A self is not something static, tied up in a pretty parcel and handed to the child, finished and complete. A self is always becoming. Being does mean becoming, but we run so fast that is only when we seem to stop–a sitting on the rock at the brook–that we are aware of our own isness, of being. But eventually this is not static, for this awareness of being is always a way of moving from selfish self–the self image–towards the real.
Who am I , then? Who are you?
~Madeleine L’Engle, A Circle or Quiet, 1972.
I can’t decide if this idea scares me or relieves me.
I’m not a fan of change. I don’t like moving. (Hush Joe. Just because I have moved a lot doesn’t mean I like it.) The older I get the harder I find having everything in chaos. It feels like the edges of my self are blurred when nothing is in its place; when I don’t know the multiple ways around and through a town. And yet that seems ridiculous, doesn’t it? Absurd that I would be so defined by the kin, if you will, of my environment.
On the other hand, thank goodness my “isness” is changing. There are so many versions of my self out there that I would prefer to never visit. How relieving it is to know that I don’t have to be the same, always.
How scary, though, the thought that neither does anyone else.