Faking It

For a short time, the woman who eventually became my wife lived in Schaumburg, Illinois, where she taught fifth grade. When I went to visit her from Kentucky where I was attending graduate school, she said she had two cats, but that I was likely only ever to see one.   Shadowfax, it seems, was terrified of strangers, and always hid when people were around.   I asked her where she thought Shadowfax might have been hiding at the moment, and she suggested he often hides beneath the Indian print skirt covering the large, retired wooden spool that served ubiquitously as a table in the sixties and seventies.   I got down on my knees, lifted up the skirt, saw a wide-eyed black cat cowering in the corner, reached in and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, pulled him out and cradled him firmly in my arms. My future wife was stunned by my stupidity, thinking no doubt that by all rights I should have been mortally wounded by panic-driven claws, but I was more than confident. I didn’t think about it; I just remembered what it felt like to hide behind the couch and somehow knew what was required of the situation.

I struggled with extreme shyness most of my childhood, to the point where neighbors used to say that they didn’t know my parents had three kids—they only ever saw two.   And when I learned about Pavlov’s dogs salivating at the sound of a bell, I remembered the sound of the doorbell in Queens that signaled my darting behind the semi-circular couch in the corner of the living room.   That corner behind the couch was my temenos, my safe and sacred space, where no one could harm me.

At 14, I somehow managed to find a girlfriend (or rather, she found me), but she grew increasingly impatient because I found one excuse after another to avoid meeting any of her friends. Approaching a group of people, and parties in particular, was like walking through the gates of hell.

When I reached my early twenties, I vowed to overcome my shyness and I used every technique I could find in the textbooks and some I invented on my own to lick it.  The best strategies were the ones I developed on my own.   It’s embarrassing, in retrospect, but the most effective was simply to pretend, to convince myself I was someone else.

Although I was skinny as a rail, hunched over, and had a face that was plagued by “the second worst” case of acne my dermatologist had ever seen, convincing myself I was someone else meant that I would imagine I was handsome and famous (Paul McCartney was often the favored choice), study their mannerisms, and pretend I was them. When I was a Beatle, I even had a pretty good Liverpool accent, but I only went that far when talking to myself.   The thing about self-help is that some of these silly things work, and when they do it’s pretty exciting.

“Fake it til you make it” wasn’t quite a mantra, but the fact that people responded positively to the feigned confidence made it worth the discomfort and great effort that went into it.

But faking it had its down sides.   Besides the effort it took, I knew it was a fabrication, a mask to hide the truth, and in lying that way I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, but perhaps even worse, I was still hiding. Yet, I also knew that the goal of faking it was to make it, and making it means that the it you’re seeking becomes a genuine part of your personality.   It’s a classic strategy for learning anything, especially in the arts.   Some of us read literature in order to write; how many poetry professors over the years would tell us to imitate the style, if not the content, of our favorite poets, until we find a voice that is distinctly our own?

But imitation can only get you so far to making it, because, well, after all, I wasn’t born in Liverpool and can’t sing worth a damn.   The goal is only to model others insomuch as we learn who we are, what feels right and good, and matches whatever inherent predilections we might have.   To truly conquer diffidence, you need more tools in your toolbox.

I tried implosion, in which you force yourself to face your worst fears directly by brass knuckling it, and systematic desensitization, where bit by bit you pair relaxation with your fears. I became so good at relaxing that after my first year as a psychologist at a day treatment center for children with emotional disturbances I was voted the person the staff “most wanted to go through a crisis with.”   I was really hoping to get “best dressed” that year, but I had to settle with the former.

Hypnosis helped as well, although those effects were serendipitous outcomes of my work with clients.   I would use the prompt of having my clients press their thumb against their index finger, and gently squeeze them together in order to trigger a relaxed state that we had previously practiced, and after a while I would begin to recognize when I was tense because I would look down at my hand and notice my own thumb and index finger pressing together.

The encouragement of angels helped as well. As an intern at a large state mental hospital, I was required to attend case conferences in which the staff sat around in a circle discussing a patient.   Once, after having attended multiple conferences and never daring to speak, I meekly raised my hand (unnecessarily) and made a soft-spoken comment in spite of my rapid heartbeat.   After the meeting, the kind charge nurse came up to me, and undoubtedly out of some maternal instinct not normally found within miles from a psychiatric hospital, told me that she really appreciated what I had to say at the meeting.   It was sweet and simple, but that small kindness went a long way, given that I remember it so well now 40 years later.

I do believe, along with Eliot, that the goal of this one wild and precious life is to return to the starting point and know that place for the first time.   If I did return to that beginning, I might find myself hiding behind the couch again, or at least finding my own temenos and settling into that feeling of comfort and safety.   In some ways, retreating into my favorite chair at home, my car, my workshop, and my office are all little corners in which my five-year-old self hides.  But I think I have traveled too far, been scratched and bitten too many times in this life, to reach into a dark place to grab a terrified cat.   But who knows?   I pretty much licked that shyness thing, so maybe anything’s possible.





The Best Advice

Thomas Moore, the monk, musician, professor, psychotherapist, and author of a series of “soul” books, tells the story of a Zen master on his deathbed. His monks are all gathered around him, and the senior monk asks for any final words of wisdom.

The old master weakly says, “Tell them life is like a river.”

The senior monk relays this message to the other monks. The youngest is confused and asks, “What does he mean, life is like a river?”

The senior monk relays this question to the master, who replies, “Okay, life is not like a river.”

When I bought my Diamond DA-40, a sleek single-engine, four-seat airplane, back in 2008, I was rightly required to take a transition course to help me adjust to my new steed. Transition courses have saved many lives, and I was grateful to do it.   Although there were many new, sophisticated features in my airplane, the most difficult part of flying nearly any airplane is, of course, landing them.

I was proud of my landings in the Cessna 150s I trained in, so much so that I could dare you to throw a quarter on a runway and bet that I could land on it.   But landing an airplane with long wings close to the ground and double the horsepower that seemed to just wait around eagerly wanting to fly was a steed of a different color. My initial landings were acceptable, but the transition course focused mostly on other things, so I took additional lessons afterward.

That next instructor gave me very clear, specific advice on how to land my new airplane properly. Airplanes have certain landing attitudes, which in this context means the lateral angle of the fuselage to the ground, that seem to work best.   My instructor wanted my final approach to be as flat as possible all the way to the runway, so although I was descending at a certain rate and moving forward at another rate, my nose would be level with my tail. This was somewhat different from how I landed the Cessnas I had flown before, but eventually I was able to do it fairly well.

Then along came my instrument instructor, who saw my landings and immediately reprimanded me for doing it all wrong. The best way to land my low-wing airplane was to point the nose at the runway, and keep my tail in the air behind me.   I was confused.

Then, a few years later, on an oversold commercial flight, I was lucky enough to sit next to an airline pilot whose job it was to fly regional jets.   In fact, she was flying the jet we happened to be in at the time, and was sitting next to me in a curtained-off section of the cabin to get some rest while she was temporarily relieved in the cockpit.   Before she closed her eyes, I explained the conundrum, and she told me: there’s several ways to land an airplane.   I usually land one way for 10 times, then I rotate and land another the next 10 times so I don’t get stale.

Perhaps, life is not like a river after all.

In some psychotherapy circles, advice is seen as a mark of an inexperienced or ill-trained psychotherapist.   I don’t entirely agree, thinking instead that advice is akin to having a rudder, and inexperienced therapists, like inexperienced pilots, just don’t know how to use their rudder well.

Many clients become rightfully angry with their therapists for withholding advice.   After all, many people see therapists because they think that therapists know the recipe to the secret sauce that makes life tolerable, or that they know the route out of the maze of each client’s suffering.   And, to some extent, good therapists do know these things and more, so it is a reasonable request for clients to simply ask and then receive, especially given the fare.

But in the hands of a lesser skilled therapist, advice can become problematic because it can be based on the therapist’s worldview rather than the client’s.   And, at the same time, advice-giving in some contexts can obscure the part of the therapeutic process that instills self-reliance. I would often deal with this dilemma when clients sought parenting advice by saying: “I’ll make a deal with you.   I promise I will answer your question if you will first reach into the deepest part of you and tell me how you think it should be done.”   While this gambit often irritated my clients, after some cajoling they played along, and I would always make good on my promise.   Inevitably, after telling me their own answers to their own questions, my sincere response would start with “Wow.   I love that answer, because as I expected, it turns out it’s much better than mine. I was going to say (fill in the blank), but I like your idea much better.   Clearly, no one knows your child as well as you do.”

There is another story, one that I read many years ago and liked so much that I jotted it down. I don’t remember where I got it, but it might have been from that font of profundity, Reader’s Digest. The story goes that a reporter asked then president Harry S. Truman if he ever gave his grown daughter Margaret advice. Truman allowed that he did on occasion.

“What kind of advice do you give her?” the reporter asked.

“Well, I usually ask her what it is she wants to do. She tells me. And then I advise her to do it.”

Maybe that bespectacled Southern democrat, responsible both for authorizing the dropping of atomic bombs and the Marshall plan, integrating the military and helping to found the United Nations and without whose support there would be no Israel, was a Zen master himself. Or maybe not.



The Thomas Fire

  1. Sitting in my chair in the living room, out of the window I can see the branches and fulsome leaves of the oaks and crepe myrtle trees as they sweep back and forth, revealing the wind that has been carrying the flames and scattering embers to ignite the Thomas Fire and sending the material tokens and touchstones of lives to oblivion. Firefighters decided to call it the Thomas Fire, because it began close to Thomas Aquinas College, just a few miles from my home in the Upper Ojai valley.

The winds right now are not frantic, as they have been at times, but they are confused, darting from one direction to another, remarkably mirroring my wife’s mood.   Each sweeping movement of the branches injects an ounce of fear, it seems, into the normally placid mornings in Ojai.

I should not be writing right now, but instead I should be dressed and outside vigilantly scanning for spot fires, raking leaves and clearing debris that could ignite and spark the flames that could consume our homes and our tokens.   I should be a better protector than I am.   But I am slow to wake up, slow to meet danger, slow in my body and mind.

… So slow, in fact, that it has now been nearly a week since I wrote those words, a week in which I have discovered that a dozen friends and acquaintances have lost their homes, including one that borders my own property.   We have lost two structures—outbuildings, including a yurt that I recently fashioned into a framing studio for my photographs and a horse barn that has not seen a horse in at least 25 years.   Compared to many of my friends, we have escaped significant damage, but somehow feeling grateful in that context seems sinful and unkind.

Our children have become the heroes they always were—our son in particular working tirelessly to help others as he protected his own homestead, our daughter leaving the safety of Los Angeles to join us and do her part. My wife is the heroine she too has always been, caring for our children in ways I couldn’t begin to imagine. And I have been doing my best to care for them, although I feel inadequate in my somewhat compromised health right now, and slightly guilty that I am writing these words from a patio in a luxury hotel in Pasadena where we escaped for better air.   Angelinos reading this will sense the irony, because Pasadena is known for its poor air quality, but now it is a refuge from the toxic particulates that hide even in what otherwise might appear to be clear air in the fire area.

I recently read a story about Thomas Aquinas in which he drove off a prostitute sent from his family to “dissuade” him from joining the Dominican order by breaking his vow of celibacy.   He drove her off with a fire iron.   The threat of destruction by fire is indeed a potent force, another reminder that each of our existences are temporary gifts of resistance to the eternal, in which all eventually turns to ash.



A Friend in Low Places

My angels, when they decide to show up for work, are my friends in high places.   But I, along with all pilots, have a friend in low places too. She goes by the rather awkward name of Ground Effect.     It is one of the least poetic of aviation monikers (she once whispered to me that she would prefer the sexy, French name “Pitot Heat”), but when she shows up she can indeed be quite poetic.

Aeronautical textbooks tell me that this angel is the “increased lift and decreased aerodynamic drag that an aircraft’s wings generate when they are close to a fixed surface.”   That surface is typically the ground, and so a simpler definition of ground effect is an airplane’s increased performance as it launches skyward and touches down.

As you touch down, ground effect feels like a friend, a soft cushion, or a nurse with sweet, knowing eyes as you wake up from a coma in a foreign hospital. And as you depart skyward, ground effect temporarily adds a little oomph to the launch, a gentle assist, a glance and a wink from the girl on the barstool that you imagine might actually happen someday.

Those of us who have lived long enough to tell stories have undoubtedly encountered such effects in our lives. It may appear to be the guardian angel who intervenes when the doctor calls and says that the test results were negative, or the mother who picks you up and comforts you when you come home in tears after being hit between the eyes by a snowball that turned into ice as it rapidly reached its target.

Having a purposeful life—a life of service to others, functions similarly to ground effect as well, as a balm for bitterness and regret.   Having a life filled with service to others not only cushions others’ hard landings, but eases our own burdens as well. Emerson said, “The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.”

Ground effect can fool you, though, into believing you are flying better than you are, and has undoubtedly contributed to some pilots meeting their maker just as they meet that hill in front of them that they initially thought they could climb over. That is because on takeoff, the effect of improving your ability to fly will get you off the ground quicker than if ground effect didn’t exist, and as you climb and exit ground effect, you experience a reduction in flying ability and the airplane will lose some lift and sink.   While pilots are trained to “fly out of ground effect” and adjust as they make their way through this transition, especially when combined with a hot, humid or high altitude situation, they fail to consider just how difficult it can be to climb once the extra support of ground effect leaves you and the airplane behind.

Sometimes, expecting that ground effect will ease your transition from air to earth, it will seem as if it is doing its job too well, and delaying your appointment with the runway.   If you find yourself running out of runway before the airplane touches down, ground effect may seem like that good friend that Oscar Wilde reminds us stabs us in the front.   It becomes the friend who tells us straight up that our zippers are down, or that you left that long sticker on the back of your pants that lets everyone know how big your waist is.

Physics will have a good explanation for those occasions when ground effect seems to work too well for its own good, or when it seems absent entirely and I land with an unwelcome thud.   I have always landed hard on myself when my airplane lands hard on the runway, but perhaps it isn’t really my fault.   Although I may have had a good flight, my angelic friends in high places keeping me safe as I leave the ground, cruise, and begin my descent, maybe that thud as I land hard is just my friend in low places failing to show up when I need her.   Angels, I guess, occasionally need some time off.






I am editing this post now on a short flight from Warsaw to Cracow, where a small disability film festival will be showing the film I produced and I will be doing a Q&A. The captain will soon announce our arrival in Cracow, and despite my trepidation about being in Poland for the first time (the land my ancestors escaped from), I am looking forward to the adventure.   But before I arrive, here are a few thoughts I wrote about the idea of arrival:

I arrived late at my friend Ollie’s house a couple of weeks ago, in the midst of a conversation among some of his “LA friends” about the three legs of the stool that comprised “success.” I don’t recall exactly what those three legs were—I vaguely remember something about opportunity and luck, but I do remember bristling at the idea that—while everyone was arguing about the legs, no one was questioning what “success” meant.   So I tried to guide the discussion there, and it came to me that they were discussing something akin to what I might have preferred to call having “arrived” somewhere, not unlike landing at your intended destination.   Each of us may start our journeys with a different destination in mind, and at some point we realize we have landed, taxied to the safety of a hangar, and tucked our airplane in for a good night’s rest.

Of course, not all journeys are specifically intended, as has been the case of my last few years living in the thick cloud of fear of my cancer returning.   Because it seems that over time that particular fear recedes somewhat, I believe I will find success, or know that I have arrived, when my few and far between moments of serenity become closer together.   I don’t suspect the ultimate serenity will likely come until the ultimate end of the journey, and of course it is possible it won’t come even then.

For some of the others at Ollie’s house, it seemed unclear to me that they had any idea of what having arrived at their destination might look like.   How many movies must you produce before you feel as though you can rest on your laurels?   Must it be just one more than your successful producer father?   How many screenplays must you write and how many Oscars must you win? Will one of those gleaming statues on your mantel do just fine, or will you ache for its identical twin?   Triplets? How much money will reside in insured bank accounts?

There is an old aviation saying that the key to a good landing is a good approach.   In order to do something well, we need to prepare the road in front of it.  Perhaps that is where the three-legged stool comes in to play.   If the first leg were opportunity, that certainly does seem important.   I did not have the opportunity to fly until my kids were grown and I was close to 50 years old.   Opportunity might imply a certain privilege, and a certain amount of discretionary wealth.   It also might imply a friend in high places who will take you there.   Luck also does seem important, although I know there are some who might argue that there is no such thing.   I believe though, along with most people and the bumper sticker, that shit happens, which also implies that from time to time shit doesn’t happen.   That’s luck, and I do think there are some who manage to inadvertently walk into a lynch mob or catch their big toe in a bear trap or find a malignant lump growing somewhere in their body.   Shit happens.

I don’t remember the third leg (and I’m not sure I have the others right either), but I imagine it must have something to do with skill or mastery.   There’s just no way to safely get to the end of any runway without having mastered the skill required to fly the airplane.   There may be shortcuts to opportunity and luck, but I suspect there are no shortcuts to skill, mastery, and the elbow grease required to get there.   At this point I don’t find it particularly difficult to land my airplane, and it is easy to forget the effort it took me to get to that place.  I remember occasionally when I think back, or the time that I made the mistake of giving the reins of my airplane to a fellow pilot who flew his own plane beautifully, and we barely survived his valiant effort to bring my steed anywhere near the center of the runway.   Perhaps a great violinist can play any violin, but I’m not sure what she would do with a cello.   In that sense, perhaps the third leg of the stool is the same thing that is needed to get to Carnegie Hall.

It seems to me that there might be a fourth leg to this stool, which would make arriving somewhere more of a chair, I suppose.   In order to know that one has arrived at one’s destination, it seems necessary to know where one is going, although I’m not so sure about this.   Some people might refer to this as a goal while others might call it an intention.   I have never been a big fan of goals, thinking that it often detracts from the journey itself, but I can’t imagine knowing that we have arrived somewhere without knowing where we intend to go.   T.S. Elliot comes to mind here, of course, in poster form from the sixties: We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.

I’m not entirely sure Elliot wrote those words, because I don’t trust posters from the sixties, and I don’t know the context.   But it’s compelling to tie the notion of arrival  directly to departure, in that wonderfully prosaic platitude (and Harry Chapin song) that all of life is a circle.   If we are to consider this notion seriously, as in ashes to ashes, then we will ultimately know that we have arrived when we reach the beginning.   But for now, I’m looking forward to three days in Crakow.

A Guest

There’s a small community hospital in Murray, Kentucky, where I went to school to get my master’s degree in psychology. As a second year student we were seeing clients in the counseling center, and one day when one of my clients didn’t show up for her appointment, I discovered that she had been admitted to the hospital for “exhaustion.” She had refused to eat for several days, and although pop singer Karen Carpenter had yet to succumb to anorexia and the general public was barely aware, the medical establishment—even in rural Kentucky, knew well of its danger and feared for my client’s life.

By truculently opposing all those well-intended folks who tried to get her to eat, my client had entered what pilots call the “region of reverse command,” in which airplanes do the opposite of what you tell them to do. I was about to join her there.

I decided to visit my client in the hospital.   Just outside her door, a nurse took me aside and said, “Please do what you can to get her to eat.   Her parents are on their way, and she hasn’t eaten in days.   We’re all really worried about her.”

Just a day or two before that I attended a lecture given by J. Thomas Muehleman, a young psychologist who may in fact be the only one of my professors from those days who is still alive (and still, I am told, residing in Murray). The particular lecture was on a topic called “paradoxical intention,” and in it he outlined the behavioral approach to the use of paradox as a psychotherapeutic tool.

Fortuitously, within five or 10 minutes after my arrival, lunch was delivered on its plastic tray, and was placed on the wheeled table next to her bed; the nurse slid the table over the side of the bed and my young, frail client looked down at it disgustedly.   From my vantage point, the ugly slab of meatloaf couldn’t have been a better choice of food.   She took one look at it and shoved the table to the side.

I proceeded with the cocky insouciance of the 22-year-old graduate student that I was:  “I don’t blame you,” I said.   “It looks…. just horrible.”   She looked at me quizzically, half-expecting me to follow everyone else’s suit and push her to eat.   “I can’t believe they would try to get you to eat that.   It looks… well, you know, it looks like a piece of shit.”

My client gazed at me angrily.   I went on.   “And can you imagine how they handle food in the kitchen? It’s probably made somewhere down in the basement.   Dirty, disgusting.   It could’ve fallen on the floor and they wouldn’t care, they’d just pick it right up and put it back on the plate…”

That was enough for her. She pulled the table back over the bed, grabbed her fork, forcefully stabbed the meatloaf and shoved it into her mouth.   As she wolfed it down she continued to stare at me with fiery eyes.   Although she was angry with me, I could see that while she was rejecting me she was nurturing herself, and that was what was important.  Before we could talk further we were interrupted by a nurse politely asking me to leave the room because my client’s concerned parents had arrived.

I admit that I was thrilled that my intervention could somehow, magically, accomplish what others couldn’t.   Psychotherapy and life rarely work that way, and a whiff of potency can be intoxicating to a young clinician, so thus began a lifelong interest in the landscape of paradox.

What began simply in my mind as a technical move, like moving a rook in position to threaten the queen– over time grew into a deeper understanding of how the game of chess is played.   Rather than simply a method of “joining with the resistance,” as some have described it, paradoxical thinking became a path to more deeply understanding how we all build shelters in which to hide our demons and modulate our interactions with the dangerous world around us.   The walls of that shelter sometimes consist of our strident adherence to our positions, however problematic or self-destructive they become.   Sometimes we can’t break down those walls by confronting them directly, because that only makes them more necessary and strengthens them.  But by surrounding those walls with love, compassion, and eventually understanding, those walls begin to crumble.

I like to think of paradox as a way of inviting a discomfiting guest into Rumi’s guest house.   The guest is those demons, those ugly, sturdy walls we construct to keep us invulnerable, the shameful and destructive behaviors that we repeat even though they trip us up and trap us.

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

In the region of reverse command, the way out of danger is to do the very opposite of what you instinctively are wont to do.   When you are sinking, sometimes you need to reduce power and point the nose down in order to find the energy needed to climb.   My client, way back in the 1970’s, was suffering.   I don’t doubt that the food that appeared before her symbolized the nurturance that she found so utterly “distasteful,” and that those who benevolently pushed her to eat stood in firm opposition to her need to reject that nurturance.  I don’t believe for a moment, nor did I back then, that this single intervention was all that was needed to resolve those underlying conflicts. Yet, by honoring her protest and welcoming the dark thought, the shame and malice, she was able to make a foothold into the path of letting go of her protest and nurturing herself.

Hot Air Rises

imagesPerhaps there is no greater evidence that hot air rises than the election of our current president.   You would think that having been a psychologist for all these many years I would know a thing or two about how that happens, but I confess that although I struggle—I really do—for the life of me I can’t figure it out.

I can explain with greater facility and perhaps a modicum of accuracy how actual hot air rises, even though I have never seen it directly.   But I have seen its effects while flying, and it’s dramatic. The local County fire authorities designate certain days of the month “burn days,” in which farmers can legally set large piles of brush ablaze without sparking the brave men and women who get paid to keep us safe to don their heavy protective gear, put their playing cards on the table and slide down their poles to their big trucks.   Years ago I was out flying on one of those days with my instructor, who thought it might be fun to give me a physics lesson by guiding our rented Cessna over a few of those pyres.

Although the flames disappeared under the airframe, we knew we were flying right over them because, commanded only by the rising heat below us, the Cessna gently rose as we passed over them, then settled back down a few seconds later.

The fact that hot air rises and cold air sinks is one of the keys to understanding many weather phenomena.   The uneven heating of air is a result of the uneven heating of the earth, which absorbs radiated sunlight differently depending on the terrain.   As the earth’s temperature varies, the heat it generates warms the air, and the differences in the air mass’s temperature causes differences in pressure, because the molecules in hot air move faster and expand outward, while cold air is more compact and dense.  Cold, dense air, is “thicker,” and therefore heavier.

I suppose we call people who spout empty phrases, devoid of depth or import, as filled with “hot air,” because their verbiage takes up a lot of space but there isn’t much substance to it, like the air in a hot air balloon.  All that is required for a hot air balloon to take flight is to capture a chunk of air and heat it up.   Off you go into the wild blue.

In struggling to understand just how it is that certain hot-air balloons, such as the one on Pennsylvania Avenue, manage to rise, I have observed that there are some people who are attracted to bluster, bombast, posing and empty rhetoric. Narcissists marry, often several times, so at some point in their self-aggrandizing lives there are those to whom hot air is appealing.

I have known many people over the years who have been filled with hot air. Almost to the person, each of them had very few, if any, friends.   Most of them had significant alimony payments.   Generally, they didn’t care much about having friends, but they cared greatly about the alimony.

The thing is, many people who voted for Mr. T report that they actually like the man, which is astounding to me.   He may be a liar and a thief, but he’s at least a thief you can count on to be a thief.   I believe it was Oscar Wilde who said that a friend is someone who stabs you in the front. Mr. T may lie to you, but you know he’s a liar, and so does he, so it doesn’t much matter.   What matters is the same thing that probably mattered to Melania; if he buys you that diamond ring you wanted, at least you’ll end up with a diamond ring. He may even convince you he has a good heart, and will even take care of you, and that he cares as much about you as he does himself; but if you fall for all that, well then, you’re just naïve and deserve what you get. None of that’s important, after all.   It wasn’t important for all the years Chicagoans supported the elder Mayor Daley.   What was important was that the trash got picked up, the potholes were fixed, and that you got that diamond ring you always wanted.

So if you pay for a ride in a hot air balloon, you expect that when the air inside of it is heated it will reliably rise into the atmosphere, taking you passively suspended in a basket beneath it.   The amazing thing is that, after all is said and done, all that hot air will lift you off the safety of the earth and take you with it.   You will, however, have no power to steer it, so where it will end up, well, that’s anybody’s guess.



Energy Management

download-3I slept just a few hours last night, having to see the second game of the World Series from my hotel room in Washington, DC, to its unfortunate conclusion.   The game ended past midnight here, and I had to be up and out a few hours later for a flight out of Baltimore back to L.A.   I am now seated on an Alaska Airlines 737, cruising smoothly above the cloud deck that appears like the surface of a brain laid out flat and stretching to the horizon.

Due to that lack of sleep, I have barely enough energy to keep my eyes open, let alone to think about how to revise the following paragraphs that some time ago I released energetically from my fingertips as I thought about the complex topic of energy management.   I have never been good in the mornings, and this morning—even as I chatted with the grateful Afghani Lyft driver who received a special residency visa from the US government after spending 5 years helping the US Army to rebuild his country—this morning is no exception.   My head feels as though it’s surrounded by cotton that penetrates my skull and inhabits the synapses, muffling the firing of neurons and sending only one key message to the remainder of my body: go back to bed.

So, in order to manage the few remaining cubic centimeters of energy residing in this fragile corpus, I will push the small silver button on the side of the console that separates me from the tall, gangly man who somehow managed to transfer every hair on his head to his left arm. Pushing that button will have the disturbing effect of reclining my seatback a measly few degrees and granting me the illusion that I am actually making myself more comfortable.   I am going to gently close my eyes along with the cover of my faithful laptop– which is actually on my laptop, stow the thing and close my eyes.   I am looking forward to meeting with you later, to tell you what I think about this very interesting concept of managing energy.

I write this to you today because, given the struggle with chronic fatigue that has plagued me since a nasty bout of mono at age 14, I have been unable to avoid a rather obsessive concern with energy.   Living in a body that feels as though it is always walking uphill, I am constantly reminded that energy must be managed, conserved and expended in the right proportions if this vehicle is going to get anywhere.

Energy, I am told, is defined as the capacity for performing work, wherein work is further defined as force multiplied by distance.   Admittedly, I rarely think of my own work that way, but when I do it makes perfect sense.   How much work did I get done today?   Well, not a lot of force but a quite a bit of distance.   Or, I worked really hard—didn’t get that far but I busted my ass.

This capacity to perform work we call energy comes in many forms, but at its most basic, it can be divided into two main categories: potential energy and kinetic energy.   (Stay with me, because it does get interesting.)   For a pilot flying an airplane, potential energy is usually understood and measured as altitude, while kinetic energy is measured as airspeed.   But airplanes need potential energy even before they get off the ground and gain altitude, and that energy comes in the form of the stuff pumped out of the ground and left over from dead dinosaurs.   Once refined it makes its way from storage tanks to the airplane’s fuel tanks, where it waits to be converted from a liquid to a gas, to be ignited and converted again into the explosions that fire the pistons, which then gets converted to torque energy, and so on.   Fuel gets converted so many times and so quickly that it would make a missionary jealous.

The human who is hopefully sitting behind the yoke and controlling the airplane’s energy also gets his or her energy from fuel, fuel that comes from plants and animals that more recently sacrifice themselves in order to find their way from the earth to the supermarket to the refrigerator to gastrointestinal tract.   That fuel also gets converted many times, ultimately transforming from potential energy to kinetic energy.

Pilots are essentially energy managers; every control input a pilot makes—every push on a rudder pedal or thrust lever, every movement of an elevator or trim tab, every bending of the shape of a wing with an aileron, is a shifting of energy designed to get the airplane to go where the pilot intends it to go.

None of us get out of school without learning the pledge of allegiance and that E=mc squared.  While many of us may have believed the former, few of us understood the latter.   (I didn’t really understand either.)  Einstein already knew that neither mass nor energy could be created or destroyed, but his formula took things further by demonstrating that they were essentially the same thing, and that one can be converted into the other in both directions (hence the “equals” sign).   As the song goes, “that’s all there is.” One could then argue, if mass—often described as matter, is the same as energy, then energy is all that matters (sorry about that).

I was once told that you could tell a good pilot by how often he or she trims the airplane.   To trim an airplane means to set up the control surfaces in such a way that it requires the least amount of pressure on the pilot’s part to control it.   In other words, you set the controls in such a fashion that the airplane essentially flies itself.   This is done by adjusting knobs or servos that control small tabs on either the elevator (that points the nose up or down) or the rudder (that points the nose left or right).   The best pilots set up a default energy management setting which harmonizes the airplane’s control surfaces with the demands of nature. In doing so, the pilot transfers his or her own energy to the trim tabs on the airplane, making them work harder so he or she works less.

We manage the potential energy of food by being careful to not eat too many carbs too quickly, or to buy food that is preservative free or chemically non-toxic. And we manage kinetic energy by exercising often and properly, resting and caring for the mechanisms our bodies use to convert it from one form to another.   We schedule our work lives mindful of energy-depleting workload, and schedule the rest of our lives in order to replenish and nurture ourselves.   Overall, we become mindful that we must also keep ourselves “in trim” in order to safely get us to our desired destinations, and maximize the cruise between ashes and ashes, dust and dust.

In baseball, as in aviation and in life, everything at its most fundamental level is about managing energy.   By the time you read this, someone will have won the World Series, having managed to out-manage the energy expended by the other team.   For many fans around the world, all that energy matters, and for many others, I suppose, none of that  energy matters at all.






The Map and the Territory

The other day, a colleague of mine called me to consult on a case.   The client was a young adult who had been diagnosed with autism.   At one point she said, “His black and white thinking is caused by his autism…” My heart rate instantly quickened and before the apoplexy could do too much brain damage I interrupted her and curtly said, “No. His black and white thinking isn’t caused by his autism, his black and white thinking causes his autism.” She seemed confused, so I did my best to explain the damage that can be done by reifying labels.   I probably did a lousy job, because her mystification lingered.   I don’t know if I can do it better now, but I have the advantage of being able to cut and paste, so here we go.

I told my colleague that the more you rely on a label (a diagnosis) the less you are likely to know your client. Although it’s helpful, indeed necessary, when starting out in any field to learn the jargon, and thus have a convenient shorthand for describing a phenomenon and reducing the morass of information into manageable wholes, it can also lead us down wrong paths.   It is no accident that the more experienced a clinician the less jargon you will hear.

Humans are simply far more different from each other than we are alike.   The self-proclaimed “autistic” psychology professor Stephen Shore is credited with the cute saying that “If you’ve met one person with autism, you’ve met one person with autism.”

Diagnostic labels obfuscate more than they clarify.   Reducing someone’s personality to a group of symptoms does serve to focus on what some have concluded are the most meaningful bits and pieces, but by doing so we too easily fail to see the richness and contradictions of those behaviors that lie outside what we expect to see, and that makes us prone to errors.   If the label we give to the jar with the white powder in it is “flour” then that is what we expect will be in the jar, not the sugar that you put in the wrong jar when you were preoccupied with getting the internet upgraded. It is not necessarily that it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy (although it could, if a therapist subtly steers his or her client toward the expected set of symptoms through explanations or interpretations that elicit those symptoms), but rather that the therapist actually “misses” the deeper truths of who is sitting opposite.

Diagnoses are, essentially, metaphors, in the same way Susan Sontag brilliantly described cancer as a metaphor in her seminal essay “Illness as Metaphor.”   Metaphors can be compelling ways to describe things, but they are not the same as the things we are describing. You can’t meaningfully say that John is schizophrenic any more than you can put a blanket of air on your bed, shoot an idea, buy a moral compass from the nautical supply shop, or really give me a piece of your mind.   That is not to say that—like John the Baptist, I cannot be a good shepherd even though I have no sheep. What I do mean to say is that I may indeed be a good shepherd, but I am much more than that, and by the way, I have goats (well, I used to). As the semanticist Alfred Korzybski famously said, “The map is not the territory.”

Another Hungarian hero of mine– Thomas Szasz, made a career out of professing that psychiatric diagnoses were essentially a form of social manipulation.   A psychiatrist himself, Szasz insisted that he was not anti-psychiatry, but anti-coercive psychiatry.   He saw psychiatric diagnoses as socially constructed with little to no medical evidence to support them, to be used, perhaps, to remove someone’s freedom (as in the case of hospitalizing a schizophrenic), cast someone aside from society (such as calling homosexuality a disease, which although eventually abandoned was done for decades), or sell drugs that don’t work or cause more harm than good.

Too many wrong roads are driven when we begin to think that the metaphor is the real thing.   The depth of personhood, the miraculous complexity and uniqueness of each individual, is transmogrified into the label we put on the package.   Korsybski once dramatically demonstrated this when he took a break from a lecture to eat some biscuits that had been wrapped in white paper. After commenting how much he enjoyed them, he offered some to students in the front row, who enjoyed their taste until Korsybski removed the white paper to reveal that they were dog biscuits. The students became nauseated, and Korsybski said something to the effect that we not only eat food, but we also eat words.

The problem with my colleague stating that her client’s “black and white thinking was caused by his autism” is that “autism,” as are most psychiatric diagnoses, is merely the label on the dog biscuit package.   It may or may not have anything to do with what is inside the package, but instead may have everything to do with what we think is in the package.   The truth is that, to this day, as is so with many things, we scientists know a lot about what the collection of symptoms we call autism looks like, but we don’t know much at all about how it comes about, or what goes on physiologically to cause those symptoms.

When we reify something, we also give it a static quality. We take something that should be a verb and turn it into a noun that just sits around on a shelf waiting for someone to pull it off.   And in doing so, we begin to think that there is little we can do with it.   If we only referred to John as a noun, as proper as that would be, we would imagine him standing somewhere.   But if we said he was “Johnning,” we would imagine all that he does that makes him tick.   Saying someone has autism, or depression, or even a virus, leaves us little to do with it, freeze-drying it as it were, and even creates a bit more distance between us and them.   If autism, or any diagnosis, was a verb rather than a noun we would be more interested in what it does and how it works, thereby bringing it to life and moving us to engage with it.

Another problem with my well-intended colleague’s comment is the direction of causality.   We need to know the territory before we can draw a map, but drawing the map will not create the territory.   We could say with some certainty that the more it rains the more umbrellas will be sold, but no matter how many umbrellas we buy we can’t make it rain. Does giving someone the label of autism make that person lose the ability to perceive life’s grays, or does the inability to perceive gray cause us to give someone the label of autism?   And if, as I would insist, it is the latter, then what useful information does that give us?   And if we make the mistake of reversing causality, thinking that this thing we call autism causes black and white thinking, it could freeze us in our tracks. We would have succeeded only in thinking we know something that we don’t, becoming autistic-like in our thinking and missing the grays, the subtleties that might lead us down different and potentially fruitful paths.

My colleague fell into a dangerous trap, but although the landscape of our language and everyday thinking is littered with those traps, no experienced clinician or practitioner of life should fall into them.   Confusing the map with the territory is something that ultimately can hurt our clients when the label is a psychiatric diagnosis, and when the labels we serve up are liberals, conservatives, Palestinians, Moslems, Jews, Christians, or maybe even Hungarians, we may succeed only in creating obstacles to understanding each other.



My Friend John

My first flying instructor, Floyd Jennings, didn’t say much.   When I asked him once how I would know if I was doing something right, he said that he would tell me if I was doing something wrong.   I guess the idea then was to keep him quiet, but it was frustrating nevertheless.   Once, when I went to reach for the wrong control– to pull the mixture knob instead of the carburetor heat, he abruptly slapped my hand away.   He didn’t even bother to use his words when I did something wrong.

By contrast, my instrument instructor, Michael Phillips, is verbal when he needs to be, but he can also be indirect. After breaking off a practice instrument approach and heading away from the airport, I wondered why my airplane was climbing with its nose down and its rear end skyward as though it were doing a downward dog.   Michael said nothing, until long after I should have realized it I noticed that I had neglected to dump the flaps, which I had set for the aborted landing.   I was embarrassed, and a bit frightened as well, but I figured it out, corrected it, and asked Michael why he didn’t correct me.   He smiled a bit wryly, and said that he wanted me to figure it out for myself.   Fortunately, the airplane was sturdier than my ego, and all was well.

In the behavioral world, both positive punishment (the slap on the hand is considered positive because you are adding it rather than removing it) and extinction (the lack of a reinforcer) are well-established methods of learning.   They both work well, although it is an open question whether the effects of one last longer than the effects of the other.   I don’t have a carburetor or carb heat in my current airplane, so I really can’t tell you.   But I think Michael’s approach works better, partly because my first instinct upon having my hand slapped is to respond with an uppercut to the instructor’s jaw. I refrained from doing that with my first instructor, because I learned to restrain myself from my instincts when I was three, and even then he was a lot older than me.

In Michael’s case, having allowed me to discover my own mistake and correct it, I not only learned that it was a good idea to retract my flaps when breaking off an approach and trying to climb, but I also learned to trust my ability to independently problem-solve.   One could say, arguably, that Floyd’s approach of immediately punishing the mistake was a form of direct instruction, and Michael’s approach of waiting for me to discover my own mistake was more indirect.

Many moons ago I took a year-long training course in hypnosis.  One of the techniques taught in that course was called “My Friend John.” It was designed as a method of hypnotizing someone who had difficulty with the perceived vulnerability involved in the process of opening one’s self to suggestion.   The therapist in this case merely says something to the effect of, “Let’s not worry about doing hypnosis now, but let me show you how it is done.”   The therapist then proceeds to instruct the client to imagine that he has a friend named John sitting in the empty chair beside him, and then the therapist proceeds to “hypnotize” the friend in the empty chair.   In the meantime, the client succumbs to the process and finds him or herself indeed suggestible.

The point to this isn’t merely to say that we learn vicariously through modeling, but instead that direct communication can be threatening to some and that indirect communication can have a powerful effect if it can open doors that otherwise might have some rusty hinges.

The editor of the magazine I write for, “Plane and Pilot,” writes a column called “Going Direct.” It is a double entendre, of course, the aviation entendre referring to what pilots do when they navigate the shortest distance between two places—the straight line.   For reasons primarily of time and fuel economy, it is usually the pilot’s preferred way to travel, but it is rarely achievable in many places because airspace restrictions, mountains, and weather often get in the way.

But we do tend to see the direct route as the preferred route, just as we tend to admire straight-shooters. Martin Buber, one of my favorite Austrian-born philosophers and existentialist pop stars, said back in 1950 that “the origin of all conflict between me and my fellow-men is that I do not say what I mean, and that I do not do what I say.” Perhaps that is meant more as a statement pertaining to integrity, but it could just as well be an argument for going direct.

There are times, however, when going direct will get you into a canyon you can’t get out of, and saying what you mean can get you into more trouble than it’s worth. I received the most humiliating “C’ in my life in my first year of college. The professor who gave it to me was eventually to become the poet laureate of the United States of America, the truly extraordinary poet Charles Wright.   He was a wonderful man, in spite of his insanely good looks.   And frankly, in retrospect, he was generous even to give me a “C”; when I look back at what I wrote those days I cringe. One of the poems I wrote then was so embarrassingly frank in its sexual references I am too ashamed even now to admit I wrote it.   But when meeting with Wright, he kindly told me that the art of seduction—and he would know—was about subtlety, and the art of keeping things hidden. Those weren’t his exact words, but that was his meaning, having managed to measure his words with just the right amount of indirectness.   I was merely 18 years old then, barely conscious, but I walked away from his office rightly humbled and appreciative at the same time.

Artists of all kinds know this well.   Sex scenes in movies are great as long as you don’t have to sit next to your kids in the theater, but I am grateful to be spared the grunts and groans and appreciate the cut away to the gently rolling ocean waves, or the cigarette smoke rising to slightly obscure the rosy-cheeked afterglow.

The harsh brutality of life softens in indirect light. Direct sunlight has a way of bleaching out the soft shades that give life depth, leaving images that have too much contrast and not enough tones of gray. Photographers in Southern California must wait for the rare cloudy day in order to capture its beauty. In the studio, they bounce light in order to see the detail and combat brutal shadows.   Simply stated, we see better in indirect light.

There are cultural differences here as well.   The Japanese are noted for saying yes when they mean yes and saying yes when they mean no.   This has created many an abusive marriage, which I understand is a big problem in Japan.   New Yorkers are known to be very direct, while Californians are known to smile at you and then continue jogging.   People with autism (which I often think of in cultural terms) will not give or receive subtlety, which is both refreshing and dangerous if you prefer to think you’re having a good hair day when you’re not.   The English are known to be extremely indirect because it is difficult to be direct and polite at the same time, while Armenians from Armenia (as opposed to diasporan Armenians), having learned how to survive through multiple generations of Soviet fiscal mismanagement, will tell you whatever they think you want to hear in order to get what they need. Jews from the east coast will tell you your breath stinks and you should have a piece of rye bread, and Jews from the west coast will ask you if you ever had rye bread.

Of course, there is the omnipresent danger of being too subtle. People differ in their degrees of perspicacity, on a scale from completely clueless to paranoid schizophrenic. The trick, I suppose, is knowing who your customers are and their shopping habits. Or, if that is too indirect for you, knowing just how perceptive your listeners are and their preferences.

Pulling the mixture knob instead of the carburetor heat would have killed the engine, and practicing engine-out landings wasn’t on the agenda that day.   Even my instrument instructor might have slapped my hand away in that same situation after all.   To everything there is a season, I suppose, and it is in the knowledge of when it is best to go direct and when it is best to circumnavigate that the poetry resides.