Own

Mr. Z. found some nineteenth-century documents in his late mother’s files.  Most of these documents were about ownership of land.  The document pictured here is from 1837, signed by President Martin Van Buren.

Ownership is serious business.

I “own” some “big” things–but really, don’t banks own them, and charge me a monthly fee for the use of them?

I “own” some other things–for example, the computer I am looking at, the books that surround me, even Max, who rests at the edge of my desk (and probably thinks that he owns me).

I take good care of these things; they are “mine.”  But all of that ownership is ridiculously impermanent; it can end with an electrical malfunction or with a hurricane or with, as I and we all learn over and over again, death.

A week or so ago, on a group therapy chat on sex over at IRLife, I said that we all “own” our sexuality–we are responsible for our desires and our actions.  In trying to explain myself, I’ve had to figure out what I meant by a comment typed on the fly.

What is involved in owning anything about myself?  Honesty? Care? Diligence? Responsibility? Attention? Acceptance?

I own my body–health, weight, strength.

I own my moods, mercurial as they are sometimes.

I own my spiritual life, choosing whether to trust myself or authorities.

I own my story–things I have done, choices I have made, people I have aligned myself with, situations I willingly involved myself in or did not leave until I was ready.

I own my ownership of all of these things–it is my responsibility to maintain my rights to own at all, rights which, in their impermanence, are always at stake.

What do you own? What about yourself do you have difficulty owning? What ownership have you given up, and what might you want to take back?