Transformation
Becoming What You Always Have Been
By
Todd F. Eklof
December 30, 2007
There is a saying in Zen Buddhism, “the lotus blooms in the midst of the fire.”1
Although I’m sure this has many layers of meaning, it seems to be suggesting, at the very
least, that we show our true personality in times of crisis. Some of us take the fire as
anything that threatens to destroy the social masks we wear to disguise our true thoughts,
feelings, and desires, while others take it as an opportunity to shine our brightest when
things are at their worst. Both are true, of course, because the fire behaves the same
regardless of our perspective. It simply burns away all that it can until only that which
can withstand its heat remains—gold, purity, truth. Some of us are uncomfortable with
having our truth laid bare, and others are relieved because, as Jesus is reported to have
said, “the truth will set you free.”
Of course this position presumes that there is something left, something pure,
something true, perhaps even immortal, the fire cannot consume. It presumes that each
of us has a true being, albeit hidden beneath layers of culture, convention, and other
social pressures that cause us to behave according to the expectations of others. It
presumes that we are more than what our environments have made of us; that, despite
years of learning to conform by repressing our truest instincts, setting aside our questions
about the true nature of things, and forgetting the person who lives behind our false
personas, there is something more, something essential we are born with that is authentic
if only we can find our way back to it.
In his important book, The Soul’s Code, psychologist James Hillman suggests this
is precisely the case, by presenting what he calls his acorn theory, “which holds,” in his
words, “that each person bears a uniqueness that asks to be lived and that is already
present before it can be lived,”2 just as all that is necessary to grow a mighty oak is
already contained in a tiny acorn. Among the many examples he gives as evidence for
this idea, is the story of the famous actress, Bette Davis, when she was only seven or
eight years old. She was playing Santa Claus at school when her costume brushed
against a candle and ignited in flames. Those nearby rushed to her rescue by wrapping
the terrified child in a rug. “When the rug was taken off,” she later recounted, “I decided
to keep my eyes closed. Ever the actress! I would make believe I was blind. ‘Her eyes!’
A shudder of delight went through me. I was in complete command of the moment.”3
This story, of Davis’ encounter with a real fire, shows how it is possible, even at an early
age, for the truth of our being to manifest itself in the most desperate of situations. For
her, it truly was a case of the lotus blossom blooming in the midst of the fire, of the child
1
Sohl, Robert and Carr, Audrey, ed., Games Zen Masters Play, A Mentor Book, The
New American Library, Inc., New York, NY, 1976, p. 65.
2
Hillman, James, The Soul’s Code, Random House, Inc., New York, NY, 1996, p. 6.
3
Ibid. p. 204.
Transformation
destined to become a great actress, to act. The question is, did she really become a great
actress, or was she always an actress, just waiting to have her innate and special talent
recognized by others after the trials of life finally burned away everything else?
Just yesterday I saw what was for me an incredible film called, “The Golden
Compass,” based on the book by Philip Pullman, in which the human inhabitants in a
parallel universe are each accompanied by a visible animal guide that represents their true
nature. But the “Magisterium,” an authoritarian organization that seeks to control free
thought and free expression, is experimenting on children to take away these soul
companions, under the auspices of protecting them from falling into error. The children
so detached from their own souls become despondent and indecisive, mindless
automatons in the hands of those who would take the place of their spirit guides.
Pullman calls this animal guide a “daemon,” the same word James Hillman uses to
describe the acorn; the kernel of truth each of us is born with that contains our truth and
fullness. “The soul of each of us is given a unique daimon before we are born,” he says,
“and it has selected an image or pattern that we live on earth. This soul-companion, the
daimon, guides us here… The daimon remembers what is in your image and belongs to
your pattern, and therefore your daimon is the carrier of your destiny.”4
It should not be surprising, then, that this word, daemon, which in the original
Greek simply referred to one’s own genius or guiding spirit, is considered evil, unclean,
and diabolical, by the real Magisterium that governs our world and seeks to control our
lives. Pronouncing it “demon,” meaning foul or unclean spirit, they teach us to fear being
possessed by our own guiding voice, by our own inner calling, and, ultimately, to be
afraid of being inhabited by our own soul. In brief, from the time we are children, we
learn to quiet our souls, the truth of our being, in order to obey those external voices that
would turn us into compliant automatons.
Out of such authoritarian paranoia came another great movie, The Exorcist, about
a Catholic priest trying to exorcize, literally “cut out,” the demon in a little girl.
Although the child in the film is taken as the monster, she seems less horrific when we
examine the supposed proof of her monstrosity. In the movie, you may recall, the first
sign there might be something wrong is when she urinates on the living room carpet.
Later on she begins shouting profanities, and rejects the religion the priests are trying to
force on her. As infants, one of the first things we learn is that those around us don’t
want us to cry or throw tantrums, that is, they don’t want us expressing difficult
emotions. At first they reinforce this by coming whenever we cry, comforting us, or
feeding us, or changing our wet diapers, in their efforts to make us stop. Later, as we
grow a little older, they may promise us a treat—perhaps ice cream after school, or a new
toy—if we behave, or threaten to punish us if we don’t. We are also potty-trained as
early as possible, which let’s us know there’s a proper time and place to relieve
ourselves, that we can’t simply let go whenever and wherever we feel like it, and that
there are some things about us that should be kept private. Finally, almost as soon as we
can comprehend the audible symbols they call words, they start teaching us about the
4
Ibid. p. 8.
2
Transformation
nature of the world, often sending us to church, where we learn to further fear and quiet
our own inner voices, and replace them with the voices of external authorities—the Bible,
the Church, priests, experts, parents, especially patriarchs. So any child who expresses
strong emotions, especially sadness or anger, or brings things out that aren’t supposed to
be brought out in polite society, or questions the authorities, like the little girl in The
Exorcist does, gets labeled as a “problem child.” And nowadays, if the priests can’t cast
out their demons, many doctors are willing to chemically suppress them with medication.
After all, we all know there must be something terribly wrong with a child who can’t sit
still and quietly listen several hours each day.
It is because of this common scenario that psychoanalyst Alice Miller viewed it as
a breakthrough when, in her words, the “disturbed patient comes to the emotional insight
that all the love he has captured with so much effort and self-denial was not meant for
him as he really was.”5 Thus, the patient realizes that in trying to conform, in trying to
gain the conditional love of others, he or she has led an inauthentic life, believing the lie
that one’s own inner voice is an unclean demon, rather than a guiding light. “In analysis,”
Miller continues, “the small and lonely child that is hidden behind his achievements
wakes up and asks: ‘What would have happened if I had appeared before you, bad, ugly,
angry, jealous, lazy, dirty, smelly? Where would your love have been then? And I was
all these things as well. Does this mean that it was not really me whom you loved, but
only what I pretended to be? The well-behaved, reliable, empathic, understanding, and
convenient child, who in fact was never a child at all? What became of my childhood?
Have I not been cheated out of it?”6
Certainly, we must all learn to get along with others and accept certain
conventions in order to maintain civility, but does this mean we must give up our right to
ask questions, to think freely, to have our own emotions, and to live authentically in the
process? Can’t we learn to love each other because we are willing to act selflessly and
considerately toward one another despite our many differences, rather than because we
are willing to repress our uniqueness and strictly adhere to the status quo? Isn’t
selflessness, considering my needs and desires in light of others, a more pure and true
kind of love, than mere conformity in order to keep from being rejected? From the
Magisterium’s perspective, “civilization,” as Freud said, “has to be defended against the
individual; and its regulations, institutions and commands are directed to that task.”7 But
a less fearful and controlling perspective embraces and celebrates our many differences,
the genius of each individual. It knows, as the great Unitarian preacher, Francis David,
once proclaimed, “We need not think alike to love alike!”
If, as Master Ueshiba said, “There are many paths leading to the top of Mount
Fuji, but there is only one summit—love,” then, as we journey toward love, let us seek,
5
Miller, Alice, The Drama of the Gifted Child, Basic Books, HarperCollins Publishers,
New York, NY, 1981, p. 15
6
Ibid.
7
Freud, Sigmund, The Future of an Illusion, W.W. Norton & Company, New York, NY,
1961, 1989, p. 7.
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Transformation
without shame, the path that is uniquely our own, and not judge the path of others. For
there is a Catholic Path, and a Buddhist Path, and a Hindu, Jewish, and Muslim path, but
countless other paths as well. Each of these is a path of transformation. But
transformation is not a process in which we are changed into something we are not.
Rather, it is the process through which we are changed from what we are not into what
we always have been.
To transform our lives we must return to our origins, to our true nature, to the
guiding principle, the calling, the daemon that is uniquely our own. It is a return, not a
departure. This is why, in order to rediscover our daemon, Hillman suggests we must
move backward rather than forward. “Reading life backward,” he says, “enables you to
see how early obsessions are the sketchy preformation of behaviors now.”8 In other
words, it may be that many of our disturbances—obsessions, compulsions, neuroses—are
really our forgotten daemon attempting to claw its way through so many layers of
repression. Perhaps the obsessive compulsion to flip a light switch over and over before
entering a room, for instance, is really the daemon’s desperate way of saying “turn on the
light, see the truth; see your truth.”
So many of us feel lost in life. We don’t know what we’re supposed to do with
our lives, or even what we want to do if we had the choice. Perhaps the answer is there,
in our earliest drives and desires. Perhaps the once boisterous little girl, who learned not
to talk back, grew up to be a lonely housewife instead of the provocative journalist she
was meant to be. Perhaps the boy whose comic books and crayons were taken away from
him too early, told to grow up and act his age, ended up a seriously depressed CEO
instead of the artist he was meant to be. Or perhaps he dreamed of being an astronaut, or
a great explorer, or the scientist who would cure cancer, but was told “you’re too small,
too inadequate, too unworthy, too bad,” and so he never accomplished anything, and
never even tries. But if we want to know who we really are, we must return to our
forbidden box of crayons and comic books; we must remember those boisterous things
we wanted to say but weren’t allowed; we must return to our original dreams. This may
be difficult. It may be risky. It may mean losing friends, family, fortune, and reputation.
But in realizing that “the lotus blooms in the midst of the fire,” we find the courage to
transform our lives, and come to understand that transformation isn’t about becoming
someone new, it’s about becoming who we always have been.
8
Hillman, ibid., p. 7.
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