"Beneath the Oak..." (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
"Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes." ~Carl Jung
This morning began as so many mornings do.
A mug of coffee warmed my hands. Outside the window, a Jenny Wren filled the air with a song far larger than her tiny frame. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, and early sunlight gilded the trees with gold. Somewhere in the background, piano notes drifted quietly through the wee cottage, as if reluctant to disturb the stillness of the day.
And in that stillness a question arrived.
Who am I?
It is one of the oldest questions humanity has ever asked, yet it arrives fresh and personal every time it enters the heart.
I sat with the question for a while.
The truth is, I am not the same person I was in grade school. I am not the young man who walked the halls of high school or college carrying dreams and uncertainties in equal measure. I am not the person who packed up his life and headed west with San Francisco shining like a promise on the horizon. I am not even the person I was a handful of years ago.
When I look back across the decades, there are moments when I barely recognize some of those earlier versions of myself. I see their hopes, fears, mistakes, victories, and heartbreaks. Sometimes I smile at their innocence. Sometimes I wish I could place a reassuring hand on their shoulder and tell them that things will turn out differently than they expect—and that, somehow, that will be alright.
Yet all of those people were me.
And somehow they still are.
Perhaps that is the paradox of being human. We are constantly changing, yet we remain connected to every version of ourselves that came before.
The philosopher Alan Watts once suggested that we are not separate beings wandering through the universe but rather the universe itself becoming conscious for a little while. Like a wave rising from the ocean, we appear distinct and unique, yet we remain part of something larger and deeper than ourselves.
Psychology offers another perspective. It tells us that our identity is not a fixed object but a living story—a self-concept continually revised as experience teaches us, wounds us, heals us, and surprises us.
And Jean-Paul Sartre argued that existence comes first. We are not born with a finished essence waiting to be discovered. We become ourselves through the choices we make.
Perhaps that is why the question Who am I? can never be answered once and for all.
It is not a destination.
It is a conversation.
The oak tree in the photograph understands this better than we do. The sapling that first pushed through the California soil is gone. The tree standing there today has endured countless seasons. Every ring hidden within its trunk records a year of growth. Every storm has shaped its form. Every drought has taught it resilience. Every spring has invited it to begin again.
The oak has changed completely.
And yet it remains itself.
So do we.
We are the sum of every triumph and every failure. Every love and every loss. Every road taken and every road abandoned. We carry all of it within us. Nothing is wasted. Even our mistakes become part of the architecture of who we are becoming.
That realization brings a quiet freedom.
We do not have to spend our lives searching for some hidden, perfect version of ourselves buried beneath the years. There is no secret treasure waiting to be uncovered. There is only the ongoing act of creation.
We are not puzzles to be solved.
We are stories still being written.
The person you were twenty years ago was a chapter.
The person you are today is a chapter.
The person you will become tomorrow has not yet stepped onto the page.
And that is a beautiful thing.
Because as long as we draw breath, there remains room for growth. Room for curiosity. Room for kindness. Room for reinvention. Room to become more fully ourselves.
Even now.
Especially now.
So this morning—or this afternoon, or whatever moment finds you reading these words—I invite you to sit quietly for a moment and ask yourself the ancient question:
Who am I?
Not to find a final answer.
Not to place a label upon yourself.
Not to define yourself by what has been.
But simply to listen.
Listen to the life you have lived. Listen to the dreams that still stir within you. Listen to the person you are becoming.
Then take a sip of coffee. Listen to the birdsong. Feel the breeze. Watch the sunlight move across the world.
And remember:
You are not who you were.
You are not yet who you will be.
You are this living, changing, growing moment between the two.
And that is more than enough.
The day begins again.
And so do we.
~Wylddane
This morning began as so many mornings do.
A mug of coffee warmed my hands. Outside the window, a Jenny Wren filled the air with a song far larger than her tiny frame. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, and early sunlight gilded the trees with gold. Somewhere in the background, piano notes drifted quietly through the wee cottage, as if reluctant to disturb the stillness of the day.
And in that stillness a question arrived.
Who am I?
It is one of the oldest questions humanity has ever asked, yet it arrives fresh and personal every time it enters the heart.
I sat with the question for a while.
The truth is, I am not the same person I was in grade school. I am not the young man who walked the halls of high school or college carrying dreams and uncertainties in equal measure. I am not the person who packed up his life and headed west with San Francisco shining like a promise on the horizon. I am not even the person I was a handful of years ago.
When I look back across the decades, there are moments when I barely recognize some of those earlier versions of myself. I see their hopes, fears, mistakes, victories, and heartbreaks. Sometimes I smile at their innocence. Sometimes I wish I could place a reassuring hand on their shoulder and tell them that things will turn out differently than they expect—and that, somehow, that will be alright.
Yet all of those people were me.
And somehow they still are.
Perhaps that is the paradox of being human. We are constantly changing, yet we remain connected to every version of ourselves that came before.
The philosopher Alan Watts once suggested that we are not separate beings wandering through the universe but rather the universe itself becoming conscious for a little while. Like a wave rising from the ocean, we appear distinct and unique, yet we remain part of something larger and deeper than ourselves.
Psychology offers another perspective. It tells us that our identity is not a fixed object but a living story—a self-concept continually revised as experience teaches us, wounds us, heals us, and surprises us.
And Jean-Paul Sartre argued that existence comes first. We are not born with a finished essence waiting to be discovered. We become ourselves through the choices we make.
Perhaps that is why the question Who am I? can never be answered once and for all.
It is not a destination.
It is a conversation.
The oak tree in the photograph understands this better than we do. The sapling that first pushed through the California soil is gone. The tree standing there today has endured countless seasons. Every ring hidden within its trunk records a year of growth. Every storm has shaped its form. Every drought has taught it resilience. Every spring has invited it to begin again.
The oak has changed completely.
And yet it remains itself.
So do we.
We are the sum of every triumph and every failure. Every love and every loss. Every road taken and every road abandoned. We carry all of it within us. Nothing is wasted. Even our mistakes become part of the architecture of who we are becoming.
That realization brings a quiet freedom.
We do not have to spend our lives searching for some hidden, perfect version of ourselves buried beneath the years. There is no secret treasure waiting to be uncovered. There is only the ongoing act of creation.
We are not puzzles to be solved.
We are stories still being written.
The person you were twenty years ago was a chapter.
The person you are today is a chapter.
The person you will become tomorrow has not yet stepped onto the page.
And that is a beautiful thing.
Because as long as we draw breath, there remains room for growth. Room for curiosity. Room for kindness. Room for reinvention. Room to become more fully ourselves.
Even now.
Especially now.
So this morning—or this afternoon, or whatever moment finds you reading these words—I invite you to sit quietly for a moment and ask yourself the ancient question:
Who am I?
Not to find a final answer.
Not to place a label upon yourself.
Not to define yourself by what has been.
But simply to listen.
Listen to the life you have lived. Listen to the dreams that still stir within you. Listen to the person you are becoming.
Then take a sip of coffee. Listen to the birdsong. Feel the breeze. Watch the sunlight move across the world.
And remember:
You are not who you were.
You are not yet who you will be.
You are this living, changing, growing moment between the two.
And that is more than enough.
The day begins again.
And so do we.
~Wylddane
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