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AUTHENTICITY

If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.¹

— AUDRE LORDE

When I was 10 years old we moved from a small city to a neighboring town in Massachusetts. The kids were really fascinated by me, because they’d never encountered an Asian before in real life. It didn’t bother them at all that I was only “half”; they thought I was the real deal.

One Saturday, some of the boys went to see Blue Hawaii, Elvis Presley’s latest film. I wasn’t invited. On Monday when I went to school they had a surprise for me — a new nickname.

I knew it wasn’t going to be Elvis but was dumbstruck when they gleefully announced they had found the perfect name for me — Ping Pong! Johnny explained that I reminded them of Elvis’s Chinese servant who, naturally, was named Ping Pong. Billy said it was just the best possible name for me. I wanted to tell them it was no good because I was Japanese, not Chinese, but knew it wouldn’t make any difference. I was saddled with Ping Pong for years, though they did mercifully shorten it to Ping.

I finally saw Blue Hawaii recently and understood the dire situation I faced as a child. Elvis calls his adult servant “boy,” and Ping Pong is a grinning fool, a little, harmless pet who serves the giant, beautiful white men and women. I realized that I had made a pact with myself to never be that “boy,” to never grovel. It was life and death to me. Somehow, I let everyone know that if they dared to threaten me with violence they might win, but that I would not go down without a fight, in which they would be hurt. In my room, all alone, I honored my Japanese heritage to maintain my dignity, hiding a little national flag in the back of a desk drawer.

This racial and national identity struggle colored my American socialization. A strange part of growing up in the United States was that others were extremely interested in me. They thought I looked different, and some were disturbed enough to say things expressing their dislike of who they thought I was. Or they asked questions to help them figure out who I was. The nature of their treatment was sometimes wounding and traumatizing, leading to growing self-consciousness and a consuming struggle about my identity.

Their mostly negative and derogatory reactions forced a confrontation with what it meant to be Japanese. It was apparent that my life would be easier if I weren’t Japanese but was white like nearly everyone else around me. My mother’s response to the situation was a message of stoic self-acceptance, assuring me that I was as good or better than others, and that accepting who I was would strengthen me. This helped me to just be myself.

My father’s stories of my samurai great-grandfather had the powerful effect of enabling me to reject internalizing “Ping Pong.” Outwardly, I was a gentle boy, but when my safety was threatened, I embodied the internalized self of my cool, calm samurai great-grandfather. This became clearer to me when I read of how bell hooks had as a child rejected the good, little black girl she was supposed to be and instead adopted the persona of her outspoken, rebellious great-grandmother.²

Though I may not have discovered my real, authentic self in taking on a samurai identity, it was the only one available to me in my cultural setting other than Ping.

Yet there was more to deal with than just individual assaults. While I was highly visible, I never saw anyone who looked like me on television or in movies. There were so few images of people like me that the other kids took the only ones they saw and branded me as a “Jap,” or as “Ping.” This kind of treatment tested my Japanese identity, tempting me to wish to escape the imprisonment of my heritage. I struggled with accepting who I was. I knew that breaking the psychological chains of internalized victimhood was not done by identifying with the oppressor, but this thought remained private, not declared publicly.

By the time I was a teenager, I couldn’t wait to get out of my small, white town. My parents could see my anguish and told me it would be okay to go away. I found that there were prep schools that were giving financial aid scholarships. I got one and went off to join the sons of the rich and famous. When I and my family got to my assigned room at school we were first greeted by an odd fellow who seemed like the typical rich, white preppie I was expecting, but we were surprised when in walked my other roommate, who introduced himself as Rap Brown. Rap was one of several black kids from the inner cities who were on scholarships. His real first name was Percelle, but he called himself Rap after his hero, H. Rap Brown, the Black Panther.

Rap and I got along well. We shared everything and he introduced me to the other black students. I became like an honorary member of their group. They shared their music — Aretha, The Temptations, Marvin, Tammy — and their books, Invisible Man, Native Son, The Autobiography of Malcolm X. They taught me how to dance. Rap even shared his Afro picks, which I didn’t really need.

One day I dropped by to see Rap at the store inside the gym locker room where he worked. He was reading a book, titled Black Rage. We chatted a bit and then he got this wicked gleam in his eye and disappeared into the back of the store. He came back with a box, which I quickly noticed were Converse All Stars, size 10 — my size.

When I saw them, I said, “Oooh, Cons!” I’d always wanted a pair of Cons.

Rap mumbled, “Take ’em,” and shoved them toward me.

I said, “What? You know I can’t pay for them.”

“Take ’em,” he repeated, and when I hesitated, he added, “We know you’re on scholarship, just like us.”

I looked around and no one was there. So I grabbed the Cons and fled out the door. I got back to my room, shut the door, and tried on my first pair of Cons. They fit perfectly. I was confused. I’d been taught not to steal, but I’d done it anyway. I even thought that maybe it was okay.

I’d been included by the black kids because I was Japanese, and it was totally different than the way my white friends had overlooked the fact that I was Japanese. Now it was what connected me. And Rap had included me because I wasn’t one of the rich kids. It was an amazing feeling, both of being united with others who didn’t have as much as some people and of seeing that by working together we could get what we needed and, if we didn’t, we could take it.

At graduation, some of my white classmates made something they called individual “Class Wills.” These were announced at graduation. Mine was supposed to be funny. “Steve Murphy leaves . . . ALMOST BLACK.” I looked out in the crowd and saw my parents sitting there amid the nervous laughter that erupted. My dad, the son of an Irish laborer and a house maid, a so-called “Black Irish,” a laborer himself dressed in his Sunday suit and wingtip shoes sitting among bankers, doctors, and lawyers. My mom, an immigrant Asian woman, in her makeup, high heels, and Western dress, sticking out in the sea of white faces. My parents may have felt disappointed, but I wasn’t. I was living the values they taught me, and I left that school knowing better who I was, with more respect for Mom and Dad — and more respect for myself.

I thought of how much my life had changed since I had come to the school. I was no longer the “Ping” of my small town. I knew I wasn’t Chinese. And though the white kids saw me their way, I knew I wasn’t “almost black.” And I also knew I wasn’t white — I had been told that long enough. I knew who I wasn’t, but I was just discovering who I was. Though I was romanticizing, and the samurai identification may not have been my authentic self, I was developing what the psychologist Erik Erikson describes as a sense of identity involving experiences of an increased unity and oneness in the way one experiences oneself and the way others experience us.³

Racial experiences had instilled compassion in me as well as in others who felt that we “suffered together” in a white world. We felt responsible for each other. This was a formative moment in my personal development of heartfulness.

In my imagination, I was the Irish-Japanese Celtic samurai. But I was still searching — for a surrendered identity, my roots, my wings, my place in the human family, my community. And I knew I was on my way home.

Homecoming

Even though I had lived in Japan just a short time, in a strange way it had become home for me. Amid the American kids, I was the only one constantly identified as Tokyo born, “made in Japan,” like the derogatory label at the time for cheap products. After college, lost in the fog of youth, with no idea how to move forward, a light shined through for me with a clarity I have never experienced before or since. The message I was receiving was, “return home.” To me this meant to my birthplace, my roots in Japan, in what I now see as a way to find authenticity, the “real me.” I sensed that I would discover something there that I could not even imagine.

As I wrote in the preface, this became a transformative journey of self-discovery. I was empowered to act in ways that created a new life. Reunited with my grandparents in the city of Matsuyama, with a beginner’s mind, I learned Japanese language and culture as well as a way of living and being. I found that these were already part of me, my authentic self, and living in this way was both natural and genuine, bringing a sense of wholeness.

My grandmother, who would live past 111, was a woman of tremendous life energy. Being with her, I absorbed some of that energy and became empowered to act courageously. My mother was her only child, and I was her only grandson. She raised me like the son she had never had, teaching me as if I were her child. Grandmother convinced me I had a purpose in life — that I had been given certain things through my ancestors and that they walked with me. I had responsibilities to them, to myself, and to the world. My task was to fulfill my purpose.

So, I have devoted my life to finding and living it. I realized that my task was to be mindful of moments in which I feel that I am experiencing insight into my purpose. Listening carefully and then acting courageously is challenging. But doing so is how we embrace our unique self or authenticity.

Reflecting deeply on my life circumstances, I saw clearly that I existed because two people came together following a tragic war in which they were on opposing sides. They crossed borders in declaring their love and determination to be together, despite legal and social barriers. Seeing myself in this way, I imagined that this was my purpose — to play my part in bringing people of these two countries together. Its practical expression lay in becoming a doctor who promoted the integration of medicine and the healing of East and West.

Believing that I had a purpose in life, being the real me, gave me tremendous energy. I realized that authentic living was not important solely for me but was important for others, as well. The feeling that my actions were taken not only for my own happiness or success, but more for some greater good, was liberating. This knowledge helped me to overcome self-consciousness and fear and move out into the world with the assurance that I was not alone but was supported by many others and perhaps even by some greater spiritual power. I eventually left my grandparents’ home, empowered to do what I could in the world, and entered Harvard University with the goal of fulfilling my purpose.

This idea that my life has purpose was strengthened by a profound message expressed by Albert Einstein:

How strange is the lot of us mortals! Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he sometimes thinks he senses it.⁴

To me this meant mindfully discovering and surrendering to what I can understand as my purpose. I believed that if I was dedicated to doing so, then somehow I would know what it was that I was to do. I decided to go on this journey, to live authentically in the creation of my life.

I started to see the true self as myself at birth — who I was born to be. If I was able to simply be who I am, I could grow into my potential. I saw that my mission, and indeed everyone’s, was to live into my true self, and that this is done not by comparing ourselves to others but by accepting who we truly are. We each have a part to play, a purpose that no one else can fulfill; we are needed as we are. Like every person, we are incomparably unique. When we feel self-acceptance and appreciation for who we truly are, we feel alive, sensing our purpose, doing what needs to be done in leading a full and meaningful life.

Who Are You?

In the classes I teach, our search for authenticity begins with a “Who Are You?” exercise that helps students to see how difficult it is to answer such a simple question if we try to say who we are without using the common descriptors of our affiliations, status, and achievements. We confront the disturbing reality that we don’t really know who we are. This helps students to see that they need to know who they are because, if they don’t, someone else will tell them. But that person will always be wrong, because we know ourselves in a way that no one else can. While others may see parts of us that we cannot even see ourselves, there will always be an inner voice that only we can hear that tells us who we truly are. The challenge is to discover our true, authentic self, by engaging in a continual process of building self-awareness, a journey through which we acknowledge our strengths and limitations, and identify our purpose.

How we find authenticity differs for each of us. For some people it comes through meditation; for someone else it is through nature; and for another it is by caring for the suffering and the needy. Some find it in work, others through art, music, or prayer. We all have our way of reconnecting with the healthy, true self, but we have to discover it, which is a great adventure. The journey to self-awareness gives the foundation of emotional intelligence, as there is no more important task than to know oneself.

Discovering our authentic self is, however, no easy task. We feel that we can discover authenticity in special moments when we sense our words and actions emerging mysteriously from deep inside us. We may surprise ourselves with the awareness that we are new every moment. This sensation is supported by research that provides evidence of how mindfulness can lead to changes in behavior and brain physiology, creating a new you, so that each moment is a new opportunity to re-create yourself.⁵

Even if we are constantly evolving, there is still a sense of connecting to some essence that feels real. Bringing forth authentic selves begins by being mindful and engaging in a process of deep self-reflection, and then living within the flow of our awareness, in our most natural state of existence. We become more able to ask ourselves basic questions and to listen to the answer we hear from the deep, inner voice.

This process requires belief that there is an authentic self, a true and unique identity, hidden behind fears, doubts, and worries. It is waiting to be discovered as a doorway to a meaningful life. Authenticity lies deep within. You know when you touch it, and those around you also recognize it.

William James, the father of American psychology, encourages us to “Seek out that particular mental attribute which makes you feel most deeply and vitally alive, along with which comes the inner voice which says, ‘This is the real me,’ and when you have found that attitude, follow it.”⁶

I experienced this a few years ago at a seminar conducted by a prominent person in the field of healing and storytelling. She opened a session by saying that she was required by the state of California to do something about cultural competence. I heard her saying that we would do it even if we didn’t really need to, as if we had already transcended those kinds of things. I felt stunned and looked around the room and saw a sea of white, smiling faces nodding, as if in agreement that they really didn’t need to be trained in cultural competence but were willing to go along with it. I felt dissonance, out of place, different from the others.

I was awakened to feeling “deeply and vitally alive,” with a voice telling me “this is the real me.” What was of great concern to me at that moment, what I felt was the focus of much of my life, was being dismissed in importance. I could see where I might play a role in expanding the mindfulness movement through a heartful approach that is inclusive, values diversity, and promotes social justice.

Find What You Love; Love What You Do

Many students have been influenced by the words of Steve Jobs, the late Apple CEO, who in 2005 delivered one of the most popular commencement speeches in Stanford University history, five years before his untimely death. He explained that he quit college because he realized that he was simply doing what others expected of him, following the mainstream. But after dropping out he discovered that new things were possible by wandering off the conventional path in life. His stories of finding purpose are inspiring for young people trying to understand who they are and what they want to do, but Jobs warned that the path to authenticity is steep, requiring courage and trust:

You’ve got to find what you love; and that is as true for work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work, and the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking, don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it and like any great relationship it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking, don’t settle.⁷

The message to “keep looking, don’t settle” continues to resonate with young people who have the resources to pursue their dreams. One student told me how he had done everything that was expected of him, never stopping to ask, “Does this fit my sense of who I am? Is this truly my gift and my calling?” Yet he came to feel depressed, realizing how his inability to listen to his inner voice had left him in a place of deep pain. When he finally listened and began taking in and acting on the self-knowledge, he took his first steps on the path to well-being.

The way Steve Jobs talks of finding an authentic self is inspiring and appealing, yet some of my students have a hard time with it. In one class, after I introduced Jobs’ message, which was followed by another message from a male CEO in Silicon Valley, some students expressed their discomfort and difficulty relating to being taught about life from these people of power and privilege.

These students noticed that there is no mention of the self beyond the individual. They resonate with the view of social justice advocate john powell, who writes about how the Western self, and especially the American self, is particularly isolated and separate, rooted in a history of ideals that assert a radical individualism.⁸ He sees the need for an alternative vision, a beloved community where being connected to the other is seen as a foundation of a healthy self. This is a self that is based in the recognition of shared vulnerabilities rather than egoistic separateness.

How we see ourselves as authentic and find a sense of purpose for our life is related to our culture’s views of the self. The independent way of viewing the self differs radically from the view in many cultures — that of a self in relation, a self dependent on others. This self is not defined by increased autonomy gained by separating oneself from others, but rather as self found in the context of family and community. The ways that such cultures view the self are constantly evolving. The popular individualistic and collectivistic duality disguises the existence of complex values in each individual.

People in Japan, for example, have learned to submerge a self to conform to group norms, yet there is another self that longs for expressions of individuality. When Yuko Arimoto, who won a silver medal for the marathon at the 1992 Olympics and a bronze medal in the Olympics four years later, made the public statement “I’d like to congratulate myself,”

I believe that she was voicing the unexpressed sentiment of many Japanese.⁹

The sense of self affects our beliefs in the importance of happiness. Psychologists are increasingly emphasizing the importance of living a meaningful life rather than one focused merely on achieving happiness.¹⁰ Happiness is self-centered, focused on receiving, having your needs satisfied, getting what you want, and feeling good. Meaning is more related to developing a personal identity, expressing the self, and consciously integrating one’s past, present, and future experiences.¹¹

A key to our search for meaningful work is a sense of purpose, as it is associated with increased retention, productivity, and satisfaction.¹² We find purpose in two ways: connection to something greater and making a difference in someone’s life, or service. Business leaders declare that a purpose is important for their organization, but they struggle with knowing how to think about defining it clearly or helping their companies act on it.¹³

A philosophy of finding purpose in work is offered by Jiro Ono, the subject of the film Jiro Dreams of Sushi, who asserts, “You have to love your job. Once you decide on your occupation you must immerse yourself in your work. You have to fall in love with your work. Never complain about your job. You must dedicate your life to mastering your skill; that is the secret of success and key to being regarded honorably.” His clear message is that to love your work can at times be difficult and that you may have to sacrifice, but that if you persevere you will find yourself rewarded for it.

While many people in the world may see reality in Ono’s view, those who have privileges of higher education and career opportunities may see it as a dream killer. They are drawn to the individualistic emphasis on finding the self and following the heart, as Steve Jobs advocates. Yet they may sense that the focus on adjusting to reality is also valuable, necessary, and meaningful. When we think about who we are and how to follow our heart, both dimensions must be considered. All of us must care for ourselves, as well as for others.

Discovering our unique purpose in life is a difficult, challenging task because each of us is at once an individual and part of something larger than ourself. Our purpose will be to honor our inner voice and follow our heart in fulfilling our needs both as individuals and as members of broader circles. We are part of a larger whole and can see ourselves in this complexity. Finding our passion, or an ideal job, or an authentic self, may be as elusive as finding a life partner. Each of us can try to find this authentic self, which is our unique calling. Then we decide what kinds of sacrifices we’re willing to make, knowing that what we are called to do may not be what we would have chosen.

Whether or not you are Christian, there is a powerful image in our Western culture of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane praying to God the night before his crucifixion, asking, “Father, if you are willing, please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.” Similarly, we ask ourselves if we can generate the kind of courage to act boldly and fearlessly on what we feel called to do. While the path we have chosen may initially lead to survival, it may also lead to sacrifice.

A few people are idealists and will naturally follow their heart. They feel they have a purpose, or a mission, and they go for it, come what may. They may succeed or they may crash and burn. Some may do both during their lifetimes.

We all have this option of daring to follow the compassionate ideal and to say that there is no difference between us and others in the world, and then to live as if that was true. But how many of us can overcome our fears of what might happen if we really practiced our ideals and followed our dreams? Are we able to imagine our lives if we were truly heroic and did “God’s will,” even when it is a treacherous path? How many of us will commit to being truly compassionate, or always being courageous?

Some of us will not listen to our own heart. Or we may listen and decide that the path is too steep and so we choose another, safer trail. We may pay a price for this, living with regrets for not following our heart. Most of us will seek a decent life that is reasonably prosperous and secure and is oriented to family and stability. We will try to take care of ourselves and also care for others. For many of us, a heartful way of living may mean to try to balance our ideals with realism, peacefully holding two seemingly contradictory truths in mind at the same time.

We actually live in the middle, between two worlds. It takes constant effort and daily practice to stay on the path of heartfulness. We can try to live up to ideals and also accept being authentically who we are and where we are. Neuroscience research tells us that while our character is formed early in life, we are more malleable than we imagined and can actually form a new self each moment.¹⁴ We live in this tension between two realities of who we are. This question is also experienced in our need to determine what in life needs to be accepted and what can be changed, in ourselves and in life in general.

Authenticity in Community

Who we are is complicated by how much of us is hidden, denied, or sublimated. Wholeness is a theme of my writing, especially in When Half Is Whole, a book of stories of 11 mixed-ancestry persons. The cover shows a half moon, which I first saw as a symbol of how these people are viewed by others as being “half,” when in reality they are whole. But I gradually saw the title and image as a metaphor for human development — we begin our lives whole but gradually become fragmented, and parts of us come into darkness. We become disconnected from parts of ourselves. Yet we still have a “hidden wholeness.” Our challenge is to remember, see, and reconnect, to embrace those parts of ourselves, returning to our “original wholeness” and becoming the whole person we are always capable of becoming. By embracing the “dark side” or the shadow of our ambiguous natures, we come to know “the light.”

The healing power of going into our darkness is documented by research. While for ages people have proclaimed the healing nature of writing, we now have more scientific evidence of this truth and a knowledge of which kinds of writing are best for which situations.¹⁵ We know that writing about oneself has positive impacts on health, including boosting the immune system, lessening pain, and decreasing medication use. This includes writing about trauma, which is known to have therapeutic effects.¹⁶

Rather than focusing exclusively on happiness, some in the field of positive psychology are endorsing the importance of finding wholeness by connecting to our dark side. This place includes what we typically regard as negative emotions. Making the unconscious conscious integrates the shadow parts of one’s self. A whole or authentic person acts in service of what they value, which requires drawing on the full range of psychological states to respond effectively to what life offers.¹⁷

Heartfulness is created when we bring our authentic selves to all our human encounters. We find that when we can be ourselves, it frees others to be themselves. We cross borders between ourselves and others. If we can risk vulnerability, be open, and be willing to let others see us for everything we are, we can connect to others without masks. Modeling authentic living in the moment encourages others to consider how to live and how to express themselves from a similar place of authenticity.

If I can bring myself to a situation or an experience as a “whole person,” others can bring themselves as whole persons, too. A Stanford student once told me that he rarely went to his other classes, but when he saw how I was bringing myself as completely as possible to the class I was teaching, he felt that he had to do the same, and so he attended every class of mine. Colleagues often warn me that by bringing myself into the classroom I am opening Pandora’s box. They fear that I am subjecting myself to psychoanalysis by the students. “Better to leave yourself at the door,” they tell me. But I simply can’t.

We are all accustomed to bringing a different self to the public, presenting ourselves to others as a performance in which we show a certain socially acceptable and desirable side while we hide other, less-acceptable parts. We are dominated by our ego, with its fears and demands. Freeing ourselves from this prison is hard work. Just being who you really are at any moment is a great challenge. It requires courage to be the real you, relating honestly with others. Authenticity is knowing who are you, and being that person in your daily life, awake and aware of your thoughts and feelings. Through heartfulness we become authentic one moment at a time in our thoughts, feelings, and actions. Many spiritual teachings encourage us to be mindful, listen, and act from the heart, starting from right where we are.

Authenticity means aligning your words with your actions and practicing what you believe and preach, without concern for what others may think of you. When we are authentic we are being real, not phony or masking who we really are, comfortable in our own skin. Being authentic is being genuine and sincere — free from falseness, pretense, or hypocrisy.

After many years as a professional counselor, I know that people find it helpful to be with a person who models openness and self-disclosure. Carl Rogers, the humanistic psychologist, believed that for persons to grow, they need an environment that provides them with genuineness, acceptance, and empathy — one that enables others to also become more open and authentic.

What if we can bring our whole self to parenting, as well? There was a song in my younger days that spoke to authenticity and parenting. The first verse, “Teach your children well,” is an expected message to parents, but it’s followed by a verse that goes, “Teach your parents well.”¹⁸ The message to me is that parenting is a two-way street, if we’re open to learning from our children.

In my occasional role of speaker to large groups, I see that authenticity even communicates on a big stage. I recently spoke to an assembly of an entire high school of nearly 1,000 students, on “finding meaning in life’s struggles.” There had been several deaths there, including suicides, and I was asked to convey a healing message. As I prepared my remarks, I reminded myself that I simply needed to be authentic, telling the students only what I know — no more and no less. I silently repeated to myself over and over, “It’s all about me,” mocking the voice of my own pride and ego, which were of no importance compared to the possible goodness that might be done by spreading a message of loving-kindness. It was my way of accepting that the best I could do for my audience was to be a vessel through which a greater power might transmit wisdom to others, offering myself in service.

What happened in that assembly was truly amazing. I lost all sense of self-absorption, fear of embarrassment or shame, and the desire to impress, and became one with the audience. The psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi calls it “flow” — the mental state in which a person performing an activity is fully immersed in a feeling of energized focus, full involvement, and enjoyment in the process of the activity.¹⁹ In Zen it is the state of being completely in the moment, focusing on a single task, and finding a sense of calm and happiness in what you are doing. The students felt it, too, and sat there listening deeply. I was told that when I finished they jumped to their feet and applauded warmly. The principal rushed up and gushed, “You hit a home run!”

This reception gave me a wonderful feeling, because I realized that something amazing can happen simply when we are being mindful, vulnerable, and authentic. When we bring ourselves to a situation authentically, we create community as a deeply human encounter. Others in the encounter feel connected, moved, feeling that we say what they feel, express what they suppress, bring out what they keep inside, say who we are — all the while recognizing our mutual human condition. Authenticity cultivates heartfulness by helping us to move beyond simply being mindful, to connecting compassionately with others. It empowers us with a sense of service and responsible action.

EXERCISES

I. Who Am I?

Asking ourselves the simple question “Who am I?” can be both frustrating and revealing. Our response can show us how hard it is to answer this question, and also can reveal who we really believe we are.

1.   Ask yourself this question and write down everything that comes to mind.

2.   Try not to think about it, and write quickly.

3.   After 5 minutes look at your list and reflect on it. Does it show you who you really are? Do you see things about yourself that you would like to develop?

II. What Makes You Feel Alive?

Reminding ourselves of when we feel most alive can bring us closer to realizing who we are and what we want to do, or feel called to do, with our lives.

1.   Reflect on this question and write down whatever comes to mind, without censoring, for 10 minutes: “What is my purpose in this world?”

2.   Reflect on this question and write down whatever comes to mind, without censoring, for 10 minutes: “What do I care about so much that I would pay to do it?”

3.   Look at what you have written and ask yourself what actions you can take to fulfill your purpose to do what you most deeply care about.