Of fear and truth on the precipice of the telling
For weeks I’ve been circling, collecting my courage, doubting my voice, hinting at what has been, hiding what truly is. To put into words what is most important perhaps supersedes the most cautious and sensible of thoughts, and the fears of wounding and being misunderstood. But it is an illusion to believe silence can be a shield or protection, for silence itself is a frightening invitation to self-destruction, however counterintuitive that may seem.
Emily Dickinson once wrote,
“Tell all the truth but tell it slant— Success in Circuit lies Too bright for our infirm Delight The Truth's superb surprise As Lightning to the Children eased With explanation kind The Truth must dazzle gradually Or every man be blind—”
Hers is a poetics of the telling. It assumes the decision has already been made. Mine has not been — until now, or at least, so I presume. Perhaps it was already made long ago, and I’m just now discovering it.
But within the telling, there is always the fear — unavoidable but not unbearable. The consequences of silence outweigh those of being seen. The mediation is permissible, but betrayal is not.
Drawing on Virginia Woolf’s unfinished problem of “telling the truth about my own experiences as a body,” I believe one must accept the possibility of failure while continuing to find truer ways to speak from embodied experience. And I have yet to fully resolve what has happened to me, and what continues to happen. I can only hope the revelation fosters, rather than hinders, the metamorphosis of both the experience and its telling.
So, I have lit this candle meant for two, afraid of what my silence might conceal, afraid of what my words might yet reveal — there’s so much more to life than just fear.
By D. Bowman | Nomina Numina is a journal of my reflections, moments, and meaning-making between worlds. Reply by email.