Carl Jung Meets Master Zuigan: The Dialogue Within
We all, every one of us, know the feeling of being swept away by the currents of our own thinking. It’s like getting caught in a trance, karmically entranced. One thought leads to another, and we can’t seem to find a way out. It’s like a dog chasing its own tail. The holidays are especially potent for this. They bring us into contact with some of the deepest karmic grooves of our lives—the family dynamics we’ve carried for decades, the songs we know by heart, the unspoken resentments, the unmet expectations. They all come to the fore, and it can feel very easy to get trapped, as though the self we’ve constructed over the years has actually become a cage. We become prisoners of our own story.
Carl Jung described something very similar in his exploration of what he called the shadow—the hidden parts of ourselves that emerge in moments of stress or vulnerability. Left unchecked, these shadows will make themselves known. They’ll dominate us. When the old karmic song starts playing, these shadows know the score, and they join right in. But is this self—the one who feels stuck, the one who feels inadequate—the entirety of who we are?
There’s a case in the Mumonkan (The Gateless Gate), Case 12: Zuigan Calls Himself Master. It reads:
Every day, Master Zuigan called to himself:
“Master!” And he would answer, “Yes!”
“Thoroughly awake, thoroughly awake!” And he would answer, “Yes! Yes!”
“Don’t be deceived by others, any day or any time.” And he would answer, “No! No!”
At first glance, it might seem like Zuigan had completely lost his mind. Maybe he had taken Zen in too high a dose. But the truth is, he found his mind. What Zuigan demonstrates is a compass—a way to orient himself back to reality, back to the truth of the moment. When he calls to himself, he isn’t speaking to the fragmented, conditioned self. He’s speaking to something greater, something that transcends the myriad identities we carry.
Jung’s understanding of the psyche offers a useful lens here. Zuigan’s practice mirrors the dynamic between the ego—the small, everyday self—and the Self—Self with a capital S. Call it Big Mind, call it Buddha Nature, call it the Holy Spirit—it doesn’t matter. It’s the archetype of wholeness, the ultimate unifying center of our being. When Zuigan calls out, “Master,” and answers, “Yes,” he isn’t losing himself. He’s integrating himself. It’s akin to what Jung called the transcendent function, the process that reconciles opposites within us. Habitual roles and wisdom, all present within us, are brought together into a harmonious whole.
But don’t get too romantic about this. Zen practice is down-to-earth and always right here. We may use fancy or flowery words to describe it, but at the end of the day, it’s just a finger pointing to the moon. Don’t mistake the finger for the moon.
Zuigan’s practice reminds us of a truth we often overlook: the self we think of as monolithic—this “I” we believe is singular and fixed—is anything but. In Zen, we sometimes simplify this by talking about the “small self,” but it’s far more complex. Think of it as a black box. We put in lived experience, and out comes conditioned responses, delusions. But if you lift the cover of that box, there’s a whole chorus of identities inside.
If you don’t know this yet, try calling out to them. They’ll answer. There’s the wounded child, formed from the hurts we experienced growing up. Some of us endured a lot as children—some more than others. That child is still there, responding to the world from a place of fear or sadness. Then there’s the one who worries, endlessly spinning scenarios and imagining worst-case outcomes, so intent on avoiding disaster that it rides straight into it every time. Or the estranged partner, still carrying the burdens of separation, failure, or loss. These parts of ourselves aren’t gone. They’re all here, influencing us, whether we’re aware of them or not.
Jung called these psychological complexes—emotionally charged patterns of thought and behavior that operate unconsciously. Each of these complexes, like karmic grooves, dominates our thoughts and actions if we don’t turn toward them, if we don’t bring them into the light of conscious awareness. Yet, even amidst this chorus of voices, there’s something deeper, something unifying—the Master Zuigan calls out to.
The Master is always present, waiting for us to acknowledge her. When you show up here, to a retreat, to this zendo, you are calling to the Master. You are stepping out of your conditioned, everyday lives and trusting that something greater will catch you, even if the branch breaks beneath you. That trust, that bravery, is the Master.
But don’t think that Master is somewhere outside of you. You all just chose, for some reason, to project that role onto a middle-aged guy with a beard sitting in front of you. The Master you’re seeking has your own face. You’re not bound by the fragmented identities unless you fail to acknowledge them and bring them into the light. Every one of these identities was formed when the story forked, and we refused to be fully present with what was happening. If you ignore these voices, they’ll continue to operate in the background, pulling you this way and that.
This is the journey of individuation, as Jung described it—a journey of integrating all the fragmented parts of ourselves into a unified, awakened whole. It means bringing even the wounded child, the worrier, and the estranged partner into the light. Some of these voices will soften when acknowledged. Others—the ones who’ve harmed or betrayed—will require harder conversations. You’ll need to ask them why they did what they did and what needs weren’t met. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s essential. To truly inherit the resources of the universe, you must see where those resources are needed within you.
This is the beauty of practice. The very things that could overwhelm us—our karmic grooves and psychological complexes—can actually become the compost for growth if we turn toward them skillfully. Suzuki Roshi called them “mind weeds.” Don’t just trim them. Weed the whole yard. When you do, you’ll find the rusted cars and forgotten pieces of yourself still there, waiting to be reclaimed.
I remember a holiday dinner with my family. The usual tensions were bubbling under the surface. I found myself slipping into the role of the one who fixes things, trying to smooth over silences and keep the peace. But then I paused, breathed, and called inwardly: “Master.” In that moment, I saw the one who fixes things and the one who feels inadequate standing side by side. I realized they were both me. Shifting my perspective, I could see the wholeness of the moment—the integration of these fragments.
This practice isn’t about eliminating parts of ourselves. It’s about meeting them all, even the difficult ones, with honesty and compassion. When the wounded child meets the brave protector, both are transformed. The child feels safe, and the protector feels purposeful. The Master within us creates harmony out of this chorus of voices.
The wisdom you seek is already within you, because there’s nothing outside of you. The Master is here, waiting, alongside the whole cast of characters that make up your life. All you have to do is call. Master. The answer is already here. Practice, and see for yourself.
