The overflowing, messy abundance of a good self
Trying to keep yourself tidy and consistent can make life narrow, limiting and a bit dull
It’s tempting to construct a nice, tidy self. A self with neatly-finished edges, that’s easy-care, doesn’t need ironing and is easy to fold up and pack away into its protective case, which in my mind looks like a sturdy wooden thing, perhaps one of those old-school blanket boxes people keep at the foot of their bed. Something spacious, safe and symmetrical, that meshes nicely with others and is solid enough for building into structures of families and workplaces, communities and societies.
This self keeps us busy and contained, with boundaries that both delineate and shield us, protecting us from existential questions we can’t answer about the point and the purpose of it all; those nagging urges to do and be more, to explore and experiment and play. It shuts down our desire to explore the world and ourselves, work out what interests us and where we find joy and purpose, connect and grow.
But your identity isn’t one coherent thing. Who you show up as depends on the day, the context, the company, your mood. You don’t turn up to a business meeting ready to run, either in dress or attitude; you‘re not the same person at networking event for a new job as you are at the pub with your closest, oldest mates. I’ve had days when a chance comment from a stranger has completely decimated my confidence, left me second guessing the words tripping out of my mouth. And others where I’ve read things that suddenly bite, instantly changing the way I see and move through the world.
Your self is not tidy and easy to handle. It’s not meant to be carefully stored in a rigid, protective shell so it doesn’t get dirty or damaged, affected by the elements, exposed to the light. I know it seems safer that way: like necessary protection so you don’t inappropriately bubble out of the gaps or accidentally run away to become someone or something else; needed to prevent people from peering in and judging.
But change is the point and the constant. Think back ten years. Are you still the same person? Would you want to be?
If you want an exciting, expansive metaphor for identity how about this: it’s like a tree in an old-growth forest. You’re rooted in a thick layer of mulch, moist and spongy, with hard rocks and decomposing leaves and mushroom threads that magically both hold it together and break it down, somehow transmitting information about what you need into the leaves and the surrounding forest. This earth is your history and your ancestors, all the old, dead stuff that has lived on to nourish and produce you. You haven’t grown alone: there’s a whole bush full of things that have shaped you. There have been seasons of growth, seasons of rest. There is a whole limb that withered in adolescence; a scar where a branch was abruptly felled by heartbreak.
Fancy ferns sprout in nooks, moss grows on one side, its green carpet decorated with sparkling dew-beads. There are nests where birds lay hopeful eggs. They belong to bowerbirds or magpies, that collect colour and sparkle, adding fun to all the functional twigs. Because it’s in there where you find the growth, the curiosity and the joy.
The surrounding forest has let you survive storms, although not without carnage. Sometimes there are whole wintry seasons, where fronts come in thick and fast and you have to trust your roots will hold, that you won’t get washed away or topple over. Once the skies clear and the ground firms up you discover the surrounding world has changed. There are new gaps in the canopy, which can be lonely, alienating. But this also allow more space and light so you can sprout, spread out, shoot up.
And what do all these metaphors mean, with their mixing of laundry and nature; all this waffling about selves and change? Only that you’re going to change - it’s impossible not to. So instead of subconciously pruning yourself by following ease, consistency and habit, why not choose to be more expansive, connected and curious? By exploring ourselves and the world - from the beauties of the backyard to the back of beyond - we can find joy and purpose, connect and grow.
Why not?
‘What do you know now that you are going to find out in a year?’ This cracking question comes from Time to Think by Nancy Kline, who says that often we know that something isn’t going to work for ages before we listen. Instead, we skirt around the issue or ignore it, and only address it when things get critical.
I’m going to try it out and see if I can avoid or year or so of muddling.
I’m up to week six in Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, which has sold 5 million copies since it was published in 1992. I’ve been meaning to do it for oh - maybe two decades - but was a bit put off by the title, the time involved, all the spiritual stuff: pretty much everything. Anyway, after having it on my shelf for years I opened it and began. It’s great, if hard. Here’s a quote from it I like:
‘Often people attempt to live their lives backwards: they try to have more things, or more money, in order to do more of what they want so that they will be happier. The way it actually works is the reverse. You must first be who you really are, then, do what you need to do, in order to have what you want.’ - Margaret Young
One of the book’s requirements is a weekly ‘artist’s date’ where you take yourself off for an hour-long solo adventure. Mine often involve swimming and are crammed into lunch hours, before picking up kids - pockets of adventure here and there. Recommended!
It gets so boring to be always try to fit into a box! Thanks for sharing these thoughts.
Also love the idea of taking ourselves out for mini adventures! Delightful!
Love this ❤️❤️