The Collective Subconscious Malaise

I woke up this morning simply unmotivated and lethargic, not due to anything physical. Slept a wonderful eight hours. It is a sublimely beautiful day.

And yet.

Here I am, sipping a cup of tea wondering why I feel so…defeated.

I crave a day alone. As an introvert (who can subsist for days without human contact), married to an extrovert desperate for social interaction, this quarantine has been rough.

There are things I can do to help. Writing always focuses my mind and takes me away from my problems. Except I feel stifled. When I sit down to the keyboard all the wonderful words float away. I could sit on a horse, something that always brings me joy. And then I don’t.

I have to force myself to do these things.

And I know I am not the only one. I am in tons of social groups on social media for writers and creative types and there are a good section of the population frozen in creative purgatory.

This morning, I perused the spines of my well-loved collection of fantasy books- the ones that survived burst pipes without smelling of mildew and rot. And something stirred.

Robert Holdstock’s Lavondyss. It is the second of a series. Mythago Wood being the first. It’s the story of Tallis, a young girl lost in a magical wood. But within that, Holdstock plays with the reason for the creation of the mythical atmosphere that ensnares Talis. Where did it come from?

He talks about the collective mythago- a subconscious energy that brings myths into creation and gives them life. The more people retell and imagine stories, the energy of the collective subconscious, the innate energy we give off, a huge collective imagination, that energy gives them power and a life of their own.

And it makes me wonder if maybe, I am caught up in the collective subconscious, the mythago, of current events.

We are all wearied and concerned with the pandemic. Many of us are beginning to take chances because of isolation fatigue.

My husband lived through a Civil War (Lebanon). He and his mother tell the stories of their experiences, how they began to take risks simply to have some semblance of normalcy, to savor the tiniest illusion that things were okay. She claims the pandemic isolation is worse.

And then there are politics, riots, racism, spotted lantern flies, murder hornets, police brutality, the virus is still out there, it’s all overwhelming.

If our collective unconscious were an image, I conjure up visions of a tempest, a miasma of ideals and conflict, sadness and uncertainty, rage holding tight to hope. It is grief. For our democracy, for our friends who are subjugated to discrimination, for our health and freedoms that we took for granted. It is fear. That all we have done and wish to do is not making enough of a difference. It is guilt. For all that we feel we could do.

Like with my life these days, I am not sure where I am headed with this. But I do think we, as humans, like to think of ourselves as individuals. And we are, but we are also parts and pieces of a complex whole. And that majority is not restful.

The Ryhope Wood in Holdstock’s novels is not a place of peace and trees. It is full of all the terrors and monsters we can imagine. It is a place where we interact with all the beauty and ugliness humans embody.

Our world is a place of wonder and horror. I can choose to focus on the beauty. The perfect day, a breeze blowing, my horses grazing, my dogs happy and relaxed around me. But I can’t ignore the ugly truths that hover outside my little bubble.

I can only add my bit of subconscious, my energy and thoughts to the storm, add my hope and faith in humanity, and riding it out in the hope of a better world.