Between driving to work one morning and driving home, a stoplight appeared on my route. This shouldn’t have been a surprise. I’ve been navigating the construction zone for months now and have frequently passed under the bar of the stoplight, the light fixtures themselves black-bagged overhead like Scooby-Doo villains waiting to be unmasked. Rationally, I knew the bags would come off and the lights would be put into effect someday.
Despite the months of foreshadowing, however, I nearly slammed on my brakes as I approached the new and very vividly green light over the intersection, suddenly unsure of which color meant “stop.” I lurched through the crossing, grateful that no one had been behind me while I suffered my mini-stroke. It took my heart two blocks to dislodge itself from my throat.
Inexplicably, I was pissed. You think you can just turn on one day and expect me to obey you, stoplight? Is this my life now? Occasionally having to stop at an additional intersection on my commute to and from the office? How dare you impede me?
Change often elicits a strong emotional response from me, even if it’s out of proportion and ultimately fleeting. I’ve given a eulogy for a fried laptop. I felt betrayed by the gas station next to my office when they stopped stocking my favorite flavor of energy drink. Just a couple weeks ago, I endured a wave of sorrow after seeing an old sports bar transition into a Mexican restaurant. I had no connection to that bar. I’d never been inside it. I never intended to go inside it. I am far, far more likely to visit now that enchiladas verdes and margaritas are on the menu. So why did I tear up to see the new paint job?
Change is death and so change is mourned. We grieve the end of the old even when it makes way for something better (like enchiladas verdes and margaritas). We grieve even when the stakes are low. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s five stage model of grief (flawed as it may be decades after development) applies not only to life-or-death traumas but to smaller life changes as well. Grief is grief.
Which is a bummer of sorts, considering my next Year of the Unicorn lesson is:
Change is the Only Constant
The expression comes from the philosopher Heraclitus, who was kind of a turd (but with a name like that, can we really fault him?). The associated Greek phrase Panta Rhei may also ring a bell, translating to “everything flows” or “life is flux,” or so the internet informs me. It’s the concept that you may step in the same river twice, but is it really the same river? The waters are eternally changing, moment to moment. Our perception of “same” is not really sameness. Life is constant transition.
That concept initially scared me. If all is flux, where is the stability? What river rock can I grab hold of to keep from drowning when even the stones are doomed to erode? Must I spend my life fighting the current? What an exhausting existence!
Heraclitus would agree, calling that desire to cling an unnatural and detrimental impulse. If life is flowing and you as an individual refuse to flow with it, then are you really participating in life?
And then Heraclitus would declare himself the only “woke” person at the party and go sit in a corner to mutter cryptically to himself and weep over the foolishness of man.
Super relatable expression though. Source
So the “natural” way to deal with change is to flow with it, right? But that’s a terrifying thought. That means letting go of that river rock and tumbling downstream. It means being battered against boulders and dragged across the stony riverbed. It means spending some time with your head under the surface, blind and spiraling.
In such a circumstance, your fluidity will save you. Bracing against every impact only results in bruises… Why not move as the river moves? Bend around the obstacles, loosen your limbs and let yourself float downstream.
Which is all nice and romantic in theory, but painful in practice. Lately, I’ve been scrabbling for a handhold as I plunge through the rapids of my life. This is not the river cruise I signed up for. I didn’t add this crap to my vision board. I desperately want to swim upstream, back to familiar vistas and predictable waters.
However, no amount of doggy-paddling can transport me back through time. I’m tired, y’all. The current is strong, and I’m learning to yield to it.
This is not the first dramatic life change I’ve experienced and it probably (hopefully!) won’t be the last. Good things have come from those changes, rough as they were at the time. Change is death and change is life (Heraclitus’s Unity of Opposites and all that): I’ve lost wonderful things, but also gained new treasures. The river has carried me to beautiful vantage points, despite taking me through patches of churning whitewater.
My Year of the Unicorn is all about regaining a sense of wonder toward everything life offers. If the essence of life is change, then that means I need to appreciate change as well, whether it’s a new stoplight or an emptier home. If change is constant, then there will be joy again if my heart is open to it. The trick is to remain receptive, flexible, and optimistic.
Floating ain’t easy, but it does give you a good view of the clouds.