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Life is unpredictable. That may be stating the obvious, but to understand it on a gut level is no small feat in a global culture that promotes control over our very existence by means of electronics and chemicals.
Take my life, for instance. In my youth, there was no way that I could have predicted I would be a lesbian. At 10, I was vying for the attention of Stevie Silver, who, for some ridiculous reason, was considered hot stuff on his two-wheeler. At 20, I married my high school sweetheart — partly because I was terrified of dating and figured that by getting married, I could take myself out of the arena of sexual competition, which I still hate to this day. At 30, I was nagging at that sweetheart to get the hell out of the Air Force so I could start to have a life. At 35, I found a life, but to our dismay, discovered he really couldn't be a part of it, because I came out as a dyke.
Then there are more recent events. Because it was such hard work for me to be a single parent, I could never envision life past 18 for my daughters, let alone seeing them give birth to sons within three weeks of each other, which just happened in February.
Twenty years ago, I predicted there would be a Revolution — that sexism, homophobia, racism, classism, anti-Semitism, and you-name-itism were going to melt away under the trusted leadership and compassionate vision of the Amazon Nation. I was wrong. These days, I can hardly keep myself from envisioning the exact opposite — namely, that 20 years from now we will all go up in flames in some nuclear holocaust with one or two filthy rich white men pushing the buttons.
So how does a political activist passionately attached to fantasies of a clean environment full of peace-loving humans who have no desire to dominate each other to death hold onto the concept that life is totally unpredictable and not get depressed? Political awareness and depression are very close cousins, I find.
But I'd like to share a dream I had recently that may help me to reconcile this dilemma (at least for 10 minutes). I love to put trust in my dreams, because they send me messages from deep inside my vulnerable, undefended, beyond-rational self where I'm not trying to impress anybody, including myself.
In this dream I am falling down a deep, cement-lined shaft — falling and falling toward almost certain death or maiming. I was terrified. Then I remembered that people who are drunk are sometimes not hurt when they fall, because their bodies are so limp. So, while I'm falling, I decide to let my muscles go limp — even though this goes against my instinct to brace myself, stiffen up, and resist. I change my mind mid-fall and do stiffen up for a few seconds (this is a long fall the likes of which only happen in dreams), but then in a panic I talk myself back into "relaxing" again, because I know it's my only hope of survival. I never reach bottom.
Although the dream was teetering on the ragged edge of a nightmare, I'm choosing to interpret it as a spiritual gift. Here was a graphic image that I experienced on a gut level, sending me the message that despite my doubts and fears for my own survival, my only hope is to "relax" into the process, to surrender, to let go, not to focus on results. (Since our dreams are often maps of our soul work, not only is this stance a hope, but it must also be what I am already doing on a number of levels and for a variety of reasons.)
Does that mean we give up on our visions to overturn the power imbalances in our world? Does that mean we stop doing the footwork? Does that mean we cease to confront those who are evil and greedy? I don't think so. Otherwise, how will we ever effect change?
I believe in doing this work. However, we need to keep the focus on process and be prepared to modify our visions. We need to respond to feedback from our communities, trusted friends, and helpers — especially if our allies are sending us a strong message that we are power-tripping, or bulldozing, or behaving in a rigid, obsessive manner.
Most of all, it means that we maintain an attitude of willingness as opposed to willfulness. During that dream, I definitely willed my muscles to go limp. In other words, I was willing to be willing, and that's as far as I can go sometimes. The rest is faith. Only then can I come close to radical self-acceptance, a state in which falling has a chance to feel like flying some day — flying in the face of all those doubts.
