C.G. Jung’s father was a country parson. C.G. wrote in Memories, Dreams and Reflections that his father’s difficulties in marriage “shattered his father’s faith…..it appeared inconceivable to me that my father should not have had experiences of God…..
He had to quarrel with somebody, so he did it with family and himself….Why didn’t he do it with God?…..God would have assuredly sent him by way of an answer one of those magical, infinitely profound dreams which He had sent to me without being asked.”
These words affected me on several levels. I liked the fact that his father represented the divine. Not in mind, body or spirit necessarily, but as God’s steward of faith, and in the process, struggled with his own.
C.G. Jung goes on to write more about this, but I was left in its wake imagining a day with my own father, quarreling with him over what I thought was his unfairness and injustice.
For no reason except impatience, he confronted an Asian woman in a San Francisco Chinatown garage. He, my mother and I were on our way to dinner. As I remember, my dad thought the woman drove too slowly.
He got out of our car and yelled, but I yelled louder. I told him to stop yelling. He did, and then I did. Might have been my imagination, but she looked impressed. My dad definitely contrite.
For the one and only time in my life he and I were equally confrontational. A day I will never forget. A gift.