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Groping For Authenticity

By Jess Freer

Republish: EasyPublish™ Published: 28Mar2008 Word count: 1195 Viewed: 265 time(s) Get Free Content For Your Site

So what if I'm a work in progress? Who hasn't felt incomplete and unprepared as they approach that one incredibly pivotal meeting? Who hasn't felt tested by another's out of the blue perceptions of who they are? And who hasn't worried that someone's going to somehow call them out and indict their sorry butt for being a complete fraud and total phoney?

An old poster invokes a more lighthearted view: "Life is a test. It is only a test. Had this been a real life you would have been instructed more precisely as to where to go and what to do." Or words to that effect.

So how do we make this life real?

It's easy to feel bereft of meaning, adrift from shore, lost in the oceans of tedium life always seems so ready to swallow us up in. These lonesome passages are actually great places to change course, because most of the thinking here is essentially preliminary to the more focused map making we're capable of, the directional choices we have at our fingertips, the intuitive guidance regarding what's true and valuable for us personally.

So what if you're a work in progress? At least you have the consciousness to notice this particular quandary. That's beginning enough. You might guess this has been the kind of circular thinking and tendency toward wheel spinning that's mystified and characterized my own life for so long.

Without the odd disquiet stirring in this indifference, we might not bother looking further. There's something primal and creative in this.

All the philosophies, the religions and theologies, all the spirituality in the history of the world has tried to answer the question - what are we here for? What are we meant to do? And more specifically, how am I to use MY talent and skills? Why are the absurdities, the vanities, the paradox sometimes so deafening? Does anyone have meaningful answers to these questions? I mean, without signing your life over to some organization that has some heat-seeking eagerness to perform a global overhaul on your consciousness and your life?

It's one of the more fascinating rest stops along the way, this confused resignation, so filled with intrigue and romance, its own distractions and corruptions. The distortions of the mind's laziness seem to carry on some life of their own, just one world over, drawing our attention from more fruitful activities, while also exhibiting a unique entertainment value, providing moral levity and escape, when not indulged to excess.

Alienation, estrangement, ennui - these fifty dollar words lend a somewhat classic street credibility to the matter. For this is a timeless issue, an oasis where whole ponderings are invited to hang out endlessly, like abstract art waiting to pose as the latest generational definition or buzz, tempting us to become the next stereotypical antihero or necessary muse to the larger so-called civilization. God, we love our indulgences.

But the day comes, for most of us it seems, when it's time to get 'serious' about life, as if we hadn't been doing enough of that all along. The family's perception, a friend's success (he isn't that intelligent) or another friend's failure, some of it comes a little too close to home. Some injury or sickness.

Then we're brought to the question, how do I make some contribution, offer some work or service that's coherent - consistent with who I am - or at least with who I imagine I might be? Am I happy doing what I'm doing? Can I expand on this and have a life of meaning and satisfaction? What exactly is this success thing? These questions have a way of getting under our skin.

So let's assume for this line of thinking, that there are better options waiting out there somewhere. How do I get to them? Seems a fair enough question. Is there work worth doing out there? Does it pay, reasonably? Maybe I do need something that pays at least enough so I can figure out how to get to what's real for me. It's all a piece of the existential puzzle.

It's been said that regardless of what philosophy or spirituality one subscribes to, there are certain needs that cannot be ignored without damaging the soul, without subtracting from the longings of the heart. Authenticity is one I find powerful as an inner imperative, as one clear distinction I prefer being addressed to some extent in all that I do.

Is what I do consistent with my inner sense of authenticity? My perceptions of what's real, what's true, what's authentic - these seem to shift and move about, one day mature and focused - the next, well sometimes, the same experience, the same exchange can feel stifled, stuffy, uncomfortably bogus.

The essence of authenticity, this seems a worthy ideal to reach for, even if it does feel elusive and mysterious, playing hard to get with my cynicisms and despair, immersed in a world flooded with other proposed virtues. Perhaps I've read too much, missed the point too often, guarded and vigilant of my own psychic space so I can take the stand that's distinctive, one that's novel and truly signatory to the creative voice I'm growing into, throwing aside the tired metaphors and numbingly overworked cliches.

Authenticity. This is a virtue we can agree on, that's not wholly adrift at sea. There's an inner compass here. A personal take freely interpreted and felt. Something I can rely on. So - new question - how to move from here to a more detailed, more salient response to my life's circumstance and patterns?

It sounds quaint, but writing a letter to oneself, an authentic expression and inventory of where I am now, of where I'm coming from as I attempt to navigate my next choices and progressions, this can be a remarkable exercise in reclaiming a sense of purpose and direction in one's life. It can even be a long letter, the longer the better, as each of our stories has side paths and reflections, rest stops and impasses that are significantly our own.

I did this earlier today, surprised at how long it took to get to my personal sense of authenticity, at how many considerations and subtle paranoias did their best to distract. Gradually, gently, I wrote my way past them.

I found my way to the beginnings again of what my personal voice feels like. There's lots of ambiguity and ambivalence in my past, in my old patterned ways of thinking, and I acknowledge this, with a certain gratitude that this too is part of my human story, part of the winding path that hopefully will become an awakening to a better way of seeing.

That's probably enough for now, as I seem inclined today to be satisfied with the remembrance of authenticity as a worthy enough accomplishment in itself. From here, I can see my way ahead a little more clearly.

Let me encourage you to write a letter to yourself - find a virtue that appeals to your nature, however abstract it may be, and let this lead you to your inner mapmaker, your inner guide. This is a place where we can begin finding our way home.

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