It’s a challenge at times, especially when they rise to the surface, refusing to be ignored. I can push with all of my might, using laser-beam focus, but it doesn’t help a bit. Mama used to say ‘some things take on a life all of their own’, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that every single thought, every action and consequence, does exactly that.
A few minutes ago, this was a blank page; now it’s a presentation of my personal beliefs. Each time I strike a key on the keyboard, the page develops into something more complex than it was when I decided to sit down at the desk. I could stop writing now, but even if I do, I’ve already planted a tiny seed that could grow into a monster, or turn into dust that will simply blow away.
It’s a risk I can’t wait to take.
The world is alive. Sometimes I picture myself as a tiny cosmic dot hanging onto the bushy outer fur of the world as it races across countries and vast bodies of water, timelines and contrasting poles, picking up speed without breaking stride. It takes every bit of my strength to stay in place, and not be shaken from the world’s great back like a dog would shake off fleas.
There are days I can admit I am a parasite, and other days I am certain I am a vaccine. But in either state of mind, I am honest with, and forgiving of myself. It takes a lot of energy just to talk, but it takes me much more to be silent. My mind is an ocean churning. There are dangerous rip tides, under tows and furtive currents to be considered. There are the whirlpools of life and death struggles playing out beyond eyesight. My mind is full of formidable forests growing from its sandy floor. There are centuries old shipwrecks hiding bones and lost treasure. There are species of fish never before seen. In the sea, I am not at the top of the food chain, I am a little fish in a very big pond; that’s how my mind sees my body, and I can either be lunch or a servant to the brain that owns me.
I love the sea as much as I am frightened by it.
For years friends urged me to write a book. My response never wavered, “Who am I to tell anyone how to do anything?” I would ask. Yet here I am, shooting off my mouth about my philosophy on secret keeping. I’m able to rationalize this by convincing myself that no one here has ever lost any money over anything I’ve said. I’ve never tried to present myself as an expert on anything; I’ve never tried to sell my ideas. I have sold poetry I’ve written, but I don’t do poetry on the two blogs I write. I keep blogs the same way I used to keep journals. Getting older has its perks; I’m no longer interested in what others think about me, and while I know I’m not an authority on any given subject, at this age, I give myself permission to say what I think.
If I have to lie to keep a secret, I don’t keep it anymore; I set the darned thing free. I haven’t had to do that but a couple of times in my life, but each time I have, I’ve felt robbed afterwards. No one has ever forced me to divulge anything, but I have been convinced to submit to another person’s will before. Going against my own values is never good; it’s an act of weakness that makes me ashamed of myself, and I hate feeling that way.
Anything can be a secret really. It doesn’t necessarily have to be heavy information. Maybe it was nothing until you decided to elevate it by designating it as a ‘secret’. Nothing moves a non-issue to the front of the line like good branding.
I have lots of secrets. If I let them go, I lose part of my mystique, and I’m not about to voluntarily give any of that up at this stage. I have so many secrets, matter of fact, that I categorize them with indexing ranging from recipes to sex. (Got your attention, didn’t I?)
Whatever task I attempt, I carry my baggage along for the ride. I’ve gotten rid of most of what I wanted to get rid of, but I’ve kept an awful lot. My husband is a fixer. He always wants to improve everything from a situation to a point of view. I resist being fixed. I read a book years ago about Native American philosophy and was transfixed by the whole Shadow Side perspective. There is light, and there is darkness. The author explained his ancestor’s respect for the difference between the two, and their understanding of the necessity of each. Without the light, nothing will live or thrive. But there are times the light is threatened, and to ensure its survival, man calls on his shadow side to protect it.
Calling forth the shadow is not done lightly, nor without ceremony. A ceremony sets an intention; in the case of protecting something as important as a value or the ability to live the kind of life one loves, it is the starting line. A purification/dedication fire is lit and dancing begins. Prayers are offered to the Great Ones above. Finally, paint representing the savage nature of the shadow inside, is smeared across the face. Then the battle begins.
The author emphasized the importance of knowing when to pull out one’s shadow and when to put it back again. To enjoy the acts involved in destruction is to become stuck in one’s shadow. To be stuck in darkness prohibits light.
I appreciate the truth about myself, but it doesn’t matter to or affect anyone but me. I’ve learned how beautiful the light is, and how necessary it is to ensure its survival. I’m comfortable with my shadow side too. The secrets I keep, keep my shadow alive. I respect any memory that has impacted my life so powerfully that I chose to keep it secret. I’ve given a name to my shadow side, (that’s a secret too), but I often consult her opinion on issues before I act; I find her wisdom invaluable. I choose my battles carefully these days, but once I determine a battle is completely necessary, I light a candle, set an intention, ask the Universe for support and guidance, and then I do what I believe is best, no matter the price.