We Are. Here.

I think we are most ourselves when we float along the stream of life in a state of non-doing, in a state of allowing, of not trying to control the outcome of anything and with no destination in mind other than a gentle idea of how we want to feel when we arrive.

I know I am most myself when I feel unobserved and lost in the doing without doing of a task or project. At those moments, I know who I am, because I do not question. I’ve dropped the oars, and float, lost in the moment, as my mind touches through water leaving a temporary trail of where I’ve been.

Perhaps, that’s why beginnings are always so precious to me. I move through them without a sense of how. I’m intuitive and soft and fully exposed.

That’s how I want to move through my writing: soft and open; vulnerable; fully exposed and always beginning.

Because I want to speak truths. Truths that will relieve you of the fear that you are alone.

Because you’re not. There are others out there just like you.

And, like yours, my heart beats in the secret places that need the most protection and I want to speak from there and relieve us both of the burden of silence.

So, welcome to this place of secrets. My heart.

We can say, “I love you,” here and know the world will not end.

I am.

You are.

We are.

Here.

And, once our fears of being found out give way, we discover we are all one and the same. Our common stories bind us. Save us. Leave trails for others to follow.

The key, for me, is learning to tell the story in just the right way . . . without grasping or trying to hold on too tightly and yet still having a beginning, a middle and an end — a narrative that raises you me us from the depths of despair and becomes lifelines we throw out to each other.

I must confess, I’ve often not known who I am. The truth is that life rarely allows for those idyllic moments of just floating; and I, for one, have always feared the soft roar of that inevitable waterfall we’ve been conditioned to expect just around the next bend in the river.

And so, I spent most of my childhood and a good part of adulthood not sure of my place in the world or who exactly I was supposed to be. At school, and (later) at work, I often felt like a castaway, abandoned (or found) on some unfamiliar shore, alone and frightened.

I used to worry about this not knowing . . . this . . . not really having a me. I was in awe of those who were, miraculously, all there. I was drawn to what I perceived as their wholeness. I envied their “I am here!” surety. And so, I found myself following the trails of others. I found my way to the things I liked and valued by trying out what others liked and valued. I became a picker and a chooser; I became a “Tryer Onner” of how other people seemed.

The upside is that my tastes are eclectic. My interests are diverse and wide ranging. I’ve become quite good at a lot of things. (When you’re not sure of who you are, the possibilities of who you can be are endless.) Over time, I’ve developed a keen sense of my own values. I now know what I don’t want as much as I know what I do.

But, it’s often been a lonely pursuit, this pursuit of “me.” At times, it’s seemed like a never-ending quest. And I’ve needed time alone for the sifting. The settling. The finding out where I belong.

And I’ve taken a lot of wrong turns.

As a student of the unconscious mind, I now know that this is how we all begin — we become someone through observation — by “trying on” so to speak. As a student of Buddhist psychology, I now know that we all suffer and that our suffering comes from holding on too tightly to the oars.

And so, in recent years, I’ve tried to remain soft. Open. Sometimes, I believe I’ve succeeded.

But nothing lasts forever (another Buddhist precept) and I find myself, even now, cast up on yet another shore wondering how I’ve ended up here.

I’ve stepped away from the computer now. These lines are being written by hand because I’ve begun trying to control and when I try to control I become exhausted at the effort and finally give up move away from the task because I’m no longer unobserved and lost in the doing without doing — I see myself caught up in the results and I give up walk away call it a day and am done and that’s not what I want to have happen here…this is not a weak attempt I can or want to walk away from.

So what is this writing about, then? Is it about identity? Letting go? Is it a story with a beginning a middle and an end?

Maybe it’s about all of these…the writing…the being…the who am I to even attempt to speak for others…for myself…the who am I to drop any oars when it should hurt like hell if it’s going to be any good at all?

What I really want to say is…I’ve been suffering I’ve not slept a full night in ten days (not true last night I did) that I took a chance on love (not totally true I kept myself fully armoured) but I did speak true (at least in the end)

I

love

you.

And I find myself now here trying to write these words through tears and what I want to say is that life is hard it’s stupid hard and it doesn’t seem to let up and we’re forever given new things to work with but that’s the gift because self awareness doesn’t come from nothing. It’s not a thing you’re given at birth — no one owes you self awareness — and the hurts the incertitude the anger and the grief that’s how we come to know ourselves and that destination that arrival is the beauty that’s the bliss.

So there’s the dropping of the oars but in between in between there’s the living and the hurting and the tears.

And sometimes the only trail is the trail left by others. Watching reading loving the stories of how they’ve overcome what answers they seem to radiate through their very existence.

And perhaps then this is a letter of thanks and not a story at all.

Thank you to all those who’ve gone before me.

Thank you to those who’ve written the stories that have lifted me out of the depths of despair and pulled me back into the boat.

Thank you to the friends and lovers who’ve allowed me to inhabit their lives.

To those who’ve loved me even when I was looking the other way.

What I really want to say is that the moments of knowing are beautiful.

The moments of tumbling over the waterfall not so much.

We are.

You are.

I am.

Here.

(Oh! who am I? The soft voice of beginnings or the fearful voice of endings? Both. I am both. I am in the real world — I’ve done small good bad terrible great things taught school brought up children lived a life. And then this — this darkness and rage and grief — that too that too I am that too and that’s good. That’s good.

Buddhism again. Without this shit there’s nothing to work with we’re not really alive we’re just hungry ghosts filling our maws with booze and food and shoes and cars and bullshit.)

In her book When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times, Pema Chödrön writes: “To be fully alive, fully human, and completely awake is to be continually thrown out of the nest. To live fully is to be always in no-man’s-land, to experience each moment as completely new and fresh. To live is to be willing to die over and over again.”

Her book saved my life in many ways. It taught me that when things fall apart, we will too. At least for a while. She taught me that the pain, the suffering, comes from holding on too tightly to the oars (her metaphor).

Her book, her words, my saving, came to me years ago through my daughter. I couldn’t sleep. I had taken time off work to get my head on straight and make sure I wasn’t completely disintegrating. And she offered me the book. A lifeline. A trail. She’d begun reading it, but had stopped, not finding it to be what she needed at the time.

She’d said, “Maybe this would help,” and I took hold and I read and read, and something shifted. I came to shore and this time I felt less alone. Less stranded. I was lifted out of my despair.

My daughter threw me a lifeline that saved my life when I thought I was drowning.

We need the hope of healthy endings. We need to be able to imagine positive resolutions. We need to learn to walk on water so that we can lift ourselves back into the boat. But, first, we need to follow the trails of those who’ve survived the flood and who can lead us back to safe waters. We need each other.

So, here’s my ending:

It is in the safe waters that we can float; it is in the safe waters that we can be ourselves and imagine the sweet arrival. But the truth — the BIG truth — is that we need not find our way there alone.

I am.

You are.

We are.

Here.

---

Thank you for reading. ❤️

By the way, I do not use affiliate links in my posts.

Not able to comment? Send me note Here.