This is one of those mornings when I have nothing in particular to write about, but I feel an obligation to try, anyway. Maybe something will be uncovered in the process. It's like an archaeological excavation. One moment, I'm just shoveling dirt and clay. My hands are grimy, sore, and blistered. Then the next I hear the chink of metal hitting something hard. I curse under my breath, thinking it's just another rock. But as I clear the dirt around it, I discover it's no rock at all, but the wall of an ancient building, or maybe even the petrified skull of one of my ancestors.
But the reality is, I'm not digging very deeply in any one spot. I'm more like a man with a rake than a man with a shovel. I'm scrapping at the surface, moving leaves from one side of the yard to the next. Every now and then I spot a coin shining under the debris and I take it, smiling. But for the most part, I'm just tidying the place up. This isn't a process of discovery; it's a process of ordering chaos. Now the leaves are all in one corner of the yard, and I can see the grass and the soil again. Maybe I'll mulch the leaves. They'll become a potent fertilizer for some future project. Really, that's what these journals are about.
But that metaphor has put me in a difficult position. Now that I've tidily finished it, I have nothing in particular to say. Where I do go from here? Or, a little more accurately, how do I go about finding the next subject to write about? I've just finished raking a section of the yard, and now I lift my head and lean on my rake. I survey the grass, looking for leaves I haven't yet touched. And then, ah! There they are! I head over and start raking.
But that's not how it really works. Actually, as I look around the yard I see that leaves are everywhere. My spirit sinks. My mind tries to grapple with the logistics of this. How long will it take? Where should I rake next to most efficiently handle the process? I seriously consider just throwing the rake to the ground and walking off, or short of that, taking the rake to the shed and locking it away. When I realize I'll regret that later—regret that deeply, in fact—I groan and approach a random section. It may not be the most efficient approach, but I just need to start somewhere. I need to work and not to think. My thoughts will just dishearten me.
This reminds me of something my roommate Matt once told me. He was listening to an episode of This American Life, and in it they had a telling statistic: the average toddler from a family with professional parents (lawyers, architects, doctors, and other high achievers) hears some 500,000 encouragements by their second birthday. Meanwhile, the average toddler from a family in poverty hears next to no encouragement, but rather 500,000 discouragements and criticisms by their second birthday. Supposedly, this simple and pervasive act is responsible for perpetuating class.
Even if this sounds like something out of a pop psychology magazine, it says something interesting about me. While a child who hears extensive encouragement may grow up to stare at a mess of leaves and think, “I can do this, let's figure out how to handle it best,” I think, “This is going to take forever. I shouldn't even bother.” So while the first child has the strength of heart to think things through before acting, I have to force myself to act immediately, or else I'll do nothing at all. Curiously, this is not a question of intelligence, willpower, or raw ability, it's a question of faith. The first child has the faith in themselves to explore the possibilities, while I have to shut down my intelligence to act at all.
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