Buddha said
to wear your ego like a loose-fitting garment.
The ego, that “me” we each fabricate over a lifetime to present to and
interact with the world, serves a purpose, but it's not real. Okay…it’s real,
but it's not real real.
I’m in my 6th
decade now, and I’ve been thinking a lot lately about ego, loss, and letting go.
It’s true that we all face loss
throughout our lives. Relationships end, people we know & love die, we lose
jobs/houses/pets, tragedies happen. These losses are a natural part of living. And
loss, especially in midlife and beyond, does something else besides make us
suffer—it also chisels away at the ego by chipping away at our created identities—the things and people
from which we have each built the story of ME.
It was always a fiction, but I’m learning lately how comforting and safe that
fiction has been for me, and how bare, how raw, it can feel to let it go, to strip
it away.
The Jung
Center says, “Aging means more than just staying on the physical plane while
the years pile up. It includes activities like unifying the opposites...In these years we can work on individuation, as
the ego experiences a host of realities that incline it to give way to the Self
[my emphasis]. Submitting to the direction of the Self can foster the ‘gradual
spiritualization of consciousness’” (http://jungiancenter.org/enjoying-the-afternoon-of-life-jung-on-aging/).
The layers
of my garment—musician, student, mother, partner, daughter, grandmother,
teacher, friend, etc.—come and go. I resist the going, because I’m human, and
humans don’t like change in spite of what we say. And because our garments become
familiar, protective, and cozy, we want to leave them on. Some of us even
forget they’re garments at all; we don’t wear them loosely anymore—we live in
them like skin.
Stripping
off a layer (or having a layer unexpectedly stripped off) can be painful and
confusing: You have a stroke, the stroke takes your voice, are you still a
singer? The band breaks up, are you still a musician? Your kids grow up, they
leave and turn into adult humans (even really cool humans), are you still a tiger
mother? You lose a job, your friend commits suicide or gets hit by a car, your
mother gets cancer, you graduate, you get old and infirm—are you still a bank teller, friend, daughter,
student, wild woman? When the layers come off, it can feel like you’re under attack, losing yourself, coming undone,
lost, invisible, no one.
It took years
of meditation, inner work, waking up, a willingness to be honest about what I
feel and believe, and a willingness to SEE my own misconceptions, but I’m
finally getting it through my thick head that none of this was ever ME. (And,
by the way, we all put on and take off layers all the time—I’m still tightly
wrapped in teacher, daughter, grandma and other delightfully comfy, cozy layers—it’s
knowing they’re only layers that
matters.)
I believe
that the spark & truth & love that is our true nature, our connectedness
within all TRUTH, has never been and can never be altered, diminished, taken
away, or lost. Once I figured this out (remembered it?), I could breathe a
little easier through life’s inevitable chiseling away. I won’t lie and say I always
smile peacefully through loss now, but it no longer completely undoes me.
I’m not
crazy about the word “annihilation,” but this quote from Jack Kornfield rings
true for me: “Only to the
extent that a person exposes themselves over and over again to annihilation and
loss can that which is
indestructible [my emphasis] be found within them.”
That’s how
it can feel—exposed—when layers come off. So now I like to think of my
layers as scarves…filmy, silky, sheer, loose, beautiful scarves that at
least keep the wind off my face. My scarves come and go, there are an infinite
number of ways to wear them, and I never leave them on in the house (ME).
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