The Deepest Mystery Of Them All

#1

Philip Larkin (believed to have been taken by himself) courtesy: Yorkshire Post

We look into mirrors every day. Usually, it's a brief glance: "Is my tie crooked?" "Isn't my necklace pretty?" We do this almost instinctively, without a moment's thought.

Occasionally, shockingly, the mirror reveals a stranger. "Who is this old person staring at me from the mirror? I'm not that old!". Somehow, our sense of our self is apparently much younger than our reflection in the mirror.

So, where is this evergreen "I" hiding?

Some nights when you have almost dropped off into blissful slumber, an errant thought escapes the rapidly closing doors of the mind. Instantly, you are wide awake. As you lie there, waiting for elusive sleep, you are slammed hard by white-hot fear.

Here’s Phillip Larkin the English poet:

"Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.  
  In time the curtain-edges will grow light.  
  Till then I see what's really always there:  
  Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,  
  ..." 

"When will my time come?" "Will there be nothing left of me after I die?" Although we rarely acknowledge it, that is what we fear most. This "I", to whom we are so deeply attached, will be gone forever. Never to laugh and cry with our near and dear; never to experience the daily miracle of sunrise and sunset; never to smell the fragrant earth when the first raindrops hit. Never again to taste ripe fruit that will surely arrive every summer after we are gone.

Where is it? This "I" whose disappearance we are so afraid of? Is it in our hearts? Perhaps in our brains, just behind the eyes looking out on the world?

Join me in taking a close look at this 'I'. A 'self-guided' tour through art, science, religion, philosophy, spiritual tradition. After all, its our deepest mystery and humanity has been desperately trying every possible tool to fathom its depths.

Here's the rest of the poem read by Larkin himself. His dry, matter-of-fact voice is perfect for his razor-sharp words. A warning to sensitive souls: the poem is blacker than night and can take you down to a deep, dark place. And yet, it is so bloody beautiful.

text of the poem

Drop a line to share your thoughts.

Next week: Towards a science of the Self: part I