Learning Sucks

I was a teacher for twenty-four years. I've been a student all my life. I'm in a new job at which I know only three percent of what I need to know, but I'm learning. All of which gives me the standing to say the following:

Learning sucks, man.

The guy who had my job before helps and advises me more than I deserve. He points out the trip wires and shows how to excel. But I haven't learned enough to make the best use of his advice. Today, I learned things, got slapped around by events enough to understand one of his big lessons. It's great to understand, but it totally sucked learning this way.

I've got a great team at work. My deputy is smarter than me in most every way, thoughtful, and knows thirty-eight times more than I do about the job. She patiently teaches and helps me get things figured out. She's wonderful, but it totally sucks having to learn all the stuff she knows, asking her to teach me again and again.

My friend in a very similar job warned me about this gig. She's phenomenal at the job and makes it look easier than it is. She said I wouldn't sleep for a year, that I'd be thinking about it all the time, but that I would be good because I learn fast. She forgot to say how much learning sucks.

Okay, okay, learning doesn't really suck, but it feels that way. My coach says I'm doing fine. Board members, staff, and colleagues say so too. My wife says I'm doing fine and she knows me better than anyone, but I still feel unprepared and slow. Today I learned an important lesson about the job and sensed how much I still don't know. Every day I'm learning and every day learning sucks because I want to know already.

It's after nine o'clock at night. Good music is playing, the air conditioner is cooling the bedroom, and the alarm is set for five AM so I can get up and learn some more. Learning will still suck and I'll still feel unequal to the tasks, but here's the thing:

I love this work, love the challenges, and, truth to tell, I even love the learning even though it totally sucks.

Growth Mindset

Tesla, electric car company of my dreams, released a software update this week. Teslas are more like mobile phones than typical cars in that they run as much on software as on motors. Tesla controls are on a giant touchscreen in the console instead of dedicated buttons and switches installed at the factory. Tesla can radically update the car long after it has left the factory. They can also make nearly infinitesimal changes as was the case this week.

The software update changed how the cabin fan operates. When the car senses there is no passenger, it shuts off the passenger-side fan, saving a tiny amount of battery power.

The issue people think they have with electric cars is battery range. The big gasoline-car makers push range anxiety as a big deal, but the Tesla Model 3, even in its Standard package has a range of 250 miles. The Long Range version gets 322 miles to a charge. I can't recall the last day I drove more than 300 miles.

Tesla is fanatical about extending battery range. Rather than wait for new models or only making tweaks at the factory, they extend the range of the car through software updates such as the one this week about which one person said, "I'm sorry, but the amount of energy you're saving is so low, I'm surprised either of them bother. You [sic] looking at maybe 10 watts on average, probably less. It'll increase the range by feet, not miles" (emphasis mine).

Feet not miles. Why does Tesla bother?

It's because this is a matter of craft and a statement of purpose. This is one change of thousands made throughout the design of Teslas. Each adds up but each also promotes a culture of craft that values efficiencies earning every extra foot of range. Devotion to craft stresses a cumulative way of thinking. One small software patch is not the end of consideration but a part of a much larger picture in which the smallest changes matter.

Before anyone gets to thinking I'm a blind fanboy, I understand Tesla is a flawed company led by a deeply flawed man, but I'm still want a Tesla and am devoted to the idea that small details matter even as I know that Tesla misses many details. Seeking perfection is someone else's job. I'm interested in developing craft.

I wrote the first draft of this on pages I print on the backs of used paper, pages I designed over the course of six years, making tiny changes. I tweak that design still and expect to keep changing it. The page design makes my thinking more efficient. I'm not saying it makes writing the pages more efficient. I'm in no hurry to move to the next thing. I'm interested instead in extending the thought I have through the thoughts writing can create.

The second draft I typed in Writer: The Internet Typewriter rather than Word. While Word allows for seemingly infinite formatting, Writer allows for none, not even bold or italics. Eliminating Word's distractions is big change, extending my thinking by miles. A much smaller change is taking Writer full screen, an increase of feet not miles that I'll take knowing something much greater goes on under the hood of my writing machine because of such small changes.

Under the hood, huh?

Under the hood of a Tesla, there's no engine, just space for storage. That kind of radical change results from a thousand infinitesimal changes and a craft mindset focused on continuous improvement. It comes from the idea that small change matters not just to extend the range of one vehicle but the range of an entire car company and the process by which creative things come to life.

Interdependence Day

Last night, the Fourth of July, our daughters, my wife and I were playing cards at the kitchen table when fireworks began sounding in earnest. They had been going off occasionally all day, but as evening came down, regular volleys of minor explosions and whistling rockets sounded across the city. We went outside but couldn't see much. We live amidst drumlins, ice age deposits, and tall trees. The fireworks were being shot from neighborhoods on the other side.

Let's go see, I said.

We scrunched into the front of Dad's '72 Chevy pickup. The girls scanned the sky, pointing at each new explosion, their heads turning and turning. I watched the road, my arm dangling out the window, the truck rolling slowly, my mind at ease, content, happy.

We ended up on the northeast side of town. I pulled into the lot the Syracuse Northeast Community Center shares with Dr. Weeks school. My wife and I climbed out and stood beside the truck, our older daughter climbed into the truck bed for better views, and our younger daughter kept to the safety of the cab. Fireworks soared into the sky from all four directions, asynchronous, un-choreographed, a jazz improvisation of bright explosions and color.

It was all just right for us. We had gone out on a whim, searched out what we wanted, and relaxed into the wonder of it all. We were parked in the lot of my new job, a place that brings me unbelievable joy and challenge, that has made our family life better. I'm no longer miserable, counting days until I can retire, dreading each new day of school. Parked there, I felt ownership and responsibility to my family and the community. Around us, over our heads, the night erupted in celebration.

This year's Fourth Of July was full of challenges. The white supremacist in the White House and his cowardly enablers on the right believe Independence Day represents going it alone and being above others. They're dead wrong.

Last night, in the parking lot on Syracuse's northeast side, we celebrated our interdependence and love, the challenges and excitement of serving our neighbors, and the memory of Dad embodied in that old truck. When the fireworks wound down, we climbed into the truck, sitting tightly together on one shared seat, and drove back to the home we share. We watched colored sparks soar into the air at random across our city, celebrating all we mean to one another and all we are to become together. Happy Interdependence Day, everyone.

It'll Be Fine

Three colleagues visited yesterday. We sat outside eight feet apart, took off our masks, settled into the shade and sun, and let ourselves talk easily. There was business to do, but first we chatted about families and the pandemic. One woman said, "it'll be fine." A few moments later when another concern came up, she said again, "it'll be fine." Minutes later, there it was again. "It'll be fine" began echoing inside me.

We moved onto the business of helping people in a time when we can't come together. "It'll be fine," came up again, again, and again, all of us saying it by then, returning to it like faith in which I found I was a believer.

That was yesterday. Today I walked to work half listening to a podcast. My mind drifted on the ideas from the podcast, the warm morning, the blue sky, the movement of my body through time and space. I'm in a new job, responsible for others, and with more to learn than since the births of my children. On the walk to work I don't dawdle or hurry. The walk settles me and helps me engage with ideas deeply. It moves me from a list of to-dos and insecurities to acceptamce and a firm belief that "it'll be fine."

I used to think acceptance was surrender, the end, but it's a way of saying, this is the world in this moment, this is who I am, and it'll be fine because the world and I are in balance. I'll be a changed person tomorrow but still be me. The world will have shifted but still be the place on which I stand.

I'm a person of extraordinary fortune, surrounded by love, doing challenging work that brings me joy. I walk a path of wonder. "It'll be fine" because it already is fine and because I'll keep working to make it fine.

I get now what my friend was saying yesterday. "It'll be fine," is a prayer, a call to action, a faith in our fellow human beings. I've repeated "it'll be fine" all day now. The sun has set and I'm ready for bed. "It'll be fine," I tell myself one last time, the echo coming back sounding for all the world like "amen."