Last July. Watching my own shadow within the walls of a Coptic monastery. Being in the middle of the Egyptian desert feels familiar to me. I remember this place. Not a memory of my own lifetime, but something more rooted, more unshakeable, a soul's memory, passed down the generations. And I am here now, remembering. Throughout my life I have often only allowed myself to be a visitor. A visitor of places, of people, of relationships, never truly there, resisting any roots. Living and loving in the dark. No shadows to be seen, because there was no light to cast them. The only thing that kept me alert and curious was an uneasy, ungrounded feeling that this could not be it. I could be so much more alive. If anything has been a big part of my life the last couple of years, it has been shadow work. Working with, and working through trauma. Not only from my own lifetime, but from the generations before me. Passed down the line, as a previously unconscious family heirloom. Shedding light on hidden, unseen parts of my being. And the more light gets through, the more shadows occur. An ongoing, lifelong process. Overwhelming. And the closest to truth I've ever been. Suddenly my own shadow in the middle of the desert greets me with a symbolism that was lost on me before. It is there, because I am there. So resisting it, means resisting myself. I cannot step aside, it will follow me anywhere I go. All I can do is acknowledge it, and welcome it with love and understanding. In the end, that is all that was ever really needed.