Romancing the Shadow

by Connie Zweig

  Lisa, forty-one, an attractive brunette with a thick, unruly head of hair, nearly sagged from a standing position onto the therapy couch, reporting: “I feel depressed, but I don’t have the faintest idea why.” Although she is a mother’s daughter, Lisa has also lived this archetypal pattern: as a highly independent, overly responsible wife and mother, she is a female senex. Her mother, now seventy and a Holocaust survivor, encouraged her to work incessantly in order to survive and not to waste time with kinderspiel, or child’s play.

  Asked when she last played like a child, Lisa began to recall how much she enjoyed drawing and dressing up as a young girl When she suddenly burst into tears with these memories, she quickly recovered her composure, saying, “I can’t believe how sad I feel about those times. After all, they happened so long ago.” Encouraged to do shadow-work with her lost inner child, Lisa spent time drawing her, visualizing her, and imagining carrying her through the day.

  Then, one evening, while Lisa washed dinner dishes, her young daughter tried to win her attention. “She wanted to show me her artwork from day care. But I just cut her off saying, ‘I don’t have time for that.’ Suddenly, I realized that I was banishing my own daughter in the same way that my childhood had been banished. I stopped doing the dishes and had some fun with Laurie, who was thrilled. But afterwards I felt frightened. If I let this playfulness in, it may take over my life. I may never want to work again.”

  Identifying with her tyrant mother, who understandably was obsessed with survival and material goods, Lisa did riot know how to value emotional goods. Feeling desperately threatened by these newly emerging feelings, she reasoned that she could take another job to earn more money and fend off this playful inner child, who seeks to throw her off course. Or she could begin to relate to her negative inner mother differently, lifting her curse by honoring the emerging child. And in this way, by romancing the shadow character, she might uncover the gold that the child offers—her own lost innocence, playfulness, and creativity. In addition, she would not transmit the family sin to her own daughter, whose innocence and playfulness had not yet been stolen from her.

  Eileen, tall and thin in a tailored suit and loafers, arrived for her first session and announced that she suffered from a “failure syndrome”: Unmarried at fifty, she had failed to bond with a man. And she had failed to have a child. She reported that, like Virginia Woolf, she preferred to birth books, not children. Her books, however, remained unpublished, so she had also failed to bring her work out into the world. In short, she had failed to make a contribution to the larger society.

  Grieving her failures, she railed against herself. “I should have specialized; I’m not an expert in anything. I should have married Jeff; I just didn’t love him enough. I should have left Los Angeles a long time ago; I thought this was the place to make it.” And as she looked at her losses and the consequences of her choices, suffering her authentic grief, the deeper story emerged.

  A father’s daughter, Eileen grew up in the Deep South, where “nothing unpleasant was ever said or done.” Her mother, a proper southern belle, discouraged her natural rowdiness and curbed her aliveness, especially her budding sensuality. She remembers feeling that she wanted to grow up to be nothing like her mother, whose rigid persona masked a chaotic emotional world. With this rejection, Eileen also buried her desire to bond and her maternal instincts in the shadow, becoming a self-reliant woman whose creative life did not resemble her mother’s dependent, family-oriented one.

  With this choice to live an unconventional life, Eileen suffered as an outsider among her married friends. They envied her freedom, but she envied their ties.

  After moving to California, Eileen discovered yoga and mysticism. “I felt that I was finding out the secret meaning and purpose of life.” She dedicated herself to meditation and yoga classes, read avidly in Eastern philosophy, and slowly began to believe that, although she was not a high achiever in a worldly way, she was superior to others who were more worldly. In effect, she had identified unconsciously with the puella character, who kept her on high moral ground, separated from ordinary men whom she might love and from ordinary work that she might accomplish. Eventually, the puella character even convinced her that, unlike the rest of humanity, with enough yoga she would not die.

  As Jungian analyst Jeffrey Satinover points out, the person who is controlled by the puer-puella archetype experiences midlife differently from others: It becomes a demand to give up something that may not yet have been achieved—an ego identity. Therefore, this transition may involve a unique reversal: If a puer has lived out a premature and grandiose identification with the Self, in which spirituality alone holds meaning, humility sets in. As Eileen’s midlife grief broke through, she was forced to face her buried feelings of vulnerability and dependency, which had been hidden by a spiritual power shield. And she was forced to face her limits, which the puella disavowed.

  At first, Eileen felt enraged and terrified. She refused to give up her spiritual beliefs, with which she deeply identified. “I don’t have a family or a successful career. My spirituality is who I am,” she lamented. But Eileen did not yet understand that she is not the puella; the puella is simply a part of her, a character at the table. If she can break her identification and begin to witness the puella, it will return to its proper place in the kingdom, where it can point Eileen in a spiritual direction but no longer sabotage her in relationships and work, which require her to live out her human limitations. For Eileen, the gold in the dark side is the sacred value in ordinary life. Her ascent to spirit needs to be linked to a descent to soul, which can be achieved through shadow-work.

  Jerry, forty-two, mined the shadow slowly for several years until, at last, the gold began to shine. When he was a child, his mother had been emotionally intrusive and physically inappropriate with him. Helpless to speak up for himself, he had become a dutiful child. But the price for this bargain was high—he felt disgusted with his mother and eventually acted out in passive-aggressive ways, such as withholding his affection to feel his own power, which he now does with his wife.

  Jerry’s dad betrayed him in other ways. Distant and aloof from his son and his wife, he stayed away from home for long periods and had numerous sexual affairs.

  A mother’s son with boyish good looks, even at midlife Jerry continues to feel angry at his mom’s neediness and her dependency on him. “She calls me at all hours and hugs me constantly. I understand that she felt abandoned when I was young, but as an adult I no longer want to be treated like this.” Although Jerry often has the old familiar feelings of being intruded upon and coerced by his mother, with shadow-work he has found a way to establish boundaries with her, responding as an adult rather than a child. Using the emergence of the good-boy character as a warning that he is stepping into dangerous territory, he is more able to resist her demands and less willing to take care of her neediness in an obligatory way. Instead, he sets his own limits and has found that, in a strange twist, he can be more loving to his mother than ever before because he is no longer caught in resisting her, and he is no longer stuck in his mother complex.

  In addition, by taking responsibility for his own father complex, which he recognizes as his legacy, he can at times relate to his father differently. “I’m less angry with him for letting me down. And I’m more aware of that character in me who expects him to be the father I wanted as a boy. When I remember that he’s not going to change for me after all this time, then I can relate to him as he is.” With the end of blame, Jerry and his dad feel less distant and share the hope for a more authentic relationship.

  Recently, the older man apologized for his affairs and their effects on the family. At first, Jerry did not want to accept the apology. But with a growing sense of his own masculinity, he can recognize his father’s shadow side and his father’s gifts. Their reconciliation is not the end of the story, but it may promise a new beginning.

  This midlife reconciliation with elderly parents may bring a recon
figuration of the larger family pattern. As we accept ourselves more deeply for who we are, we can also accept our parents’ dark sides with greater compassion. As we uncover and forgive our own sins, we can forgive our parents theirs, stepping out of the child’s reactive role into our own emotional adulthood.

  Having obeyed the call of the Self, survived a midlife descent, encountered the monstrous shadow, and paid tribute to the lost gods, we are prepared to move into the late-life transition, where we may meet the wise old woman, or crone, and the wise old man, or sage. For this changing of the gods, we cannot cling to the ego’s inauthentic secular power. With shadow-work, once again the ego recedes and the Self takes the front seat, bringing with it authentic sacred power. As Jung says, “There can be no doubt that the realization of the opposite hidden in the unconscious—the process of reversal—signifies reunion with the unconscious laws of our being, and the purpose of this reunion is the attainment of conscious life.”

  EPILOGUE

  This being human is a guest-house.

  Every morning a new arrival.

  A joy, a depression, a meanness,

  some momentary awareness comes

  as an unexpected visitor.

  Welcome and entertain them all!

  Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

  who violently sweep your house

  empty of its furniture,

  still, treat each guest honorably.

  He may be clearing you out

  for some new delight.

  The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

  meet them at the door laughing,

  and invite them in.

  Be grateful for whoever comes,

  because each has been sent

  as a guide from beyond.

  —JELALUDDIN RUMI

  As children, we are taught to fear the dark if our parents turn on the light when we are afraid. We are afraid of the darkness still, of the demons lying in wait inside our minds. This book has been an invitation to light candles in the dark.

  At first, a single candle may light up a corner of the cave, but the rest will remain in shadow. In a short time our eyes will grow used to the little light, and we will want to see more of the darkness, more of that which is hidden there. So we’ll light another candle, and another part of the cave will take shape. Slowly, patiently, over the course of a lifetime, the cave will become filled with lights, like the night sky filled with constellations. And just as the early astronomers detected patterns among the stars, we can begin to recognize images among the lights in the dark skies of our minds.

  This short parable, which describes the process of making the unconscious conscious, is not merely a story; it’s the subjective experience of doing shadow-work—of reclaiming lost images, feelings, and abilities from the dark cavern of the unconscious.

  With shadow-work, we can begin to acknowledge the divine characters lying dormant deep within our souls. Slowly, gently, we can begin to recognize them, speak their names, and hear their messages. Instead of obeying them unconsciously, we can begin to live in relation to them more consciously. Instead of burying them, we can begin to carry them. Paradoxically, our burden becomes lighter.

  And the knights at the round table of the psyche become united in purpose for moments at a time. Instead of listening to the cacophonous voices of a committee, we can hear the ringing voice of the Self.

  Therefore, we have written a work in defense of shadow—all that we defend against—the one in us who thwarts our efforts, opposes our intentions, tricks and sabotages our aspirations. We have written in defense of shadow, the one who takes us to the abyss—and with shadow-work guides us back again.

  We have tried to show that the shadow is not an error, a failure, a flaw. It is a part of our nature, a portion of the natural order of who we are. And it is not a problem to be solved; it is a mystery to be faced. The shadow connects us to our own imaginal depths. Shadow-work fuels our creativity, which in turn frees us from the grips of an archetype. And shadow-work links us with the ancestors and the unborn, with the commons and with other species.

  Romancing the shadow is not a way to slay the shadow; it’s not a heroic gesture, a killing off of a monstrous part of ourselves. And romancing the shadow is not a way to harness the beast to do the ego’s work. Instead, it’s a way of being with a part of ourselves that is repulsive or grotesque. It’s a way to witness it, be present for it, and understand it; but, more deeply, it’s a way to honor it. As Christ could not complete his destiny without the betrayal of Judas; as Faust could not complete himself without the encounter with Mephistopheles, so we become who we are through romancing the shadow. That is why we say that shadow-work is soul work.

  Finally, in this book, we have seen how our longing awakens an ache, a hunger, a yearning for more. We long to be seen and accepted for all that we are. We yearn for family soul, a sense that we are deeply at home with family members. We long for healing and forgiveness of parent-child betrayals. We yearn for the Beloved and the Third Body, the soul of relationship that nourishes and sustains us. We hope for the soul friend, who brings an end to loneliness, and for soulful work, which fills us with enthusiasm. And we long for meaning, which gives us direction and connects us to a larger pattern.

  Our longing points the way to a fantasy image, which is hidden at the center of an archetype and compels us to follow it. It speaks to us of an unspoken need, an untold feeling, an unlived life. And in each case we can follow the golden thread down into the underworld, down to the realm of shadow, where we can uncover a lost god.

  With shadow-work, we can follow the golden thread back to the upper world. We can build a bridge between the depths of the soul and the heights of the Self. As we learn to listen to and obey the voice of the Self, we can set our star upon it like a sextant. And in this way we uncover yet another longing: a spiritual craving, a longing for the light. But that’s another story.…

  A SHADOW-WORK HANDBOOK

  Once you understand why the shadow is formed in early life and how each character is shaped by a rich mix of personal, family, and cultural forces, you can begin to do shadow-work, an imaginal approach to the Other within that enables you to honor and romance it. You can learn to identify when the shadow appears in your life and how it sabotages your conscious intention in recurring ways. Then you can begin to imagine it as a character at King Arthur’s table. Eventually, you can offer each character an appropriate seat at the table, so that it no longer steals the seat of power and throws you into turmoil.

  The Greeks had a unique perspective on the encounter with a shadow figure, the common feeling of losing oneself for a moment and acting irrationally, then feeling so ashamed that one cannot admit the act. They believed that a spiritual force of divine temptation, known as até, can take over our volition, bringing unwise and unexplainable conduct in its wake. Sent by the goddess Até, this force can spread folly and bring ruin to those under its power. For example, Aphrodite, jealous of the beautiful Helen of Troy, sent wild até into the latter’s heart so that she left her husband, child, and native land and fled with her lover Paris. The result of her impulsive act: the Trojan War. Later, Helen lamented the blindness that led to her behavior.

  So até is a state of mind, a temporary clouding of normal consciousness. Whereas the Greeks ascribed it to a daimonic agency, we know today that, like Mephisto, the daimons are within us. We suggest that shadow-work is a prescription for dealing with até.

  CENTERING TO DO SHADOW-WORK: THE MYTH OF ODYSSEUS

  When we begin to teach shadow-work to our clients, we start with a portion of the Greek myth of Odysseus, which offers a hint about what to do when you feel blown about by the strong winds of emotion or caught in repetitive thought patterns or trapped in compulsive behaviors. It provides an image of how to prepare to do the difficult job of shadow-work, specifically how to cultivate a state of mind that can withstand the storms and provide safe harbor by breaking your unconscious identification with the s
hadow character.

  Sailing the seas in the Trojan War era of Odysseus, many mariners perished when they passed the island of the Sirens, seductive and powerful female warriors who enticed their victims by singing evocative songs. As the sailors sought their female counterparts, unable to resist approaching the island, their ships cracked up on the rocks nearby, and the Sirens attacked and destroyed them all.

  Odysseus knew ahead of time of these dangers, so when he needed to sail by the island, he devised a plan: His oarsmen wore earplugs so that they could not hear the seductive music and become seduced, thereby endangering the ship. And he tied himself to the mast of the ship, so that he could hear the temptations without cracking up on the rocks. In our view, the mast of the ship is like the Self; the experience of being tied to the mast is the sense of being rooted or grounded within the center of yourself, so that alien forces of até—disturbing thoughts, powerful feelings, or painful sensations—cannot throw you off course. Cracking up on the rocks represents the fall into alien forces, the loss of connection to the Self.

  When you are tied to the mast, you can hear the voices and feel the feelings without cracking up on the rocks. In this way, you can develop the capacity for self-observation, which is also known as witnessing. When you can witness your thoughts, feelings, and sensations with some detachment, you can experience them fully without allowing them to take over.