Of the many invitations for mindful self-improvement that landed in my inbox at the turn of the year, one piqued my interest — a daily sensory incantation from . The instructions are simple: set a timer for five minutes and record, without interruption and preferably with pen and paper, “close, meticulous, external” notes on your immediate surroundings. No interpretations, no personal commentary, no embellishments allowed.
Now here’s the twist —
Once the timer goes off, look over your fragments and find the five that are the most interesting, the most unique, the most jagged, the strangest. Imagine the paper is on fire and you can save only five fragments before it burns. Put a star by those. Now, read them out loud with the words “I am” in front of them (I am the morning light on the carpet, I am footsteps on the porch, I am rain splattering on the window, I am a baby crying).
The primary aim of this practice is to translate sensory impressions of the particular onto the page. But it also points to a deeper incantation of ourselves as dynamic, mosaic creatures. It’s a nod to the irreducible reality of who we are.
Authenticity is a worthwhile study in this strange new world. Consumer research points to a longing for sincere human connection. Skepticism of the public arena is at an all-time high while our private lives have frayed from isolation and siloing, resulting in a degrading mistrust of those we identify as other.
We are a culture sick of being sold and challenged to assess what’s vital and honest behind everything and everyone we encounter.
But what exactly is authenticity? Among researchers, it’s a debated concept. Back in 2000, psychologists Michael Kernis and Brian Goldman distilled decades of scholarly work into a roadmap Authenticity Inventory. Their research landed on authenticity as “the unimpeded operation of one’s core or true self in one’s daily enterprise” as operationalized by four contributing factors: awareness, distortion-free (or unbiased) mental processing, ways of behaving, and relational orientation.
Despite the bumper sticker platitudes of pseudo-spirituality — follow your bliss! Speak your truth! You do you! — an important caveat about “relational orientation” must be made: authenticity is not an unalloyed good. If the goal were for everyone to express absolute congruence between their outer behavior and whatever developmental, psychological, and circumstantial access they might have to their “core or true self” at the current moment — well, God help us. Let’s keep our most primal, unfiltered instincts and perspectives to ourselves, thank you very much.
In my clinical training as a therapist, I often turned to the research of Brene Brown, who famously explores the emotions that make us human. Brown speaks here about authenticity as radical participation in our felt experience of life.
“Authenticity is the daily practice of letting go of who we think we’re supposed to be and embracing who we are. Choosing authenticity means cultivating the courage to be imperfect, to set boundaries, and to allow ourselves to be vulnerable; exercising the compassion that comes from knowing that we are all made of strength and struggle; and nurturing the connection and sense of belonging that can only happen when we believe that we are enough. Authenticity demands Wholehearted living and loving—even when it’s hard, even when we’re wrestling with the shame and fear of not being good enough, and especially when the joy is so intense that we’re afraid to let ourselves feel it. Mindfully practicing authenticity during our most soul-searching struggles is how we invite grace, joy, and gratitude into our lives.”
― Brené Brown, The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You're Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are
Brene’s words feel germane to the creative frontier on which many of us stand. Perhaps this is because being ourselves is an antidote to the erosive superficiality of our times; sorely, obviously needed, and yet too often relegated only to the safest harbors of our emotional lives. We feel orphaned from a sense of moral and social belonging. Yet authenticity remains among our most formidable teachers, demanding steadfast discipline, the maturation of vulnerability, courage, and forgiveness, and the grace of our mutual wholeheartedness.
Many years ago, in the first season of our relationship, in an outstretched moment of indecision on my part, my now-husband, exasperated, exclaimed: “Will you please just say what you want to do?” I was startled by his question, even agitated. After a relatively successful launch into adulthood (I had a real job, after all), the truth was I had no idea what to do with an un-pressured Sunday afternoon and a considerate man asking about my desires.
Knowing ourselves, much less being and expressing ourselves, is not our default. It hasn’t been since we were very young. To study the origins of our estrangement, we begin with a tender revisit to that young part within us for whom the existence of magic was disproven. We review how our innate experience of wonder was truncated by loss, trauma, or neglect — or simply by the systematic message of our too-muchness.
In a gradual and largely subconscious process, we learn to prune the unique signature of ourselves. First, we sense our social context. Then, we compartmentalize and subjugate the parts of ourselves we internalize as undesirable. We become adept at making bids for approval (a process of influencing others’ perceptions that sociologist Erving Goffman aptly coined “impression management”). Over time, the Edenic qualities that might otherwise have ushered us into authentic expression dry up on the stalk, and we abandon the luminous wholeness with which we arrived.
In other words, we adapt. It seems a matter of survival. A pleased teacher or parent, a nod from a boss, a compliment from a new acquaintance – any small gesture of allegiance can make us feel secure and optimal. Our nervous systems seem to approve of preserving and promoting only those parts that the world deems worthy of praise. Perfectionist values become our unacknowledged norm, subtly affirmed by those who groom us into adulthood.
Underground go the needier parts, the messier parts — the brilliant, irreducible parts.
“The only antidote to perfectionism is to turn away from every whiff of plastic and gloss and follow our grief, pursue our imperfections, and exaggerate our eccentricities until the things we once sought to hide reveal themselves as our majesty.”
― Toko-pa Turner, Belonging: Remembering Ourselves Home
Self-exile serves us for a while. We become palatable and productive and we reap the benefits. Eventually, though, those long-forgotten, chthonic parts begin to emerge. By some subconscious hand, they are unearthed and delivered like a pile of soiled bones to the back porch in early Spring.
[I recently spoke with poet about revelation through a geologic lens.]
We begin to test and taste the tin of our words and all we’ve left unspoken and feel the fatigue of triangulating around our native energies and desires. We realize the irony of shaping ourselves around implicit expectations only to earn enough caché to be ourselves. We recognize the limits of pleasing others as a currency of well-being, suffer the grief of inner scarcity, and feel the shame of chronic self-abandonment — and, ultimately, we feel our hunger for the true and holy gravity of belonging.
“…The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don’t flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing.”
― Galway Kinnell, “Saint Francis and the Sow”
Sometimes it’s necessary to re-teach a thing its loveliness. It took years for my nervous system to relax enough to perceive my instincts for a Sunday afternoon. A slow cup of tea, a hike with my family, a cooking project, listening to Nina Simone while organizing a pantry… It took a gradual incantation of myself to myself and to those who cared enough to keep asking, season after season.
Coming home to ourselves is a dedicated practice with the promise of profound alignment and personal agency. Classical yoga philosophy offers svādhyāya (a compound Sanskrit word composed of sva (स्व) "own, one's own, self, the human soul" + adhyāya (अध्याय) "a lesson, lecture, chapter; reading") as the fundamental study of our unmasking. It’s a gradual process of yoking back to our most integrated, dynamic whole.
“You see, I want a lot.
Perhaps I want everything
the darkness that comes with every infinite fall
and the shivering blaze of every step up.
So many live on and want nothing
And are raised to the rank of prince
By the slippery ease of their light judgments
But what you love to see are faces
that do work and feel thirst.
You love most of all those who need you
as they need a crowbar or a hoe.
You have not grown old, and it is not too late
To dive into your increasing depths
where life calmly gives out its own secret.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Rilke's Book of Hours: Love Poems to God
Authenticity is an essential kind of remembering. It’s the art of coiling our attention inwardly, through layers of anxiety, fear, and shame, to the shelter of our original ownership.
To author our way home, to make a song of this being human, first, we get in touch with our want to be ourselves – “to dive into [our] increasing depths.” Then, we commit our oar to the waters of radical self-honesty and become an authority on the subject of rowing against the current of our conditioning. We nurture ourselves courageously through the many mistakes and missteps along the way, making regular visits to the dirt altar of a forgiving heart.
“Anyhow, the older I get, the less impressed I become with originality. These days, I’m far more moved by authenticity. Attempts at originality can often feel forced and precious, but authenticity has quiet resonance that never fails to stir me.”
― Elizabeth Gilbert, Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear
Authenticity has a quiet resonance that never fails. We feel safest with those who are themselves in our company. Those rare friends who “need [us] as they need a crowbar or a hoe,” who reflect to us our worthiness to be beholden, become our particular kin. Gradually, like St. Francis’ sow, we relearn the distinct manner of our loveliness. And thus, the life that’s here can once again become a refuge of belonging.
Today —
[I am] freckles sprayed across an aging hand.
[I am] the long-bodied breath of a sleeping dog.
[I am] the small animal rustling in the arroyo.
[I am] steam rising from a mug.
[I am] the thick leaves of a fig in a clay pot.
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