Dear Reader,

WARNING!

DO NOT read this post if you are triggered by any form of domestic violence, sexual predation, or PTSD due to personal trauma. All Readers proceed with caution. Take the best care of you. 

Thank you for your witnessing heart and mind. This Rite-of-Passage story has not been shared in its entirety before now. With a metaphoric string tied around her waist, the nineteen-year-old is attempting to not lose herself even as she remains in hiding. She is holding the three gifts near during this tender and damaged point in her life. 

In the story, it is just a year ago that mom needed to hide her shame by banishing the young girl ‘to Chicago’, making her invisible to everyone who knew her. At this point in the story, she is still in hiding. The Medicine Man has provided her a place to stay. He found her, gave her ‘medicine’, and now provides her with a place to heal after she suffered extreme sexual violence less than six weeks after giving birth.

She made a promise to her unborn child last spring that she will dedicate herself to becoming the best artist/person possible. In case they meet she dreams that he might be glad to know her. 

Art that holds meaning contains the personal as well as a universal message.

David Whyte’s poem puts into words more of what has been learned by scribing this young woman’s story.

I invite you to read this poem with your life in mind. Ask yourself how many ways you have been hidden. How many hidden gifts can you discover, even decades later?

 

THE VIRTUES OF HIDING
by David Whyte

HIDING is a way of staying alive. Hiding is a way of holding ourselves until
we are ready to come into the light. Even hiding the truth from ourselves
can be a way to come to what we need in our own necessary time. Hiding is
one of the brilliant and virtuoso practices of almost every part of the
natural world: the protective quiet of an icy northern landscape, the held
bud of a future summer rose, the snow bound internal pulse of the
hibernating bear.

Hiding is underestimated. We are hidden by life in our mother’s womb
until we grow and ready ourselves for our first appearance in the lighted
world; to appear too early in that world is to find ourselves with the
immediate necessity for outside intensive care.

Hiding done properly is the internal faithful promise for a proper future
emergence, as embryos, as children or even as emerging adults in retreat
from the names that have caught us and imprisoned us, often in ways
where we have been too easily seen and too easily named.

We live in a time of the dissected soul, the immediate disclosure; our
thoughts, imaginings and longings exposed to the light too much, too early
and too often, our best qualities squeezed too soon into a world already
awash with too easily articulated ideas that oppress our sense of self and
our sense of others.

What is real is almost always to begin with, hidden, and does not want to
be understood by the part of our mind that mistakenly thinks it knows
what is happening. What is precious inside us does not care to be known by
the mind in ways that diminish its presence.

Hiding is an act of freedom from the misunderstanding of others,
especially in the enclosing world of oppressive secret government and
private entities, attempting to name us, to anticipate us, to leave us with
no place to hide and grow in ways unmanaged by a creeping necessity for
absolute naming, absolute tracking and absolute control.

Hiding is a bid for independence, from others, from mistaken ideas we
have about our selves, from an oppressive and mistaken wish to keep us
completely safe, completely ministered to, and therefore completely
managed.

Hiding is creative, necessary and beautifully subversive of outside
interference and control. Hiding leaves life to itself, to become more of
itself. Hiding is the radical independence necessary for our emergence into
the light of a proper human future.

Excerpted from David Whyte:
“HIDING” in CONSOLATIONS: The Solace,
Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words.

My bedroom in the apartment is a safe place … until it’s not.

The old Medicine Man begins a habit of escorting me up the back stairs after the extravagance of the Saturday night concerts. He is proprietary. There is an assumed understanding. He carefully hangs his expensive clothes over the edge of the top dresser drawer then settles himself into my twin bed wearing his white cotton briefs and sparkling white v neck undershirt. Usually tired from his very busy week I can count on him snoring quietly soon after lying down. Thanks to the doctor’s book, the strength of Alice, and the awareness that Medicine Man has of my circumstance, I weather this part. 

Then, on a weekday before dawn, my second-floor window becomes a passageway for a new intruder climbing the porch post, crawling onto the narrow shingled overhang, and stepping over the sill into my darkened room.

In three short steps, he is at my bedside, placing his calloused hand over my mouth. Handsome Man breathes into my right ear, “Do. Not. Make. A. Sound.”

What is going on? He smiles. He stares directly into my sleepy eyes as if he is a friend. I thought he was. I thought he and his Beautiful Girl were both my friends. He carefully moves his open palm away from my mouth slowly, very slowly sliding over my neck. He reaches under my nightshirt lingers when he reaches my breasts, letting his hand flow over my skin creating a figure-eight before reaching down and pressing firmly into my stomach. Stay. His hand straddles the width of my body holding me in place.

Handsome Man sits on the edge of the mattress, he pushes his body up against my right hip. He holds me with his left hand while pulling the laces free from his work boots with his right. He pries the boots off placing them side by side very quietly. D&K sleep together on the other side of the thin wall. His large heavy hand lays on me as he silently undresses, lifts, and then slides between the sheets.

Moments ago I was sleeping. I am disoriented. Why is he here? What is he doing?  It’s dark yet I can see that he smiles sweetly. He acts tenderly. Without making a sound the Handsome Man breathes hot and heavily into my ear. He acts as though what he is doing is of course welcome. He pretends that he is entering my body with my consent. He claims privilege.

My body is being stolen. Again.

I take the only action available. Automatically I consciously join with my gentle spirit. Together we lift from my fragile body and leave this scene.

I am a strong-winged night-flying bird, I rise and fly free using the same window through which he came. I am no longer present. I fly into the indigo starlit predawn sky. I leave behind the hollow shell that looks like, yes, perhaps that is my body lying under his body in my bed.

In mid-summer, the set-up and entrapment happened. While locked on the filthy attic stairs the quarter was tossed and the three abductors took turns gobbling pills before using force to enforce their sense of power over me. I turned to face the small square window seeing the pair of doves nestled in the lush branches of the maple tree, sunshine filtered through the Sunday afternoon sky. Not knowing if I would live or die my spirit took leave. I joined the doves taking to the sky circling, soaring, waiting until it was quiet. Waiting patiently. It was almost total darkness before I returned to the battered shell of me crumpled on the dirty ticking. In the fading light in the corner under the eaves, the dead starling’s iridescent feathers showed their beauty.

This time I have a clear destination. The doctor’s book has been helping me to learn the power of holding a vision. Every day I practice seeing what I want.

As the weight of the Handsome Man bears down on me I leave my body. I travel without hesitation to the long country lane banked by cornstalks leading to Alice and Larry’s, arriving at The Farm instantaneously. I breathe in the fresh air. I walk in the meadow. I sit in my apple tree watching the moving cloud of sheep. I wander into the barn and sit on the metal swing watching hundreds of red hens scratching and pecking or lazily nestled into the straw tending their eggs. I can hear the soft sound of the music being made in the old farmhouse as I wander through the woods to the creek looking for the tracks of deer and rabbit. I see Jesus rising high into the sky with his arms spread wide over the perimeter of trees beaming out the message that “All is Well.” I visit the lush garden, see the spellbinding apparition of Alice diving nude into the pool. I watch her pick beans, paint poems, hear stories of India and art-making, the peace of Bahai. 

I can sense that Handsome Man has finished what he came to accomplish. I return and settle into my body as he quietly dresses. He turns toward me. He is a handsome man. He takes what he wants. He smiles and places his large open palm against the left side of my face. He holds it there then taps-slaps my face several times. 

Tap-tap-slap.

I have seen the gesture play out over and over when the brothers or the old neighborhood men gather. He looks at me as though he cares. He leans in and kisses my forehead. He whispers, “Shhhh. Don’t. Say. A. Word.” 

His silhouette moves easily back out the window. I am his accomplice. This is a dangerous secret.

I feel numb and confused yet I do not have the luxury of being a victim. This year has given me training. I am being educated in ways I could not have anticipated and that I would not have chosen. I am hollow yet I am at the same time able to remember that I do not belong here.

I. Do. Not. Belong. Here.

I recognize this invasion as one more obstacle in my path.

I must remember.

I cannot forget.

I think I can
I think I can.

I remember the doctor counseling me. I must learn:

‘Do not carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.’

No matter what happens I must continue toward my goal. I think of Alice and remember that I can call upon her strength. I hear a distant echo from the land as Jesus is saying, “All is Well.” I need to take my next step. The book that the doctor has given me points out that there is a “zig and zag” nature of moving toward a goal. It is never a straight line to reach a target. The examples given in the book refer to golf games and skeet shooting, college exams, or making a marriage work. For now, the only action available under my circumstance is to …

Act normal.

I practice.

Handsome Man returns on yet another predawn morning. Then again. And again. I never know when I will hear the window slowly being raised. “Shhh.” Again and again, I lift and my wings carry me over the countryside to the lane banked by cornstalks. I settle onto the soft meadow grass or rest on the strong limb of my apple tree. Always the moving cloud of sheep. Always the arms of Jesus outstretched. Always the reminder, “All is Well.”

I do not attract attention.

I stay on the schedule set by Medicine Man: Wednesday next door to the laundry I meet with Handsome Man and Beautiful Girl. Tend to business.

Act normal.

Handsome Man might come to my room on Thursday morning before daylight. He might wait until next week. There is no lock for my window. As he enters I exit and travel to the creek beds watching the butterflies, I follow the deer paths. He climbs the porch post in the dark before dawn, enters my room, and the shell of my body when he chooses. He does what he wants. He plays a role. He acts as a tender, caring man. More and more he, the Handsome Man, acts as if I am what he wants. This is a lie. He tells me that this is where he wants to be. This is not true. He climbs my balcony and picks me intentionally. He steals what he thinks belongs to Medicine Man. He drills into my body. He acts entitled. He needs to claim his place. His father has been assassinated. He has to prove himself to himself. 

I can see the way the old men in the backroom of the restaurants and the young men on the corners treat women. I have no interest in the workings of these streets. I can see that the old neighborhood men in charge nod and allow Medicine Man, an outsider, to conduct business. I know that I, an outsider, cannot cause problems for either Medicine Man or Handsome Man without increasing the danger for myself. 

Weeks pass. I keep the predawn secret. It is early Thursday afternoon. I am in the kitchen with K. There is a commotion in the side yard below. We hear a banshee cry! We look at one another as the loud shouting comes closer. There is a tornadic rush of angry sound coming up the back stairs. The kitchen door is kicked open. We see the gun.

Circling back to David Whyte:

What is real is almost always, to begin with, hidden, and does not want to
be understood by the part of our mind that mistakenly thinks it knows
what is happening.
What is precious inside us does not care to be known by
the mind in ways that diminish its presence.

…

Hiding is creative, necessary, and beautifully subversive of outside
interference and control. Hiding leaves life to itself, to become more of
itself. Hiding is the radical independence necessary for our emergence into
the light of a proper human future.