{"id":14583,"date":"2020-08-24T13:53:51","date_gmt":"2020-08-24T12:53:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/kennethsorensen.dk\/?p=14583"},"modified":"2026-01-22T13:33:43","modified_gmt":"2026-01-22T12:33:43","slug":"a-meeting-with-assagioli-tilde-bozzo","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/kennethsorensen.dk\/en\/a-meeting-with-assagioli-tilde-bozzo\/","title":{"rendered":"A meeting with Assagioli"},"content":{"rendered":"\r\n

The author writes about her encounter with Roberto Assagioli in 1972, and remembers his clarity and simplicity, his gentle, loving wisdom, which so many students report was his essential emanation.<\/span><\/span><\/h3>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

By Tilde Bozzo; translated by Gordon Symons from Italian.<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

The uphill road is the one that leads to Fiesole. The house I’m looking for is on the right. On the left, opposite, a very green slope with tall trees: a grove with wide spaces, serene. I go up to the first floor. A woman in her fifties opens for me and with a smile has me sit in the waiting room. Old armchairs, different from each other, placed in such a narrow circle that to take a seat, you have to climb over one of them. On the wall there is a beautiful Indian tapestry with an inscription translated on a note hanging in the center: \u201cWhatever the reason you came to me, I welcome you for that reason\u201d. I look down and I am surprised to see the most disparate knick-knacks on a shelf: a horrible ceramic dog, two Christmas compositions full of silvery tufts, an abat-jour with an old-style, battered and crooked hat.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

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\"Roberto\r\n
Roberto Assagioli 1888-1974<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/figcaption>\r\n<\/figure>\r\n<\/div>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

You enter Roberto Assagioli’s study. Behind a desk of the last century full of papers, brochures, etc. (including a ceramic swan door-something) is he. He comes towards me with an uncertain step. Small, thin, old, with a white beard, glasses that don’t hide his infinitely sweet eyes that look at me with interest. It is not known whether he physically carries his 84 years old well or badly. I understand immediately that this is of no interest, like its ceramic dogs, its swans, its sad lampshades are no longer of interest. In a moment I think: if it is true that we try to make up for what we lack internally with order and external harmony, he certainly does not need it. He reads my autobiography. (He is already very deaf, and this is the best way to communicate our thoughts). Then he turns to me with his swivel chair and tells me looking straight at me and giving me his tender hand marked by osteoarthritis: “Good, good, keep going, working on yourself. You saw that when you needed it, you found one who helped you in life.”<\/span><\/span><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Everything tells me, as he looks at me with his special eyes, with a kind smile, as if I were the most lovable and valid being on earth, and even if I wasn’t, this wouldn’t matter. What matters is that \u201cI am\u201d. I am there with him, in a timeless moment in a place no matter where, at a level where peace and harmony reigns. I put the other sheet containing my questions in his hand. And, as if to focus my attention more on his answers, I frown, as has always been my habit. He gently runs his fingers over my brow and says <\/span><\/span>: “Remember, always remember, that psychosynthesis is joy”.<\/span><\/span><\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Speaking of my problems, as he reads them, I wonder why I shared them, since now they are only facts without any problems.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

His answers are of extreme clarity and simplicity and at that moment I recognize that I am a “contortionist” of life. My concerns regarding the job of secretary at the Center of Rome and of the Faculty of Psychosynthesis at the University of the Mediterranean (a job for which I have a lot of good will and not even the smallest experience) are resolved with these simple words <\/span><\/span>: “Work calmly, you will not be able to make many mistakes, and if you make a mistake, this will help to correct it. And then, in this imperfect cosmos, in the midst of such imperfect humanity do you want to seek perfection? You don’t need to ask anyone anything.\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

Of all the topics we touched on, I quote his words about the help that we can receive and give.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

“Let’s take from our guide what she can give us, but don’t rely on her. And let’s not make her an ideal model. It is we who must reach the Self, not look at it in a mirror as we would if we were looking at our master. Work, gather in small groups, discuss among yourselves. We are constellations, not solar systems. We emanate, we do not centralize. From inside to outside, not vice versa. There are two ways to help others: maternal and paternal. The maternal one is to protect, to help. It is all right temporarily but, as the mother should do with the baby, it is to be let go of as soon as possible.<\/span><\/span><\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n

The paternal one is to ensure that the teenager has the opportunity to walk alone. Let’s see an example, we never try to persuade. Let’s not take on the problems of others; let’s help them, when help is requested, without becoming identified ourselves. ‘This I can give you. If you want, take it. I can’t give you more. “You will be blamed for selfishness, indifference, insensitivity: this is much better than helping maternally. Otherwise, the growth of others is impeded, their evolution, and this is the most serious damage we can do. The way can be indicated, but then everyone must work within himself. Far better no teacher than an excellent teacher who wants to impose himself.<\/span><\/span><\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n