You may be wildly successful, outrageously funny, brilliant and do extraordinary things.
You also will likely disappoint someone, at some time. And the more that you attempt to do, be, and discover, the higher probability that you will not please everyone.
It’s okay to disappoint a couple of people. It’s okay to disappoint a lot of people. It’s even okay to be disappointed in yourself from time to time.
I’m not sure I know anyone that has lived a life without ever disappointing anyone. Dust yourself off, learn as much as you can, and carry on.
Found via The Buried Life, a “league of very ordinary gentleman asking people the question: What Do You Want To Do Before You Die?” I was fortunate to be a part of the Fall taping of an episode in which Duncan attempts to swim from Alcatraz to San Francisco without a wetsuit as one of his bucket list items. (The link takes you to an 8-minute episode on MTV, where you’ll see me teaching someone to swim Alcatraz at the end of last Fall!)
“Modern literary theory sees a similarity between walking and writing that I find persuasive: words inscribe a text in the same way that a walk inscribes space. In The Practice of Everyday Life, Michel de Certeau writes, ‘The act of walking … is a process of appropriation of the topographical system on the part of the pedestrian, it is a special acting-out of the place … and it implies relations among differentiated positions.’ I think this is a fancy way of saying that writing is one way of making the world our own, and walking is another.”
— Geoff Nicholson, The Lost Art Of Walking.
Walking is critical to thinking, yet we are an increasingly sedentary society. Let’s move, think, wander. There is language and brilliance in movement, in walking and exploring.
Or, perhaps as Austin Kleon says: “You are a mashup of what you let into your life.”
This past year, I designed an event series around spending time walking and talking with a small group of people in San Francisco (and expanded to Boulder, Colorado for a special session with the Bold Academy). The purpose of the Walk + Talk series was to explore different conversations and new spaces, as well as to test an idea that I’d been mulling over for some time: That walking (and movement) are critical to thinking, and that a walk can enable more vulnerable and in-depth conversations in ways that sitting and talking don’t always do.
For each event, I put together a set of ideas loosely related to a particular topic (with suggested readings and prompt questions), but certainly allowed for people to be free to wander off point and engage in their own imaginations.
Over the past dozen events, there have been several emerging themes and realizations. There are several reasons why walking is conducive to better thinking, from the positioning of our bodies in space, the the idea of a destination, to the elevation of our heart rates to 100-110 beats per minute. When you design scenarios that enable trust–and walking with friends can be designed to create a space of safety and exploration–the ideas and innovations and possibilities that result can be astounding. And sometimes, you just need to walk it out. Just as the peripatetic philosophers did years ago, let’s engage in a short walk and ask good, hard, interesting questions.
I believe in the importance of conversation and wandering and connectivity, and I’m exploring a theory that movement is essential for unlocking the thinking in our minds. I also want to create a space for respectful, fearless conversations, idea exchange, and explorations. Particularly or equally important was the group curation–I invited minds that I admired, thought leaders and people willing to be vulnerable and inquisitive; and kept the size small enough to create space for long-form conversation.
The fact that we’re creating a small but growing group of philosopher-wanderers who gather to muse about the future of the world, modern issues, and other topics at hand makes me incredibly excited. Each walk, a new theme is put forward, with suggested reading passed around in the group.
If you’re in San Francisco, ask about next event or email me to find out more–I tend to keep the groups very small, so space is limited. The idea, however, is free. Walking and talking are inherently human activities and no one owns them, and I’ll be posting the reading sets for people to borrow on this website (please, take them!). If you find more readings or articles related to movement, thinking and consciousness, please send them my way. The world needs more walkers and philosophers. (And as a bonus: if you come up with your own reading set, send it my way and I’ll use it for a future group).
Thoughts and musings for the afternoon:
How often do you take a walk?
Are you a solitary walker or a group walker?
When do you do your best imagining and thinking?
Is thought and movement related? How is movement important (and critical) for innovation and creativity?
Do you wander in places that are familiar or unfamiliar?
“It’s not about where an adventure ends, because that’s not what an adventure is about. Let’s get going.” – Matt Damon (In the movie “We Bought A Zoo”).
Tell me your story in the comments! I’ll be writing more on movement and consciousness in several future posts, and I’d love to hear from you.
“We’re not here, for that long, anyway. But to spend almost half our time lost in thought, and for the most part unhappy at that–well that’s pretty tragic, isn’t it?”
— Andy Puddicombe
How does your mind work? What brought you here? What patterns occupy your thoughts and recur, repeatedly?
Andy Puddicombe talks about the power of meditation and how beneficial it is for each of us to stop for ten minutes each day and simply to look at how our mind is working. (The link takes you to a 9-minute TED talk).
When you stop and look at your thoughts, he asks, do you notice–
That you’re dwelling and ruminating on one particular, circling, repeating thought?
That you’re reinforcing certain story lines and patterns of mind?
That your mind is restless and agitated?
That your mind is dull, boring, or mechanical?
That you have a nagging thought that comes around and around?
How does your mind work, anyways?
The point of mindfulness isn’t judgment or instantaneous change, but rather, an awareness of what is actually happening in your mind, without judgment. It’s familiarity with the present moment, and an awareness of how, in fact, your mind is working.
Sometimes in order to know what’s on your mind, you have to slow down and take a look at that very mind. What’s in it?
How do you build a sustainable life, what does psychology have to do with cities, and how do you wield the power of learning how to say both yes and no strategically? Did you design your own job? How do you balance a full-time job with all the side projects you want to do? What happens when you’re frustrated because your employer doesn’t understand that you want to do more than what you’re already doing? What is environmental determinism? What is the relationship between environment, design, and behavior? Is the world around us really just a game?
And for goodness sake, what does it feel like to swim Alcatraz naked?
Last night I was fortunate to be guest #66 on Radio Enso hosted by Greg Berg. It turns out radio interviews are really fun! As a Prairie Home Companion and NPR enthusiast, I am quite fond of the audio-only medium. (Plus, Greg was an incredible host–impeccably well-prepared and GREAT questions.)
If you have more time, also check out the quick video round-up by Todd Schnick on how to kick ass in 2013. I have a one-minute spot in it where I talk about my favorite two tips for how to get things done (hint: get started, and do less than you think).
The last year, or two, weren’t easy–and full of lots of mistakes–but incredible and far better than the first half of my twenties. I’ve mused lately, in my 29th year, what this decade will add up to. What have I done? What does my daily life look like? How have I changed? Have I made a mark on the world?
By and large, the latter half of the decade was far more psychologically and personally satisfying–coming into stride with many of my quirks and idiosyncracies, delighting in saying no in order to stay at home and work on a project purely because my soul wanted to, and deciding to skip, sing, hold hands and lie on the floor when I felt like it–all of this slowly built a foundation of happiness and glee I wasn’t accustomed to after coming off of years of teenage (and early twenty-something) angst. It’s worth saying, however, that much of the groundwork for many of my leaps and bounds between age 25-29 came through several years of dedicated, isolated, and non-public personal and professional efforts in my younger years.
In short: it gets better. For those who work hard, and who are exploring and taking chances, it adds up. Keep going. Learning compounds, (the right) friendships deepen, people stop caring if you have acne or armpit sweat or if you spit a little when you talk (or they tell you, directly and kindly) and generally they care more that you’re passionately geeky about something, that you take your energy and focus it on making things happen, that you’re crafting both an identity and a legacy in the world, albeit through trial and error. If you’re in a slough–and I’ve had years of undulations, so I understand the melancholy that can come from not understanding just-quite-what-to-do-next–stick it out another season, and keep experimenting.
In the meantime, here’s what I’ve gleaned along the way, particularly lessons that have solidified over the last year. In looking back through the essays on this site and musing over what I’d like to take with me, here’s what I’d like to carry with me for this next spin around the sun.
Almost everything is far easier said than done.
It can take a year or a decade to learn a lesson and build a practice or a habit I joke that it takes me a year to learn a habit because I’ve got twelve months to try 30 days over again, and by the 8th or 9th time, I’m almost there. Yoga took me four years to get into. Running took me three years. Blogging, two years (or ten, depending on how you count and whether copious emails and live journal count as blogging). Every lesson I’ve learned I had to learn personally. reading other’s wisdom didn’t cement the idea into my soul, my being.
Pelican on the San Francisco Bay, November 2012 (see below for the photo-behind-the-photo).
This is my typical annual review, a process by which I review this blog, my life (although not all of it is shared here), the lessons I’ve learned, and some of the growth that’s occurred through projects and processes I have (or more painfully, haven’t) achieved and accomplished. This review is tailored towards this blog and my work in psychology, philosophy and online community building; I’ll share each of the sections of the review in categories accordingly, and it’s likely to be a lot longer than most blog posts.
Why An Annual Review?
I’ve been blogging here at It Starts With since May 2011, or for about a year and a half. Previously I wrote another blog for about six months, although I quickly tired of the title and theme and was frustrated with the design; before that I wrote essays for the local Examiner, many of which were cross-posted to create the early archives of this blog. Technically speaking, this site that you’re looking at didn’t exist until May 2011.
I engage in regular monthly reviews as well as a longer annual reviews similar to what Chris Guillebeau does–basically reviewing what went well and what didn’t go so well at year-end.
In the past year and a half, I’ve gone from zero subscribers and traffic and very little understanding of WordPress to designing my own website, playing extensively with Google Analytics and MailChimp, learning about subscribers, and interacting with a continuously-growing audience of some of the smartest and most interesting people I’ve ever met.
Where We’ve Been, and Where We’re Going.
More and more I’m convinced that very few of us truly understand the flattening and leveraging power of the internet: with consistent effort and publication of your ideas, you can find people and they can find you. No longer do we need to stay within the same location, job, city, or network, although the previous world constrains our thinking and perceptions of barriers more than we’d like to admit (or even understand). The best books I’ve read to this effect include Nick Bilton’s and Clay Shirky’s, among other of my favorite books from 2012.
In conjunction with this revelation that the internet allows us access and influence in ways not possible before, I’m also realizing how important understanding scale is for your objectives: and it’s not necessarily that bigger is better. Believe it or not, you don’t have to be the most important person on the internet (or in real life). The network size and community size you need is highly variable and doesn’t need to be that big–a lot is possible with access to just a few people, provided you cultivate the right niche and community. If you build a community of 100 people interested in knitting across your city, you can create a movement. The first YouTube video just crossed the 1 Billion threshold mark. The world is changing, as it always does. It’s exciting.
But back to this particular internet world, my blog:
Every year I sit down and look back at my piles of notes, writing, publication (on and off line) and the last year’s dreams. Dreams and goals are only as good as the number of times you revisit them to take steps or learn why you’re not doing what you want to be doing. Each annual review is typically a two to three-week process of reflection and discovery. Often I’m surprised, delighted, annoyed (and many other emotions)from discovering that in some ways, I’ve done more than I wanted, and in other areas, far less than I wanted. Continue reading “2012: Year In Review”
Perhaps Eminen had it right when he said, “I am / whatever you say / I am.” We are what we say we are. YOU are what you say you are.(Or maybe he’s completely wrong, because he’s suggesting that his identity is whatever other people say he is – so why argue with others, and just accept your identity as defined by others?) For the purposes of this post, I can’t get this idea out of my head: that I am whatever I say I am. And what we say about ourselves matters.
Sometimes our cognitive frameworks (put simply: our minds), get in the way of who we really are.
I’ll use running as a short example. For a long time, I said to myself “I want to be a runner” — I jogged and I huffed and I puffed, and I iced my knees and went back to swimming and looked longingly at the smooth runners pounding the pavement throughout San Francisco and gliding easily up and down the hills through the Presidio. I dabbled in running, I took long breaks, and I never got past the “jogging” phase. For a while.
Then, somehow, I started running more and I would find myself making time for 6 and 8 mile runs and actually liking them. By all standards, I was a “runner.” And yet when people would ask me if I was a runner, I would brush the thought aside, quickly dismissing it by saying: “I’m not a runner … I’m training to be, but I’m not a runner.” In some regards, adopting new personal identities takes as much effort and training in the mind as it does physical training.
It takes a lot of time before we acknowledge within ourselves that we are what we do.
How long do we have to train before we become ourselves?
In July, I finished my first half marathon, and yet for some reason I still I didn’t picture myself as a runner. Despite having run 13.1 miles through the hills of San Francisco, I still declined to acknowledge my status as a “runner.” Somehow in my brain, I couldn’t put “me” and “”runner” together in the same schema.
My Dad, once a great runner, finally had to correct me:
He said,“you know Sarah, you ran a half marathon.”
“I think you can call yourself a runner now.”
Our minds can be slow to accept the changes that happen so readily at our fingertips. Sometimes I still feel like the nervous, awkward girl from my teens and I wonder if I’m really capable of the vast amounts of responsibility and increasing autonomy in front of me. I won’t lie: sometimes I’m scared shitless by what there is ahead of me. I feel like my dreams are still “out there,” — and it takes time to switch my brain over to the idea that somehow already I’ve attained some of my dreams, and that life — and my goals — are expanding out in front of me. And that, through careful, repeated, steady progress, I can, and will, become better than I am today.
To what extent do we limit what we’re capable of simply by not believing in our own abilities? On several occasions, I’ve surprised myself in doing better than I thought I was capable of. I didn’t believe I could finish six miles at the end of a triathlon – and then I did it. I didn’t think I could run 13 miles — and then I did it.
The question, then, is: what are we capable of? More importantly, what are we capable of beyond what we imagine we can do? What sorts of things can we do, if we actually allow ourselves the possibilities to dream? It wasn’t that I couldn’t do it — it was that I thought I couldn’t do it. There’s a distinct difference – and to sell yourself short of your abilities by not believing in yourself is a terrible waste.
What are you not doing simply because you think you can’t do it?
Excellence rarely exceeds expectations, my coach always taught me. By the time you’ve attained a goal, your mind will be seeking new ventures and tasks to tackle. You won’t realize how quickly you’re growing until you’ve already surpassed some of your earlier expectations. Despite proving to myself that I was now capable of running further and further distances, I kept pushing the boundaries of a “runner identity” further from my reach, not reconciling this state of being with who I was becoming. I was limiting myself by dreaming too small.
Three months later, I have another confession to make: Much like I never considered myself a runner, I’ve also never considered myself a writer.I didn’t realize that I wanted to be a writer even after I left school and (somewhat sheepishly, I must admit) — I found that I missed writing papers. I wrote ridiculously long emails to friends and drafted papers about topics that had no audiences. I wrote aimlessly in notebooks and spiral bounds and in the margins of books. Post-it note littered the pages of my magazines with ideas about how I would respond to the authors. I had anonymous conversations with myself, in my head, and imagined ideas for possible stories and fiction books. On long drives, runs, swims, and bus rides, I found myself crafting stories and books in my head.
I dreamed about writing books and short stories, but was too busy with my “work” and “career” to actually focus on writing. Somehow, I started a blog (it starts with) in order to let myself keep writing. My friends in the design world (and I love design, by the way) think I’m crazy for wanting to write so much. It was a bit aimless, I’ll admit, but the pull and tug to keep writing was there. Somehow, I was marching along a path that I knew I had to do. A year or two after graduate school, I found myself in a long conversation with a good friend and mentor, and I said: you know, I think I finally know what I want to be when I grow up:
I want to be a writer.
She looked at me with a funny look on her face:
You ARE a writer, she said. And again, I found myself subject to the same “closed-mind” problem as before.
How much of who we are is limited by the way we think about ourselves? Are we much more capable that we admit, or even dare to dream? How long does it take – and how many examples does it take – to become convinced that we are, in fact, what we do?
Who are you? Who do you want to be? And who is it that you say you are? This is important. Are you what others say you are? Or are you what you say you are? More importantly — do you dream big and admit your capabilities to yourself?
Today, it is with pride that I stand up and admit – to me (and to you): I don’t want to be a writer someday. I AM a writer. And I freaking love it.
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What’s your biggest, scariest dream? How would you describe yourself , if no one were really paying attention? Leave your answer in the comments below.
For the most part, I don’t like doing things that I’m not good at.
I prefer doing things I’m good at. Especially as I get older, I find I dislike being “bad” at something. The more expertise I gain in my respective fields, the more I find I enjoy — and gravitate towards — things that I’m already good at.
When we were children, we spent ample amounts of time being frustrated, learning and figuring out new things. We did it every day, a hundred times a day, sometimes even a hundred times a minute.
On a single day in Kindergarden, we learned how to tie our shoes, comb our hair, dress ourselves, how to share and play with others (sometimes not so well), what splinters were, whether landing from a big jump was painful or thrilling, how to make daisy chains, what paint is, what happens when put stuff in our noses, and how to stand in a line to get lunch. The teacher had activities for us planned every fifteen minutes and our brains were always expanding, never saturated.
As a result, we were tired — we conked out for nap time twice a day and consumed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and goldfish and apple juice. We were constantly running around, wondering why on earth adults were so tediously repeating to us that we ought to “slow down!” (Of course, as every five-year-old knows, why slow down if I can get there rightnow?)
And then, somehow, we became adults. We made it through the awkward-bobbly teenage angst years and even through college and asserted our independence, autonomy, and maturation through increased levels of responsibility, decision making, and ability. I have a general understanding of what a 401K is and why I need it; I believe in the time value of money through compounded interest; I hope to make informed decisions when voting in a democracy; I show up to work on time; I’ve made a life list and learned how to say no; I understand the value of saving for a rainy day, and I am, to every five-year-old, a boring adult.
Now what? Am I done learning? I like to think that somewhere inside of every adult still lies our inner five-year-old, the monkey-ish person who bounces in meetings and runs in the halls instead of walks, who says what they think, and asks the most obvious (and the most interesting) questions about how the world works, and why it works the way it does.
I like to look back at my 5-year-old self and take a cue from the crazy girl running around on the playground and try to remember what it felt like to be at that pace of learning, growing, exploring, and being frustrated. When I get frustrated with learning new things, especially if I shy away because it’s hard or difficult — or i’m not yet any good at it — I think about how i would measure up to my 5-year-old self.
Quite frankly, she would probably kick my ass at her skill-acquiring ability. Granted, the complexity of the skills we learn as adults may not be comparable to our abilities as a kindergardener. But there are still lessons:
The first time trying something new is usually filled with effort, struggle, energy, and a low satisfaction-to-energy ratio. Why fall on your face 20 times trying to do handstands if you’ve already perfected sitting in a chair comfortably? If, however, you only did what you were good at, then you would be done learning. Imagine, then: nope, I’m not going to try that because it’s something new. Can’t do it, sorry.
In work, it can take slow, dedicated, frustratingly long amounts of time to get good at something. At times, I’ve contemplated leaving my job because of the day in and day out exhaustion-frustration of tasks being difficult and new. But what holds me to my desk is the fact that I’m learning, no matter how discouraging it can be — and that staying at home, or doing something I already know how to do will not yield the same satisfaction or sense of accomplishment when I tackle, acquire and absorb new skills, techniques and knowledge.
The downside is that you can’t always tell how long it will take to “get good” at something. You don’t remember how long it took you to learn how to tie your shoes — now you just know how to do it. And you do it automatically. And you’re probably pretty glad you practiced every day of that month in kindergarten, because the more you practiced, the more quickly you learned the skill. You won’t be good at something for a while — not until you put in effort, energy and perseverance.
It’s inherently humbling to be in an entry-level job: the tasks vary from ridiculously easy to frustrating, over your head, and complicated. Sometimes the most difficult challenge of new tasks is figuring out how to figure them out: learning how to learn. Each day I walk into the office prepared to be surprised, to learn, to explore, research and discover. I’m never “done learning.”
And sometimes, it takes a long time to get good at something. It’s been said that it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something. Given that a year is (roughly) 2000 work hours, then figure it takes a least five years to become good at something. That’s five full-time years — it will take longer if it’s a hobby or a part time endeavor. Get grinding … see you in 5 years. So if you’re struggling in the first 1, 2, or 3 years of a new job, first, breathe a sigh of relief: you’re right where you should be.
Give yourself the chance to learn. Leaving because learning is hard is never a reason to quit. The lesson in not giving up?
