The Age of “I”
I am a lone voice, a lone man,
the last of a people.
In my walking, I have seen many days of the earth—
from the days of dust and simple villages to the
days of concrete and gleaming cities.
I have observed revolutions
in science, medicine, and technology.
I have watched as man, once bound to the earth,
has launched himself toward the stars.
I have seen what I never could have imagined and
what my people never could have dreamed of.
Man has become impressive indeed.
But, young friend (and no matter your age, to me you
are young), of all the days I have witnessed, today—
your day—is the most unhappy.
I see it in the faces I meet on sidewalks and in the voices
I hear in your cities.
Mother Earth has never been more crowded,
yet her inhabitants have never been more lonely.
You live in the age of “I.” Man looks out for himself, and
only secondarily for others. In the philosophy of your day,
happiness is a product of the fulfillment of personal wants.
Would it surprise you to hear that man’s unhappiness is due
in large measure to the way he is seeking after happiness?
You know this already from your own life.
For when you have been unhappy, you have been
unhappy with others—with your father or mother, your
sister or brother, your spouse, your son, your daughter.
If unhappiness is with others, wouldn’t it stand
to reason that happiness must be with others as well?
Man’s obsession with his own wants is taking him further
from those without whom happiness cannot be found.
It is taking him from his people.
In truth, it is taking him from his true self.
Away from My People
I was once known among my people as
“The WE walking lost.”
A strange way of speaking, to your ear, no doubt.
And a way I once thought strange as well.
For the speaking of my people had not yet become mine.
You see, there is no “I” alone in the speaking of our people.
When referring to another among us, as when
referring to ourselves, we speak in “WE.”
One day, while on a hunt with others who
were earning their early merits of manhood,
the village leader’s son—once my friend
but by then my rival—claimed my kill as his own.
Both of us rushed to the fallen carcass.
“You!” I yelled, violating our language’s
commitment to community, “You lie!”
Others in the party rushed to pull us off each other.
I swung at him in vain, restrained by the others behind me.
We were taken before the village council,
my father sitting among them.
My rival’s father rose, looking back and forth from
me to his son. He stood silently for several minutes.
Finally he said, “WE suffered today. Our warring in
the forest was against Our way. WE do not fight WE.”
“But WE,” I interrupted, pointing at the other, “is cheating
WE!” I said, looking first at the chief and then at my father.
But my father looked at me in stone silence.
He offered nothing—no defense, not even a look
of encouragement or understanding.
My heart was wounded.
My rival’s father now focused his eyes on me.
“WE, young son,” he said slowly, “have much to learn.
Much to learn before manhood.”
“What about WE!” I exclaimed, pointing at his son.
“Does not WE have much to learn, too?”
The air stood still in the chamber.
“Silence,” he said with a quiet firmness.
“Silence is what WE must learn.”
I turned and fled in humiliation and fury—
my father’s silence closing my heart and
my rival’s air of triumph poking at my skin.
From that moment on,
I began to turn my heart from my people.
I resented the village elders, especially my father. And I kept
myself distant from those who had before been friends.
The mere thought of my rival stirred my heart to anger.
And our beliefs and customs irritated my ears.
I saw pain in my people’s faces when I mocked our ways and
reveled in what I considered victory. But my bitterness grew.
My parents bothered me, my sisters and my brother
bothered me, my village bothered me.
I longed to be independent and free—
free from the tyranny of WE.
And so one morning, long before the dawn, I ran.
My People, Again
But I discovered a surprising thing in my running:
Those who had granted me life and language accompanied
me wherever I went. I thought with words they taught me.
Their very identity was replicated in my skin.
Although I had left them physically, they nevertheless
traveled with me in my mind, my flesh, my heart.
How surprised I was to discover this—
that there was no escaping my life.
With a heart that glared at my people, I glared as well
at the hill that rose inconveniently before me.
I swung angrily at the tree that obstructed my way.
I cursed at the valley that fell far below me.
I shook my fists at the rapids in the stream.
When I finally scratched my way to the summit of
Big Mountain and turned for a final glance at the village
in the distance, I was committed to never returning.
But you know that I did return, for you have sensed
the reverence and love I now have for my people.
And perhaps you have guessed that I desire
nothing more than to be among them again.
How did it happen? What brought me home
and taught me love and reverence?
How did I discover happiness with a people
from whom I had felt estranged, even banished?
My young friend,
this is what I have pondered every day since.
And the answer may surprise you.
The hill, the tree, the valley, and the stream—
those objects of my wrath—were my teachers.
Mother Earth reintroduced me to my people.
Nature as Teacher
Unfortunately, modern man has become
so focused on harnessing nature’s resources
that he has forgotten how to learn from them.
If you let them, however, the elements of nature
will teach you as they have taught me.
Consider:
What was the point in being angry at the hills?
They had nothing against me.
And how silly to curse the trees when they merely offered
me shade. Likewise the valleys that offered rest, and the
streams refreshment . . . what cause had I to blame them?
Mother Earth taught me that my anger
toward nature was unfounded.
And she therefore invited me to open my heart to this
possibility: so too may be my anger toward man.
Forward and Backward Walking
In the years since, I have learned that
the point of life’s walk is not where or how far
I move my feet but how I am moved in my heart.
If I walk far but am angry toward others as I journey,
I walk nowhere.
If I conquer mountains but hold grudges against others
as I climb, I conquer nothing.
If I see much but regard others as enemies, I see no one.
My young friend, when the days of your walking begin
to draw to a close, you will know that I speak the truth.
Whether we walk among our people or alone
among the hills, happiness in life’s walking depends
on how we feel about others in our hearts.
We travel only as far and as high as our hearts will take us.
When I ran from my people, this is what the hills,
the trees, the valleys, and the streams invited me to learn—
and before it was too late:
That the success of my journey depended on
whether my heart walked forward—toward my people—
instead of backward, away from them.
My walk is nearly finished. Soon I will join my people.
How fortunate and grateful I am that I want to.
My young friend, before the close of my days,
I will share the making of my walking—paths of clarity
and healing that can be found among the hills.