The Me That I Am

Sand painting

I am me, who I am,
Through a curious concoction,
A multiplicitous and duplicitous meeting.
Strangely determining factors,
Shaping every contour and curve.

 Who I am may seem clear,
But I sense the realms
Of being something other than I am.
Another me, another place, here or there, far away,
A different stir of the universe’s cauldron.

I am who I am,
But who I am is not fixed,
Rather an oozing of lava.
Voluminous, sinuous, slippery to touch,
Pouring out from a cavernous void.

The who that I am
Can flow, twist and stretch,
Run downhill or curve, puddle-like, in one place.
I can warp, bend or contort in a million ways
And assume a million more forms.

Rock wall

The me that I am
Right now, in this place,
Began long ago, years beyond measure.
Once star dust from a phoenix’s demise
Rising anew from the ashes.

It was I that was just
A fragment of dust
Sucked into Earth’s embrace,
To be named igneous, sedimentary, metamorphic…
A billion years of making and remaking.

Today, who I am
May be squeezed by this life,
Molded to resemble solid rock.
Inheritance, environment and destiny’s hand,
Shaping the parameters of form.

But even I
Can ooze, with every choice,
Thought and action driving the direction.
Lava may flow East, North, South or West
To different lives and versions of me.


Sometimes I believe
That this is really me,
This sometimes flowing, sometimes solid, piece of rock.
And then comes the fear of the day that I will cease,
And lose the me I think I am.

But whenever I mistakenly
Believe that I am rock,
All spongy holes, rough edges, arcing contours.
The elements laugh and put me in my place,
‘Just you wait’, call the wind, fire and ice.

However solid I become
In this life or next
Is akin to the naming of stone.
Granite today was marble yesterday,
And may be limestone or onyx tomorrow.

The me that I am
Finds solace in this news,
A relinquishing of both pride and shame.
I have been a thousand me’s, and will be a thousand more,
Each with their own rough and smooth.

Rock wall and sand

And I hear the reminder
That this knowledge brings,
‘Be gentle on all whom you meet’.
The cruel, the power crazed, the ignorant, the sleepers,
For all of these I am sure to have been.

Today I may be lucky
Enough to attain
A texture with some softness and warmth.
But one, ten or fifty, hundred years ago,
I was darkness, sharp spikes and raw core.

The me that I am
Hopes one day to become
A wiser more compassionate me.
I yearn towards the diamond whose light shines out
With beauty, purity and love.

In the meantime I am,
Temporarily speaking,
Exactly who I am meant to be.
And, even as I struggle with such confusing conundrums,
Tomorrow’s me beckons me onwards.

Sand ripples


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