I’ve been exposed to so many apocalyptic portrayals of the future that I have suffered from a lack of desire for what is coming. Instead, I find myself with my head down anticipating the worst. I feel ashamed of being human because I live a kind of downer existence that eats away any joy I might experience. I feel so sorry for the children. The lack of any positive portrayal of the future bugs me so much that I feel something collapse inside me, and worst of all, I then tend to go along with the most pedestrian pessimism. This kind of thing promotes a dust to dust fatalism that breaks my heart.
The onslaught of this terrible lack of imagination is like ageism, a fatalism that is infectious, inaccurate, and toxic. Life is reduced. I don’t like it. I don’t support it, and don’t want to live in the neighborhood where it is the predominant attitude. So, in addition to unknowing — the truth of our ever-uncertain existence —I want to remind us that there is as much possibility of an outbreak of kindness as violence.
There is no real way of predicting the path of the human heart. It is true, the challenges of our practices of neglect will come. Neither is there a way out of our dilemma that involves not going through it. But I know, from the hardships of my losses, that an unexpected consciousness can be stirred up. Emotional intelligence could as easily arise, as some sort of regression. I know experientially — the knowledge is engraved on my bones — that Life is capable of turning the most egregious situation into evolution.
It’s way past time to be foolish (or is it wise), and start believing that the future really is unpredictable. Who would have guessed that social distancing would bring us together as much as it has? Perhaps going down is leading to a greater emergence than we have ever known. Who knows, leftovers may be better. Expectancy, the willingness to have surprise be delivered, is more life-giving than cynical protection.
A blaze of glory is as likely as any other kind of fire. It took some kind of genius for us to even be in this incredible situation. Our imaginations were never up to that task. What makes us think that we can imagine what will become of that miracle? The mystery of our unlikely existence ought to give us pause.
I have found a certain refuge in not knowing. The unknown is so much bigger than what we know (or think we know). It is spacious, and fragrant with possibility. I wouldn’t put surprise past it. I will likely wear the face of the stupefied, freshly humbled, sheepishly awed, and the newly satisfied. Progression might look like regression coming.
The Universe is already more glorious than anything I could imagine. So, I suspect, will be the process of discovery of what it cooks up for me, and my kind.
