When the Future Dies: The Here(After)

Abstract

Our futures are always dying and there are futures always being born. There is a liminal space in which we stand and experience both those deaths and births which send ripples through our multiplex systems. Drawing upon fields and tools such as thanatology, neuroscience, and trauma-informed care may allow us frameworks with which to manage not just how we think about the future but also how we feel about the future. There is a hallowed ground where the births and deaths of our futures exist and it takes both courage and creativity to stand there. As futurists, our job is often to sit bedside with others as they nurse and hospice their futures - both imagined and unimagined. Recognizing the skill needed to serve as container for individuals, systems, and the world requires something new from the field of Foresight and its practitioners. With the shocking, global loss from the Covid-19 pandemic, related individual micro-loss, the continuing climate decline partnered with increasing disruption, the world stands on the precipice of new understanding around grief and hope. Thoughtful consideration here allows us to better anticipate futures death and the transitional grief that often accompanies change.

I walk,

wool wrapped around me tight,

scratching my neck and eternally itching,

arms pulled around my ribs

to keep my insides from spilling.

Leaves crunching under foot

while my eyes swing back and forth,

looking for your name.

I see the slight curve of ground

and try my best to tread quietly, softly,

for somewhere out here you lay

still, silent, cold in the ground.

My hands drift to the cold stone as I pass,

my fingers dancing and dragging dust and debris,

light dappling, casting shadow.

And still I walk.

I know you’re out here somewhere,

waiting for me to find you and remind both you and I

that you existed.

For today I woke and knew that you were gone.

We both knew it was happening,

we knew the possibilities,

and still we watched.

We kept sight on the horizon and we waited.

My eyes continue scanning until they snag,

recoiling back as I find you there.

There. The proof that you existed.

My breath hitches and I pause.

Heart racing and the soft whooshing in my ears,

the panic of the remembering.

I stand at where I imagine your feet may be.

My hands and fingers find each other,

twining together gently, loosely.

My eyes drift closed and I let out the breath I was holding.

Here, here you are.

The hope I had and plans I made.

All here. In the cold ground.

The dreams that haunted my nights,

and countless minutes, hours, days

that occupied my thoughts.

Would I have held on so tight if I had known,

that 1 day I would lay you to rest?

Would I have nurtured and loved as deeply,

if I had known 1 day we would be here?

I think so. For what more can we do,

but continue hoping?

You were my dream,

my ideas given flesh.

The tiny spark of possibility.

You were the future I planned,

I crafted, I grew.

We both changed, you and I,

as we raced on toward the horizon.

I saw you morph and transform,

I begged you to keep going.

I watched you fade, and turn to mist -

deliquesce, diffuse, disperse.

I saw your collapse in slow motion,

and I snatched at air when you were gone.

And now, as many things - all things - this too must end.

The others, the ones who came before,

they were like you -

some started small and fragile,

others with a crack of lightning

raising gooseflesh on my skin.

Some, they quietly left me,

I hardly noticed until they were gone.

A few, I shudder at the thought -

a few it was my hands -

my hands upon their throat.

A few I had to walk,

hand in hand,

behind the shed.

I had to choose.

I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry.

Others were pried from my fingers,

my anguish in sobs

and the cracking of teeth.

I swipe the lone tear from my cheek,

fingers cold with a slight tremble.

This wasn’t how I thought it’d go,

but it is how it always goes.

And as I stand there, looking down,

I find my hands are drawing close,

absentmindedly drifting toward my middle.

My heart stutters once, and I feel it,

just like I knew I would,

the quickening within me.

The new dream has taken root

and a new spark enters the world.

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply once more.

I send out the silent goodbye to you,

my future, my dream, my plans.

I turn back toward the path.

My steps are not quite so slow now,

not quite so heavy.

My back not quite so bowed and

my head a little higher.

I feel the new dream pulling me forward -

the possibility taking root,

as I pass by all the graves I’ve dug

and all the dreams I’ve watched die.

I know I’ll sit by your bedside, too,

my small idea.

For each time one of you is born,

another has died before you.

But today, today my small dream,

today we build,

we hope,

we begin anew.