Mind attic

Upstairs, in a drawer of the antique desk is a painted cigar box. I wait 

until the guests ate gone to open it. This is my box. Where I keep my secret talents and passions, my true self. 

I want to share its contents with someone, but it's safer this way; 

butterflies in a cage where no one can squish them. There is no freedom, but we all 

make sacrifices for security.  

--

Whenever I meditate I imagine they my mind is an attic filled with boxes, dressers, and hutches: places to hide thoughts. 

I find that I it thoughts in different place based on their category -- fears, worries, memories, wishes. What is hidden from company is not always what we regret or are ashamed of, sometimes it's the most wonderful things about ourselves. We are afraid our own beauty, our own capacity to be magnificent. 

Bss,

Marybeth