An excerpt from The Wizard of Us: Transformational Lessons from Oz
Dorothy travels along the Yellow Brick Road, infused with God stuff, filled with possibilities, magical ruby slippers on her feet and the ever-enthusiastic Toto at her side. She comes to a crossroad where she pauses, having no idea which way to go. In a nearby cornfield, a funny looking Scarecrow (played in the film by the seemingly boneless Ray Bolger) hears Dorothy wondering aloud about her direction.
The Scarecrow comes to life and promptly offers her options, first pointing down one road, saying, “That’s a good way,” and then pointing down the other road, saying that road works just as well. Finally, he crosses his arms across his chest and points in both directions at once. Clearly, on one level, he can’t make up his mind. On another level, the Scarecrow exhibits the gift of second sight and the ability to exist cheerfully in the midst of opposition.
The fork in the road is traditionally a big moment in any mythic journey, because it indicates the need to see both, if not all, paths available to a life and a society. In the Hero’s Journey, this critical choice point represents the separation of the hero’s known world and self. It is the point in which the hero transitions between worlds and selves to see the potential for a new world and a new self. The fork in the road can be frightening — for the hero doesn’t know what lies ahead — but by choosing which way on the path she will go, Dorothy also enters the stage that shows an open willingness to undergo major life change and personal transformation.
Development of the other sides of our selves in ways that allow us to be aware of them and to hold them within us simultaneously helps us navigate through a society as complex as our own in these modern times. Think of a path not taken in your life. If you had taken that “other” path, where would you be now? What would you be doing? More importantly, who would you be?
In the Road of Trials, all roads are the right ones, even the frustrating ones, because they lead to awareness and growth of the self. If you made what you now consider to be a “wrong” turn, think of the ways that you really could have messed up on the “right” one. All roads fork. And down the path they fork again and again. Chances are your soul will lead you to the same place ultimately, regardless of which path you take. Just think about that: the fork in the road, the road not taken. What did you choose?
Process: The Roads Not Taken
As an experiment, you can write down the story of your own fork in the road, that place where you had to make a choice that changed the course of your life. Another way of doing this exercise is to draw three plausible roads from some point in your life: the road you are currently taking and the two roads you did not take. Also, draw in a picture of where you want to arrive. In good comic-strip fashion, draw or write down how you would get to your goal from where you are now, given your chosen road. Imagine the life you would have, the events that would occur. Now do the same for the other two. Voila! All three arrive at the desired destination, and you have had fun playing with parallel lives.
Observing his confusing directions, Dorothy asks the Scarecrow whether he can’t make up his mind. Alas, the fellow replies, he truly can’t “make up his mind” because he has no brain; his head is stuffed with nothing but straw. The girl finds this quite strange and points out the fact that he can talk and therefore must have a brain. To which the Scarecrow wittily reminds her that, “Sometimes people without brains do an awful lot of talking.”
The Scarecrow worries that he’s not very good at his job; the crows fly into his field only to laugh at him while they steal his corn. He feels truly stuck. But he recognizes his stuckness. And from that awareness comes the first of his brilliant inspirations: he can ask for help! He suggests to Dorothy that she turn the wooden peg that holds him upright on the pole. Maybe that action will release him. The idea works, and the fellow drops to the ground. He rises on wobbly legs and, in the song lyrics by E. Y. Harburg, sings wistfully about all of the things he would do if he “only had a brain.”
How often do we echo that sentiment, thinking that we are not smart enough, bright enough, or even quick enough to deal with the ordeals of everyday life? It is the desire to learn, as the Scarecrow suggests, that is the key to filling up our brain maps. Otherwise we languish and lament what we see as our inadequate equipment.
Inadequate? How can we believe our brains inadequate? Within this “three-pound universe,” this biomass extravaganza, is encoded the wisdom of the millennia and the dream of tomorrow, the capacity to decode even the most multifaceted symbols, and the desire for communion and community. Language, memory, and the great achievements of civilization emerge from the delicate, complex interaction of perhaps 100 billion neurons in trillions of connections. Ah, “if I only had a brain.”
What the Scarecrow requires, and what is accomplished as the story unfolds, is something more: a transformation of awareness about the brain and about life.