I have been thinking a lot about love and friction, only not in the way your mind maybe-perhaps just jumped to, if you are like me and we are both, like, 12.
I have been thinking about love in terms of what I love, and whom I love, and how those two things intersect. For example, I love figuring stuff out, reading and taking in and mulling over and hashing out and finally, getting some semblance of a clue. I can do all of these things on my own; I must do quite a bit of it on my own. Maybe the ratio changes as one gets older and, presumably, wiser, but for now, I’d reckon I spend three to four times as much time taking in and hashing out and so forth as I do actually gaining semblances of clues, much less putting them out there.
But while the part that I’m actually sharing with others, the “talking” here, in posts, and in the comments, and in social media, as well as the talking-for-real one-on-one, in groups, during talks, takes up perhaps a smaller amount of time, it delivers a disproportionately large part of the thrill. Which makes sense: We are social beings! We like being around each other! Wherever two or three are gathered! And so on.
So the answer to love seems pretty straightforward: figure out what it is you really and truly love, and move toward it. Do more of it, be around more of the people who facilitate it for you. Relentlessly hew to your love, and ignore that other stuff, or just deal and dispense with it as quickly as possible.1
Friction is more complex. More obviously complex, anyway.
For our purposes here, “friction” is what stops you, or slows you, what creates drag. And the tricky thing is that you don’t want to get rid of it entirely, because some of the friction is good for you, and arguably necessary: who learns from easy? You may like easy; I certainly do.
Trickiest of all is that friction can be fun, in the right amounts (cf. that thing our 12-year-old minds immediately went to). The right amount of push-back in a conversation is thrilling, even (or especially) when it borders on maddening. Worthy opponent, and all that. Ditto solo problem-solving and, jeez, is it just me, or is all of this tinged with innuendo today? Well, you get my point. (Point? Really? Argh!)
In the wrong amounts, of course, friction is dreadful, even deadly. Too much friction will grind you to a nub. For me, advertising shifted from the good, learning friction to the bad, grinding kind. So did acting. So did, I’m ashamed to say, more than one long-term relationship.
Most pertinently to me, so did the confluence of friction-filled endeavors that led to my Crohn’s onset. First, because since my collapse in September of 2002, I can no longer count on Powering Though Shit as a modus operandi.2 Second, because that sucker crept up on me, and while I was, or thought I was, moving toward love. I wasn’t in advertising; I was acting, and in a great play! I wasn’t in an unfulfilling marriage; I was in a wildly passionate relationship!
Yeah, I know. Nothing like a good, clear view from the outside. Or hindsight.
What about the present, though? Because like it or not, that’s where we’re all doomed to live, no matter how much we look back wistfully or project ourselves into the future.
My suspicion is that the clearer one gets about love, what love means to one, what one cares about more than one’s own small human self, the simpler it becomes to discern that line where useful friction shifts into fruitless grinding.
My other suspicion is that for those of us who are good at kidding ourselves about what love is, who are good at “keeping things vague,” as my old Method acting teacher used to say, the very most useful tool of all is the truth. Relentless truth. Gentle truth. Simple truth. The truth at the core of the Method: “Where am I right now?”
- I am at a party, late at night, having fun.
The first two items are facts; the last is a state of being, or an assumption based on the first two items. Provided we’re playing what we’d call in the Method class a “simple” scene, drama or comedy with a clear who/what/where, as opposed to the kind where there’s a lot of dramaturgy required before you can make heads or tails of it, we start with these tangibles. And we challenge the assumptions.
- I am at a party, late at night. It is loud, and I am unable to hear the person next to me without him shouting and me straining to listen. I was up early this morning and up late the night before. I am tired. My attention is straying elsewhere, mostly to thoughts of quiet and sleep.
So I am not in a party, late at night, having fun. Maybe I was having fun. Maybe I am supposed to be having fun. But now, at best, I am having “fun”.
This may sound ridiculously obvious: You’re at a party and you’re tired and not having fun? Leave, dumbass! Who’s keeping you there? And who needs an exercise for this?
Well, maybe you do not. In certain situations, more and more of them, thankfully, I do not. More and more I am awake and attuned to my real feelings, and more and more I am inclined to act on them. Still, I have blind spots, both unavoidable, the ones I don’t know about yet, and willful, the ones I’m still, for whatever reason, unwilling to give up. I power through, I blip over, I look away out of fear or politeness (which one could argue is a form of fear).
One big truth at the end of last year was that the way I was working was not working. After a year of both musing and actual, physical testing, I think it comes down to this: I had stopped being truthful about what it was I loved, i.e., the thing I care about more than my own, small human self, and stopped being careful about managing friction, i.e. the physical realities that made it possible to pursue it. Now I don’t have to just guess whether MORE ROOM makes for a happier, healthier, more productive and loving Colleen; I know it.
I know I need a certain number of hours of sleep per night and the right kind of food and enough exercise.
I know I need a ridiculous amount (to some) of time spent alone, and in a quiet, nurturing environment.
I know that doing the shit out of something is fine, but that it may involve equal parts pursuing the something and lounging on the bed or in the bath, reading, and not just reading books that will obviously move me toward my goals, but engrossing novels, vivid memoirs, enchanting graphic novels.
I know that it is as important for me to take an hour to walk as it is three to write. It is as important for me to take three hours to shop for real food and prepare it as it is to work on my PowerPoint deck.
Those 16 non-working hours in a day aren’t for squeezing more stuff into; they’re not even for making the eight working hours work better, although you can use them for that, which I confess is largely why I started turning my attention to them. They’re for living. Living! Who knew?
My (slightly) older but infinitely wiser friends Hiro and my First-Shrink-Slash-Astrologer both advocate more being, less doing. In my heart, I know they are right; I also know that to tell a doer to Just Stop Doing It is like telling snow not to fall or water not to move downstream. For the time being, then, for 2011 and beyond, I will continue to look at different kinds of doing. Switching doings. Working, yes, working, on further reducing drag.
Finding ways to discern and describe what it is I love in real terms. Finding ways to reduce drag on my movements toward them.
With joy! Towards love! And as much as possible, out in the open, where it might be seen and made use of. But working.
For now the “being” will have to take the form of “being okay with that.”
1It may take a while to discover exactly what it is that you love, but there are tools for that: The Artist’s Way is a good start for those who self-identify as creative; plenty of tools and exercises for excavating your truest, purest self, for me, the part that is still 10, before my dreams started bumping up against the world’s expectations. Until I was 10, I was an artist, I didn’t have to think about whether I was, or what it meant, or whether I was a good one, or whether (and this is a big one) it was practical or not. I just was.
2This does not mean I have not tried; oh, me, how I’ve tried! Each time, a little less successfully. I tire astonishingly quickly now compared to the rate I did during my 20s and 30s, or even my mid-40s, and my bounce-back rate gets slower and slower.