Spiral Learning

23 April 2004

There is a model of learning that says that, in general, people progress from unconscious incompetence, to conscious incompetence, to unconscious competence, to conscious competence.

Basically, a person starts out not knowing how much they don't know, progresses to the 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing' stage, then begins to understand how much they have yet to learn, and finally, if they stick with it, they master a particular subject or skill.

This learning model has always seemed spiral in nature.  Many subjects or skills have levels of mastery that can be attained that leave the student with something that they can teach the next person coming up behind them while at the same time allowing the student to continue to learn, if they so choose.

Something this model leaves out are the feelings attached to each learning stage.  During unconscious incompetence is when I feel the most optimistic.  It is also the point at which I am most like to underestimate how long a particular project will take me.  

Conscious Incompetence is always accompanied by a sinking feeling in my gut.  This is the time when I am most likely to be derailed by illness or distracted by enthusiasm for a new project or skill set.  This is also the phase during which I am most vulnerable to mixing up the difficulty I am having learning my new subject with my own self-worth.  I, like many, tend to see my own worth in what I have accomplished, and when I am learning a new skill and taking two steps back for every one forward, it is hard not to take that struggle personally.  

Unconscious Competence is a slippery time emotionally.  Frequently, my evaluation of my own skills lags behind my actual ability. Really, I think that is the entire point of this phase of learning.  I spend so many years being conscious of my own incompetence that the time that I become fluent in what-ever-it-is, I'm in the middle of learning something else new and am dealing with a whole new round of sinking feelings.

Conscious Competence is not something I have a lot of experience with.  Perhaps I take it for granted.  I have always thought of it in terms of mastering an academic subject or a difficult skill.  I tend to assume that any skill that I can learn is one that others can master and take further.  In the past, I have seen this as an exclusive, rather than inclusive category, something obtained by professionals who have stuck it out in their field for many years.  

Upon reflection, I have come to realize is that Conscious Competence is fleeting.  It is a hilltop moment followed by another round of Unconscious Incompetence and all the steps that lead around the spiral to the next break in the clouds.  It may be, that as I spiral up the mountain, the cloud-breaks will come more frequently and last longer.  However, the trade-off is that the air is thinner and it gets more and more difficult to make it round the next bend.  At some point I have to decide when it is time to scale a different mountain and enjoy the moments of clarity that come with breathing easily. 

It is also important to realize that each skill, each mountain, does not require the same effort from each person.  Just because as skill is easy someone else, does not mean that I can follow where they lead without making sacrifices or stumbling on the path that they seem to walk with ease.

What I must remember is that the reverse is also true.  Subjects and skills that come easily to me may come to others only with long practice or much stumbling around in the dark.  Each person has to decide how much of that they are willing to put up with. 

Desire is what motivates the next step along the path.  How much do I want to be able to do what-ever-it-is that I am learning?  How much do I need a particular skill for what I want to do next in my life?  Answering these questions is much more important than asking how difficult the journey will be.  For me and the way that I learn, 'Why' is ever so much more important than 'How.'

Choice, Regrets

17 April 2004

When I was in High School I faced a choice of how to spend a part of my summer vacation.  Option 1 was to travel to Oregon, as I had every summer since I could remember, and spend time with my relatives.  Option 2 was to attend a writers camp in the wilds of northwestern Wyoming.

Both events appealed to me, but in different ways.   I enjoyed the summers spent visiting my cousins and, that particular year, my Grandmother was turning 80 and the whole family was in on the party. On the other hand, I enjoyed writing and the idea of spending an entire week with people who not only understood my compulsion to write, but shared it seemed an opportunity too good to pass up.  The fact that several of my long-distance-friends were planning to attend the camp only made the choice more difficult.

There was no way I could attend both events. No manipulation of time or space that would allow me the luxury of not having to choose between being with my family on a very special day and being with my friends doing something I felt passionate about.

This was also the first time I had had to make such a choice (that I can remember).  My parents discussed the pros and cons of each choice while leaving the actual decision up to me.  Not only did they not interfere, they committed to helping me attend either event, since, as a teenager, both funds and methods of transport were limited. The only factor in the decision was which event was the one I could least bear to miss.

Life as a responsible adult is full of choices that, once made, cannot be unmade.  In the greater scheme of things this first choice was a like a driving lesson for steering though life.   I can still feel the echo of the emotions of that time and the confusing pain of realizing that regardless of my choice I would have regrets.  

I choose to go to the writers camp, and now, twenty years later, I don't remember a lot of the specifics of that week.  I do remember it being a roller-coaster emotionally, but that equally was true of my day-to-day life.  What I do remember is how beautiful the camp setting was and how much time we spent writing.  

I wonder if I would have more vivid memories of that time if I had gone with my family instead or if  memories from twenty years ago would fade, regardless of the event they were attached to.  Would my life have been richer?  I don't know.  I was fortunate to have another six years to spend with my grandmother, including celebrating my wedding with  her on her birthday five years later.  

What I have learned is that I cannot do everything-- each choice, large or small, carries with it seeds of regret for opportunities missed.  However, it is important not to let regret crowd out the joy of living.

Muse-um

10 April 2004

I write as a hobby.  Most of the short fiction that I write is set in a shared universe (Tales of the Tai-Pan Universe).  Since I don’t write professionally my muse comes and goes as she pleases.  I can set stories aside for months or even years if I don’t feel inspired to work on them.  

I have many other interests and sometimes writing just takes a back seat to what ever my current passion is, but I always come back to writing.  It is what I do when I am stressed, how I cope when the world seems out of kilter, and it can be a lot of fun when the plot and characters are cooperating.  When the muse is with me, my fingers fly over the keyboard, scenes flow together like water running downhill, and characters talk to me, narrating their story as I try to keep up with their conversations and arguments.

When the characters are silent writing can be a hard slog thought deep mud.  When I am trying to write my way though a museless story, every line is work and every paragraph feels like it has been dragged from me, rather than flowing willingly onto the page.  The characters stubbornly refuse to answer my questions and I find myself getting up and walking away from the computer or checking my email every five minutes to see if something new has come in.  My mind rebels against the hard work of carding the wool of the imagination, much preferring to work with finished thread.

However, just as I always come back to writing as the primary outlet for my imagination, sometimes I find that the hard work of writing calls to me more than the easy stories my muse provides.  Writing to the dictates of a muse is easy and fun, but like cotton candy, it is quickly gone and leaves one feeling hungry and hyper.  

For me, putting emotion and feeling into a story is difficult.  To a certain extent, I have to feel what my characters are feeling in order to write with any depth.  My muse is fickle and does not like difficult situations and she frequently deserts me just as I get to the emotional climax of a story.  Sometimes I go though three or four drafts before I have the courage to write the tough scenes and, even though I know that about myself and my muse, I haven’t quite gotten to the stage where I can sit down and let my emotions bleed into the page on the first draft.

My muse requires coaxing, she reveals more and more about the story with each draft, and is willing to go deeper only after playing about in the shallows for a time.  Sometimes I have to leave her on the shore and dive on my own into the deep water.  Someday I hope to be able to write more consistently and be less reliant on my muse.  Until then, I will keep slogging away seeing the clear path of a plot disappear into the murky swamp of words. 

The Jesus Archetype

2 April 2004

I fell asleep one night meditating on two of my favorite characters in fiction:  Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP from the television show Due South and Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, Night Watch from Terry Pratchett’s ‘Discworld’ series.

Both characters have a lot in common.  They are boys from the country who move to the big city.  They know their way around their respective cities as if they have never lived anywhere else,  yet retain their otherness and naïveté.

More importantly, they give their full attention to each person that they meet, regardless of that person’s status.  They remember each person as an individual and their authors write them in such a way that you believe that both characters will know that person if they meet again, regardless of how fleeting the first meeting was.

Finally, they frequently get the reaction 'is he for real?' from other characters in their respective universes.

I think one of the reasons I like these characters so much is because they are simultaneously a person you would want to have be on your side, while at the same time, they really would not be comfortable to be around on a day-to-day basis.  By their very actions, they make a person feel like they should be nicer, better, and more generous.  Which is much harder than it looks from the outside.

I have long known that I have a weakness for men who are strong and compassionate, naive yet aware of the people around them, and able to fight with the best of the action heros yet preferring to find peaceful solutions or talk their way out of a difficulty.  What I didn’t realize until just recently is that many of those characteristics are also attributable to Jesus.  I’ve been reading the bible as part of an ongoing project and was surprised to find such strong parallels with some of my favorite fictional characters.

So now I have a category for these two characters, men who, even though they are imaginary, inspire me to try to be a better person.  They embody the Jesus Archetype for me.  And by doing so, they allow me to examine my relationship to my faith, friends, and family in a friendly and welcoming way.  For one thing about the scriptures, they rarely make me laugh, while both Terry Pratchett and the creators of Due South make me laugh and think and learn.

Sorting

26 March 2004

I spent the evening with my husband, sorting though the stuff that we have accumulated over our 12 ½ year marriage.  I find sorting, organizing, and evicting things puts me in a meditative state.

As I look over each item, I remember how we came by it, and sometimes even, the plan we had for it.  I know some people who can’t bear to part with the smallest thing and others who manage to keep their possessions to such a minimum that they can fit in tiny one bedroom apartments.  I fall somewhere in between. 

We have a large house and it is full of the possessions that three adults and a child accumulate over 36 and 5 years respectively.  However, very little of it goes unused.  Our problem, if you could call it that, is that we have so many interests.  So we accumulate, and as we accumulate I go though boxes and send objects off to the landfill, or thrift store, or friends and family.

As I sort though boxes and consult with my family about what to keep and what to send forth into the world, I think about the past, where these objects were acquired and I think about the present, which we will go into without these objects, reminders, keepsakes, and projects.  I feel lighter when a box of some-things goes off to the thrift store, or a load of books find their way to new homes.

It also serves as a reminder that I should focus on living in the present.  I have memories of the past and expectations of the future but this moment is the time that I am alive and able to act on my hopes and dreams. 

Tomorrow the pile of odds and ends will go to the donation truck or the dump– it will lose its association with me and my life and live only in my memory.  It will make room for different projects and allow new skills and ideas to enter my life.  For, as there is only so much room in my house, there is only so much time in my life and I must decide now, at this present moment, how I will live, and not bind myself too tightly to either past or future.

Reflections

March 19, 2004

I recently had the opportunity to hear my mother preach a sermon.  She had travelled to the East Coast to do some work for the Episcopal Church and was invited to be a guest preacher by a congregation there.  Luckily for me someone recorded the sermon and posted on their website.

I  enjoyed hearing the recording of her sermon. She is a  really good speaker (daughterly bias not-with-standing). I sent the link to several other people, some that I know very well and one that I only know through the internet.  Mom talked about the Jesus transforming people’s understanding of who is blessed.

Then, as now, it was easy to think that people who ‘have it all’ are blessed while those who are poor in health, wealth, or connections are somehow being punished for something.  It is a trap that is easy to slip into, given how little control we really have over the world and what it does to us.  One part of Jesus’ message was that all are blessed, that God’s love extends to everyone in creation regardless of outside factors that may dominate our lives for good or ill.  

In light of various debates raging around the Christian faith about same-sex marriage, reaction to the “Passion of Christ,” and the ever-present struggle between organized religion and the faith of individuals, it was very powerful and refreshing to be reminded of the central message of the love of God.

God knew that life was hard and still sent Jesus to come and share the journey with us.  From birth to death an aspect of the divine has come down to remind us how important we are, how much a part of the divine we can be when we make the effort, and yet, no matter how close we come, or how far we may stray, ultimately, we will all join Jesus in death.

What happens after that is up to God.  All we can do is live the life we are given to the best of our ability.  It can be hard to live with an awareness of death but it can also be invigorating, like diving into a lake when you know the water will be cold.  Jesus jumps in first to show us that it’s not as bad as we might fear.  We will all join him in our own time but until then, his presence can make the deep water less frightening.

When we can release the twin burdens of the illusion of immortality and the fear of death we are freed to live our life near the lake and enjoy the hot sunshine and cool water, to give time to our friends, family, and family-of-choice, knowing that each moment with them is a gift of this life, existing only in the moment and in our memories.

Like a gift, each, conversation, telephone call, email, or letter is a surprise waiting to be unwrapped.   Hearing my mother’s voice, listening to her tell stories about Jesus and his tendency to move in close and draw listeners closer was a gift.  I found myself leaning into the speakers of my computer. Hanging on each word because she is my mother, because she is priest with something to say, because she is a person with a lifetime of living to draw upon, she draws me deeper into her story.

Between birth and death we are given a life to explore– talk to people who share the path with you.  Listen to their stories.  Share your own.  The dark pool will claim us all eventually but until that time we can play in the sun, picnic on the grass, and be there for each other.

The Joy of Sitting Still

May 20, 2003

I went to a funeral a few weeks back.   The funeral was for a man I did not know as well as I should have, but who was loved and respected by our church and the larger community.  Over 200 people crowded into our small church to pay their last respects.  The pews were full, the extra row of seating that had been added was full and the walls were full of people who crowded in for standing room only.

It was a wonderful tribute to a life fully lived.

About three-quarters of the way though the service, one of our elderly parishioners fainted and struck his head on the floor.   I could feel everyone in the church suddenly fixing their attention on the spot where he fell and I could hear whispers as everyone tried to figure out what was going on.  I could see that one of our very competent members who was also acting a general usher and organizer was going for the phone and I could hear 911 being called in the background.  What seemed to be fifteen doctors and nurses consulted about how best to make the man comfortable while waiting for the paramedics.

After a prayer for the man who had fallen, it was decided that we would resume the service until the ambulance arrived.  One of the deceased friends, who had been in the middle of his speech when all this began, started up again.  We all tried to listen attentively and give the wounded man a little respite from our stares.  The crowd of medical people around him had sorted itself out into a reasonable order and there was not much else for the rest of us to do.

The mourner had not gotten much further in his speech when the welcome sound of the ambulance siren was heard in the distance.   He paused as the EMT’s made their way in past the alter to the stricken man.  They worked with him for a bit.  The organist tried to give him some privacy by playing softly in the background but the man’s voice was weak enough that the EMT’s couldn’t hear over the music so they asked that it stop.  They worked for a few more minutes and then helped him get onto the stretcher.  Suddenly he rose up in the air as the stretcher popped up into its rolling position.  We were still all seated so we had to look up to see him.  He was sitting up, and receiving oxygen and, best of all, he was conscious.

Spontaneous applause erupted throughout the church.  I remarked to my husband that it was one of the only times I had heard applause during a church service.

The poor man whose remembrance had been interrupted picked up where he had left off and gave a very moving portrayal of his long-time-friend’s life.

I don’t often find joy at a funeral but this one time, between the life of the man we were remembering and the life of the man who we had seen lifted up above us there was a real celebration in that room.  

In the chruch and in life, there is a time to weep and a time to laugh.  That day was a time to sit still do both.

Little Things

May 10, 2003

I’ve been getting the message all my life it seems.  The daily bombardment of fitness commercials, advise from my doctor, articles in magazine and newspapers touting the benefits of working out on some sort of schedule.  The two problems have always been, I don’t take being told what to do well and, I’ve never been a person who could keep  a consistent schedule.

In January I had a revelation.  I play in a fantasy role-playing group and once a month or so we get together and pretend that our characters are running around a fantastic Victorian England in 1870.  One day after we had finished playing and were cleaning up and putting the house back in order I realized that my character was leading a very disciplined life in the midst of the chaos of her adventures.  She got up early every morning and worked out, then after breakfast she would spend time studying a foreign language with other characters from the group. 

Now those folks who know me in real life know that I only need my fingers (and not my toes) to count the number of sunrises I have witnessed in my life time.  They also know that if I can get out the door on the third try it is a minor miracle.  So it wasn’t too surprising that I would give my alter ego some of the attributes I wished to have.  What was surprising was when I looked back over the characters I have had over the past ten years I found that they had several things in common.  The two most obvious were that they were physically fit, the other was an almost universal ability to learn new languages.  

I was already taking steps to learn the only language I have ever felt an affinity for so I decided to look more closely at how physical fitness, or lack thereof, played out in my daily life.

In the fall I had been diagnosed with one of the many conditions that can improve if the patient loses weight.  In the past few months, as a result of a friend who was considering weight loss surgery, I learned a lot about body mass index and other measures for determining the impact weight might be having on my life.  I decided not to focus on losing weight because that seemed to be something that was outside of my control.  Also I had spent many years learning to be okay with the shape I was, and really what I wanted to change was my ability to do things, not my ability to fit into certain clothes or be a certain shape.  

My goals were simple.  I wanted to be able to fold myself in half and touch the floor with the palms of my hands, in short I wanted to be more flexible.  I also wanted to be retain my ability to lift and carry my son when I felt like it, even as he grew longer and heavier, I wanted to be stronger.

I started with fifteen minutes of beginning yoga each day.  I already had a book and a mat from a previous failed attempt at this very thing.  This time something strange happened, I stuck to it.  I am now into my fifth month of yoga and still going along.  I visited my doctor for a follow-up visit to see how my condition was doing and she noticed that I had lost weight in the six months since she last saw me.  That was nicely encouraging.  What was even better was the first time I was able to lift my legs up over my head without overly relying on momentum to get them up their.

While I was waiting in the doctor’s office, I noticed that one of the brochures lying about was a very simple weight lifting program for folks who wanted to improve there strength.  It was about a third generation photocopy but I picked it up and took it home.  All the exercises in it seemed simple and straightforward and I had a set of small hand weights that Exercise Santa had brought our household a few years ago.  So, once again, I had everything I needed to get started without having to leave the house.  

I’ve stuck with that routine now for the past two months and have already noticed some benefits even at the very low weights that I am using.

Will I continue along this path?  Your guess is as good as mine.  But the benefits that I have derived from it are tangible and the motivation to start came not from someone telling me that it was the right thing to do (which I already knew) but from letting my fantasy world come to visit my daily life, instead of making it a one way trip each time.

A round woman in a stick figure world

June 14, 2002

I am a well rounded woman.  I’m five feet nine inches and I weigh 205 pounds.  This means that I have curves.  Curves where my stomach rounds away from my waist and curves where my hips curve away to my legs.  I’m more the classic pear shape than the apple shape.  I am not, by any stretch of the imagination slim, svelte, or trim.  I am soft and rounded everywhere except my elbows, knees, and feet. 

Art had an impact on me as a child.  Not necessarily the impact you would expect.  My grandfather was a hobby artist and he collect work by other people.  At my grandparents house the walls were covered in paintings and the tables supported sculptures.  The artwork was a mix of classical western styles and modern Mexican work.  I was exposed to a wide range of styles and body types in art from modern, squared off people that were more blocks of color to a lush portrait of a woman with curves like the ones I eventually developed.

At my parents home the interest in art continued.  There were four different portraits that shared a common style, some modern word art, and one great big painting of dogs gathered around a pot they had tipped off of the fire (though as a child I was always afraid that the dogs would burn up in the fire).  We also had various carousel animals, antiques, and tin soldiers, and highland supply goods around the house depending on what my father’s second business was at the time.  In addition, to the above mentioned fixtures, my parents kept collecting art as I was growing up.   I grew up surrounded by visual art– from the gaudy art of painted carousel animals to the restrained and dark portraits of the mystery people.

It was a little like living in an art gallery– and since we were in the middle of Wyoming (an eight hour drive to Denver or Salt Lake City depending on the weather) what I saw in my parents and grandparents house made up most of my exposure to what I consider fine art. 

When I moved to the big city and meet many of the good friends that I have now, I was exposed new and different art– between my college studies and my friends I absorbed everything from ElfQuest to Dante Gabriele Rossetti– with a detour into really abstract art courtesy of a painting teacher.  I enjoy portraits the most.  I really like pictures that show people as the were, or that show people doing interesting things.  Not surprisingly, I share some of my father’s artistic sensibilities.  We use the cow standard for judging art.  If I look at a piece of artwork and, regardless of the subject matter, am convinced that the artist has the skills to draw a realistic looking cow then I’m willing to give the art my full consideration.  If it doesn’t meet the cow standard then I’ll look elsewhere for artwork that I want to hang on my walls.

My artistic sensiblities are also shaped by my exposure to and interest in feminism.  I do believe that the way women are portrayed visually affect the way women as a group are perceived by men as a group.  I have seen it happen (that also is an whole different essay).  One of the things that I look for in good stories and good art is an undefinable something that draws me into the piece.  I want complexity and depth and most of what I find is shallow stereotypes and women-as-sex-objects.  I find this very frustrating.

So between the cow standard, my own body type, and my interest in feminism I struggle to find art that I find powerful and moving.  This is especially true because much of the art that I am exposed to these days is in a sub-genre of science fiction that I hang out in.  Furry fandom spends a lot of collective time and energy on what humanized-animals might look like or be like.  One advantage I have is that I am not restricted to convention art show to view furry art.  The project that I work on exposes me to some wonderful artist who take full advantage of the blend of human and animal traits to devise creatures of all different shapes and sizes in locations from the exotic to the mundane.

About two years ago I ventured out into the larger world of furry fandom and was disappointed (but not terribly surprised) to find that the art show was packed, not with what I consider to be art but with pictures of thin human shaped furs in various states of undress– some of them holding weapons of one sort or another.  Xena Warrior Princess aside, (and I was a fan of that show), I know how I would dress if I was planning to go into battle and it frustrates me to see so many female characters posing with weapons– or just plain posing.  

When I walk into an art show I want to be interested and engaged by what I see– and I want to find artwork to take home with me.  Works that reflect the diversity of the human experience and the dynamic nature of the world around us. Artwork that can hold up to being looked at again and again.  Artwork that I can get different impressions off of depending on my mood.  

I am selfish that way.  I don’t buy art to support an artist.  I buy art to support my own interest in art.

Mutually Exclusive

15 March 2002

I'm a hopeless romantic at heart.  I'm also a ruthless pragmatist at heart and have been married for over ten years.  What does being married have to do with anything?  In my case, everything.

When I met my husband-to-be we were both in college, with not a lot of money for extras.  We also didn't `court' each other in anything resembling a traditional manner.  I was in a relationship when we first met and he was coming off of one.  We lived together (with two other friends) for one year, then lived together on our own for another year.  I remember riding in his car from his brother's house and sort of mutually deciding that we were officially `going out' (a fact that everyone around us had know for at least the last 3 months).  I don't remember exactly when we got officially `engaged' though I remember the presentation of the ring.  David brought me breakfast in bed (again at his parents house) and the ring was in my cereal box (I thought it was cute).  The presentation style was the only surprise-as we'd already discussed that we wanted to get married and we used my great-grandmother's engagement ring-so it wasn't exactly a secret.

So we never really `dated' and never had much time or inclination for other forms of traditional courtship.  I think this `meeting of the mind's style' is part of the reason we are still together over ten years later.  

By the time we had extra money to spend on anything, I had realized that I didn't want to spend money on things I would never use.  So even though my romantic side would love to get a spontaneous and expensive gift; my control freak side wants advance notice of any large expenditures.  Also, while I love the idea of jewelry-I almost never wear it.  I wear my wedding band and my glasses and that's about it most days.  I just recently had to stick some earrings in my ears just so the holes I begged for in 4th grade wouldn't grow closed.

This is a long way of saying that I can't have everything.  I know that and I still struggle with it.  I am a married woman with a 3 year-old, a housemate, a job and two pets.  All of which create both opportunity and obligation.  I am fortunate and I know it.

But I also have single friends (including my brothers) who travel a lot.  I have friends who don't have children or pets who can do things on the spur of the moment.  I have friends who live close in to the city and don't have to drive.  I have friends who are courting, and married.  Friends who are single by choice, and single by accident.

What I know is that I can't have the freedom of choice of a single person and still be married.  I can't drop things at a moments notice and still have a child.  I can't fly of to Norway for two weeks with out finding someone to cover my job and water the plants.

What I have is wonderful.  I love my parents, husband, son, and housemate.  I have really great friends who help me with my obligations.  But the fact remains that there is a lot that I would like to do that I simply can't.  I can't have everything because I have to make choices about the opportunities that come to me. 

Once those choices are made I have to live with (and enjoy) the consequences.