As promised (though a little late), I have a few words to add on the subject of Mike Rowe's talk.
First of all, I couldn't agree more with his assertion that in our culture, generally speaking, work--real, hard work--is denigrated. As he says, it's explicit and implicit: in the way we're taught to think about work, the way advertising is always promising us ways to escape from work, and the get-rich quick mentality that infects the culture from the top to the bottom.
However, I think that it's not entirely fair to blame workers for feeling this way. Much of the time, workers come to a job ready to do their best, work their asses off, and feel the satisfaction of a job well done, whatever the job. However, where things go awry is when the worker is not allowed to do his job. I suppose it's true that there's some number of people who can't be trusted, but rather than micromanaging them, I say, fire them. They'll figure it out faster that way. And besides, the vast majority of people want to do a good job, and want to work hard. So there are a few bad apples? Why make life miserable for everyone else?
And yet, this is what happens. And so good, hard-working people find themselves in jobs that are controlled from three management levels above them, by people who have no inkling of what the details of the job really are.
Much like Mike Rowe's anecdote about the animal rights people in an office somewhere dictating how a lamb should be castrated.
That's why I think Mike Rowe has found that the people who do the dirty jobs are generally the happiest. They are generally allowed to do their jobs without a lot of interference or second-guessing. They are trusted to do their work. They know they will suffer consequences if they do a poor job, either in terms of job loss or job safety. They understand and are allowed to employ personal responsibility.
In the "knowledge" work that so much of the country does, the culture is nothing like the "dirty jobs" culture. And the people who work under the micromanaging egomaniacs suffer mightily for it. What do they produce? Not much. Who takes credit? Not them. Where is the satisfaction? Missing, it appears.
As a freelancer, I do "knowledge" work, but on my own terms. This makes my risks and rewards that much greater. And trust me, it is certainly not easier. But it is more satisfying, and I know that the more I put into it, the more I'll get out of it. Not so at any of my old jobs. One of my mantras is "The worst day working for myself is still better than the best day working for someone else."
One other point: Mike Rowe, in his speech, says the worst advice given to young workers is to "Follow your passion." He then goes on to talk about guys who made a ton of money improving on an old business model, or finding some niche that no one else was filling, and going into that. And he says that they are extremely happy, even though what they are doing is not the stuff of dreams.
He says these people have found success and are extremely happy. I won't question that. But the reason, I think, Mike Rowe thinks "Follow your passion" is bad advice is because we so often confuse passion with profession. Maybe your passion is singing or painting, but you can't make that your profession. I think the important thing is that whatever you're doing is coming from someplace authentic. If you enjoy business or lawyering because you are good at it and you get a lot of satisfaction from it, nothing says you have to quit it all to be an artist or musician. It's just that you have to feel passionately about whatever it is you're doing. If you're not able to feel excited and compelled by your work, well, you won't be happy. Furthermore, if your passion is something that doesn't earn money, "Follow your passion" doesn't mean you have to earn money. It means you can do that thing whenever you can, even if you have to do another kind of work for money.
Of course, hopefully whatever work you are engaged in for your living, it should be one that gives you the autonomy and responsibility and satisfaction that is the heart and soul of a good job, of good work.
P.S. As a refresher, here is a post discussing my idea of what makes work good: "It's Not You, It's Me."
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
A Thought-Provoking Video: Mike Rowe on TED
Mike Rowe, host of the Discovery Channel's peerless "Dirty Jobs" series, gives a talk about passion, the nature of work, and where we're headed as a society with regard to the work we do.
I know this video has me thinking about things, and I'll post a response to it in the next day or so.
I know this video has me thinking about things, and I'll post a response to it in the next day or so.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
How to Make A Decision, Period
The most frequently visited page to this site, by a large margin, is to the post titled "How to Make a Big Decision."
In that post, I dispensed some advice, based on my own experience, on how to use your imagination, reason and emotions to pick the correct path when faced with a difficult choice.
Recently, I realized that there's a different kind of decision-making process to take into consideration. This realization came after talking to a friend who is in a hell of her own making, but not because she can't make a decision. Indeed, she's made many, many decisions. Many of them even appear to be wise, good decisions, that should help her travel a successful and happy life path.
But, nope. So what's the trouble then?
I think it boils down to a lack of commitment. For various and sundry reasons, she can't get behind the decisions she makes. There's no conviction, no faith, no whole-heartedness.
In fact, that lack of heart is the crux of the problem. The reasons the decisions look good from the outside, and indeed, might be great decisions for any other person is that they make intellectual sense.
Indeed, many of our decisions start out, and even rely on, the rational faculty. A cost-benefit analysis. A list of pros and cons. For the extremely rational, the geeky and analytical, a post like this can certainly help. But creating a "grid analysis of multiple criteria" or "calculating the expected value of every outcome" can only get you so far. It's true that you can base a big decision on this kind of analysis, but beware: You might end up like my friend.
You may know someone like this. He or she makes a decision. To take a new job, let's say. And it looks, on paper, to be the right thing. The pay is better. It's in a nicer city. It has a clearer avenue for advancement.
But if this person does not choose--mind and heart--to be there, to really inhabit that decision, the chances are good that the decision will only lead to later paralysis and despair.
You might think, given this, that to really commit to a big decision that you'd have to be 100 percent sure, or at least more than 90 percent certain. Ironically, I don't think certainty plays into whether a decision will stick or not.
As with so many of the most important things about this human existence, making a decision that works comes down to faith.
So many people, it seems to me, lack this ability. And I'm not talking about the ability to believe in a higher power, either. I mean the ability to put aside hesitancy and simply leap. To believe whole-heartedly that this is your path that you've chosen and you're gonna stick with it.
So what stops people from doing this? I suppose a lot of it is fear, but to a larger extent, I think it really reflects a lack of practice. Somewhere along the way we have learned to trust others to make decisions for us--parents, teachers, government, authorities--and so we've lost the ability to trust ourselves to do this kind of leaping.
Just as in art-making, the more you get comfortable with the unknown, with the uncertainty of it all, the more you can make your way based on your inner compass. Your true self and your decisions begin to align. Your decisions, even when made with uncertainty, are based in something authentic. You are not inhabiting a false self, living a false life for others. Instead, you are choosing a path that is yours, one entirely of your own making.
In that post, I dispensed some advice, based on my own experience, on how to use your imagination, reason and emotions to pick the correct path when faced with a difficult choice.
Recently, I realized that there's a different kind of decision-making process to take into consideration. This realization came after talking to a friend who is in a hell of her own making, but not because she can't make a decision. Indeed, she's made many, many decisions. Many of them even appear to be wise, good decisions, that should help her travel a successful and happy life path.
But, nope. So what's the trouble then?
I think it boils down to a lack of commitment. For various and sundry reasons, she can't get behind the decisions she makes. There's no conviction, no faith, no whole-heartedness.
In fact, that lack of heart is the crux of the problem. The reasons the decisions look good from the outside, and indeed, might be great decisions for any other person is that they make intellectual sense.
Indeed, many of our decisions start out, and even rely on, the rational faculty. A cost-benefit analysis. A list of pros and cons. For the extremely rational, the geeky and analytical, a post like this can certainly help. But creating a "grid analysis of multiple criteria" or "calculating the expected value of every outcome" can only get you so far. It's true that you can base a big decision on this kind of analysis, but beware: You might end up like my friend.
You may know someone like this. He or she makes a decision. To take a new job, let's say. And it looks, on paper, to be the right thing. The pay is better. It's in a nicer city. It has a clearer avenue for advancement.
But if this person does not choose--mind and heart--to be there, to really inhabit that decision, the chances are good that the decision will only lead to later paralysis and despair.
You might think, given this, that to really commit to a big decision that you'd have to be 100 percent sure, or at least more than 90 percent certain. Ironically, I don't think certainty plays into whether a decision will stick or not.
As with so many of the most important things about this human existence, making a decision that works comes down to faith.
So many people, it seems to me, lack this ability. And I'm not talking about the ability to believe in a higher power, either. I mean the ability to put aside hesitancy and simply leap. To believe whole-heartedly that this is your path that you've chosen and you're gonna stick with it.
So what stops people from doing this? I suppose a lot of it is fear, but to a larger extent, I think it really reflects a lack of practice. Somewhere along the way we have learned to trust others to make decisions for us--parents, teachers, government, authorities--and so we've lost the ability to trust ourselves to do this kind of leaping.
Just as in art-making, the more you get comfortable with the unknown, with the uncertainty of it all, the more you can make your way based on your inner compass. Your true self and your decisions begin to align. Your decisions, even when made with uncertainty, are based in something authentic. You are not inhabiting a false self, living a false life for others. Instead, you are choosing a path that is yours, one entirely of your own making.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Be Thankful for Your Limitations
First, a bit of good news re: my last post. I have been stretching my writing muscles, writing a new bit of creative writing every day. Right now it only amounts to exercises of about 250 words, but just as you can't run a marathon without training...well, let's just say I'm dusting off some cobwebs through this practice, getting ready for longer sessions. Still, even this feels so good.
Which brings me to today's thoughts on limitations. One of the ways I'm getting back to writing is through predetermined prompts, not of my own making. For example, tonight's exercise was this: "Describe a landscape as seen by a bird. Do not mention the bird."
Most of the time, we think of limitations as obstacles. As in, "If only I didn't have to go to work, I'd get this done," or, "If I had X amount of dollars, I'd be able to accomplish X." (I think that most people's major limitation gripes have to do with time or money, but of course, it could be something like, "If I had a smaller nose, more men would like me," or some such thing.)
While it's true that limitations narrow the range of possibilities for certain things in your life, it would by no means be utopia to have no limitations whatsoever. If you had endless time, you could get a lot done, but would you be motivated to? If you had a mountain of cash, you could buy whatever you wanted, but once you did, then what? Where would value come from?
We are accustomed to looking at our world in a very dichotomous way: black or white, love or hate, good or evil, rich or poor. We are, for the most part, always thinking in opposition, looking at one aspect or the other, but not able to hold the possibility for greater complexity in our minds.
But I submit that you could take even the most terrible seeming limitation and wring something out of it that you could argue is an opportunity. If you have an hour to yourself, and that's it, the opportunity to make that hour really count appears. If you don't have a lot of money, but want to achieve something, you must apply creativity to figure out how to do it anyway.
Will limitations make life less convenient for you? Probably. Might there be additional frustration? Likely so. But if struggle and frustration and limitation were the end of the line, would so many be attracted to life in New York City, or to art careers or to parenthood?
I believe we each have an inherent knowing (not always acknowledged) that we can thrive under limitation, and that in fact, we may even thrive because of limitation. My writing exercises impose limits, but they also get me to be more creative than I might be just staring at a blank page and asking, "Now what?" I am forced to find a good work-around to get started and keep going.
What I'd like you to do today is list your limitations. All the ones you can think of. Then, next to that list, I want you to list how each of those limitations could present an opportunity for greater creativity, motivation or achievement.
Hold the possibility in your mind that your limitations--whatever they may be--may in fact be your greatest assets in your quest to live a fuller, more blissful life.
Which brings me to today's thoughts on limitations. One of the ways I'm getting back to writing is through predetermined prompts, not of my own making. For example, tonight's exercise was this: "Describe a landscape as seen by a bird. Do not mention the bird."
Most of the time, we think of limitations as obstacles. As in, "If only I didn't have to go to work, I'd get this done," or, "If I had X amount of dollars, I'd be able to accomplish X." (I think that most people's major limitation gripes have to do with time or money, but of course, it could be something like, "If I had a smaller nose, more men would like me," or some such thing.)
While it's true that limitations narrow the range of possibilities for certain things in your life, it would by no means be utopia to have no limitations whatsoever. If you had endless time, you could get a lot done, but would you be motivated to? If you had a mountain of cash, you could buy whatever you wanted, but once you did, then what? Where would value come from?
We are accustomed to looking at our world in a very dichotomous way: black or white, love or hate, good or evil, rich or poor. We are, for the most part, always thinking in opposition, looking at one aspect or the other, but not able to hold the possibility for greater complexity in our minds.
But I submit that you could take even the most terrible seeming limitation and wring something out of it that you could argue is an opportunity. If you have an hour to yourself, and that's it, the opportunity to make that hour really count appears. If you don't have a lot of money, but want to achieve something, you must apply creativity to figure out how to do it anyway.
Will limitations make life less convenient for you? Probably. Might there be additional frustration? Likely so. But if struggle and frustration and limitation were the end of the line, would so many be attracted to life in New York City, or to art careers or to parenthood?
I believe we each have an inherent knowing (not always acknowledged) that we can thrive under limitation, and that in fact, we may even thrive because of limitation. My writing exercises impose limits, but they also get me to be more creative than I might be just staring at a blank page and asking, "Now what?" I am forced to find a good work-around to get started and keep going.
What I'd like you to do today is list your limitations. All the ones you can think of. Then, next to that list, I want you to list how each of those limitations could present an opportunity for greater creativity, motivation or achievement.
Hold the possibility in your mind that your limitations--whatever they may be--may in fact be your greatest assets in your quest to live a fuller, more blissful life.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Why I Stopped Following My Bliss, and What I'm Doing About It
Today, this post is all about me. I hope you'll forgive me, and indulge me. If not, that's okay, too.
One of the reasons I started this blog, and wanted to think about what it takes to follow one's bliss is because I was fairly certain I'd found something worth pursuing. For me, that something was writing, and especially creative writing. Because I'm so verbally wired, and because I love reading and because I love the way both writing and reading make me feel, I determined pretty early on that I wanted to be a Writer.
For a long time, I wasn't sure how anyone really did that. I stumbled around, writing bad poetry, taking classes that had the words "creative" and "writing" in the title, and spending time at night and on weekends doing something that seemed to be natural for me. Putting words down on paper.
I started to think that maybe there was something more formal one could do to achieve this goal of being a Writer. I had a friend who wrote, and who talked to me about writing, and one day he unveiled an entire pathway I didn't know existed: He said he was going to get his MFA. I didn't even really know that you could go back to school for writing, so this was tantalizing. Then, he got in. To the Iowa Writer's Workshop, which is only the most famous MFA program of them all. (I went from not knowing about MFA programs to quickly understanding where they all ranked. How American of me, right?)
Well, after this, I had a new bug up my butt. I too, was going to go get my MFA in writing. I was working at a miserable job, where I slaughtered language for political purposes, doing so for humorless ogres that looked like this. I had to get out, and that was that.
So off I went, into the application process--which is not easy, I'll tell you that--burning with the desire to get minted into a Writer. Eventually, I got a few acceptances, and even some generous offers of funding and teaching, and settled on the University of Arizona.
The next two years were a blur. I moved to Tucson, sacrificing proximity to my boyfriend (now husband) because he couldn't find work in Tucson and I desperately needed to be a real Writer. I gave up a lot, is the point, to do this.
My experience is probably pretty typical. I breezed in, thinking, Hey, I must be pretty good at this writing thing if they let me in and gave me money and a teaching job! Of course, I quickly realized that what they let me in for was based more on potential than on actual skill. This caused some major paralysis, but I got over it once I remembered that I was there to learn, not to just show them all how great I already was.
Incidentally, Tucson is the place where I began seriously understanding and contemplating what ego is, and how it can make us so crazy.
Eventually, after some very, very tough semesters, I came to the end. People began to say things in workshop that were very, very encouraging. Accomplished writers and professors were admiring my work, telling me how much I'd grown, how things I was writing were close to publication. Then, that last semester, I got my first story accepted at a journal. I felt like a Writer.
But after graduation, things slowed with my writing, and I got discouraged. No matter how many revisions I made to these stories, I couldn't seem to get another one accepted. No matter how hard I tried to understand what was missing, I couldn't. I got rejected a lot, and the worst part was I had to wait months and months to get rejected. It was agony.
In the meantime, good things were happening in my personal life. I was getting married. We'd bought a house. I had friends and a comfortable job with a nice salary. It became harder and harder to tear myself away from these things, with all their attendant positive feedback, to do something all by myself that no one much cared to see.
Also, by then, it was becoming obvious that the entire publishing complex was undergoing an earthquake, and there were fewer and fewer print venues with each passing day.
I thought, I'll just put my writing aside for a little while. That was in 2006.
And I've been telling myself that ever since. While there have been some bursts of activity, it's time to face facts: I quit.
I never said so formally, announcing it. But that's what I did. I closed the door, unofficially but definitively, on my creative writing efforts. I stopped trying to be a Writer, or a writer.
I'm here, telling you this story today to tell you that I'm recognizing that I'm unhappy about this. I'm facing it. I've been lying to myself and others so long, pretending that there were *reasons* I wasn't writing. Too much going on in my life, or a fear of the post-print media landscape or a million other things that seem perfectly plausible.
While plausible, making art, writing creatively, doesn't arise out of reason, doesn't depend on circumstances. And I, of all people, should know that. But I've been afraid. I think I've mainly been afraid of the enormous effort that writing every day requires, especially as it means I must give up time for things and people I enjoy. The sacrifice, again, for something no one seems much interested in.
But, I found a quote by Stephen DeStaebler yesterday in David Bayles' and Ted Orland's book, "Art & Fear," that sums up the situation: "Artists don't get down to work until the pain of working is exceeded by the pain of not working."
And I have to say, the pain right now is pretty intense. How often I wish I could let it go, say goodbye to this urge to write! But I'm at the point where I feel like a teenage boy who's been trying for total celibacy, without even the relief of his right hand! A too-graphic image? Perhaps, but we all know what happens, and the point is, it makes a mess of things. My urge to write and create and use words in artistic and interesting ways is nearly as strong an instinct as the sexual one, or the will to survive. I don't know how to explain that from an evolutionary perspective, but all I can tell you is that it's true, and real. If I suppress this instinct for too long, it begins to manifest itself, to surface, and in ways that are not healthy or productive. I get moody. I cry a lot. I feel emotions I don't usually feel: anger, resentment, jealousy, despair.
I don't want to be someone who used to write. I don't want to have quit. But at this moment, I am, and I did. Fortunately for me (and for the people who love me and enjoy my sanity), there is nothing in the world that says I can't start again.
My motivations will be different now, I think, as will my goals. But I will be writing creatively again. I may even share some of it here. If you don't care to read it, that's fine, just don't tell me. Let me put it into the world somewhere, okay? It's so hard to leave it always in the dark. If you don't like it, or don't want it, just skip it. There will be other stuff for you to read, I promise.
And for anyone who's gotten this far, I want to tell you that you and I could be good friends, if we're not already. I appreciate you sticking with me, and hey, maybe you're in the same boat. Maybe reading this will get you to figure some things out about the creative parts of your life. I hope so.
One thing I do know: My efforts from this point forward will be dedicated to my husband. Because for all I've put him through in this writing journey, he has never once--not once!--wavered in his dedication to me and his belief in my work. So thank you for that, pickles. I love you.
One of the reasons I started this blog, and wanted to think about what it takes to follow one's bliss is because I was fairly certain I'd found something worth pursuing. For me, that something was writing, and especially creative writing. Because I'm so verbally wired, and because I love reading and because I love the way both writing and reading make me feel, I determined pretty early on that I wanted to be a Writer.
For a long time, I wasn't sure how anyone really did that. I stumbled around, writing bad poetry, taking classes that had the words "creative" and "writing" in the title, and spending time at night and on weekends doing something that seemed to be natural for me. Putting words down on paper.
I started to think that maybe there was something more formal one could do to achieve this goal of being a Writer. I had a friend who wrote, and who talked to me about writing, and one day he unveiled an entire pathway I didn't know existed: He said he was going to get his MFA. I didn't even really know that you could go back to school for writing, so this was tantalizing. Then, he got in. To the Iowa Writer's Workshop, which is only the most famous MFA program of them all. (I went from not knowing about MFA programs to quickly understanding where they all ranked. How American of me, right?)
Well, after this, I had a new bug up my butt. I too, was going to go get my MFA in writing. I was working at a miserable job, where I slaughtered language for political purposes, doing so for humorless ogres that looked like this. I had to get out, and that was that.
So off I went, into the application process--which is not easy, I'll tell you that--burning with the desire to get minted into a Writer. Eventually, I got a few acceptances, and even some generous offers of funding and teaching, and settled on the University of Arizona.
The next two years were a blur. I moved to Tucson, sacrificing proximity to my boyfriend (now husband) because he couldn't find work in Tucson and I desperately needed to be a real Writer. I gave up a lot, is the point, to do this.
My experience is probably pretty typical. I breezed in, thinking, Hey, I must be pretty good at this writing thing if they let me in and gave me money and a teaching job! Of course, I quickly realized that what they let me in for was based more on potential than on actual skill. This caused some major paralysis, but I got over it once I remembered that I was there to learn, not to just show them all how great I already was.
Incidentally, Tucson is the place where I began seriously understanding and contemplating what ego is, and how it can make us so crazy.
Eventually, after some very, very tough semesters, I came to the end. People began to say things in workshop that were very, very encouraging. Accomplished writers and professors were admiring my work, telling me how much I'd grown, how things I was writing were close to publication. Then, that last semester, I got my first story accepted at a journal. I felt like a Writer.
But after graduation, things slowed with my writing, and I got discouraged. No matter how many revisions I made to these stories, I couldn't seem to get another one accepted. No matter how hard I tried to understand what was missing, I couldn't. I got rejected a lot, and the worst part was I had to wait months and months to get rejected. It was agony.
In the meantime, good things were happening in my personal life. I was getting married. We'd bought a house. I had friends and a comfortable job with a nice salary. It became harder and harder to tear myself away from these things, with all their attendant positive feedback, to do something all by myself that no one much cared to see.
Also, by then, it was becoming obvious that the entire publishing complex was undergoing an earthquake, and there were fewer and fewer print venues with each passing day.
I thought, I'll just put my writing aside for a little while. That was in 2006.
And I've been telling myself that ever since. While there have been some bursts of activity, it's time to face facts: I quit.
I never said so formally, announcing it. But that's what I did. I closed the door, unofficially but definitively, on my creative writing efforts. I stopped trying to be a Writer, or a writer.
I'm here, telling you this story today to tell you that I'm recognizing that I'm unhappy about this. I'm facing it. I've been lying to myself and others so long, pretending that there were *reasons* I wasn't writing. Too much going on in my life, or a fear of the post-print media landscape or a million other things that seem perfectly plausible.
While plausible, making art, writing creatively, doesn't arise out of reason, doesn't depend on circumstances. And I, of all people, should know that. But I've been afraid. I think I've mainly been afraid of the enormous effort that writing every day requires, especially as it means I must give up time for things and people I enjoy. The sacrifice, again, for something no one seems much interested in.
But, I found a quote by Stephen DeStaebler yesterday in David Bayles' and Ted Orland's book, "Art & Fear," that sums up the situation: "Artists don't get down to work until the pain of working is exceeded by the pain of not working."
And I have to say, the pain right now is pretty intense. How often I wish I could let it go, say goodbye to this urge to write! But I'm at the point where I feel like a teenage boy who's been trying for total celibacy, without even the relief of his right hand! A too-graphic image? Perhaps, but we all know what happens, and the point is, it makes a mess of things. My urge to write and create and use words in artistic and interesting ways is nearly as strong an instinct as the sexual one, or the will to survive. I don't know how to explain that from an evolutionary perspective, but all I can tell you is that it's true, and real. If I suppress this instinct for too long, it begins to manifest itself, to surface, and in ways that are not healthy or productive. I get moody. I cry a lot. I feel emotions I don't usually feel: anger, resentment, jealousy, despair.
I don't want to be someone who used to write. I don't want to have quit. But at this moment, I am, and I did. Fortunately for me (and for the people who love me and enjoy my sanity), there is nothing in the world that says I can't start again.
My motivations will be different now, I think, as will my goals. But I will be writing creatively again. I may even share some of it here. If you don't care to read it, that's fine, just don't tell me. Let me put it into the world somewhere, okay? It's so hard to leave it always in the dark. If you don't like it, or don't want it, just skip it. There will be other stuff for you to read, I promise.
And for anyone who's gotten this far, I want to tell you that you and I could be good friends, if we're not already. I appreciate you sticking with me, and hey, maybe you're in the same boat. Maybe reading this will get you to figure some things out about the creative parts of your life. I hope so.
One thing I do know: My efforts from this point forward will be dedicated to my husband. Because for all I've put him through in this writing journey, he has never once--not once!--wavered in his dedication to me and his belief in my work. So thank you for that, pickles. I love you.
Monday, August 10, 2009
How to Be More Productive
If you spend any amount of time on the interwebs, as I do, you will stumble across countless blogs and articles promising new ways to be more productive and efficient. Mostly, these have to do with finding out how to get more done in a day, be it through better organization of lists, or syncing of desktop with mobile devices, or keeping a daily time log. Actually, all of these things are great ideas, and I think these are resources to investigate.
But today, I want to think about productivity and efficiency in a slightly different way. I began thinking about what it means to be "efficient" when I pulled that word out of a bowl at my yoga class. My teacher had placed little "angel cards" into the bowl, each with a word on it, like "love" or "harmony" or "clarity." The idea was that you would use that word as the inspiration for your practice--your intention. I drew "efficiency," and had to smile. Of all the things to strive for in a yoga class!
I didn't think getting more done was really possible in yoga, so I looked at other interpretations. I recognized that one aspect of efficiency has to do with minimizing wasted effort. So, instead of using a lot of extra movements to transition from one pose to the next, one could try to be as streamlined and graceful and efficient as possible. No wasted effort.
What I found in trying to do this was that in order to move fluidly, and with intention, that I had to be extremely focused. I couldn't let my mind wander at all, or inevitably, I'd move more than was really necessary. I'd step out before stepping in. I'd scratch my nose on the way.
What I think I discovered was how important--how incredibly essential--focus is when it comes to productivity. Not just because you don't waste effort and therefore have more time and energy, but also because you don't produce something of poor quality.
After all, what's the point of being productive if all you're producing is crap?
So, how to be more productive in this way?
But today, I want to think about productivity and efficiency in a slightly different way. I began thinking about what it means to be "efficient" when I pulled that word out of a bowl at my yoga class. My teacher had placed little "angel cards" into the bowl, each with a word on it, like "love" or "harmony" or "clarity." The idea was that you would use that word as the inspiration for your practice--your intention. I drew "efficiency," and had to smile. Of all the things to strive for in a yoga class!
I didn't think getting more done was really possible in yoga, so I looked at other interpretations. I recognized that one aspect of efficiency has to do with minimizing wasted effort. So, instead of using a lot of extra movements to transition from one pose to the next, one could try to be as streamlined and graceful and efficient as possible. No wasted effort.
What I found in trying to do this was that in order to move fluidly, and with intention, that I had to be extremely focused. I couldn't let my mind wander at all, or inevitably, I'd move more than was really necessary. I'd step out before stepping in. I'd scratch my nose on the way.
What I think I discovered was how important--how incredibly essential--focus is when it comes to productivity. Not just because you don't waste effort and therefore have more time and energy, but also because you don't produce something of poor quality.
After all, what's the point of being productive if all you're producing is crap?
So, how to be more productive in this way?
- Before you begin your day, write down what you intend to accomplish. Think of intention as the gentle reminders your GPS lady gives you as you proceed on a planned route.
- Before you set out to start your planned activities, make sure you close your eyes and breathe deeply, if only for a minute or two. Beginning your day's journey on calm seas will make you far more likely to meet with success than throwing yourself out there in rough waters.
- Once you are on your way, you will inevitably drift off course. But as it is with meditation, so it is with staying focused and productive. If an unwanted thought comes up in meditation, rather than worrying about it, you visualize it as a cloud, simply drifting by. You do not judge it, or get attached to it, but rather, you just let it go. Same with work. You begin to read something you hadn't intended, or you find yourself on a phone call you didn't want to be on, and as soon as you realize it, don't fret, but let it go. Stop reading, and return to your task. Tell the person you've enjoyed talking, but it's time to get back to work. Don't feel bad, just move on.
- What happens if you meet with a roadblock that prevents you from completing one of your tasks? Don't let it throw you off course. Decide how important it is. Do you need to complete it today? Or can you return to it tomorrow? Assess this calmly, and then you will know how to proceed. After all, life requires adaptability, but this doesn't mean you have to lose focus. You can simply reroute around the trouble and calmly proceed.
- Remember, it isn't about quantity. It's about quality. Don't expend energy on useless or worthless efforts. Don't let anyone else convince you to, either. It's your life, your career, your home.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
"Happiness is not pleasure..."
Another wonderful piece in the New York Times today by Pico Iyer. (See this previous post for the last one.)
It's a look at the Dalai Lama, and his practical approach to achieving true happiness. I really appreciated this, especially since I hope to emphasize the practical in this blog. I know that I often deviate, and get going on the big ideas--because they excite me--but I am heartened to know that the advice I give about shifting attitudes and practicing new ways of perceiving the world is the kind of practical advice that the Dalai Lama would likely approve.
An excerpt:
Another excerpt:
He went on: "Likely, this is not the worst pain you'll ever feel. Likely, at some point in your life, you will hurt much worse. How will you react?" His words rang true for me, especially now, as I approach childbirth. So, I stuck it out, figuring if I buckled from a tired quadricep, I'd never survive giving birth! What was interesting is that, like the above excerpt, I shifted my position toward the pain, and gained a great deal of mental (and physical) stamina and strength. And you know what? Once I did, the burn became more a curiosity, something to withstand and investigate, and less a source of suffering. I guess my point is, you can choose your pose toward suffering, and suffer less.
I think you'll enjoy Iyer's essay. Read the entire piece here.
It's a look at the Dalai Lama, and his practical approach to achieving true happiness. I really appreciated this, especially since I hope to emphasize the practical in this blog. I know that I often deviate, and get going on the big ideas--because they excite me--but I am heartened to know that the advice I give about shifting attitudes and practicing new ways of perceiving the world is the kind of practical advice that the Dalai Lama would likely approve.
An excerpt:
The Dalai Lama I’ve seen is a realist (which is what makes his optimism the more impressive and persuasive). And he’s as practical as the man he calls his “boss.”I hope that the many posts I've offered here have helped to identify, analyze and isolate those arrows that cause suffering, and have inspired others to do what they can to pull them out. I love that the philosophy articulated above does not shun intellectual effort (such as analysis), nor is it passive, awaiting the intervention of some remote deity. I've always preferred prayer for guidance, rather than intervention, and the saying "God helps those who help themselves" to "Dear God, please help me."
The Buddha generally presented himself as more physician than metaphysician: if an arrow is sticking out of your side, he famously said, don’t argue about where it came from or who made it; just pull it out. You make your way to happiness not by fretting about it or trafficking in New Age affirmations, but simply by finding the cause of your suffering, and then attending to it, as any doctor (of mind or body) might do.
Another excerpt:
I’ve been spending time for 18 years in a Benedictine monastery, and the monks I know there have likewise found out how to be delighted by the smallest birthday cake. Happiness is not pleasure, they know, and unhappiness, as the Buddhists say, is not the same as suffering. Suffering — in the sense of old age, sickness and death — is the law of life; unhappiness is just the position we choose — or can not choose — to bring to it.Just last week, my yoga teacher demonstrated this approach. We were in Warrior II, and he had us hold the pose for quite a while. Eventually, a fire starts in the muscles. "Likely you're feeling a burn," he said. "But instead of popping out of it, what if you hold it, stay there, exploring that sensation? What if you look at it not as pain, but as a purifying effort?" I desperately wanted to release the pose, but considered if I could withstand the effort and do as he asked.
He went on: "Likely, this is not the worst pain you'll ever feel. Likely, at some point in your life, you will hurt much worse. How will you react?" His words rang true for me, especially now, as I approach childbirth. So, I stuck it out, figuring if I buckled from a tired quadricep, I'd never survive giving birth! What was interesting is that, like the above excerpt, I shifted my position toward the pain, and gained a great deal of mental (and physical) stamina and strength. And you know what? Once I did, the burn became more a curiosity, something to withstand and investigate, and less a source of suffering. I guess my point is, you can choose your pose toward suffering, and suffer less.
I think you'll enjoy Iyer's essay. Read the entire piece here.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
How to Fall in Love With Your Body
Regular readers of this blog might wonder if I will ever tire of talking about yoga or tai chi. Sorry, no. Amazing things have happened in my life thanks to these two ancient practices, and as long as I'm physically able, I will be practicing these Eastern arts.
One of the reasons for this devotion is that these traditions have given me tangible, impressive gifts. I often talk about the emotional and psychological gifts that I get from yoga and tai chi, but today I'd like to talk about the physical gifts.
I discovered one of those gifts today, while practicing yoga at home. When I started yoga in earnest back in Tucson, Arizona in 2003, I had a book of asanas (or poses). One of these, tree pose, or Vrksasana, is a standing balance pose, where you press the flat of one foot against the inner thigh of the opposite leg. Your arms can be pressed together in prayer pose (anjali mudra), or lifted up or whatever. The basic idea is that you balance on one leg.
My balance was pretty good when I started yoga, though it has gotten better through practice. But the book suggested that when you had mastered the balance pose, that you could go deeper by closing your eyes. Apparently, we rely very heavily on visual cues to maintain balance. This is why it's often easier to balance on one leg if you are focusing steadily on one single point on the wall or floor or wherever.
Anyway, I thought, "Hey, I can do this," and so I closed my eyes, and nearly instantly fell over. It was startling how fast my balance was yanked out from under me. Without my eyes open, I had no balance.
I've tried it over the years, and while I had improved a tiny, tiny amount, I still lost my balance very quickly when I closed my eyes.
I've now been doing tai chi for about 8 months, and so while I was in tree pose today, I thought, "Hmm, maybe I'll try closing my eyes." I did, and I was startled to discover that I no longer need visual clues to maintain balance. I stood there, like a bird on one leg, arms overhead, eyes closed, perfectly balanced.
I suppose it is difficult to convey what a sublime moment this really was, since it's not something most people are aware of, much less testing out on their own. But to feel this steadiness from within--and it was truly from within--was extremely powerful and even moving.
For starters, the first time I'd tried it all those years ago, I was so skeptical that anyone could really do it, it was that difficult. (Seriously, stand next to a wall so you can catch yourself, and try it right now.) To feel something change that dramatically is a rush, for sure.
But also, as someone who struggled for so many years between the union of mind and body, it is so satisfying to feel the body and consciousness fused so inextricably. There is a new power in this body of mine, and I am thrilled to experience it, both mentally and sensually. Furthermore, it's fun! It does kind of feel like a superpower.
It dismays me how many are discouraged from trusting in their bodies, simply because they are not fast, or muscular or innately athletic. I hated my body for so many years, because it didn't perform properly, nor was it "perfect" like a model's.
But now? Now I realize that my body is the most amazing thing, and that, hey, guess what? It turns out I am flexible, and have balance, and am actually perfectly suited for pursuits like yoga and tai chi. It makes me sad to realize how many children, especially the ones who don't excel in P.E., will turn against their bodies, frustrated with them, when all they really need is a way to learn their bodies in a mindful, supremely intuitive way.
It's something I wish I'd known about, wish I'd been able to do as a young girl. I know I'll teach it to my child, and I also know I'll never hate my body again.
So, no matter what you look like, your body is beautiful, and is capable of doing beautiful things. And, when you fall in love with your body, with its abilities (and its flaws and limitations!), you will be a happier, more harmonious, more blissful creature, for sure.
I'll leave you with this beautiful video, which shows you the form of tai chi I'm learning.
One of the reasons for this devotion is that these traditions have given me tangible, impressive gifts. I often talk about the emotional and psychological gifts that I get from yoga and tai chi, but today I'd like to talk about the physical gifts.
I discovered one of those gifts today, while practicing yoga at home. When I started yoga in earnest back in Tucson, Arizona in 2003, I had a book of asanas (or poses). One of these, tree pose, or Vrksasana, is a standing balance pose, where you press the flat of one foot against the inner thigh of the opposite leg. Your arms can be pressed together in prayer pose (anjali mudra), or lifted up or whatever. The basic idea is that you balance on one leg.
My balance was pretty good when I started yoga, though it has gotten better through practice. But the book suggested that when you had mastered the balance pose, that you could go deeper by closing your eyes. Apparently, we rely very heavily on visual cues to maintain balance. This is why it's often easier to balance on one leg if you are focusing steadily on one single point on the wall or floor or wherever.
Anyway, I thought, "Hey, I can do this," and so I closed my eyes, and nearly instantly fell over. It was startling how fast my balance was yanked out from under me. Without my eyes open, I had no balance.
I've tried it over the years, and while I had improved a tiny, tiny amount, I still lost my balance very quickly when I closed my eyes.
I've now been doing tai chi for about 8 months, and so while I was in tree pose today, I thought, "Hmm, maybe I'll try closing my eyes." I did, and I was startled to discover that I no longer need visual clues to maintain balance. I stood there, like a bird on one leg, arms overhead, eyes closed, perfectly balanced.
I suppose it is difficult to convey what a sublime moment this really was, since it's not something most people are aware of, much less testing out on their own. But to feel this steadiness from within--and it was truly from within--was extremely powerful and even moving.
For starters, the first time I'd tried it all those years ago, I was so skeptical that anyone could really do it, it was that difficult. (Seriously, stand next to a wall so you can catch yourself, and try it right now.) To feel something change that dramatically is a rush, for sure.
But also, as someone who struggled for so many years between the union of mind and body, it is so satisfying to feel the body and consciousness fused so inextricably. There is a new power in this body of mine, and I am thrilled to experience it, both mentally and sensually. Furthermore, it's fun! It does kind of feel like a superpower.
It dismays me how many are discouraged from trusting in their bodies, simply because they are not fast, or muscular or innately athletic. I hated my body for so many years, because it didn't perform properly, nor was it "perfect" like a model's.
But now? Now I realize that my body is the most amazing thing, and that, hey, guess what? It turns out I am flexible, and have balance, and am actually perfectly suited for pursuits like yoga and tai chi. It makes me sad to realize how many children, especially the ones who don't excel in P.E., will turn against their bodies, frustrated with them, when all they really need is a way to learn their bodies in a mindful, supremely intuitive way.
It's something I wish I'd known about, wish I'd been able to do as a young girl. I know I'll teach it to my child, and I also know I'll never hate my body again.
So, no matter what you look like, your body is beautiful, and is capable of doing beautiful things. And, when you fall in love with your body, with its abilities (and its flaws and limitations!), you will be a happier, more harmonious, more blissful creature, for sure.
I'll leave you with this beautiful video, which shows you the form of tai chi I'm learning.
Monday, July 13, 2009
How to Cut the Crap
Bullshit. We should all know it when we hear it, and if you don't, then there is nothing I can recommend more than tuning up your bullshit detector. (See my earlier post on rhetorical analysis for some ideas on how to do this.)
Lately, I feel as though the world is awash in bullshit. It is all I hear on the news, on the radio, from most people I know casually. People have forgotten, or have never learned, how to speak directly.
I've been reading Walden, and Thoreau, though wordy, is not bullshitting. He is unafraid to say what he wants ("to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life") or what he observes ("the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation"). I read a work like this, and it only further highlights the difference between what is direct and true, and what passes for the same these days.
Mostly, this tsunami of bullshit has been perpetrated through language, through the corruption of words and their meanings. As a writer, this disturbs me to no end. As of late, I feel as though my tools are damaged, dirty and, often, dangerous. (Consider the word "dangerous." Everything is "dangerous" now. That medium-rare burger. The dog down the street. Freaking carbon dioxide.)
As of late, I have wanted to say less, and to say it directly. And yet, that is not the straightforward task it would seem to be. Because corrupted words do not uncorrupt depending on who is making use of them. The magic of words is that they contain layer upon layer of meaning, yet take such a compact form. But of course, these layers are applied over time by many, and cannot be removed easily, if ever. ("Villain," once a word for a simple farmer.)
So, it is harder than ever to communicate, especially as we retreat into our own righteous sects, certain we know what it means to be (insert label here). We spit out words without thinking, redefining them to suit our purposes, accepting redefinitions from others intent on their own shaping of public opinion.
And all this time, hardly anyone is thinking, analyzing. Instead, we're just readying the next load of bullshit.
Maybe you know a person who doesn't speak very often, because he is mostly listening. And people often ignore him, because of course he's not clamoring for the spotlight, hoping to have his ego stroked, to have his mean little jokes laughed at. And then, after a long silence, he speaks, and everyone is astounded. Not just that he has spoken, but that what he has said is very incisive, is amazingly considered.
My blog is about finding bliss, that's true. But honesty is essential to bliss, and even if others insist on lying to you, you don't have to 1) lie to yourself, 2) accept the lies of others.
It will take concentration, and some degree of fearlessness, but I exhort you to be more like that person I described above, and to do what you can to reduce the amount of bullshit you either generate or are exposed to in life. Whether it's from the nightly news or from a friend hardly matters. What matters is that there you are, striving for honesty.
Lately, I feel as though the world is awash in bullshit. It is all I hear on the news, on the radio, from most people I know casually. People have forgotten, or have never learned, how to speak directly.
I've been reading Walden, and Thoreau, though wordy, is not bullshitting. He is unafraid to say what he wants ("to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life") or what he observes ("the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation"). I read a work like this, and it only further highlights the difference between what is direct and true, and what passes for the same these days.
Mostly, this tsunami of bullshit has been perpetrated through language, through the corruption of words and their meanings. As a writer, this disturbs me to no end. As of late, I feel as though my tools are damaged, dirty and, often, dangerous. (Consider the word "dangerous." Everything is "dangerous" now. That medium-rare burger. The dog down the street. Freaking carbon dioxide.)
As of late, I have wanted to say less, and to say it directly. And yet, that is not the straightforward task it would seem to be. Because corrupted words do not uncorrupt depending on who is making use of them. The magic of words is that they contain layer upon layer of meaning, yet take such a compact form. But of course, these layers are applied over time by many, and cannot be removed easily, if ever. ("Villain," once a word for a simple farmer.)
So, it is harder than ever to communicate, especially as we retreat into our own righteous sects, certain we know what it means to be (insert label here). We spit out words without thinking, redefining them to suit our purposes, accepting redefinitions from others intent on their own shaping of public opinion.
And all this time, hardly anyone is thinking, analyzing. Instead, we're just readying the next load of bullshit.
Maybe you know a person who doesn't speak very often, because he is mostly listening. And people often ignore him, because of course he's not clamoring for the spotlight, hoping to have his ego stroked, to have his mean little jokes laughed at. And then, after a long silence, he speaks, and everyone is astounded. Not just that he has spoken, but that what he has said is very incisive, is amazingly considered.
My blog is about finding bliss, that's true. But honesty is essential to bliss, and even if others insist on lying to you, you don't have to 1) lie to yourself, 2) accept the lies of others.
It will take concentration, and some degree of fearlessness, but I exhort you to be more like that person I described above, and to do what you can to reduce the amount of bullshit you either generate or are exposed to in life. Whether it's from the nightly news or from a friend hardly matters. What matters is that there you are, striving for honesty.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The Bells of Munich: My Case for a Weekly Spiritual Experience
I took this video with my little digital camera while I was in Munich last week. It's the Frauenkirche, and it's the Sunday bells. This clip is only 15 seconds or so, but these bells--and the bells of all the nearby churches--rang out for at least 15 minutes, calling the faithful to service.
It was so overwhelmingly beautiful. Early morning, cool air, bright, silvery sun, and the loud, clear tones of bells swirling together to create the most stunning audio landscape I've ever heard. It felt like the sound had color, the harmonies were so thick and insistent.
Walking out of our hotel into this scene, I was overcome with emotion. I started to cry, and I couldn't help myself. The bells inundated me, passed through me, striking a deep, largely inaccessible hollow of stillness, and caused it to vibrate.
I was being rung by the bells.
And this ringing within me shook loose profound feelings and brought them up into my awareness: joy, awe, gratitude, wistfulness, a powerful sensation of being alive. For those few minutes, the "I" part of me dissolved, and "i" was there, rooted, connected, expansive. A white, purifying Love--the love that is bliss, that is god--was called up, and it, in the most welcome way, demolished me.
When I finally came back to my senses and was able to speak, I mentioned to my husband how wonderful it would be if we had anything like this at all. (And by "we," I meant back home, in America, in most places; in other words, if humans could be called out of their narrow trances once in a while and reminded of the eternal and ineffable that is invisible but pervasive.)
This is what is supposed to happen in churches, I know. And for the first time in a long time, I was tempted to go to mass at the Frauenkirche. Unfortunately, I stopped myself with all kinds of silly reasons--I wasn't dressed right, I wouldn't know where to sit--all of the stupid human reasons that don't matter in the presence of pure love and god. (If only humans in church could be persuaded to ignore such things!)
But I am more convinced than ever after this experience that human beings, whatever their beliefs, need regular encounters with what is holy. Because you don't have to believe in "God" or Jesus or Krishna or any anthropomorphic deity to recognize the holiness that exists in life. Indeed, the people unable to see or acknowledge that our lives retain sacred mysteries and that there is holy beauty and holy love are the ones who are most profoundly sick, whatever their blood pressure reading or therapist says.
In America, we don't have choirs of bells calling out to us. We will have to find some other way. I go to yoga and receive some measure of this experience each week. If I lived near an ocean, I might go there. But I urge you to find a way to get this experience, in whatever way you can, at least once a week.
Be rung, be rung, be rung!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)