I often – normally – find myself writing about myself: that I need to learn to slow down, that self-care or spirituality or creativity falls off the radar first. And maybe that’s a reflection of being self-obsessive: it’s all about me, me, me – I am a soprano, after all.
I guess, though, what I’m actually writing about is us. Of course, I’m aware of the arrogance in claiming my own experience as being relevant to others; but I’m also aware that others’ experience is relevant to me. That we’re all in this together, and that so often, the experience that one person struggles with is in fact the experience that another carries, quietly and alone.
We all struggle, in this busy world, to retain a sense of self. We all struggle with the fact that it’s the important stuff that falls off the radar first; we all struggle at times to keep our equinaminity in the face of the demands of the world; to retain a sense of who and what we are.
I once read that “me too” is the most comforting phrase you can say to a person, because it’s saying, “you are not alone”. It’s saying, to quote Laurie King, “I might not be where you are, but I’ve been right next door” – or it’s saying, “Yep, I’ve been down that hole, and it might not feel like it right now, but there is a way out”. It’s saying, “you’re not the only one”. It’s saying that we have a shared experience. We are not alone.
I know I’m not the only one who struggles. I’m not the only one who loses sight of what being a human being is about, who comes from the open quietness of retreat into the busy roar of the real world and clings helplessly to the fragments of peace that I only last week held easily.
I’m not the only one, and I know that because in writing about myself, I’m actually writing about us. I’m writing about the commonality of experience. I’m writing about human connection, and whatever the opposite is of lonely: that’s what this is about.
Me too, world. Me too.