C.G. Jung Institute of San Francisco, Taylor & Francis, Ltd. Jung Journal: Culture & Psyche

Koyaanisqatsi: The Dislocation of Feeling
Author(s): Marita Delaney

Source: Jung Journal: Culture & Psyche, Vol. 3, No. 4 (Fall 2009), pp. 78-87
Published by: Taylor & Francis, Ltd. on behalf of C.G. Jung Institute of San Francisco
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Koyaanisqatsi
The Dislocation of Feeling
marita delaney
The Hopi word koyaanisqatsi means “life out of balance.” The 1982 film by this name
depicted without narrative or plot the collapse of the Western world. Simultaneously
beautiful and catastrophic, the images of civilization’s decay remind us of humanity’s
unconscious anxiety about apocalypse. We are compelled to realize that our world
could be overwhelmed by a tsunami of internal destructive forces, as remaining un-
affected by the countless outer images portrayed by the media of global warming and
ecological catastrophe becomes more difficult.
In her 1986 lecture, “C. G. Jung’s Rehabilitation of the Feeling Function in
Our Civilization,” Marie-Louise von Franz reminds us that we must relate to the
outer and inner world simultaneously—the world of human relationships and kin-
ships and the inner world of the archetypes—in order to facilitate psychological
growth. To do otherwise is to risk becoming one-sided and out of balance, pervert-
ing psychological life, as shown by our over reliance on technology, on numbers,
figures, and statistical reports. These abstractions fail to help us better understand
our world, leaving us ultimately befuddled. As poet Richard Wilbur declared in
his poem “Advice to a Prophet,”
When you come, as you soon must, to the streets of our city,
Mad-eyed from stating the obvious,
Not proclaiming our fall but begging us
In God’s name to have self-pity,
Spare us all word of the weapons, their force and range,
The long numbers that rocket the mind;
Jung Journal: Culture & Psyche, Volume 3, Number 4, pp. 78–87, ISSN 1934-2039, e-ISSN 1934-2047.
© 2009 Virginia Allan Detloff Library, C.G. Jung Institute of San Francisco. All rights reserved. Please
direct all requests for permission to photocopy or reproduce article content through the U niversity of
California Press’s Rights and Permissions website at www.ucpressjournals.com/reprintinfo/asp. DOI:
10.1525/jung.2009.3.4.78.
JUNG3004_10.indd 78 10/1/09 10:23:41 AM

Marita Delaney, Koyaanisqatsi 79
Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind,

Unable to fear what is too strange . . .
(Stanzas 1 and 2, lines 1–8)
Our world is awash in “long numbers” for which we have no context and that hold no
meaning. Billion-dollar bailouts, trillion-dollar deficits, the loss of millions of species
are of such a magnitude they are meaningless to the individual psyche.
Inside each of us is a binary creature that includes a ten-million-year old man who,
Jung reminds us, is immersed in the natural world and sensitive to the rhythms of nature
and consciousness. Inside us is also is a technological, data-driven automaton laboring in
an office cubicle or distanced from the natural world by urban geography or the economic
stresses of daily survival. The instinctual aspects of human life are the psychic foundation
from which human consciousness has grown. Contact with the soft fur of animals, the
rich green of forests, the flowering of gardens, and the earth with its soft loamy surface
nurtures the parts of ourselves that have been too long separated from nature.
In Western civilization, this prevailing one-sidedness has been caused by over reli-
ance on the extraverted thinking function, which organizes and classifies human life
in a form that makes sense to our rational selves. But our overreliance on this function
means we live in relationship to a “model of reality” rather than to lived experience,
overlooking the multiple dimensions of perception, as von Franz says. This model
represents an aspect of human experience—the rational, the controlled, the planned,
and the organized—but it is only one aspect. Overemphasis on thinking, particularly
on sensate-thinking, leads to diminution of the internal psychological senses. These
senses are what connect us to the nonrational, which is so necessary to the nurturing
and maturing of the human soul in its encounter with the “other.” In her final lecture,
von Franz has pointed to animal cruelty and factory farming as indications of this
imbalance, an imbalance reflected in the disregard of feeling—an immorality that is
deeply embedded in the “manufacturing” of animals for food (2008, 9).
The manufacturing process—in which an animal’s instinctual needs for movement,
light, and relationship are neglected—is a detached and impersonal experience. Compare
this to the complex personal relationship between a hunter and an animal who is hunted and
whose flesh is used for food and clothing. A feeling relationship to food does not mean that
one never kills another being, as sacrifice is the ever-present foundation of our lives. We are
inextricably bound to the wheel of life. But when productivity becomes an end unto itself,
as often happens in for-profit activities, the most ghastly procedures may be applied. Since
von Franz’s 1986 lecture, we have seen glimmers of a growing awareness of animals’ instinc-
tual needs for movement, relationships, and play, as well as adequate food and water.
Temple Grandin, researcher and professor at Colorado State University, designs
humane livestock transport and slaughter facilities. She has suffered from autism all of
her life, and her struggle with this condition gave her a special perspective on the needs
JUNG3004_10.indd 79 10/1/09 10:23:41 AM

80 jung journal: culture & psyche 3:4 / fall 2009
of animals. As a child, she observed how calm cows became when they entered a chute.
Creating a squeeze box for herself, she found a sense of relief and calm that she experi-
enced no other way. Eventually she became able to cope more with physical touch, and
her human interactions improved.
Grandin’s unique perspective on the raising of animals for food has begun to
penetrate the food industry. By entering into the animal’s mind, she has developed
innovations that reduce fear and relieve anxiety in animals. In her recent book, Ani-
mals Make Us Human (2009), she states that the most powerful way to prevent cru-
elty in these operations is to have a strong manager who insists on humane care, as
slaughterhouse work tends to desensitize individuals. She notes that she frequently
consults and helps to institute humane changes, yet when she returns to observe a
facility’s progress, the conditions that she has helped to reform often have reversed
themselves. The leadership offered by managers determines the climate and the
acceptable practices at feedlots and slaughterhouses. A strong leader can help allevi-
ate deteriorating reforms.
Understanding the value of an animal as a sentient being, and not as product to
be packaged, is a reflection of differentiated feeling and is gradually changing the food
industry. Grandin states that animal welfare programs should be based on the emotional
systems of animals, activating positive emotions versus negative ones (2009, 3). Focusing
on animal emotions, rather than animal behavior, allows us to create environments that
reduce fear and increase natural activities. “If we get the animal’s emotions right,” Gran-
din says, “we will have fewer problem behaviors” (3). She points out that the classic West-
ern roundup with horses galloping and cowboys shouting is the worst possible way to
move cattle from one place to another. This stress causes illness. Young animals experi-
ence the most severe stress as they are separated from their mothers, which causes them
to lose weight. Cows, like many other animals, need to have no novel stimuli in an envi-
ronment where they have limited mobility, as otherwise their fear system is activated and
they are not able to titrate their closeness or distance to the unfamiliar object or sound.
Grandin’s observations—cows don’t like shouting, pigs need something new to manipu-
late—are ones that may lead to better animal handling and food production practices.
Acknowledging the complex relationship of human beings to animals and seek-
ing to understand how their lives vitalize humanity is vastly different from the uncon-
scious consumption of animals for food and the use of high productivity practices that
neglect the individual life. In his 1928 book, The Outermost House, about his year-long
retreat at Cape Cod, Henry Beston says of animals:
In a world older and more complete than ours they move finished and complete, gifted
with extensions of the senses we have lost or never attained, living by voices we shall never
hear. They are not brethren, they are not underlings; they are other nations caught with
ourselves in the net of life and time. . . . (1928/1992, 25)
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Differentiated feeling helps us to perceive that, in the presence of an animal, we are in

relationship to one who is very different from us, but also has common emotions, con-
cerns, and interests that matter, too.
Our culture is one that invariably seeks technological solutions to spiritual prob-
lems. Cruelty to animals, either deliberate or institutionalized, exemplifies a deep
spiritual problem for humanity. Faced with mortality, we seek scientific approaches
to prolonging life. Cosmetic surgery has become the norm in a culture with available
resources. When violence infiltrates a community or a country, we create more weap-
ons. By seeking technological solutions to spiritual problems, human beings may fail
to face existential issues posed by mortality, illness, or suffering in the individual life.
Divorced from the feeling function, individuals do not produce a solution, but instead
create new problems—the Frankensteins of history: animal testing of cosmetics, send-
ing dogs and chimpanzees into space with no possibility of return, and manufacturing
artificial hearts. Prolonging life does not solve the human problem of grief at a terrible
loss. Cosmetic surgery has become an alternative to developing self-acceptance. Vio-
lence begets violence, and the stakes are ultimately more terrible than the human imag-
ination wants to embrace. It is true koyaanisqatsi, life out of balance.
Yet integrated into a whole life, technological solutions may be intimations of
the divine strivings of humanity. This was what the early scientists who developed
empirical methods of research envisioned. They were at once investigators of nature
and magi, attempting to realize divine aptitudes on earth. If we consider how deeply
intertwined the worlds of science and magic were, we see evidence of how the evo-
lution of the scientific worldview owes much to the work of alchemists and magi-
cians. The sixteenth- and seventeenth-century magicians were early scientists. Fran-
cis Bacon in his prescient New Atlantis, envisioned a world run by scientists in a way
that presaged the university research institute. Bacon’s dream of extending human
power included the ability to prolong life and cure disease in an ideal informed by
the magical tradition. The scientific world moved ahead on what became a one-sided
course. Yet the magus, who sought integration of the inner world of imagination
with the outer world of natural phenomena, reveals to us one of the psychological
origins of science.
Philippus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim—Paracelsus—was physi-
cian and alchemist, scientist, and magus, and a direct predecessor of Bacon. He was the
first to view disease as related to specific entities, requiring specific treatments. For him,
to understand disease required understanding of not only chemistry and biology, but
also astrology, philosophy, and theology. Paracelsus’ medical philosophy envisioned
the body as the nexus of the earthly and divine realms. Human consciousness was in
the privileged position of being able to explore both. Treatment of disease required
an understanding of how astral forces operate in herbs and other objects of the earth.
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Frances Yates said Paracelsus was “magus as doctor, operating not only on patient’s
bodies, but on their imaginations (1964/1979, 45).
In the Paracelsan tradition, sympathy between the outer world and its inner repre-
sentation in the imagination of humanity makes a deeper knowledge of nature possible.
Observation of nature, experimentation, and sympathetic alignment of the inner and
outer worlds are the foundations of both Paracelsan “magic” and the Baconian science
that contributed to the development of the Western scientific worldview. Humanity
seeks to transcend suffering through the vehicle of science. Science contains in its heart
the impulse for wholeness, the mastery of both inner and outer worlds. The magus, or
master magician, is one who holds together the outer world of empirical knowledge
and the inner world of imagination.
Jung’s work teaches us how fragile and dissociative human consciousness is.
Human history has been characterized by fits and starts and broken ways of being.
We have been overreliant on particular psychological functions and persecutory obses-
sions that have episodically overtaken culture through such horrific events as witch
hunts, genocide, and the holocaust.
The work required of human consciousness is in part a continual attempt to integrate
our dissociated parts. So often human relationships present us with our unconscious func-
tions: thinkers attract feelers; sensate types fall in love with those who are utterly intuitive.
The repressed feeling function in our culture is invisible and manifests in what is silent—it
is the lacunae in our research and our scientific discourse. Feeling often becomes resigned
to the realm of the wholly personal and is excluded from common dialogue. Yet the feeling
function tells us what matters in our lives. From a feeling perspective, what matters most are
our relationships, our loves, our family, and our mutuality. We forge connections with other
human beings while deeply yearning for the assurance that our lives have meaning.
In her 1986 lecture, von Franz comments that
. . . the 23-year old Jung put his finger on the most important point, which has to come
first, namely that we must first really acknowledge the reality of the unconscious (of God,
i.e., the Self and of another, spirit world) before we can do anything else” (2008, 12).
This acknowledgement must precede the development of an ethical stance that incor-
porates feeling values. Scientific literature contains nascent signs of this acknowledge-
ment, such as research studies documenting the influence of prayer on healing or the
psychological power of connecting with deceased loved ones.
An example of this is described in Geri Grubb’s book, Bereavement Dreaming
and the Individuating Soul (2004). Jungian analyst Grubbs describes how the need to
connect with the dead appears to be innate. Dream incubation activities are practiced
around the world, and the veneration of ancestors appears to be both cross-cultural
and transhistorical. A commonly held belief across numerous cultures is that the soul
travels during sleep and interacts in other dimensions.
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Visitations by the dead take a variety of forms. In dream visitations, the dead
appear as they did in life, but both physically and emotionally healthier. The experi-
ence of a dead person in a dream is usually less disjointed than in an ordinary dream.
As von Franz observes, “It seems to me that one can ‘feel’ when the figure of a dead per-
son in a dream is being used as a symbol for some inner reality or whether it ‘really’ rep-
resents the dead” (1986, xv).
Grubbs identifies a type of dream she calls transliminal, which occurs immedi-
ately after the death of a loved one. These encounters manifest for one or two months
after an important death. They appear to provide support for the bereaved and allow
final goodbyes. After a month or two, they stop spontaneously. Jung himself provides
an example of this phenomenon in Memories, Dreams, Reflections:
She stood at some distance from me, looking at me squarely. She was in her prime, per-
haps about thirty, and wearing the dress which had been made for her many years before
by my cousin the medium. It was perhaps the most beautiful thing she had ever worn.
Her expression was neither joyful nor sad, but, rather, objectively wise and understand-
ing, without the slightest emotional reaction as though she were beyond the mist of
affects. I knew that it was not she, but a portrait she had commissioned for me. It con-
tained the beginning of our relationship, the events of fifty-three years of marriage and
the end of her life also. Face to face with such wholeness one remains speechless, for it
scarcely can be comprehended. (1965, 296)
Another example of this kind of profound encounter is provided by Robert Romanyshyn

in The Soul in Grief, in which he depicts his spiritual and psychological journey follow-
ing his wife’s sudden death.
In the second week after my wife’s death, I was awakened by the sound of her voice. She
spoke only my name, but her voice seemed to fill the entire room, and what I noticed
most of all was the tone with which she called me. Only once before in my life had I heard
that tone in her voice, and that was on the occasion when she had gently awakened me
from a long sleep shortly after I had been told that my father had died. Her voice on this
occasion after her own death had the same qualities of love, tenderness, and compassion
and the same soft feel of an embrace, as if the sound itself had a texture to it. And just as I
had known that she had died when she passed through the veil, I knew on that night that
the tone itself was her message. . . . She had come back, just for a moment, to ease some of
the terrible shock of our parting. Without knowing how I knew it, I knew that this jour-
ney, after dying, had not been an easy one for her.
I wanted her to stay, but she was leaving, again. Before she left, however, she gave me
another gift. Stumbling from our bed which so recently we had shared, I walked toward
our bathroom to get a glass of water. At the threshold between these two rooms, I felt her
hands on my shoulders. Turning around I saw her. She was surrounded by a radiant white
light and had increased well beyond the physical dimensions of her former earthly life. I
did not think the word “angel,” nor did I speak it. But the word was there. She had already
taken on the form of her angelic existence. (1999, 13–14)
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In the “continuing bonds” model of grieving, as it is called, the experience of a major

loss is not overcome, and libido is not withdrawn and invested elsewhere. Instead, grief
is allowed to redefine one’s relationship with the deceased. The relationship continues,
although transformed. Although not having an experience of this nature after a major
loss is rare, the experiences are hardly ever discussed and seldom become the subject
of empirical research. Still, a limited number of researchers are exploring this dimen-
sion of inner experience. In his article, “Dead Man Talking,” Craig Klugman identifies
a taxonomy of post-death contact in which he classifies the dreams likely to occur after
death: back to life dreams, advice-giving dreams, leave-taking (saying goodbye), and
state of death dreams (where the departed shares information about the other side).
In a 1997 article, Mary Sormanti and Judith August identify how the continu-
ing connection between living parents and deceased children has received little atten-
tion. In their research interviewing parents who have lost children, encounters with
the deceased children include visions and dreams that made parents feel connected to
their children. These connections had clear psychological benefits. The dreams helped
parents to “tolerate the uncertainty and ambiguity of life and death.” These experi-
ences “perpetuated parents perceptions of their child’s unique qualities, maintained
their identity as parents of that child, provided reassurance, hope and a sense of peace
amidst confusion and despair of grief ” (Sormanti and August 1997, 468). The experi-
ences illuminated the meaning of their roles as parents and the meaning of their chil-
dren’s lives.
Clearly, we lack a cultural framework to integrate the deceased into our lives.
Native culture tends to be more accepting of the importance of acknowledging the
Other Side. In Gallup, New Mexico, the Navajo nation recently constructed a casino
close to the interstate that runs from California to North Carolina. However, when it
was discovered that the soil brought in to begin construction had been from an arche-
ological site, construction was halted until reparative ceremonies could occur.
Human beings need to live always in both directions—in relationship to the future
and the now living and in relationship to the dead and ancestral inheritance. In Navajo
sand painting, healing powers are invoked by connecting the ill patient with both the
world of the Earth Surface people, as the community gathers for a ceremony, and the
Holy People. The painting creates a place to which the supernatural are attracted, a
place one interacts with the Holy Ones. Sickness is absorbed from the patient. In this
ritual reality, the natural and supernatural worlds cooperate (Griffin-Pierce 1992, 43).
Powers outside of the individual and the community are invoked in ritual chants and
sand painting. Von Franz reminds us that connection with the spiritual realm is a nec-
essary foundation for morality. She states in her lecture, “In all religions for all times
there has been the idea of gods or a god and of ‘another world’ of non-material beings,
and only this can be the foundation of real ethics” (2008, 12). In Navajo ceremonial
JUNG3004_10.indd 84 10/1/09 10:23:41 AM

healing, the prime moral injunction is to harmonize the elements of the universe in
the life of the individual. Navajo sand painting creates a place where supernaturals may
“enter and go.” To the Navajo, relatedness (k’e) is the core of the human experience, and
the depiction of sun, wind, clouds, plants, animals, and humans is designed to re-create
harmony within the individual and the universe. It is not an emotional experience, but
is instead characterized by restraint. While the ceremony carries the power to create
healing and is deeply felt, it is not overly emotional (Sandner 1991, 25).
A lesson that may be drawn from traditional Navajo ceremonial healing is that
mythic reality is invoked by a right relationship to the community and the cosmos.
In the life and in the consciousness of the individual, worlds are transformed. A tra-
ditional Navajo will rise at dawn and hold his or her thumb to the sunrise, scattering
white cornmeal or yellow corn pollen from right to left in the direction of the hori-
zon. In so doing, he or she greets the Holy People and, spreading corn pollen, says,
“I am here. I stand here, on earth, in relationship to you and all things.” The unique-
ness of the individual symbolized by the thumb with its unique whorls is the fulcrum
and the center of the universe. The individual is in the processions of the seasons, the
harmony of the world and its eternal cycles. Another morning ritual is to close one’s
hand together and wave the wind toward one’s mouth, inhaling the dawn. This ritual
signifies that one is reborn each morning to live in beauty and harmony (T.Yazzie,
A. Brown, pers. comm.).
To connect with both worlds—inner and outer, natural and scientific, magical
and medical—to have a place where the supernatural can “enter and go” in our lives—is
particularly important in this time of increasing overdependence on rationality and
the resulting loss of meaning. The psychological despair and depression that accompa-
nies materialism is a pervasive and confusing phenomenon. As life gets easier, we get
ever sadder.
That we hunger for both worlds is evident in the medium’s parlor, dreams of the
deceased, and the unconscious grief that binds us to the past. To find places where the
supernatural can “enter and go” may be a step toward the rehabilitated feeling func-
tion, the place where we can finally perceive what matters most. In liminal times such
as these, observing our own inner and outer changes is hard. Overreliance on data and
on technological innovation do not give us the world; they give us an abstraction of the
world and contribute to the profound spiritual dislocation of our time. We are left with
a hunger for our own existence and have to find another way to the world—through
dreams, the body, the unconscious, and through relationships with animals, who feed
us in a multitude of ways—literally, symbolically, and spiritually. Their keen allegiance
to their own life mirrors our own, yet they have understandings that elude our con-
scious grasp. Human life remains the “dark sphere” that Jung referred to—the sphere
that we seek to know and, in the seeking, transform ourselves.
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bibliography
Beston, Henry. 1928/1992. The outermost house: A year of life on the great beach of Cape Cod.
New York: Holt Paperbacks.
Jung, C. G. 1971. Memories, dreams, reflections. New York: Vintage Books.
Grandin, Temple and Catherine Johnson. 2009. Animals make us human: Creating the best life
for animals. Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt.
Griffin-Pierce, Trudy. 1992. Earth is my mother, sky is my father: Space, time and astronomy in
Navajo sandpainting. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press.
Grubbs, Geri. 2004. Bereavement dreaming and the individuating soul. Berwick, Maine: Nicolas-
Hays.
Klugman, Craig M. 2006. Dead men talking: Evidence of post death contact and continuing
bonds. Omega 53: 249–262.
Romanyshyn, Robert. 1999. The soul in grief: Love, death and transformation. Berkeley: North
Atlantic Books.
Sandner, Donald. 1991. Navajo symbols of healing: A Jungian exploration of ritual, image &
medicine. Rochester, Vermont: Healing Arts Press.
Sormanti, Mary and Judith August. 1997. Parental bereavement: Spiritual connections with
deceased children. American Journal of Orthopsychiatry 67: 460–469.
von Franz, Marie-Louise. 2008. C.G. Jung’s rehabilitation of the feeling function in our civiliza-
tion, Lecture, Küsnacht, November 25, 1986. Jung Journal: Culture & Psyche 2.2: 9–20.
———. 1986. On dreams and death. Boston: Shambhala
Yates, Frances. 1964/1979. Giordano Bruno and the hermetic tradition. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press.
marita delaney, ph.d., has worked as a psychologist on the Navajo reservation and in
nearby communities for fifteen years. Formerly an associate professor of counseling, she has
taught Jungian psychology at Western New Mexico University-Gallup Graduate Studies
Center. She is clinical director of Sandhill Child Development Center, a residential treatment
center for children. Correspondence: Marita Delaney, 424 North 4th St., Belen, NM 87002.
maritadelaney@yahoo.com.
abstract
Marie Louise Von Franz reminds us that we must relate to the outer and inner world
simultaneously—the world of human relationships and kinships and the inner world of the
archetypes. We cannot have one without the other or else we risk becoming one-sided and out
of balance. Translated, the Hopi word koyaanisqatsi means “life out of balance.” Immoderate
consumption has precipitated the earth’s crisis of species extinction and global warming. On the
other side of the oscillating psyche, animal rights and sensitivity emerges toward consideration
for the well-being of all sentient creatures. The animal rights movement signifies the stirring
of soul. The neglected animal body that resides within the psyche is alive in the instinctually
deprived creature whose fur we touch and whose warm breath we feel.
A casino was being constructed in western New Mexico, home to indigenous tribes. When
it was discovered that the soil brought in to help build the foundation was from a burial site,
construction was halted, until the soil was removed and a reparative ceremony held. Eros extends
to ancestral bonds, and this illustrates what is missing in Western culture. Psychological research
shows us the frequency with which we dream of the dead, and the deep meaning and fulfillment
found in these dreams. Lacking cultural context, these experiences are interior and private,
and the creation of meaning is a private experience. The feeling function is experienced on an
internal level where it is differentiated and relationships with ancestors deepen and evolve over
JUNG3004_10.indd 86 10/1/09 10:23:42 AM

time. This experience nurtures the individual but does not tap into collective healing powers to
balance the lopsidedness of the civilization.
Mastery of nature was the spiritual impetus behind the historical and cultural developments
that have become the technological age in which we live. What von Franz points us toward
is moral courage to master ourselves by becoming fully ourselves and to heal the internal and
external rifts that we so precariously endure.
key words
animal, animal husbandry, animal rights, civilization, consciousness, dreams, feeling func-
tion, Temple Grandin, grief, C. G. Jung, koyaanisqatsi, magic, magus, Marie-Louise von Franz,
Navajo, Paracelsus, spiritual
JUNG3004_10.indd 87 10/1/09 10:23:42 AM

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Koyaanisqatsi: The Dislocation of Feeling

Author(s): Marita Delaney

JUNG3004_10.indd 78 10/1/09 10:23:41 AM

Our slow, unreckoning hearts will be left behind,

JUNG3004_10.indd 79 10/1/09 10:23:41 AM

JUNG3004_10.indd 80 10/1/09 10:23:41 AM

Differentiated feeling helps us to perceive that, in the presence of an animal, we are in

JUNG3004_10.indd 81 10/1/09 10:23:41 AM

JUNG3004_10.indd 82 10/1/09 10:23:41 AM

Another example of this kind of profound encounter is provided by Robert Romanyshyn

JUNG3004_10.indd 83 10/1/09 10:23:41 AM

In the “continuing bonds” model of grieving, as it is called, the experience of a major

JUNG3004_10.indd 84 10/1/09 10:23:41 AM

JUNG3004_10.indd 85 10/1/09 10:23:42 AM

JUNG3004_10.indd 86 10/1/09 10:23:42 AM

JUNG3004_10.indd 87 10/1/09 10:23:42 AM

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