Write about birth, rebirth, physical, spiritual, poetical, meta…
“I wouldn’t have believed this was the same person if I hadn’t seen this happen…” And yet I believe I’ve always been this person, just not manifest. I am in the midst of a sense-making narrative; not finding, but becoming, knowing myself. “I am this person who I was and she is me, completely and utterly me.” If more obvious to others.
I spent a conversation today telling someone else how I’m balancing things better — that I am better — I’m coping anyway…
“Letting others see me, but what does that actually mean? Individually-focused responses may be the nature of this work and yet I wonder if that makes me feel more responsible for people’s interactions with me.” What if I am to blame and I’ve lost sight of who I am as I try to show others this is me — in the becoming…
Do you think I’m the same person I was last year because this dialogue, extended it seems, is perplexing? How do I embrace my weirdness, the part of me that doesn’t quite connect, who likes things her own way, without othering and thereby alienating myself? I wish I knew… Is it possible to be intrinsically the same person, but also have better coping skills?
“I feel like I’m actually meeting you today…” (“What does she mean? When I’m raw and broken and defenseless.” Apparently the hiding and the fading is failing me — great! “Because this is still me. Just way less guarded — you see all systems have failed…”)
“That’s what I figured but maybe this experience of sharing is novel for you.”
“Yeah, I suppose it is — I feel like I’m talking so much slower today.”
“This feels slow to you?”
“Is this how normal people talk?”
“You tell me.”
(This feels weird. I’m weird.) “No, you’re not,” she said in a surprisingly direct manner. “This is just new — you’re practicing you see.” (We’ve been doing that a lot lately, haven’t we?) “I suppose that is the nature of this process. Still here?” (I guess so.) “I’m glad.” (I know – why’s that?)
We’ve been headed to this place for a long time and we, or to be more precise, you, have yet to arrive. This becoming is not a destination, an arrival after a series of landmarks, but a serpentine path.
Maybe we never fully arrive — but we ask better questions, and pause in our own subtle attempts to answer them.