Mythopoetry Scholar

Annual Reflections In Depth Perspectives

Shoot to Kill
Animals, Instincts and Subduing the Exotic, Chaotic Other
-Bonnie Bright


"The upheaval of our world and the upheaval of our consciousness are one and the same.”
--Carl Gustav Jung, 1933, p. 215

"In all chaos, there is a cosmos; in disorder, a secret order"
- Carl Gustav Jung, 1980, p. 32

It was the stuff of nightmares, an apocalyptic vision one might encounter only in a Hollywood blockbuster--though this time, it was real. Lions, tigers, jaguars, bears, and wolves freely roamed dark neighborhood streets in middle America, leaving tense residents huddled in their homes, shuddering with fear that a ferocious wild animal might appear suddenly in their yard or leap out and rip them to shreds. Electronic road signs screamed the almost inconceivable warning, “Caution: Exotic Animals” and terror multiplied as law enforcement officials instigated frantic searches. A feverish media frenzy rashly relayed the sensational news from every channel they had, leaving the rest of America and the world incredulous, and everyone wondered how on earth this could happen in a quiet, civilized town like Zanesville, Ohio.

Like so many others on October 19, 2011, I watched, disbelieving, as the news unfolded, conjuring up images from the 1995 movie “Jumanji” in which wild animals are manifested by children playing a supernatural board game and end up running amok, devastating a New England town. Something about this unexpected and unbelievable image grabbed hold of my psyche, captivating me, and seizing my imagination.

Carl Gustav Jung (1964) suggested images can do just that--engage us through numinous power to enter into relationship with them, becoming a symbol that then leads to transformation. While a symbol stands for something unknown, it is contextually significant to a particular individual. Symbols allow the emergence of relevant themes from the unconscious, which can reconnect us with a mode of experiencing from which we have become disconnected. Jung further believed symbols are expressions of archetypes, autonomous instincts, patterns, or behaviors, which are common across all eras, peoples, and places. Archetypes organize the contents of the unconscious and connect it, at its deepest levels, to nature.

The capacity to think in symbols is an instinctual activity of humankind. While primordial images are the language of the soul, according to Jung, in recent centuries the ego, the conscious part of the self with which an individual identifies himself, has become overly dominant. As a result, modern thinking humans have lost touch with a deeper part of ourselves, severing the very instincts that call us forward on an evolutionary path toward greater wholeness  (Storr, 1983). Jung believed that humans have become increasingly alienated from our instincts, creating significant psychic disturbances and difficulties. Our identification with rational thoughts has uprooted us from a greater context that can be seen in nature, causing us to put our conception of ourselves in place of real being. He assesses our condition, saying:


The forlorn state of consciousness in our world is due primarily to loss of instinct, and the reason for this lies in the development of the human mind over the past aeon. The more power man had over nature, the more his knowledge and skill went to his head, and the deeper became his contempt for the merely natural and accidental. (in Storr, 1983, p. 390)

Jung (1980) thought the archetypes are objective, autonomous, and acting on their own terms, which manifest in impulses, emotions, contrary feelings, dreams, and fantasies. Archetypes organize both psychic matter and physical events. Clearly, through this unexpected and energetically gripping event—the chaotic vision of wild animals wandering in city streets—seized the imagination of many of us in a new and different way, extracting us from our everyday thinking and turning our eyes toward something unusual—the manifestation of a powerful archetype in action.

The fact that these animals were “wild” or “exotic” was a significant factor. Poet and activist Gary Snyder reminds us that “wild” is associated with unruliness, disorder, and violence, while the root of “exotic” refers to "from the outside” and includes a sense of "unusual, strange, alien, or outlandish” ("exotic," n.d.). For millennia, humans have harbored strong apprehension of the wild. Cultural historian Morris Berman (1989) explains the manner in which the concept and fear of the “other” developed over time. Berman theorizes that Paleolithic peoples had no strong split between the self and “other,” citing evidence that indicates early cultures saw themselves in nature all around them and felt themselves a part of it, not being able to conceptualize being separate. Certainly there seemed to be a lack of antagonism between the two sides, allowing both the ego self and the authentic kinesthetic self to reside amicably in a larger tapestry of existence. Animal mythologies and art on the walls of Paleolithic caves from thirty to forty thousand years ago point to the fact that humans have been intertwined with animals since the earliest signs of civilization. Humans appear to have taken animal form to accomplish various shamanic tasks. Oral traditions and drawings relate how humankind descended from animals, or how animals took human form and lived among humans. Animals graced the décor of monuments and temples, and gods and goddesses were portrayed as part-human, part-animal and were often revered as powerful entities and spirit guides, making it critical to ritually ask their permission to kill and eat them. Eating an animal under these circumstances allowed the powerful essence of the animal to enter a human’s body and fortify him, becoming an element of his spirit strength.

Berman (1989) reports that in Paleolithic cultures, nature served as a mirror rather than being seen as a separate entity, so even though a wild animal might be known to be dangerous, it was also considered a living and feeling being, an extension of how humans experienced themselves, thus making it sacred—a thing to be awed or respected rather than feared. In fact, Berman suggests the relationship between humans and animals has been a more reliable mirror for human identity than the mirror itself. Long before humans had mirrors by which to regard themselves, the animal world was the “most obvious Other around” (p. 64). In the early days of humanity, humans were not driven by egos but rather by shifting moods reflective of shifts in nature and the animal world around them. Observing animals in nature served as a mirror of their own (human) nature, enabling them to see themselves by seeing what was going on outside of them.

Because analytical thinking of early humans was not as evolved as it is today, they more directly experienced their bodies as being animalistic, seeing in themselves the same tendencies and characteristics they observed in animals around them. They felt themselves to be unruly and untamed in the way they experienced involuntary bodily functions such as bristling or tingling, or in contracting diseases, giving birth, or getting tired without voluntary control. In the wake of those experiences, humans turned to animals to mirror the sensations and experiences they were feeling. As Berman (1989) says, “How we relate to animals is emotionally and cognitively isomorphic to how we relate to our own bodies” (p. 65).

It was only as humans began to cultivate the earth and then domesticate the animals to work on their behalf that a separation emerged. Animals that had been mastered and tamed were perceived to be closer to the human self, and gradually became differentiated from and then finally polarized by wild animals. A growing conflict emerged with domestication of the animal world as tame animals came to be valued as “good” and, by default, wild animals earned the opposite label of “bad. This differentiation—this perception of ‘differentness”--ultimately relegated all animals further into the unconscious or the shadow as human egos developed and animals were increasingly perceived as “other,’ resulting in a shift of tremendous psychological impact. Eventually, the contrast between the perceived human self and anything that was “other” began to be more defined. The more obvious the “other” became, the more humans began to identify it, fear it, and try to control it. Animals in general, and especially wild animals, were increasingly considered fearsome, unpredictable, threatening, dirty, subservient, and substandard. This view resulted in hierarchical thinking that demanded animals must be tamed, subdued, fended off, cast out, locked out, or conquered in order to manage the unconscious fear of an “other” that was no longer deemed sacred.

In the arena of depth and Jungian psychology, animals have managed to maintain a sacred aspect. The word “animal” is related to Jung’s terms--“anima” which he used to indicate the feminine aspect of a man’s soul, and “animus,” the masculine counterpart of a woman’s soul ("animus," n.d.). Jungian scholar Barbara Hannah articulated the vital importance of studying the symbolism of animals for anyone working with the unconscious. Jung believed animals usually represent instincts as well the divine aspect of the human psyche because they are closer to the “secret” order of nature and thus the “absolute knowledge” of the unconscious. And, as animals follow their own laws, they are beyond the “good” and “evil” labels that humans assign to everything, making them privy to the whole of things (Hannah & Kennedy-Xypolitas, 2006).

Indeed, “animal instincts” is a term that humans relate to, attributing a way of knowing which comes from something beyond the rational mind. To have access to the instincts can provide a doorway into a vast font of intuition, imagination, inspiration, creativity, and passion. At the same time, we still perceive this way of knowing as an “other” which we attribute to something outside our rational manner of thinking. Jung (1957a) underlines the notion that “all psychic processes whose energies are not under conscious control are instinctive” (para. 765) and draws the correlation to our hesitation and suspicion of the “other” by reminding us that the unconscious is found to be at a distinctly animal level (C. G. Jung, 1969). Freud (1990) referred to the instincts as the id, contrasting it with the ego andcalling it“a chaos, a cauldron full of seething excitations” (p. 73)

In mythology, the instincts were most clearly represented by Dionysus who was associated with ecstasy and untamed natural forces of all kinds. He was often depicted in the company of ferocious animals--especially big cats--as he rode astride a panther or was pulled in a chariot by tigers. Though he goes by many names, Dionysus is often called the “mad one.” (Spector, 2010). His madness, however, is a divine madness—linked to the kind of chaotic wild frenzy that also enlivens and is life-affirming. The myth of Dionysus includes an imperative to worship him, and those that did not paid severely—often through madness or dismemberment--because Dionysus would not be relegated to a dark corner to pout. Through Dionysus, the connection between animals, instincts, and the exotic, chaotic “other” becomes clear. As humans, we have fearfully deemed the natural world an “other” and have suppressed our connection to nature and the instincts in a way that we believe is protecting us—but in reality is doing us harm separating us from the fabric of reality, and killing off the living spirit that enlivens us. We have lost touch with our anima, our soul. Jung assessed it this way:
 

Man feels isolated in the cosmos. He is no longer involved in nature and has lost his emotional participation in natural events, which hitherto had symbolic meaning for him. Thunder is no longer the voice of a god, nor is lightning his avenging missile. No river contains a spirit, no tree makes a man's life, no snake is the embodiment of wisdom and no mountain still harbours a great demon. Neither do things speak to him nor can he speak to things, like stones, springs, plants and animals. He no longer has a bush-soul identifying him with a wild animal. His immediate communication with nature is gone forever, and the emotional energy it generated has sunk into the unconscious. (in Sabini, 2005, pp. 79-80)


The tremendous loss of soul brought on by ego consciousness and fear of the “exotic, chaotic other” has dismembered us both individually and collectively in a way that leaves us cut off, petrified, limited--hiding out in terror much as the residents of Zanesville, Ohio, when the “wild” emerged in the streets they thought were safe. Jung goes on to say:


The forlorn state of consciousness in our world is due primarily to loss of instinct, and the reason for this lies in the development of the human mind over the past aeon. The more power man had over nature, the more  his knowledge and skill went to his head, and the deeper became his contempt for the merely natural and accidental.
(in Storr, 1983, p. 390)


In his Eighth Duino Elegy, Rainer Maria Rilke (2001) laments this evolution of human consciousness, which separates us from the animals and limits our capacity to encounter soul. He begins:


With their whole gaze the creatures behold what is. Only our eyes
are as though reversed, and set like traps around themselves,
keeping us inside. That there is something out there
we know only from the animals' countenance,
for we turn even the young child, forcing her
to look backwards at the shapes we make,
not outwards into the open, which is reflected
in the animals' eyes.

Our eyes “as though reversed,” like “traps around themselves, keeping us inside” refers to our human eyes, and the tendency to rationalize our experience--to observe, name, label, compare, and judge—preventing us from reaching what Rilke calls the “open.” Animals, he suggests, because they have no egoic mind, are in a constant state of the “open”, able to see and experience the ground of presence and real being that humans do not. The only way we can get a glimpse of what is real is by looking in the way that animals can, without the boundaries and limitations we know. Jung understood this as well, saying:


Deep inside us is a wilderness. We call it the unconscious because we can’t control it fully, so we can’t will to create what we want from it. The collective unconscious is a great wild region where we can get in touch with the sources of life. (in Kidner, 2001, p. 237)


However, the lure of the vibrant, creative life-forces that inhabit the unconscious are quelled by the deep-seated and powerful propensity of the rational ego to subdue the wild, repress the instincts, and assert order. Any confrontation with instincts is a confrontation with chaos, and for humans, chaos threatens to annihilate us. James Hillman (1989) spoke of this conflict about quelling the chaos by using an animal image as well, saying modern humans have a “healthy, natural tendency to avoid the numinous and demonic, that dark unruly horse of the Phaedrus myth, violent yet harnessed to the chariot in which we sit and we try to manage” (p. 274), adding the caveat, “What to do about this horse has occupied the great philosophers and religious teachers for thousands of years.” (p. 274)

Jung (1957b) understood the dilemma, but expressed deep concern about fencing off the psyche, asserting, “Separation from his instinctual nature inevitably plunges civilized man into the conflict between conscious and unconscious, spirit and nature, knowledge and faith (1957b) (p. 283). Yet, the chaotic unknown of the unconscious is a terrifying place to contemplate, a wilderness of unknown—and unknowable—factors that may escape and overrun us at any time. Teeming with archetypal energies and instincts, the unconscious still appears as the “other.” Thus humans live in a constant state of agitation, constantly seeking to anticipate, foresee, gauge, label, and make sense out of the chaos and so we feel safe. What results is an artificial state of vigilance in which we obstruct or own view and cut our own capacity to experience the present moment and to simply “be”—without fear. Rilke (2001) goes on to illustrate this poignantly:


Never, not for a single day, do we let
the space before us be so unbounded
that the blooming of one flower is forever.
We are always making it into a world
and never letting it be nothing: the pure,
the unconstructed, which we breathe
and endlessly know, and need not crave.
Sometimes a child loses herself in this stillness
and gets shaken out of it. Or a person dies
and becomes it. For when death draws near, we look beyond it
with an animal's wide gaze. Lovers come close
to the open, filled with wonder,
when the beloved doesn't block the view.
It surges up behind the other, unbidden. But it's hard
to grasp, so it becomes again the world.

Ever turned toward what we create,
we see only reflections of the open, overshadowed by us.
Except when an animal mutely looks us through and through…

So, what we see is obstructed, reduced to a shadow of itself, limited by our egos that grow with us to adulthood. While children initially have the capacity to see the space beyond, our conditioning soon gets the better of us and the boundaries take shape, effectively caging us in.

The irony is, the more we establish the boundaries to keep the chaos out, the more the danger grows. Since, from a psychological standpoint, we are always attempting to rid ourselves of the fearsome “other,” we tend to repress the “otherly” aspects of ourselves that we have been conditioned to believe are unacceptable and therefore have rejected—all those things which we cannot accept or embrace, or that we have learned to judge and find lacking. These autonomous “other” aspects we reject and repress in ourselves then get relegated to the shadow where we no longer consciously deal with them. Instead, we tend to project them onto others whom we erroneously perceive as either “enemies” or “exotic” because they mirror the very shadowy “other” parts of ourselves we are unable to see. The biggest risk, of course, is that the “otherly” shadow aspects we can’t see in ourselves tend to grow stronger, eventually bursting forth unexpectedly, significantly altering consciousness and even causing insanity. (Tresan, n.d., p. para. 3) Jung (1967) explained:


If we deny the existence of autonomous systems. . . . they become an inexplicable source of disturbance which we finally assume must exist somewhere outside ourselves. The resultant projection creates a dangerous situation in that the disturbing effects are now attributed to. . . .  our neighbor. . . .This leads to collective delusions, “incidents,” revolutions, war—in a word, to destructive mass psychosis. (para. 52)


The events of October 19th were just such an “incident” as Jung cautioned about, one in which the caged instincts burst forth from where they were held prisoner, leading to a chain of devastation which included cultural and psychological dismemberment worthy of Dionysus. The catalyst behind the events of October 19th centered around Terry Thompson, a local man who had collected wild and exotic animals for years, keeping them locked in cages on his private compound, which he ironically called a “preserve”. On the day in question, bearing out Jung’s hypothesis, Thompson’s tenuous hold on sanity snapped, resulting in him arbitrarily opening the cages and loosing 56 animals, then turning a gun on himself (Melkle, 2011). Near the then-empty cages, police ultimately discovered Thompson’s lifeless body being fed on by one of his own rare white tigers. In a not-so-surprising turn of events, rather than being fed by his instincts, Thompson’s instincts had broken through and were feeding on him instead.

Arguably, the worst of the chaos unleashed by Terry Thompson in the loosing of the wild animals was not the chaos itself, but what came after—the “order” signified by the stopping and the silence. Guns and ammunition were readied and the hunt was over almost before it began as local law enforcement officers caught up in Dionysion frenzy began shooting on sight that night, killing 49 of the 56 animals in cold blood (Melkle, 2011), never realizing the destructive shadow that was at play. The definitive action to “shoot to kill” was seemingly the only way to stop the chaos initiated by these dangerous ferocious beasts and tranquilizers were hardly considered.
http://www.timesunion.com/news/article/5-accused-of-trying-to-steal-Ohio-farm-s-dead-lion-2256799.php#ixzz1eEBCWkB8)

With each of the seventeen lions, eighteen Bengal tigers, eight bears, three mountain lions, and a wolf which were executed, the shadow grew. Every aspect of the situation was complex and fraught with connotation. Each of the police who “bagged” an exotic animal has a story to tell, and may never be able to identify their own responsibility in the initial cause at all. Each of us, in fact, in America and all over the world, has a responsibility to ask ourselves what we have repressed out of fear into shadow—what is waiting to burst out and cause mayhem. Not ironically, the concept of a zoo developed during Victorian times, an era when instincts were not tolerated (Kisling, 2001). In America, our Puritan heritage is still a powerful agent in a vast part of our lives, though most of us are completely unconscious of how much we judge, look down upon, disapprove, and call out others for the way they live their lives when we are often unable to see the dark aspects of ourselves and the urges we are repressing at great detriment to our own individual psyche.

Jung (1981) knew the dangers, and how they can take—and have taken--a collective toll. He spoke to the Dionysian disorder that manifests when we do not tend to the psyche --and the consequences that may erupt:


The gigantic catastrophes that threaten us today are not elemental happenings of a physical or biological order, but psychic events. To a quite terrifying degree we are threatened by wars and revolutions which are nothing other than psychic epidemics. At any moment several millions of human beings may be smitten with a new madness, and then we shall have another world war or devastating revolution. Instead of being at the mercy of wild beasts, earthquakes, landslides, and inundations, modern man is battered by the elemental forces of his own psyche.(C. G. Jung, 1981/1934 para. 302)

As humans, our loss of contact with nature, the instincts, and the unconscious threatens to destroy us on many levels if we do not learn to come into relationship with the “forces of our own psyche.” For Jung, this was the catalyst to both World Wars and may yet ignite further apocalyptic events. Returning to Rilke (2001), we see the disturbing truth of the destruction we have caused by endlessly turning away from the chaos, by shunning the other, by endlessly attempting to limit, control, and keep order that was never meant to be:


And we: always and everywhere spectators,
turned toward the stuff of our lives, and never outward.
It all spills over us. We put it to order.
It falls apart. We order it again
and fall apart ourselves.
Who has turned us around like this?
Whatever we do, we are in the posture
of one who is about to depart.
Like a person pausing and lingering
for a moment on the last hill
where he can still see his whole valley --
this is how we live, forever
taking our leave.

Clearly, the limits we have unknowingly placed around ourselves have stymied our awareness of the plane of reality that is not bound by our thoughts, and therefore our very creative capacity for wholeness and the vast potential of the present moment. We are reminded that it is only when we as humans look at and through the animal gaze--the perspective of the exotic other—that we are given the briefest taste of the potential wonder of what is beyond our known horizons, enabling us to glimpse how far we have gone down the path of alienation in comparison:


If the confident animal, coming toward us,
had a mind like ours,
the change in him would stun us.
But his own being is endless to him, undefined, and without regard
for his condition: clear,
like his eyes. Where we see future,
he sees all, and himself
in all, made whole for always. (Rilke, 2001)

Jung (1966) insisted that instincts always bring in their wake “archetypal contents of a spiritual nature,” (para. 185) meaning they are inevitably connected to some philosophy of life. What have we learned about life from the disturbing series of events on October 19th? Could things have turned out differently that day that the instincts picked Terry Thompson as their road to revolution? There is no easy answer. The animals that were supposed to be so fierce and frightening injured no one at all; instead they were killed and laid out unceremoniously in the mud to die. Though potentially violent, they were also victims. In their ferocity, they were also fragile.

Meanwhile, it’s also true we could not have risked letting them loose long enough to harm someone—they were dangerous as it was, and it is perilous for us to underestimate the power of the instincts. Wild animals hunt, and for them, it was dinnertime. But, in Ohio, the manner in which the police chased the wild animals down deserves some serious contemplation. By shooting to kill, they only ended up cruelly subduing the instinctual uprising in yet another instance of repression--just like caging the animals in the first place. Jung (Reference Needed xxx) will tell us that when the instincts are repressed in one place, they will simply rise up in another. They can never be destroyed. Those who imposed order in Ohio by brutally slaughtering strictly out of fear and sport that which they ought to have viewed as sacred only delayed the consequences by their harsh act of violent eradication. They may sadly find themselves like Agave, one of the Maenads (the wild women of the woods) in the myth of Dionysus who participates in tearing apart a young lion and triumphantly returns with its severed head on a spear only to discover it is the head of her own son.

What is required is engaging with the instincts on their own terms—not giving over to them entirely, nor ignoring and suppressing them. If we collectively crafted a culture that paid attention to the natural way of things, wild animals would never have been kept in cages on an Ohio farm in the first place. While there was no place for this kind of wild being in an ordered, civilized neighborhood, their fierce “otherness” would be completely inherent—instinctive even--in their natural environment. There, the kind of chaos created by wild animals running amok would be a creative chaos, one of tremendous potentiality, a situation which is generative in wild nature unfolds as animals hunt, feed, run, play, mate, birth young, and even die according to cycles and instinctual patterns. Ecotheologian and Earth scholar Thomas Berry (2011) states:


Wildness. . . . is that wellspring of creativity whence comes the instinctive activities that enable all living beings to obtain their food, to find shelter, to bring forth their young: to sing and dance and fly through the air and swim through the depths of the sea. This is the same inner tendency that evokes the insight of the poet, the skill of the artist and the power of the shaman. (p. 23)

If we can re-engage with the instinctual part of ourselves, treat it with respect and awe, allow it to be a “sacred other” as it once used to be, the chaos created by “other” becomes creation. Jung (1954) corroborates this by asserting, “From the living fountain of instinct flows everything that is creative” (p. 157) and Nietzsche (1999) verbalized in Zarathustra that “one must have chaos in one, to give birth to a dancing star” (p. 89). However, by trying to control the chaos and turn in into order, we destroy the natural patterns inherent there.

Encountering the instincts is to encounter chaos—but modern complexity theory tells us chaos is also part of a larger pattern. Out of chaos comes order. You can witness it for yourself in videos freely available online that show a Chladni plate, a metal plate that vibrates according to a certain frequency (Dunlavy, 2009). Researchers throw sand on the plate and the sand forms ordered patterns that result from a given frequency. As the frequency is raised, however, the regular intervals of chaos emerge during which the sand pattern dissolves and then suddenly forms into new and ever more complex patterns as the frequency continues to increase in pitch and intensity. Significantly, as the frequency rises, the periods of chaos between patterns become shorter and shorter and each new pattern more sophisticated. In our own work and life, by paying attention to instincts and the chaos that accompanies them, we can create a better container, a natural environment in which chaos can roam and still be generative because it is aligned with something larger. In this way, we can learn to better align ourselves with the chaos, turning our eyes outward toward the “open,” identifying and enabling new patterns to emerge.

Work Cited

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Nominated in the community generated category #mythopoetics, Shoot to Kill Animals, Instincts and Subduing the Exotic, Chaotic Other, a part of the top ten nominated pages from this issue, finishes competition on 2/18/14 with an overall standing in position ***37*** among more than 3,500 nominees. Congratulations to Mary Fullwood on this fine achievement., a part of the top ten nominated pages from this issue, finishes competition on 2/18/14 with an overall standing in position ***37*** among more than 3,500 nominees. Congratulations to Bonnie Bright on this fine achievement.

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