Dreaming of a Wounded Black Horse
A Psychologist Meets the Pain of Race Relations
Robin B. Zeiger, Ph.D.
I “watch” and listen to my dreams because I must. The day after I wrote a heartfelt column about George Floyd’s last breaths, I was visited by a very strange and compelling dream scene.
Dream Scene
I am out somewhere in nature, and I run into a girl and her father leading a young and wild black horse they had found. They were going to tame him. One side of this horse looked just fine. Yet, there was much more to meet the eye.
The other side bore witness to deep wounding. A long scratch stretched across his side. And there was a square-like space that looked like the color of fire.
I understood something about a lion that had maybe injured the horse and/or killed a woman.
I woke up from this dream shaky. My journey of the night was strangely disquieting. I knew from deep inside that my dream was the next installation in my blog. When we meet our dreams, ideally, we seek out our associations. Less than 24 hours before I dreamt this dream, I had quickly scrolled through many free photos in a collection entitled Black Lives Matter on Unsplash.com. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a very vivid photo of something burning.
Thanks to Unsplah.com & Andrew “Donovan” Valdivia -Instagram @duhhhitsdre
I relate with compassion, wonder and awe to the brave folks in America who continue to question the status quo and topple the statues of former racist leaders. Yet, I must confess the photo frightened me in that I associated to the destructive power of looting, burning, and violence.
While I “barely noted” the photo in my consciousness, my psyche had other reactions. “She” registered it and insisted that I take notice. Rage over injustice that has been silenced and allowed to fester untended to for so long eventually must find an outlet.
I continually find myself in awe of the power of our dreams to insist on change. Our dream psyche prods us to reach beyond our conscious selves into the land of the unconscious.
I had looked and listened to the news from America, the land of my birth. I had shed some tears and with humility attempted to write thoughtfully as a white person. I asked myself, “Who am I?” But I knew I had to do something. Yet, all of this was very much from my “head” and my intellect; a place I am too comfortable with.
In contrast, my dream of the night disturbed my calm. When we are in the midst of a dream, our waking ego has no idea, “it is just a dream.” We become frightened and angered and hurt often as if we are all the players in the dream.
All of the characters of the dream, the little girl, her father and the wounded horse beckoned to my heart. I grew up loving horses. From a very young age, I saved up my pennies in a “horsey-bank.” And at one point, as an adult I was able to own a horse. When we immigrated to a new country, one of the saddest moments was when we said good-bye to our horse, Breeze. I have met wounded and frightened horses. I helped train a young horse and I know how much the foal relies on the human’s feedback.
All was fine in the beginning. I could see and imagine and admire the soft, sleek, and beautiful side of this young animal. I could imagine the freedom and the power of the horse and the little girl, galloping off into the sunset.
Yet, I then “saw” the other side and I was shaken. I noticed that the horse had been scratched. But, much more startling, was the fire-colored wound. The distant knowledge of a murderous lion was even scarier. And with this, I woke up shaken. I am blessed and cursed with a rich dream life. But this one beckoned to me to work on it; to contemplate, to discuss it with trusted others, to engage in art, and to finally write about it.
How do I relate to the story of George Floyd and all the rage and push for change? I am white. So perhaps many would argue I can never fully understand. And I would agree on many levels. As a psychoanalyst, I must attempt to meet the deep pain of others or I am not worth my salt. On one hand, we can never stand in the place of the Other. Each story and each set of trials and tribulations belong uniquely to the One who experiences them. On the other hand, I am convinced to truly meet the other, I must discover a piece of their story inside of myself. And from here, I join the person in the dirty bathwater of suffering and transformation.
So which piece of the George Floyd story is mine? I could not have put it into words. Instead my dream offered me a poignant play to teach me something. All dreams bring something new. And like a good play, this dream scene heralded complex emotions.
I grew up as a child of the 50’s and 60’s. My personal trauma was the “patriarchal” cruelty that was visited upon children. I watched children beaten and threatened and shamed. I absorbed moments from real life and from television and stories. I was frightened and saddened and secretly enraged. As I grew and learned of other horrendous stories of racism and cruelty and abuse, I related from “inside” to my fear as a child. And I suspect that much of my drive to become a psychoanalyst was fueled by my need to heal both the inner world and the outer world.
Perhaps in meeting this dream, my psyche entrusted me with a calling; a task that went beyond my personal story. My dream of the night insisted that I “feel” the woundedness of the world. I needed the wounded horse and the little girl to allow me to empathize.
Jungian psychology speaks to us not just about our personal story but about the importance of the collective unconscious inside all of humankind. Akin to spiritual and psychological DNA, we all harbor a treasure of world images and archetypes that reside under the surface. They are not yet in to be found in our daily radar. Sometimes these buried stories and images cause us trouble. We are bothered by discontent or anger or sadness without words. Something inside is disquieting. In addition to our personal wounds and our individual narrative, we possess an uncanny “knowledge” of Anima Mundi, the World Soul, with all of the longing and suffering.
I had this sense I needed to bleed in consort with George Floyd’s horrific story. I needed to visit the deep wounds of racism from the woundedness of a young black horse and a little girl who set out to make the world a better place. Perhaps she was a stand-in for my little wounded girl who was still a bit naïve. Sadly, she had to meet the wounded horse in order to make the difference.
Like the two sides of the young black horse, perhaps my soul is both colorful and colorless; it experiences the wounds of racism, while also holding hope for something new.
When I first “looked,” I saw the side of the horse that looked just fine. The story appeared to be a sweet one of a child and her father. Yet, then I was introduced to the other side and I met my inner horror of burnings. It made me suddenly think of how animals and slaves were both branded. And this makes me sick. I have worked with refugees who went through unnamable horrors that also haunt me.
It is interesting. The entire second side of the horse bears a scratch. Here I associate to the saying, “We have just scratched the surface.” When it comes to the cruelty and the horrors of the world, it is easier to bury our emotions and to not feel.
I think I must say with humility, I have only scratched the surface — yet it is all I can do right now. And I know I must try to understand and to feel and to help heal.
I am reminded of one monumental experience. A couple of years ago, I traveled to Hawaii for a conference. I visited the site of an old volcano and walked amongst the dried black lava rocks. In the midst of these rocks, I found the beautiful red flowers that grow up after the destruction.
Sometimes we must destroy before we rebuild. Perhaps my dream is reminding me of the power of rebirth after destruction.
Robin B. Zeiger is a practicing Jungian psychoanalyst and a free-lance writer.
She is a member of the:
International Association of Analytical Psychology and the Israel Institute of Jungian Psychology. She can be reached at rbzeiger@yahoo.com.
