Silent Secrets — Sacred Stories
“You are the secret sweeper.”
Whose voice was speaking? I hurriedly swept hushed whisperings and interlaced secrets across a wooden floor until I reached a large, multicolored hand braided rug. I carefully lifted the corner and pushed the secrets under. Out of sight. Out of mind’s eye. Removed from heavy hearts, the secrets were secure, safely hidden. My job was done. Peaceful, I listened to the wind chimes while waiting arrival of the next batch of secrets. “The secrets, they are sacred. You must honor them. Keep them safe. Hold the space of grace for each one.”
I awaken from my dream — arm raised, phantom broom in hand, bedroom window sheers gently swaying from spring’s soft, blowing breezes. Re-enter. Real to surreal; back to real. Subconscious and conscious reviewing and reframing prepare me for daylight’s gift of meaningful work. So many metaphors swirl around in my head, spirit’s dream-state messages hook up with real life stories. Yes, I suppose I am the secret keeper, sweeping others’ secrets out of their weary, burdened hearts and souls, creating space for more joyful, lighter experiences and stories to tell. Fiery cardinals sing outside my window; I wonder what lyrics exist within their shrill songs. Do birds fly around, darting from branch to branch with secrets tucked under their wings? I rise.
Reflecting on the stories I confidentially honor, I do not see the faces of whom they belong, refer to them by namesake nor pass judgment. I simply allow the poignant memories to surface, process, heal and transform. These are the stories that leave deep soul imprints. They originate in earthly experiences, often undesired and uncontrollable; their powerful impact leads toward deep, spiritual knowing, the type of knowledge that is transformational. The characters have critical decisions to shake loose. Do I seek transformation or continue a lifetime of scarred visual images, agonizing emotions, negative thoughts and chronic physical pain stuck on repeat, playing like some scratched piece of vinyl?
The stories unfold with hesitancy, bursts of anger, solo teardrops, barely audible voices and thundering, guttural sobs. The voice of the eyes narrate their own story: bewilderment, steely drive, exhaustion, tightly leashed fear, wild blinks, lowered lids shuttering shame or fixed stares of trauma. “Please fix this, make it stop, take it far, far away, can you do that?” “No, I’m sorry, only you can do that; it is you who must do the work. I promise to be your unwavering partner as you work.” Authors’ choice — their stories to tell, reframe, live and/or bring to close. Some start a new chapter, others require a sequel, and a few are burned in rituals of goodbye and good riddance. Hope marries desperation and the work begins. More often that not, happy endings lead to the next.
These are the stories that we call secrets. We protect them and their accompanying cast of starring characters. Reluctant to unveil anything that could make us unwitting targets for more pain, misunderstanding, accusations, judgment or gossip, we hide them. We pretend they’re not worthy or that they’re so worthy, they’ll mark us for life, an identifiable tattoo that keeps us self-imprisoned. We are taught from an early age the stories that are secrets, bookmarked with shame, fear or embarrassment. Just as quickly, we learn the stories that are revered, proudly displayed and shared, those contributing to ancestral folklore and familial heritage.
I hold the space of grace for workplace pain, domestic and violent abuse, broken hearts, unexpected healthcare diagnoses, gender differences, hospice goodbyes, harassment, addictions, Mother Nature’s storm wrath, parental, adoptive and foster care ache, incarcerations, bullying, abandonment, sabotaging self-doubt, grief, veteran trauma, homelessness, racism, suicide, purpose defining, the widowed, divorced and single. The space for low self-esteem becomes very crowded until one finds his or her worth and moves onward. About the time, I think I have heard and learned about every physical, mental, emotional or spiritual challenge the universe is capable of bestowing upon us, I have the privilege of hearing a new story.
Someone arrives to share a new life lesson. The deep womb that harbors buried secrets births sacred stories — usually laced in scarred pain. Voice is gently encouraged to give narration to the story. The space of grace deepens. The journey toward personal power and peace begins its ascent. The deeper the narrative, the further one’s stories unfold, the more darkness of heart and mind lightens. Grace lovingly sweeps away all the secrets. Veils lift, souls cleansed, joy begins to peer out from under the rug of hidden desperation. What was, was. What can be, BEcomes. Openly. Confidently. Proudly. Joyously.
If you are harboring painful secrets, seek out a person who can help you surface them, face them, and reframe them into worthy stories that allow you to honor your sacred existence. Trust your truth. At minimum, trust you will find your integral truth that lies beneath the secret. Begin with Don Miguel’s, author of The Four Agreements, first agreement: “Be impeccable with your word.” Using your voice ignites a transformational healing process: telling leads to being heard, understood, respected and appreciated. Secrets are swept away, replaced by personal power.
You have a lot to tell, a great story waiting to be released, and an audience who wants and needs to hear it. Perhaps you are the audience. It is your choice. Do you choose to stand and share in front of an audience of one or a crowded auditorium? Give your voice a microphone, your heart a higher platform, your mind a bigger teleprompter. Invite grace to sit in your audience. She will be the first to rise, giving you a joyous standing ovation when you reach The End.