The Dark Roots of Light
As the tree branches grow, so do the roots dip deeper. And it is the preference to admire the light breaking around the bark. We build tents in sight of the branches, where the light feels safe and the dark feels distant — forgetting that a tree’s beauty depends as much on its unseen roots as on its sunlit leaves. There we sit creating poetry, then prophesy, then principle. Never mind the roots, never mind the deep, but the deep roots, whether acknowledged or not, grow the old oak toward the light.
If we are honest, none of us want to go deep. Since childhood, the closet and under the bed have been the soil for nightmares. Jung’s shadow work speaks to us now because the unacknowledged deep becomes weeds on the surface — tenacious vines that spread and grow strength from our attempts to cut them back. We know we must peer under the bed to soften our fears. Like when I lead a group discussion on emotional intelligence and, frustrated that others did not receive the concepts to my satisfaction, my insecurity boiled into exasperation. I cut the discussion short and left the meeting embarrassed, gripping the steering wheel tightly on the drive home. Indeed, life becomes a projection of nightmares when we do not acknowledge the whole tree, roots and all. We need to know the deep, where the vines take root and also the neighboring roots intertwine. To go deep is also to face the other — to know the truth — that we are a part of a forest and entirely dependent upon it. We go to the roots, not to dwell in darkness but to discover truth.
Because truth is both mystery and map —never fully seen, yet always leading deeper— it asks for our trust more than our understanding. Jung tells us that “balance is godly… depths and surface should mix so that new life can develop.” Into the depths we go, trembling at what we knew was there — not yet trusting that what waits is not evil but is what holds us upright. This happened during my post-meeting embarrassment. I clearly saw the misalignment; those old habits of thinking myself “not enough”. It was not the others that stirred my frustration but it was, at the root, a backlash against the old voice that contributed to an internal battle in that moment. The voice was revealed by a colleague’s reflection; “you’re pretty emotional about this.” The old internal voice was a weedy outgrowth of the beautiful and good desire (or seed) to gain knowledge and spread good in the world.
So we ask for help. Digging in the deep requires the wisdom of the forest. It is not an independent journey into dreams, fears, and memories. The journey is accessible only through the interlocking roots of the forest. At the moment we are called to the deep, we are in community. The call to the deep does not reveal independence - it reveals the interior of the individual, yes, and it then reveals the interior of the collective — the unseen and foundational relational. The neighboring trees are not necessarily wiser in themselves but they do impart wisdom we could never gain alone — their shared perspective allows us to see the whole forest, the whole eco-system, including the ones that are no longer here but have left behind their roots. All of the roots weave into others, sharing what they have for what we need. “Indeed, the body does not consist of one member but of many.” (1 Cor. 12:14, NRSV)
Perhaps the roots we fear to explore are the very ones that keep us alive, drawing not just from the earth but from one another. The “you’re-not-enough” voice is hidden by the illusion of separateness — only revealed in conversation, a glance, or a question from the other unearths what lies beneath. It is in these intersubjective moments that the roots show themselves — tangled, unseen, but holding us just the same.
To go deep is not to abandon the branches but to see them more fully — to understand that the light we admire is fed by roots in the dark. To view the whole tree is to know the whole forest — is to know the great spirit that forms the sun-lit branches.
