Jerusalem 2 Space in Between | Ann Ulanov

I. Space in Between
Jerusalem, thought to symbolize the axis mundi, the center and connection of above and below, of spirit and ground, creates a space between which is where we live. In Jungian vocabulary this is the space of individuation. We live here on the ground with all opposites Jerusalem represents—psychological, political, religious, ethnic, historical, all mixing, muddling, competing, battling, conversing together in a liveliness that spans the mundane to the mystical. The “new Jerusalem,” for example, in the Book of Revelations in the New Testament, comes down from God, (no longer illuminated by sun nor moon,) and there are no temples or holy places in the city because the glory of God radiates throughout. This city is home to everyone, belongs to everyone. Jung says this image presents a colossal paradox, for it symbolizes both the “innermost thing, the absolutely unique thing which belongs only to oneself” (Jung 1997, v. 1 p. 442) and also as representing a nonego consciousness because a collective, a multitude of egos; he likens it to the Self which “means the inmost uniqueness and oneness of this particular being, yet that is symbolized by a city” (ibid, p. 444). He says the nonego, non-individual consciousness, “wider and more abstract…relates to the other narrower, more concrete consciousness in exactly the same way as…abstract thinking relates to ordinary matter-of-fact thinking” (ibid p. 445).
This nonego kind of knowing reminds me of Erich Neumann’s idea of levels of consciousness in the psyche –the egocentered form of knowing that is binary; an extrane, uncentered form of knowing not originally connected with the ego complex, a kind of unconscious knowledge, a field-related intersubjective, relational consciousness including archetypal resonances, emotional and intuitional forms of knowing. In addition, there is what Neumann calls a still wider Self-ego form of knowing that constellates the archetypal forms and images of knowing and makes cognition possible. This archetypal field includes multiple meanings of the archetpe(s) constellated, yet that are also quite fixed, even rigid within the compass of the specific archetype manifesting. At the deepest level of Self-ego axis has an a priori absolute quality that arranges beneath the archetypal field a creative spontaneous ordering more flexible than order represented by archetypal structures. At this deep level unpredictable, unplanned original responses occur conveying the infinite within the finite. Creative freedom of the ego is a branch or filiation of freedom of the Self. An ego in touch with Self and the extrane levels Self undergirds, experiences synchronicity where events noncausally related appear simultaneously physically and psychically, as far distance and right here, as then and now and impact us with numinosity  (Neumann 1956).
Recent work in science on Complex Adaptive Systems (CAS) interacting with their environments, display spontaneous adaptive responses with emergent properties “meaning that interactions among the parts produce behaviors that are greater than the sum of the interactions but also manifest new, unexpected higher levels of functioning and order in the process of adapting to their surroundings” (Cambray 2001, pp. 45, 60). These higher orders appear in the mind as images symbolic of the Self and when experienced consciously yield a deep affective impact coinciding with a sense of purpose familiar to us from Jung’s theory of synchronicity.
All this is to say that the space of individuation, symbolized as between the heavenly and earthly Jerusalem both concretely and symbolically extends into precincts both psychological and religious. Winnicott’s work on transitional space is relevant here in his perception of young children with their teddy bears, and of patients with symbolic objects that emerge in analysis, where we experience ourselves in a realm between self and other, fact and imagination, inner and outer. In this space in between, the oppositions of opposites is not definitive but instead an alternating element as seen in a child’s play of knocking down blocks just built up and the perception that creativity and destructiveness share a kinship. The luminous thing is the creative experience of intensity of living from a core of I amness that hearkens to the announcement on Mt Sinai of I Am Who Am, I Am Who Is With You (Winnicott 1971 chapters 1, 3, 4; Winnicott 1964/1989, p. 112; see also, Ulanov 2001, pp. 5-7, 15-16, 13-14, 30-31 38-41).
We do analysis in this space in between; we need our small hut of theory and its limits to ground us in the daily work spurred by emotions and intuitions that take us among the stars. Both psychological and religious themes help when conjunctions of conscious and unconscious can be collisions, monstrous and terrifying, but also can cease their war and yield experience that displays the meaning of the All and Vast in this moment in a person’s individual life. An example: a man bought Jung’s Red Book and dreamt he descended into the deeps, passing African relics, religious objects, all the while thinking in the dream, these are what is supposed to be here but do not move me. Only in a deeper place did he come upon his own first small boy symbol of a beloved stuffed animal imbued with all the intensity of meeting God with his own full heart opening in love. That unique individual symbol made the dream a religious experience.
The religious sense conveys, this is it: all that is real is here now in this moment of the adult man finding the alive symbol of Otherness meeting him, linking his small boy life to his present adult life. His descent was his own “mystery play” as Jung says in The Red Book; you have your mysteries, follow those, not mine (Jung 2009 pp. 246 n163, 247 n164). The psyche patterns these journeys, spreading out into the field between this analysand and me, between his earth and heavensent existence, between his having to descend from his life on the surface grown flat, restless, bummed out.
Our response to what finds us in the flatness, the problem, the dream, the pattern, is essential. Without our response, the field does not constellate. What triggers our response is always some individual scrap—a coincidence, a chance happening or memory, a particular association, or, in this case, a special being from the past still shining in the present opening the heart. Our response spurs organizing images from ego and from nonego realms into previously unimagined forms; the new appears and we come into contact with levels of psychological organization that transcend what our ego can construct. We become the receiver and responder and shaper of this larger reality bequeathed to us through such dreams or synchronistic moments. Such moments are not about reality; they are the real and open us to interconnectedness of the whole.
Not without including the destructive, however. In the space in between heaven and earth, spirit and ground, destructiveness too must come to the table and have a place. Otherwise destructiveness stands outside and can wreck the happenings. If we can register destructiveness inside along with the creative, and can stand the tension of their opposition, not just get batted back and forth between them, but keenly feel each point of view whether it is in a political or spiritual realm, something emerges from the extrane level of nonego knowing, that lifts the problem to a whole new configuration. It feels like a breakthrough, a solution, new. Jung says it feels like the grace of God, though he will keep to more modest words and call it the working of the psyche. For Jung the psyche was another channel through which God touches us. I would say from years as a clinician, the touching may be precisely in and through our own particular complex, our intractable  problem that costs us so much suffering. There in the muck of that stable, or there in the still small voice, the new comes through.

Reductionist Forces 1: Destructiveness
As clinicians and as people in tangles of our own individuation process, we live in space in between our unique lives and the collective in which we all live. Hence we face in our particular dreams and neighborhoods—inner and outer places we live– the general problems of humankind. Principal among them is destructiveness—where to put the bad, how to survive annihilating forces, what to do with harmful intents we lodge against others? In the twentieth century with its variety of great and small wars, each time we say ‘never again’ to such destructiveness yet come again it does, leaving wreckage in its wake. Jung emphasizes again and again in his Red Book, the brother you hate outside lives inside you; deal with violence there lest you murder outside what you cannot live with inside. Learn to live all of your life; that is your task (Jung 2009, pp. 253, 240-250).
Individuation must include destructiveness and the dangers it presents. One way to get at this is through the problem that feels intractable, that turns up at every turn just when we think we resolved it.In analysis I call such forces that quellreductionistic.For example, we reduce the problem to our projections, thereby avoiding the actual mayhem the real other causes; we can use the valuable work of inner sorting of our projections as defense against dealing with outer danger. Analysis can be misused in this way.
Another exampleis reducing the present trauma to early object relations that no doubt figure to greater degree in many cases to lesser degree in others, but saying that is the only cause leaves us victims in the present without having to seize the freeing insight and the verve to claim our life now. If the pain of a wound still inflicts mortal danger, then we must garner aggressive, even destructive, energy to go into that pain now, discern how psyche works with it, how it repeats in the transference/countertransference. We may have lived in spite of this wound; but now we must go into it directly to revive the part of us that got killed or nearly so, and destroy its lethal effect on us. We discover a place then for rage, even hate, as the destructive force that refuses to let my own self be defined by another’s behavior toward me. We need that hateful energy that asserts our self to deal with the deeply vulnerable part of us that needs our care and protection, not be zapped and zapped again by present rejections.
I am struck recently reading again opening chapters of Deuteronomy how the Israelites in their exodus from slavery are repeatedly swamped by human needs and desires. Meat! Cucumbers! they cry. We had those in Egypt. Why did you lead us from there where even though oppressed we were better off? The Lord is repeatedly furious and punishes their lack of trust, their not seeing the Lord of Heaven and earth leading them. The Lord himself repeatedly destroys those cities who do not show hospitality or just permission for the Israelis to go through the host lands offering due remuneration. When the hosts refuse such passage, let alone mount attack, the Lord wipes them out for not recognizing his sovereignty. Right there Scripture confronts us to contend with the obliterating force of destructiveness and its link to recognizing the new allegiance that is building up. The new brings destructiveness or be destroyed. We cannot evade this problem within us or among us. I understand Jerusalem as embodying this problem; Jerusalem’s fate is all of our fates. For me one of the deepest roots of anti-semitism stems from the election of this people to know God and know that they have to know God and represent that knowing in the world (Ulanov 1989/2005, pp. 57ff.).
Religion is not an add-on to psychic life. For Jung, religion is an instinct that drives toward meaning in and beyond us (Jung 1963, Part I; see also Ulanov 1978/2005, chapter 1) and its symbols of such transcendent meaning live on the same borderline with symbols of the psychic drive toward wholeness, toward Self. From the psychological side, the Self assembles real symbols that anchor us in reality that transcends our selves. The enemy of both the religious and the psychic drive in individuation is the space killer where we do not then carry the tension of the opposites within and without. We dismiss what the symbols point to as fantasy, not real, or, in the opposite direction, we overly concretize that transcendent reality, identifying its truth with our side of a conflict and identifying the attack on truth with our enemy whom then we feel compelled to defeat (such as identifying our god with Jerusalem and leading a holy crusade to recapture our god from enemy hands). Or, we place authority outside ourselves in church, political vision or cultural ideals that we obey but we live then by rote, not having to bear the conflict of the yea and nay inside ourselves. Or, we evade the whole problem by letting symbols of the All and Vast fade and we lose the symbolic life altogether. That life may go on in us at the level of soul, but we do not connect to it.

Reductionist Forces 2: Two Dangers
Two opposite dangers must be mentioned that collapse the space in between and exert destructiveness on our ventures to become fully ourselves fully in the world. In one we seem innocent and not to be blamed, because we did not know. We stumble into something that is numinous in its authority and we do not recognize it as such (not unlike Yahweh’s wrath in Deuteronomy destroying those cities that do not recognize and honor the divine authority). We do not have the right attitude toward the appearance of the sacred; we do not acknowledge it when we see it. We do not register awe, respect, solemnity, even fear. We do not recognize the tremendous otherness of the other. We miss it, dismiss it, treat it as hardly noticeable, or what’s the big deal about?
I think of Actaeon’s fate in Greek myth. Out hunting with his hounds, he blunders into the goddess Diana bathing naked in a mountain spring. He did not mean to; he did not know she was in the vicinity; he did not recognize her fast enough to prostrate himself in lavish apologies, deferments, extravagant penance. He represents our not-knowing the proper distance between us and the sacred. The numinous falls on him before he wakes up to it. It is like falling into the fire we did not know was there and we get burned up. She, instantly in her offense taking, asserts her formidable, immortal power and renders him into a stag, His own hounds set upon him: the hunter becomes prey. As the poet Ted Hughes writes “His head and antlers reared from the heaving pile.…Only when Actaeon’s life/ Had been torn from his bones, to the last mouthful,//Only then/Did the remorseless anger of Diana, Goddess of the arrow, find peace.” (Hughes, T. 1997, pp. 105-112, cited in Hederman 2001, p. 211).
We can identify with both sets of these emotions—those parts of us that do not know any better, get attacked by us and by others; and the sacred in us, our ownmost authority that every child is born into, as unique subject, can obliterate any chance to live in relation to it because we fail to register its breathstopping presence and the obligations it lays upon us. We live outside it, because we do not honor it. Or, we may be seized like the goddess Diana, to punish the one who disrespects that sacred element in us that adheres to every person—for example the instant murders committed when a man explains the other “dissed” me. To disrespect because we have not woken up to the sacred, evokes swift, harsh punishment. We are pushed right outside the human community, exiled to dumb beast’s life, mere food for another species, or incarcerated in prison for murder. Subjectivity is killed when unlinked to the sacred. Nor do we know the sacred exists without our receiving it. It is that double extermination that so horrifies in atrocities—obliteration of persons and without the limiting boundary of the sacred.
The second danger lurks in our extreme vulnerability to being wounded and then to experience ourselves as defined by the other, no longer connected to the sacred Self given to each. The Nobel poet Seamus Heaney’s greatest danger was his low self-esteem that left him defenseless—exposed and helpless before his gift to take the Golden Bough and write his poems : “If fate has called you,/The bough will come away easily, of its own accord” (Heaney 1991, p.3 cited in Hederman 2001, p. 174). Against this summons he said of himself, it took “Me waiting until I was nearly fifty/ To credit marvels” (Heaney “Crediting Poetry” Nobel Speech cited in Hederman 2001, p. 193). Feeling weak not strong, unworthy not able, his defenseless openness could distract him from his capacity to journey down into the earth’s bottomless wetness, to the real his poetry embodies: “Sing yourself to where the singing comes from” (Heaney 1996, “ At the Wellhead,” p. 76).
We forget that our very vulnerability is a path to the wholeness of the whole, a radical openness that perceives before we interfere with knowing all about it or aiming to use it, but sees with a gazing, a beholding connected to what is and is not. At birth and making our way to death this vulnerability asserts its unguardedness, calling us again to an open undefended heart. Our open undefended self, gets armored by layers of protections and what analysts say is the hardest to cure—our means of self-cure. Vulnerability has its special sensing of the otherness of the other, even the tremendum of the numinous.

III. Transforming 1: In the Retort 
Transforming means reaching new patterns and a new center, acting and reflecting radiating out from that different perspective, distinguished by recognizing the necessity of all the spokes to form a whole wheel, not just the former ones we were able to develop or selected as preferable. This means, for example, chaos along with order, our intractable problem along with enlarged space to be because of complexes resolved and their energies assimilated. Here it is to reach to creative, unpredictable spontaneity beneath ego knowing, field intersubjective knowing, archetypal field knowing, a knowing that is a showing of infinite in the finite, linking up, ringing the changes on all the forms of knowing in intense perceptions of the All in the small, the unlimited able to be perceived because through the limits of the human.
Our response again is a small but necessary ingredient. We could even say essential; it is the essence of our responding that is the sine qua non of the process, as long as we understand essence not as a fixed static state, but more like an epiphany that illuminates those new patterns coming to life within us and between us. To register the importance of our response in the transforming process paradoxically opens us to the realization that it is not I, our I-ness, our ego that is transforming but the something else that undergoes this change. We are more like the earthly hut that contains the something. Jung says in The Red Book we become the vessel in which the opposites undergo conversion (Jung 2009, p. 252 n211). In alchemy these opposites fight and come together in the retort, not in the ego. In the retort they are depicted as sun and moon, king and queen, serpent and woman, dog and man, lovers and enemies that mix, match, defeat, blend, convert into the durable stone, the permanent water, the healing medicine. This process is hard to speak about but central to grasp. Transforming goes on in us and changes our Iness, rearranging our place from center to sidebar; converting our being batted back and forth between opposites—a terrible suffering that tears the flesh from our bones like Actaeon—to a consolidation that endures. But what is in the retort is what transforms.
What goes on in the retort is suffered by the It, the something else, the Self not the ego, the synchronistic event that happens to us not invented by us, the shift from symmetry in a Complex Adaptive System to asymmetry that, like the oft quoted line from Leonard Cohen’s song, is the ‘crack where the light gets in’. In such jolts we glimpse the whole of which we a tiny part, affected by the transforming but not the center of it. Denise Levertov captures the mixture of It and us and makes the same point as Cohen’s that in that “crack” except for her it is the wound is where the light streams in. She writes of Thomas who doubts Christ’s resurrection. His eyes alone cannot bring him faith, only direct touch, his finger right into the wound of the risen Christ: “what I felt was not/scalding pain, shame for my obstinate need, but light, light streaming into me, over me, filling the room….my question not answered but given its part, in a vast unfolding design lit /by a risen sun.” (Levertov 1989; see also, Ulanov 1992/2004, p. 251).
Chief among the processes of transformation of the It is what Jung calls symbolic death (mortificatio in alchemy), telling us if we do not undergo that, universal genocide may result (Jung 1956-1957/1976, para 1661). In perceiving the energy behind the opposites, we lose our identification with the one we favor and our ferocity toward the one we fight (Edinger 1994, pp. 68, 70, 90). It is a death in that what used to endow us with life is burned up in the retort and lies in ashes. We disidentify from what before we identified with, that filled us to bursting with obsessive thoughts, emotions, actions, behaviors or patterns of behavior we could not control. Like a big balloon punctured, all the air flows out of the ego that lies as if dead. So our I-ness changes, as if lying in a tomb, but the action of energy goes elsewhere, not to reinflate the ego, but to endow another center that we experience as nonego that yields a different pattern of knowing, of behaving, of feeling. We feel the paradox of being empty and full. Empty from having lost all that energy generated by opposites, as if nothing remains of our connection to it. We become nonattached, yet now full of promptings toward a greater energy of a more central center as if discovering our real rotation is around a larger planet that we can only see imaginatively, symbolically, but that feels more real than the previous fiction of ego as center. We undergo a Copernican revolution.
The It comes into more visible being and we circumambulate around it. The mystery of Christian Eucharist describes this offering and being offered, this dance around the center. Alchemy describes it as the second phase of coniunctio, the conjunction where the soul returns to the body. (ibid, pp. 77-78, 92-93; see also Jung 1963, paras 476, 671, 742; see also paras 673-679). Ego is in the body and is invested as the glorified body beyond temporal existence yet living in ordinary here and now space and time. Christian mysticism talks of not I but Christ living in me, now, not in some hereafter space and time, but daily. Jung talks of Self giving birth to ego and ego by turning to our unconscious, giving birth to Self. So we are humble, modest, flexible because now a disidentified ego, nonattached, yet enlisted into the service of housing development of this It in our particular idiosyncratic form of service to the whole. We do not, I believe, become whole. We find our service to the wholeness of the whole.

Transforming. 2: The Intractable Problem (The Thief)
Where do we know of this? work on it?  In our intractable problem, small and persistent that keeps us working on transforming. Our problem contributes to the process going on in the retort because we circle round it (circumambulatio in alchemy), no linear going ahead and leaving problems behind. Being caught again in our complex, tossed back and forth between opposites, means working still on what catches us and registering the It that undergoes alteration, both in us and not us, changing us radically but at cost of disidentifying.
We take into ourselves the experience of nothingness: we are both unique and zero, freed from unconscious compulsive identification with bits and pieces of our personality and world, self-image or addiction or our plan for peace (Ulanov and Ulanov 1975, pp. 188-90, 218-219 231-232). So we can hold firmly to a point of view and simultaneously stand aside from it. Thus we can be reached by what comes through the unconscious and through our neighbor that hold a different points of view and different from our conscious ones. We can accept psychic dimensions beyond our ego reality and be filled because we are empty, circling, as the poet Heaney says, “a space/Utterly empty, utterly a source” (Heaney, 1987, sonnet 8 of “Clearances” cited in Hederman 2001, p. 185).
I choose a recurrent problem typical of many of us–the thief, the one who swindles, who gets away, the outlyer who does not come in, the betrayer as in sexual theft, the murderer as in stealing a life. Here is a typical dream of an analysand, presenting a motif that can reappear years after working it through, not to extinction but now to a deeper level of confrontation. I include her associations as she tells me the dream: I am staying with women on my way home (being with women in a context of the feminine is a weak place in her); I am showering and discover half my stuff has been taken, stolen (to be cleansed of defenses, then to face this problem)—all my money (my way to get around in the world), my cosmetics bag, with medicines I take (hence feminine beauty and self care), and 2 pairs of my glasses (hence ability to see up close and far away), and my clothes too (my being in the world and my covering myself, protection). I tell the women; I tell the man driving me to the airport. No one responds or notices (repeating theme of early trauma). I am deposited somewhere (the complex repeats delivering her to a nowhere place) but how to get home (to where she belongs in the wholeness of the whole)?
Looking into the thief, she says this is an anonymous person, just not making enough of his life or having been given enough so stealing life from others, a taker. The thief is poor, unable to support himself and soon renders the dream-ego into the same position– helpless and impotent– by stealing her ability to care for her feminine self and for her health, or even clothing herself with suitable complimentary protection. That makes her exclaim: this thief is female! She likes clothes! She hits my weak unconfident place as a woman—a life issue going all the way back to interferences in her mother that resulted in leaving the daughter unmothered.
She saw the thief now as a part of herself still stuck, not yet in her life but stealing from life. Individuation is a process, not a finished completion. The dream shows her precisely where to work again and more deeply. She felt this dream told her how bad it was in her early life, that she nearly died from lack of nurture, and no one responded to her distress, as in the dream. That is her particular chaos to the order in her life, her annihilation right next to the plenty of all the things she has. She can be stolen from.
Yet, also, the thief wants to live, get money, and clothes; she wants a place and she is showing herself. The thief in her is trying to live, to get her destructiveness a place in living. So this dream takes the dreamer further, not just to see once again what lays her low, repeats her old problems, but instead newly asserts the destructive robbing wants to get into living, to get clothes to wear ,money to spend, not an either/or relation with the dream ego, but reaching for a both/and, both parts of this woman. What was split wants to join. A transformation is afoot, an effort to link up the outsider into her actual living.
IV. Reflection
Let us return to space in between heaven and earth where we live. There we bring our accumulated ego ability to reflect on problems and breakthroughs that we experience in this space. For when we respond to a synchronistic moment with an intense sense of meaningful interconnection of all the world, or when we experience the emergence of the amazing new—image, release of energy, solution—as if there is a higher order of Self addressing our ego, we need to reflect on these happenings. For the dreamer to see the dream thief as wanting connection for her destructiveness, not to subtract but to add it to living begins a transforming of the whole of herself.
Such events are amazing; they are ephemeral; they are powerful. We may try to concretize them to repeat them and then they become dead things, idols once again put into beliefs or behaviors that we ordain as correct. We reify the infinite in order to hold onto it. And thus lose it; it is not a commodity that we can store. Or, we experience in the marvelous coming into contact with levels of organizing within our small selves a sense of the beyond, of forces transcendent to our ego capacities. We try to capture the archetypal constellations congruent with this new field of experience, but this exceeds our psychological abilities. We can experience this beyond organizing us, so to speak, in the numinous moment. But we cannot possess it as if we plug into a higher intelligence and find ourselves elected to be its spokesperson. That is madness.
The necessity of responding to the gap between heaven and earth and to the moments when their connection displays itself to us, changes the gap into a space in between heaven and earth. Then we become citizens of Jerusalem. In that space more is required, namely our ethical reflection, because increased contact with reality that comes through archetypal resonances can be used for good or ill purposes. Empathy as a means of perceiving the other’s viewpoint can be used to hurt them as well as to endorse their growing spirit particular personal way we actually live in the world. Our consciousness returns to embodied realness, readying to be living this new configuration in us in relation to the whole all around us (Jung ibid, paras 278-279, 434, 671-672, 679-680, 718; see also Edinger 1995, lectures 24-27). ))In religious terms this process of responding and reflecting, bringing consciousness to what is revealed begins the symbolic moving into the sacramental, where the outward visible houses the inner grace, so objects and subjects in the ordinary here and now are means of living in relation to eternal truth (Ulanov and Ulanov 1975, pp. 97-99, 111-117). Or omit??
How does such reflecting happen? From the small that we are and from the scraps from which we create. We can learn from artists. Paul Klee the painter writes movingly of his trust in letting things grow within him in response to what he observes around him. The creative image grows of its own accord, “a something not from here shines, not from here, not from me, but of God” (Haftman mcmliv, p. 68), recalling the poet Heaney’s words, “let the shine come up” that “spelled promise/ and newness in the backyard of our life’ (cited in Hederman 2001, pp. 200, 189). The images grow, “Not form, but forming…form in the process of becoming , as genesis” ( ibid. p. 142); “common roots in the earth below and…meet in the cosmos above” (ibid, p. 90); “repeating an act of creation in himself in order to reach an understanding of the whole” (ibid. p. 122).
We wait on the creative image or some other scrap that grows within us, a fragment of the whole that is also a cosmic point. This smallest particle, maybe like the Higgs Bosin particle, called the ‘God particle’ that joins with force and thus creates mass, because mass appears in real incarnate form (Randall, 2011, pp. 284-285)?
Our ethical response is to give a name to this process—call it being creative, doing a painting, believing in God, living in the space in between in Jerusalem. The name shows that something transfers itself from the region of the unknown into that of the familiar. We live it. Individuation is not a solipsistic venture. Others catch it from us; we find it in seeing another’s journey. It begets among us, augments, generates, propagates, reproduces. Thus each of us, separately and together, add to storehouse of currency of the whole. We add our small bit from work with our intractable problems to good of everyone.

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