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"Muslims, whose religion bans representational art as idolatrous, don't observe the rule strictly; but they do forbid sculpture, because it casts a shadow. So, shadows define the real. If I no longer see shadows as 'dark marks,' as do the newly sighted, then I see them as making some sort of sense of the light. They give the light distance; they put it in its place. They inform my eyes of my location here, here O Israel, here in the world's flawed sculpture, here in the flickering shade of nothingness between me and the light." (Dillard, Annie. Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.)

So, am I real because I cast a shadow? Does my Shadow define my form? Maybe I am, in fact, nothing more than Shadow. I know that the Shadow is a part of me, and I cannot detach it from my Real Self without losing a part of who I am.

The Shadow puts the Light into perspective. Without experiencing and acknowledging my own Shadow, could I even appreciate the Light that flows into me - sporadically, it's true, but I know that at times I am filled with Light. I have sensed that Light filling me with joy, and I have sensed its absence, too.

What, then, defines the Real Self? The Shadow is a part of what is real, a part of my essence, and what separates me from the divine. That's the problem: separation. Between Real and False Self, between Shadow and Light.

Who am I really? It's easy enough to tell people, "I'm a massage therapist . . . a writer . . . a wife, a mother, a lover, a fool . . . " But the labels don't mean anything. They describe one small aspect of me, and say nothing of my core being. Yet, paradoxically, how can I say who I really am without resorting to labels? Hell, how can I even know who I really am?

The idealized self image - my false self - that ought to be easier. I can project an air of competence and confidence, even when I'm quaking inside. I can pretend knowledge in hopes of sounding intelligent. I can be polite, and even affectionate, when inside I'm feeling hurt, angry, blue.

Too often, these days, I'm blue. I can't remember the joy. For one brief, bright period, I was so filled with light, I glowed. I hoped - and here's the danger: Hope - that I could carry that feeling with me forever, or at least that I could remember how to let myself be filled.

I could use all the joy I can contain right now. I feel empty and tired. At least I haven't sunk into the pit that swallowed me a year and a half ago. At least I've learned that, even if my love isn't reciprocated, and even if I can't heal my own body let alone anyone else's, I don't want to die. I know now that I can't let the pain in my head consume me, that I have to be willing to let go of the burdens I've carried all my life. I've learned, also, that I can't fix anybody's problems but my own. Maybe the pain that held me prisoner in my home for months, barely able to get out of bed, put my Shadow into sharp relief. Maybe I needed that pain before I could experience joy.

I'd much rather live my life in a state of joy, able to live in the moment and let things evolve the way they will.

Learn more about this author, Roxianne Moore.
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