Fortunately, peeing my pants during art class in kindergarten didn’t squash my creative interests entirely. Unfortunately, my mom seemed intent on finishing the job a couple years later.
For whatever reason, I got in the habit of creating paper monsters with my younger brother, Nicholas. For weeks, we invested countless hours sketching, colouring and cutting out all manner of goofy and ghastly characters. Our bottomless enthusiasm meant the collection quickly outgrew the two cardboard boxes we were storing our creations in. Soon, eight-eyed trolls, fire-breathing sharks and spiky-haired werewolves were strewn everywhere.
It was as if our imaginations had barfed all over our bedroom floor.
However, not everyone appreciated our artful expulsions. And by “not everyone,” I mean our mother. One day, while Nicholas and I were at school dreaming up our next batch of paper monsters, Mom made her way upstairs and into our room.
Mistaking the piles of paper for trash — or more likely just fed up with telling us to clean up our messes — Mom scooped up our masterpieces and shoved them into a garbage bag.
When we got off the school bus that afternoon, we could see wisps of smoke coming from the still-smoldering burn barrel at the end of the laneway, unaware of its recent role as the crematorium for our childhood innocence.
That is, of course, until we walked into our room to find it spotless. It was the only time I had hoped to find a monster under my bed. Alas, our mother had left no papery beast unburned.
The Martin Monster Massacre introduced me to the harsh reality that things can go up in smoke in an instant. One moment we were ankle-deep in the fruits of our hard work and creativity. The next we were staring at an empty floor and choking back tears.
Two decades later, I was choking back tears for a very different reason, as I rode the bus home after learning I had cancer. In a few words, my doctor had burned the world as I knew it to ash.
But like my seven-year-old self, I had a choice to make. I could stomp my feet and wallow in what I had lost. Or I could pull out a new sheet of paper and get back to work.
After all, I couldn’t afford to waste time pining for the life I was leaving behind. I was now on a monster-slaying mission of my own that demanded my full attention. And I knew the beast lurking inside me wasn’t going down without a fight.
Becoming pals with impermanence
Impermanence is a core principle in traditions like Buddhism, reminding us that change is constant and all things eventually come to an end. Their teachings on attachment are directly connected, arguing that suffering results from clinging to things that are inherently transient. For example, the deep pain I felt from losing those paper monsters corresponded to my deep attachment to them.
In many ways, the idea of impermanence is an uncomfortable one. Nobody likes thinking about losing the things — or people — they love. But just because it’s uncomfortable doesn’t mean it’s not a reality we all have to face. Because the harsh truth is that cherished family heirlooms break. Careers end. Hair turns grey.
And far from being depressing, learning to accept and even embrace the temporary nature of life can produce a lot of positive effects. Here are a few benefits from becoming pals with impermanence:
Understand that this too shall pass — If all good things come to an end, then the opposite is also true. When you’re going through a tough time — whether you’re fighting the flu or feeling heartbroken — telling yourself that the discomfort and pain will eventually fade often makes it easier to cope with difficult experiences.
Remember your mortality — Memento mori: “remember you will die.” This Latin expression may sound morbid. But I see it as a powerful reminder to make the most of the time we’ve got, recognizing that we all have an expiration date. I remember a professor talking about how ancient philosophers would keep a human skull on their desks and place two fingers in the eye sockets while they wrote as a reminder of their mortality. Understandably, your office mates might balk at you lugging a human skull with you to work. So another similar idea is to take regular walks through a cemetery as an opportunity to reflect on your finite existence and how you want to spend it.
Nurture an attitude of gratitude — Similar to the previous point, appreciating impermanence fosters gratitude for the things you do have. Strawberries in Ontario taste all the sweeter knowing they’re only in season for a few weeks. A run after your broken ankle heals feels amazing knowing what it was like to be on crutches.
Let go to grow — A painful breakup becomes more painful if you refuse to accept it’s over. Meanwhile, staying angry at your mom for weeks on end for incinerating your paper dolls is energy better spent starting a new project. Accepting impermanence helps by facilitating detachment, making it easier to move forward after you’ve lost something. Just remember, detachment isn’t about not caring. It’s simply a willingness to let go — to stop clinging to the things that cause us pain.
