I have been thinking about Enid Blyton.
You know the outdated English children’s author dating from post World War II? She’s all bumbling policemen and packs of children sleeping out in caves and solving crimes. My son tries to get me to read her every now and then. But Enid Blyton didn’t write for me, she wrote for children. Children in the realm of childhood where differentiation does not yet rear its head. And they make me squirm.
Blytons books have a countryside charm, the kind of provincial that is middlest of classes not unlike Agatha Christie. The plots are tedious and teeth grindingly obvious but what gets me is the ‘chums all together’. Chums eating together, playing together, falling asleep while solving mysteries together.
When we first began down our road with anthroposophy I was dogmatic about personality types. Melancholic, that must be me (nope, at least not right now). Choleric never, only steamrolling jerks are cholerics (pssst I’m a current choleric). I couldn’t see the dimensionality of the human, how we are (or are at our best) when we retain all of the personality types. I also and wait for it, I don’t buy introvert and extroverts as a main character trait. Sorry, everybody I know. I just don’t. I believe in the threads of our personality that are sometimes the warp and others the weft. I believe we are all are both which is why the Enid Blyton books send a shiver up my spine. That dog is everywhere they go, everywhere! Getting poisoned and just missing criminals. LEAVE THAT DOG AT HOME, IT’S A HEADCASE! And those children paling around together every second, I feel claustrophobic just thinking about it.
This is a long rambling way to say I believe is phases, personal epochs if you will. And the only reason I believe in them so wholeheartedly is that I have not only watched my children begin to cycle through them but I have watched my husband go through them too.
My husband is eight years older than me. I am currently going through a phase similar to his when we had first moved to Canada. It’s levelheaded. Mine back then was more of extremes. As in I was going through some serious food stuff, Weston Price style. Let’s be rigid and authoritarian by day and eat dozens of donuts by night because I just couldn’t keep it up. I thought he just didn’t get it, why couldn’t he get on board? Now I’m thinking, pfft, give it a rest lady!
So try as my son may I will not be reading Enid Blyton on the newly instituted two brothers and mom reading night. Autobiographical graphic novels I can do but that ‘pals all together’ business will have to simmer on the back burner a few epochs or two.