Musing on my Shadow

I began to question whether my shadow did belong entirely to me. I had always assumed that it was mine, never pausing to consider the periods of separation--those abrupt disappearances the moment I stepped indoors. There on the black asphalt we had captured our shadows in their mischief--a chalk record of change that occurred independently of ourselves. In each outline we could recognize our figures; they spread across the asphalt solid and alive, in posture and in form. Each possessed a new image, while we had remained essentially the same--perhaps we had discovered free-spirited shadow play: freedom from identity. Perhaps. But I have since caught a glimpse of a more intricate design at work.

I was to forget my preoccupation with shadows for a few years and take up the moon. My initial notion upon finding the moon always in my wake was to call it "my moon." I soon discovered that there was only one moon for everyone--one moon and many shadows. During this time, I also developed an attitude fringed with paranoia regarding the natural world--I hate to be watched and found these trailing forms disturbing. The discomfort faded with the passing of my moon phase, as did my understanding of possession.

Possession implies power--an exclusive relationship between one thing and another. From this I deduced that the moon did not belong to me, but did my shadow? Again this question arose. Was the energy in my shadow derived solely from me and for me? Absolutes may not apply where shadows are concerned. Besides, what is a shadow really? It is nothing more than light that has been intercepted--blocked by an object of some sort--an absence representing a presence. Light can be tricky that way. Close your eyes and play along, or keep them open but do not look--this was my strategy. My sanity was not entirely permissive to the nuances of the phenomenon. Could I even claim possession over myself?

This is ultimately the question I mean to ask, though I have no intention of figuring an answer. Even if it exists, a solid answer will do me no good. What I am after is more fluid--a hint, a vapor--I wish to capture some in a glass jar. Like a pet fire fly, I will watch in disbelief that small light, appearing less and less often. I will dream of my pet, and will wake in the morning to find it dead. I had not punched holes in the lid. Then I will ask myself why? The answer is waiting to be told. The problem lies in asking the right question, for nothing is worse than finding yourself with an unquestioned answer. I am reminded of something I once read about faeries: the surest way to find a faery creature is to not search. Twilight is the optimal time to not be looking.

There is a proper time for all encounters, just as there is a proper question to every answer. At the fall of night, or before the morning sun, there is a time when the shadow that trails you is no longer your own--peripheral night. The world is flooded at these moments, for no being is excluded. It is a meeting time for the diurnal, nocturnal, and in-betweens; for dreams and reality; for past and future--all in a frozen transience, over which no one may claim possession. Do not worry, this is not supposed to make sense. It is a time to let go of sense, a time to be bemused by time. It is passing time--forwards, backwards--into and out of your own sense: a time to be without identity.

Shadows mean so much to me, and yet this time, this shadowy time, has meant so much else. As a child playing outside, what a dreaded hour it was! Seeing my shadow fade into the evening obscurity, I knew that any minute I would hear the call to come in. That was in the spring and summer and autumn. Winter was different; the darkness came earlier and no one was home to demand my return. The cold often kept me inside anyway. Then the time was spent waiting in the darkness, waiting to not be alone anymore.

And what does a lone child do with her lone shadow? She lets her shadow play, of course. She walks it right into the descending twilight to mingle with the other multiform shadows. The earth is flooded with inhabitants; only some have claim to the day. There is a legend concerning the first appearance of faeries. Once long ago, they were a day-dwelling people, rightfully walking over the land in sunlight. After a conflict with an invading clan, the land was split: the invaders drove the natives underground and claimed the surface for themselves. The hill-dwellers were never seen again; though according to legend, they do come out at night, and shadow figures have occasionally been spotted in the twilight. These are supposedly the original faeries.

My mother would walk into the house asking why I had not turned on the lights. She is convinced that I am a nocturne. This is no longer true--my fearless affinity for the dark has passed, and at times my early discomfort with shadows returns. When I was a child, there was a constancy in my shadow--an extra presence that was missing from my solid form. It was a part of me that was capable of joining the other shadows in the darkness. My shadow provided a grossly imperfect image of my imperfect form--an image that did not have to be watched or seen--an image that could fade into darkened corners, unnoticed. With shadows I found I could defeat the old mirror rule: anything that you see can also see you.

Mirrors are so vulgar--mocking as you pose the question--whining back at you in some made up voice. "This is not my voice," you will say. "This is not my voice," says the mirror, so relentless--better to ask your shadow. You may not receive an answer direct--though in time you will hear a whisper in your ear, and the question will be spoken--for all answers lie within the proper questions. Perhaps you will not be looking when this happens, perhaps it will be twilight.

Where once I did not allow for the nuances of my shadow--the shades of truth, shades of possession--I suppose I am now dependent on them. My identity is only as solid as my shadow, and what claim have I over that? I will end with the word that began this all. It sounds like a spell spoken in a whisper--rhythmic, perfectly phonetic, yet seemingly indefinite--penumbra. It is the light in your shadow.