Custodia Umbrarum: The Keeper of Shadows
Embracing the Shadows
Pain is a complicated thing. It clings to the edges of your mind, like claws scraping from within, leaving you raw and hollow. It lingers in the shadows, not as a passive presence, but as a relentless force, gnawing at the fragile seams of your spirit, demanding to be felt, to be faced. For years, I carried pain in silence, a weight that felt like a thousand invisible hands pulling me into a void. Each memory, each unresolved experience, became a jagged fragment lodged deep within me, scraping at my spirit until it bled. There were moments when the burden felt unbearable, like standing at the edge of a precipice with no way forward and no way back. The painting and story I’ve created—Custodia Umbrarum, or The Keeper of Shadows—emerged from this space of quiet suffering. They are not just creative expressions but milestones in my journey toward healing.
Through this process, I explored what it means to embrace the darkness instead of rejecting it—to sit with shadows that clawed at my mind, pulling me into their cold, suffocating grip. It felt like being trapped in an endless void, where every whisper of light was met with a chorus of doubt and fear. Yet, by staying present and refusing to turn away, I began to see the shadows for what they truly were: fractured parts of myself waiting to be understood. And slowly, as I cast my light into them, the darkness began to soften. This is not just art; it is survival. The Keeper’s story is my story, and perhaps, in some way, it is yours too.
The baby she cradles, with its fanged mouth, represents love in its most demanding form—the kind that consumes and nourishes all at once.
The Keeper of Shadows
The night was thick, heavy with a silence that slithered into every corner, dragging the city into uneasy sleep. The air reeked of burnt copper and soot, and in the alleyways, shadows gathered—not cast by the moon, but born from the broken pieces of every nightmare that ever found a home in a man’s heart.
She stood in the middle of it all—a woman wrapped in tattered robes, a habit clinging to her like old regret. They called her the Keeper of Shadows, though no one spoke the name aloud. She had no lantern. No torch. Only the glow that leaked from her cracked heart, illuminating the darkness clinging to her like a second skin.
In her arms, she cradled it: a baby, or something that looked like one. Its eyes glimmered wet and ancient, far too knowing for something so small. Tiny fangs jutted from its blackened gums, sharp and relentless, gnawing at the edges of her heart. It fed there, endlessly, as if love were a thing to be consumed, piece by piece. She felt every bite, every tear—but her face stayed smooth, expressionless, like a statue worn down by centuries of rain.
Behind her, the bars held the others—the tall, lean shadows with hollow eyes and crooked grins. They pressed against the cage, whispering to her, voices like dry leaves dragged across stone. They didn’t beg for release. They knew better. Instead, they waited, patient as hunger, watching the woman feed the smallest of them with her own heart, drop by drop.
The stained glass window above her head fractured the dim light, spilling broken patterns across her face. The colors bled into the shadows, wrapping them in beauty they didn’t deserve—but beauty they could never steal for themselves. She cast her light into their darkness, not to redeem them, but to strip them of their power. For what is a shadow that cannot frighten? Just a shape, empty and forgotten.
“You’re not afraid of them,” a voice whispered from the edge of the darkness. A child stood there, small and curious, her wide eyes reflecting the stained glass glow.
“No,” said the Keeper, her voice low and raw. “I’ve seen them. I’ve held them. I know their names.”
The child stepped closer, staring at the thing in the Keeper’s arms. “Does it hurt?”
The Keeper’s smile was thin, sharp as a knife’s edge. “Yes,” she said. “It always does.”
“Then why do you do it?” the child asked, her voice small as dust.
“Because the shadows don't need another jailor,” the Keeper whispered. “They need someone who won’t look away.”
The fire burned behind her, always burning. It never stopped, never gave her rest. But she stood there anyway, unmoving. The baby in her arms shifted, its fanged mouth finding another piece of her heart to tear away, and she let it.
Because someone had to.
Reflections on the Painting and Story
The Keeper of Shadows is a meditation on the emotional cost of holding space for pain. It asks us to consider what it means to embrace the darkness—not to conquer it, but to understand it.
When I painted Custodia Umbrarum, it was during one of the hardest chapters of my life: my 21-year marriage on the brink of collapse. Counseling unearthed years of buried truths, and the process of confronting them felt like being torn apart. I wanted to walk away. Instead, I picked up my journal and began to draw.
The Keeper became a vessel for my pain, a way to give it form and face it without fear. The baby she cradles, with its fanged mouth, represents love in its most demanding form—the kind that consumes and nourishes all at once. Her unwavering stance in front of the fire mirrors the courage it takes to stand in the heat of your own truth without turning away.
Creating this piece wasn’t just an act of artistic expression. It was an act of survival.
The Journal Process
The baby she cradles, with its fanged mouth, represents love in its most demanding form—the kind that consumes and nourishes all at once. Her unwavering stance in front of the fire mirrors the courage it takes to stand in the heat of your own truth without turning away.
These sketches became a mirror, showing me not only the weight of what I carried but also the strength required to hold it. They are unfinished, raw, and deeply personal, just like the journey itself.
Closing Thoughts
This painting and story are born from a deeply personal place—a place where shadows gnawed at my heart for years. But through the act of creating, I found a way to reclaim my power. The shadows didn’t disappear; they became illuminated, no longer the monsters I once feared.
Healing isn’t about erasing pain—it’s about finding the courage to carry it with grace. The Keeper reminds me of this truth every day.
If you see parts of yourself in her story, know that you’re not alone. Your shadows are not your enemies; they are parts of you waiting to be seen, understood, and ultimately, accepted.
If this story stirs something within you, I invite you to sit with it—no answers required, only presence. The shadows are always waiting to be seen.
Reading List for Further Exploration
For those looking to dive deeper into the themes explored here, these books and resources may resonate:
Trauma and the Soul by Donald Kalsched
A profound exploration of how trauma shapes the psyche and the role of imagination in healing.
The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk
A deep dive into how trauma is stored in the body and pathways to healing through somatic practices.
Man and His Symbols by Carl Jung
An accessible introduction to Jungian psychology and the archetypes that shape the human experience.
The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
A timeless tale that explores innocence, loss, and the search for meaning, resonating with themes of healing and transformation.