The Rescuer Archetype

“ Expect nothing, live frugally on surprise.” -- Alice Walker

For most of my life I was a reluctant social drifter, accepting my role as a quiet observer, yet somehow internally passionate at the same time. Without knowing why I found myself following a rescuer archetype, which I will designate, the "Littlest Hobo". This will require digging up some dusty archive TV knowledge: Some of you might remember the intriguing old ¨Littlest Hobo¨ series from the 70s. It focused around a stray German shepherd that wandered from town to town rescuing people in need. It was similar to Lassie, but the Littlest Hobo never had an owner and though many people sought to adopt him, he preferred to be on his own and would head off by himself at the end of each episode. The faces of the actors always changed so that the only constant was the dog.

The dismystification process unfolded as my eyes opened to personality disorders. Although the poem below belongs to another writer under different circumstances, I still identify with the idea of being outside the door of my father's life and how it resulted in a pattern of moving from place to place without forming roots. Of course, there is something noble about rescuing strangers without asking anything in return, without belonging ... moving on as that little superhero figure. Perhaps it was safer to acquire admiration from a distance than risk intimacy with who kNows who … rescuing gets the job done, but without the ties that eventually could wound or shatter one's fragile idealistic world.

© TR 2008

"Underneath The Door"

My father was a doctor

Who would come home late at night

With a soul so bruised and bleeding

From his unending, faithful fight

To keep a hold of kindness

In a world that isn't kind

To hold out the hope of healing

To his hurting humankind.
Then he'd flee back to his study

To his bookish, quiet place

With notes and books and journals

To wall in his special space

And then he'd lock the door

From things that cannot be locked out

And his youngest son would starve for what

He'd always do without
But it was meant to make me who I am

And for all these many years

Still the little boy down on his knees

Full of hope and full of fear

Calling underneath the door

"This is me, it's who I am."

Cause we love the best by listening

When we try to understand
Desperate stubby fingers

Pushing pictures 'neath the door

Longing to be listened to

By the man that I adored

Inside someone who needed me

As much as I did him

Unable to unlock the door

That stayed closed inside of him
It's strange the way we tend to flee

From what we need the most

That a father would lock out a son

When his heart would hold him close

But our wounds are part of who we are

And there is nothing left to chance

And pain's the pen that writes the songs

That call us forth to dance.

Lyrics/Credits:P 2002 Covenant Artists, LLC©

2001 Mole End Music/Administered by Word Music Michael Card