one teaspoon each collectivism and autonomy, two tablespoons hypocrisy

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them wholeheartedly — but not enough to take them back.

The issue:  She made a collectivist offer. An offer to share. From subscriptions to memberships. Things like Costco. Things like the New York Times. Stuff like that. It wasn't altruism nor was it generosity.  We'd each be covering one thing or another. Just an instance of sharing. Which would bring down costs for both of us. An act of pure economic rationality, especially in a time of dearth.

And I said no.

I didn't just say no.  I said no emphatically. And I meant it. You can tell because I used italics here.

Partly I was just ashamed that it wasn't I who had come up with the idea in the first place. God forbid someone else should have a collectivist bone in her body. I guess I'm very competitive about my collectivism.

Partly it was that she's currently in the process of dissolving a collectivist arrangement that didn't work out.  Ach.  Been there, done that. Don't want to do that again.

Partly it was a scream (albeit fairly silent) of freak-out-ishness of the potential loss of my own hard won autonomy.

What a bleeping hypocrite!

I talk a good talk. About the joys and power of collective action. But I don't so much as ask for another person's help when I need it.  Ammendment: I didn't used to.  Now I do recognize that yes, every once in a long while I need to ask for help with stuff. Sometimes.  It's aging season, for example, and I'm not willing to risk the likelihood of further damage to my wrecked lower spine by schlepping and lifting the heavy stuff anymore. Nor will I offer to help with the schlepping and hauling like I used to. On the other hand — I never used to ask for help. And now I do. And hate every minute of it.

But asking for help isn't collectivism.  Collectivism is about union. Sharing tools, land, water, seed, and labor—essential basics—collective production.  Growing enough for others to take their basketful, knowing that you're welcome to do the same—collective distribution.  Interdependence. Emphasizing collective need over that of the individual.  The joy of sharing.

But my collectivist ideology and my autonomous constitution are at war with each other.  I love the idea of working together, sharing expenses, collaborative writing, sharing authorship, seed, soil, and all that.  And I do these things well. On the other hand, basically I wish I could do everything myself.

And so I had a little hissy fit. Without explaining anything.  Without understanding it myself.

I want it. Collectivism, I mean.

And right now it scares the shit out of me.  So why is that?

I think it's not the fear of collectivizing per se that's done me in.  I think it's the fear that if I re-collectivize that it'll be harder than ever to dismantle it when its time is over. It's the idea that I have to trust someone. That she'll keep her side of the bargain (whatever that bargain is). The fear that I'll lose the knowledge or ability to fend for myself.

Autonomy is a crock.

There's really no such thing.  Not yet, anyway.  Although it seems that Congress would have us go more and more in that direction.  Dismantle the U.S. Post Office. Public education. Social Security. Medicare. Less government, more privatization. But we (I speak collectively here realizing that this 'we' doesn't include 'me' at all) don't want to pay for collective benefits. But we do seem to all want the particular benefits that we ourselves enjoy.  Let's just support the military some say. Or how 'bout education?

So. This isn't just about me and my health insurance or Costco or Netflix membership. It's a national issue, and we're not united about it. I guess that's the point, isn't it?

For what are we willing to take collective responsibility, and for what do we stand alone?

L. H. Morgan saw the rise of civilization as the movement away from collectivism in favor of greater and greater autonomy and competition.  Darwin, on the other hand, saw competition as the primitive root leading to the 'higher' animal. 'From the war of nature, the higher animal directly follows...' he said.  Kropotkin tried to tone him down with the benefits of Mutual Aid, but never got a response from the great man.  It's still in print, but clearly not as popular as Darwin's war of nature bit.

But is any of this going to help me with my little conundrum? What am I really scared of right now? That once we're each dependent on each other that the whole thing will fall apart? That it leads to a slippery slope of elder care (or equivalent) of the till-death-do-us-part variety? Am I scared that I might like it? That I might end up with the loopy lab? That she might end up with the house?  Wait, wait! That's not collectivism—that's marriage.

So why is the American public so gung-ho about the Defense of Marriage Act but downright freaked about the provision of services like health care to the larger community?  Whereas, I feel just the opposite. Collectivism, I'm for it. Marriage, not so much.

And sharing a Costco membership?

I'll think about it.

of gummy-worms and caterpillar tales

I have two very strong images in my head from when Precious Daughter was a wild young thing of maybe two-ish. Actually, there are more images of course, but these two have been haunting me lately. They remain vivid without photographic reminders of these little moments.

Scene One, which is the earlier Kodak moment of the two, took place around the corner at the produce market. You know the kind: the one with the bins and the little shovel to scoop out real live unpackaged foods. I had Precious Daughter in the stroller, having run down the hill with her, just for fun, on a jaunt that was just something fun to do together. We were at the bins. Guess I was taking way too long trying to decide between bulk orzo and bulk bulghur (the kids loving each of them equally), when I looked down at my too quiet daughter.

The little monster had one hand holding a lower bin open, and the other hand was shoveling fists full of gummy-worms into her gaping maw as fast as it could. Gummy-worms were hanging out at all angles — she was right out of a classic horror movie playing both sides of the equation: Faye Raye and King Kong both squeezing in to possess the same little daughter at once.

Scene Two, Asilomar. Not long after the above. Not quite monarch butterfly season. The caterpillars were crawling over everything in sight in the little wooded garden between the lodge, the dining hall, and the trail to the sea. Precious Daughter is free to run, with no vehicles to worry about running her down. She picks up some crunchy leaves and squeezes them into bits, watching with wonder as they take off on the wind. She reaches down for another handful, and squeezes — but this handful squishes... A handful of caterpillars, oozing out between her fingers. Their life extinguished before she knew they were alive. Her mother running in horror to intervene before they reach her mouth. But it's too late to save a life.

Is this how we learn about life and death? Note my lack of horror for the leaves!

Was there any difference for her between the life and death of gummy-worms, caterpillars and crunchy leaves? Is the intervention that tells us cease and desist with caterpillars qualitatively different enough from cease and desist with gummy-worms to get the point across? As I recall, it took some fancy footwork to explain the difference between the two. To a two year old, are gummy-worms less alive than caterpillars? Is the taking of life something we do or don't outgrow? Or just the natural order?

"From the war of nature," Darwin wrote in his conclusion to The Origin of Species, "from famine and death, the most exalted object which we are capable of conceiving, namely the production of higher animals, directly follows."

And just how clear is it that a mouth full of gummy-worms is not good for you, while a mouth full of caterpillars is not good for them? Especially when your taste buds do not concur.

Okay, you may be thinking, isn't two a little late for the oral phase, anyway? This would be a distraction, for to tell the truth, these events may well have been a full year earlier. I don't keep track of time that well. The point remains:

How do we learn that life is precious?

How do we learn that gummy-worms can kill you? Or that caterpillars are a whole lot more healthy for us, in point of fact.

It's not just the choking thing with shoveling gummy-worms down so fast. Not just the high-fructose corn syrup that's out to get us. No, in addition to all that, it's that gummy-worms were linked to BSE and Mad Cow Disease at the time of my daughter's adventures in oral pleasures. Though, all this is a sidebar to the larger issue.

I've always felt I had some unfinished business with the gummy-worms and caterpillars. And I think I finally know what it is.

As E has written a kaddish to all the creatures she has eaten, I offer that as well, and raise you five: A kaddish for the things my kids in glee might well have gobbled; or crushed between curious fingers, toes or mouth; or tread upon with crunching sounds; or put inside a baggie filled with salt, or thrown over a fence to give the neighbors ... all this and more — bad mothering — or things we take for granted. Not really an apology, but an honoring of all things gone as a result of actions or inaction. Take on the world of pain and inequality — no, I will not go that far.

I do not here take on all misadventure, nor claim it as my own. But whether thinking or not thinking, they cannot be undone.