A little more on identity

I've wondered annoyingly long and hard at what point one stops becoming something and simply starts being it.

Some people define this in terms of education. "I have a B.E, I am an engineer."
Others define it by what they enjoy doing. "I am a singer."
And still others by relationships or circumstance. "I am a wife and mother."

For myself, the dilemma is one of both career and identity. I trained as a scientist for nearly a decade, right until I finished my Ph.D. I have written as long as I can remember. And yet, I feel like an impostor when I call myself a writer. I figured getting published would fix the insecurity. It hasn't. At what point do I stop "becoming a writer" and simply start being one?

Thinking in a quiet place

More than being troubled by the many uncertainties that come with doing grown-up things, I have been troubled by my sudden incapacity to handle them. Where is that confident child, I ask myself, searching constantly for the memory of a self-assured younger self.

Slowly, slowly, I find the answers. That self only emerges when I am quiet, truly quiet. Not just alone, but when I can watch the stillness within and without. When I can spot the symmetry of pine trees silhouetted against a sunset sky as I stand in rush hour traffic. When I remember the reflection of that symmetry in the workings of my body. Like symmetrical sand ripples marked by random waves and wind and pulls of the moon, life has a way of falling into place.

When I remember these things, I find a certain stillness, standing in a place where I know I can make things work the way I used to. Where a single quiet thought cast out, strong and sure and repeatedly, can pull the waves just as surely as the moon, despite summer storms and capricious winds.