41 Jung & Alchemy • Part III: Magnum Opus

 

What is your relationship to matter?

This is not an obvious question. Most of us don’t go around day-to-day considering who we are in relation to matter. Most of us don’t even realize there are grounds for a relationship there…But there are.

There is your consciousness and there is matter. Everything around you, everything external to you—organic and inorganic.

What is your relationship to matter?

If we don’t reflect on this question in an honest way then we are depriving ourselves of something…Some sense of our place in life itself—a sense of our position in the larger universe.

What is your relationship to matter?

Is it a contentious relationship? Are you at odds with matter? Do you find yourself always struggling or fighting with it, trying to impose your will on it.

Are you at peace with it? Whatever happens happens, it is what it is, right? Are you a victim to matter? Are you nihilistic? Do you say things like ‘I don’t care, it doesn’t matter’.

It doesn’t matter.

Or…do you see yourself as an active partner with matter? Together involved in a much larger choreography that extends far beyond yourself. Do you see the potential chain reactions of your daily actions in matter and how they might affect other people, other animals, or other points of consciousness?

Are you a willing participant in matter? Or are you just ‘stickin’ around for a while’? Like you’re standing at some intergalactic bus stop—waiting to pass through. If so—what are you waiting for?

What is your relationship to matter?

Whatever your answer is, you should know that it colors your entire outlook on life. It affects who you are on a fundamental level. Being a willing participant in matter or just being a spectator is the difference between driving a car or sitting on a subway.

Trying to determine one’s relationship to matter is not a new problem though—the world’s religions have been wrestling with this question for millennia. Christianity posits that matter is not to be trusted, it is the dwelling place of Satan. Hinduism and Buddhism see matter as an illusion. Taoism argues that behind all matter lies one fundamental principle which is the Way of Tao.

But there is one ancient tradition which confronts this ‘problem of matter’ head-on in an entirely unique way: alchemy. The work that an alchemist does is not only philosophical, it deals directly with physical matter. Because, if you can imagine it, when you place a piece of reality into your alembic and do ritualistic work with it—this establishes a relationship.

An alchemist is even more than a willing participant in matter, he / she is an active force of change in matter.

Despite there being no alchemical Vatican that decrees what an alchemist can or can’t believe, the core philosophy of alchemy has remained unchanged over two thousand years. One of these core principles is the concept that every aspect of matter contains a spark of divinity. All matter is alive in this sense, and interfaces with our consciousness in some way.

The alchemist’s job is to manipulate matter, purifying it through natural processes, enough so that the divine aspect hidden behind it is drawn out, and then used for further alchemical work.

This is an alchemist’s relationship to matter…What is yours?

Welcome to Creative Codex. I am your host, MJDorian. This is Part 4 of my Carl Jung and Alchemy series. If you haven’t yet listened to parts 1, 2 and 3, I highly suggest you check those out first. Just pause this episode and scroll down in the podcast feed to episodes 39, 40, and 41. Give those a listen and come on back. On this episode we will build upon the structure and foundation we’ve already established.

Our goal today is to answer and explore these questions:

What is the goal of alchemy? Spoiler alert: it’s not gold. What did Jung see as the goal of alchemy? It turns out that what Jung saw as the goal of alchemy was different than what the alchemists saw.

How are the two different? And can they be reconciled?

Furthermore, what presence do the archetypes and the collective unconscious have in the Great Work? What is the profound meaning of the three principles of salt, mercury, and sulfur?

And finally, what does alchemy actually look like? If you were to buy all the necessary tools and closely follow the instructions of an alchemical treatise—what would happen? Well, I did just that. And on this episode, I’m going to share that experience with you.

We have finally reached that fabled place which was our destination at the start of our journey: The Heart of Alchemy.

Welcome to episode 42: Carl Jung & Alchemy • Part 4.

Let’s begin.

[Title Music]

 

Chapter 6: Mysterium Coniunctionis

Over the course of the last three episodes we’ve explored the many reasons why alchemy became Jung’s obsession. As a quick refresher, let’s review:

1. Jung believed that the rich imagery of alchemy told a story—the story of individuation. In the many artworks, epigrams, and woodcuts of alchemy, Jung saw an artistic visualization of the profound journey our Self takes over the course of a lifetime.
2. Jung saw alchemy as a form of visionary psychology before psychology existed. As such, he understood alchemy as the spiritual successor to Gnosticism.
3. Alchemy proved all of Jung’s theories—including: the existence of archetypes, the practice of active imagination, the benefits of dream analysis, understanding a symbol through amplification, the existence of synchronicity, the phenomenon of unconscious projections, and perhaps his most impossible theory, the one which still continues to be shunned by ‘modern’ psychology: the collective unconscious.

As I stated at the start of our journey—there’s a lot to unpack here. And that’s largely what we’ve been doing for three episodes; but we’ve saved the best for last. There’s three aspects of Jung’s work we mentioned in that list which we haven’t spent any time exploring: archetypes, the collective unconscious, and individuation.

It’s time to define them, explore them, and see their presence or influence in alchemy.

So what are archetypes?

In his book The Archetypes And The Collective Unconscious, Jung states:

“Since for years I have been observing and investigating the products of the unconscious in the widest sense of the word, namely dreams, fantasies, visions, and delusions of the insane. I have not been able to avoid recognizing certain regularities, that is, types. There are types of situations and types of figures that repeat themselves frequently and have a corresponding meaning. I therefore employ the term “motif” to designate these repetitions. Thus there are not only typical dreams but typical motifs in the dreams. These may, as we have said, be situations or figures. Among the latter there are human figures that can be arranged under a series of archetypes…”

Jung was not the first psychologist to notice the existence of these motifs, as he calls them. In Man & His Symbols, Jung mentions that they were first observed by his mentor, Sigmund Freud, who called them ‘archaic remnants’. He writes:

“…we have to take into consideration the fact (first observed and commented on by Freud) that elements often occur in a dream that are not individual and that cannot be derived from the dreamer’s personal experience. These elements…are what Freud called “archaic remnants”—mental forms whose presence cannot be explained by anything in the individual’s own life and which seem to be aboriginal, innate, and inherited shapes of the human mind.” (Man & His Symbols, Jung)

When you sift through all of Jung’s writings on the subject, you’ll notice Jung refuses to pin down archetypes to a single definition or formula. His detractors will claim this is because archetypes don’t exist—equating them to pseudoscience. But this isn’t a failing of theory or intellect on his part, I think instead it is a deeper sign of understanding that we don’t have a means of looking at the structure directly, we only see the leaves without access to the root.

In a sense, the structure of our unconscious is much like the dark matter of the universe. We know it’s there. We know it serves some key function, because without it all of our other theories fall apart. Yet we can’t look at it directly—not yet anyway.

In the case of the contents of our unconscious, such as archetypes, their existence is confirmed to us when we pull ourselves away from the ground level and take a bird’s eye view. When we observe not individual instances in one individual’s life, but instead, all the symbols and dreams across years of someone’s life, or all the symbols and dreams across centuries of various cultures. That’s the level at which the patterns emerge, and that’s the level at which Jung viewed humanity—not on the scale of years, but centuries.

In the book, The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Jung writes:

“Clear-cut distinctions and strict formulations are quite impossible in this field, seeing that a kind of fluid interpretation belongs to the very nature of all archetypes. They can only be roughly circumscribed at best. Their living meaning comes out more from their presentation as a whole than from a single formulation.

Every attempt to focus them more sharply is immediately punished by the intangible core of meaning losing its luminosity. No archetype can be reduced to a simple formula. It is a vessel which we can never empty, and never fill. It has a potential existence only, and when it takes shape in matter it is no longer what it was.

It persists throughout the ages and requires interpreting ever anew. The archetypes are the imperishable elements of the unconscious, but they change their shape continually. It is a well-nigh hopeless undertaking to tear a single archetype out of the living tissue of the psyche; but despite their inter-woveness they do form units of meaning that can be apprehended intuitively.”

For our purposes, it will be useful to have some working definition of archetypes, to qualify the instances of them we see in alchemy. So here is my personal definition, one I’ve arrived at after years of reading Jung’s work and reflecting on this subject as an artist:

What are archetypes?

Archetypes are deeply rooted thought forms or images which seem to originate from unconscious substratum of the mind. They come into our conscious view as key aspects of myths, dreams, narratives, and artworks. But their influence is also felt in our personal lives; especially during transformational moments.

In Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Jung writes: “…the archetype is always an image belonging to the whole human race and not merely to the individual…”

An archetype can be a symbolic character, like the archetype of The Wise Old Man, The Magician, The World, The Hero, The Great Mother, or an archetype can also be an experience—such as Death, Transformation, or Rebirth.

If you take a meaningful symbol, character, or event and distill it down to its essential parts, you often know you have arrived at the archetype once you cannot distill it down any further.

For example: Hercules is The Hero. The Virgin Mary is The Great Mother. A Rabbi or a Guru is The Wise Old Man. Now this doesn’t mean that’s all that Hercules is, or that’s all that a person in our life who we project an archetype onto is to us. But a core element—the narrative or mythopoetic element—through which they live a story inside of us—is often the archetype they can be distilled down to. In the case of an actual person like a Rabbi or Guru, it is the archetype we have projected onto them.

Or take for example the case of Hermes Trismegistus, the philosopher credited with the Corpus Hermeticum and the fabled creator of alchemy. We don’t have any real records of what he looked like, but we know he was wise. And so, in the absence of evidence, we cast Hermes Trismegistus as an old man with a beard.

Why? It seems to be because that image is the one most readily available to our minds as a personification of wisdom. Just as Abrahamic religions have done with Moses and God. And we see the figure of Hermes Trismegistus appear in this form countless times in alchemical art, such as in the Ripley Scroll, Splendor Solis, and Atalanta Fugiens.

What excited Jung about alchemy, is that despite the thoroughly solitary nature of the Great Work, we still see a cohesive system of metaphorical imagery. One that exists across cultures, languages, and time periods.

For Jung, this carries a very special implication, it indicates that the symbolic language of alchemy was not superficially created by people the way something like pop culture is, but rather, this unchanged symbolic language was guided by the unconscious forces which we all share. And that is why it remains consistent regardless of whether the alchemist is Islamic, Jewish, Christian, or Hermetic.

For example, no matter which century or country an alchemist was in, their writings and artworks gravitate toward these symbolic images: Sun & Moon, King & Queen, Death, Resurrection, the union of masculine and feminine, the use of animals as symbols for psychological and spiritual states, the theme of transformation, the Divine, and viewing Nature as an embodied female entity.

You can appreciate all of these symbols in the countless alchemical treatises out there, specifically the ones with accompanying artworks. For example, take a look at the 22 paintings of Splendor Solis. You can view those on my website at mjdorian.com/alchemy, and click on Splendor Solis. I’ve also provided a link in the episode description.

Among the 22 paintings of this treatise, you will see all of the archetypal imagery I just mentioned which also appears in countless other alchemical treatises. Again those are: Sun & Moon, King & Queen, Death, Resurrection, the union of masculine and feminine, the use of animals as symbols for psychological and spiritual states, transformation, the Divine, and Nature as an embodied female entity.

Because alchemy was not tied up with any specific religious authority, it was not shackled by the whims of culture or dogma. Its symbols remain pure and powerful because they remain as raw material—the raw archetypes themselves. This may be why when we view alchemical artwork it seems to speak to us. It seems to be conveying something on a deeper level, a level which is outside of our conscious grasp.

For example, in several writings throughout his career, Dr. Jung recounts the dreams or visions of certain patients which bore symbolism that was unfamiliar to them, but which could be understood as alchemical imagery.

In Man & His Symbols, Jung writes:

“I vividly recall the case of a professor who had had a sudden vision and thought he was insane. He came to see me in a state of complete panic. I simply took a 400-year-old book from the shelf and showed him an old woodcut depicting his very vision.

“There’s no reason for you to believe that you’re insane,” I said to him. “They knew about your vision 400 years ago.” Whereupon he sat down entirely deflated, but once more normal.”

The image in question is reproduced below the text. It’s from an alchemical treatise known as the Artis Auriferae, The Art of Goldsmiths. As we briefly mentioned in Part 1 of this series, it also happens to be the first alchemical treatise Jung obtains after The Secret of the Golden Flower.

The woodcut Jung shows his patient depicts a nude man and woman, both with crowns on their heads. Each of them hold the stem of a rose which they have crossed against each other’s rose, between them is a dove that floats down with a rose in its beak which intersects their held roses at a vertical. The man stands on a sun and the woman on a moon. It’s a striking image, which is unmistakably associated with alchemical artwork.

So how could Jung’s patient, the concerned professor, see a vision with this symbolism? Especially if he had never encountered alchemy before?

This brings us to our next topic: the collective unconscious. This continues to be one of Jung’s most controversial theories.

In his book, The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, Jung writes:

“Probably none of my empirical concepts has met with so much misunderstanding as the idea of the collective unconscious…

The collective unconscious is a part of the psyche which can be negatively distinguished from a personal unconscious by the fact that it does not, like the latter, owe its existence to personal experience and consequently is not a personal acquisition.

While the personal unconscious is made up essentially of contents which have at one time been conscious but which have disappeared from consciousness through having been forgotten or repressed, the contents of the collective unconscious have never been in consciousness, and therefore have never been individually acquired, but owe their existence exclusively to heredity.

Whereas the personal unconscious consists for the most part of complexes, the content of the collective unconscious is made up essentially of archetypes…

My thesis, then, is as follows: In addition to our immediate consciousness, which is of a thoroughly personal nature and which we believe to be the only empirical psyche (even if we tack on the personal unconscious as an appendix), there exists a second psychic system of a collective, universal, and impersonal nature which is identical in all individuals.

This collective unconscious does not develop individually but is inherited. It consists of pre-existent forms, the archetypes, which can only become conscious secondarily and which give definite form to certain psychic contents.”

Many people, when first hearing about Jung’s theory of the collective unconscious seem to interpret it as some metaphysical web which connects points of consciousness. And though it seems to imply that—and perhaps is that, who knows—it is not what Jung is saying.

This is one of the great misunderstandings of his work, which you can consistently see in both detractors of Jung and in supporters of Jung, specifically New Age circles that use his work to prop up their own flimsy arguments.

In the text, Jung goes on to argue that there already exists a very real analogue to the collective unconscious: instincts. These are a collection of unconscious motivations that drive us in many different directions daily. The instinct to survive, the instinct to care for your child, the instinct to eat, the instinct to live near other humans, the instinct to mate, and so on.

No one is taught these instincts from birth, yet we all share them, irregardless of culture. Jung writes:

“Moreover, the instincts are not vague and indefinite by nature, but are specifically formed motive forces which, long before there is any consciousness, and in spite of any degree of consciousness later on, pursue their inherent goals.

Consequently they form very close analogies to the archetypes, so close, in fact, that there is good reason for supposing that the archetypes are the unconscious images of the instincts themselves, in other words, that they are patterns of instinctual behavior.”

Now that’s a deep statement. The archetypes may be images of the instincts themselves. That’s one of those—stare out of a window for a year kind of statements.

So, why are we talking about the collective unconscious in relation to alchemy?

Well, understanding the influences of the collective unconscious can help us solve some of the paradoxes around alchemy. It would help us explain why despite vast distances, opposing cultures, and language barriers, alchemical symbolism remained consistent across two thousand years—until the present day.

The collective unconscious also helps us explain why someone might have a vision or a dream of alchemical symbolism which they have never seen in physical reality. Because alchemical symbolism is archetypal in nature, and the archetypes form from the collective unconscious.

Jung mentions: “Contents of an archetypal character are manifestations of processes in the collective unconscious.”

Throughout Jung’s work, he also makes note of the peculiar dreams of children—often those too young in age to have had any cultural exposure to the depth of symbolism which is present in their dreams, indicating the possible influence of some substratum of the mind where these collective symbols pour out from.

He writes:

“We can also observe this pre-conscious state in early childhood, and as a matter of fact it is the dreams of this early period that not infrequently bring extremely remarkable contents to light.”

We will finish our exploration of the collective unconscious with a particularly thoughtful passage from Man & His Symbols: (p.83)

“What we call civilized consciousness has steadily separated itself from the basic instincts. But these instincts have not disappeared. They have merely lost their contact with our consciousness and are thus forced to assert themselves in an indirect fashion. This may be by means of physical symptoms in the case of a neurosis, or by means of incidents of various kinds, like unaccountable moods, unexpected forgetfulness, or mistakes in speech.

A man likes to believe that he is the master of his soul. But as long as he is unable to control his moods and emotions, or to be conscious of the myriad secret ways in which unconscious factors insinuate themselves into his arrangements and decisions, he is certainly not his own master.

These unconscious factors owe their existence to the autonomy of the archetypes. Modern man protects himself against seeing his own split state by a system of compartments. Certain areas of outer life and of his own behavior are kept, as it were, in separate drawers and are never confronted with one another.”

And so, we now better understand the role of archetypes and the collective unconscious in the Great Work. Which brings us to the third and final topic concerning what Jung saw in alchemy, and that is individuation.

What is it? And according to Jung, how does it fit into alchemy?

It’s important to remind ourselves that despite Jung’s visionary work creating The Red Book, the Seven Sermons, and the immense collection of his lectures and writings, he was also a psychologist—with his own private practice—in which he helped countless people. This was his job—his calling—and it was one he took very seriously.

It was in these countless interactions with patients, all experiencing and suffering from unique complexes and afflictions of their own that he noticed certain patterns. Patterns which are only perceptible through intimate knowledge of someone’s psychic life through a doctor-patient relationship, and not merely one which lasts for months, but one which lasts for years. It’s that length of time which allows one to truly observe someone’s growth.

These must be relationships built on complete trust—because meaningful growth is often a painful process. And we often take for granted the fact that meaningful growth and change rarely happen instantaneously.

Imagine you are walking through the woods and you discover an enormous oak tree. You admire it one day, and then again the next, and then even a week after that. But you notice that the tree hasn’t changed at all, not day-to-day or even week-to-week. That’s because its rate of change is more in months or even years. There are aspects of our inner life which work in this same way.

One such pattern Dr. Jung discovered was the process of individuation.

What is individuation?

In a lecture from 1921, Jung defines the term, saying:

“The concept of individuation plays a large role in our psychology. In general, it is the process by which individual beings are formed and differentiated; in particular, it is the development of the psychological individual… as a being distinct from the general, collective psychology. Individuation, therefore, is a process of differentiation… having for its goal the development of the individual personality.”

Individuation can best be understood as a project that the mind is always engaged in. It is a process whose outward effects are seen as the psychic growth and maturity of the individual, but whose inner workings are largely hidden from view. It is the project that the ‘capital s’ Self is engaged in. Not the conscious mind, not the unconscious, but the totality of the psyche which encloses all of it.

And the primary task of this project seems to be to bring all of the contents, influences, and complexes of the unconscious mind into the light of consciousness.

In the work titled, The Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious, Jung writes:

“The aim of individuation is nothing less than to divest the self of the false wrappings of the persona, on the one hand, and the suggestive power of primordial images on the other.”

Following the implication of that statement, we can say that according to Jung, the process of individuation does not stop at only the personal unconscious, but it also includes the collective unconscious—and its primordial images—or archetypes. It’s unclear which part of our psyche is directing this choreography, but it is clear that it is happening. The mind is constantly engaged in a kind of synthesis of the Self.

In the book, Psychology & Alchemy, Jung writes:

“I hold the view that the alchemist’s hope of conjuring out of matter the philosophical gold, or the panacea, or the wonderful stone, was only in part an illusion, an effect of projection; for the rest it corresponded to certain psychic facts that are of great importance in the psychology of the unconscious.

As is shown by the texts and their symbolism, the alchemist projected what I have called the process of individuation into the phenomena of chemical change.

A scientific term like “individuation” does not mean that we are dealing with something known and finally cleared up, on which there is no more to be said. It merely indicates an as yet very obscure field of research much in need of exploration: the centralizing processes in the unconscious that go to form the personality.”

Jung argues that in their attempt to represent ambiguous chemical processes through written verse and visual artwork, the alchemists inadvertently represented the process of individuation. Psychology as a field of inquiry did not exist yet in the 1600’s, so in essence, spiritual traditions like alchemy were the psychology of the day.

Furthermore, it is Jung’s belief that not only did the creative works of alchemists depict symbolic representations of individuation, but that even the goal of the Great Work itself is individuation.

This is, of course, a very bold claim. So what are some examples of this?

Well, the evidence is all around us.

Take for example the symbolism of working with base metals and attempting to transmute them into perfect metals like silver or gold. As we learned from our dream analysis section in Part 1 of this series: symbolism is the language of the unconscious.

So, taken as a symbolic act, the metals and minerals found deep in the earth are the unconscious contents found deep in our psyche, the process of lifting them out and working with them, in an attempt to perfect them is a powerful visualization for what occurs during individuation—the mind digs up unconscious content and through psychological transmutation repurposes it or reintegrates it into the fabric of the conscious life of the individual.

Or how about this one: the overabundance of symbolism relying on the Sun and Moon, universally personified as masculine and feminine energies. The sun is the conscious / masculine aspect of our psyche and the moon is the unconscious / feminine aspect. In countless artworks of alchemy, the purpose of the Great Work is the union of these two aspects. This is again a rich visualization of the task of individuation.

Curiously, there is a symbol that seems to appear spontaneously in the inner lives of people not familiar with alchemy that further confirms the primacy of the sun as an archetypal symbol. It is the symbol of the black sun.

A paradoxical image which one can imagine as a star of shining darkness.

In the book, The Black Sun, by Stanton Marlan, the author shares dozens of examples of the occurrence of this symbol throughout the artworks and dreams of patients in psychoanalysis, but also as a spontaneous form in famous works of art and literature.

Marlan’s thesis states that the black sun represents some tragic shift of the psyche of the individual, a crisis of the soul, that—in a sense—something has gone wrong in the process of individuation. In one instance, Marlan gives an example of a poet who wrote a vivid symbolic poem describing a black sun that appeared to him, and shortly after, that poet tragically took his own life.

On a personal note, this calls to mind one of my favorite singers and lyricists, Chris Cornell, of the band Soundgarden. One of his most famous songs is called Black Hole Sun, which describes just such an apocalyptic image.

It’s unlikely that Cornell was referring to alchemy, but instead is referencing something he may have seen himself in a dream, visualization, or creative intuition. It’s known that he wrestled with alcohol addiction and drug abuse during the height of Soundgarden’s success in the 90’s. This was not mentioned in Marlan’s book, but Chris Cornell also took his own life, after playing one final concert during a reunion tour with Soundgarden in 2017. The setlist included Black Hole Sun. Only a few hours after the concert—Chris was gone. A very strange and unsettling implication. But at the same time, noticing these kinds of symbols may be of help to therapists.

If a patient seems to admit they have either been visualizing a black sun or seeing one spontaneously appearing in their dream life, it may be indicating something is turning in an alarming direction. The psyche has taken on a tragic element, which needs to be handled with great care.

We see this symbol appear in alchemical artworks as well, in most instances it is associated with the nigredo. In the most striking artworks you see a skeleton holding a raven as it stands atop the black sun. In other instances, such as in Splendor Solis, we see this black sun suspended halfway on the horizon of a landscape. Either indicating a descent into darkness or an ascent out of it.

Why would such a symbol appear in both alchemical artwork and in the inner symbolic world of individuals who have never practiced alchemy? Because alchemical symbolism is rooted in archetypal imagery.

Jung provides yet another example of an alchemical motif that correlates with the process of individuation: the union of the opposites. In the book, Psychology & Alchemy, he writes:

“We are then confronted with the underlying human psyche which, unlike consciousness, hardly changes at all in the course of many centuries. Here, a truth that is two thousand years old is still the truth today—in other words, it is still alive and active. Here too we find those fundamental psychic facts that remain unchanged for thousands of years and will still be unchanged thousands of years hence.

From this point of view, the recent past and the present seem like episodes in a drama that began in the grey mists of antiquity and continues through the centuries into a remote future. This drama is an “Aurora consurgens”— the dawning of consciousness in mankind.

The alchemy of the classical epoch (from antiquity to about the middle of the seventeenth century) was, in essence, chemical research work into which there entered, by way of projection, an admixture of unconscious psychic material. For this reason the psychological conditions necessary for the work are frequently stressed in the texts.

The contents under consideration were those that lent themselves to projection upon the unknown chemical substance. Owing to the impersonal, purely objective nature of matter, it was the impersonal, collective archetypes that were projected: first and foremost, as a parallel to the collective spiritual life of the times, the image of the spirit imprisoned in the darkness of the world.

In other words, the state of relative unconsciousness in which man found himself, and which he felt to be painful and in need of redemption, was reflected in matter and accordingly dealt with in matter. Since the psychological condition of any unconscious content is one of potential reality, characterized by the polar opposites “being” and “not-being,” it follows that the union of opposites must play a decisive role in the alchemical process. The result is something in the nature of a “uniting symbol,” and this usually has a numinous character.”

This ‘uniting symbol’ which Jung describes is most directly represented in two ways: by the embrace of a nude man and a nude woman, sometimes shown in a chemical bath, or of the presence of both masculine and feminine aspects in one being—a figure known as the alchemical hermaphrodite.

The alchemical hermaphrodite is one of the most provocative images in alchemical artwork. You can see it represented in dozens of ways, at times it is a King and Queen, joined at the center, with garments on. At other times it is a nude figure with two heads, shown with two sets of genitalia, one male and one female, and one side with a male chest, with one side a female breast—in some artworks this nude hermaphrodite is on a stone slab surrounded by flames. And in yet another instance, this one from Splendor Solis (plate 9), we see an angelic version of the symbol: it shows a being with one red wing, one white wing, two heads—one male, one female—clothed in regal garments of black and gold.

If we follow Jung’s reasoning, the implication here is that the archetypal image of the hermaphrodite gives visual form to a key aspect of individuation: the union of opposites. Jung sees this as so integral to both alchemy and individuation that he names his last great work after it: Mysterium Coniunctionis—a Latin term meaning: mystery of the union.

We can understand the importance of uniting the opposites within us in a number of ways. In its most basic form, we can say that from birth, society divides each of us into what are termed masculine and feminine traits. Masculine traits being strength, independence, heroism, firmness, dominion in the physical domain, etc. Feminine traits being softness, cooperation, grace, charity, dominion in the emotional domain, etc.

Society does a good job in forcing us into these boxes based on our physical sex at birth. And the behaviors and passing comments of family members and peers in our environment act as correcting mechanisms, encouraging or discouraging certain traits. But by the time most of us reach a certain point in life, perhaps in the mid-thirties, we realize there are aspects of ourselves we have repressed.

Now this is just one example among many, but this is what is meant by the union of opposites in the psychic life of the individual. There are conscious traits, which exist in the light of day, and there are unconscious traits, which have been repressed but which want to emerge as well, to form a fuller personality.

This union, once again, is most powerfully embodied in the symbol of the hermaphrodite.

An interesting side note on this topic: in Gnosticism, the God, Abraxas is a union of masculine and feminine energies, he / she is represented as a rooster head, with a body that is half man, half woman, and whose legs are serpents. It is a symbol which also deeply interested Jung for the same reason. You can learn more about that in series I did about Jung’s Seven Sermons to the Dead, those are episodes: 27, 28, and 29.

But back to the topic at hand: there is a passage in Mysterium Coniunctionis in which Jung paints a beautiful picture for us of how he visualizes the interplay between symbols, consciousness, and our various unconscious aspects. In this passage, Jung is exploring the symbolism of the sun and king archetypes. It appears in the chapter titled, Rex and Regina, Jung writes:

“The starting-point of our explanation is that the king is essentially synonymous with the sun and that the sun represents the daylight of the psyche, consciousness, which as the faithful companion of the sun’s journey rises daily from the ocean of sleep and dream, and sinks into it again at evening.

Just as in the round-dance of the planets, and in the star-strewn spaces of the sky, the sun journeys along as a solitary figure, like any other one of the planetary archons, so consciousness, which refers everything to its own ego as the centre of the universe, is only one among the archetypes of the unconscious, comparable to the King Helios of post-classical syncretism, whom we meet in Julian the Apostate, for instance.

This is what the complex of consciousness would look like if it could be viewed from one of the other planets, as we view the sun from the earth. The subjective ego-personality, i.e., consciousness and its contents, is indeed seen in its various aspects by an unconscious observer, or rather by an observer placed in the “outer space” of the unconscious.

That this is so proved by dreams, in which the conscious personality, the ego of the dreamer, is seen from a standpoint that is ‘toto coelo’ (in all of heaven) different from that of the conscious mind. Such a phenomenon could not occur at all unless there were in the unconscious other standpoints opposing or competing with ego-consciousness.

These relationships are aptly expressed by the planet simile. The king represents ego-consciousness, the subject of all subjects, as an object. His fate in mythology portrays the rising and setting of this most glorious and most divine of all the phenomena of creation, without which the world would not exist as an object.

For everything that is only is because it is directly or indirectly known, and moreover this ‘known-ness’ is sometimes represented in a way which the subject himself does not know, just as if he were being observed from another planet, now with benevolent and now with sardonic gaze.

This far from simple situation derives partly from the fact that the ego has the paradoxical quality of being both the subject and the object of its own knowledge, and partly from the fact that the psyche is not a unity but a “constellation” consisting of other luminaries besides the sun.

The ego-complex is not the only complex in the psyche. The possibility that unconscious complexes possess a certain luminosity, a kind of consciousness, cannot be dismissed out of hand, for they can easily give rise to something in the nature of secondary personalities; as psychopathological experience shows. But if this is possible, then an observation of the ego-complex from another standpoint somewhere in the same psyche is equally possible. As I have said, the critical portrayal of the ego-complex in dreams and in abnormal psychic states seems to be due to this.

The conscious mind often knows little or nothing about its own transformation, and does not want to know anything. The more autocratic it is and the more convinced of the eternal validity of its truths, the more it identifies with them… Pitilessly it is seen from another planet that the king is growing old, even before he sees it himself: ruling ideas, the “dominants,” change—and the change, undetected by consciousness, is mirrored only in dreams.”

INTERMISSION

And now it’s time for a brief intermission…

I’d like to take a moment to thank all of the listeners and supporters of this show. I have no reservations in saying that Creative Codex’s listener’s are the most thoughtful and creative audience of any show out there. And I am proud to have your ear. Thank you for sharing that time with me.

I’m always grateful when I get messages and emails from you guys because it will either be a thoughtful question or a unique observation. Some of you send me one sentence and some of you—send me an essay. And you know, I read it all. Thank you for taking the time.

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Without further ado, back to Codex 42: Carl Jung & Alchemy • Part 4: The Heart of Alchemy.

 

Chapter 7: Nigredo, Albedo, Rubedo

Five months ago, when I began my research for this series, I had a singular focus: to see alchemy the way Jung saw it. That’s it. I thought that would be enough.

And so I read everything I could find on the topic, from Jung’s own words to the words of his colleagues. And you can see this in the reading lists I’ve included in the episode descriptions. In all seriousness, I’ve never bought more books for any of the other series I’ve done.

But naturally, reading Jung’s work alone wasn’t enough, I also had to study the source material—the alchemical treatises themselves. For to understand Jung, I needed to read what he was reading.

And that’s when the tradition of alchemy really started to come alive. I read the stories of famous alchemists transmuting metals in the courts of kings and queens, I read countless paradox-filled treatises which appear across two thousand years of history, and I steeped my mind in alchemical art, trying to absorb the symbolic language to such a degree, that at times, it even influenced my dreams.

But a few months in, it still didn’t feel like enough. Something was gnawing at me behind the scenes—poking at me whenever I proclaimed to know anything about alchemy.

Until one day I realized: I’m going to have to try alchemy. This intellectual posturing can only go so far. Sooner or later I’m going to need to put these ideas to the fire. There was no other way around it. Because on what grounds should I sit here and talk to you about something I haven’t attempted myself? If I haven’t put these ideas to the fire, and understood them in a tangible form, then I am no better than a charlatan.

And that’s when I stumbled on a gift from the heavens. A modern alchemical treatise written by a French alchemist named Jean Dubuis. That’s J-e-a-n D-u-b-u-i-s.

I had some familiarity with Dubuis’ writings before this as I had practiced a course of his a few years ago called Fundamentals of Esoteric Knowledge. It was a mind altering course in experiencing the esoteric nature of the universe.

But this was something completely different. This was a massive course which Jean Dubuis had written for anyone wishing to pursue the Great Work of alchemy. And to his great credit, he made it freely available on his website—along with all of his courses. His dying wish was that all of his work should be available for free to anyone on the path who seeks it out. I’ve included a link to these truly priceless courses in the episode description.

The first volume of Dubuis’ alchemy course focuses on Spagyrics. Spagyrics is an alchemical term referring to work done only with plants and herbs. Traditionally, this is the way alchemy is taught. The student is first introduced to all the processes of alchemy through the transmutation of plants—a much safer route than jumping right into melting metals and capturing toxic mercury vapors.

And so I had a new goal—I understood Jung’s views on the psychological aspects of alchemy—but now I wanted to find out: what does alchemy look like? What does it feel like? Are there tangible benefits to practicing alchemy? Is it more than just a form of early psychology? And if you practice it, being able to see it the way Jung saw it, can you observe the effects he described?

I started the Spagyrics course at once, with the intention to find out. And I’d like to share with you some of what I’ve learned.

Let’s explore the first 2 lessons and see what they can teach us.

LESSON No.1.

This serves as an introductory lesson. Dubuis advises the student on the proper state of mind for the work ahead, introduces certain alchemical concepts, and presents three adages which are to serve as guiding mantras for the new alchemist.

At the outset, Dubuis states:

“As a matter of fact, never attempt an alchemical experiment if you don’t know the objective, the procedure and the desired result: in Alchemy, there is no random experiment, nor an experiment made out of curiosity. The second goal we are after is penetration of hermetic books; these books were not written for beginners or the ignorant. As one becomes imbued with alchemical theory, the unintelligible language becomes clearer—then luminous.”

Already, we see the confirmation of some of our earlier intuitions. Firstly, the alchemist must have a clear aim in mind for the work, which will guide the intention of the actions. And second, a dedicated and scholarly intellect is required for the study of alchemical texts, or ‘hermetic books’ as Dubuis calls them. This confirms what we learned from Michael Maier in his book, Atalanta Fugiens; in which Emblem 42 states: “Nature, Reason, Experience and Reading must be the Guide, Staff, Spectacles and Lamp to him that is employed in Chemical Affairs.”

On the following page he adds more helpful advice concerning the reading of texts, stating: “The adage says ‘Read and reread.’ Therefore, do not hesitate to read the texts again and again and become imbued with them, thereby following the example set by some chemical operations through which persevering repetition brings about an alchemical result.”

The wisdom of this statement can’t be overstated. I have experienced this strange phenomenon even in reading Jung’s Red Book. When you reread an esoteric or spiritual text, the first time through you obtain one set of insights, but the second and even third time through you discover even more insights. And so it is with the paradoxical alchemical texts themselves, such as the revered Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus. As short as it is—in fact, one can fit it on a single page—it has been read, reread, and analyzed by alchemists for centuries for this reason.

Dubuis then goes on to define alchemy. He states:

“From a material point of view, Alchemy is neither chemistry nor hyperchemistry, but a biodynamic process more closely related to fermentation and putrefaction than to classical chemical reactions. Alchemy leads to a profound knowledge of the fundamental mechanisms of Nature, yet is contrary to profane science which only considers the material aspect of these mechanisms.

Alchemy considers the spiritual aspect as well which is generally invisible to the sensory perception of the operator. This aspect of alchemical study brings the operator to spiritual progress, to a higher level of consciousness.

The duality of this method of spiritual advancement has a great advantage over other methods. Spiritual advancement ‘makes one high’ but, in order to accomplish the work, the Alchemist must remain grounded. He becomes aware of higher realities while he keeps in mind the significance of physical manifestations.”

Here we see Dubuis emphasizing the sense of reverence with which an alchemist approaches the work. It is a sacred work of engaging the natural processes of nature. And he states here the clear motive of the work itself: spiritual advancement.

Further into the text, Dubuis highlights the importance of invoking deity before beginning any of the operations—regardless of religion or personal doctrine.

He then states something which we’ve suspected from the outset of this series, in our first episode, concerning the state of mind of the alchemist being reflected in the work. He writes:

“In chemistry, if you have the right ingredients and if operations are correctly performed, success will be achieved—independently of the operator.

In Alchemy, even if you have the right ingredients and if operations are properly conducted, success is not necessarily achieved because it depends upon the personal state of the operator. In a very restrictive sense, Alchemy could be viewed as the parapsychology of chemistry, for the success of the operation depends upon the inner spiritual state of the operator.”

Incredible stuff…and then further down, another stunning statement:

“The second difference between chemistry and Alchemy is also very important. Chemistry doesn’t view the bodies it works with as alive. As a matter of fact, the processes are such that chemistry only deals with dead bodies which, of course, can’t evolve. Conversely, Alchemy is a biodynamic system which uses the forces of life in its operations. A threefold work is accomplished on bodies: the effects are purification, regeneration, and evolution.”

He ends the lesson with three adages, which the alchemist should internalize in moving forward:

1. I accelerate the processes of Nature by never stepping out of its rules.
2. I remove the obstacles which prevent Nature from acting spontaneously.
3. I strive to help Nature in the work of universal reintegration.

Dubuis then gives a list of items that the student should acquire in order to begin the physical work in the next lesson.

Naturally, I ordered all of the supplies, and awaited their arrival in the mail with great anticipation.

LESSON No. 2

In this lesson, Dubuis introduces further alchemical concepts for the student to familiarize themselves with. And at the end, gives very clear instructions for the first operation.

He begins by elaborating on the alchemical practice of repeating procedures on the matter you are working with, and why you will often have to do the same procedure multiple times. He explains:

“The alchemical concept says that repetitive work on matter “opens its pores”. It actually means that matter (Salt for example) becomes easily receptive to its Sulfur, but can be irrevocably contaminated by an impurity. And it also means that the psychic sensitivity of matter can be increased. If the operator has a positive radiation, matter can be improved: conversely if the radiation is negative, matter will be adversely affected, also likely if an uninitiated person comes close and sees the matter.”

And so, we are already entering into a metaphysical domain here, where the consciousness of the observer seems to have an effect on the processes taking place in the vessel.

In the following section of the text, Dubuis shares an insight about alchemy that rattled me to my core. Something which I had half heard about but never truly understood until now. He writes:

“According to the alchemical theory, all things and all beings possess a Sulfur, a Mercury and a Salt: these are principles which concentrate spiritual energies. The Sulfur concentrates the soul’s energies, the Mercury the spirit’s energies and the Salt, the body’s energies.

One of the greatest spagyric and alchemical secrets is the method to separate these three principles.”

These plainly spoken words do not do justice to the true depth of what Dubuis just said. He is speaking of the three principles of alchemy: Salt, Mercury, and Sulfur. But in alchemy, these terms do not simply refer to the common terms for two minerals and a metal. These names are stand-ins for something more profound.

What he is trying to impress upon us—humble students of alchemy—is that all matter exists in a trifold nature.

The Salt represents the physical aspect of matter, that which we can experience with our primary senses, and that which sciences like chemistry primarily deal with.

The Mercury represents the spirit aspect of matter, that which animates the physical aspect, and exists between the physical and subtle realm.

The Sulfur represents the soul aspect of matter, that which exists only in the spiritual plane, but which is directly linked to the physical aspect.

An alchemist sees all of life in this way. For example: when one works with a plant, one acknowledges the plants trifold nature; the Salt, the Mercury, and the Sulfur of the plant—or the body, spirit, and soul. The same can be said of minerals and metals—they too have a body, spirit, and soul.

The repeated procedures on matter, such as successive calcinations or distillations, work to “open up the pores” of matter, so that the Salt, Mercury, and Sulfur can be separated, purified, and reunited. Creating a form of matter that is perfected in its three phases and capable of being used for further spiritual work.

Dubuis concludes Lesson 2 by describing the steps for your first alchemical operation.

I will now share with you my notes from this operation. It begins with a preparation of an herb called lemon balm.

Operation No. 1:

I measured out 8oz of dried lemon balm into a glass jar. I then gradually poured the lemon balm pieces into a stone mortar and ground them up with a pestle, working in a circular motion, until the leaves became a fine powder. Each of these pulverizations I then poured into a separate glass container.

I watched as the green powder began to fill the glass, at about 16 pulverizations of the lemon balm, I picked up the receiving glass and noticed how the powdered form of the plant was now stacking impressively. My arm was sore from grinding it, but the work was finally paying off. And as I held up this vessel to the light, I realized that this dried and powdered plant looked remarkably like dried dirt…EARTH. This was the element of Earth. All things eventually dry and become pulverized by the environment and time until they resemble this dirt. And this is what the alchemists call Earth, any thing which can be brought to this end.

I resumed grinding the rest of the lemon balm, finishing at 30 pulverizations, which took a total time of about one hour. I sealed the container of pulverized lemon balm, and placed it in a dark chest, to await the first Thursday of a waxing gibbous moon, as instructed.

I finished my journal entry by writing: I honestly never thought I would be practicing alchemy…but here we go.

Operation No. 2:

In awaiting the right time to begin the next phase of the work, I noticed a benefit of the work already settling in. Dubuis specified that this next step must be performed on the first Thursday of a waxing gibbous moon.

Before this I had no understanding of moon phases or of the manner of their changes. So I researched moon cycles, learned that a lunar month lasts 29.5 days, and studied the length of time from one new moon to another. Then I noticed myself looking to the moon more frequently, every day in the morning and night. I learned the phases of the moon always change from right to left, and that starting with the new moon, the next phase is a waxing crescent, then a first quarter, then a waxing gibbous, and finally a full moon, followed by a waning gibbous, a last quarter, and a waning crescent.

I never knew any of this before. And now, while watching and waiting for the right moment, I realized my work was being done in relation to the moon, and hence, in relation to my place in the larger solar system. Nothing had yet been put to the fire, but I already felt grateful for this new habit.

It was time for the next operation: to submerge the ground up lemon balm in a wine based alcohol, in this case: cognac.

My journal entry states:

“August 24th, 2023,

Watching the ‘Earth’ / lemon balm dust absorb the wine alcohol—this was a surprising beauty. The patterns formed in the ‘dirt’ were almost fractal-like. I marveled at it, as the alcohol (ever fragrant cognac) slowly pooled above, then settled into the dried lemon balm. It was a special moment to behold, simply to appreciate, all the more special knowing that I played a small part in it.

And now, we macerate the plant in wine alcohol for two weeks. It will remain hermetically sealed in the darkness until then. This alchemy, is a practice in patience.”

I had placed the substance within its glass into a chest, which I then tied shut with rope, I planned to only cut the rope and reopen it once it was time.

I made another journal entry, nine days after this one, but before it was time for the next operation. I felt compelled to write about something startling that happened: I had an alchemical dream.

My journal entry states:

“September 2nd, 2023

What happens in this chest happens inside of me. What happens inside of the container happens inside of me. The chest is the body, the darkness therein is my darkness. The warmth therein is my warmth. The wetness therein is my wetness.

To simulate nature, soak a dry matter in alcohol, in darkness, in warmth. Where nature does her best work—darkness, wetness, and warmth.

The procedures of the Philosophers are the procedures of nature.

The enclosed space within an enclosed space is the womb in which the processes are allowed and encouraged to take place.

The sealed flask, the alembic, the solitary lab—these are all wombs within which both the work and nature’s processes are given a space.

What happens in this locked chest happens inside me. Inside the darkness, wetness, and warmth.

The need to sit here, and meditate before the locked chest was compelled by a vision seen while exiting a dream—seen through the hypnagogic state.

A stone marble bowl, of white and gray, with water / liquid contained within. It appeared atop a NYC building in the open daytime air, with distant clouds and a cityscape behind it.

First, the bowl of liquid boiled, bubbled, with steam rising into the daytime air. Then it was cooled by an icy frost, with vapor rising into the air. This process cycled from boiling to cooling multiple times, and I witnessed the liquid within purifying.

Some unknown—unseen—elements of its internal or subtle nature were shown to me to be affected by the operations. As if to say—the operations work not with what is seen but with what is unseen.”

September 12th, 2023:

Operation No. 3.

Phase 1: Nigredo.

I poured the macerated lemon balm through a funnel with a cotton cloth. I pressed all the lemon balm soaked alcohol into it and watched it drip into an empty glass vessel.

The task was now to take the damp lemon balm, place it in a pot, mix it with any remaining dry lemon balm which was not treated, and light it on fire.

The pot was filled with a mixture of both. I lit a long match and brought it slowly to the plant matter. The alcohol immediately caused a large flash, as it burned up quickly and intensely. I then turned on the burner on my camper stove, which would be the source of my heat for the calcination.

I sat in silence and meditation before this pot as it heated. The effects were almost immediate, first vapor rose from inside of the plant matter, likely burning up the residual moisture first. Then at about 20 minutes, small plumes of smoke began to rise out. The matter began to turn a deep dark green. At about 40 minutes, the small plumes of smoke became one unified plume of smoke, rising out of the entire pot. I peered within and saw the entire plant matter had transformed into a pure black ash. This was the nigredo. The fabled stage I had read about countless times in the treatises. I had arrived.

But my celebration was short lived. I noticed my heart was racing. The smoke was filling up the room I was in, and the little fan I had setup near a window was not up to the task. So I quickly grabbed a second exhaust fan, and opened a second window, while raising my air conditioner’s fan higher.

The smoke was now so strong in the room, that even my face mask, which Dubuis had recommended to wear, was failing, and I was feeling very anxious. The smoke exiting the exhaust windows made it appear like my home was on fire. This was getting out of control. And the intensity of the smoke made it so that I couldn’t even see inside of the pot anymore.

In a panic, I put a lid on the pot and turned off the burner.

In total, the operation lasted 80 minutes. It took another twenty minutes for the smoke to fully clear. As I surveyed any possible damage I realized everything smelled of smoke. The carpet smelled of smoke, the drapes, my pants, my hair, even my fingernails smelled of smoke.

I later learned from an alchemist friend, that he always does this initial phase of the work outdoors—for this very reason. Lesson learned.

Once everything settled down, I opened the lid of the pot. The plant matter had reached the nigredo, without a doubt. It was pitch black. This felt like an accomplishment.

It seems I had possibly let the matter go a little too long in my calcination, as in some spots there was a layer of white ash forming on top, which resembled the shapes of mold growth.

Phase 2: Albedo.

I took the work outside, into my backyard. Placed the camper stove and pot onto a red metal serving table. I began the heating process again, this time on a slightly higher heat.

Within twenty minutes, I was impressed to see the inner lower edges of the pot grow so hot that they became a pure white color, eliminating the burnt brown and black residue seen on the other inner surfaces of the pot.

The whitish-grey ash gathered on the top surface of the black ash, in sporadic spots. I began to walk around the pot slowly, using a metal laboratory spoon, mixing the white ash back into the black ash. This felt like an appropriate ritual. I had to wear an oven mitt as the spoon became scorching hot.

As I mix the white-gray ash into the black ash I get the impression it is becoming coal. I see small burning embers within. We are deep inside the melting chambers of the Earth.

A marked quality of this Phase 2—no smoke—which is startling as compared to Phase 1’s dangerous accumulation of smoke.

At the 40 minute mark, something strange and awe inspiring happens; which shakes me to my core. The black ash is now half whitish-grey, and as I circle the pot I notice an unmistakeable shape—a raven’s head.

Right there, in front of me, the remaining black ash forms a raven’s head in silhouette from the encroaching grey ash. What is this? How could this be?

I’m so startled that I take a picture of it with my phone. I immediately associate it with the imagery so prevalent in alchemical art that represents the nigredo with crows and ravens. This feels significant. I have a second realization: the raven is my animal. It is the animal I have learned through esoteric practices is associated with me.

Is the alchemical process stating to me a truth about itself—the raven’s head of nigredo. Or is it communicating to me—reacting to my consciousness and spiritual self. I have no answers, but feel immensely grateful to witness this synchronicity.

Total time of this phase: 60 minutes.

Phase 3: Rubedo. 1st Stage.

I let the pure white ash cool down, so as to resume the work in bringing the calcination to the red stage: the rubedo.

I approached the work with the same reverent quality and the same ritual of circling the pot.

70 minutes later…no discernible changes to the ash.

I was a bit dismayed, but resolute to continue. I recalled Dubuis mentioning in the lesson that the rubedo stage can take a while.

Phase 3: Rubedo. 2nd Stage.

After the ash had cooled down, I resumed the calcination. This time, I placed a lid on the pot, as recommended by Dubuis, to increase the vessel to its highest temperature. I also raised the stove to its highest setting.

61 minutes in—no obvious changes discernible, although the gray ash is starting to look a bit purple in hue. Unsure if this is my own imagination of if such a change is actually taking place. The inside of the pot is also tinting brown, which has never happened before.

Total elapsed time of Phase 3, Stage 2: One hour and thirty two minutes.

This work was now challenging my patience and resolve. I decided there must be something missing, as the inner changes of the alchemist are reflected in the vessel’s transmutations.

Over the next few days I endeavored to memorize all of the Hebrew characters, they have a deep esoteric significance, and the act of learning them all felt like it would compel some inner transformation that might reflect itself in the work.

Phase 3: Rubedo. Stage 3.

I once again altered the procedure to increase the heat: this time, placing a small ceramic pot face down within the larger pot, covering the white ash. This, Dubuis says, can act as a crucible to raise the maximum heat.

The calcination began, the ash remained covered from my view. I began to meditate, and visualize the Hebrew characters in order, all 22, and guide each character into the overturned pot that contained the ash.

I visualized each character with intense flames, so that when they would descend into the pot, they would scorch the ash—tinting it red or orange.

I did this off and on for over an hour.

At the 85 minute mark, my butane canister ran out of gas—the flame disappeared.

I wrote in my journal:

“In this moment as I sit before the vessel, pondering whether it finally worked—whether ‘I’ have reached the rubedo. I understand the contents inside the vessel to exist as two—rather than one.

The ash either remains unchanged, greyish-white, or, the ash has transformed and is now ‘tincted ruddy’ (in the words of Sir George Ripley).

It exists as both until I turn over the crucible—this is Schrodinger’s Vessel. I have now accepted both realities. Equally believing both to be possible in this moment, and paired with their respective emotional potentialities: either a jubilant awe or a resigned defeat.

Only one way to find out.

I turn over the crucible.

Greyish-white…it’s greyish-white.

After wrestling with the calcination for over four hours, attempting to get it to the rubedo stage, I have come to understand and appreciate what the rubedo is—at least to me. It is the moment when all of your potential reaches its full fruition. It is the moment your goal is reached and the work at hand is accomplished.

I have come to understand: this work is not for leisure or luxury. This work will test you and challenge your resolve and compel your growth. This work is dangerous. If you do not approach it with due caution and respect, you will injure yourself.

This is not work for fools. And that is why the alchemical treatises shroud their methods so well. It is only a determined and scholarly mind that will decipher the intended methods and processes left behind in alchemical writings for two thousand years.

This work is not a hobby—it is a spiritual pursuit. Unmaimed by religious dogma or arbitrary political restrictions. It is at all times available for anyone to pursue—from time immemorial. For those wishing to understand nature and establish a relationship with the subtle-spiritual aspects of the universe. And in the process—perfect oneself.

But how does this all square with Jung? Jung said that the psychological goal of alchemy was individuation. While alchemy states very clearly that this is a spiritual pursuit.

I think…the two are not mutually exclusive. One can take part in a spiritual practice while also gaining very real psychological benefits from it, no? We can have our cake and eat it too. And I think Jung recognized this aspect of the work, but his thoroughly academic leanings, which formed his public face, could not speak to the spiritual benefits of it. Because, after-all, he was already being dismissively labeled a mystic by Freud’s circle.

Jung’s task was to present the world with a psychological framework that would explain all of the unexplainable aspects of the psyche. Why do all cultures share the same inherent symbols? Why do dreams seem to speak to us? Why does it feel like the fabric of reality is sometimes in conversation with you? And so many others.

That was Jung’s task, and I would argue—very strongly—that he achieved that task. The rest—the spiritual stuff—well, that’s up to us to sort out. I mean, he did only dedicate his entire life to showing us the psychological side of these mysteries. Let’s give him some credit.

And so, alchemy is individuation on the psychological side, but it is also spiritual work on the spiritual side.

Over the course of these four episodes I think we’ve really accomplished something unique. Certainly something I haven’t seen attempted by any other show. I said from the outset of the first episode that this would be a transformative journey and I feel it has been. I certainly feel my work with alchemy is just beginning—but that door has now opened.

Through our dedicated research we’ve confirmed Jung’s intuitions about the craft and its psychological significance. That part was largely intellectual work. But to truly bring the tradition to life I can see now that it requires engaging it in the physical domain, where it truly resides. An exercise in words will only take one so far—after all, the most valuable things in life cannot be captured in words.

Alchemy is not just an intellectual exercise, meant to make you sound like you have the most thoughtful or esoteric analogies. In the end that’s pointless, like we said, without using the physical tools, those analogies are arbitrary.

It is a living and breathing tradition, which—when you engage with it—demands more of you than intellectual flexing. It initiates you into a new relationship with matter. You become a point of focused and present consciousness in the universe—a force capable of transmuting the matter around you. An agent of nature herself.

My friends, we have arrived at the rubedo of our journey—the fruition of the work.

I would love to end on a recording of Jung speaking about the spiritual aspects of alchemy, but unfortunately we don’t have such recordings on record—likely for the reason stated earlier about potential public / professional ridicule.

But—we do have a recording of Jung’s partner in the alchemical studies—Dr. Marie Louise von Franz—speaking on these spiritual matters. Her opinions are the closest we can come to hearing Jung’s own thoughts about the spiritual purpose of alchemy and the potential existence of the afterlife. The two of them shared many conversations on these topics. And after Jung’s passing, von Franz carried the torch forward for Analytical Psychology—in many cases, von Franz’s ideas are Jung’s ideas.

In an interview at Bollingen in Switzerland in 1977, Marie Louise von Franz talks about the goal of alchemy being the creation of a resurrection body, known in Taoism as a diamond body, which carries one’s personality and memories into the afterlife. She states:

Von Franz: “Western alchemy is a parallel attempt to what in Eastern Taoism and Buddhism is trying to build the diamond body, or the eternal body––which survives death––which is a kind of subtle body.”

Interviewer: “So dreams and symbols having to do with this building of a subtle body, are really objective material, it’s not just a myth or a story?”

Von Franz: [laughs] “Oh I hope not! It is the reality. All the rest is superficial illusion. It’s what really happens in a human being. And therefore at the end of life there’s the big showdown. Have you frittered away your life in superficiality? Or as Jung said about a woman once: ‘five minutes after her death she’ll not remember this life anymore.’ Or have you built something eternal? In which your individuality can survive.”

Thank you for joining me on this journey to the heart of alchemy.

Ora et Labora,

MJDorian

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