On our way toward psychological maturity there is a crucial moment, a fork in the road where we must not leave our choice to chance… the rockier and more difficult road of self-authenticity…a solitary expedition into unexplored country, commonly indicated on ancient maps with the warning, “Hic sunt leones” (Here be lions). The beast the intrepid voyager could run into is none other than the devil or, other terms, his own shadow. ~ Aldo Carotenuto
We were talking about that awkward
constellation where egos stormed like
unacknowledged elephants in the room.
Their energetic pattern blocking
so everyone simply walked around
them without ever giving
the name, the space,
the celebration of is-ness.
I can’t abide it any longer.
This path is purely painful
when I find myself
pointing out the presence
of what has been ignored.
The cost of authenticity seems
to be friends. And long ago,
I gave away my entire library
to the girls next door, happy
to pay the price they demanded.
When my mother facilitated the books’ return,
the neighbors paraded in front of the house,
holding their noses, chanting ugly
names, and I watched
alone on the front steps.
Accepting the judgment.
Believing I needed to give more.
Understanding that my worth
was computed on a scale
invisible and impossible, exacting
and harsh. And let me tell you
my heart is pounding madly
finally walking into that unexplored
country, my head held
high, and I am here
just as I am. I’ll give you
my truth, and it’s fine,
however it does or doesn’t land.
I’m hunting for the lions
who guard my ferocious heart.