myths and stories
“Who am I to think that I can help others? Why should anyone listen to me when I have so much to develop in my own self. I learned a lot about myself and have come to a place where I can now write about some of it.
Recently I have been faced with the realisation that the myths and stories of the past are not ‘myths’ at all. This will come as no surprise to those educated in the literature of Joseph Campbell, Clyde Ford or familiar with the words of Michael Meade.
However what I have come to see is that the term personal archetypes, actually applies to my life!“So what? That’s obvious!” I hear you say. Indeed you are right, but even though I knew it applied to me, I didn’t know it applied to me until I reflected on my vision quest and other journeys into unconscious realms.
Why for example should I ensure that I keep the purity of my thoughts and actions protected from negativity? Because I dreamed a vision in which a story unfolded: a story of a pristine little girl who just happened to be with me deep in a forest, within my protective circle of sacred stones.
Surrounding the circle were witches, who didn’t want me, they wanted the little girl. Unable to enter the circle they recruited a friend of mine who came with troops and bullets, (which could penetrate) ready to betray me. However behind us was a river and we both knew that if we crossed it they would have no power over us: so we did!
To me, everyone in this dream vision represented an aspect of me. My recent life has manifested in ways in which holding that story in mind has enabled me to triumph and to walk with more consciousness in each day.
This is partly what I mean by Narrative Mindfulness. The other part is reflecting on what has happened in my life so far and then creating a story to define it, give it meaning and to reveal the power in the narrative of my own life.
To illustrate. I went through a bad time recently, money was not tight, as that implies some, however little was available! Also a very long term relationship had ended and I was floundering in grief. So what did I do?
I applied the Mythic Medicine of Narrative Mindfulness I wrote a story (some of which I’ll share with you shortly) and I embodied it too, through the African Martial Art form of KaZimba Ngoma. I went on a physical and metaphorical journey of healing and resolution. That’s when I really knew, that the archetypes of story and myth were really about me…
The Golden Seed
Tanaka was a poor farmer from a dusty village called Ire (pronounced ee ray) in a dusty land, also called Ire where nothing grew. He eked out a hard living, working from sun up til sun down without any reward: except that every so often he would find withered yams andried cassava.
He never found enough to quell his hunger pangs and he gave most of what he found to his family, however he ate enough so that he didn’t die. The pain of seeing his wife’s hopeless eyes trying to find joy in the meagre offerings he brought home, was almost as bad as watching his children’s bellies become increasingly distended, swollen by that disease of lack: kwashiorkor.
Tanaka, was determined to make a difference and end his families suffering and ranged further and further in his dust bowl of a land. He encountered places he had never been before and strange peoples. However everywhere he went, he saw the same grey dust, shrunken shrubs, stunted trees and starving people.
It hadn’t always been like that. Not too long ago, his land Ire had been a wonderful place of plenty. A place of undulating green meadows watered by sweet rivers and framed by wind rippled fields of golden grain.
The people were strong, intelligent and peaceful.
So it had been since the time of the ancestors of the ancestors.
And so everyone assumed it would have stayed if not for the evil ones who came with war and a greed for human bodies to work their dark mines in a distant land.
The ‘evil ones’ as they were universally known by the people, were defeated in battle after battle. Although the people of Ire were peaceful, they were mighty warriors and the slow meditative movements they practiced daily gave them a formidable power. Seeing that they could not defeat Tanaka’s people by arms, the evil ones resorted to sorcery instead.
Tanaka had heard many different versions of how they cast their infernal spell. It is said that they sacrificed a thousand – thousand girl children until the rivers of their distant land ran with blood instead of water.
Whatever it was they actually did, Tanaka and the rest of his people would always remember the day when the poison cloud, a roiling fog of pestilence which shriveled every plant and weakened warrior limbs on contact, contaminated the land.
They would never forget the insanely chuckling vitriolic of the Evil One’s sorcerer king’s words.
“If we cannot use your land, neither will you… If we cannot use
your bodies in our mines, we will destroy you utterly, reveling in
your pain as you watch your people die slowly from starvation.
Behold the Durkfume.” He rasped, horrible twisted arm pointing to the dark cloud of evil destruction.
“Behold your end.” He crowed. “Behold despair!” He screamed. Although those were his last words as a well aimed spear ended his wicked life, his curse remained and the Durkfume turned the land of Ire into a dust bowl.
Peace n Love Sola