Since this is something that I already know about myself, I try to engage in a series of spiritual practices during this time to allow my soul work to carry some of the heavy weight.
This year, I've been inhabiting myth as one of my spiritual practices.
The idea came from the spiritual exercises I learned about in Ignatian Spirituality, and from what I understand, these are contemplative practices that may be led by Jesuit priests to help a Christian man or woman pray by imagining themselves as part of a scene from the Gospels- literally inhabiting the gospels.
According to the website ignatianspirituality.com, in these spiritual exercises:
"Contemplation is more about feeling than thinking. Contemplation often stirs the emotions and enkindles deep desires. In contemplation, we rely on our imaginations to place ourselves in a setting from the Gospels or in a scene proposed by Ignatius. We pray with Scripture. We do not study it."
I was actually reminded of these Ignatian spiritual exercises when on a meditation retreat at the Insight Meditation Society (IMS) in Barre, Massachusetts where traditionally Buddhist spiritual practices are taught.
It was the third day of the retreat, and I decided to do my walking meditation in a part of the retreat center where gorgeous large stain glass windows of Jesus stood on either side of the room.
I believe the windows were a relic from a time well before IMS when the retreat center housed Christian monastics, and as someone who does not carry any complicated baggage from the Judeo-Christian traditions as many of my friends and family do, I quite enjoyed these windows from an aesthetic standpoint.
I also was unexpectedly, and pleasantly, reminded of the spiritual exercises I had learned about in Ignatian Spirituality.
Since that time, 7 months ago now, I have periodically practiced encountering spirit and god through the power of myth as a different kind of take on the spiritual exercises.
Of course Buddhism is jam packed with stories and tales of individuals who learn tough lessons from a master teacher- and I tend to enjoy them all.
But these last few weeks, during the big Americana holidays, I have been inhabiting the myth "The Handless Maiden" as told in the 1992 book Women Who Run With the Wolves: Myths and Stories of the Wild Woman Archetype by Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D.
Possibly similar to all those folks who find solace in the stories of Mother Mary during Christmas, I tend to turn to the feminine side of god and the universe when my winter blues set in, and it seems to act as a soothing salve on an old wound.
In the book Dr. Estes recommends you read the myth slowly, over several days, to let it settle into your bones. This year I followed her recommendation. This allowed me to internalize each bite-size moment of the story, and marvel at the ways the tale manifested itself in my life and psyche.
I will let you encounter the myth in your own time and on your own terms if you so choose, but one particular scene which was deeply meaningful for me this year, is what I will close with.
At this point in the story, as Dr. Estes tells it, the handless maiden is deep into what she calls "La Selva Subterranea" or the Underground Forest. Now wandering through the underworld without her two hands, "a ghostly spirit in white" is accompanying the young woman to assist her with important tasks like crossing a moat to enter an orchard for food to eat.
But then (and this is the part of the story that I really love), after the maiden and the guardian spirit enter the orchard, it is still unclear how the young woman will actually be able to eat the fruit as she has no hands?
So what happens you ask?
Grace.
"The bough [of the tree] bent itself low so she could reach it, its branch creaking. She put her lips to the golden skin of a pear and ate while standing there in the moonlight, her arms bound in gauze, her hair affright, appearing like a mud woman, the handless maiden."
After I read this part of the myth, I decided to keep my eyes and heart open for moments of grace despite the feeling of winter darkness. I decided to pay attention in order to not miss any "pears" that I might be fed from the fruit trees around me.
This contemplative practice, or spiritual exercise as the Jesuits might say, has been a beautiful way for me to encounter reality more fully in times when my mind seems to act with a filter of darkness.
Perhaps you might find this practice to be helpful too, and maybe you too will notice more "pears" than you anticipated.
May it be so.
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