Unsubstantiated, coffee-fueled theorizing

I am writing this tonight partially because I had coffee an hour ago, and will probably be unable to fall asleep for a while. I am also writing here because I know I need to reconsider many things about my life. I’ve done this so many flippin' times: written a long list of reasons I am discontent with my life situation and even more discontent with the way I have responded (or, more often, not responded) to my situation, come up with axioms for a new era of flourishing in my life, and gone to bed teeming with excitement, for the next day is bound to be the first day of the rest of my life! A life filled with exploration, wonder, excitement, meditation, righteous sweat, passionate love, spontaneity, an ever evolving perception of all that I see, an overabundance of love for my fellow humans, joy, joyful discipline, good food, good wine, the development of skills, the honing of an art or two, the playing and writing of passionate music, the reading of great books, the discovery of purpose and meaning!

I have a pet theory that I like to pull out when I need to motivate myself to do things that are difficult or I just don’t want to do even though I know that doing them is for my betterment. It goes something like this: people have a ‘normal’ level for every activity they do. They have a normal amount of sleep they need each night, a normal amount of food they consume, a normal intensity with which they study, a normal extent to which they concentrate when reading a book or studying chemistry. Everyone’s levels of normal are different. Everyone needs a slightly different amount of sleep to be well rested. Everyone concentrates at a different level when they read a book, or listen to a piece of music. Also, people split their concentration in different ways. One person, when listening to music, tries to analyze the harmony, or pays attention to the emotions and memories the piece of music evokes within them. Another person may listen to music only while doing other things, such that the music is only a background to other concerns. All of these levels of normal are limited biologically. (e.g. Everyone needs some sleep. No human’s thinking power is infinite) These levels of normal are also determined in part by immanence: one’s upbringing, one’s culture, what one’s peers do, what one’s significant other does, what one currently does. For example, my low level of concentration in my studies (one of my most worrisome concerns) is affected very much by the low level of concentration I had towards my studies all throughout high school. It is interesting to note that my mother is a particularly hard working and dedicated student, yet I didn’t pick up this trait (though I have picked up other traits of hers, including her concern for being a welcoming and prepared host—which is interestingly something I used to critique her for).

This theory raises questions:

To what extent are my levels of normal mutable? For example, if I raised my normal level of concentration for reading, perhaps I could more deeply and swiftly grow my curiosity and wisdom than I do when reading at my current level of concentration.

When I am doing a task, like writing this essay, at what level should I concentrate on that task? And how should I split my concentration within this single task? In this seemingly simple act of writing a few unsubstantiated theories I could concentrate on my grammar, sentence structure, word choice, many aspects of the content, or even how I should be splitting my concentration within this task.

In writing that last paragraph I felt something that worries me: a voice in my mind that lures me towards disinterest, away from concentration and towards a state I often find myself in: the place of least resistance, the place where little is demanded of me, particularly in my mind. It is this voice that stunts me I fear. Stunts my love of live, stunts my insight and perspective, stunts even my empathy. It is not mindfulness, nor a state of empty mind, it is a state of static and the currents of hungers.

Changing (particularly raising) a level of normal is a painful process, just as adapting to any new stress is. Think of the stress from moving to a new place, or the stress of starting to practice a sport again when you aren’t in good shape.

Thanks for reading my ramble. I'm sorry I have subjected you to this noise, but I think it is good that I post things on this blog every one in a while. Posting makes me feel obligated to post again, which spurs my writing, which I usually find to be a meaningful practice, or at least a better thing than oversleeping.

Have you ever laid your mind bare?

If you have never done so, do it. Repeat often. No, I'm not going to do that here, at least not yet. Practice this catharsis with someone you know well and trust. Make the activity reciprocal. Be blunt, honest, forthright. Say exactly the things that you think you are not supposed to say or are too indelicate to say. Be sensitive, but not at the sake of honesty and clarity. Don't use euphemisms. By this practice, we can make leaps and bounds.

A huge shout-out of thanks to the great friend with whom I just told everything over the phone. Thanks for listening, and thanks for reciprocating.

To the rest of you (the one or two strangers who may find this scrap of blog in my dusty corner of the net): lay your mind bare. Do it soon.

A miserable story and then a little wisdom

Today I started a blog. I had difficulty writing the first post because I am sometimes a perfectionist, especially when my work will be seen by others. This is because I am concerned by what other people think of me. I want to keep tight reins on my identity. Often, this tendency is detrimental to my creative processes. 

When I was in high-school, I was the design editor of my school's yearbook. My school's journalism program was esteemed for its past publications and the many awards those publications had garnered. One of those publications had been edited by my sister. Now it was my turn. It was time for me to create something greater than anything before. This would be my magnum opus, my chef d’oeuvre. I would bring glory my school and myself (and hopefully some scholarships for my work). 

The semester started with excitement. "Hello my fledgling yearbook staff! We are going to create something brilliant! Come, I will show you how!" It was my job to determine the visual style of the book. I could pick fonts, colors, design elements—it was going to be beautiful, trendy, sublime! I was going to lead an army of designers; they were going to help me bring my plan to fruition.

However, finding the style, the “look”, that the yearbook needed turned out to be harder than I had originally expected. I had always excelled in art classes and at designing posters and the like, but I had never faced a 1500 copy publication of a 230 page book. My initial excitement for yearbook began to wane. Inversely, the intensity of my other courses waxed. Calculus quizzes were failed. English assignments were forgotten. The more I had to do, the less I wanted to do anything. Every day I convinced myself that I was on the verge of inspiration. Any day now, I would discover the solution to the book’s design. I would begin to sketch comprehensive plans for the book’s design…and scrap them. None of them were perfect. My journalism advisor asked to see how my design work was coming. No. I couldn't show her any of my work. My work was composed of fragments and sketches, many of which had met the trash can.

Nights were spent staring at a blank sketch pad. It would come. The inspiration would hit. I had to believe. Nothing else could save me. I was breaking down. The supposedly easy senior year was turning into hell. A firestorm of deadlines and expectations. I could have easily met my teachers expectation of hard, honest work, but I could never meet my own expectation of perfection. 

An entire semester passed without my discovery of my perfect design. An awkward meeting involved me admitting that no, I had not actually figured out the perfect design that I had been planning to unveil as soon as it was ready. The journalism staff missed its first deadline in nine years. I had doomed us all.

Somehow, with the help of the incredible staff of that year, my caring advisor, and a bit of loosening up on my part, the book was finished on deadline. In fact, it went on to win the top national award for yearbooks. Despite the accolades it received, it wasn’t until this winter that I felt comfortable reading and looking at the book that I thought I had ruined. Yes, the design is rough, but it has energy. Luckily, the eloquent prose makes up for a lot of the waffly design. 

I still have trouble with my creative endeavors. I feel as though I need to have mastered a discipline (like writing, drawing, film, etc.) before I can share, or sometimes even start creating, my work. But skills do not grow in isolation. They need the sunlight and nutrients of criticism and collaboration. Yes, this blog post is weedy. There are most definitely grammatical errors, logical fallacies, and poor structures. But at least it exists, right? (Although sometimes I worry that I am just adding to the noise of an already excessively noisy universe…but that’s another post.)