The Roles We Play

There’s something about being out here, away from everything I used to know, afloat in a wildly remote part of the world, surrounded by nothing but sea below and sky above... that has me asking myself often, who am I?

Wholly divorcing myself from all the routine, the rhythm, the roles of the life I knew before, with no points of reference to turn to except some increasingly distant memories that I have to squint and strain my mind to see… who am I?

That’s all we’re ever doing when we attempt to answer that question. 

Reaching into our own personal history, grabbing the most well rehearsed stories, reprising the highly practiced characters we love to play.

We use the reference points around us to affirm back to us that this is us — we are the caregiver, the writer, the independent one. We look into the faces of those around us to tell us who we should be. Who are you?

If your grip was loosened, just enough, on the script of your life...

If your own certainty about who you are or are not was blurred just a touch...

If the constructs that give your stories their shape were lifted just so …

If there was nothing, not even your own mind, telling you what role to play…

Who are you?