The parts we conceal

the great work of being
consists of learning
the shy words
of the parts we conceal
…

Maria Popova, An Almanac of Birds

Ah. “… the parts we conceal…” introduced as though they are entirely accessible to us. As though we’re each completely familiar with our inner selves, the things we believe about ourselves that make us strong, as well as those others may see and know but we refuse to contemplate, to acknowledge are part of ourselves. As though I know how this experienced wedged itself into my truth, or that one shattered a tiny hope I’d now dismiss as irrelevant if I could remember it at all, its residue in there somewhere affecting me somehow, but entirely lost to time and faulty memory.

So let’s skip the idea that all is there - beautiful and reverent, no doubt - to be revealed if we only had the courage to unleash the language that might share its deepest truths.

beautiful sentences
to render the whole
more and more true

The work of understanding ourselves is not just remembering the beautiful. It can be deep-level excavation sort of work. It can be bold work; dangerous work that requires tunnelling through corridors, not all of which have accessible escape routes. No. The “beautiful sentences that might render the whole more and more true” may need shy words to speak of their fragile hope, their fear of exposure, the desire unspoken and mummified deep within. But there is more to be found.

Not all that lies within is gentle; some of it is terrifying, eager to answer the devastations that shoved so much deeper down, away from the light, from love, from promise, that argued it into submission and locked it away from the reach of the sun so it would be forgotten. Excavation also needs brave, bold words that release the tension of too-long imprisonment.

No. The sentences will not all be beautiful.

…

That was as far as went the morning’s journal entry in response to Popova’s Audubon card. The bird in the card is labelled as a “Jay” but it is not any jay I know1. Similarly, the sentiment of Popova’s excavations of the inner self are bear little resemblance to most of the reflective self-excavating I undertake.

My deep digging happens in the wee hours of the morning, when my hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal (HPA) axis slams back the fragile kickstand that has me parked in sleep and jolts me into “here-we-go!” mode. It revs the engine and heads off-road, bouncing me down a memory mine with no care whatsoever for the untamed stories toward which it races me. They are littered with challenging, uncomfortable, and distressing memories, not all of which are accurate, not all of which tell stories that are even close to true. But there they are, in the dark, whispering to me, promising easy ways to salve old wounds, posing me as the victim, or perhaps worse, the hero of my own tragedies.

Bloody hell. I’m already awake. What’s to stop the nightmare?

Vulnerable to old grievances, we can become fascinated with the tragic hero they invite us to be. And a ruminating brain can live whole lifetimes in the middle of the night, weighing in on grievances that should have died long ago. Believe me. I’m tragically familiar with the reality of midnight woes.

But, in addition to ruining a night of sleep, they’re unsustainable. And they never come to resolution, never simply close.

continually constructing
more and more
…

Perhaps we can loop back to Popova’s poem with more generosity and grace, tamp down the desire to jump on the bike and go screeching off on a midnight rampage. Perhaps, questing for those beautiful sentences might, in fact, be helpful.

If you are a midnight rider of the sort that leaves you wringing the sheets with unresolved anger, however, that won’t be easy. The important thing will be to find something that can turn that reel off and then remember to use it the next time and the next and the next. Something that will help you defeat the dark demon and find your way back to sleep. You may already have a practice that helps you do that.

If not, here are a couple of suggestions. An app with sleep meditations can work; I’ve used Insight Timer for many years. There, you can even find bedtime stories to take you away from the crazy ride and lull you back toward a more pleasant dreamland when music just won’t cut it. If you are able to listen to audiobooks through your public library app or a subscription service, put on one you’ve listened to a thousand times and fall back to sleep. Or, you can do a body scan with or without an app, simply by starting with your toes and moving up your body, focusing on as many points on your body as you possibly can, lingering over each until you feel it separate and distinct from everything else, tingling and alive, and you, there, right then. Keep going until you end up at the crown of your head and feel the tingle there, too. If you tell me that’s impossible, I’ll say, “I know.” But then I’ll say, “Do it anyway and keep doing it until it isn’t impossible; until it becomes the flicker of who you are, lying there, beautiful and amazing.”

Because you are. No matter who or what you’re still pissed about.

Each time I post a new item, I invite you to share it with someone who might like it. I really mean that. As I work on my new poetry project (Eeek! Our first recording with the piano is tonight!), I’d love to build the number of readers with whom they might be shared. So please think of one person who might like this, resonate with it, or think it is bizarre enough to ponder, and share it with them through the button below.

Share