I see the average human life as a fixed point moving through time, like a car. I see most attempts to “reconnect with our ancestors” as an attempt to make our car look and feel to us in a manner we consider more authentic, more real. I think this drive comes from feeling out of place, usually described as a sense of being “born in the wrong time”. But it’s not being born in the wrong time. I think it’s feeling disconnected from the other people around us, especially with those who are supposed to be closest to us. A sense of alienation from our families, turned into an act of rejection of their values, and by extension their vision of us. Spoken plainly, when our families deny us ourselves, when they say, “no no sweetie, this here is who you are” and they will not stray from that, we have no place in our own inner circles to share ourselves and, as a result, we deny the reality that that inner circle does in fact have any sway whatsoever over who and what we are. Becoming “self made”, we “identify” with bits and pieces of cobbled together humanity until we are as we wish to be seen. But the roots don’t change. There are large swaths of our personal makeup over which we have no control, that, regardless of our feelings, we cannot alter in the slightest fashion without doing to ourselves what has already been done to us by others. We, without awareness of it, say to ourselves, “no no sweetie, this here is who you are” and we do not stray from this vision willingly.
I see this as the root of so much suffering, from the great divorce of gender dysphoria, to the recreation of heathen “pre-christian” practices, as if time was a river and we could travel upstream. Even make-up, tattoos, clothing, riches. We coo softly to ourselves about the identity of us, as if we reign over our own selves, supreme and godlike in our own minds eye.
The truth is, we have no say in this. The us doing the choosing to reject or accept has already been molded like clay by the multitude of hands which have touched us before we were ever aware of our own voices. Time, unfortunately, does not allow us to isolate an event in history, a tribe which once walked the Earth, a religion that existed before the coming of another and say, “this, this is mine! I claim this and reject all that I knew before!” Nor can we take bits and pieces of what was, once, and patch together something suiting to ourselves, for our own purposes. But we do it anyway and strut proudly in our cloaks made of rag and paper. What one lays claim to when one does this is nothing more than a imagined figment. A fetish to be rubbed for comfort. It is not the real thing sought any more than the person we were told we were was in fact actually us to begin with.
There is a vast grey space between each individual soul, and all of us are guilty of filling that space with what we want to see, rather than looking through it to see what is already there.
We huddle lighting fires in the dark because we fear the emptiness; we don’t notice that we’ve blinded ourselves to the stars.