To The Margins
The archetype of emergence.
Once upon a time. More than once. More than twice. Three is the charm.? There is a Baba Yaga and her chicken legged hut hanging from the corner of my office ceiling. This was a gift after a presentation I delivered last year for JungArchademy titled, “There Used to Be Old Women”. This year I am offering a counterpart presentation entitled, “Where are the Old Men”. (https://www.jungarchademy.com/oldmen). Baba Yaga and her consort remind me what we old woman know in our bones; namely, that when She emerges, she will stir things up and life as we knew it will never been the same.
More collectively these days than personally, we are in the dizzying whirl of this stirring. Some might experience it as a whirlwind. A firestorm. A flood. Much of what has rooted us here in the so called West, is being reconfigured, destroyed, and hopefully, transformed. If only we can hold tight and keep our eyes and our hearts focussed on the breadcrumbs that the uncertainty tosses up. If only we can keep our wits about us and not be torn asunder. If only we can find our way to the hut at the edge of what is known and what is unknown. If only we can accept that we are in the presence of an apocalypse - in its true sense of the word; namely, to uncover, to reveal. If only we can let ourselves be seen. Truly seen.
Baba is well known in the Russian and Slavic fairytales where she is a paradoxical figure. The hero or maid who approaches Her at the edge of the tangled dark forest, best be prepared. Wits, not intellect is required. Not egoic purpose. We must be prepared to be seen, exposed, and maybe for the first time in our life, known.
The heralding issues of our times are merely the clothing our soul wears. Jung would call these the Spirit of the Times. Climate. Racism. Gender. Beneath the layers of these issues, our vulnerability in the face of Emergence may surprise us. This is the Spirit of the Depths.
Baba is the archetype of Emergence. Out of the chaos and dissolution in the chrysalis, she is perhaps what the scientists tell us are ‘imaginal cells’. She is the future born out of the death of the past. She is the form given to Emergence and perhaps she is Abraxas. The energy needed to resolve the contradictions into paradox. On her wrinkled lips there whispers and/both rather than either/or. There is no us/them in her death rattle. Only we.
We are installing a Baba Yaga hut on our land. In the forest, at the crossroads of three trails. Thrice upon a time. I made a promise to my soul in a journey that I would make a place for Her. It has been a while to fulfil this promise. While our hut will not be on chicken legs, we intend to perch it on the turned up stumps of fallen trees.
A tornado tore through this land about 10 years ago. Like the mortar and pestle of Baba Yaga fairy tale fame, the swath of twisted and uprooted trees is a reminder of the vortex that is both destruction and creation. How fitting that these uprooted trees will be the foundation of the hut. I think Baba approves.
What She wants of this hut is not yet clear to me. I am willing to stand in the uncertainty. Maybe it will be my prayer hut. Maybe my writer’s garret. Maybe my offering to this land in gratitude for her riches.
My promise is this, I will keep a light burning in the window. I will dedicate the hut to my becoming an ancestor. I will endeavour to sit vigil in the hut on the full moons. I will incubate and cultivate and discover what waits for me on the margins. Stay tuned.