The Hand You Won't Take: Self Archetype Poem & Analysis

Reconnect with the inner child

Photo: Created by Marilyn Glover with Canva Design

Today, I continue with my 15-week journey through my debut poetry chapbook, Shadow's Reprieve. This week marks the beginning of Part 3, where I explore Jung's Self archetype through verse. The Self is the climax of individuation, when the subconscious and conscious mind come together in unison. Individuation is the lifelong journey of self-realization and psychological growth when opposing factors like light and dark come together to form the complete whole individual.

This week's poem, The Hand You Won't Take, is a journey to childhood's past. It's a return to the little one living inside each and every one of us, a youngster vying for our attention. The lyrics greet the free-spirited part of ourselves still jumping rope, riding bikes, and pumping their feet high into the sky, riding a swing.

The Hand You Won’t Take

Hopscotch on the sidewalk, jumping rope,

solo children’s play.

Early morning, pavement shadows,
little smiles.
Background support.
Unity.
Child and shadow,
skip, jump–boy, girl.
Remember them?
Reaching for shadows; child’s play.
They are waiting–
an outstretched hand,
one that you won’t take.

Bicycle riding; lawn shadows,
follow neighborhood kids
round the block
again and again.
Laughter.
Noon–shy,
almost lunchtime,
silly children chase silhouettes,
fading into sun.
Remember that?
Little boy or girl,
excited for
Connection.
Umbra urges reunion.
You refuse.
A hand you won’t shake.

Evening hour hand shadows;
Puppeteer.
Self and siblings’ entertainment.
Interlocked fingers:
Rabbit.
Crossed thumbs:
Bird.
Extended hand with thumb ears:

Dog.

Dog chasing birds and rabbits.
Joy before

bedtime,

inspiring happy dreamers.

Remember that?

Little boy or little girl,

You–

Who high-fived wall puppets,

feeling the grain.

Where is that child now?

Dog’s thumb ears,

hand extension waits,

longs to play,

but your hand

won’t oblige; grab the pup.

Morning swing, pump, pump the feet

Into the sky.

Shadow eclipse; up and down.

Little one flies by their seat.

Their profile follows

Incline.

Decline

Rise and fall.

Little ones trust their shadow

more than a companion,

their closest friend.

Remember that?

Little one–YOU

Horizon dreamer, cloud chaser.

Sky champion, airborne warrior,

A playground swing awaits.

Reach out your hand.

Take a seat.

Pump, pump your feet.

Rekindle.

Shadows up and down,

lifting you,

catching you when you fall.

Together, partners

Childhood.

Adulthood.

Grab the hand you let go of–

far too long ago.

Behind the lyrics

I wrote The Hand You Won't Take one day after reflecting on my own life. As a middle-aged woman who has suffered from anxiety and depression for decades, I decided it was high time I took a peek into my early childhood, the days before my mental woes took hold of me.

Allowing myself to revisit the little daydreamer me took me back to my favorite outdoor activities: riding my bike and swinging on the red swingset my father built on our acre-rich property. My sisters and I spent many a fun-filled day swinging, and I especially loved the trapeze. Learning aerial tricks gave me a sense of flight as I went from a seated bar swinger to hanging upside down, releasing my legs, soaring into the air.

Pump, pump, pumping my feet, going as high as I could; never got old. There's a certain kind of freedom with the constant back-and-forth motion. I suppose, much like a rocking chair, my swing soothed my soul, but it was so much more than a calming movement. It gave me momentum. Not a rock-me-to-sleep sensation; instead, a secret formula for making all my dreams come true.

Imagination was my constant companion: each cloud was a space for the future me- the dancer, the artist, the traveler, the girl who would always strive to be her best. She was adventurous and unafraid, and worldly things never preoccupied her because she was all too focused on planting the seeds of a fruitful future.

Child me was inventive. Child me was spirited. Child me was carefree.

Somehow, some way, over the years, I let go of this child's hand, and this notion had a profound effect on my midlife mindset.

Reunion

Since writing this poem, I've been nurturing my inner child regularly. When I take my grandson to the park, I play on the swings with him. Up and away into the air I go, and every time I do, yesterday's child thanks me. I see her, the curly-haired, golden-blonde child, giggling and stretching her legs high into the sky. The forward motion, her aiming for the pinnacle of happiness, is as simple as being present in the moment. The back of forth is her kicking the dust off her shoes, as she knows what's behind her doesn't matter—she prefers to lean forward, envisioning all possibilities, knowing that if she can imagine it, she can achieve it.

Today, I am a 54-year-old woman who has taken hold of the hand of a little one I left behind: ME. I never meant to. It was never my intention.

Sometimes, though, we have to go back to move forward.

And sometimes the adult version of us needs to reflect, reflect upon our time of innocence and wonder to bring peace to our ponderings. Often, this reflection invites the child presence still living within us. All we have to do is reach out our hand to reconnect. Want to hear the spoken-word audio version of this poem? You can listen to the full companion podcast episode for free on my Substack.