All Of The Selves We Have Ever Been
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all of the selves we have ever been
About the Author, Lilli-ann Buffin

I am the product of my father’s Air Force wings and my mother’s immigrant roots. It was somewhere on the road between a California Air Force base and a small immigrant village in Ohio that I became, in my heart, a social worker. The degree and professional license came much later.
As we traveled the roads through the American southwest in the days before the interstate highway system, I watched the scenery pass from the back of a Rambler station wagon. Even as a young child, I was struck by the majesty of the landscape, the beauty of the Native American people and the art and crafts they sold from roadside stands. Nowhere else, before or since, have I seen such beautiful pottery and woven blankets, such brilliant colors, patterns, and textures. And I had never before seen such poverty. How could a place be so extraordinarily beautiful and yet so harsh and impoverished? This did not add up in the mind of a child not yet six years old. Something seemed very wrong with the picture. More than that feeling of “wrongness,” I had a sense that seeing and knowing made me responsible in some way for doing something about it. What I saw and what I felt that day have never left me.
At the other end of our journey from California was Adena, Ohio, the home of my maternal grandparents and extended family. It was my roots, a permanent home, the place to which I always returned. My grandparents immigrated to the United States from Lebanon at the turn of the 20th century, ending up in this small mining village full of immigrants from other parts of the world. It was here that I learned about the richness of diversity, the connectedness of community, about faith, generosity and contribution. It was a delicious and steady diet that fed my growing social work ethos.
Being the child of an American serviceman meant frequent moves. It turned me into a wanderer. Outside the military that might be frowned upon, but inside the military, it is normal and expected that a person and a family will move every couple of years. Young people sign on for service to see the world and experience new things. I am grateful for all that I have experienced as a wanderer both inside and outside of military life. I am equally grateful for the permanence and stability of my Ohio roots and the opportunity to live in a tight-knit community where everybody knew my name.
I have been a social worker—officially—for more than 35 years. I have heard thousands of stories from people at every age and stage of life. I have met many quiet heroes. I have learned history and theory from the people who lived it.
It is not true that social work is a low-paying profession. I cannot imagine anyone richer than me. I thank all of the people with whom I have worked who have opened my eyes to a wider world and who have given me a broader perspective about how to live courageously under any circumstances.
From the moment we are born, we begin growing older. It is not always easy to be three or eighty-three. Living can be hard work; we do it in stages. Sometimes we stumble. We each have selves we wish to tame and selves we long to revive. Over time, we grow a mind, a heart, a soul. Each stage and each self that evolves adds up to something. It becomes the story of our lives. It is what we leave behind, our immortality. While we are still breathing, the book remains open for editing. Any day is a good day for rejoicing, renewal, or redemption.
Please join me as we explore the wonder and beauty of growing older at every age.
As we traveled the roads through the American southwest in the days before the interstate highway system, I watched the scenery pass from the back of a Rambler station wagon. Even as a young child, I was struck by the majesty of the landscape, the beauty of the Native American people and the art and crafts they sold from roadside stands. Nowhere else, before or since, have I seen such beautiful pottery and woven blankets, such brilliant colors, patterns, and textures. And I had never before seen such poverty. How could a place be so extraordinarily beautiful and yet so harsh and impoverished? This did not add up in the mind of a child not yet six years old. Something seemed very wrong with the picture. More than that feeling of “wrongness,” I had a sense that seeing and knowing made me responsible in some way for doing something about it. What I saw and what I felt that day have never left me.
At the other end of our journey from California was Adena, Ohio, the home of my maternal grandparents and extended family. It was my roots, a permanent home, the place to which I always returned. My grandparents immigrated to the United States from Lebanon at the turn of the 20th century, ending up in this small mining village full of immigrants from other parts of the world. It was here that I learned about the richness of diversity, the connectedness of community, about faith, generosity and contribution. It was a delicious and steady diet that fed my growing social work ethos.
Being the child of an American serviceman meant frequent moves. It turned me into a wanderer. Outside the military that might be frowned upon, but inside the military, it is normal and expected that a person and a family will move every couple of years. Young people sign on for service to see the world and experience new things. I am grateful for all that I have experienced as a wanderer both inside and outside of military life. I am equally grateful for the permanence and stability of my Ohio roots and the opportunity to live in a tight-knit community where everybody knew my name.
I have been a social worker—officially—for more than 35 years. I have heard thousands of stories from people at every age and stage of life. I have met many quiet heroes. I have learned history and theory from the people who lived it.
It is not true that social work is a low-paying profession. I cannot imagine anyone richer than me. I thank all of the people with whom I have worked who have opened my eyes to a wider world and who have given me a broader perspective about how to live courageously under any circumstances.
From the moment we are born, we begin growing older. It is not always easy to be three or eighty-three. Living can be hard work; we do it in stages. Sometimes we stumble. We each have selves we wish to tame and selves we long to revive. Over time, we grow a mind, a heart, a soul. Each stage and each self that evolves adds up to something. It becomes the story of our lives. It is what we leave behind, our immortality. While we are still breathing, the book remains open for editing. Any day is a good day for rejoicing, renewal, or redemption.
Please join me as we explore the wonder and beauty of growing older at every age.
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