A Poem Because I Put Off Writing This Post

Putting Off a Mirage

It seems to me

we live in the myth

of choice

and control

opting

solving

conducting

our lives

Weighing one way

against another

aim

against aim

judging

ourselves

improving

ourselves

In truth

so much takes place

outside this illusion

is “chosen” or done or lived

by others

happens 

to others

and rolls down to us

What then does it mean

to procrastinate?

Life is so much bigger

and smaller

than that

Acceptance Boot Camp

Life just keeps throwing me curves.  And you know what?  I don't think it's just me.

I was listening to musical artist Pezzettino today on the radio, describing the personal significance of her soon-to-be-released album entitled Pedestrian Drama.  I was particularly struck by her embrace of the adjective "pedestrian," in recognition that troubles and "drama" are common to the human condition.  We are not so special in our pain and confusion.  Or in our stress.  Or in our inability to stay any course without being blown off by unanticipated events.

And the whole curve thing makes me think of a workshop I attended recently, on the 10th anniversary of 9-11, where the main presentation was entitled "From Tolerance to Empathy."  Drs. Sam Richards and Laurie Mulvey, Co-Directors of the World in Conversation Project at Penn State, sketched a framework for moving into conversation that can bridge differences.   Participants practiced specific skills to facilitate such interaction.  

The highest level skill we dealt with on that occasion, in a mixed gathering of 300 Muslims, Jews, Christians, and "Others" like myself, was one they referred to as "steering into the curve."  The metaphor was taken from the advice to drivers negotiating slippery surfaces.  The idea is to go toward the  difficulty, instead of trying to jerk one's steering wheel in the opposite direction and risk making the situation worse.

So as new circumstances amend my plans and schedules in major ways--as at present with the serious health problems of one of my children--it seems like advice I can use;  steering into, not the health issues, but the chaos engendered by the changing needs for my support and care.  Kind of like riding the waves of labor contractions, instead of fighting for control.

Something I'll be working on for the next several weeks. . .

Just Say Later

So, I'm still experiencing this lag between me and the world.  The latest thing I missed--to my knowledge--was International Procrastination Day, which was apparently last Friday, March 26.

This morning, I came across a Daily Telegraph article which identifies David d'Equainville as its founder.  What caught my eye was d'Equainville's casting of  procrastination as "a political act."  And not just any political act, but "a crucial act of resistance" in an increasingly overwhelming and speeded up society.  This is right up my alley.

Author of "Manifesto for a Day Put Off," recently released in French and soon to be published in English, d'Equainville says

To procrastinate is to refuse to do what the context -- be it from bosses, administrative obligations or a culture of results -- asks us to do. We must absolutely take the time to think about the tasks we accept to execute, or we will lose all control over our lives.

So I'm not a laggard, I'm a time activist.  

d'Equainville (my new hero) advocates taking time, not just to escape the rat race, but to reflect on decisions and actions, about "the tasks we accept to execute." He gives the example of Shakespeare's Romeo, who could have benefitted from some thinking time.   

If Romeo had put his suicide off a bit on Juliet's tomb, the two lovebirds could have grown old together.

d'Equainville gives his blessing to a delayed celebration of the day he established, so I'm declaring today for my observance of International Procrastination Day.  For the next 24 hours, I will tackle no project before its time.

Freaking Out About Control

It's Friday evening, and I want to talk about control.  Briefly.  Because it's Friday evening.  The end of another of too many days lately that have spun out of my control.


One of the valuable pieces of information that I picked up in reading Chip Heath and his brother Dan's book, Switch: How to Change Things When Change is Hard is that self-control is exhaustible.  And exhausting.  And that many of us are living beyond our means in this respect, trying to deal with powerful emotions, eliminate bad habits, govern behavioral impulses, and keep our creaky little vehicles of self on the road.  And given this habitual deficit spending, we may run out of the steam necessary to power the changes we desire.


So I am left wondering if the self-improvement enterprise in which I am engaged, and of which this blog is a chronicle, is such a good idea after all.  Am I becoming a control freak?


As this appellation is popularly applied, it tends to refer to people whose need to control others makes relationships difficult, at home and at work.  And while I admit that my desire to determine how things are done and to achieve desired outcomes does sometime slop over onto the people around me, for the most part I am the primary victim of these tendencies.  If I am a control freak, I am mainly a self-control freak.  I spend a lot of time bossing myself around, trying to manipulate my own feelings and behavior, and reflecting on the process.  And I'm not too nice about it, either.  


The main symptom of this supposed disorder, given my flagging energy, is a chronic sense of dissatisfaction and failure when circumstances and results--and particularly my own efforts--fall short of my standards.  And even when I do muster the strength to make things happen, I am plagued by the constant tension involved in straining against the grain of uncontrollability, and in waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it so often, and so predictably does.


Maybe my whole campaign to "put things to bed" suffers from too much of a good thing.  Maybe I shouldn't be trying to fix so many things at once.  And maybe my personal clutch is worn from careening over the bumpy back roads for years, with little regard for the long haul and the wear and tear on my "controls."  I am not adept, even at this late date, at negotiating the various gears at my disposal, and at figuring out when it may be useless to attempt to apply them. 


Psychologists treat the urge for control variously as neurosis, as a source of stress, as a reaction to stress, and as a basic human tendency.  It seems reasonable to assess the flexibility with which we seek control in evaluating the healthfulness of this pursuit.  It is probably best not to try to control everything, nor to insist on too great a degree of control in any specific area of our lives.  


By this measure, I could stand to lay-the-hell-back.


I have only a few hours of wakefulness left in this day, and I am goading myself to hit the bike, resting in its trainer stand in my basement study; to write what I laughingly call "Morning Pages;" to finish reading one of the three books whose ends I am nearing; to do the evening dishes; to meditate; and to set the alarm and hit the sheets in time to get up for an early Saturday morning Martin Luther King event.  Oh, and to try to see some of a basketball game with my son. Enough, already?