out of the shadows

Two years ago, just around this same time of year, a writer sat hunched over her laptop, entranced by its glowing screen. The glow lit up the dark, wet, rock surfaces of the walls around her, it lit up the bits of moss clinging from the ceiling, it led the way then lost itself in the darkness of the gaping mouths of the tunnels that ran through the cave. The first draft of her piece was open on the screen. The writer knew just where the inspiration had come from: school down tunnel one, work down tunnel 6, and travel down tunnel 5. Family down tunnel 4 and dreams down tunnel 9 had also played a small part. The glow pulsed against the gloom as she added retrospective shots of her life in those tunnels. Then someone called her name. Politely.

The writer turned to find the face behind the voice, but found her eyes flooded with bright light. What kind of a laptop had a screen that large? She walked toward the light, hands out because, like the darkness, the light had no depth. Her hands met with nothing, nothing at all.

Within a few steps, the ground grew softly bumpy: soon she blinked as her eyes took in shapes she had never seen before. Long, rough poles sprouting brilliant green needles surrounded her. Her lungs filled with the scent of the greenness: it was sharp, like the needles themselves. Everywhere was both light and shadows. She heard her name again, and looked up.

• 

• 

In the tree hunched a feathery creature, staring at her, knowing her. “Writer,” Owl called. “Writer!”

So the writer said, “I am here, what is this place and who are you?”

“This is the forest, and it is full of things to know: and beyond this are the sea, the mountains, and the desert, and they are also full of things to know. I, on the other hand, am something you cannot really know yet. I am that which is born of Destruction but my presence is Creation. “

The writer was speechless. She looked behind her, and saw that she had come from a small speck of cave darkness that was now melting away against the vastness of the forest. She was confused.

“You’ve been writing about me, but you have never seen me. You have shaped me but never touched me. You’ve never seen where I live. You’ve never seen the other creatures and plants of the forest, of the true world. You only know your cave, and what you can see by the light of your screen and the shadows it casts on your cold walls. And so it is with everyone in your dark world. So I have come to set you straight.”

The writer blinked. Then, being a writer and a lover of all kinds of stories, she said: “Thank you. I am listening.”

Owl spoke for a long time. Terrible, frightening things about horrible hurt and harm spilled out, and the writer was frightened for Owl; but those terrible things were followed by heroic events where Owl became Many to save One. In the world Owl lived in, this was possible by tugging on magical humming threads that gave way to new worlds, new possibilities, that all made it possible for Owl to stay Owl and live in the forest, not the cave. When younger, and sometimes now too, this happened involuntarily. This was not an entirely bad thing because Owl’s cave had been full of vampires and ghouls and no one was around to rescue her.

Owl continued her story. Sometimes Owl woke up a Magpie, sometimes a Sparrow, sometimes an Eagle, sometimes a Wren …. but most of the time she was Owl. Fearless Eagle could lift heavy weights, Magpie was naughty and clever, Sparrow was warm, and Wren was very little indeed. It was difficult to keep them sorted and difficult not to confuse others; but since Owl was the wise one, she had built them all a nest high up in the trees where they all could live together and discuss important decisions and daily events. The writer learned that Time is spherical and has both surface and volume, and that Memory is treacherously fickle. The writer learned of Love: how much love it took to save just one, and what big eyes and big hearts it took to love many.

When the Owl had finished all she had to say, she flew off. The writer was exhausted. She turned to seek the safe, blinding darkness of her cave, but it had vanished completely. Overhead, the rays of the morning sun wove in and out through the pines in gold flecks. Birds of many colors flit from leaf to leaf, branch to branch, and the wind sighed. Things seen and unseen moved all around her. The writer set out, and with every few steps another stepped out from the shadows, joined her, walked with her, and told her a story. Her hands empty and light without the laptop, the writer saw for the first time the distant horizon and walked slowly on.

---

I would like to thank Christine for opening my eyes with her stories over coffee, and for her Plato’s cave analogy. I would like to thank Opi for the wise and creative input.

OWLS
-Owls are birds of powerful transformative properties across many cultures: often soul or spirit transformation. They are crepuscular creatures, preferring the dawn and twilight for their hunts, haunts, and roams. For these dusky times, and for the night time, they have exceptional eye sight and are able to swivel their heads to astonishing degrees. Perhaps, with such vision, they can see through both space and time, who knows? Being familiars of the goddess Athena, they represent Wisdom -here, acknowledging there is so much left to learn; and War- a battle for survival… Also, flanking Athena in ancient Greece they must have had some acquaintance with old Plato himself.

The owl in my painting is huge (the painting is roughly 5.5×3), because this was a huge topic for me. It is inspired by my summer encounter with an owl in the forest who was kind enough to hold still while I photographed her. S/he was a barred owl, and quite content to be about in the late summer morning, not doing anything fancy, just silently watching me in stillness. I’m leaving you with two smaller images…one, the photo I took that inspired this painting; and two, a smaller owl from last year’s label project. And, of course, if you make it that far, my free verse flipped perspective to mark the occasion.

Familiar Vision

Athena,

Your familiar has flown outside

Plato’s murky threshold

and has found herself gazing into a Twilight

so vast

it is lucky for her

that those round, round

eyes

peer not just in front

but swivel to all sides

as shadows step

timidly

from

the flanks of Chronos.

Perhaps with her advantage

those eyes

will discern a purpose

to her visions.

Here is a useful introduction I found to Dissociative Identity Disorder for those who are starting a journey of their own or are just curious: https://theoakstreatment.com/blog/the-myths-and-facts-about-dissociative-identity-disorder/