Where love reigns, there is no will to power; and where the will to power is paramount, love is lacking. (C.G. Jung)
My earliest remembrances of animals are those of chickens, tiny puffs of colored down that my sister and I would get for Easter. I would name them and give them all the lavish love that my stoic and troubled family were too preoccupied to receive. Satan, Brainy, Goldy — their bones still live in the grounds of my childhood home where we buried them with great ceremony when they died.
One of these chicks imprinted itself to me and followed me everywhere, its loyalty and allegiance to me beyond anything I had ever known. Mine. It was mine. I cannot remember her name, but she lies embedded in my soul, for I inadvertently killed her. One day she was under the old day bed on our back porch and would not come to me when I called. Imperious, bloated with the power and willfulness of a three year old, I used the broom to poke at her, to “make” her come to me. The next thing I can remember is my older sister’s exclamation: “You killed her,” and my numb denial that I didn’t, I didn’t. I loved her, how could I have killed her? There is still an altar built to her in my innermost being, for it was one of my first lessons about possession and holding something too tightly, about the will to power and control that lies in the way of love.
Although I can no longer remember her name, her wild peeps of delight as she followed in my tracks still haunt me today, reminding me, reminding me . . . How many times since then have I used control so destructively?
The following story about love as opposed to power and control is taken from Rachel Remen’s deeply moving book, My Grandfather’s Blessings; she attributes the origin to either Rabbi Nachman of Bratslev, or the Sufis. It was sent to her by one of her patients, a young man whom she had patiently seen for five years as he slowly emerged from his withdrawn silence into a sense of his unique personhood.
Once upon a time there was a kingdom of great abundance. The fields grew crops twice the size of normal fruits and vegetables, the cows gave cream instead of milk, and the people were productive and happy. The pride of this kingdom was the young prince, the only child of the king and queen. The hopes of everyone were pinned on this stellar young man, and when he walked in the street, the people murmured to one another, “How perfect he is in every way. What a perfect king he will make someday.” The prince spent almost all his time studying with those who were teaching him how to be the perfect King.
All went well in the kingdom until one day the young prince could not be found. Courtiers searched the palace. “The prince is missing!” flew from lip to lip, and people everywhere were in despair. The distraught king and queen ran through the thousand rooms of the palace calling the prince’s name. There was no answer. Eventually a little serving maid, sweeping the Great Hall, happened to look under the banquet table and saw the prince there. He was stark naked. “Sire,” she gasped in alarm, “What are you doing under there? Where are your clothes?”
“I am a chicken,” the prince told her. “I do not need any clothes.” Upon hearing this, she ran shrieking to the king and queen, saying that she had found the prince and that he had gone mad.
The entire castle gathered in the Hall to see this tragedy for themselves. People tried to persuade the prince to come out from under the table, or even to put on his clothes, but he refused, saying only that he was a chicken. They tried to tempt him out from under the table with the finest of foods, but he would not eat. “I am a chicken,” he told them. Eventually the little serving maid scattered a handful of corn under the table and the prince ate gratefully.
The kingdom was in chaos. The king sent out a call for wise men to come to heal the prince’s madness, and many responded. One by one, they spoke to the prince, trying to convince him that he was not a chicken, and one by one they left defeated. “I am a chicken,” the prince told them all.
At last the supply of wise men was exhausted, and the king did not know where else to turn. One day, an old farm woman asked for an audience with the king. “I will cure your son,” she told him. The king looked dubious. “Are you a wise woman?” he asked her. “No,” she said. “A scholar?” “No,” she said again. “Then how will you cure my son?”
” I will cure your son because I understand chickens.”
What is the harm, the king thought, we have tried everything else. And so he commanded a page to show the old woman the Great Hall.
As soon as she entered the Hall, the old woman removed all her clothes, crept under the table, and sat down next to the prince. The prince looked at her and said nothing. In a little while, a servant came and scattered a few handfuls of corn and when the prince began to eat, the old woman also pecked at the corn. They sat together in silence for some time longer. Finally the prince said to the old woman, “Who are you?”
“And you?” she replied, “Who are you?”
“I am a chicken,” said the prince.
“Ah,” said the old woman, “I am a chicken, too.”
The prince thought about this for several days. Gradually he began to talk to the old woman about the things that are important to chickens, things that are different from the things important to men. She understood as only another chicken could understand. They spoke not about the world as it is but about the world as it could be. They became friends.
After several weeks, the old woman called to one of the serving girls and told her to bring some clothes. When the clothes arrived, she dressed herself. The prince was horrified. “You have betrayed me!” he shouted. “You told me you were a chicken.”
“But I am a chicken,” said the old woman. “I can wear clothes and still be a chicken.” The prince thought about this for some time. Then he turned to the pile of clothing and dressed himself also. They continued their conversation as before and ate corn together as before.
After a few days more, the old woman called to one of the serving girls and told her to bring a fine meal and set it on the table. When the meal arrived, she crawled out from under the table and, sitting in a chair, began to eat. The prince was appalled. “You have lied to me!” he shouted. “You told me you were a chicken!” “But I am a chicken,” said the old woman. “I can sit at a table and eat and still be a chicken.” The prince thought about this for some time. Then he, too, crawled out from under the table and joined the old woman. They ate in silence for some time. Then the prince began to laugh. For all we know he is laughing still.
The story has a very happy ending. The prince went on to become the greatest king the kingdom had ever known. Under his rule, freedom grew in the kingdom much the way that peaches and potatoes had grown in the past. Each person became free to be the person that they were meant to be, and the people who had once been productive and happy became wise.
The king was thrilled with the old woman’s success. He called her to him and offered her any reward she wanted if she would tell him how she had convinced the prince that he was not a chicken. But she shook her head and left his presence empty-handed.
Remen reminds us that in order to offer love to others, in order to “bless the life and light” in them, we must deeply respect their uniqueness and be willing to meet them where they are, rather than expecting that they be where we are. She had supported her young patient’s integrity in much the same way the old farm woman had supported the prince, and suggests that perhaps, in the end, we are all chickens.
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