 As a small child I was deeply impressed by a trip to the movies. I remember the building, then in the Art Deco style, with its fluted columns set into the walls and deep crimson carpets. Sound was muted in the depth. I would climb the outsized stairs, hugging the plush lined wall. There was the glowing warm smell of popcorn – food that existed nowhere else in the world. Then I would enter downwards into a dark realm, and wonders and marvels would be shown to me, many of them barely comprehensible. I called the movie theatre ‘the place with the quiet stairs’. Equally remarkable was the expectation that none of this was expected to change me. I would emerge afterwards into the afternoon light, and everything was as usual. An indeterminate amount of time would have passed – I could have been in there for days. And yet this was supposed to be mere fun.
This was my first experience with what is called in Greek literature a katabasis. A katabasis is literally a trip from the mountains to the coast, or riding into a defile. There must be a sense of downward movement, darkening and narrowing. Metaphorically, it is a journey into darkness, the ‘valley of death’ perhaps. The difference between a katabasis and the similar concept of nekyia is that with a katabasis you come out. But it is still a trip into the underworld, the world of death and transformation. Remember, when the Mesopotamian goddess Ishtar enters the Underworld to save her lover, she has to strip. Each layer of clothing has to go, and finally her skin, and she reaches her goal as her truest, barest psychic self. Each katabasis has this shamanic element. When I used to work with people in crisis, I would see our interactions as a katabasis - not always, not even most of the time, but sometimes. It would be like this: We ride our horses into the defile. The light dims. Sound is at a remove. We travel together, through a valley of grief and distress and fear. I would like to say that they lead me into the katabasis, and I lead them out, but it not that simple. While we are in there, it is my job to keep us moving, to keep safe, to remember the sky still shines above us somewhere. But in the end, we ride in together, and we ride out. Afterwards, I would often feel that days have passed, when it has been only an hour or so. Time runs soft in the valley of death. Extraneous stimuli gradually return. Tears are dried and other people join us. Sometimes I would ask the person I was working with if they too have experienced the katabasis, and they would know what I mean. Some of us understand the darkness better than others. We court our darkness, ask questions of it, explore it by any means we have. We ride into the defile with joy in our hearts, for we know that we will be shown wonders and marvels. We play the risks. We know these experiences are transformative. When I ride into the defile with someone, I must not kid myself that I am having the same experience that they are. The valley of death is my domain; I know my ground, and within limits I come and go. The darkness becomes me, it calls to me and its entities welcome me. I am learning to welcome discomfort and the unknown. My companions are fearful, because of course know what they have to lose. They need to trust me, and I am often astounded that they do. It would be doubly inspiring to the think that they leave their grief and fear in the valley of death. They don’t. However, that strange and desperate uniqueness the katabasis imparts often leads to a new view. When we emerge blinking into the quotidian light, things look a little different, a new meaning emerges with us, and perhaps a way forward.
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