When I was in college, I went back and forth between Oregon and Southern California a lot. In my simplified pre-scientific awareness at the time, Oregon had brown squirrels, while Southern California had gray squirrels.
Much later, I settled in Oregon again, and noticed that most of the squirrels were now grayish-brown.
I was getting past the middle of my life. Unconsciously, I formed a story that captured my feelings about that:
Back when things were GOOD, and AMERICA WAS GREAT, brown squirrels lived in Oregon, where they BELONG, and gray squirrels lived in California, where THEY belong. This was good. But then, somehow, squirrels got PROMISCUOUS and led a PROMISCUITY ARMY to CONVERT other squirrels, causing a EPIDEMIC of MISCEGENATION, so that now, instead of brown squirrels and gray squirrels, we are OVERRUN by brownish-grayish squirrels. It's a sign of COLLAPSE, and we should demand that everything be PUT BACK EXACTLY THE WAY IT WAS.
The truth is boring by comparison. An eastern species of brownish-grayish squirrel has been expanding its population in Oregon, somewhat at the expense of the two common species of brown squirrel (one of which isn't native either). Brown squirrels are still here if you look for them.
But I like my story. It resonates with my fears about aging and longing for youth in way that feels like a good massage. And to my delight, I find I can treasure it, and take pleasure from it, without believing it.
Do you have a story that nurtures you, and that feels right to you emotionally, even though you know it's false? Have you figured out how to make that not a contradiction? Not everyone can do it.
Indigenous people who treasure their own culture's myths but also know modern science probably have this knack. People who've been immersed in literature have a head start in developing it, but still, it's harder than just loving a fictional story. My story about squirrels is a story about my world. Its false-but-credible appearance of explaining that world is the key to its effect.
So I can take solace from my story about squirrel promiscuity even as I enjoy the antics of the brownish-grayish squirrel (pictured) that the story disapproves of. They're cute. They are comfortable around us. (A baby one even climbed me once, as though I were a tree.) When they fold their arms in front of their chests, a gesture that conserves heat but looks like a longing for my approval, I can't imagine there's anything wrong with the world.
That's a false story too. I don't believe it. But it's good. It keeps me warm. We have to keep warm somehow.
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