Who am I?
I ask this question sometimes, but not as often as I should.
It’s healthy, I think, to ponder existence
As if it were a fig tree
Or a melody
If there is a definitive answer to “Who am I?” then does that make me stale, outdated, a lie?
Is to stand by
While others define you for you.
Am I the creation of two parents?
One afraid to let go,
One afraid to be alone,
Both afraid of seeing who they really are
(Which is beautiful)
Or am I manufactured by my hometown?
That podunk cliche hamlet with a four-digit population
Where your name proceeds you
Before you’ve even built a reputation.
Or perhaps I can be qualified by my many characteristics —
White/male/straight/brown hair/brown eyes/6-foot but most likely 5–11 and 3/4s.
Maybe it’s my laundry list of beliefs and values —
The faith that there’s more than meets the senses, that to divide keeps us in past tenses.
Am I Bend, Oregon?
Am I husband to my wife?
Owner of my dog?
Writer of this poem?
What is “I,” anyway?
I’m drawing a blank, I cannot say.
It’s difficult for someone to articulate their oneness
You get too far in the weeds, it becomes a mess
It’s a question without an answer, I must confess
Best to just let it go and give it bless.
Who am I?
But that’s more than okay
To only suppose,
Because change can then happen
That’s how the legend grows
And at the end of it all
I can attest that I chose:
I am me,
The only one I can be.
More energy than matter
I don’t want to define myself
An experience of living
Want another poem? Here’s a quick one.
I heal, I coach, I write poetry. Want to be well and unlock your Self? Let’s create some conscious magic together!