After some time, years, maybe even lifetimes, of exploration of one’s own consciousness, heart and soul, one comes to the nameless place inside him/herself. This actually is not a place, neither a person, or a thing, nor the moment in time. It is something without name, simultaneously fullness and emptiness…life that is not lived, experience which did not happen, unfulfilled longings whose existence we are not aware yet.
I am listening drops of rain as they hit leaves of the fig tree, and I remembered the similar moment I had in Brazil, while visiting John of God when rain drops were falling on the leaves of the mango tree. One moment in time that passed, and still continues.
And then I asked myself that eternal question, which again and again arises on the spiral of life, question that is still full and not consumed or boring:
Who am I?
Who am I when I am not a therapist, when I am not a daughter, a friend or a caretaker, when I am not my first neither last name? Who am I when not identified with roles, occupation, name, pain, joy, defense? Who am I when not in context of my own history, lived joys and traumas, neither my character structure?
Who am I?
Nameless drops of rain are still falling on the leaves of a fig tree. The fragrance of earth after rain fills my nostrils while I still keep observing the tree in front of the window. It is only that, just a tree that lives its life in stillness. It does not move anywhere, and still, it lives its life fully. Every spring it puts out new leaves and meets the sun through them, it bears sweet fruit, has new shoots, and in fall it takes off its green outfit and puts on white one. Wind passes in between its branches whose existence creates the resistance and unique melody which runs throughout the whole universe.
Who am I…?