The Experience of Being Experienced

The most valuable lesson I've learned as a journalist is that everybody is interesting if you ask the right questions. If someone is dull or uninteresting, it's on you.

Ah, but what if the person you're talking to is yourself?

I often feel this vague desire to express myself in some way, to say or create something that might help me feel more connected to others, but don't know how to give voice to that feeling. I can't come up with words or expression, end up staying silent and dissatisfied.

On some level, I feel like I'm trying to listen to myself and not getting any response. I find myself dull or uninteresting. So that means, I guess, that I'm not asking the right questions or doing a good job of attending to the answers. I find myself mute because I'm bad at interviewing myself.

A fuller version of the quote:

The most valuable lesson I've learned as a journalist is that everybody is interesting if you ask the right questions. If someone is dull or uninteresting, it's on you. Researchers at the University of Utah found that when talking to inattentive listeners, speakers remembered less information and were less articulate in the information they conveyed. Conversely, they found that attentive listeners elicited more information, relevant details, and elaboration from speakers, even when the listeners didn't ask any questions. So if you're barely listening to someone because you think that person is boring or not worth your time, you will actually make it so.

In communication, you influence the other person to withhold and withdraw or to elaborate and connect based on your level of engagement and attentiveness. You shape who they are in relation to you.

So, it seems, if I'm boring it's because I make myself so.

I've turned my gaze inward because that vague desire to express and connect has been especially strong the past couple of days. A result, I believe, of an unusual past week.

My wife and I decided we'd take our two boys, ages 9 & 8, on a short vacation across the state from our Kansas City area to the St. Louis area. The idea was a long weekend, though the schedule worked better during the week. The basic outline:

• I worked 12-5 at my library last Sunday, then we drove the four hours to a late check-in at our hotel;
• We had two very full, fun, and intense days seeing some St. Louis sights on Monday and Tuesday;
• We drove home Wednesday morning, then I went to work for my regular Wed. afternoon and evening until 8;
• We got up Thursday morning and I had sinus surgery;
• I spent the rest of Thursday through Sunday on bedrest in recovery.

So I went from a wonderful shared experience of heightened connection with my family to feeling dopey, trapped in my head, and isolated. The contrast has been stark. I've spent all that time by myself yearning to relive the group vacation.

Today I'm back at work, tender and a bit fuzzy-headed but off the pain meds, trying to coax words to review the books I just read, and this has emerged.

Hoping to find myself a little less boring as the day progresses.

The quote is from the book You're Not Listening: What You're Missing and Why It Matters by Kate Murphy. More from it soon.

First, on the topic of listening and responding, I really like this article.

Why Great Managers Don’t Spend Equal Time on Criticism and Praise

We may be naturally wired to give criticism, but we sure aren’t wired to receive it. We crave praise any time we can get it. Constant criticism makes it nearly impossible for a manager and employee to build a healthy relationship. 

What is the right balance between praise and criticism? 

Critical feedback is necessary, and everyone needs to be aware and accountable for their shortcomings. But to inspire great performance, managers must lead with meaningful feedback that’s grounded in team members’ strengths. This simple starting point builds trust and increases the chance that critical feedback will turn into real development. . . . 

What best differentiated engaged from actively disengaged (miserable) employees was how much time they spent using their strengths — feeling so absorbed in their work that they experienced timelessness and flow.

Engaged employees spent 4x as much time using their strengths compared with what they don’t do well. Miserable employees spent about equal time using their strengths and weaknesses. . . . 

When managers treat feedback like it’s a balancing act, performance management falters. They shouldn’t spend equal time on criticism and praise. The scales should be heavily tilted toward what employees do best. 

Management consultant Peter Drucker, and psychologists Abraham Maslow and Don Clifton, came to the same conclusion about human development in organizations: People develop best when they have opportunities to use their strengths. While their professional careers overlapped by almost five decades, these strengths pioneers took different paths to finding this essential truth.

People develop best when they have opportunities to use their strengths.

A thought on the idea of "fitting in":

"I just want to be normal," I say. "Don't you?"

"Sometimes," she says, shrugging. "But I've got this theory that feeling like a weirdo in middle school is normal. I think Harrison and Ridley are the real freaks here."

― Christyne Morrell, Trex

Besides, it's not so much that we want to fit in as we want to feel accepted and connected. We don't need to be normal, we need to feel seen and appreciated.

This poem doesn't really have anything to do with the rest of the post, I just like it so much I want to preserve it here.

Aleyna Rentz

IDIOTS

made this place.

Providence Canyon:

one of the seven wonders of Georgia,

a two-hundred-foot dent in the ground

of Stewart County, courtesy of farmers

with bad irrigation techniques. 

 

Imagine the luck: fucking up

so massively your failure

is designated a state park

 

where millennial couples

in hiking boots climb down

the valleys of your ineptitude,

taking selfies, smiling,

 

and park rangers 

in khaki shorts and bucket hats

patrol the edges of your shame

so nobody else falls in.

 

A photographer twists her lens

and aims—merciless!

 

The world is cratered

with quieter fuckups: 

your footsteps, mine.

A pillow’s soft sinkhole. 

A body missing 

like a ditch dug out of air. 

Every fist an asteroid, 

every low mood a trench.

 

And sometimes red clay and limestone

gape at the sky like an idiot’s drooling mouth,

dumbfounded and asking forgiveness.

Believe me, it will come: in cairns and tents 

and kids who pay a quarter to look 

through a set of fixed binoculars,

seeing magnified nothing 

but what’s right there. 

 

—from Rattle #79, Spring 2023

Sometimes our fuckups can be remarkable.

Language has power to shape reality.

How Saying “Me” or “We” Changes Your Psychological Response — and the Response of Other People

What comes to mind when you think about three little words: I, you, and we? Likely you don’t give them any thought at all — or if you do, you might assume they are simply a way to mark who is speaking at any given moment. But we have discovered that these “little words” can carry a big punch: They convey a host of implicit messages that enable people to move beyond their own perspective to imagine how someone else would think or feel. . . . 

We have discovered that broadening one’s perspective via pronoun choices has impacts for children as well as adults. Pronoun shifts are used to make meaning out of difficult experiences, to create resonance with others, and to convey kindness, compassion, and the right way to behave. . . . 

Everyday pronoun shifts are a tool for transcending one’s individual perspective. This is a striking result, given that considering perspectives other than our own can be a challenge at any age — as can be seen by everything from lovers’ quarrels to political polarization to outright war. Perspective-taking is especially difficult for children, who often assume that others perceive the world just as they do. . . . 

And yet in striking contrast to these difficulties, the capacity to shift perspectives is woven into the fabric of natural language. Pronouns convey implicit messages that allow us to make meaning out of painful experiences, increase our compassion for others, and effectively transmit proper rules of behavior. That these devices are built into the architecture of human language suggests that taking on the perspectives of others is a foundational aspect of our species.

We can tell our stories in ways that convey inclusion and acceptance; or not.

I like this little thought.

Our brains are always busy, even when we're not trying. They take all of the events and information of our days and try to make them fit together. Try to make sense of them. And now and then, two or three pieces of information fit together in an unexpected way. This is called "getting an idea."

― Lynne Rae Perkins, Violet and Jobie in the Wild

Our brains are always looking for connections.

So. Back to You're Not Listening: What You're Missing and Why It Matters by Kate Murphy. Here's what I wrote for my review:

This book is so accessible and conversational that it almost feels unrevelatory; I often had the feeling it was just reminding me of common sense things I already knew. Still, it's the kind of information we need constant reminders about, since it's so easy to slip into bad habits of not listening well. And to be immersed in it is valuable, the topic of listening, broached from many perspectives, offering research and details to develop the ideas. No, the book may offer information that feels more familiar than foreign, but it's essential information shared in an easy, flowing manner that makes for enlightening reading. Definitely recommended.

I wrote that today, admittedly tender, fuzzy-headed, and a bit dizzy. I read it the past few days while recovering from sinus surgery, stuffy-headed and on pain meds. I'm sure I would benefit from reading it again when my head is clear, because I know there were many things I liked while reading that aren't quite tracking in my memory. Nevertheless, I pulled out quite a bit.

First, I love how Murphy articulates this thought, what it means to really listen to another person.

To listen well is to figure out what’s on someone’s mind and demonstrate that you care enough to want to know. It’s what we all crave; to be understood as a person with thoughts, emotions, and intentions that are unique and valuable and deserving of attention.

Listening is not about teaching, shaping, critiquing, appraising, or showing how it should be done (“Here, let me show you.” “Don’t be shy.” “That’s awesome!” “Smile for Daddy.”). Listening is about the experience of being experienced. It’s when someone takes an interest in who you are and what you are doing. The lack of being known and accepted in this way leads to feelings of inadequacy and emptiness. What makes us feel most lonely and isolated in life is less often the result of a devastating traumatic event than the accumulation of occasions when nothing happened but something profitably could have. It’s the missed opportunity to connect when you weren’t listening or someone wasn’t really listening to you.

The experience of being experienced. It's what we all crave.

This is related and telling.

Criminologists have found that mass shooters are typically not psychotic but depressed and lonely, motivated most often by a desire for revenge. The Trace, a journalism nonprofit dedicated to tracking gun violence, found that a striking commonality among mass murderers is a profound alienation from society. This was true whether the assailant was a disgruntled employee, estranged spouse, troubled teenager, failed business owner, jihadist, or traumatized veteran. They shared a sense that no one listened to or understood them, and they in turn ceased to listen to anyone, moved only by the often warped things they told themselves.

I wrote recently that our gun culture is mentally ill. Listening, by and to those who feel called to violence, is how we can change that.

Connection overcomes hostility.

I found this an interesting thought.

In the past, it was more likely insecure teenagers who would resort to in-your-face signaling to establish identity and group affiliation (think goths, preps, jocks, stoners, geeks, slackers, gangstas, and punks). but today, it's a more widespread phenomenon. In our increasingly disconnected society, people have gotten notably more conspicuous and vocal about their affiliations--particularly their political and ideological affiliations--in an effort to quickly establish loyalties and rapport. These affiliations provide a sense of belonging and also the kind of guiding principles once provided by organized religions, which have correspondingly been losing adherents. Moreover, when people feel insecure or isolated, they tend to overdramatize and espouse more extreme views to get attention.

Of course, social media is custom-made for signaling. Showing that you follow certain individuals or organizations or retweeting or liking messages or images signals values and cool factor. Who needs to listen to people when you can just Google them? A Facebook page, Instagram feed, or LinkedIn profile, the thinking goes, tells you all you need to know.

I have my reservations about social media, of course, as does most everyone. Still.

The other day there was a retirement celebration in my building for a long-time employee. A group of attendees who had previously retired walked through the Kids space where I was working and said hello. One came over and gave me a hug. I had known her a bit as a colleague, but we had never worked closely enough for hugs. No, she felt a special connection to me through the photographs I share on social media. As she hugged me, she said, "My favorite pictures on Facebook."

Though delighted, I was completely surprised. I'd had no idea she felt that way. Connection can happen in unexpected ways. Even through reductive social media.

I will always advocate nonsense, bewilderment, not knowing, and embracing contradiction and paradox, so I enjoyed reading this from Murphy:

It's uncertainty that makes us feel most alive. Think of events that shake you out of your rote existence: maybe attending a family wedding, making a big presentation, or going somewhere you've never been. It's on those occasions that time seems to slow down a little and you feel more fully engaged. The same holds true if the experience is risky, like mountain climbing or parasailing. Your sense are sharper. You notice more. Thanks to the release of a feel-good chemical in the brain called dopamine, you get a greater surge of pleasure from chance encounters with people than planned meetings. Good news, financial rewards, and gifts are more enjoyable if they are surprises. It's why the most popular television shows and movies are the ones with unexpected plot twists and astonishing endings.

And nothing is more surprising that what comes out of people's mouths, even people you think you know well. Indeed, you've likely sometimes been surprised by things that came out of your own mouth. People are fascinating because they are so unpredictable. The only certainty you achieve by not listening to people is that you will be bored and you will be boring because you won't learn anything new.

Uncertainty makes us feel most alive. I've never thought of it in quite those terms. It's a delightful thought.

Related to embracing uncertainty is having an orientation of intellectual humility, which Murphy calls cognitive complexity.

In the not-too-distant past, our amygdalae helped us fight or flee from existential threats like lions, tigers, and bears; but today, our biggest worries tend to be social rejection, isolation, and ostracism. "Our ascendancy to the apex of the animal kingdom has to do with our sociability, our ability to learn from each other and help one another, but, as the same time, it makes us more vulnerable to slights and insults," he said. "Other people now represent the biggest threat to our well-being, and that manifests in these social-related anxieties."

This explains why people can get in vein-popping, eyes bulging shouting matches when they disagree, rather than listening to each other. In the moment, the primitive brain interprets a difference of opinion as being abandoned by the tribe, alone and unprotected, so outrage and fear take over. . . . But listening is actually what keeps us safe and successful as a species, if we can overcome our amygdala-activated defensiveness. . . . 

The English romantic poet John Keats wrote to his brothers in 1817 that to be a person of achievement, one must have "negative capability," which he described as "capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason." Good listeners have negative capability. They are able to cope with contradictory ideas and gray areas. Good listeners know there is usually more to the story than first appears and are not so eager for tidy reasoning and immediate answers, which is perhaps the opposite to being narrow-minded. Negative capability is also at the root of creativity because it leads to new ways of thinking about things.

In the psychological literature, negative capability is known as cognitive complexity, which research shows is positively related to self-compassion and negatively related to dogmatism. Because they are able to listen without anxiety and are open to hearing all sides, people who are more cognitively complex are better able to store, retrieve, organize, and generate information, which gives them greater facility for making associations and coming up with new ideas. It also enables them to make better judgments and sounder decisions.

Capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason. I like it.

Of course, not experiencing any anxiety in the face of doubts that challenge our beliefs is an admirable feat considering how deeply seated and instinctive that discomfort is.

Neuroscientists at the Brain and Creativity Institute at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles recruited subjects with staunch political positions and, using an fMRI scanner, looked at their brain activity when their beliefs were challenged. Parts of their brains lit up as if they were being chased by a bear. And when we are in this fight, flight, or freeze mode, it's incredibly hard to listen.

Student protestors in recent years have said listening to opposing views and opinions made them feel "unsafe." . . . 

Politicians likewise refuse to consider their opponents' proposals, calling their ideas "dangerous." . . . 

The result is increasingly uncivil and extreme political and cultural debates that breed distrust, vitriol, and fear.

Which brings us back to feeling like you're being chased by a bear. The Pew Research Center found that large shares of the population now feel not only frustrated with and angry at members of the opposing political party but also afraid of them. . . . 

To the brain, challenged beliefs are as disturbing as confrontations with bears.

Toning down the inner alarm, or the "No you're stupid!" impulse that leads to ideological entrenchment is possible when you remind yourself to take a calm, open, and curious stance rather than an angry, aggravated, or alarmed stance. It's far more useful to listen to find out how other people arrived at their conclusions and what you can learn from them--whether it changes or shores up your own thinking. At the moment you feel you are going to react with hostility toward those who disagree with you, take a breath and ask them a question, not to expose flawed logic but to truly expand your understanding of where they are coming from.

The truth is, we only become secure in our convictions by allowing them to be challenged. Confident people don't get riled by opinions different from their own, not do they spew bile online by way of refutation. Secure people don't decide others are irredeemably stupid or malicious without knowing who they are as individuals. People are so much more than their labels and political positions. And effective opposition only comes from having a complete understanding of another person's point of view and how they cam to develop it. How did they land where they landed? And how did you land where you landed? Listening is the only way to have an informed response. Moreover, listening begets listening. someone who has been listened to is far more likely to listen to you.

Thus, we need to read and reread books to remind us to remember to listen, since our basic natures struggle against it.

It's easier to listen when you remind yourself that listening is not agreement.

To listen does not mean, or even imply, that you agree with someone. It simply means you accept the legitimacy of the other person's point of view and that you might have something to learn from it. It also means that you embrace the possibility that there might be multiple truths and understanding them all might lead to a larger truth. Good listeners know understanding is not binary. It's not that you have it or you don't. Your understanding can always be improved.

Though I might qualify that even more. To listen . . . means you accept the legitimacy of the other person's point of view. There are times I would not accept their views as legitimate, but would still accept their humanity and the experiences that have led to their views. Hearing them out is more likely to help them move beyond those experiences than rejecting them.

Language has power to shape reality. Conveyed in stories.

Good listeners are good questioners. Inquiry reinforces listening and vice versa because you have to listen to ask an appropriate and relevant question, and then, as a consequence of posing the question, you are invested in listening to the answer. Moreover, asking genuinely curious and openhearted questions makes for more meaningful and revelatory conversations--not to mention prevents misunderstandings. This, in turn, makes narratives more interesting, engaging, and even sympathetic, which is the basis for forming sincere and secure relationships.

You can't have meaningful exchanges with people, much less establish relationships, if you aren't willing to listen to people's stories, whether it's where they come from, what their dreams are, what led them to do the work they do, or how they came to fear polka dots. What is love but listening to and wanting to be a part of another person's evolving story? It's true of all relationships--romantic and platonic. And listening to a stranger is possibly one of the kindest, most generous things you can do.

People who make an effort to listen--and respond in ways that support rather than shift the conversation--end up collecting stories they way other people might collect stamps, shells, or coins. The result is they tend to have something interesting to contribute to almost any discussion. The best raconteurs and most interesting conversationalists I have ever met are the most agile questioners and attentive listeners. . . . 

The stories we collect in life define us and are the scaffolding of our realities. Families, friends, and coworkers have stories that bind them together. Rivals and enemies have narratives that keep them apart. All around us are people's legends and anecdotes, myths and stark realities, deprecations and aggrandizements. Listening helps us sort fact from fiction and deepens our understanding of the complex situations and personalities we encounter in life. It's how we gain entrée, gather intelligences, and make connections, regardless of the social circles in which we find ourselves.

The stories we collect in life define us and are the scaffolding of our realities.

Listen.

Speaking of stories, here's one from my work.

The other day my library hosted a local dance artist to offer a breakdance workshop. His business is literally next door and we've partnered with him for a number of years, though this was my first time seeing him do his teaching for families.

First, he is a highly accomplished, successful, and respected dancer. He mentioned some of the bands he's been on stage with, and you'd likely recognize all of them. He decided to start his own school, though, because he wants to not just teach dance moves, but the history and culture that are a part of them. He wants people to appreciate the positive values behind the style, and he briefly shared a number of really interesting things. And at the end, when the kids started chanting, "Dance, dance, dance, dance!" in the hopes of getting a full demonstration of his abilities, he let them know to be careful about doing that because it's a type of bullying.

My favorite part, though, was his insistence that all the parents and adults participate. He even made me put away the chairs I'd gotten out in preparation so they wouldn't have the option of sitting out. At the beginning, he told the parents their participation was particularly important because their kids need to see them be willing to make mistakes. Too often we try to present ourselves perfectly to seem more authoritative, but we need to also role model being learners who stumble, struggle, and make mistakes before we get good. That way our kids will learn to struggle on when they make mistakes and keep working until they get it. Our kids need to see us making mistakes.

Sometimes our fuckups can be remarkable.

A poem.

AT THE RIVER CLARION

by Mary Oliver

1.

I don’t know who God is exactly.

But I’ll tell you this.

I was sitting in the river named Clarion, on a

    water splashed stone

and all afternoon I listened to the voices

    of the river talking.

Whenever the water struck a stone it had

    something to say,

and the water itself, and even the mosses trailing

    under the water.

And slowly, very slowly, it became clear to me

    what they were saying.

Said the river: I am part of holiness.

And I too, said the stone. And I too, whispered

    the moss beneath the water.

I’d been to the river before, a few times.

Don’t blame the river that nothing happened quickly.

You don’t hear such voices in an hour or a day.

You don’t hear them at all if selfhood has stuffed your ears.

And it’s difficult to hear anything anyway, through

    all the traffic, the ambition.

2.

If God exists he isn’t just butter and good luck.

He’s also the tick that killed my wonderful dog Luke.

Said the river: imagine everything you can imagine, then

    keep on going.

Imagine how the lily (who may also be a part of God)

    would sing to you if it could sing, if

        you would pause to hear it.

And how are you so certain anyway that it doesn’t sing?

If God exists he isn’t just churches and mathematics.

He’s the forest, He’s the desert.

He’s the ice caps, that are dying.

He’s the ghetto and the Museum of Fine Arts.

He’s van Gogh and Allen Ginsberg and Robert

    Motherwell.

He’s the many desperate hands, cleaning and preparing

    their weapons.

He’s every one of us, potentially.

The leaf of grass, the genius, the politician,

    the poet.

And if this is true, isn’t it something very important?

Yes, it could be that I am a tiny piece of God, and

    each of you too, or at least

        of his intention and his hope.

Which is a delight beyond measure.

I don’t know how you get to suspect such an idea.

    I only know that the river kept singing.

It wasn’t a persuasion, it was all the river’s own

    constant joy

which was better by far than a lecture, which was

    comfortable, exciting, unforgettable.

3.

Of course for each of us, there is the daily life.

Let us live it, gesture by gesture.

When we cut the ripe melon, should we not give it thanks?

And should we not thank the knife also?

We do not live in a simple world.

4.

There was someone I loved who grew old and ill.

One by one I watched the fires go out.

There was nothing I could do

except to remember

that we receive

then we give back.

5.

My dog Luke lies in a grave in the forest,

    she is given back.

But the river Clarion still flows

    from wherever it comes from

        to where it has been told to go.

I pray for the desperate earth.

I pray for the desperate world.

I do the little each person can do, it isn’t much.

Sometimes the river murmurs, sometimes it raves.

6.

Along its shores were, may I say, very intense

    cardinal flowers.

And trees, and birds that have wings to uphold them,

    for heaven’s sakes–

the lucky ones: they have such deep natures,

    they are so happily obedient.

While I sit here in a house filled with books,

    ideas, doubts, hesitations.

7.

And still, pressed deep into my mind, the river

    keeps coming, touching me, passing by on its

        long journey, its pale, infallible voice

            singing.

Listen.