I have been thinking a lot about this question of who we are. Possibly precipitated by these these quotes which presented themselves to me over and over again this summer (reminding me, yet again, that there’s some inchoate logic behind what we think of when we think of it).
Tell me who you love and I will tell you who you are – Arsene Houssaye
Maybe that’s who you are, what you remember. – Orson Scott Card
Are we those we love, our memories, or our passions? These all feel right to me. Perhaps we are all three. Surely we are so much more, too. I’ve been thinking about how I would personally answer these questions but also about the way that each of these quotes touches on external indicators of something truly internal. Can we ever really know who we are?
Or are we always looking for hints, or clues, or the shimmer of that self, like a thread in a woven fabric or something glinting in the ocean?
I suspect it’s more the latter, and that’s why quotes that at who we are are so powerful. Of course I am not certain. What I do know is that some combination of what we love, what we remember, what we pay attention to feels like as good as any as a way to ascertain who we are. That all resonates.
For now, that means that who I am lives somewhere in two tall teen and tween children, one gimp husband crutching around, sunsets, books, poetry, friends whose loyalty is deep and wide, the sky at all times of day.
That sounds about right to me.
Who are you?
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