On The Eve of DeConstruction
Today is the eve of a consequential election in American politics. There is an adage that when politics comes down to money and momentum, momentum wins. At this moment, one side has the money; the other has the momentum.
Either way, it is difficult not to develop expectations. We hear them constantly in the news: this party will do this; that party will do that; we will shake things up in ways never seen before.
We project all this change when change often occurs without regard for our projections. Change is a basic fact of reality. Anything we imagine must therefore account for the uncertainty of the outcome. Honestly, how often does the catastrophizing mind predict accurately?
I am frightened. I am triggered. Those are my truths, and they may be yours as well. But our projections may differ drastically—and projections are not always accurate.
It feels right to jump on the bandwagon. But where is that wagon taking us, and why do we need it? Is it so hard to stand on our own? It is natural to seek company when we are frightened, but frightened people are easily led. When we surround ourselves with carbon copies, we silence the parts of our minds that ask questions, see alternatives, and understand others.
Projection often begins positively, with an aspiration. We want something even while believing there is little chance it will happen. Then, as the decisive moment approaches, perhaps the possibility seems greater than we realized.
Aspiration becomes expectation. Because we have come further than anticipated, we begin to assume things will work out as we wish.
Then expectation becomes demand. We feel reality must follow suit. It has to go our way. Such demands inevitably leave us vulnerable to having the rug pulled out from under us.
As Pete Townshend wrote: “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss.”
Revolutions often recreate the conditions they set out to overthrow, albeit with different faces, clothing, and accoutrements. This does not mean genuine change is impossible. But genuine change must account for life’s natural changeability.
Nothing is solid. Replacing one oppressive certainty with an equally rigid opposing certainty keeps us swinging from one extreme to another. It creates a cycle resembling what Buddhists call samsara.
Desire and disappointment give this cycle momentum. When one expectation catches us short, another takes its place. Moving so quickly creates ignorance: we cannot see clearly because we are not paying attention.
We need a pause that awakens us to our own thought processes. To exercise agency, we must notice when momentum is sweeping us along—even toward something we desperately want.
Then, perhaps, we can stop.
Stopping does not mean changing course or abandoning our purpose. It means making room to pause and reconnect with the heart. If we are not connected with the heart, we are not connected with our humanity. And the only way to build a new social system is to remain connected to the humanity of everyone within it.
I often wonder why members of a political party have so much difficulty reaching out to those who oppose them. I do not mean merely finding “common ground.” I mean recognizing something deeper: all beings suffer, and all wish to be free from suffering.
People may pursue that freedom through methods very different from our own. Some methods may even be destructive or hateful. We should not excuse hatred or violence, but we can oppose harmful actions without denying the humanity of those responsible. Beneath a destructive response may lie a profoundly human impulse: fear, pain, confusion, or the longing to be free. That impulse is our point of connection.
Our culture encourages us to demonize whatever frightens or angers us. From our own perspective, that demonization can feel justified; from another, it can seem cruel and unjust. We rightly condemn the dehumanization of people because of race or identity. We should also be careful not to answer hatred by dehumanizing those who hate.
I speak against hatred and violence. But I must remember that this is my point of view. The question is not whether I should surrender my convictions. It is whether I can hold them without denying that others have convictions, fears, and suffering of their own. Can I invite them into a larger vision rather than cast them outside it? Can I speak to more people without sacrificing the principles at my core?
I am drawn to leaders who keep their principles without strengthening them through the exclusion of others—those who say, “I am with you even when I disagree with you.”
Perhaps meaningful change begins there: not in defeating one group and replacing it with another, but in pausing long enough to break the chains of aggression. Our new life begins with the difficult practice of keeping the human heart open—even in the presence of disagreement, fear, and pain.
