Harvey

another North Star during dark times

Dear readers,

As family returns home and the days grow even shorter, I’m slowing down and turning my attention to the real live people that are in my small house for the holidays. I’m also headed north for the first half of January to visit more loved ones. For that reason, I’m pausing all paid subscriptions until my return.

During this time, I might post, I might not… but this way I can let the spirit truly move me.

Amidst the bustle, may we all breathe in the peace available in every moment, and remember that WE are the light we’re seeking. xox M

On Thanksgiving, after stuffing ourselves, we (my husband, youngest son, and I) sat down to watch a movie I’ve been wanting to see forever: Harvey, released in 1950, starring James Stewart.

If you haven’t guessed by now, I’m a big Stewart fan. I’ve written about Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and tangentially about It’s A Wonderful Life, not only because I believe those movies are essential north stars during these dark times, but also because there is something about Stewart that exudes goodness and morality.

After watching Harvey, I can see why Stewart leapt at this role: Elwood P. Dowd is perhaps the kindest and gentlest middle-aged bachelor on the planet. He also happens to be friends with an imaginary six-foot, three-and-three-quarter-inch-tall white rabbit.

If a huge white rabbit were to choose a companion, it’s obvious that he would choose Elwood P. Dowd. What’s less obvious, you might be thinking, is why I’m choosing to write about this movie; why would a 74-year-old black-and-white remake of a Broadway comedy be “another north star during dark times”?

I’ll tell you.

SPOILER ALERT: If you’ve never seen it and would like to experience it fresh, now would be a good time to watch it. I’m going to call out key moments — including the ending — which will ruin the plot. You’ve been lovingly forewarned. :-)

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Three-quarters of a century after Harvey started as Mary Chase’s Pulitzer Prize-winning play that ran to sold-out Broadway audiences, we’re still watching it on video and onstage: high schools and community theatres still regularly produce it. Why? What is its lasting appeal? Humor, for sure: friendships with huge invisible rabbits are inherently funny. And familial disappointment is universal; is there any human being throughout time who hasn’t experienced that?

There’s something else though, too, something deeper about the human condition reflected in this story that asks: Who is more dangerous to society? The easy-going dreamer with a vivid imagination? Or those who want him to conform to an accepted version of reality?

I wrote recently about my recently-passed 100-year-old friend Judy, who some thought was crazy for her beliefs about holistic healing and <gasp> unseen realms of being. The deeper I fell into the narrative of Harvey, the more I recognized an aspect of Judy in Elwood P. Dowd: her steadfast-yet-gentle conviction in her own truth.

Judy never recanted her beliefs, just as Elwood never abandons his friend. Harvey is his best buddy and Elwood wants everyone to know it, even in the face of total ostracism.

Who here hasn’t felt “crazy” in the past few years? I sure have. I felt it when I mentioned in certain circles that numbers from the CDC mortality tables weren’t adding up, or when I questioned the “mask-on to get to the table, mask-off once you’re seated” protocol, or when I stated out loud my skepticism of “safe and effective.” Just to name a few.

But my personal favorite was getting thrown out of Moe’s in 2021, when I had finally found the courage of my conviction to never wear a mask again. Jump back with me for just a moment:

“Welcome to Moe’s” the crew intones mechanically as I walk in. Am I welcome, really? I muse as I approach the counter, barefaced and smiling broadly.

In response to my bright “Hi there!” the order-taker kindly offers me a blue disposable face mask. “Thank you so much, but I’m good,” I say, then ask for the ironically-named Close Talker Salad. (Which now is called <yawn> Build Your Own Salad. Was the name just too ironic?)

I feel the eyes of the crew boring into me, so I direct my full attention and an even higher wattage smile at the sweet girl starting to fill my order in front of me. My salad is building; maybe I’ll get out unscathed. Soon enough, though, the manager plants herself between the girl and me, taking over. Uh oh. Here it comes.

“You need to put on a mask,” she says flatly. She’s angry, I can feel it. My brain, normally fairly useful on the fly, buckles. “No thanks,” is all I can say, and again, “I’m good.”

“It’s against the law,” she barks, with a force surprising for her tiny stature. My brain flickers to life. “No, actually, it’s not,” I say, which I know to be true, but when I reach for more of the facts I know about mask mandates in New York State, I come up empty. I’m awash in adrenaline. My brain is useless.

“You have to wear one or leave. That’s the Moe’s policy.” Ah, the policy. I stand there, silently facing off with the Napoleon of Western New York over a half-built fast-food salad, and am struck by the hopelessness of it all. Policies are policies. I have no retort, not even one single functioning brain cell to enlist in this battle.

After a lifetime, I turn to go. All I can muster is a grand, meaningless gesture on my way out: I catch the eye of the server who had been so nice to me and say, pointedly, “Thank you so much.”

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As I relive that pathetic event while relaying it, I feel my chest constrict. I’m clearly still swayed by early, rigorous conditioning to do the “right” things — the things that “correct” or “smart” people do — to blend into polite company.

So to watch Elwood P. Dowd introduce his invisible rabbit friend, a “pooka,” over and over and over, to the elite folk who shun him again and again and again, is excruciating… and oddly therapeutic. It feels like exposure therapy for me, watching how he stays completely relaxed and serene in the face of confusion that turns to pity, distaste, and rejection every single time. His equanimity never leaves him, even as former friends race to the nearest exit.

How might that scene in Moe’s been different, if I could have responded like Elwood? What would my whole life be like, if I didn’t care so much what others think? What would all our lives be like? That very question beats at the heart of the human condition and drives the plot of this story.

It’s Elwood’s breezy indifference to what others think that finally pushes his older sister Veta (who may or may not believe in Harvey herself) to commit Elwood to an insane asylum. She knows he’s harmless, and for years she’s tut-tutted as he has handed out little business cards to everyone he meets, inviting them all to come to his house for dinner, or have a drink with him and Harvey at a local tavern. (Drinking is clearly a favorite pastime, but doesn’t seem to rule his life.) She knows he’s a lovely human being who engages everyone he meets in earnest conversation, asking them real questions about their lives and caring about their answers.

But now, he’s a liability. His ability and willingness to connect with every single person who crosses his path, no matter how “low” in social standing he or she is, is alienating more and more of the family’s old, moneyed social circle, thereby jeopardizing Veta’s daughter’s chances of finding a suitor.

Veta decides: Elwood must go.

The sanitarium turns out to be the epicenter of a growing farce. The “experts” with all the answers — the psychiatrists, in particular — actually have none. They may be sane, but they’re frightfully boring and incompetent: they commit Veta instead of Elwood, misdiagnosing her as a hallucinating alcoholic, and submit her to creepy therapies while Elwood roams free.

At one point Dr. Chumley, head of the sanatorium, tries to get Elwood to understand the depth of Veta’s malfeasance, saying, “This sister of yours is at the bottom of a conspiracy against you. She’s trying to persuade me to lock you up; today she had commitment papers drawn up; she has your power of attorney, and the key to your safety box. And she brought you here!”

Elwood can only say admiringly, “My sister did all that in one afternoon! That Vita sure is a whirlwind, isn’t she?”

To which Dr. Chumley exclaims, “Good heavens, man, haven’t you any righteous indignation?”

Slowly, gracefully, Elwood replies, “Oh, doctor…Years ago my mother used to say to me, she’d say, ‘In this world, Elwood, you must be’ — she always called me Elwood — ‘In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.’ Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.”

Neither the doctor nor we as the audience ever understand how Elwood became so pleasant, but we do learn more about pookas when Mr. Wilson, an orderly at the sanitarium, reads this dictionary definition out loud: “Pooka. From old Celtic mythology. A fairy spirit in animal form. Always very large… A wise but mischievous creature. Very fond of rum-pots, crackpots, and how are you Mr. Wilson?”

The plot is filled with all sorts of mysterious events like that dictionary greeting, and synchronicities abound. Eventually, the sanatarium bumblers discover their mistake, freeing Veta and searching for Elwood — whom Dr. Chumley finds at his favorite bar. Interestingly, we find out later that after a few drinks, Dr. Chumley was able to see Harvey as well.

Thoughout it all, Elwood’s unceasing kindness and good nature never wane; in fact, his “pleasant” interactions with the other main characters facilitate good outcomes for all: by the end of the movie, unreconciled lovers will find their way back to each other’s arms; Dr. Chumley will realize what his true dream of heaven is; and even Veta’s daughter will find love with Wilson, the orderly.

Before those happy endings, however, the most significant synchronicity occurs. In pursuit of “normalization,” the other psychiatrist at the sanitarium prescribes shock treatment and an injection of Doctor Chumley’s Formula 977 to “cure” Elwood of his giant rabbit “hallucinations.”

At first Elwood politely declines, but Veta’s distress about her daughter’s marriage prospects and their social standing is growing more and more histrionic. He can’t stand to see his sister suffer. He agrees to get the shot.

I have to say, the air left my lungs when Elwood agrees to be injected, even though he knows that this shot will separate Elwood and Harvey forever. It feels deeply significant in light of the past few years; I’m sure you don’t need me to draw explicit parallels. I do want to mention the following, however:

Why are doctors hellbent on making everyone “normal”?

Doctors of every variety, but particularly psychiatrists, are going to greater and greater pharmaceutical lengths to ensure we’re all within some pre-determined, agreed-upon range of “normalcy.” That’s the message from two different books written by two different psychiatrists, both highly acclaimed: Saving Normal, by Allen Frances, MD, and The Myth of Normal, by Gabor Maté, MD.

Their belief? It’s the culture that’s not normal, not our reactions to it.

While we’re at it, why are educators doing the same?

“Scolianormativity” is my new favorite word. I’m not sure if

Michael Strong

coined it, but he provides its definition in his excellent essay on education: “The assumption that behaviors defined by institutionalized schooling are ‘normal.’”

He expands on a quip by Carol Black that studying the behavior of children at school is like studying the behavior of orcas at SeaWorld:

“Imagine if for the past hundred years we had spent tens of billions of dollars for hundreds of thousands of scholars to study the behavior of orcas at SeaWorld…

Orca geneticists would show rigorous evidence that biting walls in captivity was inheritable: Some genetic lineages of orcas were more prone to such behavior. “Medications” and elaborate treatments would be designed to reduce the extent to which those genetically predisposed orcas bit the walls of their cages. “Normal” orcas would be those which did not.”

Which leads me to this question:

What if Harvey is real and Elwood isn’t hallucinating?

Then we will witness the shutting down of yet another human being’s connection with the spirit world. I don’t think it’s a stretch to liken this outcome to philosopher and mystic Rudolf Steiner’s warning, way back in 1917:

“I have told you that the spirits of darkness are going to inspire their human hosts, in whom they will be dwelling, to find a vaccine that will drive all inclination towards spirituality out of people’s souls when they are still very young.”

And finally: If Harvey isn’t real, then why should this sweet, harmless guy take an injection just to make some Nervous Nellie happy?

I don’t need to dwell on it, but I’m sure many of you have felt pressure from well-meaning, fearful people to do things you don’t want or need to do. Enough said.

Back to Harvey, and the most significant synchronicity:

While the psychiatrist prepares Elwood’s injection behind closed doors, Vita empties her handbag looking for her coin purse so that she can pay the taxi driver. It’s nowhere to be found. That little delay in her life opens up a new line of plot: she interrupts the doctor’s preparation to borrow money from Elwood, which gives the waiting cabbie an opportunity to tell her: if Elwood gets injected, he’ll never be the same again.

The cabbie’s seen it before: people he ferries to the sanitarium are sweet, loving people; the same people he drives from the sanitarium after the injection are… well, they’re the opposite. Each one becomes, as the cabbie says, “a perfectly normal human being, and you know what stinkers they are.”

Veta listens, her horror mounting. She realizes the gravity of what’s she’s asked Elwood to do, and she pounds on the office door, yelling at the doctor to stop, saying, “I don’t want my brother to be like that!”

The door opens, and to her tremendous relief, it is not too late. Elwood hugs the blubbering Veta, who insists they leave the sanitarium at once. As they gather their belongings, Veta opens her purse, pulls a handkerchief from it and then… her missing coin purse.

“Why… why, look at that… I could’ve paid that taxi driver myself,” she says. Truth washes over her and she stares. “Harvey,” she says, and her face lights with knowledge.

Not only is Harvey real, he’s looking out for them. She’ll never doubt the magic again.

Credit: Preston Dyches

I hope by this point it’s becoming clear why I put Harvey in the category of “north star during dark times.” The movie conveys its central messages with warmth and wit: question the value of conventional sanity, remain steadfast to your inner truths, and speak up, no matter the reception.

As good as those messages are, I’ve received some other gems from Harvey.

I asked earlier, “How might that scene in Moe’s been different, if I could have responded like Elwood? What would my whole life be like, if I didn’t care so much what others think? What would all our lives be like?”

To most outward appearances, my dear friend Judy always looked serene. But in retrospect, I can’t say for sure what she was feeling when others dismissed her as crazy. Perhaps she felt the same way I did that day at Moe’s. I’m pretty sure I looked serene — heck, I even thanked that server on my way out. And the next time I went into a store without a mask, I did so with an inch more calm.

Is that the answer? Fake it til you make it? Just keep responding with Elwood P. Dowd-like kindness… and eventually you’ll relax inside enough to own your own internal version of that kindness? I can say from experience there’s truth in that.

It’s also possible that what I called Elwood’s “breezy indifference” isn’t actually indifference at all. He’s not apathetic, he exhibits too much kindness for that. No, I think his serenity stems from acceptance.

He doesn’t deem anyone’s reaction to him as wrong or hurtful; he knows they simply cannot see what he knows to be real — and therefore, he accepts them as they are. That kind of acceptance has a completely different energy to it because it originates in compassion. It’s far more enduring and far more powerful. It’s also what we need more of right now.

We also need to connect more with unseen realms. What we see with our eyes is a tiny fraction of the visible light spectrum — 0.0035%, to be exact. Dr. Chumley was able to see Harvey after a few drinks, but I don’t advocate pounding Everclear to connect with “spirits” — that’s just enslaving yourself to something else.

I do advocate dreaming, praying, singing, chanting, meditating, dancing, creating art, and communing with Nature — anything and everything that opens our poor little compressed, conditioned minds to everything beyond the material.

I leave you with some of Veta’s wisdom:

“I took a course in art last winter. I learned the difference between a fine oil painting and a mechanical thing, like a photograph. The photograph shows only the reality. The painting shows not only the reality, but the dream behind it.

It’s our dreams, doctor, that carry us on. They separate us from the beasts. I wouldn’t want to go on living if I thought it was just all eating and sleeping and taking my clothes off.

Ah, I mean, putting them on.”

We live in a magical world, if only we can free ourselves enough to see it.

Holiday Blessings!

As I mentioned above, I’m suspending paid subscriptions — you won’t be charged until I reinstate.

If you’re so moved, please do share this essay with others, or leave me a comment. I’m ridiculously grateful for your presence here.

Like to buy me an eggnog?

https://ko-fi.com/marypoindextermclaughlin

As always, but particularly this time of year, keep your light shining bright.
xox
M