Out with lanterns

I am out with lanterns, looking for myself.¹

In 1855, Emily Dickinson penned these words not about the solemn search for Self she may or may not have been engaged in, but about the sometimes equally disorienting process of moving house.¹ 

Although dear Emilie paints this picture in a friendly letter on the topic of moving and its associated physical disarray, the image rooted in my mind is one of a person moving through a landscape—often dark and enchanted forests—with only a wool cloak for warmth, her wits as protection, and the warm glow of a lantern to light the next few steps.

Lanterns evoke a sense of agency and self-sufficiency for me. An ability to move with ease and illuminate only the nearest surroundings. The lantern-bearer decides from moment to moment whether stillness or motion suits best. 

She may pivot course when a snapped stick from beyond signals danger in the darkness. 

She may stop and slow her own breathing to take stock, sharpening her senses against the stone of the quiet night, that she may move in wisdom and wonder instead of fear.

When I grasp the handle of my lantern, I grasp the power to chart my own path, light my own way. 

I am out with lanterns, looking for my Self.

In the same sentence, Emilie uses the word mêlée to describe the commotion of moving. Having moved a lot in my adult life, I readily agree with her! But the particular mêlée of a move eventually abates—even though many of us have a handful of boxes we’ve never unpacked following our last move, we begin to feel a sense of place in our new surroundings and the disorientation wanes. 

What I have experienced in ebbs and flows for decades, though, is a mêlée that has not receded with time. A sense of being carried off by an unpredictable tide and frantically seeking shelter in harbors of various kinds. People, relationships, stories, beliefs. 

If I could find a place that seemed safe enough, calm enough, stable enough, I’d drop anchor and stay—always in a subconscious way, never intentionally. Storms would ultimately stir up the seabed and I’d be back out in the open waters, sometimes within days and sometimes after decades believing I’d found my place.

What those “good enough” harbors all had in common are that they are places outside of me. Outside of my Self. Something or someone else was always in charge, ultimately, of the story and of the terms of engagement and of my okayness. 

I'm writing Lantern Letters as a way of seeking Self, and I am honestly uncertain of how exactly that will look. I am showing up with authenticity, surrendering unmasked to explore the process, and I'm open to tangents and detours and scenic vistas along the way.

For years, I have approached my creativity with a fairly corporate sensibility: I must have a clear value proposition for both myself and others, I must be a brand and stay on-brand, I cannot "waste" time or pivot or change my mind. That approach has in turns kept me anxious and masked or completely paralyzed. It's perfectionism, a feature of white supremacy culture, capitalism, and patriarchy, not a facet of my own character.

To change that,

I'm calling in my messy humanness and authenticity

I'm calling in my own sovereignty, which I didn't even know had been missing

I'm calling in what feels like magic to me, the wonders around me that bring joy and keep me going

I'm calling in the work of alchemy, a process of metamorphizing tales of pain and disempowerment into stories of wisdom and opportunity

And I'm calling in the healing power of connection, offering my words and pictures to any fellow travelers they might reach

This space is about being my own shelter, my own lighthouse, my own safe harbor.

I am out with lanterns, looking for my Self. 

I’m chiseling away at the cement layers that grew to encase me over long years. Gently brushing powdery dust from the glistening spirit beneath and listening to the wisdom I couldn’t quite hear for all those years. (And giving her a kiss on the forehead and a grilled cheese cut diagonally.)

I am spending time and vital energy heeding that wisdom, restoring the shine of Self I arrived with, that we all arrived with.

It’s slow going. Sometimes brutal and often sweet.

Some days, I’m flowing like water and dancing in the sun. Some days, I’m connecting fractured pieces like a master mason. Some days, I’m sitting in the rubble and sobbing and resting in turns.