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There is a shadow side in all of us : some part of us we don't spontaneously show or share. It doesn't have to be a huge sin, a terrifying memory, or some unspeakable darkness.

Vers La Piscine

Northbound : strength and doubt

It maybe doubt, hesitation, confusion. It maybe a few questions, self reflections that have not come into full light. We can name it the lively processing part of ourselves, seeds slowly coming to conscious and maturity.

It is the time before the harvest.

I might be the kind of person for whom this is particularly true.

A huge part of me has always been processing, working in depth. I allow myself to live with this treasure island inside, with its own waves, rythms, demands. Well, I have no choice, that’s the way I am, that’s who I am.

With years, what I used to see as a weakness, something that definitely made me different from others, became not only a friend, but even a golden gift. I’ve learned to listen to that part of me, to love and respect her, give her time.

I’ve learned to accept the mistakes she sometimes provoked, while I knew they were a very small tribute to pay in regard to all the wonders I was freely given.

Sometimes it’s a sense of flow, sometimes sort of an intuition that barely comes to the level of words. Sometimes it’s coloured and sometimes it’s a sensation in my body. Sometimes it’s a sentence that comes with boldness, a verse, a rhyme, a sound.

Sometimes it’s a dream maker, sometimes a life saver, sometimes it’s just a wandering friend with no purpose. It wears the habits of love and nightmares, eats meals of freedom, speaks languages I might one day understand. It’s familiar and friendly, always changing shapes, it’s part of this world and slightly beyond.

But in this travelling and amazing friendship, there are two special occasions when I know my inner oceans link to a wonderful dimension of life, the most precious one to my eyes, the one when I can really see that part of me as an astonishing strength.

First one is writing. When I write, it feels like home.

Baudelaire wrote this wonderful poem The Albatros, about a bird – metaphor for a poet – walking on the ground in an ackward way, all embarassed by his very wings. But as soon as he flies, he embraces the skies with grace and majesty.

That’s the way we writers feel, don’t we ?
That’s the dimension where we’re free, inspired, beautiful. That’s the time when we recover our powers and identity. While in everyday life we sometimes ramble like worms, feeling so miserable and lonely.

Second is when I meet people inhabited by the same grace and confusion. Some are writers, some are teachers. Some are creative, some work with concrete. Some have been soldiers, some gardeners. Some have passed through unbearable tragedies, have seen the back side of life. Some are eternal innocent, with pink faces and baby smells around their tuxedos.

It doesn’t matter.
When I feel this in people, it feels like home too.

It moves me to tears, because I know what it means, I know the inner experience they’ve been through. And sometimes the inner experience to come.

But it feels like home, because ultimately writing led me to understand and feel we’re all made of this invisible, untouchable, unspeakable weaving of love.

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Stories beyond frontiers. Les histoires font la loi.