The Golden Snitch

When I was a teenager, a boy wrote a poem about me that compared me to a raven. Dark. Illusive. Mysterious. This is how the world perceived me, for a time. My natural reserve, my reluctance to let people in, an inner life that was completely inaccessible to others…to my fellow teenagers, these characteristics were intriguing. Appealing, even. But then, my friends, then I grew up.

These characteristics, in the harsh light of adulthood, can be seen for what they really are. Barriers. Giant walls designed to keep people out, constructed out of fear.

Ever so slowly, I’ve been chipping away at these walls, like the classic tale of a prisoner trying to escape from his cement cell with a kitchen spoon. This year, though, in this place that is perfect for uncomfortable stretching, I decided to put down the spoon and pick up the wrecking ball. I set a resolution to be more open, to be more connected, to tear down the walls, once and for all. And for the first time ever, I felt ready.

You’ve read and/or seen Harry Potter, right? Of course you have. Do you remember the golden snitch? Dumbledore gifted it to Harry, and Harry sat staring at this hard, cold little orb for many, many pages, unable to understand how to open it. No amount of force worked. He basically ended up just walking around with it in his pocket, baffled.

I saw myself holding that fluttering, tiny ball. I thought, “Okay, it’s time to open up it now, to open myself up now, to let the world see whatever is inside,” and then I turned it over and over in my hands, perplexed by how to do so.

As you well know, Harry eventually gets the golden snitch to open. “He pressed the golden metal to his lips and whispered, ‘I am about to die.’” He realized that he must die. He acknowledged it. He accepted it. The snitch opened.

The past few months have been something of a death for me, too. My desire to be perceived a certain way is slowly dying. My insistence on guarding my past, my demons, my sensitivities, and my beliefs is dying too. But most of all, my desire to protect myself from pain and misery is dying. It is nearly dead. I am killing it.

Rumi, in one quote of many that I love, said, “There’s courage involved if you want to become truth. There is a broken-open place in a lover. Where are these qualities of bravery and sharp compassion in this group? What’s the use of old and frozen thought? I want a howling hurt. This is not a treasury where gold is stored; this is for copper. We alchemists look for talent that can heat up and change. Lukewarm won’t do. Halfhearted holding back, well-enough getting by? Not here.”

I want a howling hurt. Isn’t it strange how I spent so many years trying to protect myself from hurt only to learn, in the end, that lukewarm won’t do? That to numb myself from all that is painful is to numb myself from all that is beautiful and loving and magical and good? Halfhearted holding back, well-enough getting by? Not here.

I, too, have held the orb up to my lips and whispered, “I am about to die.” I’ve acknowledged it. I’ve accepted it. And as I have, my little golden heart has cracked wide open.

 I am no longer mysterious. There is nothing more hiding in shadows. I am a vulnerable, deeply flawed person who is writhing in a howling hurt. But I am also open. Connected. Compassionate. Brave. And I love it.