Finding Myself

I’ve spent years looking for myself. Who am I?

What does it mean to be authentic?

It’s a trap. One that will have you trying to conform to this so-called authenticity. Because the mind will want a snapshot. To capture an image and perpetuate it: the authentic self.

And round and round we go.

It’s a trap.

There is no finding me. Not a me that can be found again. She changes like the river. Different ripples on different days. Reflecting the dark of an overcast sky, the shadow of dancing white clouds, the brilliant sparkle of sun or luminescence of moon.

One day she’s fierce. The next afraid. She’s a mirror, an ocean, a drop of dew.

She’s not words or phrase or reliable mood.

That’s not the me that others want me to find. They want consistency. Certainty. It’s reassuring for them.

The me I find will not be consistent. She will not come packaged in clever quotes that define her essence. She will not come with a story or a tag line. She will not come smiling. Or fist-raised for a cause. She will not even come as a she.

There is no finding myself. Not a self that you will meet each day.

There is only sensing my self in the moment.

Opening to my self in the breath.

Hearing my self in the wind in the leaves.

Seeing my self in the fathomless space of the night sky.

Knowing my self in the Raven’s gaze.

Remembering my self in the smell of wolf willow.

So I won’t go find myself. That exercise has wasted enough energy and life.

I will acknowledge my true nature is ever present.

Most present in Mother Nature.

The seed that sprouted this story.