I split this up it is way too long to read on a computer screen in one sit.....for you who've read it I apologize

Date:   12/1/2005 3:03:12 PM ( 19 y ago)

Here we get a few more clues about what is involved in this dialectical relationship between the ego, which Jung understood to be the conscious personality, and the unconscious, which includes everything of which the ego is unaware. It is not meant to be an either/or relationship, where the goal is to determine a winner and a loser. If either one is injured, or attempts to rule, the whole personality loses. Both are legitimate aspects of life. This does not mean there will be no tension between them. Both have their parts to play, both have their unique vantage points to communicate. But in the end it is the ego which must decide how much of the unconscious it can withstand and which course in life the ego will endeavor to take. The hoped-for outcome is that in maintaining, or perhaps even suffering, this collaboration with the unconscious, we will become more that unique individual we hold the capacity to become.

To illustrate what can happen when this sought for balance in the psyche is grossly tipped one way or the other, in favor of either the ego or the unconscious, I give you first, a disturbing warning contained in one of Jung’s later works, and second, a personal story from Jung’s life.

The warning occurs in Volume 14 of his Collected Works, Mysterium Coniunctionis. He writes, "If the demand for self-knowledge is willed by fate and is refused, this negative attitude may end in real death. The demand would not have come to this person had he still been able to strike out on some promising by-path. But he is caught in a blind alley from which only self-knowledge can extricate him. If he refuses this then no other way is left open to him. Usually he is not conscious of his situation, either, and the more unconscious he is the more he is at the mercy of unforeseen dangers: he cannot get out of the way of a car quickly enough, in climbing a mountain he misses his foothold somewhere, out skiing he thinks he can negotiate a tricky slope, and in an illness he suddenly loses the courage to live. The unconscious has a thousand ways of snuffing out a meaningless existence with surprising swiftness."

I remember the first time I read this paragraph. I found it very disturbing. Partly because I could identify with it too closely, and partly because I didn’t like the inference that there might come a point at which the unconscious could become tired of sending overtures to a resistant vessel and in effect decide that its energy and effort would be better spent somewhere else. That was my initial, subjective response, and I must say that this passage continues to have a sobering effect on me.



I would not want to fall into the trap of using this quotation to explain every unexpected or unforeseen death that I happen to read or hear about. And I don’t believe Jung would have made such a blanket assertion himself. The experiences of life and death are too vast and complex and mysterious to be accounted for in so simple an explanation. But having said this, I must admit that there resides a kernel of truth in Jung’s words which invite serious consideration.

I believe that Jung’s sentiments arise from a personal experience. In more than one place he tells the story of an acquaintance who jokingly shared with Jung the following dream. "I am climbing a high mountain, over steep snow-covered slopes. I climb higher and higher, and it is marvelous weather. The higher I climb the better I feel. I think ‘If only I could go on climbing like this forever!’ When I reach the summit my happiness and elation are so great that I feel I could mount right up into space. And I discover that I can actually do so: I mount upwards on empty air, and awake in sheer ecstasy."

The dreamer was an educated man of about 50, who was quite an accomplished mountain climber. He confessed to Jung that he loved to climb without a guide because the very danger of it held a tremendous fascination for him. He also added that he climbed mountains because sticking at home did not suit him and in addition he was disgusted with his professional work. It occurred to Jung that this man’s uncanny passion for the mountains must be an avenue of escape from an existence that had become intolerable to him. He warned the man on more than one occasion not to go alone, but rather to take two guides and follow their instructions absolutely. But the man laughed it off. Two months later, while climbing alone, he was buried by an avalanche, but rescued in the nick of time. Three months later, however, he fell to his death, as a guide standing below him saw him literally step out into the air while descending a rock face.

I think this experience must have had a great impact on Jung and was largely responsible for his making the claim that the unconscious has a thousand ways of snuffing out a meaningless existence with surprising swiftness, when the demand for self-knowledge is willed by fate but then refused.

However, it is possible, I think, to view this image of dying in a symbolic way. The unconscious also has a thousand ways of subtly, or not so subtly, constructing a situation in which a person suddenly finds him or herself facing a predicament that feels like a death. We have only to read the pages of our local newspaper, watch the nightly news, or reflect on our own lives, to witness stories of people who through a strange twist of fate are "found out", or who are discovered in an uncharacteristic, but compromising situation, or who suddenly find themselves thrust into a whirlwind of controversy by an unconscious, offhand comment. The shock, the embarrassment, the judgment, the repercussions, the fall - all these can also produce the feeling and effect of dying, when "the demand for self-knowledge is willed by fate and is refused."

If these are possible outcomes for refusing to acknowledge and relate to the unconscious, then what might we expect when the scales are tipped in the other direction and we find ourselves overwhelmed by relating to the unconscious? Jung gave an example from his own experience. He had just finished writing his book Psychological Types, which had taken a tremendous toll on him physically and mentally. That very night he had a dream in which the unconscious suggested that he begin writing yet another book. Jung’s response to the unconscious was, "I can begin writing this book, but I will probably die in doing so." It’s as if the unconscious has no conception of death, or space and time, and therefore no conception of human limitations, be they physical, mental, or otherwise. Jung did not begin immediately writing the next book. Instead, he rested for a time.

Despite the wealth of wisdom the unconscious contains, there is a sense in which the unconscious really is unconscious, and dependent upon the ego to set limits and to provide information about activity in the "real world." The Self appears to need the ego as much as the ego needs the Self. "Conscious and unconscious do not make a whole when one of them is suppressed and injured by the other. Both are aspects of life. Consciousness should defend its reason and protect itself, and the chaotic life of the unconscious should be given the chance of having its way too - as much of it as we can stand." The relationship between the ego and the Self must be a dialectical relationship.

The third quote comes from Jung’s autobiography, Memories, Dreams, Reflections, written shortly before his death. "When one follows the path of individuation, when one lives one’s own life, one must take mistakes into the bargain; life would not be complete without them. There is no guarantee - not for a single moment - that we will not fall into error or stumble into deadly peril. We may think there is a safe road. But that would be the road of death. Then nothing happens any longer - at any rate, not the right things. Anyone who takes the safe road is as good as dead."

This is yet another sobering statement to make, but it is a necessary one. It is important that a person go into the individuation process with his or her eyes as open as possible. There will be mistakes made. And there is no guarantee of success. But there is a certain sense of well-being gained in following one’s path of individuation, where the fateful detours and wrong turnings are met with a certain amount of grace, and our suffering with a certain compassion. The Jungian analyst James Hall once remarked that "when one has worked with the unconscious for a long period of time, one develops the view that the Self is like a very wise, very compassionate friend, always concerned to help, but never coercive or excessively judgmental, and possessed of almost infinite patience."

And finally, another passage from Jolande Jacobi’s book The Way of Individuation, "The individuation process in the Jungian sense means the conscious realization and integration of all the possibilities congenitally present in the individual. It is opposed to any kind of conformity and, as a therapeutic factor in analytical work, also demands the rejection of those prefabricated psychic matrices in which people would like to live. It shows that everyone can have his own direction, his mission, and it can make meaningful the lives of those people who suffer from the feeling that they are unable to come up to the collective norms and collective ideals. To those who are not recognized by the collective, who are rejected, and even despised, it can restore their faith in themselves, give them back their human dignity, and assure them their place in the world."

Consciously engaging in the process of individuation requires a certain strength and courage, because when individuals relate to the unconscious while striving truly to live their own lives, they may very well find themselves at odds with both their own self-assessment and with society’s expectations. But knowing that there are others likewise engaged in developing their own "true personality" can give one a liberating and sustaining sense of connectedness, not only to other people but also to the Source that feeds us all.

In the time we have remaining I would like to use a Summerian story entitled "The Descent of Inanna" to illustrate a few aspects of the individuation process. I am using a translation of this myth taken from Diane Wolkstein and Samuel Noah Kramer’s book Inanna: Queen of Heaven and Earth. Inanna was a goddess of love and procreation worshipped by the Sumerian people during the fourth millennium B.C. in that part of the ancient world situated between the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, which is part of modern Iraq. "The Descent of Inanna" comes down to us on a series of clay tablets inscribed sometime during the third millennium. The story itself is probably much older, a part of that culture’s oral tradition. There are at least two later variations based on this myth known as "Ishtar’s Descent," Ishtar being another name associated with this goddess, but the story of Inanna is the most ancient. I will begin by giving you a basic synopsis of the story and then offer a few reflections on how the individuation process can be discerned in this myth.

At the beginning of the story, Inanna, the Queen of Heaven and Earth, decides to visit her older sister, Ereshkigal, Queen of the Great Below, in the underworld. Inanna’s reason for going is to attend the funeral rites of her sister’s late husband, Gugalanna, although it may also be related to the fact that Inanna’s consort, King Dumuzi, was so preoccupied with matters of state. Inanna prepares for her journey, but not before making arrangements with her trusted servant Ninshubar to take certain steps should she not return in three days.

Inanna descends, knocks at the door, and is finally given entrance to the underworld. But as she passes through each of the seven gates, she is required to remove an article of clothing or jewelry, until finally she is completely naked upon her entrance into the throne room. The jealous Ereshkigal then deals her a death blow and hangs her from a hook on the wall like "a piece of rotting meat," the text relates.

When after three days Inanna does not return, her servant Ninshubar begins looking for help and finally finds it from Enki, the god of Wisdom. He fashions two tiny creatures, neither male nor female, from the dirt under his fingernails, entrusting one with the food of life and the other with the water of life. These two creatures descend into the underworld where they empathize with the birthing pains Ereshkigal is now experiencing and, thereby, win the release of Inanna, whom they have now revived. But as Inanna is about to depart, the Annuna, the judges of the underworld, seize her, saying, "No one ascends from the underworld unmarked. If Inanna wishes to return…. She must provide someone in her place."

The "galla," or "demons of the underworld," accompany Inanna above to secure her replacement. Inanna considers Ninshubar, her faithful servant, and Shara and Lulal, her beloved sons, as acceptable candidates. But Inanna refuses to let them be taken because they mourned her absence. Then Inanna’s eyes fall upon Dumuzi, her husband, who has been so busy with the kingdom’s business that he really hasn’t noticed Inanna was gone. She says to the galla, "Take him! Take Dumuzi away!" And Dumuzi wails.

What follows is a life and death game of cat and mouse, with Dumuzi constantly changing shape to avoid capture, helped by various gods and by his loving sister Geshtinanna. Finally he is caught, having been betrayed by a friend. He is bound and taken away. The storyteller solemnly states, "The churn was silent. No milk was poured. The cup was shattered. Dumuzi was no more. The sheepfold was given to the winds."

After her anger subsides, Inanna begins to mourn for her husband, as does Dumuzi’s sister, Geshtinanna, who offers to go and trade places with her brother. Having pity, Inanna tells Geshtinanna that she would take her to her brother if she only knew where he was. Then mysteriously there appears a fly who knows Dumuzi’s whereabouts and takes them to where he sits weeping. An agreement is made whereby Dumuzi will go to the underworld for half the year and his sister will take his place for the other half, according to Geshtinanna’s request.

Initially, this myth was thought to serve as an explanation for why all vegetable and animal life languished to the point of death during those torrid, scorched months of the dry season, and then suddenly became verdant and fertile again the remainder of the year. It was believed that when Dumuzi was separated from Inanna and banished to the underworld, the land languished; but when he was reunited with Inanna, their union had a magical effect and the land flourished. Although this may have been the conscious and magical belief of the people at the time, the seeds of its deeper, psychological meaning were already present. They were potentials contained at an archetypal level in the psyche. So let’s look at this collective myth, and its images, to see where it might reflect aspects of the individuation process experienced today.

The story begins when Inanna decides that she must enter the dark subterranean world of her sister Ereshkigal in order to attend the funeral of her beloved protector and brother-in-law Gugalanna. It is this loss of Gugalanna and what he stood for that proves to be the motivating factor for her descent into the underworld. We had mentioned earlier that experiencing a great loss was one of many motives which could invite or drive a person into the archetypal realm of the unconscious, here symbolized by the underworld. Life above in the conscious arena has been upset, disturbed, wounded. The protective and primordial energy Gugalanna had provided Inanna is gone, and we could say that her resolve to go and to mourn his death reflects her desire to be near what was dear and perhaps to recover in some way what has been lost. The process of individuation often involves a yearning or an impelling drive to recover what has been lost, regardless of where one must go to retrieve it. Or if not to recover it, then at least to be near it.

But before Inanna leaves for the underworld, sensing the seriousness and perhaps the danger of her trip, she makes arrangements with her trusted friend Ninshubar to seek help should she not return after three days. One should not underestimate the demands and the hazards involved in pursuing one’s true personality. One is liable to encounter personal resistance or collective disapproval. And one never knows what the unconscious will produce, nor are there any guarantees of either success or return. You can understand why few people would deliberately embark on their path of individuation, why Jung referred to it as being contra naturum, that is, "against one’s nature," and why most of us are either called to it by some overwhelming summons or driven to it by some disturbing experience of suffering. In either case, Inanna reminds us that it is perhaps both wise and prudent to have a trusted, knowledgeable friend nearby should we get in over our heads.

As Inanna makes her way through the underworld, she must pass through seven gates, and before passing through each of these gates she must first remove a valued article of clothing or a precious piece of jewelry. When she clears the final gate, she stands naked before her sister Ereshkigal. The necessity of negotiating seven gates in turn suggests that the process must be a gradual one. One does not rush into the unconscious. I remember an analysand who initially was in a great hurry to get to the heart of his process. He brought in a dream in which he was standing on a sheer cliff high above the ocean. He was trying to climb down this precipitous wall of rock and was in danger of falling, when suddenly an old woman appeared above him and offered him her hand. She was surprisingly strong and after being lifted him back up again, he noticed that there was another way down he hadn’t seen before - a set of steps, somewhat circuitous, but more gradual and therefore safer. He decided to take this way down to the ocean. For most people, the gradual path of individuation is the best.

Inanna’s process of going through the gates is also marked by the gradual removal of all clothing and jewelry, which suggests that the process of individuation involves a certain stripping or surrendering of persona, collective identity, social adaptation or rank, and defenses. Without this kind of symbolic clothing we speak of "feeling naked" in someone’s presence, and who has not had the typical dream of running around in public with no clothes on, which dramatizes this sense of being completely exposed and unmasked. As the myth implies, the unconscious does not accept pretense and persona. Such nakedness is a requirement for discovering one’s true personality.

When Inanna does finally come face to face with Ereshkigal in the throne room, Ereshkigal cannot control her jealousy and reacts by striking Inanna dead. Inanna is then hung from a hook on the wall. There are two things going on here which address the individuation process. First of all, Inanna encounters her shadow in Ereshkigal. Everything Inanna is not, everything that is unknown, neglected, disenfranchised in Inanna stands before her in the person of her sister Ereshkigal. Ereshkigal is primal, untamed, raw; she is full of rage, greed, fear, aggression; she is chaotic, and yet adheres to a certain natural lawfulness; she is destructive, and yet will soon feel her own birthing pangs. In following a path of individuation one inevitably comes face to face with one’s own shadow, with all those personal attitudes and characteristics which have heretofore been disregarded but now demand recognition.



The other aspect of the individuation process reflected in this part of the myth is the death blow dealt Inanna. She meets something much greater and more powerful than herself in the form of Ereshkigal; and as a result, she is judged and killed. This is a figurative way of saying that in some measure the ego has experienced a death. Jung reminds us that "the experience of the Self is always a defeat for the ego." In this story Ereshkigal represents one aspect of the Self. This experience is archetypal, universal; being described in many ways. Examples would be:

Jesus’ saying, "Whoever would lose their life will preserve it."

Or Goethe’s line, "Die and become. Until you have learned this you are but a dull guest on this dark planet."

Or Wu Ming Fu’s adage, "The seed that is to grow must lose itself as seed; And they that creep may graduate through chrysalis to wings. Will you then, O mortal, cling to husks which falsely seem to you the self?"

As Jolande Jacobi reminds us, "In the individuation process it is always a matter of something obsolete that must be left behind to die in order that the new may be born."



Inanna’s being hung suspended for three days is another element of this archetypal motif of death and rebirth. The number "3" can be found repeatedly throughout history as a symbolic reference to transformation. The most familiar place it appears is in fairy tales, where we are constantly encountering three apples, three feathers, three sons or brothers, three daughters or sisters, three roads, or three chances, all crucial to the development of the story. But the reference to "three days," found in the myth of Inanna, appears in many stories of transformation and is commonly referred to as "the night sea journey." One has only to think of the three days and nights Jonah spent in the belly of the whale or the three days and nights Jesus spent in the underworld following his death.

Of course, these references to "three days" are not necessarily meant to be taken literally, although it does sometimes work out that way. Gerhard Adler relates the dream of an analysand who after three months of analysis had the following dream: "I heard a voice saying very clearly: "’In three days time.’" Three days after this dream the analysand had an intense and moving fantasy which she described this way:

"I can see my own unconscious not as something alien, but as something made of the same stuff of which I am also made; so that there is a ROAD, an unbroken connection between me and all other creatures and it. I can feel how this goes to the root of my neurotic problem: I had had a direct perception of something unrelated to and impossible to relate to the rest of my experience; the world therefore did not make sense, and it was therefore almost literally impossible to live. Now the world makes sense again."



Existentially, this night sea journey is usually associated with depression, confusion, gestation, loss of energy, or serious reflection. It is not a pleasant experience to undergo, but if one can endure, there is usually some form of reward to be gained. Perhaps some of us here tonight have some personal knowledge of this universal human process and can relate to Inanna’s being hung from a peg on the wall, exposed for three days.

The next major development in the myth comes when Ereshkigal is undergoing her own birthing pains and hears the empathic moans from the two creatures sent from above to rescue Inanna. Ereshkigal, representing Inanna’s shadow, is finding that what before had been neglected, that is, her rage, her greed, her loneliness, her compulsivity, her insatiability, her wild sexuality, all these things are now being valued. And it is this honoring of the neglected which proves transformational not only for Ereshkigal, but also for Inanna, because she is released from the underworld and allowed to return to her life above. But, she does not return the same person - which brings us to the final episode.

When Inanna returns to the land of the living she must find someone to take her place below. She doesn't have the heart to condemn those who mourned in her absence, but upon seeing that her consort Dumuzi didn’t even know she was gone, she unleashes the rage she has acquired from her dark sister Ereshkigal and in effect ends her relationship with Dumuzi by sentencing him to the dark regions of the underworld. What she has brought back from the underworld is some of her sister’s fire and decisiveness. It is only when Dumuzi’s sister Geshtinanna pleads for her brother’s life that Inanna regains her capacity for compassion and decides to work with Geshtinanna to procure Dumuzi’s release, for at least half the year.

When a person emerges from their "night sea journey," they are a different person. They bring to the surface, to consciousness, a previously neglected or undervalued aspect, but it usually comes in its raw form. It is like an untamed animal carried away by its newfound sense of freedom. But with its expression comes the first stages of its integration. Hopefully, it is tempered and finds its rightful place within the total personality, available when needed, but not quite so explosive.

In the case of Inanna, the appearance of compassion toward Dumuzi signals the integration of the new with the old. There is a forward rather than a regressive movement. Compassion and assertiveness can both have a place within one’s psyche. One’s "true personality" is expanded. And this expansion allows not only a greater degree of consciousness, but also a capacity to intentionally choose how one will respond to the challenges of life, instead of being tossed to and fro or lashing out indiscriminately. Another step along the path of individuation has been taken.

The "Descent of Inanna" is just one story which addresses the process of individuation. And although it may be an ancient story, it still possesses a freshness and a poignancy capable of speaking to the perplexities and dilemmas of the human condition today. It adds yet another perspective on the multi-faceted process of individuation, be it an individual’s development or that of our species. As the relationship between the ego and the unconscious is enhanced, so is our ongoing relationship with others and the world in which we live. Jung spent his life exploring the complexities of this relationship, and the psychological development it allows. And yet, in Jung’s view, no one is ever completely individuated. While the goal is personal wholeness and a healthy relationship with the Self, the true valuation of individuation lies in what is happening along the way. In Jung’s words, "The goal is important only as an idea; the essential thing is the opus which leads to the goal: that is the goal of a lifetime."




 

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