For the first time in human history, we have seen the far side of the moon — the part that was always there, always turning with us, but never visible. Not because it was hidden. Because we hadn’t yet found a way to look.
I think becoming whole is like that. Not adding something we don’t have. Turning to see what was always there.
We learn very young to mirror. Picture a small child at coffee hour, or any gathering full of big people — moving among the knees, trying to anticipate, trying to read the room, trying to stay safe. We become what is needed. Not what is needed for us, but what is needed for those around us. And some of us grow up in situations where the needs are great, where unhealed wounds pass down generation to generation, and we mirror harder and faster — and lose ourselves in the process.
This isn’t a fault. It’s developmental. It’s how we survived. But at some point, something in us catches a glimpse — in a sunset, in a conversation, in a moment of unexpected stillness — and we know there’s more. We know that the mirror we’ve been holding up for everyone else is not who we actually are.
And we begin the long journey home.
I know this journey from the inside. I have learned — through the death of my kiddo, through a difficult marriage, through the slow and humbling work of looking at my own patterns — that the parts of ourselves we push away don’t disappear. They go underground. And from there, they shape everything: how we see others, how we react when we’re afraid, how we show up in our closest relationships. When I stopped turning against the parts of myself I’d rather not see — the self-criticism, the grief, the places where I fall short — something shifted. Not just inside me, but in how I met the world. There was less to tangle with. Less to defend. More room for something spacious and true.
We spend so much of our lives sorting ourselves into acceptable and unacceptable parts — the things we show and the things we exile. And we do the same with each other. Right now, in our country and in our world, that sorting has become loud and dangerous. Everything with power seems to be asserting itself through separation — othering, vilifying, drawing lines between who belongs and who doesn’t.
I cannot fix that. Not on the scale it’s happening. But I know something about bees.
When bees sense fear, they become more afraid — more reactive, more likely to sting. And the stinging destroys them. That’s what reactivity does. That’s what our world is doing right now. But when a beekeeper comes to the hive with peace in their body, they don’t need any protection at all. The bees know they’re safe.
We can be that for each other. Not by performing calm, but by doing the quiet, honest work of coming home to ourselves — all of ourselves, the cherished and the uncomfortable alike.
The poet Rashani Réa writes:
There is a brokenness out of which comes the unbroken. A fragility out of whose depths emerges strength. We break open to the place inside which is unbreakable and whole.
Rashani Réa
I carry those words like a compass. Because here is what I have learned: grief doesn’t get smaller. The container gets bigger. And the container grows not by pushing anything out, but by letting everything in.
The far side of the moon was always there. We just hadn’t turned to look. Nothing wasted. Nothing lost.
This Sunday evening, April 12, I’m hosting our monthly Second Sunday gathering at Vert in Estes Park, also available online. The theme is Becoming Whole — what does it mean to live with nothing left out? We’ll sit with that question together from 5:30 to 7:00 PM. No preparation needed. Just come as you are. Click here for more information.
All of you are welcome.
Elizabeth Lightfoot Jameson is a spiritual teacher and contemplative guide based in Estes Park offering programs under Becoming Love: The Remembering Way. Learn more at ebjameson.com.