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Now you see me, Now you don’t: The common phenomenon of feeling unseen

As little children one of the most fascinating games for us is hide-and-seek. Cover a two-year-old with a cloth, and being unseen becomes entirely absorbing for them and they giggle out loud, curious and alert, cooperative and interested.

At some point, this cloth becomes the cloak under which our true self hides, sometimes afraid, sometimes ashamed, sometimes bruised and confused. Where did all the fun go?! Feeling unseen as grown ups is such a common phenomenon.

So quickly we are smothered by the uniforms of how-tos and how-not-tos and our memory becomes a shrine for all the things we chose, did and said that didn't fit the uniform.

Who are you looking at in order to be seen?

What kind of eyes does your uniform have?

What does it spit out?

Through the uniform we learn to look for approval, to be seen - by the common, by the known, by the familiar and the recognised. We light a memorial candle in the small rooms of our shrine of memories each morning, not knowing this is actually the flame of creation.

Creation comes from that which is not seen. Any creation carries the seed of invisibility, the mysterious, the emptiness. The seeding elements of writing, poetry, therapy, dance, singing, of any spiritual and artistic work, are the elements of your divine hunger that merge between the seen world and the unseen world.

The call to be seen is the call of the old Baba Yaga. The old woman who has infinite hunger that can only be satisfied by seeing truth. She can only be satisfied by the one who sees deep beauty. She sings through our skin to awaken our soul's song until the spirit of life will awaken in our creation and it will have a life of its own.

This song calls for the great devotion of an open and courageous heart. It is the spirit that knows how to dance in the whipping forests, between the marching trees, on top of roots that trip you, in spite of blinding fog.

The feeling of being unseen is more common among those who search for truth, who look for true beauty rather than blinding glamour. Amongst those who have just shed the rough and dry dandruff skin so their song can breath again, can shine again.

As children we TRUST that our partner in play will find us and see us. We know who we’re looking at in order to be seen. As we grow, our crowd of playmates grows. It becomes so wide and big, in fact, that it can no longer be seen. This is because it is a crowd made of souls. All the souls you belong to, all the souls who can hear your howling beneath the whipping forests, all the souls who can dance with you between the marching trees, all the souls who secretly hold your hand on top of roots that trip you, all the souls who know you and see you in spite of the blinding fog.

Look up to the eyes of all the hungry souls who are yearning to see YOU!


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