Lincoln, reader

I'm slowly making my way through Doris Kearns Goodwin's Team of Rivals, which illuminates the sharp mind of Abraham Lincoln.

Early on, Goodwin explores Lincoln the reader, a cemented identity far before he came a lawyer and then a fabled American president:

Books became his academy, his college. The printed word united his mind with the great minds of generations past. Relatives and neighbors recalled that he scoured the countryside for books and read every volume “he could lay his hands on."

Lincoln found true power in text, I think. His mind was one domain of his life in which he could control regardless of his unprivileged circumstance. Goodwin writes a few pages later:

What Lincoln lacked in preparation and guidance, he made up for with his daunting concentration, phenomenal memory, acute reasoning faculties, and interpretive penetration. Though untutored in the sciences and the classics, he was able to read and reread his books until he understood them fully. “Get the books, and read and study them,” he told a law student seeking advice in 1855. It did not matter, he continued, whether the reading be done in a small town or a large city, by oneself or in the company of others. “The books, and your capacity for understanding them, are just the same in all places. . . . Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed, is more important than any other one thing."

At the time, "law school" meant apprenticing under a practicing lawyer. Lincoln just read the books. As I go through "rigors" of law school in the modern era, it's worth taking a moment and truly absorbing just how devoted Lincoln was before his rise to prominence. The advice Lincoln gave the law student -- "Get the books, and read and study them," -- is probably a good recipe for more than just law school (the full letter can be found here). I'm inspired by passionate readers and slowly, I'm awakening that part of my own identity and little tidbits like these add fuel to that fire to read carefully, widely, and well.

This is Water

I've read and/or listened (full; animated excerpts) to this commencement speech from David Foster Wallace many times in the last few years. I read it again recently and the capital-T Truth of it all hit me like a brick, as it always does. Maria Popova often calls the commencement speech the "secular sermon of our time", and this Sunday I soaked up the words of the preacher.

In the beginning, DFW states clearly the hard mental work of the every-day:

This is not a matter of virtue -- it's a matter of choosing to do the work of somehow altering or getting free of my natural, hardwired default setting, which is to be deeply and literally self-centered, and to see and interpret everything through this lens of self.

On the value of a liberal arts education, DFW points to the power of choice:

But if you've really learned how to think, how to pay attention, then you will know you have other options. It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell-type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that lit the stars -- compassion, love, the subsurface unity of all things. Not that the mystical stuff's necessarily true: The only capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're going to try to see it.

DFW closes with some simple yet powerful truths that are especially important for me to keep close to my chest as I wade through law school (with all its trappings of prestige):

It is about the value of real education, which has nothing to do with grades or degrees and everything to do with simple awareness -- awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, that we have to keep reminding ourselves over and over:

"This is water."

"This is water."

Personally, I've found that meditation is the best way to remind myself, "This is water." Regardless, we all need to find our way to some sort of awareness.

The Adjacent Possible

Stuart Kauffman, a complex-systems biologist, coined the term “adjacent possible” to explain the progression of simpler chemical structures to more complex ones. When simple chemical structures occupy the same space, they network with one another, each chemical structure talking to the others. The potential products of this mingling — new, more complex chemical structures — are possible realities that exist in a space Kauffman calls the adjacent possible. When new chemical structures do emerge, their very existence defines a new adjacent possible: a new mingling network with a new set of potential products.

Steven Johnson took Kauffman’s concept and applied it to ideas. “The adjacent possible,” Johnson writes in Where Good Ideas Come From, “is a kind of shadow future, hovering on the edges of the present state of things, a map of all the ways in which the present can reinvent itself”. When the right components mingle in the same space, they chart out new territory of possible innovation. As an example, Johnson examines the isolation of oxygen as a component of air. Two pieces — the idea of viewing air as not a void but a substance with elements and the development of sensitive enough scales — connected to create an adjacent possible that included the isolation of oxygen. It was only when those two components were together that the adjacent possible was created and then made into reality. When that discovery was made, the scientists redefined both the edge of our knowledge and the edge of our potential knowledge.

Education is the means of getting to the edge. The raison d’être of education isn’t the raw accumulation of knowing; it’s interplay between what’s known, knowable, and possible. After all, knowledge by itself isn’t intrinsically useful. It’s only when, with that which is known firmly in hand, we enter into the shadow future and pull something back into the present that we actually create value. Humanity’s progress may simply be the process of trading glimpses into the adjacent possible for reality. With this in mind, education must equip us with the tools to tell the stories of the future. Standing at this edge of the possible, we are constantly remaking what the world is and what it could be.

What, then, does a good education look like in light of our role as storytellers of the future? To start, we recognize education’s role as a facilitator of new adjacent possibles. With this role, education becomes as much about better questions as is it is about better answers, as much about connecting ideas as it is creating new ones. An interdisciplinary education becomes a requirement, not a luxury. Problem solving looks less like looking for solutions and more like changing the recipe. A good education, then, is like a a good party planner, providing for the student a space for ideas to network and plenty of modes of transportation for the student to arrive at the edge.

This very essay could be a transport vehicle. The thoughts here -- Kauffman's and Johnson's ideas and what education ought to do for society -- are not new ones, per se; however, the paragraphs become playgrounds when the ideas come together. Through the play -- the connections between ideas -- the adjacent possible transforms. Old ideas, unlike old dogs, can learn new tricks.

Today, consider your own education. For your personal development, your knowledge as a member of a team, or for your studies in a particular discipline, what “structures” could you add in order to alter the adjacent possible? Who knows what could come from it? According to Johnson, you cannot know until you try.

This essay was originally published by The Caesura Letters on September 22, 2015 here as part of a week of pieces on the theme of education. The site is one of the most thoughtful spaces on the Internet (more about it here) and I'm very grateful for having my submission published.

Just Stories

As Asha and I wandered through the Colosseum, we came across an exhibit detailing ancient mythology. Both of us took real delight in the stories we encountered about the gods of old.

Why was I able to enjoy them so much? Part of it has to do with the fact that they're thrilling stories wrapped in an incredible amount of symbolism. The stories we encountered were the way in which the beginnings of modern civilization made sense of a changing world. The turning of the seasons, for example, can be explained by the tale of Persephone.

Besides the fact that they're examples of good storytelling, I think that another reason why I was able to enjoy them was that we have all decided that they are just stories. No one professes belief in Zeus anymore. Because no one stakes meaning on the veracity of these stories, we are free to appreciate their poetry.

I've spent a lot of this trip wandering through religious landscapes. The exhibit at the Colosseum was the first time that I could really lose myself in the religious story before me because it was just that: a story. The day after the Colosseum, we visited the Vatican and all the usual mental roadblocks took up their position. It was hard for me to appreciate the beauty of the Sistine Chapel when I knew that so much meaning and the foundation of many people's lives rides on the truth of the stories depicted. Unlike with the stories of the old gods, to not buy into the stories on those ceilings comes at a cost. In that beautiful space, my lack of belief and the faith of the onlooking true believer are locked in a zero-sum game. Each of our perspectives implicitly returns a negative judgement on the other. Trapped in this zero-sum game, I lack the freedom to just enjoy the story.

I don't have any of the answers but I do believe stories will always be how we move the world and make sense of it. The tools of our storytelling -- and the stories themselves -- will naturally change and adapt. That much is certain. I wonder, though, which of the stories we tell ourselves today will withstand the test of time.

Our Colosseums

I visited the Colosseum the other day. Its history is rich, but I want to focus on one detail in particular: it was a creation intended for the masses.

There's an idea that was part of my study of international relations at Carnegie Mellon called selectorate theory. The theory describes, explains, and predicts both the internal and external policy of a country through a focus on the leaders of individual states. In a few words, the theory pays attention to the relationship between the groups that are involved in electing a leader or keeping a leader in power. Of particular interest is the smallest subset of the group that selects a leader, the winning coalition. When leaders have a small number of people to win over, say, in a dictatorship, the theory predicts the distribution of private goods. When leaders have a large number of people to win over, say, in a democracy, the theory predicts the creation of public goods.

In some sense, the emperor had to pay attention to the masses. They did not select him, but the sangunity of the public was still important. As a result, the building of the Colosseum, while extravagant, could arguably be a smart investment on the part of a ruling emperor. Providing a space for entertainment like gladiatorial contests was sure to have made the public a happy bunch.

Politics has changed quite a bit from the kind we might find in Rome during the time where the Colosseum was in actual use. However, it hasn't changed completely: far from not having to pay attention to the masses anymore, the rise of democracy has made it more important that leaders focus on satisfying the masses. In a sense, then, democratic society still has its metaphorical Colosseums: "projects" already completed, under construction, or promised by potential future rulers in order to sway our opinion.

The Colosseum as it was long ago is no longer, but it leaves a distinct impression of dramatic and public violence as the opiate of the masses. That is, at least in part, the Colosseum's legacy. Today, we can choose our Colosseums indirectly through the power of the vote. What structures will be built to appeal to the masses? We must choose carefully the legacy we intend to leave. Thousands of years from now, will the Colosseums we choose today still stand? What will they say about us? It's up to us.

Go the Other Way

Go the other way.

Is it deep into the night or creeping into the early morning? Get out there and witness the different rhythm.

Is it raining? Head somewhere popular and observe its character in the state of desertion.

Is there an escalator? Take the stairs. They will be less crowded, you'll get some exercise, and probably get where you're going faster.

Are people burdened with luggage like pack mules? Pack light and go fast through crowds.

Are there massive lines? Skip them by planning ahead, going during a different time, or skipping the thing altogether. Sometimes the collective hype is just hot air.

Is everyone heading into subways and taxis? Walk, if you can. You'll see a fuller picture of things.

Do people unquestionably believe something? Double-check if the wisdom of the crowds has true wisdom.

Do you unquestionably believe something? Ask yourself what it would take for you to change your mind.

Go the other way.

Skimming Stones to 10,000 Hours

Writing this blog has been an experiment ever since I first ventured to Malawi in 2009. I didn't think that much about creating the (then) Wordpress site and sharing my thoughts about the first time I left the United States. My writing from that summer is sweetly pure.

Over time, however, I've become more self-conscious of putting my writing out there. We get older and wiser, but we also get more afraid. What will my family, friends, and peers think of the words I put on the page? Am I saying something worthy of people's attention?

Even though I've always seen the project of writing online as a way of navigating my own sense of becoming, pulling my thoughts to the page as a way to make sense of them, these doubting questions can weigh me down sometimes.

The common advice about art is to just churn out more of it, to get your 10,000 hours in any way you can. I think I worry about my art -- writing -- producing beautiful "hours" in the process. The truth of it is that it's all likely to be ugly, with only a few gems to come from it. I know, for example, what's good in something that I write and what's bad. It's only the smallest bits -- a turn of phrase here, or a run of thoughts there -- that I can hold up proudly. I recently read a short essay where someone compared the exercise of a writer's morning pages to that of skimming stones:

You spend a couple of seconds looking for a good stone and you throw. There’s no concern about the quality of the throw, a few throws is all that’s needed to get better.

Most of the stones I throw these days are crap. But if I just keep all these throws to myself and wait until I've reached some sort of self-certified mastery, what's the point of it all? To connect is to be human. We have to show our work of being human. I hope that by putting out at least some of my crap on display, I can nudge myself to keep logging the hours and occasionally stumbling upon beautiful. Maybe others will reach a point where they extend bits of their soul out for others to see, too. What I say doesn't have to be profound and it doesn't have to be inspiring, it just has to be honest. I've just got to keep skimming stones.

The Pause

I've been watching a lot of people take photographs these last few weeks. Buildings, landscapes, food, drinks, art, movement: everything is a potential shot. The constant presence of photography in action made me think about what we are doing when we stop for a picture.

When we see something beautiful or interesting and then move to capture it, what's going on? Part of it is probably rooted in the ego: we want to have proof of where we go and what we see. When we share that proof with others, we are met with adulation, often in the form of abstract Internet approval. Another part of it might have to do with our attempts to bottle the awe and interestingness we encounter and share it with others. Humans have a deep drive to connect with others and one of the most powerful ways of doing that is to let in others on the story we see unfolding before us.

The drive of the ego and our desire to share could explain why we pause to take a photo, but I think there is more going on. Before photography, what did people do? They sat there for a moment and took it all in. Maybe they wrote, painted, or told stories to keep the memory alive. Now, though, we have the option of memoralizing it at low-cost. The choice is ostensibly between keeping it forever and letting it go. "Capturing" a photo is an apt turn of phrase: we either catch the moment or let it return to the wild. These moments don't exist in any true sense beyond the present moment. This impermanence -- the ephemeral nature of what's before us in every moment -- presents a frightening chasm that the past swallows up. It's no surprise that we turn away from embracing this impermanence and cast our nets out to try and keep what we can.

I'm convinced, however, that in the process of running away from the impermanence, we are losing something. We see the photo before we see the moment. This would make a good picture, we think, pulling out our camera. Through the act of framing a picture, our very experience of the moment is also framed.

Let's be clear: I'm not advocating for people to stop taking photographs. They can be a wonderful medium. I take pictures and will continue doing so and the stories they can tell are worthy of deep effort and a keen eye for what makes the world beautiful. I just think that we have to wrestle seriously with the way in which we respond to impermanence. Before you snap, soak it up. Maybe experiment with letting it go completely, freeing yourself of the burden of trying to keep what is ultimately impermanent.

It's worth noting that there's something strange about the language we use for photography. Capture. Shoot. Take. All of these are violent, aggressive words. Even the advice for good photography mirrors the advice for good marksmanship: breathe out when you shoot the photo (and the bullet).

Maybe we can experiment with letting go of this violent attempt to hold on to the past every once in a while. Maybe we can decide to transmute what we see into other forms in order to keep our memories adaptable and multifaceted.

If after a pause, the moment deserves the photo, then, by all means, take your picture. This pause is everything. Learning how to sit in that small space of pause is the battleground for our humanity. It is where we explore the choice of calmness over anger, mindfulness over desire, and courage over fear. We can choose to journey there more often. We should.

Now, hold on a second, I've got to take a picture of this vista...

Drowning in Art

Asha and I have had the chance to drop by a few renowned art museums over the last few weeks. It's been a strange experience for me. When I'm looking at these world-famous paintings, I feel like I'm drowning. I don't know how to swim in this kind of art. I've seen some of the most lauded pieces of art in human history and my gaze passes over the work, gasping for something yet returning nothing. Art should move us and so far these art museums have been an experiment in going nowhere.

Art is undoubtably a subjective experience. The further you drill down, the more the objectivity of the viewer unravels, giving in to raw subjectivity. Every kid has been thrown for a loop when they try to wrap their head around whether the blue that they see is the blue that others see. Maybe the styles of painting that I have encountered aren't for me and that's the end of the story. Certainly, the vast collection of religious art is emphatically not preaching to the choir.

Alternatively, it could be that I'm drowning because I lack the requisite foundation from which to appreciate the work. It could be that I'm outside of the flow channel in Mihály Csíkszentmihályi's flow channel): I have a healthy amount of interest, but too much difficulty. For me, though, that begs the question: is there value in the intrinsic accessibility of art? At least on my end, there's something immediate about good art in other mediums. Powerful writing, music, or film just hits you. You don't need to play classical music to be moved to tears by a beautiful symphony or have to be able to write a novel to be transported by a passage. Of course, the same feeling of drowning could be present when others try to swim in these mediums.

With that said, I think there's some value in drowning. We should all feel completely out of our depth every once in a while. A healthy serving of humility has never hurt anyone. But I still think there's some intrinsic merit to art's accessibility. Maybe someone can throw me a lifeline and keep me from drowning in art any longer?

God, Under Construction

I wrote the following while sitting in La Segrada Familia, shown above at distance.

What is it about God that makes us want to contain that which isn't there? We put up these lofty spaces and then fill them with lofty ideas that always come crashing down from the high ceilings.

Gaudi might be touching God here in this holy space made with such precision and light but what if he isn't what if it's all a cruel joke and we would all be better off stopping the building of any more churches and letting the trees shake the foundations with their overflowing roots and rupture these ideas of old and replace them with the oldest of ideas: that we are probably alone in this universe and that's okay no it's God damn beautiful and scary and wonderful and powerful?

Yes, that's what we must do: return to nature and stop imitating it. We can just sit with it all under the tree, not cutting the tree down to worship a man nailed to boards made of our wandering destruction of nature. We could tear it all down, everybody, and start anew. I'm asking for a tabula rasa, a blank slate created in one swipe that can undo all the hurt and confusion we've sown just trying to make sense of being alone.

We could sit with that aloneness and be radically honest with it. I say again that we're alone but add that we're together. Let's be terrified together and hope for all the tomorrows all the nows to just erupt with joy and patience and kindness and the urgency of beauty and love. We can say yes to all of this while softly saying no to anything else that makes us sink.

All this is all of it and it's enough seven times over. Maybe God didn't make the world in seven days, maybe He didn't make it it at all and I think I can see through the ruse in the piercing light as it dances gently all around me. Maybe this temporary clarity is Truth if I can hold onto it with a sweating hand on the edge just grasping for purchase.

Hanging on this edge I'm led not to giving in to fear but letting in hope despite the utter terror because that is my only -- our only -- recourse. I don't doubt that we can flourish in this powerful uncertainty but I do think that we need to cast out the demons if we want to live again pure and maybe God is just another demon too convincing of our own making, buoyed by the calls for love. I mean can Man really stake a claim on something as big as the idea of God? I sit here and look up to these beautiful ceilings that are held up by the stretch of tree-like columns and still the idea of it all is just too big to house in this house of worship. We've fired too many arrows at Truth and I think we keep missing because the target we are shooting at isn't there. I want to just put down the bow and sit under the tree and always begin again in this moment. Maybe I'm wrong, maybe I'm right who knows I'm just a mortal man dreaming out loud in a dream.