Farther to Go!

Brain-Based Transformational Solutions

Suspend Disbelief and Commit
to the Process (Part 1)

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Disbelief: an inability to believe that something is true.

As a lifelong reader and writer, I’m on familiar terms with the concept of willing suspension of disbelief. The ability to suspend disbelief makes it possible for us to immerse ourselves in stories about people who don’t exist living in places that don’t exist (or don’t exist exactly as they are depicted) so that we can, at least temporarily, relate to them as if they and their thoughts, feelings, predicaments, and actions are every bit as real as we are.

Reading a novel is sort of like making a compact (looser than a contract) with an author. The reader agrees to suspend disbelief, which means trusting the author. And the author agrees to do his or her best to be trustworthy by getting things right, even when those things are not factual—in fact, especially when they are not factual. That includes keeping the plot and the characters straight, maintaining internal consistency, not making obvious errors, and having a juicy story to tell in the first place.

Vampires in San Francisco

I stopped suspending my disbelief in Atonement by Ian McEwan once he introduced an event for the sole purpose of moving the plot forward. I willingly suspended my disbelief in Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire until she placed the toll booths at the wrong end of the Golden Gate Bridge. Losing my suspension of disbelief in Atonement was a big deal because the plot contrivance was pivotal to the outcome of the story. The toll booths, on the other hand, were a minor issue in Rice’s Vampire Chronicles.

As a reader, I felt I was doing my part in both cases; it was the authors who let me down. I would have had a much different experience, however, if I’d approached Interview with the Vampire without a willingness to suspend disbelief. The very idea of “vampires” would have been a deal-breaker; I would never have begun reading the book. Not reading Interview with the Vampire probably wouldn’t have altered my life significantly—although it did give me that toll booth example, which I’ve used many times.

Things without Names

But there are other books I’ve read that I believe have enhanced my life, and reading them has contributed, even if in a small way, to me becoming the person I am now. One example is my all-time favorite novel, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It begins:

Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. At that time Macondo was a village of twenty adobe houses, built on the bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones, which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs. The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point.

Magical realism definitely requires the willing suspension of disbelief.

But there has to be some promise—some prospective payoff—to cause us as readers to suspend our disbelief and invest our time and energy in a story. We like the genre or the author. The book comes highly recommended by a trusted source. It’s the next volume in a series we’re already hooked on. Or maybe we pick up a copy in a library or bookstore and are immediately captivated by the opening.

Whatever the case may be, on the one hand we readers automatically understand that suspension of disbelief is a requirement of getting the most out of fiction. On the other hand, we don’t automatically or permanently suspend disbelief for every work of fiction we encounter. We discriminate. But once we’re in, we’re in, so to speak—unless the author messes up.

Imagination and Truth

Author and columnist William Safire explored the subject of suspension of disbelief in a 2007 piece for The New York Times:

[W]ho coined the phrase and in what context? The quotation books have the coiner — the English poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, in his 1817 “Biographia Literaria”: “That willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith.”

But the context is an eye-opener. Coleridge and William Wordsworth were neighbors. They agreed one day that “the two cardinal points of poetry” were “the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature” (Wordsworth’s specialty, with his “host of golden daffodils”) and “the power of giving the interest of novelty by the modifying colors of imagination” (which Coleridge was especially good at). They agreed to contribute individually to a group of “Lyrical Ballads.”

You may not have noticed, but we’ve sort of wended our way, via imagination and truth, to art and science.

Safire added:

Richard Sha, professor of literature at American University, takes this to mean that “…one must willingly suspend one’s skepticism.”

Don’t Drink the Kool-Aid!

Suspending one’s skepticism in undertaking to read a work of fiction doesn’t usually pose much danger. But in other realms of life, it can lead to a variety of negative outcomes, from minor mistakes to profound tragedy. But while it shouldn’t be done lightly or habitually, there are some times and places where it definitely should be done—where it has to be done if we’re to get anything out of the situation, the learning, or the experience. We not only need to suspend disbelief, we also need to commit to the process if we want to:

  • Learn something new (a musical instrument, a language, a creative pursuit…)
  • Start something (a business, a project, a relationship…)
  • Make a significant decision (to become a parent, to get into or out of a relationship, to take or leave a job…)

What does this have to do with creating transformational change? Maybe you’ve figured that out. If not, it’s what I’ll be covering in the next installment.

Creative Destruction:
Painting Over the Underpainting

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This is a guest post from my friend and client Cathy Ann Connelly, who recently completed the “Trickster Makes the World” module of the Create Your Own Story course.

Definition: In painting, an underpainting is a first layer of paint applied to a canvas or board and it functions as a base for other layers of paint. It acts as a foundation for your painting and is a great way to start your painting off with some built in contrast and tonal values.

The attributes of Trickster in any culture, era, or life all add up to being one thing—a change agent.

To embody the Trickster attributes in our lives can be intense as we refine how to make change a friend rather than an anxiety-producing enemy.

And yet, isn’t that what we want? To be able to enact change? To develop more intensity—more juiciness—in our daily lives? And believe me, you don’t get that unless you make friends with your inner Trickster and Trickster’s sometimes more challenging attributes.

So, it occurred to me that overcoming some of the resistance to the Trickster package might be eased if we examine one of Trickster’s less alluring attributes through a different lens. The attribute I’ve chosen to look at in a different way is that of destruction—an essential element for change, but one we often shy away from.

Destruction or Under- and Over-painting?

I’m in no way a professional artist, but I do like creating visual art—taking painting classes and learning new techniques.

Along my art journey there have been two thoughts that totally match the concept of destruction as integral to creating something wonderful:

  1. Nothing is so precious that you shouldn’t be willing to paint over it—because anything can be recreated or improved upon, and
    .
  2. Underpainting is critical to producing a great work of art—and anything you create and don’t like can simply be called underpainting (the constructive act of destruction)!

Both these concepts tell me that in my entire life, nothing is useless, wasted, broken, or ruined, and that everything “destroyed” contributes to something better—even if the little parts I once thought were “perfect” have disappeared from view. In essence, everything can be seen as a jumping off point to be improved upon, full of surprises, and all of it can be viewed as valuable under- or over-painting for the next round of creativity in life.

Often, I find that simply playing with marks, colors, and images on a canvas—and then painting over them again and again—results in “changed art” that I could never have created through a controlled, single layer of predetermined brushstrokes. It is often the things that show through—the uncontrolled, playful surprises—that I take advantage of and embrace to make a painting far better than its original, solo layer.

Even if a specific corner of a painting starts to seem special and precious to me, and somehow I linger over the concept of preserving it, I force myself to paint over it if the entire canvas needs another rework.

It is the willingness to do this—to embody destructive change—that for me is juicy and that I ultimately know will produce even better results.

It is the very act of embracing the under- and over-painting that in and of itself can bring change that is wonderful, renewing, and liberating. It is the act that brings the juice of Trickster-change to my world.

Creative Destruction in Life

Outside my art, I believe I try to embody the Trickster attribute of creative destruction when traveling through liminal space—the threshold space of change. When my narrator tells me, “I know what’s going on and I can out think the things trying to run you off the path we’ve charted,” often that proves just downright silly. Liminal space is all about exploring alternate paths, often “destroying” the one you’ve started down. Who knows, just because you’ve started off one way doesn’t mean going a different way isn’t juicier, and might not be a better over- painting route to your desired destination. How can you know? After all, that first path might just be under-painting for the greater work emerging.

“Paint” with your personal agency and try out another path that could have fewer obstacles and might be a hundred times juicier. It’s uncomfortable, but “destroying” our “I know best” attitude with Trickster’s influence is exactly what gets us the change we want.

Cathy Ann Connelly lives in New Mexico and takes Farther To Go! classes because they’re juicy for exploring how to better use her brain for what she wants it to do, rather than her brain using her. Currently, her focus is on reawakening her own Trickster while encouraging new, longer-term intentions. This blog post sprung from that focus.

YOU: A Work of Art in Progress

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As long as you’re alive, your life is a work in progress (unfinished). But is it just work or is it a work of art? And what difference does it make?

The idea of living one’s life as a work in progress is not original. But several decades ago, when I was struck afresh by the rich possibilities of artistic metaphor, I not only looked at my own life in this context, I also queried some friends.

No one had trouble responding, and I was surprised by every one of their answers. A former insurance industry executive said his life would be a multi-media performance piece. A writer described her life as a sculpture, while a musician referred to his as a “junk” sculpture. A computer programmer declared his life was a symphony. Here are a handful of detailed descriptions:

Kathy:

I see myself as a mobile spinning out of control.
I’m not quite put together in a way that moves with the ebb and flow of gentle breezes yet.
I’m unbalanced and jerked around right now.
One or two pieces of something substantial need to be added so I can untangle myself when the forces of nature, or human hand, cause me to spin temporarily out of control.
(This temporary spinning does not inflict permanent damage. It just causes me not to be my usual self.)

Kelly:

The work of art in progress: me covered in layer upon layer of steel, concrete, wood, glass, gunpowder, feathers, year after year and lots of work…maybe some layers come off to expose this work of art…me.
Kinda like a big clump of marble, taking off what is not me and getting to the real David…um, no…Kelly.
Warning: completed works of art are not on our plane anymore.

Lee:

A sand castle, co-structured by a small child.
We came from the sea, I will go back to the sea…
Imperfect, made from tiny pieces and subject to the whims of nature…
Able to be tall and strong, ridged yet soft…
Able to be shaped by the people and the world around me…
Formed by wet sand dripping from a child’s hand or sculptured by forms and expert hands.

Linda:

I think of MY LIFE as an oil painting. Starting with a clean canvas I splash some paint on, just to see what it will look like.
After experimenting, I decide that it would be better to Have a Plan.
I draw out in pen what I want to paint. I add some color.
If I catch the paint before it dries I can change it or scrape it off entirely.
The memory of what has gone before is still there, but it is not entrenched in who I am.
When I wait too long and the paint dries, it becomes a part of the canvas.
I draw a new plan.
As I build up the layers of paint, adding depth, my canvas thickens with layers of paint.
I realize that I do not have to have a plan for everything.
I realize that my painting looks better when I have gone outside the lines of the plan.
My canvas now has years and years of paint added, paint that has dried, colors that have changed or been scraped off.
I’m really starting to like what I have painted.

Nicole:

Well, it would be a whirlwind in places spinning lots of reds, fiery and out of control, deep yellows, oranges, spinning AUTUMN colors. And then over where the BLUE starts to outnumber the red you will find other places: neatly categorized and presumably alphabetical little BLACK stacks. Each one placed with precision, stacked up to the ceilings in wavering stature, suggesting that they might fall at any moment in time.

Steve:

My life has always been a film, with music rambling in my head, the stimuli being “things passing by/me going forward”—motionless.

The Play’s the Thing…

Once upon a time, I saw my life as a play. There’s an inherent discipline in living life as a play in progress that’s different from the discipline involved in living life as a sculpture or a symphony or a painting. Staging, timing, and pacing are crucial. Significantly, in a play the props and scenery are vital—but only to the scenes they belong in. It makes no sense for an actor to become attached to any particular props.

I was aware of things as background props and of people, including myself, as characters from an early age. I wrote plays, read plays, hung out with the local drama group, and thought up names and descriptions of characters, as well as elaborate decorating schemes, to entertain myself.

At some point I noticed what I was doing and decided it was an odd way to think about myself and the world. Whereas other people seemed to make choices almost instinctively, I could consider a range of alternatives: a final choice would depend on the requirements of the scene or the plot line. Choosing otherwise seemed arbitrary. In spite of considering my view of life somewhat idiosyncratic, I continued to operate within that framework. When a major plot twist offered the opportunity for me to reinvent myself, I had no difficulty doing so. It was just a play, after all.

Although I probably appreciate the value in that point of view now more than I did then, I wouldn’t use the same metaphor to describe my current life. It often feels more like a surrealistic jigsaw puzzle: challenging, colorful, so much to look at, still not put together (still creating), and not at all what you’d expect.

There’s value in experimenting with styles and forms, imagining and reimagining our lives through different lenses and perspectives.

So, if your life were a work of art in progress, what metaphor would you choose to describe it? What shape would it take? What colors and/or sounds would it have? What process or media would be involved in its creation? What emotions would it evoke?

Would it be a painting, a sculpture, a black and white photo montage? A novel, a short story, a play, a poem, an essay? Would it be a song-cycle, a symphony, an opera, a collage, a Rodgers and Hart musical, a movie? Or…something else altogether.

A metaphor is always a framework for thinking, using knowledge of this to think about that. —Mary Catherine Bateson, author of Composing a Life

A focus on creating yourself is the opposite of a focus on fixing yourself: the motion and the action are forward rather than backward. Thinking about your life as a work of art in progress can shift your view of what you’re doing in life—and of what you’re capable of doing. Creating art is compelling and juicy and expansive. It is an ongoing process of bringing something—in this case you—into being.

It is that dimension [our imagination of ourselves] whereby we are not merely living our lives—passively, as it were—but are actively giving them shape: ceaselessly interpreting and inventing ourselves afresh. It is that dimension whereby we do not receive a life as much as compose a life—as we might compose a story. As we appreciate the extent of this dimension, it becomes impossible to see how any aspect of our lives can escape our self-creative touch. —William Lowell Randall, The Stories We Are

Storying: It’s a Lot Like Breathing

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Just as breathing is automatic, and you can’t decide to stop breathing, storying is automatic, and you can’t decide to stop storying.

Your unconscious (System 1) monitors and manages your physical functions such as alertness, arousal, breathing, circulation, and digestion. Actions you take, including many of the lifestyle choices you make—as well as the circumstances of your life—can affect these functions.

You can consciously attend to some of them—breathing, for example—some of the time. But you can’t attend to any of them all the time. And you can’t consciously control them because you don’t have enough System 2 bandwidth to handle the job.

In addition to maintaining homeostasis by managing physical functions, System 1 also manages things like your sensory perceptions, your awareness of being located in space and time, your immediate reactions to events, and the vast majority of choices you make each day.

You can consciously attend to some of these functions, too, some of the time. But you can’t prevent System 1 from managing your mental processes and your real-time reactions any more than you can prevent it from managing physical functions. Although you might wish to have more say, moment-to-moment, it’s good that you don’t.

Storying Is Automatic.

One of the mental activities System 1 regularly engages in is weaving your experiences into coherent stories. I call this storying, because there doesn’t seem to be a better word to describe it. Storytelling and narrating both describe relating a story in some manner: either something that already happened or something that is—or is being—made up. Your brain is neither relating a factual account of past or present events, nor is it fabricating your stories out of thin air. Editing may be a more accurate term, but that implies the preexistence of a story to be edited.

The process of storying includes interpreting events and experiences as they occur for meaning and relevance, deciding which details are worth remembering, adding or subtracting for effect and coherence, reorganizing sequences, if necessary, and incorporating the resulting story into your ongoing life story based on your current beliefs and model of the world. Your brain is so good at this and does it with such speed that you aren’t even aware it’s happening.

Just as breathing is automatic, and you can’t decide to stop breathing, storying is automatic, and you can’t decide to stop storying. (Your brain is you, so you are storying, whether or not you’re conscious of doing it.)

There’s No Such Thing as a True Story.

But just as you can consciously focus your attention on your breathing to calm yourself or remind yourself to be present, you can consciously focus your attention on your brain’s storying, at least from time to time. You can learn to be skeptical of the stories your brain spins. You can allow for the possibility that your stories are often interpretations, explanations, rationalizations, and justifications. No matter how satisfying, they are not true, not fact, not an accurate reflection of reality. Your unconscious may be more or less biased than another person’s unconscious, but everyone is biased to one extent or another.

We are the great masterworks of our own storytelling minds—figments of our own imaginations. We think of ourselves as very stable and real. But our memories constrain our self-creation less than we think, and they are constantly being distorted by our hopes and dreams. Until the day we die, we are living the story of our lives. And, like a novel in process, our life stories are always changing and evolving, being edited, rewritten, and embellished by an unreliable narrator. We are, in large part, our personal stories. And those stories are more truthy than true. —Jonathan Gottschall, The Storytelling Animal

Storying doesn’t just help you make sense of your own world; it also helps you make sense of the rest of the world. And you’re not the only person storying. Everyone else is doing it, too. Consider the implications.

A Neuro-Mythical Creation Story

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First I have to dispense with the Monty Python meme: and now for something completely different! Nearly 20 years ago, I took a mythology class right after I finished Biological Psychology. Lots of writing was required in the mythology class, one of the assignments being a creation story. At the time, I described what I wrote as “very loosely based on Buddhism and quantum physics’ theory of the unified field.”

I didn’t yet know about the distinctions of System 1 and System 2 because they were just being made. And although I knew what dopamine was, I wasn’t aware of the important role it plays in so many areas of our lives. When I read the piece now, it seems to be “very loosely based on” dopamine (which is desire), the relationship between wanting and liking, and by extension, System 1 and System 2.

The Yearning of Desire

In the beginning, All was One, and the One was nameless and without form. Within the One existed All Things. But there were no distinctions within the One: no thing was separate from any other thing. Countless aeons passed, yet there was no experience within the One of the passage of time. Gradually, from within the center of the One, arose the beginning of Desire. At first Desire was like a small bubble rising to the surface of a perfectly still lake. At first Desire was only the softest whisper of the wind. Desire wanted to give form to the formless and to name the nameless. Desire yearned for forms to touch and to surrender to.

As more aeons passed, Desire continued to grow within the One. Desire pulsed within the center of the One, louder and stronger, and the pulsing of Desire gave form to Spirit, that which inhabits all and everything. Spirit allowed himself to be inspired by Desire and to contemplate all the possibilities that form could take. Spirit saw that formlessness needed form, just as form needs formlessness. Spirit saw that formlessness needed form to complete itself. Spirit then dreamed the dream of the universe taking form, from its beginning to its end, which was not really an end but only a return to formlessness. As Spirit dreamed the dream of creation, Desire allowed herself to be infused with Spirit, and as she did, she took the shape of a large, graceful bird, covered in the palest of green iridescent feathers. Spirit was the air that she breathed.

Spirit longed for the forms that he had dreamed of. And Spirit longed to be inhaled by Desire, just as Desire longed to breathe Spirit. With each inhalation of Spirit, Desire flapped her pale wings. As the flapping of her wings increased, the colors of her feathers deepened into verdigris and copper, turquoise and silver, aqua and gold. She spread her wings and flew in a wide, lazy arc, and she sang the purest, most exquisite songs, whose haunting echoes trailed behind her. She coasted on the currents of air that were Spirit.

As Desire breathed in more of Spirit, she too began to visualize the forms that Spirit had dreamed of. As her yearning increased, so did the flapping of her wings. Her tail feathers grew longer and their color changed from pale green to deep red. She swooped and glided through Spirit, inhaling more and more of his visions. The feathers of her body turned crimson and saffron. Desire felt something growing inside her, in the same place where her yearning had first begun its delicate pulsing so many aeons ago. She flapped her wings again and soared upward. An indigo band formed around her neck. Her singing became louder, more rhythmic, and more intense. It filled the entire universe with its insistent, rapturous vibrations. Spirit was enthralled by the songs of Desire and continued to fill her with the countless forms he had dreamed of.

Desire was full of a longing so powerful that she thought it could never be filled. The feathers of her head changed to amethyst and violet, and a royal purple crest took shape along the top and back. She opened her mouth to cry out but no sounds of any kind emerged, neither cry nor song. Instead, when she opened her mouth the countless forms of the universe began to spill out into the air, into Spirit. Each time she opened her mouth more forms issued forth until everything that Spirit dreamed had been given its form. Spirit was satisfied because he was everywhere, inhabiting all of the forms of the universe. But Desire, without whom no form could exist, could not touch them, could not fully satisfy her yearning.

It is the nature of Desire to remain unfulfilled. And we, too, who were given birth through Desire, know that no matter what we have, something is always missing. Though Spirit fills us and gives us joy, there is a place in our hearts that it cannot touch. Desire is the permanent longing in our hearts for home, for the One, for formlessness.

Desire animates us, motivates us, and energizes us. It’s a powerful, creative force. Dopamine propels us toward what we are missing because:

Our brains were not designed for us to sit around contemplating what we already have. —Dr. Loretta Graziano Breuning

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