Jane's New Book is Available Now!

11/2/2016

Musings from 20th Street

We invite you to enjoy an excerpt from Jane's newest book, My Mother, My Daughter, My Self. Released this month, through Free Association Books, it is available now through Amazon.

A Crier, a Singer, a Laugher, a Howling Screamer

Molly’s first cry, the cry at birth that all doctors and mothers

anxiously await, served as an essential sign of independent life.

This birth wail is the first visible sign of an autonomous act on

the part of the infant. Now that she has found her first voice,

cleared out her respiratory tract of mucus from her first breath

(the biological function of that first cry), I watch/listen in awe

as Molly continues her exploration in the various expressive

potentials of her voice. She exercises it with abandon: sweet,

endearing sounds, but just as often, by loud, communicative

(and maddening to the listener) wails.

All babies have four acoustically distinct cries that arise

from their various states of pain, frustration, hunger, or anger.

I hear them all in Molly’s vocalisations. I marvel at their sheer

intensity and emphatic-ness. Molly’s cries are so different

from those of an adult, which are ejected out merely from the

throat. She exploits her full vocal range, from deep to high,

like a gifted opera singer who is soprano, tenor, and bass all

at once. Molly’s cries fill her whole self, her body serving as a

container for screams that find their route all the way to the

outer perimeter of her body/self/being. Only her skin, serving

as a barrier between who she is and that which surrounds

her, prevents all of what is inside her from exploding outward

into the air. This is how infants live, and this is how we should

all aspire to live—from our centre outward to the farthest

boundaries of our bodies, filling our selves with ourselves.

Molly, like most infants who are born healthy and are

well cared for, lives entirely from her soul in these first few

exquisite months of her life. This oneness within herself reflects

a complete synchrony—a coincidence—between what she feels

and what she expels in her vocalisations. Although without

words, and despite the limited number of ways she can express

herself, she is able to use both her voice and her body in an

entirely unified way. As well as being a crier, she is a singer.

Molly has what I call her “sleep-song”—a little baby hum that

actually goes up and down the scale a few notes. She puts herself

to sleep every night with her sleep-song, and then she wakes

up the next morning with a hardy, full-bodied laugh, as though

no time has intervened between the two. I see her laughing,

and then I laugh, too, filled with the joy of her existence on

earth. The laughters between us become contagious.

And as well as being a crier, a singer, and a laugher, Molly

is also a screamer. Or, perhaps she is closer to being a howler.

It is in her howling shrieks that I see her as remaining most

emphatically connected to her essential self, the self that

receives the fullest most explosive expression. I understand that

the Japanese have baby screaming competitions for the loudest

infant screamers, and they have confidence that the winner

will be bestowed with good and long-lasting health for the

vigorous use of its voice. (As the Japanese proverb says: “Crying

babies grow fast.”) Molly’s screams, qualitatively different from

her cries, are from the sheer joy of having a voice that wants

to be used—a voice that doesn’t yet form words but that,

nevertheless, imparts subtle yet distinctive meaning.

It is through all these numerous uses of her voice—her

crying, singing, laughing, and screaming—that Molly is able

to express her soul-being. Indeed, it is the sounds of Molly’s

and my togetherness that are our greatest pleasure—our first

“conversation.” It is in Molly’s screams that she manifests her

own self most insistently, but it is, as well, in the screams we do

together that we have the richest choreography of our twosome.

Our screams have no purpose other than our mutual

engagement. There is no topic of discussion, no subject matter,

no past to explain, no intention for the future: there is just

pure togetherness. In this togetherness, we scream in high

screeches and in low schrooches; we scream together in unison

and then our voices follow each other’s in a sequence; we

scream imitatively and responsively, one as chorus to the other’s

melody. We, together, try every kind of scream known to

mankind. We find exquisite pleasure together in our screams.

Now that Molly and I have found each other, the closeness

we are able to create—from her laughter, her cries and screams,

and her little sleep-songs—is unrelenting. There is no greater

joy for me than holding her, loving her, listening to her,

looking at her. I know she needs this attention, and wants it.

As my daughter Molly Malvina Goldberg gasps in through

every lively breath as much energy as her small body can serve

as a container for, she invigorates me, inspires me.

Soul-meeting

French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan refers to the symbiotic

fusion of mother and child as the Realm of the Real, the

only occasion of perfect unity and completeness. There is no

distinction between self and other, between child and mother.

Words are unnecessary. The world is experienced as all fullness,

with no absence, no sense of loss, because there is no sense of

separateness. I think Lacan was right (though perhaps betraying

a perverse sense of humor) when he suggested in his name

for this developmental stage that this psychic place of unity is

more “real” than all that follows, irretrievably lost when one

enters into the capacity for language.

Infants and mothers meet on the deepest level possible.

They are everything to each other, and they are all this from

the depths of their being. Their various encounters of absolute

authenticity reflect a kind of soul-meeting. Baby needs to do

nothing to create this meeting; it is simply in the nature of Baby

to live from this place that represents the centre of Baby’s being.

And mothers, too, in their interactions with their newborns,

are stimulated by their infants to connect to and express this

same depth of feeling and authenticity of self. Freud referred

to the experience of symbiosis between mother and child as

“oceanic,” meaning vast, deep, and total. I think his descriptive

adjective is right, and I suspect that the bond between mother

and infant is the strongest possible bond between human

beings. When I have asked women the difference between

their love for their children and their love for their husbands,

a frequent answer is that they would, without forethought and

without hesitation, give their lives for their children. They do

not offer themselves as sacrificial lambs with the same lack of

reservation, nor the same frequency, for their husbands, parents,

or other loved ones. It is, I believe, the all-encompassing

symbiosis that confers on mothers this willingness to give

value to their infant’s life above even their own.

I believe that infants’ souls are intimately tied to the souls of

their mothers. This soul-meeting is, I think, the real meaning

of “symbiosis.” This, then, is at the root of the unshakeability

of the bond between mother and child. And this place of

unbreakable bonded-ness is where Molly and I meet in these

early months.

In our early time together, I give Molly the closeness she

needs because her whole future depends on it. I give it to

her because in agreeing to be her mother, I have assumed the

responsibility of tending to her needs. But I give it to her,

also, because I myself need it. I need this closeness with her as

intensely as she needs it with me. She fills me psychologically

in my need to be a mother, a need I didn’t even know I had

until she came. She is my completion (as I know I was my

mother’s so many decades ago). With my Molly, I feel full.

I know that it is only through this initial symbiosis between

Molly and myself, through our shared togetherness, that

she will come to develop a separate self. This early social

interaction between us lays the foundation for her later ability

to interact and read others’ behaviours, and should she become

adept at this, the skill will likely stay with her the whole of her

life. My job as her mother is to mirror (auditorially, visually,

and tactilely) who she is. We know from research that this

mirroring takes place in the brain itself—“mirror neurons”

according to researchers Valeria Gazzola and Christian

Keysers. Mother and child have “shared circuits.” They are

in constant action of observing and listening to another; and

then the same actions are performed, the same emotions

are expressed, the same sensations are experienced. These

copycat processes exist within the substrate of the brain. On

the level of electrical and chemical activity in the brain, then,

mothers and infants serve as mirrors to each other, copying

each other. This mirroring (both conscious and deliberate, as

well as unconscious and chemical) aids the baby in the long

procession of psychological/physiological/neurological events

that culminate in the formation of a stable self-identity.

I know, then, that my job as Molly’s mother is to mirror for

her a self that is connected to who she is and who she wants

to become. I need to give her an experience of mothering

that will help her to stay close to her soul and to find herself

in the reflection of my soul, an emotional involvement that

will enable her to be able to access her soul as the inevitable

process of separation from me continues its progression toward

her separate self. I know that in this time I need to sing, to

laugh and to yelp and squeal and howl with her, as she does

with me. During this time together, Molly mostly hears my

voice as a singsong. I laugh and hum and croon with her when

I am feeding her, when I am bathing her, and when we play

our games together.

Respective visits into eternity

The ancient Chinese philosopher Zhang Zai has said that

every birth is a condensation; every death, a dispersal. The

Mesoamerican mythology has a similar concept of duality. They

believed in two suns: the young Day sun; but countering the

energy of newly-created light was the ancient Black sun, the

female origin of all. Both womb and tomb were embodied in the

opposing qualities of the suns, forever linking birth and death.

From being with my mother ten years before Molly’s birth,

sharing with her the last moments of her life on this earth, I

understand (and perhaps even felt at the time) her “being” as

having scattered from her body, dispersed out into the universe

as pure eternal energy for which time no longer existed. And,

now, from being with Baby Molly, I understand (and absolutely

feel) this idea of energy being intensely concentrated and

coalesced in infancy. What I see when I am with Molly is that

for her, as for all infants, her world is the immediate present,

the now, and now is eternity because it is all there is. She’s like

the big bang at the beginning of the universe, dense energy

expanding ever outward. My mother and my daughter are

linked through their respective visits into eternity.

Being with Baby Molly is so like the experience I had

of being with my mother as she was fighting against her

encroaching death. For vibrantly alive Molly, and for my

quivering dying mother, the world is/was ever-present; there

is/was an immediacy to every precious moment for each of

them, and for me, too, in being with them. But while their

sense of non-time is what unites them, it is also what separates

them. For Baby Molly, the future stretches out into an almost

infinite number of possibilities; for my now long-dead mother,

the future has already come and gone.

Respectfully submitted by:

La Casa

Spa & Wellness Center

and

Jane G. Goldberg Ph.D.

*Licensed Psychologist

*Certified Psychoanalyst

*Stone Carrier Medicine Woman, Native American Traditional Organization

Here's what people are saying about My Mother, My Daughter, My Self:

“Read Jane’s words of wisdom and learn how to be a loving parent.”
Bernie Siegel, M.D.

“…incredibly moving and
lyrically written… hugely ambitious—and altogether successful.Deserves attention of all those who are mothers and all those who have or had mothers.”
Elizabeth Loftus, Ph.D.

“…touches our hearts as well as our minds. Her insights are brilliant; her language is elegant, accessible and well-crafted; her openness and revelations (about both herself and her patients) are moving and uplifting… like eating a scrumptious, nutritional, utterly satisfying meal. So satisfying, you will feel like you will never have to eat again.”
Phyllis Meadow, Ph.D.

“…a tour de force, a stunningly smart body of work that should be required reading for all mothers and all daughters.”
Mimi Crowell, Ph.D.

"What an amazing read... I enjoyed every page, every sentence. It was interesting, captivating, fun and more. There were so many times I made a mental note to myself. How much I learned, how vividly I experienced what [Jane] shared with us and how much insight - into life, humanity - I gained by reading it. The stories. The details. The words. The brilliant insights. The emotions of the stories/situations. I really appreciate [Jane] sharing such a personal part of [her]self with us."
S.P.

“This wonderful book by Dr. Goldberg is warm, moving and so very true about the relationships of mothers ourselves and our daughters. Who would think a psychoanalyst could write so beautifully and yet clinically about the relationships of mothers and daughters?”
Vicki Semel, Ph.D

"It is beautifully written, very intimate and surprising. Jane, you had such a precious closeness with your mother that comes through in a very tender way.
I love your attempts to understand your mother in the context of her time. The first page of Chapter 5 is exquisite..."
M.G.

Because of the warm reception to the release of My Mother, My Daughter, My Self, Jane was asked this month to write an article titled "The Path to Parenthood" for Scottish publication, Scotland 4 Kids.

In it, she talks about deciding to become a parent later in life, the journey that led her to adopt a child, and the special bond that exists between all mothers and daughters.

You can read the full article

HERE.

Thanks to everyone who attended the first reading/ signing of My Mother, My Daughter, My Self.

Thanks to John Lloyd for sketching the evening, and to Jane Tolcott for sending us the results below!

You can see a video of part of Jane's reading, held in New York City earlier this month, by clicking

HERE.

Jane is in the process of booking readings to promote My Mother, My Daughter,

My Self.

If you are interested in having her read from, and talk about, this self-revelatory work, please email her directly:
janegoldberg@
janegoldbergphd.com