Return to the Inner Circus

Recently, I asked the tarot what I needed to learn about myself. The cards I drew were Strength, Five of Swords, and Ace of Cups. The message was clear: I needed to understand the power of compassion, the weight of internal conflict, and the possibility of emotional renewal.

Later that day, I entered into a state of active imagination—a process rooted in Jungian practice—allowing my awareness to drift inward and follow the symbolic threads of the unconscious. My journey began in a place intimately familiar: my childhood home.

I imagined myself walking up to the front door. The house stood silent, heavy with the presence of old memories. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The air was thick with familiarity, like dust suspended in stillness. To my right, the staircase curved upward to my old bedroom. I ascended slowly, each step echoing with the weight of time.

The bedroom looked exactly as I remembered it: the soft light from the window, the arrangement of furniture, the feeling of a life paused. I crossed the room to the closet, pushed aside the hanging clothes, and uncovered something I had never seen in waking life—a small wooden door, almost child-sized, hidden at the back.

I opened the door without hesitation. A dark, narrow passage stretched before me. The air was cool, still. I crawled through until I came to a vertical shaft with a wooden ladder descending into darkness. I began to climb down. The rungs were smooth, worn from imagined use. I felt no fear—only a quiet sense of purpose.

At the bottom, I found myself inside a circus tent. The air was hazy with smoke, dimly lit by scattered lanterns. Despite the strangeness of it, I felt safe. It was not sinister—it was sacred. A surreal space full of color and shadow. I wandered through the tent’s interior until I reached one of the performance rings, marked by a ring of soft light.

There, standing in the center, was a younger version of myself. He wore my old tiger scout uniform, the fabric slightly rumpled, the insignia vivid. His presence startled me—not because he was unfamiliar, but because of how right it felt. He looked up at me, not with fear, but with quiet relief.

I approached and knelt beside him. “What do you need?” I asked.

He looked into my eyes and answered simply: “Love and assurance.”

I held him. I wrapped my arms around him, letting him feel the strength and safety I now carry. I told him he was safe, that he was loved, and that he no longer had to carry his fear alone. His body relaxed against mine, melting into trust.

Then he shared a memory. It was one of the only times in our childhood when he had felt fully safe and completely loved. He remembered our half-sister visiting. We were in the living room, sitting on the brickwork in front of the fireplace. I was in her lap, her arms wrapped around me as she gently rocked me. I remember the warmth of her body, the softness of her voice. It was the one time I felt truly seen, held, and cherished.

The memory lingered between us like a balm. We stayed there for a while in the quiet embrace, surrounded by the soft chaos of the circus, which had now become a place of healing rather than spectacle. Before I left, I asked him why he lived in a circus. He said that he felt safe there—and that he wasn’t lonely. This space wasn’t an escape. It was a sanctuary.

I kissed the top of his head and said goodbye. Then I stood, turned, and retraced my steps through the winding canvas corridors. I found the ladder and climbed back up. I emerged through the door in the closet, stepped out of the bedroom, and descended the stairs. I left the house and stepped back into waking consciousness.

• Tags:
• inner child
• jungian
• imagination

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