Secrets are funny old things. We love to have them for ourselves and we can hug them for days, months, even years and, in some cases, forever. When we know another’s secret, we have to watch ourselves carefully in case it rises in our throats and spills out in a tumble of words. Sometimes we are more than happy not to know another’s secrets, however desperate they may be to tell us. They can be a gift, or a liability, a delightful revealing of something we have always wondered about, or a heavy weight we are stuck with, now that we know the hidden truth.
Sometimes, in the early flush of a love affair, we can think we want to know absolutely everything about each other, but I don’t think that’s healthy at all. Someone once said that once we tell all our secrets, we are left only with their memory. We can no longer call them our own, nor feel that sense of mystery, like a butterfly in our hearts. I have many secrets and I am rather fond of them all. Nobody can tell me they are a lot of cobblers, because nobody knows them. Have you ever shared a secret and wished you hadn’t? The response was too casual, or too earnest and you didn’t quite believe your secret was that interesting. Or you might have been persuaded you were wrong, or not looking at it right and then you felt deflated like an old party balloon.
Keep your secrets, that’s what I say, and keep the mystery, for isn’t that what makes us interesting, intriguing, a someone who might suddenly disappear without stopping to tell you first? It keeps people on their toes being around someone who doesn’t lay themselves out like a map for all to study. I like to say I’m going out, without saying where to. It feels wild and exciting, even if it’s just to buy milk.
You never know where a snowdrop will appear in the wild, because you didn’t plant it. Nobody planted it.
Now there’s a secret and a half.