Parable of Wolves
One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people. He said, "My son, the battle is between two "wolves" inside us all.
One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.
The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: "Which wolf wins?"
The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."
The question of modern psychiatry, she thinks, is why is the bad wolf there at all? She lives with the metaphor all the time, her demon is the bad wolf. As a sleepwalker, she denied its existence until it shoved her face in it one wet and cold night, thrusting her to the supernal. As a mage, she's distracted it, with physical pain, with dark chocolate and scotch, with enthusiasm for the sexual and sensual joys of the world, transmuting its insinuations to mockery, as she tried so hard to be loving and good.
Now, as she lay on the still-warm bricks in the courtyard, sleeplessly watching the stars, it tried a different tactic. "Just listen," it said, "and I can take away all your pain and your shame. You won't have to hide it. You won't have to pretend like it doesn't matter. It won't mean anything at all."
She reached out her hands and held them up against the sky, staring at them. The cats watched her, with puzzlement, while the stars shone down on her.
One is Evil. It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.
The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith."
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: "Which wolf wins?"
The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you feed."
The question of modern psychiatry, she thinks, is why is the bad wolf there at all? She lives with the metaphor all the time, her demon is the bad wolf. As a sleepwalker, she denied its existence until it shoved her face in it one wet and cold night, thrusting her to the supernal. As a mage, she's distracted it, with physical pain, with dark chocolate and scotch, with enthusiasm for the sexual and sensual joys of the world, transmuting its insinuations to mockery, as she tried so hard to be loving and good.
Now, as she lay on the still-warm bricks in the courtyard, sleeplessly watching the stars, it tried a different tactic. "Just listen," it said, "and I can take away all your pain and your shame. You won't have to hide it. You won't have to pretend like it doesn't matter. It won't mean anything at all."
She reached out her hands and held them up against the sky, staring at them. The cats watched her, with puzzlement, while the stars shone down on her.