I’d love to convince you that I am a wonderful, totally unique person…but I’m not.
Oh, I have evidence, lots of it. I can make a great case for me. My ego could go on and on about how special I am. There’s a resume of wonderfulness in my head. Look, check these words out, it’s me – writing just like one of the special people, one of the cool kids.
Marvel as I race down a mountain or climb up it. Thrill as I display compassion or emotion. Listen in rapt awe as I describe (or modestly display) my greatness.
Is it working? Are you convinced yet? Dang.
Somehow, I’ve convinced myself (and hope to convince you) that in a planet of nine billion souls, I am somehow unique and special…that against the panoply of history, I am (despite the objective evidence) one of a kind.
It’s a swell game…one I’ve been playing my whole life. Look, ma, no hands! Look, baby, ain’t I a great lover? Hey, boys, check out these guitar licks! Sometimes, I’m a bit more subtle about it – like when I oh so humbly perform actions, subconsciously hoping someone will notice them and comment…on how dang great I am. Or how I rocked that last A) article B) yoga pose C) ski run D) whatever.
It’s not easy being great; it’s a lot of work. I am pretty lazy, and that much work for so little gain (merely to stroke my ego) is tiring. Yet I persist.
Contemporary consumer society tells me it is good to be unique, a lofty goal. They suggest I might display my uniqueness by driving a Prius, like millions of others…or use a certain shampoo that will allow my hair’s lustrous shine to highlight my one-of-a-kind magnificence.
Potential lovers and friends screen me for suitable grooviness; do I meet the criteria, fit within the parameters? Potential employers check me out to make sure I am One of the Best…if not THE best.
So far, only my Mom and I have been convinced of my greatness…and I didn’t last as long as I’d hoped. All my lovers saw the light…at least at first they did. People tell me God knows. Yet in the same breath they tell me He will rain down pestilence and brimstone on me, should I ever fall short of this assumed fantasticness.
They also tell me that the truth will set me free – so here it is:
I am not great, or unique. I am not special. There’s a decent chance (a certainty?) I don’t meet your criteria for a lover, for a friend, for general coolness. My IQ is less than 200, and my credit score less than 900.
I am hopelessly fallible. I make poor choices, and quite often fall short of ‘the Mark.’ No, I am not Superman…or even Sorta-super Dude. I am just me…just one yogi. One sadhaka, if you prefer. Just some guy, that’s me.
In arguing for the quotidian entity that is me, I mislead you. I am not just an average guy, either. I fall short of even that, in many ways. If I am unique, then it is uniquely messed-up. If I am special, it is especially mundane.
Now, don’t get me wrong, thinking I am Mister Negative, or have a poor self-image or whatever DSM-like diagnosis springs to mind. I am a happy person in general, and love life. I am content in my humanity, my inhumanity, my fallibility.
Loving is accepting. I accept myself. My non-special, non-unique self. I accept my Divine Self as well. I accept it all. It is just me…and that is enough. It may not be enough for you, and sometimes it may not be enough for me. But it is enough.
After all, I am just a story I tell you, a story I tell myself. It is all imputed – as all meaning is. Behind it all is just me…at my core, just a big old blob of Light, just like you are. At my essence, I am just spinning wheels of energy…each atom composed of energy, spinning, spinning.
Just me. Just you. Just blobs of light, self-aware apes, hopelessly human at our best.
That’s enough for me…is it enough for You?