Where We Are (I Am)

The mores and pitfalls of self-love, defining the self, and a poem.

We’re not going to discuss politics this week. We won’t be talking about Super Tuesday and Nikki Haley’s departure from the race (we hardly knew you), the State of the Union Address and how it’s become a platform for awful fashion choices, or the criminal upheaval in Haiti. For now, put away your notes, and let’s talk about something closer to home. Ourselves.

The term ‘self-love’ has become inextricably linked to my generation and the one below us. Buying things, spoiling yourself with your own attention, and indulging in excess pleasure are the staples of positive mental health in the 21st century. Setting aside that I think everyone could deal with a healthy dose of ‘self-hatred’, one of the problems I have with the phenomenon is that it presumes to know what the self is and what it wants.

As Lou Reed said, “What do you think I’d see if I could walk away from me?”

Solipsism is the mode of thought that suggests that nothing but the existence of the self can be confirmed; the way of thinking characterizes so much of American culture today and is something I’ve referenced with some frequency in this column. While I’m relatively sure that the self exists, I’m not entirely convinced that it’s an unchanging, stalwart entity. Maybe some part of it is, but identifying that is probably well past my grade.

We’re not our ideas, and I don’t think we’re manifested by our interests. I think the self that we can identify, the one that is the most fundamental to how we interact with the world around us is outwardly defined. We are the roles we play, we are the ways in which we serve our closest companions.

In times of distress or perplexity (or the even more harrowing perplexed distress), the constituent parts of the universe seem to recede to their corners with such rapidity that it leaves you in bewildered isolation. Maybe the self isn’t so much a being rather than a place. Sometimes it’s good to perform this sort of cosmic triangulation.

Recounting the ways you’re uniquely useful, the singular roles you fulfill, calls the corners of the universe back to you. If this doesn’t approximate who we are, it at least asserts where are are. Either way, I think it helps assuage, at least a little, the mind-boggling vastness of existence we’re constantly under siege.

I don’t know if this is a poem, a mantra, or a prayer. Either way, it’s a reminder of who I am, the people I serve, and my place in the world; it’s aspirational, true, and honest. Is it self-love? Who’s to say?

Self

I am my father's only son
I am my mother's only boy
I am my sister's only brother

I am my wife's only partner
I am my daughter's only father
I am I am I am I am

I am an instrument in a band
I am a number eight in an eleven

I am a tree inside a forest
I am a tree inside a forest
I am a tree inside a forest

To a better next week,

Cheers,

~FDA