Unbecoming

It came to me while writing my morning pages today.

I have been calling myself spiritual for years. What’s the essence of being spiritual, though?

It’s about growth–constant, non-stop growth in an effort to be the best possible you.

At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself.

But I’ve realized that we’re building mansions on sinkholes. What we think of as personal growth is based on a very shaky premise: us.

Not us, but who we think we are.

Allow me to explain.

Have you seen the movie, Inside Out?  If you haven’t you should, but there’s a scene in which the main characters turn into abstract thought–and a few other fun stages. (Watch the clip.)

It’s a physical deconstruction of the characters. What I’m talking about is also a form of deconstruction, but it’s not our body that we’re deconstructing; it’s our mind.

Unbecoming.

To be on a spiritual path involves a lot of shitting on ourselves when we’re not living up to our own expectations–the ones that we’ve built, in part, by comparing ourselves to those around us.

We’re all beating ourselves up (present company included) because we’re not yet where we want to be–or who we want to be.

But perhaps the answer is in that gentle word.

Unbecoming.

Perhaps, it’s not so much about getting to somewhere we’re not, but in getting out of the way whatever is in the way of us being who we already are.

Worth a second look.

Perhaps, it’s not so much about getting to somewhere we’re not, but in getting out of the way whatever is in the way of us being who we already are.

And we all know that what’s usually in the way is us.

Not the real us, but rather the fraud that we keep telling ourselves we are.

So, how does we unbecome?

How do we get out of our own way?

It begins with taking inventory of everything we hold true about ourselves, and then asking a simple question: is that true?

Not true in the traditional sense, but really, really true.

I remember in grad school we had a professor come and do an exercise with us.

We paired off, faced each other and took turns asking each other: how old are you?

And we kept repeating the same question–and the same answer–until the true answer no longer made sense–even to ourselves!

I’m 42.

Am I 42?

Surely, I was born in 1974.

Well, that’s what they tell me, anyway.

But am I 42?

From when does this I originate? When did this I arrive on the scene?

At birth? At a couple years old?

(Get a little curious.)

Is that I 42?

Maybe. But maybe there is another I–and maybe we’ve been mixing up the fabricated I (think: ego, persona, socialization) with the eternal I.

But me telling you this stuff doesn’t make any difference. You have to experience it for yourself.

Wisdom is not received; we must discover it on a journey that none can take for us, or spare us.

                                                               ~Marcel Proust

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