Me and My Shadow(s)
Lon Chaney in The Phantom of the Opera 1925
Last time I drove to Los Angeles to attend a Jonathan Young/Anne Bach workshop on storytelling and mythology, I found myself in the middle of my own Hero’s Journey. Not unlike the Hero’s Journey we dissected in The Wizard of Oz.
In case you didn’t know, Jonathan Young is the protégé to the late, great mythologist Joseph Campbell. And Anne Bach is a psychotherapist who uses writing as a therapeutic tool. To say I fan girl over these two is a bit of an understatement.
In this daylong workshop, we deconstructed Jungian shadow work within the context of the Phantom of the Opera. (*Phrases in bold type are key points from the workshop.) And true to form, I started to spot all the shadows in my life and work.
Wow, do I have some phantoms!
No, I’m not being called into the bowels of the Paris Opera House by a demon lover… despite my secret goth girl fantasies.
My shadows are often my brushes with chronic illness.
Other times—motherhood.
Yes, sometimes my mom-ness is unbearable. Love and sensitivity overwhelm me. There are days when every cry from my daughter sends my nerve endings down an invisible cheese grater. And let’s not even mention the poop, shall we not?
I have daydreams about hitting the road. Running away to Canada.
Quick side story:
Once upon a time, I was a kid in the ‘80s and in love with Corey Hart (the 8-year-old me’s Sunglasses at Night boyfriend).
I learned he was Canadian, so I considered a disappearing act and a green card. But as a grown woman, I’ve learned he has four girls of his own, so no thanks. Even if there was no wife in the picture, that dream is down the tubes for me now.
These days the only place I run off to is L.A. for my mythology workshops. But these classes have me facing my fears instead of running from them.
Annnnndddd… we’ve come full circle.
The overwhelming directive here:
Embrace your shadow(s).
The interesting thing about Jungian shadow work—it functions best when the shadows are incorporated into our real lives.
I’ve said this before but it’s worth noting again. An old professor once told me, “whatever’s in the way, is the way.” (From the Marcus Aurelius quotation, “The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.”)
That quotation really typifies shadow work.
Consider your shadows as your greatest source of inspiration, not as something to fear.
**Spoiler alert from a long damn time ago. If you feel you’ll be upset by learning the plot points of The Phantom of the Opera, please go watch the movie now. Also where have you been for the last few decades?
The Phantom of the Opera could be seen in two ways:
As a story about a literal “phantom” who lives in the catacombs under the Paris Opera House.
OR
As a manifestation of the female protagonist Christine’s unconscious desire for music. A desire so seductive it overwhelms her.
As Jonathan Young pointed out, “we are all Christine.”
In other words, we’re all wrangling with that part of our unconscious that wants us to go against the grain. To rail against the life society’s set up for us. And instead veer off into risky, yet seductive territory.
But you don’t need some masked ghoul to identify your source of shadow.
It happens to me every time I leave for L.A.
Before I make the trip, I’m always battling some health issue. Worried I shouldn’t leave my daughter. But once I decide the journey will be worth it, I still have to prepare my energy for the chance of a dangerous drive—unlikely, but possible.
This trip was no exception. Once safely in the city, I visited some dear friends, had my workshop, and got a lazy, nap day in. But I’d be lying if I said all went well on the drive over.
Extreme stress kicked off my road less traveled.
As a woman venturing out solo, I’m on high alert.
An ex-flight attendant, I was told the horror stories about murdered flight crew who didn’t remain guarded on their layovers. That sense of alarm still pervades my travels today.
No beach vacation sipping Mai Tais for me. Nope! I have to terrify myself before I can relax.
And it starts with the need to set off in the first place.
As Jonathan Young explained: a yearning of the soul can’t be met by a human.
I have a great family with a wonderful husband and a beautiful 2-year-old daughter, blah, blah, blah, you’ve heard it all before. So, if my life is so great, why do I feel compelled to go to L.A. for these workshops?
The classes speak to a creative tension that can’t be solved.
It takes more than strong family bonds and human relationships to make us feel alive. Hell, it takes more than happiness for us to be fulfilled. The idea of sitting around contented doesn’t strike me as a desirous plan.
But seeking something. A quest. A search for bigger meaning. Now you’ve got me hooked.
We all need some conflict to serve as a catalyst for growth.
Think of a garden.
Okay, scratch that, think of the grapevines at a winery.
Ever notice how these vines grow best in arid climates? That’s because the heat and stress makes for better grapes. And better grapes give us a superb bottle of vino.
The creative tension in our lives is no different than drunken grape juice.
We seek out challenges to help us evolve. To embrace mystery.
This is the reason I get in my car and drive to another state. Even when the path isn’t straight.
I have no idea what will be waiting for me on the road. Traffic. Accidents. Strange hitchhikers trying to flag me down after I’ve already been in a roadside accident but don’t know it yet.
Okay, so that’s the plot line of a Twilight Zone episode. But you can see why my drive makes me nervous.
My point is—in life and in your writing practice—you never know what lies ahead.
You have two choices:
You can fear it. And stay locked inside your cocoon, never to grow an inch.
OR
You can walk into mystery every day.
Of course, if you choose the latter, you take a risk.
I pulled onto an exit as I neared L.A.
I assumed any exit would have a gas station accessible. But wouldn’t you know it, at this exit, I had to drive and drive to find a place to fuel up.
10 minutes later, I found the only gas station around for miles. The pump wouldn’t take my card and the gruff attendant demanded to see my ID.
After the disgusting bathroom and the uncomfortable interaction, I got a funny feeling. But what other option did I have? None, as far as I could see. Despite my misgivings, I filled up and hit the road again.
Once I got to my destination, I discovered a $95 charge on my card.
Gas is expensive, but not $95 worth of expensive.
Had my card or my identity been stolen? Would I be stuck in L.A. without any money?
Walking into the mystery isn’t safe. But it’s often what sets that creative tension into motion.
Luckily, a call to the credit card company resolved the issue. All was well and it made my little guest room feel even sweeter.
This is a simple illustration. But note: the gold is found in the shadow. In other words, your creativity will come out of the chaos.
The higher the bar is set, the bigger the pay off.
Whether you’re taking chances in life or you’re writing a memoir or novel.
There are no guarantees. But often the bigger the risk, the bigger the reward.
No one gets much from sitting around watching TV. You’ll stay safe. And you won’t have to face your shadows. But what rewards will you receive from the experience?
On this particular trip, my shadows didn’t come only in the form of questionable gas station attendants. My biggest issues dwelt inside of me.
I had been struggling with Reactivated Chronic Epstein Barr Virus caused by an environmental immunosuppressant mold—Aspergillis. Yep, even after all my autoimmune issues faded, I still had a recurrence of this virus.
I’d love to say getting away improved my health. Unfortunately, somewhere close to the Salton Sea I noticed a big cloud hovering over the mountains. Was that pollution?
I felt a tension in my throat and lymph nodes. And I struggled throughout the weekend, feeling mostly unwell.
There’s no doubt about it, the dangers you investigate will leave scars. But scars are proof of a life well lived.
Regardless of my fear, I never choose the path of least resistance. Still, there was no drinking or partying in L.A. When I wasn’t in class I was detoxing. For this reason, I decided to go to a singing bowl meditation to chill out before my workshop.
A night meditation—I promised my husband I would drive even though it was only a 6-minute walk.
Trying to navigate L.A. traffic, I made a U-turn in a local neighborhood. Negotiating the tight streets, I spotted something.
What the hell was that in the road?!
Was it a dog?
No.
A wild dingo?
Two wild dingos?
A PAIR OF WOLVES?!
My anxiety ramped up, but I noticed the couple just hanging out in someone’s driveway, as if deciding whether or not to attend the neighbor’s dinner party.
Would this be the night I would get bitten and turn into a werewolf?
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t fearful.
I watched as the pair gracefully meandered in front of my car, stalking each other until they were out of sight.
The next day, a few locals explained that these urban coyotes might prey on house cats, but were mostly harmless. Truth be told, the city of L.A. had grown up around a landscape where these creatures were the original inhabitors.
And that’s the thing about shadow work. What you fear may fear you even more.
Maybe we humans are shadows for those poor coyotes.
They belonged here long before we arrived.
Could you end some of your fear by dispensing with the all or nothing thinking? To stop believing something is either completely good or totally bad? Often what holds the most dangerous energy also holds the biggest beauty.
These magical beasts strolling in front of my path were no exception.
They concurred with my husband’s plea for caution. Take the car. As lovely as they were under the moonlight, I can’t imagine coming upon these two by foot.
But they also provided a sense of unbridled beauty in the middle of the city. A call to think about what nature provides for us. Remember, untamed nature was once considered something to fear. But a quick inventory of our current weather patterns makes it clear we need to focus on our environment more than ever.
Consider my encounter as the difference between moving towards danger vs. getting ensnared in it.
If you believe something may be perilous, perhaps you need to take a closer look. Ask yourself—is this worth being afraid of? Just don’t confuse this with thriving on risk-taking behaviors. There’s a thin line here.
Back at my host’s house I was engaging in another kind of mystery many might find threatening. But one I choose to embrace.
Bert, Alice, and Rita were previous tenants of the home, but have since passed on. Sort of.
Their presence is very much felt within the house.
As Jonathan Young points out, death ends a life, but it doesn’t end a relationship. Anyone who has lost a loved one understands this concept.
Whenever I arrive, I always make sure to acknowledge those three.
Hi Bert, Alice, Rita. I’m here.
And they give me signs that they are aware of my return. Little flickers of the electricity are common when I mention their names.
If you’re not a believer, that’s fine. But even if the house was completely void of spirits, one thing still remains. These 3 were living, breathing souls once. And their presence added greatly to this home I now love to visit.
The day after my workshop, I sat at the dining room table eating my lunch. My host had just left, so I was alone.
And WHAM! (It was not George Michael. Don’t get excited.)
Just as I was about to take a bite of my salad, I heard a door slam.
My bedroom door remained open. There were no breezes in the house. No drafts. In fact, my room had a small contraption that mimicked the sound of a fan. I had to use it to sleep, otherwise the house was overwhelmingly still.
“Alice,” my host said upon his return, “she likes to come to this door here and…” he slammed the hallway bathroom closed to show me how she gets his attention.
Absence is a presence.
It’s an interesting concept I learned in the shadow workshop.
Take it apart and sit with it.
Consider the ancestors who lived before you. How the echoes of their time here on Earth created a space for us all—either to follow in their footsteps or to choose a better path.
Also think about your absence in terms of memoir writing. You may not be physically present for your audience, but your voice is with them throughout the reading process.
How do you want to be heard?
Always remember writing can give us a container for our shadows.
Writing out the painful or challenging parts of your life is purposeful. By getting these experiences out of you, you give them a proper place to reside.
And they no longer fester within.
Here’s my shadow writing as guided by Anne Bach:
“I did something stupid
I had you at 40.
My triumph?
My masterpiece?
Or another goal checked off,
Accomplished.
I had no idea you’d split me in two
A hairline fracture between maternity and madness—
Your ceaseless need for safety
Sinking me deeper into my own disease.
Motherhood is my shadow.
I knew it all along.
So I ran
I drove
I flew
But I ended up here,
With you
Transmuting my soul
The way you did my body.
Now I must embrace fear
As I embrace you before bedtime—
Your wild coyote smile gnawing at all my sensitivities.
The Madonna and Child
Look on, unmoved.
Our shadows meld together
And bleed across the nursery wall
Into a dark heart
Of home.
I love you so,
My demon
My little one. ”
— Blissom Booblé
Do you have a demon child you need to embrace? Any other phantoms?
What about that manuscript that feels like an overwhelming mess?
Any simple steps you can take to start incorporating the shadow into your life and writing?
