The cavernous
The blue
So dark
It was almost black
Trapped this deep
Desire
to be
transported
Up
Out
The subterranean
HIDDEN
in the corner of the sea
Generational chains
rusted
around my ankles
and arms
Were unlocked
A voice spoke
No longer
live in the depths
Emerging
to the surface
Ever…so slowly
Adjusting
my sight
and breathing
The atmospheric pressure
Had compressed
my eyes and lungs
The Free Diver who came from air Leads me
Crystal Anzalone
November 8, 2007
OBCULTATIO ~ Latin for hiding, concealment
“That we write our story lest someone else write it for us.” James Hollis
I am a wounded healer by vocation, a mental health therapist. Part of the therapy that I offer clients is telling their story through their own perspective, not with the voice of their inner or outer accusers. Rather, helping them connect with their purest and deepest self. Chronicling our story from our own perspective is a vital part of the ongoing journey of healing. TS Eliot represents my heart and others like me, (INFJ’s in terms of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator), who are not truly known. We are, “not known, because not looked for.”
The horizon has always been before me, stretching out with a sustained potential. It offered a promise in a language now foreign to me, yet fluent as a youth. The invitation the horizon extended never waned, and while my fear refused its seduction, it never ceased its wooing.
Carl Jung described the Muse as the “passion that engrosses” us, Socrates interpreted the Muse as the initiator of performance, and Plato’s Ion might lead us to believe the Muse is in the desire of the reader or observer. My acquaintance with the Muse was ever forthcoming, yet I demurred with perennial resolve in demand of agendas that were never my own. When the Muse visits, we alone can be the tragic arbitrator of our longings demise.
