Random thoughts on…whatever-this-is-that-we’re-living-through

…Because just what is happening to us right now? In so many ways, it’s not possible to make sense of it because we don’t really know what it is. We can all put the situation into words: “a public health crisis on a global scale, demanding a global response” – but those words hardly capture any sense of magnitude, of potential, of meaning. 

Whatever tools reasoning creatures need in order to make meaning, are, like toilet paper and N95 masks, simply not in stock.

For starters – as of week three of the 2020 quarantine, there is too much that experts don’t yet know about Coronavirus, and what they do know has to compete for attention with all manner of other “information” – that is, out-of-date news, spurious opinion, fears, folk remedies, propagandistic manipulation, political posturing. Every 12 hours we get some new bulletin that changes, or contradicts, everything we thought we knew yesterday: how, or if, we can work; how we can move and how far; who we can see and at what distance; whether it’s worth the risk to go to the grocery store for fresh fruit (yes); whether we should be dunking our lettuce in soapy water (no); whether we should wear masks (probably); whether we should burn all our clothes and wash the walls with vinegar (maybe, but wait – that advice was for plague and scarlet fever – never mind); how we know if we’ve had it (was that bad cold in January actually it?); how we know if we’re getting it; what to do if we’ve got it; whether we can get it again. 


The one thing we’ve all gotten used to is knowing what the grammatical antecedent of “it” is.

Experts don’t know enough. And not only do the rest of us know just about nothing; more importantly, we don’t even know how to know – or how to know when we don’t know – because the individual human brain isn’t set up to process the ramifications of a global pandemic. 


I  mean, how do I grasp, really get, what today’s numbers mean

This many cases here, that many cases 6000 kilometers away, 200,000 projected deaths, so many trillions lost in the economy…distances, stock valuations, risk probabilities, the costs of providing care to people, or bailouts to corporations….

The obsession with numbers is understandable: we want facts right now, we want concrete data. We want certainty. But is that what the numbers are doing, is “certainty” what those numbers mean? It seems like a lot of the numbers are really just a thin shell, a crust of quantification over a purulent mess of unwholesome qualification, of prejudicial assessment of worth: the worth of grocery store workers, or grandparents, or prisoners, versus the long-term performance of investment portfolios and polling numbers for upcoming elections. How prepared are any of us to perform these calculations of value? of power? 

Something we know (or should know, or have no moral excuse not to know) is that reason, logic, and order are what will save us. And yet – while evidence-based protocols will save lives, mitigate harm – such measures don’t help me understand.

Sorry, bioethicists and economists – you don’t have much to tell me that helps right now. The scale of this, of it, is a matter of being able to grasp how my individual needs (stupid, trivial, all-consuming) compare with the needs of the whole teeming planet, and all the statistical modeling and thought-experiments we’ve studied in safe classrooms, bland offices, and rarefied libraries (all shut now, everywhere), are insufficient to capture the simultaneous enormity and particularity of what’s happening. 

We might think we know. 

We have no idea. 

— I mean, really no idea, insofar as any idea you have right now is a product of how we thought last month, last week, yesterday. Neither you, nor I, have the ideas to process today, let alone what’s around the corner. 

I put my faith in art to do the meaning-making work that mere reason just can not manage right now. 

You can try to tell a story when you’re in it, because you want there to be a story, that is, something with a beginning, middle, and end – a shape – a meaning…You can try to tell that story, but you might not get any further than the realization that whatever-this-is-that-we’re-living-through-today refuses narrative, resists shape, denies meaning.

This is what we call a chaos narrative.

We don’t understand it well enough to write it yet —

(though we’ll try; we can’t help it).

In the midst of it, all we can do is live it. 

That means – if there is meaning – enduring the chaos, and the inconvenience, upheaval, and suffering it brings. 

And that means – if there is meaning – that living the chaos demands living – being alive to all that we have, allowing – reveling in, wallowing in –  feeling, perception, connection. 

This is where the art comes in.

Let reason and order emerge when they can, where they must. We need to think, of course – but as we’re learning, as one day blends into the next, trying to do the thinking that imposes order (over what? we know little and control less) – might not get us any farther than the distance from the bedroom to the kitchen and back again. To travel any farther distance than that, now, depends less on linear narrative, careful plotting, analysis, and purposeful, targeted inquiry, and more on (about all that most of us can muster) exploration, wandering, daydreaming, imagining what ifwhat else.

This is the thinking, the feeling, that will ignite poetry, art, music.

This is the thinking, the feeling, that will fuel manifestos, that will set movements alight. 

Inhabiting the chaos narrative – that is, the story that defies storytelling – is uncomfortable at best. But the discomfort – the upheaval, the destruction – is also the enemy of complacency, of obedience, forcing us to move, react, create. 

Complacency doesn’t teach us much. 

But, whether we like it or not, we have much to learn from chaos. 

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On Clean Breaks

I feel rather as though I ended a long-term relationship, but then had to spend the last month living in a shared apartment: I hated to bring to an end something that I loved, but having taken that fateful step, it became uncomfortable to stay, and I was itching to move out, to move on.

For those who have been avidly following my exploits of boycotting, opining, and soap-boxing, the update is that my membership at Equinox is up, and after a careful search, I’ve joined a new gym where, as far as I can discern, the fees I pay for membership will NOT end up funding campaigns for politicians dedicated to harming children, women, immigrants, people of color, everyone in the LGBTQI rainbow, animals, and pretty much the whole planet. 

I gave my notice to quit Equinox 45 days ago. I should have quit on the spot; I should have caused a scene; I should have, at the very least, flounced out with dramatic finality. But instead I quietly and awkwardly rode out the time remaining on my account, until it just quietly and anti-climactically expired. There was, contractually, no way I could avoid paying the last 45 days’ worth of dues without a medical excuse, or without some kind of highly improper behavior. I was too healthy for the first option; and while it’s not AS brave as, say, parading naked across the weight room floor, which is what I really wish I had done as a grand parting gesture but was too timid to attempt – I guess it’s a kind of bravery to act according to my values and leave a place that has anchored my existence for the last 12 years. You can’t change the world if you’re not willing to change your own habits, however gradually, right?

So after over a month of lurking around Equinox with growing unease and reluctance, feeling more and more like I don’t belong there, I’m finally out. 

Not for nothing – 12 years, and a few thousand dollars in fees later, the company made no move to stop me (and I suppose my boycott didn’t do a damn thing to change how, and with whom, they do business either). It’s a sad breakup when you finally get the courage to leave, only to find out that you won’t even be missed.

Right. We carry on.

I had thought of joining the locally-owned gym in my neighborhood.  At about 1/4 of what I was paying at Equinox, this one is what you’d call no-frills: lots of exposed brick and steel beams; photos of body builders on the entry walls; clanking, thumping, and grunting as weights are lifted, dropped, racked;  a subtle-but-unmistakable fragrance of sweat and under-washed workout clothes. No more fancy apps to book an array of classes at the vanguard of fitness innovation, manage workout schedules, and coach (indoctrinate) us to meditate our way to our optimal self; no more fancy shampoo on tap in the fancy showers; no more team of “Maintain” workers trained to politely ignore their own exploitation while they pick up after the optimized, privileged, hoards…These were sacrifices in comfort that I felt I was ready to make in the combined pursuit of fitness and justice.

Except this gym doesn’t have fluffy towels, a steam room, or pilates classes, which items, apparently, are vital equipment for my life as an activist. 

I bet Greta Thunberg didn’t demand a steam room as part of her skolstrejk för klimatet and consequent global protest movement, you might mutter, pointedly. 

Fine. I’ve become a little spoiled. Plus I have weak lungs and get a lot of winter colds, and the steam room really helps. Plus, Greta is Swedish and probably enjoys a good sauna herself.

The next obvious choice was the women’s gym: not as posh or expensive as Equinox, but positively swanky by comparison to the local lifters’ gym. And: not only do they have fluffy towels and a steam room, they have a whirlpool…and yoga with baby goats!?!? I have no idea how they get goats into an urban yoga studio – but the prospect of capering with caprine kids, then (showering, because: goats??) soaking away a bit of eco-anxiety in a hot tub…Sign me up! 

Am I losing sight of my activist goals here, distracted by the comforts of the pampered bourgeoisie? Unlike Greta, I’m not 17, and protesting is hard on the joints. Plus: baby goats! Plus: some of the predictions about our collective future are pretty dire, and there’s a case to be made that enjoying a bit of comfort now is forgivable in the short term if it helps us keep up the struggle. Plus: I think every day about living off the grid in a yurt as a realistic form of protest and/or survival, in which case I’ll be grateful that all that pilates gave me good core strength.

Setting aside the problematic specter of complicit capitalist wallowing, the women’s gym poses an additional challenge to my feminism. I’ve long believed that creating separate parallel spaces for women – gyms, ride-sharing services, co-working spaces – is NOT the way to achieve equality. Women-only spaces are meant to create safety, refuge from a misogynistic world where we have to deal with harassment, aggressions both micro and egregious, and real threats to our well-being. There are places in the world where mixing with men means to risk being assaulted, maybe even killed. But an important part of the struggle for women’s social and political rights has been to demand access to public spaces – to be able to go into a bar without a chaperone or a date, to be able to ride the bus or walk through a city unmolested to run errands or do work, to participate in sports and fitness – all of those “privileges” of freedom of movement have been very hard-won in some cultures, and still to be achieved in many more. Creating women’s-only spaces when we have the legal right to be wherever we like has always felt, to me, like segregation, like self-imposed purdah, like surrender. When we withdraw from some piece of the world, we give the misogynists what they want. 

So I had dismissed the idea of the women’s gym as soon as it occurred to me – I’ve taken it as a point of feminist pride that for the last several years, I’ve been out there on the weight lifting floor with bros larger and younger than me, and I have Claimed. My. Space. 


The day after the 2016 election, I was, like so many of us, stunned, horrified, and – I hate to admit it – frightened. I was also very, very angry. That election had been determined by people who, I realized, hate me. They hate the idea of me: my education, my sexuality, my politics, my gender. I could feel that hatred in the cultural air around me. They hate me. And in this new climate of bigotry and animosity, I knew that “they” were – not exclusively, but overwhelmingly –  men.

In late 2016, as I walked to work, in a busy area in a crowded city, I would pass a man and wonder: “do you hate me? are you one of the ones who voted in hopes of hurting people like me?” A few of my male colleagues made the rounds at the office, checking in on us, which was nice, and well-intentioned, I suppose (because #notallmen…); but I found their reassurances more irritating than comforting. It’s easy for men to say, everything’s going to be all right, because it is more likely to be all right (in the way that it has always been more likely to be all right) when you’re a man – a straight, white man in particular.  

Since then, some of that initial fear has eased up (or has just been diverted into concern for the planet…quick check: yep, still plenty of fear there). But the initial shock left an impression. I had taken a lot for granted, for example, that my equality is protected by law wherever I go, that I have autonomy over my body, that I have a government that represents me, that that government recognizes my humanity, that it’s reasonable to expect that I live in a safe and orderly country…I don’t take those things for granted now. 

A lot has changed in just a few years. 

So I was trying to make the mundane (not mundane) decision about a new gym, as a consequence of boycotting my old gym (because: the straight white man who runs the company is an apologist for the straight white man who invests in the company and then uses the profits to fund the political ambitions of straight white men who are also racist fascists). I walked past the women’s gym, advertising “a community of women” and thought reflexively, if only my feminist principles didn’t prevent me from embracing separatism and segregation. 

Then I thought: hang on.

I’ve had it up to here with straight white men, with bros of any age, reassuring me that things will be all right, doing nothing to help, turning a blind eye to nearly-incomprehensible violence in the world, yelling at one another about baseball rather than the fact that the planet is on fire.

Yes, I know. You don’t have to be a man to be a horrible person. Again: #notallmen. We can all point to this male friend or that male lover who isn’t so bad. I hear good things about Bill Gates these days. But it was a teenage girl who got millions of people around the world out into the streets to protest against the climate emergency; it’s teenage girls who have been looking white men straight in the eye while pointing out that they made this mess, and they’re failing all of us by refusing to deal with it. Human rights, the environment, social justice, political justice – when you think of who has the financial and political power to perpetuate all this violence, if men aren’t the ones making it happen, it’s men who are making excuses for why they’re allowing it to continue. 

Why on earth would I also want to work out beside them?

Decision made.

Never mind my choice of gym: a yurt in Herland is looking pretty good these days. But in the meantime, working on my strength and endurance amongst a community of women, sounds very appealing indeed.

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On Untimely Loss

For Kimberly.

I needed a poem about loss. 

Or rather, I needed a poem about death—your death, the loss of you, my loss. 

And while I know that death and loss must be right up there with love as a subject for poetry, I’m realizing that I don’t know much about any of it, about loss in particular—and consequently need the help of art to say something meaningful to you, though perhaps now it can only be about you, since we ran out of time, suddenly, and you’re gone. 

None of the poems about loss that I know best seemed to say quite the right thing. Or rather, they said exactly the right thing, but I wasn’t sure that people would understand what I meant. 

Which people? Well, not you, I suppose. Rather, in your absence, I was thinking mostly of your family, your friends, our friends, who might read a poem or two if I posted them on Facebook, as we do now, to perform our mourning in public. Would you approve of my choices? You aren’t here to read them now, and I never shared them with you in life, because who could ever have imagined that we’d need poems about death? —until we did, and now it’s too late. 

You weren’t supposed to go, not now, not for a long time, so all of us were taken by surprise. We—I, we, you—were in the middle of things begun with blithe cluelessness of impending finality. While you were on the way from being there to not being there, it was a beautiful summer day, and I was here, trekking through moss gardens, over rocks and roots, to a summit, where, exhausted and accomplished, I was grateful for sky, mountains, little birds, and a body that, however grudgingly, had brought me so far.  What were you doing? what were your plans, in the moment before your body betrayed you, and took you… farther, too far, farthest?

In the middle of things, you died. In the middle of things, I learned that you were dying, and thought the simultaneity strange, impossible. Present, absent; joy, sadness; everything, nothing.

“[T]he sun shone/As it had to….”

Even as you stopped, we carried on. Unfathomable, “how everything turns away/Quite leisurely from the disaster.”

That’s WH Auden’s “Musee Des Beaux Arts,” which is one of the poems that I thought of, as you were dying:

About suffering they were never wrong,

The old Masters: how well they understood

Its human position: how it takes place

While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along…

Auden is responding to Breughel’s depiction of the fall of Icarus, where the boy, giddy with the power of flight, dares to climb too close to the sun, too close to the divine; as punishment for his temerity, his waxen wings melt, and he plunges to his death. It’s an adventure story combined with a cautionary moral, a warning about vanity told on a mythic scale. But what Auden loves is how Breughel deliberately shifts the focus from foolish mythical boys and cruel gods, to the ordinary people of his world whose lives are heroic and glorious in their ordinariness, people like you and me, who try to love and do good in the sphere we’ve been given, and who have to carry on in the midst of tragedy, partly because we don’t have a choice, and partly because it’s through being gratefully-immersed in the pain and joys of this world that we give meaning to one another’s lives.

And deaths. 


I think you’d like Auden’s poem, including the bit where, “in a corner, some untidy spot/…the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse/Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.” I think you’d understand why I’ve had the poem on my mind since I first heard you were going to die. I think that at the idea of the horses scratching, you’d laugh and snort and revel in the irreverence, and the deliberate incongruity with the grand tragedy taking place in the background.  

I think all of those things about what you’d like, but I really don’t know. I suppose we hadn’t known one another all that well in a very long time. I only heard about your death third-hand, from a mutual friend, who had in turn heard it from your best friend. I had a moment of confusion: wait, I’m your best friend, I thought. Wait: you and I were best friends once, growing apart very quickly after high school. I had imagined, then, that you disapproved of me, somehow. Years later, you said that you had thought that I couldn’t be bothered with you, that my life was moving too fast while yours wasn’t. We had both felt left behind by the other. A stupid misunderstanding. We were both grateful to have had the chance to reconnect. The friendship was still there, strong as ever. We kept promising to call more, to visit more, but you were busy and I was busy, and we didn’t, and we thought we had more time. And we didn’t. 


When I found out that you had died, part of my sadness was that I didn’t feel more sad, because perhaps we’d already lost too much of one another too long ago. 

Which is why I think you’d like this one, “One Art,” by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master…

…I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident

the art of losing’s not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

She’s trying to be wry and witty to downplay how much pain she’s in, something you and I are (were?) good at, I think, though perhaps I know my ideas about you better than I knew you, yourself. That’s why I like the poem, because it’s all about losing things through carelessness—only, by things, Bishop means connections, ties, to the people, who we like to think are too precious to misplace, neglect, and forget about in the same heedless way that we forget our keys or our pens—making it all the more shameful, deserving of chastisement, when we discover what we have lost. That we have done the losing.

And, see, this is why I figured that the people I don’t know (in the life of yours that I didn’t know) wouldn’t appreciate this particular poem, because it’s not about the loss of you, not really, it’s more about how I feel about the loss of you, about my loss, about me. I’m at a loss for words, because I didn’t know you, because I misplaced you, and (“write it”) I shouldn’t have. I guess it could be fair to accuse you of the same thing, once, of having misplaced me—but not now, because you’re not here to defend yourself, and it’s unseemly to make recriminations about someone who’s passed away. Passed. Past. 

You see what I mean: there must be thousands of poems about loss, and yet I hardly know any, because what do I know about loss? what do I know about the loss of you? I know absence; I know a lot of words that do nothing to fill it. Did those two poems say what I needed to? Because that’s the point, right?—that a good poem can speak better, mean more, than clumsy, regular words, especially the words we never actually utter, because we’re hurt, or afraid, or because we’re caught up in living as best as we can and we just figure we’ll have a chance to say the important words sooner, or later, and we don’t know how entirely wrong we are. 



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On Knowing When to Commit

I’m giving my notice today: if Equinox doesn’t #committosomething and end its ties with Stephen Ross, and by extension the Trump government, my 12 years as an Equinox member will come to an end. Here’s why:

The real shock of the ongoing Equinox scandal is that we are all so shocked. We had collectively no idea that our super-corporate, super-slick, super-expensive gym could ever have any kind of financial or ethical ties to right-wing politics. How, we wondered, could a beloved big business like ours…be a lot like any other big business which survives and profits through investment and development orchestrated by the kinds of people good at such things? —And by “such things” we have to understand that we’re talking about the ruthless, mercenary, prioritization of making money over such wasteful pastimes as social justice.

Shocking indeed.

So Equinox is a company partially owned by a bigger company, The Related Companies, the board of which is chaired by a Trump supporter, Stephen Ross, who is responsible for raising tons of money for Trump and politicians like him who endorse policies of racist, misogynist, violent hate, not to mention every kind of abuse of human rights and of the planet itself.

Members didn’t know, nor did instructors, trainers, maintenance workers, or managers. Except now we do know.

Now what?

Equinox leadership has been scrambling for damage control, assuring members in recent days that our gym’s mission remains the same, to promote both health and community, to celebrate diversity; they insisted that our gym is aligned, financially and ideologically, with values of inclusivity, and positivity. “No company profits are used to fund politicians,” they insisted, in an astoundingly clueless press release issued last week, especially not through the channel of a “passive investor” like Ross.

Members everywhere aren’t buying it. Ross is the CEO of The Related Companies, which in turn is a minority investor in Equinox, so while the latter might have a fair amount of autonomy in terms of its brand and stated values, the former is hardly “passive.” If no company profits—that is, profits from the thousands of dollars each of us pays in fees every year—are making it to Ross, and thus to a political regime inimical to most of its members, Equinox has been slow to offer proof. In response, social media have lit up with threats to quit, to boycott, to vote with our feet and our wallets.

This should be an easy decision for me, really: I’ve already got a lengthy boycott list, and it should be no trouble for me to take my business elsewhere in this case.

So why am I dragging my feet? Why are you? Why does deciding what to do with your gym membership suddenly matter so much? or does it?

I joined my local EQ when it was still under construction in 2007. Moping around the city in the winter after my marriage disintegrated, I was ready to indulge myself a little, upgrade from my functional but unlovely urban gym, distract myself by working out, maybe meet some like-minded people, though I was skeptical of the latter: I’d already been a gym-rat for long years of my life, and had been consistently dismayed by how closed off and unwelcoming my fellow exercisers tended to be. But the sales manager assured me that this new gym, Equinox, would be a family, a community, and in an unfriendly Boston February 12 years ago, that sold me.

And it wasn’t an empty promise. Somehow, the people at that branch of a big chain really were more sociable, more open. Members talked to one another. After being in the same classes with a couple of women, we were brave enough to start chatting on the way to the locker room. Another woman who we’d seen regularly joined in. Soon we were going for drinks and hotdogs together; we invited the instructor of our dance classes; he invited other members—the next thing we knew, we could count on seeing friends whenever we went to the gym.

I hated EQ’s advertising campaigns for a variety of reasons, but I couldn’t deny that when they said “it’s not fitness, it’s life”…increasingly, it was. Sunday mornings, when other people would go to church, we were all at the gym together, taking a kind of communion in spin class, of all things, with our erstwhile drag-queen instructor in the pulpit of what I called Our Lady of Perpetual Vanity; instead of tea and cookies in the church basement, we went for mimosas over brunch. Fit and fun, so urban, so work-hard-play-hard. We loved it. We had accomplished a rare thing, creating connectedness in what can be a pretty lonely city.

In recent years, our #fitfam has become a bit frayed around the edges. Beloved instructors have been promoted into management, and we don’t see them as often. Some of us had to move away for work; others got married and moved to the suburbs; injuries sideline all of us with regularity. We’re getting older. Things change.

But worst of all, the world has changed around us. Fear and violence are pressing in on all sides, it seems. How wonderful it would be if our gym, our community, could be a refuge. For as long as I’ve been there, we’ve all believed that it has been. And now it turns out that may not be true —the threats are everywhere, after all.

If you’re not a fitness person, you might not see the big deal here. If your principles matter, take a stand, you might suggest. It’s easy. A gym’s a gym, right? You don’t like how it’s run, find another gym.

But we have history, me and my gym. There are still familiar, beloved faces there, and good memories. Friends. My former marriage, my job, my gym: in that order, those have been the longest commitments of my adult life.

So I’m dithering over this choice, debating with others about what it might mean to cancel our memberships, because it actually will mean a lot. For one thing, it will hurt me. More importantly, if I and other long-term members quit, we could hurt our friends. If this boycott really works, beloved instructors, managers, trainers, and maintenance people could lose their jobs.


—Many of us have been drawn to Equinox because of its stated commitment to LGBTQ rights, and yet some of the profits from our labor and fees go to someone who hates us. Many of the women who clean up after us are immigrants, and there’s a good chance that if they’re not illegal, they know others who are…and some of the profits from their labor go to a man who hates those women; or if he doesn’t hate them, he’s still willing to pass those profits on to his friends who definitely do”, friends who would sanction deporting those women, and putting their children in camps. While I and people I care about attempt to be healthy, to find a little refuge of wellness and friendship while the world is on fire, a man who profits from our membership (from our community) hates us. He might object that “hate” is strong word, but the political friends that he supports would strip of us of our human rights at the first opportunity. That seems a lot like hate to me.

So it’s not just a gym. As Equinox has insisted all along, #it’s not fitness, it’s life. That is: this isn’t a trivial decision about a trivial purchase in a life defined by purchases. This place has mattered to me; my values also matter to me, and I can’t be afraid to take a stand for those values.

Many Equinox members acted more quickly than I have, dropping their memberships last week. Others have decided to stay, arguing that a boycott won’t make a difference.

One objection I’m hearing—from friends who are members, from staff—is that a boycott doesn’t really do anything except harm the people at the bottom, the people we care about. Giving up my membership, they say, would be hurting them more than it would some fascist fat cat, insulated by money, privilege, power—and would change nothing. But the #GrabYourWallet campaign, started in the wake of the 2016 election to target over 100 large companies for their business and political ties to the Trump family, has had a real effect. There are currently 15 companies on the boycott list (Equinox and Soul Cycle having just been added): 89 other companies have dropped Trump connections over the last couple of years. If it’s just me boycotting, or just you, then sure, that won’t do much; if we all boycott, that might force changes, namely Equinox severing ties to the Related Companies. It takes 45 days for a membership cancellation to go through—we could leverage a lot of corporate policy in that span of time.

Another objection: I vote, I volunteer, I donate time and money—I’m doing what I can; I’m doing enough already.

Apologies for being difficult: but are you doing enough? I know I’m not. I know plenty of people whose lives are already too precarious for them to risk doing anything. I also know plenty of people who aren’t doing anything but living lives of insulated comfort. So what might constitute enough of an effort for me has to be doubled or tripled to be effective on behalf of those who are unable to do enough, or those who just won’t.

If we were all doing enough, the world would look very different at this precise moment.

The final objection: if you worried about how ethical a given company is, you’d have to boycott everything, and that’s just not realistic.

Think about that last claim for a minute. Take it to a logical conclusion: you’d have to boycott everything…


You’re right—look into the people behind the goods and services and most institutions that we pay for in exchange for comfort in our lives, and—surprise—you’re going to find people who are amoral at best, actively contributing to violence and bigotry at worst. And I don’t want to see what “worst” looks like. Surprise: the very framework of our lives is rotten to the core. So, to protest, to challenge that framework and demand meaningful change—that’s not realistic…because?

Because you know that part of the protest would involve, at a minimum, discomfort and inconvenience, and maybe you’re just tired and stressed from working too hard, and not earning enough (working for whom, again?) to have the energy for that kind of disruption.

Because you’re afraid that if I, you, and everyone we know really wanted to do enough, we’d have to go far beyond boycotts: our actions would change our individual lives, and have consequences for the lives of others. You might hurt other people’s feelings. You might get in trouble. Once you start protesting violence, hatred, the rape of the planet, the incarceration of innocent children, you might get fired (by that same corporation that you’ve been loyal to all along). You might lose your health insurance. You’d be confronted with the fact that you, like those on whose behalf you’d protest, don’t have that many rights, or all that much safety.

When you put it that way, you’re right, cancelling a gym membership is a trivial action. One person boycotting here or there is not enough.

Because: if we honestly face up to just how much peril we’re in, we should all drop everything that doesn’t matter and take to the streets, to protest, to demand a different world, to start living a different world, one that might be a little less comfortable than what we’ve known, but which would be a lot more kind, just, safe, healthy.

You’re right: it’s not fitness. It’s life.

Commit to something.

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On the Refusal of Service

One of the pleasures of a certain kind of Boston life, is to spend an afternoon reading and writing in the Public Library. The BPL, like all libraries, is an amazing phenomenon, a space dedicated to learning, to the sharing of knowledge by the creators and grateful consumers of all manner of media. And as anyone who spends a lot of time in libraries knows – as anyone who loves learning knows – the values which make that sharing, that generosity, of knowledge possible tend to associate with other kinds of generosity, like, for instance, offering hospitality, refuge, safety. As a recent episode of This American Life put it, the public library is truly a magical Room of Requirement.

Which is why is should be no surprise that the BPL, like other libraries, is a magnet for all kinds of people on any given day – those who come here to work, who come for diversion, and those who come here because a “clean, well-lighted place” filled with books, newspaper, and peaceable people is a wonderful respite in the midst of a city that can often be hard, unwelcoming, and unkind.

That is, the library attracts a lot of Bostonians who might be homeless, or indifferently sheltered, those who are not privileged, not well, and not in a state where they can accept much help from others, if there are even any others to offer it.

If you go to the library a lot, you’ll see them, wearing more clothes than the weather would encourage in the summer, or too few in the winter, maybe sitting with a book or a paper, maybe not, often surrounded by several bags or bundles, the belongings they have to keep with them wherever they go for fear of having someone take the little they have.

In a city like Boston, this all tends to become so much background – because what can anyone do about it, surely that’s something for the City to take care of? I’m no better than anyone else either – caught up in whatever urgent rushing around that we all do, I steer a path around the person talking to themselves; I do that thing, where someone asks you for change and somehow it would be rude to pretend you don’t know what they’ve asked, but it’s all right to instead avoid eye contact, give an apologetic shake of the head, a sympathetic, whispered “sorry” – and keep walking by. What do we know of how our disadvantaged neighbors manage to find something to eat every day, or where they go at night if they’re not sleeping rough, or where they find a place to bathe or clean their clothes? We don’t know, because we don’t want to, and the structure of our lives makes it possible for us not to.

A couple of years ago, I was passing through the newly-renovated atrium of the library’s Johnson building, the space bright, welcoming, and bustling with patrons, when I noticed a younger woman just…standing still. Everyone else was on their way somewhere, and she…wasn’t. I tried not to stare, but kept looking, as my brain registered a disconnect between what I was expecting to see – perhaps a college student, dressed casually for an afternoon of studying – and what I did see, which was that, while her clothes were unremarkable, they were also filthy, as was her face, and her hair wasn’t fashionably tousled, it was in fact tangled and stiff with dirt. As people flowed around her, she stood still, staring intently at something and nothing, clutching one of those quilted, floral bags that you pay quite a bit of money for at the mall, so that other people recognize with approval that you’ve all paid to have the same bag – only her bag, like the rest of her, hadn’t been washed in a very long time.

I didn’t stop. (Did you?) And if I thought about the young woman much at all it was to wonder selfishly (callously) if BPL security was going to nudge her out the door before her dirtiness disturbed other patrons.

Which must have been what happened, because I saw her again the next day, only instead of being in the library, she was across the street, in Copley Square. She was still filthy, still standing still, still staring fixedly ahead of her. I wondered if it was the library’s beautiful 19th century facade that held her attention, or something, someone, else, as invisible to passersby as the woman herself.

And she was there the next day, standing still, staring at the library. And she was there most days after that. I first saw her in July; and she was still there, standing, staring, well into the fall, into the onset of winter. At some point, as it got colder, she appeared with a new-looking parka, though she kept the same shoes – once some kind of loafer, now shapeless and down at heel – and had no socks, even in the damp cold and November wind. She’d have been warmer inside the library, but as far as I could tell, she wasn’t going back in, though the fascination of the place remained. She continued to stand and stare.

Obviously, she had somewhere to go at night. Right? Surely she wasn’t sleeping on the streets? Someone had given her that coat, but what help did she have beyond that? She wasn’t any cleaner; did she have food? This young woman was very clearly unwell, very clearly vulnerable. Was she safe?

Asking these questions upset me. But what could I do? (because that’s what you ask, when you don’t have the combination of care, motivation, and knowledge to override your social conditioning, to override your discomfort, and act, but then you can say that at least you were upset). Why didn’t the City do something?

I thought about this woman a lot, and about the many other people like her in so many ways, but, who, unlike her, were somehow able to satisfy the library’s security, and have, at least, a warm, peaceful place to go for a few hours of the day, who could maybe use the library’s bathrooms for a bit of cleaning, a bit of dignity, who might be able to sleep, knowing they’d be safe, that their belongings would be safe too. I thought of the Richard Selzer story I often teach, “Toenails,” a parable of charity which takes place in a public library, a story which I use to prompt my students to think more empathetically (good for me, teaching empathy, when I was so overflowing with it myself that I did nothing for this young woman). I thought, if someone, if the City, if whoever was supposed to be caring for our neighbors were going to do something, the library would be the ideal place to do it.

Surely I couldn’t be the only person to have that idea?

(So I could wait, in hopes that someone else would have the idea, and would do the thing that I didn’t know how to do.

And where were you, at that same time?)

A couple of weeks ago, I saw an NPR report on how some libraries, recognizing the role they play in their communities as a refuge to a variety of people, have begun hiring social workers, and training librarians in how to help patrons with more than finding books, connecting them with vital social services as well. Wonderful, I thought. Someone is doing something after all.

Then I went to my library, the BPL, one of the oldest and most venerable institutions dedicated to welcoming the public within its doors, and encountered this sign at the entrance:

If these rules were only designed to limit bad behavior – loud talking, the noisy consumption of pungent sandwiches in the quiet study room – I’d be grateful for the library’s crack-down. Apparently other patrons felt the same, as I’m sure these rules came about after one too many visitor had complained. After all, the library might be open to all, but not to all kinds of bad behavior, right?


I thought of the young woman (one person, somehow visible when it’s so easy not to see the many others). I thought of how badly she needed shelter, and how poorly equipped she was to meet the library’s criteria for admission; how if she had the ability to present herself as neat, and tidy, with no offensive smells or offensive needs, she might not have been drawn to the library at all; she wouldn’t have stood, staring at the library for months. Indeed, this checklist seemed designed deliberately to be unachievable, and to give security the right to turn away a lot of the people who most need the library to be refuge, who most need somewhere welcoming to go.

Because if it’s not the library, where else, exactly, can they go? Who else will welcome them?

Whoever made the complaints that led to this Code of Conduct: will you take care of those whose behavior, whose existence, is objectionable? Excluding those people from the awareness of deserving patrons like ourselves (because we don’t think we’re the same, do we?) won’t make their problems go away, and will, in many cases, make them worse. Someone should really do something about those people, we all agree, except that it won’t be me, or you, or our public library, but surely this will be taken care of somehow, by someone.

We can sleep easy at night, and use our library with a clear conscience in the morning.

Can’t we?

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On Being Off

“Do nothing, and everything gets done” (Benjamin Hoff, The Tao of Pooh)

I just spent the last two months unplugged.

That is, for the last several weeks, I’ve been on a social media diet, on a retreat from all forms of electronic communication, in self-imposed rehab from an addiction to emails, texts, posts, updates, inboxes, likes, alerts, followers, threads, forwards, saves, pins, and links. #digitaldetox

Did you notice?? Did your social media universe seem a little dimmer, did its gravity feel off, because I wasn’t in it? Now that you know that I wasn’t there, does that explain any unaccounted-for FOMO that you might have felt during those two months, a sense that somewhere I was doing something more interesting that you wish you were doing too? Did the negative space created by my absence make you jealous and vaguely resentful that you weren’t also absent? Because presence or absence in the digital realm are now metrics of individual worth: if the time I invest in social media is time well spent, it’s in return for being noticed, for being taken note of, for making my #influence felt, for mattering.

I guess I spent two months not mattering.

It felt pretty good, actually.

Of course, it’s not like I went cold turkey, completely off the grid. Some technological tools are so useful, so necessary, that I couldn’t avoid using them: navigating, making sure I had a clean place to sleep every night, paying my bills, getting library books, making sure that I wasn’t mistakenly ordering entrails in restaurants, or saying yes to dangerous or illegal activities on the beach…And while I am unlikely to ever be fluent in Catalan, my phone is, which turned out to be surprisingly useful.

Nevertheless, I was grateful that the last several weeks often took me places where I could neither receive nor be received; where I could escape my cage because there were no bars; where my little triangle of connectedness was just an outline of nothing, more negative space: for days at a time, I couldn’t plug in even if I wanted to.

Helplessly unplugged, I was healthily unaware of every instance of cruelty, idiocy, and bigotry that would occur in the course of a day at the local, national, and international level; I couldn’t check my work email at the bureaucratic and tail-chasing level. And at what we call the social level, I couldn’t follow the latest announcements of happiness, or indignation, or helpless passive aggressive lashing-out (and I couldn’t inflict exactly the same on anyone else either).

I did miss feeling informed about current events, and connected to the lives of people I genuinely care about, but who are too often too far away; I missed being able to use social media for the use we were all originally sold on, which is as a tool for building and maintaining communities and friendships.

But, in the absence of all that positive connectedness, I was also able to withdraw from the negative, exhausting entanglements which, if they weren’t deliberately manufactured to distract and addict, have become indispensable in keeping us hooked, consuming, consumed. Un-connected, I became aware of just how disconnected I’d become from too many other important parts of myself.

Unplugged, I stopped having long, protracted arguments in my head with everyone from the GOP, to certain colleagues, to neighbors, to a cousin or acquaintance or two; I stopped mentally composing diatribes which I would (could?) never post, where I would devastatingly lay down some Truth that would first shake each one to the core, then effect a revolutionary course-change in their behavior, then become a viral sensation that would build my brand. For two months, I had no brand. I was unproductive, and relieved from the pressure to make myself a product. No consumption of media, no consumption of me by the media.

Instead, I followed the advice of author Jenny Odell in How To Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy, to try to reset my attention, to stop attending reactively to whatever provocation was pinging at me in any given moment, to choose to be attentive, to be present.

I had been afraid that my attention had been so fragmented and splintered by posts and push notifications and messages and memes that it was broken beyond repair, that I’d never be able to focus on anything again. Being able to formulate a thought, plant a seed, let it grow, prune and trim and coddle it to fruition – being able to think without being buffeted by the clamoring thoughts of others – came as an enormous relief.

I read books – not articles, not headlines, not posts, not snippets of paragraphs, but actual books. Like summer vacation when I was a kid, I lay down in a shady spot with the intention of reading for just a few minutes, only to emerge from a literary fugue state two hours later. And when one book was done, I put it down and started another. I wrote. I sat with my feet in the creek, and let a sapphire-blue dragonfly land on my outstretched hand. I watched the wind ripple through fields of grain and riffle the tops of trees. I gardened, canned apricots, ate cherries off the tree, watched the sun set, strolled through the orchard, helped a friend build a staircase. Over bread, cheese, and cheap wine with ice cubes, we conversed at length about the health of trees, how to keep flies out of the composting toilet, why creativity seems so hard in the midst of urban professional life. We talked about art, and our childhoods, and dogs. We talked to the dogs, when they came over for belly rubs, tired out from chasing bees and chickens. Turns out, Williams was right: so much does depend “upon a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rain water, beside the white chickens.”


I couldn’t live that life indefinitely. (Could I…?) Vacations end, and responsibility – signified by dozens of accumulated emails, in turn signifying meetings to schedule, proposals to write, policies to develop, research to do – grinds back into gear, and the next thing I know I’m sucked back in to all of it, posting on social media again, idly scrolling through other people’s posts, skimming headlines, listening to a podcast on mindfulness, turned up to drown out the high energy music of the gym, the unwanted soccer games and children’s cartoons on the subway, the tedium of waiting in line at the grocery store, the agitation of being a thinking, feeling being in an age of violence and chaos.

People unplug all the time, which we know because the first thing they do when they plug back in (as one must, sooner or later, mustn’t one?) is make a big production out of how transformative it is to be unplugged, preferably integrating the experience into one’s brand identity. #simplicity #enlightened #enviable

Will my experience be any different? Was two months spent turned off enough time to calm mind and nerves, to renew focus, to reconnect to what I really value (rather than trying, frantically, to avoid everything I don’t)? Was that period enough to, if not transform me utterly, at least to insulate, or inoculate me, to give me greater resistance against the pernicious infiltration of all those bits of data which accumulate, proliferate, and suffocate attention?

I hope so. The point of unplugging, of being Off, in all senses of the word, was never to do nothing, and keep on doing nothing. On the contrary, as Odell argues, it’s when we feel like we’re doing everything – all the information, all the posts, all the attention, all the #socalledinfluence – that we’re conveniently distracted from doing anything, that is, anything organized, focused, meaningful, revolutionary. Do everything, and nothing gets done. Rather, what I hope will stay with me, as I return from my absence, will be the knowledge of what it’s like to be comfortably or uncomfortably present, as the fundamental condition of doing something.

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On Rules


“Thus conscience does make cowards of us all…” (Shakespeare, Hamlet, III.i)

“A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds” (Emerson, “Self-Reliance”)

“Puritanism: The haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.” (H.L. Mencken)

“But people don’t do such things!” (everything by Ibsen)

My therapist, to her credit, has the self-discipline to control her facial expressions and body language whenever I say things that are, obviously to both of us, absurd.

So when I mention that I’ve lately been accused of acting as though the rules don’t apply to me, she nods sagely, reaches for her pen and notepad, and focuses intently on adding to her abundant session notes – gestures I’ve come to interpret as her tactful way of suppressing the urge to guffaw uproariously and ask “Have these accusers of yours ever met you??”

—Because we’ve both had to endure hours of me anxiously perseverating over every rule, convention, and policy that brushes up against my life, and which I fretfully try to obey, even as I’m flinching and chafing at their touch. Far, far from thinking that the rules don’t apply to me, I go to therapy because somewhere along the line I became convinced, in the perverse self-centeredness of the incorrigible neurotic, that ALL of the rules apply to me, or should, or someone else thinks they should, or I think that someone thinks that I should think that they should. Not that any of that obsessive thinking guarantees that I (can/will/do) follow all of the rules, and not that all of the rules that govern my daily life are the ones that my shadowy accusers, sadly lacking in imagination, would expect. Nevertheless, far from leading a lawless, ungoverned, ungovernable existence, the problem of how, and whether, to follow rules (and what will happen to me if I can’t/won’t/don’t follow them) occupies much of my waking conscious thought.

There are three categories of rules (because of course there are rules for taxonomizing rules)

  1. I think we can all agree that some rules are necessary, beneficial, even inarguable, such as those governing gravity, etiquette, and grammar; plus all the guiding commandments, shared by major religions, ethics, and traffic law, to do with not damaging, maiming, or destroying what belongs to others, like portable property, bodies, feelings, or ecosystems. The problem for me here is not adhering to these rules myself; on the contrary, I take these rules—rules—so seriously that I suffer agonies of indignant distress when they’re flouted and abused by others. That language, traffic, social interaction, and our relationship to the natural world all *work* so much better, so much more pleasingly, when we’re all consensually-organized with the same principles, a literal or figurative grammar for life –  seems so obvious, that those who violate these rules are, at best, to be pitied and offered help to overcome their incapacity, or, at worst should be ostracized, cast out, put somewhere out of harm’s way, where their depraved indifference to the welfare of others can be contained. …. which remediation doesn’t happen nearly enough (as in: at all) leaving me a miserably-helpless witness to the unnecessary chaos and violence that seems to characterize the world.
  2. As if that’s not enough, then there are the idiosyncratic, personalized rules of my day to day existence (which I think should govern everyone else, but which I’ve come to realize are unenforcible beyond the confines of my own fraught inner life). The pricks against which I kick are, as often as not, my own invention, or (so I’ve been told) superstition, or an exaggeration of some punctilio that doesn’t matter a whit to anyone as much as it matters to me. As a small sample:
    • You must finish what you start – which is all very protestant and productive until it becomes compulsive. This rule got me through grad school, and got me married. It’s also why I hated grad school, and certainly, if ironically, contributed to me not being married. This rule also doesn’t serve me well when it comes to boxes of chocolates or doughnuts (see a related rule about avoiding asymmetry and uneven quantities). The inverse (perverse) hazard with this rule is that if finishing whatever it is you’re starting involves risk (to body, career, bruised and delicate heart) then you can obviate that risk by simply becoming paralyzed, hence never starting the thing in the first place.
    • Or: You have to eat dinner before dessert, unless it’s an afternoon cookie, which then has to be consumed during the time of day recognized as “day,” because if you eat it at say 5pm, that’s obviously evening, and hence roughly the province of dinner, and to eat a cookie right before a salad is not only to invoke the ancient curse (“you’ll spoil your appetite!”) but is an inversion of the natural order of things, and, simply, anarchy.  – Until dinner is over, and then it’s time for desserts involving sugar, but never anything savory from the conclusion of dinner to the start of breakfast – which meal is, of course, more in the realm of sweet – unless it’s brunch, and then you’ve just fallen through the looking glass of culinary surreality. Brunch, as you can imagine, makes me a little stressed. The combination of pineapple on pizza is an unthinkable abomination.
    • Or: You must not backtrack. You must be active and burn calories. You must not spend money frivolously on things like cabs or subway tickets. Taken separately, each rule might be innocuous enough; but combine them into one tyrannical diktat, and even the most banal trip to work or gym becomes a small military campaign, and every holiday a grueling forced march. This meta-rule requires spending hours pouring over maps of the smallest of hamlets – like Paris or San Francisco – to plot elaborate peregrinations, from every must-see museum to culturally-representative bakery to macabre guidebook oddity, in 12-hour circuits of 20 kilometers or more, which originate and terminate at, but cannot include, the hotel, until the circuit is actually complete, by which time you’re faint and footsore and kind of hating Paris or San Francisco, not to mention yourself.
    • And, variously: It’s bad luck to let pennies lie. If you spill salt, you have to toss some over your shoulder, wherever you are, including crowded public transit. If you don’t carry gear for every weather or health eventuality, the one thing you’re not kitted out for will be the thing that leaves you wet, bedraggled, overheated, hypothermic, or learning the words for “rash” and “ointment” in multiple languages as you negotiate the health care systems of multiple countries. If you see the first star of the night, or have birthday candles to blow out, you *have* to make a wish, BUT the wish has to be utterly stripped of any actual desire that Fate could trace back to you. And as has been well-codified by tales of fishermen, cobblers, idle princesses, and that ghastly story about a monkey’s paw, you must never, ever, give shape through words, to other people, or inside your own head, to things that you really want to be true, such as “this love-interest will return my affections!”; “that stab of pain I felt does not mean that I just tore something that is vital to my ongoing athletic performance and mental health!”; “this article that I’ve been hiding under my bed will get published by the first editor I show it to, thus opening the door to writerly success and hitherto unprecedented, non-neurotic, artistic self assurance!” That is, everyone knows you must NEVER make a selfish wish or one that seems benevolent but can have disastrous consequences because obviously you’ll invoke the wrath of malign and capricious supernatural powers.
  3. Finally (no delusions here, there’s nothing finite about this list), there’s the boundless morass of rules that are invoked as policies or guidelines, or (ghastly) assessable outcomes, which hold sway over our professional and personal lives with Newtonian rigor, even as they exhibit quantum capriciousness: uncertain, unpredictable, refusing to hold still long enough to be measured, grasped, or challenged. These are rules that might be enshrined in handbooks and conduct codes and goal statements; they might have the status of lore, that which doesn’t need to be documented because vague, paranoid fear has far more oppressive power than any mere bullet point in a memo. These are the rules which cause degrees of symbolic violence, where arbitrary differences of power and belonging are given the status of natural facts. These are the rules that are simply The Done Thing, common sense, taken for granted. And these are the rules that make me truly a little nutty: a deep-seated impulse to be obedient and win approval compels me to follow them; a streak of contrariness – orneriness – compels me to question them; some lapse in my youth or childhood renders me incapable of following them with docility or even good grace; at which point the mania to Stay Out of Trouble kicks in, but not sufficiently to keep me in line, just enough to make me agitated that though I want to want to comply, I just can’t/won’t/don’t.

This last is the category of neo-liberal, industrialized, capitalist, life: 9-5 schedules; dress codes; pretty much any policy or habit formulated for the perpetuation of a bureaucracy; acting one’s age; several levels of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs; and, in fact, most things that we’ve been taught ought to occur on figurative pyramids, ladders, escalators, or scales, like the acquisition of property, career goals, sexuality, or the conduct of relationships.

I’m a pragmatic person, really, and, as we’ve established, a bit compulsive and classically neurotic, which means that since childhood I’ve been very good at following these rules, bending my own will to do The Done Thing in exchange for whatever phantasm of a reward is on offer: money, promotion, the relief (comfort!) of having all the levels of all the pyramids, scales, and ladders in place – to the extent that I’m now in a position in life where I’m supposed to formulate, perpetuate, and enforce them for others. Sometimes people even ask me for advice about how they can follow the rules as well as I do, which makes me feel, perversely, simultaneously gratified (I’ve managed to Stay Out of Trouble!) and disappointed with myself. Because the big promise of doing The Done Thing is that sooner or later, all the things will be Done, and you don’t have to keep doing them anymore – which is all, of course, nonsense, because the giant panopticon of our lives ensures that if it seems like the world is running out of things for us to DO, our internalized sense of shame and fear of being caught not Doing fabricates some new item to add to our existential To-Do list. These rules are the instructions for carrying out discipline, that is to say, of  ensuring that society keeps functioning by keeping us all preoccupied with Staying Out of Trouble. Because, as the ethicists remind us (now on major broadcast television and streaming), if we’re ever tempted to not Do the Done Thing, we can test it: if everyone stopped doing that thing (or if everyone decided to do whatever harebrained anti-social anarchic thing is in question) what would happen to society? Answer: society would fall apart. Fall. Apart. People Don’t Do Such Things – except some do, and while occasionally they get slapped down for their impertinence, sometimes they actually shift the collective notion of what is done, what must be done, to what could be done…and the planet keeps turning, and everyone is actually better for it, and wonders why no-one did something sooner.

As much as the world falters with the rules of category #1, the more I’ll champion them. These rules are the the mechanism by which we meet our obligations to one another and our poor planet, and far from asserting freedom by flouting them, we make everything worse for one another (unless you’re trying to do clever things with gravity, in which case, that’s cool). And as I get older, I become more and more fond of the rules in category #2, because they’re just me, and I’m learning to be fonder and more patient with myself – which has the totally predictable consequence of allowing me to be more lax with some of my stricter dictates (but not the ones about pizza or making wishes – if you think you can take chances with either, then when the punishing Fates come knocking, I don’t know you). 

But the rules of category 3 are just so much oppressive brainwashing, and we all need badly to be deprogrammed.

Doing that work on yourself is hard, as our therapists’ copious, patient note-taking could attest. If you’ve been well-indoctrinated to ensure that you Stay Out of Trouble, it’s hard to believe how living life in Trouble could be advisable, let alone navigable. Where’s the safe path between foolish consistency and living in a box in an alley??

Trying to answer that question (live it) is an ongoing project. Perhaps one first step any of us could take is to catch ourselves: if we’re upset when someone breaks one of our category 3 rules, before we point, whisper, and accuse: “who do they think they are, acting as though the rules don’t apply to them?” ask ourselves, “where did I ever get the idea that the rules have to apply to me?” 

And before we shun, or enforce, or inform, thinking, “But people don’t do such things!” we could challenge ourselves:

“I wouldn’t do such a thing…but it might be fun if I could.

And I can.

I will.”

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