From the time that I was a little girl curled up on my father’s lap, enchanted by his bedtime stories of fairy-tale heroes and heroines, and mythic far-away places where magical gods and goddesses could morph into animal shapes at will, I have always loved stories. One of my first jobs as a teenager was secretary to the Chief of Staff in the editorial newsroom of an Australian morning newspaper, where I thrilled to the clicking of the newsroom typewriters that sent stories to print. A young mother in my early twenties, I made up bedtime stories for my children. I wrote stories for the college paper when I joined the many other women of my generation who went back to school in the 1970s. And when I decided to become a psychotherapist I chose to study depth psychology, so that I could explore the world’s grand mythic tales that amplified the archetypal patterns in our mortal stories. There was just one story that nagged at me all my life that I tried to silence. But if I seriously wanted to help heal others, I would need to let her have her voice. My memoir When a Toy Dog Became a Wolf and the Moon Broke Curfew. . .is her story.
Many people who first hear about my memoir are curious about the meaning of the title. The images refer to actual events that I personally experienced and describe in the book, but they carry a deeper symbolic meaning that speaks to the experience of many women today. In the actual events, the tiny toy dog becomes a fierce wolf, a protector, in a little girl’s imagination when her father is taken away. Her belief in its magic strength empowers her to ask a German guard to pass it on to her father, who is now separated from her by a barbed wire fence. She later recognizes this wolf-like strength in her mother who joins the Resistance against Nazi oppression, and models to her how to move from victim to heroic survivor, from helpless child to a grown-up empowered woman. The image of the moon refers to an actual unexpected brilliant full moon that guides a single mother and her small daughter safely home along ice-covered sidewalks and bridges on a pitch-black cloud-covered night in WWII Amsterdam when streetlights were extinguished, windows darkened by blackout material, and a Nazi curfew that if broken could get anyone shot. In our patriarchal mythologies the moon is often seen as feminine. Its cool reflective light deemed lesser than and merely passively reflective of the burning masculine sun. But as I listened to my clients’ stories in our therapeutic sessions, a more exciting meaning began to reveal itself to me.
Like so many survivors of trauma, I had closeted my childhood trauma in the dark basement of my psyche. I was born at a time when little girls were groomed to be mothers and housewives. We were supposed to marry princes and live happily ever after. We learned at a young age that trauma needed to be encapsulated, hidden in the darkness, so we could survive and get on with our lives. Often the defenses that hid the trauma only cracked when penetrated by other crises years later.
I discovered in working with my clients that my story of the traumatized child was not just mine, but the story of every client who walked into my office hoping to be healed. Every reflection, every story of victimization, whether of hatred, cruelty, abuse, betrayal or discrimination, also hid the courage to survive and the resilience to move on. Like the waxing moon each story increased the light to reveal assaults carried out and hidden in the dark. It made me question the moon being symbolized as feminine because of her passive reflection, because it was clear that when women reflected on their experiences and shared their stories they beamed an active light on every abuse that hid in the dark. I realized that in the sharing of our stories we create the “miracle” full moon that can break the curfew of oppression.
Privileged to see the archetypal depths in my clients’ struggles, the moral choices they faced, the decisions that would change their lives and lead them into unknown territory, my awe and respect increased for the potential of courage and goodness in our shared humanity. I wanted my writing to express those depths.
I was also teaching a graduate course in mythology and personal transformation at the time. The class consisted of mostly female students, and many were reading Clarissa Pinkola Estés’ brilliant book, Women Who Run with the Wolves. To illustrate the collective archetypal depths of our experiences, I shared the segment of my story in which I imagined my stuffed toy dog as a fierce wolf, a protector, who could bring my daddy back alive. As we talked about the strength and courage required in resisting oppression of any kind, students shared their personal images and stories. At times the room would literally light up with joy, as we delighted in the shared discovery that our heroic descents into our life stories revealed not only trauma but wild strength and deep potential.
I will never forget when one elegant student shared that she was “sick to death of having to be skinny and gorgeous.” “All my life,” she said, “I have felt like a poodle, to be petted and groomed, with little pink bows on my head.” We could almost hear her growl, and I just knew she would be howling at the next full moon.
Through the courageous stories told to me by clients in the therapy office and students in the classroom, I learned that our personal stories are wellsprings of deep healing where our differences fall away to blend in our common humanity. I began to see my childhood experiences as portals through which I could reach out and touch the rage and pain, but also the courage, strength, and amazing resilience and joy that unites us. It deepened my desire to join my authentic voice with others. Like a brilliant “miracle” full moon, the gathering of our life stories can light up the curfew of darkness imposed by oppression and illuminate a safe path home for all.
Sharing Our Stories—Shining a Light —————————-