Though I live the life of a recluse, I cannot deny the knell of those immortal words of John Donne: No man is an island. To be honest, I could very well deny those words -- perhaps I may even want to deny those words -- but I will not.
Being intensely private, I am perhaps more aware of my individuality than most -- a life of isolation is, after all, a hospitable environment for egocentrism. Having said that, I think everyone embraces one's own individuality to some degree. There is a certain satisfaction in being different, and quite another feeling in being unique. Individuality is inextricable from self-identity -- it is the very definition of what one is. There are few statements more powerful than that simple assertion of existence, I am.
I am. Well, good for you, so am I. But what of it? Uniqueness is a lonely state. There is a lingering feeling of incompleteness. There is an urge to connect. That an individual differentiates oneself hints of something other than the individual. It is a combination of all this that leads the individual to relate -- to integrate -- with this not-individual, which, when further differentiated, seems to be an infinitude of other things, most notably, other individuals. From one comes many.
And yet, as a monist, I must remind myself that there is exactly one thing. God, the Whole, the universe, call it what thou wilt -- names are arbitrary. Me, I call it the Island. No man is an island. But all men are parts of it.
Being intensely private, I am perhaps more aware of my individuality than most -- a life of isolation is, after all, a hospitable environment for egocentrism. Having said that, I think everyone embraces one's own individuality to some degree. There is a certain satisfaction in being different, and quite another feeling in being unique. Individuality is inextricable from self-identity -- it is the very definition of what one is. There are few statements more powerful than that simple assertion of existence, I am.
I am. Well, good for you, so am I. But what of it? Uniqueness is a lonely state. There is a lingering feeling of incompleteness. There is an urge to connect. That an individual differentiates oneself hints of something other than the individual. It is a combination of all this that leads the individual to relate -- to integrate -- with this not-individual, which, when further differentiated, seems to be an infinitude of other things, most notably, other individuals. From one comes many.
And yet, as a monist, I must remind myself that there is exactly one thing. God, the Whole, the universe, call it what thou wilt -- names are arbitrary. Me, I call it the Island. No man is an island. But all men are parts of it.
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