Our two-year-old son, whom we call the Dragon, has always had a hard time getting to sleep. Most nights it takes an hour for him to find a breath that is steady enough for dreamland. It’s often another half-hour before we can tiptoe out of his bedroom and quietly shut the door, our own breaths tight and thin in hopes of not waking him.
During this 90-minute toss-and-turning jag, the Dragon sometimes whispers under his breath – a light, lilting babble like a little brook with its volume down low. Or, alternately, a sweet, innocent version of the disconcerting jungle whispers in the American TV drama Lost just before something creepy happens. In any case, I’ve never been able to decipher what he says when he’s whispering just before sleep.
Until two nights ago, when I distinctly heard him command: “Go away, big monsters.”
My first response was a little internal maternal heartbreak – first, that this dear, sweet child felt he had to deal with the monsters on his own; and second, that he was even seeing / hearing / imagining monsters to begin with.
My second response was the thought, “I’m the big, strong, wise adult here. I have to do something smart. And helpful. And now.” And then: “Dammit.” And then: “Now.”
I don’t know whether it’s built into the DNA of parenthood or into the sociological knee-jerk response structure of our society, but my initial impulse was to tell the Dragon, “There’s no such thing as monsters.” But I didn’t.
I didn’t because, although we might believe in the objective truth of the statement “There’s no such thing as monsters,” there is a deeper truth that this child needed validated in that moment: that he was, in fact, experiencing monsters. Infinitely more than scientific explanations, he needed me to be compassionate – literally, to “feel with” him in that state, in his fear of monsters, and to acknowledge the truth of his fear.
***
I see the birth chart as a collection of archetypes arranged in a way that describes the native’s particular experience of life. An archetype is essentially a universal experience: a relationship, role or situation that is a basic part of everyone’s psychological makeup. There are archetypes of mother, father, child, savior, teacher, warrior, lover, rebel, nomad, god, goddess, addict, shadow, trickster, despot. And many more. Including monster.
Archetypes often show up in our dreams or imaginings or artwork as literal pictures or symbols. Those archetypes that we’re having trouble with in life may show up as frightening pictures, like venomous snakes or axe murderers or big monsters. The picture gives form to the problem, helps us to see it and address it — often much better than if it remained a slippery, abstract, cerebral description. Bringing the problem from Logos to Soma, from mind to body, means we can grapple with it through all of our senses. We can meet it on its own terms.
The monster in a dream may be an emotion that the child (or the adult) is having trouble processing: frustration about potty training, sadness about a dog who has died, the perils of separation anxiety. It could be a secret he’s keeping: abuse, illness, something “bad” he’s done that he doesn’t want to admit. It could be a situation he doesn’t know how to handle: An overly-demanding teacher, a new brother or sister, a move to a different home. It could be the bigness of growing up, of leaving babyhood behind and becoming a little boy and all that that means.
Symbols demand that we respond, at least initially, in their own language. This is especially true when the person visited by the symbol is a child: Children live and breathe metaphor. The logic-based response, “There’s no such thing as monsters; you don’t have to be afraid,” takes them out of that reality and plunges them into one that makes as little sense to them as monsters and magic make to us wise old adults. Because, in their reality, there are monsters. We’re not going to logic the monsters away. And suggesting there aren’t any only implies that the child is lying, or loony. And we know he is neither.
And maybe when we – or rather, I – read astrological charts, I would do well to linger in the images a little longer, to help the client envision Pluto and ask what it wants; to make friends with Saturn, share a drink together and relish its wisdom; to speak kindly to the needy Moon and wait patiently for the response. We don’t always know in which planets lurk monsters, waiting in the closet to visit our clients’ dreams or relationships or habits. Maybe
none of them; maybe all. But we can facilitate that knowledge. Maybe some monsters are friendly, though they appear menacing. Maybe some are scared themselves. Maybe some just feel lost and are trying to make their way back home. It doesn’t hurt to ask.
***
So we just got a little more familiar with the monsters. We talked about what they looked like (hairy, with eyes and teeth), how many there were (ten: interesting, that) and where they gathered (definitely in the Dragon’s room, definitely not in Mama and Daddy’s room). But when I asked what they wanted, the Dragon remained silent. He just knew he needed them to go away. So I left that question for sometime later.
Instead, I marched out to the kitchen, dug around in some cupboards and finally located the Monster Spray I keep on hand for just such occasions. I returned to the bedroom shouting, “Go away, monsters! You’re not welcome here! You leave the Dragon alone!” I circled the room’s periphery, spraying walls, corners and furniture so no monsters could enter that night, so the Dragon felt safe.
And within literally – and I do mean literally – ten seconds, he was fast asleep.
***
The Dragon’s dad, Alan, was out that night, and when he returned home, I told him what had happened. The next morning, when the Dragon awoke, Alan asked him all about the monsters. Then he led his son by the hand to the hall closet and took down a feather duster. “I know Mama sprayed for monsters,” he said. “But if they come back, you can use this to fight them off.”
The Dragon took the duster earnestly by the handle and brandished it like a sword. “Go away, big monsters!” he shouted, stabbing at the air, practicing. “Go away!” He ran all over the house fighting monsters.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” I mused. “I just protected him. I didn’t let him take care of the problem himself.” I felt badly, then, that I had taken the monsters into my own hands and let the Dragon sit back without an active role.
And then, after a cup of coffee and a few musing hours, I realized that Alan and I had acted in true Sun and Saturn fashion: Myself to protect our son, to engender a sense of safety; and Alan to empower him to go out on his own, to fight any monsters he might face. Both roles are necessary: A child must feel a certain level of safety and security before he can venture out to become the hero of his own life.
This truth is reflected in developmental psychology’s attachment theory as well as in the natural archetypes symbolized in the birth chart.
***
The next night, the Dragon again awoke screaming. “Tigers!” he cried, flailing his arms. “No! No! Tigers!” His little face, even with eyes closed, was anguished and fearful.
Breathing soothing and encouraging words, I groped for the feather duster and pressed it into his palm. He squeezed his hand around it and dropped back into the pillow. His body relaxed, and his breathing evened out. He was asleep again. He had not even opened his eyes. The whole episode lasted, again, only about ten seconds.
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