The Born Identity

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As many of you know, I’m in graduate school earning a masters in counseling.  I’m loving (almost) every minute of this season in my life, but I must say that it’s not entirely what I expected. 

I expected psychology and am getting a lot of it.  History, theory, application, research, counseling techniques.  I expected an in depth exploration and analysis of the human psyche, complete with a richer understanding of emotional patterns reflecting in healthy or unhealthy relationships.  Expectations met!  I expected to consider and understand the human animal more clearly, more compassionately, more powerfully.  Yes, yes, and yes!

I didn’t, however, take into account that I am also a member of this human race.

Somehow, I thought that the knowledge I’d gain would be rather academic.  Sure, it might trigger some old memories I’d already Dealt With in therapy, but At This Point in My Life, I was ready to Focus on Others.

Well not too long ago, I was sitting in Bongo Java in Nashville, sipping the most perfect latte I’ve ever had in my LIFE.  (Side note: I usually go through a moment of being completely overwhelmed in coffee shops.  There are too many choices, most of them are too expensive, and the way-cooler-than-me-barista is always staring at me with condescending “patience” as I mentally scramble to make a decision.  You know the look: eyebrows raised, lips pursed in a begrudging close-mouthed smile.  Pressure!  And then if the drink is mediocre, I’ve paid $4.27 for it.)  I was trying to write a self-reflection paper for class, and whatever common refrains of self-knowledge I was attempting to access for the umpteenth time were not leading to a written word.  Not one.

Bored and troubled, I glanced around at my fellow coffee housers (who, I’m sure, had ordered their beverages without having an anxiety attack).  Mac laptops are apparently a necessary accessory for entrance into these coffee bean salons.  The caffeine addicts were intent and focused, each one illuminated by the pale, fluorescent glow of inspiration pouring into them from the backlights of their MacBooks.  No one was searching about for another pair of uninspired eyes, as I was.  No, I was in the presence of genius people.  At least 12 of them.  All working, writing, gaming, playlisting, and sipping with FOCUS.  Changing the world.

I took another taste of my Perfect Latte and stared at the blank Word document on my screen.  Why was this paper so hard to write, I wondered.  It required a good amount of self-knowledge, but I had Done the Work.  I Know Myself pretty well, I thought.  But grad school was doing what it had been doing since I started: pushing hard against my smug sense of self-awareness.  As if we ever Arrive at Ourselves.

Well, perhaps I bumped up the brightness of my screen, increasing the glow of inspiration, or maybe the caffeine kicked in, but I started to write.  And I started to… cry.

Truth poured out of me like water.  Not Universal Truth, capital “T.”  But my truth, small “t.”  And as I wrote, I willingly uncovered parts of me that I had kept hidden.  I listened to the place in my heart that was speaking new words, and gave it a voice.  The words flowed quickly; my fingers struggled to keep pace.  My inner being was at work, chipping away at another layer of the outer wall.  And I cried and cried. 

Instinctively, I reached for the familiar hand of Shame and laughed at myself, “Why am I crying?”

Immediately, without a moment in between, the voice said, “Everyone cries when they are being born.”

..........

 

I was born on October 18, 1977, the day my mother birthed me.

I was born the day I started menstruating.

I was born on the day of my high school graduation.

I was born the day I got married.

I was born the day I got divorced.

I was born again on May 15, 2011.  Adopted anew by my spiritual Father.

And I was born that day in Nashville… owning more of my life's story, purpose, and vision for the first time.

I’ve been born many times.  And cried during most of them.  Every time a layer is pulled back and I choose to see and acknowledge what's underneath, I am born. 

When were you born?

And born?

And born?

And born?

Your tears are not irrelevant or irrational.  The pressure... it's not meant to crush you.  It's pushing something out.  There is always a piece of us, the inner self, struggling to break through the outer wall and breathe.  To come into existence and be acknowledged.  A piece of us, ready to be born.

Pain, tears... labor.  Let yourself be born.

The latte.