Orange Springs, oil on canvas, 2003 Pat Jacobs
In
numerous spiritual traditions, brokenness is looked upon as a path to power.
The little known Hindu goddess Akhilandeshvari, for example, typically depicted
as a woman riding like a warrior on a fearsome crocodile through deadly
turbulence across a river, derives her power from being pulled apart, from
having to live constantly in different selves simultaneously, from never being
“complete”. What does such a concept offer us, what could such an image teach?
The
crocodile is a predator that kills not through the brute force of its huge
jaws, but through the power of violent disorientation. It snatches its prey
from the riverbank, thrusts it into the water, and spins it “like a dervish
seeking God.” In this way, the victim virtually scares itself to death. What
could be better!
Like the
crocodile’s prey, we, too, can scare ourselves if not to death, then into
sickness, paralysis, and impossible disorientation. Our stories run our lives,
and when these stories are disrupted or in any way “broken,” the illusion of
being “whole” implodes, our specific sense of the future dissolves, our
expectations grow meaningless, and our anticipations either no longer apply...
or resound with all too much disappointing familiarity. Then, our role takes on
a new and different responsibility. We must reassemble the pieces of our
story/our lives – either back into their previous form (which can never truly
be replicated – time and energy have intervened) – or into a new shape and
motivation that integrates the changes wrought by the brokenness.
Consider
these words of one of my students: Every time she erupts, I fall apart. I am
broken into pieces and sent flying. I want to come down to earth. I want to
feel whole. I want out of the paralysis of grief and terror. I want my momentum
restored.
Because
the writer was consciously and non-judgmentally observing his emotional self
(as opposed to unconsciously acting it out), he had the option of grasping for
the shards of the old story and/or conjuring a horizon in which the
disorienting picture can be diffused, resized, re-colored, rearranged, or
dissolved. He can use his brokenness to reshape the story and realign an inner
compass.
The
crocodile archetype represents the reptilian brain, the neurological aspect
where the fight or flight reflex resides (in the part of the prefrontal lobe
known as the amygdale). In times of brokenness or panic, the reptilian brain
surges into action, flooding the endocrine system with hormones that put our
minds and bodies into a state of full alert. In moments of physical danger,
this can save our lives; but as a repetitive emotional pattern affixing us into
a condition of fright, the reptilian brain remains, like the crocodile, geared to
devour us with every bit of its disorienting force. The female divinity -- the
symbol of the right brain, creativity, and transformation – rides the crocodile
through the prismatic refraction of watery turbulence to arrive at a new
location, perhaps even on a different shore. Akhilanda does not tame or kill
the predator, but uses her own power – the power of non-judgmental
introspection and divine intuition -- to navigate the waves.
But
then, even when Akhilanda lands, battered but safe, her newfound unbrokenness
is but temporary. (Ishvari means female power in Sanskrit, and Akhilanda means
“never not broken.” In other words, she is the “always broken goddess.” She
must continue breaking apart and reassembling herself, riding the next
crocodile and navigating the next waves. Her brokenness is life, the crocodile
itself, the river, the spinning, the disorientation. All are elements of the
process of living, which, after all, is one of allowing our pieces to fall away
and collecting them for the next reassembling.
Thus,
there are always fractures, unexpected curves, and dangerous edges to our
storylines... both crisis and growth make them evident. Observing, releasing,
reinventing, and riding our crocodiles across the turbulence, we never get the
story straight. And never have. For the story – past, present, or future –
never is straight.
After all, nothing in nature moves in a straight line,. Our stories hold our
power, and our power emanates from the imagination which resides in the
subconscious, in the fields of our right brain, in the realm of the reptile.
copyright c
2013 by Laura Cerwinske
with acknowledgement to Julie
Peters and Eric Stoneberg
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