Pounding away at the keyboard, I try to avoid distraction from the dirty dishes and dusty floors.
I stew and fret over my book, and wonder what is at the core of my writing.
What is the drive?
Must be identity.
Like it or not, there’s a continual search for the self.
And while my Buddhist pals gently scold us for self-indulgence, my guess is that our choices in head and heart–work and love–stem from the hunt for identity.
So it’s not unusual when friends spend their days unfolding the fabric of their labors in search of meaning.
And meaning lurks in the scaffolds of identity.
At least, for those of us with some question about who we are.
Yupik mask from the Smithsonian at http://www.mnh.si.edu/arctic/features/yupik/slide04.html