Who Me?

I can recall clearly a certain section of questions in a daily morning meditation that davidji offers on Insight Timer. I love the way the meditation starts, proceeds, and completes. It feels like a full-circle act of self-care—gentle, spacious, unrushed. At one point, he invites a series of questions, asked quietly and without pressure, as if curiosity itself were the practice: Who am I? What am I grateful for? Who am I grateful for? Do I agree that I cannot step into the past to change it? Do I agree that I cannot step into the future to force it? All good so far. No resistance. Gravity exists. Time moves one way. Fine.

Then comes, Do I have the patience to wait until my mud settles and my water is clear? There’s a brief pause while I decode the metaphor, but yes—mostly. I’ve done a lot of waiting. A lot of settling. A lot of letting things clarify in their own time. And then comes the question that stops me cold every single time: Do I give myself permission, right now, to show up as my best, most brilliant, most creative expression of myself? followed immediately by its companion, Am I willing to breathe deeply into this moment and awaken my best version?

No. And also—hell no! I can feel it before I think it. Goosebumps. A pit in my stomach. A subtle but unmistakable recoil. My body answers faster than my mind ever could, and it answers honestly. Which, I suppose, is the point of meditation—though I doubt this is the response he had in mind.

After that, the practice gently releases all questions and answers, inviting them to be handed over to the Universe, to Spirit, to whatever benevolent sorting system one believes in. Then comes the intention-setting: What does your heart truly long for right now? Let it crystallise. Let it nestle into the heart. Plant it like a seed. Bless it. Let it go. This is where things unravel for me, because here’s the thing I’m finally willing to admit: I don’t actually know what my heart’s desire is. Not in any clear, articulate, inspirational way. And I’m unnerved—not a little—that I’m sixty something and still don’t have a tidy answer.

What I do know is what I don’t want. I don’t want noise. I don’t want hustle. I don’t want performative visibility or expectations that require armor. I enjoy privacy. Quiet. Stickers. Plants. Cooking. Cleaning things until they gleam. Grocery shopping. I enjoy sharing one on one with like minded humans. Adventure to new places on the down low. I like small, contained pleasures. I like days that go unnoticed.

Is my heart’s desire hiding in there somewhere? Is my “best, most brilliant, most creative expression” supposed to look like… that, a list of stuff I like to do? If not, what do I actually want? The paradox is tempting: I want "everything and nothing." It’s a handy place to rest when clarity feels invasive. But if I’m being honest, it’s also a dodge—a way to avoid naming anything specific enough to scare me.

Because the fear here isn’t really about failing. It’s about being seen accurately. It’s about standing in the light without a script, a role, or a familiar disguise. It’s about being witnessed—not by critics or crowds first, but by myself. When I imagine who’s watching, it isn’t the internet or the marketplace or even future readers. It’s my own inner guidance system—my DMGS—steady and observant. It’s also my ancestors. And yes, somewhere out there on the periphery, the vast and overwhelming “world” looms, waving politely from the sidelines like, No rush, but we’re here.

I call myself a space creator. Self-ascribed, yes—but earned. I’ve created space mentally, emotionally, physically, spiritually. I’ve cleared rooms, habits, stories, and expectations. I’ve made a life that feels breathable and kind. And I love it. And—and this part matters—it’s damn scary. Because once the space exists, the old questions creep back in wearing practical disguises: What’s the plan? The timeline? The priorities? Are the goals SMART enough? Am I good enough? Am I safe enough to put myself out there now?

This is where I’m tempted to accuse myself of being lazy or afraid—a creature barely brave enough to stick her whiskers out the window to feel the breeze. But that story doesn’t quite hold anymore. I trust my DMGS deeply, and yet I’m learning that trust and clarity don’t necessarily come with instructions. They don’t hand over a checklist or a five-year plan. They offer something subtler—and far more unsettling: presence without guarantees.

So I find myself breezing past those meditation questions again today, grateful that I don’t have to force an answer. Grateful that I can let them hover, unanswered but alive. Because I’m beginning to suspect that not knowing isn’t a flaw—it’s the terrain. In the meantime, I get to be this open, watching creature in the clearing of my life. Sometimes wandering the woods. Sometimes standing at the edge of a cliff, aware of the drop but also dimly aware—on good days—that I’m already wearing a wingsuit. Gear I didn’t design, can’t quite explain, but somehow trust—gear that allows for falling and for flight.

Maybe the courage isn’t in declaring a desire at all. Maybe it’s in staying present without hiding, in choosing authenticity over certainty, and in trusting that clarity arrives as lived experience, not instructions. I don’t need to know the destination to keep walking. I don't need a script to participate in my own life. For now, gentle is enough.

Gentle is my word for 2026. End of line.

Field Guide Rule 26:
Not knowing is the terrain. Clarity arrives without instructions—proceed anyway.

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