This looks like a docuentary that is going to over a scathing and sobering look at education:
Monday, June 28, 2010
Sunday, June 20, 2010
What's the measure of the life of a woman or a man?
Those who work with me know that among other things, I am prone to having some rather zany loose associations. I've talked with people about what the Broadway version of their life would be; ask why they think particular songs, movies, or television shows are stuck in my mind; and otherwise find ways to let our creative minds roam free to find ways to connect powerful metaphors with the very real and serious process of therapeutic growth and change.
With that said I've spent the last several weeks distracted by a particular song from a Broadway musical. I've randomly been humming along to Seasons of Love from the musical Rent. It's led me to spend an awful lot of time thinking about how we go about valuing (or not valuing) ourselves. I've also gotten more than a few strange looks from people when I randomly start humming on the street or in the gym.
I'm no stranger to thinking about this. In various contexts, I've thought about how we value ourselves for more than a quarter century. Years ago I learned something about value from a band director. This one time at summer band camp we were playing a John Phillip Sousa march. The director of the band just happened to have been in John Philip Sousa's band. The director stopped rehearsal one day when I had played a wrong note. "You, Horn," he bellowed. "When you play that note incorrectly it as if you have walked up to the Mona Lisa and poked your finger through her eye."
Whoops.
I was no stranger to being pointed at by directors when I played a wrong note. My high school orchestra directly repeatedly made me play a note over and over again when we were playing Bedrich Smenta's overture from The Bartered Bride. In a fit, the director threw his baton at me and came storming through the orchestra knocking over stands. This time I wasn't poking my finger through the eye's of the Mona Lisa on purpose. The score I was playing off of had the wrong note. Another director, with exceedingly long fingers, tapped his baton on his music stand and pointed at me (I was sure that his finger was going to make it all the way into the back of the orchestra and poke me). "You," he said. "You have no passion. You young people today know no passion." This one concerned me to no end. A note I could figure out how to play correctly (even on a horn that is notorious for being impossibly difficult to play in tune). But passion? How on Earth am I supposed to figure that one out?
Had Dwight only explained himself I might have learned something very important--the goal here wasn't spending hours in a practice room learning to perfect every note and phrase. The goal was to bring the music alive and create an experience. Music as a process, not a goal.
Anyway, I found innumerable ways to scurry about trying to be perfect. Years later in my second masters program I had a complete melt down at the copy shop. I was having my thesis printed out and it was printed out incorrectly. You see, the paper I used had a watermark on it. I was very specific with the copy shop people that I wanted the watermark positioned so it was forward on the paper, not backward. I got my thesis back with the watermark backward. No holes through Mona Lisa for me. I made them reprint the whole thing. Twice.
After telling my advisor this he asked me if I knew much about the quilts that Amish women make. Among the things they are known for is their quality. Yet, as my advisor said, the last stitch that is made is always made incorrectly because only God can make things perfect. He then pointed out a typo in my bound thesis.
Of course I'd have none of this and later snuck into the library to correct my error.
Once I finally got over that bout of crazy perfectionism I thought it was a good time to go for a doctorate. When I was first accepted into my program at Antioch University New England I was provided with a bookmark (this was a step up from the pencil they sent me home with when I interviewed at the program). The bookmark haunted me for a long time. Written on it was one motto the school frequently used:
"Oh great," I thought. I was already neurotic enough about trying to do things perfectly. Now not only did I have to make sure I didn't poke my fingers through the eyes of Mona Lisa: I needed to make sure I won a victory for humanity. Was one enough? Would two or three be better? How about four?
No sleep for Jason. I'll spare you the tales of being taught the finer points of the use of dashes (did you know there are three different kinds, the hyphen, the em dash, and the en dash?). This was a particularly crazed chapter of crazy dissertation writing.
My error here has been in interpretation. I spent a long time (and at times, still do) conflating the process achieving with the end result of achievement. I measured the value of my live (sorry about the eye Mona, that should have been life) by a result rather than a process. It's ironic, because had I paid attention to a different motto from my education (Goddard College often talks about learning being about the journey, not the destination) I might have saved myself from some needless stress.
Focusing on the end result of achievement rather than the process of achievement creates a rather horrific hall of mirrors. It's not very pretty. The end goal is never achieved, thus value can never really be attained. There is always another paper to write, task to do, or goal to achieve. Life can quickly pass by, unvalued, unappreciated, and filled with long days of neurotic achievement (think about the watermark and dashes, people).
It is easy (and it many ways natural) to value our children and our friends for their achievement. We marvel in a child's first steps and are proud. We hang report cards on the refrigerator and give rewards when our children get all As. We celebrate graduations form grade school, high school, and beyond with parties, gifts and accolades.
These are all valuable accomplishments. They deserve recognition and accolades. However, is this how we measure the value of a woman or a man? We do measure value in accomplishments? That makes value something conditional. We have to accomplish something in order to be valuable--and if we don't accumulate accomplishments we have less value.
In-and-of-itself, valuing achievement is a good thing. As a society we value movement toward something. An investment in education represents movement toward a better life. Investment in a job represents movement toward increased wealth (and hopefully the idea of shared wealth, too), productivity, and the betterment of humanity. I don't really take issue with any of this at a very basic level. Yet, I also take great issue with it.
When we transform valuing achievement into valuing people for their achievement, we start to lose little bits of our souls. When we base the total value of a person on the end result of what they have achieved rather than the process of achievement we poison a person and begin a life long process of killing off their essential intrinsic value of the process of being alive.
What do you think?
With that said I've spent the last several weeks distracted by a particular song from a Broadway musical. I've randomly been humming along to Seasons of Love from the musical Rent. It's led me to spend an awful lot of time thinking about how we go about valuing (or not valuing) ourselves. I've also gotten more than a few strange looks from people when I randomly start humming on the street or in the gym.
I'm no stranger to thinking about this. In various contexts, I've thought about how we value ourselves for more than a quarter century. Years ago I learned something about value from a band director. This one time at summer band camp we were playing a John Phillip Sousa march. The director of the band just happened to have been in John Philip Sousa's band. The director stopped rehearsal one day when I had played a wrong note. "You, Horn," he bellowed. "When you play that note incorrectly it as if you have walked up to the Mona Lisa and poked your finger through her eye."
Whoops.
I was no stranger to being pointed at by directors when I played a wrong note. My high school orchestra directly repeatedly made me play a note over and over again when we were playing Bedrich Smenta's overture from The Bartered Bride. In a fit, the director threw his baton at me and came storming through the orchestra knocking over stands. This time I wasn't poking my finger through the eye's of the Mona Lisa on purpose. The score I was playing off of had the wrong note. Another director, with exceedingly long fingers, tapped his baton on his music stand and pointed at me (I was sure that his finger was going to make it all the way into the back of the orchestra and poke me). "You," he said. "You have no passion. You young people today know no passion." This one concerned me to no end. A note I could figure out how to play correctly (even on a horn that is notorious for being impossibly difficult to play in tune). But passion? How on Earth am I supposed to figure that one out?
Had Dwight only explained himself I might have learned something very important--the goal here wasn't spending hours in a practice room learning to perfect every note and phrase. The goal was to bring the music alive and create an experience. Music as a process, not a goal.
Anyway, I found innumerable ways to scurry about trying to be perfect. Years later in my second masters program I had a complete melt down at the copy shop. I was having my thesis printed out and it was printed out incorrectly. You see, the paper I used had a watermark on it. I was very specific with the copy shop people that I wanted the watermark positioned so it was forward on the paper, not backward. I got my thesis back with the watermark backward. No holes through Mona Lisa for me. I made them reprint the whole thing. Twice.
After telling my advisor this he asked me if I knew much about the quilts that Amish women make. Among the things they are known for is their quality. Yet, as my advisor said, the last stitch that is made is always made incorrectly because only God can make things perfect. He then pointed out a typo in my bound thesis.
Of course I'd have none of this and later snuck into the library to correct my error.
Once I finally got over that bout of crazy perfectionism I thought it was a good time to go for a doctorate. When I was first accepted into my program at Antioch University New England I was provided with a bookmark (this was a step up from the pencil they sent me home with when I interviewed at the program). The bookmark haunted me for a long time. Written on it was one motto the school frequently used:
Be afraid to die until you have won some small victory for humanity -- Horace Mann
"Oh great," I thought. I was already neurotic enough about trying to do things perfectly. Now not only did I have to make sure I didn't poke my fingers through the eyes of Mona Lisa: I needed to make sure I won a victory for humanity. Was one enough? Would two or three be better? How about four?
No sleep for Jason. I'll spare you the tales of being taught the finer points of the use of dashes (did you know there are three different kinds, the hyphen, the em dash, and the en dash?). This was a particularly crazed chapter of crazy dissertation writing.
My error here has been in interpretation. I spent a long time (and at times, still do) conflating the process achieving with the end result of achievement. I measured the value of my live (sorry about the eye Mona, that should have been life) by a result rather than a process. It's ironic, because had I paid attention to a different motto from my education (Goddard College often talks about learning being about the journey, not the destination) I might have saved myself from some needless stress.
Focusing on the end result of achievement rather than the process of achievement creates a rather horrific hall of mirrors. It's not very pretty. The end goal is never achieved, thus value can never really be attained. There is always another paper to write, task to do, or goal to achieve. Life can quickly pass by, unvalued, unappreciated, and filled with long days of neurotic achievement (think about the watermark and dashes, people).
It is easy (and it many ways natural) to value our children and our friends for their achievement. We marvel in a child's first steps and are proud. We hang report cards on the refrigerator and give rewards when our children get all As. We celebrate graduations form grade school, high school, and beyond with parties, gifts and accolades.
These are all valuable accomplishments. They deserve recognition and accolades. However, is this how we measure the value of a woman or a man? We do measure value in accomplishments? That makes value something conditional. We have to accomplish something in order to be valuable--and if we don't accumulate accomplishments we have less value.
In-and-of-itself, valuing achievement is a good thing. As a society we value movement toward something. An investment in education represents movement toward a better life. Investment in a job represents movement toward increased wealth (and hopefully the idea of shared wealth, too), productivity, and the betterment of humanity. I don't really take issue with any of this at a very basic level. Yet, I also take great issue with it.
When we transform valuing achievement into valuing people for their achievement, we start to lose little bits of our souls. When we base the total value of a person on the end result of what they have achieved rather than the process of achievement we poison a person and begin a life long process of killing off their essential intrinsic value of the process of being alive.
What do you think?
Saturday, May 29, 2010
The Techno-Psychologist
A few months back I was innocently opening a package of gum and noticed a fancy barcode that was in color and consisted of a variety of different colored triangles. I did a little research and discovered that Microsoft developed a tag system so businesses and other individuals could tag materials (places, products, etc.) with a readable barcode that could direct the individual to online information via their mobile phone. I thought that was kind of a cool idea.
I am running low on business cards and have been working on tweaking the design. I remembered the Microsoft tag and wondered about adding it to the back of the business cards. I'm still not sure about that. I however am sure that I have spent the better part of the last hour fooling around with different technologies.
This first tag, which uses Microsoft's technology, will provide you with my professional contact information. I could get carried away here and make different tags. One, for example, might direct the individual to this blog. Another could deliver a text message or email containing information that I might find helpful.
I am running low on business cards and have been working on tweaking the design. I remembered the Microsoft tag and wondered about adding it to the back of the business cards. I'm still not sure about that. I however am sure that I have spent the better part of the last hour fooling around with different technologies.
This first tag, which uses Microsoft's technology, will provide you with my professional contact information. I could get carried away here and make different tags. One, for example, might direct the individual to this blog. Another could deliver a text message or email containing information that I might find helpful. The other service that people use are the more "standard" 3d black and white bar codes. These QR codes were invented in Japan in 1994 to assist with information being read at high speeds--particularly in the manufacturing industry.
Here are a few examples of these codes. If you scan them they will direct your mobile phone to this blog, Maggie's blog, and Maggie's Facebook page. What do you think? Useful? Not useful? I find myself wishing that one tag or bar code could contain all this information.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Quote of the Day
One of the things I enjoy most about keeping this blog is having the opportunity to interact with people that I wouldn't ordinarily know. Here is a quote sent in from a visitor:
A human being is part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. We experience ourselves, our thoughts and feelings as something separate from the rest. A kind of optical delusion of consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from the prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. The true value of a human being is determined by the measure and the sense in which they have obtained liberation from the self. We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if humanity is to survive. -- Albert Einstein, 1954
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Mindfulness and Puppies
I'm beginning to be fairly sure that puppies and mindfulness do not mix. Perhaps they do mix, but puppies are only intended for the use of highly skilled mindfulness practitioners. I've been innocently recording my current fascination with dandelions. They are very hardy plants: the ones in the field near my home resist even the department of public works grass cutters. The wild violets have been mowed down, nearly all the buttercups are flattened, but the white fuzzy globes of the dandelion stood strong.
It was sunny this morning, the wind was calm, and the sky was bright blue. I thought it might make a nice backdrop for a few images of the dandelions. Maggie was occupying herself sniffing so I thought I'd have a few moments to concentrate on composing an image and letting everything else flow out of my mind.
Maggie, as you see, had a completely different idea. As soon as she saw my laying down in the grass focused intently on something she wanted to know what I was up to. Naturally if I was staring at it that closely it must be some sort of delectible treat. Right? Of course. So through the view finder of my camera a big wet shiny nose appears and chomp--there goes my dandelion.
I did not find this the least bit amusing. Doesn't she know I was trying to take a picture? With an earnest expression, I tried explaining this to her. I think she was secretly a bit exasperated with me. She after all has explained to me time and time again that she doesn't speak English and despite my earnest words, she doesn't have the slightest clue as to what I'm speaking about. She might have to sit me down a few more times and explain this to me before I can consistently remember.
Anyway, she looked at me with her warm brown eyes, wagged her tail, and chomped on another dandelion. She must have decided that my earnest conversation was an explanation of the health values of dandelion greens as she left the stem of the flower behind and started tearing off the leaves.
This whole episode was rather funny and cute: my laying in the grass, Maggie leaping over me to eat the target of my attention, and well timed photo with her mouth filled with the evidence of her playfulness. How many times do things like this happen and the experience isn't so cute? How many times to we assume the meanings behind people's actions and respond with emotions or behaviors that end up being totally unrelated to what is really going on?
It would have been totally ludicrous for me to yell at Maggie. She didn't eat the flowers to annoy me, she ate the flowers because from her perspective, I was on the ground stalking them. She figured she'd join in on the hunt. How many times do we yell at children, spouses, friends, or store clerks for reasons that only exist because our faulty interpretations of their behaviors?
Maybe puppies and mindfulness are a very good combination. Maybe with more experiences likes this, a mindfulness of day-to-day interactions will grow and help me notice the times when I'm responding based on an interpretation of the reasons behind behaviors rather than actual knowledge about the intention behind behaviors.
I did, in the end, get the image I wanted of a dandelion. I gave Maggie a task to focus on while I went about doing the things that were of interest to me. Here is the same image, two ways. Have a favorite?
Friday, May 7, 2010
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