Jung and Taos, New Mexico


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Carl Jung and Taos, New
Mexico

January 5, 1925


Carl Jung and Hopi elder named Antonio Mirabal (also
known as Ochwiay Biano and Mountain Lake)

 

 

Taos Valley News (Taos, New Mexico),

Sat., Jan, 10, 1925, headed “Illustrious Visitors to
Taos”: “Dr. Carl Jung, world famed psychologist and
contemporary of Freud, in company with Fowler McCormick, son
of the famous harvester machinery magnate and grandson of
John D. Rockefeller, Sr. visited Taos Monday of this week.
The party is touring the United States and came up from
Santa Fe to see the ancient village. While here they
registered at the Columbian Hotel.” In the same issue,
headed “Visits Taos Again”: “James Angelo [Jaime de
Angulo – Jaime de Angulo, [student of Indian
languages-1925 ], professor of anthropology in Berkeley
University, Calif., visited Taos and attended the Buffalo
Dance at the pueblo Tuesday. Mr. Angelo has been a frequent
visitor to Taos, this time accompanying Dr. Jung and Mr.
McCormick. The gendemen are traveling across the country in
a Chevrolet.”

The following is from ‘Jaime in Taos’, Comiled by Gui de Angulo – The Taos Papers of Jaime de Angulo

Carl Jung was brought to Taos, New Mexico by Jaime de Angulo. Jung wrote Jaime and they met at the Grand Canyon in Arizonia. The following is from a etter from Jaime de Angulo to Mabel Dodge Luhan.

Jaime returned to Taos in January of 1925. He describes the trip in the following letter sent to Mabel Dodge Luhan, who was in New York being analyzed.

Jaime in Taos

Taos Indians
Mabel,

These were two very sweet letters you sent us. We should have answered long ago, but you know how it is with us and no servants, and all the spare time we can scrape devoted religiously to writing up the grammar of the Taos language. We are collaborating on it, N. and I.

Well, by this time you must have heard from Tony an account of my suddenly appearing in Taos with Jung. It was all very sudden. It seems that he decided out of a clear sky to cross over to America for the sake of a little vacation on the steamer. Then the first thing I knew there was a telegram asking me to come and meet him at the Grand Canyon “no expense to you. ” I recognised the generous hand of Mr. Porter (of Chicago). The telegram mentioned the possibility of visiting an Indian Pueblo.

You can imagine my excitement. I made up my mind that I would kidnap him if necessary and take him to Taos. It was quite a fight because his time was so limited, but I finally carried it. And he was not sorry that he went. It was a revelation to him, the whole thing. Of course I had prepared Mountain Lake (Antonio Mirabal)*. He and Jung made contact immediately and had a long talk on religion. Jung said that I was perfectly right in all that I intuited about their psychological condition. He said that evening “I had the extraordinary sensation that I was talking to an Egyptian priest of the fifteenth century before Christ. ” The trip was an immense success all around. Jung got a great deal out of it. I got a great deal out of Jung, both about philosophy and about my own work. I needed his confirmation of all the stuff I have been working out by my own lonely self and against all anthropological precedent. And I got Porter and young McCormick interested in the Indian question. They realized my thesis: the white American must preserve the Indian, not as a matter of justice or even of brotherly charity, but in order to save his own neck. The European can always tie back to his own mother soil and find therein the spiritual pabulum necessary to life. But the American, overburdened with material culture, is threatened with self-destruction unless he can find some way to tie himself to his own mother soil. The Indian holds that key.
They saw my thesis, and they solemnly promised me that they would not forget it but would use their energy and their influence towards some sort of steady campaign. Maybe they will, maybe they won’t. Maybe the dream of my life is on its way!

What news of Clarence? and of Lawrence?

J-

*Mountain Lake was the Indian with whom Jaime had studied the Taos language.

Mountain Lake and Mary Lake Collier 1926

Mountain Lake and Mary Lake Collier, 1926

 

C.G. Jung in Taos: A Creative Mis-Encounter

David Barton, June 2014

In his book-length conversation on The Red Book,
James Hillman suggests two directions out of the box of
modern thinking: “moving up to erudition or moving down
to the indigenous” (187). Erudition describes some, but
not all, of C.G. Jung’s work: the elaborate footnotes,
rambling digressions, un-translated Greek phrases, and
obscure references. As Hillman suggests, this
“upward” movement, this movement into erudition,
can be an attempt to free ourselves from reductionism, from
the flattening of the world created by the analytical mind.
Erudition complicates the world, reveling in its
complexities and casting us back into the
“strangeness” of ideas, into the timeless
dialogues, the unresolved and unresolvable questions that
form the seminal fountainhead of the Western tradition
(188).

Despite these flights of erudition, Jung is perhaps
better characterized by a move in the other direction, the
falling “down into the indigenous,” the
preposition down suggesting both a value judgment and a
return to an older cosmology. Down signifies lower, less
developed, the childhood of the historical past that is
(ambivalently) experienced as “primitive” on the
one hand and rejuvenating on the other. Although this pull
downwards is found throughout Jung’s work, I want to
focus on the contact with indigenous people, the first being
Antonio Mirabal, whom Jung called Mountain Lake. As others
have suggested, the meeting with Mirabal was a pivotal
moment in Jung’s life, a touchstone, but it was also a
mis-Encounter, one that still carries a great deal of
unrealized potential.

 

“We do not understand them (white people)
. We think they are mad” he told Jung, adding that
“whites believed they thought with their heads,”
when everyone at the Pueblo knew thinking comes from the
heart.

 

Jung’s first meeting with indigenous culture
occurred in January of 1925. Steam-shipping to America at
the request of Edith and Harold McCormick, his American
benefactors, Jung arrived in New York City on December 22
for a three-week whirl-wind tour of Chicago, Louisiana, and
the American Southwest. At the Grande Canyon he was joined
by a gang of Californians, including the brilliant Jaime de
Angulo, an anthropologist Jung had been attempting to
cultivate. De Angulo later renounced all things Jungian, but
at the time he was still both an avid enthusiast and
sharp-tongued critic, telling Jung in letters that he and
Freud were “wrong from beginning to end” when it
came to understanding indigenous people (de Angulo, Coyote,
173). Jung delighted in the critical exchanges, offering to
fund some of de Angulo’s anthropological research. From
the Grande Canyon the two drove cross country with Fowler
McCormick, the grandson of John D. Rockefeeler, Sr.,
arriving in Taos on January 5, 1925, where they attended a
Buffalo dance (Taos News). They appear to have spent two
weeks in Northern New Mexico, and de Angulo arranged for
Jung to have at least two conversations with Antonio
Mirabal, the Taos Indian who had been helping de Angulo
build a written lexicon of the Tiwa language. Neither Jung
nor any of his biographers noted the delicious irony that
Jung bunked at the Columbus Hotel, just as he had crossed
the Atlantic on a ship named The Columbus. I suspect Jung
didn’t note the irony because was still only dimly
aware Colonial underpinnings of many of his ideas, nor did
he yet appreciate the animosity Native Americans felt
towards the man who brought Europeans to America.

From a charitable point of view, Jung’s burning
desire to visit an Indian reservation should be seen as a
heroic attempt to witness indigenous people on their own
terms, but much of what he learned in his two days at Taos
was simply wrong. On personal level, however, the trip
proved vital. Standing on the fifth floor of the Taos
Pueblo, he conversed to Antonio Mirabal “as he had
rarely been able to talk with a European.” As they
looked across the Taos plateau, his acquaintance wrapped in
a woolen blanket to guard against the winter frost, Mirabal
spoke of Father Sun, who provided life, and of the sacred
mountain, from which all life came, and of the importance of
the kiva rituals which helped Sun cross the sky, telling
Jung that “If we were to cease practicing our religion,
in ten years the sun would no longer rise” (Jung, MDR,
246-253).

In another passage reported by Jung, Mirabal talked
openly about how he felt about “white” culture,
starting with his perception of the features of the white
man: thin lips, sharp noses, and cruel dispositions, giving
them the appearance of birds of prey. White people were
restless, Mirabal said, as they were searching for what they
couldn’t find. “We do not understand them. We
think they are mad” he told Jung, adding that
“whites believed they thought with their heads,”
when everyone at the Pueblo knew thinking comes from the
heart (Jung, MDR, 247-248). Such statements should have been
in no way shocking to someone who was already reading and
thinking about indigenous people, but the comments appear to
have been directed personally at Jung, as a man who still
thought with his head and who was certainly searching for
something he couldn’t find. Whatever the case, Jung
fell into a deep meditation, one that has been described not
only as a moment of profound “emotional and
psychological confrontation” with himself but as an
oceanic meeting of the world that verged on a participation
mystique that had previously been ascribed to
“primitives” (Bernstein x).

We may never fully understand the communion that Jung
felt with Mirabal, but it’s hard to believe that he
didn’t associate those conversations with those he had
been having in The Red Book for more than 10 years, or with
his Big Dream of 1913, in which he colluded “with a
brown-skin savage man” to assassinate the Germanic hero
Siegfried, with whom Jung identified (MDR 180). Almost ten
years later, in a letter he wrote to Mirabal, Jung was still
attempting to understand his experience, asking Mirabal
(somewhat inappropriately) to reveal the secrets of the
kiva. “Any information you can give me about your
religious life is always welcome to me,” Jung wrote.
“I shall keep all that information to myself, but it is
most helpful to me, as I am busy exploring the truth in
which Indians believe. It always impressed me as a great
truth, but one hears so little about it, and particularly
over here, where there are no Indians.” He added,
somewhat ruefully, that he could find “no interesting
religious things” in Europe, “only the remnants of
old things” that no longer carried vitality (Letters,
20-21).

The tragedy is that Jung got so much wrong, and his
misunderstandings have been repeated by most of those who
have written about his trip to Taos. Mirabal was not an
Indian chief, nor did he hold any office in the tribe, and
he almost certainly wasn’t a Hopi elder, as he was a
relatively young man who had never lived at Hopi. His Indian
name was not Ochwiay Biano, as Jung reported, (that name is
missing the proper Tiwa suffixes), and Jung mischaracterized
the English translation of his Indian name as Mountain Lake,
perhaps as a result of a simplification made by Mirabal
himself (the actual name being more complicated, suggesting
one who is on the way to a pilgrimage at a body of water,
probably Blue Lake, a sacred site on Taos Mountain).
Finally, Mirabal was not the simple, isolated Indian that
Jung imagined but an intelligent, well-travelled impresario
who had become an intimate friend of D.H. Lawrence. Within a
few years Mirabal would become a national political force in
Indian relations, refusing an invitation to meet with
President Herbert Hoover, whom he despised, and later
travelling to New York to advise Franklin Roosevelt on
Indian policy (Sheboygan Press).

Mirabal was also a intimate friend of Tony Lujan and his
wife, Mabel Lujan Dodge, one of the most influential arts
patron of the early 20th century. Having lived in Florance,
New York, and Santa Barbara, Dodge relocated to Taos to
found a literary colony that was dedicated to the
rejuvenation of Western society. It was Dodge who brought
D.H. Lawrence to Taos, as well as Jaime de Angulo, scheming
behind the scenes to bring Jung as well. It was in a letter
to Dodge that de Angulo had written that “the white man
must preserve the Indian, not as a matter of justice or
brotherly charity, but in order to save his own neck”
(Rednick 185), a sentiment which Dodge shared completely.
D.H. Lawrence shared the vision as well, writing that in New
Mexico, living among the Indians, he rediscovered “the
ancient race self and religious self” that had long
been eradicated in Europe (Lawrence 16). For both Lawrence
and Dodge, the union between white culture and Indian
culture would create a new kind of society.

It’s important to remember, then, that Jung’s
encounter with Mirabal was marinated in these long-running
ideas, not least because Mirabal was a daily visitor at the
Dodge house. While Jung imagined himself having an innocent
conversation with his first “primitive,” he was
unwittingly entering into the remnants of an extra-ordinary
attempt by artists, intellectuals, and Indians to build a
new consciousness involving both European and indigenous
sensibilities. De Angulo himself had been a frequent visitor
to the Dodge house, and he must have discussed the unique
atmosphere in Taos on their long, cross-country drive. If
not, Jung clearly intuited the relationship between what he
found in Taos and his own work.

Given the importance of the visit for Jung, including the
recollections in his autobiography, I’m left wondering
why so little has been written on the subject. Why
haven’t we known, for instance, about what Jung got
wrong? Given Jung’s own inclinations, I’m also
stunned that there has been no sustained, in-depth dialogue
between the Jungian community and indigenous people. Surely
one part of the answer lies in the difficulty of such a
project, given the shadow of colonization, the issues of
distrust, guilt, anger, and betrayal that make dialogue
difficult. But not just that: such a project is ultimately a
creative risk, an invitation into the impossibility involved
in simultaneously entertaining two incompatible ideas, or
cultures, a dis-orientation that requires (temporarily and
psychologically) leaving behind the certainty that any
discipline or body of work provides.

Thankfully, events in the last few years have re-awakened
such possibilities. I am thinking, for instance, of the
increasing number of Native Americans who have shown an
interest in Jung, including students, scholars, and
psychologists, as well as Analytical Psychologists,
principally Jerome Bernstein, who have done the hard work of
listening to Native American traditions on their own terms.
To my mind the most important development has been the
publication in 2006 of the first full-length study of Jung
by a Native American, a book that has gone largely
unrecognized in the world of Analytical Psychology, although
not in the Indian world, where the author, Vine Deloria, is
a legendary figure. C.G. Jung and the Sioux Traditions is an
extra-ordinary book in many ways, opening a entire new field
of study, one combining but the upwards flight of erudition
and the descent into indigenous life. The book is equal
measures appreciation and critique of Jung, whom Deloria
looks upon with love and horror. From Deloria’s
indigenous perspective, Jung gets much wrong but also
provides the only psychological system capable of
communicating “the wisdom of American Indian
culture” to the Western psyche (Bernstein xi). Deloria
returned to this manuscript again and again in the last two
decades of his life, much as Jung returned to The Red Book
for two decades, repeating, clarifying, reworking,
exorcising his compulsive need to get it right.

As for myself, I teach both Deloria and Jung side by side
in an upper-division seminar for interdisciplinary students
in psychology and the humanities. I can report that students
are fascinated by the conflict between Deloria and Jung, as
if they understand instinctively that the imbalance and
friction between the two of them is related to an unseen
harmony, some future prospect that they can often feel but
can’t articulate. About two-thirds of the undergraduate
students I’ve worked with identify with Deloria and his
Native American sensibilities, rather than Jung, a fact that
suggests the creative possibility still exists.

Work Cited

Berenstein, Jerome. Forward. C.G. Jung and the Siuux
Traditions: Dreams, Visions, Nature, and the Primitive by
Vine Deloira, Jr.. New Orleans: Spring Journal Books,
2006.

De Angulo, Gui. Jaime in Taos: The Taos Papers of Jaime
de Angulo. San Francisco: City Lights P, 1985.

De Angulo, Gui. The Old Coyote of Big Sur: The Life of
Jaime de Angulo. Berkelely: Stonegarden P, 1995.

Deloria, Jr., Vine. C.G. Jung and the Siuux Traditions:
Dreams, Visions, Nature, and the Primitive. New Orleans:
Spring Journal Books, 2006.

Hillman, James and Sonu Shamdasani. Lament of the Dead:
Psychology after Jung’s Redbook. New York: W.W. Norton,
2013.

Jung, C.G. Ed. Gerhard Adler. Selected Letters of C.G.
Jung, 1909-1961. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1984.

Jung, C.G. Trans. Richard and Clara Winston. Memories,
Dream, Reflections. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1963.

Lawrence, D.H., “New Mexico.” Originally
written in 1928. Republished in New Mexico Magazine, July
1997, pages 12-20.

Rudnick, Lois Palken. Mabel Dodge Luhan: New Woman, New
Worlds. Albuqeurque: UNM Press, 1984.

Sheboygan Press, Jan. 26, 1933, (page number?).

The Taos News, unnamed author, Jan. 10, 1925, 1.

 

 

Lessons of Jung’s Encounter with Native
Americans

…….Ochwiay Biano

 

In Memories, Dreams, Reflections (1973) Jung
described his encounter with Native Americans he met in New
Mexico in 1925. This event, though brief, had a profound
effect on Jung, and he referred to it many times in his
writings. He commented that his experience in New Mexico
made him aware of his imprisonment “in the cultural
consciousness of the white man” (Jung, 1973, p. 247).

At the Taos pueblo, Jung spoke for the first time with a
non-white, a Hopi elder named Antonio Mirabal (also known as
Ochwiay Biano and Mountain Lake), who said that whites were
always uneasy and restless: “We do not understand them. We
think that they are mad” (Jung, 1973, p. 248). Jung asked
him why he thought the whites were mad, and the reply was ”
‘They say that they think with their heads . . . . We think
here,’ he said, indicating his heart” (p. 248). Impressed,
Jung said he realized that Mountain Lake had unveiled a
significant truth about whites.

To Jung the Indians he met appeared to be tranquil and
dignified, which Jung attributed to their belief that (as
Mountain Lake explained) through their religious practice,
they helped the sun cross the sky every day. Jung believed
this belief and practice served the function of making the
Indians’ lives cosmologically meaningful. Whites, on the
other hand, use reason to formulate the meaning of life:
“Knowledge does not enrich us; it removes us more and more
from the mythic world in which we were once at home by right
of birth” (Jung, 1973, p. 252). Jung said that it would be
necessary to put away all European rationalism and knowledge
of the world to begin to understand the Pueblo Indian’s
point of view.

Jung pointed out that “The idea, absurd to us, that a
ritual act can magically affect the sun is, upon closer
examination, no less irrational” than the Christian religion
which, like every religion, is “permeated by the idea that
special acts or a special kind of action can influence god –
for example, through certain rites or prayers” (Jung, 1973,
p. 253). Jung said that while the cosmological beliefs of
the pueblo dwellers would be seen as superstitious by
Europeans, to the Native Americans European beliefs about
science would be seen as superstitious and illogical (Jung,
1964). To Mountain Lake, it was obvious than that the sun
provides all light and all life and is therefore the great
father or God. Jung, on the other hand, argued that God is
the one who created the sun. Jung realized that from a
modern perspective, Mountain Lake’s animism and Christianity
are equally superstitious.

Jung attributed the dignity and serenity of the Pueblo
Indians to their relationship to the deity, and their belief
that their rituals were essential to keep the universe
functioning (Berger & Segaller, 2000). Jung interpreted
Mountain Lake’s reference to the restlessness of whites as
describing their “insatiable lust to lord it in every land,”
and their megalomania “which leads us to suppose that
Christianity is the only truth” (Jung, 1933, p. 213). In
Jung’s view, the religious and cosmological beliefs of all
cultures are useful to help people make their existence seem
meaningful.

The main lesson Jung learned from his encounter with
Mountain Lake was the importance of forging meaning through
a coherent system of beliefs and practice. The content of
the belief system is secondary; since philosophical and
religious beliefs are based on faith and cannot be
empirically validated, in a sense one system is as good as
another. Each culture or subculture has their own system of
beliefs and practices that provide a sense of meaning. Such
belief systems need not be religious; even an agnostic or
atheist worldview provides the individual with a view of
existence that makes sense to that individual.

Jung was interested in developing a theory of how Pueblo
psychology might complement his theory of personality types
(Bair, 2003). Jung’s visit with Mountain Lake (who he called
his “Red Indian friend” (Jung, 1933, p. 213)) prompted him
to think about how different cultures value thinking and
feeling differently, just as individuals within a culture
do. Based on Mountain Lake’s comment that Indians think with
their hearts rather than their heads, Jung speculated that
there is a great divide between whites and Indians, and he
seemed to admire the Indian psychology.

Jung’s theory of psychological types has been compared to
the circular sand paintings of the Navajo, which symbolize
the mythical history of the gods, the ancestors and mankind
(Sandner, 1991). Duran (1995) graphically represented the
four Jungian personality types on two axes (north/thinking;
east/sensation; south/feeling; and west/intuition. Others
have placed the types in different positions on a circle
(north/sensation; east/thinking; south/intuition; and
west/feeling (Moodley & West, 2005). Which type goes
with which compass point is, apparently, not important, as
long as thinking is opposite feeling and sensation is
opposite intuition. Two additional psychological functions
of introversion and extraversion could be visualized as
being above and below the center of the circle. For an
individual, the goal is to walk in balance at the center of
the sphere (Duran, 2006).

Duran (1984) criticized Jung for his overly idealized
view of Native Americans, specifically Jung’s (1964) comment
that the Indians were so at ease that they were unaware that
they were living in America (under the domination of the
whites). Jung did not see that many Indian people felt so
oppressed that they were drinking themselves to death,
according to Duran (1984).

Jung saw the lives of the Indians he met as simple and
serene, even though their serenity was based on what Jung
considered an animistic mythological system. Jung’s view of
the Indians as serene and tranquil may be considered as
stereotyping to some degree. Many Europeans and
European-Americans have seen the aboriginal Indian people as
“noble savages,” as if their lack of advanced technology
somehow made them inherently noble. A more reasoned view
would be that Indian people are people like any others, and
have both positive and negative aspects. The apparent
simplicity and tranquility of the Pueblo dwellers impressed
Jung, but in his brief one-day visit he apparently was not
made aware of the many social problems that were, and still
are, common in many Indian communities. A longer visit may
have revealed some distress beneath the tranquility. In
addition, if, as Jung concluded, all religious and
mythological systems are equally irrational, then why
idealize one over another? But Jung’s encounter with
Mountain Lake did illustrate to Jung how different cultures
are similar in their need to make sense of the universe,
even if their explanations differ.

Jung may also have over-generalized about the Indians
when he tried to compare their thinking style to that of
whites. Jung believed that being fully conscious requires
intensive thinking, and is exhausting. Primitive people (as
he called them) do not think; if they think at all, it is in
the belly or in the heart; they are conscious only of
emotional thoughts (Jung, 1968). Referring to the Pueblo
dwellers, Mountain Lake said they think with their hearts,
not their heads. Jung said “the Pueblo Indians derive
consciousness from the intensity of feeling. Abstract
thought does not exist for them. . . . They cannot go beyond
the perceptions of their senses and their feelings” (Jung,
1968, p. 9).

Jung’s interest in Indian psychology is admirable,
although today it is apparent that his generalizations about
Indian psychology were simplistic and based on very little
information. His only Indian informant on psychology was
Mountain Lake, who only talked with Jung for part of one day
and told Jung generalities already known to the general
public (Bair, 2003). Jung’s limited understanding of Indian
psychology led him to idealize it. Given Jung’s interest in
world mythologies and his belief that all such systems are
human creations, one might expect him to simply describe the
Pueblo dweller’s beliefs as one more belief system, rather
than idealize it.

Jung was, of course, correct that the Pueblo belief
system was sophisticated enough to serve as a meaning-making
system for the Indian people who believed in it. He said
“Primitive psychology is by no means primitive” (Jung, 1968,
p. 9). Jung actually found his own ideas more in tune with
the Pueblo Indians than with the culture of early
twentieth-century Europe. “He saw that it was quite wrong to
believe that the white man had all the truths” (Berger &
Segaller, 2000, p. 152). Jung wrote “it is not only
primitive man whose psychology is archaic. It is the
psychology also of modern civilized man . . . . every
civilized human being, however high his conscious
development, is still an archaic man at the deeper levels of
his psyche” (Jung, 1964, p. 50-51). This thought reinforces
the idea that while modern whites might think they know it
all, most of them still operate psychologically at a
primitive level. For example, many Americans participate
fully in their highly technological society while at the
same time holding religious beliefs that date back thousands
of years.

Jung never forgot his encounter with the Indians in New
Mexico. In a letter to Mountain Lake several years after his
visit, Jung said “I am busy exploring the truth in which
Indians believe. It always impressed me as a great truth”
(quoted in Berger & Segaller, 2000, p. 137). One lesson
of Jung’s encounter with Mountain Lake is that all humans
need a belief system to make sense of the universe, even if
every culture has a different belief system, and there is no
way to know which (if any) belief system is correct. Jung
seemed to feel that it really does not matter which system
is believed, since the effect (a sense of meaning) in each
case is the same.

Just a year before he died, Jung said that Mountain Lake
correctly assumed that the consciousness and meaning of his
people “will die when destroyed by the narrow-mindedness of
American rationalism” (quoted in Berger & Segaller,
2000, p. 153). From this comment it appears that Jung felt
that American society as a whole emphasized the thinking
function to the exclusion of the feeling function. In
Jungian analysis, an individual who was unbalanced in this
way would be encouraged to experiment with getting more in
touch with his or her feeling side (Duran, 2006).

There are interesting similarities between Jung’s
theories and Native American healing. Sandner (1991)
suggested that the traditional symbolic healing rituals of
the Navajo operate on the same principles as modern
psychotherapy, which is also a symbolic form of healing.
While almost all forms of psychotherapy operate on a
symbolic level, Jung’s analytical psychology is perhaps the
approach that most explicitly recognizes the symbolic and
mythological dimensions of the human personality. Like the
ritual healing ceremonies of Native Americans, psychotherapy
is a socially sanctioned ritual that involves its own belief
system. While modern psychotherapies like to claim their
practices are empirically supported, often the reference to
science is just a pro forma part of the ritual. In modern
healing practices, science tends to have more credibility to
patients than ancient ceremonies, but scientific practices
are not necessarily more effective for healing psychological
distress.

It has been noted that Jung’s view of the goal of
psychotherapy as achieving balance and integration of the
parts of the self is similar to the goal of traditional
Native American healing rituals. After studying the
ceremonies of the Navajo for many years, Donald Sandner
noted that “If you wanted a place to look for corroboration
of a lot of Jung’s views . . . you could do no better than
to look into the Navajo symbol system – it’s all there. It’s
all put together from the collective unconscious” (quoted in
Berger & Segaller, 2000, p. 141). Joseph Henderson said
“The Indian’s ceremonies come from the rightful use of
archetypes in the unconscious” (quoted in Berger &
Segaller, 2000, p. 144). It may be that the widespread
belief that humans have disparate aspects that must be
integrated into a whole to be healthy provides support for
Jung’s concept of the collective unconscious.

C. G. Jung’s encounter with Mountain Lake in New Mexico
was a provocative meeting that Jung always remembered with
fondness. He felt that he learned important lessons about
how Indian people think, and about the relativism and
utility of belief systems. Mountain Lake’s perspective on
the meaning of existence made clear to Jung that all humans
would benefit by having a clear (but humble) sense of their
own significance in the order of things.

 

Source:

Lessons
of Jung’s Encounter with Native Americans
, Timothy C.
Thomason



The following is from Bridge
to Oneness

Carl Jung’s experience in New Mexico with the
Pueblos Indians

Posted on April 20, 2012

MEMORIES, DREAMS, REFLECTIONS BY C.G. JUNG

In this long passage, there are two distinct but yet
related stories. One is about how the Pueblos see the white
man who has colonized them and is about to destroy their
ancient culture. The second story goes into the mysteries of
Indians ways of relating to nature and in particular the
sun: “After all,” he said, “we are a people
who live on the roof of the world; we are the sons of the
Father Sun, and with our religion we daily help our father
to go across the sky. We do this not only for ourselves, but
for the whole world. If we were to cease practising our
religion, in ten years time the sun would no longer rise.
Then it would be night forever.”

Please let me know how you feel and what you think about
this passage !

On my next trip to the United States I went with a group
of American friends to visit the Indians of New Mexico, the
city-building Pueblos. “City,” however, is too
strong a word. What they build are in reality only villages;
but their crowded houses piled one atop the other suggest
the word “city,” as do their language and their
whole manner. There for the first time I had the good
fortune to talk with a non-European, that is, to a
non-white. He was the chief of the Taos Pueblos, an
intelligent man between the ages of forty and fifty. His
name was Ochwiay Bianco (Mountain Lake). I was able to talk
with him as I have rarely been able to talk with a European.
To be sure, he was caught up in his world just as much as a
European is caught up in his, but what a world it was! In
talk with a European, one is constantly running up on the
sandbars of things long known but never understood; with
this Indian, the vessel floated freely on deep, alien seas.
At the same time, one never knows which is more enjoyable:
catching sight of new shores, or discovering new approaches
to age-old knowledge that has been almost forgotten.

“See,” Ochwiay Bianco said, “how cruel the
whites look. Their lips are thin, their noses sharp, their
faces furrowed and distorted by folds. Their eyes have a
staring expression; they are always seeking something. What
are they seeking? The whites always want something; they are
always uneasy and restless. We do not know what they want.
We do not understand them. We think they are mad.”

I asked him why he thought the whites were all mad.

“They say they think with their heads,” he
replied.

“Why of course. What do you think with,” I
asked him in surprise.

“We think here,” he said, indicating his
heart.

I fell into a long meditation. For the first time in my
life, as it seemed to me, someone had drawn for me a picture
of the real white man. It was as though until now I had seen
nothing but sentimental, prettified colour prints. This
Indian had struck our vulnerable spot, unveiled a truth to
which we are blind. I felt rising within me like a shapeless
mist something unknown and yet deeply familiar. And out of
this mist, image upon image detached itself: first Roman
legions smashing into the cities of Gaul, and the keenly
incised features of Julius Caesar, Scipio Africanus, and
Pompey. I saw the Roman eagle on the North Sea and on the
banks of the White Nile. Then I saw St. Augustine
transmitting the Christian creed to the Britons on the tips
of Roman lances, and Charlemagne’s most glorious forced
conversions of the heathen; then the pillaging and murdering
bands of the Crusading armies. With a severe stab I realised
the hollowness of that old romanticism about the Crusades.
Then followed Columbus, Cortes, and the other conquistadors
who with fire, sword, torture and Christianity came down
upon even these remote Pueblos dreaming peacefully in the
Sun, their Father. I saw, too, the peoples of the Pacific
islands decimated by firewater, syphilis, and scarlet fever
carried in the clothes the missionaries forced on them.

It was enough. What we from our point of view call
colonisation, missions to the heathen, spread of
civilisation, etc., has another face – the face of a
bird of prey seeking with cruel intentness for distant
quarry – a face worthy of a race of pirates and
highwaymen. All the eagles and other predatory creatures
that adorn our coats of arms seem to me apt psychological
representatives of our true nature.

Something else that Ochwiay Bianco said to me stuck in my
mind. It seems to me so intimately connected with the
peculiar atmosphere of our interview that my account would
be incomplete if I failed to mention it. Our conversation
took place on the fifth storey of the main building. At
frequent intervals figures of other Indians could be seen on
the roofs, wrapped in their woollen blankets, sunk in
contemplation of the wandering sun that daily rose in a
clear sky. Around us were grouped the low-built square
buildings of air-dried brick (adobe), with the
characteristic ladders that reach from the ground to the
roof, or from roof to roof of the higher storeys. (In
earlier, dangerous times the entrance used to be through the
roof.) Before us the rolling plateau of Taos (about eleven
thousand feet above sea level) stretched to the horizon,
where several conical peaks (ancient volcanoes) rose to over
twelve thousand feet. Behind us a clear stream purled past
the houses, and on its opposite bank stood a second pueblo
of reddish adobe houses, built one atop the other towards
the centre of the settlement, thus strangely anticipating
the perspective of an American metropolis with its
skyscrapers in the centre. Perhaps half an hour’s
journey upriver rose a mighty isolated mountain, the
mountain, which has no name. The story goes that on days
when the mountain is wrapped in cloud, the men vanish to
perform mysterious rites.

The Pueblo Indians are unusually closemouthed, and in
matters of their religion utterly inaccessible. They make it
a policy to keep their religious practices a secret, and
this secret is so strictly guarded that I abandoned as
hopeless any attempt at direct questioning. Never before had
I run into such an atmosphere of secrecy; the religions of
civilised nations to-day are all accessible; their
sacraments have long ago ceased to be mysteries. Here,
however, the air was filled with a secret known to all the
communicants, but to which whites could gain no access. This
strange situation gave me an inkling of Eleusia, whose
secret was known to one nation and yet never betrayed. I
understood what Pausanias or Heredotus felt when he wrote:
“I am not permitted to name the name of that god.”
This was not, I felt, mystification, but a vital mystery
whose betrayal might bring about the downfall of the
community as well as of the individual. Preservation of the
secret gives the Pueblo Indian pride and the power to resist
the dominant whites. It gives him cohesion and unity; and I
feel sure that the Pueblos as an individual community will
continue to exist as long as their mysteries are not
desecrated.

It was astonishing to me to see how the Indian’s
emotions change when he speaks of his religious ideas. In
ordinary life he shows a degree of self-control and dignity
that borders on fatalistic equanimity. But when he speaks of
things that pertain to his mysteries, he is in the grip of a
surprising emotion which he cannot conceal – a fact
which greatly helped to satisfy my curiosity. As I have
said, direct questioning led to nothing. When, therefore, I
wanted to know about essential matters, I made tentative
remarks and observed my interlocutor’s expression for
those affective movements which are so very familiar to me.
If I had hit on something essential, he remained silent or
gave an evasive reply, but with all the signs of profound
emotion; frequently tears would fill his eyes. Their
religious theories are not conceptions to them (which,
indeed, would have to be very curious theories to evoke
tears from a man), but facts, as important and moving as the
corresponding external realities.

As I sat with Ochwiay Bianco on the roof, the blazing sun
rising higher and higher, he said, pointing to the sun,
“Is not he who moves there our father? How can anyone
say differently? How can there be another god? Nothing can
be without the sun.” His excitement, which was already
perceptible, mounted still higher: he struggled for words,
and exclaimed at last, “What would a man do alone in
the mountains? He cannot even build his fire without
him.”

I asked him whether he did not think the sun might be a
fiery ball shaped by an invisible god. My question did not
even arouse astonishment, let alone anger. Obviously it
touched nothing within him; he did not even think my
question stupid. It merely left him cold. I had the feeling
that I had come upon an insurmountable wall. His only rely
was, “The sun is God. Everyone can see that.”

Although no one can help feeling the tremendous impress
of the sun, it was a novel and deeply affecting experience
for me to see these mature, dignified men in the grip of an
overmastering emotion when they spoke of it.

Another time I stood by the river and looked up at the
mountains, which rise almost another six thousand feet above
the plateau. I was just thinking that this was the roof of
the American continent, and that the people lived here in
the face of the sun like the Indians who stood wrapped in
blankets on the highest roofs of the pueblo, mute and
absorbed in the sight of the sun. Suddenly a deep voice,
vibrant with suppressed emotion, spoke from behind me into
my left ear: “Do you think that all life comes from the
mountain?” An elderly Indian had come up to me,
inaudible in his moccasins, and has asked me this heaven
knows how far-reaching question. A glance at the river
pouring down from the mountain showed me the outward image
that had engendered this conclusion. Obviously all life came
from the mountain, for where there is water, there is life.
Nothing could be more obvious. In his question I felt a
swelling emotion connected with the word
“mountain”, and thought of the tale of secret
rites celebrated on the mountain. I replied, “Everyone
can see that you speak the truth.”

Unfortunately, the conversation was soon interrupted, and
so I did not succeed in attaining any deeper insight into
the symbolism of water and mountain.

I observed that the Pueblos Indians, reluctant as they
were to speak about anything concerning their religion,
talked with great readiness and intensity about their
relations with the Americans. “Why,” Mountain Lake
said, “do the Americans not let us alone? Why do they
want to forbid our dances? Why do they make difficulties
when we want to take our young people from school in order
to lad them in the kiva (site of the rituals, and instruct
them in our religion? We do nothing to harm the
Americans!” After a prolonged silence, he continued,
“The Americans want to stamp out our religion. Why can
they not let us alone? What we do, we do not only for
ourselves but for the Americans also. Yes, we do it for the
whole world. Everyone benefits by it.”

I could observe from his excitement that he was alluding
to some extremely important element of his religion. I
therefore asked him: “You think, then, that what you do
in your religion benefits the whole world?” He replied
with great animation. “Of course. If we did not do it,
what would become of the world?” And with a significant
gesture he pointed to the sun.

I felt that we were approaching extremely delicate ground
here, verging on the mysteries of the tribe. “After
all,” he said, “we are a people who live on the
roof of the world; we are the sons of the Father Sun, and
with our religion we daily help our father to go across the
sky. We do this not only for ourselves, but for the whole
world. If we were to cease practising our religion, in ten
years time the sun would no longer rise. Then it would be
night forever.”

I then realised on what the “dignity,” the
tranquil composure of the individual Indian, was founded. It
springs from his being a son of the sun; his life is
cosmologically meaningful, for he helps the father and
preserver of all life in his daily rise and descent. If we
set against this our own self-justifications, the meaning of
our own lives as it is formulated by our reason, we cannot
help but see our poverty. Out of sheer envy we are obliged
to smile at the Indians’ naiveté and to plume
ourselves on our cleverness; for otherwise we would discover
how impoverished and down at the heels we are. Knowledge
does not enrich us; it removes us more and more from the
mythic world in which we were once at home by right of
birth.


 

The following is from Elayne
Wareing Fitzpatrick’s Traveling Backward
, 2009.

JAIME DE ANGULO

ON SAVING OUR OWN NECKS

[Talk given at the Jeffers Studies Conference in
Taos, N.M., April, 2001]

 

 

My offering this morning is an introduction to Big Sur’s
brightest and quirkiest outlander, Dr. Jaime de Angulo. Like
Robinson Jeffers and D. H. Lawrence, he was lured to Taos by
the irrepressible Mabel Dodge Luhan. Henry Miller, his
neighbor in Big Sur, gave the most compelling description of
him.

He was “definitely the outlaw,” Miller wrote, “a renegade
and a reprobate, [a] savage, scholar, man of the
world, recluse, idealist, and the very son of Lucifer … a
beloved . . . detested, endearing, charming, cantankerous,
pesky, devil-worshipping son-of-a-bitch of a man with a
proud heart and a defiant soul, [yet] filled with
tenderness and compassion for all humanity. . . dear Jaime
de Angulo!”

De Angulo incurred the jealousy of Lawrence whom he read
approvingly and didn’t like personally. But he did like
Jeffers, felt a deep kinship with the poet, without ever
reading Jeffers’ words. He was lauded by William Carlos
Williams as one of the most outstanding writers he had ever
encountered and by Ezra Pound who dubbed him the American
Ovid.

Background: De Angulo was a Basqueman, born in Paris to
aristocratic Spanish expatriates. He was also a disappointed
Catholic idealist, renegade from a rigid Jesuit education,
who had expected to experience a sublime transformation
during confirmation. He left Paris in 1905 with some
inheritance money-and sailed to America, hoping to make
living as a rancher.

Like Lawrence, he was always on quest. HIS PASSIONATE
DESIRE WAS TO HAVE HIS OWN EXPERIENCE OF LIFE AND GOD. He
found the uncorrupted religion he sought-a way to “get at”
God-in the pre-Christian primal vitality of our American
Indians and spent the rest of his life trying to convince
the rest of us that this earth does not belong to us. Quite
the contrary. His view was that we belong to the landscape
and that’d we’d better respect it and take good care of it
if we hope to survive.

Along his path of discovery, he worked as a Colorado
cowhand and foreman of a road gang in Honduras; helped fight
the San Francisco fire after the quake of 1906; won a
medical degree from Johns Hopkins and a degree in psychiatry
from University of Michigan; did genetic research at
Stanford; bought a cattle ranch in Alturas; hung out with
the Pit River Achumawi Indians; was a maverick professor at
UC Berkeley in linguistics, anthropology, psychiatry,
astronomy, and mathematics; and an artist/writer who drove a
herd of horses some 500 miles to his ranch in Big Sur where
he developed dark themes reminiscent of Jeffers and tinged
with the lighter touch of Lawrence.

With all this, he managed to introduce Carl Jung, with
whom he studied in Zurich, to the Taos Indians, setting the
stage for what ultimately came to be known as the Indian
Movement in these United States.

Clearly, he was a live one. He quipped somewhere that
everything he researched and experienced was just “for the
fun of creating.”

Impatient with solemn’ scholars who refused to be
playful, de Angulo, like Lawrence, had great fun going forth
in search of God, following, as Lawrence put it, “the Holy
Ghost and depending on the Holy Ghost” within him.

Yet he was serious in his scholarship. He had a genius
for languages and a passionate interest in the psychology of
the primitive mind.

Not only did he record Indian languages and myths,
including his own subjective impressions in the field, he
wrote deep, sometimes surreal, novels. They were thought
adventures, like those of Lawrence, that seemed to come from
the blood, not just from the mind.

One of his best, The Lariat, was about a missionary whose
passion was to convert the wild Esselen Indians to
Catholicism. The padre in the tale saw Big Sur as a
villainous landscape to be tamed. But to the novel’s
protagonist-a Spanish deserter who married an Indian woman
and had “gone back wild”-it was a beautiful and sacred
place.

He was also a great teller of stories about a prehistoric
dawn when animals and men in the mountains and plains of
this continent weren’t as easily distinguished from each
other as they are today. He called these stories, Indian
Tales, and read them to children over KPFA in Berkeley. It
became the most popular program in the station’s history. My
own grandchildren love the stories and want me to read them
over and over again.

De Angulo described the lives of his Indians as “a
continuous religious experience.” He marveled at what he
called their “spirit of wonder, the recognition of life as
power, as a mysterious, ubiquitous, concentrated form of
nonmaterial energy, of something loose about the world and
contained in a more or less condensed degree by every
object.”

But he wasn’t always so mystical. After befriending the
Achumawis in Northern California, he returned to these
people, time and again, for sustenance, just as he returned
to wilderness of Big Sur.

He said the Indians accepted him because he was Spanish,
which, to them, meant “Mexican,” They considered him “one of
us.” Especially when he would drink with them.

His overt enthusiasm for their gambling games, their
songs, and their “savage” ways nettled his peers at
Berkeley. They admired his work, but they also protested,
“Decent anthropologists don’t associate with drunkards who
go rolling in ditches with shamans.”

There’s no question that de Angulo was quite off-the-wall
at times, as many of you who have read Melba Bennett’s
biography of Jeffers know. She couldn’t resist repeating a
story about the man-the one where he and the Jefferses meet
for the first time on the Carmel beach. Una, of course, was
impressed by his swashbuckling good looks. He was tall,
slender, dressed like a Spanish vaquero, and walked proudly
in the company of two Irish wolfhounds.

It was she who persuaded Robin to accept de Angulo’s
impromptu invitation to come to his Carmel cabin and share
the Porterhouse steaks he was carrying under his arm,
probably meant for the dogs. Jaime grilled the meat to
perfection. But when the time came to eat, he had second
thoughts and tossed it to the wolfhounds.

Why? “It would be a shame” he said, “for them to go
hungry.”

The Jefferses seemed to have no problem with this.
Perhaps, on getting to know this man better, they realized
that he held an Indian belief that animals possess older
powers superior to our own and ought to be treated with
respect-which could have meant, in this case, that one
doesn’t give steaks meant for good dogs to strangers.

Far from being put off by this incident, Una gushed about
Jaime and his wife, a “hen medic” who graduated with Jaime
from Johns Hopkins:

“We have the most wildly interesting new friends… I
could go on interminably about them.”

She described Jaime as having a commission in the medical
corps, playing the flute and oriental pipes, writing
Chinese, drawing “clever caricatures,” and caring “for
nothing but living alone far from cities” on a homesteaded
ranch in Big Sur.

But all this isn’t what makes Jaime de Angulo important
to the theme of this conference. HIS IMPORTANCE HERE LIES IN
THE STARTLING THESIS OF HIS LIFE’S WORK:

“The white American must preserve the Indian, not as a
matter of justice or even of brotherly charity, but in order
to save his own neck. The European can always tie back to
his own mother soil and find therein the spiritual pabulum
necessary to life. But the American, overburdened with
material culture, is threatened with self-destruction unless
he can find some way to tie himself to his own mother soil.
The Indian holds that key. “

De Angulo believed that we Whites must ultimately
recognize what the Red Man knows intuitively-that the
landscape itself is sacred, that it embodies divinity and
shares it with all nature-from stones, plants, animals, to
human beings and, as Jeffers would put it, to “the mouse in
the wall.”

This, of course, is a concept de Angulo shared with other
writers we’re discussing at this conference. Not only
Jeffers, but Edward Abbey-who was a desert Jeffers-and
Lawrence whom Mabel hoped Jeffers would replace in her Taos
circle.

In Lorenzo in Taos, the book she addressed to Jeffers to
lure him here, Mabel described her first encounter with de
Angulo while she and her Indian husband, Tony, were visiting
in Mill Valley:

“One day when Tony and I were lying on the grass outside
our house, we heard a shout and a loud ‘Hallooo!’ We turned
and saw a queer fellow coming along to us. He was wearing a
long cape, his shirt was open at the neck, and a blue beret
clung to the back of his head. He said

his name was Jaime de Angulo and that he had heard there
was an Indian living on Tamalpais, so he’d walked over from
Berkeley to look for him. So began our acquaintance with
Jaime! It was he who told me all about Jung, with whom he
had been working in Zurich.”

I was particularly intrigued by Mabel’s reference to Jung
because I had met a medicine man in Taos years ago who told
me that if I hoped to understand the religion of the Indian,
as well as the wisdom of Lawrence, perhaps even Jeffers, I
should read Carl Jung.

The Luhans persuaded de Angulo to drive back to Taos with
them to meet Lawrence. Mabel was enthusiastic about his
Jungianism and believed that Lawrence would share that
enthusiasm.

She described Jaime as being prepared “to worship
Lawrence as a hero.” When the two men met, however, she was
disappointed.

“[Jaime],” She said, “attempted to please in the
very way Lawrence couldn’t endure!”

For example, Mabel wrote: “Lawrence himself was outspoken
enough … but he didn’t like other people to be so;
particularly he disliked uncouth language from other men. So
when Jaime called women bitches, Lorenzo just squirmed. And
when Jaime tore off his shirt in the dining-room one day
after lunch and strutted up and down, showing what fine
muscles he had in his back, Lorenzo looked quite pale and
sick and ran out of the room.”

When the group came together at Manby Hot Springs north
of Taos, everyone was delighted by Jaime’s theatrics.

Everyone but Lawrence.

According to Mabel, as soon as Jaime entered the hot
springs environs he had cried, “I recognize the Power-the
Collective Unconscious!” Then he closed his eyes, stretched
himself out, and started to recite Indian prayers.

Lawrence was indignant: “A man has no business to be so
indecent in a nice hot spring like that.”

He left in a huff.

It wasn’t long before de Angulo tired of the great man’s
disdain. He simply passed it off by saying that Lawrence was
“ridiculous, as only an Englishman can be!” Then he turned
his attention to Lawrence’s wife who didn’t mind at all.

Mabel wrote: “One night after supper . . . Lawrence
jumped up from his chair and ran up to Frieda, who was
joking with Jaime … he began to shout invectives at her,
calling her a bitch and so on. He so out-Jaimed Jaime that
the latter was speechless for the rest of the evening. The
next day he told me Lawrence was a red fox, and that, after
all, Frieda was much the more important of the two, much
more of a person. ‘[He said] none of you people
around here appreciate her. You’re all hypnotized by
Lawrence. He’s nothing but a neurotic!”‘

‘ After that, de Angulo stopped trying to impress
Lawrence the man and began to compete with Lawrence the
writer. Mabel noted that “he produced pounds and pounds of
paper, and arranged a writing-table in the wide window of
the log cabin … in plain view of everyone coming or going.
There he sat [writing] all day long for days.”

De Angulo didn’t stay long on that first trip to Taos in
1924. But he was to return, shortly, for some meaty
encounters with the Indians.

In a letter to his wife about the pending trip, he
admitted: “I don’t intend to work-just loaf. I may never
find anything of interest to my special line of research
among the Pueblo Indians. I feel that they are too
civilized, almost as much as the Aztecs, or the early
Greeks. My Indians are the California tribes, real
primitives with the ‘wonder stuff loose and free on tap.
Still you can’t tell. Deep in my heart there is an ambition
that I may be able to reach that group of old men, the
Keepers of the Faith … I feel it in my bones that they
know a great deal about the translation of certain powerful
elemental forces into safe symbols.”

He did get to those Keepers of the Faith, thanks to Tony
Luhan. Tony took a liking to Jaime, just as he would take a
liking to Jeffers in 1930. In fact he liked Jaime, trusted
him so much that he broke with his rule of ignoring white
men who were curious about Indian secrets. He not only put
de Angulo in touch with Antonio Mirabal, the Indian known as
Mountain Lake, he introduced him to other important Pueblo
elders.

Late in 1925, both the Pueblos and de Angulo would
benefit from Tony’s decision. De Angulo wrote to Mabel about
a trip to Taos with Carl Jung:

“You can imagine my excitement. I made up my mind that I
would kidnap [Jung] if necessary and take him to
Taos. [When we arrived] it was a revelation to him,
the whole thing. Of course I had prepared Mountain Lake. He
and Jung made contact immediately and had a long talk on
religion.

“Jung said that I was perfectly right in all that I
intuited about their psychological condition … The trip
was an immense success all around. Jung got a great deal out
of it. I got a great deal out of Jung, both about philosophy
and about my own work. I needed his confirmation of all the
stuff. I have been working out by my own lonely self and
against all anthropological precedent.

“I got [the Americans who accompanied us]
interested in the Indian question. They saw my thesis …
and they solemnly promised me that they would not forget it
but would use their energy and their influence towards some
sort of steady campaign … Maybe the dream of my life is on
its way!”

Jung himself would write, after the trip with de Angulo,
“1 was able to talk with [Mountain Lake] as I have
rarely been able to talk with a European [and
discovered] new approaches to age-old knowledge that has
been almost forgotten.”

He told how the Indian had complained, “[Whites]
are always uneasy and resdess. We do not understand them. We
think that they are mad. They say that they think with their
heads.”

“Why of course,” dung answered. “What do you think
with?”

“We think here,” Mountain Lake replied, indicating his
heart, and his eyes filled with tears.

After a long silence, he continued, “The Americans want
to stamp out our religion. Why can they not let us alone?
What we do, we do not only for ourselves but for the
Americans also. Yes, we do it for the whole world. Everyone
benefits by it.” Jung asked how.

The Indian explained that the Pueblos are a people who
live on the roof of the world, nearest to God and the sky.
So they are quite specially “the sons of Father Sun.” With
their religion, he said, Indians help their Father go across
the sky. Everything is interconnected, he reminded. To
maintain balance, the Great Spirit needs humans to do their
part.

“We do [ceremonies] not only for ourselves,”
Mountain Lake explained, “but for the whole world. If we
were to cease practicing our religion, in ten years the sun
would no longer rise. Then it would be night forever.”

“I then realized,” Jung wrote, “on what the ‘dignity,’
the tranquil composure of the individual Indian, was
founded. It springs from his being a son of the sun; his
life is cosmologically meaningful, for he helps the father
and preserver of all life in his daily rise and descent.

“If we set against this our own self-justification, the
meaning of our own lives as it is formulated by our reason,
we cannot help but see our poverty. Out of sheer envy we are
obliged to smile at the Indians’ naivete and to plume
ourselves on our cleverness . . . knowledge does not enrich
us; it removes us more and more from the mythic world in
which we were once at home by right of birth. “

He pointed out that the Christian religion “is
[also] permeated by the idea that special acts or a
special kind of action can influence God-for example,
through certain rites or by prayer, or by a morality
pleasing to the Divinity… Our [Christian] prayers
are all directed to asking favors of God; the Indian has far
more dignity, for he thinks irfith his heart and wishes to
give as well as receive.”

The Indians, he said, speak a mythological language, much
nearer to the primal vitality, the archetypal world of the
unconscious. “The decisive question for man,” he wrote, “is:
‘Am I related to something infinite or not?”‘

The Indian not only has this relationship, Jung
concluded, he has all the dignity and peace of soul which it
brings.

Then he shared an incident that occurred as he stood
alone, looking up at the Pueblos’ sacred mountain. An old
Indian materialized noiselessly beside him and’asked “in a
deep voice vibrant with emotion… “Do you not think that
all life comes from the mountain?”‘

Jung interpreted this as a synchronistic message and
answered: “Everyone can see that you speak the truth.”

When Jung came to America he couldn’t help noticing what
he called the “Indianizing” of whites who had settled on
this foreign-to-them soil.

On returning to Switzerland, he made use of Jaime’s
thesis-that white Americans must preserve the Indian “in
order to save our own necks.”

He even went so far as to warn his students that when
they analyze an American about his shadow, they must be much
more careful than when they analyze a European.

Why?

“[Because] when the American opens a . .. door in
his psychology, there is a dangerous open gap, dropping
hundreds of feet, and in those cases where he can negotiate
the drop, he will then be faced with an Indian … shadow,
whereas [it is safer for the European to open the door
because he] finds a shadow of his own race.”

One result of Jung’s trip to Taos was that he joined the
ranks of all the prophetic voices who have understood the
importance of Indian symbols and rites, as well as the
necessity of convincing white Americans that our own
religions must eventually relate back to the earth, that the
sacred landscape must dominate and structure our culture,
not the other way around, if we are to survive our own
population explosions and uprooted technological
cleverness.

Back in 1909, when, Jung accompanied Freud to America to
receive honorary doctorates from Clark University, he made a
telling comment in a letter to his wife:

“We have seen things here that inspire enthusiastic
admiration, and things that make one ponder social evolution
deeply. As far as technological culture is concerned, we lag
miles behind America. But all that is frightfully costly and
already carries the germ of the .find in itself. “

This, when the rest of the world was looking forward to
an era of unprecedented social and economic progress. Jung,
like Jeffers, was already in touch with the primal shadow
that stalks all human enlightenment.

Visiting Taos on his second trip to America, Jung became
as convinced as any Indian that the sacred Blue Lake area
must be restored to the people of the Taos Pueblo, if only
to avert environmental catastrophe.

The Blue Lake controversy encapsulated the whole
distinction between Indians and non-Indians, a distinction
spelled out so clearly in the now-famous letter sent by
Chief Seattle to the Great “White Chief” in Washington
which, I know, most of you have read.

The Department of Agriculture fought hard to retain the
Blue Lake area’s valuable timber for future industrial
profit. But in 1970, President Nixon signed the bill to get
their Blue Lake shrine returned to the Taos people. The bill
also guaranteed that Indian religious practices would be
given equal respect along with Christian ceremonies.

This happened after a five-year groundswell among grass
roots Americans moved by their admiration for the Indians’
refusal to take money for their sacred ground.

Perhaps it was no accident that the Indian Movement of
the 1960’s paralleled another grass roots movement in
ecology that sparked new interest in Jeffers and prepared
the way for Edward Abbey’s controversial book, The Monkey
Wrench Gang.

Had they lived to see this, Jung (who died in 1961) and
de Angulo (1950) would have been delighted, not only for the
Indian’s right to his land and ceremonies, but for the rest
of us as well.

In 1925, de Angulo wrote an impassioned letter to Ruth
Benedict, assistant to anthropologist Frank Boas, who had
sought de Angulo’s help in getting an “informant” to reveal
secrets of the Taos Indians:

“Oh, God! Ruth … do you realize that it is just that
sort of thing that kills the Indians? I mean it seriously.
It kills them spiritually first, and, as in their life the
spiritual and the physical element are much more
interdependent than in our own stage of culture, they soon
die of it physically. They just lie down and die.

“That’s what you anthropologists with your infernal
curiosity and your thirst for scientific data bring about…
Of course if you promised that you would never publish the
actual secrets, I would tell you a lot myself about the
meaning of the whole thing. It is all right to talk about it
in a general way, with . .. the necessary care that must be
always used in handling all esoteric knowledge. It is as
powerful and dangerous as the lightning.

“Look at all the harm that raw psychoanalysts do to
their patients … But the actual details of ceremonies,
that must never be told … You wouldn’t inveigle my child
into telling you the secrets of my home.”

Then he spelled out his thesis for her:

“Don’t you see the meaning of it all? In Europe we can
go back to our mothe the earth through the spirit of our own
ancestors. They inhabit the soil, the trees, the rocks. In
America the soil is teeming with the ghosts of Indians.
Americans wil never find spiritual stability until they
learn to recognize the Indians as their spiritual ancestors.
[But] you would lose [their legacy] by
killing the Indian off before that messageas been
comprehended by the white Americans. And you kill the Indian
as surely by disorganizing his spiritual social life as you
do with guns.”

As de Angulo suspected, it would be a natural leap for
Jung, dedicated as he was to the God-image in the human
psyche, to recognize the Collective Unconscious in the
Indian’s concept of the primal source of generative energy
underlying cosmic diversity.

Every school child know? it as the “Great Spirit” or
“Mighty Something.”

Jamake Highwater calls it “Primal Mind;” the ancient
Greeks mythologized it as Pan-power, Alan Watts referred to
it as “It,” and Robinson Jeffers saw it as the “divine
beauty of the universe.” He simply called it “God.”

Lawrence, yet another fierce advocate for the primal
mind, perceived it as “the Holy Ghost within. For him, the
primal consciousness of the Indian was akin to what he saw
as a pre-mental “blood consciousness” that charges all life.
From the standpoint of human ethics, it isn’t always
beautiful, as Lawrence knew. But for him, as for the
Indians, it was to be trusted, religiously.

He wrote:

“It was a vast old religion, greater than anything we
know: more darkly and nakedly religious. There is no God, no
conception of a god. All is god. But it is not the pantheism
we are accustomed to, which expresses itself as ‘God is
everywhere, God is in everything.’ In this Indian religion
everything is alive, not supernaturally but naturally
alive.”

It should come as no surprise, then, that he was hugging
trees, literally, on his Kiowa ranch here. Especially a big
pine tree that “rises like a guardian spirit” in front of
the cabin where he lived.

Living at the ranch, he had his first “permanent feeling
of religion” after questing around the world. He wrote that
here in New Mexico “a vast old religion which once swayed
the earth lingers in unbroken practice . . . older, perhaps,
than anything in the world save Australian aboriginal taboo
and totem, and that is not yet religion.”

He wrote:

“I have become conscious of the tree, and of its
interpenetration into my life. Long ago, the Indians must
have been even more acutely conscious of it, when they
blazed it to leave their mark on it. I am conscious that it
helps to change me, vitally. I am even conscious that
shivers of energy cross my living plasm, from the tree, and
I become a degree more like unto the tree, more bristling
and turpentiney, in Pan. And the tree gets a certain shade
and alertness of my life, within itself.”

He is reminiscent of Jeffers when he describes the
“splendid silent terror and vast far-and-wide magnificence”
of this place that was “the greatest experience from the
outside world that I have ever had … It changed me
forever.”

It should be made clear, however, that neither
Lawrence nor de Angulo idealized the Indians. Nor did
Jeffers: Lawrence rightly observed that, in time, even the
Indian “will kill Pan with his own hands, for the sake of a
motor car.” But he held out a modicum of hope:

“Whether we are a store-clerk or a bus-conductor we
can still choose between the living universe of Pan, and the
mechanical conquered universe of modern humanity. The
machine has no windows. But even the most mechanized human
being has only got his windows nailed up, or bricked
in.”

And de Angulo wrote, not without some admiration mingled
with affection for his Indians:

“My God, think of it, to pass in one lifetime from the
stone ax to wireless telegraphy! Indians in overalls; no,
there was nothing picturesque about these Indians, no
feather headdresses or beaded moccasins, nothing to delight
the tourists about these ‘digger Indians’ in their battered
hats and cheap calicos, picking the offal of the whites on
the garbage dumps at the edge of town. My Indians in
overalls!”

As for Jeffers, who wrote just one poem about his Taos
experience, he stopped only a little short of cynicism:

 

I watch the Indians dancing to help the young

corn

at Taos pueblo, the old men squat in a ring

And make the song, the young women with

fat, bare arms,

and a few shame-faced young men, shuffle

the dance.

The lean-muscled young men are naked to the

narrow loins,

their breasts and backs daubed with white

clay,

Two eagle-feathers plume the black heads.

They dance

with reluctance, they are growing civilized;

the –

old men persuade them.

Only the drum is confident, it thinks the world

has not

changed; the beating heart, the simplest of

rhythms,

It thinks the world has not changed at all;

it is only

a dreamer, a brainless heart, the drum has

no eyes.

These tourists have eyes, the hundred watching

the dance, white Americans, hungrily too,

with reverence, not laughter;

Pilgrims from civilization, anxiously seeking

beauty,

religion, poetry; pilgrims from the vacuum.

People from cities, anxious to be human

again.

Poor show how they suck you empty! The

Indians are emptied,

And certainly there was never religion

enough,

nor beauty nor poetry here-to fill Americans.

Only the drum is confident, it thinks the

world has

not changed. Apparently only myself and the

strong

that civilization is a transient sickness.

The tribal drum, and the rock head of Taos
mountain,

Remember.

 

De Angulo may have been disappointed that he wasn’t able
to connect personally with Lawrence, but he did connect
deeply with Jeffers, who was his alter ego. Yes, they shared
common interests. They even spoke to each other in French
and debated the merits of ancient and modem Greek
pronunciation. More often, however, they absorbed each
other’s energy, a little like Lawrence’s interaction with
his pine tree.

Evidence?

When the Robinson Jeffers supplement to ‘The Carmelite’
was published in Carmel in 1928, de Angulo was asked about
his friendship with Jeffers. I want to close this paper with
his reply because I like it. It’s so child-like, so
primal.:

“I couldn’t tell you anything about Jeffers. That man is
a mystery to me and has always been. I don’t know what he is
thinking about, or how he thinks, as I have never read any
of his books … I like him because he is GOOD-looking. He
never talked with me. I did all the talking. I don’t know
whether he ever understood a word of what I said. But that
didn’t matter.

“On the contrary, that was the beauty of it; to talk to a
man, and to know that he is not listening to your words.
It’s like carrying on a conversation with yourself. You talk
and talk and say anything you feel like saying without any
regard for the contradictions, and all the while you have a
feeling that the fellow is thinking about something else,
something inside of him.

“You are perhaps walking with him along the road by the
beach. There is the stunted chaparral, and the sand, the
beach, the breakers booming. We both see all that. I talk.
He is dreaming away. The stunted chaparral, the breakers,
the glistening sand colour my talk. They colour his
dreaming. Somehow or other his dreaming gets inside of me
and my words get inside of him.

“He built himself a house, with his own hands-enormous
boulders, mortar, half of cement, walls as;thick as half
the. room inside. Why did he do it? He doesn’t know himself.
But I could tell him. It was all for the sake of that little
window, that tiny little window upstairs where you lie on
your stomach and peep at the stormy sea outside!”

***

More on Jaime DeAngulo

My
Coast is Gone

Theo
Radich
“Jaime de Angulo was born in Paris of
Spanish parents…”


 

David Barton

IAJS Talk, June 2014

 

C.G. Jung in Taos: A Creative Mis-Encounter

 

In his book-length conversation on The Red Book, James
Hillman suggests two directions out of the box of modern
thinking: “moving up to erudition or moving down to the
indigenous” (187). Erudition describes some, but not
all, of C.G. Jung’s work: the elaborate footnotes,
rambling digressions, un-translated Greek phrases, and
obscure references. As Hillman suggests, this
“upward” movement, this movement into erudition,
can be an attempt to free ourselves from reductionism, from
the flattening of the world created by the analytical mind.
Erudition complicates the world, reveling in its
complexities and casting us back into the
“strangeness” of ideas, into the timeless
dialogues, the unresolved and unresolvable questions that
form the seminal fountainhead of the Western tradition
(188).

Despite these flights of erudition, Jung is perhaps
better characterized by a move in the other direction, the
falling “down into the indigenous,” the
preposition down suggesting both a value judgment and a
return to an older cosmology. Down signifies lower, less
developed, the childhood of the historical past that is
(ambivalently) experienced as “primitive” on the
one hand and rejuvenating on the other. Although this pull
downwards is found throughout Jung’s work, I want to
focus on the contact with indigenous people, the first being
Antonio Mirabal, whom Jung called Mountain Lake. As others
have suggested, the meeting with Mirabal was a pivotal
moment in Jung’s life, a touchstone, but it was also a
mis-Encounter, one that still carries a great deal of
unrealized potential.

Jung’s first meeting with indigenous culture
occurred in January of 1925. Steam-shipping to America at
the request of Edith and Harold McCormick, his American
benefactors, Jung arrived in New York City on December 22
for a three-week whirl-wind tour of Chicago, Louisiana, and
the American Southwest. At the Grande Canyon he was joined
by a gang of Californians, including the brilliant Jaime de
Angulo, an anthropologist Jung had been attempting to
cultivate. De Angulo later renounced all things Jungian, but
at the time he was still both an avid enthusiast and
sharp-tongued critic, telling Jung in letters that he and
Freud were “wrong from beginning to end” when it
came to understanding indigenous people (de Angulo, Coyote,
173). Jung delighted in the critical exchanges, offering to
fund some of de Angulo’s anthropological research. From
the Grande Canyon the two drove cross country with Fowler
McCormick, the grandson of John D. Rockefeeler, Sr.,
arriving in Taos on January 5, 1925, where they attended a
Buffalo dance (Taos News). They appear to have spent two
weeks in Northern New Mexico, and de Angulo arranged for
Jung to have at least two conversations with Antonio
Mirabal, the Taos Indian who had been helping de Angulo
build a written lexicon of the Tiwa language. Neither Jung
nor any of his biographers noted the delicious irony that
Jung bunked at the Columbus Hotel, just as he had crossed
the Atlantic on a ship named The Columbus. I suspect Jung
didn’t note the irony because was still only dimly
aware Colonial underpinnings of many of his ideas, nor did
he yet appreciate the animosity Native Americans felt
towards the man who brought Europeans to America.

From a charitable point of view, Jung’s burning
desire to visit an Indian reservation should be seen as a
heroic attempt to witness indigenous people on their own
terms, but much of what he learned in his two days at Taos
was simply wrong. On personal level, however, the trip
proved vital. Standing on the fifth floor of the Taos
Pueblo, he conversed to Antonio Mirabal “as he had
rarely been able to talk with a European.” As they
looked across the Taos plateau, his acquaintance wrapped in
a woolen blanket to guard against the winter frost, Mirabal
spoke of Father Sun, who provided life, and of the sacred
mountain, from which all life came, and of the importance of
the kiva rituals which helped Sun cross the sky, telling
Jung that “If we were to cease practicing our religion,
in ten years the sun would no longer rise” (Jung, MDR,
246-253).

In another passage reported by Jung, Mirabal talked
openly about how he felt about “white” culture,
starting with his perception of the features of the white
man: thin lips, sharp noses, and cruel dispositions, giving
them the appearance of birds of prey. White people were
restless, Mirabal said, as they were searching for what they
couldn’t find. “We do not understand them. We
think they are mad” he told Jung, adding that
“whites believed they thought with their heads,”
when everyone at the Pueblo knew thinking comes from the
heart (Jung, MDR, 247-248). Such statements should have been
in no way shocking to someone who was already reading and
thinking about indigenous people, but the comments appear to
have been directed personally at Jung, as a man who still
thought with his head and who was certainly searching for
something he couldn’t find. Whatever the case, Jung
fell into a deep meditation, one that has been described not
only as a moment of profound “emotional and
psychological confrontation” with himself but as an
oceanic meeting of the world that verged on a participation
mystique that had previously been ascribed to
“primitives” (Bernstein x).

We may never fully understand the communion that Jung
felt with Mirabal, but it’s hard to believe that he
didn’t associate those conversations with those he had
been having in The Red Book for more than 10 years, or with
his Big Dream of 1913, in which he colluded “with a
brown-skin savage man” to assassinate the Germanic hero
Siegfried, with whom Jung identified (MDR 180). Almost ten
years later, in a letter he wrote to Mirabal, Jung was still
attempting to understand his experience, asking Mirabal
(somewhat inappropriately) to reveal the secrets of the
kiva. “Any information you can give me about your
religious life is always welcome to me,” Jung wrote.
“I shall keep all that information to myself, but it is
most helpful to me, as I am busy exploring the truth in
which Indians believe. It always impressed me as a great
truth, but one hears so little about it, and particularly
over here, where there are no Indians.” He added,
somewhat ruefully, that he could find “no interesting
religious things” in Europe, “only the remnants of
old things” that no longer carried vitality (Letters,
20-21).

The tragedy is that Jung got so much wrong, and his
misunderstandings have been repeated by most of those who
have written about his trip to Taos. Mirabal was not an
Indian chief, nor did he hold any office in the tribe, and
he almost certainly wasn’t a Hopi elder, as he was a
relatively young man who had never lived at Hopi. His Indian
name was not Ochwiay Biano, as Jung reported, (that name is
missing the proper Tiwa suffixes), and Jung mischaracterized
the English translation of his Indian name as Mountain Lake,
perhaps as a result of a simplification made by Mirabal
himself (the actual name being more complicated, suggesting
one who is on the way to a pilgrimage at a body of water,
probably Blue Lake, a sacred site on Taos Mountain).
Finally, Mirabal was not the simple, isolated Indian that
Jung imagined but an intelligent, well-travelled impresario
who had become an intimate friend of D.H. Lawrence. Within a
few years Mirabal would become a national political force in
Indian relations, refusing an invitation to meet with
President Herbert Hoover, whom he despised, and later
travelling to New York to advise Franklin Roosevelt on
Indian policy (Sheboygan Press).

Mirabal was also a intimate friend of Tony Lujan and his
wife, Mabel Lujan Dodge, one of the most influential arts
patron of the early 20th century. Having lived in Florance,
New York, and Santa Barbara, Dodge relocated to Taos to
found a literary colony that was dedicated to the
rejuvenation of Western society. It was Dodge who brought
D.H. Lawrence to Taos, as well as Jaime de Angulo, scheming
behind the scenes to bring Jung as well. It was in a letter
to Dodge that de Angulo had written that “the white man
must preserve the Indian, not as a matter of justice or
brotherly charity, but in order to save his own neck”
(Rednick 185), a sentiment which Dodge shared completely.
D.H. Lawrence shared the vision as well, writing that in New
Mexico, living among the Indians, he rediscovered “the
ancient race self and religious self” that had long
been eradicated in Europe (Lawrence 16). For both Lawrence
and Dodge, the union between white culture and Indian
culture would create a new kind of society.

It’s important to remember, then, that Jung’s
encounter with Mirabal was marinated in these long-running
ideas, not least because Mirabal was a daily visitor at the
Dodge house. While Jung imagined himself having an innocent
conversation with his first “primitive,” he was
unwittingly entering into the remnants of an extra-ordinary
attempt by artists, intellectuals, and Indians to build a
new consciousness involving both European and indigenous
sensibilities. De Angulo himself had been a frequent visitor
to the Dodge house, and he must have discussed the unique
atmosphere in Taos on their long, cross-country drive. If
not, Jung clearly intuited the relationship between what he
found in Taos and his own work.

Given the importance of the visit for Jung, including the
recollections in his autobiography, I’m left wondering
why so little has been written on the subject. Why
haven’t we known, for instance, about what Jung got
wrong? Given Jung’s own inclinations, I’m also
stunned that there has been no sustained, in-depth dialogue
between the Jungian community and indigenous people. Surely
one part of the answer lies in the difficulty of such a
project, given the shadow of colonization, the issues of
distrust, guilt, anger, and betrayal that make dialogue
difficult. But not just that: such a project is ultimately a
creative risk, an invitation into the impossibility involved
in simultaneously entertaining two incompatible ideas, or
cultures, a dis-orientation that requires (temporarily and
psychologically) leaving behind the certainty that any
discipline or body of work provides.

Thankfully, events in the last few years have re-awakened
such possibilities. I am thinking, for instance, of the
increasing number of Native Americans who have shown an
interest in Jung, including students, scholars, and
psychologists, as well as Analytical Psychologists,
principally Jerome Bernstein, who have done the hard work of
listening to Native American traditions on their own terms.
To my mind the most important development has been the
publication in 2006 of the first full-length study of Jung
by a Native American, a book that has gone largely
unrecognized in the world of Analytical Psychology, although
not in the Indian world, where the author, Vine Deloria, is
a legendary figure. C.G. Jung and the Sioux Traditions is an
extra-ordinary book in many ways, opening a entire new field
of study, one combining but the upwards flight of erudition
and the descent into indigenous life. The book is equal
measures appreciation and critique of Jung, whom Deloria
looks upon with love and horror. From Deloria’s
indigenous perspective, Jung gets much wrong but also
provides the only psychological system capable of
communicating “the wisdom of American Indian
culture” to the Western psyche (Bernstein xi). Deloria
returned to this manuscript again and again in the last two
decades of his life, much as Jung returned to The Red Book
for two decades, repeating, clarifying, reworking,
exorcising his compulsive need to get it right.

As for myself, I teach both Deloria and Jung side by side
in an upper-division seminar for interdisciplinary students
in psychology and the humanities. I can report that students
are fascinated by the conflict between Deloria and Jung, as
if they understand instinctively that the imbalance and
friction between the two of them is related to an unseen
harmony, some future prospect that they can often feel but
can’t articulate. About two-thirds of the undergraduate
students I’ve worked with identify with Deloria and his
Native American sensibilities, rather than Jung, a fact that
suggests the creative possibility still exists.

 

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Work Cited

Berenstein, Jerome. Forward. C.G. Jung and the Siuux
Traditions: Dreams, Visions, Nature, and the Primitive by
Vine Deloira, Jr.. New Orleans: Spring Journal Books,
2006.

De Angulo, Gui. Jaime in Taos: The Taos Papers of Jaime
de Angulo. San Francisco: City Lights P, 1985.

De Angulo, Gui. The Old Coyote of Big Sur: The Life of
Jaime de Angulo. Berkelely: Stonegarden P, 1995.

Deloria, Jr., Vine. C.G. Jung and the Siuux Traditions:
Dreams, Visions, Nature, and the Primitive. New Orleans:
Spring Journal Books, 2006.

Hillman, James and Sonu Shamdasani. Lament of the Dead:
Psychology after Jung’s Redbook. New York: W.W. Norton,
2013.

Jung, C.G. Ed. Gerhard Adler. Selected Letters of C.G.
Jung, 1909-1961. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1984.

Jung, C.G. Trans. Richard and Clara Winston. Memories,
Dream, Reflections. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1963.

Lawrence, D.H., “New Mexico.” Originally
written in 1928. Republished in New Mexico Magazine, July
1997, pages 12-20.

Rudnick, Lois Palken. Mabel Dodge Luhan: New Woman, New
Worlds. Albuqeurque: UNM Press, 1984.

Sheboygan Press, Jan. 26, 1933, (page number?).

The Taos News, unnamed author, Jan. 10, 1925, 1.