Honestly, It Pisses Me Off

I ordered The Bad Plus's new album Never Stop II on vinyl a few months ago. It came out on digital stream a while back, but the distributor had difficulty getting the vinyl produced and shipped. No big deal. I listened to the download and waited. This week the record arrived in the mail. Actually, two copies of it showed up. Odd. 

I only paid for one and so wrote to the distributor saying I would be happy to mail one back if they paid the postage. My guess is I'm dealing with an operation run by one or two people, and I like small businesses too much to keep something I didn't buy. Even with large businesses I'm pretty much honest. Why wouldn't I be? 

The guy got back to me with a shipping label and thanked me for being so honest. I told him it was my pleasure even though it bugged me that he didn't expect honesty. I understand and am not offended, but it's weird that honesty is such a surprise. 

I'm glad I returned the record I hadn't ordered, but was left as conflicted as I was in college when I returned a wallet to a guy. Here's the piece I wrote about that years ago:

I Found A Wallet

bgfay - August 2016

In college I found a wallet. It was really thick. Brown leather. Worn edges. My own wallet was velcro (it was the eighties) and very thin. I had pretty much no cash and had bounced three checks. I carried my wallet mostly out of habit and for my meal card. I saw this wallet, picked it up, and brought it back to my dorm room. 

Inside was a wad of cash. Just shy of a thousand dollars. Color me impressed. There was a college ID like mine but with another guy’s picture and a name I couldn’t pronounce. My friends were impressed with the money too. We marvelled at a kid our age having that kind of cash. Wow, we thought. 

In the paper facebook listing all the first-years, we found the guy. I dialed his number. He picked up right away. I said, I found your wallet, and told him my room number. He said he’d be right over. My friends and I had music on and were just hanging out. There was homework we weren’t doing. In fourteen months I would fail out. 

The guy knocked. I recognized him from the facebook. You found my wallet? he asked. Yeah, I said, handing it to him. He opened it and passed his thumb over the bills. He said, but it’s all still here? I said, yeah. He said, you didn’t take it. I looked at him. 

I couldn’t have taken his money. None of my friends brought up the idea either. We weren’t especially good or moral boys. We were mostly cash-strapped, wondering how to buy the next beer. But it wasn’t our money. 

Two months later when the vending machine gave back three dollars on every purchase, we emptied it at the expense of a vending company that extorted for Snickers and Coke. The wallet though belonged to a guy who lived across campus. That was his money. 

He tried to give me some cash. A reward, he said in a thick accent. I waved him off. I wanted to be done with the whole thing. His surprise bothered me, made me angry. He thanked me. Two of his friends were standing in the hall. I looked at them. They looked at me. I said, no problem, and closed the door. I never saw him again. I wonder if he remembers any of this. 

Spending The Morning

I worry how I spend my time, though the metaphor "spend" bugs me because thinking of life as a transaction is gross. A life lived as a series of transactions is only as interesting as the conveyor belt at the Wegmans register and leads to unhappiness on the order of the terrible orange maggot in the White House. I prefer to wonder how I am living and this morning I have put hours into reading and thinking about a long essay. 

The essay was Tim Urban's "How To Pick A Career" from the site Wait But Why, a great site of nothing but longreads. I printed the essay at school yesterday on the backs of previously used copy paper because I don't enjoy reading on a screen. 15,000 words took ninety pages. It's not Urban's longest or shortest piece and it has been about a year since he last published. You don't follow Wait But Why so much as wait for it. The wait is often worth it. 

I have a long-running career. I've been a school teacher for twenty-three years. I've taught college too and a bit of middle school as well as some summer programs, summer school, an SAT prep course (ugh), and professional development seminars for teachers through the National Writing Project. I've thought about ditching that career for writing, but I'm not sure I can make money at that and (here's the kicker) I don't know that I want to make a living doing it. I love to write and send those words out into the world. It's my favorite work. I'm not sure I would love turning that work into my job, my career. For now, I'll keep writing and keep the teaching career. 

Which makes it odd that I would spend most of my morning reading 15,000 words and thinking about how to pick a career.

Part of the reason is that I like Tim Urban's writing. I'll follow him most places he goes. That's especially true in the case of thinking about how to live. 

I think a lot about the directions in which I'm moving, the ways in which I'm choosing to live. I worry I'll end in regret when I'm old. Regret come from a place of accepting what's handed out instead of actively choosing. Reading things like this helps me stay focused on making my own choices. 

My two girls are coming of age and are making choices. I want to give them good advice, not about what to choose but about how to think and choose. I want to feel okay about their processes rather than anxious. My anxiety won't do us any good. Maybe some people do this sort of thing naturally, but if I leave it to chance, leave it unconsidered, I'll bung it all up. 

I've also just come through some turbulence. I worked toward a life change only to have the opportunity evaporate. I was shocked and devastated, but have begun to think I may be on a more interesting path now. 

A friend says he didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up until his forties. He doesn't truly believe in end points or goal posts outside of sports. We keep going, keep becoming. We don't finish growing up. I've been growing up for nearly fifty years and I'm not quitting. I read articles such as this because I'm playing a game I don't ever want to end. 

Back in the economic terminology, I wonder was reading and thinking about this worth most of my morning? It didn't earn me a damn thing in the immediate, but now, an hour later, I've got this piece of writing. I'll post it where, again, it will earn nothing for my wallet. Was reading the essay worth most of my morning? Only if there are bigger things than economics, only if there are other kinds of wealth. 

A student asked me about college, if it was "like a great party time." I said that, going back after failing out, I wasn't much for parties but college remains the one concentrated time in my life to which I most like to return. He thought I meant that I'd go back if I could, but I meant I return to the college experience often in the form of deep-dives into ideas. I did it early this month reading Alan Jacobs' book How To Think when I kept reading all the articles he referenced in there and ordered three more books from the library because of it. I did it again this morning with Tim Urban's essay, writing notes, underlining passages, and now writing my own piece because of it. I like to study, to take on new ideas, incorporate them into my thinking, and see what happens. I'm curious how I might change. Reading "How To Pick A Career" didn't lead me directly into a new career or confirm my current career beyond a shadow of a doubt. It merely pushed me further into living, but that's good enough work for any morning. 

I'm richer for it. 

Roots Of Procrastination

Leo Babauta's recent piece Four Antidotes To Procrastination caught my eye but, oh the irony, I put off reading it. Having read it now, I like how he admits to "procrastinating a bit more than normal, and of course it doesn't feel great." He gives good reasons why he procrastinates: fatigue, overload, uncertainty. He wants "an antidote (or two) to our procrastination, because it usually means we're not doing the meaningful work we want to do in the world. It's worth figuring out." 

In the margin, I wrote "procrastination is a sign of unhappiness. I want to investigate it so as to address what is really wrong." Babauta's piece suggests solutions to procrastination, but I'm pulled to try understanding the underlying problem of which procrastination is merely a symptom. 

Last week I very little good writing. I watched a lot of television and felt myself slipping toward depression. I wanted to work on my daily blog posts and a big writing project to which I've recently returned, but instead flipped channels, scrolled through social media, and skimmed the news. I procrastinated going to my desk to write, but procrastination, while a problem, wasn't the root problem keeping me from "doing the meaningful work." It was a symptom of something deeper. 

My issues began with getting too little sleep. I get up mornings at 4:45 but was up after ten most nights. Some people can get by on that little sleep, but not me. Lacking sleep I begin thinking of whole lists of things I have to do and spiral into anxiety. I procrastinate because I feel  I can't do the things I want to do. And all of that stems from feeling unworthy, my fundamental issue. 

Dealing with that feeling of unworthiness seems impossible, so I end up in front of television, phone, or computer. But when the wind changes, I do a few things that make a difference: I get rest, stop making lists, do one small thing, clear space, and remember the difference between work and a job. 

Rest comes first. I'm tired and wanted to go for a run, but my job drained me and it's about all I can do to sit here and type this. I'll be in bed reading by eight and asleep before nine. I'll be more ready to go tomorrow. 

Ditching the list is good. I worry that I'll forget something, but if it's important, it will get done. There are always a couple dozen things that feel like priorities, but I can do only one and I do better without the anxiety the list gives me. I'm typing this and that's enough. I don't know what's next. That can wait. Right now there's just this one thing. 

Clearing space on the desk mirrors clearing it in my mind. Imagine a desk covered with laptop, three folders, two stapled articles, a dozen pages of notes and writings, a letter from a friend, an empty coffee cup, the stapler, two library books, phone, wallet, keys, a pen, and a writer's notebook. On the shelf next are the contents of a couple more folders, some bills, and more books. That's my brain sometimes and it leaves me anxious and distracted. Clearing means picking something up and finding the right place for it until I have just the tools for one job: a notebook, laptop, and one article while in my head there is just one task on which to focus. Distractions creep in, but I'm getting better at gently clearing them away. The clear desk and mind help settle and center me. 

Then it's a matter of differentiating between work and a job. Work is choice, jobs are obligations, but it's mostly up to how I choose to approach the task. If I'm doing it because I ought to, it's a job and I'm likely to procrastinate. If I choose to do it as work, even scooping the cat litter can be rewarding and worthy of my focus though I'm not sure I can explain how. It's easier to see it with choosing to write this. There's no money or fame in it, but it's good work. My job tired me terribly today. This work is energizing. 

Procrastination isn't the enemy. Procrastination is a symptom of me fighting something, most likely the feeling I'm unworthy. Right now I'm not sure I'm worthy of publishing this. Who am I to say much of anything? Well, if nothing else, I'm someone with a clear mind (and desk) and a focus on understanding that procrastination comes from a deeper place. That might be worth sharing. 

Now, I'm ready to clear the desk and my mind of this and find more work I want to be doing. There's always the cat litter. 
 

Small Changes Over Time

I designed a piece of lined paper five years ago. I needed paper at school, had all sorts of copy paper used on only one side, and had been writing on them with a page of lines underneath, the faint shadow sort of guiding me. In Google Docs I created a sheet of lined paper, printed a test sheet, and copied it a hundred times on used copy paper. It was good.

Within two weeks I found problems with my design. Back in Google Docs I made changes, printed a page, and copied this onto more pages. I kept this design for a few months, then refined it some more. Every three months or so, as I used up the last of the copies, I refined the design. I've been using the design from May 2017 which was fine until Saturday morning when I noticed again that the date and page number lines were obscured by the clip on my clipboard. I moved those lines down, printed a test page, found that I needed space below those lines too, added iut, printed another test page and am satisfied. 

About two dozen refinements over five years have resulted in writing paper that suits my needs. Each time I think I've gotten things right and I have for that point in time. Times change. 

Refinement, small changes over time, evolving with my needs, means never being done. Each refinement responds to some new need. 

I've long believed in getting things right and giving the final answer, but being open to refinement beats the hell out of that. It encourages awareness, risk taking, and the understanding that though improvement will come in time, what I have created so far is good. 

Hasn't writing taught me this? I suppose it's something I'm still trying to learn. Funny that writing paper rather than the act of writing has been my better teacher in this. 

I have a page of my original lined paper, hundreds of pages of the design I've been using, and a page with my newest refinements. Each change has been small, but small change over time has led me to an excellent design that will get better. 

Maybe I ought to apply this to more than just the paper on which I write.