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It seems like The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse (2019) surfaced from the unconscious of Charlie Mackesy and left tracks of the Sacred upon my psyche. Years of professional writing, painting, and illustrating merge within this whimsical tale and enliven seekers; its twelve translations, its mini-adventure film in the making, its audio-book, its vinyl recording, its prints and posters, its study groups illumine another way of relating with others. Mackesy can do this because he’s a humble man. He’s been there.

The stark simplicity of Mackesy’s words interfacing his pin-and-ink sketches with occasional watercolors, serve to brighten four questing spirits: the boy, the mole, the fox, and the horse, each of them replete with symbolism. The ensuing dialogues, tinged with humor, feels like the gracious Voice of the Sacred almost giggling, because of finally being heard. Toward the book’s beginning, we find such a turn-around:

What do you want to be when you grow up?” asked the mole.

Kind,” said the boy.

Of little avail, is the Voice experienced in its usual sources, long discarded as irrelevant, but Mackesy’s message is the same.

Other outstanding features in this book include cursive writing rather than print, occasional blank pages for the reader to further reflect upon the import of what was just shared, and no pagination—one place is as good as another to start: Heartwarming wisdom is handsomely displayed within tracings of great trees and lakes and skies. Life can be fun in working relationships.

 The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse finds a resonance within anyone of any age and life circumstances. Its message to me is: You’re loved and always have been. Smile!

At 5:45 A.M., I awoke with this big dream:

Two black stallions, bejeweled and sleek, find their way into my backyard.

Rarely do I remember dreams from this depth of my unconscious as discovered by the Swiss psychiatrist Dr. Carl Jung in the early 1900s. Called the collective unconscious, it includes genetically inherited material in symbolic form, not shaped by personal experience. The personal unconscious deals with repressed material from consciousness from whence most of my dream emanate.

So it’s the gift of two black stallions, bejeweled and sleek, to reflect upon this morning—I still remember how they looked at me, their deep souls enticing me into their world, nurturing and warm: I was content to remain there. But their adornment intrigued me—halters crafted with rich gem stones. Indeed, these horses were from another realm and I was to learn from them.

It was a question of listening, moment by moment.

Because my physical waning creates more limits, narrows my outer world, and tempers my attitude, I must remain with this morning’s gift of the two black stallions. Let them fortify my psyche with masculine energy, beauty, affection, speed, and grace, all symbolic traits of stallions that will guide me toward my ultimate destiny of unending joy.  

Perhaps in that realm, more black stallions, bejeweled and sleek, will play.How Creator God will smile…

At 7:45 A.M., the aroma of quinoa for my breakfast roused me with this curious dream/experience:

A Princess lived alone in a splendid castle built centuries ago overlooking a verdant valley filled with songbirds and sunshine. No family, no courtiers, no servants—Yet she never wanted for anything, nor was she lonely. All her needs were met.

Evidently, I did not want to begin another day of weakness and shortness of breath and would have preferred the splendid castle, my psychic container, its multifaceted harmony nurturing the core of my being. I was very well. Yet, anger snapped its initial take on the message of the dream: my self-centeredness and preference for my own company militating against forming significant relationships. This negativity followed me until I could explore further its source.

From earliest memory, such internal judgments, sourced in half-truths, have kicked my knees from under me, rendering me unable to function. Although more mindful when under siege, I still believe the lies spewing from my unconscious. The hook, this time, was the penchant for self-centeredness. Everyone deals with this.

Another look at the dream, however, showed good order in my psyche. As soon as I sat down at my word processor, the image of the Princess restored balance:Herjoytinkled me, her lacy gown soothed my body—free from all illness. But it was her freshness that most attracted me—like sunset’s soft pastel peachiness. Songbirds, symbols of the messengers of the gods, surrounded her, as also sweet breezes, a constant source of refreshment.

Yet dwelling in such a place is not my lot today, but it will come, as it will to everyone who wants it.

Available on Amazon

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