Waist Lake

Collapse.  Flowing downwards and outwards into a puddle.  I can feel the essence of me, wanting to release, to flow down into collapse. Icy blue, clear liquid.  Strangely (or not so strangely) reminds me of vodka.  Liquidy, but viscose.

I fear that to let go means to collapse into the other.  To fall apart, let go of all the boundaries and containment, flow out into a puddle, and let someone else contain me in.  The ache for the comfort of someone else’s arms to scoop me up and hold my essence together.  It gets awfully tiring holding it all together myself.  I’m too weak, too fragile, too small.  I’m the ethereal myth.  The glass unicorn.

To hold on means striving, willing that essence strictly upwards.  The fear of letting go is immense, and I wasn’t even conscious of it.

On one side, there exists heated red energy directed upward; it is controlling, containing, holding.  Constantly moving forward, learning, growing, facing the battle.  There will be no collapse!  The opposing force is liquid, clear blue, wanting so very badly to fall down to earth, to be let go of, to spread out.

In combination.... First one, then the other. Back and forth, back and forth, until the edges blur.  A misty purple appears.  Heat flowing down one leg, cold flowing up the opposite arm.   From upward and downward, they meet in the middle, and go – outward.  Suddenly, I have a lake encircling my waist perfectly contained as if in a big white ceramic bowl.  A lake in a bowl, and I’m in the middle.  Suddenly, I realize, I can let go without collapse.  I can spread out within my own containment, without needing to become a victim and make someone else pick up the pieces. 

Floating on my back, propelled around the lake by my legs, kicking lazily.  My arms behind my head, nonchalantly.  And for the moment, I like being all alone in my lake.

Spiritus.Contra.Spiritum.

Does love equal pain?  I was determined to write a blog entry today (and was doing a fabulous job of procrastinating by checking facebook every two minutes) when I saw a friend’s status update that read – “It is amazing how quickly the mind can turn pain into romance.”  An eloquent statement of the issue I’ve been contemplating. 

           

            I’ve always lived in that region below (or above) the surface – the region where the colors are more vibrant, the emotions more intense, the connection deeper, darker, and lighter all at the same time.  It is a fantastical, vivacious, and awe-inspiring place to be.  It is also a dark and wrenchingly painful place.  Eventually, the pain became too much, and I faced a choice: slow (or maybe quick) alcoholic death, suicide, or getting sober.  You’d think of the three alternatives, the choice would be easy, but it honestly took a lot of deliberation.  Getting sober required letting go of the intensity - my greatest fear was that I would lose the vividness, that life would become … suburban, beige, normal. 

            Jung’s writings to A.A.’s founder Bill W. reveal that he viewed alcoholics as those searching for a connection to Spirit (to the Divine, to God); alcohol provides a version of that connection, but perverts and twists it, until you find yourself in hell.  In his words:

            “His craving for alcohol was the equivalent on a low level of the spiritual thirst of our being for wholeness, expressed in mediaeval language; the union with God. . . . You see, Alcohol in Latin is ‘spiritus’ and you use the same word for the highest religious experience as well as for the most depraving poison” (CG Jung, 1961). 

Therefore, the only solution is to find a real (real meaning non alcohol-induced) connection to Spirit.  As Jung said, “The helpful formula therefore is: spiritus contra spiritum" (Ibid).  Which translates to using spiritual communion against the addiction to alcoholic spirits.  And for me, Jung was right.  His formula worked.

            So here I am, almost 21 months sober.  I walked through my fear of beigeness, and let go of the vivid colors, trusting (against my better rational thought) that the real connection, the real Spirit, the real Divine would have colors brighter and more alive than any drunken facsimile could have ever provided.  And yes, it got beige sometimes.  It still gets beige sometimes.  And I struggle.  For I have grown up with the belief that those colors don’t exist without pain.  The belief that connection, that love, that the juice of life is inextricably tied to anguish.  I am (slowly) beginning to see that real love (both human and divine) is not the fantastically romantic ache that I thought it was.  That there can be love without drama, without the epic, mythic proportions of Romeo and Juliet.

            It is easy to fall into my old underlying belief patterns, and the voice of that mischievous spiritus archetype starts cooing to me again, and I become nostalgic, turning pain into romance.  So I let go, a hundred, a thousand, a million times.  I struggle through the daily beigeness because I have seen glimpses of the true colors, and they are incredible.  For me, now, the true colors happen in a quiet, unassuming way.  They are no longer fireworks, but they also do not burn me.  And in their quietness, I find peace. 

Spiral.Way.to.Wisdom

“Far away from Demeter . . . the daughter was playing . . . gathering flowers . . . There were irises and hyacinths and a narcissus which Gaia grew as a snare for the girl. . . . And then the girl too wondered at it, she reached out her hand to take this thing of such delight, but [as she did] the earth gaped . . . and He Who Accepts So Many, the lord of the underworld, sprang upon her with his immortal horses . . . and caught hold of her . . . and took her away, weeping in his chariot of gold.” – Homer, Hymn to Demeter

            In his Hymn to Demeter, Homer tells the famous myth of Persephone, whose abduction and rape by, and subsequent marriage to Hades, made her the Queen of the Underworld.  The child bride was eventually rescued by her mother Demeter, but because she had eaten the fateful pomegranate seed, was condemned to return to Hades and the Underworld for three months every year, incurring the dark, cold winter above.  The myth is classically interpreted as an explanation of the seasons, but is also an allegory for the cycle of life, death, and rebirth.  In Jungian terms, it is an example of the journey into the depths of ourselves and our shadows to become reborn again in the light.

            “In response to loss, powerlessness or abuse, many descend as Persephone into their own wintertime of shadows and depression, to a darkly lit journey of the soul, struggling with a profound sense of betrayal and lost innocence. Triggered by divorce, rape, or an invasion of boundaries by a toxic circumstance, the archetypal experience of Persephone's journey challenges us to go within our deepest Self, to re-evaluate, and grieve our losses. Depression is a natural response to soul wounding experiences, and if approached without judgment, much healthier than denial. Often the only way through – is down. This is the spiral way to wisdom. Into the dark and unknown" (Kari Ann Allrich).

I now have no doubt that my journey through the underworld was transformative, although at the time it felt only like anguish.  I spent those years walking with my demons, my nightmares, my self-imposed shame and guilt.  A little like living in the seedy underbelly of a circus, replete with wacky funhouse mirrors and murderous clowns, only more … alone.  Visceral loneliness.  Combined with constant drowning.

            I can’t say why I started breathing again, and floating to the surface.  Perhaps I’d finally spent enough time with my demons to have absorbed from them what I needed.  Perhaps it was the breath of the Divine.  Probably some combination of the two, but the exact ratios and formula remain a mystery to me.  I can’t say why anyone emerges when they do, but I believe there is a spark of Divine Grace contained within that moment, and it is a beautiful thing to watch – the breath of new life reviving someone.

"The alchemical journey of Persephone is the journey we all eventually embark upon; often kicking and screaming in protest. We may not willingly enter our shadow selves, endure depression, or confront our fears and the meaning of death, yet such an exploration leads us to uncover our spiritual center. It challenges our beliefs and pushes us to deepen our awareness, to question our values, and to discover our innate connection to the divine. It leads us to soul. And soul leads us to magic. Magic happens when we align our true intention with the divine spark within. Ego and will may dictate our desires, but soul work beckons us to discover our authenticity. Magic happens when we open our hearts in compassion and allow the divine to gift us with insight, synchronicity, and grace” (Ibid).