Riccardo

Where am I from?

At one level, this is a very simple question.

If you ask me where I am from, I can give you a straightforward answer. I am from Italy. I was born in a particular town, grew up in a particular family, surrounded by a particular culture, speaking a particular language.

And if I wanted to take the question a little deeper, I could say that I come from my parents. I come from my mother’s womb.

All of these answers are true.

And I think it is important that we don’t dismiss them. When we explore a question like this, there can sometimes be a temptation to become too vague or too spiritual too quickly.

Someone asks, “Where are you from?”

And we answer, “Nowhere. Everywhere. The universe.”

Well… yes, perhaps.

But also, I’m from Italy.

There is a conventional reality to our lives, and there is nothing wrong with that.

But the invitation of this question is not to stop there.

Where am I from?

Really.

Can I keep asking?

Perhaps I say that I come from Italy.

Where does Italy come from?

Perhaps I come from my parents.

Where do my parents come from?

And their parents?

Perhaps I say that I come from my body.

Where does this body come from?

From food, water, air. From the earth. From sunlight. From everything that has sustained it since the moment it appeared.

Already it becomes a little more difficult to draw a clear line around where I come from.

But perhaps the invitation is to keep going.

A different kind of question

Questions like this don’t necessarily ask us to find a better answer.

We’re used to questions having answers. Someone asks, we think, we find the correct answer, and we’re finished.

Perhaps this is a different kind of question.

Perhaps every time we arrive somewhere, the question asks us to look again. Not because the answer is wrong, but because perhaps it isn’t the whole story.

We spend so much of our lives creating fixed ideas.

Ideas about the world, about other people and, of course, about ourselves.

I am this kind of person.

I am from this place.

I belong to this group.

This is my history.

This is who I am.

Again, none of those things are necessarily wrong.

The problem begins when we hold them too tightly.

Something that is simply a description can gradually become a box.

This is me.

That is you.

These are my people.

Those are your people.

My country.

Your country.

My flag.

Your flag.

And something that began as a perfectly ordinary statement — I am from here — can become something that separates me from you.

And this isn’t only about nationality.

We can do the same thing with our work, politics, religion, family, history — even our practice. Even being a Buddhist or a Zen practitioner can become another identity that we defend.

So perhaps exploring “Where am I from?” isn’t about discovering some wonderful spiritual answer.

Perhaps it is simply about loosening things a little.

To notice the places where I have decided:

This is who I am.

And gently ask:

Is that really the whole of me?

If I say, “I am from Italy,” that is true.

But is that the whole truth?

If I tell you the story of my childhood, my education, my work, my relationships, all of that belongs to me.

But is that story what I am?

And what happens if, just for a moment, I don’t reach for any of those answers?

Not because I reject them, but simply because I don’t use them to answer the question.

Where am I from?

Staying with not knowing

We might even begin to explore the ideas of coming and going themselves.

What does it mean to say that I came from somewhere?

Right now, there is this moment.

This experience.

This body breathing.

Sounds appearing.

Thoughts appearing.

Feelings appearing.

Everything happening together.

Where exactly did this moment come from?

Where is it going?

And where, within all of this, do I draw the line and say:

Here is me, and everything else is not me?

Perhaps we don’t know.

And perhaps, for once, not knowing is perfectly fine.

In fact, perhaps not knowing is where the exploration really begins.

Because if I immediately answer the question, the exploration is over.

But if I can remain with:

Where am I from?

without rushing to answer it…

perhaps something begins to open.

Maybe some of our fixed ideas become a little less fixed. The boundaries become a little less solid.

Perhaps I don’t have to defend this idea of myself quite so fiercely.

Perhaps the separation between me and you, between us and them, becomes just a little less convincing.

I’m not suggesting that we should conclude that we come from nowhere, or everywhere, or that we have always been here.

Those may all be interesting things to explore.

But the moment we turn any of them into the answer, we’ve simply created another fixed position.

We’ve replaced one box with another — perhaps a slightly more spiritual-looking box.

So I don’t want to land anywhere.

I don’t know where this question should take you. And I don’t know where it should take me.

The invitation is simply to explore it.

Notice the answers that appear.

Recognise that they may contain truth.

And then, without rejecting them…

ask again.

Where am I from?

And when another answer comes…

ask again.

Where am I from?

And see what happens when there is nowhere else you need to land.