Change

The bluebells dramatically arrive in our garden around March. It’s one of our favorite moments, plant-wise at least. Each year we know they’re coming, but it still feels like a wonderful little surprise when they bloom. Amidst some typical, mundane routine, I’ll look out the window and spot the first signs of them. And then what feels like only a few days later, our entire backyard has transformed into a landscape of sprinkled-blue — which emotionally speaking, feels akin to when Dorothy enters technicolor. But then, only a few weeks later, the blue completely disappears. We’re bummed and melancholic every time this happens (they’re gone already?!) and it feels like their window of appearance gets shorter every year.

Lord knows how many poems have been written about the fleetingness of nature as a metaphor for life (and lord knows I couldn’t name you one of them). I cognitively know that what makes the bluebells so special is their limited presence, but emotionally I still don’t want to deal with their sudden departure. If I had a choice in the matter, I’d keep them around a bit longer. But having a choice would radically alter the situation.

Change is a complicated thing. Sometimes we are the cause of it, sometimes we’re just the recipient. Sometimes we like the outcome, sometimes we don’t.

You could imagine a matrix of sorts, with “cause of change” on one axis and “outcome” on the other (FYI I’m currently reading a book by Tim Urban and therefore my brain is inundated with these types of charts, so I temporarily can’t shake this thinking. Is this plagiarism? Possibly)

When we’re the cause of the change, it’s often an emotional amplifier of the outcome. If we fucked something up, we then have to deal with the responsibility of the fuck up in addition to the fucked-up-ness of the situation. Shit, shit! Similarly, if we are responsible for a good outcome, we get to eat the cake and simultaneously pat ourselves on the back for baking it. Double Yay!

Alternatively, when we’re the recipient of change there’s an entirely different tenor to accepting the outcomes. Let’s say, hypothetically, you take your child to their first swim class and it happens to be freezing and starts raining 5 minutes before the session. Shivering uncontrollably in the pool is a bad outcome, but you don’t feel bad about it, because the weather gods are to blame. It’s just what it is. Oh, shit. As for the lower right quadrant, let’s say you win the lottery (first thing, call me): while you don’t get the satisfaction of earning the winnings per se, you’re gifted an extraordinary high of excitement because of your luck. Oh, YAY!

Change has been top of mind for me recently as I’m transitioning between jobs. It’s the biggest change (professionally) I’ve experienced in some time. It’s one I caused and it’s a good outcome, which I feel grateful for. With so much out of our control, it feels nice to celebrate the agency we possess to positively alter the course of things in our lives — while also feeling humbled in recognizing that these outcomes are only possible due to countless people that help along the way. While I’m all for embracing the joys of achievement, in going through this particular moment, I’m also recognizing its limitations. The positive feelings, expectedly, begin to wane a bit as the days extend beyond the point of accomplishment. And then I can feel an almost addictive desire to experience that emotional high again, to taste the adrenaline at the peak. So what do I do? Make a to-do list, check my phone, scroll through the news, tell myself I'm gonna clean my closet, putter around.... waiting for something to hit.

In contrast, you have the bluebells. While I was bummed when they departed, I didn’t feel the same addictive quality in their absence. There’s a different type of pleasure in receiving positive change we had no control over — serendipity, a generous gift from the universe. It hits differently because we had no choice in the matter, the ego is kept completely out of it. You could argue the pleasure is even more sustaining in a way, because we don't know when the next gift will arrive, but we now feel more attuned to notice when it does.

I’m not trying to say one is better than the other. There’s probably a philosophical schism regarding how much people believe change happens because of us vs. despite us. I’m a bit out of my depths here, but awhile ago I listed to a conversation with Allan Dafoe from Google Deepmind where he explained two perspectives for understanding technological progress: the Constructivist believes individuals are driving change; the Deterministics believe external forces are unfolding beyond our control. I can’t recall where he netted out, but I find myself moving between these points of view constantly. Life of course exists within the duality.

I try to meditate now and then. Far too infrequent to be referred to as a “practice” (I blame parenting). I decided to dabble in a 10 minute session this past Saturday morning, which ended with a discussion between Sam Harris and Frank Ostaseski. I don’t know much about Frank’s story, but a few things he shared stood out in the context of this topic of change.

Everything is coming and going all the time. We all agree seasons come and go but we still think of ourself as a solid thing moving through a changing world. We don’t regard ourself as constant change. And this is a shock that comes to us when dying or getting a terminal diagnosis, we all of a sudden realize… oh my god I thought I was exempt from this [change].

Closing quote

Related, there’s a famous refrain in Octavia Butler’s Parable of Sower: "God is Change". It’s the central tenet of Earthseed, a religion created by protagonist Lauren. I might not fully understand it, but I find it appearing in my mind somewhat regularly. As well as the following quote.

All that you touch You Change. All that you Change Changes you. The only lasting truth Is Change.

Parting song

Raffi has been on constant rotation in our house since Nina was born. Love him, and appreciate his folk-oriented children’s albums, but there’s only so many times I can listen to Baby Beluga. So I decided to seek out some of his deep cuts on Spotify the other week, and found myself rather moved by an instrumental track called Pacific Ocean on his album Communion.