“Just be yourself,” people tell us when they think we’re trying to be something we’re not. But I wonder what this really means—to be yourself. How do we distinguish between an authentic self and an inauthentic one? Does our concept of self—who we are—imply that we are static entities? All we have to do is find our true self, and we’ll become whole and complete? Or are we already whole and complete … all we have to do is cast off what doesn’t belong? These questions arose in the context of thinking about Martin Gardner’s essay “Did Adam and Eve Have Navels?” collected in a work with the same title (Did Adam and Eve Have Navels? Debunking Pseudoscience). Some creationists, he writes, argue that God brought forth mature trees where none before existed, complete with annual growth rings. Are we like these trees, in which growth is implied but of inexplicable origin or inconsequential value? Do we define an authentic self only at the point of our creation, or only at the point of our current state of existence? My own belief is that I am a work in progress, that my concept of self undergoes continual transformation.
The concept of transformation implies several additional ideas worth reflecting on … origins and end points, for 
example, and current states of being. Origins imply the idea of being first in some respect, but even this simple statement requires clarification. There are first flutes, as discovered by archaeologists; and there are stories about first flutes, as discovered in the written literature. But also there are almost certainly yet undiscovered flutes predating recent finds in southern Germany—bone and ivory flutes dating to the Paleolithic period 40,000 years ago—and there were many stories about flutes circulating in oral cultures long before the invention of writing. We might even refer to the first idea of a flute in the mind of paleolithic or neanderthal man before he ever thought to fashion one for himself. And let’s not forget my first flute, or even my first F# or my first from a particular maker. It’s said that you never forget your first—but there may be lots of other firsts in competition. These, though, will suffice to make my point.
My point is this: While it’s true that I haven’t forgotten my first flute, or my first serious experience of hearing one played, I also haven’t forgotten the one I’m playing right now—or the ones I will play tomorrow … or the ones on order that I have yet to see or play … or the ones I plan to order some day … or the ones I don’t yet even know about. Each flute has its own song. Each inspires me in a different way. Each participates in my continual transformation of self. More importantly, each flute challenges me to transcend my concept of self and partake in a higher order of being—for me, this means a higher order of humanity. Mythology inhabits the murky realm between gods and man, or between man and beasts. It’s where our awareness of the “first tree” or the “first flute” confronts the dreamy, silent past or the dreamy, silent future. To “just be yourself,” I think, means to set aside these impractical dreams which make transformation possible. Mythology both obscures and reveals to us who and what we are, hence the paradox.
Journey of the Dragonfly 