My Daimon

I have been recreating a personal myth using words and images.  The seed was planted when I was a little girl.  It was at midlife that I came to realize Plato had named that acorn seed, the daimon.  The following germinated The Daimon, my literary work in progress. 

When all the souls had chosen their lives they went before Lachesis. 

And she sent with each as the guardian of his life

and the fulfiller of his choice, the daimon

that he had chosen.

Plato, Rebublic Book X

                I had a calling.  To write all over the unfinished bathroom walls.  The exposed sheetrock covered with brown paper invited crayons, used by a five year old.  After moving our buildings from Kansas to Colorado by tractor trailer trucks, my parents were unable to find water at our destination, so the newly built house never came to completion with indoor bathroom facilities.  The outhouse stands proudly and beckons my story. 

                “This is me when I was a little girl, holding the chickens.” I have often begun by describing My Daimon.  “And this is me in mid-life returning to my home.”   I point to the collaged photo my daughter had taken on our trip to visit my Prairie roots.  Each time I tell the story, I become newly aware of living my life in accordance to the daimon. 

                 My husband and I had gone to hear James Hillman speak at his book signing for The Soul’s Code.  He asked the audience to think back to when we were children.   

                “See if you can determine the moment your daimon surfaced on your life’s path as a vivid fulfiller of what was to come.”

                  I immediately recalled writing on the wall when my older siblings would put me in the bathroom for safekeeping.

                  There behind the closed door, I could tune out the commotion of parents fighting amidst their children.  I would sit in the bathtub, where baths were not taken, using the dirty laundry  as pillows.  Once comforted, I would stand on tiptoes, extend my arm as high as I could reach, and I would begin to write.  It was in secret code.  To an adult, it looked like cursive “e’s” and “l’s.”   Against all odds, I had left the mark of The Daimon. It was my life's story. 

                 When did the beatings end? An entrusted reader has asked. 

                I don't remember, but eventually the walls were covered and the writing stopped.