The Power of Secrets

In the age of sharing everything, of revoking the privacy of a few thoughts and pertinent, personal details for the ability to access a fun game or interesting comment forum, the specialness of keeping a secret has increased exponentially. The things I keep secret are of paramount importance to me. And I'm not talking about my social security number; I've rattled off that or a credit card number into a cell phone on a public street more times than I care to admit. I'm talking about the real secrets — those that are the thread that binds the pieces of your true self together.

Enter my apartment and they are everywhere: privy only to those I trust and love deeply enough to invite into my personal haven. You will see, if you look close enough, the battered old copy of "Heidi" atop my bookshelf, with no page regarding the Library of Congress or copyright, only an inscription— "To Karol, with love, Christmas 1954". You will see a little Post-It that simply reads, "Buenos noches mija". But will you know the secrets of these tantalizing pieces of my life? If you ask, yes you will. And they might just reveal to you a special part of me you never knew before.

Secrets only grow when held inside. With the increase of space they take in your heart, their magic grows too, whispering things only you have heard while you drift off to sleep. Things spoken to you in the intimacy of an intense moment, true secrets or profound revalations of love or regret — these are the stuff of all that is True.

He grabs my hand while we lie on top of covers together. Facing away, he pulls my arm around him and tells me secret truths of a past so powerful, it makes me secretly weep for the boy that suffered, that built the man whose heart I now feel beating next to mine — through his ribcage, spine, two layers of clothing and the lips I am now pressing on the back of his neck, as I say… I understand. And I love you for all that you are, and have been — I love you truly for all of this. I am so grateful I am one who is honored to hear these quiet truths.

She sits next to me and the words spill out. They tumble out, haphazard, with no regard for conjunctions or space or time. I refrain from helping her fill out her sentences, because she needs to do so herself so desperately. As if to survive the overwhelming weight of their being unspoken within her. They pour forth, these pieces of her day or life, past or future, life or death. And I listen, and when she manages to reach my eyes with hers, I am sure to project nothing but the utmost love, acceptance and true, deep friendship. These words will never be spoken again. The conversation will never, probably, be referred to at a later date. But on that night, on the old wooden boards of that front porch, we hug each other sideways until she leans into me, confident now that her weakness in the moment is wholly swaddled within my strength for her, my best friend.

And no one else will ever know.

Secrets are some of the most important things we will encounter in this life. Secrets are what drive us to accomplish all we do, and all we seek to understand, in this life. God, for example, is the ultimate secret. Where does he, she, they, lie? What are the thoughts and motivations that may or may not ruminate in such a deity? What are those damn secrets?

Or that one secret — oh, growing up! — when those feelings start to surface, physical and emotional, and the loaded three-letter word that is Sex begins to have a presence in your mind. And then you get there, and it only presents a larger, more phenomenal secret… that of the orgasm. That simple, driving force that has tumbled empires and created lives, taken them and altogether changed the world — what is that?? Oh, growing up! When you finally discover that hidden moment of divinity between your legs. That force within you that makes you a god, that literally has the ability to create life. Yet at the same time, seems to control you completely from the outside, as if, at times, you were only a pawn!

Secrets and more secrets and more secrets… And remember: The ones you tell may be held in memory that appears more clear; but beware, this clarity is a ruse that your present mind paints to make order of the chaos of a truly magical moment. Magic is inherently chaotic — hold it in, I say! Hold that moment, that piece of joy when you shared a secret smile with a stranger, the regret of that kiss you never got to repeat, that beautiful poem you wrote and accidentally left at the restaurant table… or found on that restaurant table. Secrets are for keeping, because their power can never be harnessed, can never be duplicated or restored once altered.

The best secrets are eternal. They live long past the passing of their holders, and like energy, can neither be created nor destroyed. They simply are. And if you are lucky enough to find yourself in the overwhelming, drenching joy of a truly wonderful, or profound, or difficult or devastating secret, then guard it with your life. Take it with you every day in your heart, and understand its importance.

We are powerful beings, if only for our ability to understand the value of the secrets we possess.

We both have one, mine just has a name.

What a comfort
Like a warm blanket and a cool pillow
When my thoughts lay in the memory of you
And of all the ordinary, wonderful things that we do.

What an adventure
To stand before a mountain
For once, not alone, I find strength in knowing
That you are there too, staring up

Looking up so high and saying,
It's not so bad.
We can make that.

And I,
I too look with you
At those cliffs impenetrable
And with reasoned breath
I quiet our vulnerabilities, and say,

It's not so bad.
We really can make that.

Knowing you are by my side
Is not a fantastic thing
every waking moment,
But a constant, beating heart.
Beating time with my own,
Reaffirming that the rhythm will be kept
Even if the darkness takes me under for a moment.

And I, too,
Feel proud in my own daily beating
Within your breast, next to your heart,
pumping blood
and preparing for tests.

It is quite extraordinary.
It is beautiful, and real.
It is not an angel or a miracle.
It is simple and strong.

It is maybe the truest thing I have known as an adult.
Real love, and acceptance, and support
Wrapped inside strong arms and passionate kisses,
Hidden mischievously between the lines of poems
And secret notes left in books.

I love him, I thought,
And I new that it was true.
I want to spend the rest of my life,
Living it with you.

2.

He looks at me
In a way
I’ve never seen before.

He looks at me like an infant does
When you’re suddenly scared it can read your thoughts.

He comes by it honestly
What I mean is,
He seems to come honestly.

A simple part of my heart
Has begun to override
— The complexity of asking too many questions.
— Of thinking too many thoughts.


But what more could one think?
Really, what’s the point of thinking more,
When a man who will hold down your skirt in the wind,
And writes poems about your laughter,
Looks at you like a fox
When you find that certain book.

Our Global Heritage...

... Is of great importance to me. Any of you who know me, know that I am extremely passionate about the Spanish language in particular and Latin culture especially. The history of the Americas, pre- and post- European arrival, never ceases to fascinate me. Yesterday I made a new friend, Zay, who is Puerto Rican-American, and we were both delighted to find someone else with whom to speak Spanish. Upon becoming Facebook friends with him, I found under his information some very interesting history regarding his indigenous heritage. Included at the end was this prayer, that is so beautiful, I decided I must share it here:


FOR THE PEOPLE FROM THE PEOPLE:

Today I will walk out, today everything evil will leave me,
I will be as I was before, I will have a cool breeze over my body.
I will have a light body, I will be happy forever,
nothing will hinder me.
I walk with beauty before me. I walk with beauty behind me.
I walk with beauty below me. I walk with beauty above me.
I walk with beauty around me. My words will be beautiful.

In beauty all day long may I walk.
Through the returning seasons, may I walk.
On the trail marked with pollen may I walk.
With dew about my feet, may I walk.

With beauty before me may I walk.
With beauty behind me may I walk.
With beauty below me may I walk.
With beauty above me may I walk.
With beauty all around me may I walk.

In old age wandering on a trail of beauty,
lively, may I walk.
In old age wandering on a trail of beauty,
living again, may I walk.
My words will be beautiful.

-- Anasazi Prayer

Another Motto for My Summer:

Ah to be a woman is divine.

“She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there, leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.”

- J.D. Salinger

My Mother is My Best Friend.

I had a dream right before I woke up. You and I were some of the last to flee a natural disaster and a beautiful home where we lived with many people. We left by ship in dangerous rains. We sailed and sailed in all kinds of real and tumbled-together craft until we finally spotted land. Men jumped from their rafts and swam to the shore. The few men already on the beach spoke enough English and welcomed us, and you and I immediately began helping in a cafeteria prepared for all of us refugees. After eating a sandwhich, a slice of apple pie and another desert, we were sitting with a group of Latinas that reminded me of my cousins growing up — all big hair and make-up. They were beautiful and sweet.

My body ached and I was so tired. I wanted a third desert, but my crush from years ago (the one I talked about for so long, who sweetly told me he only wanted friendship) was among the refugees, and I felt like I would lose face were I to go get another. You got up for a quick reason, and the Latinas remarked on how close we were and how we always remarked on our make-up, which we never do, and I thought this odd and ironic.

Finally I went outside to walk around and gather my peace. We were in a new country, a new land, a new culture. They spoke English but one could tell it was not their native tongue. I passed by homes with families going about their day. I remembered seeing a group of boys joyfully playing with their fathers. One home had put their trash out by the curb, and it must have snowed recently, because next to the rubbish was a small pile of ice pieces. Looking closer, I realized that some were beautifully, naturally formed into shapes of angles, bears and other creatures. I decided I must bring one back for you, but each one I picked up was so fragile, it broke in my hands. Finally, one of a gremlin with butterfly wings held firmly and did not crack or melt. It wasn't as beautiful as the rest, but I was bringing it to you and our new life together, and that was all that mattered.