Somebody and Nobody

I’ve often written in my journals about my two must faithful companions— Somebody and Nobody. They take turns walking with me, but occasionally the three of us hang out.

 

For example in 2003 in Salzburg, I was invited to teach The Special Course, a group of 16 international Orff teachers gathered for nine months at The Orff Institut to further their training. I stayed at a Austrian Bed & Breakfast, a farmhouse in the quaint village of Anif. I managed to get a hold of a bicycle and mostly biked the 20 minutes each day to the Orff Institut, passing by the charming village houses, nodding to the lions in the zoo, gliding through beautiful Hellbrun Park past the Sound of Music gazebo and then a straight shot up Hellbrun Allee, where Julie Andrews famously frolicked and sang. Every day, be it rain, sunshine and even occasional snow, I took that trip back and forth, both the body and the spirit exercised and refreshed. Occasionally I opted for the 40 minute walk and that was equally delightful.

 

That was the time of the Nobody I love so dearly, that companion roaming the streets of a new city or exploring the parks, going nowhere in particular with no end in mind beyond just the pleasure of wandering aimlessly. Nobody knows me, nobody cares that I’m there and that’s not only fine with me, it’s delightful. Just me and my shadow with our occasional heel-click dance step, released from all schedules, all expectations, all identities that someone expects us to live up to. It’s a delicious freedom and I cherished it every day of my six weeks in Salzburg.

 

But when I arrived at the Institut, that’s when the Somebody showed up. The person who had been invited because he showed some talent at teaching, a passion for the Orff approach, a long, long bag of activities, lessons, ideas gathered from over (at that point) 28 years of teaching kids from 3 to 13 years old at one school. I had four books under my belt, a resume marking some 25 countries in five continents where I had taught and the confidence that the 90 hours ahead I would have with these students would be filled with happiness, great music, inspired ideas. And the slight sensation that it was still not enough—another 90 or 180 would have been welcome from both sides. 

 

So when I showed up for class each day, I bid farewell to Nobody, held hands with Somebody as we entered the building and then reversed it at the end of the day. That two-step dance kept me happy, healthy, humbled me down a bit when the Somebody demanded too much attention, raised me up when the Nobody worried that I had nothing to offer the world any more. Those six weeks represented a near-perfect balance, but the dance had been going on a long time and still to this day. 

 

This on my mind as I read an excellent book called A Philosophy of Walking. by Frederic Gros. There were my own thoughts spoken in his voice. 

 

“By walking, you escape from the very idea of identity, the temptation to be someone, to have a name and a history.…The freedom in walking lies in not being anyone; for the walking body has no history, it is just an eddy in the stream of immemorial lifel.”

 

I appreciate my Somebody. Heck, I spent a lifetime creating him. He (or she?) brings a great deal of focus and satisfaction to my life and according to the testimonies of a few thousand people I’ve taught or who have read my books, he is useful, helpful, occasionally inspiring and capable of bringing happiness to others.

 

But he does have a voracious appetite that is never quite satiated. Like Rockefeller’s reply to “How much money is enough?” — “Just a little bit more,” this fellow always hopes for a few more book sales, workshop opportunities, recognition in a world that isn’t wholly interested in his work. 

 

But my Nobody is wholly content with whatever moment in which he appears. If asked, “Where is Heaven?” he nods, “Right here. Right now. Nothing more needed.”

 

We need both. I need both. But secretly, I have a favorite.