Doing as an Identity

Who am I if not a doer? What then, am I to do?

It isn’t as if I don’t know myself more completely. But this part of me — the busy bee, the curious pony, the boiling pot of water, the resilient warrior — these parts of me feel most like me.

There is power in stillness, so I am told. In stillness and solitude I am promised clarity and depth. I see my fathers childhood home. I witness him waking to the slow and steady mooing of hungry cows. I see his beautiful Lake Champlain. Glasslike and steady.

I visit peace, but she doesn’t stay long. What I find more often is pain. What I find more often is loneliness. I do not want to get good at being still. I do not like what I find when I am still.

I taste the soured wine from the night before, her bottle popped open one day too long before tossing. I reconnect with my coffee scorched tongue wishing I had paused one more minute before inviting her sweet smell into my watering mouth. I sense my mothers attention, buzzing about somewhere but never towards me.

I do not feel the softness of my throw, the warmth of my fireplace, the groundedness of my home, the presence of my soul.

I do not feel the curiosity of the unknown, the promise of grace. Instead I squeeze my eyes tightly, inviting thunder and hurricanes, conflict and confusion. I leap at the invitation to do, solve, fix or finish. It beckons me like an orange bathed sky creating light for sunset surfers, calling me home.

So who am I if not a doer?

I am Funny. Fearless. Focused. Frivolous.

I am Fertile. Faithful. Fierce. Flirtatious.

I am Formidable.

I am me. The bigger parts of me that want to be set free.