connection – what a fool believes . . . .

Credo

Everyone should have a credo. Consciously-developed beliefs, understood and articulated so that they can guide individual actions.

So what is my credo?

I believe many things, and, like any credo worth its salt, all of those things have implications for action.

First, I believe we all have equal human value, even as we are unequal in what we can contribute to the collective at any one time. No one is inherently better or worse – or worth more or less – than another because of their specific talents. The value to our community of those talents may ebb and flow, but fundamentally we are all worth the same, and as such we deserve the same basic communal benefits.

I also believe that every dog will have its day.

Meaning that we will eventually need those folks whose talents and skills and experiences are out-of-season today. We don’t know when, but their days will come, and we want them healthy and committed when they do. So we must provide to each other food and shelter and education and basic healthcare, all of those things that ensure survival and growth, regardless of what each of us contributes to our immediate needs.

I believe that people should be rewarded for their efforts and the positive outcomes that result (positive outcomes are those that improve collective utility). Every dog will have its day, but the dog that hunts today rather than tomorrow must get some benefit, lest that dog withhold its talents.

Why would a dog withhold its talents? And why wouldn’t we insist that it make its contribution to our collective benefit?

Because I believe in full agency. In fact, I might believe in full agency as my foundational truth.

Until our decisions and our actions hurt someone else, we must be allowed the widest discretion to choose our own paths. Each of us is uniquely human, a complex stew of ambitions and experiences, influences and knowledge, skills and blind spots, and we exist in a complex and dynamic environment. I cannot know what’s best for anyone else. I’m not sure I can know what’s best for me, given how much everything changes both within and around me. And since I cannot know what’s best for you, I cannot tell you what to do. I can suggest action, I can provide data so I feel like you’re better informed, I can share what choice I would make, but I cannot force you or even manipulate you into a decision. You must be free to choose your way, just as I must be free to choose mine.

I believe people are communal. We form tribes. Even introverts like me relish other people’s company (at least sometimes!). A shared laugh is so much more fulfilling, so much more robust than a solitary chuckle. We find meaning in community. We find purpose in working with others towards common ends. We want to belong with other people.

When someone holds themselves outside our community, it’s possible they’re just an antisocial asshole. But I believe it’s far, far more likely that they just feel rejected by the rest of us. They feel unappreciated or vilified or ignored. They feel like they’ve been treated unfairly. So when we see someone isolated, instead of asking what’s wrong with them, we should ask ourselves whether we’ve made that person feel welcome. Or, looking forward rather than backwards, let’s ask how we might help them feel welcome, so that they will join our community and strengthen it. Regardless, people must freely choose to join community, not have it forced upon them.

(If Gallup Strengthfinders is to be believed, Includer is my greatest strength, and it likely comes from this part of this fledgling credo – helping others feel like they can be part of our team. I see value in others, and I want to bring people together in a way that makes each individual feel valued.)

I believe we all strive to matter. We want to make a difference in the world around us. We want other people to know that we are here. So we strive to achieve. We create. We don’t need other people in order to achieve or to create, but other people add dimension and perspective to our accomplishments. And they allow us to achieve even greater things, more complicated things, more intimidating things when we band together with them. Many hands make light work, after all.

We can accomplish more when we work together. Not only do we have more capacity for work, we also have more creativity, more imagination, and more energy to call on. We have countless examples of individual genius, but we have many more examples of teams that accomplished amazing things because they combined the knowledge, wisdom, skills, experiences, energy, and creativity of many minds and bodies.

So put it together, and my credo is that we make community to accomplish things that benefit us collectively while recognizing the value that each of us contributes, knowing that those contributions will be uneven, always favoring some of us over others. We need to recognize those who contribute more, but we need to care for everyone so that they are ready when their turn comes and we need them. And all of it has to be chosen freely, individually, by each member of our community.

That’s my credo. Or at least the start of it. I’m sure more elements will occur to me as time marches on.

Loss and My Friend John

I saw my good friend John yesterday.

John is a man who delights in his family. He revels in their company. His wife and daughter are always – and I do mean always – in the forefront of his mind. He feels very close to his sister, and he relished his relationships with his parents until they recently passed away.

Every weekend, every vacation, every spare moment he has available he wants to spend in the company of his family. He chooses them first. Every single time. And his devotion isn’t forced. It comes from a heart filled with love and gratitude for having people to care about.

John has hobbies – he enjoys sports, both playing and watching – but even those interests he shares as much as possible with his loved ones. I can think of no one who gets more fulfillment, more satisfaction from spending time with his family. His unadulterated joy in their presence just radiates from him in big, happy waves.

Which is why the death of his son earlier this year is simply the cruelest thing I’ve ever seen.

John’s son was 19, in his freshman year of college, and he was killed by a quick and sadly painful illness.

His death is devastating to everyone who knew him. But depriving his father of his presence, the father who pulled limitless joy from his son, feels so despicably merciless and mean. And John is shattered. His infectious energy is now subdued. He looks so very sad.

I have hope for John though.

Perhaps it is merely wishful thinking, but I can’t think so. Relegating my good friend to this level of suffering indefinitely is inconceivable for me. How could anyone withstand it? I don’t know how I could cope if one of my daughters died now, and I don’t know how John has been able to function at all these past few months. I fervently wish I could heal him somehow, make him whole again, but he will never be whole again while he walks this earth, and I can’t offer anything that will help him through this trial.

Still, John has two advantages that not everyone in his situation can claim.

First, as he has given his complete devotion to his family, they have returned it to him in full. His wife and his daughter and his sister and the rest of his family loves John like he loves them. The enormous hole left when his son died won’t ever be filled, but the relationships he shares with his other loved ones will continue to grow and deepen as the days and weeks and months and years pass by. They won’t erase his loss, but their love will fill him nonetheless.

Second, he is a faithful man. He believes – strongly – that God exists, that He is benevolent, and that He cares for his flock. I don’t claim to understand faith (I don’t have that tool in my toolbox) but I can see that John, despite his overwhelming grief, believes that the death of his son serves a purpose, inscrutable as it may be. John has found occasional peace and some solace in his prayers and meditations, and as skeptical as I usually am about spiritual things, I believe him in this: his son may be physically absent from his life, but John experiences him in any number of ways that prove to me that his son is very much present. I am far beyond my depth in all things spiritual, but given my own admittedly limited experiences I believe that there are dimensions we don’t understand that nevertheless touch us. And again, maybe I’m naive or simply willing something to be that isn’t, but that’s not how this feels to me.

I grieve with my friend John, even as I can’t fathom the depths of his loss. I also acclaim his humanity, his faith, his stalwartness to move forward in the face of such complete devastation. And I pray – in my own way – that he finds comfort and meaning and relief in his family, including his late son, so he can heal from this wrecking blow. And that no other parent ever has to face something so calamitous.

Divorce, Writ Large

My wife and I are midway through a so-far amicable divorce.

(I add “so far” only to keep from jinxing us – I am a mite superstitious, and I fully expect we’ll finish it as friends, but, well, you know. . . .)

We are much – much – better as friends than spouses. We disappoint each other tremendously as spouses, but when we lower our expectations to those of friends we fit well.

While our personal situation involves just two, I think it’s analogous to our larger community. Our country – well, our world to be honest – has split into two camps, and there’s virtually no common ground between them. Call them Red and Blue, Progressive and Conservative, Flyover and Coastal, Snowflakes and Rednecks, but we have highly divergent views on how we want to live. And we’re both trying to force our choices on the other.

So I think our no-longer United States of America needs a similar remedy to the one my wife and I chose: an amicable divorce.

As sad and disruptive as a divorce is, it’s still better than burning down the house. And that’s where we’re headed if we continue to try to force half of our community to accept policies, behaviors, spending priorities that are antithetical to their beliefs. The majority – or even a significant minority – will not accept being shut out of communal decisions. When the majority – or even a significant minority – is repeatedly denied even partial satisfaction, they will respond. And when all peaceful avenues to change are blocked, violence follows. The majority – or even a significant minority – will take action, and if violence is the only action that remains, then that’s the path it will choose.

We can circumvent all that destruction though. When people have fundamentally different views on how to live they need to let each other go instead of trying to get the other to knuckle under. Respect each other’s choices and let them live the lives the want to live. Be generous, be gracious, be true to yourself, allow others to be true to themselves.

National divorce will be messy.

We’ll need to revamp all kinds of institutions and create policy from scratch. But the world has many roadmaps to separating nations. Sudan and South Sudan. Yugoslavia. Czechoslovakia. We’ll need to discuss alimony – as economies separate some have more promise than others, and it’s fair to compensate the disadvantaged partner. We’ll need to decide geography – what land corresponds to which country. And I suppose we’ll have to decide how to handle the few territories we have too, though maybe we should let the people in Puerto Rico, Samoa, Guam, and the US Virgin Islands decide where they want to go.

But the alternative is messier. Years of acrimony and recriminations that detract from our quality of life. Energy and resources wasted on trying to change minds and, when that fails (as it surely will), forcing the other to submit.

We don’t need to do that. Separation can be traumatic. It can be vicious. Or it can be kind.

I’m a believer in kindness.

The Struggle

There’s a purity in selfishness.

An enticing simplicity.

A seductive ease.

I know my own desires, my own needs fully, but I’m just guessing at yours. And who knows what the guy down the street thinks. No, I know what I need, what I want, what I deserve, and that robust and certain knowing contrasted with my supposition of your thoughts – even if it’s well-intentioned – gives exaggerated weight to my side of the scale.

Plus I don’t get a direct return from investing in your satisfaction.

So I have a thorough understanding of the geography of my desires and I reap the entire benefits of what I do for myself. No wonder it’s so tempting to ignore you.

And yet.

We live communally.

I need you and the rest of our neighbors to do things for me, like build roads and schools and hospitals and parks and recreation courts and fields. I need you all to help provide police and fire protection and maintenance for those roads and schools and hospitals we built. I also want you to keep an eye on my house when I’m on vacation, and I need to have some social interactions with you to feed my real need for human connection. Plus I actually like hanging out with you. We play well off each other, you make me laugh, and we both like beer and the Bears.

So for a plethora of reasons, I interact with you, and you need a reason to interact with me. But this is where it gets complicated, I suppose. Some of my interactions are motivated by necessity – I need to be nice to you so that you will do what I want. Others are motivated by good will – I like you, and I like doing things with you. So what looks like altruism might actually be selfishness dressed up. Or it might really be altruism. Giving for the greater good.

How can we tell the difference?

I can’t know another’s heart. So I choose to believe that what looks like altruism really is altruism. That assumption creates emotional risk, of course – the good feelings end when there’s no further gain to be had – but I much prefer it to the stress and distraction to which suspicion and second-guessing lead. And I really do believe that most people are honest. Or at least guileless. They tell you what they think, perhaps shading the truth here and there, but you can generally trust what someone tells you. So I figure I’ll be right more often than not when I give the benefit of the doubt.

There will be pain, of course, because people sometimes lie. But maybe that’s selfishness talking again. If I’m worried about getting hurt and strategizing about ways to reduce that risk, then I’m just saving my ass again, and I’m not thinking about how to make life better for all of us.

And maybe that’s where we should really start.

Differences

I am a product of my environment.

My family. Its genes and its values. My community. Its norms and expectations. My nation. Its identity and its archetypes.

My cousin isn’t.

I sometimes wonder if she might have a better answer than me. Not more or less right, but perhaps more effective at addressing the questions at hand: what’s the best way to secure yourself? Now, and for the future.

I am biased to independence. It seems the most secure path. And it feels like the most responsible path. The most moral path.

Of course, that’s because it aligns with my environmental expectations. Be self-sufficient. Avoid risk. Don’t put yourself at the mercy of other people – they are likely to choose themselves over you. And then where are you?

I think most people, at least in this country, feel the same.

But should we?

I heard some weeks ago that we are severely overinvested in personal transportation. 92% of cars at any given moment are parked. Sitting idle. So our desire for individual convenience has created an incredible automobile glut. Nine out of 10 cars are not in use, but waiting to be used. There are significant consequences for that decision as well: we are polluting our environment, we lose time in traffic congestion, we are more isolated from each other. The waste and damage is huge compared to other, more communal solutions to moving ourselves around.

Could we be making the same mistake in securing our futures?

My cousin has found a community that seems to be highly committed to each other. Their emotional connections seem to be deep, and they seem to value each other for what they are rather than for what they can give directly in return. What my cousin gives to the older members of that community is not expected to be repaid to her by those older people. I believe her expectation is that when she is older there will be a younger person willing to give the necessary time and energy to her care.

That feels like a very risky bet to me. And probably to most people who read this. But isn’t it wasteful for us all to prepare for a future independently?

Just as all those cars sit idle, a lot of the assets we accumulate to safeguard our future won’t be used by us. We accumulate them for security, just in case we need them. Like any good actuary would tell us though, some of us will live long lives and some of us won’t. If we all prepare to live to 90 or 95, then the person who dies at 75 or at 70 or at 65 is wasting resources, saving assets he or she will never use. If we had a communal pool of assets that we all contribute to – and an actuary would be very helpful to determine what that level would be – then those excess resources being invested could be put to use for other purposes.

This isn’t an original thought. It is, of course, the foundation of our social security system – we all pay in, and we all benefit, though not in the same proportion. For this to work, for people to feel good about it, we have to accept that some of us will be lucky with our lives’ duration and some of us will be unlucky. So be it.

It requires a profound shift in our communal values and expectations, a reordering of our communal priorities, and, perhaps hardest of all, a ceding of control. I am very reluctant to trust my fellow people to take care of me when I am vulnerable. I want to control that part of my life.

Understandably, perhaps. But necessarily? I wonder.

Empathy

I’m pretty sure our current malaise is self-inflicted.

After all, we choose what we think and what we do, and we’re choosing to think bad things of other people and to do things to punish them for their transgressions. Or at least to stop them from doing whatever we’re sure they’re going to do to us.

We seem to have lost empathy for our fellow people.

Giving whoever we meet the benefit of the doubt.

Assuming other people are just doing their best every day, the same as we are.

Instead we choose to believe that other people want to harm us, take advantage of us to further their own ends, force us to do things we don’t want to do. We’ve vilified great swaths of professions – politicians, journalists, scientists, business people – under the assumption that their members have a common agenda that trumps their professionalism and the many years of training and experience.

The saying – its author is in dispute, or I’d attribute it here – that we don’t see things as they are, we them as we are, resonates strongly with me.

If I want to impose my view of the world on others, I am going to believe that others want to do the same to me. And if I’m not open to compromise, to experimenting to see what might be the most effective solution to the matter at hand – in other words, if I think I have the one true answer – then I’ll believe that anyone else who doesn’t already agree with me won’t be swayed by my words either. And that they’re completely wrong.

We all know that relationships take work. You have to tend to them. Trust is the foundation of any healthy relationship, and open, honest and frequent communication is the vehicle to build trust. (Well, along with doing what you say you will, but that’s a topic for another day.) And as we know from our personal experience, communication isn’t just talking. It’s also listening. And it’s also thinking, evaluating what we’re hearing and being willing to modify our decisions if there are good reasons to do so. Because we hadn’t considered a different experience. Because we want others to be happy too. And even because we want to reduce tension in our environment.

Living in a community is a relationship. If we want to have a healthy relationship with the people in our community, we need to communicate with them. Talk, and listen, and think. I’m not suggesting that we abandon our principles or values, subordinate our experiences, or ignore our truths. Just that we try to understand what other people are saying. Listen. And think how we can merge our two truths into one we can both embrace instead of how we can never bridge the divide.

That’s the relationship work we need to do if we want to heal our communities. If we decide we don’t want to make the effort, then we’ll have more of the same acrimony we’ve got today.

And that doesn’t seem to be working for anyone.

Judgment, cont.

Everyone is right.

Or said better, everyone is partially right. And maybe if we acknowledge that fact we can start to mend the rips in our social fabric.

Let’s take welfare, to pick one explosively illustrative topic.

Are there welfare cheats, people who could earn a living but refuse to? Yes.

Are there people who need temporary help to make ends meet? Yes.

Are there people who will be permanently dependent on our largess because they lack all capabilities to support themselves? Yes.

But in our current debate you don’t hear anyone who agrees with all three statements. We can’t seem to grant even a small concession to an opposing point of view. And why not? Fear that others will use that concession to invalidate our perspective?

Everyone is partially right. The real question is to what degree? Is our belief consistent with the bulk of data? Or is it on the tails of the distribution with the outliers?

I think we do more damage to our causes by refusing to acknowledge facts. The anecdote is a powerful persuasive tool that often resonates more than data – a subject for another time – but an anecdote probably shouldn’t be the basis for an opinion and assuredly not for policy. But it is one data point, and since I believe that we can find an occurrence of just about anything any of us can think of, it means everyone is right at least once on an issue.

It doesn’t hurt to acknowledge it. And I think it even helps, because (1) it gives us credibility, and (2) it might soften the rancor felt by those who might otherwise feel at best unheard and at worse attacked.

I’m conflict averse. I believe we are far more effective when we work in concert instead of fighting each other. And I believe there are many paths to a destination. So I feel very strongly that we should give each other our just due.

I worry about us. The polarization, the tribalization, the demonization. It’s all so poisonous. Hateful. Destructive. Surely we’re better than this.

Maybe it starts with acknowledging that each of us is partially right. I’m not evil or stupid because I believe something that has happened. So give me that credit before we start to discuss where our respective ideas fall on the issue’s true distribution.

By denying this truth, we alienate ourselves from our fellow citizens. Which makes it easier to judge them. And we rarely judge mildly.

Does any good come from judging? Only if we judge ourselves. Otherwise we run afoul of what Daniel Kahneman calls WYSIATI – What you see is all there is. And since we aren’t omniscient, we miss important factors, things that would change our conclusions or make us more sympathetic to those with different views. But once we judge, we rarely backpedal, so if we learn those factors post-judgment we tend to discount them, or rationalize them away, or twist them into something that supports our rendered judgment.

Instead, perhaps we should simply acknowledge to each other that we are all partially right.

Death, cont.

If Greg Russell wasn’t the happiest man on earth, he was in the top two.

He died last night.

The news devastated our neighborhood. We all appreciated Greg’s smiling face on his daily walks with his wife Anne. Greg adored Anne. It was evident whenever you saw them together. Anne teaches piano, and one or the other of our girls (and usually both) were part of her studio for 14 years. They spent time with her every week, and we all love her for her sweetness and joy. We can imagine her grief.

We saw Greg a few times each year, reliably at the December and June recitals, and then occasionally as his walks with Anne around the neighborhood intersected with our lives. But you only needed to meet him once to know him. His face was open, a smile ever present, and his whole being exuded welcome. He was curious, and he had many interests, but his primary interest was whoever he was speaking with.

I will miss him, probably more than I realize. People like Greg are rare. They may not be recognized for great accomplishment, but they are the people who do the precious weaving of outwardly-focused busy people living in separate houses into a community of neighbors. Our neighborhood needs a new weaver. I hope there is someone to step into that role.

I want to be more like Greg. I am happy (generally). But I am not welcoming (generally). I spend so much time between my own ears that I often ignore others. Not out of spite or boredom but out of obliviousness. So that dye is cast – I am what I am, and what I am is not what Greg was.

At times like this I wonder about my legacy.

When the life of a man I both liked and admired is over and I reflect on his impact, I suppose it’s natural to wonder how I compare. I suspect the famous quote about legacy – that no one remembers what you said or what you did, but they do remember how you made them feel – doesn’t work to my advantage. I am a man of the mind not of the heart (generally) so I’m afraid that I don’t touch people in the same way Greg Russell did.

Then again not many do. I can make peace with that.

As long as I have enough time.

Sharing

Sharing feels good. Really good.

So why do we resist it so much? Especially when we have so much.

I get that conserving energy is a biological motivation deeply enbedded in our DNA. Our ancestors didn’t know when they would eat next, or find water, or need shelter, so hoarding resources was critical to their survival.

And yet they were also social animals. They lived in family groups and in communities. Working with other people was critical to their survival.

We are still social animals. We still live in communities, and I know not only that I derive most of my own satisfaction and pleasure from interacting with other people but also that I could not survive without a community to support me. I am a hobbyist potter who knows zero about acquiring food on my own, zero about building even modestly effective shelter, zero about machines or carpentry or any other necessary skill for truly independent off-the-grid living.

But do we still need to hoard resources?

Because we seem to believe we do. People in my broader family, good friends and neighbors, other people I know and respect seem to want to acquire and retain more than what it appears to me that they need. I don’t judge them for their decisions – I don’t know the details of their circumstances, and I believe strongly in self-determination – but I wonder if they’re not making decisions based on fear rather than a realistic reading of their circumstances.

I retired last year from my corporate career. I was very worried about whether or not I had enough money to transition to my new career, which is still undetermined 15 months later. I did. It seems we prepare for the worst – how else to ensure that we’ll make it through. But the worst only happens to a small fraction of us, so the rest of us have over-prepared. And there’s a cost to each of us for that and to our community at large. Because in acquiring and keeping something we don’t really need, we deprive someone else of its use, someone who might need it more than we do.

My experience is that our community helps those who draw the short straws, who see disaster upend their lives. If we trusted that we wouldn’t be left out in the cold, that our families would have something to eat, that our basic needs would be met while we rebuilt our lives, then I wonder if we could curtail some of the selfishness we see around us, the selfishness that inhibits us, that undermines community and wastes resources that could be better used by someone who needs them more.

My Daughter

My oldest daughter graduated from college over the weekend.

Such milestones prompt reflection for me. I couldn’t help but relive her birth, the delight I felt in her infancy, the mental and emotional turbulence of seeing her navigate her young life, cheering (and sometimes cringing) as she faced fears and tackled new challenges with varying degrees of success, balancing support for her with coaching and even discipline. I was better at the coaching and discipline, I’m afraid.

With some chagrin I admit that she emulated my study habits in her early academic career, procrastinating on homework and projects until she absolutely had to begin. As much as she was afraid of engaging with her work – afraid she wouldn’t measure up, I suspect – she couldn’t let her teachers down by failing to turn in something. I saw a lot of myself in her then: awareness of her talents, but unsure if they would really translate to excellence, and very much afraid to find out.

Some of my favorite memories of time with her were very stressful. She demands much energy at the best of times, but when she had a school project due, well, anxiety ran very high. Still, once we had a plan, we worked well together. She’s always been able to focus on the task at hand once she settles on it.

CLB Graduation Steps 4 Blog Our work together started with her fourth-grade California history project. We made a model of a gold-rush settlement called Squabbletown mostly out of popsicle sticks. It took many steps – we had to make the ground, paint it, add foliage, build and assemble the buildings – all of which we crammed into the weekend before it was due. Naturally.

She started off the same in middle school. Her project then was to build a model of an Egyptian sarcophagus. Again, multiple steps of designing the coffin, finding materials, painting, assembling, and writing a narrative. All of which we crammed into the weekend before it was due. Same with a model of the Parthenon.

And then she parted ways with my own middle-school self (that extended through my college graduation, and, to be honest, beyond). She found that the stress of delaying her projects affected her much worse than the thought that she might not deliver an acceptable product.

In seventh grade she started planning her projects, finishing them well before their due dates and enhancing her happiness greatly. She stopped needing my help. I had been the training wheels for her academic bicycle ride, and, as is the fate of parents throughout time, I was sidelined to her developing competence. And as much as I hoped for that transition, as much as I ache to see her blossom into all of her abilities, I miss not the uncertain and underconfident little girl (though I loved that little girl fiercely) but rather the tangible value I provided that she needed then and doesn’t need now. I have to admit that I’m a bit adrift, searching for the things that she needs from me now. The challenge is no longer hers, but mine, and I’ve not built all the habits or mastered the skills that will tell me what those are. But I do strive, because I believe that she needs me, even if I don’t know exactly how.

Watching her become not just more capable but also more aware of her talents and more sure of her efforts has been as gratifying and as satisfying as anything I’ve ever done myself. Seeing her pride in her success, watching her with the friends who adore her, hearing the professors who praise her, it’s all so affirming. Of what she’s done to this point, but also of the efforts of her mother and me. Accepting her hard-won diploma (magna cum laude, no less – please forgive me) was a milestone for her.

And for me. And I hope there are many more milestones ahead.