Natasha Clark Risk | Blog template once I have more posts
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One day, hopefully my children will have children.

The ozone layer will have closed up, the oil and gas establishment shut down, careers transitioned into sustainable resources, plastic will be phased out nearly everywhere, rooftop permaculture gardens will abound and the mobs will have come for the billionaires.

Women will have as many children as they care to have, able to enjoy simpler lives if they please because we’ll live communally, helping each other and taking joy in sharing, rather than competing with each other. Women won’t be forced to reduce their children to a socially and financially acceptable number, to limit their time away from the workforce. Love will decide these things. Men will take time out of their careers too and child care will be subsidized by a government in recognition that quality child care, balanced partnerships, and skilled women kept in the loop benefits everyone.

Life will lap calmly at the shores of time, lovely, sustainable, stable, and so undeniably preferable to generations past, that older conservative folks will apologize for how truly punchable they were at times—

“We were just afraid, you know? Afraid of the devil we didn’t know,” they’ll say.

Progressives will smile, roll their eyes up, eyebrows raised, and will sigh a sigh that means, Yes, you always are, and will apologize in turn for being the smuggest of fuckers.

Their mutual sins will almost cancel each other out because we made it after all, didn’t we? Let’s keep looking forward, we’ll decide.

Into this utopia my grandchildren will be born.

My son and his husband will adopt or he will have a baby with a lesbian couple and they will be a foursome raising a very lucky child or three, surrounded by a privileged bouquet of love, attention, protection, wooden toys, and Netflix-worthy food made creatively by my son because four unsuspecting ingredients happened to be at arm’s reach. Parenting won’t be much of a revelation for him, because he can practically remember being a baby himself, remembering the songs I played the month he learned to say “Ba” for ball. I hope he will have at least one prodigy himself so he can know the joy of seventeen hundred conversations about a certain variety of beetle, or a brand of fountain pen that was popular in the 1880s.

My third daughter, in linen dresses and sun-bleached wheat curls, will have numerous babies. Numerous fathers? I don’t know. Numerous love ‘ers, certainly, because everyone will love her. Women will question their sexuality around her, old men will dote upon her with homegrown vegetables and repairs on her appliances, and, at worst, older women will follow her with their eyes, sad for the lives they never lived without the currency they needed that my daughter doesn’t need in this Land of Plenty but has in heaving bundles anyway— her long, strong, elegant body bearing children as easily as a seedy dandelion causes the wind to show itself.

My second daughter might be so many people by the time the ozone layer stitches itself up. She will either be the most doting aunt and free spirit or she will step into parenthood trepidatiously, for the love of her partner— male, female or neither. She will have a baby, then feel almost trapped by the fierce love filling her, bursting at the boundaries between her skin and the world. She will careen between bliss and fear, though outsiders won’t always be able to tell, as she sits at the beach, reading a book or listening to music. She will recall moments when I seemed checked out and she’ll know— this is the only refuge for those of us who love too piercingly and who decide not to numb ourselves through artificial means. Too much hangs in the balance when one loves this much.

My first daughter. She will be most surprised. Years after her first child, she will birth herself into a painful knowing of how much she was loved. Her own tiny daughter will be born wearing a wig of dark hair. She will be able to scoop her doll-daughter up with nearly a pinky finger, easily with the crook of an arm, until she is four. This granddaughter will be so easy to protect then. My doctor-daughter will learn that no heaven assuages the fear of loss of one’s child. In mourning with those who mourn, and comforting those who stand in need of comfort, she will hold her own more closely. She will wonder how a mother can even survive years without talking to her child, without hearing about first kisses, first boyfriends, first periods, and she’ll wonder if she could survive an unspoken separation. No, she could not. Only severe abuse, neglect, and trauma prepares and barely inures a person to withstand such a thing, and she was too loved, too soft—tucked into bed with a belly full of salad and risotto, into home-sewn designer bedding with storybook readings every night. Her heart will break, understanding that those who can most withstand heartbreak are the same folks who least deserve it, pasts storied already.

Perhaps the trauma we wreak upon each other all stems eventually from some primal need to both show love (and protection) for our children and to be loved by our children. We yearn to leave legacies of might and power so our children, grandchildren, and great-grand children, will lend us sentiment we confuse for love. And when some people don’t either have or invest in children, perhaps some of them try to flood the world with reasons to admire them; they require millions of admirers to equal the devotion, love, and gratitude of one child.

All I know is that morality is straight-forward until one has a child. Place between me and my child the bodies and lives of a hundred people lined up plaintive-faced and worthy as anyone of breath; give me substances to muffle the wiser, Trolly Problem-solver part of me; and the animal heart of me would slay one hundred people to reach my child. I don’t believe one truly knows what it is to love until one is prepared to kill. Only sobriety, laws, philosophy, higher reasoning, daylight and mercy protect us from clearing the path to our children at all costs.

I forgive every parent. Every parent who bribed a college, every parent who berated a teacher, every parent who did every morally evil thing to protect their child, and even every broken parent who neglected their children to parent themselves. We are programmed by nature to love our children more than we love the earth or sky or heavens—no matter what our gods command. Sometimes those children are ourselves, the children of ourselves who did not get our needs met.

I don’t know much of anything anymore. I might pipe up about an idea with my voice a little louder and sturdier than usual, but it doesn’t mean I’m not up to hear your views and willing to change my own. I used to believe that one should never-ever-no-matter-what lie, that I would always be vegan, that abortion was a tragedy, and that sacrificing cookies to be a size four was always worth it. I changed my mind.

But one thing I know for sure, my one last-page-of-O-magazine sure thing I know is this:

Every parent who raises a child loves that child more than the parent can withstand to feel.

People who thought they would love each other as friends forever, if nothing else, will smother that caring in order to fight for what they think is best for their children. Parents who didn’t get their needs met as children will continue to try to meet their own needs, so they can catch up on development and be enough for their children. Parents rambling incessant narcissistic drivel want to be seen and admired by their children. Parents who drown their children in a bathtub, even— most are likely trying to protect their precious, perfect, innocent children from the world or from themselves. In countless broken, fucked up ways, so many stories can be traced back to love, even if just a sliver of it, the only sliver that parent ever received.

Not every child gets their needs met. But every child who was birthed, every child who was held even a moment by a passing stranger, is loved somewhere in the body of someone, forever, protectively, until… who knows… a black hole swallows all of our consciousnesses in a moment of unfathomable chaos? I studied humanities, not physics; I don’t know these things.

We are animals who bear a long history—of flinging ourselves out of the ocean, crawling for air, craving fire, inventing agriculture, bestowing wealth, inventing governments, building fences, reading Dr. Spock, breastfeeding our kids until age two—in our genes. Maybe that animal just wants to survive itself, make an imprint on the world, spurt its guts out in a chain that never ends. Maybe embedded deep within us is merely existential panic. But I don’t think so.

Because I remember the smell of my babies. I remember how they clung to me, crying, their bodies sore and confused and so sick at 3am. How they ran to me at preschool pickup and I excitedly absorbed them back into my body, my breath on their necks and kisses on their faces. The children of them still live in them now, but they’re bigger than me and I can’t tuck them in between my chin and my legs anymore, in bed, against my belly. I do it in my dreams.

Every 40-year-old, every 76-year-old, is a baby in someone else’s memory, in someone else’s body, in their heart, in the memory of the universe, in something, held there precious and loved, imperfectly but so deep down into a history of trees, bones, oceans, and stars.

And every parent longs for grandchildren in part so that their children will just know how much they were loved: into pain, numbness, distraction for a breather, and oblivion. Forever and ever. More than everything.

Note: Feel free to skip the explanatory preamble if you’re looking for a meditation to help you build community.

As a little girl, I wanted to change the world. As a teenager, I joined the Mormon church because I found communion there when I desperately needed it in my life and because I trusted people who told me they had the truth. I believed this truth would lead to happiness but I found myself deeply depressed for several periods throughout fourteen years. In fact, the only time in my life I’ve been depressed longer than a couple of weeks of commonplace grief, was while I was Mormon. I felt trapped and I felt grief that my hopes for making the world a better place were not coming to fruition. My faith only isolated me from the wider community to the point that it was hard to connect with others. I viewed non-Mormon people as prospects for my church and longed to convert them so that we could have a meaningful relationship of shared beliefs and values. The Mormons with whom I shared beliefs and values were too different from me in almost every other respect. When I left the Mormon church, concluding that I didn’t believe in free will, I didn’t believe in a prescriptive God, I didn’t believe that perfect love could ever be communicated or acted out in a highly structured system of rules and force through fear, shame, guilt, and reporting on each other, I lost my community. 

I found intersectional feminism and social justice. I was drawn in by the wise analysis of power versus oppression and the call to equality and to help the vulnerable and afflicted. I found a community here but the one I found turned out to be a different version of what I had already experienced. Rather than being limited to theories, practices, and works of love, humility and unity, social justice and feminist principles get used as tools of power and oppression in a horrible irony. The goal posts are always changing so that people never reach purity or righteousness, and they use new language and rules to signal their righteousness and superiority over others and their rightful place within the tribe. They appoint hierarchical leadership and they excommunicate through shunning. I’m not the only person to discover that they’ve stumbled into The Church of Social Justice

There are true principles in both churches and I’m grateful for the foundational understanding that they’ve given me. I continue to operate from what I’ve learned from each belief system. I still passionately identify as an intersectional feminist. 

But I’ve been longing for something more. A better set of theories and practices from which to engage with people and to select from those people whom I want closest around me. 

Without entirely understanding why, I felt compelled to take up a position as a community manager within the coworking space in which I operated a small creative agency. I’ve been drawn over the past two years to some people working in something called collaboration design. As they passed some books along, all the pieces have come together to form a new belief system. I realize that the past few years have been difficult, operating without a belief system. My behaviours haven’t been aligned with some of the values that I have, without being grounded to any foundation of what I know to be true. I’ve been shifting about, trying on different practices and theories to see what feels right and what works. Nothing has felt right or true in a way that allows me to be at peace and patient when things don’t work out as I expect. 

Just a couple of sentences and paragraphs within Small Arcs of Larger Circles by Nora Bateson, and Community by Peter Block caused a bunch of puzzle pieces to suddenly shift into place. I have been waking in the middle of the night, immediately thinking about what I’ve read, feeling as though my brain is on fire with connections and my skin is newly alive. It is good to have a home again within myself, good to be operating from a foundation. 

Here is that foundation. 

I’m yearning to be a servant to a community, a facilitator, and I’m yearning to learn from them, too. But because people are so vulnerable to forgetting what moves them and are so susceptible to fear and grumpiness from reading world news, or from having our feelings hurt, etc, or because I am, I thought I should write for myself a meditation to read for when I want to remind myself of what I believe so I can get grounded. 


A Meditation for Building Community

All people are valuable to a community either by contributing positive energy and ideas or by offering challenges for others to respond to.

I can learn from other people and I can teach them. As we each teach what we know, trading information around like commerce, we raise the level of consciousness and happiness together.

People are vulnerable ecosystems where I should tread lightly with opinions and judgments lest I wear a permanent path to certain conclusions. I will never know their landscape if I’m always taking the same route. I want to know people for who they are, not for what they can do for me, or for who they are only in relation to me.

If I want to connect people to each other to foster community around me, I need to know who they are in relation to each other, too. I can observe and learn what they offer each other. I can know people by watching how other people know and experience them and that is as valuable as how I experience them.

The person I feel uncomfortable around today may one day become a friend. Someone I dislike today may become someone I respect and enjoy later.

I will take the time to know people and allow for the possibility that I’m wrong in how I perceive them, or to allow them the freedom and space to change who they are. I will support people as they engage and change.

By being present with people, listening intently to understand and creating maps of them in my mind, withholding judgment and choosing confusion over the need for certainty at the expense of their emotional safety or reputation, I will create a home for them. Even expressing strong opinions that are positive can create reticence in someone else to express a contrary opinion and if I want to know what other people really think, which I do, I should be mindful of when an opinion can be oppressive even in its joy. 

I want to be people’s home and I want them to find a home within each other. It is the only way that people can feel comfortable to be the degree of vulnerable necessary to really learn from each other. If people don’t feel safe, if they don’t feel respected and able to be imperfect as they stumble along, they will just protect their egos and people can’t learn and grow from a place of ego.

People may not like or understand me right away but this can change. I may not communicate well, creating confusion around my values and intentions, but in time, more interactions will come to the surface of other people’s awareness of me, and my missteps will fade into the background. People see each other through their own filters. They pattern match with other people they have experienced. One aspect of my personality or behaviour may stand out to someone, reminding them of someone else they don’t like, and it will take time before more exposure to me gives them new information that doesn’t fit the pattern, allowing me to be a new, complicated person to them.

If I make a mistake around someone, I can try to correct it, or if that will only generate awkwardness and more mistrust, I can just let it be and trust them to give me the benefit of the doubt. Most people I surround myself with will do this because I gravitate toward people who are self-secure and don’t need to criticize or dislike me in order to like themselves. If people are merciless with me, they are not my people. I will have to accept, though, that I can generate mistrust and I need to allow time and more positive interactions to earn that trust back. I am not always in alignment with my own values and it’s okay for people to mistrust me and to revise their opinion of me. Accepting this holds myself accountable and reminds me of my responsibility to do my best to communicate my values in all of my interactions. If I stay grounded in my values, it will guide my behaviour toward consistency so that I make sense to people.

We are all enough as we are right now because this is all we can be, until we become home enough amongst each other to scaffold our understanding and development.

Nothing good comes about through force. Patience in all relationships leads to quality connections and enduring binds that can support an entire community through any hardship. And if we are to make it to the end of our lives with the least amount of pain and the most amount of happiness possible, we absolutely depend upon each other to comfort us when we’re afflicted, supplement our efforts around a goal, celebrate with us, and spread beauty and joy by sharing our talents.

I’ve been working on a framework, a foundation, for how we can build relationships, commune with one another, and cope with life. It’s a very simple framework but leads to a powerful impact on how we treat each other, resulting in more kindness, patience, mercy, and respect for others and ourselves, and also more humility within ourselves.

It starts with a foundation of just three things I think we can know.

1. We exist. (Solved by philosophy.)

To some, this might sound obvious, worthy of eye-rolling, but it’s a disputed idea that has led philosophers to near-insanity (most notably Descartes who I’m going to say solved this for us). Whether we are imagining everything we experience, as brains in the sky being controlled by aliens, or whether this is all a dream, we can’t really know. Inasmuch as we can puzzle this out, Descartes already did and I see no problems whatsoever with believing that we’re real, that our existence is real, and I do see problems with believing that nothing matters because it isn’t real. So, for the sake of being able to believe anything at all, we will start here: We exist. And…

2. We want to continue to exist. (Solved by evolutionary science, and philosophy.)

If the entire branch of theology were not enough to prove that people universally want to survive past death, evolution also proves a strong drive to survive. The urge to survive by avoiding death, overcoming death, procreating so that our genetics survive us, or parenting or seeking fame so that our stories survive us, drives about half of what we do. The other half of the time, we’re just trying to be happy.

3. We are always trying to avoid pain and seek pleasure. (Solved by math and evolutionary science.)

Where it seems like people are seeking pain, it’s only because that pain is either serving a higher order pleasure later to come (like when we lift weights to get healthy and to form an appearance we find pleasing), or it’s the case that a higher order pleasure compensates with a greater fortitude (as is the case when people experience both pain and pleasure at the same time).

Everyone, at all times, is processing a mathematical equation of pain vs. pleasure. We aren’t even aware of all of the inputs that produce the equation (see diagram below). We are impacted by fears embedded in our subconscious, things we don’t even remember that drive us. We’re impacted by subliminal messages around us we can’t remember seeing or hearing. And we all place different values on different experiences or accomplishments based on how much importance was put upon them by the people we look up to.

Additionally, pain triggers our reptilian brains which survey the environment, keeping track of dangers. Pain signifies danger because pain can mean that death looms ahead.

All of this means that we are animals constantly trying to survive… who became computers built on top of an animal foundation, now computing decisions to serve our animal selves.

Then we became supercomputers. We evolved enough to have the ability to think about our thinking. We can observe ourselves, analyze ourselves, question ourselves, and this gives us the powerful illusion that we’re deciding freely all the time when animals are actually still operating the computers.

I don’t believe we are able to choose from any or all options at any given time. We can only operate under the conditions that 1. we’re trying hard to survive and 2. we always want to experience pleasure and avoid pain. The pain and desire to avoid pain decide for us.

Even if we do have free will, it’s not to the full extent we would like to believe— on that, scientists and philosophers agree. We’ve found that we can study the brain in ways that let us see decision-making happen before the owner of the brain realizes they’ve made a decision. We’ve also found that we so desperately need to believe that we do everything for reasons within our control, that we will do things and come up with reasons later. Split-brain experiments show this dramatically.

So, what do we do with this?

I think all theories of human behaviour and what to do with it need to start here. I am calling the three points above, which I believe to be irrefutably true, The Three Immutable Laws of Humanity. These laws produce natural consequences and moral consequences.

Natural Consequences of the Three Immutable Laws of Humanity

1. We can’t “check out”. We can do drugs, we can meditate as much as possible, we can become Tibetan monks, but the pains of existence will still bear down upon us.

2. We act primally, causing pain around us so that we can avoid feeling pain.

3. We can’t be forced to do anything except through inflicting what ultimately amounts to either pain or pleasure.

4. We are predictable inasmuch as our choices and considerations are obvious or reasonably surmisable.

This leads us to the:

Moral Consequences of the Three Immutable Laws of Humanity

1. We need to do our fair share. When we fail to accept that we exist and we try to “check out”, not taking up our share of the burden of existence, we cause pain to other people who cannot cease their own existence, or ours. This is, of course, assuming we already accept that murder is wrong and suicide is, at best, a risky experiment.

2. We need to seek consent in (almost) all things. The universal principle of The Golden Rule stems not just from empathy but also practicality. If I hurt someone, there is a good chance that they will hurt me back. If I keep hurting people, I will be cast out of the tribe and I will then have a harder time surviving. We seek consent not only because we want to also be free to act only when we feel inspired to, but also because it’s the only thing that works well long term. If we force people to do anything, through shame, manipulation, or guilt, it either doesn’t work, or it produces more problems down the road. I think the only exception for when it’s okay to use force is when people are hurting other people and kind and ethical methods of getting them to stop won’t work. It’s okay to step in to protect vulnerable people. (It’s also okay sometimes, though, to let them protect themselves.)

3. It’s unfair to morally judge people for where they are at. We are so vulnerable to making dramatic, fear-based connections that start at Uncomfortable Event X, then end at We’re All Gonna Die Or At Least I’m Gonna Die. For example, our boss seems upset with us, we decide we’re probably going to be fired, we won’t be able to get a good job soon enough in this economy, we will stay with friends who will eventually kick us out when we grow so depressed that we don’t try hard enough to find work, we become homeless, we can’t get out of the cycle, and we die on the street. Something like that.

And because this road has been travelled so many times by our brains, from the time we were little, maybe without even putting language to it and just having a feeling, we know every turn, every pothole so well that we can navigate it in the dark while sleepwalking. We make these downward spiral mental journeys without even realizing it. Everyone does this to some degree, sometimes, and it’s unfair to expect people to not do this thing we all do because our limbic systems, our animal brains, are just trying to take care of us. It’s unfair to expect a person who is so captured by fear and anxiety, to act rationally. To them, they’re being totally rational with bad math, misjudging percentages of likelihood for an event.

In addition to our trying not to die every day, we’re trying to avoid any pain, seeking pleasure instead. Pleasure signifies that we’ve successfully avoided danger, we can relax, we can thrive and grow and become strong. Potent stuff. In order to get people to choose something painful over something pleasurable, they need to have the math for risks vs. rewards work out in their favour.

The equation looks something like this:

And because there are considerations we can’t know or anticipate, we’re in no logical or fair place to judge someone else’s decision making. Every time someone makes a decision, they are impacted by:

  • the people in their lives we have never met
  • their future ambitions
  • their past failures they don’t want to repeat
  • the unpredictable and upsetting ways other people have reacted to them
  • their programming from childhood
  • their microbiome in their gut that helps control their hormones and thus mood
  • the weather
  • the music around them and memories it triggers
  • a movie they watched recently that bothered them
  • the advertising they saw on the way to work and how it impacted their self-image
  • how much sleep they got

The list is probably endless.

And while we can make some educated guesses about how people will act and what they’ll want, based on things we know about The Three Immutable Laws of Humanity, and based on what we know about most people in general, or about how they’ve acted in the past, we can also be way off in our estimations based on the thousands of things we don’t know.

We need to have humility before that. We need to allow ourselves to be confused and stay confused. Because not only do we not have access to other people’s decision-making calculations, we don’t have a right to know such intimate and sometimes inexplicable information. Sometimes people don’t even know themselves why they feel the way they do, why they act the way they do, but we can be certain that some sophisticated calculations have taken place by the most sophisticated machine on earth—the brain—using the best information and conclusions on hand by that person. Their conclusions are not our conclusions. They might, for example, have a fear of spiders that we don’t have, and that’s why they don’t want to walk a certain way to a destination but they don’t even know why. But their brain, so smart, surveys an alleyway and pattern-matches it to a time that an alleyway like that had some scary spiders there.

With all of the possibilities for why people do what they do, what sense does it make to try to judge? All that matters is that people ALWAYS make rational-for-them decisions. If we could omnipotently know their brains’ calculations, we’d have been able to perfectly predict the decisions they would make. It’s just a question of math.

Understanding all of this leads to incredibly freeing, positive outcomes.

  1. We blame people less.
  2. We show mercy.
  3. We live in a state of humble confusion, but peaceably because,
  4. we accept that things cannot be any other way. It’s impossible.
  5. We take less credit for our own decisions and accomplishments because we are just as much as anyone victims or benefactors to our own experiences, and we don’t get to choose what stimuli come into our lives to affect us.

As we accept and internalize all of these understandings, we can feel upset about circumstances without specifically judging anyone in particular. Having these tools to refrain from judgment comes in handy when we want to like someone who has done something we don’t like.

Which brings us to the downside of understanding and internalizing these ideas: We realize that free will is a grand illusion.

Now, from my experience talking with tens of people about this, I would guess that most people do believe that we have free will and that they find the argument against free will to be deeply disturbing. If we don’t have free will, we are just computers operating in a deterministic world, without good or evil, and therefore we earn no rewards in Heaven. (Daniel Dennett suggests that telling people they have no free will is dangerous because one experiment showed that people who were told they have no free will were more likely to cheat. This is faulty logic because it proves only one specific scenario. There has been no experiment that has shown what happens when we tell people that they don’t have free will but they still impact people in ways that cause them pain and that causing people pain can end up hurting them too.)

There’s no grand point to what we do, unless the qualia of life, the experience, is enough. The illusion that we have free will is still so powerful that it doesn’t really change our experience. A sunset is just as beautiful either way, being loved and treasured still feels wonderful, and when we still feel pleasure and happiness when we do something great, we just maybe put less ego into it.

Experience for its own sake must be valuable enough because we take it into account when we try to save the lives of animals. My friend Lisa recently saved the life of a squirrel caught by her dog. Why did she do that? Was that single squirrel so necessary to the ecosystem? Did it have a very important meeting to attend? As my partner and I were trying to decide when to put our dog Penny “to sleep”, I made the point that it was cruel to make an animal live through old age and likely pain we can’t know, just to have more time with them, and that by putting Penny down, we weren’t circumventing her from reaching any major life goals. Penny wasn’t going to cure cancer. Penny wasn’t launching a business and didn’t need to write her will. It really didn’t matter to me whether she died on a Tuesday or a Thursday, except for the burden it was on me as her primary caregiver, and the loss of her wouldn’t hurt any less if she lived two more days, or even thirty. So, my rational decision-making calculation with all of my particular inputs and values worked out to, “I might as well hurry up in feeling this loss because it will feel exactly the same no matter what, and at least my life can be easier sooner if we put her down sooner.” It was a major point of contention where we could not see each other’s views at all. But then the decision came down to wanting Penny to be able to have as many experiences as she could until she seemed to express a lack of interest in having more experiences (the trick here is for an owner to be able to see past their own needs to recognize their pet’s feelings). Without being able to articulate how it possibly mattered at all, I, too, found myself wanting to make sure that Penny had some good final experiences. I wanted to feed her burgers and take her to the ocean. Why? Where do those experiences disappear to?

I don’t know much about physics and I’m inclined to believe that there’s no real purpose to our lives. All I know is that I exist, I want to experience as much as I can, and that I wanted our dog to experience more, too. And when we want something badly, when we feel compelled toward it, it’s a sign that it has some important value, even if we don’t understand what that is.

We can try to create meaning out of Life and Death and all the cruelties in between, as Victor Frankl suggests in Man’s Search for Meaning. Certainly, we want to. But when we do, we create a very big problem. In our selfishness to believe something that comforts us, we wind up believing something that hurts others— that there’s meaning to their pain, which is not for us to decide and is absolutely impossible to determine. It wouldn’t be so bad if we just kept this thinking to ourselves and didn’t act from it, but that’s not what happens. When we believe things like, “Everything happens for a reason,” and especially when we attribute specific meaning and value to other people’s hardships or experiences, we don’t feel so compelled toward improving conditions around them. We might even blame them or judge them from not recovering faster from their traumas.

Certainly, we can find benefits in our own lives from hard experiences. We can derive personal meaning from anything. But we can’t logically or ethically do this for others because they aren’t living their lives with the exact same ingredients with which we’re living ours.

All we can conclude is that life is here to experience and for all its hardships, and sometimes even due to them, life is beautiful.

If we can’t have, or shouldn’t have, or don’t have the crutch of religion or spiritual beliefs about an afterlife to make meaning out of life, we can at least experience pleasure and make art.

I don’t know why I exist but I do know that I can alleviate the pain of others, or try not to cause it. Because I have felt so much of it myself and so deeply to the point that death made more sense than this absurd and hard life, I long to use my life to alleviate pain. I long to bring people together for this purpose, to learn together and change the world together by changing conditions enough that the people around us feel inspired, rather than compelled, to join us in our cause. The goal is to experience more pleasure. We have enough wealth amongst us to meet everyone’s needs and everyone has a gift to share, even if it’s just learning by their example how we don’t want to operate.

We have to first believe that pleasure is enough reason to exist, that no one deserves pain and that the world is not served by anyone feeling pain, that everyone is literally doing the best they can, and that for the world to change, all it takes is enough small groups of people to believe that things can change, and to change the conditions enough that even people who don’t want to cooperate will do so.

While that’s happening and not at all appearing to work, while things are still painful, we can take our pain and set it to violin music that haunts a person. We can slather our streets with colour.

We can dance; create absurd performance art; create emotionally disturbing, amazing performance art; make drum songs; write poetry that soothes hundreds of thousands of people; or make millions of ceramic sunflower seeds. We leave our stories behind in art. We can be healed by art. We can make love and art.

If we make a foundation of these things we can know to be true, it can lead us to true communion with people that is respectful, patient, humble, open, productive, emergent, creative, peaceful, and happy.

— A lightness in the way we hold thoughts gives us room to learn, to shift perspective and to keep a rigorous humility of confusion. -Nora Bateson, Small Arcs of Larger Circles

I am wearing literal mom jeans today. Dead mom jeans. Black, straight-legged, high-waisted Levi’s jeans that she kept as her “skinny jeans” since her teens. After a recent diet and lifestyle change, I’ve lost the two sizes that engulfed me like an avalanche, and the jeans that wouldn’t have fit me two weeks previously now serendipitously fit perfectly, as I find them in an unexpected trespassing excavation.

I’m surprised to experience profoundly, because of the jeans, a closeness to her and to something primal— the earth? Identity? Motherhood? I can barely grasp how her body, once so looming and grownup to me, ever fit into the same space my body takes up now. What does this mean or symbolize about how similar we are when, because we were so different, I spent my whole life feeling like our entire family conspired in a charade to pass her off as my legitimate mother?

My aunt Patty, my partner Lynne, and I mined my mother’s shoddy low-income apartment for things meaningful to take with us. Full of tenderness, Patty feared I would leave something behind I would regret. She must have held up about thirty items she thought I should want.

“You should take her clothes and make a quilt.”

I shivered. Making a quilt of clothes never intended as a coordinated ensemble, a quilt of clothes I’d never seen my mother wear, symbolized a kind of desperation and mawkishness that made me instantly ill. It’s a thing I would do with my babies’ clothes if they died…. I would wrap myself in the quilt and scream at the world until my eyes fell out and my throat was shredded into something resembling pulled pork. I would willingly let grief over the loss of my babies make me insane. I’d dive straight down and deep into the darkest, angriest grief humanly possible and the quilt of their baby clothes would be the magic carpet ride that would transport me there. But I bought those clothes, I washed those clothes, I held their marshmallow bodies in them and leaked milk onto them and scrubbed mustard-poop off of these now-sacred cotton garments.

I don’t remember seeing my mother wear these mere things. I might as well be making a quilt of the bath mat she stepped on and the underwear she bought last week, treat her like a dead celebrity. These were not the boots she wore until they were ripped at the seams and held together with glue while she bought me new clothes from BiWay and Woolworths with Mother’s Allowance cheques. These were not the capes she wore, striving to look exotic with her lush, long black curly hair. This was just some random Sears shit that held no power.

And the jewellery, just jewellery. I rejected everything of value, really—the collectible mini ceramics, the Limoges porcelain, the television, the feather mattress—and greedily snatched up everything priceless:

-letters from Richard Simmons to her, including one where he mourns the recent loss of his dog;
-a 28-year-old dried rose wrapped in cling wrap with a note that reads, “The first rose Tasha ever gave me”;
-a wooden ruler she took to college with her name and her self-given nickname doodled all over it, along with my name doodled in my own writing when I used it in grade six;
-a cross-stitched bookmark I made for her when I was 12, in a decorative font spelling her name, to which she said, “I don’t really like cross-stitch”;
-her poetry, including ones published by newspapers;
-a recording of her on The Dini Petty Show; and
-a handwritten note of my children’s names, their birth dates, and “ages they’ll be this year on their birth dates,” then the numbers listed.

So many motley treasures I gathered like totems meaningless to anyone else. Even her lovers, even her siblings and mother, would not likely want her wooden ruler. They didn’t watch her use it to carefully underline twice with red ink all the titles of her essays on AIDS or euthanasia for her Sociology class. That ruler symbolizes Joanne venturing off alone with child to a city three hours from home to do something no one in our family ever did before. I would come home from school alone to make myself lunch, perfectly happy because my mom was bettering herself at school and I was proud; never once did I resent her for not being there.

I took from her apartment her jeans, two pairs. The black Levis and some mottled light blue jeans with a yellow and red patch of a rotund lady in a red flapper-style dress and the words, “THE DIRTY OLD LADIES CLUB”, right on the rear of the jeans where pockets would normally be. They bring me joy.

I’m happy to find anything of hers that I like and would want to wear since I quickly grew up to hate everything she liked. Her style reflected her socioeconomic class, which offered and cultivated limitations, scarcity, fear, longing, envy, boredom, and dullness. Anything aesthetic reminding me of my childhood brought with it feelings of depression, deprivation, and therefore revulsion.

This is how I became a snob.

I have been 100% comfortable being a snob, even while aware of my snobbishness and aware that it’s not considered a virtue. People have disliked me for being a snob and my nonplussed response has been as though they disliked me for having ears: what can I possibly do about it? At a certain point, we must own our flaws and I was perfectly comfortable owning being a design, fashion, and music snob (the latter essentially boiling down to loathing country and heavy metal).

At my mom’s Celebration of Life gathering, I would re-acquaint myself with people I had not seen for 17-25 or more years. On the red-eye flight to the hospital to take my mom off of life support, I began writing the eulogy. I was angry. I imagined myself at a pulpit in a church, where I’ve stood to preach more times than I can count, wielding a sword of truth, digging into any person who had ever let my mother down, knowing full well they may consider me to be the one who had let her down most. She was only 57. She was coming for a visit in a month. She never got to meet her second grandchild. She deserved some easy happiness. She embraced a victim mindset most of her life, in part because she didn’t have enough support or wholehearted encouragement. I mostly wanted to rail against my grandfather but he’s dead, so instead, I planned to spread responsibility throughout the crowd. I didn’t care, in this scenario in my head, about being despised or blamed in turn. I got used to feeling like I had no family after I transformed myself into someone culturally and spiritually drastically different— a Mormon. For fourteen years the Mormon church became my family and then nurtured within me a sense of entitlement for not having the “perfect” family a Mormon God intended for me to have, which added to my need to push them away.

But everyone was there, at the hospital, my two aunts at my mother’s side all night long, my granny and others sleeping only briefly. There were no arguments, as I expected, no family drama. I sensed some mistrust toward me but more openness and kindness. Amidst their own grief, I could feel their empathy toward me and deference toward the relationship of a mother and her only child. Then my dear, tiny grandmother, just 4’7″ and still so sharp, who had already buried her husband and two of her children in the past few years, had to leave the room. She has survived twelve years of dialysis and a near-death last year. And here her oldest daughter— the one who wrote her poetry, the one who taught the other children to clean and accompanied her little sister to the bathroom every night to protect her from the dark, the one who left her own college courses to travel home to help out in the family restaurant, the one who never married but always wanted to— lay hooked to machines, her stomach bloated and cheeks sunken in, and we were about to let her die. If I could withstand this and Granny could not, her grief must have been greater than mine. Of course it was; this was her baby. At that moment, I knew I was unworthy, irreparably undone, and would not be able to rebuild the stony façade around my heart.

I revised my eulogy, using only the best stories, the best reframing, to soothe my mother’s friends and family and to rewrite any unfavourable narratives. Though I don’t like hugs, I found myself comfortably hugging people I didn’t even know. I explained to people what happened, how prednisone prescribed for Lupus likely thinned the lining of her intestine, and her intestine got twisted and died. I stuffed away most of my own feelings and thoughts and put a smile on my face lest anyone worry about me. My central focus became caretaking: making sure people knew I remembered them, making them feel valued, thanking them.

As that day wore on, my anxiety and apprehension about what this reunion would be seemed baseless. No one was making it easy for me to hate them, or blame them. No one, that I know of, was making me atone for my absence or mocking me for my Mormonism or divorce. Lynne immediately felt comfortable and no one even made us feel conspicuously gay, as people can do non-verbally even without trying.

Maybe it’s just that death humbles people, tires them out, consolidates them with priorities straightened.

Or maybe age has mellowed my family out.

Or maybe it’s that I’m an adult now, able to put adult emotions into context and offer up more compassion and tolerance than when I was an ultra-sensitive, observant child overwhelmed by people arguing around me. Maybe I knew these adults, when they were younger then than I am now, and during their life’s most stressful moments of parenting and making ends meet and managing young relationships. My mother had me far too young and so we all grew up, in a sense, together.

Those moments of tension and conflict scared and traumatized me until they were all I remembered. But reunited with my family I re-remembered how much my family likes to laugh. How tough they are, letting jibes roll off their backs. How often they drop everything to help each other, say “I love you,” and how they forgive and forgive again.

Maybe any of these reasons are why I was surprised to see things differently, or maybe it’s just that I was an asshole and am now simply less of an asshole. I’m okay with that being true. Admitting that is an easy price to pay to belong again to people. People who were there when I had to get my neck cut open and my jugular vein stitched together to save my life. People who potty-trained me. People who taught me how to eat artichokes, how to cut lettuce quickly, how to make strawberry jam without pectin. People who made all the difference in my life, really, by getting me out of my mom’s home sometimes to experience other things. People who know me as ‘Tasha. People who didn’t want me to marry a Mormon man twice my age but who didn’t know how to intervene. People who connect with each other in a way that is real, who aren’t afraid to talk about hard things and real feelings. My people aren’t just a casual family knit together by almost the coincidence of genetics; they are a tribe, a club, a gang. People who somehow, after all this time, still want to take care of me and my partner and our family, who won’t even let me be equal and share costs presumably because I am still the child. It’s been so long since I’ve been taken care of like that.

Back home, two weeks after I got the impossible, nonsensical phone call that my mother would likely die before I could travel across the country to say goodbye, Lynne and I drove to get sushi.

“I think I don’t want to be a snob anymore.”

She laughs. “Okay.”

“I have totally been comfortable being a snob. I think it’s been self-protective. Hold on, let me look up something I texted to Shannon that explained it well…. ‘I think I treasure being a snob as a protective lens that keeps me away from people whose pain is too hard to witness.'”

“And from your own pain,” she says.

I have known for years that snobbery makes no logical sense, and can be a form of classism, racism, homophobia, etc. But I couldn’t change my emotional response. After divorcing myself from most connections to my origins, besides my mother, no one remained in my life different enough from me to require me to exercise the kind of humility that is antithetical to snobbery. Some of my family are very different from me.

What matters, of course, are the ways we’re the same and I find myself so excited about these similarities that it’s like finding a time capsule I buried beneath a childhood treehouse. We swam at “The New Beach” at some point, and we had some of the same teachers, and all but one of us believes the earth is round. I’m even considering dying my hair back to its natural dark brown colour just so I can look more like my family. I would ask my one cousin to leave her hair curly just so our next photo together will be us three women with curly dark hair, as nearly everyone in the family has.

I would bring my mother back if I could. I would bring her to Victoria as planned and take her whale watching. We would play What Do You Meme? with the kids and laugh as many nights as we could. I would take her to a functional medicine doctor and help her with an anti-inflammatory diet. I’d play her music I think she’d like and all the music she played when I was a kid that I’m starting to enjoy again: Dolly Parton, Linda Ronstadt, Randy Travis. I would ask her, “Mom, if something ever happens where you’re suddenly on life support and sedated for pain, would you want us to just silently let you go so that you hopefully never knew you were dying; or would you want us to wake you, even though you’d be in severe pain, so that you had a chance to say goodbye and impart any information?” It’s still hard to believe that I can’t ever ask her this and avoid making this cruel, impossible decision.

But with her dying, I can easily lay some things to rest. I don’t know why it makes it easier to forgive, but it does. You can’t be mad at someone who’s dead because what’s the most they can suffer to make restitution? Can they die for you? Done. I can’t be triggered by her because she’s gone. So, all that is left is forgiveness. It’s heartbreaking, though, because I was getting there on my own. I was ready to go back for a visit without anyone dying. I don’t think I needed her to die to come to peace with my past and now she doesn’t get to see that.

Snobbery is a shade of hate, and hate is either hurt or fear. I was leaving Discovery Coffee to walk home when I passed some flowers and I suddenly ached with the realization that I want to be the kind of person who, if I caught someone stealing flowers from my yard, would cut more flowers for them to have a prettier bouquet. Because we’re all going to die and none of these entitlements, resentments, fears and hatreds matter. Love, of course, is all that matters. It’s one thing to know it intellectually; it’s quite another to be drop-kicked, beaten and stabbed with that information.

Having never lost anyone before to death, I don’t know how this goes. Do we permanently learn and grow or do we just go through phases and get sucked back into the trappings of daily life after a period of introspection wears off? How do we ground ourselves in our own philosophies and spiritual growth when all around us people are flailing and gnashing about in fear and trauma, telling us how to feel and sucking us back into their narratives?

When someone dies, I think there are always regrets about what we didn’t say or do. I had intended to send for Mother’s Day a CD of Brandi Carlile’s most recent album, By the Way, I Forgive You. My mom loved country music and rock, and Brandi’s music is a blend of them both. I was excited to find new music I thought we both would like almost equally, but I never sent it on time.

With opening notes reminiscent of Johnny Cash, her song “Harder to Forgive goes,

I love the songs I hated when I was young
Because they take me back where I come from.


Sometimes I pretend we never met
Because it’s harder to forgive than to forget
Sometimes it’s harder to forgive.

Yes, my life has seen some wasted time
I have suffered for the peace inside my mind
And some things are better left unsaid
While some things workout different while they’re in your head.


I believe that all souls are born kind
And that all love lost comes back in time.

On my second favourite album of hers, Bear Creek, in a lovely little song about her brother, with whom she had an estrangement (according to the internet), she sings,

Maybe we hurt who we love the most,
Maybe it’s all we can stand.
Maybe we walk through the world as ghosts,
Break my own heart before you can.

Here’s to you and me
And in between
We draw a line
But we can’t see where it’s bent,
We scratch our heads,
And rage against
The heart’s content.

Maybe we know how the story ends.
Maybe it’s not even about us.
We both retreat to opposing sands
And the love lives on without us.
One thing I know for sure is
Love will find a way
Love will find a way.

Stalk a normal amount