By Katherine Munter
“If you pay close attention, you will see that the most masculine man has a feminine soul, and the most feminine woman as a masculine soul.”
- Carl Jung, The Red Book
When I was in my mid-20s, I had a brush with cancer. The diagnosis led to a series of tests and seemingly endless appointments with various specialists. I sat in waiting rooms, awaited results, scheduled further appointments. My art at the time reflected my feelings of being poked, prodded, and reduced to a numbered specimen. I’d never before faced surgery, and the night before the procedure, I laid awake, contemplating my mortality.
Suddenly, everything that normally consumed my thoughts: work projects and school deadlines, dishes and activities of daily life, bills and accounts… all of it faded. Only one thing remained as all else fell away: Love. Had I loved deeply? Did I make people feel they were important enough for my time? Did they know how much they meant to me and the impact they’d had on my life? When considering my life, love became not the most important thing, but the only thing that truly mattered.
I’ve shared many hugs, and one of the best hug givers in my life was my paternal grandfather, whom I called Dziadek. When he hugged me, I felt his love to my core. His physical life ended when I was young, and yet his lessons have lived within me and shaped me as a person. During my most difficult times, it was often his words that guided me and compelled me forward. I didn’t realize at the time, but when I was seven, he was dying of cancer. Looking back, I believe that knowledge shaped the way he interacted with me. I now understand why it was so crucial for him to impart his ideals and make sure I knew how much he loved me.
Dziadek became a figure of gentle masculinity that I carry with me. He moved through the world with curiosity, awe, tenacity, and yet humility. The wooden box which once held his watch now sits on the bookshelf next to my bed. I remember his hands as they lifted the watch out of the box. I sat captivated, watching him buckle the clasp with one hand— a feat too dextrous for my small childhood hands.
Time isn’t held by a box, and the watch is no longer there. As I run my fingers over the wood grain, I reminisce about sitting with Dziadek as he taught me how to carve wood. I learned not to rush but rather to look deeply at the wood, noticing which way the grain was running. “Let the wood guide you,” he encouraged.
In the decades after Dziadek passed, I longed to be able to ask him questions from an adult mind. Questions danced around my mind as I meandered through my days— a collection of unanswered longings. I searched for older masculine guides and was deeply grateful for a number of mentors and friends whose wisdom helped me along my path.
Recently, I’ve noticed that this deep longing for mentors has eased a bit. The other night, Dziadek came to me in a dream, dressed just as he had when I was a child: light blue cotton shirt, a pocket protector holding a pen, plaid pants. I blinked, and he remained on the couch next to me, as though that’s where he’d always been, unchanged by time as I slowly grew into my adult body. My mind unleashed questions. How had he been there all these years? How did I look for him and yet not see? Then my mental wind shifted, and I realized I could now ask him the questions I’d longed to voice. Rather than formulate words, however, my mind fell gently into a quiet peace. I tucked my legs into my chest and leaned into his shoulder. His arms supported me, and I closed my eyes and let out a long breath.
In that dream, it became clear that everything I’ve longed for outside of myself has been within me all along. The answers are dancing in laughter, wafting in the breeze, and beating in my chest.
In this knowing, I gently release into love.
Who were the masculine guides in your own life, and what bits of their wisdom do you carry within you?
Dr. Katherine Munter, clinical psychologist, art therapist, and founder of Creative Life Therapy, an Ann Arbor practice of art therapy and integrative wellbeing. Learn more at www.CreativeLifeTherapy.com.
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When I was in my mid-20s, I had a brush with cancer. The diagnosis led to a series of tests and seemingly endless appointments with various specialists. I sat in waiting rooms, awaited results, scheduled further appointments. My art at the time reflected my feelings of being poked, prodded, and reduced to a numbered specimen. I’d never before faced surgery, and the night before the procedure, I laid awake, contemplating my mortality.