On Being Realistic: The Wisdom of Hanging in the Balance

“To be realistic, one must always admit the influence of those who have gone before.” ”

— Charles Eames

Someone whom I knew for a short while in my life, once commented that I wasn't as optimistic as they had thought I was when they first met me. For someone who doesn't place much weight on the opinions of others about myself, this comment carved very deeply into my understanding of who I am.

I had never been anything but my true, blue self: a person I have come to understand and cultivate over time, such that on most days, I'm perfectly happy and comfortable in my own skin. I'm well aware of my proclivities, flaws, strengths and contributions. I was bothered to the point where it unhinged me and set me on a quest of trying to understand who I was. Had I got some part of myself wrong? Was I not who I thought I was? Had my circumstances turned me into someone difficult to be around?

I started asking myself irrational questions and started attributing all sorts of things to being optimistic. Perhaps if I was more optimistic I'd have more opportunities, or a book deal, or better shaped eyebrows. It was a rabbit hole I have never been down.

So, as is my default, I started to take notes and to read and to try and understand where these thoughts were coming from. What is our obsession with optimism? Why do we devalue people who prefer a rainy day to those who bask in the eternally sunny days of summer?

First, some definitions. In the world of Positive Psychology, Martin Seligman (who I have a major intellectual crush on), is a juggernaut. He is the pioneer of the field which explores the link between positivity or optimism and a variety of characteristics in life, from well-being and health, to resilience and problem-solving to relationships.

According to Seligman, optimists view negative events as temporary, not pervasive, and attributed to events outside of themselves. Whereas, pessimists view negative events as pervasive, constant and their own fault. These are known as the explanatory styles within each domain. It's how we see the world, how we think of it in relation to ourselves, and the relative power and control that we hold over the ability to change those events.

We all fall on a spectrum between these two very extreme explanatory styles and perspectives. We all know people who are eternal optimists and are unshaken by what can by consensus be seen as traumatic events. Think of Viktor Frankl, the holocaust survivor and famous psychologist who explores the area of  meaningfulness of life. We need only think of Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh to get an idea of what pessimism is (I think he's just a bit misunderstood; you might disagree).

There is something to be said about a tempered perspective. I don't like to think of the two extremes in isolation. There is certainly a propensity to go toward one or the other, but by and large, we discount the people who tend to be middle of the road. We write articles like this one, which equate realism with average, run-of-the-mill and even mediocre. We equate it with the inability to think big or creatively.

I would like to argue that being a realist is a wholesome and accumulated view, taken over time, through many events that inform our relationship with this world, with ourselves and with each other. Being a realist is about entertaining the very possibility that things could both turn out better than and worse than expected. It's not to bum anyone out or to give false hope, but to be perfectly honest that we entertain a world full of chaos.

Most of the realists I know are problem-solvers. They have many, many contingency plans. A pessimist might say they hope for the best and prepare for the worst. I like to think of it as back-pocketing an inevitability without placing it on the table.

Being a realist doesn't preclude you from dreaming big dreams and supporting those who have them. I'll admit to being the first one excited when a loved one ventures out into this wide world with a new endeavour. But it does give you the accumulated wisdom that the law of averages might preside over these dreams. That you might just make it, or that you might have to take a detour. No matter. We'll help you. We've got a map.

Well-placed hope is a card that most realists will have. Just as a scientist would be remiss if they conducted one experiment and claimed that it was applicable to everyone everyone forever, realists use reality, real life to know that overall things turn out, but they show their own idiosyncrasies along the way, and that uncertainty can have very real effects. 

Realism is a place of wisdom. I have always thought of it this way. It aligns with who I am. It comes with understanding that gratitude is necessary for the good things that we have and the lessons that we learn. It comes from the wisdom that we are no different from each other in our hopes, dreams and wishes, and that it's fully possible to support something until a time where it might be much bigger than you are in either direction. It is the wisdom to walk away when necessary and to hang on when possible.

Let's credit the realists in our lives, not as trepidatious and risk averse, but as informed and balanced. We have a map. We'll always have it whether we need it or not.

My favourite reads on the topic:

On being too much for ourselves - Brainpicker

On How to Disagree - The Book of Life

Stumbling on Happiness - Daniel Gilbert

Naming Your Price

There is an old myth that floats around in Blues music about a musician named Robert Johnson. Robert Johnson, according to sources, was a terrible musician by any account. He was an awful guitarist when the Blues were in their early days, as the craft flourished and established its voice. One day, Robert Johnson disappeared. He disappeared for quite a while and nobody knew where he had gone (this in the days where it was easy to do that).

One day sometime later, he suddenly resurfaced, guitar in hand. When he started to play, he had miraculously acquired aficionado-level skills. So the myth goes, that if you went to a crossroad at midnight and waited there, the devil would appear, take your guitar, play a few chords and hand it back to you. Suddenly, you would be able to play perfectly. The only catch: you just sold your soul.

I got to thinking about what we trade, and why we trade it to get what we want. Today I read an article about a ghostwriter for Donald Trump, who helped to write his first book, knowing that he sold out. His wife was expecting, money was worrying him and the payoff was big, even though his journalistic integrity took a lashing.

Why do we make these trades? 

Desire plays a large part. We desire the things we don't have and could have. We see other people and suffer from the Fear of Missing Out. And we want them enough to make large enough trades. We see a culture that gives up so many things in order to achieve dreams, whether it's sleep, money, family, or integrity. Desire helps us gauge whether those trades are worth it. Do we want it badly enough to take a dive in some way? Sometimes those trades are worth it. You bet large and you win large. Everything has a price if we want it badly enough. Robert Johnson traded his soul (apparently) for an enchanted ability to play the guitar. That's what it was worth. 

The psychology of what we think we deserve is the other part of it. We all have a frame of reference that maintains what it is to stay in our station in life. Every time we negotiate, we trade away something vital. Sometimes it's small enough that we can recoup the loss over time. We can find an alternative. Sometimes we negotiate down. We settle. We do this because we think we deserve less. Or perhaps less is just what's available. We learn to be okay with what we have. I would bet money on the fact that Donald Trump thinks he deserves more. He isn't the most qualified candidate (at this point, I would be more qualified), but he feels as though he deserves this presidency.

It is often our psychology that gives us the permission for what we seek out to achieve. In a sense, it is our confirmation of ourselves, our worth, and our ability that bears down on what we get, and the price that we are willing to pay. We confirm these things with ourselves daily. We didn't get the girl or the raise or the concert tickets, because frankly, we are in some way undeserving or lacking.

Wandering around a Saturday Farmer's Market is an exercise in naming your price. Everyone has a set of criteria. The rhubarb is particularly delicious this time of year, and the blueberries are just beginning to come to their peak. Sometimes our trade matches up. We are willing to give a little to get a little (nobody likes sub-par rhubarb pie). At other times, the discrepancies are larger and we find ourselves negotiating up or down. You stand there, holding an artisanal jar of strawberry jam, and you ask yourself, is this worth the seven dollars I'm going to pay for it? Sometimes it's just the perfect thing for that crusty french bread you picked up. And sometimes you think, the bread will be just as delicious with some Smuckers.

Some good reads on negotiation:

Hunger Makes Me by Jess Zimmerman

How We Came to Desire a Job We Could Love on The Book of Life

The Patience of Getting on with Things

I'm stuck on a packed train in the morning. I can smell the morning-ness on other people. The smell of freshly showered with the mingling of coffee breath. It's raining outside (as usual), so we can't crack the windows open without having the rain pelt our heads from a usually fast moving train.

The irritation and impatience is palpable. Eyes are rolling. Deep exasperated coffee-laced sighs appear to be fogging up the already foggy windows. Nobody is pleased.

The woman who is sitting on directly next to me looks like she's about to leap out the window from frustration. "I can't believe this is happening again!" she says a little bit louder than necessary. "This is very irritating." Her irritability is coming off of her in great big plumes and penetrating the strained quiet that we are bent on maintaining. I can't stay quiet much longer.

"Well, what are you going to do?" I say.

"I can't do anything about it! I'm not happy about this!" she replies. She's getting visibly more purple.

"That's exactly it. You can't control this situation, so you have to wait it out. Like the rest of us. We're all going to be late to work or school and we can't do anything about it. So there's no need to get mad about it." I respond.

I've said my piece now.

The thing is, minor and major inconveniences are part and parcel of our daily lives these days. From email that loads far too slow, to missed buses, to missed deadlines. And my favourite: people not doing what I asked them when I asked them.

Any combination of these can lead us into emotional states that range anywhere from minor irritation to out and out rage.

Lately, I've been sensing the constant current of irritation that comes from encountering minor inconveniences daily. I've had to pull away from others because of foul moods. And I've taken to supplementing my diet with far too much comfort food as a result.

But because I believe that everything comes with consequences and trade-offs, my very human, albeit miserable behaviour has been to nobody's benefit, least of all, mine. In a bid to "fix" something that I know I can fix, I've had to remind myself that patience is the well from which creation, curiosity, and contentment spring. I've had to remind myself of these things:

Nothing happens without patience: We fail in life. All the time. And if we're lucky, we fail a lot. Patience is linked with knowing that the good things take time to happen. Of course, there are things like perseverance, grit, courage, all linked with the good things. But without patience, we're apt to throw our hands up.

Patience requires gratitude: Being trapped on a crowded train is to nobody's taste. It helped to remind myself that I had a job to go to, that I didn't have to walk to, and an understanding team that was familiar with the idiosyncrasies of the public transit system

Patience comes with acknowledging the fine line between what you can and can't control: We can't control everything that happens to us. We often can control whether we choose to see things one way or another. This isn't a bid for positivity (I wouldn't preach that!). It is however, worth understanding that our reactions may need to be in proportion with the situation.

Patience requires regular practice: Lord help me sometimes it's just easier to imagine smacking someone upside the head from the absolutely asinine thing that they just uttered. We all have those moments. Reminders to cultivate patience are crucial in those moments where resolve is being tested and nerves are being frayed. These are teachable moments.

We have very human tendencies to get quite grumpy when things don't go our way. It's the seedy underbelly of being a creature with forethought and introspection. But what is our weakness is also our strength. We are given the incredible power to understand our own actions and the fact that we are complicit in the outcomes that they produce. I'm making a promise with myself to have more patience in my life. Time is short; I'd rather spend it in a state of awareness rather than in a fog of my own undoing.

PS: If you want to read some good things about patience, here are some of my favourites:

Kafka on Love and Patience (Brainpickings)

Four Steps to Developing Patience (Psychology Today)

On Irritability (The Book of Life)

On Leaving Things Behind

When I was young, my family moved a lot. By the time I was 10, we had moved more than a dozen times. These journeys weren't all terribly well-planned. Sometimes we'd have a very short time to get our things together and go. I learned very quickly not to get attached to things that I wouldn't be able to take with me if the time came (and it almost inevitably did). I have one distinct memory of moving from my maternal grandmother's home. I tried as best as I could to stuff all 50 of my very thin fairy tale books into a suitcase, working my way around the nooks and crannies, wrapping clothes around them. I remember thinking that I probably wouldn't be able to do that next time around.

My frugality with things has continued throughout my life. I have always been reluctant to buy things that I didn't absolutely require. I still don't have a dining table or a blender. My bibliophilia has continued on unabated, such that when I moved into my current home, my books made up half of the boxes that were moved into the house. Though my home is filled with the things that I love, and it feels very much like a home, I always think twice about adding to the lot.

When we travel, we often make lists of things that we ought to be taking with us, to prepare for different scenarios on the trip. My own sister usually puts together entire outfits in case we have a nice dinner, or a beach day, or a trip to a museum. Lists can be extensive from various hair implements to the appropriate footwear (carry the one).

For most of my adult life, I have tried to travel as lightly as I can. It helps that most of my clothes are fashionably neutral and I don't wear much in the way of makeup, so the complexity is somewhat reduced. Still, I find myself asking the question, what can I leave behind? rather than what can I take with me?

There is a good lesson in how we conduct our lives here. In the days where minimalism happens to be in vogue, and everyone is engaged in the life-changing magic of tidying, it does us good to have an inventory of the habits, the people, the thoughts that we can leave behind. After all, just like the acid-wash jeans that served us when we were younger, some things just no longer do; after a while, they might even start to look a bit ridiculous.

We are deeply attached "what ifs" and "just in cases", all to prepare us for some inevitable future of our own mind's making.

I've found that there is an art to leaving things behind, that only comes over time, and out of habit. Though difficult to oblige, we realize that the unnecessary and seldom useful take up valuable space in our psyches. Like old clothes, or an extra pair of shoes, they hang around, claiming a territory that might well hold something more useful. Once we recognize that these eventualities may not exist, and that we are perfectly capable of making do if necessary, that space then becomes occupied by something more luxurious and more potent: potential.