I am rain in a cloud
unformed and concentrating
that I may fall through air into Earth's embrace,
nurturing the soil of our discontent
with droplets from Heaven.
Unfinished poem, Karen Sella
Who are you? That question asked again just yesterday. Another group. Another check-in. Tell us who you are. As if this is possible. Who am I? Seriously? I realize that this is a brilliant, spiritual practice ala Ramana Maharshi, but most people who ask the question aren’t asking to bring my mind to a mind-blowing, spiritual halt--they are asking because they actually want an answer. And often, in five minutes or less. Moreover, they are often without realizing it asking for specific answers. In other words, answering I don't know. I don't care. And I rather like that seems to leave most people wanting.
But any answer I give is hopelessly inadequate and incomplete. And not because I'm so special, but rather, because we all are and because this is a living question that unfolds in each moment. I've been living that question for over thirty years now, and I still don't have an answer--or rather, I have many usually irrelevant and inevitably partial answers. They are all completely true and truly incomplete... I've answered this question differently hundreds of times, and all I know is that there are as many answers to that question as there are stars in the sky. It's right up there with why are we here? Why did you fall in love? What will happen when you die? Even the answers to who I've been or who I could be change over time. I can offer a hundred stories about who I am and promise that what I tell you today may change tomorrow--or in a moment. I'm that wondrously unstable...or dynamic, depending on the day [grin].
Who do you think I am? Who do you want me to be? And why does it matter? If you are truly who you are and I am truly who I am, then the answer is self-evident. We know in our being beyond words all that matters.
