DENIAL, EVASION, BLOCKING

Considering how to design meaningful ceremonies that hope to invite the Sacred is not so much a matter of knowing things as admitting that there is so much we — you and I — don’t know, and —even more worrying — don’t know that we don’t know.  Our body does much unconsciously, edits the incoming sensory code drastically, organizes the brain in selective ways chosen in infancy, and supplies cover stories that keep us from access to raw code.  

Much of learning art is figuring out how to get at whatever the body is not picking up on, actively hiding.  Art’s work is revelation.  But if everything that comes to the senses had to be considered, we’d soon be paralyzed — overwhelmed.  And indeed people who have damage to their internal editing process are living demonstrations.  Stunned.

Institutions, hegemonies, families and society in general are also invested in keeping each of us focused on their interests.  I’m always a little startled when I make some kind of generalization, maybe tentatively, that is immediately seized upon and used for institutional evidence and endorsement.  If I write an indictment of Christianity, some Christian is bound to read it as endorsement. 

It means that much of what I call “running the writing through the wringer” is an attempt to prevent misinterpretation.  Families are particularly prone to looking at their members through stereotypes, either those of the bad seed — the assigned villain — or those of the little genius who is not and doesn’t want to be.  If one’s own family doesn’t think one is real, who can?

Harlow's monkey experiment

Bowlby studied children who were hospitalized without their mothers or whose mothers simply abandoned them for a period of time.  At first the little ones roared with protest, made their displeasure known any way they could.  Then they despaired and sank into depression for a while.  The third stage was that they seemed never to have had any problem.  They were just indifferent and went on with life.  But if, after a while, the mother came back, the child did not welcome her, didn’t seem to recognize her.  In fact, rejection was total and deep.  To the mother it felt like punishment.  To the child it felt like preventing anything so painful happening again.

This same sequence can happen with society.  We’re in the roaring smashing stage in parts of the cities right now.  Clearly some politicians are in denial, simply making declarations of the truth of what they wish really WERE true.  Across suburbia and in small towns, the people go right on mowing the lawn and loading the dishwasher as though nothing has changed.  If the daughter is pregnant or the son is gay, throw them out.  Declare they don’t exist.

Sadly, if a child blocks affection, interaction, encouragement and comforting for fear of pain and more rejection, that child’s development can be severely distorted, close to the point of psychosis or at least sociopathy.  The hope is that contact with the Sacred can break through that shell, re-associate the dissociation, and lend the courage to trust or at least test.  But that’s another of the grandiose narcissisms so typical of humans.

The problem is fatal when the dissociation is so severe and seductive that the only safe place is death.  If the cause is “only” neglect or severe discipline, that doesn’t come close to the catastrophic damage of torture, atrocious bodily invasion, culture collapse.  We do not like to think the worst happens to the least deserving.

What many people think is safety is simply conformity.  There are ceremonies and in conventional society — if you don’t think about them or challenge them, they mostly work — if the society is not too confused or dangerous.  But forming little gated bubbles is a great temptation for pockets of like-minded people and doing that both corrodes larger alliances for economic and defensive institutions and limits the evolution of the people in those guarded places.  By pushing out anyone who seems dangerously different, they make themselves targets and psychologically justify the predatory behavior of the outsiders.

Conformity for the sake of safety is a kind of blindness, a paralysis, and it is “fractal” in the sense that guarded anxious people create the same pattern in their family dynamics and those add up to whole communities that are “stuck” and xenophobic, not to say racist.  What was patriotism becomes jingoism, reducing icons of unity like flags and statues to focal points for resentment.  The Sacred evaporates.

It is replaced by greed and profit.  Damaged kids make great little money-makers, either directly (errand runners for drug and gambling criminals) or indirectly through the funding in the institutional response to disorder (prisons and policing).  Of course, they are natural commodities for trafficking.  

HIV, hepatitis, and tuberculosis — plus violence — keep the kids enervated and powerless, so they plug the pharma industry into the system and die before they can form alliances.  Media machines are divided between flogging fear because it sells and converting real virtue into Disneyland ride tickets.

In the face of all that, imprinting and attachment still happen, still make entrance points for change and caring right in the middle of thieves and rapists, racketeers and bribed politicians.  Mutation and evolution happen right in the middle of war and tragedy.  Survival happens.

Not every person is corrupt and selfish.  Many social groups and individuals still manage to raise healthy children and to reach out to the suffering.  Empathy educates us all.  Our mammal hearts are warm.  It has been the secret of the persistence of our kind for aeons.  

The fall of the Roman Empire has been on our minds for quite a while and Jared Diamond has explained vividly how some civilizations thrive and others collapse — mostly a matter of resources rather than virtue.  But now we have the fossils of two hundred rough drafts of hominins and near-humans, mostly their teeth and brain-cases.  They bite.  We should not deny and reject them.  

When I saw that an academic paper was entitled “F**k Jared Diamond,” and by now has followers and even a YouTube video, I laughed.  Now I suppose I’m going to have to sort through it all to see what it means.  It won’t be anything Sacred.   But who knows.  Maybe it will be real.

As a shortcut, I watched the YouTube rant.  It seems a Native American wants to indict Europe for its atrocities in America and uses China as contrast -- blocking out the Black Plague from Asia that decimated Europe and ignoring Genghis Khan.  The irony is that Diamond's main occupation has been focussed on songbirds in New Guinea, not even Chinese bird flu which occasionally sweeps the world.

FOR THOSE WHO ARE AFRAID OF DYING

X had marked time in the limestone ledge since the Paleozoic seas covered the land.  Time, to an atom locked in a rock, does not pass.

The break came when a bur-oak root nosed down a crack and began prying and sucking.  In the flash of a century the rock decayed, and X was pulled out and up into the world of living things.  He helped build a flower, which became an acorn, which fattened a deer, which fed an Indian, all in a single year.

From his berth in the Indian’s bones, X joined again in chase and flight, feast and famine, hope and fear.  He felt these things as changes in the little chemical pushes and pulls that tug timelessly at every atom.  When the Indian took his leave of the prairie, X moldered briefly underground, only to embark on a second trip through the bloodstream of the land.

This time it was a rootlet of bluestem that sucked him up and lodged him in a leaf that rode the green billows of the prairie June, sharing the common task of hoarding sunlight.

— Aldo Leopold

Blue Stem Grass

Those who think about fear of dying think about the future rather than the past.  The truth is that you have already died many times.  Like X, the traveling atom, your bits have traveled from all over the cosmos to be you for a little while, but they have already been “you” in all the incarnations that came before, most recently in the cells of your mother and what she ate and breathed, according to a plan settled upon by your father’s and mother’s directions for assembling a human being.  You are as temporary as they were.  Human beings are temporary arrangements of elements assembled as molecules, then cells, and then a body that constantly changes.

Not only does it change by taking in the world, sorting it, keeping part of it and throwing the rest back out, but also the cells collaborate to make the identity “grow.”  I resisted this as soon as I understood it was happening.  Partly it was because of all the smug grownups who would say, “You’ll grow out of this.  You’ll be different later.”  Growth sounded to me like the death of the familiar identity I knew and loved.  This was accurate.  But I tried to defy it.  I hated giving up my old familiar clothes simply because I’d gotten too big.  I hated having to give up pablum.  

Somehow identity was mixed with consciousness, not to be conscious was to be dead.  So I tried to be conscious of everything.  That was easier before school, where all the other identities interfered with me.  My own insides were so vivid, so known, so cherished, that everything else was merely shadow.  Were you like that?

Staying alive means changing and growing.  When I finally realized that, partly because of needing to achieve in school and to avoid punishment at home, I wept.  How could any new self be manageable?  It meant accepting the belonging to a group, which I had always resisted, felt was a step down, a surrender.

So now it’s easy for me to see that when people (maybe adult and maybe not) finally understand that their familiar identity as an alcoholic, or a risk-taker, or as the oppositionally defiant person (which can only be an attempt to stay the same despite the wishes of others, usually authorities) and who sees that this set of behaviors is likely to cause their bodily death, which will mean the end of their consciousness, will only then make an effort to change their consciousness and behavior.  Religiously, this is often called a “rebirth.”  Often it means access to good behavior that had been left behind, at last pulling it out of the darkness where it was pushed by the struggle.  This might be called a “renaissance,” which means “rebirth.”  

Usually this is not the violent, squalling, relinquishment of safety in a womb of some sort, but rather a kind of gradual shift, a new compass point as destination.  But a radical difference in environment might indeed be the rock cracking open to release atom X so it can start another journey.

This has happened to me repeatedly by now.  Death will only be another version of it, but I’m greedy for more consciousness and I’m not through with this identity so I fight to keep it.  Partly I’m in the habit of this oppositional defiance of everyone else trying interpret, control, demand what I think or do.  It still continues.  It’s part of being alive, but a lot of people concede and do what’s expected, even if it makes them ache and empties them -- so they try to be numb and automatic.  Dead while alive.  Atoms trapped in uselessness.

I did not understand that evolution is not about monkeys and humanids.  It is about everything.  It is simply time.  We borrow everything from time, which soon enough takes it back.  The brain itself evolves, and therefore can think new things, which means a renewed identity and consciousness.  And yet part of the evolution has allowed memory, though it’s probably not all that accurate.  Yet, I DO seem to remember what it felt like when I was five, before school.  I hated school.  It interfered with me all the time, until I evolved enough to have access to what it was “for.”  Then I could see the usefulness.

And now I’ve evolved enough to abandon school, generate many identities and consciousnesses — or at least play my connectome like a piano or harp so I can experience many things many ways, without drugs.  Those who insist I be who I was, the person who was familiar and convenient to them, are always aghast now because they haven’t changed so they deny and despise some of who I have become.  My mother struggled with this lifelong.  Why couldn’t I marry a nice safe Presbyterian minister and be a helper and a better cook — like her?  All that means is that she had no idea what misery a nice safe Presbyterian minister can be or suffer, even married, even male.

There is no safe life.  All lives are transient, even the ones that come and go through the same bodies and are changed by social participation.  Few lives are very intentional.  We forget that previous times, viewed with nostalgia, are dishonestly remembered. 

Every day is evolving into a time of great possibility. One of them is the possibility of death — it has happened to so many people in our times.  Millions.  So now I sometimes turn my attention to the issue of how to die well.  I don’t mean courageously, but something more like gracefully, having made a contribution even if no one recognizes it.  Setting X free to be whatever comes next.  Joining the bloodstream of the land, which in this case is an ancient dry seabed, next to the tectonic collision that raised the Rockies.