December 15. Monday, the Hour of Gray Light.
I awaken not to a sound, but to a peculiar sense of presence within my own skin, as if overnight the architecture of my soul has been rearranged without my knowledge. I close my eyes again, not to sleep, but to truly see. Today, within me is a forest at sunrise. This is not merely a metaphor, but a topography of consciousness; a space where the shadows of the night – those ancient, atavistic fears and unsolved dreams – slowly recede before an inevitable, soft luminescence. There is mist, of course. It is thick and humid, carrying the scent of last year’s leaf litter, of all that has decayed to nourish the soil of the present. In the psychoanalytic sense, this fog is the protective veil of the unconscious, which softens the collision between reality and the internal myth, but today the sunbeams pierce it with surgical precision. They do not cut; they caress. They illuminate particles of dust, turning them into gold, and in this dance between the visible and the invisible, I discover my sacred geography.
The leaves tremble quietly. This trembling is the echo of my nervous system slowly tuning itself to the frequency of peace. In the centre of this landscape, high in the branches of the oldest tree—perhaps the Tree of Life or the axis of my world—stands the observer. My soul is a bird watching everything calmly. In this observation, there is no judgment, no criticism, none of the ego's insistent need to label the experience as "good" or "bad." This is pure contemplation, the witness spoken of by mystics, and that robust, integrated part of the personality sought by psychoanalysis—the ability to stand on the precipice of one’s own abyss and feel not vertigo, but curiosity. The bird does not sing; it simply is. It watches how the light changes the shape of the shadows, and in that gaze lies the entire wisdom of acceptance: that I am both the forest, the fog, the sun, and the observer simultaneously.
And as I stand in this inner sanctuary, I feel something beneath the surface begin to pulse. It is an unclear impulse, a stirring of the waters in the deep. What wants to manifest? The answer arrives not as a thought, but as a sensation of expansion in my chest. I long for tenderness, creativity, the courage to show myself. But why tenderness? Perhaps because in a world of harsh forms and absolute truths, tenderness is the most radical act of rebellion. It requires lowering the armour, standing with “bare skin” before the other and the world. This is the yearning for authenticity, for that primal connection we lost when we learned to be "strong." The creativity that insists upon itself is not necessarily related to art, but to the creation of life itself – Something new and pure wants to be born—even if I don't yet know its form.
Here, in this liminal moment, I confront the paradox of creation: for the new to be born, one must bear the tension of uncertainty. The psyche often resists the formless; we demand plans, guarantees, clear outlines. But the spirit knows that the form is secondary. First is the breath. This "something" that wants to be born is perhaps a new version of myself, less defended and more permeable to the light. I feel it as an embryonic possibility that demands maternal care from my own consciousness. It is frightening, of course. Every birth is a crisis, every act of manifestation is a risk of being rejected. But the courage I seek is not the absence of fear, but movement despite it—a willingness to be seen in my incompleteness, in my human fragility.
Yet, to make space for this new birth, I realize the existing space is occupied. It is cluttered with old furniture, with dusty curtains that obscure the view. What do I need to release? The answer echoes heavily, like a stone dropping into a well: Old expectations, the burden of "shoulds," the fears that hide beneath the surface. This dictate of "should"—it is the voice of the introjects, those authorities from the past, parents, teachers, society, who have taken up residence in my mind and built a courtroom. They demand perfectionism, they demand predictability. They are the guardians of the status quo. Releasing them is not an act of violence, but of dissolution. I must allow these structures to crumble, just as dry leaves fall in autumn—without drama, simply because their time has run out.
The fears beneath the surface are more cunning. They are the roots deeply embedded in the dark. The fear that I am not enough. The fear that if I show my true face, I will be left alone. But in this forest at sunrise, I realize these fears are shadows cast by objects that no longer exist. They are the phantom pains of the soul. The spiritual practice here is kenosis—self-emptying. To pour out the stale water of the past from my cup, so that fresh spring water can be poured in. This is an act of faith—to trust that the void will not swallow me, but will become a womb. The release is also forgiveness toward myself—forgiveness for carrying other people’s burdens for so long, mistaking them for my own.
My body, that faithful, often neglected companion, reacts instantly to this thought. What is my body telling me? It speaks not with words, but with tension and relaxation. I feel how my shoulders long to relax, as if I am shedding an invisible backpack filled with stones. In psychosomatics, the shoulders are where we carry responsibility and the burden of the world. Their relaxation is the physical equivalent of spiritual surrender. The heart—that muscle which is also an organ of perception—wants to open. The heart—to open. It sounds poetic, but the physical sensation is almost painful, a sweet stretch in the center of the chest where the armour has cracked. I breathe slowly, mindfully. The breath is the bridge. Pneuma, spirit and air in one. Each inhalation is an acceptance of life; each exhalation is a small death, a small letting go. Through breathing, I declare to my body: "It is safe. You are here. You are now." And the body responds with a silence that is not empty, but saturated with presence.
In this silence, I discover something priceless that has always been there, but was drowned out by the noise of daily life. The hidden resource: My intuition is bright, though sometimes quiet. It does not scream, it does not argue, it does not make pros and cons lists. It is that still, small voice that knows the way before the map is drawn. In the Jungian sense, this is the connection to the Self, to the centre that transcends the ego. My inner lightness guides me when I listen. This lightness is strange to me; I am accustomed to heaviness as proof of significance. But now I understand that truth is light. Truth floats. Intuition is the compass in the fog; it does not dispel the fog immediately, but it tells you where to step so you do not fall. It is the trust in the invisible current of life. To listen to my intuition is to renounce the illusion of control and surrender to the rhythm of the greater whole. This is the mystical act of submitting to a higher order that flows through my veins.
And as the sun in my inner forest rises higher, dissolving the last remnants of night’s darkness, I feel a promise forming within me. It is not an oath, not a grandiose goal for the future, but a quiet intention for the present moment. The final message, which resonates in the cathedral of my ribcage, is simple: “Today, I will be a light for myself, even quietly.”
In this sentence, all my philosophy for the day is contained. To be a light for myself is not an act of selfishness or narcissism, but an act of survival and sacred service. If I do not illuminate my own dark corners, who will? If I do not warm my own chilled hope, how can I expect warmth from the world? "Even quietly"—that is the key. I do not need to shine blindingly, to be a beacon for ships on the ocean. It is enough to be the small candle in the room of my own soul. Quiet light is the most enduring. It is the light of the vigil, of prayer, of patient presence beside both pain and joy.
This is also the psychoanalytic return to the self—the integration of the shadow through the gentle illumination of what has been rejected. This is the spiritual practice of metanoia—a change of mind, a turning of the gaze inward, toward the source. Today, I will not seek validation from outside. I will not wait for someone else to say I am worthy. I will be the one who sees, who acknowledges, who loves. I will be the forest, the bird, and the light.
I write these words not to remember them, but to live them. Writing is an act of embodiment. The words are the tracks I leave on the path, so I can return here when the world once again becomes too noisy and demanding. But now, in this moment, everything is quiet. Shoulders are down. The heart is an open door. And in the silence, I hear the grass of my soul growing, how the new intentions unfold. I am here. I am. And that is enough. It is more than enough. It is everything.
I take a deep breath and exhale, allowing the words to fly away like the bird from the branch, leaving behind only the pure, trembling space of possibility. The world is waiting for me, but I no longer go to it empty. I go full of myself, carrying my quiet forest, my morning mist, and my unwavering sun. Amen to this moment.