During his trip to Africa in 1925, Carl Jung had a numinous experience when he witnessed wild nature and was moved by profound awe. Looking upon the vast herds of animals on the plains, he realized that without the observer, without consciousness, this beauty would have remained immersed in an impenetrable darkness of non-being.
Just as sunlight breaks through the darkness of night and shines upon the world so that the eyes may behold its beauty, consciousness illuminates the shadowed depths of the psyche so that existence may reveal its mystery.
Jung wrote: “From a low hill in the Athi plains of East Africa I once watched the vast herds of wild animals grazing in soundless stillness, as they had done from time immemorial, as if I were the first man, the first creature, to know that all this is. The entire world around me was still in its primeval state; it did not know that it was. And then, in that one moment in which I came to know, the world sprang into being; without that moment it would never have been” (Jung, 1963/1989, p. 254).
What does it mean to be? A story in the Mundaka Upanishad tells of two birds sitting together in the same tree.
There grew a beautiful old tree at the edge of the forest. Its roots reached deep into the unfathomable darkness of the earth, descending into hidden depths of warmth, nourishment, and mystery. Its branches stretched wide into the open blue sky, as though holding the heavens in a gentle embrace. Each leaf danced in the wind, offering itself to the golden beams of the sun and to the cleansing showers of the monsoon rains. With every turning of the season, the tree bore fruit, full of sweet juice and ripened seeds. In light and rain, in stillness and movement, the old tree stood quietly, drinking from the earth below and opening itself to the sky above. High in its crown, upon its branches, perched two beautiful birds. Their long feathers were like the softest silk, sparkling in the sunlight with vibrant colors, while their rhythmic songs echoed through the forest with tones of joy, tranquility, and peace. They were inseparable, close companions, delighting in each other's company, in the safety of nearness, and in the comfort of mutual care. They hopped from branch to branch, yet always remained together on the same tree. One bird, however, eats the fruit of the tree. The fruit is sweet and juicy, yet also bitter; its seeds are tart, hard, and crunchy. The bird feels each taste immediately and clearly. It feels pleasure and unavoidable joy, but also pain. It feels successful, yet also disappointed and defeated. It feels attachment. It feels love, loss, hope, and sorrow. It experiences awe, yet fear as well. Each fruit opens another world within it. Each taste carries a promise, a wound, a longing, or a memory. The bird eats and feels it all in a ripple of twists and turns, as if every sweetness and every bitterness belongs to its very being—to the vibrations of its body, to memories forgotten and awakened, to regrets that cannot be taken back, and to desires that can never be fully satisfied. The other bird does not nip the fruit. It does not eat. It does not even try to taste, to be pleased, surprised, or disappointed. It remains still, calm, and detached, and simply looks on.
It sits quietly upon the branch, singing its song from the fullness of its syrinx, letting the melody rise and fall through the forest. Then it grows still again and simply observes. It is neither indifferent nor careless; rather, it is free. It witnesses the movement, the process, the rise and fall of all things. It dwells in the center beyond hunger and fullness. It is not swayed by the endless fluctuations of life. It sees the drama, yet it is not entangled in it. The bird that munches on the fruits becomes preoccupied with their taste, with their fullness, with the experience itself. It cannot have enough, yet it also feels unsatisfied. It craves, it longs, it feels disgusted and troubled. It becomes overcome, helpless, sorrowful, confused, and full of longing. Then it turns its head and looks directly at the other bird. It sees the other bird seeing it: the one who is seen, but also the one who sees, the one who possesses this mysterious capacity to witness. Seeing the greatness of the other, it suddenly lets go and becomes free. Free from grief. Free from the temporary perceptions of taste, aspiration, and image that the fruit has awakened within its experience. And so, when the seer beholds the golden-colored maker, it becomes wise. Shaking off good and evil, it becomes pure and stainless. It sees all things more fully. It sees beyond time and reaches the knowledge that they are one and have never been separate...
This story speaks of the mystery of consciousness, the mystery of knowing, and the mystery of being and knowing being at the same time. As the teaching goes, the two birds represent the psyche in its dual form, paralleling the Vedantic journey toward moksha (liberation) and the Jungian path toward individuation.
The tree is the living field of embodied life, taking form through materiality. It is the body, physis, and the world of forms, where the individual soul tastes the fruits of experience and where the ego anchors itself. Thus one bird manifests as the ego. The ego is conscious in a limited, reactive, and personal way: it tastes, judges, desires, fears, remembers, longs, and suffers. It enters the world of forms and becomes inevitably entangled in them.
The other bird sits and watches, unmoved. It observes its twin becoming absorbed in the world of forms. As Atman, the witnessing Self not bound by time and space, this bird does not chase appearances; it does not desire, hunger, or fear. It abides in stillness, yet it sees. In its luminous presence within this tree of life, it becomes the quiet observation through which experience is mirrored.
Pure existence becomes being through reflection. The soul, the observing bird, becomes the witness of its twin. They are on the same tree, and therefore they are expressions of the same mystery. Through their mutual reflection, through the one who lives and the one who witnesses, life awakens to itself in its most fundamental aspect: it becomes real.
This birth of consciousness is subtle, like the dawning of a new day. It grows slowly from the darkness of unknowing and unwitnessing toward the realization of the world and the I. A vulnerable, slumbering ego awakens and says: “Wow, this is beautiful. I am!” When Jung witnessed the profound beauty of the African plains, he touched upon one of the most fundamental aspects of the mystery of being: to become conscious is to become responsible!
Immanuel Kant, who spent his life pondering the limits of human knowledge, came to see that there are three doors before which reason must surrender. It may long, wonder, knock, imagine, and pledge itself before them, but it can never open them and see behind: the existence of God, the mystery of free will, and the immortality of the soul.
Consciousness appears to be another such mystery. It can be studied, explored, described, and experienced in myriad ways, yet in the end, as in the beginning, it is consciousness itself that remains there to observe itself. It is caught in a self-referential, uroboric paradox: because consciousness is the condition for all observation, it can never stand outside itself to be observed as an object. With Archimedes, we might exclaim: if only there were one firm point outside consciousness, from there we could move it!
Consciousness, however, is the mystery that gives life meaning, task, and perpetual wonder to those who dare to explore it.
In the story of the two birds, one bird observes while the other experiences, yet both belong to the same tree. The story speaks to the hope of human consciousness: to see beyond the door of paradox, to behold objectively from within a subjective perspective. It suggests that the one who experiences and the one who witnesses are not truly separate. They are two sides of the same coin, two aspects of the same mystery, two living birds perched upon the same living tree.
When the bird that munches on the fruits turns toward the other bird and beholds its quiet greatness, something within it changes. In that moment, it discovers that it is not merely the one who tastes, longs, suffers, and grieves. It belongs also to the witnessing presence that has been with it all along, and it recognizes this witness as its own deepest nature. It becomes conscious of the consciousness that has always been there, yet it had not been conscious of its consciousness. Perhaps this is why the Kena Upanishad says that the Self is “the ear of the ear, the eye of the eye, the mind of the mind” (Kena Upanishad, 1.2).
Without becoming too psychological, we may liken the munching bird to the ego. The other bird may represent the anima, the soul, the conscious observer that animates the doer: Atman, the witnessing self. And they are both part of the same tree, which may be likened to Brahman, the living core of reality itself.
The Upanishads suggest that the Self is the inner witness, the source of consciousness, the ruler in the heart, the eternal and immortal center, and ultimately one with Brahman, the ground of being from which all things emanate and to which all things return.
Awakening—or, to use Jung’s term, individuation—is a process of consciousness. It is a movement toward self-realization, but it is also a process of freedom. It unfolds as a continuum. Yet the Upanishads capture this movement in four stages that can be observed separately.
First there is wakefulness, vaishvanara. This is ordinary waking consciousness. The ego is aware of the external world. It senses and moves among things. It belongs to the daylight of forms. Here the munching bird eats the fruits of the tree and takes the world as real, immediate.
Then comes the dream state, taijasa. Here the eye of the ego begins to turn “inward.” It becomes conscious of images, impressions, memories, past deeds, bodily sensations, desires, wishes, fears, and movements of the soul. The outer world withdraws, but experience continues. The bird is no longer merely tasting the fruits; it begins to taste them with awareness, memory, and longing.
Then follows prajna, deep dreamless sleep. Here one neither dreams nor desires. The distinctions of the waking and dreaming worlds dissolve. There is no ordinary mind, no image, no separate object, no hunger, no striving. All is gathered into an undifferentiated stillness. Yet the sleeper is not consciously aware of this. The ego does not yet know the one in whom it rests. It is peace without recognition, it feels unity but without conscious realization. The munching bird is no longer actively eating, yet it has still not looked into the eyes of the soul-bird.
This recognition comes in turiya, the fourth. It is not simply another state beside waking, dreaming, and deep sleep, but that which transcends them all—the ground and substrate of the other three. The Mandukya Upanishad describes it as “not inwardly cognitive, not outwardly cognitive,” unseen, beyond ordinary transaction, ungraspable, without marks, inconceivable, and indescribable. It is the cessation of multiplicity, the stillness of non-duality, the state of peace. This is the Self; this is to be known (Mandukya Upanishad, 7). In turiya, consciousness is neither merely outward nor inward, neither here nor there, neither past nor future, neither rational nor irrational. It is beyond the senses and beyond the grasp of the intellect. Here the one who experiences and the one who witnesses are known in their deepest unity. The bird that eats and the bird that watches are seen as never truly separate. The teaching presents the possibility that the perceiving “I,” the ego, can awaken to the witnessing self, Atman, and that in this awakening the witness opens into Brahman, reality itself.
Carl Jung, who studied Eastern philosophy, mysticism, mythology, religion, alchemy, dreams, symbols, fairy tales, and the living images of the psyche, was deeply fascinated by the phenomenon of consciousness. Jung thereby created a bridge between psychology and religion. He understood individuation as a process of becoming conscious of one’s spiritual essence. Moved by what he called the spiritual instinct, consciousness gradually grows toward the fulfilment of its own potential. This growth inevitably includes the realization of one’s place in family, society, and, ultimately, in the world as it reveals itself to us as reality. For Jung, consciousness is not accidental to existence, but belongs to its deepest purpose. He writes, “As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being” (Jung, 1963/1989, p. 326). To become conscious is to illuminate the unseen aspects of existence itself.
Making the shadow conscious, therefore, is not merely a matter of psychological insight or personal realization. It is one of the highest tasks a human being can impose upon oneself. For the shadow, left unseen, remains in the darkness of mere being: incomplete, only half-awakened, dragged by blind automatism rather than guided by choice.
Conscious life begins with perception. At first, it appears as something immediate, where the physical and the psychical are still one. There is perception, but not yet the experience of “I.” Experience is registered; it is acted upon by the organism, but it has not yet emerged as “mine.” In Buddhism, this corresponds to avidyā, a pre-reflective unknowing. In Taoism, perhaps, it is akin to hun-tun, the primordial unity before forms. In Upanishadic thought, this is consciousness awake to the world, but not yet awake to itself. It is the moment when the bird is already sitting on the tree unengaged.
As consciousness expands, it proceeds into the stage of identification. Here unconscious contents and the “I” are experienced as identical and undifferentiated. The inner formula of this stage is: I am all that comes to me. Reflection is present, but it remains fused with experience, caught in a symbiotic illusion. Jung understood this as participation mystique: an unconscious identification in which the ego has not yet separated itself from the psychic field that surrounds and possesses it.
In Buddhism, this may correspond to upādāna, the clinging to mental and bodily processes as self. In Hindu philosophy, it may parallel ahaṃkāra, the “I-maker,” through which consciousness identifies with body, mind, desire, memory, and action—the moment when the bird eats the fruit.
Everything known must pass through the stage of projection. In this state of consciousness, subject and object begin to differentiate, yet the lines between them remain blurred. In Hindu philosophy, and similarly in Buddhism, this corresponds to māyā: the illusion through which inner forms are mistaken for outer reality.
Projection is a necessary stage on the journey toward self-realization, for it creates relatedness and sets energy flowing between subject and object. Through it, the world becomes charged with meaning. Jung reminded us that consciousness develops through the tension of opposites, and the ego-observer naturally comes to know the world through polarities: light and dark, good and evil, happiness and suffering, illness and health.
Here the shadow begins to stir. It awakens in the blurred space between inner and outer, self and other. It points its finger outward and says: “You.” Yet through this very conflict of opposites, the drama of awakening begins to unfold. Individuation, as Jung understood it, is the withdrawal of projections par excellence: the gradual recognition that what appears outside may also belong to the dark depths within. Only when there is reflection upon reflection can the transcendence of opposites occur. Carl Jung, building on the tradition of Nicholas of Cusa’s coincidentia oppositorum, spoke of the conscious union of opposites.
In this state of consciousness, the opposites of human life, the opposites of the world, and the duality of “I” and “not-I” are held simultaneously. Ego-consciousness is no longer merely possessed by one side or the other. It becomes capable of containing the opposites without blind identification, while recognising both its unity with the world and its separateness from it. Reflection turns upon itself and becomes reflection upon reflection.
Buddhist masters speak of mindfulness, sati, together with the arising of wisdom, prajñā, grounded in emptiness, śūnyatā, and non-duality, advaya. In Vedānta, this may be understood as turīya, the fourth state beyond waking, dreaming, and deep sleep.
From the perspective of Jungian psychology, this stage marks a decisive moment in individuation: the opposites begin to be reconciled consciously. This is the coniunctio oppositorum, the birth of a living relationship between ego and Self, what Edward Edinger described as the ego–Self axis. Consciousness is no longer confined to opposition and discrimination alone; it becomes capable of synthesis, symbolic contemplation, and thus a more responsible relation to reality.
This is the moment when the bird that has tasted the fruits turns and looks into the eyes of its sibling. It sees the truth. It sees the self and the Self. It recognises that the one who experiences and the one who witnesses are not enemies, nor strangers, but two aspects of one mystery.
From this moment, compassion and responsibility for the world begin to awaken. Different traditions have offered different names for this awakened life: bodhicitta in Buddhism, the compassionate mind turned toward liberation; sahaja samādhi in Vedānta, the natural abiding in realization. Jung, in his own language, speaks of ethical consciousness: the responsibility born when one becomes aware of the forces moving within oneself.
This higher consciousness, this effort to live within the tension of opposites, this ethical struggle to remain awake before both light and shadow, may be called spirituality. To know that the shadow moves our actions to the extent that we remain unconscious of it, to the extent that we refuse or are unwilling to confront it, is a true prerequisite of the spiritual task. For the shadow that is not faced is not overcome; it is merely acted out. But the shadow that is witnessed becomes part of the work of consciousness, and consciousness, kindling its light in the darkness of mere being, becomes responsible for what it sees and creates. It becomes a creator, an active participant in the unfolding of the world. What it emanates, it also transforms.
The book you are holding in your hands was written in this spirit of consciousness, responsibility, and courageous encounter with the shadow. It is a wonderful practical guide to self-exploration, to the exploration of the shadow, and to the complex art of its integration. It is a unique work of its kind, and a testament to Wesley’s own individuation journey and courageous confrontation with the shadow. Written as both a journal and a workbook, I have no doubt it will be of value to individual seekers and clinicians alike.
I look forward to using these creative, embodied, and reflective ways of entering the shadow journey. When Wesley writes, “This journal is dedicated to you, the journeyer. May you have the courage to face all that lies within and the compassion required to make it through to wholeness,” he offers us all a blessing for the task ahead; in doing so, he wishes us what we most need for this quest.
We are all birds on the aśvattha tree, munching on the pippala, the sweet fig. We are all tasting the fruits of life: its sweetness and bitterness, its longing and loss, its joy and sorrow, its wounds and revelations.
We all carry wounds from lives past, and even from lives unlived. We carry our own shadow, the shadow of our nations, and the shadow of humanity itself. We all carry our karma, yet we also share the common task of becoming conscious, so that what has bound us may finally be understood, and changed.
This is the task that not only makes our lives meaningful and fulfilling, but also allows us to preserve this mystery for future generations. As we flow through the universe on this tiny blue ship called Earth, we must remember that it is also a fragile speck upon which the miracle of self-realization has occurred. The light of this candle is so precious and small indeed, and it can easily be blown out by the shadow if we allow ignorance, denial, and unconsciousness to rule us.
To face the shadow, then, is our ethical and spiritual responsibility. It is our way of protecting the flickering flame of consciousness, so that what has awakened in us may continue not only to shine, but also to grow and blossom.
May this book accompany the reader on this path.
Vladislav Šolc, Fox Point, July 4th, 2026
Vlado Šolc
