Creating My Cathedral: Living in the Power of the Imaginal Pantheon

Whispers

Her mouth begins to move.

I strain to understand what she is saying.

“Whisper. Willow. Water. Wind.”

I try to make sense of her words, but I can’t puzzle together any sentences.

Her voice is strange and jumbled, as if arising out of the folded parchment

Of an antediluvian text, long ago hidden away in the ether.

I see the willow tree in the backyard of the neighbor’s house near my childhood home.

I walk through the yard and pass into a portal that opens

to an ancient desert.

I don’t know where I am

But I’ve been here before.

Red rocks and stones.

“Wait.”

I stop…trying.

A calm settles over me. Stretches out over time, distance, memory.

“Do this your own way,” she says.

“Wait for it. You will know.

Remember. Always, there is Wind.”

When I was a child, I used to sneak into my mother’s closet and snuggle into the perfumed clothes that hung above the rows of leather shoes and bunched up purses on the floor. My mother kept a shoebox in her closet that was filled with old photographs. Alone in the liminal space of shadows and muffled sound, I would open my mother’s box of mementos and pull out a photo of my parents, standing on a beach in Alexandria, Egypt, on the day they met. While I stared at the photograph, it was as if I was suddenly pulled into the scene: I imagined myself walking back and forth along the shore, wading through the shallow water, and jumping from rock to rock. Though I have no idea why this photo held such fascination for me, I visited that scene again and again; it brought me great comfort and a sense of place.

“We humans are primarily acts of imagination, images” (p. 62) depth psychologist James

Hillman (1992) writes. “And what is an image? Not only the depiction of something there on the canvas in oil paint” (Hillman, 1992, p. 62). Here, Hillman is pointing to Jung’s concept of the image as distinct from the concept of an image that is used in our everyday vernacular to denote the visual representation of an object or idea that we perceive through our senses and make conscious, logical sense of with our thinking minds.

Depth psychologist Susan Rowland (2012) clarifies:

The distinction necessary to the idea of the image is…a matter of separating the sensory image deriving from ego-perception (visual, aural etc.) from the imagined image whose source is ultimately the archetypal creative imagination. Psychic activity distinguishes these two kinds of images, in which the imagined image may be present in words, dream pictures or deep bodily resonance. (p. 45)

This paper is a bit like my own shoebox of images—loose fragments of dreams, words, and artwork that I have collected and created. It chronicles a period of time from February 15 to March 15, 2019, during which I engaged in imaginal research through creative practice. The process began with an image—a dark, oppressive mood—one that has been with, or within, me for as long as I can remember. It manifests as a chronic, persistent habit of being that first visited me in my youth and has remained an ever-present, but intensely unwelcome, companion ever since. Over the years, I have “therapized” it, medicated it, argued with it, and attempted by sheer brute force of will to eradicate it from the place it inhabits in my body, mind, and spirit. It seems to have little interest in departing, and, it seems, I have little power to make it go.

Depth psychologist Robert Romanyshyn (2013) suggests that it is our wounding—our psychological complexes—that guides us toward our “soul work” as depth psychological researchers. Our nagging moods and depressions are, in fact, symptoms of “the struggle to recover what has been lost and found again…in the gap between what is said and what wants and needs to be spoken” (Romanyshyn, 2013, p. 4). In other words, there is something in this mundane (i.e., worldly) life that is seeking its expression through me. The work in this paper represents an orientation toward finding the voice of that expression through imaginal ways of knowing.

Orienting myself within the framework of imaginal knowing as “soul work” means that, rather than attempting to eradicate my seemingly debilitating mood, I acknowledged the mood as a potential source of guidance and wisdom in my life and work. Thus, when I woke one morning, as I often do, with the sense of being trapped in/by this familiar mood-state, I began to work with the image by capturing it in words.

Mo(u)rning

The Beast settles in, making for itself a prison of my ribcage. A maniacal creature, he scrapes with pointy-nailed claws at the edges of my sternum, digs into the articulations between cartilage and bone, pulls so tightly I can hardly breathe. I try pushing him out, coaxing him out—there is no exit.

“Why do you push into me like this?” I ask. “Wouldn’t you prefer to release your grip? Maybe go roam the sky realms or wander into the garden outside my window?”

He turns to face me. He smiles a sinister smile but says nothing.

“You’ve been inhabiting my ribcage for a very long time and I’m finding it harder and harder to breathe. Would you consider loosening your grasp?”

He sits. Pushes his Beastly back into my chest wall, tightens his hold on my ribcage.

This prison. Am I in it? Or is it in me?

After writing this passage, I continued to stay with the image of the Beast and to follow his movements, as well as the feelings I experienced in my body while I watched the scene unfold. I imagined entering the “prison cell” of my ribcage with him, gripping my own hands around the prison bars, and facing him directly. This process is in keeping with Jung’s methods of active imagination, which depth psychologist Joan Chodorow (1997) explains is a process that utilizes various modes of creative expression in an attempt to externalize the “raw material” of the psyche.

The raw material of the unconscious is mainly emotions, impulses and images. Everyone gets at it in their own way. Some begin with a vague mood, or it may be an irrational emotional outburst. Jung suggests concentrating on the emotionally disturbed state until a visual image appears, a visualized mood. (Chodorow, 1997, pp. 6-7)

Jung (1997) observes that once patients have objectified/externalized their unconscious images into artistic forms (e.g., by writing, drawing, painting, sculpting, or dancing them),

the danger of their inundating consciousness is averted and their positive effect is made accessible. It is almost impossible to define this effect in rational terms; it is a sort of ‘magical’ effect, that is, a suggestive influence which goes out from the images to the individual, and in this way his unconscious is extended and is changed. (p. 148)

While writing exemplifies one method of externalizing psychic images, words are a medium through which I experience relative ease (perhaps even “safety”) in the creation and perception of images. Therefore, I wanted to challenge myself to go deeper into the psyche by learning to psychologize externalized visual images, which is much more challenging for me. I returned to the feelings and sensations in my body that I associated with the oppressive mood state and drew/painted the following picture:

After completing this process of working with the mood-image through writing, dialoguing, and drawing/painting it, I felt only the slightest shift in my mood, and the duration of psychic reprieve was brief. In other words, the process did not affect my embodied experience of the mood-state in a significant way that sustained over time. The drawn/painted images I created had no “magical” effect on me; I continued to feel trapped within my own body/mind/soul, without an exit.

Jung (1997) describes this phenomenon of feeling trapped within the psyche as ubiquitous among the patients in his psychotherapeutic practice. “In the majority of my cases the resources of the conscious mind are exhausted (or, in ordinary English, they are ‘stuck’)” (Jung, 1997, p. 82). It seemed to me as I reflected on this experience that the process of getting unstuck might be served by a slightly different process, geared toward moving or improving the flow of psychic energy. Jung (1997) concedes that “each patient is a new problem for the doctor, and he will only be cured of his neurosis if you help him find his individual way to the solution of his conflicts” (p. 153).

In seeking to find my own way, it occurred to me that attempting to engage with the image of “stuckness” directly, i.e., by re-creating it in concrete, observable forms, might actually keep the energy stuck, in a sense, by replaying, rehearsing, or re-energizing the original image.

Following my intuitive guidance (i.e., an embodied feeling of “knowing” when something is “right” based on a sense of inner resonance), I decided to observe what might happen if I engaged in a regular and consistent creative practice solely for the purpose of “moving stuck energy,” not with the aim of engaging a specific mood-image, or of creating art, per se, but of “overriding” habituated psychic patterns without a specific aim or agenda.

This method of creative practice aligns with the ongoing “soul work” that Romanyshyn (2013) describes as an integral part of imaginal research—research that honors the in-between spaces in the psyche that push us beyond “an empirical approach to research with its emphasis on prediction and control” (Romanyshyn, 2013, p. 86). More specifically, it engages play, reminiscent of Jung’s “building games” (Chodorow, 1997, p. 2), in which he decided to return to imaginative play by building with stones, as he did in his childhood, simply to see where it might lead him psychologically (Jung, 1961/1989, pp. 173-5).

Romanyshyn (2013) suggests that creating a “ritual space of play” (p. 137) encourages the ego to step aside while the researcher steps into “an imaginal landscape” (p. 137). In this liminal space, of neither being fully in ego-consciousness nor being fully in an unconscious dream state, the imagination can more fully take part in the research.

After experimenting with several artistic methods and mediums for creative practice (collage, watercolor, acrylic paints, ink), I settled on drawing images of women’s faces with charcoal, inspired by Amias & Matthews’ (2017) Faces of the Divine Feminine Oracle Deck. I chose this practice because, of the art forms I tried, it felt the most resonant—i.e., it gave me the most embodied sense of calm, clarity, and, ultimately, joy, in the absence of negative judgment or attachment to a specific outcome.

I began each drawing session by lighting incense and a candle as a way to mark my entrance into ritual/intentional space. I tidied any clutter there may have been in the room, and I arranged my paper and art supplies on the table where I would be working. I then shuffled my deck of Faces of the Divine Feminine Oracle Cards (Amias & Matthews, 2017) and selected a single card at random. I placed the card in a position where I could reference it throughout my drawing process. While I drew the image depicted on the card I had selected, I listened to the Ani di Franco radio station on www.pandora.com (Pandora, n.d.) through online streaming, as this genre of music (singer/songwriters) typically inspires me. I used ear buds to achieve a more “contained” sense of ritual sanctuary, rather than listening to the music through speakers in the ambient field.

I completed my practice by engaging with each image I had drawn in active imagination, i.e., focusing on the image and allowing it to “come alive,” (Chodorow, 1997, p. 7), either by “speaking,” “moving,” or eliciting a series of visual images in my mind. Typically, I allowed several days between the creation of the visual image and my engagement with the image in active imagination, to afford some psychic distance between the process of creation and the process of gaining knowledge or insight from the visual images I produced. Of note, due to my limited artistic experience, I was unable to reproduce with precision the images on the oracle cards, and the end result of my drawing attempts produced significantly different images from those of Amias (2017). Jung (1997) notes that when he worked with an unskilled artist, he noticed that “the unconscious made use of the patient’s inability to draw in order to insinuate its own suggestions” (p. 100). In embarking on this endeavor, I suspected that my lack of artistic skill might, indeed, be an asset, as I would be less able to mask unconscious content through artistic ability.

What follows is a selection of three of the drawings I created during this process, as well observations and insights that emerged through this month-long practice of what I like to call “arting.” I took note of what I noticed on the days when I “arted,” and on the days when, because of schedules, time constraints, or resistance/lack of interest, I did not. My basic assumption was that psychic material (e.g., mental images, word-images, dreams, etc.) that was new, that contained a lot of energy or bodily resonance, or that seemed to come “out of the blue” during the time period in which I was “arting” reflected relevant outcomes to the imaginal process in which I was consciously engaging.

The image above was the first drawing with which (or, rather, with whom) I engaged in active imagination for this project. I spent several minutes gazing at her image, at which point I experienced a flood of emotions and I actually began to weep. I felt a profound, inexplicable love for this image that I cannot account for, which grew in intensity the longer I looked at her. “We feel responsible to [these images] and for them. A mutual caring envelops the relationship, or, as this situation was put in antiquity, the daimones are also guardian spirits. Our images are our keepers, as we are theirs” (Hillman, 1989, p. 55).

I sensed/heard her name as Ulla, which I then looked up in an online dictionary of name meanings. I found its meaning to be of German/Scandinavian/Norse origin, meaning “will, determination” (“Ulla,” n.d.). Interestingly, or, perhaps more accurately, synchronistically, when I looked back at the oracle card from which I had based my own drawing of Ulla several days prior, I noticed that the single word printed on the card was “LOVE.” Somehow, it seems, the archetypal energy or intent appears to have been transferred or transmitted from the original artist’s process to my own. As Jung (1997) suggests, “something works behind the veil of fantastic images… It is something real, and for this reason its manifestations must be taken seriously” (p. 65).

What was also striking about the time I spent gazing at the image of Ulla was the way in which my perception of the visual image itself began to morph. When I first looked at her, I found her expression a bit severe; her nose and mouth are crooked, she is not smiling, and the way her head sits upon her long, thin neck gives her a look of defensiveness. But, the longer I looked at her, the more soft and beautiful she appeared. In fact, profound, inexplicable beauty began to fill my outer world, as well. Nearly every face I encountered was distractingly beautiful. The lines in their skin, the light in their eyes, the contours of their chins and cheekbones; it was incredibly moving to be in the world, observing.

I found myself living in a world of color, shapes, shadows, lines, and movement, and I was fascinated by all of it. I also experienced a newly felt inner sense of movement—an image of dancing in my body—even when I was sitting still. When I closed my eyes, hundreds of images emerged behind my eyelids in rapid succession—faces, buildings, objects, abstractions—I wanted to draw and paint it all. It was as if the world had come alive in a way that I don’t recall it ever having been alive before, and, most bizarre of all, I was a part of it in a way I do not recall ever having been before. I felt that I belonged, that I had a place in the dance of our shared human experience.

On the days when I did not practice “arting,” my world suddenly felt small and cramped once again, as is depicted in this dream:

March 3, 2019

Dream:

I am on a road trip with my family in my Rav4, but for some reason, my dad is driving my car, and I am sitting in the back/trunk, which is full of stuff. I’m sort of “packed in,” sitting with my knees pulled into my chest and facing the back window of the vehicle. We stop for gas, and I notice as I get out of the trunk to go to the bathroom that I was crammed in in a way that I fit perfectly into the puzzle of “stuff--” like I’m a suitcase or a picnic cooler.

When I wake from this dream, I can feel the smallness of the space I occupy—the crammed-in feeling in my body, in my mind, as if something is pressing into me and keeping me from “driving my own vehicle,” from setting both my interior and exterior life in motion. Once again, I am “stuck.” This feeling is consistent with the current circumstances of my outer life during this period of time, as I transition out of one career and work toward evolving into a new one. I am unsure how to move forward with finding fulfilling work.

During this time, I interviewed for a full-time, corporate position that would utilize my skills and talents, and for which I would be remunerated well, but that I feared would interfere with my ability to dedicate the necessary time to my studies, my creativity, and my soul work. Feeling unclear about whether to consider taking this position, I engaged with my creative drawing practice, using the same techniques described above. However, in this instance, before I selected a card from Amias’ (2017) Faces of the Divine Feminine Oracle Deck, I focused my attention on a specific question: “What will be the outcome if I take this corporate job?”

I then began to draw, using the process I had been using for a month, during which my skills had been improving steadily each day. Yet, in this instance, a peculiar thing happened: I could not “find” the image. The woman depicted on the oracle card (labeled “GENTLENESS”) was beautiful, with delicate features and a soft but determined gaze. Interestingly, I had selected this same card several weeks prior and had drawn the image without much difficulty. But, after asking for guidance from my unconscious/intuition through this drawing process, it was as if I had completely lost control over my ability to direct the process at all. The two images are below:

The first thought I had when I looked at the second image was, “She (He?) looks Beastly.” Looking at the drawing, I felt fear and disgust. I focused on seeing/sensing beyond what I had drawn—beyond what my eyes took in and perceived as “ugly” or “strange.”

Active Imagination: A large body of water glistens. Something emerges from the water and comes toward me. At first, I think it is a train, but then I see it is a long snake with a tiny head. It raises its head to confront me, staring me directly in the eyes.

When I amplify the image of the Snake, I am struck by references to the “erect,”

“penetrating” phallus that is evoked specifically by the “raised head of the snake” (Research in Archetypal Symbolism [ARAS], 2010, pp. 194-7). This brings to mind the tall buildings where I would be working in the center of San Francisco’s Financial District—one of the ultimate symbols of our competitive, capitalist, phallocentric world. Just imagining myself taking the train to commute to and from downtown San Francisco during rush hour each day, walking on the sidewalk beneath those towering buildings, entering a large corporate office where I am required to stay in an enclosed space for ten hours each day while my time, my talents, and my voice, are commodified to feed the company’s financial success, feels like a betrayal of my own soul. It is a betrayal of the images of the women who occupy my Imaginal Pantheon, who represent aspects of the voice of the divine feminine that are attempting to find their expression through me. It is a betrayal of my soul’s Whispers that urge me onward toward finding my own way. Oddly, it now also feels like a betrayal of the morning ritual in which I have engaged for the past month; I don’t feel willing to sacrifice that.

As I conclude the writing of this paper, I have become aware of an unexpected sensation in my body: the Beast no longer inhabits the inner dimensions of my chest wall. He has not been eradicated; I see him, still, lingering in the garden outside my window, tapping one pointy-nailed claw along the edge of my sternum. Still, his departure from the place he occupied has freed a tremendous amount of space to breathe, think, see, and know. Periodically, I look out to where he stands at the periphery of my inner sanctuary. We are still a bit suspicious of one another, but I know better than to believe that I have the power to make him go. In truth, I’m not certain I would know how to live without him.

Romanyshyn (2013) asserts that a researcher’s complexes are both the guide and the obstacle to including “soul” in one’s work—they are both what call us to the work and also what color and potentially interfere with our work; therefore, it behooves us to become aware of them. I have gained two significant insights by engaging in this imaginal research project: first, I have succeeded in bringing more fully into consciousness a complex that, if left to roam freely, would have continually limited, obscured, and perhaps even tainted, my future academic and professional work—work that, for me, invariably puts “soul” at its center. Secondly, I have initiated a practice of creative play that not only allows me to explore and engage with my own psychology in creative and meaningful ways, but also insists on my acknowledgement of myself as someone who needs to engage in artistic expression to feel balanced and whole.

This need for artistic expression may, in fact, be at the core of many “depressions,” although I suspect from my own experience with this process that the success in such an approach to healing is in its being outside of one’s familiarity or regular practice. For example, I have worked with opera singers for many years, most of whom are plagued by depression and anxiety, in spite of being artistically creative throughout most of every day. The same is true of many artists, who often voice a paradox in needing to create to feel alive, yet also feeling plagued by the burden of artistic creation. Incidentally, while I was engaging in this creative practice, I invited one of my opera students who suffers from significant anxiety to try drawing. I sent her home from our coaching session with a set of chalk pastels, and she returned for our next session utterly delighted by a drawing she had done of her nephew. She said the drawing process calmed her anxiety and offered her great insights into her singing technique.

James Hillman and Michael Ventura’s (1992) intimate and engaging dialogue that is documented in their book We’ve Had a Hundred Years of Psychotherapy: and the World’s Getting Worse provides a much needed look at the very premise of how we perceive and deal with our psychological complexes. I find Hillman’s (1992) cry for a new way of engaging our psychologies in ways that connect us to, rather than isolate us from, the rhythms and realities of our individual ensoulment in a greater collective narrative to be moving and enlivening. As Hillman (1992) suggests, in our already isolated, technologically advancing world, stepping into a closed room for an hour and paying a trained therapist to listen to us repeat the narratives of our troubled childhoods seems increasingly narcissistic and beside the point. I concede that our current psychotherapeutic model of “talk therapy” has helped many people, including myself, heal from tremendous personal and collective trauma. But something is missing in this model, something that would place our individual lives in more sacred attunement to our ancestral past and to our responsibility for the emerging future. Depth psychology invites an orientation toward a deeper commitment to soulful engagement in our psychological processes and offers the potential for expansion toward an ever-evolving collective consciousness. It strikes me that it is time to allow our collective imaginations to dream up a different paradigm for how we deal with psyche and soul. This process of imaginal research has re-affirmed my own embodied knowing that I must have the courage to contribute my own voice, in my own way, to the emerging narrative.

References

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world’s getting worse. New York, NY: Harper One.

Jung, C.G., (1989). Memories, dreams, reflections (A. Jaffé, Ed.). New York, NY: Vintage

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Ulla. In Nameberry online. (n.d.). Retrieved from https://nameberry.com/babyname/Ulla