This is Zane’s secret space in our art gallery. It’s in a side room wide open to the foot traffic. Above the storage racks for paintings he maintains a loft space he carved out up there, mostly behind boxes. I’ve even got a car seat for him up there, hidden from view. It’s the only place I let him drive. He can spend hours there without anyone the wiser.
When I was a kid my getaway space was a rack of tires. My Dad owned a tire store and I would find spaces in the hollow of a row of tires and crawl my way in there. It wasn’t for the claustrophobic, or even for the rubber smellophobic. It was cramped, dark and the rubber ploughed straight through your nostrils into your liver; it permeated everything. It was a place only for me though. Just like Zane’s.
For grown kids — for adult kids like me and you — there’s no better secret space than silence.
Contemplative or meditative or prayerful, silence makes whole.
Just like your secret space when you were young, silence is your place for your wild self to rest. Going into the silence is like going into a nest of you. And like going into a library of you . . . what do you want to know about you? It’s there. What do you want to fortify in you? It’s there too. What is there to enjoy about you? It’s all there.
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