While doing some Inner Soulmate Tantra work I’ve dived into heavy process – much of it beyond my comprehension. I share here some inner-grappling and experiences I’ve had over this period, starting with a shamanic journey to the lower realms in search of my inner soul-union.
Trigger warning: some of this is dark and nasty… it gives form to some of the unconscious in me. I’ve been looking for six characters that represent aspects of me, three masculine and three feminine. Sometimes is hard to place the characters as masculine or feminine until I see the projections reflected by my relationships.
This is what I have, and these are reflected in what follows:
- The Arsehole, staring as himself (masculine)
- James Bond, as the rescuer (masculine)
- The Ugly Duckling, as the tragic victim (feminine)
- The Matron, as the emotionally disconnected but deeply sensitive control freak (feminine)
- The Trickster (feminine)
- The Fool, as narrator (masculine)
Shamanic Journey: Quest for Soulmate
Once entering the lower realm I float in vast, dark, empty space. My guide forms from the black as the deep, blue piercing eye of a silently gliding Raven.
A rose appears. A thorn slices through human flesh in one single, purposeful, clean swipe opening a large gash. The rose is absorbed into the wound which seamlessly closes over it.
My attention is drawn to a still, small, reflective puddle. It is in a large cave. I become aware of a shy presence concealed behind some rocks. It is an old, grey, wrinkly women – the epitome of a hag. From her I receive a gift – a leather thong bracelet for my right wrist with a large, clear orange stone (Amber?) attached.
My attention is drawn back to the puddle which seeps into the ground and I am sucked in after.
I see deep crimson smoke swirling. It briefly forms the shape of a large bird’s opening wings, becoming then the gentle, hypnotic sway of a hooded serpent before finally turning into the rhythmic, undulating body of a beautiful and exotic dancer. I am mesmerised by the alluring, sensual movement.
Transported away, I find myself in a calm and luxurious white location – one I’ve visited previously in a guided meditation. The priestess queen from that visit, dressed in a long, flowing white dress, stands there with incredible calm, presence and authority. A charged, vacant space next to her is apparent – a space that represent me even if I am not there, and that when I am, merges with her so we become one. I feel young and hesitant about occupying my position.
I am taken to a very large cavern where thousands of people dance in preparation for war. I am one of these dancers and see myself from the ground towering above, a large half-man, half-beast dancing with determined energy and passion.
My guide appears to return me.
—
Over the following days what sat with me most was the last image of me as half beast preparing for war. I feel as though I’m coming to a critical point in my journey where I must now go into the dark and prepare to die. I have no idea what it is that comes back, if anything.
Finding the Arsehole
I recognise the rescuer in me, my James Bond – the one that is like a magnet to damsels in distress. But, I don’t want to be the saviour! I don’t want the responsibility or the obligation. I’ll help as long as I’m not the solution. So when I see the wounded, needy, dependant one I reject it and push it away. I become hard and unforgiving. Ruthless even.
What attracts me in the helpless maiden becomes my ugly duckling. I despise that part of me that is the ugly duckling and wish all manner of harm upon it to remove it from me. Of course it never goes.
When I feel into this I sense two things: the rejection of the wounded and helpless in me and that of being weighed down, tied up, bounded, restricted and suffocated. I want to break free and this is projected onto my relationships. I become suspicious, seeing trickery, and fear that I’ll be held responsible for and accountable to things that are not of me. I hold back from expressing myself for fear that in another place and time it will be used against me.
So Shakti shared with me the triangle in which the rescuer and the victim are bound. There is a third character: the predator – the arsehole.
I have huge judgement towards the arsehole and avoid being labelled as such. Hence projecting trickery onto women whenever I feel cornered into being the arsehole which is what happens to the rescuer in the love triangle. And since I strongly attribute the masculine with the arsehole it’s a very difficult one to get away from – I am in effect pointing that arsehole accusing figure directly at myself. Oh dear!
Again I feel into it. What rises is my guilt and shame for hurting people I love when I express certain aspects of myself. The consequence: I deny my self expression, my authentic truth, and I deny love (and still end up being the arsehole).
So guess what I’m working with…
Embracing the Arsehole
What I avoid I create. By avoiding being the arsehole I become it. Playing it this way I can blame and deny responsibility… and continue to not own my arsehole.
Embrace the arsehole. Feel being it rather than trying not to be it. Feel it completely.
Rather than blaming and feeling anger, resentment or anything else towards ‘the other’, set them free. Whatever they’re experiencing, hold it by allowing it.
Don’t try to protect myself or hide away. Rather than trying not to cause the other pain, accept that they are in pain. Accept that I may be the trigger and the target of their blame and own that position fully and open wide. Feel everything to feel in being the arsehole – feel the pain, the humiliation, the shame, the guilt, the fury. Feel it all. Feel it deeply. Feel it honestly.
Step forward in naked truth, raw honesty, complete openness and exposed vulnerability.
A Fairy Tale
Once upon a time through a vast, lush, green forest, the handsome young prince on his heroic journey rides his magnificent, trusty stead into a peaceful, sun-kissed clearing where he chances upon the beautiful maiden princess who is sweet, innocent and ripe for the deep, tender intimacy they began to celebrate, delighting in abundant sensual treasures until a time comes for the prince to continue his journey, a time when the witch binds the arsehole in a thick block of ice, hidden deep in a secret cave while haggard and ugly she cackles and taunts him that will never leave.
The End
A Violent Tale
The frigid, righteous, stuck-up bitch.
On her high horse.
Projects Jesus as her ideal lover.
Jesus would never violate her.
Jesus would suffer for her pain and death.
The martyr who’s love is eternal,
His heroic memory all she has.
Seems sweet.
Sickly, sticky, thick, drippy sweet.
Control and manipulation with a smile.
Emotional ice with a condescending glare.
Disconnected from her sexuality –
Her grace, beauty and women-hood.
I want to slap her.
Drag her off her horse into the dirty mud.
Fuck her so life’s essence racks her body.
Fuck her so she feels her divine feminine power.
Feels the vulnerable, sensual, rich, beauty of the body she so despises.