“Who are you?  Who are you, really?”  The question resonated between the vibrations of the soft music in the darkness of the studio.  Abstract art stared down at him, being nothing, just lines, and colors barely visible in the absence of light.  He could hear breathing, some deep, some shallow, some paced slowly.  “They all heard the same question,” he thought to himself in silence.  “I’ve heard this a hundred times,” he reflected.  “A hundred times, but tonight, I think I realize a little more who I am.”  The instructor had more to say.  “You are not your roles, you are not what others think you are.  You are not even what you think you are.”  That sunk in for him.  “I am not who I think I am because I am basing who that is on my role as a father, a husband, a business owner, a creative person.  I am, I am the driver of the man in those roles.  I am the power behind the strength of the man in those roles.”

“I am an eternal soul,” he thought.  A million years ago he was not who he is now.  Things will obviously be different a million years from now.  But he will still “be.”   His soul has transformed through time.  He doesn’t remember – none of us do.  But somewhere in his being, deep down, a piece of every moment in time is ingrained into a groove that is accessible in the subconscious mind. With awareness, bits of information housed through time can…

“Oh quiet,” she said with a twitch of her hand.  “All that woo-woo gets you further from reality and closer to separation from the rest of us.”  “I’m just reflecting, trying to get past my physical self.”  “But,” she felt like she was reminding him of something he already was supposed to know, “the reality is what people around you see, and it’s what they do business with, and that is what buys food and shelter and all that stuff the physical body needs.  You need to stay here with me, with all of us, so we can use you.”  She grabbed his hand and squeezed, assuring him that she loved him but that she needed him, too.

“Okay.  I’m not so sure I like who I am, anyway.”  She leaned forward towards him, her lips nearly touching his. “Well, I like you.”  He stayed still.  “But you don’t know the me that I am, and you don’t want to.  All you know is the being I play.”

“Who are you?  Who are you, really?”  The question resonated between the vibrations of the soft music in the darkness of the studio.  Abstract art stared down at him, being nothing, just lines, and colors barely visible in the absence of light.  He could hear breathing, some deep, some shallow, some paced slowly. “She has to ask the same question every time,” he said quietly to himself.  A voice came to him, stern and disciplined.  “And yet you still can’t answer it.”  He sat still, a pupil of his inner wisdom.  He made a commitment right then to embrace again the being that he had come so close to.  To embrace, hold on to, and understand.  No matter how painful it might be.

He found over the next few weeks that the person who he really was had a strength that at first scared him.  It was the quickness of his mind, the seriousness, the maturity, and the exactness.  At first, he felt he had lost his sense of humor.  But it was not that which he lost, just the frequency of it.  The being that drove everything he had known himself to be had a sense of timing that often seemed cold and calculating but was simply mature and sensitive.  That being was the kind of person he had idolized.  The type that “won” in life.  The kind that everyone else relied on to make things work.

“You don’t sound all ‘woo woo’ like.  What did you do with your woo-woo?”  She sat waiting for an answer.  “I don’t do woo-woo.  I never did.  What you perceived as woo-woo was me working things out in my head.  I know who I am, so now you hear confidence.  I know who I really am, and I like him.”  “But the “you” that I know are so good at what he does.”  “That’s because I’ve been in my role.  I know it.  So it obviously sounds to you like I know it.”  “So why not just stay in it?”  She was almost pleading here.  “I want growth, I want to look on my death bed when I’m ninety-nine and feel like I stretched, reached, took a risk with my self.  I don’t want to die as a man on auto-pilot, having done the same thing over and over like I thought everyone else in my self-induced myopic vision was.”  “But what is wrong with that, especially since everyone else is doing it.  Kinda normal, don’t you think?”  He just sat quietly for a moment.  She used her eyes to reiterate.  “Normal is not what I want to be or what I want to live.” She looked at him, tired in the eyes, and turned away.

“Who are you?  Who are you, really?”  The question resonated between the vibrations of the soft music in the darkness of the studio.  Abstract art stared down at him, being nothing, just lines, and colors barely visible in the absence of light.  He could hear breathing, some deep, some shallow, some paced slowly.  He took a deep breath in.  “I am,” he said to himself, silently.  He felt a burst of energy.  His soul expanded and bounced off the walls of the studio.  It raced past everyone, but no one saw him.  They were all dark, deep in thought, wondering who they were. “You are!” his soul yelled. “Their souls can hear me,” he hoped to himself.  He heard a voice confirm his hope.  “Yes, their souls hear you.  And in time they will all understand.  In time everyone will.  Just let it all unfold.”