Tag Archives: CG Jung

Acceptance and integration

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I have written much here about acceptance – including particularly Tara Brach’s concept of radical acceptance – and it seems to me one of the keystones of any contemplative practice. To accept the circumstances of our life, the time and place of our birth, our age and our state of health, the changing seasons… this is a way of being that underlies whatever peace and stillness we uncover.

Integration, the goal of so much psychotherapeutic theory and practice – most obviously in the Jungian tradition – is the core process of individuation, where hidden, unconscious parts of the mind – the shadow, the anima or animus, repressed or concealed complexes – are brought into conscious awareness to create a unified, whole self: the endpoint of healing.

Acceptance is key to integration, also: it is not possible to bring into open awareness these intensely charged unconscious materials without acceptance. To accept oneself, all of oneself, as at its heart given (see Martin Heidegger’s Geworfenheit for instance) is the beginning of our inner work, and its fruit.

All that we are is given to us, in its iridescent, changing beauty. The necessity of what is remains, but it is in a sense a contingent necessity. Our response is ours to make: to remain still and watch is the beginning of radical acceptance – Heidegger’s Gelassenheit if you will – and a fundamental surrender to isness itself. In hesychasm the principle of synergia – the cooperative working together of free will and grace – is perhaps the deepest human level of integration.

To sit still, just that, is the beginning and the end of practice. There is nothing else to do, nothing else is needed. The ground opens in this moment: there is nothing else, nowhere else to go.

Seasons

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The contemplative life has seasons. Perhaps that should come as no surprise – this life is as impermanent and changeable as any other – but it’s important to bear in mind. I call these variations in experience and inclination “seasons” rather than stages or phases, because although they are not strictly cyclical like the seasons of the year, they certainly don’t appear to me to be rungs on some kind of ladder of ascent, as so many spiritual traditions seem to suggest. I don’t think the spiritual life works like that; at least, it doesn’t for me.

One thing I do think worth remembering is that the seasons of the contemplative life are not measures of success or failure, not markers of progress to be charted, expected or evaluated. They are much more like changing weather than they are like stages in the growth of a plant or an animal. (This of course is why I dislike the “ladder” paradigm – it so easily leads to self evaluation according to some external, artificial scale or standard.) We may find we need to go back over and over to some areas of understanding before we finally “get it”; this is not a fault, but merely a necessary step on the path. Your sticking places may very well not be mine, of course, and it would be misleading – distressing or even dangerous – for us to compare our progress as if they should be.

So what do I mean by seasons? They are sometimes, I think, merely technical – matters of concentration, alertness, inward honesty – that might be compared to the fine motor skills developed by practising a musical instrument. At other times they seem more like stages in the Jungian idea of transformation – and as such may need to be revisited at different times, and in different orders. At times we may find we are struggling with the losses involved in impermanence; at other times it may simply be that we are plagued by painful memories, and the fear or anger or remorse they bring with them. These are vitally important things, and I don’t think we can just tell them, “Come back next month – I’m supposed to be working on my sense-impressions this week.”

We need, as always, to be gentle with ourselves as we sit. I truly don’t think that for most of us a warrior mentality, flogging ourselves through some kind of spiritual boot-camp, is constructive. (For a few it may perhaps be, I confess – there are almost infinitely different kinds of people – but I suspect they are few and far between.) Truly listening to our hearts – if that’s the right term – in the course of faithful, persistent practice seems to be a sure enough guide. Keeping our regular times and duration of practice is key: coming back to sit without avoiding the difficulties, yet not overstretching ourselves by overly extended practice, is the safest way I have found to navigate these passages.

Another point is the necessity of study: we will get on far better if we will only learn from those who have been this way before. Kathleen McDonald:

[The contemplative path] requires a slow and gradual process of listening to and reading explanations of the mind and the nature of things; thinking about and carefully analyzing this information; and finally transforming the mind through meditation.

I have made a very short list of books I have found helpful in another post; I’ll just say here that this is again an intensely personal matter. You will have your own list of favourite books, and it may very well prove to be useful to have some of them handy on a desk or table – or on your e-reader app – where you sit, for ready reference at the end of practice, before you get caught up in quotidian things again.

I should just say, before I forget, that it took me a long time to twig this matter of spiritual seasons; and it was for me a major insight when I did. It is so easy, especially if one is practising without a human guide or teacher to consult, to think that there is something wrong with one’s practice because things don’t remain the same, or because they’re not progressing quite the way one has been led to expect. Patience, gentleness, listening – that’s all we need; and the resolution, if it all gets too scary, to ask for help.