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chelidonNames are so powerful. We all have the many names by which others know us (some of us more than others ;>), and the legion names by which we know ourselves. Not only the "proper names," but the formal and informal roles we take on, or that others project upon us. Good daughter, neglectful son, dutiful parent, hard worker, lazy slacker, honorable man, damned troublemaker, brazen girl, queer lad, on and on the names go. Secret names, pet names, whispered lover's names, curses and honors and nomes de plume, titles, roles, slanders, slurs, terms of endearment and challenge... Claiming, changing, dropping names, these are all such powerful acts we can take with intent.
Why should it matter? They're all just labels, after all, aren't they? They don't have to do with who we *really* are...
But they do. We are constantly, at every single blessed moment, creating, re-inventing ourselves, and re-creating, re-inventing the universe around us. And the cliche is true-- we are all deeply, inextricably interconnected and entwined, and we constantly re-invent each other as well. Each moment is a moment of powerful co-creation, a relentless, brilliant spark of shared engendering of the world(s) around us.
That's one of the reasons we are always at least somewhat of a reflection of the company we keep, and the environments in which we exist, why we behave differently in different contexts with different people. It's one of the reasons that people in nursing homes, separated from all those who knew them, those who helped create their worlds and identities, often start to fade into insubstantiality. It's one of the reasons abusers tell their victims the lies they do and attempt to isolate them from others, to keep them weak, to re-invent them as powerless victims, to try to make the lie true. It's one of the reasons the constant sea of corporate advertising in which we are immersed is so insidious. It's one of the reasons allies are so very important. We constantly tell tales of each other, in words and actions, we are surrounded day in and day out by constant streams of narrative refrain, tales of You, and Me, and Us.
Of course we are not just passive clay to be molded by our surroundings, not just inarticulate mirrors. Far from it. Our inner selves shine, and our inner truths resist attempts to make them lies. But all glamour aside, neither do we seem to have the power to completely re-invent ourselves (or be re-invented by others) at a moment's notice-- we are not quite so completely malleable as that. Some of our patterns seem to be doggedly, stubbornly fixed, but others are much more liquid, immediately, or over time. Nor is the consensus reality in which we swim infinitely, entirely subjective (from a practical, not a philosophical, point of view). There are limits, there are persistent truths and realities -- though the world is in fact quite a bit more mutable than most people allow themselves to believe.
So all of this philosophical musing comes to mind for me because of a simple act of self-identification that I am taking, one I should probably have taken long ago. It's an act which some folks may find funny, but it's a serious and challenging step for me.
Throughout my life I've called myself many things, done a lot of different kinds of work, lived in a lot of different places. One thing I've always wanted to be, from an early age was a writer. But I've never actually called myself that, not really. If someone asked me what I did, up until as recently as a week ago, I either didn't mention writing, or I would say, "I am a {x,y,z}, and I write." Not "I am a writer," but "...and I write." It's an extra, a whim, a lark, a hobby or avocation or sideline.
Well, that's a lie. For the majority of the last 10 years, I've made the greater part of my living by writing. Now I write or edit in some manner or another almost every single day. I have stuff that goes out to hundreds of thousands of readers, I've had stuff that's gone out to millions of readers.
While driving last weekend, I was cogitating about this with one of my housemates, and she laughed in my face, marveling that I was even asking the question. "I knew you were a writer the first time we corresponded by email, before we even actually met," she said. At least once a day since then she stops, looks me dead in the face and says, "you are a writer." Dammit.
What more am I waiting for? And what am I so afraid of that I haven't taken this obvious step years and years ago? The obvious answer is that if what I am is a writer, than I have to write, and I have to do more of *my* writing-- not what I get paid for, but what I want to write, what I feel I need to write. All of the other writing, that which pays the bills, can, in part, be seen as a clever excuse to avoid my work, because I'm too busy, I'm on deadline, I have commitments and obligations and projects and assignments. And there's not a lot of ego attached to it, either -- it's safe...it's just my job, y'know?
And to be clear, there are times when that "other" work is still Right Livelihood -- I had a short piece go out yesterday lambasting a mega-corporation for screwing over 5000 of its workers, and almost immediately got a reply from someone telling me how much those words had meant to them, just that someone spoke publicly that this was wrong, wrong, wrong, told them they deserved better and that the inhumane and grotesque corporate malfeasance hadn't gone entirely unnoticed. Having the opportunity to speak those words and have them heard is a privilege, and I'm grateful for it.
But it's still not what burns inside me, it's still not the raw creative juices flowing through in torrents and rivers that thrills and terrifies me. And that's the challenge. I think now of the 10 of wands, one of whose meanings can be the burning, crushing burden of living up to one's own creative nature.
Well, bring it on. After at least three decades of somehow avoiding this self-identification, I'm finally coming out as a writer.
I am a writer.
So there.
Why should it matter? They're all just labels, after all, aren't they? They don't have to do with who we *really* are...
But they do. We are constantly, at every single blessed moment, creating, re-inventing ourselves, and re-creating, re-inventing the universe around us. And the cliche is true-- we are all deeply, inextricably interconnected and entwined, and we constantly re-invent each other as well. Each moment is a moment of powerful co-creation, a relentless, brilliant spark of shared engendering of the world(s) around us.
That's one of the reasons we are always at least somewhat of a reflection of the company we keep, and the environments in which we exist, why we behave differently in different contexts with different people. It's one of the reasons that people in nursing homes, separated from all those who knew them, those who helped create their worlds and identities, often start to fade into insubstantiality. It's one of the reasons abusers tell their victims the lies they do and attempt to isolate them from others, to keep them weak, to re-invent them as powerless victims, to try to make the lie true. It's one of the reasons the constant sea of corporate advertising in which we are immersed is so insidious. It's one of the reasons allies are so very important. We constantly tell tales of each other, in words and actions, we are surrounded day in and day out by constant streams of narrative refrain, tales of You, and Me, and Us.
Of course we are not just passive clay to be molded by our surroundings, not just inarticulate mirrors. Far from it. Our inner selves shine, and our inner truths resist attempts to make them lies. But all glamour aside, neither do we seem to have the power to completely re-invent ourselves (or be re-invented by others) at a moment's notice-- we are not quite so completely malleable as that. Some of our patterns seem to be doggedly, stubbornly fixed, but others are much more liquid, immediately, or over time. Nor is the consensus reality in which we swim infinitely, entirely subjective (from a practical, not a philosophical, point of view). There are limits, there are persistent truths and realities -- though the world is in fact quite a bit more mutable than most people allow themselves to believe.
So all of this philosophical musing comes to mind for me because of a simple act of self-identification that I am taking, one I should probably have taken long ago. It's an act which some folks may find funny, but it's a serious and challenging step for me.
Throughout my life I've called myself many things, done a lot of different kinds of work, lived in a lot of different places. One thing I've always wanted to be, from an early age was a writer. But I've never actually called myself that, not really. If someone asked me what I did, up until as recently as a week ago, I either didn't mention writing, or I would say, "I am a {x,y,z}, and I write." Not "I am a writer," but "...and I write." It's an extra, a whim, a lark, a hobby or avocation or sideline.
Well, that's a lie. For the majority of the last 10 years, I've made the greater part of my living by writing. Now I write or edit in some manner or another almost every single day. I have stuff that goes out to hundreds of thousands of readers, I've had stuff that's gone out to millions of readers.
While driving last weekend, I was cogitating about this with one of my housemates, and she laughed in my face, marveling that I was even asking the question. "I knew you were a writer the first time we corresponded by email, before we even actually met," she said. At least once a day since then she stops, looks me dead in the face and says, "you are a writer." Dammit.
What more am I waiting for? And what am I so afraid of that I haven't taken this obvious step years and years ago? The obvious answer is that if what I am is a writer, than I have to write, and I have to do more of *my* writing-- not what I get paid for, but what I want to write, what I feel I need to write. All of the other writing, that which pays the bills, can, in part, be seen as a clever excuse to avoid my work, because I'm too busy, I'm on deadline, I have commitments and obligations and projects and assignments. And there's not a lot of ego attached to it, either -- it's safe...it's just my job, y'know?
And to be clear, there are times when that "other" work is still Right Livelihood -- I had a short piece go out yesterday lambasting a mega-corporation for screwing over 5000 of its workers, and almost immediately got a reply from someone telling me how much those words had meant to them, just that someone spoke publicly that this was wrong, wrong, wrong, told them they deserved better and that the inhumane and grotesque corporate malfeasance hadn't gone entirely unnoticed. Having the opportunity to speak those words and have them heard is a privilege, and I'm grateful for it.
But it's still not what burns inside me, it's still not the raw creative juices flowing through in torrents and rivers that thrills and terrifies me. And that's the challenge. I think now of the 10 of wands, one of whose meanings can be the burning, crushing burden of living up to one's own creative nature.
Well, bring it on. After at least three decades of somehow avoiding this self-identification, I'm finally coming out as a writer.
I am a writer.
So there.
