Romancing the Shadow

by Connie Zweig

  In Edgar Allan Poe’s story “The Tell-Tale Heart,” a man feels haunted by the look in an older man’s eyes. Each time he feels seen, his blood runs cold and he wants to be rid of the eye. We can imagine that he feels looked at too directly when he wishes to remain hidden, that he feels humiliated in his nakedness. So he begins to plot revenge. Slowly, he becomes obsessed with how to kill the old man. One night he peers into the old man’s room and hears his heartbeat, a low, dull thud, which sounds like a watch in cotton. As the beat grows louder, the man grows furious until he pulls down the bed and crushes the old man to death. Then, slowly and methodically, he cuts his body into small parts and buries them beneath the floor.

  When the police arrive to investigate the death, the man shows them to the murder site, assuming that the evidence is well hidden. But he begins to hear the low, dull thud of the old man’s heart. It grows louder and louder until, crying out in anguish and fury, the man admits his crime.

  Poe does not make clear in his story the nature of the relationship between the older and younger men. Perhaps the victim is a grandfather or father whose hypervigilant stare gives the younger man no peace. In his rage, the son or grandson dismembers his victim, but like Osiris, he rises again in the sound of the beating heart. In an analogous way, we identify with one parent and bury the remains of the rejected one under the bed—that is, under the layers of conscious awareness. But one day, the rejected parent, like the banished soul child, returns in the sound of our own heartbeat, announcing that it’s time for shadow-work.

  These are the first steps in re-mothering and re-fathering ourselves, separating out our identities from those of our parents, from our inner parents’ voices, and from the larger cultural and archetypal influences. Only then can we provide ourselves as adults with those essential qualities and authentic feelings that we may have missed as children and that will nourish our souls.

  Later in life, as we are attracted to lovers and mates, our fathers and mothers (now internalized as characters within us) continue to vote on our choices. Some women seek their fathers in other men, forever searching for the one that got away. Others seek their fathers’ opposites, their shadow qualities, because they are determined, even unknowingly, not to re-create the original father-daughter relationship. Similarly, some men seek their mothers in other women, forever searching for the unconditional love and adoration they missed as children. Others seek their shadow mothers, longing for a different quality of feminine love. This is where we turn our attention in the next chapter.

  CHAPTER 4

  LOOKING FOR THE BELOVED: DATING AS SHADOW-WORK

  The minute I heard my first love story

  I started looking for you, not knowing

  how blind that was.

  Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.

  They’re in each other all along.

  —JELALUDDIN RUMI

  When Cupid struck Apollo with a golden arrow through the heart, he fell hopelessly in love with a nymph named Daphne. But to Apollo’s chagrin, Cupid had struck Daphne with a leaden arrow, causing her to abhor the thought of love and despise marriage as a crime. So Apollo pursued her, inflamed by the chase and pleading his intentions. And Daphne fled, her hair streaming behind her and feeling no wish to be caught, even by the god of song and healing.

  As Apollo gained upon her and her strength began to fail, Daphne called on her father, the river god, for aid. Instantly, her limbs grew stiff, her body became enclosed in bark, her hair turned to leaves, her arms to branches, and her face to a treetop. Apollo embraced the nymph, now a laurel tree, and proclaimed that he would wear her for a crown.

  This story of Apollo’s first love and its pursuit motif contain some of the themes and images of many people’s early dating experiences: They act as if they are under a spell One person, longing for love, chases the Other. He or she, longing for separateness, runs away. There’s very little authentic contact between them. If they meet to spend time together, the first typically pursues intimacy while the Other keeps a distance. In generations past, this dynamic typically occurred along gender lines, with the male pursuing and the woman holding the boundary. But today that distinction has broken down. Some women are in Apollo’s position, aggressively pursuing a man, while some men play Daphne’s role, running away from getting involved.

  In this chapter and the next two we will explore these ideas in the context of shadow and soul. First, we will consider dating and some of the painful shadow issues that single people face today: the feeling of being unacceptable, the terror of being hurt and rejected, and the fear of commitment. Dating, as the timeless search for a romantic partner, may be led by the persona in its quest for the image of the perfect Beloved in human form. In its search for image, the persona also seeks companionship, pleasure, and sexuality from dating partners. As in Apollo’s case, the pursuit may end in failure. When the god of rationality is overcome by intense, primitive sexual attractions, he, too, struggles to make a meaningful connection.

  But, with a deeper understanding, dating can become an ideal forum in which to explore unknown aspects of ourselves by doing shadow-work. Whether as one who is not yet married but remains hopeful, or as one who is divorced or widowed and suffers with feelings of grief, we can view being single as an opportunity to cultivate self-knowledge. Rather than avoid the cycle of living as a single person by frantically looking for someone—anyone—to date, we can use these periods to find our own internal sources of stimulation, build sustaining friendships with both women and men, and draw upon our creative inspirations, all of which may get eclipsed with the demands of a full-time relationship.

  In Chapter 5 we will examine romance, the divine madness of finding an erotic partner, which may be choreographed by the personal shadow in its quest to re-create the familiar feelings embedded in the way we were raised as children. For this reason, in adulthood, people abused as children often find abusive partners; children of alcoholics often are attracted to drinkers; children who suffered parental neglect may find themselves with neglectful lovers. When the shadow arranges a marriage, it puts us face-to-face with our unresolved childhood issues.

  We consider dating, then, typically to have less depth and entail less commitment than romance, which emerges when a mutual attraction is acknowledged and a shadow projection finds its target. In dating, we long for an end to loneliness, a companion in joy and sorrow. But the shadow also contains those missing parts of our authentic nature that were rejected in childhood. So, beyond the persona connection, in romance we long to complete ourselves in the Beloved. And the shadow leads us to retrieve those rejected parts, which seek acceptance so that we can feel whole again.

  In Chapter 6 we will look at marriage, the gifts and struggles of living authentically in a long-term relationship with the soul of the Beloved. We will reimagine committed relationship and suggest that, with shadow-work, it can become something larger than the sum of its parts—a transpersonal field in which love and consciousness grow. At that time, the object of the quest changes: from the beauty of image and the ideal Beloved to the beauty of depth and the real Beloved.

  In these ways the search for an authentic relationship mirrors the search for the authentic Self, as told in the Sufi tale in our introduction. During dating the Master leaves the Butler in charge of the house—that is, the Self goes dormant and the ego takes over. But as the romantic relationship deepens and becomes increasingly conscious, the Self returns and demands more recognition and authenticity. If the ego resists relinquishing control and continues to dominate the dating process, we seek again and again an ideal image of the Beloved that reinforces its fantasy expectations. As a result, the relationship ends, and we search for yet another partner.

  However, through the pain and frustration of failed attempts at bonding, the Master’s henchman, the shadow, eventually may force the ego to see its limitations and to relinquish control. With shadow-work, we then hear the call of the Self, the Master. And, as a result, a c
onscious relationship really can begin.

  Whom do you desire and pursue? What authentic shadow need threatens your developing relationship?

  SHAME AND THE SINGLE PERSON

  Some people, of course, enjoy the light side of dating; these people view the single life as an opportunity to experiment socially and sexually, to feel the freedom of their own rhythms and to maintain their own privacy. They may wish for a committed relationship in the future but recognize wisely that they are not ready for it. Or they may dread commitment, imagining it as a jail sentence.

  For others, the dark side of dating is oppressive; these people suffer with feelings of isolation, alienation, and sexual frustration. For them, to be single in a culture of couples is to be a carrier of shadow projections, to feel the pain of being seen as strange, a loser, an outsider. It is to feel the banishment of the one who is not chosen. It is to feel perpetually awkward, caught in a sustained adolescence, not yet belonging among the grown-ups who have mated and formed families. To be a young single is to be seen as inexperienced, naïve, one who has not yet begun to live. To be an older single, especially if he or she has never married, is to be seen as eccentric, tainted, one who has failed the test of maturity. In a culture that defines people in relation to others even on simple institutional forms—single, married, divorced, widowed—the life of the single person is filled with daily reminders of being tainted with shadow.

  Even though they may enjoy several intimate, ongoing friendships, some single people suffer terribly because they feel the stigma of being alone. When they feel lonely, they may devalue their deepest friendships rather than cherish them, as if these heartfelt connections cease to exist and the only valid relationship were a sexual, monogamous one—a couple.

  Some observers of single people eating alone in restaurants or sitting alone in movies may feel uncomfortable as well, projecting their own fears of solitude or abandonment. The singles may, in turn, sense this attitude from others as discomfort, disdain, or even pity. On the other hand, married observers may feel the mournful discontent of envy around singles, imagining the joys of free time, free choice, and self-reliance. One woman, unmarried into her fifties, noted that her close married friends frequently imagine that she has a busy, fascinating social life that is off limits to them. She chuckles as she recounts this and then, turning serious a moment later, tells us that she is so ashamed to be home on Saturday nights that she never answers the phone.

  Of course, the single person at twenty-five, whose college friends have coupled and cocooned, has a different perspective from the single person at forty-five, whose friends have married, perhaps divorced and remarried, and given birth to children by then. But in both cases, the single person may feel the same pain, raging against others (“All of the good men are taken”) or against social institutions (“The women’s movement has made women hard and angry”). For them, potential partners never match the internal romantic images. Each one fails to meet their standards of beauty, intelligence, success, or sensitivity, as they project their own inferiority onto others. If a relationship forms and they continue to judge and blame the other person for being inadequate, they risk becoming critical, nagging mates.

  Instead of blaming others, some single people may blame themselves for their fate, feeling inadequate, unlovable, even hopeless. In this case, they themselves are not enough—thin enough, successful enough, smart enough, sexy enough. For some, this shame leads to endless routines of diets, workouts, therapy, singles events, and self-help books. All of this compulsive activity may cover up a deeper self-loathing and a desire to fix some secret flaw, which feels as if it’s been there forever. This feeling—it’s been this way forever—signals the legacy of a family shadow, a self-hatred that is absorbed from one or both parents, whether spoken or unspoken, and passed down from generation to generation.

  Some singles reason that they have been cursed by an incident, such as molestation or abandonment, that bars them from trusting anyone. Or they have been branded with a bodily trait that makes them feel unattractive, thus undermining their confidence and capacity to make contact with potential partners. Bonnie, an Artemis-style father’s daughter and art director in her mid-forties, disclosed that she had never felt comfortable in her own body. After years of feeling ashamed for her failure to mate, she noticed that her mind would move around her physical form at times, becoming obsessed with various bodily traits. In her twenties, she felt intensely embarrassed about her large breasts and was convinced they kept men away. Later, her legs became the problem: They were too short, too muscular, too pale to be seen as attractive. Finally, at midlife, as small lines appeared around her mouth and her cheeks began to sag, the voice of her inner critic concluded that the aging in her face held the key to her isolation and loneliness.

  Bonnie’s mother had told herself the same critical messages about her own body. She felt chronically overweight, stodgy, unfeminine, and very different from the cultural standard of beauty. Although her mom had never spoken critical words to her daughter concerning her appearance, Bonnie unknowingly had absorbed this aspect of her mother’s shadow as her own critical voice.

  When she became aware of this pattern and began to witness it, learning to root her identity in her Self, she could laugh at the noise of her own mind, which told her that the “moving fatal flaw” had ruined her life. Gradually, she separated from this character and grew more accepting of her body image, felt more attractive, and as a result became more attractive to men.

  Then, to her surprise, Bonnie found herself rejecting those men who desired her. As her critic turned the negative, inner-directed messages outward toward her pursuers, she became judgmental: He’s not smart enough; he’s not rich enough; he’s not psychologically developed enough, the critic told her. With the advent of real opportunities for a relationship, Bonnie uncovered a previously hidden shadow figure, the assassin, who unknowingly protected her Artemis nature. With even more judgmentalism and perfectionism than the critic, this character would maintain her independence at any cost by killing off those who wished to share her life.

  In order to pursue her dream of a committed relationship, Bonnie needed to find a place at the table for the assassin, the protector of her vulnerability and independence. She needed a way of relating to this character so that it would not push away the very men she might truly desire. Eventually, she found the gold in her dark side when she realized that the perfectionistic assassin could be useful at work, where she critiqued the fine detail of award-winning television ads. But in her love life it sabotaged her deepest longings, eliminating potential romantic partners.

  What is it about you that you fear will be rejected? What do you fear that others will find out about and consider unacceptable? And what do you suspect in them that will force you to become rejecting?

  SINGLE WOMEN AND THE SHADOW

  All too often, people who blame themselves for an absence of intimacy suffer with an intense longing for love and the fantasy that, if only they could become better, love would appear. They live in hope—hope that if their flaw can be fixed, the right person will appear just around the corner. Hillary, who came to therapy in order to understand how she sabotaged intimacy, spoke in a rapid, breathless tone of that part of her which continues to hope:

  “I can see my thirtieth birthday coming round the bend. It looks like a big red No U-turn sign. I’m terrified—thirty, not married, and no prospects. Thirty and living alone.

  “But I know he’s coming. I can feel it now. The perfect guy is going to show up soon, and I’ve got to be ready. I’ve got to look great so he’ll notice me. Not too much makeup so that my skin looks natural. But enough makeup to cover these lines around my eyes. And the right outfit—one that shows my small waistline but doesn’t accentuate my large breasts.

  “And I want my mood to be just right. I mean interested but cool, open but not too available. I’ll show him I’m glad to meet him, make contact for a moment or two, then rush off, in
demand somewhere else. When he takes my number, I won’t ask for his. I’ll let him make all the moves, at least for a few weeks. I’ll do whatever he wants to do—restaurants, movies, dancing. But sex—I won’t have sex for the first month. It always ruins everything. I make a vow in this moment—please, God, help me—not to have sex. To make him wait. Feel his desire. If I want a relationship, slower is better. I’ve got to get to know him first. See if I really want him.

  “But I get so afraid—afraid he’ll stop calling if I don’t have sex. Afraid he’ll disappear if he doesn’t get what he wants. And what if the right guy, my ideal mate, shows up and I won’t sleep with him, and he gives up? I mean, he just disappears like all the others?

  “But the truth is, I sleep with them and they disappear anyway. Men are such a mystery to me. They say they don’t want a relationship, but a month later they’re shacked up with some blond. I wonder sometimes, after fifteen years of dating, how I go on, how I keep hoping. But I know it will happen. Maybe tonight, if I just look right and don’t act too pushy or too smart or too eager—maybe tonight he’ll take me in his arms and I’ll be home.”

  Hillary’s romantic dreamer character kept hope alive, but she used it as a shield to defend against intractable feelings of grief and inadequacy. As she fantasized about cutting and trimming her own traits to fit a man’s inner pictures of beauty and availability, she enacted the Greek myth of the innkeeper Procrustes, who tied his victims to an iron bed and stretched their bodies or amputated their limbs to make them fit its given size. In trying to fit herself into an imagined mold designed by others, Hillary moved farther away from her authentic Self and from an authentic human encounter.