Frank Greenall: Life changes at single stroke

RECENTLY, in the wee small hours, dozily emerging from a crazed dream world (thank God our brains aren't Wi-Fied to social media yet), I snibbed on the radio to try and get some bearings.

The programme that popped up was a nice little doco about a couple who had started up - somewhat bizarrely some might think - tango dance classes for those in various degrees of, shall we say, marginalisation. People in retirement centres, people who had experienced strokes, and the like.

The interviewer was doing the usual thing, talking to the couple who'd got the programme up and running, talking to the beneficiaries of it (who, to a man and woman, were unstintingly appreciative) and so on. But one of the interviewees - let's call her Lily - had an interesting comment. She was, she said, previously a successful business consultant when, literally in an instant, she was cut down by a stroke.

Lily realised later that, in that moment, she had moved from Lily the professional consultant, to Lily the invalid. In a flash, from an out-there go-getter with life-under-control to suddenly needing a bib to get through her muesli in a reasonably dignified manner.

An instantaneous whole new unchosen "identity". Scary stuff! But Lily's most interesting point was: how come her identity had been so much defined by, in the first instance, what she could do in her professional capacity, and, now, by what she was unable to do? And how these two extremes were, well, so extreme. Given this radical instantaneous transformation, could she actually be the same person if all the previous denominators that helped define her as a person could be so arbitrarily snatched away?

The big question she was suddenly facing was: Who, in fact, was she? Bravo to the tango teachers! Like the cavalry, they turned up at the right time and gifted her a tactile link that enabled her to "ground" herself. Dancing to a different tune now, and by no means the preferred tune, but it was all still essentially the same "her" out there on the floor. Oh, the relief, to know.

There's no fairy-tale ending. But at least Lily has got her roots back. And she gets to tango on a regular basis and move those traumatised limbs again.

I certainly know that, in the course of various occupations along the way, I've pondered on which parts of the job are "me", and vice-versa. And how the sense of identity can alter with a change of job. Sure, there are other anchor points that help define and reinforce identity. Family, friends, hobbies, all manner of activities involving degrees of socialising that reaffirm a sense of self.

But the other interesting angle is what might be broadly termed the Buddhist point of view, where any sense of personal identity is essentially regarded as a Western cultural delusion: that we're all inextricably part of a collective consciousness extending from here to eternity. Certainly in many cultures there is no concept of "personal" identity outside the mantle of the tribe or immediate kin. There's an interesting philosophical concept called solipsism. Solipsism has a Buddhist touch, in that it basically says there is no "you", and "other-than-you" - that everything you experience is a product of your own consciousness. It's a very hard one to counter-argue. If you try to, then solipsism says it's just you, yourself, playing mind games. And disaster, famines, wars, divorces et al are all just manifestations of your own paranoias.

Intriguing stuff. But all the same, when you stub your toe, it's still seems to have a very personal touch. You certainly wish the pain could be shared out a bit more around the collective consciousness. But the others don't want to seem to want to have a bar of it. Your mistake - you wear it yourself, the other pikers in the collective seem to say.

I hope Lily doesn't end up with too many stubbed toes as she tangos on.