Summer #23: One must know when to stop.

Summer #23 Two questions have compelled me throughout my life, and they are questions I have often often framed for my students: "Who am I?" and "What is my dream?" I remember that the essay question on Davidson College's application the year I applied was, "Who are you and why?" My response began confidently, "I am a child of the seventies...." A truer response, I think, was to the first assignment in my high school sophomore English class: "Create a symbol of yourself." My symbol, wisely I think now, was collage of photos formed into a large question mark. I thought then as I think now, "I contain multitudes." That question mark hung on the teacher's wall, forgotten by everyone but me I suppose, all year, and challenged me daily: Who am I and why is this question so impossible for me to answer?

I like Sandra Cisneros's metaphor of Esperanza's self as a series of wooden dolls that fit inside one another, each ourselves at one age, and each age still a part of who we are.

When I lived in Dallas, my friend George, who was a medical student then and I hear is a psychiatrist now, gave me a couple of riddles, of tests, designed to help a person know who they are. I don't remember them exactly, but they went something like this: Riddle #1 consisted of three questions to which a person needed to write an extended response. Each of the three questions was, "If you were an animal, what animal would you be?" As I remember, your first response is how you see yourself, the second how others see you and the third how you really are. Riddle #2 also comprised three questions: #1: If you were an animal, what animal would you be? #2: Descibe your favorite body of water and #3: Imagine that you are naked, in a white room. There is light in the room, but no clear source of that light. There are no windows and no doors, only four white walls, a white floor and a white ceiling. It is silent. Describe how you feel.

Try it and see what you discover.

If I were an animal, I would be a cat. Really, I am a cat. I like to nap in the sun and run around when I feel like it. Sometimes, I will allow you to pay attention to me, but only when I feel like it. Otherwise, I am preoccupied chasing butterflies and such. I, however, do not carry dead rodents in my mouth. And I do not pee in a litter box.

My favorite body of water is the ocean. It is deep, mysterious, and complex. The life that teems beneath the surface cannot be guessed at from a distance. It is strong and steady. Waves reach perpetually for the shore. At times it is playful, and at other times it is beautifully chaotic.

In this white room,  I breathe deeply. I rest. I feel at peace.

As I remember, the animal reveals how you see yourself. The water reveals how you feel about sex. Your feelings about the white room reveal how you feel about death. I don't know if any of this is true, but I find it interesting to think about: who am I, really?

Some of my favorite people are those who see in me what I want to be true about myself. On her sixieth birthday, my friend Rita wrote a kind of a "Who's who?" for the people at her party. About me, she said, "Mary lives her beliefs." I want that to be true of me.

My recent student Yessicaa wrote a note to me when she graduated: "You're very kind, helpful, caring and motivating. Thanks to your caring heart I realized that there are people out there who care for me and discovered how special teachers can be in a student's life." This I want to be true of me as well, and I am graced that someone has seen that in me and shown me to myself in such a kind mirror.

I think about whether these tumors have changed who I am. They have certainly changed my life. Who am I? I am a survivor, the disabled woman down the road, Ann's partner, my parents' child, a sister, an aunt, a cousin. I am a teacher, a writer, a friend, an adventurer, a child of grace.

Thanks for staying with me as I've shared myself in this blog. In the sharing, I am discovering, and in that discovering you have been a support, an ear (or an eye), a kind friend. As Lao Tsu wrote centuries ago, "One must know when to stop," and I think it's time to stop this blog now, but the questions and the life and the grace persist. With love. Mary