Carl Gustav Jung: The Merchant of Soul
Dream I
I was on a Newcastle train, swaying out of the City over the bridge across the Tyne, but I didn’t know how I got there, or where I was going. Waning dregs of light light silhouetted the industrial buildings on the riverside until they morphed into a night sky. Twinkling lights punctuated my reflection in the carriage window; a soft-focus image flattering away the tell-tale marks of time. No grey intruders amongst the long, jet-black hair, no lines beating a path to middle-age. As the train creaked and rumbled into Haltwistle station, I hadn’t noticed anyone on the platform, but as we left, a man walked down the carriage and sat opposite me. He was in his later years, but still cut a tall and powerful figure. His clothes looked new and expensive, but were old-fashioned; a heavy tweed suit with brogues and a voluminous grey overcoat. His slightly hawked nose had a pair of John Lennons sitting on it and behind these, his eyes revealed an equally old-fashioned twinkle. He placed a brown briefcase on the table that separated us, opened it and took out a book. The cover, unmistakably 1950’s, had a picture of a man with a gun holding a fainting female with an improbable figure. The title was in French. It couldn’t be anyone else.
“Dr Jung?”
He lifted his eyes from the book, “Excuse me?”
“Dr Jung?”
“Indeed. What gave me away?”
“The French detective novel, ultimately.”
“Ah, yes.”
“Your English is very good.” There was barely a trace of the Swiss accent.
He nodded, “Well, I needed it, you know and in any case, I was always an Anglophile.”
“Dr Jung?”
“Yes?”
“You died over fifty years ago.”
“Yes, I remember it well.”
“Why are you here?”
“Jungian research.”
“Last night I dreamt that you were tending a horse and I asked you if you had any jobs and you said, ‘Yes, we have jobs’.”
“Tending a horse, very interesting, very good.”
“So, what do you want to know, Dr Jung?”
“I would like to know how you see things, Josephine.”
“What things?”
He put the book back in the briefcase and snapped it shut. “I would like to understand how you see my work.”
“Is this part of the research?”
“Oh yes, part of the research.”
“That’s not an easy thing to do, I’m not so much Jung as post-Jungian. A lot of people have developed your work.”
“I see. And what about Freud?”
“Still a bit of competition?”
“Just curious.”
You didn’t have an easy ride, Dr Jung, falling out with the Maestro as you did. I wonder if you know what the Freudian propaganda machine tried to do to you. You probably know about the times you were portrayed as a crank or a madman. I wonder if you know about the film, A Dangerous Method. Historically accurate, if you ignore the fact that although there’s some evidence you had a life-changing encounter with Sabina Spielrein, there’s not the slightest suggestion you engaged in spanking related activities. I wonder how I’d feel if someone did that to me.
“Freud is still venerated, Dr Jung. Not by me. I don’t venerate people, only ideas.”
“You like my ideas?”
“Yes, but I like the development of your ideas more.”
He chuckled. “I like your honesty, Josephine. I always wished my work to evolve.”
“Then you have cause to be proud.”
“Are you a Jungian therapist, Josephine?”
“No. I’m not qualified to be so.”
He winked. “Neither was I. So, Josephine, in your post-Jungian world, how do you see life?”
“I think we’re born into a world of illusion.”
“Ah, Maya. You favour the Eastern view?”
“Not particularly, although it’s useful. I’m generally eclectic.”
“Please continue.”
“Well, people say ‘this is the real world’ but they’re just whistling in the dark.”
“Because?”
“Because, Dr Jung, one person’s reality can be another person’s myth.”
“Please, call me Carl. A sort of reality relativity?”
“I suppose.”
“Is this a problem, do you think?”
“A problem? Well, if you live in a place where there’s at least a superficial sense of shared values, where your beliefs are never challenged, it may not be a problem. I think that’s what people try to do for the most part, hide away in their bubbles of the like-minded, so they can keep their illusions intact.”
“But?”
“It’s not so easy to do that anymore, Carl. The global village, the multicultural arena, the shifting sands of social and geographical mobility. On the one hand, it’s the most wonderful, exciting, creative thing and on the other, it’s a barrel of firecrackers. One goes off from time to time, as you know yourself.”
“Firecrackers, you say.”
“Consciousness generally hasn’t caught up with circumstances.”
“I see where you are going, Josephine. Please continue.”
“There are so many ideas of what constitutes the real world and people hang on to them like grim death, even when they’re thrown into circumstances that can’t sustain the illusions they don’t even know they possess.”
“Such as?”
“You know the kind of thing, Carl. People who believe that life’s fair, people who believe that if they work hard at their job they won’t lose it. People who are sure they can trust their loved ones until they uncover the big fat lie. People who believe that their society is just, until they’re on the receiving end of the unjust. People who believe that God’s rules are simple and straightforward and all they have to do is follow them and everything will be all right.”
“What happens to these people, Josephine?”
“All kinds of things. They might carry on like before; the power of denial. They might fall into depression or chaos, become fearful or angry, carry their grudges around with them, killing their potential for joy. They might distract themselves with technological toys, exotic holidays, religious conversion, drugs, workaholism, sexual conquest, even madness, but all they’re doing is running.”
“So, what happens?”
“Depends. Some will run until they drop or die, some make misery for others to avoid their own, some rage about the way they’ve been taught to live and the illusions they’ve accepted, or the blind trust that they placed in others. And then there’s the possibility that the rage might turn to sorrow and the sorrow into grief.”
“And after the grief, Josephine?”
There’s a small voice that says there’s someone else in there, half-glimpsed. That’s when they’re called to sing the deep song. That’s when they come looking for someone like you.”
“Or someone like you.”
“Me? Maybe.”
We were pulling into a station. There was a high-pitched noise. It was the alarm clock.
Dream II
I was back on the train. It was still dark. Carl. Carl was back. “Are you my Yoda, then?”
He tilted his head to one side, “What is this Yoda?”
“Oh, you know, spiritual mentor type thing.”
“Ah. You see me this way?”
“Well, it would be the obvious conclusion. Although considering my problems with the masculine principle, you could be Old Nick himself.”
He reached across the table and patted my arm. His hand was cool and strong. “Perhaps I am actually Carl Gustav Jung.”
“Yes, and I’m Cleopatra.”
“You’re looking good for your age. Anyway, I told you I was here to do some research.”
“Participant observation, maybe.”
“I can see I’m going to have to watch you, Josephine. We will talk about the structure of the mind.”
“That’ll only take a couple of years.”
A line of penguins walked up the corridor. Carl hurried me back to the subject in hand. “Please, tell me your analysis of the mind.”
“You can see the mind as a computer – like the conscious mind is what we can see on the screen and the unconscious mind is all the stuff in the back that makes it run. When you look at a screen, you don’t usually think about all the circuits and components, but without them, there’d be nothing there.”
He frowned. “What is this computer?”
“A calculating machine. It’s capable of performing complex tasks which the user controls by means of a screen and keyboard. Does that make sense?”
“Yes, I get the drift. Please go on, Josephine.”
“The unconscious is a vast reservoir of experiences, feelings, impulses, instincts and memories. Some people would also say that the unconscious is where our ancient spiritual wisdom connects to the ‘whole’, often known as God or The Great Spirit.”
“Are you one of those people?”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“I’ve fallen out with the Great Spirit quite badly on more than one occasion.”
“But the Great Spirit never holds a grudge?”
“Nah. Wouldn’t be so bloody great if it did, would it?”
“You don’t believe in a God of Judgement, Josephine?”
“Well, there might be a God of Judgement, there are plenty of people who believe in that, but if there is, I don’t want any truck with Him.”
“Truck?”
“Oh, sorry. Anything to do with him.”
The penguins were opening flasks of tea and sandwiches in plastic wrappers. Their dexterity was distractingly remarkable.
“Please explain, Josephine.”
“Okay – there’s supposed to be a God and you’re supposed to do what He says and if you fuck up, He sends you to a place of eternal torment. If that’s not bad enough, what does He send you there for? Having a wank, a bit on the side, not fearing Him, making a mistake. I can’t believe in anything that doesn’t leave room for the progression of every living soul, no matter what they’ve done.”
“A generous thought. So, please tell me more about the unconscious.” He threw himself back on the seat as if he was waiting for the show to start.
“It doesn’t work in the same way as the conscious mind. It’s like a mountain rising from a lake – the part that you can see is your consciousness. Just below the water is your personal unconscious and as you go deeper past each layer of rock, you get to the point where the land underneath the water is connected to the rest of the earth and you’ve reached the collective unconscious.”
He jumped forward, excitedly and pointed his finger. “Ah now, the collective unconscious. Explain, please.”
“You’re asking me to explain it to the man who coined the term?”
“Coined the term?”
“Invented it.”
“Indulge an old man.”
“You developed the theory because of your patients’ dreams. You found that time and time again, they’d contain characters and images that corresponded to ancient myths and stories that a lot of them couldn’t have known about. You decided that all this stuff must live in every human being. You called this stuff ‘archetypal’ and you believed that the characters and stories were a sort of blueprint for survival and development.”
So, we talk about archetypes? Come and lie down here with me. We will rest on the Great Earth and speak of them.”
We lay in a forest, cushioned by pine needles, the canopy, a living tent.
“Carl?”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m a real mess.”
“We all do sometimes, unless we are incredibly stupid. You are not so much of a mess as you think.”
“That makes me feel better.”
“Well that’s my speciality.”
I choked, tears pricking the back of my eyes. “I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Do what?”
“You know, the descent into the underworld, I know it’s time.”
“You can do it, Josephine.”
“It was very bad for you, wasn’t it, Carl?”
“Yes, it was very bad, but I don’t regret it.”
“Will it be very bad for me?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m afraid I won’t come back.”
“I understand. Now, speak to me of the archetypes. You are so bright and entertaining. I look forward to our time together very much.”
“I need you to be more specific, Carl.”
“You spoke of the masculine principle. This is an archetype, yes?”
The warmth and softness of his woollen coat soothed the left side of me. “Yes. The masculine and feminine principles are the cornerstone of the archetypes. The problem is, those words are loaded with different meanings for different people. People can think you’re trying to say that men and women are biological stereotypes, which of course is not what it’s about at all. The principles must be in balance in each of us.”
He said, “So – the masculine principle?”
“I’ve heard him called ‘The Merchant of Soul’. I really like that.”
“What does that mean to you – Merchant of Soul?”
“The Merchant of Soul carries things from the conscious to the unconscious and vice versa, he’s like a bridge. Without him, what’s on the inside can’t be taken to the outside and what’s on the outside can’t be taken in.”
“Why is this necessary?”
“Because without a channel of communication between the inner world and the outer, it’s difficult to evolve.”
“And the feminine principle?”
“It’s the opposite. Without her, there’s no depth, no introspection, no soul.”
“She bakes the bread, he sells it?”
“Precisely.”
“And your masculine principle?”
I sighed, “Good in parts.”
There are men that live inside of me who are wounded and fractured, as the men of my young life were. And they blamed me for the wounds and fractures and tormented me like a cat with a mouse. An amalgamated predator within that fights and taunts and plots my destruction, because it fears the loss of power and I’m so, so tired of it. My life surges and crumbles, surges and crumbles, when will it end? I try to re-order the pattern, shift the dynamic, search in the forest where the wild things are.
I wanted to hide in Carl’s arms just for a few minutes. I wanted to be safe. I never felt safe.
Dream III
“Hello, Josephine.”
“Hey, Carl.”
Dark again. We sat opposite each other on two black armchairs. A single spotlight shone down on us.
“Josephine, do you know what a shaman is?”
“Yes, a healer, a medicine-person.”
“Do you know how one becomes a shaman?”
“Not really.” Something stirred, an almost memory.
“It’s a noble occupation, Josephine, but not an easy path.”
“What are you saying? I’m an apprentice shaman or something?”
“Haven’t you set aside those things which most other people live by? Aren’t you willing to risk the mysterious corners of the psyche, even though you don’t know what lies therein?”
“Yes.” Yes.
He took my hand in his, “Primitive peoples call your kind of despair ‘loss of soul’.
He knows I’m in despair. Of course, he does. I remember someone talking about him, someone who knew him in his later years. He said that Jung acted as the voice of the unconscious for his patients.
“Loss of soul, Carl?”
“In the cultures of which I speak, when all else fails, the shaman is called to restore the soul.”
“How?”
He spoke softly, lulling me into calm. “The shaman takes the suffering of the person into his or herself and lives through it with them, until they can be transformed.”
“My loss of soul is a kind of preparation?”
“Yes, Josephine. The shaman is always prepared by a difficult period of isolation and sacrifice.”
“Well, I’ve had that all right. So, how do you decide who’s going to be a shaman then, Carl?”
“Shaman pick themselves, in a way. They’re chosen for certain qualities that set them apart from the rest of the tribe.”
I let go of his hand and leaned back in the chair. “So, what is it they do, then?”
“What they do is structured by the culture in which they operate. There are different rituals and approaches for different tribes. Nevertheless, the essential work of the shaman is to walk between worlds and teach others how to reclaim the connection between consciousness and unconsciousness.”
“Build the bridge?”
“Yes.
“A person must be able to enter a state of immense self-awareness to do such a thing.”
He became excited again, hands waving. “There are few who are willing to learn this.”
“How can I be a shaman, Carl? I’m full of shit.”
“Think of it as a university of spiritual understanding.”
“I’m not that understanding.”
He took my hand again, “Oh, but you are. Don’t get confused. There is a time to heal and a time to fight, a time to accept and a time to reject. The important thing is to have an accurate understanding of when those times are, of what is moving inside of you.”
In my heart, I knew what he said was true.
“Speak to me of myths, Josephine.”
“Myths? Well, myths never change, but the context in which they take place does.”
“Explain.”
“Each myth and the characters within are a kind of road map for the psyche, handed down over thousands of years.”
“Such as?”
“Well, take Bluebeard. Bluebeard is a cautionary tale about female naivety in the face of a predatory male, whether that be out in the world or inside the psyche. The story tells a woman how she gets herself in a pickle like that, and how to get out of it.”
“How does she get out of it, Josephine?”
“By opening the forbidden door and seeing the mutilated bodies of his former wives. By coming out of her naivety and seeing things as they are.”
He raised his eyebrows, “Sounds simple enough.”
I chuckled. “It sounds simple, but a lot of women are taught not to see the door, let alone open it.”
“So, Bluebeard is still relevant?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Tell me, Josephine, what do you see as the greatest challenge that confronts the inner world in this time?”
“That’s easy. To find the balance between the masculine and feminine forces. You know all these things, Carl. Why do you keep asking me to teach my grandfather to suck eggs?”
“Please, bear with me. You said that the characters within us have a story and if the story is not lived in the right way, we become wounded.”
“Yes.”
“And you feel that many people are wounded?”
The penguins started to make racing car noises. I woke up to the sound of Mr Aziz fixing his Audi.
Dream IV
I was back on the Newcastle train. Carl sat across from me.
“It’s getting closer, isn’t it?” I said.
“Tell me again, Josephine, what it the animus?”
“The idea of a man that we build up inside.”
“How is this so?”
“Well, there’s a blueprint – the archetype, like an outline shape of a man. You might give him your dad’s hair and your brother’s face and the eyes like a boy you particularly liked at school. The way men treat you and relate to you as you grow up will influence how you relate to them when you’re older, and who you’re attracted to – what you’ll crave, deny, ignore, project.”
“So how can this be fixed and yet not fixed?”
“It’s like snooker.”
He said, “Snooker? Oh yes, like billiards.”
“Yeah. You start every game with the same tools, the same number of balls, the same rules, but every game is different.”
“I see. But you say that there is a story?”
“There are the bones of a story, Carl.”
“And what happens if the story doesn’t reach its natural conclusion?”
“Then some of the bones are missing and you get fucked up, like I am.”
“How do you get un-fucked up?”
“Conscious effort, painful self-analysis, positive experiences, conscientious attention to dreams, significant others who can give you the bones, or at least help you find them. There’s a Jungian writer you’d love – Clarissa Pinkola Estes, she wrote a book called Women Who Run with the Wolves. She tells a story about a woman who collects bones and then sings over them until they come to life.”
She taught me about the predator who can’t be killed but only contained. He sometimes appears in my dreams as a savage dog. Bluebeard is a predator. I’ve used the forbidden key and opened the door, I’ve seen the mutilated bodies of his former wives. A flicker of excitement, like my release is imminent.
“Carl?”
“Yes?”
“What’s with the penguins?”
“It’s your dream, Josephine.”
Dream V
I was sitting on a hill, breathing in the lush, green valley that lay below. Carl appeared by my side, smiling.
“Ah, the master is pleased with his apprentice.” I said.
“Perhaps you are the master and I am the apprentice.”
“Perhaps you’re in my dream and I’m in yours.” I poked him in the arm, “Go on, you’re pleased with me, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I know it’s not over yet.”
“Yes, I am pleased with you. Tell me about the shadow.”
“The shadow? A kind of psychological dumping ground, it’s where we put everything we don’t want to feel.”
“It’s where we put what we deny?”
“Yes, although the reasons we deny it can be many and varied.”
“Please, explain.”
“We grow up with a set of ideas about what is and is not acceptable for us to be, we have an image of ourselves and if we are to keep the image up, we must deny certain things, depending on what the image is.”
“The image is the persona, the mask?”
“Yes.”
The penguins were hang-gliding off the hill, some singly, others in twos.
“Tell me about the mask.” He said.
“It’s the face we present to others, it allows us to play our part in the social world and be accepted. It’s a sort of conformity archetype, the public relations part of the personality. We all need one and if it’s not too far from the self, the totality of the person, then it’s not a problem.”
He nodded, thoughtfully, “And if it is far from the self?”
“Then it’s a problem.”
He lay back on the grass, arms behind his head. “So, denial and repression are where the shadow comes in.”
I joined him. “Yes.”
“And when someone cannot face something, that’s where it goes.”
“Yes.”
“Why is this a problem?”
“It’s a problem because once a person splits off a part of themselves, they can’t access their energy and creativity, they can’t develop, they can’t heal and worst of all, they’re likely to project that shadow on to other people.”
“Is everyone’s shadow different?”
“Like each person’s unconscious self, they’re all different and all the same.”
“And what things are the same?”
“Usually, the instinctive self, creative and destructive urges, spontaneity, depth of feeling, insight.”
“And the different things?”
I turned on my stomach, swinging my lower legs back and forth. “Depends on how a person’s basic make-up interacts with their environment.”
“And what happens to people who have too much in the shadows?”
“Misery, either from themselves or others. At the very least they’re cut off from their own creativity and depth. At worst, they suffer from depression or other emotional problems, even mental illness. The other possibility is people react in violent opposition to anything that reminds of things that lie in their own shadow.”
He sat up again, “And the more removed from the self and the more rooted in the mask the person is, the greater the tension and conflict in the psyche.”
I followed, “You’ve done this before, haven’t you?”
He chuckled. “Once or twice.”
“The other danger is that these unacceptable shadows can erupt, suddenly and dangerously. People project all the dirt on the inside on to an identifiable group and then try to destroy them. I don’t mean to imply what’s in the shadow is always bad, it’s just bad to the person the shadow belongs to. It’s only what we’re afraid of, or what we don’t want others to know.”
“What must be done, Josephine?”
“Human beings must learn that we can’t just throw bits of ourselves away, it doesn’t work like that. There are qualities that we’re born with, they’re there for a reason, they’re there to protect us, develop us, serve us and whatever we push into the unconscious will find expression. What isn’t owned will take on a life of its own and that’s when all the fun starts.”
“The fun?”
“Wherever the person is out of balance, unconscious manifestations of that imbalance will occur.”
“And how can this be resolved?”
“By accepting everything you are and coming to terms with it. You can’t make friends with someone unless you’re speaking to them.”
He said, “How does one go about this?”
“I believe that there are four main tasks that begin the journey and how they’re achieved is a matter of personal preference.”
“And they are?”
“First, to look in the mirror and see your persona and ask what lies in the shadows. Second, to develop a dialogue with those shadows and negotiate with them. Third, to balance the masculine and feminine principles within yourself. Fourth, to find the self, the core and maintain a connection with it.”
“Like a quest, Josephine?”
“Yes Carl, like a quest.”
“And what lies at the end of it?”
“Your soul, your energy, your creativity, your potential to be all that you can be. Maybe even your mission.”
He said, “Do you believe in an eternal soul?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ah, sometimes again.”
“I know, but in a way, it doesn’t matter. That’s the thing that you sold me on.”
“Sold you on?”
“Yeah. All my life I looked for a belief system that’s all encompassing, whether you believe in God or not. Everything I found before you excluded somebody. The monotheistic religions all have this chosen people thing and most religions depend on a notion of eternal life and reward and punishment. The intellectuals deny the non-rational, the sensationalists deny the spiritual, the spiritually motivated frequently deny the sensational, the emotional often deny the rational and so on. But you – you encompass everything. You don’t have to believe in God to be a Jungian, although you can if you want to, you just have to believe in the soul.”
He leaned towards me, conspiratorially. “And what is the soul?”
I laughed and shook my head, returning to lie on my back. “Oh, you’re asking me to define the soul!”
“Yes, it’s a hell of a business. Go on.”
“I believe the soul lives in us all and is sacred and eternal, the centre of all that surrounds us and it can’t be changed. It contains all the information we need to survive and develop and no matter how much on the outside you beat it, torture it, deny it, repress it, threaten it, twist it, project it or pervert it, still it will wait.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. “Ah, you speak like a poet. Do you believe that the soul is moral?”
“No, I believe that the soul has a natural tendency towards what we usually call spiritual development. That’s where most religion’s fucked, it’s based on the premise that you can decide what’s good and be it, and what’s good is God and what’s not is the devil and you can do what you want to drive the devil out and we both know where that gets you.”
His eyes filled. “Yes. It gets you the Crusades, the slaughter of the Cathars, the witch-hunts, the Spanish inquisition, the Holocaust and goodness knows what else.” He coughed and rallied himself. “So how do you define a spiritual person?”
“Well, it’s got fuck all to do with religion. Religion is nothing more than a vehicle – a framework for transportation. You can pick your religion like you can pick a car. Any religion can take you where you want to go. You might be particularly fond of a certain make or model, but at the end of the day, you’re the driver. We all know deep down what a spiritual person is. It’s a person who is non-judgemental, wise, compassionate and connected, who weighs and considers each question carefully, without recourse to dogma or prejudice.”
He got to his feet. “You are ready, Josephine.”
I swallowed. “I know. I’ll miss you. Just one question before you go. The penguins?”
“Like I said, it’s your dream.”
“I’m guessing that penguins are creatures that live both on the land and in the sea, so they symbolise the union of the conscious and unconscious mind.”
“I said you were a smart cookie.”
I held up my hand, “Of course, there is one other possibility.”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes a penguin is just a penguin.”
He laughed until his belly shook, “Well, Freud did have a point. Here, I have something for you. Open it when I’m gone.” He handed me a sack, heavy and rattling.
“What is it?”
“You will see.”
“Will we meet again?”
“Well, you know where to find me. Goodbye, Josephine.”
“Goodbye, Carl.”
A light formed in the centre of the room and he melted into it.
After a moment’s pause, I opened the sack, which was full of bones, just as I knew it would be. I laid them out on the floor and began to sing. I sang and sang, I don’t know for how long, but day and night I sang without becoming weary, until the bones came to life and filled each break and void I’d found within.
I discovered a hall of mirrors and looked at my reflection in each of them. In one I saw the wild woman, in another, the goddess. I saw the innocent young girl and the warrior queen. I saw the universal mother, I saw the tempting lover. I saw the sage, the seer, the fool, the friend. I saw the magnificent Josie Ashworth.
I was ready.