Tag Archives: secrets


Always when I see pics of women they are young, beautiful, half-naked Goddess-like creatures. I am not. I was – once, but not anymore. Now I am a middle-aged, 4-children-body, eyes lined with pain, sorrow and joy-Goddess.

I don’t think all goddesses are young and gorgeous, I think the most powerful ones are the ladies that have been around for a while, the ladies that know about life and what it entails. The women who have, silently, suffered through every heart-ache in the world and still stand, who shed their tears in private and then go to the young ones to help them dry theirs…

I believe they are the silent, unobtrusive, hardly noticeable women who lightens up a dark house with a fire…Or a flower. She who carries her heart proudly,  with sorrow and joy. She – the invisible – making the world a better place by giving her love over and over again.

The old woman that nobody sees, that holds the little child in her arms and sing songs to it. The old woman we go to share our deepest inner secrets. She will carry your secrets, kiss away your tears and always love you, no matter what. She is the goddess, the place of rest and peace. She demands nothing and gives everything.

(pic: artatwoodstock.blogspot.com)

(pic of TreeGodess, top, from Wordcatcher Colin Demet)



For many years in my life I wrote, I was miserable (in every sense of the word) and would pour it out onto the pages of my diaries. All the secrets, pain and frustrations, my entire wounded self crawled into those books; pages upon pages of despair. I never wrote in my happy moments, never recorded the amazing things that happened to me; just my misery. I started writing at 18 and at 40 something I had quite a collection. These books I stored in a wooden chest with a hefty lock and I painstakingly dragged this chest along to wherever I moved. The lock was to make sure that nobody would read them, mainly my children. I didn’t want anybody to see my pain and my secrets. It was a veritable recording of my victimization.

I brought the chest to my new country and stored it in the attic. But here something in me finally changed. The act of coming here, of choosing something so huge for myself and having the courage to listen to that inner voice telling me to go changed everything. I let the victimized self go, she had no more place in my life and I now chose power. When the first spring in my new house came, I opened that wooden chest for the first time in years, removed all the diaries and built a bonfire in the garden. All those books were burned. I didn’t open any of them, didn’t read one single word. I spent the day in the garden, sick as a dog, burning them books to cinders. In the evening I took a shower, went to bed and slept off my fever.

The next morning as I woke up I felt space; it was as if I was lying under a clear blue sky. The familiar, poisonous weight of all that misery was gone and I felt free, clear and ready to get on with my life. That bonfire cleansed me; a lifetime of despair literally vanished into thin air, the weight of it finally off my shoulders and for the first time I felt empowered. So if you are hanging on to old wounds, throw them on the fire and let them go. You are what you hold on to and you are the only one with the power to change that.

I still write, I will always write. Now I write about learning and teachings I receive. I write about the miracles that happen to me and I share what I write in teachings and through this blog.