I’m Nobody, Who Are You?

A Path to Equanimity, and a Poem by Emily Dickinson

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What’s the big hurry, right?

After enjoying a coffee in the café this morning, I was leaving Barnes & Noble Books and I chuckled as I observed this thought passing through my mind: “He’s on the move. I wonder what’s in store for him next?” I felt a current of anticipation as I stepped into the mall parking lot, knowing that anything could happen in the day ahead.

After over five years of practicing mindfulness daily and meditating on such subjects as the nature of self, I find myself in this kind of objective state more and more (observing myself in the third person).

Last year, in an interview with

Simon Mundie

, I listened to the artist, psychologist, writer, and speaker

Robert Saltzman

recalling the turning point of his life: One day, while sitting in his pickup truck in New Mexico gazing down at the Rio Grande Gorge and musing on who-knows-what, he was hit like a wrecking ball with the realization: “I’m not making myself be here; no one is doing this.” That shift in perspective changed everything for him.

Ever since I watched that interview, similar thoughts continue to visit me: I didn’t choose to be born, I didn’t choose this body, this mind, this name, this family, this upbringing, this country, this century, etc. Why must I now suddenly be responsible for the happiness and success of this forsaken piece of autonomous organic matter? Can’t I just let what or whomever did choose to put me here continue to be in charge of their project?

Yesterday, as I was nearing the end of my walk on the beach, I decided to stand by the edge of the water and just look out, do nothing, think nothing, just be there. We’re always on the move, always in a hurry, even when we’re doing something nice for ourselves, like taking a walk. So, I said, “Stop.” And I stopped. And then, guess what? Maybe five or ten minutes later I noticed, only after it had happened, that my body had apparently decided it was done stopping and was once again walking toward the parking lot. I was on the move again.

I think most of us are under the illusion that we are actually in control. We think that we decide, that we’re the engineer, supervisor, foreman, and driver of everything we do, but if we were to pay closer attention, we might notice that so much of what we do, what we think, what we say, arises on its own.

And really, if you want to get analytical about it (haha, I know you don’t), even when we think that we have made a decision under our own will, have we really? If I decide, Okay, I’ve done enough writing; it’s time for a break; were there not factors leading to that so-called decision that were not under my control? What motivated me at that moment to decide I was done and not a moment before or a moment after?

Thoughts like this inevitably lead to the real question: Who Am I?

I promise this is not going to be an overly philosophical post. I’m a real person with a real life: kids, history, past relationships (some good, some bad), a carpentry career that has screwed up my back and knees, hopes and desires and regrets and sorrows. That’s who I am, right?

Why should I or anyone spend time studying what it really means to be a self?

I can only answer the question for me and hope that it’s helpful to you.

But before I answer the why, let me answer the what. What is a self? I was chatting with my friend

Jeannie Ewing

on Substack Notes the other day. She mentioned that she still struggles with the Buddhist concept of non-self. I took the opportunity—probably to her dismay haha—to try to put it in as few words as possible. This was my response (and this is my take, of course; I’m not claiming any knowledge of metaphysical things, of things that cannot be known, or even of a thorough knowledge of Buddhist teachings):

If you cut open your brain or any other part of you, you would see that there is no “you” in there; there’s just a bunch of mushy stuff. That’s because “you” is not actually a “thing,” it’s a process, a thought process, a moment-by-moment happening.

That’s all there is to it! It’s not spiritual, or magical, or esoteric. Nobody is saying that your body doesn’t exist. The body that looks like what people have come to know as Jeannie Ewing or Don Boivin is very real; at least insofar as it’s something we have to deal with every day. It’s the “self” that is not real; it’s only made to seem real by your thoughts, and in other people’s minds, by their thoughts.

So, that’s what is meant by “non-self”—the ideas that exist in our minds that we group together and think of as “I” are not physical things that we can look at or hold in our hands or expect to stay the same from one day to the next.

That collection of thoughts (and memories and dreams and feelings and beliefs) is what makes it seem like we’re more than just organic assemblages of parts that move around and make noise. Without our thoughts we would just be like trees or jellyfish, right? So, therefore, our thoughts ARE this thing we call “self.”

I compare self to a song. It only appears real when it’s being sung, when it’s in motion. When the singer stops singing, the song reveals its true nature: non-song (non-self).

But I promised to explain why we should care about self, or non-self, or more specifically, why I should care, so I’ll try to do it concisely:

When I understand that my entire sense of self is an illusion (I know illusion is a strong word that can turn people off, but please stay with me for a moment), that my memories, my projections, my views, my personality, my hopes and dreams, my titles and hard-earned status or position, labels, assumptions, conditioning, ethnicity, heritage, talents and skills, nationality and family connections, everything that I and others think of when they think of or look at “Don Boivin,” is all just a song being sung, a movement in time, smoke from a fire, a river flowing gently or ferociously into the ocean, a fading rainbow, a cool breeze, a thought stretched out over seven or eight decades; when I really grasp this, then I begin to cling less. And clinging to anything, whether it’s that precious crystal bowl that belonged to my grandmother, a lover I fear may leave, my aching desire to live meaningfully and leave my mark, or time itself, is anxiety.

Would I rather pursue and possess stuff (mementos, attention, money, security, pride, proof that I matter) but always live with the fear of its loss—because it will be lost eventually—or embrace each day with the comforting knowledge that since I’m already nothing (sometimes referred to by its alternate name: everything*), then I’ve got nothing to lose; I can relax and enjoy the moment.

A person who understands that they are already no more than a wisp of the cosmos (which doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy that wisp to the fullest), can let go of the load they’ve been carrying, and isn’t that all we really want? To not worry so much? To be content?

I can tell you with honesty that whenever I remember that I’m just a tree with a brain (haha I just came up with that, but it feels right somehow), my worries subside and, in their place, a calm sense of equanimity slips in.

I’m already nothing/everything, so I can’t ever not be nothing/everything. Time can stand still or it can pass at a million miles an hour, what do I care? I’m free.

DB 💚

*just a quick explanation here: One thing we do know for sure is that the body is made of the same elements as the universe, and when the body dies, it doesn’t cease to exist, it transforms back into everything. 
And where does the self go? Well, I’m going to venture to guess that since it never existed in the first place, it doesn’t go anywhere. (But I’ll repeat my disclaimer: This is my take, not a claim to know anything about life after death, and certainly not an argument or attempt to influence anyone else’s beliefs.)

---

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
by Emily Dickinson

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you - Nobody - too?
Then there's a pair of us!
Dont tell! they'd banish us - you know!

How dreary - to be - Somebody!
How public - like a Frog -
To tell your name - the livelong June -
To an admiring Bog!

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