A Brief Message to the Soulless Minions of Orthodoxy

I am a dandelion, the most awesome plant ever.

Dandelions are despised for their ability to cheerfully survive all attempts to eradicate them. They thrive in chaotic conditions. They are smart: their stalks will grow short or tall depending on whether they are being mowed. They are beautiful at all stages of life: golden aggregate flower heads bright as the sun, wispy puffballs pale as the moon, drifting seeds like stars that can float five miles to begin a new life. They don't need to be pollinated to reproduce, but they welcome bees and butterflies anyway.

Every part of the dandelion is edible and nutritious. The fact that it tastes bitter reflects the lesson of the dandelion's life: unpleasant experiences can be good for us. Determination to live, and live well, in the face of the contempt of the world.

I am a dandelion. I ruin rich people's lawns. I give without expectation of being understood. Blow me.

In Defense of Compassion

The word "compassion" entered the English language in the mid-14th century as a loanword from French, derived from the ecclesiastical Latin term compassionem: com "together" + pati "to suffer."

That sense of "together" makes compassion more powerful than pity, and while "sympathy" is the precise Greek cognate of "compassion," its value has declined somewhat after centuries of neglect. Given the state of the world at this moment, as we stand on the edge of chaos with our collective illusions unraveling like the saddest security blanket, we require the strongest word possible for a much-maligned virtue. We believed (or pretended to believe) that our beloved blanket, called by so many names (society, culture, civilization, status quo) was a shining shield. Armor against any enemy, within or without. Such whimsical wards work surprisingly well — until they don't. Illusions are literally lies and their power works like a placebo, proportional to belief. Uncertainty is the natural enemy of authority yet it lacks vigor, always shadowed by fear, anger and confusion — peak 2020 zeitgeist aesthetic. Our frayed, shabby blanket has started to burn. 

To survive this crisis, we need something stronger than lies. Real problems require real power. There are three things that are never wrong: Compassion, Curiosity, and Courage Compassion is an emotional engagement with the perception of the sufferings or misfortunes of others. 

COMPASSION IS NEVER WRONG.

I spend (maybe too much) time perusing comments on trending news topics from a wide range of internet communities. I explore, investigate, seek to find out what people are thinking and feeling. Curiosity is a virtue that complements compassion, and by "virtue" I mean "strength." ("Virile" and "virtuous" come from the same Latin word; Roman culture did not distinguish between manliness and moral worth). Knowledge is power, and I'll take any potential I can use.

Perception of the pain of others comes before compassion. And yes, I think I am good at recognizing what other people feel. I suspect that being raised in an abusive family heightened my sensitivity. My mother believed she was psychic, and while I was always dismissive of her faith in the paranormal, she did have a knack for intuiting things, particularly about my brother. Sadly, it took me years of adult experience, along with finding out about the existence of mirror neurons and oxytocin, for me to start thinking seriously about the pragmatic importance of empathy.

There is a kind of spectrum among humans with respect to the skill of recognizing distress in others; nevertheless, the vast majority of people are capable of it. My husband has Asperger's, and he is unquestionably able to empathize. His disconnect is mostly about ambiguous, arbitrary or illogical social expectations. I think it's telling that autistic people often connect strongly with animals; the essential empathy is there, it's just not complicated by arcane social assumptions and the deceptions, to oneself and to others, that are inevitably entailed. In fact, scientists have shown that animals are capable of recognizing emotions and responding with compassion.

Of course, compassion is not the only possible emotional response to the suffering of another person. Alternatives include indifference, delight, satisfaction, even envy. And although I emphatically advocate cultivating compassion, I'm not interested in condemning those who cultivate these alternatives. Because I have done the same. I understand the many reasons people have for being averse to compassion. Central to them all is fear -- fear of the altruistic behavior that compassion can provoke.

I was sexually abused as a child. I have PTSD. I have a PhD in fear. It's been a struggle, but I've taken to heart the Bene Gesserit litany:

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.

When I say, "Compassion is never wrong," I am saying, "It is never wrong to reject fear." And I am saying this as someone who knows that people are dangerous. To themselves, to others, and to me. There are no safe places in this world.

I cannot count the times over the past year that I've seen people castigate others for expressing compassion. On all sides of almost every issue. Sometimes the assumption is that by perceiving someone's situation and feeling compassion for them, you are making an excuse for their behavior. People also attack others for showing compassion for one group of people and not another. All of that is rooted in fear -- fear that sympathy will lead to altruism which will benefit someone dangerous.

My intent here is not to endorse or prescribe any specific act of altruism. I'm a mom with two daughters. I know how complicated it can be, trying to balance competing interests while maximizing the family's well-being. Altruism doesn't mean giving people whatever they want. Biologists describing altruism in animals define it as "an act benefiting another at cost to oneself." The concept of "cost" in human terms is extremely complicated, which is why I'm keeping things simple. Compassionate behavior can make you vulnerable. Being vulnerable is not the same as being weak. In fact, the stronger you are, the more compassionate you can be.

Right now, the antithesis of altruism is trending all over the world. I call it spite -- "an act intended to harm another at cost to oneself." Spite is terrorism and military aggression. It is vicious speech of every kind. Spite is when anger blinds you to the costs of your behavior. Anger masks fear; it doesn't banish it. Anger often feels good, justified, even noble. Anger and fear are primal emotions with an ancient evolutionary history -- fight or flight. Compassion is more complicated; it involves acknowledging that the fear and anger of others is the same as your own.

It is all too easy to force people into states of fear and/or anger. Compassion, by its very nature, can never be enforced. It can only be tended, defended, encouraged, coaxed. Punishing people for not showing compassion is not compassion; it is spite.

It isn't instinctive for me to think positively with so much terror and rage breaking free around me. It has always been difficult for me to avoid being pulled along by emotional trends (a minor drawback of strong empathy). And I admit that I'm a naturally pessimistic person. I don't believe in the inevitability of progress. I do believe in the possibility. Our understanding of the human condition continues to grow, building on the shared experience of our species.

The word "monster" (from the Latin root monere "to warn") once literally meant "animal or baby with a birth defect." Because abnormal creatures were regarded as signs or omens of impending evil. We only use the word's figurative meaning now.

Our worldview has changed that much.

The more science discovers about what we are and how we came to be this way, the more opportunities for compassion we will attain.

On Creativity, Madness and Religion

The first time I can clearly remember it happening was at recess when I was eight. I gazed up at the impossible winter sky, a vast cerulean space castled with clouds. I looked at the people around me, fellow students at the Baptist private school known as Sky View Academy in Memphis, TN. I saw with painful clarity something I could not immediately put into words -- an affinity between the children, the sky, and the muddy ground beneath our feet. A physical throb of overwhelming love accompanied the insight, and I knew that God had shown me this, had given me a momentary glimpse of the way He saw His world.

Several days later, I did attempt to articulate the experience, in a poem I called 'The Cove of Eternity.' I can't recall anything more than the title; my memories of that period are capricious, and I have never been one to cherish physical reminders of the past. (For so many reasons.) Nevertheless, that day occupies a central place in the story of who I am.

I did not, in general, love or even like my fellow students. I did not get along with them. I did not know how. I was always insecure, always mistrustful, always, ultimately, alone. Looking back, the reason is pathetically obvious -- if I couldn't feel safe with my own parents, how could I ever feel safe among strangers? But at the time, as a child, in my innocence, I had a permanent sense of being wrong. I was an interloper. An outsider. I did not belong. The only trust I had, the only hope, the only chance for redemption came from God.

That day on the playground marked the first instance of something that has been repeated many times -- a visceral comprehension of transcendental truth. I use the word "repeated" cautiously, because each insight is unique, and the accumulation of knowledge has transformed the context of "truth." But the feeling, the recognition, the experience is the same.

All my life, I have struggled to understand myself. Even at eight, I knew that other people did not think of themselves in the third person. I felt a muddled (but deep) sense of guilt for the running narratives I made up about myself in my head: Unlike the other students, she is gazing at her teacher with a look of avid interest, and indeed she makes note of everything said; however, her thoughts are more occupied with a fantasy of running away to live with elves.

Mental illness was almost never discussed in our family. By the time I was in high school, I was vaguely aware that my mother got medication (which she rarely took) from a person she called her "squirrelly doctor." I only knew about that at all because my father would yell at her for not taking it. He had a principled contempt for most claims of mental illness, particularly depression and anxiety, but my mother's bipolar disorder was different. She had acute manic phases which affected her behavior in ways that caused trouble, e.g. spending too much money and having sex with too many people. Both my parents were substance abusers, but I think it really annoyed him that she preferred to take drugs that enhanced her manic times.

Religion was discussed in our family. Or at least, it had a pervasive presence. Looking back, I can see that my parents were both acutely aware of their problems -- the drugs, the fights, the general semi-shadiness of their lifestyle. But however wrong they were, they still knew what was right. And they made sure their children knew, too. They loved me and my brother. They wanted us to end up better. They sent us to church even when they didn't go themselves.

I was the "good" child. Quiet, studious, mostly obedient. I was good at hiding the depths of myself. I was good at learning things, seeing patterns, accumulating knowledge. People tend to fall into roles within groups, especially families. I was smart but impractical. (While I suspect my parents emphasized my "lack of common sense" because it helped their egos, I have to admit that I fell willingly into the role. Even now it's hard for me to believe I'm capable of certain ordinary things.) It was harder for my brother. He believed he wasn't as smart as me, but he wasn't exactly practical either. His gift manifested itself as... religion.

There is substantial evidence linking schizophrenia, bipolar disorder and creativity. Because of my brother, I know how lucky I am to:

1) be only on the edge of these things
2) have the ability to express them

My brother is schizophrenic. The world speaks to him far more urgently than it does to me. It communicates piercing spiritual truths at every turn. It is no wonder that he resorts to any drug he can find to drown that voice out.

Can you imagine hearing the voice of God, telling you to kill your own child, exactly as He told Abraham?

I can imagine it all too clearly.

Religion serves a variety of social purposes, and people have many reasons for participating in it. But the central lure is the offer of something that afflicts my brother all the time, whether he wants it to or not. At its core, religion is nothing more than sane people seeking to emulate madmen.

Which is why the best thing that ever happened to me was going to college -- and learning to think critically. And guess what? Although I no longer believe in God (in fact I find Abraham's deity reprehensible), I am still, at times, struck by wonder and delirious love for all humanity. The questions I learned to ask simply freed my imagination.