I have a secret self. It started out as a secret place — a physical home where I could live alone. I’ll tell you what it is – but not yet. I want to write about the divisions within me: the secret self and the common self. Both are different. Both need each other.
As a writer, the space of separation gives me a lot of emotions. Unseen movements and dreams open up an area in myself where I can imagine; Make space for the truth. When I was young, those private spaces were my nature and my diary. I opened that diary and wrote about nothing and everything: a detailed account of what I did that day, what the weather was like, what I was reading, a gratitude list, and things similar thing. I will not share my words with anyone. In fact, I wrote a threatening note on the front of my first grade diary: ENTER IF YOU DARE.
As I get older, writing is no longer an emotional refuge for me. I widen my range and share my work, a flaw that I feel is true and real. I don’t write about daily weather patterns anymore or through wishful thinking. It feels good to open up; turn my thoughts into a serum of truth. I connect with other writers and stick together around the world. We have seen pain and truth in the same way. I had a deadline and an urgent edit proposal.
However, when my article was released into the public domain, I could no longer access that classified space for myself (i.e., listless, private journal material). For a long time, that desire for that personal safe space left me listless. I rambled through my career and learned to take care of physical spaces, like an apartment and a small room, waking up early and going through an empty home life every day. I wrote copy for advertisements and learned how to write in seminars. My private parts were covered up for a while and I longed for secret exercise.
These are the things we do without being exposed. Our bodies are not stimulated and motivated – we do not need to analyze ourselves or others. Secret movement is our emotional paradise.
That is Where does the horse come?. Riding a horse, being a horse girl, is my secret movement. In my late twenties, I returned to the ranch I had started riding when I was a child. A chestnut gelding called Gus reminds me what it’s like to love myself quietly. The time I rode him was just mine, something I practiced privately. The blend of wafting dust and musty-scented horse nostrils provided me with an escape I missed when writing to my scheduled adults.
Being around Gus made me feel like honey, something like a child, and I wondered if the horses would make me feel like I was journaling about summer camp again. The act of riding sustains my energy and casts a gentle mist on my outer life. Above all, horses have no shame. If I’m not ready to show up that day, they don’t need to either. Anyway, Gus still wanted to eat grass. My secret life has exposed me — if at all — to myself.
Courtney Maum writes about her journey to rediscovering horses in her book Year of the Horse. She addresses her transition from childhood writing to adult writing. “Suddenly, my creative process, so intimate and solitary, was something the gatekeepers considered and judged.” As she revisits the horses in her adult life, they have helped her become more successful in her private life. Why? Because they offered a way out. They helped her learn to breathe. She can write and be present with her family more freely. Rediscovery is as simple and complex as that.
For others, secret movements can be many things: knitting, running, painting, reading, messing around in the garden, bathing in the woods, writing music, tending the rock garden, or picking vegetables. These are the things we do without being exposed. Our bodies are not stimulated and motivated – we do not need to analyze ourselves or others. Secret Movement is our emotional paradise where we can exist as a body and mind.
In my new favorite book (The writers wrote, Anthology A Bread Loaf), the essayist Robert Pack write about words and fame. Inside, he scribbles about his two inners: his private and public life. He refers to his inner life as a life headed to his rock garden, the secret life that goes on without sharing that he is doing so. His private world is a pleasure unlike his public, outer life — it’s about sharing his writing with an audience.
Why do we need both? Our public life and our private life? Because we need space to imagine. And just as we need an empty medium, we need a platform to be vocal and vulnerable in public.
So why do we need both? Our public life and our private life? Because we need space to imagine. And just as we need an empty medium, we need a platform to be vocal and vulnerable in public. As Maum put it, we needed “a dream to plan for and belong to no one else” and as Pack put it, we needed “criticists to help each other better understand ourselves.”
Our public and private lives offer different types of innovation. While it is essential to be recognized for our work, it is also essential to keep ourselves a secret. In one area, our external achievements provide collective succession. But on the other hand, we do not create without inner moments. Private moments give us space to be compassionately aware of the source of our joys and sorrows. As Pack said, “Good writers need good readers, and good readers are good listeners.”
Consider rewriting. Pack wrote, “Modifying means learning through acknowledging limitations and failures. Therefore, creation in its greatest sense must be seen as a process of creating, destroying, and recreating. In this process, we can become aware of powers we didn’t know we possessed. “I love this. I do. Artistic pleasures require going back to them and rethinking what we’ve done. And we wouldn’t be able to do that without our private selves. me.
Furthermore, our private and public selves belong to everyone, not just artists. We conform to the public ego in social situations, at work, in family functions, in relationships and under our personal supervision. Something magical happens when we are able to leave those places and reach into the selves we weren’t looking for or trying to be. We have to go beyond expectations in order to be approved and rewarded publicly.
We must connect with ourselves, and we must connect with others. We must conform to the elements of ourselves and desire to be understood. We must approach our own lives and reach out to the lives of others. This paradox is essential.
We must connect with ourselves, and we must connect with others. We must conform to the elements of ourselves and desire to be understood. We must approach our own lives and reach out to the lives of others. This paradox is essential.
At the heart of literary ambition, writes Pack, is the desire to name things that have passed, to cherish them more intensely, precisely because they are passing. “We are most focused in our lives when we withdraw into our own disappearance.” This quote can mean a lot of things. For me, that means we have to have inner secrets to make outer connections. We must experience life, in its remoteness, before we can threaten our individuality; step out of modesty.
Brittany Chaffee is a passionate storyteller, professional author, and author. Every day, she gets paid to strategize and create content for brands. Outside of business hours, it’s all about a well-lit place, warm bread, and good company. She lives in St.Paul with her cat brother, Rami and Monkey. Follow her on Instagramread more about her latest book, border lineand (most importantly) hug your mom.
