The Me I Hold So Dear is a Fiction

Lately, I've renewed my love affair with the Netflix reboot of Cosmos hosted by Neil deGrasse Tyson. The show is a marvel not only because the content will blow apart your understanding of how life works but because Tyson himself is a badass.  At one point in an episode he rattles off truth so matter-of-factly that you might miss it: "The good thing about science is that it's true whether or not you believe in it." This seems to me to be true of a good many things, be they scientifically verified or confirmed through attentive experience: life doesn't give a hoot about our woefully incomplete conceptual attempts to grasp it. It just is.

This leads me to a truth that's been knocking me about for the better part of the last twelve years or so:

The “me” I hold so dear is a fiction.

The temporary constellation of phenomena that I call "me" is hardly the same in passing breaths let alone passing weeks and years. These days, my body offers me wrinkles and grey hair to attest to this, as if to poke me with a reminder that the "me" I obsess over now isn't the same me that I obsessed over then.  The me who endured the stinging rejection of Allison Fisher at an 8th grade dance bears little resemblance to the me that writes to you now, dear reader, though I'm reasonably sure we’re the same guy. The me whining to his wife yesterday about work woes hardly resembles the mindful fellow who sat peacefully on his meditation cushion this morning.

Time’s passing constantly reminds us of a universal truth: "It's not about you, Boo". And if we're paying a little more attention, time shows us a second and more soul rattling truth, namely that there is hardly a "me" all, at least not one in the conventional sense. 

And when looking at the timeless stars, NdGT would remind us of what we really are: 

“ The atoms of our bodies are traceable to stars that manufactured them in their cores and exploded these enriched ingredients across our galaxy, billions of years ago. For this reason, we are biologically connected to every other living thing in the world. We are chemically connected to all molecules on Earth. And we are atomically connected to all atoms in the universe. We are not figuratively, but literally stardust.”

It’s quite impossible to fathom that I'm made of star-stuff, though that makes it no less (literally) true.

So what is this "me"? Is the "me" I reference daily anything more than a linguistic and social construction?
Science reminds us that we are spacious constellations of spinning molecules participating in an unfathomable, whirling cosmos. Zen deepens the cut: we are not merely made of the universe—we are not separate from it in any way.

Dōgen, the great Zen master, wrote, “To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be actualized by myriad things.” When I sit and truly attend to the moment, I start to notice that my "me" isn't even discussable outside of an infinite set of others: my wife’s footsteps in the hall, the warm nose of my dog brushing against my shin, the lamp’s hum, the laptop’s soft click beneath my hands. It doesn't feel like there's a separate "me" here at all—just a happening.

Don’t believe me? Try this: Set a timer. Shut your eyes for two minutes. Just notice your thoughts. Watch where they go. See what emotions rise beside them.

Really. Do it.

Then open your eyes and ask: Who is doing the watching?

Is the "me" the one doing the thinking and emoting? Or is it the one doing the noticing? Trippy, right? Try it daily for ten minutes or so. See what happens.

Investigating our immediate experience in this way makes the selves we imagine a bit less substantive. In practice, investigating experience this way makes the self feel less like a stone and more like a cloud—visible, moving, shaped by causes and conditions, but finally ungraspable. It only appears solid because, as Buddhist pyschologist Bruce Tift reminds us, we stitch it together moment after moment through habitual self-referencing:

“Maybe this ‘obviously real self’ is actually maintained through linking our continual self-referential commentaries and is supported by our pervasive social agreements about the reality and significance of this self. We pay attention to aspects of our experience that seem to be relevant to our self. We engage the world with all sorts of dramas about our self. We have issues with our self-worth of lack thereof, and we spend time trying to heal those issues. We take all of this effort as a type of self-evident proof of having a solid, significant, continuing self. (p.73)”

In Zen, the point isn’t to erase the self, or even to disparage it. It’s to see through its solidity—to recognize that what we habitually call "me" is less a fixed entity and more a shimmering, temporary arrangement of conditions. The self isn't a mistake; it's more like a necessary convention, a useful fiction we can use skillfully, so long as we remember it’s not ultimately real. The problem arises not from having a self, but from clinging to it, defending it, believing it must be polished, perfected, or preserved at all costs.

As Dōgen teaches, to “forget the self” is not to annihilate it—it is to allow it to become transparent to the world. When the self is no longer at the center of every drama, everything else can come forward. The sounds of birds, the laughter of a student, the ache in the heart when someone suffers—all of these become more vivid, more immediate. We are no longer locked in the tiny theater of "me" and "mine," endlessly rehearsing our starring role.

When we loosen our grip on the fiction of a fixed self, something quietly luminous opens up. Life becomes less about defending an identity and more about participating freely in the great, swirling mystery. We can meet experience as it is—fresh, wild, unfinished—rather than filtering it through the thick, defensive narratives we build around who we think we are.

Suzuki Roshi captured this spirit when he said, “When you realize the fact that everything changes and find your composure in it, you find yourself in Nirvana.” In other words, peace doesn't come from locking things down or finally arriving at a permanent, perfected self. It comes from relaxing into the shimmering, changing nature of existence—trusting that we, too, are part of that flow.

This loosening is not a loss. It’s a profound gain. When we stop clutching at "me," we become more available—to wonder, to compassion, to creativity, to the vast aliveness unfolding around us. What we lose is only the heavy armor of self-concern. What we gain is the vast, breathing world.

This shift has profound implications for education. When teachers loosen their grip on the fixed identities of "good student," "troubled child," "star teacher," or even "failed school," they begin to meet each young human—and each moment of learning—as fluid, alive, and unfinalized. The classroom stops being a place where static selves are molded into predetermined forms and becomes instead a dynamic field of emergence, where growth is not imposed but allowed. In this light, teaching is less about managing fixed identities ("She’s gifted." "He’s behind.") and more about cultivating conditions where possibilities can unfold, surprises can arise, and students—like teachers—can encounter themselves anew. A teacher practicing this way doesn't need to fix or save anyone. They need only to stay awake to the living currents of transformation already at work.

There's a ton more to say about these mythical ‘me’s that we cherish, and how these fictions show up in the classroom. For now, I hope this just serves as an existential kidney shot alerting you to the fact that something ain't quite right. We’ll explore the pedagogical implications of this soon.

For now, maybe you’ll settle in to being a little more unsettled.  

REFERENCES

Dōgen. (2002). The treasury of the true dharma eye: Zen Master Dogen’s Shobo Genzo (K. Tanahashi, Ed. & Trans.). Shambhala Publications. (Original work composed ca. 1230s–1253)

Suzuki, S. (1970). Zen mind, beginner’s mind. Weatherhill.

Tift, B. (2015). Already free: Buddhism meets psychotherapy on the path of liberation. Sounds True.

Tyson, N. D. (Host). (2014). Cosmos: A spacetime odyssey [TV series]. Netflix.