I imagine that authenticity is not a goal, not a destination, but the journey of an ever ‘deepening’ hypocrisy meeting itself in the terror and peace of its vastness. To have arrived at being one’s ‘authentic self’ is to attempt to disentangle oneself from the flow and rush of things. It is to make painful incisions that cut us away from the grand hesitation that is nature. We can’t help that. We can’t afford those colonial gestures anymore. We can only come alive to the many streams that carve our riverbanks. We can only learn to sigh along with our radical incompleteness, and come to see – again and again – how the tapestry and the thread are together appreciated.