How the Owl Taught Me to Keep Secrets (Even from Myself)

Some truths don’t arrive with fanfare. They don’t knock. They seep.

I found one folded in the lining of my coat — not the coat itself, but the part I never checked, stitched so neatly it looked like it had always belonged. A memory I didn’t remember until I dreamt it one night, as if the Owl had placed it there while I slept, trusting I’d open it when I was ready.

In the dream, the forest was quiet, but not empty. The trees breathed. The ground pulsed. And somewhere above, a rustle — soft but deliberate. She descended like an exhale, her wings vast enough to carry the weight of what I had buried.

The Owl didn’t ask me to speak. She only stared until I felt the shape of a secret curl behind my ribs. One I had kept so deeply, even my conscious mind had forgotten where it lived. And when I tried to pull it out, she stopped me.

“Not yet,” her gaze said. “Some truths need time to ripen in silence.”

So I walked with her for a while, my silence a kind of sacred pact. Not because I feared the truth, but because I finally understood — knowing and naming are not the same. And sometimes, wisdom is letting something unnamed stay whole a little longer.

PromptA question or phrase used to inspire self-reflection, journaling, or intuitive exploration. for your journal:
What have you almost remembered lately? What might you be protecting by not naming it too soon?

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