If we thought we had all the answers would there be any questions? If there were no questions would there be any answers? If there was nothing to answer, no one to answer to or nothing to answer for what would we do with our lives? Would we seek anything? Isn’t the act of seeking born of a series of questions? If you wonder about anything, aren’t you questioning? If you ponder about an idea or situation, aren’t you seeking an answer, a solution, something that makes sense? How does it all make sense?
Have you even found yourself pondering the highs and lows in your life; the good days, the bad days; the wonderful, the not-so-wonderful relationships; the great conversations, those that went awry; etc.? What was different? Why was it different? Did you cause them? Did someone else cause them? Was it happenstance? Do those things that are comfortable and familiar--routine, habits, home, family--have an impact? If so, how much of an impact? If so, is it a good impact or maybe not so good? Do others experience the same? How much of what we feel is influenced by others? Just how much do others affect us?
Don’t we all want other people to like us, even sometimes admire us? Though we might doubt ourselves, worry or hold insecurities close--even private--don’t we compensate for them in our projected personas to others? Yet, don’t we seek security with others, identifying with them--family, friends, groups--even though we’re reluctant to be too frank about revealing the doubts we all have--our hidden selves or those things on our personal private shelf? Are we too critical of ourselves? Do we have more within us that we’ve failed to unleash? We are all, of course, independent thinkers, right? So, what matters? How much matters? If there is a common thread among our private selves, why do we not share it? Do we want to know the answers? Do we even know the questions? Who are we if there is no one else?
Author’s note: It’s been a hot, sultry day in Savannah, Georgia, culminating with a glass of cold wine, some thought, and yes, mainly inquiry. One of my recent reads was The Self Illusion, How the Social Brain Creates Identity, by Bruce Hood. Though I can’t say Bruce sold me on the idea of self as an illusion--all things might be illusionary--, it was a good read and provided much food for thought. In my thought processes of questionings and ponderings I fail to find any grouping of words more poignant or profound than those written centuries ago by Shakespeare , “To be or not to be, that is the question:”.