There are, of course, so many things that would be great. Some of them don't work out the way we hope. We try to write an idea out, or we show our written work to someone, or whatever. We don't get the result we were hoping for. And not only that, but we do get a clear indication that the thing we thought would be great, isn't going to work out.
It's great to have dreams. It's also important to be able to let go of the dreams that have failed. Not to let go of dreams generally--life would be rather awful if we had no hopes for the future--but to recognize that some dream won't work out: maybe that experiment you tried didn't give useful results, or the argument you presented turned out to have a flaw, or the structure you chose didn't please your professor, or whatever. What do you do then?
Wouldn't it be great if we could always look on those efforts as learning opportunities instead of as failures or referenda on our personal character?
We have to try new things if we are to grow and keep from avoiding the problems of the past. Wouldn't it be great if we could remember that? It's hard to let go of a dream that has failed, but better to let go of it and pursue another dream. Which is one good reason to exercise our "wouldn't it be great if..."
I'm thinking of this subject of keeping focused on the positive future outcomes partly because I have not been getting outcomes that I want in some of my efforts, but more because I was talking with a writer who was concerned about some of the outcomes she was getting in her work process.
On one level, I had looked at her outcomes and tried to see the positive in them. On another level I had looked at the outcomes as indications of new perspectives to examine and new practices to experiment with.
I wonder, actually, whether this might be the interface between two imaginative exercises: on the one hand there is the speculative "wouldn't it be great if", and on the other the retrospective spin of "isn't it great that..." where we take the presumed bad outcome (e.g., "I was rejected") and spin it into "isn't great that I was rejected." Now that's an imaginative exercise that takes some skill. It's said that Edison, faced with the failure of another experimental light bulb, would say that he had learned another way not to make a light bulb. That is positive spin: not "I failed in my goal" but "I learned something that will forward me toward my goal."
Wouldn't it be great if we could exercise our ability to re-imagine our past in terms of "isn't it great if."
I realize that I have reached a high degree of uncritical optimism here. While I do believe in the value of what I have said above, I recognize that the "wouldn't it be great if" exercise can't be all we use to think about the world.
In the spirit of the post, I include the lyrics to a classic Monty Python song.
Always Look on the Bright Side of Life
Some things in life are bad,
They can really make you mad,
Other things just make you swear and curse,
When you're chewing life's gristle,
Don't grumble,
Give a whistle
And this'll help things turn out for the best.
And...
Always look on the bright side of life.
Always look on the light side of life.
If life seems jolly rotten,
There's something you've forgotten,
And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing.
When you're feeling in the dumps,
Don't be silly chumps.
Just purse your lips and whistle.
That's the thing.
And...
Always look on the bright side of life.
Always look on the right side of life,
For life is quite absurd
And death's the final word.
You must always face the curtain with a bow.
Forget about your sin.
Give the audience a grin.
Enjoy it. It's your last chance, anyhow.
So,...
Always look on the bright side of death,
Just before you draw your terminal breath.
Life's a piece of shit,
When you look at it.
Life's a laugh and death's a joke it's true.
You'll see it's all a show.
Keep 'em laughing as you go.
Just remember that the last laugh is on you.
And...
Always look on the bright side of life.
Always look on the right side of life.
Showing posts with label regret. Show all posts
Showing posts with label regret. Show all posts
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Misery and Choice
We often make ourselves miserable.
I was reading through a book on writing dissertations--David Sternberg's How to Complete and Survive a Doctoral Dissertation--and it struck me how much of a presumption he was making about misery.
In general, I thought the book had a lot of good suggestions, for all that parts of it are quite dated (it was published almost 30 years ago). But the emphasis on what a trauma the dissertation process is seems to me over the top. For example he says “American Society is not aware, excepting personal acquaintance of particular ABDs, of the almost larger-than-life trials, fortitude, despair, courage and even heroics experienced in writing a doctoral dissertation.” Forgive me for saying, but I don't take this seriously. And I am quite familiar with the despair of the dissertation writer, having spent six years as an ABD doctoral candidate.
I refer to the work of Viktor Frankl, and his notion that we can find meaning even in our suffering, and that this meaning supports us. Frankl survived the Nazi concentration camps. Compared to that, writing a dissertation is an absolute blessing.
If you're actually writing a dissertation, chances are you have options in your life. Chances are you're not worrying where you're going to get your next meal. Chances are you're not worrying about where you're going to sleep tomorrow night. And chances are that you can get a job if you need one. Now in that context, it may take a huge commitment of effort and will to wrie an entire dissertation. And it may strain you--even push you towards the limits of what you had accomplished in the past. But do those things make the writing heroic? Is it the kind of situation in which despair is appropriate?
I think not. Obviously we have emotional reactions. Obviously, if we have worked hard and our work is rejected, or even rejected harshly, that is terribly difficult to handle. But this is a matter of choice. We can choose to continue, or we can choose to leave the dissertation behind. We are not condemned to writing our dissertation.
On the first level, then, I think it's important for the dissertation writer who is concerned with the agony of writing to remember that this is a choice to work on the dissertation. If it is making you miserable, and if writing the dissertation condemns you to years of writing misery, then why do it? And if you have a good answer as to why to do it, then can't you try to focus on the good things that you'll get out of the effort that you think is miserable?
There's a second level: we can choose whether or not to be miserable. I think this is the ultimate lesson of Frankl's story: he had every right to be miserable--real physical hardship, pain, emotional loss, separation from family, fear of death--but he claims that he chose something else. He argues that we always have the power to choose how we respond--by creating meaning, we mediate and shape our responses. In a way, it's almost as simple as saying that if you sit down to write telling yourself how miserable it is, then it will be miserable; and if you sit down telling yourself it will be rewarding, then it may well be rewarding.
I was reading through a book on writing dissertations--David Sternberg's How to Complete and Survive a Doctoral Dissertation--and it struck me how much of a presumption he was making about misery.
In general, I thought the book had a lot of good suggestions, for all that parts of it are quite dated (it was published almost 30 years ago). But the emphasis on what a trauma the dissertation process is seems to me over the top. For example he says “American Society is not aware, excepting personal acquaintance of particular ABDs, of the almost larger-than-life trials, fortitude, despair, courage and even heroics experienced in writing a doctoral dissertation.” Forgive me for saying, but I don't take this seriously. And I am quite familiar with the despair of the dissertation writer, having spent six years as an ABD doctoral candidate.
I refer to the work of Viktor Frankl, and his notion that we can find meaning even in our suffering, and that this meaning supports us. Frankl survived the Nazi concentration camps. Compared to that, writing a dissertation is an absolute blessing.
If you're actually writing a dissertation, chances are you have options in your life. Chances are you're not worrying where you're going to get your next meal. Chances are you're not worrying about where you're going to sleep tomorrow night. And chances are that you can get a job if you need one. Now in that context, it may take a huge commitment of effort and will to wrie an entire dissertation. And it may strain you--even push you towards the limits of what you had accomplished in the past. But do those things make the writing heroic? Is it the kind of situation in which despair is appropriate?
I think not. Obviously we have emotional reactions. Obviously, if we have worked hard and our work is rejected, or even rejected harshly, that is terribly difficult to handle. But this is a matter of choice. We can choose to continue, or we can choose to leave the dissertation behind. We are not condemned to writing our dissertation.
On the first level, then, I think it's important for the dissertation writer who is concerned with the agony of writing to remember that this is a choice to work on the dissertation. If it is making you miserable, and if writing the dissertation condemns you to years of writing misery, then why do it? And if you have a good answer as to why to do it, then can't you try to focus on the good things that you'll get out of the effort that you think is miserable?
There's a second level: we can choose whether or not to be miserable. I think this is the ultimate lesson of Frankl's story: he had every right to be miserable--real physical hardship, pain, emotional loss, separation from family, fear of death--but he claims that he chose something else. He argues that we always have the power to choose how we respond--by creating meaning, we mediate and shape our responses. In a way, it's almost as simple as saying that if you sit down to write telling yourself how miserable it is, then it will be miserable; and if you sit down telling yourself it will be rewarding, then it may well be rewarding.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Strengths and weaknesses
One of my favorite little bits of philosophy I got from the fortune in a fortune cookie. "Your strengths are your weaknesses," it said. I have no doubt that there is some more noble source for this piece of wisdom, though I've not chosen to find a deeper source.
The nice thing about a simple aphorism like this is that it can resonate on deeper levels if you seek to find that deeper understanding. Like a zen koan, the exploration triggered by an aphorism can be more interesting than the first order level of meaning.
I didn't actually start this because I wanted to talk about that one aphorism, and so I won't explore it any further. I titled this post thinking about the habit of worry--a habit with which I certainly have a great deal of familiarity from my own personal experience. I also have a fair amount of experience talking about it with other writers.
One writer I've been working with recently always has a story about what cannot be done. The responses always focus on what cannot be done and what the weaknesses are. No matter how much is accomplished, or how much I ask to hear about what is working well, no strengths or successes are reported. If I throw a handful of suggestions out and say "use any that you find useful," the response I get back will almost always be about which ones cannot be handled.
In order to have any sense of optimism and any sense of progress, we need to realistically assess our progress and our abilities--which means acknowledging our strengths as well as our weaknesses. We cannot be blind to our abilities. Indeed, if one wishes to maintain that he or she has no ability whatsoever, then why is that person even attempting to work on a writing project of any sort--much less a dissertation.
I work less frequently with people who can see only their strengths and not their weaknesses. Such people are much less inclined to seek help. But that too can be problematic. We need some balance--ignoring our weaknesses will cause problems just as will ignoring our strengths.
I suppose to wrap this up by winding back to the aphorism: if we remember that our strengths and weaknesses are intimately intertwined, it's easier to remember that we have both.
The nice thing about a simple aphorism like this is that it can resonate on deeper levels if you seek to find that deeper understanding. Like a zen koan, the exploration triggered by an aphorism can be more interesting than the first order level of meaning.
I didn't actually start this because I wanted to talk about that one aphorism, and so I won't explore it any further. I titled this post thinking about the habit of worry--a habit with which I certainly have a great deal of familiarity from my own personal experience. I also have a fair amount of experience talking about it with other writers.
One writer I've been working with recently always has a story about what cannot be done. The responses always focus on what cannot be done and what the weaknesses are. No matter how much is accomplished, or how much I ask to hear about what is working well, no strengths or successes are reported. If I throw a handful of suggestions out and say "use any that you find useful," the response I get back will almost always be about which ones cannot be handled.
In order to have any sense of optimism and any sense of progress, we need to realistically assess our progress and our abilities--which means acknowledging our strengths as well as our weaknesses. We cannot be blind to our abilities. Indeed, if one wishes to maintain that he or she has no ability whatsoever, then why is that person even attempting to work on a writing project of any sort--much less a dissertation.
I work less frequently with people who can see only their strengths and not their weaknesses. Such people are much less inclined to seek help. But that too can be problematic. We need some balance--ignoring our weaknesses will cause problems just as will ignoring our strengths.
I suppose to wrap this up by winding back to the aphorism: if we remember that our strengths and weaknesses are intimately intertwined, it's easier to remember that we have both.
Friday, June 20, 2008
No use crying over spilled milk
I lost my glasses yesterday. It was an inconvenience, but I got a new pair. It had been too long since I had a new, so it was no great loss. But it was a good opportunity to reflect on patterns of thought.
The last time I got new glasses, I worried about everything. I went to different stores. I dithered and vacillated about frames and costs. It took me an entire day to make a decision and who knows--perhaps I saved some money.
Yesterday I just went to the store that said they could give me glasses the same day. I probably spent more money, but I didn't fret. I enjoyed the day. I didn't fret about making the right decision and I didn't fret over the mistake that had put me in the position of needing new glasses right away. And that gave me the emotional energy to work and to focus on things much more productive than worrying about my glasses.
Some things are beyond our control. Once the milk has spilled, there's no putting it back into the bottle.
The question, then, is what we do once the milk has spilled. Or once the glasses have been lost. Or the draft rejected.
Working yourself into a tizzy over the bad outcome doesn't help. One might argue that we don't have control over our emotions. And there is no question that in the moment emotions can be overwhelming. But in the long run we can control our emotions. We all do--it is necessary to our socialization. And there are theories--like cognitive behavioral therapy--that argue that in the long run we can even change the emotional patterns that we may not be able to control in the moment.
I have been reading Dale Carnegie's "How to Start Worrying and Start Living." I know that it's basically no more than a pop-psychology self-help book--except, perhaps, that it doesn't really even use psychology--or at least not any psychological theory. But, as far as I can tell, the basic message of the book is that worrying is a matter of where you are focused, and if you train yourself to focus your attention on things that you can change, then you won't have time to worry about things (and vice versa--the more you stop paying attention to worry or regret, the more you can focus on taking action).
The last time I got new glasses, I worried about everything. I went to different stores. I dithered and vacillated about frames and costs. It took me an entire day to make a decision and who knows--perhaps I saved some money.
Yesterday I just went to the store that said they could give me glasses the same day. I probably spent more money, but I didn't fret. I enjoyed the day. I didn't fret about making the right decision and I didn't fret over the mistake that had put me in the position of needing new glasses right away. And that gave me the emotional energy to work and to focus on things much more productive than worrying about my glasses.
Some things are beyond our control. Once the milk has spilled, there's no putting it back into the bottle.
The question, then, is what we do once the milk has spilled. Or once the glasses have been lost. Or the draft rejected.
Working yourself into a tizzy over the bad outcome doesn't help. One might argue that we don't have control over our emotions. And there is no question that in the moment emotions can be overwhelming. But in the long run we can control our emotions. We all do--it is necessary to our socialization. And there are theories--like cognitive behavioral therapy--that argue that in the long run we can even change the emotional patterns that we may not be able to control in the moment.
I have been reading Dale Carnegie's "How to Start Worrying and Start Living." I know that it's basically no more than a pop-psychology self-help book--except, perhaps, that it doesn't really even use psychology--or at least not any psychological theory. But, as far as I can tell, the basic message of the book is that worrying is a matter of where you are focused, and if you train yourself to focus your attention on things that you can change, then you won't have time to worry about things (and vice versa--the more you stop paying attention to worry or regret, the more you can focus on taking action).
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