In Praise of Not Knowing

As I continue to figure things out in my new job, I've been interested to observe how horrified I am at the many things I don't understand. I keep beating myself up for not knowing the solutions right away, and have forgotten to feel the joy of learning new things and experiencing the unexpected surprises, insights and connections that come with not knowing.

Acknowledging my not knowing, I changed my password for awhile to a number and symbol ridden form of "humility." Because of some mysterious security configurations at work that require me to enter my password repeatedly throughout the day when I switch environments, I ended up typing the word again and again like a mantra: humility humility humility.

Humility: the quality or condition of being humble; modest opinion or estimate of one's importance, rank, etc. dictionary.com

Humility: the absence of any feelings of being better than others. merriam-webster.com

I have a horror of being considered a know-it-all (although I know sometimes I come across that way nonetheless). So perhaps I lean too far in the opposite direction, acknowledging my not knowing too quickly; not a stellar way to gain the confidence of colleagues with strong intellects who take great pride in, by God, knowing.

Buddhists speak of "not knowing" as the greater wisdom. Acknowledging not knowing makes space for new knowledge; see the famous fable about the university professor, the wise monk, and the overflowing teacup. Remembering to let go of the need to know everything is liberating and opens up the possibility for new and surprising insights.

I have the acknowledgement of not knowing down pretty well. And now I have to stop apologizing for it. Knowing when I don’t know may be one of my most valuable qualities.

How I Stay Sane, Part V: Monkey Mind

I just finished Daniel Smith’s short book “Monkey Mind:  A Memoir of Anxiety.”   It’s a vivid and often hilarious account of how one man has dealt with the challenges of severe anxiety for most of his life.  Since I have loved ones who struggle with anxiety and I myself have had a few alarming bouts with it, the book was illuminating in that it explored the actual thought progressions fanning the flames of anxiety as well as the particular approach, cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), that the author found most helpful after many adventures in the land of counseling and psychotherapy.

I’ve also found that CBT is the best bet for squelching that series of unfortunate thoughts that gets irrational anxiety going.  When you’re in the grips of it, though, it is a huge effort to swim toward the surface, struggling against the riptide, and break through to the air, and BREATHE. And then offer logical counter-arguments to the thoughts attacking you, finding at least momentarily that holy grail of equilibrium that every anxious person seeks.

On the Friday morning before my February vacation as I drove down the last big hill to work, I went beyond my usual smile therapy (“fake it ‘til you make it” – simply smiling makes you feel better).  I went further and applied a little laughter yoga as I coasted down the hill:  “Hee hee hee, ho ho ho and a couple of ah hah hahs; that’s how we pass the day away in the merry old Land of Oz…”  Surprisingly, it felt really good.  Laughing at that moment was what my sister calls “the next right thing.”

Taking care of yourself in small ways, taking a break when you have to go to the bathroom (everybody who delays that to get “one more thing done” at work raise their hands), making yourself a cup of tea, breathing, having a piece of dark chocolate or a glass of wine, sitting by the ocean all day long in the cool breeze and eating green grapes and writing in your journal and reading junk fiction:  all next right things.

The voice in your head shrieks, “No time!  That’s selfish.  You don’t really need to do that.  What will people think?  What have you done with your life, you miserable, boring person?”  Oh my, that voice should be argued with and laughed at and ridiculed into submission because it is truly quite absurd.  Pushing back when you hear that voice is the next right thing.

Since I have been suffering from severe writer’s block for months and I also find that often my worst anxiety is about failing at work, I was interested to read Daniel Smith’s take on writing, work, and anxiety: 

Writers like to believe their job is tougher on the nerves than other jobs.  They like to pass around cool, pithy statements to this effect, like this one, from the screenwriter Gene Fowler:  ‘Writing is easy.  All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.’    Or this suspiciously similar one, from the sportswriter Red Smith:  ‘There’s nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.’  Or this one, from the poet Graycie Harmon:  ‘Being an author is like being in charge of your own personal insane asylum.’  I don’t subscribe to the exceptionalist school of writing, however.  It’s true that writing has psychological pitfalls—oppressive deadlines, poor pay, baring one’s soul to an indifferent world—but so do all jobs.  Even the imperative to make choice after choice without clear guidance—allegedly the most nerve-wracking part of the profession—isn’t exclusive to writing.  What is probably true is that, for reasons having to do with solitude and a high allowance for self-obsession, writing attracts a greater percentage of anxious people than other professions.  What is definitely true is that writers are better than other people at articulating their neuroses, and more dedicated to the task.

If you want to understand anxiety better, in yourself or somebody else, read “Monkey Mind,” but think carefully about recommending it to that anxious friend.    You may find that a chronically anxious person can’t bear to read it—because it just stirs up way too much (you guessed it) anxiety.  

The Storyteller's Tapestry

It's not often that you can see creativity unfolding and blossoming right before your eyes.  It is even rarer to share this experience with an appreciative audience and to be linked to the creator by blood and history, to have known her since you welcomed her with great excitement into your seven-year old world as your youngest sister.

This was the amazing experience I had on a warm August Saturday in Indianapolis in a small IndyFringe theater, when for the first time I saw my sister Nell perform her new improvisational Story Theater show, "And I Am Not Making This Up."

Each of Nell's shows is different:  true improvisation.  After a few words with the audience, she begins with some movement, seeming to reach out into the cosmos and gather multicolored threads of memory and insight and humor, and then right before our eyes she weaves them into a tapestry that is greater than its parts. She speaks, gestures and flows, telling vivid stories based on her own experiences and often from the childhood that we shared and did not share. (If you have siblings you may know that one child's family experience can vastly differ from another's.)  

She tells of southern Indiana summers, of camp at McCormick's Creek, of her older brother Paul now lost to us, who teased and terrorized her unmercifully as he suffered and battled his own demons, and his final redemption as she finds and holds close a loving memory of him from better days.  She shares this memory:  when Paul died, the two of us went to the funeral home to say goodbye.  With mixed feelings, she touched his cheek.  So cold...as cold as snow, evoking a memory of when she was perhaps five and was on big brother Paul's back on a sled speeding down the steep Dewey Drive hill in Ellettsville...icy snow flying in their faces, a fast, scary ride, the laughing tumble off the sled at the bottom of the hill.  

She plucks these memories from the air, and weaves them together with another story about her first summer camp, the night hikes in the dark Indiana woods as she clings to her counselor and clutches her gigantic flashlight.  Singing camp songs by the creek in the darkness, she imagines a scary maniac, perhaps battling his own demons as he lurks up above in the limestone cliffs and peers down on the tiny campers below.  The singing closes with a hymn Nell humorously hums and mumbles, explaining that she never really went to church and so doesn't know the words. In my separate childhood I did go to church, so I know the hymn:  "Praise God from whom all blessings flow.  Praise him all creatures here below....".  And the maniac up in the cliffs is also redeemed it seems, as he rumbles a rusty A-m-e-n at the end of the song.

Emergence of light from darkness seemed to be a theme in the show I saw:  fear in the darkness for the tiny campers on the night hike clinging to their flashlights but then turning them off as they sit by the creek singing--the imagined fears the darkness generates.  I expected her to tell the tale of the candles set in little boats to float in the darkness down the creek, but she didn't this time.  Fortunately I had already heard that memory from another show she did in a woods years ago, and candles were really floated on the water for that one. 

Later she tells of the fire balloons set off from the deck behind our house into the darkness, and of the black Labrador madly barking his alarm at a flashlight sent up high into the night sky on a kite string by our equally creative and complicated father.

The most extraordinary part of the performance is to see my sister pluck those images from thin air and thread them together with the themes:   darkness and light, loss and redemption. I know she prepares beforehand to get her head into the place it needs to be, to be ready to capture the images on demand on stage, weaving in whatever the audience and ambience might hand her from cell phones ringing to plaintive train whistles in the distance.  It is nothing less than a miracle of creation and in August she did it six times over the course of a week or so. 

From the darkness of the stage Nell shone her light on images and memories I share with her in patchwork patterns, each of us seeing them through different lenses.  Darkness, light, redemption, love, forgiveness.  Classic themes, beautifully told.  It was a privilege to see.

Near Enchanted Mesa...

Near Enchanted Mesa the breeze breathes
through the pine trees.

Many spend forty days, forty nights
or more
in the wilderness 
seeking the centered peace I feel 
right here, right now.

"I'll Have What She's Having..."

We have lost the sophisticated and enlightened humor of the great Nora Ephron at the young age of 71.  She wrote the classic "When Harry Met Sally."   Who is not familiar with Meg Ryan's fake orgasm scene and the middle-aged woman at the next table (played by Rob Reiner’s mom) telling the waiter "I'll have what she’s having."  She also wrote and directed "Sleepless in Seattle" and "You've Got Mail" among others.  Her last film was “Julie and Julia.”  She was great friends with Meryl Streep, who said at her memorial service “she was a breathtaking original.”  

Nora Ephron’s writing is a sure-fire recipe for laughter, in my book.  She was devoted to Manhattan, cooking and her family including the wonderful husband she finally found after a disastrous marriage to a philandering Carl Bernstein. She was also a strong feminist.  I knew very little about her until now, after she’s gone.  The more I read the more I admire her humor, her courage and her love of both reading and writing.

Newsweek and the New York Times both had good articles about her.  She came from a family of writers, both parents eventually ended up alcoholics.  Her mother famously told her, "Everything is copy." She turned many of her experiences from a bad marriage to the disappointments of aging into highly amusing scenes in her books and movies.  (I loved her hilarious book of essays from 2006 called "I Feel Bad About My Neck.") 

A life well-lived, ending too soon with a terminal illness.  Here are a few quotes attributed to her that I found interesting.

"I try to write parts for women that are as complicated and interesting as women really are."

"Reading is one of the main things I do.  Reading is everything.  Reading makes me feel I've accomplished something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter."

Some quotes from a 1996 commencement address to the young women at Wellesley:

"Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim."

"One of the things people always say to you if you get upset is don't take it personally.  Understand:  every attack on Hillary Clinton for not knowing her place is an attack on you.  Underneath all attacks are the words:  get back, get back, get back to where you once belonged.  When Elizabeth Dole pretends that she isn't serious about her career, that is an attack on you.  Any move to limit abortion rights is an attack on you--whether or not you believe in abortion.  The fact that Clarence Thomas is sitting on the Supreme Court today is an attack on you."

How refreshing--the idea that it might actually be appropriate to take it personally, to get angry and fight back. 

Farewell to Nora, an inspiration to women and particularly to those who know how to write and to laugh out loud.

Blogs and Conversation

The Observation Deck card says: "Ask a Question." Here's one: Why do I write this blog?

One reason is to record my voice. I've wished many times that I had more samples of the voices from my past--those I've loved and lost. Another reason is that I want to capture certain ideas I find valuable and remember them for future reference. Sometimes I look up an old blog I've written to remind myself of things I've figured out before, like Gretel following the trail of breadcrumbs through the dark forest.

A third reason is that I've always enjoyed writing. Why? Words fascinate me, and putting them down in just the right way to truly express an idea gives me satisfaction and joy. Just as others might express themselves with a painting or a song or a scientific experiment or a challenging rock climb, I express myself best with words.

A related question running through my mind quite often is: Why is it so damn hard these days to find good conversation? Sherry Turkle published a NYT article a few weeks ago called "The Flight from Conversation" that bemoans our tendency to focus on short electronic communications rather than the admittedly more messy, stop-and-start of genuine, real-time connection that can actually be had by looking someone in the eyes for an extended period of time, listening carefully and patiently to what is said, and then responding in turn. We do this, God help us, even when a person is sitting right there (I do it too). A recent Atlantic article asks: "Is Facebook Making Us Lonely?". Perhaps so.

In the olden days (my children), there were salons where intellectuals gathered for fascinating discussion. I fantasize about starting a monthly conversational potluck, where everybody brings a dish for dinner and a topic written on a slip of paper. Over dinner we would draw one topic at a time for discussion.

What could possibly go wrong? A political or religious topic might throw the group into heated argument--what joy! Or...nobody would know how to get started because we've all forgotten how to actually converse. People would clam up, or retreat to the bathroom to check their iPhones. But surely intelligent, verbally adept people could get beyond these obstacles. The more I think about it the more I love the idea, but I also fear rejection--what if I try it but nobody wants to come? They'd rather stay at home "liking" on Facebook and tweeting into the ether, or simply enjoying peace and quiet. As Sartre pointed out, "Hell is other people." Can conversational skills actually atrophy? Real conversation still happens for captive audiences on airplanes who are wirelessly deprived, so I see a glimmer of hope. Although I admit I am the first one to bury my nose in the book on the airplane, sending the clear signal that I Don't Want to Talk...perhaps I should revisit that.

Ribe Tuchus (Sit Still)

According to the Observation Deck, the literal Yiddish translation of ribe tuchus is "rub your bottom on the chair."

Flannery O'Connor had a rule that she would sit at her writing desk for three hours each day. If she had nothing to write she would stare at the wall, but she often did have something interesting to say as we know. I also find that by sitting still with my notebook I often surprise myself by having something to say after all--sometimes I get a jump start by observing my immediate surroundings and describing them. 

Right now I see a slender young woman sitting immediately on the other side of the coffee shop window on the patio, feet up on one of the black wrought iron chairs, typing on her laptop. It's hard to imagine how she can see anything on the computer screen in the bright sunlight, but she continues to continue. She's dressed in a green-toned camouflage tank top, extremely short faded denim cutoffs, a two-inch wide belt beaded in orange and turquoise, many silver bracelets on both wrists with one pulled up past her elbow, and large silver hoop earrings--but she wears no rings at all. Her long, dark hair is piled high on her head with a few strands artfully coiling down to frame her face. She wears woven ankle-high sandals. She chews gum furiously as she finally decides to move herself to the shady half of the table where there is some hope she might be able to view the computer screen and opens two books on her lap, pen in hand, a page of notes peaking out from underneath the laptop and flapping gently in the breeze. She takes a brief call on her cell phone and then turns back to her work.

I'm guessing she's a CU student and I once again feel that surge of envy I often have for those whose entire focus in life is learning. I didn't appreciate it as much as I could have in my youth. Of course if asked, this young woman might assure me that her life is far more complicated than simply learning, and a far cry from the bliss I imagine. In any case, I remind myself that I also continue to learn at my work, through my experiences with people and technology and in brief furious spates of research, for example each time I hear yet another technical acronym that is new to me. One of the best things in life is that we continue to learn until the very end; all that's required is that we remain open and curious.