It took me about two and a half years to find myself. Comparatively, I figure I’m pretty lucky to have found myself at all. Suffice to say, I was looking fairly fervently for myself. I thought for a long while that I was defined by how others saw me, what I wore, and the kind of people I knew. I think that is why people never find themselves; they are looking in other people for the answer, but the irony is that the only way to find yourself is to look within. Who would’ve thought?
For the longest time, I thought finding oneself was an “extrospective” exercise. One usually “finds” something in the physical world, beyond one’s own conscious... like under the bed, in a pocket, or on top of the refrigerator. So, I concluded I could find myself in one of those places. Needless to say, I started in my closet because that is where I find a lot of things for which I am looking (e.g. the other black sock, the one that goes with the one with the hole that I refuse to throw out despite my mother’s entreaties; my blue nail polish; that one horrible picture of me that still somehow exists despite my best efforts to completely expunge it from this Earth). I could not find myself there. I was utterly confused and defeated; if not in my closet, then where? But, I recognized my problem: all the things I find in my closet are lost. What I was looking for had yet to be discovered; therefore, my closest could not hold the answer.
I sat, and sat, and sat, and sat on the edge of my bed staring into my open closet, pondering for quite some time before I had my, “Ah ha!” moment. All I had to do was stop looking and start discovering. The simplicity of the solution almost embarrassed me. Suddenly, I began to find things about myself everywhere. I found plaid; I found three best friends; I found dresses; I found a fear of cephalopods; I found loving the fact that I love theatre; I found Shakespeare; I found crossword puzzles; I found loving French without speaking French; I found loving the sound of the cello; I found Groucho Marx, and Mickey Mouse; I found wit, wisdom, and Woody Allen.
Now, there is something about the way I walk through the hallways or down the street that is different than ever before. I think it is pride. I am not ashamed of who I am. I remember the feeling of inferiority that formed a heavy cloud over my head. I wouldn’t have noticed the cloud if it wasn’t absent now.
I feel tall and solid, like a willow. I like willow trees; I think they are beautiful. The way the limbs just go anywhere they feel like going but amazingly keep in mind balance, stoicism, and grace. Sometimes I feel like a willow. My thoughts are everywhere, dripping to the ground, grazing the heads of passersby but still somehow sane (mostly) and focused. I always feel like me, like I know exactly the person taking up space in air. I think the willow knows her beauty on Earth, her love for the sun, her roots, her mass, and why she weeps when she is happy.
I do not know everything about myself. But, I know how I think and what I believe. I know that I believe in the magic of theatre; I know that I believe in love; I know that I believe in Fate and meant to be; I know that I believe that knowledge is more important than just about anything; I know that I believe that I can achieve anything I want to achieve.