I spent yesterday with a perceptive and wonderful friend. We spoke
of…well, just about everything, in the way you would with someone you seem to
have known forever, even if reality assures you it hasn’t been that long at
all. The walls of the coffee house were red, lined with books, eclectic works
of art and collected things, and menus featuring an endless variety of
coffee-based beverages. Guitars lounged expectantly, strategically reposing
amongst the tables, chairs and booths, awaiting the wanton caress of restless,
calloused fingers.
How was your morning? Well, I got lost, but then you know
that. The coffee’s too sweet. Yeah, I noticed. Not a problem making
conversation. Where’d the time go? I’m distracted. Been there, done that. I’m
so sorry. What’s that phrase? Stream of consciousness. Exactly!
And so it went, and then I listened to a story; the story of
a someone who had gone to see a guru, a monk, an oracle incarnate high atop a
mountain. It was a search for meaning, something we all should go through, a
journey every soul must undertake and in the end hope for the courage to view
our lives, our selves, and find them either aggregate or wanting. Never fully
consummate, let there be no doubt.
Playing against type, for he was flesh and blood, and not a
stereotype within his given life, this wise man told this someone not to strive
to find himself, but instead to accept the greater probability that he would,
as most men do, spend a wasted life in the seeking. The point is not to find oneself,
but to instead believe we were not meant to be found.
This point was illustrated by my friend, who recreated on a
notebook page what his friend had drawn for him, itself a derivation of the
drawing of the monk. Small circles formed another circle, and within them all,
the center being, representative of our most inner selves. The first circles
represented all the things we are, that we do, that we show to everyone,
everything that makes the outward projection of us. But deep down inside them
all rests our true self, the one that even we may never truly meet. And the freedom
comes from understanding that in the end, no matter how hard we search, we may
never fully get to know ourselves. But isn’t that what makes life interesting?
How many times have we said, “I can’t believe I did that.” or “That just wasn’t
like me.” Really? How do you know? You did it, didn’t you?
As someone who’s always wondered who I really am, what
drives my heartbeat oh-so-deep down inside, what’s my motivation when it comes
to living life, it struck me suddenly that if I never got to know, then I would
be okay with that. Of course, somehow I’d have to be. But really, how exciting
and exhilarating a thought that we can spend our entire lives getting to know
others, and ourselves. And, in a sense, perhaps know someone better than we
could ever know ourselves, and vice versa.
I kinda like that thought. Last night I went to sleep with a
smile on my face thinking about it, and red walls, eclectic things, old
guitars, friendships formed, and happenstance. And, of course, some other good
advice: dream carefully.
