Prodigalia

or How NOT to Be a Shadow Puppet.

It’s a good day.

The doodles and I were out on sniffari before the coming rain. We strolled under a breathtaking canopy of crepe myrtle, dogwood, cherry and magnolia - all in ecstatic, synchronous Spring bloom in my fair little city.

A soul can get found out here.

And that’s what happens when I stroll well. To myself having come (Luke 15:17, ἑαυτὸν δὲ ἐλθὼν, a hinge in the parable of the prodigal son), my heart unfolds, opening to my surroundings. A ridiculous smile forms. Every sentient being gets a happy nod, whether they receive it or not. Often, I’ll laugh out loud, as if to say to myself “Hello, old friend. It’s really good to see you once again.”

I remember who I really want to be, and I like that man. I love the life he endeavors to live.

Similarly, when soulmate and I were still living in our dream homestead, we’d lose the plot in all of the tasks involved in a big house on our own hill. The incredible views meant unchecked winds, which had us constantly repairing siding and doors, vacuuming up pet hair tumbleweeds and righting tipped over flower pots. Muddy footprints always needed mopping off the beautiful hardwood floors. The taxes were outrageous. The gardens were unruly. Grrrrrr.

Then, after a night of hosting friends, the voices and vibes still echoing off the repeatedly painted walls, we’d gaze at each other over a crusty-dish-strewn table or still glowing hearth or snoring mooch-engorged hound and remember “our house is a very very very fine house.”

I’d again remember what we really built that house to be, and I loved home. I loved the life it endeavored to help us live.

Luke 15, in which the parable of the prodigal son appears, is an entire chapter dedicated to Jesus’ assertion of wide-open, acceptance-saturated return home. It is his response to the unrelenting trolling of his legalistic foils, “the scribes and pharisees.”

In context, it is a plea to open our hearts wider; to release the pre-meditated resentment of expectations; to quiet our own internal scribes and pharisees, that we might expand our concept of home and Self.

Hold a place for whomever is lost, and you will also welcome home your own deeper humanity.

But, oh, I’ll not let us off so cosily, my friend.

Sing the Song of Prodigalia.

The story of the Prodigal Son invites us to occupy each major role: We are the co-dependent father, watching for the return of the ne’er-do-well child who essentially wished us dead, took the premature inheritance and ran. We are also the resentful sibling unwilling to embrace the jerk who ruined so much and caused such pain. And we are simultaneously that selfish prodigal who finally woke up debauched and broken in a pig sty and staggered back home, ashamed and desperate.

Carl Jung taught that we hate most in others that which we despise in ourselves. We project away from ourselves the shadow elements within we’d rather not own. If the trait we are denying is particularly reprehensible to us, our hatred can get quite intense.

Lived example:

I am absolutely mortified when I discover I am dead wrong about something I have expressed publicly with certainty. A classic Enneagram 3, I have a tough time recovering from the self-inflicted loss of face. It is so bad I am actually wincing with still-painful memories as I write this paragraph!

So why do you suppose I am filled with dread at the thought of attending any event where Trump-supporting friends or family will be met?

• because I have scanned horizons for loved ones who have stolen away ugly,

• because I have refused to forgive others their poor choices and the injury they have caused, and

• because it hurts to admit that to myself I have come in similar fetid pig styes of my own making.

When it comes to MAGAts, I am a shadow puppet, unconsciously yanking my own strings.

At the first sign of estrangement I am called to fearlessly examine my own history with the roles I’ve semi-, sub- or un-consciously assumed as enmeshed victim, unforgiving witness and/or injuring perpetrator. That’s a lot to carry in one head and heart. Just the thought of it ticks me off and tires me out. Yet who I want to be is who I want to be regardless of how any particular “they” are. And who another truly is is who another truly is regardless of how I expect or project them to be. My struggle with others is more defining of ME!

I cannot stiff arm myself, my circle, my country or the planet into life-restoring harmony. There are ancient unifying choruses that need to ring in my heart - prodigalia that I’m certain I hate as I open the dusty hymnal, but dearly love by midway through the honest singing of my part.

Thus to myself having come, I free space to genuinely welcome home some tagged other. My own honest, lasting peace first within and then among must be present and growing before I can help nourish an honest, lasting peace in the world.

In short, I am what ails the world, and I am what can heal it.

Questions for comment:

Describe your favorite version of you.

What unclaimed part of you might you be projecting on someone you “hate”?

How does shame interfere with your healing and becoming?

The Haden Institute is currently accepting new enrollees in our Spiritual Direction program. If you are inspired by what you’ve read here, I encourage you to click on the link at the beginning of this paragraph and explore joining us. We are a worldwide Jungian-based trainer of soul companions. Much of our work evolved from centuries of often hidden mystical Abramaic faith traditions. Everything you read here came clear to me there.

Corey S. Keyes, Executive Director