Might As Well Jump

 

 

 

In Frank Herbert’s Dune, the mystical Bene Gesserit sisterhood had a litany against fear.

“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.”

To the Bene Gesserit, what separated a human from an animal was the ability to withstand and endure terror, suborning it to one’s will. The animal reacted. The human planned.

I’ve always been a planner. I got afraid if I didn’t have a plan. So when people ask why I left my job without another in hand, I tell them “I was about to turn 46, with more years behind than ahead, and my ‘maybe someday’ list was running out of somedays.” When it’s more than a passing conversation, I quote Annie Dillard in The Writing Life: “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour and that one is what we are doing.” They commend me for having the courage to pursue my dreams, which embarrasses me because it had nothing to do with courage, or even dreams. I’m privileged to have resources to get by while I figure things out. My family is in no real danger. All I did was react to my calculus of competing fears.

They weren’t even interesting fears. On one side was the mid-life crisis of a plateaued career, mounting frustration, and a nebulous sense of being trapped. On the other were the worst-case scenarios of starting over. The boredom I knew, versus all the worse ways I could fail. Endurance versus action. I flipped the Bene Gesserit’s script, building up a fear-driven resilience to the daily grind that paid the bills and gave me a respectable job title. I could detach my emotions, do the work, and set my brain on autopilot. “The examined life is not worth living,” I’d joke. Because once examined, I’d have to respond to what I saw. And that meant I’d have to leap off the edge of that plateau, into the unknown.

Jumping was on my mind when my supervisor took me to task for not being enthusiastic and inspiring enough for my team.

In my sophomore year of college, I joined some dorm mates and went skydiving. It was a half day process of getting familiar with the equipment, practicing the sequence of actions that would get me to the ground intact, and drilling on the safety contingencies. That done, we went up in a tiny Cessna. A static line was attached from the plane to our parachutes; they would open automatically when we fell a certain distance, provided we arched our bodies in the way that kept our backs up and bellies down. One by one, we followed the steps we’d practiced.

When my turn came, our instructor called ONE, and I stood in the open door frame in the side of the plane.

TWO. I stepped out between a pair of bars under the wing; one that I could grip in my hands, and the other that supported my feet.

THREE. While holding on to the upper bar, I stepped off the lower, and hung from my hands under the wing.

FOUR. There was no getting back into the plane now, even if the shame of doing so was endurable. The only things I could do were continue to hang there, or do what I’d come to do, and just. let. go.

Confusion. The roar of wind in my ears through my helmet. A jumble of images and no idea which way was up. Then the parachute opened, and it all went quiet. Peaceful. Free. I hung in the sky supported by air, and drifted over green and brown rectangles of land. I saw a barn. A house. A Christmas tree. It was a sublime, singular experience. Only later did it hit me that I’d jumped out of an airplane. It seemed insane. They key was that I hadn’t approached it as a single action. Even at the very end, it was four steps, which I concentrated on executing as well as I could, my mind focused on that specific task and not the entire chain of events that would put me in freefall, 12,000 feet up.

Of course, underneath it all was a huge amount of faith in the entire support system. I had faith in the instructors, the pilot, the equipment handlers, the equipment itself. I had faith in the invulnerability that came with being 19 years old. More than two decades later, I had forgotten that faith, especially in myself. As my responsibilities expanded beyond myself, so did my caution. I allowed my roles to define me, and as they did, my life became less about me and more about my obligations. That’s even considered virtuous to some. They call it a work ethic. I suspect that’s what a mid-life crisis is: after years of paying dues and being responsible, the sidelined self roars back into focus, demanding satisfaction. It wants, selfishly, unapologetically. In my case, it wanted, once again, to jump.

ONE. I told my supervisor that if my attitude was such a concern, but there was nothing to do about what caused that attitude, I really had to think about why I was here.

TWO. I asked my wife how concerned she’d be if I outright quit. This week. Tomorrow. She had once quit in frustration. She said we could make it work.

THREE. I backed up and cleared away everything personal on my laptop and desk, and took a final inventory of what I’d be leaving behind. Surprisingly little, all told.

FOUR. I looked forward to the follow-up meeting with my supervisor. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I had power. I was no longer beholden, no longer obligated. A feeling of magnanimity swelled up in me. I didn’t need to vent my grievances, I simply thanked him for his candor and give my two weeks notice.

I was light, free, floating and smiling all those two weeks. My relationship to people and objects in and around the office had shifted. I moved among them, but untethered. All the weight was lifted. Ironically, I could focus better, and the magnanimous attitude buoyed me through the remaining work days. I did ask myself if I could have somehow manufactured this way of being while keeping my job, but it was a passing thought. The feeling of release, of hope for the future, couldn’t be faked. It could only come from facing down my fear, letting go, and tumbling into open air.

CODA. The following week after my last day, my phone buzzed with texts, emails, and instant messages. Several people, including my supervisor, his supervisor, and half my peers, had their jobs terminated. A part of me wished I had held out three days, for a severance package. But the better part was happy to have my instincts validated. It’s better to jump than to be pushed.

 

No Two-State Solution On the Planet Of the Apes

Caesar
The Hawk who dreamed of being a Dove

 

Why do they fight? What’s the real reason, beyond the circumstances of the moment, or the doctrines used to sell violence to those who would otherwise have peace? When the news and social feeds are filled with stories of escalating conflict, this is the only question that matters over the long term. The reasons have to be addressed.

When I try to understand the real reasons, I find myself getting lost in the current talking point meta-war between Israel and Palestine. So I turn to the buffer and distance offered by science fiction. Science fiction can provide a metaphor to understand conflict, and the “confrontation with the Inhuman Other” has been fertile soil for the genre. And in the unexpectedly satisfying Dawn of the Planet of the Apes, science fiction transcends metaphor to build a myth, an illustration of a truth both timeless and bleak.

Though a sequel of a remake, the movie is a standalone piece, leading with an efficient bit of narration to establish that civilization has crumbled, there is a history of mutual blame between human and intelligent ape, and the two races have no reason or desire to interact. This is the story of what happens when they do. This is a “clash of civilizations” myth about why there is no two-state solution on the Planet of the Apes.

There are no straw men either. Both humans and apes have leaders with an interest in peace and an understanding of politics. The hawkish factions of both tribes have legitimate reasons not to trust. As viewers, we believe in the legitimacy of both civilizations’ right to exist. The movie’s plot is a catalog of earnest attempts at bridge-building and how they fail, with theoretically rational decisions paving the road to disaster:

  • Can we trust their offer of peace when we know they’re preparing for war?
  • Should we help them become strong, if that strength could be used against us?
  • Does offering forgiveness show us as weak? And does it betray those who were harmed by what is being forgiven?
  • Do instances of aid erase transgressions against us?

The answers hinge on basic presumptions about your own people, and theirs. Actions taken out of hope can sometimes create connections, but actions motivated by fear always end up justifying that fear. And as a rallying cry, fear is far more effective. When the survival of one’s people is the perceived stake, the risk of trust becomes too high for a rational leader to embrace. War becomes inevitable, a fact realized even by those who worked for peace.

Why do they fight? Because they can neither trust nor forgive. Because they fear, and nothing short of domination of the other tribe can erase that fear. On their planet and ours.