Wherever You Go

"Wherever you go, there you are."

I've been trying to uncover who originally coined this phrase, but there seems to be a lot of controversy over its origins. I remember it as the title of Buddhist teacher Jon Kabat-Zinn's famous book, but different online references claim it was first uttered by sources as diverse as "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", a 70s Mexican guidebook, an obscure Christian theologian from 1044 A.D., and Buckaroo Banzai. Where it comes from may not seem as important as what it is saying -- which I think just might be one of the greatest single insights into the human experience. Yet I think it IS important to know who said it, as its originator knew a hell of a lot about human nature and how we are designed.

Well, it's clear I don't have a concise answer to my query, and I may never, so let me drop that topic and simply explore the statement itself.

During my years spent in the cult-like grip of 12-step groups, this statement is thrown around a lot, usually in reply to someone in the group wanting to "pull a geographic". Let me explain. There is, as you know, a whole separate 12-step language, mostly platitudes and bumper sticker slogans, like "Let go, let God", "One day at a time", and "Keep comin' back, it works if you work it!". To "pull a geographic", though, is one of the few AA adages that actually makes some amount of logical sense. Allow me to illustrate it in the following scenario:


FADE IN.

A smoke-filled church basement clogged with the scents of tobacco and really, really bad coffee. Depressed people are sitting around on metal folding chairs and sharing their stories and feelings. They like to talk about themselves, and they like to give unwanted advice.

Drunk #1: "I'm thinking of moving to Cleveland."

(There is a hushed murmur in the room as the group cluck their tongues in disapproval and shift uncomfortably in their chairs.)

Drunk #2: "Are you sure that's a good idea? Don't pull a geographic!"

Drunk #1: "What do you mean?"

Drunk #3: "What are you running from?"

Drunk #1: "Excuse me?"

Drunk #2: "Just remember, regardless of where you end up: Wherever you go, there you are."

FADE OUT.


The message, used in such a context, is clear. You can try to run from your feelings by moving away, and sure, things might seem OK for a little while, but eventually, those feelings will manifest themselves in new ways. Thus, you are back where you started. We can run, but we can't hide.

And this makes sense to me. It's truth. We carry our baggage with us even when we are under the impression that we've left it unclaimed on the baggage carousel. Those damn Samsonites have a way of always, always finding us.

But my dilemma is this: what happens if you've already dredged up all the pain and difficulties and challenges of your past and dealt with them -- but they still insist on following you? I've been in therapy for damn near 20 years, and I've called forth every single ache, pain, and audible fart of my life. With the help of highly-skilled professionals, I've stared head-on into the eyes of each one of these little beasts, examined them, and put them to rest.

Yet why do they come back? How can such tiny destructive bastards be so clever and shapeshift themselves into new, unrecognizable forms? Whenever I think I've found freedom, I realize I've just found the same...old...shit.

Lately, I've wanted to disappear. I've fantasized about it during the day. I've dreamed about it at night. Just a quick, painless exodus from the jumble of thorns that is my life. I'm not talking suicide, I am talking literal disappearance. Just up and going and waking up in a new place, in the mountains, in the sun, in a wash of wildflowers, with John at my side. And no more ties -- no more sticky, messy ties to all that's left behind. Is this a feasible goal rooted in reality? Or is this a utopia cooked up by every man and woman since the dawn of time?

I readily admit that I just don't get it. I don't get what it's all about. And when I say "it", I mean people, human nature. Life I get, at least a little bit. I think life is about loss, about suffering, and living from one loss or suffering to the next with a certain amount of grace and good humor. I don't believe this view is unhealthy; in fact, quite the opposite. When you accept the suffering that inevitably comes and goes throughout our days, you learn that those moments are transitory. They will pass. And in the same vein, you learn that those moments between suffering are equally powerful...and equally fleeting. All those opportunities to laugh till you lose control of your bowels; all those chances to walk with your head held high while not stepping in dog poop; all those moments of unadulterated happiness and fulfillment that twist your knickers in delight: they won't last, either. Appreciate them. This brings a great acceptance of the impermanence of existence.

So why is it, then, that the only goddamn thing that seems permanent are our demons? Why do they always come back? Even after being effectively dealt with, why must they find us so attractive? In the scheme o' life that I've just painted, those demons should have long outlived their lifespans. They should be blobs of goop between the bricks of our history. They should not keep coming back like Freddy Krueger or that dude with the hockey mask.

Though I yearn to wake up tomorrow with the new sun in the small of my back and the whole world filled with the scent of lilac, I just can't grasp it as anything more than wishful thinking. These wraiths I'm always convinced I've ditched would still be there, ready to crest the mountain at any moment.

So what's the use then?

If wherever I go, I'm just going to keep finding myself in the same old shit....

What's the use?