General Learning • Tenneson Woolf

May 16, 2017

Mind Twist on “Self”

My favorite movies are ones in which it’s hard to tell what is real. Ones in which a grand illusion accepted as fact is debunked, or at minimum challenged. When time bends. When alternate dimensions are portrayed as real. “The Matrix” is one that I’ve enjoyed for that reason (blue pill, red pill). “Inception” is another (which layer of dream are we in). “Coherence,” though a little less known, is another (parallel universes). I love the twist that occurs in me. The temporary amplification of “what if, what if” that entertains the notion that reality is a semi-consensual distortion.

Dave Pollard, is one of the people I know that is most able to bend reality with thought. To twist perception. And, I believe he’s genuine in it. Not sensational. He is really wondering. Really daring himself to live as if.

And example of Dave’s twisting is from a recent post, “10 Things That Are Less Complicated Than They Might Seem.” Dave frequently makes distinctions between what is complicated and what is complex. It’s a distinction I often find myself working with in groups. And in this case, Dave takes on the notion of “self” and what if that notion of self is overplayed. A distortion. It’s tricky, right. I can’t quite figure it out, which might be the point. It pushes a few buttons in me. But something in this orientation and ability to debunk, even for a moment, feels attractive and important.

Here’s a sample. Read his full post for further twisting.

Thanks Dave.

Becoming a better person: If you are going to become, in your own judgement and/or the judgement of others, a better person, that will happen despite any volition on “your” part. There is, fortunately, no “you” — what appears to be a separate person with choice and free will is a mirage, a hallucination, a dis-ease, an unfortunate and accidental evolutionary misstep that emerged along with large, underutilized brains. This has nothing to do with predestination or fate. There is an apparent character that “you” think you inhabit and control, but what that character apparently does has nothing to do with “you” — the brain just conveniently rationalizes the character’s apparent actions after the fact in a way that lets “you” believe those actions were “your” choice and decision. So go easy on your self — the character in whose apparent watery bag of organs you believe you reside will do what it will do. You should assume no responsibility, and take no credit or blame for any of it. In fact, “your” presence most likely interferes with the character doing its best. Nothing for “you” to do, really. Easy, huh?

May 15, 2017

Anticipation

I live in Lindon, Utah. I describe Lindon as a place “where urban meets rural.” I love the mountains that border the east of Utah Valley, The Wasatch Mountains. That’s Timpanogos in this picture.

The field above is along a path on which I often walk my dog. We walk past houses and another large field. This field above used to have horses in it. When it was sold, I was afraid it would become more houses. It didn’t. Instead, it became this place for growing tomatoes and peppers.

More rural, preserved.

In two months ish, there will be rows and rows of maybe 100 yards in length, with vegetables and fruit (tomato) ready to pick. It’s run by a local greenhouse. Between now and then, I’ll watch the growth as I walk my dog.

When I see this field, with these rows tilled and ready, I get excited. I feel anticipation. And somehow, just a bit of unique health in seeing a field ready to grow.

May 11, 2017

To Gold

Dreams inform my life. As symbols. As glimpses to the subconscious. As touch-points to what is collectively invisible. There are no absolutes for me in dream interpretation. An entry point to sense-making beyond rational brain is enough. And utterly fruitful. I give myself permission to pick any detail or details from the dream, with the only reason being that it / they have my attention in recall. That’s where I start. I find that when I give my dreams my attention, I remember more of them.

This week I dreamed:

I am an old man, perhaps in my 80s. I live in a village where there is a king (or prince). There is a narrow and steep path of stone on the edge of a mountain that leads from the village up and over a mountain. Each stone is like a shingle, overlapped by the next. Each stone is rectangular, two feet in length and about nine inches wide, and 1.5 inches thick. The king has asked for someone to do an enormous task (I can remember what it was in the dream). As an old man, I tell him that I can’t do that, but I can “paint” each stone from the path that leads up and over the mountain. There is some reward that I will receive if I’m able to do this. The king accepts. I proceed. With each slab of stone, I brush its full surface with at first a cedar bough, that then turns to a paint brush, though there is no paint. I begin to get scared from the height of the path when I am about 50 feet above the village. It is very narrow and it is a steep fall. I can see villagers below and know that I’m in a dangerous place. At first, I don’t want to stop. I don’t want to feel embarrassed or ashamed for not accomplishing the task. However, my fear of the height over takes me. I call out in fear and slowly step down the stone-shingled path, one stone at a time, which continues to really scare me. But then I’m able to hold the slabs with my left hand and slide all at once to the bottom. I feel my failure of not painting the whole path. The next morning I wake to find that each stone that I brushed and painted has turned to gold. The king is wondering how I did it (and valuing it). I don’t know how I did it. I wake.

One of my details in this dream is the alchemical change, which is as good of a narrative as I find to invite depth in human beings together in work, community, family, etc.

Whether you think it, respond with a comment, or reach me privately, what do you touch that turns to gold, even without knowing exactly how it happens?

May 10, 2017

Courage to Be Communal

Courage — from the heart.

When I was younger, I often thought about courage as being brave. Brave to take on scary things or very demanding things. Against bad odds. Like going in to a dark (but harmless) room, or turning out the lights and then jumping to my bed for fear that something under the bed would get my toes (humor me — it still took some courage).

There was courage in telling the truth that was less than flattering. “I’m sorry mom; I failed test.” There was courage in playing ice hockey. It was a game that I loved and was really important in my growing up. I remember it took courage to commit to the physicality of playing hockey — you had to be in good shape, and, there was that one kid in Pee Wee C (10 year olds) that said he was going to kill me. It scared me for a long time.

Courage was a kind of armor. For protection and for battle.

Now, all grown up (humor me again — more grown up), courage has come to take on other forms. It takes a bit of living to realize some of the nuance of courage.

Recently a friend shared a sermon in which the minister named that it takes courage to be communal (and that community is the central act that we need humans need to reclaim). Ah, now that’s interesting, isn’t it.

My earlier versions of courage all felt very personal and individual. Stuff that I had to do. But this being communal, well that’s a new spin isn’t it. The courage to lean in to going together rather than alone. The bravery to be in the messiness of figuring things out together when it’s so much easier to isolate and proclaim narrowed certainties. The demanding, yet attractive requirement to see the invisible and the subtle together, not just alone. It takes courage to be together, despite, I believe, being hard-wired to be communal. How odd, right. Yet, so many of the norms of society now have us in this place.

I’m challenging myself these days to have courage to be communal. To be vulnerable enough to share what is easier to keep private, stuff that I don’t know. To listen to another’s truth and position, though different from mine, to hear the person’s passion and conviction and be ok about disagreeing. To act together, even when I feel all acted out. To encourage narrative of seeing together — it takes a village. To show up for conflict — ouch — when I would rather dismiss it or run away.

It takes courage, heart, to take off the armor. It takes courage, heart, to undo centuries old stories of individuals as just the sum of the parts. It takes courage, heart, to live as a composite being that is community. I’d like to say it is all clear. I want that to be so. I’d like to say that is is easy. Maybe it is. But courage remains central in all of that. Even for the most natural of things.