Home: A Story About Me

My life is no quilt. Rather, it has been a cross-multiverse juggernaut. For most of that life, I thought I was driving the bus. I was naive. And when I realized that (via various forms of psychotherapy and (usually) Buddhist meditation practice), I did what any self-respecting take-charge kind of gal did. I slipped one leg under the steering wheel and hit the brakes. Hard. That particular bus went into a dizzying spin. And when the tires finally stopped smoking and the cloud of dust and rubber and sod and gravel and whatnots settled, I opened my eyes. I was on the other side of fifty years of age in a life and culture that was familiar to me, but only just.

Then, I noticed that there was not only one of me: there was a whole cast of characters. When I opened my eyes, it was like opening many sets of eyes. We all staggered to our feet, staring at each other, heaved a collective sigh of relief, and started talking. There was meditative me and actually-was-in-a-rock-band me. Extrovert me finally met introvert me. The T-Swift-fan-girl and the snobby Radiohead aficionado were hanging out. The mystery-reading self was talking books with the poststructural feminist theorist. Dionysian self mud wrestled Apollonian self. Mischievous me laughed uproariously with practical me whilst taking the Myers Briggs test together. Then f***-the-man me came over to rip up the test booklet while me-the-monk urged the path of peace. Diplomatic me was trying to get us all back on the bus while philosopher me was considering the ontological status of the bus. Almost everyone was laughing. Even sad me.

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