I have pet snakes.

When Jocelyn Wildenstein declared, “I have pet snakes,” she spoke words that, on the surface, seem simple, even curious. Yet within them lies a depth of meaning, for to choose the serpent as companion is no ordinary choice. It is to embrace a creature long feared, long revered, and long entwined with the symbols of wisdom, danger, and rebirth. The statement is not only about possession of animals—it is about the daring of spirit, the will to live alongside what others shrink from, and the courage to hold mystery in one’s hands.

The snake has always carried a dual nature in the history of humankind. To some, it is the deceiver, the bringer of downfall, as in the garden of Eden where the serpent whispered temptation. To others, it is sacred—the emblem of Asclepius, god of healing, twined about his staff as a symbol of medicine and renewal. In ancient Egypt, the cobra was the protector of pharaohs, worn upon their crowns as the uraeus, striking down enemies with divine power. To have a pet snake, then, is not merely to keep a creature, but to live with a symbol both feared and divine, to embrace the paradox of terror and wisdom in one form.

History itself recalls those who have dared to walk with serpents. Cleopatra, queen of Egypt, famously chose the asp as her final companion, clasping death by its fangs rather than surrendering her sovereignty to Rome. Her choice showed the serpent not only as destroyer, but as liberator, a gatekeeper to dignity beyond humiliation. In India, mystics and fakirs have long been depicted sitting calmly among cobras, unafraid, teaching that mastery of fear is mastery of self. The serpent, tamed or untamed, reveals what lies within the heart of the one who approaches it.

Thus, when Wildenstein confesses her affinity for snakes, she reveals something of the human soul: that to live with serpents is to confront what others flee. It is to reject the easy companionship of creatures that flatter us with loyalty, and instead embrace the silent, watchful presence of beings who demand respect. The pet snake does not wag its tail or seek our praise; it reminds us instead of stillness, patience, and the silent power of transformation, shedding its skin to be made new.

The lesson here is profound: we must learn to dwell with the serpents of our own lives—the fears, the shadows, the symbols of what is primal and misunderstood. Just as the snake sheds its skin, so must we shed old selves, old beliefs, old weaknesses, if we are to grow. The one who dares to live among serpents is not reckless, but wise, for they learn daily that fear can be mastered, that danger can be respected without being destroyed, and that beauty is often hidden where others see only threat.

So, dear listener, what should you take from this? Do not run from the serpents in your path. Instead, approach them with courage, wisdom, and reverence. Seek to understand what others condemn without thought. Let the snake remind you that transformation is always possible, that silence holds power, and that strength is not always loud or boastful, but coiled and waiting.

In practical action, this means: face one fear you have long avoided. Do not seek to destroy it, but to understand it. Find patience in silence, and embrace the possibility of renewal in your own life, just as the serpent renews itself through shedding. And when you are tempted to judge quickly what seems strange or unsettling, pause and consider what deeper truth it may carry.

Thus, the words of Jocelyn Wildenstein—“I have pet snakes”—become not a curiosity, but a teaching. To live with serpents is to accept both danger and wisdom into one’s home. To love them is to proclaim mastery over fear and reverence for transformation. May you too learn to walk with serpents, not in terror, but in awe, and in doing so, discover the hidden power that lies coiled within your own soul.