Judgment Is Belief Used as a Weapon

Driving down the freeway, I saw an old van spewing exhaust fumes in a cloud behind it.  My immediate thought was, What a jerk!  (Actually, it was something a bit harsher than "jerk," but that will do.)  Then, I responded back to myself, Why is the driver a jerk exactly?  I drive a hybrid that leaves a much lighter carbon footprint than many vehicles, and although I am pleased by the sense of environmental responsibility, my primary motivation is that I get incredible gas mileage and spend less money on fuel.  I use canvas bags when I go grocery shopping, essentially because it is a very easy habit that I perceive as having a significant effect on the amount of non-biodegradable waste I create without inconveniencing me in the least.  We recycle, which doesn't cost us any more than having our garbage collected and is as easy as throwing something in a different receptacle.  Very low impact on our habits, for a perceived higher impact on the environment, whether or not it actually makes a significant difference in the grand scheme of things.

A depiction of beliefs turned into judgments?

So, when I see this van fogging up the road with exhaust, I label the driver a jerk because he seems unwilling to do his part.  I'm doing my part, so he should at the very least be courteous and conscientious enough not to smog up the road in his wake.  This unknown person became, in my mind, ungrateful, irresponsible, insensitive, unintelligent, and oblivious.  But wait.  What if the driver really is oblivious?  How much of a jerk can a truly oblivious person be?  And while I don't necessarily enjoy the smell, how much confidence do I really have about the actual impact of this vehicle's exhaust?  Aside from my indignation, I don't have a wealth of empirical facts to go on.

On that same trip, I was flipping through radio stations, and I happened to land for a moment on an individual making an outlandish claim based more on a personal victimization theory than on factual evidence.  At the time I didn't associate my own judgment against the van driver with the radio personality's tirade.  Rather, I thought, Why don't people use their brains?  And the dialogue in my own head continued, Maybe they do.

Everyone doesn't see the same things I do, and when they do, they don't always draw the same conclusions I do.  It doesn't have anything to do with right or wrong.  We all come from different circumstances and experiences with different sets of information and beliefs, and so we can't all look through identical lenses.  Although I can't be certain (since I'm not in other people's heads), it's as likely as not that other people do indeed use their brains to their fullest capacity, draw the best conclusions that they can, and choose the courses of action they deem best.  Or some people may simply be oblivious.  How would they even know if they are?  How harshly do I really want to judge someone who literally doesn't know any better?

At the end of the day, I am responsible for my decisions, and I want those decisions to make sense with my knowledge and beliefs.  I can't know what's going on in other people's minds, so it ultimately doesn't make sense for me to assume malice where there may be ignorance or even a thoughtful approach that simply differs from mine.  My conflict with thinking that each person is only responsible for his own life is that I believe that we are interconnected, that we have an impact on and are impacted by other people.  I don't believe that anyone exists in a vacuum.  Our actions (and inaction) have an effect in the world.  That belief provides a framework for my own choices, and it's easy to form an expectation of how that belief can play out with other people who have the same sense of connection.  But how does that work in a messy world of people who are unaware or who have deep conviction about an entirely different interpretation?

The best conclusion I can draw is that my sense of connection with other people does not rely upon their sense of connection to me or anything else.  To judge other people based on my impression of how they should act assumes that everyone should see what I see, know what I know, and draw the same conclusions I draw.  I don't actually think anyone can know how things ought to be, so I don't really want to put myself in that place of perceived omniscience.  All I can do is live out my beliefs to the best of my ability, and accept that there is a world of people who see things from different perspectives.  None of us are completely right, but none of us are completely wrong either.

Redefining the Unknown

Arthur C. Clarke (1917-2008)

I was reminded this week of Arthur C. Clarke's Three Laws, which have been oft quoted in science fiction films and literature.  In case you aren't familiar with these tidbits of wisdom, they are:

1. When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right; when he states that something is impossible, he is probably wrong.

2. The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.

3. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.


Although the Third Law is probably the most familiar, it was the first two that got me thinking this week, especially about the unknowable.

For a couple of years, I was quite intentional about making decisions based on verifiable data, and not making decisions based on things that I didn't actually know (like how someone would react, or what would happen in the future).  Sometimes these predictions seem like absolute fact because they are so believable, especially if one is aware of certain patterns.  If Bob has gotten angry every time I have mentioned his ex-wife in the past, I have every reason to suspect that he will get angry if I mention her again, even though I don't actually know what Bob will do.  Criminals sometimes convince themselves that they will get away with a crime based entirely upon false assumptions about what other people will or will not do.  Making decisions based on information that is created entirely in one's own mind can be dangerous, or at least frustrating.  Most people can't predict the future nearly as well as they think they can.

That being said, there are some things that are probable even if they are technically in the realm of the unknown.  Once I realize that Bob is likely to get angry if I mention his ex-wife, but admit that I don't know for sure what Bob is going to do, I can decide how much value there is in testing my hypothesis.  Dismissing a pattern of behavior entirely, simply because Bob's future behavior is technically unknown, is honestly a rather stupid approach.  Scientists operate all the time in the realm of the unknown, testing hypotheses to see how accurate their predictions are, and correcting things along the way to learn as much as possible and get to a desired result.  Strategists in many fields operate in the realms of the unknown, predicting (with varying degrees of accuracy) what outcomes will result in the future from actions taken right now.  They can't possibly know the future, but they can make predictions.

During the time that I was attempting to base all of my decisions exclusively on verifiable data, I lost a job, threw money away, and spent a lot of time on fruitless efforts, all because I could not claim absolute certainty about future events.  In so doing, I discounted a huge portion of my personal strength.  I am a person who resonates with Clarke's Second Law, willing to push past the knowable into the unknown.  But such endeavors are not usually done haphazardly.  Usually, a scientist conducting an experiment has some data upon which a hypothesis is based, and that hypothesis is fine tuned by a number of intelligent predictions.  It isn't just a matter of throwing a dart without regard to the dartboard.

In all honesty, I think that people who are observant can make a great many reliable predictions.  Sometimes our minds trick us into seeing "patterns" where none actually exist, but the answer is not to discount the unknown and operate completely blind to such predictions.  Instead, it is better to venture into unknown territory with both eyes open, aware that our forecasts may be inaccurate, but willing to test them and see what happens.  Playing it safe and hedging bets are the kinds of things that lead distinguished but elderly experts to claim that something is impossible.  It would perhaps be more accurate to use "unknown" in the place of "impossible".  Personally, attempting the impossible seems foolhardy and unsatisfying, but attempting the unknown can be pretty inspiring.

So while I acknowledge that I cannot accurately predict the future, I can also acknowledge that my strategic and forward-thinking mind is a powerful tool that can guide me in a keenly directed exploration of the unknown.  If all of my decisions are based entirely on what I can know with utmost certainty, they are based on inaccuracy and half-truths.  It is actually much easier to be manipulated when one discounts personal discernment as essentially unknown and unverifiable.  Rather than discount it outright, I now believe that it is better to trust myself and work toward verifying the intelligent hypotheses of my insightful mind, reaching perhaps a bit past what I know to be possible.  I'm not sure how a person can grow otherwise.

Enough Isn't Enough

The word "enough" has been on my mind recently.  It's a measuring tool that doesn't stay consistent.  Every complimentary thing I could acknowledge about myself can be minimized by the simple application of that one little word.  Sure I'm creative, just not creative enough.  I'm intelligent, but not intelligent enough.  Enough for what?  I don't know.  But I think it has something to do with personal satisfaction.

One organization with which I was involved was great at reminding people that they are indeed enough, just as they are in this very moment.  Rich enough, pretty enough, smart enough, good enough.  Except that the organization also encourages people to keep taking courses, which to me implies that I must not be enough if I need to get more of something for my life to be all that it can be.  If I'm already enough everything, then I am lacking nothing, and there is no reason to pursue further knowledge or training or anything.

The problem is that the affirmation is empty.  What exactly am I rich enough for?  I'm rich enough to be happy in my life, but I'm not rich enough to start a $3 million endowment for musical innovation.  That's just reality.  I believe that some people are smart enough to make healthy decisions about their own lives, but that doesn't necessarily mean I want them making decisions about my money or my intellectual property.  The word enough requires some kind of qualification in order to make any real sense.

My own challenge with the word recently even comes in a bit of a disguise.  My inner critic says something like, You should be doing more.  You should be composing more every day.  You should be getting out there and making something happen. Which all really amounts to: "I'm not doing enough."  It's a harsh criticism for exactly the same reason that it's a lousy affirmation.  It needs some kind of qualification in order to make any real sense. 

So my question back to the critic has become, "For what?"  There are a lot of answers that actually don't matter to me.  It's really alright to have some clear sense of realistic limitations.  It's alright with me that I can't start a $3 million endowment, so stating that I'm not rich enough to do so isn't much of an insult.  It's just a statement of fact.  So, I'm not composing enough to send a new piece out to every competition I hear about.  That's OK.  That would be exhausting, and it's more important to me that I enjoy my life.

My level of compositional activity at this point may not comparable to some prolific composers, but the question is whether I'm satisfied with what I'm doing.  If I'm not composing enough each day to be personally satisfied, then there's something specific to address.  Then, there's a qualifier that makes sense.  My inner critic may be trying to open the door to that conversation, but it's much more direct to throw an accusation than it is to ask "Are you satisfied with the amount of music you're creating day to day, or would you be happier if you stepped it up a notch?"  Now that is an interesting question.

Blinded By Anger

I felt angry. My immediate response was to discount the feeling and list the myriad reasons why I shouldn't be angry. Anger doesn't solve anything. I had no right to be angry about the situation. Anger isn't attractive or inspiring. Anger is irrational. Anger isn't productive. In fact, it's destructive. So I denied myself the opportunity to fully feel angry for all of those reasons, and I told myself that I needed to just "let go" of my anger in order to create what I want. In essence, I needed to let go of what I was feeling in order to be acceptable to myself.

Refusing to fully acknowledge the emotion didn't change the fact that I was feeling angry. And one of the things I was angry about was not being able to clearly see my next step in developing my business. I was angry at myself for being so busy doing that I wasn't leaving much time for enjoying what I was doing. Sure, I was doing lots of things I expect to contribute positively to what I'm creating, but I wasn't seeing results from some of those activities. And I didn't know why. Was I not being patient enough? Were my expectations off base? Would those particular activities actually benefit me? I couldn't answer the questions, and I felt angry about it.

I was actually angry about a lot of things. Little things that I told myself I really shouldn't be angry about. But whether I wanted to be or not, I was angry. Thanks to a good friend, I was able to see that I had trapped myself by wrestling with the emotion instead of just feeling it and expressing it (in a safe and non-destructive way). It made sense that I couldn't see a way forward from where I was standing. My energy was focused on denying myself a legitimate emotion.

Once I accepted that I felt angry and expressed it, I realized one of the issues that had me frozen in my journey. I was doing things without a means to measure them, and it is impossible for one to evaluate something that isn't being measured. I also realized that part of my anger was stemming from the fear that if I stop engaging in one of those potentially valuable activities, I could sabotage my efforts. So I was caught in a snare of not allowing myself to stop doing something that may be effective, and not giving myself a way to determine its effectiveness. No wonder I was angry about that.

With my anger expressed, I started to see that I can create a way to measure what I'm doing, to evaluate whether it's really having the result I expect. And I started to see that there are plenty of things that I enjoy doing that will support what I am creating. If I stop putting my effort into one ineffective activity, I'm not hogtying myself or limiting my potential for success. There are other ways to create what I want. I don't have to lock myself into one particular irrevocable path.

In the midst of my anger, I was the victim of everything, including my own decisions. As long as I wrestled with whether or not I should be angry, I would remain a blind victim. On the other side of that anger being expressed, my vision is much clearer. And I can laugh at my perceived victimhood as I step through the chains of my self-imposed limitations.

The Perfect Ingredients

After hearing an impressive soundtrack for a mediocre science fiction film, I was inspired to start composing an electronic piece. One of the challenges and pleasures of electronic music is determining what resources to use. If I compose a string quartet, I know that my resources are going to be the four instruments of that ensemble. And if I write a work for full orchestra, I have a broader array of colors at my disposal, but there are different things to consider about writing for a large ensemble that aren't issues for a chamber group. With electronic music, any sound is a potential resource, so determining which sounds to include and develop in a piece is an important phase of the composition process.

The challenge for me this week has been in limiting my resources. There are so many great possibilities, I have spent the week listening to sound files and taking notes about their qualities; imagining how they might sound if I combined them with other sounds; or what I could create from altering or slicing up a particular sound. I could do this exploration for weeks and never get to the actual creation of anything musical. Getting distracted by the wealth of possibility prevents me from moving forward in the process.

It is as if I determined to cook dinner, and so I set about collecting the perfect ingredients instead of selecting a particular recipe or dish to prepare. Once I have all of the perfect ingredients assembled, I will be able to create a wonderful meal from them. Except that I might never finish collecting perfect ingredients and move on into the meal preparation phase. If I know what I want to cook, I can gather the appropriate ingredients more effectively. And if I determine that I will just use the ingredients I have on hand, I can really streamline meal preparation.

In the purpose-building video course I recently created, I quote the composer Igor Stravinsky, as saying: If everything is possible, I can write nothing. He added to that sentiment, The more constraints one imposes, the more one frees one's self. And the arbitrariness of the constraint serves only to obtain precision of execution. In other words, if I take a few particularly compelling resources and determine that the piece I'm composing will only use those resources, I open up space for my creativity to be expressed. I can focus on composing the piece because I have moved past exploring the possible resources. Limiting the possibilities I will entertain makes all of my decisions about this piece easier. There will always be another opportunity to compose some music and use a compelling sound I'm leaving out of this project.

And that experience this week has me looking at other areas of my life. Where else do I spend so much time considering the possibilities that I become paralyzed? Placing some purposeful constraints on my decision-making can serve to propel me forward. For the electronic piece, the resources I chose were somewhat arbitrary. Out of dozens of sounds I find compelling and interesting, I selected a few more or less at random, just to be done with the decision and move forward. In other areas of life, less arbitrary constraints might actually be more appropriate. Recognizing my purpose in a given situation can have tremendous impact by allowing me to focus my boundaries and constraints precisely toward a specific goal.

It's tempting to wait until I have accumulated all of the perfect ingredients before I set about creating something. Perhaps I believe that once I have all of the pieces, they will simply fall into place. But I will never have everything figured out. I can set my creativity loose if I am willing to set some parameters for the journey. There will be opportunities to gather more resources along the way, but I have enough in this very moment to take a step forward.

Complexity and Value

Every year, a panel of individuals updates and revises a list of music for American middle and high school solo and ensemble competitions. There are actually several different organizations that oversee these contests, but the process is the same. Their selections comprise a long list of pieces considered to be "standard repertoire" and of appropriate brevity to fit in the contest schedule, which means that sometimes only one movement of a longer work winds up on the list. And each piece is rated by its complexity on a five-point scale.

There is a distinct difference between a "Grade 1" piece and a "Grade 5" piece, but judges in these contests are really judging how well a student plays whatever piece they have selected. Musicians that want to progress to a state-level competition usually have to play a piece of a certain complexity from memory, and they have to play it well. But a student can receive high marks for performing a piece that is appropriate for their level of experience, even if it isn't one of the most difficult pieces on the list. As an accompanist, I am playing for some talented students who have worked hard and play challenging pieces very, very well. I have also been rehearsing well-prepared "easy" pieces that are more musically compelling and enjoyable than some thrown together "difficult" pieces, and I have realized something about how I hold my own music.

Certainly, there are many pieces that are off the chart for what a high school musician is expected to be able to play well. In fact, there aren't very many serial or avant-garde pieces on the contest lists I've seen, and with good reason. Most high-schoolers don't have the experience with their instrument or with music theory to play such pieces convincingly. Or even musically. And yet I have been accompanying some beautiful, fun, and exciting pieces of music. Somewhere along the line, I got it into my head that "more difficult" equates with "better," and that belief had some deep roots.

Perhaps it comes from a desire to be taken seriously as a composer, or even a healthy appreciation for overcoming a challenge, but the thought that difficulty and worthiness run in proportion with one another has been something of a prison that I trapped my creative energies inside. Virtuosity has its place, but so does simplicity. I often criticize my musical ideas as unimpressive, when the sound would otherwise be ideal for what I want to express. Judging the value of my creative expression by how difficult it will be for a performer to reproduce... well, even writing it out in those terms seems silly.

Some of the most profound and compelling ideas have been simple ideas. In fact, I find immense humor in Rube Goldberg contrivances that accomplish the most mundane tasks in the most complicated ways possible. Many of the musical innovations of the 20th Century were not necessarily born out of interest in accessibility or beauty, but rather to form an intellectual argument about the future of art music. It was an aesthetic choice toward the complex, with a clear understanding that such music was not being written for the masses. Whether I enjoyed or criticized individual pieces, learning about and becoming intimately familiar with so much of that "intellectual" music likely had an impact on my beliefs about musical value.

That doesn't have to determine what I do from here on, however. I honestly want to compose music that expresses something beyond how hard a performer had to work. Whether the ideal sounds for what I am creating in a particular piece are "easy" or "complicated" is actually low on my list of conscious musical priorities. So, I am ready to stop limiting the possibilities of what I can create based on its complexity and start allowing for the full breadth of my ideas to take shape, no matter how simple they may seem.

Evoking Passion

As I have been playing piano for a large number of high school musicians over the past week, it has struck me that so many of the beliefs and habits people carry around for the rest of their lives are already in place for these students. Many of them are talented, but the level of dedication and artistry displayed by a few of them is reflected in the music they play. They have tapped into a true passion for what they are doing... something not everyone discovers. A few students are on the other end of the spectrum as well. After every few measures, they take a pause to offer excuses and justifications for why they don't know a piece or aren't playing very well.

Of course, some of this latter group's behavior could be the result of nerves, but there is something more underneath. After accompanying so many other musicians over so many years, it's evident to me that some of them call forth a level of passion and intention that others never reach. And the same goes for other walks of life as well. There are some people who turn being laid off from a job into an opportunity to create something about which they are truly passionate. I have heard of people writing books, starting companies, or taking their lives in unexpected and satisfying directions, all because they "lost" a job. Others interpret the same circumstances as a sort of paid vacation, or use the situation as an excuse to indulge in self-defeating thoughts and behaviors. They don't tap into the same level of passion and purpose.

In my own life, I have taken the time created by stepping away from a predictable work schedule to compose music and seek more opportunities for my music to be heard. And I have been working to fit all of the things that ignite my passion into one big picture of my life. Seeing how excuses and assumptions work against other people, though, I have realized that I can be doing the things that are truly important to me, regardless of my circumstances. Many years ago, I was working full time as a courier and wrote a ten-minute wind ensemble piece over lunch breaks and in the evenings. And back then, the full score and all of the parts were written out by hand; I didn't have a computer program to assist with notating the music the way I do now. But it mattered to me, and so I made it happen.

Believing that I have to create a special set of circumstances in order to have what I want is a self-imposed limitation. It means that I have an excuse for not doing the things that matter to me, which could have the payoff of letting me play the martyr. In any case, recognizing that I have the freedom to do what what's important to me regardless of my circumstances is liberating. I am grateful that I know what I'm passionate about, and I strive to stay awake to how I can inspire others to discover what those things are in their own lives.

Out of the Box

Liken it to a hamster wheel, or a merry-go-round, or even a racetrack, my routine has been like a lot of people's. I would make the rounds from one corner of my box to the next to the next, until I arrived back where I started from and began a new week. Of course it was a fairly predictable journey, although I did my best to make sure there were enough things to keep me interested along the way. There were some things I wanted to do and see, someday... but somehow those things didn't fit in the box of the routine I had created.

I decided that I wanted to get out of the box. Do some of those things I had managed to keep out of my schedule. See some of those places that just weren't visible from inside the box. In all honesty, I realize that I also wanted to bring forth qualities in myself that didn't really fit in the box. Determining that those things were important to me was the first step out. At first, I tried to be and do those important things from inside the box, but it became clear to me that "comfortable" and "predictable" were not part of the vision.

Getting out of a box of any kind is an interesting endeavor. For me, there were people who were cheering me on, individuals who were excited about what I wanted to create. And there were people who were doing their best to convince me that getting out of the box was at best a bad idea and at worst downright impossible. The greatest incentive was that I kept seeing more and more possibility as I took a stand for the things that are truly important to me.

My first steps out of the box have been a bit scary. There isn't a clear rut to follow, and I don't have a map to where I want to go. With so many options and so much wide open space, I could head in any direction, wander aimlessly, get completely lost, never really reach any destination at all. But instead of worrying too much about that, I started doing the things that I wanted to do... working on recording a large piece that has been sitting on the shelf for years, getting my second string quartet into the hands of professional musicians, scheduling Power of Connection courses, and putting the pieces in place to do more collaborative work with other artists. And I have the freedom right now to apply to artist colonies and pursue other opportunities that I've been putting off. My journey can hit all of the landmarks that I want it to.

At first I was criticizing myself for not having all of the pieces in place, for not having the whole journey figured out. Now I see that I can tell true north by keeping the destination in mind, and I can know the next steps by maintaining my commitment to the things that are most important to me. I may create a different kind of routine for myself, and I may realize at some point that I am just in a bigger box. But for now, I am willing to create a pathway and keep my eyes open for unexpected opportunities along the way. I know what I want. And I know who I am.

The Goldfish

Goldfish supposedly grow to the capacity of their container. Or so I have read on the internet, where everything is true. Raised in captivity in an aquarium, a goldfish probably won't have a chance to grow as large as it would in a more expansive environment. It also probably won't live as long, unless it is a particularly persistent specimen. A restrictive environment actually becomes toxic to a goldfish over time. It doesn't grow as large as it might, simply because it's health is being sabotaged by what surrounds it.

When I look back at my choices over the past few years, I see a bit of incongruity between what I actually want for myself and how I have orchestrated my life. Of course, I am operating with hindsight now, but I wonder to a certain extent if the blinders were sneakily self-imposed. Instead of passionately putting every ounce of my energy into engaging life at 100% capacity, I chose an environment that made it alright for me to operate at a fraction of my capability. In fact, I arranged it so that I was being rewarded for operating at closer to 40% of my true self.

When I was making those choices, I had information about the aquarium from outside sources: Although it had a lot of wonderful and collaborative fish in it, it had a reputation for being rather rigid in how it defined itself and somewhat limited in its vision. And of course, I had heard that along with the abundant caring and friendly fish, there were a few aggressive cichlids that instinctively defended their territory and occasionally made living together challenging for the other fish. When it was alright for me to operate at 40%, these claims didn't matter to me. I could ignore them, place myself above them, even convince myself that I had the power to change them. I could be frustrated without having to take responsibility for my own choice to operate at reduced capacity.

The problem, of course, is that when it became more important to me to operate at my 100%, the environment didn't grow or shift to accommodate that fullness. Like a goldfish, I can influence things in my environment, but I don't have the power to alter an aquarium that resists change. But, unlike a goldfish, I can choose my aquarium. And I can choose to be willing to have an impact with those who are willing to be affected.

Finding My Way into the Music

I was working on a piece of music for a solo instrument. My idea was initially to write it in such a way that a variety of soloists could perform the piece, whether they be vocalists, wind players, or string players. The more I worked on it, the more I found myself being pulled in one direction or another that I would stifle because it wouldn't work well in just any timbre. After setting a few of these limitations, I started to be less interested in the piece. Small wonder. The musical material wanted to grow into something that I wasn't allowing.

Recognizing that I was essentially binding my piece into an unnecessarily rigid shape, I started working from a few inspirational points to create something unique yet related for various colors, not worrying about whether just any instrument would be able to play a particular passage. What has begun to emerge is a set of related pieces that each express similar material in different ways, not only due to a specific timbre, but also because I am allowing the music to become idiomatic for different instruments.

The realization and the resulting freedom and renewed excitement for this piece prepared me for another limitation I was trying to set, this one notational. I wanted to indicate a particular sound, but I was insisting on using traditional notation. I kept trying to figure out the perfect way to write down what I wanted, but I was ignoring a broad range of possibilities. It was a bit paralyzing. Until I took a breath, stepped back from the piece, and became aware that I was doing it again. I was essentially deciding why I couldn't write the piece I really wanted.

What I wound up with notationally is not terribly avant garde. At most it's a bit unorthodox. And it is perfect for what I hear in my head. As I find my way into (and maybe even get a little lost in) the musical material, I am more and more captivated by what I allow myself to hear and write. Why would I keep trying to put limitations on that?