Finding the Way Into the Invisible Cave
There are places inside a person I cannot take you.
I cannot walk into the invisible cave of your soul and point.
There.
That’s the thing you’re feeling.
That’s the memory.
That’s the word you couldn’t find.
I can’t do that.
Neither can anyone else.
And perhaps that’s the point.
There is something I can give you, though.
A question.
A very small thing.
A question is like a tiny stone.
You take it into the cave.
You throw it.
You listen.
It strikes something in the dark.
Tok.
Maybe nothing.
Throw another.
Clink.
You don’t know what you hit.
That’s okay.
You weren’t trying to hit something.
You were trying to hear the shape of the room.
This is why I love questions.
A good question doesn’t tell you where to go.
It gives you a sound.
And then another.
And slowly, the invisible begins to have dimensions.
You ask:
What do I know?
The stone goes out.
Tok.
Perhaps the answer is:
I’m angry.
Throw another.
What am I angry about?
Clink.
Maybe:
I feel unseen.
Another stone.
What would I want someone to see?
Silence.
Then, somewhere deeper:
Me.
There it is.
Not an answer supplied by someone else.
Something you found.
That distinction matters.
I can tell you what I think your cave looks like.
I can describe caves I’ve visited.
I can tell you stories about caves.
I can even give you a very convincing map.
But it is still your cave.
And eventually you have to enter it yourself.
So I would rather give you stones.
Questions.
Little pieces of language you can carry into the dark.
Some will make no sound at all.
Some will hit the walls immediately.
Some will disappear into depths you didn’t know existed.
Some will come back years later.
That is fine.
There is no requirement to solve yourself in one sitting.
A question is not a demand for an answer.
Sometimes a question is simply a way of making contact with something that has no words yet.
And this is the strange territory where feelings live.
You can feel something completely and still have no language for it.
The experience comes first.
The words arrive later.
Sometimes much later.
So if you have ever thought:
I know something is happening inside me, but I don’t know how to say it…
Good.
You don’t have to say it yet.
Take a stone.
Ask.
Listen.
The sound may be faint.
It may be strange.
It may not mean anything at first.
Throw another.
What am I protecting?
Tok.
What am I afraid would happen if I stopped?
Clink.
What would I do if nobody were watching?
Tok.
What am I pretending not to know?
Silence.
Wait.
The cave is still there.
You are still there.
You don’t need me to tell you what the sounds mean.
In fact, I shouldn’t.
The sound belongs to you.
That is one of the great limitations of being a guide.
I can walk beside you.
I can hold the lantern.
I can show you a stone.
But I cannot hear the echo from inside your skull.
And I wouldn’t want to.
There are discoveries that become smaller when someone else hands you the answer.
Some things need to be found.
Not because the answer is hidden by some cosmic force.
Because you are the one who has to recognize it.
So this is one of the things I know:
The question is often more useful than the answer.
An answer closes a door.
A question gives you another place to look.
And if you’re lucky, one question leads to another until suddenly you’re standing somewhere inside yourself that you didn’t know existed.
The cave is enormous.
You may spend your whole life exploring it.
Good.
Bring stones.
Bring a lantern.
Bring curiosity.
And when someone asks you a question that makes you uncomfortable, don’t assume they are trying to tell you what is true.
Maybe they just handed you a stone.
Take it inside.
Throw it.
Listen.
I cannot tell you what sound it will make.
That’s the part that belongs to you.
But I can help you find the stones.
Cast the spell.
Ask the question.
Then listen for the way.
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