Here in the pages of Old Ways, you read a great deal about the power of love, of the beauty of spiritual growth, and about manifesting joy in our lives by following our pagan hearts as they lead us down our individual spiritual paths. Even the weekly "Magickal Correspondences" column where I answer your email is ended with blessings for you and yours. But to simply embrace the joy and laughter, the brightest moments of our journeys, to live only in the light, we run the risk of losing our darkness and the power it holds.
This is where the concept of shadow work comes in. It's not something that I've written about before in these pages, but it's a theme that has become current and present in my world. This week, I'd planned to share an article on relationships from a pagan perspective, given that Beltane is right around the corner. But the subtitle of Old Ways: A Journal of the Craft in the Modern Age reminds me that this publication is a journal, that I've pledged to share my path as I live it. And for some time now, the voices of the shadows on my path have been growing louder, calling me to join them.
It's time to share what that means.
As human beings, we have a tendency to shy away from things that are uncomfortable for us to experience. We label them as painful or unpleasant and seek to build insulation between ourselves and the memories or wounds that once caused us harm. We paint the divine as forever nurturing, forever loving, instilling in it an overwhelming kindness that fills he heavens so completely that there isn't room for darkness. And with the lack of darkness, we are promised that we'll never be harmed, that we’ll be protected from the pain we’ve experienced along the way, and that we'll only know love, kindness and goodness. The gods become the parent that we dreamt would show us unconditional love. We find ourselves celebrated and cheered, our scars painted over with brilliant colors and our dirt washed away with the softest of cloths and the gentlest of hands.
It seems like the perfect picture, something that we all long to experience. What we don't realize, however, is that it is, in its own way, just as detrimental to our spiritual growth as a world filled only with darkness and pain. To run from something, even if we do so simply by surrounding ourselves with the things we desire or energy that we find comforting and nurturing, is to allow fear of that thing to take root. It is not the darkness of the night that threatens us or the shadows under our bed or in the depths of our closet that whisper to the insecurities of our inner child. It's fear, plain and simple, that turns a starry night into a darkness filled with danger.
Within a predominantly Judeo-Christian culture, we're taught that shadows are something to fear, that darkness is evil and light is good. By extension, we fear our own darkness, we avoid the things within ourselves that aren't pretty or polite, the memories, experiences, and history that represent not only our most vulnerable places, but also the source of some of our greatest inner strength.
What we need to remember is that we're not Christian, regardless of whether we look to Christianity as a source of inspiration on our individual paths or adhere exclusively to non-Christian sources. Ours is not a separation, but a duality. We don't flock to the light and huddle there, praying against the darkness. As pagans, we honor not only the soft light of the full moon, but the dark night of the new. We understand that seeds geminate in the darkness of the earth and die when left in the light of the midday sun. We know that it is in the darkness of the womb where life begins. That our lovers embrace us more often when the sun has slipped from the day and darkness has draped itself over the land. That moonlight and the flame of a candle can turn shadows into the softest of brushes that erase the years and our insecurities regarding what we perceive as our imperfections. And that the moments when we're at our best, when we dig the deepest and fight the hardest are those moments when we're at the end of our rope, when we have nothing left to lose, when we grasp at straws, not radiate grace.
Any teacher worth their salt that agrees to teach a student magick in an in-depth, one-on-one environment, knows the necessity of teaching that student the darkest portions of the path. They also know that if a student isn't taught those things that Life will teach them without the benefit of an elder's guidance. We don't write about the concepts or techniques because there are those who scan our writings for what they believe is the semblance of power. Magick is balance. Deep magick demands that the balance be maintained, or a price will be paid. So in order to learn to be truly proficient at protection, you have to understand the skills in an attack. To create, you must know how to destroy. To give life, you need to know how to kill. My teachers taught me the concepts and trusted me not to use them. In time, I'll do the same with my most trusted companions on this path. An old crone put summarized the concept perfectly. “We teach magick for weal and for woe – but we wouldn’t offer it to you at all if we thought you’d use it both ways.”
Why is it so important to balance the darkness and light? To understand the fullness of a concept, whether it’s the depths of spellwork or the innermost corners of your own heart? Because there comes a time when you have to stand in the breach, when you need to take the brunt of the attack, whether it's magickally based or simply the energy of life. You aren't capable to do so if you haven't developed that strength, if you're flying blind and in over your heard.
I've born the brunt of darker magicks. A circle of power was drawn at the corner of my property and elements related to necromancy were integrated into its weave in order to power it. By the end of the night, I'd lost the rear windshield of my car but appropriately dealt with the energy and let those who had sent it know that I was aware, not only of what they had done, but that I knew who they were and where they gathered. A simple, friendly shaman who fully embraced the light would have been not only clueless when the energy associated with the senders' dark rite wouldn't ground through normal techniques, but would have been helpless as that energy continued to manifest. There's an art to banishment that's lost if you aren't capable of the summoning. And there's a moment when you shift gears and energy, when you step away from natural energy and organic source to block energy that's been sent and turn to hard plastics and asphalt to block, toilets and sewer pipes to ground and dissipate. You have to be willing to get dirty. And you can't do so if you only live in the light.
The other key reason to do shadow work, beyond the obvious benefits to personal growth, is that we filter everything we receive from subtle sources whether we choose to or not. It's why I don't go to psychics and don't rely on divination. Each of us, including myself, has to interpret the symbolic imagery or intuitive sense that we receive and that interpretation is flavored, colored, and altered by our own expectations, experiences, and world view. It's why three members of different faiths can receive an accurate prophetic message about a single event and each of them provide a different interpretation, none of which could turn out to be right. Are there three different gods sending the message? Why would the deities bother to send a misleading prophesy? Or is it possible that there's one source and it's our own filters that so heavily influence a single message that it comes out in three different forms?
Each time we dare to delve into our shadows, we recalibrate our filters just as surely as our outlook and perspective changes when we grow in the light. To accurate understand the insight we receive on our paths, we need to reach as energetically neutral space as possible. Go too far into the light and everything is love and joy. Move too far into the darkness and our insight becomes dire warnings of pain and grief. To come as close as humanly possible to turning off our filters, we must strive to achieve balance, a position that is accepting of the entire weave of reality, that understands the blessings of hard won lessons as clearly as it does a lover's touch.
A portion of the Tao Te Ching reads, "When people see some things as beautiful, other things become ugly. When people see some things as good, other things become bad." We allow our emotional reactions to interpret our reality to an extraordinary extent. "My last relationship was the worst I've ever had. They really hurt me." We judge the moment by how we feel. We hurt. We fear. We run. How many of us seek something to dull the pain? How many of us embrace the lessons and reach a place where we can honestly give thanks for the challenging experiences that made us who we are today?
One of my spirit teachers, a monk named Acarya, teaches that we are only hurt by such experiences because we hold onto our expectations and definitions of what the situation should be and how it should play out. He uses the example of a body encased in armor to make his point. Most of us believe that if we remove the armor, we'll allow ourselves to be wounded by the sword, so we wall ourselves off, insulating ourselves from both pain and love in the process. Acarya teaches that we only fear and anticipate pain because we're still holding onto the expectations that our body will remain whole and that piercing it with the blade is wrong. If we were truly willing to surrender, even to the point of the being ready to surrender our lives to the greater good, if we are truly willing to release our fears of the darkness and embrace the shadows, could we still be hurt? Could we still be betrayed?
Acarya says, "The sword cannot pierce what is not present. You need to let go of what you seek to protect. If there is nothing to protect, you cannot be harmed. If you cannot be harmed, there is no place for fear. If there is no fear, there can be only love."
Because we're pagan, our magickal practices and spiritual paths are intimately entwined. One grows as the other thrives. They are forever bond together, ebbing or flowing in parallel. In reality, even though many of us see them as different concepts they are simply different expressions of the same journey. The more we address our inner landscape, the more power we find in our rites. The more we grow and overcome the struggles within our minds and hearts, the more obstacles fall away in our magickal practices. And embracing the symbolism and philosophy that we integrate into our rituals, often sheds light on our inner processes and gives us the answers to the questions we find ourselves struggling with.
There's a spiritual law laid out in a Hermetic text, The Emerald Tablet of Hermes Trismegistus, that reads, "That which is Below corresponds to that which is Above, and that which is Above, corresponds to that which is Below, to accomplish the miracles of the One Thing." Most of us on a magickal path know the concept in its modern form, the more concise phrase, "As above, so below." At its heart is a simple law with numerous applications. The concept is very straightforward. Essentially, there are parallels between the mundane and the spiritual. We can look to one to see the processes that exist in the other. Dividing our understanding of reality into a spiritual realm and a mundane realm, we can trust that there are parallels that exist there, processes we can see with our physical eyes that will allow us to see spiritual matters with more clarity.
Using this concept, we can look at our spiritual paths and compare them to the process of a tree growing to maturity. For an acorn to grow into a mighty oak, the fledgling tree has to sink it's roots into darkness. In order to stretch ever closer to the light, it must simultaneously sink deeper into the darkness, reaching deep into the earth. Our spiritual paths are the same way. Unless we sink our roots deep into our shadows and accept the darkness of our personal soil, we will topple in a strong wind. But if we only dig deep and never reach for the sky, we’ll slowly die and our strong wood will rot away.
All of us who have achieved a certain level of spiritual growth are aware that the journey is a transformative process. The French writer, Marcel Proust, summed it up best in his famous quote, "The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes." As we grow out of darkness, as we reach toward the sky, we aren't abandoning the earth where we've sunk our roots, we're simply shifting our awareness to our branches. It's appropriate for us to celebrate newness and joy, to relish the spring and summer of our souls, unfurl our leaves, and soak up the sun. But there comes a time when our leaves must turn colors and fall, when our focus should no longer be on the sky, but on returning to the earth and pulling our awareness deep into the darkness of the soil. With our new eyes, a perspective that was found while reaching for the sun, we see the darkness in a new way.
Darkness is a powerful force and if it's not appropriately honored, it will find its own way to express itself. It's a mistake to think that if we simply shine a light on it, if we fill ourselves with enough light, that it will go away, disappearing forever. What we find is that it continues to grow as we grow and, if we choose not to honor it, then we slowly and subconsciously devote more and more of our personal power to suppressing it. It's not necessary to act on it, to intentionally give free reign to the dark parts of our psyches, but we cannot ignore them. We must realize and accept that they are a part of who we are, a necessary part that gives us strength and depth, that makes us open and vulnerable to another's love. Our darkness isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s as worthy of our attention and love as the parts of our psyche we're proud of, the parts we willingly share as the best of who we are.
Our best isn’t our fullness. It isn’t our depth. It’s simply a judgement, an admission that we’re more comfortable with the light than we are with the darkness, even if those shadows are cast by our own spirit and the history of how we became we are today.
Each Samhain, we take a moment and honor those who came before us, those who made the sacrifices that allow us to live the lifetimes we’ve been incarnated into. Beltaine is the mirror of Samhain, it’s mirror, the flip side of the solar year. In the midst of your celebration of sunlight and the newness of life, of fertility and wonder, remember that it’s not just the sun that brings life and fertility to the land. Remember that the dark depths of the soil are equally important. Somewhere along the line, someone suffered, someone struggled, someone made the hard choices that allowed you to become the person that you are today. That person was you, just a younger version that didn’t have the experience or wisdom that their struggles offered to you. Take a moment and honor them. And by doing so, remember that they are still a part of you and that the strength and determination that saw you through your worst times is still yours to call upon, even if you’ve kept it in the shadows until now.