A few months ago, I came across an article about Republican Candidate Mitt Romney’s “animal abuse” scandal. Apparently, he had put his dog in a kennel and strapped the kennel to the roof of his car. This had animal lovers up in arms.

My response was one of confusion: Really?

Here’s the deal – I’m a huge animal lover, and always have been. But there’s a growing problem in Western culture (and developed nations more broadly) – people are just downright obsessed with dogs.

Here’s my perspective on life – all life. I believe that consciousness is indeed a miraculous product of the evolution of the universe. For now, let’s put aside quantum physics and the notion that consciousness flows through everything, and just focus on what biologists refer to broadly as ‘life.’ This stuff, life, is pretty amazing, and I’m guessing if you’re reading this blog, you probably agree on some level. Even from a purely scientific perspective, life has required an intricate and statistically improbable series of events to reach this point. And accordingly, there’s something amazing about a mere amoeba, never mind a creature that is able to soar through the air or one that is able to communicate with another. Life is amazing, and life is likely the product of chance, even if some cosmic intelligence is at play. This makes life special. This makes life important. This makes life beautiful, even when it scares us or gets in our way.

But I have a problem when one manifestation of life is prioritized over another. Many environmentalists would agree – even prioritizing humans is problematic and contributes to the decline of our global ecosystem. And valuing dogs more than bees is equally problematic. Who are we to determine which animals are more important?

In fact, domesticated dogs really aren’t that important, in the grand scheme of things. If we consider the unfortunate outcomes of their breeding, most dogs would never even survive in the wild, and they contribute nothing of value to our ecosystem (much like many of us humans). The truth is, they’re possessions and novelties, what we call pets.

Don’t get me wrong – as I mentioned, I’m an animal lover, and I absolutely do not support the abuse of animals – any animals. And that’s my problem. When people get upset about dogs being put into secure containers on car roofs but have no problem with birds living their lives in cages, or fish forced to live in tiny bowls, something seems off to me. There is a humanization, an extreme anthropomorphizing, that occurs with some animals and not others. “All life is valuable, but some life is more valuable.” Is it really? What is so special about a dog? Is it really man’s best friend? Or is that a role we created for it?

The same thing happens with scientific research. Rats and mice are disposable, but rhesus monkeys and chimpanzees are not. We’ll happily step on an ant or squash a fly, but throwing a kitten out a car window is disturbing. Of course there is an understandably higher degree of relatedness with other mammals, but we are rational beings. Is eating a cow REALLY more difficult than eating a lobster? Perhaps opinions would change if we were all aware of recent research which has shown lobsters capable of outsmarting fishing traps and solving mazes. And from a rational perspective, the real value of any creature comes down to its role in local and global ecosystems. Bees and bats, for example, are essential, yet both have been pushed aside time and again. Make way for the dogs, some might say – they’re much cuter.

The hypocritical obsession with dogs (and cats, and horses) is a reflection of our trending social morals and values. We have developed a warped perception of the world, in which some animals (including humans) are more valuable than others simply because they’re smarter or cuter or capable of doing tricks. I love my cat, Atticus, but at the end of the day, his rights are no more important than those of a caterpillar. Let’s get upset about the abuse of all life, and support the rights of those that scare us, those that offend us, and those that seem too small to matter. Life is a gift, no matter its size or outer shell.

When I was 15, I used to idealize love. It was all I wanted, truthfully – but in hindsight, I didn’t know what it was, perhaps best described as some enigmatic nebula of images, feelings, and behaviors imposed upon me by the world. Back then, love was a kiss, an embrace.

When I was 19, I had my first experience of ‘love,’ which in hindsight, wasn’t really love at all. That first experience was nothing but a combination of raging hormones and convenient opportunities – I don’t reflect on it fondly. In fact, I try not to think of it much.

When I was 20, I had a brief two-week relationship that I was sure was love. My heart was broken, but only briefly – it wasn’t really love either. It was just the closest I had come to it.

At 21, I fell in love for the first time, or so I tell myself. I felt things I hadn’t felt before, in ways I had never imagined, in ways that exceeded my 15-year-old ideals and my 20-year-old delusions, or so I thought. I lived with someone I loved for the first time in my life, from which I learned a tremendous more about love. Most importantly, perhaps, I learned that love is founded on ideals but also transcends them. That’s pretty vague, I know, but after all, so is love.

Time and love have a strange relationship, for time can deepen love, but it can also dilute it. Over time, love can fall victim to distractions, to immaturities, and to other less-than-ideal social impositions. It’s in these dilutions that you realize that love is so much more complex than the fantasies of a 15-year-old. And yet somewhere, deep down inside, it’s exactly what you always thought it was.

Holding on to these early ideals can make you or break you in a relationship. Over the years, I’ve learned the importance of compromise – and likewise, the importance of holding onto ideals. Our ideals are reflections of our morals and ethics, after all. In my first real experience of love, I gave up on some ideals more often than I should have – for which there is never a valid reason. Nevertheless, I endured. I stuck with it.

Perhaps love is best measured by its loss, or at least by its absence. Dealing with the loss of love is unquestionably the most difficult thing I’ve ever experienced in my life. Yet this, too, has to be endured.

I’ve experienced my fair share of twists of fate and strange coincidences. And those who know me know that the path that brought me here is a strange one. Over the years, through my many experiences of love (there were others, but they need not be mentioned), I have tried my best to remain true to my ideals – but I have also made some adjustments. My ideals have evolved if you will, which in hindsight, is a basic consequence of living and loving.

Today, I woke up next to my ideal.

I know what you’re probably thinking – it always feels that way when you’re in it. But I have the unfortunate (or fortunate?) ability to remember with accuracy and detail my feelings in all stages of former love. I pay close attention to the details, and to the intricacies of my emotions. While I may not know everything about my own inner workings, I know a few things. And I can tell you, with certainty, that I have never before experienced the feeling of waking up next to my ideal.

I know that the love I experienced when I was 21 (and that lasted until I was 28) was indeed love, but it was a love for which I sacrificed most of my ideals. It ended, sadly at the time, but appropriately in retrospect. I know that this is not the way that love works, or should work. But nevertheless, I know that it was a necessary life experience, and one that brought me to this place.

I know that for the first time in my life, I’m in love with my best friend. This is an ideal I had long ago sacrificed, nearly convinced by the world that this was something only experienced in fairy tales and by older couples who had been together for many decades. I know that for the first time, I’m in love with someone I want to hold all night; who makes me feel incomplete when they leave my side, yet entirely complete in the simple knowledge of their love. I know that for the first time, true to the cliché, I have a partner in crime – a partner in life.

Were my previous experiences of love real, in hindsight? Perhaps. But this one is more real, if such a state were possible. Love may be an evolving thing; or alternatively, we may need to evolve in order to fully experience it – to take advantage of all its potential.

A wise person once told me that love is love.  While some may question the meaning of such a simple and circular statement, I now get it. After ten years of loving, and losing, and loving again, I get it. Love is an ideal. Love is what we make it. Love is a kiss, an embrace – it’s my 15-year-old fantasies, my 20-year-old experiences, my 28-year-old losses, and it’s the sadness that came in between. Love is every morning I wake up next to my ideal. It’s everything when it needs to be, and so much more when you least expect it. Love is all of these things.

I don’t pretend to know everything there is to know about love. At times it’s the fantasy, at other times it’s the reality. Perhaps love is where the two intersect, or perhaps it resides where fantasy and reality are equally satisfied. Nevertheless, love is love – I get that now. And for me, love is THIS, because this is the best I’ve ever had; because somewhere, the 15-year-old inside me is smiling. Thanks babe

There is a myth perpetuated by society that consistent and predictable behavior is a precursor to knowing who you are.

Bullshit.

There also exists a popular myth that exploring the world using anything other than a map or a compass means instability, immaturity, and lack of direction – particularly when it comes to knowing who you are.

More bullshit.

Further to this line of thinking, there is an even greater myth that jumping on any one particular bandwagon is the only route to success; that creativity is valuable so long as it is exercised within one’s area of expertise; that career paths are life paths because, after all, these are the paths that lead to knowing who you are.

Obviously bullshit.

I know who I am. I am someone who needs not identify with a single persona at all times, or commit to one narrow and lonely path in life. I enjoy many interests, and I will maintain my passion for each and every one of them, despite their occasional collisions. I am open to possibilities, constantly and continuously allowing myself to enter new arenas, to have new experiences, to explore new aspects of myself.

I am an out-of-the-box thinker, dedicatedly so, and I am open to the possibility that although I know who I am, I may never fully grasp what I am; and that what I am is forever evolving.

So to everyone out there who feels like they still don’t have it figured out, and to those whose interests could fill a hundred lifetimes, I say this: Ignore the bullshit, because those who think they have it all figured out have simply decided what they are. Most don’t have a clue who they are.

NOTE 1: This post was inspired by my experiences in grad school, where it appears that those who don’t follow “the path” are often snubbed, slighted, and judged. Life’s never that simple people.

NOTE 2: To anyone who believes that these myths are not so, make sure you spend some time in some sort of institutional setting that is highly politicized. These myths may not represent people’s ideals, but they absolutely reflect the attitudes and opinions encountered on a day-to-day basis. I am continuously surprised by how close-minded people who are dedicated to scientific research can be – to the point that it makes me question the objectivity of science altogether.

In a recent article published in the Lancet, it was reported that the upcoming 2013 edition of the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, published by the American Psychiatric Association) will make it possible for the diagnosis of depression following the death of a loved one. In the past, those experiencing grief and bereavement were excluded from such a diagnosis unless the resulting negative emotions were severe and lasted more than 2 months. It was argued that grief was a normal response to death (a view that’s still supported by many psychologists, nevertheless).

Such a shift, however, would essentially allow for the medication of grief, and therefore the avoidance of that which was previously recognized as a normal part of human existence. Yet the standard normal/abnormal debate typically dredged up by the DSM is practically obliterated in this instance. The American Psychiatric Association is proposing to not only redefine what constitutes normal human behavior following death, but to also facilitate the avoidance of normal human experience.

It is not surprising, on one hand, given the current trend towards escapism in Western culture. If the negative can be escaped, then why not escape it?

But we are a species that has been gifted the ability to contemplate and predict future outcomes. And herein lies the problem. Just as burning a tank of gasoline makes things easier now while contributing to future environmental decline, escaping grief contributes to a lack of personal development despite its short-term benefits; or, to state things more directly, it contributes to the deconstruction of wisdom on both individual and collective levels.

I’m not suggesting that this single change is going to do it, but it’s a slippery slope, and it’s reflective of a larger (i.e., global) problem.

In some respects, the deconstruction of wisdom probably began when people started spending more time in-doors than out; more time watching lives lived on TV than living them; more time listening to stories than writing their own. The removal of life, and of experience, is only to the degradation of our inner strength. The facilitation of this removal by government agencies and scientific organizations is to the decline of our humanity, of which the foundation is individual wisdom.

There is a balance to life, and death is an instrumental part of that balance, as is the experience of loss. This experience, no matter how difficult or painful or numbing, is at minimum a context for learning, and at best an infrequent (hopefully) opportunity for existential reflection and contemplation – a chance to gain new perspectives on what it means to be human, and to be alive, and to face one’s own death in the end. Death, after all, is unavoidable in the end – for all of us. In my own life, my most meaningful sources of wisdom and strength have also been my greatest sources of sadness, of heartache, and of stress. I have learned more in moments and even months of darkness than I have ever learned otherwise. And I have gained a deeper understanding of myself in these moments (which, ironically, is the ultimate goal of psychotherapy – to improve self-awareness). To erase the pain associated with loss is to deny the loss and extinguish all opportunities for wisdom and growth.

It’s a slippery slope. I’m reminded of Huxley’s Brave New World, a futuristic depiction in which people have eliminated all opportunities for unhappiness with an antidepressant drug called soma. Be warned: So too eliminated were artistic expression, creativity, and ideas. So too eliminated was individuality.

I am disheartened by the APA’s change in this regard, and by psychology’s likely continued support of APA diagnostic criteria. But more so, I am disheartened by the societal deconstruction of wisdom, the disrespect of age, and the abandonment of inner reflection in favor of easier, softer, and less stressful routes. The old adages still stick: Nothing good comes easily, and sometimes, you have to get your hands dirty.

Get your hands dirty, people. It’s the only way to know.

I walk down the street, and a stranger makes eye contact. She smiles, and continues passing by.

Sometimes, when I look closely, I see myself as a collection of everyone else. In truth, maybe that’s all we are – pieces collected along the way.

In the last three years, I have nearly drowned in anecdotal evidence of the idea that life isn’t always what we expect. And indeed, I have had very few recent expectations actually materialize. In some cases, expectations ended traumatically, while others drifted more slowly.

But there is beauty in the breakdown, or so they say. The greatest gift of life lies not in the materialization of one’s dreams and visions, but in the amazing ability of life to show you that the impossible is never rightly so; and that dreams and visions matter but they stand no chance against desires, or passions – or the tendency of life to prioritize synergy at all cost, often to the sacrifice of moment-bound expectations.

In the past three years, I have learned that life is beautiful, even when it’s ugly. I have learned that we’re all just really scared, of being alone, and of not being alone, and of what it means to choose. I have learned that sometimes, the biggest roles are played by the people we least expect. Sometimes, the person who seems to have a hand in breaking you turns out to be your best friend, or even more. Sometimes, in fact more often than not, everything works. Everything works, because how could it possibly not?

Sometimes, I feel like some haphazard amalgamation of everyone who’s ever crossed my path, and even more so, of everyone I’ve ever loved. I have a piece of his sense of humour, a piece of her caring nature, a piece of his ability to enjoy the moment without forethought. I even have a piece of the stranger’s smile. And I return the gesture, so as to know both sides.

We are all fragile. We all want to be loved. Pieces collected along the way, all of us.

More often than not, the end is all we see. And who can blame us? The end is guaranteed. The end is definite. The end is always there, waiting, patiently or otherwise.

There is a lot of talk among us humans of living in the moment. It seems to be something we all strive for – some sort of golden ticket that’s forever dangling at arm’s reach, just inches from our fingertips, nearly attainable but never quite so. When you consider that even a Tibetan monk plans ahead for long meditations by stretching, you might agree that it’s time to rethink this moment stuff.

So what’s in a moment? Not much at all really…seconds at best, maybe a minute, if you can hold onto it. THIS is a moment, THAT was a moment, you’re in a moment right now, or you were, a second ago. What does it mean, to be “in” a moment? Are we ever outside of moments? I guess I’m now outside of all moments passed, which I suppose means that I’m inevitably outside of more moments than I’ll ever be in. Psychologists would suggest that by the time our brains actually process the moment, it’s already technically over, so perhaps it’s a battle best left for our dreams and romances. Perhaps the moment forever belongs to history.

Is it any surprise, then, that our minds drift to more distant moments? That we ponder – no, worship the end like some sort of super moment along the conveyor belt of moments that make up our lives. It is a tragedy, really, that we live our lives planning for that one last moment, hoping that it’s a good one, hoping that it doesn’t let us down, or deceive us. Afterall, the end may be the only moment that really lasts.

Perhaps the truth lies in the realization that life is but a moment. And by extension, to live in the moment is simply to live life. The end, afterall, is a culmination of all moments before it.

Or, perhaps the truth lies in the realization that embedded in each moment is every other moment. My end is happening now, in this moment, just as this moment will undoubtedly play a role in my end. All moments are subject to entanglement. All moments are lived NOW. All moments are lived THEN. What do I want from my last moment? That’s the question we should all be asking ourselves. I know what I want – I want what I want in every other moment I’ve ever lived, or ever will live. I want a little clarity, some flow, and a bucket of peace. And should the last moment be eternal, I will have grasped it in the end.

Time is…well, it’s simply another dimension, like length and width, a point of measurement only within the context of this life. From outside, or deep within, the increased number of dimensions creates a view much like a four-dimensional box, with time being yet another angle or direction in which matter – the big stuff – moves. It’s our minds, of course, that make time into something so different, so significant and transformational. And it is all of these things, indeed, indeed…but it is also something far simpler, and therefore something that can be grasped in a way that many may have previously thought impossible. It is a component of a mathematical equation, an anomaly of the three primary dimensions, and yet it also appears to move us, to propel us forward, to fuel our lives from beginning to end.

Of late, I have had an increasing number of increasingly disturbing encounters with individuals who, in supposedly seeking acceptance and respect, have become increasingly judgmental and presumptuous.

Most of us, in one way or another, have had the opportunity to partake in some sort of social minority, whether by choice or by uncontrollable forces (i.e., genetics). Some of us, of course, are members of minority groups which encounter heightened levels of scrutiny, discrimination, and/or hate (to be frank). As a fairly liberal and progressive thinker myself, I have always made a conscious effort to not assume, to not judge, and to not categorize. Of course subconscious processes may make this difficult at times, but at the end of the day, we all have control over the words we speak.

What my recent encounters have shown me, however, is that some members of minority groups intentionally seclude and differentiate themselves in such a way as to alienate themselves from the general population. “Different” leads to a forced and manufactured identity that is composed of social extremes, many of which often further alienate, particularly when flaunted for their surface-level value rather than their intrinsic worth. What follows is a trail of judgment towards (and often bias against) anyone and anything that prescribes to their version of the norm (or that which is endorsed by the mainstream). A person who wears clothing from American Eagle, for example, is assumed to have “bought into” a system that is supposedly avoided by buying vintage or used clothing (despite the ironically unspoken and ignored similar manufacturing origins of both clothing options). The person who has made a choice which is more similar to the mainstream than to the self-alienating individual’s social circle is subsequently judged as being less conscientious and inferior. Because he or she is wearing a particular brand. That’s it. No need to meet the person. No need to talk. No need to know more.

The reasons for this are seemingly complex. It appears that the self-alienating minority member, perhaps still insecure with his/her status as such, is suffering from issues of identity (as we all go through, at some point in our lives). This struggle results in a disdain for the mainstream, because the mainstream is the resented ideal – that which is automatically idealized by mere socialization but hated for its unattainability. Thus, the outcast/hipster/too-cool-for-deodorant individual actively chooses to identify further with myriad social extremes – a whole slew of identities which are anti-mainstream. Once comfortably (but never deeply) positioned on every edge of society ever defined, they then pass judgment on everyone in the middle. Coping, defense mechanism, not sure why, but this is the hypocrisy that has bothered me of late.

So to the hypocrites, the hipsters, and the self-alienating outcasts, I say this: If you truly believe in acceptance, like your Malcolm X posters and peace buttons would suggest, stop making assumptions about everyone who doesn’t share your beliefs, or who doesn’t dress like you, or who has values different from your own. Just because I wear Nikes doesn’t mean I’ve bought into my system anymore than you’ve bought into yours. At the end of the day, judgment is judgment, whether it’s wielded by a KKK member or a disgruntled self-defining outcast who has made a mockery of the notion of acceptance. Get over yourself, and open your eyes. The world is not nearly so black and white – and acceptance only ever comes in grey (whether your vantage point is from the middle or from the edge).

I feel compelled to return to this notion of “living in the moment.”

I have come to the strongly held, now frequently rehearsed, and both emotionally and rationally considered conclusion that living in the moment is, in its basic and standard form, a potentially hazardous ideation. In theory, and from a strictly optimistic perspective, it works: Live in the moment, escape the confines of the past and abandon the worries of the future; focus on the here-and-now, and be attentive to the beautiful details of life that are often overlooked.

The problem, of course, is that millions of years of evolution have led to a sophisticated self-consciousness that facilitates both long-term memory and complex consideration of future events. It allows us to view our lives in such a way that we continuously move from past to future, often overlooking the moment that hides between the two (if it exists at all). It also allows us to make choices based on the consideration of memories and forecasts, without which we would surely be at constant fault. And here is the problem: No matter the perspective – rational, emotional, or spiritual – making choices without considering the past and future is nonsense. Even if we try, our fine-tuned schemas about life and the world implicate past experiences, if only subconsciously.

But there’s another layer to this: Responsibility. I have learned that to immerse oneself in the moment is to sacrifice responsibility to oneself and to others. After all, one’s future includes his/her own wellbeing as well as that of his/her loved ones. To live fully in the moment means sacrificing loyalty, trust, and honour – concepts which are necessary components of such broader ideas as humanity, peace, and love. We are dealt many cards in life, and we must make the best of them. But there are a few cards – trust, respect, loyalty, responsibility – that we create. We draw these cards, and we edit them as we like. We need not forget this.

The moment is forever around us. The moment is future, past, and present – there is no need to disentangle the three. The moment is here, there, and everywhere. The truth is, to live in the moment means to embody all three states simultaneously – to be aware of NOW in light of the past and future. More importantly, perhaps, to live in the moment should only ever be done with kindness. The catch, of course, is that kindness requires consideration of past and future.

Reduce, narrow, and attend, or do none of the above, but don’t let go of that which makes you human.

There is an old adage that we’ve all heard, directed at us or someone around us, that goes something like this: “You need some time alone.” Or similarly, “Some time to yourself will do you good.” Many individuals further adopt this as a lifestyle of sorts, bragging about how much they’re “too busy for a relationship” or “enjoy living alone.”

The former of these may be the most irritating, for they are wrought with assumptions and presumptions and condescensions. None of us has the right to suggest to another that they should deny their natural mammalian drives to pursue social interactions and to find a mate. And sure, perhaps we’ve somewhat overcome these “simpler” needs and drives in light of our heightened self-consciousness, but even so, being aware of ourselves as separate, distinct beings surely only reinforces our need to connect, or our need to not be so distinct and alone.

For those who have convinced themselves that they prefer to live alone? Well, they are coping, cognitively restructuring their experiences of communal solitude in such a way that they are reappraised as positive and preferable. Just as it is unnatural for homo sapiens to run on a treadmill, it is unnatural for us to find fulfillment in being alone. Much like the experience of running on a treadmill, living alone may seem smoother, less rocky, and more predictable, but it is similarly a manufactured experience. It is far less adventurous and therefore far less meaningful.

And herein lies the real issue: MEANING. We are meaning-making creatures, and even more so, we are meaning-needing creatures. One of our greatest sources of meaning is our social network, and to live alone is to deny ourselves of the key piece of that network – a partner in crime. As children we surely never would have wanted to live alone, this we would all agree, but to do so as an adult is equally unfulfilling and unnatural. So to those who feel the need to use the aforementioned adages? Just stop, because they’re bullshit. As human beings, we all know what it’s like to be alone – we were all teenagers once, and can all remember how alone we felt back then. And while spending time with one’s self can surely be enlightening, being in a relationship neither negates nor discourages such enlightenment. I for one have learned more about myself from being in a relationship, and from living with someone, than I have from being alone.

Continue coping with your loneliness, as you will, but stop trying to convince the world that your innate social drive can somehow be overcome. The truth is, if any human need should not be suppressed, it is that which drives us to connect, to love, and to commune with another. Nothing can be more meaningful.