0

Let The Music Play Me – Reflections on Constructivist Adult Development coLAB Chopsticks to Titanic, Susanna Carman

At 21, I graduated with a degree in Geology, where I was introduced to “deep time,” a concept coined by author John McPhee to describe the millions of years revealed in Earth’s fossil and geomorphic layers. This initiation highlighted our brief, albeit significant, role as humans in life’s 4.5 billion year story of unfoldment. 

The study of “deep time” gave me a profound sense of order, belonging, and perspective. It allowed me to see myself as a character in an endless story where life’s narrative—full of unexpected twists and turns—was as purposeful as it was accidental. After four years of intensive study, I left university with a philosophical understanding of human existence, grounded in the autopoietic cycles of an expanding cosmos within which I was a perfectly planned accident. It felt like I had discovered the most miraculous origin myth ever!

During this time, I also began studying South Asian religious traditions, particularly Buddhism. Its phenomenological observation of life as a place of suffering resonated deeply with me. Perhaps this aligns with my self-perception as part cynic, part idealist—recognizing that we humans exist in a constant tension between our nature and our aspirations. Sometimes they align, and other times they don’t. In the context of the random perfection of “deep time,” how else can we explain humanity’s collective pain but as largely self-inflicted?

With self-inflicted suffering as part of the story, it seems clear to me that our work is to take full responsibility for the thousands of years of extractive, exploitative, and disconnected behaviors we’ve enacted—within ourselves, between each other, and with the natural world. Yet here’s where my inner cynic speaks up: I don’t believe anything we do now will plug the hole in the sinking ship of climate catastrophe. Instead, I see the work as doing what we can while bracing for even greater suffering—already disproportionately affecting the most disadvantaged among us and future generations.

That said, my inner idealist hasn’t given up entirely. I’m inspired by young Australian climate activist Anjali Sharma and her campaign for federal legislation to support the Duty of Care bill, which would legally obligate the government to protect young people from climate change. But I remain skeptical. I doubt that Constructivist Adult Development, or even the work we do as Action Researchers, will achieve the kind of large-scale impact needed to turn things around.

I do believe that it can create the conditions for a different kind of impact. My focus as a developmental action researcher for transformations or A.R.T.ist is on what Bayo Akomolafi refers to as, making sanctuary. “Sanctuaries are not places where we are set straight; sanctuaries are places we are broken down. Sanctuaries are not sites of solutions. They are practices that help us see that the way we see the problem we want to address is often part of the problem.”

I experienced this sanctuary as I sat beside my dying friend, watching her body decay, her breathing punctuated by long silences, her form reduced to skin and bone. And hers was a good death—one I would wish for myself. At some point, all that remained was letting go.

Where can we find places of sanctuary in these challenging times? How do we want to be in relationship with one another while experiencing the end of the world as we know it? How will we care for each other—not because we hope to reverse course, but because we have the maturity to sit with things as they are?

There is something profound unfolding within and between us as humans. I don’t understand it, I don’t know how to change it, and I’m no longer interested in trying. That kind of striving reflects an identity I’ve already grieved. I am also grieving the loss of the illusion of safety and security we’ve constructed—in our cities, our rural towns, our homes, and the false assurances we cling to. We can’t buy, learn, or prepare our way out of climate change. The fires in Los Angeles are proof of that. And for those planning to escape to New Zealand—well, it floods terribly there too.

When I engage with Constructivist Adult Development, it’s not about making things different or pulling people toward some imagined reversal of what I believe is already irreversible suffering. Let’s be honest: we’ve been trying to understand the destructive tendencies of human behavior for over 10,000 years. Cognitive dissonance is one of our most bewildering qualities. Half the tragedy is the damage we’ve done; the other half is the hubris of believing it could—or even should—be unfolding differently, as if we could just think or act our way out of it. It’s painful to admit this. It’s painful to feel the enormity of what we’ve done to ourselves, each other, and all life on Earth.

For me, developmental work is a delicate balance between cynicism and idealism; it’s about being with myself and others as we are—attuning to the needs and conditions of the moment as they ebb and flow whilst living into the hope that this is enough. Where can we find living examples of people maintaining this kind of vigilance together, amidst and between climate catastrophes? It’s this quality of collective inner development that guides my compass for humanity’s future.

As part of my PhD research, my husband and I are embarking on a developmental journey to learn from communities who have faced eco-social calamities, yet continue to thrive in the context of planetary crisis. What can they teach us about making sanctuary and living well together in these times? What learnings are transferable to our own communities and neighborhoods here in Australia?

I often think of the musicians on the Titanic, playing on as the ship sank—not fighting for their survival, but creating beauty, expressing terror, grief, and hope in the only way they knew how. Their actions epitomised the cynical idealism I’m pointing to; their intention was not to save themselves or others, but to illuminate something true about that moment. There attention was on being with death – for everyone. What courage. What heart. Oh, to be that present with the world as it is, in all its sorrow. Let me be clear – I’m terrified, as I’m sure the musicians were too. My hope is to have the maturity to be fully present with my terror, and to let the music play me.