Through a Jungian Lens

In search of answers

I have been approaching this time of transition as though I am embarking on a voyage of mythic proportions. To be honest, the idea of seeing this process as mythic comes from my readings of both C.G. Jung and James Hollis. Lately I have referred to a book called Mythologems by Hollis, but now, I am going to look at another of Hollis’ books called, Tracking the Gods: The Place of Myth in Modern Man, as that book has allowed me to reframe the way I look at the process I am about to begin. My journey is really not different from the journey you take each day, a journey that seeks to find some answers to a few basic questions – Who am I? Why am I here? How did I get here? In a more basic form, we are searching for some meaning in our lives, a purpose for being alive and doing the best we can do within the limitations of our life’s circumstances.

“Quite possibly, nature has no inherent meaning; it simply is. But humans bring a psychic structuring process, which is part of our nature, to that chaos in order to establish a meaningful relationship to the world. Myth, with its substance of symbol, rhythm and metaphor, bridges from the known to the knower and helps the human stand in some sort of meaningful relationship to mystery. (Hollis, Tracking the Gods, p. 8 )

For me, the way to answers is through looking at the world and myself through a different lens, that of both photography and myth. This is my personal way of constructing a metaphor for what I understand is my relationship to the world, to others and to myself. The metaphors through words and images allows me to create my own answers, the only real answers, about meaning, my meaning. As Hollis points out, perhaps it is essentially about chaos in which there is “no inherent meaning” but for me, it really doesn’t matter.  All that matters is how my own head and heart come to create meaning in the chaos, for with that sense of meaning, I can remain sane and continue to strive to be as moral and ethical as I can be.

Dawn over the homes of sleeping humans

The day began with darkness as usual. I woke up from a dream and took that dream into another room where I could enter it into my journal without disturbing anyone else in the house. With that task done, with the sense that this would likely be the dream I brought to open the next round of analysis, I made some coffee, checked my e-mails and a few favourite sites such as Twitter and a few newspapers while waiting for the coffee to be ready. Finally I was able to pour a cup of the dark liquid and sit quietly in the darkness, away from the computer – just me, the coffee, and the darkness of the predawn hours – waiting.

I have been waiting for a while for this next stage to begin, waiting in the darkness knowing that the darkness would have to give way to the light. that there would be light that would begin to cautiously creep into the night. And my patience was rewarded for dawn did arrive as expected, a dawn that found a sky clear enough for the colours of dawn to be presented – a good omen for the last part of the journey to a new stage of life.  And for that next stage, I must remember that it is all up to me, that I am responsible for what happens and for the results.

“As an analyst, I have found that whether or not a person progresses in therapy, which is to say matures as a human being, is a direct function of one’s ability to take responsibility for choices, to cease blaming others or expecting rescue from them, and to acknowledge the pain of loneliness however much one may be invested in social roles and relationships. (Hollis, Swamplands of the Soul, p.59)

I found these words just moments ago as I looked quickly on my book shelves at the books I will leave behind as I drive off in a few hours to begin the next process. It was a matter of opening the book and seeing what presented itself. The words “take responsibility for choices, to cease blaming others or expecting rescue from them“, reached out to speak directly to me, guiding me to where I need to go within in order to mature as a person.

In search of the numinous in images

As I take photos with my camera, more often than not I am trying to capture more than the scene that presents itself in front of the lens. I want more than a simple, factual recording of place or event. This is a task that finds me taking more photos than are necessary, taking photos that will either be deleted or else lost in the archives. I almost feel sorry for any one who would try to sort through the tens of thousands of photos in hopes of trying to figure out what I was hoping to accomplish with the photos.

Most of the photos are decent, some even beautiful. However, not many succeed in accomplishing what I want to accomplish, to capture the face of God, to show the world that there is a God in the soil, the trees, the rocks, the sky, the faces of people I meet along the way and in the creations of humans. I don’t believe in a “God” in the sense of a being of some sort who sits watching humans and evaluates them in order to decide who goes to heaven or hell. God isn’t a he or a she; God isn’t outside of life but is the fullness of life as I understand it. Gods and goddesses are minor characters that take some kind of form so as to allow us as humans to possibly hold onto a bit of the essence and meaning of God.

“Whatever the gods are, they are inevitably experienced intrapsychically, as all our experiences occur, whether they derive from outer or inner causation.” (Hollis, Mythologems, p. 138)

Perhaps this is what I am trying to say, that God is experienced, and can only be experienced, within the psyche. Yet saying that, I know that God is not only within, but also without as I can only envision a God that encompasses all that is, all that has been, and all that will be. Of course this means that everything I see as well as my experience of seeing these things – the things and the experience – are all aspects of God. This is what I try to capture with the camera lens, try to capture in an image.

“. . . image is meant to point beyond itself toward the ineffable. The symbol points toward the godly, but it is not the god.”  (Hollis, Mythologems, p. 139)

Yes, this is what I am trying to do, use my photos to point toward that presence of God, capture an image that is alive with, pregnant with a deeper and fuller image. I am searching for images that act as metaphors for the spirit and soul, the psyche’s proof of whatever it is that is God.

“Psychology no more knows what the psyche is than the theologian knows what God is. Anyone who thinks otherwise, and proclaims otherwise, is deluded, inflated, or psychotic. “God” is a metaphor for what wholly transcends our capacity to comprehend, expressed through primal forces which we nonetheless experience. The word psyche is a metaphor for what wholly transcends our capacity to comprehend, forces at work within each of us.” (ibid)

New snow and already melting in sunshine

I just had to take this photo as it has been two years since I last was able to enjoy an new snowfall. The scene was what counted and held meaning for me – the snow that fell during the morning was melting in the late afternoon sunshine which was adding a layer of golden light. The photo wasn’t taken for the blog, but rather just because it seemed like a good idea to take the photo.

But after laying in bed, unable to sleep any more despite the early hour, my head filled with the images, the events of the day and the quickly approaching psychoanalytic adventure in Calgary; this image emerged as symbolic of that need to hold the tension a little longer. The adventure begins in a week and it is important to be present in each of the spaces and places that I find myself until then. The snow fall was a gentle reminder that it is still winter. The sunshine was a promise that soon spring will come and life will become re-animated.

Of course I knew this and wondered more about why I needed to be told this through the image and the experience of taking that image. Why?

Well, I guess it has to do with the fact that though this journey of individuation is a singular journey that travels a hidden path in a trackless universe within me; I really am not making the journey alone.

Sharing the journey

Stopping for a pause at my son’s home for a few days, I found family being intimately present, fully aware of who I am and what is happening to me. The care and concern and gentleness overwhelms me and serves to inspire me at the same time. Yes, I am embarking on a path that in many ways appears to be an act of self focus (not the same as selfishness); but the truth is that the journey of individuation is all about becoming whole so that one can be in relationship to others in a better way, a way that adds to their life rather than stealing energy out of their life.  This is the gift my son, his wife, little Grayson and my nephew are giving me during my stay in the Toronto area.

But that isn’t the whole story of why. The why centers around this woman beside her grandson. This is the second time I have entered into this wild ride in an attempt to battle the demons and darkness of an inner world. Both times have resulted in her putting career aside as she chose me over her own passions and dreams. Leaving China and our lecture positions at the university has brought that part of life to a close, perhaps too early for her as she loved what she was doing and her students adored her (with good reason). All along the way she is facing losses, repeatedly having to go through grieving for what she leaves behind. And I wonder why?

Like me, she has to hold the tension, waiting and hoping that this time the process will do what it needs to do in order to allow her to have her life back. And it is there that I finally understand something important. Her life, similar to my life, is one that is only whole in relationship. The loss of relationship would be the greatest loss. Embracing relationship as whole individuals, even as broken individuals is what animate both of us. She is my anima, externalized, and I am her animus. Though the inner world finds me often engaged in epic battles that make a world war pale, the knowledge that my soul is safe, and with that soul, my life; I dare to strip myself bare to face the demons, gods and goddesses, and the complexes that seek to draw me deeper into the darkness so that they can find a way to escape their inner prison and bring their darkness to the outer world.

Two becoming one; two becoming whole – a holy union. For me, this outward manifestation of the holy union of masculine and feminine in the outer world teaches me, encourages me to continue the inner journey where another holy union will take place, something C.G. Jung called Mysterium Coniunctionis.

An unlikely Odysseus

I have been talking about myths quite a bit in the last few posts, especially the myth of Odysseus and his Odyssey, a myth that I am using as an analogy of what is happening in my life. My Odyssey is actually not all that inspiring as a myth, but in my life, the journey is not an easy one for me. Of course if I am using the Odyssey as a template for my story, then it would hold that I am also using Odysseus as a figure to represent my self on this journey. Now, before going too much further, I want to bring some clarity to this idea.

First, I am not endowed with rippling muscles nor with a visage that inspires a sense of nobility and power. I am a small man standing at 5’7″ if I hold myself erect and force the slight stoop in my back to be somewhat straight. I am an ordinary modern man who is 62 years old. I have poor eye sight and even poorer hearing. I am quite absent-minded and have been rightfully accused of being lost in my own inner spaces. In most aspects I am quite naive as I trust too much in the words and actions of others.

But of course, it isn’t about appearances or having a Hercules type of physique. It is about a different kind of courage and strength. Often we look at ourselves in the mirror and say that “I can’t be a hero!” We dismiss ourselves as insignificant in the big picture. You and I are the real heroes of new myths.

“The makers of myth in our time are you and I – in the dreams we dream, in the patterns we weave, and in those unpredictable momentary apertures into eternity through which we catch a glimpse of the passing forms of gods. Our material world floats on a sea of anxiety, yet it is resolutely sustained by invisible threads.”  (Hollis, Mythologems, p. 146-147)

How do I know this is true? Well, I look into the eyes of my son who is now a father, a hero to this little boy. I look into the eyes of this little boy, my grandson, who sees me as some magical and mythical hero. He calls me “pepere” or some version of it, and wants to do everything possible with me while I am at his home – playing with cars, playing with mini-hockey sticks, and reading books. For him, I am a hero. When he sees me, he invokes his real power of creation, that power of creating meaning and symbols. He somehow sees what older people have long stopped seeing, an invisible world where there are gods and goddesses, heroes and villains of mythic proportions.

Another Odyssey, but not so mythic, and not with Odysseus

I have been talking about the journey that I am taking, one that is both a physical as well as a psychological journey. The physical journey is as important as the psychological journey. And like all journeys, it isn’t about the distance being travelled  in terms of kilometres or miles, it is about the distance travelled in terms of how we physically move from one way of being present in this world to a fuller presence.

My Journey for this latest adventure began in Canada last June as I went to visit my mother for what I presumed at that time would be the last visit before her death. I wanted things to be taken care of before I went back to China to teach. The proper forms were put into place as my brother and I worked at making sure that all the answers to all the questions would be taken care of if she died while I was away. My brother did most of the work and I was the one who convinced our mother to go along with our efforts. I was the one she trusted and listened to, the golden boy as my brothers and sisters would often complain. Yes, I was her golden child, but little did they know exactly what that meant – little did I know what that meant at that time. With the process in place, I flew back to China and began a new teaching year.

There was a plan to take a holiday for a week at the beginning of October, to Tibet but because of visa requirements which take time, and the unavailability of travel tickets when we began preparing for our week off classes, a decision was made to take a different holiday in November to the Philippines. There was ample time to prepare for this holiday including the necessary rescheduling of classes so that no student would lose precious classroom time. After the plans were made and the tickets bought, my mother’s health took a turn for the worse and it became a matter of time. Just days before the plane was to fly to Manila, my mother decided that she was going to stop treatments. And it was only two days into our stay in the Philippines when she died. I didn’t fly back for a funeral or memorial service for there wasn’t one based on my mother’s request. Rather, I set up a memorial site on Facebook in order to honour our mother for my siblings and invited all who knew her to add their messages and photos to that special memorial page. I was her first child and I thought it was my duty to get this all in place for all of us.

Upon returning to China after the holiday, I began to fall apart, a little bit at a time. I assumed, as did my wife, that it was a natural sadness and mourning. I began to have bad dreams and finally decided that I had better start writing again in order to deal with them and with my feelings. In early January it was time for our semester break and we flew to Thailand as we had arranged previously. It was only a matter of hours after landing that the darkness began to envelop me as memories began to emerge from my childhood, memories of physical, emotional, relational and sexual abuse.  I had no idea of most of this and was writing furiously trying to contain it, to place it in a form that I could cope with. It wasn’t long before I realised that this was something I couldn’t do alone, I needed a guide.  And that became my next task, to return to the guide who waits for me in Canada.

The pieces are falling into place and as you can see, it is all quite ordinary. There is nothing mythic at work here, at least not from the observable point of view. But in spite of the lack of storms and shipwrecks and monsters and magical beings, it is very much an odyssey, one that is made for ordinary and mortal humans. This is my journey but it could easily be anyone’s journey. And that is the value of learning the old myths though they are cloaked in magic, mystery and supernatural beings both human and god-like. The myths show ordinary men and women how their individual, prosaic lives are mirrored in those myths. And in being mirrored, they provide an understanding of what is happening to our psyche, to our soul and spirit as we struggle with the darkness that haunts us. These myths help us to see a way forward as if the myths are road maps that show us where we are going and how we will get to the other side, safely and sane.

Armed with the knowledge that others have gone on this journey before me and have won back their mental and physical health, I packed my bags and headed for the airport to dare the journey that waits for every single one of us.

Individuation - An Odyssey Of Mythological Proportions

I am in the Greater Toronto Area (GTA) after a thirteen hour flight and the associated waiting hours in Shanghai and the arrival time spend at the Toronto airport. All of the baggage made it through safely – and I don’t mean that the baggage was limited to physical bags, but also include the psychological baggage (attempt at humour). It is good to be back in Canada and I can “feel” the difference that comes with being in community rather than in being “un étranger” or “laowai” or “farang” or “gringo.” Here I become more invisible, more anonymous and with that anonymity, freer in a way. It is easier to just “be” rather than to have to hold to a foreigner persona.

As I wrote that last sentence, I realise that even though I am home in Canada, I am un étranger regardless. We all are strangers even within our own families and communities, even if we have never left our home communities. In truth, we are strangers to ourselves. Our families and our communities simply place the mystery of who we are, in context.

The journey of individuation is rather interesting. We begin at a point of time when we think we know who we are, a self that has carved out a place and identity based on career, family, possessions, experiences and relationships. At the moment in time when we wake up to the fact that the sense of identity, the sense of self that we have created is nothing but a fragile mask and costume, the real journey begins, a journey of self-discovery. I think most of us come to this point in our lives, see the dark hole and run screaming back into what we think is a safe place, sitting within the costume and investing all of our energies in maintaining the disguise hoping that no one looks to closely, especially ourselves. Energy is spent holding back that dark hole and in shoring up the personae that have become the public faces of who we are.

But, for some, the darkness is too powerful to hold back and we have no choice but to confront that darkness of disappear into a nothingness in terms of “self.” For me, this journey of awakening to a deeper and fuller sense of self has been understood by myself as an “Odyssey.” Like Odysseus, I wander through all sorts of trials, troubles, storms and temptation in order to find the centre of my own being, a glimpse of who I really am beneath all of the personae I live in the outer world of family and community. In the real world I have been travelling from country to country so much that I almost feel totally out of sync with the world. My body doesn’t have a sense of “time” anymore because of the constant shifting of time zones and the disorientation that comes with jet lag. Reality shifted to something within me, not something outside of me. I came face-to-face with the shadows, the gods and goddesses of this inner world that have haunted my outer world sense of presence.

Like this image of Odysseus, I am engaging in a battle with these gods and goddesses, not a battle that sees one defeated, but rather sees “me” become conscious of who I am because I dared these battles. There are no weapons or any armor that will help me other than what I can find within me and perhaps a talisman to carry in my hand on this journey.

Together yet separate in the same container called life

A flight delay is allowing me to post again here which is just as well s I find that I am ready for more. While waiting here at PuDong International Airport, I took out Mythologems, by James Hollis and found this quote on the last page, a quote that was highlighted on a previous visit to the book:

“The gods are present whenever we ask the right questions about our journeys. Knowing what questions matter is the first and nearly the most difficult task. Living the answers the gods bring to, in lieu of those we would prefer, ist the greater challenge.” (Hollis, Mythologems, p. 148)

Asking the right questions – Is it time to set aside the patterns and predictability of life in China and risk a conversation with the inner aspects of self: anima, shadow, saint, demon, child, sage and whatever other gods make their presence known? Do I risk what is, for what might be regardless of how that unknown might look/feel/be? Do I trust myself to keep the focus on self-discovery rather than caving in to meet the expectations of others, expectations that perhaps I invent and are not really there? Will I discover that I am worthy of this work?

I don’t know if these are the right questions or only questions that lead to yet more questions which lead to yet again more questions before it is time for the right questions. Right questions or not, I am am saying “Yes!” to each of these questions regardless of where the questions and answers take me. It is about trust in the unknown, in saying yes to the re-animating of my life.

Planting new seeds for a new life

That about sums it up at this point. I am sitting at the airport in Shanghai knowing that I have made a deliberate move to go in a different direction for the rest of my life. The running is coming to an end. For years I have been running. I was always asked, “Where do you want to go? What do you want to do? Why are you running?” The truth is I never had an answer. Now, I know that I have been running from the darkness, the shadow. It’s time to confront the shadow head on and claim my self as the prize.

In a few hours I will be on the plane back to Canada and soon I will taking up the battle in earnest with a “little help” from family and friends and guide. To mark the transition I have removed my beard which was making me physically and psychologically feel and look old as though I had given up and was just waiting for the final scene of my own story, my own myth, to play out before the closing curtain said “That’s all folks!”

Part of this transition process has me looking backwards at where I have been, especially in terms of the first time I had to battle the darkness consciously in the nineties. I found my poetry from that time period and have begun the process of placing them into a book which I will publish. It won’t be a big book. It will be an intimate book, one that allows the archetypal characters that demanded my attention to find a voice and a presence. A death, the death of one of my brothers at his own hand, acted as a catalyst for the first battle.  Another death, that of my mother, is the catalyst for this second battle. I will honour that first battle with the book as I enter into this new war against darkness.

Of course, I will make the book available for free here, as an ebook.  I will also provide a link for those who will want to buy a print copy of the book. And now, it is time to “fly.“

Float plane coming in Camsell Portage, Saskatchewan, October 1974

This was my home for a year, a fly-in isolated northern community only about 25 kilometres south of the North West Territories. This was the location of my first school and my first principalship. There were no roads, no cars or trucks and the nearest grocery store was 25 kilometres to the east in a small town called Uranium City. To go for groceries it was necessary to charter a float plane. There was no television, no cinemas, no restaurants or bars, no shopping of any kind. Just a tiny settlement on the northern edge of Lake Athabasca where the deer, the moose, the caribou and other wildlife decided to play. Entertainment was a small collection of books (Nietzsche, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and whatever found its way to our door via the mail – air mail of course.

The year was a good one even though the community was struggling with every possible disorder and disability that one could imagine. I fit right in, the crazy French-Canadian. In their eyes, I wasn’t a “white man.” Because of this sabbatical from mainstream Canada, I was able to focus on shoring up the barricades that kept my personal history a mystery to me. I was useful, important, a community leader and after four months, a father.  I learned that I had strength and skills and that I had value and worth in the eyes of others. What a precious gift to get for a young man with a very dark history.