A list of dares for the family abolitionist:

I dare you to spend more time cooking for others than you do sending emails. To mend your socks and weave rings out of grass. To invite friends, neighbours, the bus driver for dinner every night. And I mean every night until they’re sick of your cooking and begrudgingly invite you round.

I dare you to look after people you don't like. As in, believe they are a good person and help them find whatever it is they need. If they don’t know what they need, give them little trinkets (a token of your love).

I dare you to share ferociously, like you’re allergic to ownership. Compulsively give away your clothes, your jewels, your art. Become disgusted by waste, an empty home such an atrocity; you’re spewing on the verges.

I dare you to give your inheritance to strangers, to throw a fundraiser at Dad’s house. Unlock all the doors and rip down all the fences. Break open the family home, let hurt and healing mingle on the street.

I dare you to burn down the banks and then care for the capitalists; now grieving the loss of their net-worth. As they grieve, stroke their hair and coo-coo the ones who have been so busy.

I dare you to, if your able, quit all pursuits that keep you from care, to make a caring existence your sole purpose. To care for all parts of yourself (including anger, concrete, ants and the big blue sky).

I dare you to be regularly inconvenienced by love, to have dreams bigger than your own security. To rip open bounds of the self and open yourself to disappointment and brokenness.

I dare you to care until you are sick with it and then to seek care from others.
I dare you to ask for help, over and over again.

I dare you to love more than you fear being abandoned,
To love more than you know how.

I dare you to embrace love as a practice, as a way of being together.

I dare you to care.