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<em>"In spite of its function as a reservoir for human darkness—or perhaps because of this—the shadow is the seat of creativity."</em>

— Carolyn Kaufman
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<center>![Shadow Jung.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmVAToGazBkoMAxLrTKUhJK6wWc8fTbrFkDAo1AomcVAJN/Shadow.jpg)</center>

When we are children, we are wondrously curious about shadows — those in the closet, those on the sidewalk, even those within ourselves already formed or forming. Carl Jung wrote, "...the result of the Freudian method of elucidation is a minute elaboration of man's shadow-side..." 

What is the shadow-self? It is everything hidden within us. It's all the information that's ever passed through us passively. It's all of the epigenetic memories on our bodies "blockchain." It's our dreams. It's everything forgotten — like, most of our high school trigonometry lessons. It's our unconscious, subconscious, and supraconcious. It's our secrets, our taboos, our sins, our shames, our pain, our hypocrisies, and our secrets. It's the part of us we shut off to be professional in the workplace. It's the part we tuck away in front of church pastors, our grandparents, and the cops. It's our traumas, our experiences and perceptions that justify our coping and defense mechanisms. It's the seat of our creativity, our intuition, and our power. And even then, infinitely more. It may well be the collective unconscious itself. It may well be consciousness itself. Perhaps it’s dark energy. However you choose to label it, its dark, its dense, and its real. And it’s in each of us.

I have a vivid memory of being a child, about age 7 or 8, and eating grapes on sunny weekend morning — my neighbors grapes. These grapes grew in my neighbors yard and ever summer some of the vines would hang over my backyard fence. I would pick them and eat them on the spot, not even thinking to wash them or anything. I never thought anything of it. It was food. And playing in the yard at that age was hard work. We didn't have smartphones and things like that in those days. We had our friends, nature, and our imagination to play with.

I remember the day my grandmother caught me eating the grapes. I was filthy head to foot. I had been playing cars in the backyard. The cars were rocks though — rocks I dug up from the yard. The city was made of bricks and other stuff my friends and I found. The roads were framed with sticks. We even had a river — a toxic river. Don't ask where the toxic river came from... It was car oil; the kind that looks like foil and forms a rainbow. 

She came out onto the porch to smoke a cigarette. That was totally normal at the time, smoking. Everyone smoked. Checking on us kids was her chance to smoke and catch the breeze I guess. Well, on this hot day I was especially dirty and sweaty. I looked entirely feral, like I had been raised by wild coyotes all my life. I loved it. And my parents never worried about dirt, so I was extra messy. And I was extra hungry. So I went for the grapes as I normally would, thinking nothing of it.

Without a second to spare, I heard my grandmother bark out in a stern voice, "STOP! Shame on you! What are you doing? Don't touch those!" I froze right in my step — like I just got tagged in freeze tag. "That's stealing!" she said. Confused, I turned to her and looked up to the porch and responded, "No, it isn't."

Every kid in the yard with me froze in that moment, eyes wide open, as if I'd just guaranteed each of us a lightning storm of spankings. But my grandmother was a soft spoken woman usually. And so her shouting beckoned my father to come see what's going on.

The yard children around me each started to reposition themselves during this moment of opportunity. My younger (by 10 months) sister drew closer to me, as she's always been somewhat my twin in defense. My downstairs neighbors scurried off to the sidelines out of sight of the adults, but still in my sight. And my best friend, still frozen in position, stays put and begins looking at all parties in the conflict back-and-forth; hand still on a rock-car, as if wondering if it's safe to resume playing.

I tuned into the discussion happening on the porch between my father and grandmother. It was a bit difficult to do this given my sensory struggles and the chaos didn't make it easier. But I managed to broaden and focus my ear on their debate. 

"Well technically if it's hanging into our yard, we can cut it off so I don't see a problem with her eating the grapes off it." my father said to my grandmother. (I had missed the beginning of the dialog.) My grandmother replied, "It's stealing. It's wrong. And she's dirty from the yard. God knows what germs are on her hands anyway." I drew closer to my sister. "Girls, come upstairs and wash up." my father yelled to us. He seemed annoyed, but compliant with my grandmother’s wishes.

My sister and I went upstairs and my mother began drawing us a bath. My grandmother had already went back to watching her programs on her small 13 inch black and white television. "Did I do something wrong?" I asked my father, as my sister closed in to listen for the answer without being so conspicuous. "No," he said, "You did nothing wrong at all." I responded, "But grandma..." (pointing my finger to the next room) Just then my father grabbed my hand, hiding it from view. "Listen, different grown ups have different rules."

I felt bad inside. I didn't even know why. My stomach hurt so bad and both my parents knew it. I thought I would cry but I didn't want to. I was overwhelmed with conflicted thoughts and emotions. I whispered, "I'm hungry daddy. Grandma made me feel really bad about eating."

I remember this in so much detail because it was traumatic for both my sister and I. I've asked her about this scenario and she doesn't remember it ever happened. But I know after this day, my sister was different about food and so was I. My sister became a plump child, eating whatever she could when she could, as if food was scarce; and as if it was the only opportunity. I believe her metabolism was damaged because of this incident alone. Mine too, and my body image. Because I didn't like to eat much at all and certainly not without approval and permission.

What happened here? We were shamed. Shame is a powerful thing — especially on young impressionable and not fully informed minds. Here began the fear of germs, the fear of getting dirty, the fear of getting caught doing something, the fear of eating when hungry, the fear of unwashed food, among many other concerns. I swear, I don't recall ever giving a damn about any of those things before this moment. 

This situation changed me, not instantly, but gradually. The seeds of shame were planted just like those grape vines in my neighbor's yard. My sister and I took a bath that day, had an early supper and went to bed, apprehensively hugging my grandmother goodnight— who'd long brushed off the entire thing.

I recall my sister and I laying on our bunk beds talking about it. "Grown ups are weird." My sister said. I agreed. I asked my sister, "So, do we follow grandma’s rules or mom and dads?" She replied, "I think mom and dads. I think dad was just letting grandma win so she won't be mad." "So who's right?" I asked. She didn't know.

When my mother came in to tuck us in, I asked her who was right. She responded in a gentle voice, "We're both right." That just made everything even more confusing to me. But I let it go. Mother kissed us goodnight and that was the end of it.

We never thought of it again. I never thought of it again until many years later, in my adulthood when I was thinking of my grandmother after she passed away. I was thinking of memories of my grandmother, good and otherwise. Thinking back unlocked deeper memory of her, and then one memory after another. One woman, a wonderful woman — don't get me wrong here — influenced me so much in one moment.

Do you ever wonder how many people and how much information <em>shaped you</em> into the person you are today? The answer is all of it. Even reading this now may shape you a little bit. We are constantly reforming, reformatting, readjusting, realigning, and in simpler words — transforming.

Back to the shadow-self. We all begin in total darkness — comfortable, in the dark, murky, wet, dream-like habitat of our mother's womb. This is the safest and only environment we know at this point. We are a shadow in a way to her, our mother. Then we are purged into the light. We freak out, cry, it's painful, it's traumatic, it's separation from our source, and we learn duality — we just don't understand it yet.

As we grow up we hone our skills of comparing, contrasting, and contending information. Intelligence is informational and we learn to learn, learn to discern, learn to discriminate. Later we learn to judge, to segregate, to physically divide and compartmentalize not only things but ideas. We sort, we categorize, and we re-categorize everything and each other. As immature minds we do this in black and whites. We make right vs. wrong. We put positive at war with negative. We make good at war with evil. We pit dark at odds with light. And we perpetuate this black and white thinking — so often, simply out of self-interest and laziness. Absolutism feels safe.

Most of us grow up and start to see the spectrum in everything. It's always been there. There's always been millions of hues of color. There's always been exceptions to the rules. But if the machine is to run smoothly, there has to be a perception of conformity — civility — compliance, for everything to not come tumbling down... or is that just something we tell ourselves.

Shadow-work is about reclaiming the parts of ourselves that have been suppressed, oppressed, and have come to be taboo. It's about healing that shame that may no longer serve us. In my case, my grandmother — while well meaning — influenced me to have a bad relationship with food. I can't tell you how many diets I've tried, how many ISMS I've made my religion from pescatarianism to lactovotarianism. It took me a long time to just be grateful toward the life I survive by. Eating when I'm hungry, eating what's sustainable and available, eating what taste good — and what doesn't, eating what looks good — and what doesn't, and discerning the pity judgement toward my food from the gratitude I feel for eating it, took half of my adult life. But this isn't just about me, or just about food.

Who is your authentic self? Don't answer though. I leave you with these questions. Are you everything you are behind closed doors or only the person you show the world? Does your shadow belong to you or do you cast it off — or only cast it off when certain people are looking? And are you aware that people exist that can see all of you, as if your soul were naked? What if I told you that you are beautiful, no matter what anyone thinks about you — no matter what you think about you; would you agree with me, or disagree with me? Or agree sometimes, and other times disagree? 

Moreover, as whole being(s) we are able to reflect on ourselves and each other. Some say that people are brought toward us because each connection is an opportunity to reclaim a lost part of ourselves. 

I'd like to finalize this by saying that tomorrow is my 41st birthday. I don't like the idea of getting older; just being up front. I don't like it because I wish sometimes that I knew then what I know now. But I'm sure I'll say that again when I'm 61 looking back at 41. I would have reclaimed more of myself sooner. And I still have so much to explore, including every new tweak that happens on a day to day basis. Knowing and loving oneself is a commitment. And it's a commitment burdened by the judgements and risks of not only society, but on oneself — for many tears are shed in regret of the time lost with oneself.

The beginning.