On the other hand, FEAR tells us to run away! Only fools run toward fear. . . right? But then we see the ubiquitous (at least to those of us who watch such films) image of the lone warrior running at her opponents, impossibly outnumbered, yet defeating them with a cool ease we watchers wish we could have. . . .
How we love to define, to attempt to FIX ourselves in identity. In part, this is our natural tendency toward belonging. At some point when I was about to retire from full-time employment, I found myself desperately grasping at straws of identity, wondering who the heck I AM (without a job, living in a new place without any family or friends but my husband). I took the Myers-Briggs (INFP), began to read more astrology (Sagittarius), tipped into numerology (22), the tarot (The Fool), and simultaneously fought against Major Depressive Disorder and constipation!
For me, more than finding comfort in belonging to a certain group, it seems I have enjoyed playing the iconoclast because regardless of what I learn and experience, instead of walling myself in, I see my fist raised to walls. What is this fist? Anger? Rebellion? Stubbornness? Fear?
How is it that this grandmother can watch a film like DRIVE and not feel absolutely ruined by its over-the-top violence? True, the main character (played by a young actor I enjoy watching, Ryan Gosling, thus my willingness to hang in to the end of this movie, especially since I'd first watched IDES OF MARCH) seems to have a kind of moral code that I admire, yet the character is also involved----indirectly at first----with the Mafia: not so admirable. Yet I still remember the Mother Bear rising in me when my daughter was small and helpless. Isn't this a similar impetus?
Where is this going? I don't really know. I just noticed how often the strictures of identity have burdened me throughout my life because no matter how we choose to define (or not define) ourselves, something remains, like swirling wine in a sniffer and watching the little legs streaking down the glass, and somehow I always want to name the remains, which inevitably leads to judgment and comparisons, often causing me to silence myself----a kind of preemptive act of avoidance, maybe. Or, perhaps it's affirming that life is continually unfixed and unfolding.
And. . . I like trying on different hats, just to see how they feel. Maybe I've decided that The Fool fits me, but even writing that (and allowing it to stay here) makes my heart clench with fear. THIS, in part, is what I mean by "running toward fear."
How we love to define, to attempt to FIX ourselves in identity. In part, this is our natural tendency toward belonging. At some point when I was about to retire from full-time employment, I found myself desperately grasping at straws of identity, wondering who the heck I AM (without a job, living in a new place without any family or friends but my husband). I took the Myers-Briggs (INFP), began to read more astrology (Sagittarius), tipped into numerology (22), the tarot (The Fool), and simultaneously fought against Major Depressive Disorder and constipation!
For me, more than finding comfort in belonging to a certain group, it seems I have enjoyed playing the iconoclast because regardless of what I learn and experience, instead of walling myself in, I see my fist raised to walls. What is this fist? Anger? Rebellion? Stubbornness? Fear?
How is it that this grandmother can watch a film like DRIVE and not feel absolutely ruined by its over-the-top violence? True, the main character (played by a young actor I enjoy watching, Ryan Gosling, thus my willingness to hang in to the end of this movie, especially since I'd first watched IDES OF MARCH) seems to have a kind of moral code that I admire, yet the character is also involved----indirectly at first----with the Mafia: not so admirable. Yet I still remember the Mother Bear rising in me when my daughter was small and helpless. Isn't this a similar impetus?
Where is this going? I don't really know. I just noticed how often the strictures of identity have burdened me throughout my life because no matter how we choose to define (or not define) ourselves, something remains, like swirling wine in a sniffer and watching the little legs streaking down the glass, and somehow I always want to name the remains, which inevitably leads to judgment and comparisons, often causing me to silence myself----a kind of preemptive act of avoidance, maybe. Or, perhaps it's affirming that life is continually unfixed and unfolding.
And. . . I like trying on different hats, just to see how they feel. Maybe I've decided that The Fool fits me, but even writing that (and allowing it to stay here) makes my heart clench with fear. THIS, in part, is what I mean by "running toward fear."
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| A few of the shaman's accoutrements |
