Proof that thinking is contrary to the fulfillment of some tasks:
One foot goes in front of the other. A woman walks upon a wire. If she thinks about how she is balancing, she tips over.
Red moves from left to right. A man spots the rotation of a ball. If he thinks about where his elbow is in relation to his wrist, he will swing and miss.
The hunter runs around and around. A cartoon coyote runs off a cliff. If he looks downward to see where he is, he falls down.
---
Even in the rules of created works, thinking undermines goals. Theory is opposed to practice insofar as it works with unrealistic materials (i.e., the subject matter--a thought or an object respectively). Practice always maintains its grip on reality, for practice is always in the act of gripping. Theory fumbles.
Does it always fumble? No. Sometimes theory is educated by practice. Then, provided that the material theorized about is similar enough to the material practiced on, the theory will function as it should.
Balancing, hitting a baseball, and chasing a roadrunner are all acts that rely on immediacy. One lacks the time to think. Should one think despite the requirements of the circumstance, one will fail because time continues.
Thinking prior to the acts discussed here may help prepare for the practice. One may visualize and thus become familiar with real possibilities without the risks of practice. Circumstances may require one to be reserved, and waiting to be risky until the opportune time is wise. Waiting, though, is always less preferable to the immediate actor. If the goal is to participate in an immediate act (i.e., to be an immediate actor), thinking is scantly valuable. It is better to practice and fail repeatedly than simply to theorize extensively and then act. One draws nearer to the goal in failure than one could in theorizing.
---
What else is immediate (i.e., contrary to thought) besides actions? Emotional states. Is thinking not affective? Can one not think oneself into happiness? Surely it is possible. One can imagine oneself in a happy situation--say with friends, in a serene climate, laughing and carrying on. Your significant other is nearby, puts an arm around you, and kisses you on the cheek. Everyone is enraptured by your story-telling. Is one now not genuinely happy thinking thusly? Oh, certainly one is happy. Now one is thinking about being happy, about thinking, and now one has returned to a calmer--if not morose--state. Curses! The affect only lasts as long as one is imagining, and maybe a little longer. Then one returns to the undesired original state, and may feel worse for becoming aware of the disparity between theory (where one wants to be) and practice (where one is).
Here lies the riskiness of thought to affect happiness. A person is not always happy where she is, but is always more happy where she is when she is where she wants to be than in thinking of where she is when she is where she wants to be. Thinking is an act of creation apart from the livable world. The emotional state of happiness is greater in a context of lived fulfillment rather than imagined fulfillment.
Can one think oneself into sadness? Surely it is possible. One can imagine oneself in an unhappy situation--say alone, in a dreary climate, drinking and writing. Your significant other has left you, and you are confused. No one will listen to your sad story. Is one now not genuinely unhappy thinking thusly? Oh, certainly one is unhappy. Now one is thinking about being unhappy, about thinking, and now one has gone to a different state. For one is now alone and knows one was alone during the thought process. The analogy is drawn between theory (the imagined situation) and practice (the actual one).
Here lies the potency of thought to affect melancholy. A person is not always sad when alone, but is often more sad alone than in company. A person is not always thoughtful when alone, but is always alone when thoughtful. Thinking is an act of drawing in and away from the world and from others. The emotional state of sadness resonates along this drawn line.
---
We have seen that there are times when thinking is inappropriate. I advise you, then, to not think too much.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
Growth: The Psychology of A Lullaby
Allow me to take inventory now that we have traveled so far. We have observed that childhood and adulthood are opposed when viewed as temporal phenomena. A person of thirty is no longer a child in the sense that he has become too much, had too many opportunities to be considered a child. Yet, if we reflect upon ourselves we noted that childhood and adulthood are less definitively related. Neither memories nor dreams entail compatibility or opposition between being a child and being an adult. In this light, childhood and adulthood behave like qualitative states of being. Qualities are always more elusive than quantities and their definitions tend to be suspect. Much thought needs to be exerted to distinguish qualities. One never knows them for certain, but rather gets a taste for them.
Being obligated to meditate further on aging as a quality, let us try to differentiate further. What are some of the commonplace understandings of our subject? A child is ignorant, prone to self-gratification, and free from responsibility. An adult is rational, prone to self-sacrifice, and burdened by duties. Children are dreamers. Adults are realists. A child will cry when he does not get his way. An adult has learned to control his emotions in disagreeable circumstances. Children are clumsy. Adults are careful. A child is helpless. An adult is autonomous. A child needs help even to go to sleep. An adult can go to sleep on her own.
Is there no common ground amongst the prejudices? Why is it that when we looked at a given man's life we saw subtle transitions but when we consider conventional wisdom all we see are contrasts once more? Could it be that conventional wisdom is propounded by adults, a party interested in its own image?
From our list, it appears that childhood is inferior to adulthood. What could a child have that is superior to her older counterpart? I must interject and suggest that the child has a great gift in innocence. The pride in adults thinks it is better to be credited than to be blameless. They (and I with them) need to admit that it is always better to be blameless than to be blamed and often better to be blameless than to be credited.
To be innocent, one must not have done something. Children are innocent for at least two reasons: (1) they do not do the same sort of things adults do and (2) they do not know as much as adults do. With increased autonomy comes greater trust--trust in personal and professional relationships. Children, being largely dependent, are saved from the opportunity to do wrong. With increased autonomy comes greater awareness--awareness of morals and mortals (i.e., one's contemporaries). Children, being largely dependent, are saved from the knowledge of doing wrong. It is the childishness of children, so frequently used to disparage adults, that allows them to be so innocent. It is the maturity of adults, so frequently used to commend children, that allows them to be so often guilty.
Childhood has its weaknesses and dangers. Conventional wisdom speaks to those. It is a different sort of dangerous to get older though, and yet we must get older.
These hands that type were once too small and confusedly operated to communicate through words. God willing, they will someday be too contorted and perhaps confusedly operated to communicate through words again. I pass through this process. We all do. Yet, the hands remain our own and the same. How are they the same? In a distant way, like the first prototypes of technologies relate to today's state of the art? Or intimately like an old pine floor with a new coat of wax on it?
When a baby is displeased, is crying and unsettled, a loving parent takes her up into her arms. She walks with her child, dips her shoulders, and rhythmically rocks her. The baby is lulled by the expectations of the movement and their certain fulfillment. Now the move to the left; now the move to the right. If need be, she whispers sweet shushes and reaffirms serenity with words. The baby knows both only by their calming affect. Now the baby sleeps and the parent is pleased. Finally, the struggling child rests. But--what if the child wanted food? What if the child had soiled herself? What if she was pained by the onset of a fever? The benign, dreamy face masks the original problem.
Can an adult be lulled to sleep? I concede that he or she is often unsettled and would be well-pleased by a lullaby, but it is impossible. An adult is too sophisticated, too self-conscious, to be tricked by the gentle whispers of nonsense. A man or woman cannot easily be taken up into the arms of a loving parent. The cause of distress if far more complex, weighty, and intransigent--in a word, far more adult.
What about alternatives? Is there no way to rock an adult to sleep in a metaphorical way? Have they absolutely outgrown being coddled, or could there be a more sophisticated form? Is there now a different sort of rocking device--a surrogate parent?
A common experience among people transitioning from dependence to independence is persistent doubt. A person develops, matures, grows, physically and mentally, but not without restriction. Diet, gravity, and self-awareness all hinder the process of growth. A young man or women is frequently riddled by self-doubt. An undercurrent surges beneath the placid surface. Is this a good way to make a living? Is this what I was meant to do? Where am I going? An adult is bound to tear up and kick if they reflect much longer on this uncertain state. Somewhere they know there are needs going unmet, but it would be so difficult to meet them. It would be much easier to be distracted. Now our young man or woman wants to be put to sleep, in the disarmed reality of unconsciousness.
Give a person a routine, and he will be calmed. He has his definition; he knows the floor he is at. He thinks of himself as a worker. There is a position on his identification badge that fixes him in place. The rhythm of adulthood mollifies him. A morning cup of coffee is his new pacifier. The bumps along the commute provide the rocking motion. Now the acceleration to gain access to the needed lane; now the deceleration to abide by the traffic light's command. Discomfort slinks back. What is now and pressing upon him is the cold but tight embrace of worldly responsibility. Those questions, which still lack answers, are displaced. The goals are immediate: pack a lunch, check the messages, file the papers, write the letter, clean the area. They are easily completed. Oh grace of grace--how they replenish! The world marches on and the inbox fills and refills. There is no time to consider discomfort--there is work to be done. All the while, the potential elevator drops.
Is there anything more dangerous for an adult than to be lulled when he needs to be awake? It is a state that precipitates a crash.
If a gentle woman were to come upon the worker who is at rest while being so active, addressed him by name, and asked whether he was awake--what would the man answer? "What a silly question--if I could answer, I must be awake. I am surely awake for I can tell you as much." She would then ask the follow up question: who is it that answers thus--the worker or the man? Now she has cornered him. He would pause and furrow his brow. "It has been so long since I recognized the difference, but you ask an apt question. For long ago, when I began this routine--I told myself, "This is what a person must do in an age like ours. I will take up this routine and take up the designation of worker, but it will not be me. No, I will keep myself neatly tucked away. I am tired and distressed. I will let my self rest and the worker in me will take over. I will return upon retirement and be full of energy and ready to address what ails me. Now here I am, frail and tucked in my sheets, and you have awoken me though I thought I was already awake. I was rocked to sleep and lost consciousness of my self in the process. Where is the worker now? Oh dreadful thought--that I was him this whole time!"
The gentle woman would pat him on the head, smooth over his disheveled curls, and explain to him that a person can never really be free from his self. Integrity describes a person's life even if he tries to disintegrate because a person is always the same book even when the chapter changes. The hand grows, but it remains at bottom the same hand.
Now those unanswered questions are free to return. Now he feels anxious. Now the tears begin to well. Woe to him whose elevator of actuality door opens at such a moment!
It would be so easy, so secure, if we could simply be content in being adults. Surely membership in such a group demands respect, both from self and others. Alas, it is not so easy. It is a dangerous group to be a part of.
--
Our analysis is far from complete. Books could be written on the subject and still the qualitative difference would remain as vague. Qualities are indiscrete, making the study of them at once frustrating and rewarding.
We have made many observations that the audience is free to remember or forget. From within thought, we may peer into growth's essence. We see a process of becoming. Growth is at once an automatic and perilous process. It is automatic like the progression of time; it is perilous like the firing of clay. From within life, we see growth in its existence. We reflect on our selves changing and remaining the same. We recall the centrality of ideals concerning a person's development.
Childhood is not devoid of value nor is adulthood abundant in it. How the two stages are related is neither inscrutable nor obvious. If given time, a child will become an adult. Attention is required along the way lest the child become something less laudable than the ideal of maturity suggests.
Being obligated to meditate further on aging as a quality, let us try to differentiate further. What are some of the commonplace understandings of our subject? A child is ignorant, prone to self-gratification, and free from responsibility. An adult is rational, prone to self-sacrifice, and burdened by duties. Children are dreamers. Adults are realists. A child will cry when he does not get his way. An adult has learned to control his emotions in disagreeable circumstances. Children are clumsy. Adults are careful. A child is helpless. An adult is autonomous. A child needs help even to go to sleep. An adult can go to sleep on her own.
Is there no common ground amongst the prejudices? Why is it that when we looked at a given man's life we saw subtle transitions but when we consider conventional wisdom all we see are contrasts once more? Could it be that conventional wisdom is propounded by adults, a party interested in its own image?
From our list, it appears that childhood is inferior to adulthood. What could a child have that is superior to her older counterpart? I must interject and suggest that the child has a great gift in innocence. The pride in adults thinks it is better to be credited than to be blameless. They (and I with them) need to admit that it is always better to be blameless than to be blamed and often better to be blameless than to be credited.
To be innocent, one must not have done something. Children are innocent for at least two reasons: (1) they do not do the same sort of things adults do and (2) they do not know as much as adults do. With increased autonomy comes greater trust--trust in personal and professional relationships. Children, being largely dependent, are saved from the opportunity to do wrong. With increased autonomy comes greater awareness--awareness of morals and mortals (i.e., one's contemporaries). Children, being largely dependent, are saved from the knowledge of doing wrong. It is the childishness of children, so frequently used to disparage adults, that allows them to be so innocent. It is the maturity of adults, so frequently used to commend children, that allows them to be so often guilty.
Childhood has its weaknesses and dangers. Conventional wisdom speaks to those. It is a different sort of dangerous to get older though, and yet we must get older.
These hands that type were once too small and confusedly operated to communicate through words. God willing, they will someday be too contorted and perhaps confusedly operated to communicate through words again. I pass through this process. We all do. Yet, the hands remain our own and the same. How are they the same? In a distant way, like the first prototypes of technologies relate to today's state of the art? Or intimately like an old pine floor with a new coat of wax on it?
When a baby is displeased, is crying and unsettled, a loving parent takes her up into her arms. She walks with her child, dips her shoulders, and rhythmically rocks her. The baby is lulled by the expectations of the movement and their certain fulfillment. Now the move to the left; now the move to the right. If need be, she whispers sweet shushes and reaffirms serenity with words. The baby knows both only by their calming affect. Now the baby sleeps and the parent is pleased. Finally, the struggling child rests. But--what if the child wanted food? What if the child had soiled herself? What if she was pained by the onset of a fever? The benign, dreamy face masks the original problem.
Can an adult be lulled to sleep? I concede that he or she is often unsettled and would be well-pleased by a lullaby, but it is impossible. An adult is too sophisticated, too self-conscious, to be tricked by the gentle whispers of nonsense. A man or woman cannot easily be taken up into the arms of a loving parent. The cause of distress if far more complex, weighty, and intransigent--in a word, far more adult.
What about alternatives? Is there no way to rock an adult to sleep in a metaphorical way? Have they absolutely outgrown being coddled, or could there be a more sophisticated form? Is there now a different sort of rocking device--a surrogate parent?
A common experience among people transitioning from dependence to independence is persistent doubt. A person develops, matures, grows, physically and mentally, but not without restriction. Diet, gravity, and self-awareness all hinder the process of growth. A young man or women is frequently riddled by self-doubt. An undercurrent surges beneath the placid surface. Is this a good way to make a living? Is this what I was meant to do? Where am I going? An adult is bound to tear up and kick if they reflect much longer on this uncertain state. Somewhere they know there are needs going unmet, but it would be so difficult to meet them. It would be much easier to be distracted. Now our young man or woman wants to be put to sleep, in the disarmed reality of unconsciousness.
Give a person a routine, and he will be calmed. He has his definition; he knows the floor he is at. He thinks of himself as a worker. There is a position on his identification badge that fixes him in place. The rhythm of adulthood mollifies him. A morning cup of coffee is his new pacifier. The bumps along the commute provide the rocking motion. Now the acceleration to gain access to the needed lane; now the deceleration to abide by the traffic light's command. Discomfort slinks back. What is now and pressing upon him is the cold but tight embrace of worldly responsibility. Those questions, which still lack answers, are displaced. The goals are immediate: pack a lunch, check the messages, file the papers, write the letter, clean the area. They are easily completed. Oh grace of grace--how they replenish! The world marches on and the inbox fills and refills. There is no time to consider discomfort--there is work to be done. All the while, the potential elevator drops.
Is there anything more dangerous for an adult than to be lulled when he needs to be awake? It is a state that precipitates a crash.
If a gentle woman were to come upon the worker who is at rest while being so active, addressed him by name, and asked whether he was awake--what would the man answer? "What a silly question--if I could answer, I must be awake. I am surely awake for I can tell you as much." She would then ask the follow up question: who is it that answers thus--the worker or the man? Now she has cornered him. He would pause and furrow his brow. "It has been so long since I recognized the difference, but you ask an apt question. For long ago, when I began this routine--I told myself, "This is what a person must do in an age like ours. I will take up this routine and take up the designation of worker, but it will not be me. No, I will keep myself neatly tucked away. I am tired and distressed. I will let my self rest and the worker in me will take over. I will return upon retirement and be full of energy and ready to address what ails me. Now here I am, frail and tucked in my sheets, and you have awoken me though I thought I was already awake. I was rocked to sleep and lost consciousness of my self in the process. Where is the worker now? Oh dreadful thought--that I was him this whole time!"
The gentle woman would pat him on the head, smooth over his disheveled curls, and explain to him that a person can never really be free from his self. Integrity describes a person's life even if he tries to disintegrate because a person is always the same book even when the chapter changes. The hand grows, but it remains at bottom the same hand.
Now those unanswered questions are free to return. Now he feels anxious. Now the tears begin to well. Woe to him whose elevator of actuality door opens at such a moment!
It would be so easy, so secure, if we could simply be content in being adults. Surely membership in such a group demands respect, both from self and others. Alas, it is not so easy. It is a dangerous group to be a part of.
--
Our analysis is far from complete. Books could be written on the subject and still the qualitative difference would remain as vague. Qualities are indiscrete, making the study of them at once frustrating and rewarding.
We have made many observations that the audience is free to remember or forget. From within thought, we may peer into growth's essence. We see a process of becoming. Growth is at once an automatic and perilous process. It is automatic like the progression of time; it is perilous like the firing of clay. From within life, we see growth in its existence. We reflect on our selves changing and remaining the same. We recall the centrality of ideals concerning a person's development.
Childhood is not devoid of value nor is adulthood abundant in it. How the two stages are related is neither inscrutable nor obvious. If given time, a child will become an adult. Attention is required along the way lest the child become something less laudable than the ideal of maturity suggests.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Growth: The Literature of A Life
After stirring up the pot, I need to let the liquid settle. As an artist, I want to guide not disorient. Exhale with me, and allow me to return to my easel. I am inspired to paint a different picture of aging.
Picture: Books
The lives of people are like a compilation of short stories. The stories are kept in a book we call the self. Each story consists of spans of time differentiated by a central purpose. As a child, the purposes are often determined by others. These are the stories of innocence and learning. They are the memories of playtime and curiosity. A child increasingly becomes self-aware and thus begins to take up his pen to write his stories for himself. As a child ages, he is free to dissociate from the person he has been and determines his own purpose. At such point, he turns the page and begins the story anew.
If a person reflects upon her self in a general way--upon the things she feels, does, observes, and thinks--she finds recurring reasons for the characteristics of her self (e.g., her vices and virtues). These recurring reasons function like morals to a story, and thus the stories of youth transition into fables of adulthood. The reasons frame the structure of a person's motivation and suggest what a person holds dear. Imagine a woman who is angered when she is treated inconsiderately. Desiring to reap what she sews, she constantly takes the the feelings of others into consideration when making choices that involve them. Her motivation, a mixture of self-interest and empathy, suggests that people are valuable and they warrant influence upon each other's choices. We would expect to find at the close of many of her fables morals such as, "No one truly forgets injuries in the presence of him who caused the injury," and "The memory of a good deed lives."
We see that adulthood is complicated by the added layer of morals. The beginning of the adulthood commences with the beginning of self-determination. Independence is the mark of other aspects of growth. A child matures by overcoming immediacy. The muscles in the neck strengthen and rather than being stuck in the position gravity requires the baby hold her own head up to see what she wants. The muscles strengthen in her arms and legs and she goes where she wants by crawling. The muscles strengthen in her back and legs and she goes further by walking. The eyes see greater distances. The mind sees greater distances too. A child begins to want more than meeting physical needs. She wants to be something more than bodily contented because she has gained the ability to be something more. To transcend is the action of maturity.
I started seeing life in this way because of an old man I know. When I told him of this current investigation of mine, he voiced his desire to contribute. Being ever interested in the thoughts of sages, I accepted. On promise of anonymity, he handed the following essay to me. I will leave it to my readers to interpret it as they will, it being more direct than Brandon's contribution.
Story: Dreams
The balls of inertia people are begin to accelerate when we begin to consciously direct our lives towards a goal. When I see a child of the age where goals begin to be relevant, I wonder to myself, "What dream do you contain? What is your idea of perfection?" Nothing on the child's face suggests it. His clothes have nothing certain to offer. Yet, children certainly do have an idea of perfection, no matter how nebulous it is in their minds. It is their home, where they always return to.
There are so many possible ends and the specifics within a given person are telling about them. People do strange things--disingenuous things--when they feel the eyes of others upon them. Children are certainly conscious of being watched and often behave otherwise than they would if alone. Behavior resides in the public domain; dreams reside the private domain. The dreams of children are rarely touched by foreign hands for a child thinks nothing of the judgment of others upon their internal contents. Would a child dream a certain dream because his friends would approve? Would a child dream a certain dream because it is what her parents want? No, for the simple reason that they know--if only in a nascent way--dreams are born secrets. Who could ever discover those buried treasure chests?
I enjoy hypothesizing about the dreams a child contains when I see her: would it be a world without death? Would it be a world where you are well-liked and well-known? Would it be a world where you stand atop the scorched remains of your enemies? Would it be a world where everyone can sense beauty on a daily basis?
I wonder these things as I look at a child's busy eyes. I wonder what he or she would tolerate suffering for sake of his or her sweet little dream becoming real. I think about the ways children will try to bring it off, the ways they will succeed and the ways they will fail--the ways they will be confused as to what counts as success and failure. Will they persist when they are knocked back or when they trip? Will they move off in a different direction? Will they harden from the fire of disenchantment or will they melt from the fire of hope? Will they simply hunch over and sob for the remainder of their lives? Will they begin the process of growing older and start to reconstruct their ideas of perfection based off the blueprints of others' expectations?
These questions arise in my mind with such great consistency because I have come to understand myself by answering them. After many years of living, I see myself as playing out some sort of role that was fixed--fixed freely by my own choice--at the ripe age of thirteen. It has been the role of a dreamer in a lucid dream. I have dreamed up a world, unknowingly begun to live in it, and then through a strange coincidence come to understand my own power (and limitations) within the dreamworld. I have tried my best to make the world as real as possible without changing the essence of the first dream.
Providence has blessed me with a certain sort of stupidity that kept me from dreaming anything too like what happens in the world. I became enamored with a lofty vision. Many of the people I was near to as a child were unhappy. Their displeasure took pride of place in my heart as the most pressing need. In response to my environment, I dreamed of a world without suffering. To clarify, I did not think perfection lied in the cessation of all pain. I never saw anything wrong with scraped knees and paper cuts. The lessons to be gleaned from them were easy enough. What I dreamed of was a world without wanton suffering. I wanted everyone to be without all pain that had no hope of yielding edification. I wanted everyone to be free of the sort of sadness that merely disintegrated--the irrational sort of sickness that brought one to cry without any understanding of why the tears came. I thought perfection was a world free of depression and despair.
As a child, I never thought in such stark terms. The limitations of a youth's mind keep them benignly ignorant. I had only a hunch, an undeveloped notion I was infrequently aware of as being my guiding light. I knew it by the repulsion I felt whenever I encountered the depraved sort of suffering. Whenever confronted by it, my immediate and innocent impulse was to disarm it. (I have had for as long as I can remember a tepid but distinct savior complex. Tepid in that I never thought I would save the world. Distinct in that I thought I could save the people I knew.)
My tactics changed over the years. When I was young, I was more passionate than effective. Some of the time, I would try through words and other times I would try through deeds. I would try in my little child way to make sense of the pain aloud with the other person. Through interviewing, I would try to draw out the venom. I would try to think and talk through the semi-conscious pain, and then think and talk it away. I felt sure that if I could bring it out into the clear light of day, it would evaporate like morning mist.
My mother passed away shortly after I was born. Her sister, Clare, would come to our house on occasion to help us with domestic tasks. One occasion juts out in my memory as exemplary of my lucidity. I remember Clare was doing laundry. She had been sulking around the house before descending to the laundry room. I went to visit her in the basement, and noticed she was crying. At the time, my thinking was wonderfully simple: a person cries for a reason. I asked her what was wrong, and after a lengthy back and forth we concluded that the issue was frustration with her bodily appearance. It was my task to bring the world nearer to my ideal. I explained how inappropriate it was to think of your identity as primarily physical. Then, I criticized those who would devalue a person because of their appearance. I told her I loved her regardless. She smiled. All was well now, was it not? I was a successful psychologist already in sixth grade. Alas, I would always return to a place not too far from the starting point. Clare's sadness would boomerang back.
I became unsure of my healing ability. Some wounds resisted treatment. I went back to the drawing board. Perhaps something that was originally beyond words needed to be treated beyond words. When the thorn in my friend's side immediately appeared more stubborn than I could coax out by my teeth, I would apply my hands. I would put them on a person's shoulder blades and hug them. I would try to warm them, to melt the frost that chilled their insides. Alas, I would always return to a place not too far from the starting point. I learned that dusting a portrait does nothing to fix its broken frame.
Now, I look back on my early projects and understand myself better. I was onto something good with that first dream, but I was not onto the summum bonum. Far is the distance from "onto something" to "being there." A nose for food does not always bring you to the kitchen. Sometimes it takes you to the dumpster. Only later could I decipher that my turn outward was a way to keep me from myself. After the failures piled up--after I was unable to stop the bleeding of those sad individuals I knew--I was left alone in my room. Years later I realized that I was one of those sad individuals and had not given myself time to notice it out of some unconscious determination of self-preservation. It was a worthy dream, but needed alteration. Suffering warrants attention and requires a response, but the attendant may need attention of his own and the respondent may be insufficient for the response. Now, I still dream of a world without suffering but imagine myself in it and do not imagine myself creating it. I still strive to disarm despair, but do so in myself as well as others and avoid relying solely upon myself for success. A savior I am not.
Worth of the dream aside, can you see the explanatory power of these first goals? They are like keys that unlock the journal of the self. People spend the rest of their lives relating to these goals. Maturation is a process of revision upon these first goals that move us forward.
A person is free to abandon his first goal. Some simply forget what they were. Make no mistake, though. Goals are always present. Another goal slips into place as soon as one is jettisoned. Somewhere within a person are his reasons for living with their corollary emotional motivations.
The necessity of necessity in life is as a consistent source of motivation. The individuals who manage to draw upon a consistent source of motivation are those who are placed in the canon of people. They lead lives of integrity, with the sameness of purpose that pleases their audience like alliteration pleases readers. Some lives may be driven by towards ill ends, but we are nevertheless fascinated by their persistence. The singularity of purpose makes them memorable because it is so difficult to achieve. Discouragement comes and one is tempted to revise towards something easier and less lofty.
If a person does not concern himself with their fundamental motivation, then that person consigns himself to being forever a baby. To him I say, "Fine. Your life is your bet and you place it on purposelessness as truth. Good luck to you. But what would your winnings be and what do you jeopardize?"
Picture: Books
The lives of people are like a compilation of short stories. The stories are kept in a book we call the self. Each story consists of spans of time differentiated by a central purpose. As a child, the purposes are often determined by others. These are the stories of innocence and learning. They are the memories of playtime and curiosity. A child increasingly becomes self-aware and thus begins to take up his pen to write his stories for himself. As a child ages, he is free to dissociate from the person he has been and determines his own purpose. At such point, he turns the page and begins the story anew.
If a person reflects upon her self in a general way--upon the things she feels, does, observes, and thinks--she finds recurring reasons for the characteristics of her self (e.g., her vices and virtues). These recurring reasons function like morals to a story, and thus the stories of youth transition into fables of adulthood. The reasons frame the structure of a person's motivation and suggest what a person holds dear. Imagine a woman who is angered when she is treated inconsiderately. Desiring to reap what she sews, she constantly takes the the feelings of others into consideration when making choices that involve them. Her motivation, a mixture of self-interest and empathy, suggests that people are valuable and they warrant influence upon each other's choices. We would expect to find at the close of many of her fables morals such as, "No one truly forgets injuries in the presence of him who caused the injury," and "The memory of a good deed lives."
We see that adulthood is complicated by the added layer of morals. The beginning of the adulthood commences with the beginning of self-determination. Independence is the mark of other aspects of growth. A child matures by overcoming immediacy. The muscles in the neck strengthen and rather than being stuck in the position gravity requires the baby hold her own head up to see what she wants. The muscles strengthen in her arms and legs and she goes where she wants by crawling. The muscles strengthen in her back and legs and she goes further by walking. The eyes see greater distances. The mind sees greater distances too. A child begins to want more than meeting physical needs. She wants to be something more than bodily contented because she has gained the ability to be something more. To transcend is the action of maturity.
I started seeing life in this way because of an old man I know. When I told him of this current investigation of mine, he voiced his desire to contribute. Being ever interested in the thoughts of sages, I accepted. On promise of anonymity, he handed the following essay to me. I will leave it to my readers to interpret it as they will, it being more direct than Brandon's contribution.
Story: Dreams
The balls of inertia people are begin to accelerate when we begin to consciously direct our lives towards a goal. When I see a child of the age where goals begin to be relevant, I wonder to myself, "What dream do you contain? What is your idea of perfection?" Nothing on the child's face suggests it. His clothes have nothing certain to offer. Yet, children certainly do have an idea of perfection, no matter how nebulous it is in their minds. It is their home, where they always return to.
There are so many possible ends and the specifics within a given person are telling about them. People do strange things--disingenuous things--when they feel the eyes of others upon them. Children are certainly conscious of being watched and often behave otherwise than they would if alone. Behavior resides in the public domain; dreams reside the private domain. The dreams of children are rarely touched by foreign hands for a child thinks nothing of the judgment of others upon their internal contents. Would a child dream a certain dream because his friends would approve? Would a child dream a certain dream because it is what her parents want? No, for the simple reason that they know--if only in a nascent way--dreams are born secrets. Who could ever discover those buried treasure chests?
I enjoy hypothesizing about the dreams a child contains when I see her: would it be a world without death? Would it be a world where you are well-liked and well-known? Would it be a world where you stand atop the scorched remains of your enemies? Would it be a world where everyone can sense beauty on a daily basis?
I wonder these things as I look at a child's busy eyes. I wonder what he or she would tolerate suffering for sake of his or her sweet little dream becoming real. I think about the ways children will try to bring it off, the ways they will succeed and the ways they will fail--the ways they will be confused as to what counts as success and failure. Will they persist when they are knocked back or when they trip? Will they move off in a different direction? Will they harden from the fire of disenchantment or will they melt from the fire of hope? Will they simply hunch over and sob for the remainder of their lives? Will they begin the process of growing older and start to reconstruct their ideas of perfection based off the blueprints of others' expectations?
These questions arise in my mind with such great consistency because I have come to understand myself by answering them. After many years of living, I see myself as playing out some sort of role that was fixed--fixed freely by my own choice--at the ripe age of thirteen. It has been the role of a dreamer in a lucid dream. I have dreamed up a world, unknowingly begun to live in it, and then through a strange coincidence come to understand my own power (and limitations) within the dreamworld. I have tried my best to make the world as real as possible without changing the essence of the first dream.
Providence has blessed me with a certain sort of stupidity that kept me from dreaming anything too like what happens in the world. I became enamored with a lofty vision. Many of the people I was near to as a child were unhappy. Their displeasure took pride of place in my heart as the most pressing need. In response to my environment, I dreamed of a world without suffering. To clarify, I did not think perfection lied in the cessation of all pain. I never saw anything wrong with scraped knees and paper cuts. The lessons to be gleaned from them were easy enough. What I dreamed of was a world without wanton suffering. I wanted everyone to be without all pain that had no hope of yielding edification. I wanted everyone to be free of the sort of sadness that merely disintegrated--the irrational sort of sickness that brought one to cry without any understanding of why the tears came. I thought perfection was a world free of depression and despair.
As a child, I never thought in such stark terms. The limitations of a youth's mind keep them benignly ignorant. I had only a hunch, an undeveloped notion I was infrequently aware of as being my guiding light. I knew it by the repulsion I felt whenever I encountered the depraved sort of suffering. Whenever confronted by it, my immediate and innocent impulse was to disarm it. (I have had for as long as I can remember a tepid but distinct savior complex. Tepid in that I never thought I would save the world. Distinct in that I thought I could save the people I knew.)
My tactics changed over the years. When I was young, I was more passionate than effective. Some of the time, I would try through words and other times I would try through deeds. I would try in my little child way to make sense of the pain aloud with the other person. Through interviewing, I would try to draw out the venom. I would try to think and talk through the semi-conscious pain, and then think and talk it away. I felt sure that if I could bring it out into the clear light of day, it would evaporate like morning mist.
My mother passed away shortly after I was born. Her sister, Clare, would come to our house on occasion to help us with domestic tasks. One occasion juts out in my memory as exemplary of my lucidity. I remember Clare was doing laundry. She had been sulking around the house before descending to the laundry room. I went to visit her in the basement, and noticed she was crying. At the time, my thinking was wonderfully simple: a person cries for a reason. I asked her what was wrong, and after a lengthy back and forth we concluded that the issue was frustration with her bodily appearance. It was my task to bring the world nearer to my ideal. I explained how inappropriate it was to think of your identity as primarily physical. Then, I criticized those who would devalue a person because of their appearance. I told her I loved her regardless. She smiled. All was well now, was it not? I was a successful psychologist already in sixth grade. Alas, I would always return to a place not too far from the starting point. Clare's sadness would boomerang back.
I became unsure of my healing ability. Some wounds resisted treatment. I went back to the drawing board. Perhaps something that was originally beyond words needed to be treated beyond words. When the thorn in my friend's side immediately appeared more stubborn than I could coax out by my teeth, I would apply my hands. I would put them on a person's shoulder blades and hug them. I would try to warm them, to melt the frost that chilled their insides. Alas, I would always return to a place not too far from the starting point. I learned that dusting a portrait does nothing to fix its broken frame.
Now, I look back on my early projects and understand myself better. I was onto something good with that first dream, but I was not onto the summum bonum. Far is the distance from "onto something" to "being there." A nose for food does not always bring you to the kitchen. Sometimes it takes you to the dumpster. Only later could I decipher that my turn outward was a way to keep me from myself. After the failures piled up--after I was unable to stop the bleeding of those sad individuals I knew--I was left alone in my room. Years later I realized that I was one of those sad individuals and had not given myself time to notice it out of some unconscious determination of self-preservation. It was a worthy dream, but needed alteration. Suffering warrants attention and requires a response, but the attendant may need attention of his own and the respondent may be insufficient for the response. Now, I still dream of a world without suffering but imagine myself in it and do not imagine myself creating it. I still strive to disarm despair, but do so in myself as well as others and avoid relying solely upon myself for success. A savior I am not.
Worth of the dream aside, can you see the explanatory power of these first goals? They are like keys that unlock the journal of the self. People spend the rest of their lives relating to these goals. Maturation is a process of revision upon these first goals that move us forward.
A person is free to abandon his first goal. Some simply forget what they were. Make no mistake, though. Goals are always present. Another goal slips into place as soon as one is jettisoned. Somewhere within a person are his reasons for living with their corollary emotional motivations.
The necessity of necessity in life is as a consistent source of motivation. The individuals who manage to draw upon a consistent source of motivation are those who are placed in the canon of people. They lead lives of integrity, with the sameness of purpose that pleases their audience like alliteration pleases readers. Some lives may be driven by towards ill ends, but we are nevertheless fascinated by their persistence. The singularity of purpose makes them memorable because it is so difficult to achieve. Discouragement comes and one is tempted to revise towards something easier and less lofty.
If a person does not concern himself with their fundamental motivation, then that person consigns himself to being forever a baby. To him I say, "Fine. Your life is your bet and you place it on purposelessness as truth. Good luck to you. But what would your winnings be and what do you jeopardize?"
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Growth: The History of A Self
Just as people see in pictures, they understand in stories. Stories are causally related sequences of events. People relish causal trails, whether in narratives or not. No one wants to live in a world of random events. It makes sense to us that our front lawns are white when we look upon them now because it precipitated overnight and the air and ground temperatures were below the freezing point. Once we know the fundamentals of weather, we begin to presume its orderly functioning in our environment. People yearn for order and being led down the path of a story (even if it is fictional) puts us at ease. We enjoy knowing why what we perceive is the way that it is. These explanations dull the edge of mystery which is otherwise so apt to slice. The topsy-turvey world of disorder and ignorance is pacified by reasoning. Sickness becomes more bearable by knowing who gave us the cold, does it not? Perhaps we ought to seek an understanding of the link between adulthood and childhood rather than simply looking at it.
Brandon Hayes, whom I've introduced you to before, generously answered in writing a question I posed to him regarding aging. I asked him what events sprang to mind when he thought of his childhood. Below are the stories he shared with me.
--
Story: Episodes of Aging
I remember being in the backseat of my parents' car. I was engulfed by warm maroon fabric. My view of the grey October sky was obstructed by the monolithic front seats. I remember being unhappy and launching into a tantrum. I shrieked and slammed my head repeatedly against the foam backing of the bench seat. Each time I struck it, the foam sprung my head back forward. I even remember the tugging of my cheeks upon my face as the fleshy pockets lagged behind. I returned the volley with a snap of my little neck. My mother remained impervious to the siege, but my father eventually turned around.
"Do you have any idea how unpleasant you are making this trip for mom and I?" His tightly-formed lips added velocity to the reprimand. Pierced, I stopped immediately. I forgot the cause of my unhappiness; I was dumbfounded. The frustration in my father's eyes--the outward similarity with the frustration inside of me at the time--transported me to a different perspective. In my mind, I left my body. I pictured myself looking back at my bodily self, red and crying in the backseat. The rhetorical question had revealed for the first time a truth about the human condition. I inadvertently learned that the world contained many viewpoints, not just my own. In a flash, I was ripped from my youthful solipsism. I blinked at the grey sky in the center of my field of vision that had filled in my father's vacancy. I was at once fascinated and frightened. I was not alone and yet I was alone. There were others similar to me, and yet they were not the same. Residual tears glided along my conflicted face to my smooth chin.
What if, instead of realizing that I was but one citizen in the world, I drew a different conclusion? What if I thought instead that I was the only citizen that mattered and that these other people, mere aliens, were obstructions. I would be a very different person.
I remember too feeling certain there were other moms and dads, but only one Mom and one Dad. I remember feeling like the only Brandon in the world. My experience was unique and thus a unique name was appropriate. I liked being original. It had taken me more than five years of life to realize other people had my first name. The other times I had heard the name, they must have glided over me. When in pre-school and I met another Brandon, the name stuck out. As the teacher called roll she said, "Brandon" twice: once for Brandon Baulderling and once for Brandon Hayes--myself. I was dumbfounded. How could someone else be called the same name? It was my name; it defined me. It fixed me in a stable medium of letters. I felt like I lost my identity. I was offended by the possibility of replication. It was my sad introduction to the peculiar staleness of human affairs. After that disappointing pre-school morning, the extent of my unoriginality was often expanded. Everywhere I looked I saw more wearisome similarities. Height was shared; eye color was shared; language was shared. Even my name--the thing I introduced myself with--was not just shared but well-worn. Brandons were wandering all over the world. Years later I ruminated on the extent of my own banality. I was curious as to the number of dead Brandons in the ground, how many women hated their faithless Brandons, and how many men would take a bullet for their loyal Brandons. I did not like sharing then, and in ways I do not like sharing now. It made me feel like my portion of human dignity was diminished every time the population increased. The only benefit with time is that I can now articulate my feelings more clearly. I feel frequently lost in obscurity, as a zebra must within a pack of his siblings.
What if, rather than be humbled by my commonality with other people, I drew a different conclusion? What if I became determined to distinguish myself and be the penultimate Brandon? I would be a very different person.
--
What has Brandon told us about aging? See how smoothly the younger becomes the older? The movement which was so contrary when viewed from without is quite concordant from within. The person of yesterday hands off life to the person of tomorrow like a baton in a marathon. The thread of personal history ties a self together.
Here again we find that time is crucial. What we have seen makes us who we are. If Brandon had not had a classmate with his name until kindergarten (instead of pre-school), would he have been more prepared? Would it not have debilitated him?
In trying to answer one question we raise others. Why did Brandon draw the conclusions he did rather than the others he considered later (or any of the others he did not consider, for surely there are plenty of conclusions he could have left with)? Little Brandon had not aged enough to make a fully informed choice about it. He could not weigh the outcomes. He simply reacted. Could it be a random response? Could it be instead the result of some mood already established earlier in the day? Ought we circle back further towards earlier and earlier times that Brandon cannot remember, like scalding hot milk in a bottle or the warmth of a wool sweater on his face? Does the explanation of self end in tail chasing? The specter of irrationality drifts into view. How ever are we to come to an answer? We have muddled things thoroughly despite seeking clarity. How murky the human experience!
Brandon Hayes, whom I've introduced you to before, generously answered in writing a question I posed to him regarding aging. I asked him what events sprang to mind when he thought of his childhood. Below are the stories he shared with me.
--
Story: Episodes of Aging
I remember being in the backseat of my parents' car. I was engulfed by warm maroon fabric. My view of the grey October sky was obstructed by the monolithic front seats. I remember being unhappy and launching into a tantrum. I shrieked and slammed my head repeatedly against the foam backing of the bench seat. Each time I struck it, the foam sprung my head back forward. I even remember the tugging of my cheeks upon my face as the fleshy pockets lagged behind. I returned the volley with a snap of my little neck. My mother remained impervious to the siege, but my father eventually turned around.
"Do you have any idea how unpleasant you are making this trip for mom and I?" His tightly-formed lips added velocity to the reprimand. Pierced, I stopped immediately. I forgot the cause of my unhappiness; I was dumbfounded. The frustration in my father's eyes--the outward similarity with the frustration inside of me at the time--transported me to a different perspective. In my mind, I left my body. I pictured myself looking back at my bodily self, red and crying in the backseat. The rhetorical question had revealed for the first time a truth about the human condition. I inadvertently learned that the world contained many viewpoints, not just my own. In a flash, I was ripped from my youthful solipsism. I blinked at the grey sky in the center of my field of vision that had filled in my father's vacancy. I was at once fascinated and frightened. I was not alone and yet I was alone. There were others similar to me, and yet they were not the same. Residual tears glided along my conflicted face to my smooth chin.
What if, instead of realizing that I was but one citizen in the world, I drew a different conclusion? What if I thought instead that I was the only citizen that mattered and that these other people, mere aliens, were obstructions. I would be a very different person.
I remember too feeling certain there were other moms and dads, but only one Mom and one Dad. I remember feeling like the only Brandon in the world. My experience was unique and thus a unique name was appropriate. I liked being original. It had taken me more than five years of life to realize other people had my first name. The other times I had heard the name, they must have glided over me. When in pre-school and I met another Brandon, the name stuck out. As the teacher called roll she said, "Brandon" twice: once for Brandon Baulderling and once for Brandon Hayes--myself. I was dumbfounded. How could someone else be called the same name? It was my name; it defined me. It fixed me in a stable medium of letters. I felt like I lost my identity. I was offended by the possibility of replication. It was my sad introduction to the peculiar staleness of human affairs. After that disappointing pre-school morning, the extent of my unoriginality was often expanded. Everywhere I looked I saw more wearisome similarities. Height was shared; eye color was shared; language was shared. Even my name--the thing I introduced myself with--was not just shared but well-worn. Brandons were wandering all over the world. Years later I ruminated on the extent of my own banality. I was curious as to the number of dead Brandons in the ground, how many women hated their faithless Brandons, and how many men would take a bullet for their loyal Brandons. I did not like sharing then, and in ways I do not like sharing now. It made me feel like my portion of human dignity was diminished every time the population increased. The only benefit with time is that I can now articulate my feelings more clearly. I feel frequently lost in obscurity, as a zebra must within a pack of his siblings.
What if, rather than be humbled by my commonality with other people, I drew a different conclusion? What if I became determined to distinguish myself and be the penultimate Brandon? I would be a very different person.
--
What has Brandon told us about aging? See how smoothly the younger becomes the older? The movement which was so contrary when viewed from without is quite concordant from within. The person of yesterday hands off life to the person of tomorrow like a baton in a marathon. The thread of personal history ties a self together.
Here again we find that time is crucial. What we have seen makes us who we are. If Brandon had not had a classmate with his name until kindergarten (instead of pre-school), would he have been more prepared? Would it not have debilitated him?
In trying to answer one question we raise others. Why did Brandon draw the conclusions he did rather than the others he considered later (or any of the others he did not consider, for surely there are plenty of conclusions he could have left with)? Little Brandon had not aged enough to make a fully informed choice about it. He could not weigh the outcomes. He simply reacted. Could it be a random response? Could it be instead the result of some mood already established earlier in the day? Ought we circle back further towards earlier and earlier times that Brandon cannot remember, like scalding hot milk in a bottle or the warmth of a wool sweater on his face? Does the explanation of self end in tail chasing? The specter of irrationality drifts into view. How ever are we to come to an answer? We have muddled things thoroughly despite seeking clarity. How murky the human experience!
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