We Are Many by Pablo Neruda
Of the many men whom I am, whom we are, I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing. They have departed for another city.
When everything seems to be set to show me off as a man of intelligence, the fool I keep concealed in my person takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.
On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst of people of some distinction, and when I summon my courageous self, a coward completely unknown to me swaddles my poor skeleton in a thousand tiny reservations.
When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon, an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I.
There is nothing I can do. What must I do to single out myself? How can I put myself together?
All the books I read lionize dazzling hero figures, always brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them; and, in films where bullets fly on the wind, I am left in envy of the cowboys, left admiring even the horses.
But when I call upon my dashing being, out comes the same old lazy self, and so I never know just who I am, nor how many I am, nor who we will be being.
I would like to be able to touch a bell and call up my real self, the truly me, because if I really need my proper self, I must not allow myself to disappear.
While I am writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone.
I would like to know if others go through the same things that I do,
have as many selves as I have, and see themselves similarly;
and when I've exhausted this problem, I'm going to study so hard that when I explain myself,
I'll be talking geography.
(from Selected Poems [Edición bilingüe])
Of the many men whom I am, whom we are, I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing. They have departed for another city.
When everything seems to be set to show me off as a man of intelligence, the fool I keep concealed in my person takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.
On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst of people of some distinction, and when I summon my courageous self, a coward completely unknown to me swaddles my poor skeleton in a thousand tiny reservations.
When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon, an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I.
There is nothing I can do. What must I do to single out myself? How can I put myself together?
All the books I read lionize dazzling hero figures, always brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them; and, in films where bullets fly on the wind, I am left in envy of the cowboys, left admiring even the horses.
But when I call upon my dashing being, out comes the same old lazy self, and so I never know just who I am, nor how many I am, nor who we will be being.
I would like to be able to touch a bell and call up my real self, the truly me, because if I really need my proper self, I must not allow myself to disappear.
While I am writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone.
I would like to know if others go through the same things that I do,
have as many selves as I have, and see themselves similarly;
and when I've exhausted this problem, I'm going to study so hard that when I explain myself,
I'll be talking geography.
(from Selected Poems [Edición bilingüe])
…
One reader wrote to me, inquiring:
“How does one not
lose themselves in the process of figuring out who they are?”
To which I responded:
“A very good
question! No simple answer here; but let's at least try a back-and-forth
dialogue...How does that sound? For starters then, one author suggests
that we must first develop a personal self (ego) before we can let go of ego.
But perhaps this just begs the deeper question: how do I develop a
personal sense of self? Let me ask: am I on the right track here? I'd
like to talk into it further, but first want to know if I'm in the ballpark of
your question.”
The reader:
“Yeah this is along
the lines of what I’m thinking…Trying to understand how you can explore all
aspects you think may be elements of yourself without losing the core of who
you are during exploration.”
And today, my most
recent reflections, in dialogue with the respondent, along this rich line of
questioning:
“I've been chewing over
your most recent comments…While there are multiple perspectives we can, and
maybe will, take on your initial question, let's try this angle for starters:
when we sit quietly, or are transfixed by beauty in nature, or our little girl
(!), who is the "I" who is witnessing such wonder, or peace?
I tend to think of
this, within me, that both observes AND participates in such "peak
experiences" as at the core of who I really am. (See, for example,
the research of psychologist, Abraham Maslow.)
On the other hand,
there are infinite variations of the individual "hosts" we all are of
such primal experiences and knowing.
So, in this way of
viewing: the trick is how to stay rooted in the deeper essence of who we are
(what some wisdom traditions call, simply, "the Witness") while at
the same time exploring and expressing the incredible distinctiveness that
marks us as, at one and same time, utterly unique and completely connected in
the depths of our beings.
It may not exactly be fair, but may I "answer" questions about one poem (above) by offering another poem?
"This visible universe has many weathers [no pun intended!] and variations. But…the universe of the creation-word, the divine command to Be, that universe of qualities is beyond any pointing to. More intelligent than intellect, and more spiritual than spirit. No being is unconnected to that reality, and that connection cannot be said." (Rumi, 13th-century Persian poet)
Harumph!
It may not exactly be fair, but may I "answer" questions about one poem (above) by offering another poem?
"This visible universe has many weathers [no pun intended!] and variations. But…the universe of the creation-word, the divine command to Be, that universe of qualities is beyond any pointing to. More intelligent than intellect, and more spiritual than spirit. No being is unconnected to that reality, and that connection cannot be said." (Rumi, 13th-century Persian poet)
Harumph!
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