Buddha Nature and Archetypal Dynamics, Cont.

All archetypal projections or bonds produce in the projector a desire to be within communicating range of the recipient. Whether an individual projects upon a best-friend, a lover or a hero, or even upon an enemy, he will find this person fascinating and he will be motivated to observe him or her closely. Each of his encounters supplies him with information and impressions that fill out the respective archetypal tree.

Mother, however, will be the dominant tree former. Not only are all Baby's experiences in some way related to her, but during the formative first year or so of his life, Baby's ego is insufficiently developed to categorize or to evaluate consciously the data mother supplies. Where others write and are read, mothers cryptically carve.

As the complex of maternal associations continues to grow, our Child simultaneously develops his own ego. As he gains command of his thoughts, he learns how to manipulate mother into providing that which he considers pleasurable and into eliminating that which he considers unpleasurable. He gains a repertoire of signals which prompt her to act. Smiles may be rewarded with cuddling. Tears may deliver candy. Mother may reward neatness, cleverness, politeness, or quiet submissiveness. He tries out many strategies and soon learns which one produces the greatest return of toys, attention and status.

A person's ability to enter into successful relationships can be severely compromised whenever complexes contaminate each other or when one becomes so huge that it invades the domain of consciousness.

A mother who intrudes too much and too long into a child's life may cause so many associations to constellate about the Mother complex that its increasing volume forces it to penetrate the child's consciousness, obliterating the child's sense of self. The child affects strangely maternal attitudes and becomes a mental reflection of his mother.

More serious problems may arise. Should persistent abuse or neglect cause the Enemy Shadow to infiltrate the Mother Complex, the child may become, at the very least, a candidate for misogyny.

A Persona may grow so large that it stifles the ego, limiting its development. In public, the individual seems to lead a richly detailed and structured life. In private, he is often immature, disorganized, and uninvolved in anything beyond his persona's interest.

The Enemy Shadow is a particularly troublesome archetype. The Shadow never has a problem finding targets for his projection: he will try to cast himself upon anyone who comes within range. The old adage, 'familiarity breeds contempt,' in fact applies to that close association which makes someone a convenient screen for shadow projection. Kept at a distance, a person's armor is difficult to find chinks in; but with closeness, flaws become visible and the shadow is easily able to penetrate and infect. He will know what he is looking for, the details of vulnerability having already been supplied by the projector's own reservoir of reprehensible conduct.

No one understands to an absolute certainty the mechanism of imprinting, that mysterious manner in which the specific details of face and form are etched into an archetype's original, smooth surface. We don't know why a gosling thinks the first creature it sees upon hatching is its mother, be that creature the responsible goose, the gardener, the lab scientist, or the neighborhood dog. We don't know why a chick will run for cover the first time it sees a chicken hawk's shadow move across the ground. We don't really understand why we are attracted by some people and repelled by others. Something in a stranger's appearance signals a congenial or distressing familiarity and we heed the message. "My type." "Not my type." It sometimes seems as though a batch of blank gingerbread men/gods were stored in our brains during our prenatal existence; and then, during our early formative years, various people who were close to us at the appropriate times sneaked into the Olympian bakery and decorated the divine, cookie-cut images with raisin eyes, glace brows, nose, smile or frown, all to suit their own likenesses.

Take the case of thirty-five year old, moderately successful businessman Adam Doe. Imagine further that although divorced after a calamitous marriage which netted one child - the unexpected instigator of the nuptial contract - he is socially acceptable and available.

Adam has a problem. His relationships with women, never too mellifluous to begin with, always seem to turn unpalatably tart. He does not consciously recall that as an infant, finding faithful comfort and refection in the warm surroundings of his mother's breast, he once stared up into an adorable face whose features were at that very moment providing the architectural rendering, the plan and specifications, of his dream-girl construct. This face was now engraved upon his anima, and one day, years later when the proper hormones kicked-in, he would search for this face from among the hundreds of female faces he daily saw. Identified by chemical blueprint, he would recognize the girl of his dreams. Her face, just as this sweet maternal prototype's would be framed with fluffy red curls, her eyes would be sunny-sky blue, her nose, a graceful work, would wrinkle at its edges when she laughed; and she would laugh frequently. Yes, the great love of his life would be this pert, saucy type and naturally, she would be as generous, kind, chaste, loyal, dependable, intelligent, resourceful, honest, loving, witty, and good humored as dear Mom, during his uncritical wonder years, had been.

Thirty-five years later, who would suspect that the frowsy old lady who turned his Mother's Day card over to check its price before reading it, whose skin had the texture of an iguana's, who smoked brown cigarettes and was addicted to Bingo, who gossiped incessantly and divided all mankind into an array of despicable minorities, who never once voted for an incumbent, who registered her lap dog, a vicious cur, as "Presheepoo of Tinkiville" and suffered the drooling mutt to kiss her the way no human ever had, was this very same adorable benefactress of his infancy? Who would even have remembered that her black dyed hair had once been dyed bright red? Not Adam, certainly.

And in those intervening thirty-five years, though he had been intimate with many women he had not been fully satisfied by one, for none even approximated the specifications of his dream girl. Usually he blamed himself or his karma. But blame did not cure. His relationships still tended to go sour.

Adam did not appreciate how very much circumstance and need contrive to mix the ill-suited, to mate odd socks. He did not understand how random events throw us together, how lust, greed, sloth, and a variety of unsavory motives drive us to make bitter choices, how loneliness or the fear of being left behind by our advancing peer group compels us to adjust our criteria, to make do, to adapt. (If we want to stay in the game, we cannot keep 'passing.' Sooner or later we have to play the hand we've been dealt.) In Adam's dream girl quest, there had been a troublesome lack of candidates. He had come of age in a Texas border town in which redheads did not comprise a notable percentage of available heads.

And then one day, lunching with a business associate, he chances to see, sitting nearby, a wondrous creature, a young woman with fluffy red curls, sunny-sky blue eyes, and a nose that wrinkles at its edges whenever she laughs. Adam Doe is fascinated - the first stage of projection. Again and again he finds his gaze drawn to her. He searches her fingers. She wears no wedding ring. She sees him stare and smiles slightly before she turns away. He is intrigued. The hunter in his breast awakens. Later, quite spontaneously, he alters his schedule for the following day: he will just happen to be in the vicinity of that restaurant at lunch time.

Now, in hot-pursuit, the hunter takes command. Adam must discover her name and address. He follows her into the parking lot and gets her license number. He trails her back to her office. Later, he will cruise her neighborhood and arrange an accidental encounter. "Haven't we met somewhere before?" He engages her in conversation and with a rush of triumph no Caesar ever knew obtains her phone number. Palms sweating, he calls and offers to take her to dinner. She accepts. He plans his campaign with meticulous care. Veni. Vidi. Vici.

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