Many Sweaters, One Wearer

Many Sweaters, One Wearer
The Ego’s Layers and the Awareness Beneath Them

This morning I was thinking about layers.

On a cold day I may wear several thin layers instead of one heavy coat. A shirt, a sweater, another sweater, a jacket. Each layer has its use. Warmth comes not only from the cloth itself, but from the spaces between the layers.

Then I noticed that inwardly I do much the same.

I wear layers of self.

There is the physical layer—how I look, how I feel, how old or young I seem, strong or tired, healthy or worn.

There is the social layer—friend, father, grandfather, player, writer, beginner, expert, outsider, insider.

There is the emotional layer—confident, anxious, hopeful, disappointed, proud, uncertain.

There is the mental layer—my opinions, memories, plans, stories about who I have been and who I still may become.

At any moment one or two of these layers move to the front, and I call that arrangement me.

Then I meet another person carrying their own layers.

They have their appearance, mood, history, pride, insecurity, hopes, roles, wounds, and self-image.

So often what meets is not simply two human beings.

It is two sets of images.

My image of myself.
My image of them.
Their image of themselves.
Their image of me.

When these images fit together, I feel ease.

When my image is complimented, I feel lifted.

When it is admired, I feel strengthened.

But when my image is ignored, contradicted, corrected, dismissed, or criticized, something in me tightens.

I suffer.

Yet what was struck?

Often not the deeper self.

Only the current arrangement of layers.

A sweater was tugged.

A costume was challenged.

An idea of myself was bruised.

This does not mean feelings are false.

It means the pain is often tied to defending an image that was changing anyway.

The older I get, the more I see how many selves I have worn.

The competent self.
The insecure self.
The admired self.
The rejected self.
The strong self.
The tired self.
The one who knew.
The one who did not know.

Each felt real while it was being worn.

Each passed.

Perhaps liberation is not removing every layer.

Life requires clothing. Life requires roles.

Perhaps liberation is remembering that no layer is the whole of me.

Then praise can warm without possessing me.

Criticism can touch without destroying me.

Another person can disagree without becoming my enemy.

And I can meet others more gently, knowing they too are walking around in weather, wrapped in layers, trying to stay warm.

When I remember this, something softens.

The layers remain,

but I no longer mistake them for the one who wears them.