How I Came To Be

During WWII my father had a mid-air collision while piloting a B24 bomber. This happened outside Omaha, Nebraska, where my father was posted. He was a flight instructor. The plane was new and hadn’t been painted yet. It was highly reflective and nearly invisible. He was hit by another trainer. Despite the fact the tip of his wing was crumpled, he managed to land the plane safely. Since this incident occurred a few years before I was born, it’s both liberating and weird to imagine how close I came to not existing. It’s also a reminder of the fact that I owe my life to WWII. It was when my father was late stationed in Denver, Colorado that he met my mother, who was a member of the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps.

The details of my entry into this life, this planet, this space and time continuum, are completely random, as is identity itself. I’m a mélange of culture, history, language, geography, food, technology, and social conditioning. Had a madman in Germany with a bizarre talent for moving people with his vociferous, Teutonic rhetoric and a need to conquer other countries not come to power and embroiled the world in war I would not be here writing this paragraph. Had a species of ape not begun to walk erect millions of years ago I wouldn’t be here. Had a planet not formed by accretion from a solar nebula I wouldn’t be here imagining what the planet looked like when it was born. I’m sure it was a pretty baby. Planet Earth is the most attractive planet in our solar system. But I’m biased. I live here.

If I go looking for a core identity, what I find is flux and fluidity, a continually shifting agglomeration of cells and microbes, a riot of attitudes and perceptions that create a semi-coherent personality. What I don’t find is a solid, stable, enduring identity with a definable character folded into my body and glowing out of it soulfully like an inner patio light. It’s what we imagine when we look into one another’s eyes during a romantic moment: who is this person I’m in love with? Is there a soul in there? There must be!

I’m more inclined toward the Buddhist outlook: the true self is a not-self, what they call Anatta. Anatta is the doctrine of non-self and espouses the notion that a permanent self is a fiction. It’s a useful fiction, but one we create ourselves, quite often when we’re not even aware of it.

Notice how easily I use the pronoun “we.” What gives me the authority to speak for humanity? Nothing. But I do it anyway, partly out of habit, and partly because I can. I find myself hurled forward by the momentum of words. Language is powerful. It’s what crackles inside us during our waking moments. It’s the bonfire that pushes the darkness back.