Sleeping Beauty

No, it’s not Tchaikovsky’s virgin princess. Nor is it a voluptuous female stretching out under satin sheets. I want to say that it isn’t female, at all—but I’m not certain, for why, then, would I come up with such a term as sleeping beauty? As I try to grasp the essence of it, sometimes I am reminded of the concept "earth mother." But that has other connotations that clutter up my thought process. It seems fruitless to attempt to visualize, or to describe, this something I sense. Every word or group of words finally fails.

Still, it—whatever it is—remains. It’s that feeling of well-being that comes when I observe affection in others. It’s the odd fullness in the throat, the impulse to cry out, when I see an animal caught in traffic. It’s the internal smile that comes with recognizing my own ineptitude in a situation, when my ego doesn’t get caught up in it. It’s that aha! reaction when something that had been difficult and confusing for me suddenly becomes clear. It’s that moment of awe I feel when all the pieces come together, like a puzzle that rearranges itself and reveals its meaning. It always seems out of my control.

In fact, it often feels as though it’s not me. It’s something wiser than I, something more compassionate, something more responsive to others, something smarter than I could ever be. It’s that occasional, even rare, certainty, that deep knowing that whatever horror I’ve seen, whatever hurt I’ve felt, whatever despair has gripped me at times, at the bottom of everything is something that encompasses it all, that smiles through my tears and nods gently within me.

I see it in others, too. It’s like the glow that sometimes shines through someone’s face when they smile. It’s a quiet word, or maybe a gesture, that shows an unexpected presence in someone, a grasping of truth, or beauty, or goodness, that makes me turn to look at them more carefully. It’s my own tear that I see falling down someone else’s cheek. It’s a phrase in a poem, startling in its utter simplicity, that opens my mind to a larger reality. It’s an image so beautiful that I want to cry.

This something is not just an ability to perceive, say, truth, beauty or goodness—although certainly that is revealed, as well—it’s a welling up, a manifestation, of those universal values in some form or other. I am totally comfortable with the idea that it is part of each of us. Or perhaps, as some have put it, each of us is a part of it. It doesn’t always make itself known. Nor its source. It simply appears, at times, a subtle but profound force.

So I think it is always there. It may be hidden by activity or by emotion or by desire or aversion or illusion. And those things in me may prevent me from seeing it in others, as well. That’s why I call it sleeping beauty. I’d like to believe that it will awaken . . .

. . . when I am ready.

June 24, 2004

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