Pilgrimage of the Soul
- Janet Nash
- Jul 2, 2016
- 3 min read
Yes, the clock does say 3:21 am, and I’m awake…again. What the hell, why not make myself a cup of coffee and be present with the night. The house is silent…waiting for me…calling me. So, I slip out of bed and dutifully go downstairs. The cat, bleary-eyed, joins me in the kitchen and gives me a rather bewildered look coupled with a few half-hearted meows. She paws at a moth in the family room and then gives up and goes back to bed.
There’s that feeling again. It can only be described as a sense of anticipation, a knowing. I’m in a period of change in my life, and my hope is that the change is a transformation or deepening of spirit. The past few years, though positive in so many ways, have felt tumultuous and unanchored at times.
It has felt like a journey, these past several years…an unexpected spiritual journey with so many twists and turns, I couldn’t write this stuff. The word “pilgrimage” comes to mind, a pilgrimage of the soul. It hasn’t always been pretty; in fact, much of it has felt like the “dark night of the soul” in the words of St. John of the Cross…heartbreaking sadness and a metamorphosis. Heartbreaking sadness and a metamorphosis.
I reflect on Carl Jung’s idea of the Shadow Self – that part of ourselves that is dark and ugly. The part that we keep hidden from the naked eye in some dank, swampy corner of ourselves. Oh, yes, it’s there. We’ve all got it, but we have a very strong aversion to bringing it into clear sight, cleaning it off and taking a good hard look at it. The Shadow is the Yang to my Yin. If I choose to be caring and compassionate – as much I can muster – it’s the part of me that is cruel and heartless…oh, yes, it is in there.
Why? Why now at 4:14 am must I do this? There’s no going back to bed, now. It must be the delirium of sleep deprivation that propels me to throw on my galoshes and wade into this stinky mire. Odd as it may sound, there is a deep satisfaction in this dead of night life review. My mucky, sloshy steps take me past some rather disturbing life events – real sirens screech outside the house in the distance. How fitting.
I pay my respects to this Shadowy part of myself. As much as I dread it, I hold it with tenderness because I honestly believe it is that place where I am so vulnerable that I find compassion for myself here. It is here, too, that I find compassion for my fellow sojourners in this shared human experience. There’s something mysteriously sacred about it.
I’m grateful for the path of yoga – its poignant and exquisite yet ultimately hopeful philosophy. I’m grateful for Yoga’s eight limbs – it’s more than just movement, it is a psychology that is raw and real, but gives my steps buoyancy and purpose.
I find myself at a fork in the road. To the left, I gaze down the path of this one soul’s despair for my transgressions. To the right, I can appreciate the unity of hope in the cosmic order and the compassion and mercy of the Divine.
I gaze out the back door and look up into the night sky. Moonlight casts our neighbor’s sycamore in shadow. I can see the dark skeleton of its limbs but not its leaves in the early morning darkness.
I’m grateful for both paths, standing here at this fork, but I choose to go right...to take tentative steps toward the Dharma, my dharma. Yoga gives me courage to take this pilgrimage of the soul. Good night. Sweet dreams.
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