icon was brought from Constantinople to Russia in about 1311. It was painted by a Greek artist no doubt shortly before it was brought to Kiev. It obviously belongs to the Byzantine art of the Macedonian (sic) period. The execution manifests (sic) a surprising mastery of the art and witnesses to the refined taste of the inspired but unknown iconographer. In 1155, the icon was transferred from Kiev to Vladimir and got its name from this city. It is famous for its miraculous interventions and has escaped from several fires and Tartar attacks. After 1395, the icon was taken by Moscow and was present at every major political event of the country as a veritable national and sacred treasure.³

The icon holds pride of place in the book shelves beside my computer.

Guided Imagery, July 30, 1991, 8:07 p.m.

The Christ presence is very strong. I am surrounded and filled with a sense of permeating love. I am in a gymnasium in what appears to be Leduc Composite High School (where I was assistant principal one year). As I open the door to allow the people in, I rub my hand over the very smooth, lovely pine-wood, and the gym is immediately filled with laughing, talking, happy people. They all take a seat. I greet my mother. What is it you want or need from me? Just what you already give me. I love sharing your journey. I have a wonderful new awareness of God-with-me. I turn to greet Verna and ask the same question. To be bonded. To share. To be intimate, for remember we are really sisters and I love you. Again, I turn, this time to greet Von and repeat the question again, What do you need from me? I need for you to understand and not shut me out. I really do want to understand where you are going. Please, share. Then my daughter Rachel appears and I ask again, What do you want or need from me? Accept my gift of joy and courage. I am your child. You are my mother and I love you just the way you are.

Several lecture sessions at Maryknoll are spent on the theoretical underpinnings of psychosynthesis. Briefly, the principles include:

a.recognition and taking responsibility for the need to change from the inside out;

b.acceptance of or allowing the subpersonalities to surface into the light;

c.coordination of subpersonalities, providing what is needed for inner healing and change;

d.integration or coming together; and, finally

e.synthesis or unity and Oneness.

Psychosynthesis is based on the unification of many ideas and concepts of spirituality and psychotherapy. The Holy Spirit is the power, the feminine energy. Conversion experiences without inner healing of past hurts are instant or emotional healings, and without the inner work necessary, will only go so deep. The ego will do almost anything to avoid change and loss of control. This becomes reluctance to admit to any kind of inner pain, the I’m really fine and wonderful because God handles everything syndrome. False clarity and false sense of trust, the I’m here to help you bleeding heart syndrome that places the burden on someone else while actually practising major avoidance of inner issues. In other words, the result of emotional conversion without deep spiritual, emotional, and mental healing sometimes leads to a kind of messianic or saviour complex—the desire to save everyone else while avoiding the need to work through one’s own life issues. The product of such healing is bitter fruit; it pushes others away from the saviour and from spirituality. It is the only one right way, my way syndrome of the televangelist.

Suddenly I understand why I am here. This is more than an instant healing. So much time, so many tears. My inner being so certain that I’m not finished, that I have many unhealed parts. The spiralling descents to the unconscious in the meditation at St. Basil’s, the warning of evil, and then never-ending fear accompanying the euphoria. These years of healing are the gradual instant.

I remember the fears and anger expressed when I was told, Just let it go. I was deeply afraid and deeply attracted to instant miracles and specialness. But, that kind of conversion results in hypersensitivity, neurosis and even psychosis, suspicion and paranoia viewed through a microscope of pretence that my truth is God’s truth, that my truth is prophetic. Emotional conversion can also result in the ego path of religious addiction. This strange thought now seems eminently sensible. The religious addict has similar biases as the emotionally converted—avoidance of the inner journey and a strong need to be right. To be wrong or even to entertain doubt is anathema.

Asking questions, discussing inner feelings and thoughts—especially relative to doubt, new ideas, psychic pain—seems to bring out the messianic complex. The inference is that I am in a high spiritual state with exclusive access to truth. I know. The televangelist, the 20-foot Jesus who appears in a dream, these are signs of ego inflation. The Reverend Jim Jones. The followers of fundamentalist gurus. The TV Benny Hinn. The man in New Jersey who killed five members of his family because he feared some of them were losing their Christian faith. The rigid, restrictive, authoritarian. Fundamentalism is based on inner fear and shame and it scares the hell right out of me. I am reminded of the words of St. Teresa: There is no reason why we should want everyone else to follow our own path. I must remember that discernment and reason are the faculties given to me to distinguish true emotion from false emotionalism, faith from fanaticism, imagination from fancy, a true vision from a visionary illusion.

Quiet prayer, in the closet, Jesus said. Being the original introvert, this method of contemplative, meditative healing prayer has strong appeal for me.

Later, in another guided meditation, I go back into the meadow I now understand as the middle consciousness, and into the forest, the unconscious.

I am standing in front of a cabin in my meadow. The animals come from the surrounding forest—a horse, a bear and a wounded puppy from an earlier dream. The images speak but I have difficulty really listening. The bear proclaims: I need to be awakened. To come out of hibernation. I need action from you. The horse asks for care and nurturing. Remember, I love the garden, he says. The words of the puppy are lost to my conscious mind.