http://www.rugile.lt/, http://www.vilkise.com/

Rugile Jungian Analyst, Vilnius (2026)

21/03/2026

I tell him that everything begins with an individual relationship - with the movements of the soul that are encountered and responded to within it - solely from this primary quality. It opens all other worlds; it is like the foundational stone of a future or existing temple, the apex of the axis.

- Do you think that anyone in our population is capable of following such a path - either in a group or individually? Do you see that such a path is accessible to anyone else? Because if symbolic understanding is not experienced directly, it becomes accessible only through scientific explanation. I wonder, Bernard says, whether such an experience is meant only for a few? Perhaps for a certain number of people - philosophers, priests, shamans - those connected with processes of initiation, while 95 percent of the population will not be able to understand it. How will you present this work, especially when you are writing a book about it? How do you intend to relate this to the lack of symbolic life, when the experience is not accessible to others, since most people seem resistant, as if they had an immunity to symbols? Perhaps they may encounter some meaningful vision or a more vivid dream only at the end of life, perhaps in agony - how will you present to them what you are speaking about?

- I do this because I believe that we can ignite one another only through ourselves, only through the quality of the fire of our hearts, transmitting it from one active heart center to another - I speak slowly, feeling that what I am telling Bernard I am truly living; within me there resonates a voice, a sound that recalls this path, I hear it… - And I believe there is no other way.

02/11/2025

#8 At a certain time in 2019, dreams about a bridge began to recur in my life - a collapsing bridge that needed to be rebuilt, and the question of how to cross to the other side of the river.

In one dream, I discovered a secret inner courtyard that led to the other side. There, I met a teacher and learned an unknown ancient language. From that place, I watched as others, in vain, tried to rebuild the fallen bridges in the outer world.

In another dream, I met a man by the river who, like Saint Christopher, cared for everyone’s crossing. I was learning there how to hold the right balance. And when balance was lost, the dream said, it meant an inner estrangement - a broken connection with one’s own nature.

These dreams came at a stage in my life when I was living through a great outer tension between psychology and the metaphysical, spiritual path. In my life there were people who, standing on one side or the other, strongly asserted their own truths. So, I had to bring this question even more deeply inside myself - how would I find the needed balance, the bridge, my own answer about both banks of the river?

These dreams resounded with particular relevance before my upcoming journey to the East. I selected the whole series of them and wrote them down in a notebook prepared for the journey, together with an analysis of past events in my life, so that I could enter the theme even more deeply.

I understood that only after obtaining my degree in depth psychology - completing and grounding that long journey of professional becoming in the West - could the doors to the world of the East open for me in a real and trustworthy way, allowing me to move toward wholeness and integration, protected from swinging between two sides, from denying something within or without.

Only when the inner readiness to contain opposites became firmly established on one shore could the necessary bridge begin to form - the bridge that connects both banks, the bridge that symbolizes the inner structure we build not in one, but through many lives.

10/10/2025

#7 It turned out that beside the monastery grows the only rudraksha forest in the Western world - one hundred and eight trees, planted by Gurudeva himself here on the island in 1978. Until then, I had known nothing about the seeds of these trees, which in the Hindu tradition are held as sacred - the very embodiment of Shiva, said to have sprung from his tear that fell to the earth upon seeing the world of humankind.

The rudrakshas touched me deeply. I felt not that I had discovered them, but that they had found me. We returned to the monastery three times, each visit revealing something new - a small object from the tiny shop, a quiet moment of meditation beneath the trees - each encounter opening a new layer within.

Gradually, I began to feel within me a powerful pull toward what seemed to be the opposite side of the world, as we in Europe imagine its two halves. I was being called by the East - by Mount Kailash, Shiva’s dwelling place.

In preparing for this symbolic journey of my fortieth year, I found myself looking back over the past decade, tracing how my soul had moved through this earthly life - seeking connection with my personality, reaching out to me through dreams, shaping external events, awakening sensations in my body, stirring the storms of Eros and Thanatos within my relationships.

What draws me toward the East is the Arcanum of Acceptance. I feel its presence clearly - both within the collective and in my own inner life. In the drawing I have begun, it appears as a cosmic human seated in the lotus posture, immersed in his inner world, open through all the sacred centers of energy. A being suspended between heaven and earth - seated, or perhaps floating, upon the surface of water, within which his shadow body and two entwined serpents are reflected.

This is the human as a channel - one who has fully accepted and united his own duality.

09/10/2025

#6 I felt the call for my first journey to the East while visiting what seemed to be the farthest point of the Western world. A year earlier, I had been led to Hawaii by a dream I’d had a decade before - a dream in which I found myself in a classroom, looking at two unfamiliar tablets covered in strange symbols. It was an exam, and I was told to remember. In that dream, I heard the word Mu for the first time - I had to recall something about an ancient civilization of gods.
I doubted it, saying I knew nothing and recognized none of it, yet the teacher in the dream spoke loudly, recounting the legend of those gods, keeping me focused on the task. Eventually, I began to recite the verses with her, because little by little, I started to remember.
On the island of Kauai in Hawaii, we drove around exploring different places. I was searching for samples of red ochre for my painting. Using my phone’s navigation, we tried to find a waterfall marked on the map, and quite unexpectedly came across a nearby Hindu monastery. So, we decided to stop by.
We walked into a ceremony that had just begun. Sitting on the ground with others, we listened to the chanting of mantras, watched the procession, and the sacred fire burning. We were invited to write letters to the devas - letters that would later be burned. Then something utterly unexpected happened. I looked at the image above the altar - the blue body of Shiva - and suddenly realized that this was Mu. A crystal-clear knowing descended upon me, as if a thought had entered through the crown of my head: this was connected to my Lemurian path - the one I must remember.
I wrote my letter to the devas, thanking them for their guidance. As I was about to leave, I noticed a book leaning against the wall by the door. On its cover, it said Lemurian Scrolls.
How could that be? Even now, I still can’t believe such synchronicity.

05/10/2025

#5 I began my fortieth year with my first crystallography - by freezing a plate of water. In this way, I altered my usual Solar Return ritual, the return of the sun to the exact position it held at the time of my birth. This time, instead of drawing a rune or an alchemical card to open myself to the symbol of the year to come, I turned to the water I had brought back from Lake Manasarovar in western Tibet - my most precious keepsake from the pilgrimage around Mount Kailash. Manasarovar is the highest freshwater lake in the world, lying at almost 4,600 meters above sea level, and it is sacred to three religions - Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism.

Water in my life has always been the balancing element to Fire - my Sun, Mercury, and Mars. It is also the element where my Selena, the White Moon, is expressed. In the theosophical tradition of astrology, this point in the horoscope is said to mark the place through which the guidance of light enters a person’s life. For me, water has always been that long-awaited delight, the experience of surrendering into complete weightlessness, where I no longer need to hold an inner center, nor be a center for others. James Jealous once wrote that sometimes we hold the center, and sometimes it is vital to allow ourselves to be held by the Center - the one that held us at the moment of our birth. I feel this in water: when I relax, close my eyes, and float on its surface, I sense again the Center that carried me when I came into life.

04/10/2025

#4 I discovered that in my map of scents, the inner and outer are not at all divided into a closed house and an open field. The fragrances of my inner space can just as well include the blossoms of the old lilac tree by the house - the one we found already growing when we bought the abandoned cottage - the dust of a freshly driven road, the sharpness of newly cut grass, the faint touch of wild hawthorn carried from afar by the wind, and of course, the resinous pine needles, sticky on the hands and impossible to wash away. How deeply the natural world forms the fragrance of my true home, of my innermost space - the place where I feel myself, where I feel safe. A home where something is always smoldering or burning: a fire in the yard, a hearth inside the house, candles - always candles - and necessarily a gas stove, never electric.

I also realized that my life’s space is made up not of a single center, but of many - centers that appear as my space expands. One is surrounded by shades of green, freshness, vitality, but it can unexpectedly overlap with spices, and those in turn drift into the smells of wax, dust, sawn or drilled metal - each circle with its own shifting center. Just around the corner, another circle opens into the garden flowers: lush jasmine, intoxicating old roses, and the blackcurrant bush - wedged in but striving to branch out in every direction. All of them are nearly wild, surviving only by drawing what they can from the depths of the soil or from rainwater, so long as they are not overtaken by the meadow. Each must claim and defend its own space, unaccustomed to care or cultivation.

So too are my horses, free in their open territory - unridden, unshod, unsaddled. Nothing is asked of them, nothing demanded, nothing used. I wonder: what is the fragrance of this freedom, a freedom so essential to me?

30/09/2025

#3 The space I was exploring asked for a structure of sacred geometry, one that, as it unfolds, could perhaps take on many forms. Yet what mattered to me now was discovering that in the central circle lay the most essential: the scents of old book pages, worn thin by fingers and time; of dusty piano keys, their ivory yellowed; of a burnt-out match and a freshly lit fire; of just-ground coffee blended with cardamom; of last year’s dried lavender; and of fresh rain drifting in through an open window. All of them evoked slowness, a time given to myself. This became the central circle of the flower of my life, overlapping in every direction with circles of equal size, forming vesica piscis shapes - many of them, like separate gates or portals, inviting me further inward, into another space that lies between two worlds.

I saw that this central circle connected with another - already reaching into the “outer” space of my home. There I could sense not only the ashes of a cooled stove and the burning frankincense resin in the censer, but also the fire of an open flame, the rich smell of horse manure, the warmth of a horse’s coat and sweat, the freshness of dark soil, and the scent of melting ice. The most unexpected, however, was the fragrance I named from my father’s box of dental instruments, carrying the faint trace of medical gauze. I have kept it tightly closed since his death, so that even many years later I could open it again and breathe in that scent. I save it carefully, reluctant to exhaust it.

What surprised me was that it appeared at the very intersection of three circles, as though pressed in, wedged between - yet perhaps it is the one holding the axis of my entire life’s center. How important this fragrance turns out to be for me, and how much I will still have to reveal it, unfold it, draw it out from where it is caught among the others...

27/09/2025

#2 For me, substance means the tangible world - something immensely important, given how much of my time is spent in the intangible, exploring the inner spaces of the human being, the depths of the psyche. The material I am working with now, as I open a new chapter in my life, is water and the natural scents of perfumery. I begin with fragrance - with describing the scents of inner and outer spaces, a path that led me to my studies in natural perfume creation.

On a psychological level, I am often drawn to the question: where do the inner and outer worlds meet? Does our psyche have clear boundaries - where we can say, this is the influence of the outside world, and where we can say, here the psyche itself is acting, discovering, creating, knowing itself through others, through the projections it casts? This assignment, too, awakened in me curiosity and inspiration: to sense the fragrance of my inner space, to notice the scent of my home - the homes that have shifted with each move, the place where I live now, which has also become my inner home. In my own way, I embraced the task and through it realized that my true inner home has both inner and outer fragrances. I gathered them while walking from my house, through the garden and the little woods, to the hermit’s wooden work cabin my husband built for me - where therapy takes place, both online and in person.

29/08/2025

23rd International Congress of Analytical Psychology, Zurich, Switzerland.
Moments with colleagues, new encounters, resonant themes and presentations. In my case - carefully guarding the boundary against potentially overwhelming external content, stepping back at the right time, returning to my own center, my own themes. Meetings with teachers, therapists, supervisors, creative ideas for the future. Incredibly joyful news - warm congratulations to our professor, Gražina Gudaitė, the future president of the International Association for Analytical Psychology (IAAP). Historical and symbolic places - the hardly accessible C.G. Jung Tower in Bollingen, the roots of depth psychology. Books.

During breaks - pausing to exchange thoughts and impressions, discussing the topic of substances and vibrations with a colleague: should I attend the lecture on psychedelics? What place do psychoactive substances have within the Jungian analytical community? Do I even have the resources to go deeper into this?

I decide not to, because much awaits me: my travel notes from Tibet, the drawing of the Arcana of Acceptance, my own book - all of which demand significant energy, and I cannot afford to scatter it. I do not go, because my path has always been vibrational medicine - not the path of psychoactive substances, but of subtle information carried by the needed substance, potentized essence, vibrational resonance. When I speak of psychology, the spiritual realm, the metaphysical world, and the ways only few has worked with the psyche for millennia, this is the path I mean.

It is a path often said not to exist. Probably because those who follow it never try to persuade or recruit, they have no crowds of students, they do not seek to demonstrate or prove, they do not interfere with others’ choices, nor are they interested in masses, power, or fame. To find them, one would have to seek out hermits in caves. It is a path that has always been protected - which is why it is said not to exist.

By choosing not to walk the paths of others, I accept that the forces stirring within the soul guide each of us in different ways - and I invite no one to follow mine.

29/07/2025

#56 When I look at my completed Arcana of Opening (Revelation), I recall that the first image to emerge was Tutankhamun holding a large serpent in his hands. I immediately understood—it was the very snake whose skin I would later need to use to decorate the Arcana. I had such a skin, gifted to me by a woman who had withdrawn from our group, as if passing the mantle for this work on to me. She offered me the shed skin of her snake, which I kept in a small box for a long time, treating it as something deeply precious and symbolic.

From that gift, I learned that before shedding its skin, a snake’s eyes become cloudy, veiled by a milky film. I recognized the same sensation within myself—a state difficult to name—a felt sense of inner dimming, as if the world outside had turned slightly opaque, its contours softened. That mist, that fogginess in perception, became a signal. It marked a threshold: the moment when my inner serpent was preparing to molt, when I was entering a time of renewal.

The Arcana, centered on the theme of bareness, of shedding protective layers—how to remove the outer armoring, the masks concealing our true form—posed a painful question: how do we open the chest, expose the heart not only for deep healing, but also for the terrifying vulnerability that healing entails? From the very beginning, this arcana was guided by a dream—a dream in which we were told that deep within the heart lies a labyrinth, or perhaps a spiral. I felt how crucial the image of the labyrinth was, and the teaching of the white-robed figures in that dream: you must learn to draw this symbol with precision. Only then can you find your way out.

27/07/2025

#55 That which can kill us may also resurrect us. Poison and medicine often dwell in the same vessel - what harms or heals depends on how, when, and by whom it is used. Knowledge revealed prematurely becomes poison for one, while for another, in the right moment, it arrives as a long-awaited remedy. I have reason to believe we are entering a time of greater unveiling - the lifting of Isis’s veil - and this will come at a cost. In ancient Egypt, a young man in the city of Sais who dared lift the veil from the face of Isis was sentenced to immediate death. And yet, long-hidden mysteries, the ultimate and highest truths, may reveal themselves in visible form. But the question remains - who among us is capable of withstanding such truth?

A symbol always contains both poles - it opens into a depth where contradictions coexist. A sign, on the other hand, holds a fixed meaning: “no entry,” “stop,” “pedestrian crossing.” It allows no ambiguity - any deviation is a violation, met with a penalty. A sign is flat, literal, and unambiguous. But a symbol is not a sign. It is multidimensional, never merely surface. A symbol is a portal - an opening - into other realms.

Photo:
Frontispiece to the book Anatome Animalium by Gerhard Blasius. It shows a personification of science unveiling a personification of nature whose appearance is inspired by the classical goddesses Artemis and Isis.
Engraved by Jan Luyken
1681

26/07/2025

#54 Akhenaten’s name, inscribed on the temple wall thousands of years later.

“You are so complicated,” Horus says to me with a smile on our final day together. He laughed so much one evening when I, quite seriously, told him about the snake I believed I was meant to protect.

“You came all this way—thousands of kilometers—to save a snake?”

“Yes,” I told him.

“Alright then,” he laughed. “Let it be so.”

I understand the snake is a deeply ambivalent symbol—often associated with danger, even death, something to be feared and eliminated. Here, when a dangerous snake is found, almost the entire village rushes in and the men kill it—“the energy at that moment,” Yvon said, “is like evil itself has been conquered.”

And then I arrive, saying: “Don’t touch the snake. Don’t harm it. It’s important.”
I must have seemed completely irrational, almost childlike, lunatic. They laughed, but out of politeness didn’t argue. Some tried to explain, gently, that the snake was deadly. “One bite, and that’s it,” one of the inspectors warned me, drawing a hand across his throat to show what he meant—just in case I didn’t understand his words.

“Yes, I know, I do understand,” I told him in affirmation.

Rugile Jungian Analyst

21/03/2026

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