I try to make a practice of answering the questions I ask myself. You know the ones. The rampant, seemly benign questions that run through your head at break neck speed. Often we don’t even hear ourselves asking them. As a therapist, I hear my clients questions of themselves. It is always easier to hear others questions.
So last week when I asked, “Who am I?” or, to be exact, “Who the hell am I?” I set out to answer myself, again.
Interestingly and serendipitously my answer came as a result of renaming this blog to being Boswell. My friend, Wikipedia, informed me that the surname Boswell was passed into the English Language as a term…Boswellian, Boswellism…meaning a constant companion and observer of life, especially one who records those observations through writing. Who knew?
I have been writing stories or journaling since my first, locked, with the tiniest key ever, diary was given to me in grade school. I began my entries with Dear Diary. I quickly abandoned that salutation when I realized I wanted to write to a reader, not to an inanimate object. I longed to tell my version of life to someone. I felt less alone conjuring a reader nodding his or her head in shared recognition of an examined moment, possibly even laughing or crying with me as I spilled my version of life onto the page. I hoped my imaginary audience would feel less alone and more understood as I exposed myself to self scrutiny.
I have been being me all along, I just didn’t know it!
Take a look at this…it is a scene from Sherlock Holmes talking to Watson. FInding my name has been very validating…