Interdependence

Normalize casual intimacy.

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I’m a bi-gender person—masc and femme together in parallel unison. Like a Tootsie Roll, a Twinkie, a Ho-Ho, or a KitKat, I have a more brittle, masc outer layer; and a creamy, femme inner core.

The femme part of me has been surprised when I have proposed activities to femme friends that I think of as normal and platonic, like getting together to braid one another’s hair or do nails or other grooming activities, along with gossip and food and music. The response I’ve gotten doesn’t tell me that the idea is being rejected because it came from someone with a masc presentation, but just that the idea itself feels icky or weird or frivolous, regardless of who proposed it.

I think we’ve reached a time of cultural compression when the the need to mask in public makes casual intimacy too costly—if we forget for a couple of hours that we’re supposed to be competing with one another, and stepping on one another’s shoulders and fingers and toes, we’ll miss an opportunity for social advancement. Moments of casual intimacy remind us of the brutality of the work environments we operate within, and since it seems that brutality is unavoidable, it is the intimacy that becomes the thing to avoid.

And since I experience this casual intimacy as a kind of vitamin—an important part of a balanced social diet—I recognize that we have created a condition where everyone is starved of something that would always be available if we would collectively let down our guard and stop performing invulnerability. We hunger for it, but someone’s rules say that we are only allowed to experience it within a contractually sanctioned relationship, so when we get feelings outside of those pigeonholes, there is a conflict—between the natural tendency toward connection, and the imposed imperative to suppress the connection.

This being so, I own that I will always be perceived as too much—”too familiar,” “flirty,” “inappropriately intimate,” “overly emotional,” “dramatic,” “too informal,”—simply because I refuse to accept the inevitability of the brutality that many people face in their work and social environments. I refuse to suppress the natural tendency toward connection. I refuse to impose a contractual constraint on where I experience intimacy. I feel it is actually my whole job to remind my community that productivity is not the goal, that free time is a virtue to be cultivated, and that casual intimacy is our actual settled and natural state.

That being so, I might describe the grief I feel about the loss of a loved one in the middle of a work meeting. I might express that an interaction with an especially loud and reckless motorcycle made me feel vulnerable when applying for a business license. I might point to the behavior of a person in a management position, and show how that person is taking an opportunity to punch down, rather than being accepting, inclusive, and supportive. “Too much” means “not silent,” and in spaces where we are expected to disappear, “not silence” equals “too much.”

And to be clear, what I am calling intimacy has nothing to do with sexuality or even physical touch. Intimacy is simply the willingness to return to our basic, true character in the presence of another, and to drop the mask that work and social navigation require of us. Intimacy is simply abandoning the performance of invulnerability for a moment or two. Intimacy is simply acknowledging the fiction of independence, and experiencing the wonder and joy of interdependence, even if only for a couple of moments.

At the present moment, I propose that the most radical and revolutionary act we can engage in (but the most powerful, since we can engage in it any time) is simply the act of casual intimacy—when we acknowledge that each of us has a way that we care for ourself, and that we could just as easily care for one another in the same moment.

As we brush our hair, realize that we could be engaging in casual intimacy by brushing someone else’s hair. As we manage our pet’s excrement on a walk, realize that we could be engaging in casual intimacy by helping a loved one who needs support to manage their excrement. As we feel a moment of grief for the loss of a loved one, recognize that we could just as easily feel a moment of grief alongside a friend who is experiencing a similar moment.

I propose that the more we engage in casual intimacy, the less we demand that our contractual relationships fulfill our needs for intimacy, and that that quality in itself is liberating to both sides of our relationships.

So, on that note: let’s get together soon to braid each other’s hair, or do our nails together, and have some snacks and music and gossip time, and maybe cry about our dog that just died, or about the parent that doesn’t remember us that we are caring for.

In this economy, this is the type of care that cannot be monetized, and that is only available to the privileged. Let’s privilege one another with casual intimacy, and invite whomever we can into that state of privilege—because if everyone is included in it, it is no longer a privilege, but a right—simply a natural state of being, around which we organize ourselves, around everyone’s comfort, and not just our own.

Normalize casual intimacy.

‘ey, aye

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all of the reasons to hate ai and to love ai are valid, to a point. it does things for us that are helpful to have done for us. it does things to us that are harmful to have done to us.

the main thing we should focus on is what it requires of us. it requires that power be centralized in such a way that concerns about water and land use are deprioritized. it requires that people who don’t have our best interests in mind influence elections. it requires that we relinquish our rights to our own ideas in the tos agreement required to use it.

ai is not local: it requires centralized control of a vast network of resources from around the globe. it doesn’t fit in a backpack.

ai is not democratic: the algorithms that deliver it’s results are designed by a small team that does not answer to us. it doesn’t respond to community review.

ai is not neutral: it’s knowledge base is a collection of writings that represents centuries of colonizers writing about encounters with beings deemed lesser. it doesn’t weight indigenous voices higher.

ai is not embodied: nothing in its database includes information that can only be experienced through the senses. it didn’t smell what you smelled.

ai has not experienced loss: it can tell you what grieving people have said, but it cannot experience their pain, and console you in the ways that only someone who has experienced loss can console you. it can’t adjust the way you’ve adjusted.

ai has never attended a birth, nor tasted the final breath of a loved one. it doesn’t know the poem your mother needed to hear for comfort.

ai is a performance by someone who was never there, but who requires you to hand over all rights to land, water, minerals, species diversity, diplomatic nonpartisanship, labor justice, bioregional congruity, indigenous stewardship, ecosystem integrity, economic equity, cultural heritage, family legacy, intellectual architecture, emotional elaboration, and environmental renewal.

but it’s so convenient. i’ll give it that.

letter from nana

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i got this letter from my nana today. i thought id share it with you. it made me cry, she’s such a sweetheart. i miss her so much, but i thought you might get something out of hearing how she talks to me.

take care,

rag

hey, baby,

i hope you’re settling in nicely. i was just thinking about you, and wanted to give you some nice words in case you’re lonely. it can get lonely, these days. here’s some things that will help you remember that you’re not alone.

the meditation hall, the container that meditation happens within, is a character. we know this to be true because each meditation hall smells a little different, has different drafts, and the shadows land differently at different times of day.

just as each individual, each buddha within its walls is a character, and the sangha expresses the shape of the community’s character, the meditation hall is a character whose walls contain the character of the teaching that has happened there. even if no dharma talk has ever been given in the space, in this space, dharma is always being expounded. the particular shape of the dharma being expounded in the meditation hall continuously is called character. we say it is neutral, but in fact it has a shape that is exactly its own.

zen’s emphasis on shikan taza, and the absence of guided imagery during the meditation period, allows each mind to settle in its own way. each buddha is the container for the teachings, myriad ways of seeing and being seen, arising interdependently, and liberation is not dependent on following instructions, save the ones one follows to remain upright, if one needs them, be they remembered words, embodied shapes, or pictures of buddhas practicing upright.

within the meditation hall, the sangha arranges itself into the shape suggested by its walls, which were built exactly as a container for the sangha from the suggestions of the sangha. a buddha settles into sangha in the ways that the sangha suggests, and the shape of this settling is a suggestion that informs the sangha. countless momentary interactions, with people, with architecture, with idea and interpretation—nothing but dharma unfolding, and this unfolding is a character.

i know, sometimes people say you’re being a character, but you’re just being yourself. i see you, baby. miss you, sweetheart.

the moment a new monk, or the visitor from another temple, enters the meditation hall, the character of the hall is revealed: where are its boundaries rigid? where are there walls that adjust to the needs of the moment?

notice how quickly the seasoned monk moves to correct. notice the subtle signs in their behavior that they are adjusting to something, to understand it. beyond the postures and the mudras of the service, and the way the bells are sounded and clappers clapped, what other shapes is the sangha embodying that are shaped by the character of the meditation hall?

the new monk, or the visitor from another temple, might do well to view each interaction in a new space as a kind of guided meditation that reveals the character of the meditation hall—the character is being performed, and can be perceived—a perfect character study. someone is being meditated upon, and decisions are being made, just as one is meditating upon the space one moves through and making decisions.

seeing these encounters as guided meditations, that sitting in stillness prepared us to move through, how is one’s response to being guided, in the way one’s being guided? what is the character of the response to or the receipt of the dharma talk that one’s movement through the environment offers the sangha? where is the friction, or the resolution of friction, at the edges of the interaction between your character and the character of the meditation hall, and the sangha, and the buddhas within?

where does one notice resistance or redirection? where does one feel a curtain yield or a window open. breathing the shared air, understanding how air cycles through a space, understand how generosity flows through the space, and how it is redirected, and why.

when a monk asks questions, their questions reveal their character. when the sangha responds, the response reveals the character of the sangha. the character of the meditation hall is revealed in the particular way a footstep echoes, or the way the line of a tan invites us over, and these are reflected in the character of the sangha, and the buddhas within. a cast of characters with a certain character.

notice your capacity for kindness, child, and notice the way that kindness breaks you open when it reaches deep inside you.
be reachable, honey.
be generous, baby.
knowing the way that kindness breaks you, consider the way that being forced open breaks you, and sit with that. i know you do.

have you ever had moments where you’ve been forced open, or moments where kindness broke you open? have you ever accidentally broken someone open with kindness? have you ever forced someone open with kind intentions? i know you’re thinking about these things, baby. that reflects kindly on your character.

don’t worry about performing the fiction of independence.
try to abandon the performance of invulnerability.

the earth needs us to be vulnerable, right now, sweetie.

can you hear it?

i wish i could hug you.

nana loves you.

you be good now, and you just live your life, and be the best person you can. it’s your life, and no one can live it for you.

don’t forget to think of your old nana once in a while.

love you, baby.

complementary adaptation: toward a kinder view of neurodiversity and disability

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Two people in a boat. One can row, but cannot navigate. The other can navigate, but cannot row. If we view each as a whole, each has both an asset and a liability—each is both abled and disabled. If we view the relationship as a whole, we can describe things differently.

If participation and cooperation are both given, and both needs and abilities are transparent, we can say, for the sake of argument, that we have a balanced system. Ability and disability are actually complementary parts of a balanced system.

For the system to remain balanced, the requirement is that we do not judge one by the standards of the other. Both are necessary for the system to be balanced. It is only in separating the ability and disability within the system—through creation of a standard that applies to each equally—that disability as a permanent status arises (or ability, as a permanent status, for that matter).

Humans are a social animal, and no human can be said to exist in isolation. The work of survival as a cohesive community is complex. If we view human evolution as a community project, rather than a process of creating ideal and identical individuals, perhaps it’s fairer to say that humans are more like the two people in the boat that opened this narrative than like individuals striving toward undifferentiated perfection.

I believe that as our understanding of neurodiversity deepens, we will begin to see the complementary nature of different sensory, cognitive, behavioral, emotional, somatic, and relational expressions within a community of people engaged in the work of surviving within an ecosystem, and start to recognize the unique socio-ecological niche that each is adapted to.

That being said, humans have created systems that separate us from the ecology we evolved over millions of years to function within—capitalism being the most recent and totalizing form this separation has taken. Any framework, whatever its organizing logic, that substitutes an abstracted, portable standard for embedded relationship will distort our ability to view each type of expression fairly, in context. In the deepest sense, it is these imposed frameworks—not one’s specific neuropsychobiology—that create the permanent state of ability or disability.

Is this an argument that disability does not exist, or should not be accommodated? Absolutely not. Does the human organism itself demand that we recognize the various socio-ecological niches for which each individual may be uniquely adapted? Also no—evolution continues, and each part of any ecosystem is changed by interaction with the others—just as we were once single-celled life forms adapted to an underwater ecosystem that no longer exists, we will adapt to whatever conditions our survivors find themselves within (if there are survivors—evolution is a slow process, and the changes we have made to our ecosystem have arguably outpaced it).

What, then, is the good of understanding or accepting a principle like complementary adaptation, if we are eventually going to change anyway? From a human sociological perspective, it allows us to be both kinder and more accommodating of difference. In recognizing the many ways that variations in human adaptive expression contribute to the well-being of a complex social organism within an ecosystem, we can move people toward societal roles for which they may already be well adapted, rather than forcing them to adapt to environments where their permanent disability status is the only option. It changes the framework for our application of care—to use our earlier analogy, to match rowers with navigators, those who thrive as nurturers with those who thrive with care, across a broad spectrum of socio-ecological niches.

What this requires of us, as those who study human variation, is to recognize the many ways that current conditions game the system for the comfort of some, at the expense of basic human dignity for others, and to recognize the gatekeepers who enforce the conditions we find ourselves in, be they actual humans, economic systems, or simply cognitive frameworks. It would be naive to think that we can simply abandon every framework we’ve inherited outright, but making the shift to recognizing human variation as a relationship affords us a direction for a new field of study—and nudges us toward a kinder, more integrated relationship with our world and with one another.