A House on the Inside: A Place for Storing Secrets


An uncommon phenomenon - though uniquely experienced. Craving on the outside a hunger that can only be satiated from within. Acceptance. Belonging. A love stripped of conditions. Trust. Kindness. Soft words. Non-judgment. A well that overflows. Breath. Touch. Beauty. Spirit. Adventure. Solid ground. Certainly, there is more than this. All the things that will seductively lead me away from myself. The emptiness of chasing after forms that light me up and cause me to need more. And yet the opposite of more is enough. It’s too dizzying to remove the blindfold that keeps me a stranger to myself. I lull myself to sleep by the opinions of others and I become what I think you want me to be - in order to make myself lovable. Even if the cost is estrangement. If I want to, I can live out of awareness of this, imagining my eyes and chest are open. But open to what? Not to myself. To some imagined self.

What if I were like the tree. Doing what trees do. Rooting deep into the ground, spreading itself out; making a sturdy home that can withstand the elements. Creating a receptive space for warmth, water, shelter, seasons, change. And each day, I can be satisfied with my “tree-ness.” Trying not to interrupt too much my design.

But like and unlike the tree; the gnarlyness of my branches entangle me. My home on the inside is one that people helped me build - and like so many, I didn’t always get good help. People brought their baggage and sometimes dumped it all over, leaving me to make sense of the confusion. A place for storing secrets. For protecting against feeling through unhealthy attachments to things or people. Where shame can come and dwell. So, I take on a form of human-ing that involves a kind of fighting for hollow forms of acceptance and love - although none of this I can let in, nor believe - because no one has been allowed to climb inside that space to see what they are dealing with. No one. Not even me. A stranger in his own design.

This story can be about any of us I imagine. The life saving work of coming closer to the wild creature that paces inside longing for your loving, attention. Your soft, cradling arms.

Which is enough. Which is enough.

mindy lamprechtComment