Beyond Echo and Cassandra: Finding the Voice of Inner Authority

Beyond Echo and Cassandra: Finding the Voice of Inner Authority

This article was first published in Spring Journal, Volume 91: Women’s Voices 2014 by Spring Journal Books.

“When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years… you’ll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean?” — C. S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces

“Find your voice” has been a feminist mantra since the sixties. Originally a rallying cry for the inclusion of women in public discourse, it later morphed into a well-worn metaphor for the expression of female authority. The phrase is loaded with emotion, evoking the history of women’s long silence and aspirations for authentic expression. When Hillary Clinton, campaigning for President in 2008, announced that she had found her own voice, pundits and bloggers on both the left and the right went wild in a warring frenzy of praise and condemnation.1 Meanwhile a Google search for the phrase obtains over 564,000 results for services that promise to help us find our voices through endeavors as wide-ranging as religion, fashion, social networking, wedding planning, and divorce.

The voice that we seem so eager to find is that of inner authority. In a five-year project aimed at discovering “women’s ways of knowing,” a group of psychologists and educators conducted extensive interviews with American women of varied ages, socioeconomic backgrounds, and educational levels, discovering that women repeatedly use the metaphor of voice to depict their development of mind, self, and authority.2 This tendency is at odds with the visual metaphors (for instance those equating seeing with knowing or knowledge with light) that are used most often in science and philosophy.

Metaphors involving the mind’s eye encourage standing at a distance to get an objective view, an orientation more in keeping with the Logos principle of differentiation, while metaphors involving speaking and listening suggest ways of knowing through dialogue and interaction, an orientation more based in the Eros principle of relatedness. The study concludes that, for most American women, a sense of self and self-worth most commonly occurs within the context of feeling connected to oneself and others—and that it is typically understood and expressed through the metaphor of the voice.

Western history has not been kind to authoritative female voices. Socrates’ wife became infamous as a shrew with too sharp and loose a tongue, even though Plato described her as a loving spouse. Aristotle wrote, “Silence is a woman’s glory, but this is not equally the glory of a man.”3 Paul advocated the elimination of women’s voices from the early Church, arguing that the fall of humanity had occurred due to Eve’s sinful use of speech: she persuaded Adam to eat the forbidden fruit. Paul wrote, “I do not permit a woman to teach, nor to have authority over the man; she must be silent.” (Timothy 2:12)

Throughout the Christian era, silence has been considered a feminine virtue and speech a feminine vice; from the middle ages into the twenty-first century, cartoons of women with their lips padlocked have remained popular. Even in contemporary life, writes linguist Deborah Tannen, speech described as articulate, committed, passionate, or fluent in men tends to be labeled as strident, shrill, or excessive in women.4

Against this long background of suppression, it is tempting to compensate by idealizing the female voice and turning a deaf ear to its shadow. And yet the shadow is there. Women can indeed be strident and shrill at times, perhaps especially when first struggling to discover and express personal authority. Both men and women may use their voices in service to power, drowning out other voices with the force of their own and deadening relatedness with intolerance. Some also drown out relatedness by incessant chatter devoid of meaningful content, “the babble that we think we mean.”5 Gossip, for example, is almost universally associated with women’s speech and it can be a way of using one’s voice to diminish, rather than enhance, other people. This is memorably depicted in the musical comedy, The Music Man. As the town matrons gather to gossip, they pick apart their neighbors’ reputations, singing rapidly in high-pitched, bird-like voices, “Pick a little, talk a little, pick a little, talk a little, cheep cheep cheep, talk a lot, pick a little more.”6 While these uses of the voice may posture as power, they lack the deeply grounded relatedness to self and others that is the voice of true psychological authority.

This authority is the ability to experience our own thoughts, feelings, and perceptions as valid and valuable, leading to self-trust, agency, and responsibility for being the authors of our own lives. Understood psychologically, finding one’s voice is a process of developing psychological authority and learning to express it authentically. Genuine inner authority, in other words, is more an internal than an external process.

My interest in this topic emerges both from my personal efforts to develop an authentic sense of inner authority and from my experience with other women—patients, friends, and colleagues—who have shared similar concerns. Early in that process, I dreamed that I was desperately trying to get a little girl to the emergency room. Her head was almost completely severed from her body, hanging by a thread. Although I regarded myself as having a strong and authoritative voice, it was a voice that spoke from the neck up. The dream set me on a journey to heal the split between mind and body/soul and to develop a deeper and more full-bodied voice.

Many of the routine accomplishments of contemporary women are unimaginable to our grandmothers, yet the inner struggle to “find our voices” continues. Beneath successful personas, we may lack a felt sense of our own deeper value. Without vital access to positive images of female authority, even success may leave us feeling empty, inferior, or fraudulent. Fearing exposure as undeserving, we may continue to seek our value through outer accomplishments, hoping that the next “seal of approval” from an external authority will finally confer what is missing.

These difficulties have a cultural underpinning. The legacy of patriarchy has profoundly colored our perceptions, attitudes, and images of authority, which have long been “genderized” through association with male figures and images. I vividly recall hearing my father tell my little brother that he could grow up to be President of the United States. “Me too!” I exclaimed. “Girls can’t be President,” my father replied. “But you could be First Lady…or even Miss America!” Even at six, I sensed that these aspirations were a distant second.

Based on messages like this, women raised in a patriarchal society or family culture may learn to exclude authority from their self-images as incompatible with a socially approved feminine identity, creating a double bind between feminine identity and authority.7 Women who claim authority have often been labeled as controlling, domineering, or bitchy, while those who don’t have been labeled dependent, depressed, or masochistic.

The mother is usually the first figure of authority in a child’s life, and necessary psychological separation from her tends to create strong defenses against female authority in both women and men. As adults, we may continue to experience women’s authority through the negative pole of the mother complex.8 For some women, this problem is managed by projecting authority onto male figures, but this solution denies women the fuller validation that might emerge from access to an internal voice of female authority. To uncover such a voice, women may need to begin as in Marge Piercy’s poem,9

Unlearning to Not Speak

She must learn again to speak
starting with I
starting with We
starting as the infant does
with her own true hunger
and pleasure
and rage.

Two Ways We Lose Our Voices


Diane spoke so softly that she was often ignored completely. She simmered in silent resentment whenever this happened but she never raised her voice. “Nobody cares what I think,” she said repeatedly, with an air of self-pity. But the truth was even more difficult to face. After a lifetime of silent compliance and conflict avoidance, Diane had no idea what she really thought or felt. Her tentative voice was actually a faithful instrument that conveyed a vacuum of personal authority. Instead, Diane derived her sense of authority from identifications with her husband, her church, and her social group.

Married for thirty-five years to a controlling, judgmental, and uncommunicative man, Diane had spent her life trying to please others: her mother, husband, employers, and friends. But as her sixtieth birthday approached, she felt empty and depressed. She realized that she knew nothing of her own wants and needs and feared that time was running out. Initially she asked if I could administer tests to determine her interests, as she had no idea how to discover them on her own.

In the first dream she brought to our sessions, Diane chased a frantic, silent little girl around a small room, trying to stop her efforts to get out, suggesting to me that her soul was confined and silenced in too small a life. But Diane had difficulty working symbolically with this or the other dreams she occasionally brought, seemingly eager to please me. Instead, she chatted about the news of the week, reporting her own activities and her reactions to the doings of others. Beneath these narratives ran a stream of continuous anxiety: Diane wondered whether she was good enough, financially secure enough, and loved enough. She feared she would end up poor, widowed, and friendless.

From an archetypal perspective, Diane lived within the Greek myth of Echo, the nymph who assisted Zeus in his philandering by distracting his wife Hera with her stories. In punishment, the jealous Hera cursed Echo with the loss of her capacity to initiate speech, except in meaningless repetition of others. Echo fell desperately in love with the beautiful youth Narcissus but her repetitive speech only provoked his contempt. Dismissed, Echo wasted away in the wilderness until nothing remained of her but a faint and repetitive voice.

Like Echo, Diane had lost her voice through the curse of a negative mother. Her father’s preferred companion and confidante from early childhood, Diane became the target of her mother’s envy and narcissistic rage. Like Hera attacking Echo’s ability to generate speech, Diane’s mother contemptuously devalued and foreclosed any attempt Diane made at self-expression. Just as the voiceless Echo was drawn to the proud Narcissus, Diane was unconsciously attracted to self-involved people, both in marriage and in friendship, hoping always to win the approval she craved through compliance.

Because the Echo complex is grounded in the negative mother, women who operate from this pattern may be dissociated from the positive maternal ground in the form of the physical body. The mythological Echo loses her body altogether, wasting away until nothing remains but a repetitive voice. Diane could not recall any experience of being securely held or comforted by her mother and this primal disconnection manifested in adult life as excessive weight, a variety of aches and pains, and numbing of sexual desire (recall that Echo fled from Pan’s lusty advances). In fact, Diane’s struggle with selfexpression arose from a pervasive sense of numbness that made it difficult to experience physical sensations or to access emotions, much less to recall dreams or exercise imagination.

At the heart of Diane’s suffering was a depressive form of narcissism, in which she consciously identified with a self-image of shame and inferiority, while projecting value onto others. Diane lived out the pattern of Echo by partnering with people who embodied Narcissus’ grandiosity; she unconsciously strove to regain her lost self-esteem through association with admired (and secretly envied) others. But just as the empty Echo became the object of Narcissus’ contempt, Diane became the scapegoat for others’ projected and disowned shadows.

I noticed Diane’s Echo pattern through the pressure I felt to counsel her rather than trust her ability to access her own authority. This was congruent with Diane’s expectation that I become another idealized partner to compensate for her lack of value. I worked to balance giving enough metaphoric “food” to allow her to form a secure attachment, while not becoming one more outer authority for her to echo. In this initial phase, she would press me for answers to her dilemmas, becoming anxious when I refrained from counseling her and relieved when I succumbed—though she seldom actually acted upon my suggestions. Instead, she attempted to fan my narcissism by chattily reporting how she had repeated my wisdom, Echo-like, to others.

In time, we were more able to use our sessions as a place where Diane could practice voicing her feelings, wants, and ideas, no matter how tentative. As we worked to identify what she really thought and felt, and to get past her fear of expressing herself, Diane’s voice became stronger and more direct. She even disagreed with me when she thought I was wrong—something that would have been unimaginable at the beginning of her therapy. This led to a compensatory period of some inflation in which she attended only to her own voice, with little regard for others. As she experienced more of the grandiose pole of her narcissism, she became angry at the people who had treated her dismissively, creating tensions with those who preferred her silent compliance. It became important in the development of Diane’s authority to face the ways she had colluded in her own dismissal. Behind an innocent, self-effacing persona, easily intimidated by the aggression of others, lurked a passive-aggressive, entitled shadow, accustomed to silently manipulating others through her seeming helplessness. In facing and claiming aspects of that shadow, Diane began to recognize the silent power she had wielded in relationships.

As Diane developed a capacity to identify and express what she felt, thought, and wanted, she was more able to assert herself and to risk more authentic expression. After a period of increased tension and confrontation, her marriage grew more satisfying. She spoke to her pastor about her desire to do more than stuff envelopes during her volunteer time at church. Before long, she was chairing church events and performing in the annual play, admitting that she liked being in the spotlight. The following winter, Diane was invited to join a volunteer group serving in a Haitian orphanage, her first trip without her husband in thirty-five years.

Diane’s life expanded and her mood improved. She lost twentyfive extra pounds and ended a troubling relationship with a domineering female friend, now recognized as a recapitulation of her relationship with her mother. In the place of that exclusive and demanding friendship, Diane cultivated a number of new friendships with other women, coming to feel more genuinely connected and less alone. Through her effort to develop a more authoritative, genuine voice, she had become less of an Echo—more present and alive, and more able to extend care to others.


The Echo pattern is not the only way women can be silenced. We can also lose our voices through being vocal without the inner authority that makes communication effective. Although such women may speak profusely, they are often not taken seriously, even by themselves. Some may fall into the pattern represented by the Greek myth of Cassandra.

Cassandra was a Trojan princess who was given the gift of prophecy by Apollo in exchange for her promise to lie with him. When Cassandra reneged on fulfilling her part of the bargain, Apollo added a curse: no one would believe her prophesies. It was thus Cassandra’s fate to foretell the fall of Troy, and her own murder, unable to convince others to heed her warnings. Cassandra’s eventual fate was decapitation, a vivid image of profound psychic disconnection.

Laurie Layton Shapiro has written incisively about the Cassandra complex and my reflections are guided by her work.10 The Cassandra pattern appears in extroverted, hysterically-organized women in whom there is a split between a rationalistic, judgmental animus and an intuitive, feeling shadow. Although the Cassandra woman has strong intuitive gifts, she tends to discharge anxiety by frantically blurting out unmetabolized intuitions. Like the boy who cried “wolf,” she is met with disbelief on all sides.

Thirty-year-old Hannah often seemed to assume the role of a Cassandra, anxiously perseverating over possible worst case scenarios. Post-traumatic hyper-vigilance led her to present both major problems and minor inconveniences as impending disasters, drowning out her accurate intuitions about the underlying states of people and situations. Hannah was, however, anchored by her faith, and found an outlet for more thoughtful expression by composing essays for Christian magazines. She wrote about the contradictions of claiming to be both “pro-life” and pro-war and excluding gay people from the commandment to “love your neighbor.” Her essays rang with authoritative passion and compassion. But she couldn’t hit the “send” button. Hannah didn’t fear having her articles rejected—she feared they would be accepted! Then she might be exposed to criticism, anger, or even persecutory attack. So she continued to write but she never sent. Her caring, insightful voice went unheard.

Hannah was well able to access a sense of personal authority and to express it privately, but not publicly. Her voice was silenced by a dread of hostility and aggression that had a basis in early experience. She had been a bright and extraverted child, closer to her charismatic father than to her mother. He was proud of her intelligence and he enjoyed her quick wit. But when her father was drinking, he would react unpredictably to Hannah’s feisty exuberance, punishing her with brutal physical and verbal abuse. Hannah learned to constantly test both the temperature of his mood and his level of intoxication before she spoke.

Hannah’s inner world reflected the split in her father, with a bright, spiritualized, Apollonic animus shadowed by a dark Dionysian brother. No matter how sunny things seemed, she knew that a devastating storm could erupt without warning, and she learned that it was better to silence her voice rather than to risk upsetting anyone. As we explored the projection of her father onto her potential readers, Hannah had a few successes in hitting the send button and she was gratified when some of her articles appeared in print.

But it was not until her newborn son was diagnosed with a congenital heart condition that Hannah found a more directly authoritative voice. From the early weeks of his life, Hannah worried about a slight rasping sound in her baby’s breath. She felt that something was very wrong, but her concerns were dismissed by her pediatrician as those of an over-anxious mother and by family members as her typical tendency to be a “drama queen.” Her Cassandra complex constellated as Hannah continued to urge others to take her concern seriously and they continued to dismiss her. She was torn between her intuition that something was wrong and the self-doubt evoked by others’ patronizing denial. We agreed that Hannah’s foreboding about her baby might or might not be valid information, and she insisted on further tests. Her baby’s rasping breath was, as predicted, benign—but he also had “silent” cardiac malformations so life-threatening that emergency surgery was required.

In the years that followed, Hannah worked to trust her perception of the truth and to voice it in a more contained and measured way, even when it upset her husband, parents, and doctors. Repeatedly, she was assured that her child was “out of the woods” when he was not. Repeatedly, she had to insist on more diligent testing, more accurate explanations, and more creative treatment options. Repeatedly, she was brushed off as a hysterical mother. And repeatedly her intuitions were right. With these experiences came a new trust in the value and validity of her inner experience, a new authority. No longer recognizable as an ungrounded young woman silenced by the effects of past trauma, she found a new authoritative voice through advocacy for her son.

Isolated at home because of her son’s inability to tolerate infections, she started a social networking community where she and other “heart moms” could exchange information and support. When an anonymous visitor to the site posted a venomous attack, the very type of attack she had once feared, she held her ground and expressed her truth. Her ability to advocate effectively for her son eventually led to an advocacy role for other children and parents affected by heart disease, who were less able to speak on their own behalf. Hannah helped create a foundation to support families during their children’s hospitalizations, advocated for parents and children with medical staff, and spoke before state and federal legislators to raise awareness about needs for research and care. While she continued to struggle with anxiety about voicing her opinions in public and to worry about adverse reactions, her commitment to children’s care was a higher calling. She had discovered her authoritative voice on her son’s behalf and now used it for others.

The Cassandra pattern portrays a neglectful mother in the background. During the mythical Cassandra’s birthday feast, celebrated in the temple of Apollo, her mother drinks too much, forgets about her, and stumbles home, abandoning the young Cassandra to the unmediated archetypal energies imaged as her fateful meeting with Apollo.

Hannah’s mother was certainly prone to a pattern of neglect. Herself the child of an abusive, alcoholic home, she remained married to Hannah’s father, ignoring his brutal abuse of Hannah, because of the financial security he provided. She was able to maintain denial of the abuse by physically leaving the house when her husband drank heavily, abandoning Hannah to her father’s abuse and repeatedly dismissing or minimizing Hannah’s attempts to voice the truth. Hannah’s relationship with female authority thus became one of deep distrust.

Hannah’s development of inner authority required a connection to a positive maternal image strong enough to contain her tendencies to anxiety and hysteria. Along with a positive transference in her analysis, Hannah found a comforting symbol of abiding maternal love in the image of Mary as the sorrowing Pieta. Through this image, Hannah could connect with the archetypal good mother, one able to remain present to her child’s suffering, continuing to love and contain his tortured body even when she could not protect him. The power of Hannah’s negative mother complex receded as a feeling connection to this positive image of inner value and female authority became stronger. This was the very containment she had needed from her own mother. As she did her best to give it to her son, Hannah also felt the healing comfort of a connection with the archetypal good mother. Child of a neglectful mother and an abusive father, Hannah’s love for her child enabled her to redeem a family legacy of destructive parenting. Her willingness to suffer consciously, inspired by the Pieta, deepened her maturity and opened a connection to the inner authority of the Self. While the voice that emerged remained vitally connected to her strong intuition, it also became more grounded and related.

Elephant Voice

An ancient symbol system from a distant culture gives clues about the archetypal nature of the authentic voice and its development. The seven chakras of Kundalini Yoga are considered to represent centers of consciousness linking body, mind, and life energy, located at nodal points along the spine. These centers offer a model of psycho-spiritual development that has survived for thousands of years, remaining symbolically relevant today; yoga’s many practices, teachings, and truths are now well-established in the western world.

Each element of imagery associated with the chakras represents the collective intuitions of countless generations of adepts, expressed in visual form. The chakras are depicted through particular geometric shapes, Sanskrit letters, animal rulers, and personified deities. Although each of the lower five chakras is symbolized by an animal, only the elephant appears twice.

Figure 1: Traditional Presentation of the First Chakra

In the first, or muladhara chakra, located at the base of the spine, a gray elephant represents the physical base of conscious life and the carrying power of psychic energy.11 The word muladhara translates literally as root support. Psychologically, this chakra is related to our most rudimentary survival instincts and it holds primitive fears of annihilation and abandonment.12 According to Jung, the first chakra consciousness is focused on maintaining one’s physical existence through adaptation to the physical world and the demands of society. Psychological life is dormant and the symbolic capacity is undeveloped. Jung considered the elephant in the first chakra to represent the carrying power of the earth and the base of psychic energy, describing this as “the tremendous urge which supports human consciousness, the power that forces us to build such a conscious world.”13

Figure 2: Traditional Presentation of the Fifth Chakra

The elephant appears again as the presiding animal of the throat chakra. The fifth chakra, or vishuddha, located at the throat, is associated with the voice, sound, speech, hearing, expression, and creativity.14 When the elephant reappears here, it is white, signifying a spiritualization of the earlier, more physical elephant energy. The symbolism of the fifth chakra depicts our potential to connect below with above, to join body and mind in the expression of authentic voice.

In the throat chakra, the white elephant is depicted along with a full moon, while a crescent moon rules overhead. A white, downward pointing triangle contains both the elephant and full moon. These are all crosscultural symbols associated with the archetypal feminine principle. The masculine principle is represented in the blue color of the outer circle and in the petals of the lotus, which bear the sixteen Sanskrit vowels, considered to represent spirit. This chakra is an image of feminine soul encircled by masculine spirit, a union of opposites, taking place at the neck, where body and mind come together.

In the state of consciousness symbolized by the fifth chakra, the two opposing energy currents in the body, one considered lunar and the other solar, are thought to unite, balancing archetypal masculine and feminine energies within the psyche. Psychologically, this suggests a consciousness in which mind and body, as well as capacities for relating and differentiating, are in balance. This balance, occurring at the throat, gives rise to the authentic voice, one that integrates bodily, emotional, and intellectual knowing.

The doubled appearance of the elephant, in both the first and fifth chakras, indicates a connection between the energy centers at the base of the spine and the throat, between our “seat” and our voice. There is a world of difference between a voice that speaks from the neck up and one that arises from the depths of bodily knowing. Women who have primarily identified with the intellect may believe we have found our voices before we have found our depths. The dual elephants suggest that the true voice of authority arises from the bottom up.

There could not be a more fitting animal than the elephant to preside over the voice chakra. Living in deeply bonded matriarchal groups, elephants are prodigious communicators. They snort, scream, trumpet, and roar. Conversations among family members continue all day, with close to seventy different sounds for communication identified to date. Many of the calls occur at the level of infrasound, a lowfrequency rumble below the hearing range of humans, which can be heard over at least 110 square miles.15

The authority of the total psyche or the Self, connected to bodily knowing through the first chakra, finds creative expression in the fifth chakra. When we connect our bodily roots with our voice, above is linked with below and spirit is connected with matter, imaged as the spiritualized white elephant of the throat linked by the spinal column to the gray elephant of the root chakra. In this state the voice arises full-bodied from the depths. This coming together of body and mind allows us to express the voice of our deepest inner authority. Rumbling just below conscious awareness like the elephant voice, it is the sound of potential wholeness.

The Speech at the Center of the Soul

Jung considered the symbolism of the fifth chakra to represent consciousness of psychological reality.16 He described vishuddha consciousness as the ability to recognize the world as a reflection of the psyche, allowing the withdrawal of projections and the dissolution of identity relationships with other people. We find strikingly similar imagery in the alchemical stage known as the albedo (or whitening), which also uses images of whiteness and the full moon to suggest a similar development: the albedo has been interpreted psychologically as a stage in which shadow projections have been withdrawn and synthesis can begin.17 By symbolizing this development with the throat, yogic tradition associates it with the development of an authentic voice.

But as we withdraw the projection of authority from others to seek an inner voice, we may discover that the voice we find is not singular. Just as the voices of collective authority can be a Babel of competing opinions, so also, when we turn within, we discover an internal Babel. Our many complexes have voices and they clamor and compete for dominance. Jung developed the method of active imagination as a way for the ego to differentiate among these voices and establish a conscious standpoint toward them. Like fairy tale heroines with their sorting tasks, we can only discover and trust an authentic inner voice through much work at differentiation. Otherwise, in the name of “finding our own voice,” we can easily be seduced into replacing the tyranny of collective authority with the tyranny of a complex.

In conversation with these voices, we hear the reigning deities and devils of the psyche and they seem to hear us too. These inner voices stand outside the conscious knowing of the ego and yet they influence the ego directly. Jung did not imagine individuation as a static achievement but as a relationship, an ongoing dialogue in which these deeper voices are brought to consciousness through a “shuttling to and fro of arguments and affects (which) represents the transcendent function of opposites…a living birth that leads to a new level of being.”18 Through such experiences, the ego’s sense of identity is altered and the Self, as center of the personality, is strengthened. A new voice of authority emerges from the babble, one that Jung calls “the cry for personality.”19 It is the speech at the center of the soul, our elephant voice. By consciously hearing its counsel, we build our deepest authority.


  1. Maureen Dowd, “Can Hillary Cry Her Way Back to the White House?” The New York Times, January 9, 2008. Accessed July 14, 2009 at
  2. Mary Field Belenky, Blythe McVicker Clinchy, Nancy Rule Goldberger and Jill Mattuck Tarule, Women’s Ways of Knowing: The Development of Self, Voice and Mind (New York: Basic Books, 1986, repr. 1997).
  3. Thomas C. Brickhouse and Nicholas D. Smith, Routledge Philosophy Guidebook to Plato and the Trial of Socrates (New York: Routledge, 2004), p. 22.
  4. Deborah Tannen, You Just Don’t Understand: Women and Men in Conversation (New York: Harper Paperbacks, 2001).
  5. C.S. Lewis, Till We Have Faces (New York: Harcourt 1956, reprt. 1984), p. 294.
  6. Hal Leonard Publishing Corporation and Meredith Wilson, “Pick-a-little, talk-a-little,” Songs From the Musical Comedy The Music Man (New York: Frank Music Corp, 1954).
  7. Jean Baker Miller, Women and Power (1981), in J. V. Jordan, A. G. Kaplan, J. B. Miller, I. P. Stiver and J. L. Surrey, eds. Women’s Growth In Connection (New York: Guilford Press, 1991), p. 204.
  8. Polly Young-Eisendrath and Frances Weidemann, Female Authority (New York: The Guilford Press 1987), p. 45.
  9. Marge Piercy, Circles on the Water (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1985).
  10. Laurie Layton Shapiro, The Cassandra Complex: Living with Disbelief (Toronto, Canada: Inner City Books, 1988).
  11. C.G. Jung, The Psychology of Kundalini Yoga. ed. Sonu Shamdasani (Princeton NJ: Princeton University Press 1996), p. 51.
  12. Swami Rama, Rudolph Ballentine, and Swami Ajaya, Yoga and Psychotherapy: The Evolution of Consciousness (Honesdale, PA: Himalayan Institute Press, 1976), p. 178.
  13. Jung, Kundalini Yoga, p. 51.
  14. Rama et al., Yoga and Psychotherapy, pp. 201-208.
  15. PBS Online (n.d.), Nature: Echo of the Elephants: Elephant communication. Accessed October 11, 2009 at wnet/nature/echo/html/talk.html.
  16. Jung, Kundalini Yoga, p. 47.
  17. Marie-Louise von Franz, Alchemy: An Introduction to the Symbolism and the Psychology (Toronto, Canada: Inner City Books, 1980).
  18. C.G. Jung, “The Transcendent Function” (1953), in The Collected Works of C.G. Jung, vol. 8, ed. and trans. Gerhard Adler and R. F. C. Hull (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1960), § 189.
  19. C.G. Jung, “The Development of Personality,” CW 17, § 303.