I Don't Think This Word Means What You Think It Means

I have been fixating lately on the idea of the word “adulting” and how it’s been introduced into our lexicon as a verb. I don’t have a huge problem so much with its use as a different part of speech. Facebook turned “friend” into a verb and doubled-down by introducing the concept of “unfriending”. It’s not really that big a deal to me. Words and language change all the time. But I do take exception with the specific definition of adulting that I see or hear people using.

It just doesn’t resonate with me.

Most people use it in this way:

“Went to the post office, picked up the dog from the vet, got my oil changed, and my prescription filled ALL before closing on our brand new house this afternoon. I am crushing this adulting thing!”

Why? Because you can run errands? And do more than one in a day? WTF?

I’ve been doing most of these things moderately well for 20 years but not one of them makes me feel like an adult. I don’t wake up every morning and immediately sink into a funk as I realize, “Oh man, still an adult. I wish I was kid again so I didn’t have to go buy stamps.” I don’t really see my daily to-do list as a product of adulthood. It’s more than a set of responsibilities. I'm more likely to think, "Man, I hope there are no bullets or tears involved in my trip to the post office." My definition of adulting is when I successfully navigate daily tasks without emotionally for physically destroying myself or others while completing them.

Think about it. Monkeys can be taught to complete a sequence of tasks, but if they get frustrated, they might throw feces at you.

Children can complete a sequence of tasks…it’s actually a pretty important developmental milestone. But if you ask them to do it while their favorite TV show is on, or when they're about to head outside and shoot some hoops, they will argue for 3 times as long as it would have taken them to just shut up and get it done.

Adulting to me is all about how you manage the feces. 

Here is my highly scientific/mathematical definition of Adulting.

• Seeing the reality of what’s going on around me,
• Identifying where on the collective bullshit spectrum it falls, AND THEN
• Responding in a way that moves it toward or keeps it inside the “not bullshit” range, OR if I can’t do either
• Not allowing my personal BS to non-BS ratio to fall out of an acceptable range.

This is a daily struggle for me. On an annual basis, I’d like to think my personal BS ratio hovers around 80-20. But daily, it’s a total crap-shoot. On a good day, I strive to be the bigger person. On a bad day, I strive to be the smaller asshole.

My most difficult adulting challenges tend to be when I am behind the wheel of my car – especially in the carpool line. In the carpool line, my adulting strategy consists of counting to ten so that my head doesn’t explode when the car behind me touches my bumper as the driver stares at their cellphone. It also consists of breathing deeply when I encounter someone DWE – Driving While Entitled. You know, people who don’t have to pull forward to make space for the 200 cars behind them because their kid exits the first door and they are not budging. Or people who pass all 200 of those cars and proceed to nose their way into the line in front of you because…well, just because. 

Basically it means telling yourself that everyone is doing their very best at that moment (whether you believe it or not) and I am really good at doing this about 80% of the time. I do it, because I am hoping for the same kind of generosity the other 20% of the time. The moments in which I jump right into the BS pit and start throwing feces around. Some days, that is absolutely the best I can do.

I also struggle with adulting on the Internet…and I have seen that I am not alone. Adulting on Facebook is not a 700-word status update or comment about why I am right and everyone else is wrong. Nor is it trolling online news articles for headlines that I find offensive and then not reading them before I vent my very worst thoughts under the screen name BOLTCUTTER27. Both of these are clear-cut cases of steaming BS. Adulting on the Internet for me means not giving other people power over my public or private response, or if that strategy fails, not reading the comments and not visiting sites that I know are going to rile me up. It also means knowing that it is in my own best interest to just unsubscribe, unfriend, or block some people and pages from my news feed.

Or to not have a newsfeed at all.

So I welcome this new word into our lexicon. I think it has a place. But I don’t accept that it is about running errands. It’s more than that. Adulting is the struggle to keep my own personal BS in the 20% range and, to the extent possible, doing my part to keep the collective BS-meter 49% or less.

So maybe this for a status update about adulting.

"Navigated the carpool line and didn't give anyone the finger...went out to lunch and didn't make the server cry because there was mayonnaise on my sandwich...helped a child with math homework and didn't throw the book across the room. All this before watching the evening news and not drinking an entire bottle of wine. I am crushing this adulting thing."

Honest Storytelling

I saw a movie yesterday...and last night…that totally popped the lid off this can of crazy between my ears. No, it wasn’t two movies, it was one movie that I watched twice. And I’ll probably watch it a handful of times over the next week. It cracked me open and I kind of wanted to stay open for the time being. 

But now I want to talk about it.

To be clear about how often this happens for me…the last movie that affected me like this was Pulp Fiction in 1994. Not that this movie had anything in common with Pulp Fiction other than if you had told me what each movie was about before I actually saw them, my response would have been the same.

“Why the hell would I want to watch a movie about that?”

 

And in both cases, I would have been somehow less me – the me I am today – for not having seen it.

This time it was The Station Agent from 2003. I don’t remember the first time I heard about it…a few years ago maybe. I know it wasn’t in 2003, though, because the only thing I was watching then was Sesame Street and Little Einstein videos. I do recall looking up a synopsis of it once on IMDB and seeing that it was really well reviewed by both filmgoers and critics. It won a couple of indie film awards and was recognized at Sundance. I think I must have read what it was about and thought yeah, it’s probably one of those artsy films I should see but when it was over I would be all damn that was boring and that’s two hours I’ll never get back AND I’d be filled with self-loathing for not being cool enough to like this indie film that other cool people liked.

I’m sure I convinced myself there was no upside.

But recently I kept hearing about it…probably because it was the first movie written and directed by Tom McCarthy who also wrote and directed Spotlight. I haven’t seen that yet either, but I figure if the dude won an Oscar, it was worth tracing his roots.  So I put the movie in the back of my mind so I would remember to look for it on Netflix. I then promptly forgot about it as I do with all things that I put on the to-do list in the back of my mind. That’s where all intentions go to die.

Fast forward a few days and I’m looking for a movie to watch. I’m already on the couch and too lazy to stand up and turn on the Xbox (through which we stream Netflix), grab the controller, and flip the TV to HDMI2.

My life is a ridiculous cascade of first world problems.

So instead, I grab the remote and start flipping through the 40-some-odd movie channels that we have and what did I stumble upon on Showtime? That’s right, The Station Agent starting in 5 minutes. So I hit record and planned to watch it later.

Fast forward again to yesterday. I had pretty much exhausted my to-do list – the real one that I write down – when I remembered that item from the back-of-my-brain to-do list – watch the station agent. (Everything on that list is written in lowercase.) So I did.

The first thing that I noticed was very positive…the movie was less than 90 minutes long. I appreciate efficiency. As I settled in to watch, I also noticed the visual style of the film was very Chef-Slingblade-Juno-Napoleon Dynamite-esque. I know zero about cinematography other than when they hand out awards for it, there is no break whatsoever between the music they play as the winner walks to the stage and the music they use to usher them away. They might as well just put them on a conveyer belt.  Anyway, I don’t know what the style is called, I just know they look and feel similar.

The next thing I notice is that Peter Dinklage is in it – Miles Finch from Elf which, incidentally, came out the same year. (And so help me God, if I get trolled by crazy Game of Thrones zealots because I didn’t say Tyrion Lannister I will lose my shit. Just back off. Winter is over.) Patricia Clarkson and Bobby Cannavale are the other two main characters and Michelle Williams has a part too. Great cast…so far so good.

Then the opening credits are over and I am inexplicably drawn into the action, and by action I mean, people walking around saying little to nothing. When they do talk, it’s about trains. For like, the first 10 minutes. There is this hilarious film within a film of some home movie that one “trainchaser” (that’s a real thing) was showing to a room full of other trainchasers. I mean, the home movie wasn’t funny, but the guy narrating his own film was GOLD. There’s nothing funnier than niche earnestness.

Nothing.

And then things started to happen. Someone died which resulted in someone else uprooting himself in an attempt to live the life of a hermit. In an abandoned train depot. And then it becomes magic. I’m not going to tell you anymore about it because its genius would be lost in translation. I will tell you about the epiphany I had about it this morning, though. 

As I watched it…twice…yesterday, I kept thinking that there was some other movie it reminded me of (other than the ones I mentioned), but it was illusive. I made my husband watch it and a few friends too…all because I just wanted them to tell me what other movie it reminded me of.

Crickets.

And then it occurred to me this morning while I was walking home from my workout. Just silently walking. Not saying anything. Oh, that movie feels like real life. It reminds me of real life.

The cinematic equivalent of a still life painting.

I know. Why the hell would anyone go to the movies to watch real life? As my friend, Anne, pointed out, we generally go to the movies to be manipulated. I am totally guilty of this. In my twenties, when I needed a good cry, my roommate and I would watch Terms of Endearment…a monument to emotional manipulation…because apparently the 90s weren’t sad enough on their own and I couldn’t come up with anything real to cry about. Which begs the question, why did I need to cry in the first place?

But let’s not overthink it. Just hang with me for a minute…we go to movies to be manipulated and if we want to see real life on the screen, we watch documentaries or reality TV because everyone knows that Michael Moore and The Bachelor are not manipulative at all.

But I digress. 

The Station Agent blows that theory out of the water. It wasn’t manipulative or forced or theatrical. It was mostly people walking on railroad tracks and not talking to each other. Even the most dramatic moments in the movie were completely believable. It was like watching relationships happen between real people. In tiny moments…in big moments…it was just real interaction unfolding right on the screen. And in this quiet vacuum of honest storytelling, I didn't feel cheated in the least.

No nudity. No guns. No bombs. No CGI. And no clean little ending either. It wasn’t a bad ending…in fact, it really didn’t have an ending at all. You just kind of get the sense that things will keep on chugging.

Kind of like life. And trains.

It's SO Nice to Know You

If you can tell a writer by the amount of time he or she spends trying not to sit down and write…I am most definitely a writer. I spend an inordinate amount of time walking around, listening to podcasts, watching TED talks, and reading books/articles/blog posts in an attempt to keep myself from putting my butt in a chair and my hands on the keyboard. I tell myself that these are the things I have to do before I can feel special enough to write whatever it is I want to write, but really it’s just a very effective stalling tactic.

  

Why am I stalling? Because I am just now beginning to see myself as an artist. And the story I’m telling myself is that true artists bare their soul and so that’s what I need to be doing. And I’m stalling because YIKES.

Why on earth would you want to bare your soul?

• I could give you a phony reason – I have a book and/or screenplay deal and a deadline. (This is the dream.)
• Or a sarcastic reason – I have an illness that causes me to seek emotional suffering.
• Or you could make up your own – I’m desperate for attention…I have delusions of grandeur…take your pick. Be creative.

But the real reason is that I am a human being and all human beings have an unspoken and real desire to be seen. We want others to see the genuine article…the thing that makes us who we are. We want to connect with our squad...hell, we want to know that we have a squad. We need to know that we aren’t alone in this world. That’s why babies die if they aren’t touched by other humans. We are born with a need to communicate…to connect…to be known. Some of us use art to forge that connection.

When my daughter was about 4, we were at the playground with some friends when another mother showed up with her daughter. We had met them before on one occasion and so we struck up a conversation. My daughter, remembering the previous encounter, asked the other little girl if she remembered her. The little girl said no and ran away to play on the swings. Well, my daughter fell apart immediately and I empathized with her.

There was this girl in college who never remembered me (or anyone else as I later discovered). I was introduced to her at least a dozen times and had full-on conversations with her only to be reintroduced to her at another party two weeks later or at a retreat the following year. Not once did she remember any of the previous meetings nor did she even appear to have a glimmer of recognition. Being a mostly-polite Southern girl, I always did the same thing. I extended my hand and said with a big smile, “It’s so nice to know you."

One time I was at a party talking with someone I had just met when this same girl walked up with two other people, one of whom attempted to reintroduce her to both of us. She got that same confused look on her face and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t think we have met,” to the girl I had been talking to. And I will never forget her response.

“Well I don’t know why you would remember me, we’ve only met 14 fucking times.”

I would have stood on a chair and cheered for her. She said aloud what I had thought but left unsaid so many times. Would have, that is, if she hadn’t immediately stormed off and left me standing there awkwardly. Naturally, I broke the tension by extending my hand and saying with a big smile, “It’s so nice to know you.”

But because of the experience, I knew how my daughter felt that day on the playground. I pulled her aside and tried to console her by telling her that it was normal for people to forget faces and we hadn’t really spent a lot of time with them. I tried my best to make her feel better by saying that the other little girl might have face-blindness or a head injury that resulted in short-term memory loss…like 10-Second-Tom in 50 First Dates. (This is, incidentally, the exact same rationalization that I settled on to explain why that girl in college never remembered me.) But my daughter would have none of it. The words she used as she cried into my chest have never left me.

But I want her to KNOW me!

It would be easy to dismiss this with semantics…maybe she said “know” but she meant “remember.” But I don’t believe that’s true. I believe she was merely speaking with the wisdom of a 4-year-old who hasn’t yet accumulated the baggage of deeper rejection that keeps us from revealing too much of ourselves.

“You like the wrong color.”

“You wear the wrong clothes.”

“You love the wrong person.”

“You believe the wrong thing.”

Because these things are expressions of self, the rejection of them serves to suppress that basic human need to be known…and loved...for exactly and precisely who we are.

As a result, we adults spend a lot of time avoiding this connection that I believe we truly want. It's why I spend more time preparing to write instead of actually writing. But the stalling tactics aren’t about fear of revelation. They are about fear of the crushing blow of judgment and rejection of who we are. We care what other people think. We always care about what other people think. Even when we say we don’t. You can’t erase the fundamental human need to be known any more than you can erase the fundamental need to eat. You can temporarily suppress these needs but doing so is detrimental to our health.

Inside, we are all just a 4-year-old crying into someone’s chest because we want to be known. 

Why do you think Facebook is constantly tweaking our status-sharing options and, most recently, our ability to react to posts? This need to be known and loved is the basis of any “like” or “follow” button that exists in social media. This is a somewhat superficial way to identify a virtual squad of people who “know” us. We can amass likes (or hearts or smiley faces or thumbs-ups) and from this feedback we can construct our online persona. But this is not true revelation and it is certainly not knowing. It’s connectivity without connection.

I am most befuddled by the use of social media as a vehicle to share art. This is a daily struggle for me. How…where…when…what…how much…who…these are all questions that I ponder as I’m grappling for special-ness. I am far too concerned with the ratio of hits to likes. I cannot stop myself from checking...like the actor who cannot NOT read the reviews. But I also cannot stop myself from ultimately sharing whatever I am thinking. I know enough artists to know that I’m not alone in this.There is a tension between wanting to be seen and wanting to remain pure potential.

No one ever critiques potential and it is a warm and cozy place to live for a while. There is comfort in the idea that I COULD which completely evaporates with the reality of I DID. Once I DO…once I put something out in the universe…it’s subject to opinion. And opinion is not like art…people feel completely free to share it with absolutely anyone and are oblivious to the story that it tells. It seems the only art that we all engage in creating is the story that our opinion is fact.

And you can’t critique facts.

There is no such luxury with art. So we as individuals remain hidden beneath shells. Instead of making art or experiencing as much art as possible, we expend our creative energy diminishing the art we hate -- and couching our opinion of that art as fact. But when we make art and enjoy art we are closing in on our squads and becoming known to them as they become known to us. If I wanted to get really existential, I might say that this is the meaning of life.

But I’m not that bold. Yet.

I almost made a mistake at the beginning of this post by trying to send some of you away -- those I thought would not appreciate it. I told myself that if it’s not meant for you, I should save you from having to experience it and allow you to look for something else that is for you. But what I was really doing, was attempting to protect myself from criticism...or worse...unresponsiveness.

Because I care what other people think. There…I said it.

I almost forgot that art is inherently valuable whether it is crafted from prose or poetry or paint or clay or wood or music or dance because each creation is a tangible expression of someone’s soul. And just as you surely wouldn’t presume to judge another person’s soul, you don’t get to decide what art is good or bad…you only get to decide what speaks to you and what doesn’t.

No, not all art is for you. But avoiding the art that isn’t for you is not the answer. We should all be seeking as much art as we can. Read it all, listen to it all, watch it all, and then make some of your own. You will of course be exposed to things you don’t like and you will make things that other people don't like, but that just helps us all find ourselves and each other. And, if you are brave enough to make your own art…to put a little bit of your soul out there…you might not be so quick to cut someone else’s down.

I hope that by putting this out there in the universe, I’ll be able to spend less time trying to be special and more time just being me so the rest of my squad can find me. And if you, by chance, don’t like me once you get to know me...if you realize that what I create just isn't for you...feel free to look confused and pretend you don’t remember me the next time we meet.

I’ll still extend my hand, smile, and say, “It’s so nice to know you.” And I promise I won't be thinking anything else when I say it. 

When Truth is Sadder Than Fiction

I’m going to do something really risky right now. I probably shouldn’t do it, but I’m going to because it’s a topic that I’ve pondered approximately once a day since the story broke. I’m glad I didn’t just fire off some words onto the page while it was a hot topic because I’ve had some time to really consider how I feel about it and now it will be my truth as I see it.

You can decide on your own what you think.

America’s Dad…with the funny stories about chocolate cake and childbirth and visits to the dentist and Noah’s Ark…the stand-up comedian who sits down…the guy who has been making me laugh out loud since my dad first played Bill Cosby is a Very Funny Guy Fellow…Right!...might be a serial rapist.

This is a very unfunny turn of events.

I’m not really going to comment on the he said/she said (x55) nature of this story. I assert no legal authority nor deep wisdom about the legal system. In fact, any knowledge I have about how a wealthy black entertainer is treated by the legal establishment is informed by the O.J. Simpson trial (the actual trial, not the current mini-series starring Tre from Boyz n the Hood and Ross from Friends). The sad truth (from my shaky legal perspective) is that these cases may never see the inside of a courtroom and that is tragic – for the accusers if he did what he’s been accused of or for Mr. Cosby in the unlikely event he turns out to be the victim of a vast conspiracy. I know the reasoning behind statutes of limitation but I really think they need to be revisited for the purposes of sexual violence given what we know about the fear and shame associated with reporting such crimes. But, again, that’s not my area of expertise so I’ll move on.

What I do want to comment on is how totally crappy it makes me feel to know that someone who made me laugh…ugly, tears-streaming-down-my-face, unable-to-breathe laugh…might be capable of sexual assaulting 55 women. From the age of 7 or 8 right up until I learned of these allegations, through my parents’ divorce, through middle school, high school, college, and into parenthood, I could count on Bill Cosby to bring me out of just about any funk I was experiencing. Laughter is medicine for me…faster and easier to procure than a writer’s flow or runner’s high…and all-to-often Bill Cosby’s comedy has been the cure for whatever is ailing me. I cannot overstate his impact on my adolescent survival.

And now it all seems like a lie. I would love to be able to separate the man from his art and just listen to his words and laugh out loud. It was so effortless to feel better when I could pop him in the DVR player and know that I was no more than 5 minutes away from feeling better. I was so excited the first time that I showed my kids The Cosby Show, despite them not appreciating it as much as I had hoped. In retrospect, I wonder if maybe they saw something I didn’t.

   

But I can’t reconcile the two very different people…not in my head and not in my heart. I must face the fact that Sondra, Denise, Theo, Vanessa, and Rudy’s dad was probably a fraud in an ugly sweater and Clair’s husband was a doctor with a dark and violent secret. His TV world and stand-up comedy routine were so close to his real life – or so it seemed – that there just isn’t anyway to separate the two. It’s the reason that so many of us mourned the death of his son. We felt as though we knew Ennis Cosby because we knew Theo Huxtable and Bill Cosby himself was the reason for this. His art was based on his life.

Is this what it feels like when the family of a serial killer discovers who they have been living with?

And what of his actual family? How must this betrayal affect them? If I think about it every day, how often must it creep into their consciousness?

And his alleged victims? Possibly women who also admired him for his wit and ability to find humor in the simplest of life’s moments. Women who might have been drawn out of their sadness with his humor at some point in their lives. How painful must it be to experience such a betrayal and walk around for years knowing that your experience likely would not be believed because no one would have imagined America’s Dad capable of such atrocities?

It’s all just too much. Yet it is an inevitable outcome in a society that values perception over reality. We allow public consolidation of a person’s public persona and private reality into a single caricature of a superhuman. Then, when faced with the tragic flaws that are ever-present in human behavior, we feel forced to discredit either all of the good or all of the bad in order to reconcile our feelings about the betrayal that we allowed in the first place.

I really don’t want to do that. I really want to be able to hear his story about a trip to the dentist without thinking about what ugliness was lurking behind the humor. I really want to watch The Cosby Show and appreciate its lessons without imagining him drugging a guest star’s drink and then taking advantage of her.

But I know it is neither possible nor advisable for me to do so. I can’t reconcile the duality between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde in this situation. It would feel like a betrayal to those women who…right or wrong… I believe are telling the truth. I’m not sure that any of his alleged victims should have to risk reliving one of their worst moments just by turning on the television. Mr. Cosby’s behavior reflects a tragic (alleged) flaw – tragic in the Greek sense. It unravels a message about family that was internalized by my entire generation by obliterating the credibility of the messenger. I realize this stance is diametrically opposed to the idea that one is innocent until proven guilty, but we have a combination of sensationalist media, public gullibility, and flawed statutes of limitation to thank for ensuring that none of the involved parties will have a fair chance to make their respective cases.

For this affront to truth-finding, I mourn.

But I have passed a point of no return where Bill Cosby is concerned and I did not arrive there capriciously. I asked myself the following question:

What do I value more?

Preserving an adolescent illusion that made me feel secure or certain?

or

Figuring out how to accept a new reality which honors and values human relations over public relations?

If I want to sleep at night, I think I have to choose the latter. 

Output, Input

I have, over the course of the last several months, developed a deep platonic relationship with interval training as a means of improving my running performance. I would not describe it as love...not yet, anyway...but as an appreciation.

Kind of like I can appreciate the need for an annual gynecological exam without ever learning to love it.

Speed training isn't really that bad, but it definitely doesn't feel good. It's not something I look forward to nor is it something that I would just go out and do if I didn't have a training goal out in front of me. But after 2 interval workouts a week for 22 weeks, I had a reservoir of perseverance that I could tap into during my marathon that just wouldn't have been there had I not toughed out those Yasso 800s and Pyramids.

Practicing doing what is hard when you don't have to do it, gives you something to draw from when things get hard and there's no choice but to push through. And doing it first thing in the morning sets a much higher threshold for "difficult" that you can carry with you the rest of the day. That's one of many reasons that I have always been a morning exerciser.

But there is another reason that my new found appreciation may have emerged that is related to proper sequencing of my daily activities. Up to now, my intuition has always led me to wake up from a good night's sleep and immediately begin absorbing the day. It used to be email and social media and then it became apparent that my day wasn't off to a good start if I was giving my first and best energy to other people's agendas. So I decided to replace the email and social media checks with reading and annotating -- preferably a book of my choosing. This has turned out to be a much better way to start my day and I continued doing this up until this week.

What has changed?

Well, I was introduced (via podcast) to Josh Waitzkin. You probably know him as the child chess prodigy who was the subject of the book and film Searching for Bobby Fischer...if you know him at all. I didn't. I'm not a follower of chess. Don't even know how to play. I could name the pieces on a chess board if you asked me, but that is the limit of my knowledge. I almost didn't listen to this podcast because I questioned how it would apply to me. But I am SO glad that I did now.

It was not about chess. And he is not about chess. Josh Waitzkin is about learning and how to do it best. He theorizes that most of us have constructed our days in such a way that we actually hinder our own ability and desire to learn. Not only that, but our daily architecture for life is something that has been internalized since childhood by conventional education. 

That got my attention. Because if there's anything I notice about education as I watch my kids trudge through school, it's that the emphasis is not on learning. Education is -- and always has been -- data exchange.

Teacher dumps data on student in the form of lectures, notes, reading, etc.
Student reorganizes data and dumps back on teacher in the form of tests, papers, and maybe an occasional project. The result is more data for teacher to use in coordinating future data dumps and for the student to use in coordinating future absorption techniques.

And this is when everyone is doing it correctly. When it's done badly. It's all just data that gets stored and dumped and compiled into assessments of teacher and student success -- and failure. Data is mostly used to shame. Grades...test scores...class rankings...teacher effectiveness ratings...All things that are revered in education but do absolutely nothing to promote learning.

Waitzkin is all about learning optimization and he actually consults with high performers around the world who are looking to be better at doing things. Most of them aren't focused on a renewed relationship with learning -- they usually have a more specific professional or personal goal in mind -- but Waitzkin transforms the architectural structure of their day so that they are actually learning as much as possible and that ends up helping them achieve their goals.

His method? Well, you should read his book, The Art of Learning, but for those of you who are thinking to yourself, "Dammit, Elise, you know I'm never gonna get my book club to choose that and I just don't have time for anything extra," here's a capsule.

QUALITY OUTPUT FIRST. Specifically creative output.

This week, I have made my very first activity either writing or running. No email. No Facebook. No Instagram. No Reading. I pour everything that I have internalized overnight onto the page or onto the road. (On running days, I still come back and write before I accept any input because I haven't developed a good method of recording my thoughts while I run and it would be very rude to my running partner is I stopped to jot down my thoughts down on a 3x5 card every 90 seconds...which is how often I have thoughts when I'm running.)

But I digress.

This isn't necessarily intuitive or habitual for me and it's definitely not institutionalized in our culture. It completely flips the script on what my lifelong belief has been which is to shock my system with as much info as possible when I'm at my most rested. Instead, Waitzkin suggests that what I should actually be doing is using those moments of high energy to focus on my own creativity.

Wow.

But has it worked? Heck yeah...and almost immediately. It turns out that I have a lot to report after a night of sleep -- even a night of bad sleep -- and if I just start writing (or running) it all comes flooding out. I used to lament the idea that I always had my best ideas when running and then couldn't remember them later in the day when I sat down to write. That hasn't been a problem this week because I empty my tank first and then fill it back up rather than waking with a full tank or arriving home from a run with a full tank and trying to refill it. There just isn't any room.

And these intervals of learning and creating can continue (and have continued for me) throughout the day. Like speedwork. Periodic discomfort in the form of creative output or eustress (look it up)...followed by rest and recovery. Ending with output that we can internalize overnight and fill up that tank for first-light output.

A few disclaimers...Waitzkin says way more than this in his book and it's not the only suggestion he has for improving learning. But I'm not summarizing his whole book. Maybe if this piques your interest and you give it a try, you will find some extra time in your day to read it yourself. I highly recommend it.

On a larger scale, I find myself wondering how we could apply to education right now or if it is being applied and I'm just not aware of it. It seems like a 2mm tweak that might have a huge impact...regardless of school, teacher, or student resources. The only thing it requires is a few uninterrupted moments at the beginning of the day and maybe each class. Empty the tank before you refill it again.

It also seems like something that could be done without the need of legislative action, school board meetings, or staff development -- all input, zero meaningful output -- which, in my estimation, haven't addressed learning in quite some time.

I look forward to your thoughts.

Curiosity Did NOT Kill the Cat...

It just received all of the blame.

I find that the most interesting people I know are those that are truly interested in something...or many somethings...and aren't afraid to express it.

Like humans under the age of 12.

We are born with a natural curiosity...a drive to explore. Babies exit a mother's womb and immediately start taking in the world around them. They start by focusing on the things right in front of them since that's all they can see. First it's basically faces and nipples...the things that will help them stay alive and grow. As their field of vision expands so does their curiosity.

What is that brightly colored thing hanging over me when I wake up in the morning? I wonder what I need to do to get up there and touch it.

What are these things at the end of my arms and the little wavy things attached? I wonder what they taste like and if they could help me touch that thing over my bed.

What is that fur-covered baby over there? I wonder what would happen if I could move toward it or lie down on top of it.

All of these basic curiosities guide growth and development and provide a foundation for lifelong learning.

I used to watch my son, when he was a toddler, lie on the floor running his toy cars back and forth in front of his face to figure out just what in the world was going on. Every once it a while we would sit up and try to disconnect the wheels from the chassis. When he couldn't, he would lay back down and roll it in front of his face more slowly. He was curious and he explored. Eventually he was able to disassemble the car and he cried because this type of curiosity taught him that things can be broken. And then sometimes can be fixed. And then he wanted to learn how to fix them. It was a beautiful chain of events sparked by his natural curiosity.

When children learn to talk, the era of "whowhatwhywhenhow" is ushered in and they can ask about all the curiosities that they experience. They have zero inhibitions and so they will pretty much ask anyone, anything, anywhere, anytime -- mostly grownups and hopefully to their satisfaction. This continues for a while and then something -- or a combination of things -- happens and the value of curiosity is slowly diminished for some children.

Questions can sometimes not seem as cute coming from a 10-year-old as they are coming from a 5-year-old. And disassembled electronics are more of a nuisance than a toy car without wheels. The cost of curiosity can rise as children get older. This can cause a congratulatory smile and satisfactory answer to be replaced with a deeply irritated sigh or a roll of the eyes and an answer like "I don't know," or "because I said so." As kids get older, their questions move from fun opportunities to instruct about how things work and what comes next to less-fun institutional challenges such as why we do things a certain way and who is in charge. They are still questions of curiosity but not as easy to answer because they can be subjective -- whether the person being asked once to admit it or not. These are important intersections for adults and children. Do we make them accept our way as the only way? Do we tell them to figure it out on their own with very little guidance? Or do we figure out how to honor their questions, help them explore as many possible answers as possible, and risk them choosing a different road than we chose for ourselves?

As adults we do things and believe things because we came to one of these intersections and were guided (or abandoned) through one of those processes -- do it my way, figure out on your own, or let's think about this together. Regardless of how we arrive at our methodology or our belief system, it is very uncomfortable to have these things questioned because there may have been some pain in arriving at your destination. Or it may be that these foundational "whats", "whos", "whys", "whens", and "hows" have been woven into your sense of self and pulling at the threads could cause you to unravel.

I've already done this work and figured out the right answer, why do I have to keep stretching the boundaries of my certainty?

Because that's the only way we keep growing. And since children are far more likely to do what we do that to do what we say, it behooves us to keep growing and learning and questioning.

When the primary adults in a child's life stop valuing curiosity, those kids stop valuing their own curiosity and that of of others. For a while, they may harbor quiet curiosity which they will satisfy in secret through their own resourcefulness..This wasn't so bad for us Generation Xers who had to rely on our friends, Encyclopedia Britannica, and Judy Blume for our answers to life's most pressing curiosities. The fruits of resourcefulness in 2016 are freakin' terrifying in quantity, availability, and speed. The best-case scenario is that they end up just fine having sought only the wisdom of non-exploitative adults and books that didn't stifle their sense of wonder. The worst-case scenarios (and there are many) are tragedies your see on the evening news. The in-between (which I believe is the rule rather than the exception) is simply atrophy.

Think about most high schoolers you know. They are afraid to show enthusiastic interest in anything. Culturally they have been discouraged from showing passion or emotion toward anything except sports (but only certain ones) and religion (but only certain kinds). It's ok to get all worked up in a crowd, but not when you're alone in the arena.

Too much interest in anything else (books, science, horses, art, chess, something that's not a "real" sport) makes you a geek or a heretic, both of which are punishable by social death...the worst kind for someone going through adolescence. What you end up with is a population in the midst of this wildly opportune time to absorb and analyze and apply new information and they slowly shut down.

No curiosity. No real learning. Just data exchange. Rote memorization, regurgitation, conformity, and repetition. Life on an assembly line.

I am so guilty of wanting to avoid the hard questions -- the one's that are woven into my sense of identity. And I've noticed that their prime questioning time is my prime winding-down time...late evening. These two things together are pretty effective deterrents to encouraging the big questions. I'm not sure I've been doing a good job of fostering their sense of wonder in recent years. In fact, the only thing that has caused me to notice that their's has waned, is a renewed appreciation for my own curiosity...

Why does that person irritate me so? How do I balance self-care with my responsibility to my family and community?Who are the people I can really trust?When will I feel like I have enough?What is the reason behind the excuse?

And my courage to face even the questions that some people would deem off-limits...

Who is the real me?What is my purpose on this planet?How did I end up here?When will people realize that I'm a fraud?Why do I believe in God?

Introspection is a bitch. And I know that asking big questions will cause some people to think of me as a bitch. Woman aren't often revered for questioning the status quo. My college roommate use to say, bitch is just an acronym for Being In Total Control of Herself. I prefer to think of it as Bravely In Thoughtful Curiosity for Herself.

I can't share with my kids what I don't have myself. If that makes me a bitch...so be it.

Let's Get Creative, Friends

There are people out there who just haven't come to terms with the fact that they are doing something or producing something that isn't adding value to the world. 

For instance, these telephone books...yellow pages...that were delivered to my front door step this morning in a plastic grocery bag. 

The bag is more valuable as a dog poop collector than the books themselves. 

Why are phone books still a thing? 

Is it to make sure that we can still call a plumber if something suddenly takes out THE WHOLE INTERNET? I'm pretty sure anything which succeeded in destroying the Google would move my need for HVAC maintenance and exterminators relatively low on the priority list.

Is there some mysterious surplus of newsprint being stored somewhere that we need to spend down to make room for something else? Maybe there is some underground storage facility in middle America that is dedicated entirely to storing paper that won't absorb ink. 

I am seriously baffled by their continued existence -- as I am by the existence of newsprint, but we can cover that later.

People paid to advertise in them and on all of the covers.

People paid to spread them about...gas money which may be cheap now but what about last year when there were delivered? Was it worth $3.00/gallon to have someone drive around and distribute them then? In addition to whatever wages were paid to the delivery personnel?

I can only surmise that we are being challenged. Challenged to think outside the box and develop new uses for these items. 

Mine are currently nestled snugly between two very tall but neat piles of newspapers and magazines. It's like two Asbestos towers with an Edsel parked in between. 

I'm taking your suggestions now. What can we do with these throwbacks besides throw them back?

Taking Back the Wheel

Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect. ~Mark Twain

I've been watching us lately. The collective us which we call the electorate. I've been focused on how people talk to and about each other and how they talk about the candidates they support and don't support (despise, really, because I've seen very little middle ground.)

We are a nation of angry complainers. The majority of us, anyway. We are divided and it's his fault...we are weak and it's her fault...we are lazy and it's their fault...we blame and complain and point fingers and puff up our own perspectives as absolute, infallible truth while all contrary viewpoints are flawed in some tragic and potentially threatening way.

I am of the opinion that the United States -- in theory -- is way too strong to be destroyed by one person...even the one person we call President. A President certainly has influence (to state the obvious) and that person can affect the national agenda and, to some extent, the collective attitude of the citizenry. The very architecture of our government, however, is the ultimate protection we have against any attempt at tyranny by a single person . The gridlock we complain about in Washington is actually a manifestation (albeit a frustrating one) of the principles of checks and balances.

Examples? The President proposes a budget but Congress has to approve it. Congress can pass a law, but the President can veto it, which Congress can override with enough votes. The President can authorize some military actions but only Congress can declare war. And everything they do is subject to the legal interpretations of the Supreme Court...the members of which are nominated by the President and approved by the Senate.

Nobody holds all the good cards in this game because our founding fathers in their collective wisdom knew that nobody holds all the answers.

There has always been conflict in these processes whether the same party controls the Executive and Legislative branches or not and there absolutely SHOULD be some conflict. Otherwise it's just a mob of people acting in lockstep without deliberating the complexities of the issues with which we've entrusted them to grapple. I don't want that.

But gridlock -- the seemingly constant and intentional gridlock -- that we've seen in the last decade has us feeling stuck and we are looking for a way out of this quicksand that isn't quite smothering us, but also won't release us. The last time we saw free movement of any kind was in the months after September 11, 2001 when we were united (mostly) and clear about at least some of the things that many leaders believed we needed to do -- rage, fear, and hate are powerful unifying forces and we had all of those things (understandably) in spades.

I'm not sure they make good guiding forces though. From a political perspective, some of the decisions that were made during that time have had negative long-term effects through two very different administrations (a couple of never-ending wars...the employment of enhanced interrogation methods...the approval of warrant-less wiretapping). From a psychological perspective, some of us never let go of these emotions and they have continued to fester. We refocused them on our friends and neighbors and any "other" we could find. If you are not with us, you are against us. We have allowed this mantra to steer our cars until they all arrived in the same place.

Donald Trump's feet.

Donald Trump LOVES our rage, hate, and fear. Oh...and he loves our willful ignorance. He even said he "love(s) the poorly educated." You know why? Because when you don't know things (whether or not it is willful) you can be convinced to think with your emotions instead of with your brains.  Facts that you don't know are easy to ignore and then you are free to make decisions based on instinct and perception -- especially when the facts are inconvenient. Ignorance also makes it possible to ignore when the worst events in our history are repeating themselves. Unless...someone takes notice and tries to shine a light on it.


Photo credit: @shaunking 

These festering emotions have made us weak both individually and collectively and they are so easy to use against us. We are quick to spew our blame and complaints about what the evils of the world are and who is to blame...we are sick of the establishment...people who worship, vote, speak, do anything differently from us...the "other" party...another race...you know, the immoral people. I wish I could just make them go away. 

Enter Donald Trump.

“Morality is simply the attitude we adopt towards people we personally dislike.” – Oscar Wilde

In the last week, I've read several analyses addressing the WHYs behind Trump's popularity. They go back months and they are all different. The Washington Post, The Telegraph, The Atlantic, NPR, The Independent, The Guardian, The Hill  all suggest different explanations. The specifics range from his position on trade which appeals to the working class, to his bucking of the establishment which addresses our irritation with gridlock, to his willingness to say what others are afraid to say which frees us to say them regardless of their veracity, to a host of other explanations that I believe can be chalked up to one foundational reason...people want easy answers packaged in a pretty box even if they are incorrect. Trump is FULL of them and he knows that the majority of voters are far more concerned with the packaging -- the marketing of his ideas -- than the substance of what is inside the box. 

Build a wall to keep out Mexican immigrants. Side step Congress if they won't do what he wants. Fire the bureaucrats. Blame the Muslims for whatever is wrong with your life...or women or blacks or whoever. Blanket bomb ISIS. I'll shut them down for you. I'm on your side. He seems to have a simple answer for everything and he doesn't seem to think that rule of law will keep him from bringing every single one of his plans to fruition.

And that's why I think he is very bad for this country. It's one thing to be anti-establishment...I mean there is definitely an argument to be made for the idea that someone from outside the system might be able to look at things differently and suggest courses of action that our more entrenched leaders haven't considered...but Donald Trump is not anti-establishment, he is anti-rule-of-law that wants to become the establishment and the sole proprietor, at that. Remember, the only executive experience that this man has allowed him to be the lone decider with no one checking his power. Dictatorships -- even benevolent ones -- may work fine in corporate America, but that's not how democratic governance works.

We are a nation of laws...laws that protect the minority from both the tyranny of the majority and the authoritarian control of any single person. Our laws protect our rights to assemble and protest, to express dissenting views, and they prohibit the measuring of human worth based on color, gender, religion, sexual orientation, ethnicity, nationality, educational background, primary language, hairstyle, ankle width, or bank account. Our laws recognize that the most important issues we face don't have easy answers and we are compelled to deliberate passionately and intelligently with people who are different so that we make decisions that are best for as many Americans as possible. Not so that we can point to anyone who disagrees and call them unAmerican.

Trump's campaign has operated in complete opposition to our laws and I can only assume that this is how he will attempt to run the Executive branch if he is elected. He is willing to do or say anything that will attract him as many followers as possible. He sees how much his rally attendees enjoy terrorizing protesters and he encourages it. He hears how much people fear Muslims or blacks or Mexicans and he empowers it. He sees our rage against the "other" and he co-opts it for his own purposes...to embolden the very worst in our collective psyches to meet his needs.

Here's the thing, the ugliness that he is encouraging, empowering, and emboldening is here now and it's lose-lose for the rest of us.

If he wins, I'm not sure the rest of us have the will or the knowledge to stop him from turning us into a variation on Nazi Germany -- I mean, our Congress seems to be perfectly content to do nothing and we keep electing them because it's "those other folks" that are the problem. Do they even know what constitutes high crimes and misdemeanors that are grounds for impeachment? The last time Congress impeached a President it was for a sex scandal. There have arguably been other executive and legal actions taken by both our current President and his predecessor that I find far more dangerous (NSA spying by Obama made possible by warrant-less wiretapping by Bush...just to name a few) to our nation but have gone unchecked and thus remain in a Presidential toolbox that could -- in less than a year -- be turned over to someone that doesn't think federal or international law will apply to him much less the rules of human decency, civility, or decorum. 

Well, when the President does it, that means it's not illegal. ~Richard Nixon

But even if Trump doesn't win (the Republican nomination or the Presidency), the legacy of hate that he has cultivated will remain. That is the saddest part of all. And I honestly don't know how to turn that around. What will we do with our anger? Whom will we target? Will we lament violent individual actions but "understand their frustration" when they blow up a federal building with a daycare center? Will we call them mentally ill when their anger drives them to blow away 9 people in a church? Will we finally dig down to the roots of this Kudzu-like parasite and douse it with love, compassion, connection, and humility? Will those of us who choose not to be steered by our negative emotions figure out a way to sit down at a table and break bread or find common ground? Or will the pictures above -- one from 60 years ago and one from last week -- be just two of many in our national scrapbook that will continue to reflect our nation's willingness to let anger, fear, and hate drive the car?

The Other Half

If you wait for conditions to be perfect, you will never get anything done.

So I started just trying to make conditions good enough.

I did enough for 22 weeks.

Hills that were steep enough...speed intervals that were fast enough...distances that were long enough...tempos that were uncomfortable enough...a diet that was good enough...a schedule that was flexible enough...a running partner who was patient enough...a husband and kids who were supportive enough...a circle of friends and extended family who were helpful enough...weather that was cooperative enough...I trained enough...I trusted enough...I showed up enough.

None of it met my previous standards for perfect, but all of the collective enough-ness turned out to be its own special kind of perfection.

And I did get something done...something that was important to me. I finally got 26.2.

And that would have been enough...but I got more.

I have an expanded definition of what is POSSIBLE...for myself and in general.

I have a broader understanding of rhythm...it doesn't have to stay the same to keep moving me forward.

I own the experience of falling (literally and figuratively) and getting back up...sometimes alone and sometimes with the help of others. I have value as both the faller and the picker-upper.

I know what it is to simultaneously feel both pain and joy. To feel achy and deeply happy. To smile at the unforgiving sun, to chuckle at the driving headwind, to dance up the hill at Mile 24.

I have found my people on the road. Some had names -- like Alyssa who appeared out of nowhere on a bicycle with sunscreen at the exact moment I asked for it and disappeared just as quickly. Some were nameless -- like the firefighter who ran the whole damn thing in full gear including the oxygen tank on his back.

I have proven that the thing I feared most wasn't so bad afterall.

I have hit the wall and made it through to the other side.

I have discovered that the first few steps on the road less traveled are far less scary than the moments leading up to the split. In fact, the freedom of a clear foot path and more elbow room is so stunningly beautiful that, for a moment, the fear of uncertainty is replaced with excitement for all of the newness that is yet to be.

I've seen how the other half runs...and I like it.

If you want to run, run a mile. If you want to experience a different life, run a marathon. ~Emil Zatopek

Hell yeah, Emil. Hell. Yeah.