We need someone to help us see what we cannot see.
The dream reveals one of the basic features of the unconscious mind. It is the receptacle for all of our unwanted, unbearable feelings and attitudes. What we hate about ourselves is buried there. What we fear about others is sent there. Our conflicts, our worries, our vulnerabilities, our hopes, and our terrors are relegated to the unconscious for safekeeping.
The trouble is that they are not really safe there. Our most intense feelings and fantasies need to be addressed. We have to face our fears. Otherwise, they become like Pandora’s Box—all of the dangers are locked away in the unconscious mind, but like in a pressure cooker, they want to burst out. There is an enormous pressure for them to be revealed and expressed.
When we shut off these realities of our psychological life in the unconscious, they tend to leak out into conscious life. We are more aggressive than we intend to be. We are more depressed and withdrawn than we want to be. We soothe some unknown pain through food or sex or drugs or mindless activity. We run away without knowing what we are running from. We fail to succeed even when we try. Something holds us back. Something pushes us forward. It is like gravity—or, in this case, a trapped hurricane. There is a force that acts upon us that we cannot see.
If you remember the story of Pandora’s Box, you know that it held not only the terrifying aspects of life; it also contained hope. So it is with the unconscious. The unconscious is the source of our passions, our creative energies, and our love of life. As I like to say, it is the gas in the engine; it is the juice that makes life worth living. If we rely on the unconscious too much as a dumping ground for unwanted parts of ourselves, we also lose contact with the most desirable, helpful, and hopeful parts of ourselves. In other words, if we use the unconscious to get rid of the bad, we get rid of the good stuff, too. Then we lose our drive to engage in life and to make meaning of our experiences.
Take as another example a set of dreams that a psychologist friend of mine, Lisa, had following her mother’s death. Lisa was just turning forty when she lost her mother to a year-long battle with cancer. She and her mother had a relatively good relationship, having worked through the inevitable disappointments, hurts, and grievances that are part of any mother-daughter relationship. Grateful for all that her mother brought to her life, she grieved the loss of her mother deeply.
One evening over a glass of wine, Lisa told me four dreams that she had had in the weeks following her mother’s death.
In the first dream, she dreamt that her mother had died and was walking down the long tunnel toward the light. Her mother turned to wave good-bye and saw that her daughter, my friend, was crying. Her mother said, “Sweetheart, don’t worry about me. They’ll have English muffins.” Her mother loved English muffins.
A few days later, my friend had a second dream. She was a counselor in a girls’ boarding school. Something was wrong with some of the girls and they needed her help. But it was pitch-black and she couldn’t find her way to get to them. One of the administrators was there—a woman who had the same first name as her mother—but the woman was in such a deep sleep that she couldn’t be woken up to help. Another helpful female figure was there, though. She was awake and alert and talking with Lisa. My friend said to her, “I can’t find my stepping-stones. Where are my stepping-stones?”
And then, a few days later, she had a third dream. She was at work. For some reason, it was going to be her last day. So she went to her office to clean out her desk. Everything had been packed up, but she needed to clean out the drawers. And the main task was to sort through the silverware, as there were mismatched forks and knives and spoons, some of good quality and worth keeping (they’d fit with her set at home) and some to be thrown out.
And then Lisa told me the most recent dream that she had. She and her sister were young children, riding in the backseat of a car. The car was out of control, careening down a winding road. There was no one in the front seat. No one was driving. My friend’s sister turned to her and said, “Hit the brakes!” And Lisa said, “My legs aren’t long enough; I can’t reach them.”
Freud also referred to dreaming as “dream work,” and here we can see my friend’s unconscious mind working very hard to integrate and work through the loss of her mother. Lisa and I poured another glass of wine, grabbed some tissues, and talked for hours about this tender loss and what it would mean for her life.
I will leave most of the dream interpretation up to your own investigation and imagination, but I think it is plain to see some of the broad themes. Lisa was anxious about her mother’s life after death; she was worried for her. And her unconscious mind sent her mother to a place of peace and rest. This is an act of integration with its acceptance of reality and a hope that the unknown will be a good place. This unconscious view of the afterlife—whether or not it is factually true—helps Lisa move on.
Even though, on one level, Lisa knew her mother was gone, the later dreams show that she is still not sure. Acceptance of this reality takes time and more work. In the dreams, Lisa is still looking for her mother. She is missing her. She needs her. She has to visit and revisit the reality that her mother is dead and gone; mother is in a deep sleep. A phase of Lisa’s life (the job) is over; the maternal stepping-stones are missing; the mother who drives the car is no longer there. All of these images stand for Lisa’s mother, and the hole that is left from her death must be mourned and then filled. The dreams point to the future: Lisa must find her own way, take and use the good psychological utensils her mother left her, and get in the driver’s seat of her own life.
Perhaps you can see, then, how the unconscious is not just the source and receptacle of what is unwanted and unbearable. It is also the place where important psychological work is done. It is the place and the way in which we make meaning, make sense, and make peace. The work we do while we dream is deep work, for it helps us recognize what is most precious to us. If we can become more conscious of this unconscious work, we can use its wisdom to guide our lives. Psychoanalysis, of course, is uniquely designed to help us with this work. But good conversations with sensitive friends, as well as meditation, spiritual practices, reading good books, and personal reflection of all kinds, can help us, too.
In the first session with my students, we explore other ways we can see evidence of the unconscious in daily life—repetitive patterns in relationships, Freudian slips, the transmission of psychological difficulties from one generation to the next. If we start to look for the unconscious, we can see it. We just have to pay attention.
Inevitably, the seminar discussion turns to babies. If you have ever had a baby or spent much time with babies, you know from experience that babies come into the world with their own little personalities. We do not come into the world as blank slates. No two babies are the same. From the very beginning, we reach out to the world and engage it in a personally meaningful way. While the outside world has its impact in shaping us, inborn temperament has the first word to say on who we are and who we become. Each human being is as unique as a snowflake. And I suggest that at the heart of each little snowflake-personality is an unconscious inner world.
Consider this scenario. You have a group of newborn babies and each one had a reasonably good start in life. Normal pregnancies and deliveries, no complications, perfect Apgar scores. No fuss, no muss. They are all sleeping quietly in the nursery.
Suddenly, there is a loud noise. Someone has dropped a metal pan—crash, clatter, bang! The babies are all affected by the noise; they are disturbed out of their sleep. Why is it that a third of these healthy babies will gurgle, stretch, and fall right back to sleep? Why will another third wake up, begin to cry, and be comforted with modest effort by mother or caretaker and then fall back to sleep? And why will another third cry bloody murder, be inconsolable, and stay irritable for hours before they cry themselves
