(no subject)
We had a bit of a retreat this weekend, which included much wandering about a lovely arboretum on the edge of a small town in the plains. It was beautiful.
And I thought of how hard we cling to the things that we think make us ourselves. Our clothes, our jobs, our education, our history, our talents, our accomplishments. Everyone who knows me knows how much I love researching my family history (and this town we were in was, in fact, home to a number of my ancestors) and sometimes I wonder if I define myself that way.
And I thought about a recent contestant on What Not To Wear (the American one) who fought tooth and nail against anyone suggesting she wear anything different from the clothes she's used to. I know a number of people like that in real life, who will never change their hair, who will never wear anything but a single kind of outfit, who never wear colors or styles outside of a rigid set.
And I thought about people who are completely gutted when they can no longer do the job they'd been doing for decades (for illness or layoffs or what-have-you) and they find themselves lost and undefined.
And it's a funny thing... All these things we cling to, styles and customs and careers and histories, they're just passing bits. They're not eternal. They are reflections and variations and bits on the side, but how did they come to define our being? And why are we so terrified to let them go? To let it all slip away...
I pick a dandelion clock and blow on it and the little seeds scatter on the wind, free of their parent, off to who knows where. We're like the one little seed on the back side that stays attached and says, "I am very comfortable here, thank you very much, and I've been here all my life, and I am not moving."
I think about it and it makes me sad... because those who cling are missing out on beauty. That girl who wouldn't wear other clothes? They finally got her to, and she was stunned at how beautiful she could look if she wanted it. Folks who define themselves entirely by their talents may box themselves in those areas of speciality, never to see the world beyond them. Folks who define themselves by a career put everyone else in little career boxes, and cease to see them as people. Folks who define themselves by their upbringing fail to see that there are other ways to live. And I, with my family history obsession, so often fail to look to the future, of the family that I may well someday create (and all the families that even now I add to).
"Who are you, yourself, alone and nameless?" asked Tom Bombadil. Who are we, nameless? Who are we, jobless? Who are we without or coveted clothes or special foods, without our rituals and customs, beyond past and future, inside our skin? 'Cause our skin is a passing thing too, and our bodies only dust. We wear this world like a robe and will someday cast it off. What robe do we wear? Why do we wear it? What would happen if we let ourselves dance naked a little, and consider the bit of us that doesn't change?
And what would happen if we entrusted the little naked flame of our soul to the one who kindled it?
To be free of the grit and grime that gathers on our skin, to be free of the black in our lungs, to be free of the tar that defiles our minds, to let someone else clean it all out, and give us a new shape, a new robe, different, but exactly as it should be?
Every day I hope to learn a little more of the courage it takes to cast off all I cling to. Long process, but so far, worth it.
And I thought of how hard we cling to the things that we think make us ourselves. Our clothes, our jobs, our education, our history, our talents, our accomplishments. Everyone who knows me knows how much I love researching my family history (and this town we were in was, in fact, home to a number of my ancestors) and sometimes I wonder if I define myself that way.
And I thought about a recent contestant on What Not To Wear (the American one) who fought tooth and nail against anyone suggesting she wear anything different from the clothes she's used to. I know a number of people like that in real life, who will never change their hair, who will never wear anything but a single kind of outfit, who never wear colors or styles outside of a rigid set.
And I thought about people who are completely gutted when they can no longer do the job they'd been doing for decades (for illness or layoffs or what-have-you) and they find themselves lost and undefined.
And it's a funny thing... All these things we cling to, styles and customs and careers and histories, they're just passing bits. They're not eternal. They are reflections and variations and bits on the side, but how did they come to define our being? And why are we so terrified to let them go? To let it all slip away...
I pick a dandelion clock and blow on it and the little seeds scatter on the wind, free of their parent, off to who knows where. We're like the one little seed on the back side that stays attached and says, "I am very comfortable here, thank you very much, and I've been here all my life, and I am not moving."
I think about it and it makes me sad... because those who cling are missing out on beauty. That girl who wouldn't wear other clothes? They finally got her to, and she was stunned at how beautiful she could look if she wanted it. Folks who define themselves entirely by their talents may box themselves in those areas of speciality, never to see the world beyond them. Folks who define themselves by a career put everyone else in little career boxes, and cease to see them as people. Folks who define themselves by their upbringing fail to see that there are other ways to live. And I, with my family history obsession, so often fail to look to the future, of the family that I may well someday create (and all the families that even now I add to).
"Who are you, yourself, alone and nameless?" asked Tom Bombadil. Who are we, nameless? Who are we, jobless? Who are we without or coveted clothes or special foods, without our rituals and customs, beyond past and future, inside our skin? 'Cause our skin is a passing thing too, and our bodies only dust. We wear this world like a robe and will someday cast it off. What robe do we wear? Why do we wear it? What would happen if we let ourselves dance naked a little, and consider the bit of us that doesn't change?
And what would happen if we entrusted the little naked flame of our soul to the one who kindled it?
To be free of the grit and grime that gathers on our skin, to be free of the black in our lungs, to be free of the tar that defiles our minds, to let someone else clean it all out, and give us a new shape, a new robe, different, but exactly as it should be?
Every day I hope to learn a little more of the courage it takes to cast off all I cling to. Long process, but so far, worth it.