38~ Who Am I? Buddhism and Psychoanalysis.

Reflections for nerds.

There are probably as many paths as there are people, but the root of it all was a concept that, fortunately, has been part of the conversation in our society—at least in mine: Argentina—for quite some time now: deconstruction. And that also led us to talk about disillusionment.

Whatever that “peace” or “happiness” we were looking for was, it had to lie somewhere else. Clinging to something that’s changing every moment is a true waste of time—not to mention a recipe for frustration and suffering…Unless what we’re clinging to is precisely the opposite: the idea of constant change—impermanence—and the complex Buddhist notion of emptiness. That emptiness Buddhism speaks of isn’t about the absence of things in the way we conventionally understand it. Rather, it refers to the idea that everything lacks a fixed, intrinsic, and permanent essence. Let’s think it through together.

In a world of constant transformation, the idea of essence becomes problematic—at least if we think of essence as something static and immutable.

If change is the only constant—if transformation and movement run through everything—then we must internally reformulate the characteristics of that concept we call “essence,” which unconsciously points us back to something finished and motionless. In the inherent cycle within all things that make up reality, nothing remains unchanged. Everything shifts shape, everything ages—and maybe that is what is truly essential.

So where do we search for peace, if not in the endless wheel of desires in everyday life, like we’ve been conditioned to do?

Within ourselves, of course. That would probably be our first answer.

Within ourselves, yes…But once again… WHERE, exactly?

Could it be right there, in that understanding? In the acceptance that everything is constantly changing… and that if nothing stays constant, then nothing can be controlled—and even less so, clung to as if it were the promised land—be it a moment, a situation, a state, a person, a goal…

As a consequence—and going a bit further—we arrive at a deeper truth: nothing in this world has a fixed essence. That supposed essence we assign to things and seek so desperately… it doesn’t really exist—at least not in the way we think it does.

Buddhism proposes that all elements exist in interdependence with everything else, and therefore cannot be defined in isolation. On one hand, everything is defined in relation to something else: One is one because it is not two. White is white because it is not black. Three is three because it has one more than two, and so on.

So, essence doesn’t lie within the element itself.

On the other hand, essence isn’t in the name that identifies it either: The truth is, “three” could just as well be called “candy” if our conventions had decided so, right?

They’re just that: conventions. Practical, functional constructs—not absolute truths.

So where is the essence of the word “three”?

It doesn’t have one. It only exists in relation to other elements within a system.They’re just functional agreements—not eternal realities.

And to go even further: where is the essence of the object “pen”? In the cap? The ink? The plastic casing? The fact that it can be used to write—or cross out?Maybe in the mental image we have of it, which probably varies from culture to culture?

Where is its essence?

Like the previous idea, it also depends on a web of interrelated factors: its parts, its use, the intention behind it, the cultural context…So, the “pen”—in this case an object—is also an interdependent element, which says very little about itself when taken out of context.

What am I getting at with all these reflections about pens, numbers, and difficult words?

Just like the pen, we too don’t have a fixed, clearly defined essence. There is no permanent, finished, static “self.We, too, are a stream of experiences, thoughts, perceptions, and relationships in constant motion and transformation. And here comes the most important part: this understanding can be incredibly liberating, because it allows us to let go of the rigid ideas of who we are—and even more so, of what we’re supposed to achieve.

That eternal pressure that none of us escapes.

By this logic, we come to the conclusion that meanings—and also material things—are empty of inherent nature, and even more so, they depend on context, contrast, other elements, and cultural agreements. Nothing exists independently or self-sufficiently. So once again, why would we be the exception?

"Where, then, do we leave that search for an identity that suffocates us and confronts us at our core?"Because that’s exactly where these reflections are headed. “ONE” identity?

This is probably the most important recognition we need to understand—not to prove anything theoretically to someone else, but to apply it to ourselves, and more importantly, to set ourselves free.

I knew nothing about Buddhism until that moment, but I was lost, going around in loops, crushed by the consequences of a mistaken conception.

That’s why these ideas captivated me. Not because I wanted to become a philosopher, but because I needed to find peace with myself, and these perspectives seemed to hold interesting keys for recalibrating.

If the idea of “an identity” as something we’re supposed to complete or attain doesn’t actually exist, isn’t that deeply liberating? What if we could let go of that anguished search for “who we are” or for what we’re “supposed to find” so we could finally allow ourselves to just be? If we manage to shift perspectives and start thinking in terms of movement and transformation, doesn’t that open before our eyes an infinity of possibilities? Lighter, less conclusive, and simpler to carry? Something that flows and doesn’t confine.

If I’m writing this, it’s because for years—many years—I spent my time chasing conclusions, words, activities, and things that would define me. That would somehow solve the question of who I am, that would integrate all my parts, all my restlessness, all my many “selves”...

In other words: That would imprison me?

Psychologist, artisan, musician, artist, dancer, traveler, bartender, now “yogui” and writer. I needed to find common ground among all of that, but I couldn’t figure out how. I’ve always had so many questions, interests, and abilities that confining myself to just one felt nearly impossible. The story of my life.

-Choose one and perfect yourself in it.- My mother’s voice echoing those inherited mandates.

That search they planted in our heads—toward ONE fixed, consistent, productive identity focused on “who we are”—weighed so heavily on me that instead of propelling me forward, it left me underground.

And guess what… Of course, I didn’t solve it—until I realized it might not be about finding the perfect word, but perhaps about finding more inclusive ones—or maybe even eliminating words when they can’t explain everything. Learning to see from a different perspective.

All of that led me to a huge quest: kilometers, professions, religions, and India—complex enough in itself to deserve its own category.

Change. Impermanence. Transformation. Among all those identities I carried, one held the title of Licensed Psychologist. Listening to Goenka and reading about Buddhism, at times, felt so much like a psychoanalysis class back at university. What once felt impossible was finally starting to connect.

Freud or Lacan would call it loss or lack. The only true “things” that remain constant. The structure of being human. The illusion of completeness or of a finished identity is just that: an illusion. Useful for the practical flow of daily life and for the uniformity of the image in the mirror, but not real.

How difficult it is to locate happiness precisely in the idea of something that isn’t there, don’t you think?

That emptiness, which is also fullness and hope, because there is nothing more that needs to fill it: it already occupies its own space... So, all that’s left is to understand and accept that this space is complete, just like this: empty!

A tongue-twister of words, yes, I know, pushing up against the limitations of this system we call language. Once again, grammatical complications where certain things are left out, unrepresentable.A battle against meaning. The opposite of what we were taught. Without realizing it, we were becoming rebels.

Does it sound complex? Maybe it is. It’s probably just a matter of grieving the disillusionment and embracing the fact that we’re full of something—something as simple and vital as air—and that is the crucial piece that allows for movement.

Empty of fixed essence, and at the same time, full of possibilities.

Part of my journey to India aimed to unite mind and energy. In my orthodox psychologist's mind, this was impossible. My framework did not allow for the necessary connections—probably obvious ones—that the task required. From the perspective of psychoanalysis, all of this nearly occupied the place of "black magic."

-Yoga, universe, energies? No one said it openly, but many psychoanalysts quietly smirked in disbelief. Perhaps it was just me and my own square prejudices. Although I had no idea what I was beginning to discover, but somehow Buddhism—from a different perspective and with different words—was pointing out a possible path to me. Would they be saying the same thing?

In my mind, the words resonated and conversed with each other under different names.

Both Buddhism and psychoanalysis posit that the idea of a complete Self in control of itself is a true illusion. Both acknowledge that suffering or enduring is related to this infinite need to try with all our might to fill the unfillable. Though they follow different paths, their journeys are similar: to point out that we were taking the wrong path.

The structural lack of the human condition as a result of inhabiting the world of language —would say Jacques Lacan, one of Freud's greatest disciples—. The word itself imposes a cut on us: it changes the nature of human beings and of meaning. It differentiates us from animals.

The book missing from the library exists only because the books are numbered —the mark of the word— because in reality: nothing is missing. That “numerical error,” that conceptual absence wouldn’t exist if those same books had random names instead of numbers:

Little Red Riding Hood, Snow White, Hansel and Gretel, and The Three Little Pigs: books, perfect, existent. Now 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7: missing, problem, chaos and destruction.

Can you see it? Lack is the result that language imprints on us as speaking beings, just by entering this cultural world, with its own order and rules. A mark that limits us, carves us, pierces us and installs in our body a hole that in reality doesn’t exist. A structural lack for all human beings —Lacan would say— from which no one escapes.

Animals in their natural habitat, do they feel that same lack? That same need to search for meaning? That incompleteness so deeply ours? That sensation of lack, when in reality, nothing is missing.

The history of Lacanian psychoanalysis, which to my surprise, sounded quite similar to the spiritual traditions of India I was beginning to learn about.

From this perspective, to desire is then the direct consequence of all that: the need to fill that lack with “something.” Desire as the engine of an endless circuit, of a void that, by structure, is never filled—but at the same time, is also the very engine that keeps us alive, in motion, trying.

Alive or enslaved? Probably, in the end, it’s a matter of balance, like everything. Because in the end, the machine—like fire—to “function” also needs that empty space, with air, that keeps us moving.

From this Lacanian view, the central rock and part of the therapeutic path is to accept this lack. To understand—and fundamentally experience—that what we are trying to fill is impossible. That it’s not something to be filled but something to be accepted, and from there, from that deep experience, begin to walk the path of what is possible, with more contentment, in the only possible way—.

“Build a little life” —my psychologist repeated to me endlessly in almost every session, while I fought—tirelessly—to fill that impossible thing, to find the missing piece of the puzzle. I fought with this idea for years, like all of us, trying to reach true meanings, the big, the consistent, the secure. Something to hold on to tightly so I wouldn’t fly away. Something that doesn’t exist.

—A little life— she kept echoing —with alternating pleasures, simple, possible, tiny, often inconsistent, fleeting, changeable.

She didn’t know it, but she was also speaking of Buddhism.

These notions are surely years of therapy and stages of introspective work. Months of understanding and even more so, of actually being able to incorporate into our mental functioning, so complex and insatiable. To tame our Ego—the hardest task.

“Time to see – an unspecified stage of observation. Moment to understand – a more delimited interval of time. Instant to conclude – a cut in time, an act, a closure, a decision–." Jacques Lacan.

*The notes between dashes are mine.

Once again: processes.

Therefore, if by understanding all this we manage to disarticulate everyday action—the doing—from the goal—completing something that cannot be completed— wouldn’t we be happier? If we walked knowing there’s no place to arrive at: wouldn’t we enjoy each action along the path more, and also the moments of stillness?

If reality is unfillable —because that’s the path of the Ego—. If there’s truly nothing to complete and nothing to reach other than a new step, which, once reached, will immediately show us what is missing to reach the next one…And so goes life, and us running, exhausted, behind it like fools.

If we try to understand it a little better and at least be warned of this logic: Couldn’t we then choose, inhabit, and rest on the steps we like the most? Just for the pleasure of walking, which, in the end, is the only thing there is on an endless staircase.

If in the end, there’s nowhere else to go but toward an encounter with oneself.

Is that it—or where are we going? What is, then, this famous encounter with oneself?