Books have always carried a sacred charge for me. Not merely containers of information, they are vessels of memory and transformation—like the grail, the krater, or any archetypal chalice meant to hold what overflows. Their physical presence—the worn spine, the sweet smell of old paper that seems like elderly skin, the creased page that once marked an encounter—feels like a kind of communion. These objects are not just signs; they are symbols. As Jung teaches, a symbol is something that evokes, that stirs the soul, that points beyond itself toward what is unconscious, implicit, eternal.

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To hold a book, especially now, is to hold contradiction. After years of Ankylosing Spondylitis flares and the continual, if slow, deterioration, reading is no longer easy. Brain fog clouds my comprehension, and floaters—those drifting specks and shadows across the eye—interrupt the field of vision. My spine and neck stiffen after just a few pages. These bodily limitations disrupt the once-effortless intimacy I had with texts, but they also deepen the encounter. The difficulty infuses the act with weight, gravity, and ritual. It becomes a slowed, reverent approach to meaning. I must now work to perceive, and in that labor, perception itself becomes symbolic.

 

The floaters—ghostly threads suspended in the eye’s vitreous—haunt the visual field. They cannot be looked at directly, only seen askance. In this way, they mirror the elusive nature of insight. They are like fragments of the unconscious made visible: bits of forgotten memory, unintegrated experience, or psychic debris drifting across the threshold of awareness. When I first learned that floaters might relate to uveitis—a symptom of my autoimmune condition—I imagined them as tiny messengers of inflammation, flare-induced shadows demanding to be noticed.

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If the eye is the organ of the inner witness, then its disruption becomes profoundly symbolic. Floaters are not just annoyances. They are symbols of distortion, metaphors for the struggle to see clearly in the midst of psychic and bodily upheaval. Their constant presence reminds me that perception itself is fragile, that all vision is mediated by the body’s mysterious thresholds. They usher in a kind of sacred disorientation.

 

Books, too, reflect this tension. They beckon me with the promise of connection and insight, even as my body resists their embrace. The act of reading becomes a site of conflict—a battleground between yearning and limitation. I think of Lee Miller, whose life I recently explored through biographies and recipe-laced memoirs. Her story of reinvention, of transforming trauma into artistry, feels like a living alchemical text. To engage with her now, through print, is to connect with that vitality, even as my own body falters.

 

There is also bitterness. The shadow parts of me—the ones who once took pride in intellectual agility, visual precision, and aesthetic control—rage at these limitations. They mock my slowness, whisper of obsolescence, hiss about the futility of trying. These characters—inner critics, betrayed animas, exiled perfectionists—stand outraged at what they see as betrayal: by the body, by time, by fate. They demand a clarity the body can no longer promise. They grieve the effortless fluency that is now fractured.

 

But perhaps the deeper invitation is not to conquer this grief but to symbolize it. To allow the loss of vision—not just optical but metaphorical—as a rite of passage. As in the Fisher King myth, I begin to suspect that the real wound is not the floaters or the fog, but the failure to ask the right question. What does this disruption want from me? What must be seen through the blur?

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To live a symbolic life, Jung tells us, is to find meaning in what otherwise feels meaningless. In that light, both books and floaters become guides. Books mirror the soul’s longing for wholeness and narrative coherence; floaters interrupt that clarity, demanding that I look differently—not harder, but softer. More inwardly. Less with the critical gaze, and more with the receptive heart.

 

Even the anger of the shadow has something to teach. Its outrage is a distorted echo of devotion. It once protected the gift of perception, the ability to see into things. Now it thrashes against the sense of loss. But if I can listen to this fury with compassion, I may find a deeper resilience: the knowledge that even partial vision can be holy. That meaning survives distortion. That transformation often begins with disorientation.

 

To read now is to wander through fog with a lantern. The light is dimmer, the path uncertain, but the act remains sacred. The book and the eye—the object and the witness—exist in a new relationship: each fractured, each charged with symbolic weight, each asking not for mastery but for presence.

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​ON BOOKS (first version)

​Reflecting on the symbolic nature of physical books, I find they hold layers of meaning beyond mere objects; they are vessels of memory and transformation, like the krater and grail. Their physicality mirrors life's ephemeral nature—each crease and dog-eared page a testament to experiences lived, resonating with Jungian notions of the "Self" and our collective unconscious.

 

​My recent readings on Lee Miller—"Lee Miller: Photographs" (Antony Penrose) and "Lee Miller, A Life with Food, Friends, and Recipes" (Ami Bouhasseane), among others— capture her story of reinvention and transformation, echoing the alchemical process of turning suffering into wisdom. Holding these books, I connect with her vitality and reflect on my yearning for wholeness amid change.

 

​The sensory experience of reading these books evokes youthful curiosity and a bittersweet awareness of past wounds. But it also brings an awareness of wounds. As in the Fisher King myth, the feeling of “not asking the right question” resonates profoundly. There’s a bitter sweetness in recognizing how the books I read in my youth, particularly those that challenged my naive understanding of gender and sexuality, left me unsettled yet expanded—a vital part of my own journey.

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Facing the challenges of my autoimmune disease, my relationship with books takes on new significance. The difficulty of reading due to brain fog and other issues symbolizes a sense of loss, highlighting my vulnerabilities. Yet, as Jung suggests, wounds can be thresholds for transformation. Books reflect my yearning for connection—with myself, others, and deeper truths—offering stability and a bridge between the ephemeral and the eternal. They embody an energy that inspires creative engagement, reminding me that reinvention and vitality are possible, even amid struggle.