Shining through the roots

(Art: Markéta Profeldová @marketa_profeld_tattoo)

In many artistic representations, the unconscious world, our "subconscious", is depicted as darkness, chaos, hidden danger, something that is impossible to grasp rationally, and we should not even try to.

"Too much knowledge is harmful, there should be darkness at the roots," said Anna Pammrová, a Czech thinker and feminist*.

My dark side. My personal hell. My shadow.

And it makes perfect sense. The metaphore of roots is especially strong. If we pull the roots out of the ground and keep them under the light for a long time, the plant will not survive. Yes, the roots definitely have to be in dark.

Well, but isn't it tempting? To know what is down there... out there... deep there... or wherever we think our subconscious resides?

It is. And I actually think it is possible to visit this world without destroying or displacing it. And by the word "visit", I don't mean that kind of a situation where a guest opens the refrigerator three minutes after arriving at the house without asking, taking whatever is there**.

I mean that kind of visit where we slowly and reverently step in a beautiful temple and can hardly move as we are amazed and overwhelmed by its beauty.

Stargates

The image of the unconscious as something big and dark often leads us to look for special entrances to get into this world. Many people spend a substantial part of their lives searching for such entries. We expect something like a stargate, beyond which dramatic scenes from the dark side of our lives will emerge.

There is no doubt that, for example, the ceremonial use of ayahuasca can bring us a lot of experiences and show us our self and the world around in interesting and completely new perspectives. However, it is not easy to tell whether these insights have more to do with ourselves, the plant, the shaman, the culture we live in, or the culture that created the ceremony.

But sometimes it seems that we can see the contents of our subconscious in situations that cannot be more distant from the ayahuasca ceremony. For example, in a phone call with my mom:

"Pavel, I'll come for the kids, you don't have to drive them here, you have a lot of work," says my seventy-five-year-old mother, who recently underwent eye surgery, lives eighty kilometers away and doesn't drive a car with urgency in her voice.

There is hardly any interaction of the two of us that passes without "replaying" this pattern, which could be simply described as follows: she is offering help, I am refusing it.

And it is not only about taking care of kids. She can offer financial help, carrying a bag, adding sauce, one more cookie, sewing socks, anything.

Most of the time, we repeat this pattern several times, and we can only move away from that if my refusal is clear and distinct. If Mom hears any hesitation in my voice, she immediately repeats the offer.

My responses to Mom's part of this pattern, the offering of help, have changed over time. I would distinguish three stages.

The first stage was anger. I took her offers of help as an insult, a way of implying that I was incapable or incompetent. Of course, she never meant it that way. But especially in the period of time when I myself was not completely sure of my abilities and competences, I listened to her under the influence of these uncertainties.

The second stage I would call ostentatious indifference. I would put the phone as far away from my ear as possible, start doing some random activity like cutting carrots, and every now and then I would yell "NO" into the microphone.

The third stage was ordinary indifference. Dissociation, we could say. I just shut down. I was absent, only waiting for the end of it. I repeated my "no" in a low, robotic voice.

An expression of love

This time, however, I experienced something different. I felt a curiosity that was completely new. I stopped listening to the words and began to examine the pattern itself. I felt a real interest in the message it was carrying. It was as if, during my routine watering of flowers, I could suddenly shine through the soil and see the individual fibers of the root system absorbing nutrients for a moment.

I can't say exactly what happened. Maybe it was because I was relaxed and had enough time for the phone call. It could also be related to the fact that it was me who was calling and not her as is a far more common option. Maybe it was the whole current period of my life, when I not only pay more attention to the details of my life, but also try to write about them.

In any case, this routine moment was my stargate to the roots. I caught a glimpse of their elaborate and complicated construction underground.

I noticed that the words "I'll come for the kids" carry two messages at the same time. The first one is "I'm worried about you" and the second one is "I love you". However, I got used to responding only to the first message. "You don't need to be afraid!" I shouted at the beginning, probably trying to convince myself of that. "When the hell are you going to stop being scared?!" was my next reaction, which then turned into a resigned "You never stop being scared..".

But now that I noticed the second part the "I love you" message, it suddenly made no sense to resist it. Why should I reject expressions of love?

When a child is born, especially in the first days, weeks and months of life, help is inseparable from love. By pressing the baby to my chest, I hold it, warm it - that is, help it - and I also express my love. In later life, the help might no longer be needed, but the expression of love remains. So the question might be: do I want to resist a hug from my mom?

“No mom, I'll bring them,” I hear myself saying slowly, taking in every word. I listen to my voice, which is soft and melodic, far from the roboticity of previous responses. "But thanks, it is really very nice of you," I add, no irony in my voice. I feel moved when I realize what is contained in this repeated gesture, in this ritualized expression of love.

Colors of roots

If we were to stick with the metaphor of roots, it was as if I had a chance to see the root system of our routine conversation with mom in all its glory for a moment. It was as if the soil suddenly shone through and I could see how the solid trunk of the tree branched, interlaced, curled, thinned, expanded and mixed with other root systems, mycelium, insect, etc.

I think the roots are not dark. They are hidden in the dark, but they are colorful, varied, diverse, playing with all the colors of life. I would even say that the darkness around them helps them to keep their variety and color. So that they don't turn gray...

P.S.

A few days after I finished this text, I asked my mom to read it. In the subsequent conversation, we agreed, among other things, that it is quite difficult to talk about such stuff. As if pointing out something that had become routine threatened to upset the long-established balance.

I realized, and told my mom, that it was actually much better for me to write it than to say it, because I was worried she might see it as ungrateful. In written form, I can play with the details of my message.

My mother, former teacher and director of an art school, paused for a moment and then she replied that she experiences something similar when painting. She can play with the details of something that she is usually just walking by without noticing.

"When I paint it, then I perceive it very differently," she added.

I think I will perceive my interactions with my Mom very differently too, from now on.

Comments

*at least this is how Czech writer Jáchym Topol quotes her in this interview

**I am borrowing this metaphor from Harlene Anderson