Young Thor

Turning Gray in The Process, 
I Have Become What I was Hero-Worshipping. 

“Sometimes the exchange of gold takes the form of hero worship. 

For a ten-year-old boy, his twelve-year-old neighbor is a hero. 

The ten-year-old wants to imitate him. He walks like him. 

He wears shoes just like his. 

He borrows his vocabulary and hangs around him as much as he can. 

We all know the power of fashion, and especially how fashion runs through a neighborhood of adolescents. 

The style of shoes, prisoner pants, all those things you’ve got to have. 

It’s both inspiring and funny to watch somebody hero-worship.

Excerpt from: "Inner Gold: Understanding Psychological Projection" by Arnie Kotler. Scribd.

Two years later, when the ten-year-old is twelve, he has become the characteristics that he projected onto the twelve-year-old. He assimilated them back and became them. Now he hero-worships a fourteen-year-old and has a new ladder to climb.

I remember vividly my own early hero worshipping. It was so strong. Slowly and painfully, I’ve drawn those hero-worship projections— this placing of my own potential onto others—back to myself.

Turning Gray in The Process, 
I Have Become What I was Hero-Worshipping. 

Hunting for Gold 

"When I was fourteen, I drove with my grandmother to Spokane, Washington, to attend a family funeral. 

One of my cousins, a little older than I, had married, and I saw her husband for the first time. 

Instantly, he became my hero. I was unstable in that period of my life. 

My feet didn’t work well, and I hadn’t really entered the masculine world—I’m not greatly endowed in that direction.

 His name was Thor. 

He was of Norwegian ancestry, in his early twenties, a big, strong guy, an absolute Master of The Physical World. 

That fellow did something so kind and important for me. 

The day after the funeral, he plucked me out of the family gathering and took me into the woods to go hunting, the first and last hunting I’ve ever done.

 He sensed who I was, what I needed, and at what speed to initiate me. 

He knew I had to be told which end of the gun to point where, and he did it all so well. 

He was a God-Man, someone of infinitely high value for me. I was envious and bound to him, almost literally. 

I placed my feet in his footsteps as we walked through The Forest, giddy with his greatness. 

Suddenly he stopped and said,  
“Squirrel on a limb. 
Over there.” 

Ten or twenty yards away was a squirrel on a pine branch. 

“All right,” 
he said, and told me exactly what to do: 

“Line this up with the squirrel. 

Pull the trigger gently, so you don’t jiggle the gun and lose him out of sight. 

It’ll go bang in your ear. 

Don’t be afraid.” 

I did it, and of course I thought I’d missed the squirrel. 

“Come on,” he said, and we went over. 

And lo and behold, I hadn’t missed. 

There on the ground under the limb was a ragged, bloody mess of a squirrel. 

I was so proud and so horrified at the same time. 

I learned in a split second what heroism costs you and what it gives you. 

I had become a big man, but I couldn’t stand it. 

I did not want to shoot squirrels. 

We went back Home, and I was more pleased than unhappy. 

Forty years later, I got a letter from my cousin, Thor’s wife:

“You must be Bob. My granddaughter brought a book home from her psychology class by Robert Johnson, and I think it must be you.” 

I hadn’t seen or heard from her in more than forty years. We spoke on the phone, and she asked if she could visit for her sixtieth birthday.

What a wonderful time we had! She brought a small entourage of people, among whom was a young Thor, the grandson of my hero. 

He was the same age I had been when I knew the first Thor. And he was skinny and frightened, the way I’d been, quickly going down in the whirlpool of the modern world. 

My head was swimming with possibilities. 

So I entertained young Thor with the story of my first and only hunting trip, talking about his grandfather and the wonderful day he had given me. 

Unfortunately, the elder Thor had drunk himself to death and was pretty much a failure in his life. My cousin had divorced him, and he just went down skid row. 

I didn’t like hearing this. 

He had been my hero.

So I told this little guy, who hadn’t said a word,  

“I owe your grandfather an immense debt, 

and I transfer that debt to you. 

I owe you whatever you need from me.” 

The boy latched on to me immediately, and I became his hero. It was a beautiful exchange. 

This is Alchemical Gold.

You put your own gold onto somebody until you’re able to hold it yourself. 

As a fourteen-year-old, I couldn’t do what Thor could. 

He was twenty-four or twenty-five, and I put my gold onto him, the gold of masculinity, strength, courage, and independence, things I had none of and he had lots.

Over the course of forty years, I got my gold back. I didn’t do it by way of guns — I’ve never shot a gun since. 

I was acutely aware of all this as I sat next to Young Thor. 

“I have gold for you,” 

I said. 

Of course, it was his Gold, 

or it wouldn’t work. 

I couldn’t give him anything. 

But I could carry his gold, 

if he chose to allow me. 

And he did, because 

I’m More Like Him 

and He’s More Like Me 

Than either of us is Like His Grandfather.

I’ve made My Way in This World by a series of carriers of specific Gold. 

With the aid of Heroes, I’ve proceeded in The Way an alpine climber hammers in his piton, secures his rope, pulls himself up to the piton, and gets hold of it. 

This is how we grow.
That's How Winnin' is Done.

Everyone comes to be where he or she is now, to some extent, through The Exchange of Gold.