Time of Eclipse: Churning the Ocean of Myth

An ancient perspective on vengeance, violence and peril

1. Ouroboros

History (much like the male ego) is a fragile thing, easily written over or lost. Story is more durable--but tougher still is myth, which is what stories that survive eventually become. 

Myth is unconcerned with modern distinctions such as the one between fiction and non-fiction. Its game is deeper than that, and weirder. Often as not, the truths it offers up are strange, flapping things hauled from the depths of collective memory—yet it’s worth plumbing those mysterious depths and encountering the creatures they yield, for myth’s currents carry wisdom we hunger for like some neglected nutrient.

Myth is among the oldest inheritance we have as a species: older than writing, older than our oldest ruins, older than any one language. Myth, then, is a good place to turn when everything is in question, when old certainties seem to be disintegrating and reality itself seems to be splintering apart. Times like ours.

One particular myth has been with me strongly for years. This myth, which we’ll get to in a moment, has been a guide and teacher during my struggles to integrate and recover from a traumatic, initiatory opening over a decade ago. That experience is something I’ve spent countless hours writing my way through, after the myth showed me the crucial role writing would play in my healing. 

Today, I’d like to return to the same myth for a different reason.

The myth in question comes to us from Indian tradition, but like most myths it is universal in scope. It’s a myth about how things got to be the way they are. About transformation and the ingredients needed for alchemy to succeed, and about the relationship between medicine and poison. It’s also about bad blood and vengeance. As such, it speaks to the current moment—but then, the big myths are always a safe bet when it comes to relevance. 

So then. Once upon a time…

2. Churning the Ocean

Once upon a time, the gods and the asuras were warring. So it ever was, for the two sides just couldn’t see eye to eye and insisted on blasting away at one another as sworn enemies through the ages

This time, however, the gods had a problem. One of their number, the thunder god Indra, had managed to incur the wrath of a notoriously irascible sage. This sage had presented Indra with a flower garland, and Indra had seen fit to bestow the garland upon his splendid elephant mount. The elephant, whom no one had consulted on the matter of his pollen allergy, let forth a mighty sneeze which caused the garland to fall to the ground—where the great beast promptly trampled it. 

Seeing the way Indra treated his precious gift, the sage uttered a mighty curse: Henceforth, the gods would be diminished in strength and luster, becoming mere shadows of their former selves. And so it was. 

As soon as the asuras caught word of the gods’ misfortune, they launched a fresh offensive. This was their chance. And so the age-old war ramped up again. 

Finding themselves in a divine pickle, the gods sought counsel from Vishnu himself. The great Preserver instructed them: they must churn the ocean like so much milk, in order to obtain a special elixir that could restore them to their former glory. The elixir’s name was amrta, non-death: a potion of immortality, in other words. There was just one catch: in order to have sufficient manpower to churn the ocean, they would need to enlist their enemies, the asuras, to the cause. A diplomatic mission was called for.  

In the event, both sides proved willing to put aside their age-old grievances temporarily in order to obtain the elixir, for immortality was something everyone wanted. So it was that, during a truce, the two sides constructed a massive butter churn out of a spindle-like mountain, coiling a gigantic snake around it for purchase. With preparations complete, the gods grasped one end of the snake and the asuras the other. (There was some disagreement about who would hold which end, as you can imagine). 

Together they began to push and to pull. The mountain turned with a great groan and the ocean started to froth and bubble—but before they could make much headway, the massive mountain sank from view. Their efforts had served only to drill the spindle down into the ocean floor. 

Taking the form of a massive tortoise, Vishnu once again came to the rescue. The god dug below the base of the mountain and stabilized the whole operation on his tough shell. The churning was able to proceed–and before long, something began to precipitate out of the foaming waves. 

An acrid smoke filled the air, and gods and asuras alike began to choke. What was this? No one had warned them that their quest for an elixir of life could beget a poison so foul that it threatened to consume the world itself. Luckily one of the gods had the presence of mind to go find lord Shiva, who was oblivious to all the drama, being deep in meditation. Though non-plussed at being disturbed, Shiva agreed to come and deal with the situation, for by now the very universe was in danger of being destroyed. 

Approaching the center of all the reek, lord Shiva calmly sucked in the poison and swallowed it. Gulp. 

All the gods looked up at Shiva, who stood motionless, an expression of great intensity upon his face. Then they noticed something: the great god’s throat was turning bright blue. Like a peacock who eats poisonous insects and transmutes their venom into brilliance, Shiva had transmuted the poison inside his body. All the gods threw themselves at his feet, prostrating in gratitude. The great one simply departed without a word. 

The churning resumed. This time, treasures began to emerge. Out came a wish-fulfilling cow, followed a seven-headed horse—each prize claimed in turn by one of the gods. Next the king of all jewels appeared, and even the shining goddess Laxmi herself emerged from the waves to bestow prosperity as she saw fit. Finally, the great physician Dhanwantari emerged carrying a glowing jar. All knew this was the elixir they had risked so much for. 

The gods, however, had no intention of sharing the prize freely with the other side, those evil asuras. So once again they sought the services of Vishnu, who transformed himself at the crucial moment into the most alluring female ever known on heaven or earth in order to distract the asuras while the amrta was distributed.

One asura was not to be fooled, however. A serpent-demon named Rahu saw what was happening and, disguising himself, took a seat between Sun and Moon in the line of gods awaiting their share. Being luminous, the Sun and Moon noticed something amiss, and pointed the finger at the slithery fellow in their midst. Vishnu promptly flung his discus at the demon and severed its head—but not before a drop of the good stuff had passed Rahu’s lips.

Rahu thus became severed in two, yet became immortal as well. His two halves live on, head and tail, both sworn to vengeance on the luminaries who ratted him out. This is why at every chance they get, Rahu and his other half, Ketu, swallow up the Sun and Moon in the celestial events known as eclipses. (Astronomically, Rahu and Ketu are known as ‘the nodes of the moon,’ the mathematical points where the earth’s orbit intersects the moon’s. These points are associated with eclipses. In the remarkably precise and specific astrology of India, these same points, Rahu and Ketu, are considered malefic ‘shadow planets’ who bring confusion, excess, greed and trouble to the areas of the chart that they touch—but who also have the potential to uplift us and set us apart.)

Anyway, bolstered by the elixir, the gods eventually won the war against the asuras—or at least the battle. And so the story ends, although it doesn’t really end, it just bleeds into the next cycle of myth. 

3. Shadows

Like any good myth, this one has many facets. During my own healing crisis I found myself fascinated by the snake, the poison, and Shiva’s ability to neutralize it. I learned to see my own process as a kind of churning in which hazards had to be encountered and overcome, and toxins transmuted through the voice (the throat). And if I occasionally gave off a slightly unsettling hue, I learned to appreciate what I had gained from my trial-by-poison.

Today, other aspects of the myth come to the fore, especially given the recent pair of eclipses. As we’ve seen, themes of revenge and retribution are baked into eclipse times—and now is such a time, with the most recent lunar eclipse three days ago at the time of writing, and a full solar eclipse two weeks prior. These times are when Rahu and Ketu enact their vengeance on the Sun and Moon, remember, swallowing them up. The normal lights of life are obscured; shadows lengthen and multiply. 

All of this is in evidence now, but so is a less talked about part of the story of eclipse: greed and demonization. 

At first glance, the demonic Rahu is being greedy with his deceitful attempt to swallow the nectar at any cost. Yet Rahu is only going after what was promised him. What about the gods who are willing to trick the other side so they can have the elixir all to themselves?  This mercenary behavior is far from the dharmic, golden-rule ideal one would expect of the ‘good guys.’ Instead, in the myth, both sides misbehave, and each party’s transgressions become fodder for further retaliation. The tale thus prefigures the host of problems that come with polarized, us-vs-them dynamics. Once one side determines who the bad guys are, it demonizes them, and almost any act can be rationalized in the name of gaining the upper hand.

Ever-increasing cycles of retributive violence are always justified in the eyes of the aggrieved victim-cum-perpetrator. Tragically, within the violent vortex of trauma, logic moves ever in the direction of more violence, more trauma. 

Something has to give, or the poison will consume the world.  

4. Intercession

As old as myth is ritual. The two go hand in hand: if they’re not the beating heart of human religion and meaning-making then they’re its lungs. As humans we breathe in myth, and exhale ritual.  

This doesn’t have to look complicated or overtly religious. We inhale a story about disease being caused by microorganisms—one of modern culture’s prevailing narratives from our scientific mythology—and out come rituals of hand washing and mask-wearing. (I’m not saying this is wrong; like most mythologies, it captures a piece of reality, and the rituals are efficacious within certain bounds, though perhaps not as potent as the most devout would like to believe.)

Myth serves a kind of diagnostic function, helping us to understand the world and make sense of all that happens on earth. Ritual serves a therapeutic function, helping us to shape (in however small or symbolic a way) the world that myth has illuminated. One empowers our understanding, the other our action. 

If a myth sheds any light on what we witness in the world, it’s worth going to the same source and asking with humility: what do you advise? 

Not that we should expect any definitive answer, any quick fix. The remedies cannot be quick, for the disease of eclipse syndrome—retributive dysfunction writ large—is far advanced. ‘The times are urgent, let us slow down.’¹ The trauma vortex is massive and growing. Still, maybe the same source tradition that helps us understand what’s at play archetypally can clue us in as to what kind of action (or inaction) may be appropriate.

According to Indian tradition, eclipses are times when outward action is likely to go awry, for reasons we have seen: such times are marked by deceit and revenge, and the qualities of clarity and truth represented by the Sun and Moon are obscured. Eclipses are auspicious times only to lay low and focus on spiritual practice. To find the light within, when external lights have dimmed. They are good times to pray, to recite mantra, to perform rituals geared toward liberation. 

This type of action/inaction, incidentally, is the work of monastics the world over: to flood the airwaves with peace, to issue a spiritual SOS for mercy, to download some measure of grace. Each tradition has its ways.  

In India, one of the classic mantras recited during times of eclipse is called—in resonance with the amrit elixir from the ocean churning myth—the Mahāmritunjaya, meaning great (maha) victory (jaya) over death (mrit). 

Trayambakam yajāmahe

Sugandhim pushti vardhanam

Urvārukamiva bandhanān

Mrtyor Moksiyamāmrtāt.

We sacrifice to the three-eyed one, 

Fragrant increaser of nourishment

So that like a cucumber falling from its vine

We may be freed from the cycle of death.

Trayambakam, the three-eyed one, is none other than Lord Shiva, our poison transmuter now appearing in a starring role as liberator, ender of karmic cycles. The mantra serves as a specific prayer for the cessation of vicious cycles, up to and including the greatest cycle of all, samsara: the cycle of birth and death that brings us back here to earth again and again to fulfill our karmic debts and reap what we’ve sown. 

May we spiritually ripen, it’s saying, and fall off the vine that binds us. May we be free. May all beings be free. 

May we learn to transmute the poisons that threaten to consume us, to find medicine amidst the great churning, and common cause with those we see as enemies. 

And may we remember the old stories, the ones so ancient that they’re apt to be new again. 

Om Namah Shivaya.

1. I learned this wonderful utterance from Bayo Akomolafe, who was paraphrasing a Yoruba elder. Akomolafe had asked the man what we can do in the face of, well, everything…