Last week I wrote about the story I’m telling myself about pandemics and fate and such, and it prompted me to do a little additional story maintenance. I tell myself all kinds of stories, and you do, too—it’s called narrative identity theory in psychology—but just because I’ve had the same one for twenty or thirty years doesn’t mean I have to keep telling it. Old stuff isn’t necessarily great stuff.
So, periodically I blow the dust off my story collection and hold each one up to the light to determine if I want to keep it. Some are treasures I want to preserve and protect for future generations; others are merely lead-laced plastic dishware I’ve been hoarding since I got my first apartment.
HeatherAsh Amara has a more artful metaphor: “A story is ripe when we are no longer attached to it, when it no longer defines who we are. Stories ripen when we no longer need to believe them.”
We’ll use hers. Since the pandemic started, a couple of my stories have positively fermented. I’ve already written about one long-ago favorite, now being consumed by bees and other scavenging creatures at the bottom of my story tree: Busyness is next to godliness.
*cups hands* Booooooooooo! BOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Oh, and I’m also done with its cousin, which looked sweet on the outside but actually tasted like banana Now & Laters: You need to work harder than everyone else. That one I personally saw fall and be carried off by industrious racoons. A lovely green fruit is growing in its place, called Uh, maybe go for balance in your life instead.
But here’s a big juicy red one I’ve been eyeing for quite some time now, and which, regardless, is about to be violently shaken from the tree in August:
I hate change.
I mean, all humans hate change. Or, at least, we have a strong preference for things that we are already familiar with—that’s why just having a recognizable name will get you elected, why most pop music sounds the same, and why people continue to watch Adam Sandler movies. But for a long time, I was telling myself that I hated change exceptionally, that I was the poster child for hating change, that I hated change more than the rest of you cognitively basic homo sapiens.
I don’t know where I came up with this story. However, I do know that I first noticed it starting to take on some color when I read The Wisdom of No Escape, and I entertained the idea that change isn’t any better or worse than anything else. So I started inviting in some small changes—you know, going to Walgreens instead of CVS, wearing shorts, flossing—and slowly worked my way up to leaving a job I’d been hanging out quite comfortably in for over a decade.
My reaction to each of these changes followed a consistent pattern, as illustrated in the following diagram:
When we say we hate change, I think we’re always picturing the middle section, the part where you’re curled under your desk humming 90s boy band ballads and pulling your eyebrows off one hair at a time. In all that angst, it’s hard to remember that if we stick around long enough, we do eventually get the cookie and a little extra emotional muscle. For me, the more I’ve practiced getting uncomfortable, the easier it gets to remember its transience.
Now. Something else true (and free!), lest we wander too far into the self-help woods: I am not saying that I intend to passively receive all that is handed to me in the coming months. Maybe for you or me, change will come in the ways in which we interact with the world. Perhaps we’ll start speaking up in places we never thought we could, or trusting our inner wisdom over the judgments of others. Perhaps this will be a time for us to move from political hobbyism to political activism, away from acquiescence toward self-advocacy.
Accepting change isn’t rolling yourself out to be trampled on. It’s just adjusting your inner expectations-o-meter so that you don’t spend your precious energy wishing, weeping, or raging that things will go back to the way they were.
If you’re an educator or a parent—or, the mother of the entire goddess pantheon, an EDUCATOR PARENT—the only thing that we need to wholly accept is that we’re not going back to the way things were last August, one way or another. Change is here, and while we’re in the middle of it, together or separately, it will be extremely uncomfortable and maybe kind of awful. AND IT IS OKAY TO FEEL THAT WAY. You’ve heard “A calm sea never made a smooth sailor,” right? Just make sure you don’t confuse the middle of the storm, with the thunder and the waves and the flesh-eating cephalopods, for the calm water and superior sailing skills you’ll have after it’s over.
I hate change isn’t serving me anymore, and I’m guessing it’s not going to do much for you, either. We’d better go ahead and give it to the raccoons.
