Nosferatu
I’ve been promising Nosferatu for a long time now. And so here he is.
I am somewhat of an old movie junkie. I am not much for the current genre of horror movies as they are far too violent for me, but old ones, that’s another story. I love the silent film, Nosferatu. I love how gruesome the vampire is in this movie—not all lovely like that twlight dude with dirty hair or Tom Cruise from the Ann Rice generation before that.
Nosferatu moves slowly and silently and when he at last pounces on his victim they are held arrestingly still—captive to this being that darns life from them.
We love vampire stories— obviously they are once again on the rise as we have new stories about this old myth.
The question I was have about legends and stories and myths is this: How are they real?
Vampires are real to me. Vampires remind me of those people in my life that create chaos and drama. Those that drain my energy with their incessant need for conflict and attention.
But Nosferatu, he’s a little different. If you’ve watched that old movie, you know what I mean: gruesome silent and slow.
One night, sitting at home in quiet, I couldn’t sleep. I got up and sat on the couch and reviewed the very long day’s journey. I remembered those places in my heart where I felt like I wasn’t enough—where I had failed utterly. Those places that I felt less than. And in that moment, I suddenly understood: Nosferatu had crept into the room suddenly. I was held captive to him as he stalked me silently. I was arrested by his gaze—there wasn’t anything pretty about him.
Nosferatu reminds me of shame. Shame is an arresting emotion, it stops us dead in our tracks, it is a slow dreadful secret that stalks us silently. It freezes us and with the uttermost stealth, it pounces on our hearts and drains us of life.
This is how Nosferatu is real for me. In naming this feeling, this being, I am given some power to over come it.
By subjecting Nosferatu to the light, I can stop him. By placing holy objects before him, I stop him.
How can I do that with shame? Shame is often a silent creeping secret that overcomes us. I find that when I can speak it, it dies. We are only as sick as our secrets. And the more secrets we have, the more power we give to Nosferatu.
Holy Objects might be those things I use to remind myself that I am LOVED beyond my intellect, reason and imagination—so how do I know that I am loved? For some reason, photographs of loved ones whisper this to me. Maybe these are my holy relics.
So this is Nosferatu to me.
Who is he to you?
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