Bedtime Story: The story of the mouse who could leap across the sky

Many of us tend to pay no attention to folk stories and fairytales as they are seen as the realm of childhood entertainment or considered simple mindedness for a grown-up. Analytical psychology regards them as stories from below that have a deep connection to the human unconscious. I would like to share a story with you, it is known in many different variants worldwide, in most of them the protagonist is a mouse, a rabbit or a little ant. The variant below is mostly based on the Bedtime Stories told by Clarissa Pinkola Estes

“The story of the mouse who could leap across the sky”

Once there was a mouse, who was just like every other mouse, except for one thing: this particular mouse could hear a special sound. After many days of hearing it she asked the other mice:  -“Brothers, sisters, do you hear a roaring in your ears?”  They all listened hard, but then shook their heads saying: -“No, we don’t hear anything”.  From then on no matter how hard the little mouse tried to distract herself she continued to hear the great roaring sound. One day - with her little cane and little pouch filled with food - she left her village to seek the source of the great sound. 

She came across the old kind racoon and told him what she was about. The racoon smiled and said: “Oh, little mouse, the roaring you hear… I know about it. I know what that is, let me take you there”. So they went together, and the racoon took her down on paths she had never seen before, and the roaring became louder and louder. And louder… Eventually they came to a great river and to the huge sound that she alone had been hearing - the sound of the great replenishing, life-giving, cleansing river. And the river rang out, and it thundered, and it roared… And it roared…

Some of the creatures of the river seeing the little mouse standing awestruck by the shore swam over and said to her: “Oh, this is the great river but there is more to see than this. If you crouch down, and then leap up as hard as you can, you’ll see something more marvellous.” […] So the little mouse leaped up as hard as she could, and she suddenly saw… just for a moment… far away the shining mountains. In that very moment she knew she must go there. “What did you see little mouse?” - asked the river creature. “Oh, I saw a sight that will never leave my heart.” - said the mouse. And so she felt called to make her way into the larger world. And she set out. 

After a long arduous journey she came upon a village where lived an entire enclave of very old mice. “Welcome” - said one of the old mice. “Stay here with us where it’s peaceful and nothing disturbing happens.” […] “Oh” - the mouse replied - “Can you see the shining mountains from here?” […] “No, not really. But it’s comfortable here. Plenty of seeds, our hidden place is safe from eagles and hawks. Forget those mountains, come stay here with us.” But the little mouse who had heard the roaring and also seen the vision of the shining mountains couldn’t stay, so she tore herself away and continued her journey. 

Gathering all her strength she ran through deserts and forests, the eagles and the hawks overhead made shadows on the land as she ran, and sometimes she had to hide to keep herself from becoming a prey. And then…

…at last before her stood the shining mountains.

It’s said that it was a sacred lake in the cleft of the mountains, in which many ideas, hopes and dreams could be seen, and if one were to climb up there one would even see further. It’s said that at different times of the night and day different understandings come to those who climb these mountains and find this lake. And it’s said that the little mouse still lives there… 

And yes, there she lives as a mouse among mice, the one who followed the roaring, while others claimed they heard nothing. Nothing at all.

Creating stories out of mud and water/oil on canvas/122x91cm

Notes from the attic is exactly what it says. I’m living in a tiny attic, the place of the creative joy and struggle of my life. These blog notes are timely fragments of the books that make me wonder about life, about the journey between my birth and death. This journey seems to have only one purpose: to find the way to myself. You are welcome to explore my paintings on this website  and connect with me through instagram or facebook, or you can subscribe to the monthly newsletter to hear about new works or notes from the attic.


Seneca: On how to live & die

“Learning how to live takes a whole life, and, which may surprise you more, it takes a whole life to learn how to die.”

               A beautiful little book by Seneca (4BC-AD 65) fell into my hands called On the shortness of life, title which - I must say - caught my attention straight away. As for a woman in her forties - thinking about life&death has become a daily activity of mine. This mainly means searching for ways to live life with acceptance towards ageing and death and perceiving it as a meaningful progress of my human condition. Accepting the uncomfortable abyss of existence and even developing an amor fati can be beautifully challenging though, beautiful in a poetic way. Learning to perceive that death is as necessary as life - shouldn’t be overlooked. Our western culture doesn’t wish to hear about death and would rather turn towards anything else which makes one forget about it, hence the fear of it is beyond our control. Focusing on what lies around (what is palpable) with an openness towards nature itself could help perceiving our and our loved one’s existence - with its ascent and descent - as our maturing and our return to where we came from. I can’t help but quote Epictetus: what you love is nothing of your own: it has been given to you for the present

Find below the synopsis of what I’ve found meaningful in Seneca’s book On the shortness of life.

“It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it. Life is long enough and a sufficiently generous amount has been given to us for the highest achievements if it were all well invested. But when it is [..] spent on no good activity, we are forced at last by death’s final constraint to realise that it has passed away before we knew it was passing. So it is: we are not given a short life but we make it short, and we are not ill-supplied but wasteful of it.

[…] It is generally agreed that no activity can be successfully pursued by an individual who is preoccupied […] since the mind when distracted absorbs nothing deeply, but rejects everything which is, so to speak, crammed into it. Living is the least important activity of the preoccupied man; yet there is nothing which is harder to learn. But learning how to live takes a whole life, and, which may surprise you more, it takes a whole life to learn how to die.

Everyone hustles his life along, and is troubled by a longing for the future and weariness of the present. But the man who […] organises every day as though it were his last, neither longs for nor fears the next day[…] Nothing can be taken from this life, and you can only add to it - as if giving to a man who is already full and satisfied - food which he does not want but can hold. So you must not think a man has lived long because he has white hair and wrinkles: he has not lived long, just existed long. For suppose you should think that a man had had a long voyage who had been caught in a raging storm as he left harbour, and carried hither and thither and driven round and round in a circle by the rage of opposing winds? He did not have a long voyage, just a long tossing about.

[…] Putting things off is the biggest waste of life: it snatches away each day as it comes, and denies us the present by promising the future. The greatest obstacle to living is expectancy, which hangs upon tomorrow, and loses today. You are arranging what lies in Fortune’s control, and abandoning what lies in yours. What are you looking at? To what goal are you straining? The whole future lies in uncertainty: live immediately.

[…]We are all tied to Fortune, some by a loose and golden chain, and others by a tight one of baser metal: but what does it matter? We are all held in the same captivity, and those who have bound others are themselves in bonds - unless you think perhaps that the left-hand chain is lighter. One man is bound by high office, another by wealth; good birth weighs down some, and a humble origin others; some bow under the rule of other men and some under their own; some are restricted to one place by exile, others by priesthoods: all life is a servitude. So you have to get used to your circumstances, complain about them as little as possible, and grasp whatever advantage they have to offer: no condition is so bitter that a stable mind cannot find some consolation in it.

[…]Think your way through difficulties: harsh conditions can be softened, restricted ones can be widened, and heavy ones can weigh less on those who know how to bear them. Moreover, we must not send our desires on a distant hunt, but allow them to explore what is near to hand, since they do not submit to being totally confined. Abandoning those things which are impossible or difficult to attain, let us pursue what is readily available and entices our hopes, yet recognise that all are equally trivial, outwardly varied in appearance but uniformly futile within. And let us no envy those who stand higher than we do: what look like towering heights are precipices.

[The wise man] does not have to walk nervously or cautiously, for he has such self-confidence that he does not hesitate to make a stand against Fortune and will never give ground to her. He has no reason to fear her, since he regards as held on loan not only his goods and possessions and status, but even his body, his eyes and hand, and all that makes life more dear, and his very self; and he lives as though he were lent to himself and bound to return the loan on demand without complaint. Nor is he thereby cheap in his own eyes, because he knows he is not his own, but he will act in all things as carefully and meticulously as a devout and holy man guards anything entrusted to him. And whenever he is ordered to repay his debt he will not complain to Fortune, but he will say: “I thank you for what I have possessed and held. I have looked after your property to my great benefit, but at your command I give and yield it with gratitude and good will. If you want me still to have anything of yours, I shall keep it safe; if you wish otherwise, I give back and restore to you my silver […] my house and my household.”

Should Nature demand back what she previously entrusted to us, we shall say to her too: Take back my spirit in better shape than when you gave it. I do not quibble or hang back, I am willing for you to have straightway what you gave me before I was conscious – take it.” What is the harm in returning to the point whence you came? He will live badly who does not know how to die well. So we must strip off the value we set on this thing and recon the breath of life as something cheap.” (Seneca, On the shortness of life)

The barricade (I’m still far from being what I want to be),/oil on canvas/120x90cm

Notes from the attic is exactly what it says. I’m living in a tiny attic, the place of the creative joy and struggle of my life. These blog notes are timely fragments of the books that make me wonder about life, about the journey between my birth and death. This journey seems to have only one purpose: to find the way to myself. You are welcome to explore my paintings on this website  and connect with me through instagram or facebook, or you can subscribe to the monthly newsletter to hear about new works or notes from the attic.



Hermann Hesse: On talent and vocation

All these virtues […] are the hallmarks of the true human being per se, of the un-enslaved, unmechanised man, of the reverent and responsible human being, no matter what his profession.“  

Hermann Hesse’s brilliant and sensible presentation - in the form of a letter- of the relation between talent and vocation is a timely message for today’s artists. I’ve been fortunate to have access to his book of essays entitled  My Belief: Essays on Life and Art which is not easy to get hold of as it hasn’t been published many times in English. His essay Letter to a young poet gives a deep insight into what is required to become an artist. You can read below the synopsis of the message it conveyed to me.

Letter to a young poet (1910)

         […] You present me with your poetic efforts and request me to read them and tell you what I think of your talent. You ask for severe judgement and candid appraisal, flattery will be of no use to you. Simply put, your question is: am I a poet? Am I talented enough to be entitled to publish poems and, if possible, to make writing my calling? I would like nothing better than to be able to give a simple answer to this simple question, but that is not possible. […] Whether you have talent, can of course be made out, but talent is no rarity, the world is teeming with talent. […]  

        At best I will be able to discover traces of your experiences and attempt to form a picture of your character. More is not possible, and whoever promises on the basis of your early efforts to appraise your literary talent or your hopes for a poetic career is a highly superficial character, if not a swindler. […] No, the judgement of your talent is not as simple as you think. […] But the matter has another side to which we should devote a moment’s attention. Why do you want to be a poet? If it is from ambition for fame, then you have chosen a poor field: the German of today doesn’t care very much about poets and get along quite well without them. It is the same with making money: if you were to become the most famous poet in Germany, you would, in comparison with a director or an assistant manager of a stocking or a needle factory, be a little better than a beggar.

         But perhaps you have hit upon the ideal of being a poet because you see a poet as an original, a perceptive and a pious man, pure in heart, with delicate sensibilities and an exalted emotional life, a man who is capable of awe, who yearns for an inspired, in some way ennobled existence. Perhaps you see the poet as the opposite pole to the moneyman, to the man of power. Perhaps you strive for a poet’s career not on account of the verses or fame but because you feel that the poet only seems to enjoy a certain freedom and isolation but actually is responsible in the highest degree, and must dedicate himself totally if his poetic vocation is not to be a masquarade. If this is so, then you’re following the right road with your verses. But in that case too it is of no consequence whether in time you become a poet or not. For these high qualities, tasks, and goals which ascribe to the poet, that loyalty to himself, that awe in the face of nature, that acceptance of unusual self-sacrifice, that responsibility which is never satisfied with itself and gladly pays the price of sleepless nights for a successful sentence, a well-turned phrase - all these virtues (if we may call them so) are the hallmarks of the true human being per se, of the un-enslaved, unmechanised man, of the reverent and responsible human being, no matter what his profession

            Now if you have this ideal of a human being, if you are not inspired by a desire for notoriety and fame, money and power, but rather desire a life entered in itself and unshakable by worldly influences, then, to be sure, you are not yet a poet, but you are the poet’s brother, you belong to the same species. And then too there is profound meaning in the fact that you write poetry. […]

           To follow the way of the poet, not simply to practice the use of language but to learn to know oneself more profoundly and more accurately, to advance one’s individual development farther and higher than the average of mankind succeeds in doing, through setting down unique and wholly personal psychic experiences, to see better one’s own powers and dangers, to define them better - that is what writing poetry means to the young poet, long before the question may be raised as to whether his poems perhaps have some value for the world at large.

Rising sun. kingdom of lead/oil on canvas/122x91cm

Notes from the attic is exactly what it says. I’m living in a tiny attic, the place of the creative joy and struggle of my life. These blog notes are timely fragments of the books that make me wonder about life, about the journey between my birth and death. This journey seems to have only one purpose: to find the way to myself. You are welcome to explore my paintings on this website  and connect with me through instagram or facebook, or you can subscribe to my monthly newsletter to hear about new works or notes from the attic.

Copyright © 2020 Melinda Matyas. All rights reserved.