“There’s a fissure in everything; that’s how the light seeps through.” ~Leonard Cohen
When depression surfaces, it feels like an unwelcome guest invading my being. My chest constricts, dark thoughts permeate my mind, and the world appears dull. This entity is shapeless but weighty, at times circling quietly, at others pressing in until I feel adrift.
During those moments, I find myself at a crossroads: should I remain still, hoping it will fade away, or face it head-on? More often than not, I opt for stillness—not out of incapacity but rather patience. Sometimes, in order to coexist with the shadow, I allow myself to rest and welcome sleep. Upon waking, I may feel somewhat lighter—not liberated but able to coexist.
Carl Jung noted, “Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is expressed in our conscious life, the darker and denser it becomes.” This strikes a chord with me. The more I resist my depression, the weightier it feels. Even with a hesitant recognition, its grip begins to loosen.
The Shadow as Instructor
This shadow serves not solely as an antagonist but also as an instructor. It compels me to confront facets of myself I’d prefer to escape: embarrassment, sorrow, fear, anger, dissatisfaction. Yet it also conceals profound truths. Jung implied that shadows encompass not merely rejected aspects but also forgotten strengths and potentials.
For me, the shadow embodies humility. It reminds me of my inability to control or perfect every aspect. It encourages deeper listening—to my own pain and the struggles of others. Healing necessitates recognizing the dark rather than bypassing it.
Buddhism and the Intruder
Buddhism presents a different perspective. The Buddha taught that suffering arises from clinging to desires and evading uncomfortable realities, an act known as aversion.
When the intruder stirs within, my instinct is to escape. I seek to disregard it, to find distraction. However, fleeing only empowers it.
In meditation, I engage in the practice of remaining present, murmuring, “May I be free from fear. May I be at peace.” These phrases do not always alleviate my feelings, but they instigate a pause, a readiness to confront rather than avoid. The shadow does not vanish but softens in the warmth of compassion’s glow.
Creativity and the Shadow
In my documentary endeavors—filmmaking, writing, teaching—embracing the shadow fosters authenticity. My camera transforms into a reflection. Neglecting darkness results in flat images, while embracing complexity engenders depth.
When I listen to others, I perceive their shadows—unvoiced grief, lurking fear, inconsistencies. Acknowledging my own shadows enables me to connect with others through truth and empathy.
Authentic creation entails accepting the shadow. Without it, contrast, tension, and truth cannot exist.
Caregiving as Illumination
One of my greatest blessings is tending to my ninety-six-year-old mother, bringing unexpected comfort.
One morning, I served her breakfast—simple toast and tea. Her appreciative smile eased the intruder’s hold. Such minor gestures bolster my will to continue.
Playing her cherished melodies on my mandolin brings a similar effect. Her happiness illuminates the shadowy corners of my heart. Love and service stand resilient against despair, balancing the shadow without negating it.
Nurturing the Shadow, Nourishing the Light
I realize I sometimes inadvertently feed my depression, not on purpose but through worry, anxiety, reflection—providing the intruder with nourishment.
Yet there are occasions when I nurture something else. The actions may seem insignificant: preparing breakfast, playing a melody, engaging in genuine writing, breathing deeply.
I recall the tale of two wolves: There are two wolves within us, one fierce and destructive, the other serene and hopeful. Which prevails? The one you choose to nourish.
For me, both wolves coexist. I do not deny my depression; it is a part of me. However, I make a conscious choice, moment by moment, regarding which to feed.
Being Present with the Shadow
The intruder remains, as I believe it always will. Some days it lingers; other days, it calls for surrender. Yet occasionally, I awaken feeling a sense of relief—a sign that coexistence is attainable.
To me, being present signifies staying, not fleeing into light or denying darkness. It means breathing, resting, and being with everything that exists: the intruder, the weight, caregiving, fear.
Both Jung and the Buddha offer guidance here. Jung asserts that we must bring darkness into consciousness to achieve wholeness. The Buddha teaches that freedom lies in refusing to avert our gaze. I have learned that I can neither create, care, nor live fully if I shy away from confronting my inner intruder.
I continue to move forward—breathing, being present, resting, creating, nurturing my mother, playing music, feeding the peaceful wolf, coexisting. The shadow persists, but so do I—more awake, human, present.