Humility - again

I wrote a blog post commenting on this idea of humility, which, from my understanding, is a theme in Adam Grant’s book Think Again. His book and his ideas have been bouncing around the cluster of podcasts I listen to, and I suppose that is why I am revisiting the idea. Humility itself is interesting. I think it is vaguely amusing that I reactively dismiss the promotional urgency to read the book based on what I feel I already know. However, Adam Grant recently released a podcast episode that combined two interviews he’d done with Malcolm Gladwell and this latter gets at a point that reflects my feeling. Here is my (lightly edited) transcript of their conversation:

Malcolm Gladwell: I’m always very attracted to religious themes in things, particularly if they’re slightly sublimated. But it always struck me that there was some kind of moral case being made in your books, that maybe you weren’t making explicitly but that there was something about reading your books that felt very comfortable to someone who is used to thinking about the world in terms of character, ethics, morality, those kinds of things. Like if I (I was thinking) if I had a Bible study of Evangelicals and I said ‘this week we’re not reading the New Testament, we’re gonna read the works of Adam Grant’ I think actually people with that kind of worldview would be very at home with the arguments that you’re making. 

Adam Grant: That’s interesting! I love it when ancient wisdom matches up with modern science. And I think, where the ancient wisdom often leaves me short is around … for me at least, a lot of the principles and recommendations that comes out of religious traditions are missing the nuance about ‘how do you actually do this in life’. So yeah, of course you want to be a generous person, but how do you give to others in a way that prevents you or protects you from burning out or just getting burned by the most selfish takers around. Yes, I want to be humble, but I don’t want to become meek, or lack confidence and so I think, I guess what I want to do in a lot of my work is try to use evidence to pick up where, where these higher principles leave off, and ask, ok, what does it mean to do this without sacrificing you know, our ambitions.

 M.G.: Yeah, yeah. But even that, I mean, that’s why Christians have Bible studies, and that’s why Jews study Torah, because the original texts, they are only the beginning, they require additional interpretation and understanding. They’re not sufficient on their own, otherwise you wouldn’t need to study them.

A.G.: When it comes to having those conversations about the ideas in those texts, I just, I happen to love the tools of the scientific method as a way to figure out what’s gonna be effective for more of the people more of the time.

I think Malcolm Gladwell highlights what it is in Adam Grant’s latest book that makes me feel like his theme is a familiar one.

Community

A promotional magazine arrived in our mailbox last week, all about moving to a rural community in the Southeast region. The first article’s title reads “Five Great Reasons to Get Out of the City” which lists short commutes, amenities, savings, and, at number four, “Everyone Knows Everyone”.

I take that as a negative.

But wait, this nameless writer argues. “There is a long-standing myth that living in a small town means everyone knows everyone else’s business. There may be a kernel of truth to this, but there’s another way to look at it: small towns are infamous for their neighbourly outreach.”

I am unconvinced. I’ll take a cabin over a rural development any day, thanks.

Then I happened to be listening to Terri Gross’s interview with James McBride on Fresh Air. They’re discussing the setting of his most recent novel, Deacon King Kong, and McBride explains how, throughout his childhood, he would leave Queens and spend summers in Red Hook. “There was a freedom in Red Hook that I didn’t experience in Queens. The church was there. My godparents were strict but they were fun. There was just a freedom there that I didn’t really feel anywhere else. There was also a sense of community that I felt didn’t exist elsewhere.”

When Terri Gross asked how you could feel a sense of freedom in a neighbourhood reputed for its crime, McBride elaborated. “Because you know who everybody is. You know who not to mess with, you know [who not to fool with, who’s in a bad mood because bad news, who’s trustworthy, what someone’s mother is like,] it was the sense of being in a village, a sense of ‘us against the world,’ (…) a sense of ‘we are kinda together here’. Now, granted, (…) you kinda have to remember (…) to let people have their own space, so you just ignore things you just don’t want to see. You see someone doing something wrong, you see someone dating someone they shouldn’t be, you just kinda look past it because everyone deserves their own space. But there is a togetherness that comes with that.”

I think that what McBride does is relay an experience that is both unique and convincing because it has soul. The promotional article has no soul. I mean, that’s normal, it’s to be expected, but still… I like feeling!

Perspective

I often make things bigger than they are. A job is life-defining. Self-worth hinges on a task. Someone’s e-mail could read as disapproval.

Noelle Stevenson commented, on Slate’s Working podcast: “I think the hardest thing about creating something is just believing you can do it. Personally, I need to trick myself into that a lot because the second I start thinking: ‘This isn’t good enough, this is not what they’re gonna want, someone else is gonna do a better job at this,’ that’s when I start losing my vision. (…) That’s when fear starts getting the better of me; it’s just not as real, not as from-the-heart, it’s stilted. I just think it’s one of the biggest obstacles to overcome.”

I play this trick on myself too. Once, I pretended I was no more than a person walking a dog that a train driver saw while rumbling through a European town. On a cloudy day, I pretended I was an old woman, not yet retired, who had a fireplace in her home - like in those artistic videos full of atmosphere - and that on that day she had a few students to counsel on writing… I was surprised how comforting it felt.

Self-conscious

Sometimes I regret not taking pictures. Sometimes I wonder about the regret. Yesterday I went to Value Village, dropping off the results of a de-cluttering in the basement and stopping in the store, just to look. “I should take a picture” I thought, of things I saw that I liked but would not buy… Dainty earrings, intriguing necklaces, a gold picture frame, mugs from Niagara Falls. But I thought “no, just enjoy the experience of looking and wandering…” and I didn’t take out my phone. Pictures would have been more clutter. They would have been a different form of possession, a thing that said “look at me, looking at what I saw”. I felt self-conscious.

I found a plaid skirt and two merino-wool sweaters. At the checkout, the cashier had chipped black nail polish and a gold ring for each finger of his right hand. I often debate with myself whether or not I should voice my thoughts and decided to compliment the wearer’s rings. They clenched their hand into fists so I could see the rings better and I said they formed a nice collection. They smiled. Today, I still picture the dainty earrings, the picture frame, the gold rings. I liked them even better when shown me, when their wearer smiled.

I think self-consciousness too often holds me back. I was at Value Village for a change of scenery, to be reminded, as Liang writes, to “be generous to the strange, be open to difference, cross-pollinate freely” (via Brain Pickings.) It is like what Marilla says to Anne when the latter is fretting about leaving a good impression as a guest to tea: “The trouble with you, Anne, is that you’re thinking too much about yourself. You should just think of Mrs. Allan and what would be nicest and most agreeable for her.” (Anne of Green Gables, p. 213)

Next time, I’ll take pictures.

Humility

Somewhat hilariously, I’ve been listening to a CBC podcast based on an American podcast’s recommendation, as if things, before they should reach my ears, must be American-approved. Have you ever noticed that? Those little moments that force you to rethink things? I’ve heard so much about Adam Grant’s latest book Think Again and I think fussily, like a person who has too many jotted-down titles of books they should read, whether it is really necessary to read this author’s take on something I suspect I already know?

The other day for example, I was in Wal-Mart and I passed two women who were considering a mass-produced painting of a Parisian street with the vague outline of the Eiffel Tower in the background. “I don’t know what it is, but I love this painting” the one was saying to the other. I inwardly scoffed. How can you fall in love with a fake-as-heck piece of reproduction art? What about supporting local artists, eh? But the next aisle over I chastised myself for the unkindness and remembered what my mother-in-law has often repeated: “tastes cannot be argued” (Les goûts ne se discutent pas!). Then, while looking for a lucite organizer tray, I came across stark white canvases with flower outlines in gold and imagined how nicely the frame would look against our slate-blue wall and protectively tucked this rectangle piece of decor under my arm all the way to the self-checkout.

I’m pretty sure that to be interested in history is to engage in a flexible state of mind. I grew up not caring about Canada’s problem with its Indigenous Peoples, but a few courses in to a history degree will force any student to re-think. I’m listening to CBC’s Missing and Murdered: Finding Cleo, thanks to a recommendation from the Longford podcast. It’s well-produced. It’s also devastating. It reminds me of reading Halfbreed by Maria Campbell.

I notice in these moments how the book, or podcast, or documentary, or university course, provides a vantage-point with which to view the tiny space I occupy. It is humbling. It is also a source of pride. Like a person who has travelled to a new country and now brags of their visit there, I have gained some partial understanding of a minorities’ situation. I feel this as a kind of paradox. Learning more about Indigenous People is a good thing, it is one of the goals of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. It’s also uncomfortable and I think the discomfort prompts the mind to race toward anything that might alleviate the discomfort. I’ve found myself thinking: “I should enlighten people with what I’ve learned!” But I’ve also found myself (I blush to write this), wishing I could express my admiration for the survivors whose stories I’ve heard, at great remove from them.

I think what is needed though, is humility. Humility is a fickle quality because once it is declared, it ceases to exist, much like when one observes happiness, it too can fly away. But it is worth pursuing in tangible ways… Humility, like Mother Teresa once said, can be found in being quiet about oneself, in keeping busy with your own things, in not wanting to organize other people’s lives. It can be found in not getting mad about minor things or pointing out other people’s flaws. I think that if humility is appreciated and cultivated, it doesn’t become too hard to re-think big things.

Enthusiasm!

I love witnessing enthusiasm! Lately two podcast hosts interviewed two enthusiasts: Debbie Millman interviewed Adam Grant on Design Matters and second, Steven Levitt interviewed Joshua Jay on People I Mostly Admire.

When Debbie Millman asked Adam Grant about the speed with which he completed his graduate degree, he answered that while he had an enormous headstart, “at the time I subscribed to the When Harry Met Sally philosophy of career and life decision-making (….). I’ve always thought of it as that line where in the movie, I think it’s Billy Crystal who says ‘when you know what you want for the rest of your life, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.’ I didn’t go to grad school to be a grad student. Yes, of course I wanted to gain all this knowledge and build my skills, that was intrinsically interesting to me, but I wanted to share my knowledge, I wanted to teach!”

On Dan Levitt’s podcast, Joshua Jay expresses SO MUCH enthusiasm for magic, I regret my near-dismissal of the subject. Dan Levitt concludes the podcast: “Young people are often told they should find something they love and pursue it with everything they have - I’ve never really liked that advice… The problem is, when you’re just getting started with something, whether it’s magic or economics or even a new relationship, you just don’t know very much about the object you’ve fallen in love with and, as you get to know it better, what you initially loved often proves illusory or fades in importance. I mean, I still pursue the thing I love over something more practical every time. It’s a great place to start, but it’s only a start. To crate a lasting love of something, you have to make it your own, or as Joshua says, make it three dimensional.”

Paralysis

It’s very hard being an adult when you were once a child that made herself quiet, that folded in her thoughts and waited for the occasion to express what she guessed the adult might want to hear.

It’s very hard to carelessly put words down when you were once the child of a person who found comfort in imagining importance in false-mystical interpretations (to which you did not detain the code) because banality contained for them too many occasions for pain.

It’s very hard to believe that the practice you invest in yourself is worth any time and any justification, when once you were the daughter of someone whom you could not convince of being worthy of love.

Memories of my Grandma

My Grandma died the other night, at age 92. I’m pretty sure she was 92. Maybe she was 93 but I don’t feel like checking, and what is another year added or subtracted when decidedly, it can be said, she was old.

I don’t know if you’ve ever felt this way when someone you knew died, but I get this urge to reach out and collect the stray memories. Death slips a person away and my thoughts eddy around the feeling of disruption. What place-keeper should I put to fill the new empty space?

I used to worry that snippets of memory didn’t count, especially on so large an occasion as death, but this short essay by Brian Doyle convinced me otherwise. It begins:

You will say to me that time passeth, that What Was is now only memory, that we cannot reclaim or resurrect that which is inarguably past, but I am going to quibble about this, and quiz and question you hard and close, for I don’t even have to shut my eyes and it is six in the morning, long ago and right now, far away and right here, and it is snowing heavily, and there is a silvery shiver to the world, and the house is silent except for how it sighs sometimes when it remembers the forest it used to be, and I am huddled deep under four blankets, and I know without even opening my eyes that everyone else in the house is asleep, for when you are a child you have the most extraordinary senses, and can tell the color of a bird by its song, and the day of the week by the thrum of the rain, and how amused or annoyed your dad is by the tilt of his hat. Why do we not sing these things as miracles?

And so, when I think of my Grandma, I’m transported to that summer day in Saskatoon when we are walking from Midtown Plaza and crossing 1st Ave to 21st Street. A car, its windows down, veered in front of us and Grandma called the driver a jerk for cutting us off. The driver’s response was to slow the car’s pace and follow us down the block while yelling insults at my Grandma. The whole thing was a fluster in my single-digit years, when my parents were the type of adults who discouraged me from saying “Geez” like my friends at school because it sounded too similar to “Jesus”. Thinking of Grandma, I think of food, of the way she added diced ham to scrambled eggs, or how she baked apple pies and white-wheat buns. These things were good and unpretentious.

I think I’m learning to be fine with the ambiguities of a person at their death. I think I can begin to agree with Elizabeth Bishop: “The art of losing isn’t hard to master;”…

That cliché about kindness

Being kind is the sort of platitude even children get tired of hearing. In The Happiness Project, Gretchen Rubin writes “One conclusion was blatantly clear from my happiness research: everyone from contemporary scientists to ancient philosophers agrees that having strong social bonds is probably the most meaningful contributor to happiness.”

It’s one of those things that, heard so often, can sound cliché. But take this snippet of an interview from the Longford podcast, at 32 minutes, when Katie Engelhart says this: “Another observation I had, while writing this book and also other projects, [is] when someone is sick or dying and suffering, I think they can become - selfish is the wrong word, because it’s negative, but - really focused on themselves. I mean it’s something I notice all the time. Usually on an assignment, if I’m asking questions, people have questions about me, about my work and my job. When someone’s really sick, or they’re dying, they don’t ask those questions that much. They’re busy.” Isn’t it fascinating? Because it takes this cliché about kindness that feels a little shallow: be nice to people and you’ll feel better; and adds depth. Dying is this inward focused energy and living is outward focused and a sign of health is this out-going act of care for others.