Psychologists have identified five characteristics of most people's temperaments. The shorthand goes like this: extroversion, neuroticism, agreeableness, conscientiousness, openness to new experiences. I'm not sure I like the way they tend to list "the big five," as a single good choice with an unspoken dark double. Some of us are introverts; others are extroverts, and the world needs both. Some of us have stable moods, while some of us struggle with mood disorders or our mental health. Some of us are easy-going, where others are a bit cranky. Some of us are conscientious; others need to go their own way or take care of number one. Some of us are inclined to say yes to new experiences; others say no. For years, even before I knew about "the big five," I knew there were introverts and extroverts. I'm definitely an introvert, but my faux extrovert is pretty skilled. And I knew there were "yes people" and "no people": some people opened their arms to others, to the world, to surprise, to adventure. For others, their favourite word, in a whole host of ways, was "No."
Unless it involves doing dangerous things with my body, I'm a "yes person." (I have neither prowess nor bravery.) Except this moment in the twentieth century is challenging that tendency in so many ways. For one thing, I'm down on men. Not you nice guys who are reading this, but those besotted with their own power and wealth: they've done a lot of damage in the last three or four years. I'm reading less and less news, watching less and less TV coverage. This new habit argues with one of the qualities not listed in the big five: curiosity. I'm always curious. "What's up with that?" "What's happening here?" Or the big one: "Why?" That one is too big to embrace the events of Tumbler Ridge. We'll have to settle with "What can we do?" and for most of us who live far away, the answer is "Be kind." Or "Be helpful when you see someone struggling." "Be open."
But even before that visceral shock, the idiot id who lives south of us had been riding roughshod over my psyche. When he kidnapped Maduro, he pulled a painful strand of memories I could call "reactions to American Imperialism" tied to my past that goes all the way back to the Vietnam War, especially the My Lai Massacre, which revealed that even when the "world's policeman" intervenes, it isn't always for noble reasons. The assumption that anyone could march into another country to change their history or their values makes me almost physically sick. Then the Orange Ogre wanted to own Greenland, without acknowledging the kinds of intransigent conflict that desire created. He backed off on that. Then two good people were needlessly killed by ICE in Minneapolis by men with masks. (Have I said I'm down on men with guns?) Now the occupation that was so necessary to save Minneapolis from itself has been ended. So I'm left with two reactions. What stupid and needlessly violent thing will he think of next? And how soon afterwards will he cancel it--as if it were a needless bad joke? I can't listen anymore.
But I can't shift into the "no" camp, for ethical reasons. Many of us need to witness what is happening. And if we all turtle into ourselves, who will be left doing the good work, the kind work, reflecting on what our values should be? What will hold our social networks, our communities together if we are all hiding our heads? So I've decided to shift my energy to what and who is close by, what I can change, where I can see beauty, not ugly violence.
I'm going after glimmers, identified by Deb Dana. Glimmers are small moments that make you smile or lift your spirits. Lyra and Tuck, my two loving cats, provide lots of glimmers, whether they are piled on my legs for a nap, which they do every day after lunch, or whether they are curled up tightly with one another in a configuration that reads "love." Today I took delight in the way a line of trees along Wascana Creek danced and shifted as I drove around a curve and my perspective changed. I felt delight in all that said about the power of perspective and change. Or the fantails of two pigeons who hang out at our feeder, which make perfect arcs as they ascend to the roof of our garage. It's a smile, a butterfly, a flower--beauty that doesn't need to be there, but that the world just routinely gives to us, because that's the way the world is.
And I'm brushing up on Dachner Keltner's work on awe. How feeling awe in a landscape, in a piece of music or a work of art, can remind us that there are big things in the world that we do not fully understand. How do you understand a mountain? How do you understand how you feel about the spaciousness of the prairie? Why does that particular tangle of notes in woodwinds and brass give you goosebumps? When you acknowledge that you are moved in a way you can't explain, you acknowledge that there is something bigger than we are. The thing that makes us feel awe most fully is called "moral beauty." When you see people being kind, compassionate, and courageous, you see the best of our humanity. At Tumbler Ridge, there were older students protecting younger ones, teachers trying to soothe a frightened class, political leaders holding hands and forgetting politics for a day to acknowledge the suffering of a community.
Or fall in love. Remember why you love someone, renew that feeling, really look, observe, remember why you felt it. For I can't think of anything more open than love.
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