Results of the "three-things-learned" experiment

A little over two weeks ago I began an experiment in which, at the conclusion of each day, I would write three things I'd learned since waking that morning. I learned a lot in that time, and as much and more from the experience itself. I also learned, however, that enumerated learning has pitfalls, and for me at least proved less useful than expected. I'll try and be more specific below.

The process began well enough. The first few days included such nuggets as, "Goats have rectangular pupils, which help them see at night," and "By her own admission, A&P (Anatomy and Physiology) teacher is ,'not everyone's cup of tea.'" Some days later, I recorded that the "Spanish guys at work often pronounce the word 'tiger' as 'tigger.'"

These facts were enjoyable to record, and looking back help me remember what I was doing those days. This is one positive for the three-things-learned experiment, in that when done a certain way, they contain much information in a pithy format.

Yet some days I struggled to present three new things I learned, and what I put down often seemed overmuch like trivia, or worse, trivial. Now that's not to say these thoughts were without value, but on such days the exercise became not only a struggle, but also a distraction from making a record of the day.

Which all reminds me of a quote from Mark Twain's Life on the Mississippi (1883). In discussing the history of the Mississippi River and those who explored it, Twain writes:

"We do of course know that there are several comparatively old dates in American history, but the mere figures convey to our minds no just idea, no distinct realization, of the stretch of time which they represent. To say that De Soto, the first white man who ever saw the Mississippi River, saw it in 1542, is a remark which states a fact without interpreting it: it is something like giving the dimensions of a sunset by astronomical measurements, and cataloguing the colors by their scientific names;--as a result, you get the bald fact of the sunset, but you don't see the sunset. It would have been better to paint a picture of it."

Twain's notion is striking given my experiences with the three-things-learned experiment. Indeed, despite recording facts, the result provided little of context or subjective interpretation. Sure it is interesting to learn that goats have rectangular pupils (and even crazier to see them!), but the "bald fact" does little alone to render a clear idea of what it was I'd learned.

Such facts I'm finding are simply less interesting in isolation; they acquire more meaning as telling details within a larger narrative.To hear that my co-workers pronounce "tiger" as "tigger" provides a small but humorous perspective on people the rest of you may never meet. For example, in his excellent book "The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt" (1979) biographer Edmund Morrison used such details to great effect in bringing the long-dead Teddy Roosevelt back to life. That TR used to tell people he was "DEE-lighted!" to see them, or that this or that adventure was "REALLY Bully!" each help imbue the 26th President's description on paper with a personality as unique and nearly as energetic as the original. In this way, Morris not only follows the advice of historian Leopold von Ranke - to tell "how it actually happened" (wie es eigentlich gewesen) - but also employs the method Twain suggests: he paints a picture using those facts.

With all that said, the three-things-learned experiment has been a success. And while I won't explicitly write "three things I learned today" each night in the journal, I will look more closely for those telling details that convey so much meaning in so few words. The experience has proven fun and useful, and I encourage you to try for yourself if the mood takes you.

Happy Tuesday :)

Reflection on "The Parable of the Mexican Fisherman"

I found the following yarn while perusing Sean Owen's interesting blog Renewable Wealth, a site dedicated to "financial independence and sustainable living." Entitled "The Parable of the Mexican Fisherman," the story captures, in a nutshell, a refreshing perspective on life and living. I won't spoil it by giving away the ending, but I'll include it here and talk about some more after:

The Parable of the Mexican Fisherman
Author: Unknown

'An American investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The Mexican replied, “only a little while.”

The American then asked why didn’t he stay out longer and catch more fish?

The Mexican said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs.

The American then asked, “but what do you do with the rest of your time?”

The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, Maria, and stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine, and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life.”

The American scoffed. “I have an MBA from Harvard, and can help you,” he said. “You should spend more time fishing, and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, and eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middle-man, you could sell directly to the processor, eventually opening up your own cannery. You could control the product, processing, and distribution,” he said. “Of course, you would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles, and eventually to New York City, where you will run your expanding enterprise.”

The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, how long will this all take?”

To which the American replied, “Oh, 15 to 20 years or so.”

“But what then?” asked the Mexican.

The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time was right, you would announce an IPO, and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions!”

“Millions – then what?”

The American said, “Then you could retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you could sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife, and stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play guitar with your amigos.”'

An interesting story, with a circular twist not unlike the Chinese parable of the Stone Cutter. Both take us from a humble and, in the case of the stone cutter and MBA, dissatisfying place, through a cycle of supposed success and transcendence, until when all is said and done we're back where we started. Everything the characters thought would make them happier or better off turned out to be unnecessary. In some cases, it even left them miserable.   

I suspect we sometimes imagine a circumstance is better simply because it's different from our own. I've been guilt of this on numerous occasions, and still am from time to time. Stories like these help us get out of our own skin, so to speak, and look beyond our immediate impressions of what we like and dislike about life at present. They remind us that "progress" can be a dubious term, as well as a marker of legitimate growth. 

And finally, they encourage patience and contentedness with ordinary life. By coming full circle, stories like these suggest there is nothing "extra" one needs beyond the ordinary; that fulfillment is as much an attitude as a state of being.

A curious thought.

Simple Gifts: Walking through a meadow

About mid-May I had a major change occur to my daily routine. Whereas for three-quarters of a year I attended community college classes in the morning, the first summer session of this year found me attending instead at night.

Among other things, this meant I had to drive all the way to the college, and forego the usual stroll through the park. The transition proved simple enough, and having the car nearby had its advantages (never before have I witnessed so many consecutive nights with thunderstorms).

In any case, this past week I resumed morning classes, as well as the daily step through the park. Despite feeling nervous about the new class, that first morning found me strolling slowly, with a smile on my face. And then as I emerged from the trees bordering the parking area, I remembered exactly why, when given the chance, I walk the extra kilometer to school. For there before me rose the tall grasses, rolling hills, and open sky of the meadow of Tyler Park.

The path through the meadow--paved and well kept--can't be more than a quarter-mile in length, yet it remains a treat for any who enjoy the songs and tapestries of nature. It begins with a small climb, subtle as a spy, with grass of many varieties springing from either side of the path. Many grow as high as my waist, and some as high as my shoulders. In winter, one frequently finds deer grazing by a stream nearby, eyeing me warily whilst grinding though their fibrous fare.

As the path rises, flowers of many kinds appear numerous among the grass. On last count, I found at least six different varieties, ranging in color from yellow and orange to blue and violet. They attract a noisome bunch of insects and other crawly things this time of year, and seem to dance on windy days.

At the climax of the hill stands a small copse of short Walnut trees, where many a bird finds a place to sing. As a result, I've dubbed the spot the "choir loft," and whistle a diddy each time I pass. Beneath the trees stand some curious looking berry bushes, which I suspect are poisonous for me, but seem to bother bird digestion not a bit. I've even noted a family of rabbits who of late have made a home of the hollow spaces beneath the bushes, well-hidden no doubt from predators and the heat of the day.

Speaking of predators, I caught a glimpse one time from the top of the rise of a fox and a little foxling shooting the bull on a nearby ridge. This was in winter, so the grass proved less thick, and made spotting the little guys easier. Round and round they seemed to run, delighting perhaps in the rare treat of a bright sun in winter. Their game proved as much a treat for me as for them I don't doubt.

Alas, the path descends from the "choir loft," until once again entering a stretch of trees, which shade an old stone bridge over a narrow stream. Climb another hill, and one has arrived at the college.

The walk through the meadow is short one, but a real and delightful treat all the same. It seems all those months of crossing it without interruption led me to take it for granted; to look without seeing, and to hear without listening. It is a simple gift to awake once more to the present world, but a wholesome one too, and I'm glad now to have seen that little meadow again with fresh eyes and a more open mind.

It's nice when that happens :).

On personal growth

Whilst visiting my friend Bob last night, our conversation turned to an interesting notion: that in looking back upon our individual pasts, we find challenges and vexations which today seem almost simple and pedestrian. How did middle school become so complicated, or for that matter, the flip-turn? Why did negative numbers make me want to tear out my hair; cursive, to break my pencils into tooth-picks, and mile-racing to make my stomach want to leap straight from my mouth? What happened between then and now to make so many old difficulties laughably easy now?

In speaking with Bob on the subject, a single word came repeatedly to the fore: growth.

We grow over time in various ways, some perhaps to our benefit, and some certainly to our detriment, and which is which is not always clear. At times we grow a little more wise or fit, and sometimes a little more lazy or ignorant. Through some seasons we grow more kind and forbearing, and others more cruel and impatient. Through all ages we grow older, for better and for worse.

But the key word I think is growth. We have experiences, with which we interact, puzzle over, and make our own. We suffer loss and revel in triumph (or revel in loss and suffer in triumph); we meet new people, or old people who bring their own growth into our lives. We date and eat and sleep and fart and travel and breathe and think and read and do mean things and do nice things and make all manner of things.

And yet, we still have challenges today, much as our former selves had challenges in the past. We've become experts in the challenges of yesterday, but face a whole new batch today. In some ways perhaps we are as dazed and confused by the puzzles of today as our former selves were of earlier trials all those years ago. And a year from now - or five perhaps - we might look back on the present time and wonder how any of it vexed us at all.

It's hard to imagine, but it does seem to happen. Bob mentioned an article he once read in which people from a wide swath of the ages were asked to look back upon their past, and consider how much they'd changed over time. Be they 20 or 60 years of age, when questioned, it was found basically every ten years everyone queried completely revamped themselves. Values changed, priorities changed, political views changed; in short, a reasonably different person from ten years prior. Yet when asked whether they thought they would change so much in the next ten years, nearly everyone thought they'd remain basically the same.

They willingly acknowledged how much they'd changed in life heretofore, but could not imagine changing so much in the future.

It's no surprise then that we can hardly imagine ourselves as people who find today's demands so effortless, obvious, and paltry. We are perhaps as saplings to an oak tree, astonished at the height and breadth and acorn-count of that arboreal giant. Yet both were once seeds in the ground.

Given nourishment and time, saplings, oaks, and people grow and adapt to the world in which they are planted. It's not always easy growth (and perhaps never easy in the moment), but when times demand and we respond our branches grow a little more. And things once difficult now seem simple, and today's challenges yield tomorrow's fruit.

So it seems we are growing and becoming all the time. Today we are one thing, and tomorrow another. Through experience and experiences we change, in ways predicted and unforeseen. And though the present be full of difficulties, it is nice perhaps to look back sometimes and see how far you've come. Indeed, you've grown a lot, and will likely grow some more. And though hard to imagine, today's difficulties may well be tomorrow's routine, not to mention a source of humor for your future self. That we might laugh at the awkward and heavy-handed manner of our present selves is perhaps one way, as Montaigne once wrote, to, "...become wise at our own expense."

What three things did you learn today?

I'm amazed sometimes how much I learn (and don't learn!) each day. Whether from school, work, or the many adventures of life, I begin to wonder if perhaps every incident in life--considered in a certain way--is an opportunity to learn something new. I like to think so, even if it doesn't always seem to work out that way. 

In any case, I became curious as to how this sort of learning might be tracked, and from there more thoroughly understood. This line of thinking led to the formulation of a game of sorts, one that perhaps you will join me in playing.

It's pretty simple: take a piece of paper, and on it write three things you learned today. You can do more or fewer if you like, but my plan is to go with three.  On the morrow, repeat the exercise. From time to time, give the list a gander,  and see all the things you've learned of late.

The contents of the list might be equally simple. For example, I might include a Spanish word I learned at work, or some curious fact about human physiology (which I'm currently studying in community college). Similarly, one might include some broader lesson, such as not going out so fast in a race, or some study method that yielded good or poor results. It's all up to you really; the point is to take some of the learning you do on a daily basis, and put it on paper. In this way, one might render such knowledge more apparent to one's self, and perhaps also more useful. 

Starting tonight, I'll give it a try and report back in a week or two. 

A reflection on working hard

A few weeks ago we explored the topic of laziness, and how it helps us, "...save ourselves from our own and others' abstract notions of what is good." Far from a pure vice, laziness has a utility all its own, both in terms of productivity and life satisfaction.

With that said, experience suggests that at times, there are few things more satisfying than a little hard work. Whether it's knuckling down on a stubborn research paper, or employing some combination of muscle and sinew, few things cure a case of ennui more effectively than an aptly-timed dose of exhilarating labor.

It is perhaps like food, in that as we have an appetite for food, so we also have one for work. At times we are satiated, and at others full. Some folks are never satiated: they must always eat, or always labor.  In either case, a little laziness from time-to-time might do them both good (consider the expression, "I'm hungry, but too lazy to eat").

I raise the issue, because we frequently hear labor and laziness characterized as antagonistic principles of action (or inaction), which constantly divide the world. You're either a maker or a taker, a worker or a good-for-nothing idler; a contributor or a leech.

This has been going on a long time. 2,500 years ago, the Greek fabulist Aesop told the story of a band of industrious ants and an idling grasshopper. For those who don't remember, the story begins in summer. Finding a world of rich and plenty, the grasshopper spends the summer singing and dancing, living off the the fat of the land. Meanwhile, the industrious ants--heeding the words of House Stark--took to the fields to make hay while the long summer sun still shone. Come winter, the ants found themselves in a comfortable position, while the grasshopper found himself a beggar at the ants' doorstep.

The traditional way of interpreting this story is to praise the industry of the ants and deride the idleness of the grasshopper. Beware, it warns, of the perils of improvidence, which leave one hungry when times grow lean. One moralist version from the Renaissance concluded with the remark, "To work today is to eat tomorrow."

It's all very good advice, but maintains the unfounded dualism between laziness and labor; to my mind, we need both if we're to make things work.

Consider the position of the actors in this anthropomorphic drama. In summer, the grasshopper can live however he likes and still make it, because summer is the time of much and plenty. One practically trips over wealth and food whilst carousing under a warm summer sky, all the while singing  praises to "the god of tits and wine." To breathe is to thrive in such circumstances, and our friend grasshopper is a master at that.

Come winter, however, the times grown lean. Great efforts are needed just to subsist, and even that may not prove enough. The margin for error--like poor grasshooper's belly--grows slim, and minor mistakes in summer turn into catastrophes in winter.

The ants of the story hedge against this reality by gathering while the gathering is good. They work hard over the summer so they can spend the winter calm in the knowledge their margin for error is great. I like to think (if they were cheery ants anyway) that they spend the cold months pursuing interests, playing music for each other, and creating things of cultural interest and value. And barring that, I like to think the ants let themselves be a little lazy here and there; that they sleep soundly, rising refreshed and eager at dawn, ready to smile on a new day knowing all their basic needs are met. That their investments and hard work give them flexibility to live free, satisfying lives, in which they can make art and give their children all the love they deserve.

Not all ants will be like this. Some will work all winter too. They'll spurn culture and, purposely or otherwise, neglect the emerging generation. They'll preach an ideology of greed and ceaseless labor, and lambaste any who dare work less than them. So often they'll act from a position of indignation or fear, and perhaps never take satisfaction from the hard work they endlessly perform.

Laziness and labor are not antagonists, but opposites which support and nourish each other. Laziness keeps us from overzealotry, while labor in fat times can increase our freedom in lean ones. Each--laziness and labor--help us meet needs, be they basic to subsistence, or a life of laughter and love. Even in the moment, hard work is not always a dirge, just as laziness--far from a source of ensured happiness--can quite literally "bore us to death."

So let's celebrate these two qualities as the partners they are, rather than the rivals they're so often made out to be.