Have you written about that?
Magical conversations feel like communion.
I keep returning to this idea that people are our mirrors. “Everyone is a mirror image of your own thinking coming back at you,” Byron Katie wrote in Loving What Is.
It works for noticing shadow. “Everything that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of ourselves,” as Carl Jung put it. But where there is shadow, there is also gold.
I’ve been having lots of meetings recently and a lot of the people I meet are covered in gold. The stories and ideas they carry sparkle like a pile of gemstones. Well, almost. Their treasure exists in the realm of potential. It is unmanifest.
When I notice, I can’t help but ask:
Have you written about that?
When those words cross my lips, I know I’ve entered “most wonderful job in the world” territory. I can feel myself light up.
I find myself in the presence of something subtle and holy. Like communion. Not the Christian sacrament, Communion with a capital C, but communion as an intimate space of sharing, of being witnessed, of being vulnerable. A moment of inspiration and aliveness.
I’m not saying everyone should write in public. It’s just an expression of curiosity: that’s so interesting, have you dug into it? Have you given it shape or shared it? Have you written, spoken, painted, drawn, danced, sung, built, drummed, or carved . . . that?
. . . then I hear the shadow words. And the real communion begins.
You know the words I’m talking about.
What if I failed? What would people think? What — and who — could I lose?
What if I succeeded? Who would I be? What would I have to sacrifice?
It’s too difficult. I don’t know enough. Nobody would care or understand.
I could never . . . I am not a storyteller, not a writer, not interesting enough, not smart enough, not funny enough . . . not . . . enough.
Shadow words are as old as time. Exodus 3:10-11: “What makes you think that I could ever go to Pharaoh and lead the children of Israel out of Egypt?” Who, me? I could never!
Shadow words can feel like the weight of a lifetime. A ball and chain to keep us in place. Back pain to distract us from our gold.
Shadow words exhaust me, but I respect them. They tell me that I’m in someone’s labyrinth. There’s gold here, but also people’s demons.
I try to slow down and tap into my intuition. I reach out and feel the walls. What is the texture of this space? Are there markers to guide us? Can I find a light switch?
What I do, and someone had to point this out to me, is that I channel my inner bunny.
Picture a rabbit: big ears. Soft and warm. Gentle. Totally present. A good listener. A patient witness. The bunny does not judge. It is not pushy. By its nature it is excited to go down a rabbit hole.
Shadow words point toward an age-old nasty cocktail made with ingredients like fear, doubt, judgment, and pain.
I am afraid, I worry.
I don’t think I can.
I am not worthy. I don’t deserve.
I feel alone, separate, disconnected. . .
They point toward a simple question: Is it okay to be me?
Is there space in this world for . . . who I am, for how I am, for everything I am? Am I okay with all that I am — with everything I have done, thought, and felt? Can I meet everything I am with love and forgiveness?
Because if I could — if I felt completely comfortable and deeply in love with every aspect of myself — then of course I would share. It would be the most natural thing. Like asking for the butter at breakfast.
Unfortunately, the world can feel cold and threatening, judgmental and competitive. Maybe it does not feel like a place where it’s okay to be visible and take up space. Maybe it feels like you’re alone in your tower at night. The wolves are out there, howling at the moon. Maybe it feels like you need to protect yourself.
I get that. My safe space is a kind of isolation.
Give me a screen, books, journals. I am comfortable by myself. I don’t like to think about the downside of this behavior, the many relationships that died for lack of nourishment.
And of course there can be sacredness in solitude, in the communion with a greater force of being. But the gold I’ve been finding recently becomes visible in connection. It requires a shared space in which energy can flow.
It requires a conversation like a communion.
A magic space of curiosity and sharing that leads to the source of infinite possibility.
A space in which it’s okay to just be me.
That’s what the bunny means to me. Let the wolves be wolves for a moment and hang out with an animal that is friendly, harmless, and attentive. How nice to be heard and witness. How nice to just . . . be.
When we feel seen, accepted, maybe even understood, we remember that separation is not truth. We see a path to face the shadow and find the gold that lies behind it. We get a glimpse of what is possible.
To get there, we need to see our glow reflect in the eyes of another. To find our light, we need others who light up in our presence. We need to see it so we can believe it.
I need that, too. Last week, someone told me my questions were very intuitive. I blushed. What, me? Nooooo, you’re not serious, awwwww . . .
What I’m talking about is simple and available to all of us.
It’s as ordinary as setting an intention and preparing a space.
It’s as trivial as loving, gentle curiosity.
It’s as unremarkable as staying curious. Tell me more. I would love to hear about that. Actually, I totally think you could!
It’s as mundane as an empowering question: Have you written about that? What if you just . . . went for it?
That’s how we find the diamonds among our pebbles. That’s how we see the ancient patterns hidden in the endless sand. That’s how we remember the sun is right there, behind the clouds.
These conversations help us feel our lightning and hear our stream.
It must be the most wonderful job in the world to have them over and over, to be a mirror for magic, an instrument of sympathetic resonance, a tuning fork that vibrates in the presence of aliveness.
When we spot the gold in others, we get to enjoy the glow.
When we share our light, we get to be the light.
That said, what really excites me is that I don’t have to do the writing afterwards.
— Frederik
Channeling the rabbit for more magical conversations.
Preparation. Big ears and stillness.
Approach conversation with intention. Think of each as a room. What does the space feel like? What is the invitation?
If I can’t be present with myself, how can I be a good listener? Meditation, journaling, and walks anchor my days. Something simple like a few minutes of breathing — HRV or 4-7-8, for example — can help me find my center. When I overschedule on the other hand, my attention starts to frazzle.
This goes both ways: for my guidance calls, I send people questions to prepare. If someone can’t be bothered to invest ~10 minutes to reflect ahead of time, that has proven to be a meaningful red flag. My tolerance for this declined when I realized that my opportunity cost is a magical conversation with someone else.
Soft, warm, and gentle.
Prepare to share. Remember the levels of intimacy. People will meet you where they perceive you to be. If you’re all polished and business, the conversation will likely remain at that surface level.
We all experience inner conflict. I find it more interesting to explore polarities than to weigh in and support a side. There is information in resistance. Harmony requires that all voices are heard.
A mantra: I’m not here to tell anyone what to do. I don’t know what anyone should do. I just try to be present, curious, and I allow myself to get excited.
Ready for rabbit holes.
It’s nice to prepare, but don’t let an agenda get in the way of aliveness. I look for what wants to move. Sometimes it’s obvious, other times it hides below the surface. Both light and shadow words can lead us there.
Meeting shadow.
I find that treasure often lies at the intersection of talent and trauma. Where does the struggle to be human meet passion, skills, and knowledge?
I try to notice objections to curiosity, aliveness, and dreams. I try to inquire gently: What is behind the resistance? What makes this negative statement true or not true? What makes the other person think so — what part of them believes it to be true? What feelings or memories come up?
The emotional component is more complex.
First, the mind avoids discomfort. “I think” is a clue that someone is returning to their story after touching emotional truth. Sometimes it’s good to analyze, but often this is a diversion.
We all wear masks and people can be disconnected from their emotions. There is a lot of wisdom concealed, but I don’t know whether the other person wants to go there. I am curious: What is behind the fear and the tension? What is underneath the anger? But it’s all up to the other person.
I tend to recommend mindbody writing or specific prompts. Sometimes it’s obvious that follow-up conversations would be invaluable.
Eye on the prize.
The end goal, as I see it, is to meet everything within us with love and forgiveness.
Dealing with shadow is not easy. Affirmation is worth its weight in gold.
I picked up two prompts from James Pennebaker’s Opening Up by Writing It Down, a book about the science behind ‘expressive writing’ — writing about stressful or traumatic events.
“Benefit finding: Identify an event and then focus on the positive aspects of the experience; this might include a focus on how you have grown or changed as a person . . . and how you might be better equipped to meet future challenges.”
“Best possible future self: Think about your life in the future and write about this life as if you have worked hard and succeeded at accomplishing all of your life goals.” What is your highest and best hope?
Use these to ‘close out’ an investigation of the shadow space.
