When we were asked to do a self-portrait, I found myself starting with a mark I like a lot — an arc that often feels like a leaf or a crescent moon. This time is seemed to want to be the moon so I went with that flow. Other lines and shapes followed. Some turned out to be the moon itself (half-dark, half-full), others that grew into stems, and finally a mass in the background that wanted to be an Adirondack mountain. I didn’t plan anything but as things formed on the paper, I found myself thinking about the moon, its affect on planting cycles, and the place that I live. The overarching feeling was an association with Mother and the cycles of nature, nuture, and groundedness. It was a pretty good self-portrait, I thought.
After we’d shared our drawings we took a short stretch break and when we came back to the circle, Marybeth suggested we revisit our work in search of a different perspective. She asked us to rotate the paper and to see if a new thought or feeling would emerge. I turned the page a quarter turn once, nothing. Again, nothing. And then the third time, there is was. Inescapable. An eye. I got chills for a second. When I shared it with the group there as a little gasp. They saw it too. Just as inescapably I as had.
As I waited for insight, it came clear that it represented me — all the facets of me that I saw in the self portrait — as a watcher. Someone who not only watches but watches for. Being a Watcher struck me as very true but also as a greater responsibility, sometimes, than I wanted or was even comfortable with. Being a Watcher, it seemed, was not something a person just did from time to time as needed. It was an archetypal charge from the Universe. Ugh.
The evening ended on a lovely up note and we all went our separate ways. I replayed some of my favorite parts about the session on the drive home. But it bothered me — there was something I’d missed in my interpretation of the eye. And then it hit me — there had been a fraction of a second as the words for the image gelled that I’d forgotten or, maybe more hosestly, had chosen to ignore. It wasn’t me who was the eye, watching. It was The Eye, watching me.
I’m still processing that.