Into the world screaming, the baby cries, feeling fear, pain, myriad sensations and a solid sense of I.
Child of seven, rides, carefree, wind blowing in her hair, still she feels the same sense of self, even though not one thought, not one feeling, not one molecule of the baby she was is any more.
Teenager now, flirting with the boys, dancing into her bloom, flushed and thrilled with life, she still feels her I, as solid as the day she was born.
Young woman, pensive and searching, questioning the thread of life, remembering back to her youth when that feeling of “Oh, no, I’m back on the wheel” came to her. I, still there, that continuous self superimposed upon the ever-changing, impermanence of body and mind.
In the balance of midlife, she comes to view the I through wisdom’s scope. Through anger, in fear, when making love, in sorrow, it’s there, always there, the thread of “me”.
The cause and basis of experiential existence: A mother leaves, the pain of I. A man invades, the shame of I. A father’s madness, the fear of I. The changing of one mother to another, and another, the I’s uncertainty. The birthing of a child, the pride of I. The marrying of a man, the epochs of I. The finding of religions and paths, the searchings of I. The breakdown, the madness of I. The finding of him, the saving of I. The finding of wisdoms, the finding of I. The I looking at I, the I looking at I.
