Real security.

The above lies in being comfortable with the fact that there is no such thing. Apart perhaps from the following. Stand very still, close your eyes and say, gently, unhurriedly but firmly, “I am.” Having said it, remain there, eyes still closed, letting your voice reverberate for a few more seconds in your mind. “I am.” For clearly, you are, aren’t you? And from birth to death.

In response to that, you may say, as some do, “I don’t really need to do that. I’m in a pretty secure job and know exactly who I am – Alfred Brown. Thirty seven years old, work for the local paper in Manchester. Married to Eleanor with two small children, Melanie and Craig.

OK, that sounds pretty good. But Alfred Brown’s a name – that’s all. And that name was given to you when you were already in existence – as your wife was when she was given hers. And you can change your names whenever you like. They’re not who you are. Nor is your occupation, your marriage, your presidency of the local musical society, or any managerial position you may have achieved. None of that is you.

So – who or what is then?

Just try the same thing again – stand still, close your eyes and say once more, quietly and firmly, “I am”. And this time, as you hear your voice, be very aware of the indestructible nature of ‘I’. Even if you were to change your name a hundred times throughout your life, change your occupation, your sex, your marriage partner, country of residence, hair style and eye colour nobody, even then, could dispute your claim that the same ‘I’ remains throughout and is you. It always was you – and will remain you, whatever you do with your life and however you live it. “I” is you.

At least, that’s until you take your last breath. Because when you do that, you enter a process we call ‘Death’ – which is considered by a great many to be ‘THE END’ – the final and the ultimate, the end of everything you are and have ever been. And it’s certainly the end of the body – which is commonly buried in the earth to rot. Or burned on a pyre or in an incinerator and its ashes scattered on the wind. Death is always the end of the body.

Do you reckon it’s also the end of the ‘I’ thing then?

Who knows?

One sunny day, a long time ago when I was eleven years old, I was sitting on the bank of the river in the little town where I lived. I was waiting for my mother. I watched some ducks, and a pair of swans. I watched the sunlight reflecting brilliantly off the water which splashed around the stanchions of the beautiful old road bridge. And as I was doing this, a thought came quite suddenly, completely out of nowhere into my head. “When I die,” it said, “I don’t mind if they throw my body in the river. I am not my body.”