When I look in the mirror, I see thousands of eyes staring back.

Younger Ones who silently question worth with perspectives of poverty and neglect,

Young Women crying silent tears of not-enough-ness once her toddlers are tucked in bed,

Parts of me that were abused and are still carrying confusion,

Parts of me that were abandoned by caregivers and by myself.

They all wait for a chance to tell their stories.

They pace and brood and cry quietly in dark corners,

Only coming out when I have been completely overwhelmed and lose control,

Only to be stuffed back down by distractions, obsessions and addictions.

What if I tried something different?

What if I was to find inside myself a solid place of knowing, of present-minded living and of faith that says I am always well-held? Could that solid place, touched by God, honored by me with time given to sit silently in presence, could that solid place entertain these younger ones? Like The Guest House by Rumi, could I find inside a room that can welcome Little Ones who believe we are dirty and uncoothe? Could we find, inside adult me, a space where all Younger Ones are welcomed, listened to and loved?

As I sit in practice, bringing my attention to my breath and the sounds of birds singing in the trees, I find that it is only I who can create such a space.