I’ve only seen the Alps in films (think Julie Andrews spinning amongst the meadows of Austria or Clint Eastwood’s furrowed brow overshadowed by the formidable Eiger in Switzerland) or on my TV when I diligently watch the Tour de France every year wondering how I might make it to the top of some ridiculous climb to join the others as we shout encouragement to the peloton as it winds its way to the top of Alpe d’Huez.
In my travels I am always looking for mountains. Somehow they remind me of who I am. Ones that make my body/mind feel accepted, grounded, at home. As I watched from the bus the the lush green and charming dots of Swiss homes in the landscape float by, I longed to lay my body at the feet of these enormous hunks of stone. I ache for mother earth to let me know that she is all I need. But alas, all I could do was glimpse and take quick photos hoping to bring back a small bit of the enormity I sought - Pachamama - as the Peruvians call her.
Our bus plopped us down in Altdorf for lunch. It is known for some association with William Tell (I think that’s his statue in the pic) whose story, from what I gather, is more legend than fact. I like that. Fuzzy. The past, his past, even what we consider the present, it’s all fuzzy. More fuzzy than our egos ever like to let on. The lines of now, then, true, imaginal, reality, fantasy are all fuzzy in the end. Just like the line between the night dream and the waking dream.
Altdorf was a small town mostly filled with windy medieval roads, and a piazza. I sat with Steve Aizenstadt at a cafe and had lunch. I’ve known Steve for over 20 years now, and he is one of those people who help me gauge where I am in my inner work. He was the founder and president of Pacifica Graduate Institute, the grad school where I got my masters in counseling psychology (with an emphasis in Jungian psychology). Even though I was 38 years old and my dad was still alive when I met him, I projected much of my father imago onto him, as so often a student does toward a mentor.
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