Creating Mandalas

Why should anyone create mandalas? 

Creating mandalas serves both backward glancing, retrospective, and forward looking, prospective functions that maintain and enrich your sense of self.

Retrospective because creating a mandala is a reenactment of exploratory mark making you did around the age of three, when you were discovering your physical and psychological dimensions and melding them into an entity you named “I.” Mandala making reinforces conscious and unconscious aspects of your self-image and the experience of, “I am here.” Creating mandalas affirms and stabilizes your sense of self, which soothes you during troubled or confusing times, and brings you pleasure and meaning during peaceful times.

Creating mandalas is prospective because mandalas give a glimpse of deep structures in the psyche guiding your personal development. Jung explained that the true center of the psyche resides in the unconscious. Here your potentials for balance and wholeness are encoded. Mandalas provide information to balance your attitudes and physical well being in keeping with your potentials in the service of growing your best possible future self. 

Your awareness of these potentials is usually blocked by the busy thoughts of mundane scattered consciousness. However, when your attention is focused and narrowed to the choice of color for a mandala, the feeling of line making, and the viewing of forms manifested by your lines, you allow useful information from your unconscious to bubble up to awareness.  The guardians that maintain your busy mental distraction have been temporarily re-assigned to paying attention to creating your mandala. For example: the solution to a problem presents itself. The realization of a difficult—though inevitable—truth about a relationship comes about.  A long-raging inner conflict shifts to a peaceful resolution. Clarity about a decision you’ve been trying to make arises.  Connecting with this deeper, mostly unconscious, layer of your being, releases a burst of energy, creative inspiration, and positive feelings.

My mandala, Darkness, created about a year ago, stirs a strong emotional response in me still today. I see a wheel of black glitter, framed in scallops that remind me of sumptuous velvet theatre curtains, or the diaphragm aperture of a camera, or the high tech roof of a new sports stadium. All these suggest the act of witnessing at something of a distance. I created the frame as an after thought, from a separate piece of paper that I glued over the mandala to give it a stronger boundary--and to create a safe distance from the raw marks and lines of the inner mandala. Those marks consist of a jagged line spiraling into the center where it disappears in the blackness of the paper. This, I thought, is like a life fading and finally coming to an end. Then, the glittering spokes of a wheel layered over the spiral, spokes that remind me of a slinky black sequined dress, like those worn by glamorous stars of the 1940’s: bad, beautiful women striving to survive in a man’s world using their brains and sexuality. They are of my mother’s generation, and they are the opposite of who I think I am. They reveal my Shadow. 

The Spiral portrays declining energy, coming to an end at the center of the mandala.

The Wheel reminds me that life is a process. It projects a strong image of the inevitable ups and downs of life. The Wheel is placed on top of the inner mandala, as if overshadowing a feeling of vulnerability. There are eleven curtain sections and eleven spokes in my mandala, so the traditional symbolism of this number is included in the meaning: “excess, peril, conflict, martyrdom.” (p. 28, Fincher, 2017, Creating Mandalas with Sacred Geometry) I place the mandala at Stage 10 on the Great Round: Gates of Death, or, as I prefer to call it, Letting Go. The traditional qualities of Eleven often accompany the stage of Letting Go.

So, the curtain opens on the drama of my encounter with the unconscious, which feels as scary as dying to my ordinary little Ego, and someday—but not today—such an encounter will be, finally, the death of my body. Who is there to help me but my very own bad girl: naughty, conniving, resourceful: my Shadow. 

What did I learn from this mandala? 

It brought me a reminder that life is precious, and that it is important to accept--and even learn to appreciate--parts of myself I usually reject. I never know what I will learn from the unconscious, but I know it will change me, and that it can be disruptive to all the structures of ordinary life: relationships, responsibilities, favorite ideas, familiar routines. Yet, this encounter is what keeps me vital, happy, and alive: leaning into the adventure of living.