I’m being called to sit with my shadow self, my skeleton woman, the disavowed, suppressed, ignored, uncomfortable part of myself.

It’s uncomfortable, which should really cease to surprise me.

Because how can it ever not be?

Getting to grips with that inner bog means getting your hands dirty, it means getting your feet stuck in the sucking muck.

It means experiencing uncertainty.

Itchy, restless, unsettled uncertainty.

And it’s hard to call on patience even when I know the only thing I can salve this with is time.

But how much time?

How much longer do I have to feel like this?

How long do I have to wait?

As long as these questions are bubbling up to the surface I know my work isn’t yet done.

There’s still more to dig up.

Heave sigh, look forlorn, go clean something.

Is it too soon for another coffee?

I itch and I burn on the inside, the rest of the world seems to be moving on without me, their lives continuing in glistening, shimmering moments that seem the polar opposite of how I feel on the inside.

Ugh, will this never end?!

So, I go back and sit down with her, the clattering of her bony laugh is a rebuke that makes me feel childish in my impatience.

She tops up my cup of tea and sits back without a word, she is timeless, ancient, she can wait.

It’s only the young and inexperienced that are in a rush and who want immediate resolutions.

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