According to Jung, the infant’s mother must facilitate the notion that its wish is the world’s command– to understand that now is not enough. Even the acceptance of one’s childhood, spent in a gentle quarantine of self-actualization,  backstage of its parental orbit, does not reconcile the proper disposal of that guilt or solve the time while the guilt is dissolving too slowly. The face of the force that meets the infant’s needs in physical form, will the infant, now grown, smile at its regeneration forever? That untouchable guilt and our psychic integrity are an essential organ of our inescapable two-fold experience. We long to rejoin the primitive only after we have transmuted it along the way into the closest conceivable seat beside ourselves as infant-deities. Just how close to Love is: surrendering to continually conceive of a repugnant, quintessentially parasitic source of life only to meet the comprehension, time and time again, that one’s own evolution and sloughing of stagnating pain is dependent on how much of that life-force it can prepare for spiritual consumption. This realization, by default, can not be achieved without the companion knowledge that what was conceived can only be made holy by one’s own labor and lastly, that in time it will die. In its death is another essential paradoxical nutrient: the relationship as symbiotic. The sweetness of this fruit comes from the supreme design of limitation of our own awareness of the vastness of our capacity as hosts; we will survive the deaths of all we birth and in turn be nourished by them.


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