Does generosity improve motivation?

I came across this interesting piece today by Susan Dominus in the New York Times Magazine. Entitled "Is Giving the Secret to Getting Ahead?," the story profiles the work and life of Adam Grant, an organizational psychologist at the Wharton School of Business in Philadelphia. His forthcoming book, "Give and Take: A Revolutionary Approach to Success," (slated for release in April, 2013) makes the case that while "for generations, we have focused on the individual drivers of success: passion, hard work, talent, and luck...today, success is increasingly dependent on how we interact with others." In concert with this trend is the emerging scientific picture that the desire to help others actually improves one's own motivation and well-being. For while it is easy to assume most people work hardest and for their own success and benefit, there is reason to believe working for others is actually more motivating and perhaps, fulfilling.

Consider one study performed by Grant as a graduate student. He visited a call-center on campus where callers solicited donations from alumni for the purpose of building a scholarship fund. The job usually had a low satisfaction rate, since 93% of calls ended in something other than a donation (and often enough, some form of verbal abuse instead). Motivation among the staff was low, and so was productivity. 

For his experiment, Grant brought in a student who'd benefited greatly from a scholarship funded by call-center donations. The student spoke to the callers for ten minutes, telling them all how much the money had changed his life. A month after hearing the story, "...the workers were spending 142 percent more time on the phone and bringing in 171 percent more revenue, even though they were using the same script. In a subsequent study, the revenues soared by more than 400 percent."

Curiously, the callers themselves would never pin-point the testimonial as the reason their productivity had gone up so much. Yet repeated trials of the same experiment suggest that at some level, knowing the work they did benefited someone else appears to have made them more motivated to solicit donations. Even when subconscious, the increased motivation of giving has a powerful effect. 

Similar conclusions emerged from experiments with doctors. Signs posted in the bathroom which say washing hands saves patients' lives is more motivating than signs saying hand-washing keeps doctors healthy. 

In his book, Grant divides people into three categories: givers, matchers, and takers. Dominus explains the distinction as such: 

"Givers give without expectation of immediate gain; they never seem too busy to help, share credit actively and mentor generously. Matchers go through life with a master chit list in mind, giving when they can see how they will get something of equal value back and to people who they think can help them. And takers seek to come out ahead in every exchange; they manage up and are defensive about their turf."

Of "givers," Grant believes there are two kinds: those who give everything and burn out, and those whose motivation to give drives them to become a leader. As Dominus writes:

"Much of Grant’s book sets out to establish the difference between the givers who are exploited and those who end up as models of achievement. The most successful givers, Grant explains, are those who rate high in concern for others but also in self-interest. And they are strategic in their giving — they give to other givers and matchers, so that their work has the maximum desired effect; they are cautious about giving to takers; they give in ways that reinforce their social ties; and they consolidate their giving into chunks, so that the impact is intense enough to be gratifying."

The profile is an interesting read, and lends credence to the popular notion that "it is better to give than to receive." What we see though, is that the picture is more complicated than that. Giving motivates us, yet at the extreme can break us too; it can make us feel good, or drive us bananas. I'm not sure what the takeaway from this story should be, but I think it's a helpful counter to a prevailing notion that giving is for suckers, and our well-being is determined by maximizing profit and only looking out for number 1; that giving is not just a charity, but a source or positive feeling and deep motivation. One study cited by Grant found that people who give show greater mental toughness in a physical hand-grip test, outlasting the non-givers by 10 seconds (35 and 25 seconds respectively). Is it any wonder how athletes who "take one for the team" are often capable for far more than usual? Something worth pondering maybe. 

"Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find."

-William Wordsworth

Why I support same-sex marriage

Much interest of late has centered on the Supreme Court's recent case involving Proposition 8 (a California constitutional amendment restricting marriage to heterosexual couples) and same-sex marriage. Some believe the court's examination of such a case--a first in its history--may lead to a decision protecting all forms of marriage

As reported in the Washington Post, those defending Proposition 8 (which interestingly does not include any officials of the state of California, who refused to defend the law) claim that government should restrict marriage to heterosexuals for the purposes of "...procreation and responsible child-rearing." Furthermore, proponents argue that the "democratic process"-- not the courts--should decide the fate of the law. If Californians are unhappy with the ban, let there be a vote for the public to decide. 

In response, it has been argued that current law does not prevent "older and sterile couples"--both of whom either cannot or are unlikely to have children--from marrying, so why should gay couples be excluded on the grounds of "procreation and responsible child-rearing?" In addition, banning gays from marrying denies them many federal benefits which heterosexual couples enjoy, among others, "...preferential tax breaks, Social Security survivor benefits, and medical leave." Banning same-sex marriage therefore discriminates against the LGBT population by denying them the same preferential services now offered to heterosexual marriages.

While I am neither lawyer nor homosexual looking to get married, my humble opinion is it's about time the state recognize marriage-equality for all its people. Some may argue that doing so cheapens their so-called "traditional marriage," but I suspect the worth of their marriage and any other is determined not by the state-sanctioned definition of the institution, but by the life and love they share. Some will say marriage is a set of vows made before God. Fair enough. But it is also a contract recognized by law, one which grants unique and special privileges. To deny anyone the opportunity to share in those federally-sanctioned benefits is discrimination, pure and simple. 

So in short, if God, the state, and one's own family can bless a heterosexual marriage, I see no reason why the same could not be true for all who find love in their lives. That is why I support same-sex marriage.

A useful thought when overwhelmed

"Some things are in our control, and others not."

This opening line of "The Enchiridion" by Epictetus is a favorite, chiefly because it is both easy to remember as well as widely applicable. It also forms the foundation of everything Epictetus sought to teach; know it, and you will know a good deal of what Epictetus hoped you would learn from him. For in life our energy, ability, and time is limited. To those things over which we have control those scarce resources must be rendered, while to those many things over which we have no control  those scarce resources must be spared. For Epictetus, a philosopher considers his or her life with this idea in mind, discerning honestly which things are within his or her control, and which things are not.

The purpose of this consideration is to embrace the freedom to dedicate one's self only to those things over which one has control.

"The things in our control are by nature free, unrestrained, unhindered; but those not in our control are weak, slavish, restrained, belonging to others. Remember, then, that if you suppose that things which are slavish by nature are also free, and that what belongs to others is your own, then you will be hindered. You will lament, you will be disturbed, and you will find fault both with gods and men. But if you suppose that only to be your own which is your own, and what belongs to others such as it really is, then no one will ever compel you or restrain you. Further, you will find fault with no one or accuse no one. You will do nothing against your will. No one will hurt you, you will have no enemies, and you not be harmed." 

The exercise is not always easy, but may allow one to look at things in a new light, or as Epictetus said, "...to every harsh appearance [one may say], 'You are but an appearance, and not absolutely the thing you appear to be.'"

Something to bear in mind maybe, should you feel overwhelmed.

Beauty in Boundaries: A Lesson From J.S. Bach

I often enjoy this time of March. The days have become noticeably longer (I've adjusted to Daylight Savings Time, thank goodness), the temperatures are usually a bit warmer, and outdoor track season is just on the horizon.

Yet there's another reason I like this stretch of days, and it has nothing to do with the climate or sleep. Rather, it's a birthday that catches my notice, 21 March*, and generates a celebration on my part. For it was on this date in 1685 that the composer Johann Sebastian Bach was born in Eisenach, Saxe-Eisenach, in contemporary central Germany. I celebrate each year for many reasons, but one stands above the others perhaps; namely, that my introduction to Bach showed me that even abstraction and strict rules could produce something beautiful.

For many years as a youngster I was quite sickly, suffering frequently from asthma and needing hospitalization from time to time. I spent hours every week on a nebulizer; a thick, plastic mask strapped to my face, pumping medicine into my lungs. At pre-school the kids would cast odd glances as they walked by. At some point (I don't remember it) the nebulizer proved insufficient, and for the first time since birth I paid a visit to the hospital.

The first day proved difficult. I remember a nurse sticking me with several needles, first to install an IV and then to administer a shot of some kind. Two plastic tubes were then inserted into my nose, and a plastic band stickered with my name and birthday was strapped to my tiny left wrist. A yellow blanket with bears and smiling balloons was given to me, as well as a prayer from the church. My parents held my hands. I was frightened all the same.

I spent three days in the hospital, getting a needle for my trouble each day. Thankfully, I also got music. On the evening of the first night the nurse put on the film Fantasia, and from the start I was hooked. Undoubtedly my favorite part of the film was the Toccata and Fugue in D Minor scene. The toccata portion (the first part) felt strange, abstract, and full of mystery. The flashing light and color only confirmed to me that this music was somehow deep like an ocean, sparked like lightning, and somehow primordial, like the need to eat or breathe. I know that sounds abstruse and not particularly clear, but that is my best attempt to describe it; the toccata terrified and awed me all at once. Following that the fugue began, a complex exercise in counterpoint in which one voice introduces a theme, another repeats it, then possibly another, followed by a development section in which all manner of things happen to it. Strict and less strict rules govern the structure of fugues, but it was the outcome rather than the rules themselves which left me stunned that night in the hospital. Over and over again lines ran together, up and down scales, all in harmony and all fitting neatly into place. And then above it all the theme would return, like a beam of sunshine jumping through a hole in the clouds.

Each day in the hospital I watched Fantasia with my dad, who stayed with me, and fell in love both with the film and its music. When I recovered and went home, classical music went with me.

It's strange sometimes how we find our interests, yet that seems to be an important part of how we live and grow. We pick up things by accident, through experience, temptation, disaster, and endeavor. At times we stumble, and at others we run. Sometimes we laugh, and sometimes we cry. I think no matter which it is, a really wise person finds a way to make it all a dance, a painting, or perhaps a beautiful fugue. In some ways, I think finding Bach helped me discover a difficult notion; that even abstract rules and complex principles could be made to express something uniquely lovely. It is chiefly for this reason that I celebrate Herr Bach's birthday every 21 March. Perhaps next year you will too.




*21 March is also the birthday of a dear horn player I know. I celebrate her birthday, too.

Reflections on an interview of David McCollough

“Nothing good was ever written in a large room”

Thus begins an interesting interview by the Paris Review of American biographer David McCollough, entitled David McCollough, The Art of Biography no. 2. Known for writing excellent "narrative history" (winning the Pulitzer Prize for Truman [1992] and John Adams [2001]), Mr. McCollough uses the interview to discuss a range topics dealing with history, writing, and curious ways the two come together.

Of history, McCollough talks about the "difficulty of recreating the past." Central to his point I think is "recreating," which is to say making a past world as real to a present reader as their own world is to them. It isn't easy, particularly in conveying the sense of a future full of unknowns. We can look back on a past era and trace events one to the next, following a chain of dates and important names until some new age comes to pass, itself a logical outgrowth of the era before. For McCollough, however, a historian's job is to make the past real and present for someone today; to capture the "feeling of events happening in freedom," not a "pre-ordained" track of instances. That:

"In truth, nothing ever had to happen the way it happened...There was always a degree of tension, of risk, and the question of what was going to happen next. The Brooklyn Bridge was built. You know that, it’s standing there today, but they didn’t know that at the start. No one knew Truman would become president or that the Panama Canal would be completed."

This is important for two reasons. First, it captures the goal--one might say credo--of the narrative historian: make the reader feel the past as they feel their present, with all its tension, risk, aspirations, and uncertainty. Second, it suggests history has no inevitabilities, only possibilities. Even when we know the course of events, as historical thinkers we must always bear in mind that for those involved, the future was always in some measure in doubt.

On writing McCollough makes similarly interesting remarks. He talks about how for him the act of writing (not just "thinking") is what reveals what he ultimately wants to say.

"There’s no question that the sheer effort of writing, of getting it down on paper, makes the brain perform as it rarely does otherwise. I don’t understand people who sit and think what they’re going to write and then just write it out. My head doesn’t work that way. I’ve got to mess around with it on paper. I’ve got to make sketches, think it out on paper."

Writing also informs McCollough what needs more work. "It’s only when you begin to write," he says "that you begin to see what you don’t know and need to find out."

Another aspect of writing involves keeping with it long enough to produce something. In the interview McCollough tells a story about meeting the author Harry Sinclair Drago at a gathering. When informed that Mr. Drago had written "over a hundred books," McCollough introduced himself and asked the following:

"Mr. Drago, I said, Alvin Josephy says that you’ve written over a hundred books. Yes, he said, that’s right. How do you do that? I asked. And he said, Four pages a day. Every day? Every day. It was the best advice an aspiring writer could be given."

I like this story because it tells very bluntly how an author becomes prolific: he or she writes every single day. Mr. Drago didn't say "well I research a lot and think very deeply on a subject;" no, he said "four pages...every day." Hard to beat that message for simplicity.

Yet perhaps my favorite parts of the interview dealt with the way history and writing come together through the experiences of life. What we see, how we see it, and how we conceptualize, interpret, and imaginatively create a piece of writing is influenced by so many things in life. For McCollough, an extensive background in artistic creation informed the way he went about writing history in later life. For instance, "The training I had in drawing and painting [at Yale] has been of great benefit. Drawing is learning to see and so is writing. It’s also an exercise in composition, as writing is, though in writing it’s called form." 

In the beginning of the interview, McCollough tells the story of Louis Agassiz, who trained naturalists at Harvard in the nineteenth century by asking them to "Look at your fish," literally a fish specimen on the table in front of them. To every question Mr. Agassiz would answer with the same response: "Look at your fish." After several days of this, students usually began to see the fish in a completely different way than they did at the start. This is why McCollough tells the story so often in writing classes:

"Insight comes, more often than not, from looking at what’s been on the table all along, in front of everybody, rather than from discovering something new. Seeing is as much the job of an historian as it is of a poet or a painter, it seems to me. That’s Dickens’s great admonition to all writers, 'Make me see.'"

As a whole I found the interview fascinating on many levels. In his answers Mr. McCollough conveys a deep sense of the art, industry, and perspective involved in writing narrative history. He helps us to see the telling of history as both an exercise in research as well as one of imagination; to not only "make us see" another age, but also "feel" it like our own. The task is not easy of course; McCollough mentions that "sometimes I think I’m not a writer, I’m a rewriter." As with historical events, a piece of work comes together through the interaction and combination of many single instances. Yet as with history in general, the outcome is never exactly certain; we can plan a work all we like, but no one knows if it will actually make the pres. It would seem we have little recourse than to write, rewrite, and keep looking at our fish.  

Changing views: Encourage Saving to Combat Poverty

An interesting piece caught my eye in yesterday's Washington Post, highlighting a shift in the way agencies, financial institutions, and non-profits are seeking to address world poverty. For a time it was believed access to credit, even in small amounts (so-called "micro-credit"), would open the door for millions to raise their living standards. Following the collapse of the world economy in 2007, many of these micro-borrowers defaulted, revealing a major weakness in the micro-lending model, and leading some to believe that savings--not credit--would more effectively reduce poverty world-wide.

It's a topic I find personally interesting as I develop my own philosophy of finances. And anyone who has read the post of my experience as a tosher will know that the idea of saving, even pennies at a time, is one on which I put considerable weight.

My thought is if one manages to spend less than one earns, the result is a surplus. Surpluses can be put toward any number of uses; for example debt repayment, unforeseen expenses, or the creation of more surplus. Surpluses make investment possible, and I think investment, more so than credit, holds the possibility of improving living standards.

Don't get me wrong, credit has its uses. In the US, many people today use credit to finance things such as an education, a house, or the start-up costs of a new business. Credit has its place, but it is not necessarily wealth; spending-power perhaps, but not wealth. It lets one invest in the short-term, but only rewards those investments which offer a sufficiently high return to pay it back. The trouble is that return is not always easy to calculate (for example, with higher education today), and sometimes, to use a phrase of Thomas Friedman's, we misread our environment. So while credit has its use, it does not insure the creation of wealth.

On the other hand, savings by their nature constitute a surplus, and a big surplus has advantages. For example, it let's you be choosier about what you do with your time. Ample savings might mean you can do uninspiring work less, and interesting work more. It may also mean you can pursue interests or goals that do not necessarily have a monetary payoff. One can also afford to be generous when they've acquired a bit of savings, if generosity so moves them.

The point is that on balance, I feel savings (for individuals, not necessarily governments, for reasons I won't discuss here) are more advantageous than access to credit, and that the trend of emphasizing savings as a way of lifting people out of poverty is a positive development. Micro-lending has a place in the equation (particularly for entrepreneurs), but for many people I suspect strategies to help them save even a little consistently would go further in raising world-wide living standards than simple access to credit. I'll be curious to see how these new initiatives play out.

A love sonnet

I Think About a Girl Today

I think about a girl today
She sits beyond my sight;
Her smile is a golden ray,
Her eyes near just as bright.
She works a lot, but that's okay,
That girl, she gives so much;
To everyone she gives her day
And rarely sleeps as such.
The quiet kind she is sometimes,
At others certainly not;
If loving her is such a crime
Then that shall be my lot.
Yet of this love she does not know,
'Tis better this, for now, were so.

A stroll about Ursinus

This evening I had the opportunity to visit my old college, Ursinus, a curious adventure since the number of people I still know there has fallen dramatically over the years. Nonetheless, a little wandering is good for a body (so say the authorities), so that is precisely what I intended to do for the duration.

The ride up offered a gem of a sunset, with golden clouds so bright a Viking might pay to make his dragon-ship fly. Reds and golds flecked the clouds like fire, giving way to orange, purples, and thence a deep blue like the sea as the sun disappeared. A star winked  into view, first here then there. After a time all was dark, save for star-light from the sky and the street-light from the high poles lining Main St., Collegeville.

 A trip to the old college is never complete without its rituals, and one of those is called "Give-Nathan-A-Treat." The "Nathan" in the ritual is a religious studies professor, and an old friend who appreciates my odd sense of humor. Every time I visit the school I leave something goofy on his door for him to read the next day; often a drawing or a joke, or a drawing that happens to be a joke. Once I wrote him a page-length note which  contained exactly one period. Another time I took a quote we both know from Romans ("Hath not the potter power over the clay..." ect.) and scrambled it amongst a series of pictures referencing inside jokes from classes years ago ("Dude, you HAVE no Koran!" and "die Sterntaler") . From time-to-time I also include a German joke, if I can remember how it goes. The point of all this is to creatively devise an amusing thing, which is as good a lesson as any to learn in college, if I dare say so.

Another "ritual" involves visiting places which carry personal significance for one reason or another. One such place is the indoor track, where I spent many an hour during the winter months running races, workouts, and strides with the chaps. There is also the outdoor track--newly surfaced since my time--where I never ran a race outside of time-trials at practice. Years ago I recall us doing a core session on the grass during cross country camp, when coach Bayless happened to remark that "Some of you need more sun...Nick Pane over there is whiter than Casper the Friendly Ghost." Curious times, those. There is also the library of course, and the rooms in Pfahler where all of us spent more hours than we care to count, pretending to do homework more often than was probably wise. But we managed.

Finally though, there is the north corner of the Field House, on the edge of a hill overlooking the baseball field, the tennis courts, and the field hockey pitch. I used to love going there at night, a secluded place away from the noise of Reimert and just watch the sky. I saw a meteor there once, and the International Space Station another time. Many years ago I spent several hours with a visiting friend, just sitting and watching the starts slowly shift across the sky. Tonight I spied the usual constellations, with Jupiter sitting just on the shoulder of Taurus the Bull. A chill wind blew upon me from the west, flowing down the hill into the darkness  beyond the tennis courts. I stood there longer than expected, slow thoughts rolling over and over in my head, like someone trying to roll down a hill of honey. Special places will do that sometimes, depending on the frame of mind you bring along.

It's been almost two years since I attended my old college, but still the place stimulates the intellect and enlivens the imagination. I feel strange every time I go back, yet rare is the time when I leave the place without some new thought or idea taking root in my mind. Like a dear friend, places like that--one's that "speak" to you in a new way after every encounter--are exceedingly valuable.

A Glorious Day

Every now and then a day comes along when no duty calls, and the weather leaves the world aglow with health and youthful vigor. I think today is such a day, and therefore feel compelled to write about it while a robin's-egg sky still holds like a roof over the world.

Had I told you yesterday what I'm about to say, I would forgive you any funny looks you might make, or doubts you might have. It snowed well near half of Friday, covering the area in maybe 2-2.5 inches of the white, wet stuff. By yesterday evening the temperatures did begin to rise, hinting at what was to come the following dawn, but all the same, it's hard to imagine even now the dramatic difference a day can sometimes make (let that be a thought if ever you're having an unglorious day).

At any rate, today has been glorious. Awash in sunshine and under a wide-open sky, I made the usual Saturday walk down to the forest with a pop in my step and smile on me face. Wilting snow, melting fast in the 55+ F, left the ground squishy and wet, a yielding turf that seemed to swallow everything from footfalls to feet. Among the trees wherever I passed a great chorus of birds sang their pastoral songs, perhaps celebrating the imminent return of fresh nuts and juicy worms; a fowlish version of Pitchers and Catchers, if you will.

In the forest, a sense of renewal seemed afoot. Here and there buds appeared on the branches of many trees, and pockets of little flowers, purple and yellow, waved lazily as I passed. Marks in the soil showed the comings and goings of many creatures; the hoofs of little deer here, the round pads of a dog's paw there, the claw-marks of foxes and squirrels, and most peculiar of all, the Sketchers' "S" amid a pattern of zig-zags and swirls. One gets the sense a viridian renaissance is near at hand.

Bugs and soccer players have returned to the grass fields near my old middle school. In the nearby lake which serves as a bathroom for both, the water today was so clear one could make out the bottom from end to end, a jungle of watery plants interrupted only by a rusting barrel, and a bench deposited there back when Moses was a footballer, or some such period long ago.

At the base of a fallen tree nearby I found my old stash of broken bottles from the local stream, undisturbed since the collection's founding in the Summer of 2011. A brace of Mallards eyed me warily as I inspected the cache. They seemed chill to let me pass, but no feathers were ruffled in the exchange.

Walking a mile and change up the hills from the lake I found myself home. As I write, long shadows stretch from the cars, trees, and fence-lines near the house. Tomorrow marks the start of daylight-savings time, our annual vernal ritual for extending everyone's day by waking them an hour early. Keeping to the present, however, I can't help but think it is and continues to be a glorious day. Hope it's been as much for you.

Affirming Optimism

These days I'm reading a book called "Learned Optimism" (1990) by Martin Seligman for a psychology course. It's a fascinating book, which looks at the nature, drawbacks, and benefits of an optimistic world-view. We'll explore this book more in a later post after I finish reading it, but for now I want to look at a mechanism which Seligman believes drives a person to think in either an optimistic or pessimistic vein. This mechanism is called "explanatory style."

Explanatory style details the way a person explains experiences to themselves, both "good" and "bad." According to Seligman, pessimists tend to view failures and set-backs as permanent ("I'm all washed-up"), pervasive ("I'm a failure at everything"), and internally personal ("I'm too stupid to do anything right") (pp. 46-50). When things go wrong, the pessimist tends to see a permanent failure, which pervades everything he or she does in life, and is caused by some personal deficit or weakness. Even when things go well, pessimists tend to see the root of their success as temporary ("I was just lucky") rather than as a reflection of their own talent and skill. Conversely, optimists tend to view failure and set-backs as temporary ("I was tired, just not my day"), specific ("this training regimen is useless" rather than "all training regimens are useless"), and externally personal ("I have no luck at poker").  When things go well, optimists tend to see it as a reflection of their own effort rather than the lucky convergence of temporary forces. While this means optimists sometimes overestimate their personal role in a successful outcome, it is hard to deny that when times get tough that those who do not quit tend to have an optimistic explanatory style.

Curiously, that notion is at the heart of another book called "Running Within" (1999) by Jerry Lynch and Warren Scott. Without explicitly naming it, the entire book focuses on changing a runner's explanatory style. Of prime importance is the way we "talk" to ourselves about set-backs, challenges, and everyday life. To this end, Lynch and Scott like to use affirmations. Affirmations are phrases one says one's self to keep a positive or relaxed mindset. Interestingly, they also tend to produce an optimistic explanatory style. Consider some affirmations below:

"Calm and confident, I race well."
"Good competitors are gifts, enabling me to run my best."
"I may or may not win, but I run like a well-trained athlete."
"Fatigue is a necessary step in exploring my full potential."
"All things come to those who wait...I persist each day in every way."
"Stress, then rest." 
"Fatigue is my friend, I embrace it for all it's worth." 
"Like a child at play, I ask my mind to stay." 
"When I act as if, I get a good lift!" 
"Expect success, I'm running my best." 
"I focus on the process, and the results take care of themselves." 
"My opponent is a gift who pushes me to greater heights." 
"Failures are lessons, helping me to constantly improve." (Lynch & Scott, 45, 70, 76, 84, 99, 108, 117, 128, 144 )

Each affirmation seeks either to address a specific negative thought, or elicit a specific positive response. For example, the affirmation "Good competitors are gifts..." tries to help an athlete reinterpret the person they're racing. It's easy to get intimidated by a fit-looking competitor, particularly when he or she looks fast. But if we think of them as gifts that help us run well rather than as opponents we must defeat or else, their ability becomes a tool to help us get better. If they are strong, we will need all our strength to come out ahead, perhaps employing gears we never knew we had.

Consider another affirmation, "I focus on the process, and the results take care of themselves." As many runners have learned, we are entitled neither to results or success. Yet in any competitive field, our worth is often (unfairly) measured by our results and little else. As such it is tempting to think only of results, and become frustrated when they do not come as easily as thinking them. By emphasizing the process, the above affirmation seeks to keep a runner focused on training, letting the results come as a reflection of a successful process. By doing so, the hope is to prevent the athlete from tying up their personal worth with results.

The point is, Lynch and Scott make a useful insight which mirrors Seligman's; both connect thoughts with the way we interpret experiences. This in turn affects subsequent behavior, whether we persist in the face of adversity or quit. In earlier posts we've referred to this quality as "character," but the works we've discussed here suggest at least part of character is tied up with the nature of our interpretations. It is a matter perhaps worth considering.

Happy Monday :)

For Rachel Blunt (1992-2013)

It came as an unwholesome shock to learn this morning that a student at my old college died last night, the victim (and yes, I mean victim) of suicide. Her name was Rachel Blunt, and she was 21 years old. I did not know her personally, though many of my old friends did, and it pains me to witness the outpouring of grief from their heavy hearts. I hope their words and mourning will provide a testament to Rachel's life, a fitting memorial in memory of a fallen friend.

I did not know Rachel personally, so I will not write a memorial for her in the usual sense; that is a task for others. Yet the manner of her death seems to demand something, for while the death of anyone in a community is sorely felt, a suicide is perhaps doubly so. Of ourselves we ask: could anything in our power have saved her?  A simple act of kindness maybe? A smile perhaps, or a ready ear? What did she lack that made the crucial difference?

We might never know, but it matters despite it being after the fact. It matters, because while I believe suicide is ultimately a choice to which a person eventually comes, it is one framed by context, and shaped by forces not fully within that person's control. We may or may not be the "captain of our own ship" as the Stoics say, in full command of our own minds and faculties. But even a well-commanded ship is powerless to control the wind and waves and the course of other ships; that for better and worse, we are subject to forces beyond our capacity to order and command. And it is for that reason--among others--that I believe we are all at some level reliant upon each other, fellow travelers on a journey across this vast sea called Life.

From what I have heard, Rachel was a kind girl with a big heart. The Ursinus community and the world is impoverished by her loss. I hope in the coming days others will share their memories of a life which touched so many, and ended too soon.

To my old college and those in mourning, my heart goes out to you all.

Peace friends

jc

Update: Remembrance by the Ursinus College paper, "The Grizzly"
3/21/13