I'm increasingly convinced that posturing works. In the words of a wise and experienced teacher, "Fake it till you make it." What I think she means by that is, roughly, practicing the outward form of the kind of life you admire, even in a superficial and flawed way, can bring about some significant changes.
If you don't achieve anything else, the act of posing as [insert desired character attributes here] aligns the body, outward appearance, and attitude in a certain way that gives the impression that you actually know what you're doing. Assume the posture. Do it again. Repeat until all the weight-bearing structures and all their supporting levers and pulleys adapt.
On one level, posturing is a practical way to replace one set of habits with another, hipper and more enlightened, set of habits, kind of like buying new clothes can make the same old dork feel like a new man for about an hour. Sometimes the shoe fits, and you can wear the new persona immediately. (This has happened maybe once that I can remember.) Other times the fu shits, you wash it off and try again.
Usually it takes a long time (gongfu) to take on the attributes of the form, the guru, or the role model, so there is a gap between the objective, fumbling 'me' and the ideal, integrated 'it'. My hips don't want to rotate wide enough, my head doesn't want to rest vertically on top of my spine, my mind won't focus with crystaline clarity. There's a reaction (oops) and a resumption (there), followed by a relapse (damn) and a reset (okay), and so on indefinitely. This chain of events can resemble a rote drill more than a peaceful meditation, and there might not be much difference, at least for a beginning poser.
I suppose I've been posturing on and off for forty-plus years, and my skill in posturing has improved markedly. As a little kid I was just Sven. My friends knew me and other people didn't. Then at some point, probably adolescence, I decided to be somebody, so it became necessary to act the part of an athlete, a cool guy, a writer, a responsible young man, a deep thinker, or whatever attracted girls. If you're paying attention, there are role models from whom to pick up moves, and if you're not paying attention, well, never mind.
A big part of it in my circumscribed world was body language. Standing, sitting, or walking a certain way, physically placing the muscles, bones, and joints in a certain relationship with gravity, conditions malleable soft tissues, brain, and nervous system with the know-how and disposition to act like the jocks, the hipsters, the guys chicks dig. We were all in training, and for those who persevere, the body takes on the shape of the aspiration. Practice, practice, practice, and hope it takes.
But you knew that. Did you also know that posturing is related to all these wonderful words in that fabulous lexical landscape we call the English language?
A. positive
B. impose
C. posit
D. expose
E. oppose
F. component
G. dispose
H. position
I. postpone
Now, use all of them in a sentence, you poser.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Monday, June 01, 2009
Have fun, be good, take a nap
When we were kids, Mom would feed us breakfast and send us off to school in the morning with the admonition, "Have fun, be good, learn lots." Concise, to the point, and very Helen. I went to see Mom and Dad for a weekend recently, and now her mantra is "Have fun, be good, take a nap."
I'm beginning to learn how to take a break at the appropriate moment, step back from an issue, and just chill. There was one such moment, I think it was Day 3, when something random and unintentional got to me. Maybe I was tired, or I missed my own space, whatever. I stopped what I was doing, took my laptop out on the deck and listened to Simon and Garfunkel. It was restful and a source of stimulation at the same time, allowing me to step back from my reaction to Mom's reaction to Dad's reaction to some other dysfunctional faux pas in the peasant family dynamics. I'm not going to over-analyze it, just acknowledge it.
The whole visit went well, and I'm grateful that I can hang out with my aging parents at their house in their comfort zone and their daily rhythms, enjoy their company, and get a couple of chores done. Dad had a project or two underway, as usual, and he welcomed my participation as much as I welcomed having something tangible to do. That kind of reciprocity has not always been the case, so we seem to be making progress in that area.
The deck he built with the help of a friend has deteriorated over the course of 18 years of sun, wind, rain, and hickory trees, so Dad was replacing the spindles of the railing enclosing the north and west sides of the deck. My first job was to paint the new 1x1-inch 4-foot hardwood spindles--after first artfully arranging then on a dropcloth on the floor of the garage. This was nice solitary work that I could do in a deep squat taiji style like some Chinese-Norwegian Jackson Pollack.
My second job was to drill and screw the spindles onto the railing and deck. It's not rocket science, but as with any project, there are plenty of ways to get it wrong while measuring, spacing, and attaching stuff to other stuff, whether you're 12 feet up a ladder or bending over from above. This phase of the work required some communication, as well as trading off drill and screwdrivers, so Dad and I carried on a focused dialog as we worked through the process step by step.
Because Dad is 88 (and I'm not), I handled the ladder climbing, securing the bottom of the spindles to the deck frame while he attached the tops to the railing. Because he has degrees in industrial arts and a lifetime of experience in building and fixing things, he had a pretty clear idea of how to go about the task safely and effectively. Because I'm not 12 (or 18, or 24, or 30) anymore and have been to school and work awhile myself, I was able to offer a few suggestions on how we could organize and execute the work, though I usually deferred to his judgment. Because he recognized my contributions and valued my efforts, he listened to my ideas with an open mind and heart and mostly let me do my part my way.
By the end of the day, we had one side of the deck done and were ready for a vodka and Squirt. Mom had cooked a fine dinner of country ribs and scalloped potatoes, and I think I ate enough for three people. The deck railing was only one job in a to-do list compiled by a local construction expert, and I spent a little time reading through the other repairs that would bring their house up to marketable condition. Not that anyone is in a big hurry to sell the house and move to a condo up the road. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
The roof figures prominently in about half of the list, and a quick look from the back deck provided a clue to the problem. I had some downtime the next day, so I climbed up on the roof with a broom intending to spend half an hour sweeping off debris from the trees that tower over The Little House on the Fairway. You guessed it, half an hour turned into half a day, and a quick sweep turned into a sparring match with a ton of damp hickory droppings, gravity, the pitch of the roof, and the hot Tennessee sun. Luckily I kept my maize and blue Michigan baseball cap on, so I maintained a cool head and didn't succomb to heat exhaustion, vertigo, or delerium. My legs got a workout, and the accumulation of debris in low spots showed me how a minor design flaw led to the need for some of the repairs on the list. I'm looking forward to the next project.
I'm beginning to learn how to take a break at the appropriate moment, step back from an issue, and just chill. There was one such moment, I think it was Day 3, when something random and unintentional got to me. Maybe I was tired, or I missed my own space, whatever. I stopped what I was doing, took my laptop out on the deck and listened to Simon and Garfunkel. It was restful and a source of stimulation at the same time, allowing me to step back from my reaction to Mom's reaction to Dad's reaction to some other dysfunctional faux pas in the peasant family dynamics. I'm not going to over-analyze it, just acknowledge it.
The whole visit went well, and I'm grateful that I can hang out with my aging parents at their house in their comfort zone and their daily rhythms, enjoy their company, and get a couple of chores done. Dad had a project or two underway, as usual, and he welcomed my participation as much as I welcomed having something tangible to do. That kind of reciprocity has not always been the case, so we seem to be making progress in that area.
The deck he built with the help of a friend has deteriorated over the course of 18 years of sun, wind, rain, and hickory trees, so Dad was replacing the spindles of the railing enclosing the north and west sides of the deck. My first job was to paint the new 1x1-inch 4-foot hardwood spindles--after first artfully arranging then on a dropcloth on the floor of the garage. This was nice solitary work that I could do in a deep squat taiji style like some Chinese-Norwegian Jackson Pollack.
My second job was to drill and screw the spindles onto the railing and deck. It's not rocket science, but as with any project, there are plenty of ways to get it wrong while measuring, spacing, and attaching stuff to other stuff, whether you're 12 feet up a ladder or bending over from above. This phase of the work required some communication, as well as trading off drill and screwdrivers, so Dad and I carried on a focused dialog as we worked through the process step by step.
Because Dad is 88 (and I'm not), I handled the ladder climbing, securing the bottom of the spindles to the deck frame while he attached the tops to the railing. Because he has degrees in industrial arts and a lifetime of experience in building and fixing things, he had a pretty clear idea of how to go about the task safely and effectively. Because I'm not 12 (or 18, or 24, or 30) anymore and have been to school and work awhile myself, I was able to offer a few suggestions on how we could organize and execute the work, though I usually deferred to his judgment. Because he recognized my contributions and valued my efforts, he listened to my ideas with an open mind and heart and mostly let me do my part my way.
By the end of the day, we had one side of the deck done and were ready for a vodka and Squirt. Mom had cooked a fine dinner of country ribs and scalloped potatoes, and I think I ate enough for three people. The deck railing was only one job in a to-do list compiled by a local construction expert, and I spent a little time reading through the other repairs that would bring their house up to marketable condition. Not that anyone is in a big hurry to sell the house and move to a condo up the road. Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
The roof figures prominently in about half of the list, and a quick look from the back deck provided a clue to the problem. I had some downtime the next day, so I climbed up on the roof with a broom intending to spend half an hour sweeping off debris from the trees that tower over The Little House on the Fairway. You guessed it, half an hour turned into half a day, and a quick sweep turned into a sparring match with a ton of damp hickory droppings, gravity, the pitch of the roof, and the hot Tennessee sun. Luckily I kept my maize and blue Michigan baseball cap on, so I maintained a cool head and didn't succomb to heat exhaustion, vertigo, or delerium. My legs got a workout, and the accumulation of debris in low spots showed me how a minor design flaw led to the need for some of the repairs on the list. I'm looking forward to the next project.
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