LISTENING TO THE BODY
FOR THE SAKE OF THE SOUL
Introduction
The bare hardwood floor stretched out before me as I waited for an impulse from within to set me in motion. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Marion Woodman waiting in another part of the room. I suspected she shared a similar anxiety around moving in the company of experienced dancers and dance therapists on that first morning of the Authentic Movement Workshop taking place at Jacob’s Pillow in the Berkshires. We had been included through the invitation of Joan Chodorow, who was developing authentic movement as a form of active imagination in her analytic practice. She valued our common Jungian orientation and vision of body as a neglected but essential part of psyche.
Authentic movement encourages a letting-go of consciously planned movement, allowing internal bodily felt signals to initiate movement. On that first morning the initial anxiety around letting go of control and “letting it happen” turned into an opportunity to explore new ways of activating and expressing the somatic unconscious. In no time Marion and I became indistinguishable from other movers, learning to listen kinesthetically to our inner sensory receptors. Each session was securely held by several seated observers and no session ended without verbalizing what had happened from the perspective of both participants and witnesses.
The shared experience at Jacob’s Pillow began a collegial friendship and collaboration that has lasted over twenty years. In 1984 the three of us presented the first workshop on Body and Psyche at a National Jungian Conference. In the last decade a new generation of analysts from many countries has joined us in our quest to integrate psyche and soma within the analytic framework. The 2004 Congress at Barcelona with its offerings and pre-Congress movement workshop attests to the growing awareness among Jungians of the reality of the bodily dimension of psyche.
Among modern Jungians, Marion Woodman has been the most vocal about the widespread dissociative relationship to soma in our time. Although she began her work with analysands with eating disorders, who present some of the most obvious cases of alienation from body, she soon enlarged her focus to include both women and men who have grown up in a patriarchal culture that emphasizes spirit and rational thinking over body and connected feeling. She states: “The body work I do is an effort to connect with the unconscious through the body. For me, a bodily symptom is one way of expressing the unconscious. The dream is another way of expressing it.”1 Woodman has encouraged, nay insisted, that her analysands participate in ongoing groups that use various breathing and movement techniques to facilitate a more immediate experience of psyche.
Talk and Touch
I share with Marion Woodman a profound concern for the healing of the psyche-soma split in our culture and in our analytic work. My clinical approach differs from hers in that I work directly with the body part of psyche in the analytic session. Moving from talk to gentle touch techniques in my Jungian practice has become so natural for me that I bristle somewhat at questions from colleagues who are concerned that I might be compromising verbal and symbolic process as well as encouraging enmeshment with patients and possibly jeopardizing my analytic objectivity.
Let me show you how it works with an example: A middle-aged woman, a therapist herself, who has been working with me for several years, brought in a dream about her personal mother in which she could do nothing right. She spoke of the subtle ways in which her mother shamed her around her size and her large extraverted energy. The “too-muchness” of her essential being never felt accepted and so she “dulled” herself down to fit in with what was expected, becoming sensitive to others’ needs and denying her own.
Halfway through the session, we moved to the table. I suggested that my patient, who lay on her back, focus on her breathing and attend to what parts of her body responded to mother. As I reached under her shoulders she remarked how they seemed to tighten up every time she mentioned mother. I confirmed that was happening as we continued talking about the dream. I suggested she take a moment to focus on the shoulders. Then she said: “I think there is anger there around the deflating energy of my mother’s need for control. But I suspect this is the tightness of my own controlling energy. Who would I be if I could not restrain my intense feelings?” We had moved from the external mother to the denigrating aspects of her internalized mother complex. We spent some time discussing the ways she belittled herself over not being a more loyal daughter, loving partner or competent therapist.
I noticed that her breathing was becoming constricted and I sensed or intuited (often I cannot tease them apart) that my hands wanted to move toward her pelvic area. I placed them gently over her belly and suggested she send the breath in under my hands. “Oh, I can’t,” she replied. “It’s solid concrete.” Putting my hands alternately under her right and left sides, I waited until I could feel her body allow me to release her hip joints. “The cement’s cracking,” she said. “I can see a young girl’s hand reaching up and the rest of her is struggling to get free. But the harder I try the more stuck she becomes.” As my analysand surrendered into her breathing and stopped trying, the cement became softer, and a prepubescent girl sprang our wearing a red dress. “Oh,” she declared, “she’s a dancer. No, she’s an ice skater. I felt so klutzy then and ashamed of having to wear chubby-size clothes. How can I let that ugly, unwieldy body take center stage, which she clearly wants to do?”
The session was nearly over. We sat down again in our respective chairs as she spoke with some anguish about her rejected “ugly” side. After table work, I may encourage patients to move in whatever way their body-psyche directs. Or, we may sit and reflect on what happened. I always take time to reorient patients to the world to which they must return before they leave the session. Whether I am talking or touching, I work in an embodied way, aware of my subjective bodily states and somatically induced countertransference reactions. The Rubenfeld Synergy Method®, in which I am trained, teaches nonintrusive touch techniques as a tool to explore memories and emotions hidden away in the muscles and tissues of the body.2 The fingertips, with their 700 touch receptors every 2 millimeters, are extremely sensitive instruments for nonverbal communication. Touch directly links the “cell-consciousness” of both patient and therapist.
In my experience, the greatest gift we can give to our patients is a fully incarnated psyche. A centered, grounded presence creates a neutral and safe container. The non-erotic touch (Rubenfeld calls it “Zen” hands) that I use respects boundaries and, paradoxically, allows an enabling space to develop between analyst and patient for the experiencing of past emotional events in the present moment. I am reminded of Jung’s warning to those who take flight into intuitive mysteries: “whatever you experience outside of the body, in a dream, for instance, is not experienced unless you take it into the body, because the body means the here and now.”3
Reawakening to Touch
More than forty years have passed since my first analyst took my hands and held them as was leaving the session. During the hour, a dream had reconnected me with a despondent little girl in myself. His appropriately timed touch, expressing concern over my distressed psychic state, brought forth a flood of tears. Unable to stem the tears or the accompanying release of painful memories and emotions, I sought refuge in a nearby park. As I engaged with the four-year-old child, who refused to be stuffed back into the psychic closet, an inner voice spoke: “You have forgotten how primary touch is for experiencing your self.” In that moment, the imaginal, emotional and sensory dimensions of psyche came together with an alive immediacy that profoundly changed my sense of self. It became the primary motivation behind my exploration of ways to integrate psyche and soma in the context of analytic treatment.
As I became aware of how dissociated I had become from that part of psyche that operates on a somatic level, I realized that no amount of talking or dreaming about body would reunite me with my split-off body complex. In addition to my Jungian analysis, I began working with Charlotte Selver, a pioneer in the area of sensory awareness, as well as taking classes in expressive movement. At the same time, I began “psychic” training at the Jung Institute in New York, I entered Ilana Rubenfeld’s “somatic” training program in the same city. Body awareness cannot be taught verbally. To touch another requires a sensitive kinesthetic awareness of one’s own bodily blocks and tensions in order to avoid bringing them to the patient, in much the same manner as a good analytical training exposes and neutralizes ones complexes to avoid contaminating the psychic container. Let me be clear. Analysts should not use touch techniques unless they are willing to spend several years in a body training program experiencing how their bodies mirror the psychic complexes and are conveyed through nonverbal language to others.
Jung describes the unconscious complex as having a somatic aspect that locates itself in our flesh and bones. It cannot be ignored because it irritates the tissues and pulls at the nerves. In 1936, he stated it most succinctly: “The separation of psychology from the basic assumptions of biology is purely artificial, because the human psyche lives in indissoluble union with the body.”4 When I first began integrating body and psyche in my practice, I found only one article written by a modern Jungian that seriously considered the use of touch within the analytic setting. In 1970, Camilla Bosanquet questioned whether the lack of consciousness around nonverbal communication and ambivalence toward touching on the part of analysts may deprive patients of a valuable means of communication, including all the associations attached to the act of touching and being touched.5
The blind spot of Jungian analysts, many of whom are both introverted and intuitive, is their tendency to attribute the highest conscious value to image and imagination, in effect, downplaying the somatic dimension of psyche. Although Jung intuitively understood that transcending the present level of consciousness involves acknowledging the body, he reveals his bias toward the ultraviolet, imagistic pole of the body-mind continuum when he argues that the “realization and assimilation of instinct” can never take place at the infrared end of the psychoid spectrum but only through the “integration of the image which signifies and at the same time evokes the instinct.”6 My clinical work demonstrates that psyche can be directly approached and assimilated through the infrared instinctual pole by an embodied processing that involves becoming aware of what the somatic unconscious is saying with its tensions, blocks, and interruptions in the flow of energy. laying attention to an ache in the head can reveal as much about psyche as confronting a frightening figure in a dream. Both involve a dialogical and symbolic intrapsychic process that moves us beyond immediate experience to underlying meaning.
Case Example
A middle-aged woman came to work with me at a crucial transitional stage in her life. Her three children were old enough to allow her the luxury of either taking a full-time job or going back to school to train for a much desired career in the helping professions. Her husband supported her in this endeavor. She grew up in a conventional middle-class family and remembered no warm intimate moments with either parent. She was bright and capable, and had learned at an early age to hide her underlying need for dependence under a mask of achievement and an independent persona. During the first session, she wondered if her chronic migraines might thwart her plans for protessional training. “They have been a painful companion since I was a small child, striking me unexpectedly about once a month and putting me out of commission for three days. would like to do some body work with you but I don’t expect anything to change.” As we probed more deeply into her relationship to her mother, she recalled that those three days in a darkened room, painful though they were, were the only times she had mother all to herself. My gentle touching of her head brought forth a deep-seated sadness, but no tears, until one session, when she arrived with the remnants of a migraine, vulnerable and despairing. As I held her head (perhaps evoking the lost mother’s presence), encouraging her to allow the pain to be felt, she had an image of herself at the age of four, muffling her sobs in a pillow. Then she remembered that was the time she vowed never to let her mother know what she was feeling. We discussed the possibility that her headaches might be the result of the pressure of unexpressed emotion, which could find release only in a throbbing migraine.
We returned to the four-year-old again and again. Touch grounded my patient in the present moment, providing a safe reliving of both the rage and grief around the devaluation of her intense feeling nature. The migraines lessened and gradually disappeared as my analysand allowed strong feelings to surface and be expressed before they could become caught in the head.
Body as “Doubtful Friend”
Jung called the body a “doubtful friend … the personification of this shadow of the ego” when he described body as a repository of those aspects of oneself that the ego has rejected as negative and shameful.7 Early in her work with analysands with eating disorders, Woodman observed how distorted such patients’ images were of their bodies and how they failed to identify or accurately perceive sensory information. She writes: “Pretending there is no body, or treating it with indifference, is pretending there is no shadow.”8 Chodorow believes there is a vital link between memory and movement. “By attending to the world of bodily felt sensations, the mover recreates a situation that is in many ways similar to that of an infant who swims in a sensory-motor world.”9 Embodied sensory experience releases kinesthetically stored, often preverbal, and affect-laden memories of childhood. The immediacy of the bodily experience (the here and now provides a secure container for accessing and handling intense affective reactions at the core of repressed complexes and permits better toleration of the inevitable frustrations inherent in ego development and differentiation. The body may be a “doubtful friend” in the way it discomforts us with primitive affect and embarrasses us with unpredictable behavior, but it can tell the truth about us more honestly and directly than the more polished and verbal rational persona often permits.
Reading the Body-Psyche
As analysts we do not have to use movement or touch techniques to become more observant of the nonverbal language that confronts us daily in our consulting rooms. Crucial diagnostic information is conveyed by the way a patient enters the office, greets the analyst, sits in a chair, meets or avoids the eye, gestures, or changes posture. For example, one woman in her initial session tiptoed around me and sat rather tentatively in the chair as though she were trying to avoid my energy field. The undercharged nature of her energy and the lack of muscularity in her legs revealed to me that this woman had probably never experienced the ability to stand her ground vis-à-vis the other. The aura of hesitancy and weakness in her body suggested an early deprivation of maternal support, which was indeed the case. She was completely unconscious of what her body-psyche was communicating to me about the exact nature of the psychic complexes we would be confronting in the analytic work.
Dissonance between verbal and body language reveals shadow. I call them “slips of the body.” After working with a dream which contained a scene with gangster types acting rather sadistically toward several women, an overly compliant male analysand straightened up in his chair, held his breath, and struggled to remain calm. Although his tone of voice was pleasant and indicated agreement with my interpretation of the dream, I noticed that his hands, palms down on the top of his thighs, began to move toward the knees and clench into fists at the end of the movement. At the same time I noticed my own jaws and shoulders tightening, an indication to me of somatically induced anger. When I asked him to exaggerate his hand motions, he looked at me in surprise. “What hand motions?” He looked down and repeated the movement. He admitted with some embarrassment that he was angry with me for “insinuating” that he could harbor such feelings toward women. He was trying to “wipe me off." The atmosphere cleared immediately and we were able to engage more directly with what was actually happening between us. Resistance palpably experienced on a bodily level cannot be so easily denied, and, in fact, is more readily acknowledged.
Another way to invoke the body-psyche is to embody characters in dreams. A male analysand in his late thirties presented a dream in which two men were fighting in hand-to-hand combat. From the image in the dream we both concurred that the “winner" of the struggle seemed to be the man standing with his hands on his hips looking down with some contempt on the “loser” who was squatting, with his feet spread apart, looking up with a slight smile on his face. When I suggested that he put his own body into each of the combatants postures, he discovered just the opposite to be true. The “winners” stance was actually more precarious and off-balance than the “loser’s” squatting position, which was closer to the earth, well-grounded, and more powerful. Embodying the postures led my analysand into a surprisingly different way of understanding the meaning of the dream. To the “winner” he now associated verbal and intellectual arrogance; to the “loser,” an animal-like shrewdness that could topple the arrogant man with one well-timed lunge. The dream offered a description of the battle within himself, couched in nonintellectual images of hand-to-hand combat. The patient’s overvaluation of his intellectual prowess and rational approach to emotional issues was being challenged, up-ended, in fact, by a more instinctual, earthy shadow figure.
Needless to say, we as analysts are not exempt from unconscious body language that may speak more loudly than our words. If therapists do not live comfortably in their own bodies, they cannot help patients live comfortably in theirs. When therapists posture, facial expressions, gestures, and voice level convey reactions dissonant with their verbal communication, they sow confusion, at the least, and alienation when the nonverbal messages are not owned. When a patient says to me, “Why are you frowning?” I take that seriously. First, I own it. Then I explore what is happening inside of me as well as what the frown is saying to the patient. Defensiveness on the part of the analyst or anxiety around what the analysand is revealing is communicated immediately through subtle body language.
Body-Mind Connection
With great prescience, Jung stated in 1912: “It seems highly probable that the psychic and physical are not two independent parallel processes, but are essentially connected through reciprocal action.”10 For several decades, disciplines in the neurosciences have been demonstrating the fundamental error of Cartesian dualism. Jungians need to pay attention to what psychoneuroimmunologists, such as Candace Pert, have discovered in their research. She asserts that we are psychosomatic information networks. She demonstrates how the neuropeptides and their receptors, found in all systems of the body, are the biological underpinnings of our capacity for consciousness. In her book, Molecules of Emotion, Pert writes: “Mind doesn’t dominate body, it becomes body—body and mind are one—Thus, it could be said that intelligence is located not only in the brain but in cells that are distributed throughout the body.”11
The research of the neuroscientist, Antonio Damasio, on patients with frontal lobe damage alerted him to how interconnected cognitive and emotional deficits are in the behavior of such patients. In his book, The Feeling of What Happens: Body and Emotion in the Making of Consciousness, he demonstrates how, from a neurological point of view, the split between reason and emotion is a fallacy. Damasio declared in a recent interview: “The mind exists for the body, is engaged in telling the story of the body’s multifarious events, and uses that story to optimize the life of the organism.”12 Scientific discoveries investigating the limbic brain are revealing its crucial involvement in precognitive emotional conditioning and regulation. Our nervous systems are not self-contained, but depend on the development of these two functions through wordless interactive interplay with the nervous systems of our primary caregivers. Emotional response patterns are set long before cognitive brain functions emerge. In their book, A General Theory of Love, three psychiatrists boldly present another paradigm of therapy. They write: “The mind-body clash has disguised the truth that psychotherapy is physiology. When a person starts therapy, he isn’t beginning a pale conversation; he is stepping into a somatic state of relatedness.”13 Their use of such terms as “limbic resonance” and “limbic regulation” reveal their belief that transformative change in psychotherapy comes from working at this level of psyche. I believe that Jung’s concept of the psychoid unconscious demonstrates his underlying assumption about the intimate interaction between psyche and soma.
Affects as a presymbolic mode of experiencing oneself and their early role in shaping psyche are being explored in psychoanalytic literature. In the light of the recent research, Jung was remarkably ahead of his time when he stated in 1907: “The essential basis of our personality is affectivity. Thought and action are, as it were, only symptoms of affectivity.”14 Jung’s experiments with the Word Association Test revealed to him the interconnectedness of mind and body. He observed that when an unconscious complex was activated in a subject, the intense feeling tone at its center produced a perseverating and cumulative effect on both body and psyche. I am indebted to my late colleague, Lewis H. Stewart, for filling in the gaps in Jungian theory around the nature and function of specific affects. Drawing on previous research into innate affects, Stewart formulated a system of seven archetypal affects, such as anger and shame, which have universal forms of facial expression and bodily innervations.15 They dynamically link the psychic and somatic experiencing of both analyst and analysand. Becoming aware of somatic cues, e.g., a tightness in the chest or an empty feeling in the stomach, can alert an analyst to the presence of a repressed affect operating beneath the verbal communication.
The few studies mentioned above are representative of the many hundreds of others confirming the interrelationship between body and mind. Our emotional history, our capacity to relate to others, our belief systems, our deepest sense of self (all soul concerns) are inseparable from the life of the body. Integrating some form of body awareness into the therapeutic process does not, ultimately, have to do with learning touch or movement skills, nor is it about whether to hug patients or hold their hands; it is about analysts becoming attuned to their own and their patients’ somatic communications. Both can remain firmly seated in their own chairs. Tension in the spine, a tight pelvis, cramped breathing, a stiff neck inhibit somatic processing, as I discovered when I became aware I was sitting in the wrong type of chair. After many tries, I located a chair that supported the underside of the thighs at the height of the knees with a back that held rather than enveloped my lower back. Sitting more comfortably in the cradle of my pelvis, legs uncrossed, feet resting securely on the floor, I noted that I felt more grounded and present to myself. Tightness in the jaw and eye muscles indicated to me how I had correlated those tensions with paying attention. I noticed how eyes resting easily in their sockets have a more inclusive and integrative vision than eyes with a forced focus.
To sharpen my perceptual awareness of the body-psyche of analysands, I ask such questions as: Are they living comfortably in their bodily home? Do they allow the earth to support them or do they hold parts of themselves up? How flexible or rigid are they around head and neck, shoulders and arms, upper and lower torso, pelvis and legs, ankles and feet? Do the body parts fit together in a coordinated way? Do imbalances occur between the right and left, the top and bottom, the front and back parts of the body?16
Is the breathing pattern free or constricted? The way we breathe is directly related to available energy to live life fully. So close is the connection between breathing and the quality of one’s psychic state that it can be used as a tool for helping analysands focus on their immediate physical and emotional reality.
Breathing and Soul State
In yogic traditions, the air we breathe contains not just the oxygen we need to sustain physiological life but a life force vital to our sense of wellbeing. Except during vigorous exercise, most of us breathe with much less than our full capacity. We all have experienced how breathing reflects our emotional condition. Breathing becomes agitated when we are angry, stilled when fearful, heaving when grieving, held when shamed, accelerated when joyful. Any experience of anxiety inhibits deep inhalation and exhalation. One woman patient who spoke with a rapid, breathless pace, refused to slow down when I suggested she pause to take a deep breath. After several such suggestions, she yelled at me. “I don’t want to breathe. There are certain things I don’t want to feel!” Shallow breathing protects us from a chance meeting with disturbing emotional content.
Breathing is closely linked to two different kinds of nervous systems: the autonomic system, which allows us to breathe spontaneously without conscious planning, and the voluntary system, which gives us intentional control over breathing. This interrelationship makes breath a kind of gateway between conscious and unconscious processes. Madelene Proskauer, a breath therapist with a Jungian background, uses breath as a tool in raising somatic consciousness. She remarks that focusing on breath is a way of doing active imagination in the body.17 Inner images and disquieting feelings, held in by constrained breathing, will often arise spontaneously to consciousness when ones breath can flow in a more natural rhythm.
Case Examples
As I observed the expanded and rigid chest area of one male analysand, I realized that he was a man who could take air in but not allow the muscles around the rib cage to relax in full exhalation. I experienced his resistance to exhaling fully in my own breathing, which became tight and constricted, a somatically induced countertransference, which alerted me to the control he needed to exert over every aspect of his life. He had rebelled against an oppressive family, created a successful business, and prided himself on his aggressive managerial style. He had sought therapeutic help rather reluctantly when his wife threatened to leave him if he did not find a way to relate more empathically to her and the children. When some trust had been established, I asked him what might happen if he put his hand on his chest and breathed out slowly. He experienced such extreme anxiety that we had to proceed very slowly over several sessions. The sensation, he said, as he exhaled, was one of falling into a black void with no bottom. Compulsive doing had given this particular man a sense of purpose and accomplishment. Letting go of his breath corresponded to letting go of his controlled sense of self. He did reach bottom and discovered a needy and angry two-year-old boy partly buried under a pile of debris.
A middle-aged woman let her body sink back into the chair. Her sunken chest and slow belly breathing revealed a woman who seemed to remain in a constant state of exhalation. She came to me because she could not pull herself out of a deep depression. Her inability to breathe in and expand her chest accurately reflected her deflated sense of self that could not mobilize the self-assertive energies necessary to move her life in a more creative and focused direction. At times I noticed that my own inbreath became shallow, as though my body-psyche were mirroring her condition. As each session began, she collapsed in the chair and continued her dreary tale of a critical mother and a father who forced her to massage his head and feet. When I suggested she try sitting up and breathing in, she replied somewhat testily, “Oh, I can’t. That would take too much effort.” I replied: “Can you exaggerate your present posture and tell me what it is saying?” Reluctantly, she admitted: “I want you to do all the work. Don’t expect me to take any active part in the therapy.” As her jaw tightened I sensed the repressed rage underneath her slumped posture. I anticipated, correctly, that until she could own, feel, and express this anger, she would not be able to take a full breath or mobilize her energy to move forward.
Working with breath often brings up childhood memories. As he began to inhale more deeply, a young male analysand remembered how long he could hold his breath under water. “I feel strong when I can hold on to myself.” As he exhaled, he observed how his chest softened and his center of gravity moved down into the pelvis where he encountered a ten-year-old boy who was trying not to cry. He remembered being called a “crybaby” by his father during a particularly traumatic move to another part of the country. “I feel weak when I’m down in my belly.” The patient wondered if the upper half of his body had matured into adulthood while the lower half was still stuck in the shameful “sissy” feelings of his ten-year-old self. Acknowledging his emotionally wounded little boy was the beginning of some fruitful analytic work. Learning to reparent his genuine, but repressed, feeling side provided this young man with a more secure sense of his masculine identity and potency, which he sorely needed in his workplace and in his relationship to women.
Conclusion
Imaginal processing works with the images and affects that arise spontaneously out of patients dreams, fantasies, and artistic products during the course of analysis. It can release emotions but tends to ignore body-based reactions. Embodied processing involves awareness of what the somatic unconscious is saying with its tensions, blocks, and interruptions in the flow of energy. Although it begins with a physical sensation, it often transforms that sensation into a feeling or image so that the border between imaginal and embodied modes of experience is blurred, at which point their reciprocal relationship becomes apparent. Both are symbolic ways of working. Each mode complements the other. The imaginal approach to psyche needs the grounding effect of embodied awareness to bring the intuitive insight into the present moment of actual experience. The embodied approach to psyche needs the expansive effect of imaginal awareness to allow the sensate insight to take flight into the mythopoeic dimension of experience.
Western civilization, for much of the twentieth century, seems to have forgotten what Jung recognized as a “factor … which mediates between the apparent incommensurability of body and psyche, giving matter a kind of ‘psychic’ faculty and the psyche a kind of materiality, by means of which one can work on the other.”18 (emphasis added). Body that is regarded as only flesh, bone, sinew—materia—is still caught in the old idea of the body/mind antithesis. To introduce somatic awareness and body techniques into the analytic framework is not to introduce a suspect or alien element. Rather, it is to heal a split that has haunted the analytic process for generations.
NOTES
1. “An Interview with Marion Woodman,” The Round Table Review 2, no. 5 (1995).
2. Ilana Rubenfeld, The Listening Hand: Self-Healing Through the Rubenfeld Synergy Method of Talk and Touch (Bantam Books, 2000).
3. C. G. Jung (1934), The Visions Seminars, vol. 2 (Spring Publications, 1976), 475.
4. C. G. Jung (1936), “Psychological Factors Determining Human Behavior,” CW 8: 232.
5. Camilla Bosanquet, “Getting in Touch,” Journal of Analytical Psychology 15, no. 1 (1970): 56.
6. C. G. Jung (1946), “On the Nature of the Psyche,” CW 8: 414.
7. C. G. Jung (1935), “The Tavistock Lectures,” CW 18: 40.
8. Marion Woodman, Addiction to Perfection: The Still Unravished Bride—A Psychological Study (Toronto: Inner City Books, 1982), 78.
9. Joan Chodorow, “The Body as Symbol: Dance/Movement in Analysis,” in The Body in Analysis, edited by Nathan Schwartz-Salant and Murray Stein (Chiron Publications, 1986), 97.
10. C. G. Jung, (1912), “On Psychic Energy,” CW 8: 33.
11. Candace B. Pert, Molecules of Emotion: The Science Behind Mind-Body Medicine (Scribner, 1997), 187.
12. Antonio Damasio, quoted in Emily Eakins, “I Feel, Therefore I Am: A Thinker Reunites Mind and Body,” New York Times, 19 April 2003.
13. Thomas Lewis, Fari Amini, and Richard Lannon, A General Theory of Love (Vintage Books, 2000).
14. C. G. Jung (1907), “The Psychology of Dementia Praecox,” CW 3: 78.
15. Lewis H. Stewart, “Affect and Archetype in Analysis,” in Archetypal Processes in Psychotherapy, edited by Nathan Schwartz-Salant and Murray Stein (Chiron Publications, 1987), 131–62.
16. Anita U. Greene, “Conscious Mind—Conscious Body,” Journal of Analytical Psychology 46 (2001): 575.
17. Madeline Proskauer, “The Relationship Between Body and Psyche as It Manifests in My Work,” The Journal of Biological Experience: Studies in the Life of the Body 2 (1980): 56–62.
18. C G. Jung (1959), “Flying Saucers in Modern Myth,” CW 10: 780.
Spring: An Journal of Archetype and Culture 72 (2005): 189–204
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