tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86951472508949203702024-03-05T04:09:55.111-06:00There Is No ThemeIf you came here looking for something specific, prepare to be disappointed.Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-16767868069586403002015-10-31T15:19:00.000-05:002015-10-31T15:19:46.314-05:00Closeness and Kane<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I know that in my last post I promised my next post would be about St. Petersburg. Sorry, that's not the case. StP is great; that's all you need to know. June is an excellent time to visit.<br />
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I watched Citizen Kane for the first time a few weeks ago. There's a scene in which Susan, Charles Foster Kane's second wife, accuses Kane of never actually loving anyone, only appearing to love them so that they'll love him back. She accuses him of giving things that are easy for him to give but carry great value to others, with the intent of receiving from them undying gratitude, esteem, and affection in return. She asserts that he is the opposite of what he pretends, and is purported, to be.<br />
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This exchange caused me a great deal of consternation as I reflected on my own life. Have I ever really given of myself more than I expected to get in return? More important, have I ever given anything that was hard to give? Or have I always arranged things such that I'm giving a smaller fraction of my whole self than is the other party, so that I'm more in a position of power, and less in a position of vulnerability? And if this is so, can the arrangement truly be called altruism, friendship, love--or is it closer to selfishness, misanthropy, cynicism? If it's the latter, could the behavior have any explanation other than fear?<br />
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Ever since a couple early and serious relationships, I have maintained a longstanding aversion to sharing too much of myself with any one person. I'll share almost everything with everyone in aggregate--a piece here, a piece there--but never everything with one person. I suppose this is because I prefer to feel that no single person knows me too well--I certainly wouldn't want him to know me better than I know myself! But why this fear? Am I worried he or she will point out my inconsistencies and hypocrisy?... Should I not be more concerned about actually being inconsistent, or a hypocrite, than I am about knowing it, or others knowing it?<br />
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There is shame in being exposed as a hypocrite, but he who isn't fully known to others can never be exposed by them. He can deny being a hypocrite in the face of accusations, and no one can claim to know better.<br />
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Must I feel that by sharing a piece of myself with another, my ownership of that piece is lessened? Is it the case that my "I"--my identity, who I am--is limited to only what I have retained for myself and denied others? Or can a person share everything, have no secrets at all, and still retain his sense of who he is, and not end up a mishmash of what others say he is?<br />
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Perhaps what I really fear is for someone to believe he knows me, to say and be convinced of such a thing, as this belief presupposes I am a quantity to be known: a discrete, static, knowable entity. And I can think of nothing more frightening than being such a thing, as such a thing means ceasing to grow and change.</div>
Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-2040166126083613352015-07-22T13:40:00.001-05:002015-07-22T13:40:25.817-05:00CLS catch-up (July 3-22)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I intended to write a post <strike>this past Sunday or Monday</strike> July 5th or 6th, but life got in the way. So now here I am, <strike>on Friday evening</strike> weeks later, finally crossing it off my to-do list. Minor aside: I always love weekends because they allow me to catch up/get ahead on my work. Does that make me weird?<br />
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Every day has been busy. On weekdays we have a 2-hour language lesson before lunch and another one after lunch, but the topics and instructors cycle. Our topics are grammar, speech practice, phonetics, history, and (fiction) literature. For the speech practice class everyone must prepare a short topic for discussion. For grammar, we take turns preparing more substantial presentations; each week it's the turn of someone new.<br />
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After language lessons conclude at 2:30pm, we have either folklore lessons (traditional music, dancing, and games) or cuisine lessons. However, this week we also had to make up for two excursions that had been postponed for various reasons. So every day this week went late! It's been a long week.<br />
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Commencing recap:<br />
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Last weekend I went to Moscow<br />
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Week before last (week of July 6), our first excursion was to Bogolyubovo, where there are some fantastic churches.</div>
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Our second excursion of the week was to the Golden Gates of Vladimir. There's a museum inside, but there weren't many good photo ops. Here's a photo of the Golden Gates at night that I took well after our excursion.</div>
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At the end of the week we went to Suzdal. It is another historic city with really old churches and a historically accurate settlement. There happened to be a medieval festival happening while we were there.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The shirt with Putin in sunglasses says "The very nicest person"</td></tr>
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Last week (week of July 13) I came down with a stomach bug and missed two and a half days of classes. I only took my temperature three times, so I don't know exactly how high my fever got, but one of the times I measured it, it was 38.8C. I felt pretty awful, but recovered by Saturday morning (July 18) when we had a master class on miniature lacquer paintings. I forgot to take a photo of mine, but we'll get them back soon and I'll try to remember to come back and add a photo.</div>
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This week has been a short one because our excursion to St. Petersburg begins tonight (in an hour, hence my rushed writing). Earlier today we had an excursion to the Vladimir historical museum. Here are some pictures, as well as a photo of my delicious breakfast (blini with homemade jam and not-homemade cream cheese)!</div>
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And here's a bonus picture of Vladimir's own Uspenskyy Cathedral with a rainbow behind it.</div>
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Next post will be about St. Petersburg, my favorite city in the whole wide world (so far)!</div>
Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-7773963172117429132015-07-17T11:31:00.000-05:002015-07-17T11:31:34.383-05:00Math with Dad<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In first grade I had a friend named Hunter Gamble who was a year older because, after
kindergarten, he went through a year of something called “Developmental First”
that was intended to ensure all kids were emotionally prepared for first grade.
(Did you know that Oklahoma was the first state in the US to have universal,
free kindergarten and pre-k? And it’s been one of the most conservative states
since its formation! There’s a <i>Planet Money</i> about it. Or maybe it’s a <i>This
American Life</i>.) Hunter came from a broken home. As far as I know, his dad was
never there, and his mom was only sometimes there. I saw inside once. It was
really messy. I think other people were there more than Hunter’s mom, and when
she was there, I doubt she gave Hunter much positive attention. Hunter liked to postpone going home after school as long as possible. Hunter and I knew each other
from the soccer team. We loved soccer. One day it was Hunter’s turn for Show
and Tell, but he basically didn’t have any toys or anything interesting at
home, so he showed up empty-handed. Everyone thought he was going to be in big
trouble, but he surprised us (and probably the teacher, too). He said he was
going to show (and tell) us how the number 3 goes into the number 15. We all
looked at each other and scoffed. Some laughed at him as if he were a charlatan.
We saw no evidence whatsoever to suggest that 3 would go into 15, a number so obviously
consisting of a 1 and a 5. But he did it. He knocked our socks off with his otherworldly
knowledge of multiplication and division. But then, what did we expect? We were
mere 5-year olds, and here he was 6.<br />
<br />
So first grade was the year I became kind of intrigued by math, but it was also
the (first) year I had a real discipline problem. I recall the following
dialogue with my mom. It was repeated virtually every day, for every subject.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mom: Kamalu, you still haven’t done your (phonics/math/spelling)
homework.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Me: I don’t want to. Why do I have to do it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mom: Because it’s the rule. You have to do your homework.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Me: But I’m busy (playing Legos/watching bugs/building miniature
canals next to the creek)!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mom: You have to do your homework.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Me: Mom. There’s no reason for me to do the homework. It doesn’t
teach me anything. You know I know it. Mrs. Shoemaker knows I know it. It’s
easy for me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mom: You still have to do it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Me: But if <i>you</i> know I
know it, and <i>Mrs. Shoemaker</i> (my
teacher) knows I know it, and if <i>I</i>
know I know it… why do I have to do it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mom: <i>(sighs)</i> You just
do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Me: <i>(angry, does homework
extremely fast, out of spite)<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So in first grade I kind of became interested in math, but not
the math we were learning, so my interest fizzled. I took a much greater
interest in sports and friends than in academics.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Then in third grade we were learning multiplication tables up to
12x12. Every student would work through a course of 1x to 12x. The first 2
minutes of math class every day would be dedicated to a short multiplication
quiz. Thirty seconds were allotted for the distribution of small sheets of
paper (one per student) which had 30 multiplication problems based on a
specific number (i.e. 4x or x4 would appear in each problem). Sixty seconds
were allowed for answering the questions. Thirty seconds were reserved for the
collection of the papers. It was a tight ship. If a student answered all 30
questions correctly in the allotted time, she passed the quiz. Any other
outcome constituted failure. As a reward for her triumph, she graduated to the
next number in the series (from 1 to 12) and was awarded a component of a
banana split made out of colorful construction paper. Students’ banana splits-in-progress
hung on the wall for all to see. Over time, they grew towards completion. There
were 12 necessary components.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We all started out with a quiz around the number 1 (e.g. 1x4 = ?
and 11x1 = ?). There were about 25 students in the class, and I think everyone
managed to pass that quiz on the first try. We each got an ice cream dish made
out of construction paper with our name written on it. Long did we admire the
way they looked on the wall, neatly arranged, all so alike, but all
personalized.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Then came the struggle. I had no recollection of learning my 2
times tables, and the quizzes weren’t teaching me anything. And after school,
it’s not like the quiz was part of my homework, so I didn’t think about it. About
two weeks went by. Some students (the real brainiacs) were already on something
like quiz 7. I think there were three or four of them with banana splits that
actually resembled the real thing: banana, three scoops of ice cream (different
colors), some whipped cream. Next to those tantalizing masterpieces, my empty
dish looked downright pitiful. I think the teacher contacted my parents. (I can
only imagine how that went. “I’m calling to announce a state of emergency. Your
son is trailing the entire class in times tables. He hasn’t made any progress
since we gave him the quiz on his 1 times tables two weeks ago! All he has is
an empty dish! That’s a gimme! <i>That’s
where we write the students’ names!!!</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">All of a sudden, my older sister’s and my bedtime routine
shifted from listening to (but not comprehending, if I’m speaking for myself)
my father’s readings of <i>The Hobbit</i> to
a routine consisting of <i>Hobbit</i>
readings PLUS multiplication flashcards. I think the flashcards were the first
act, and the readings followed, as a kind of dessert. I always fell asleep before
the end of that anyway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">After we started with the flashcards, I consistently passed my
daily quiz. I ended up completing my banana split at the same time as one other
student who had led the class the entire time. My appreciation for (and
recently shaken confidence in) math was restored.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In fourth grade I met a girl named Sarah Radke. I liked her. She
told me she liked to eat small pieces of paper, so I decided I’d do that too. (A
romantic from the beginning, I know.) The trouble was, the only paper I had
handy was the top of my crayon box—which wasn’t a big deal exactly, but it
struck me as a bit of a shame to compromise the storage functionality of the
box by tearing off the top. Only later did I realize that not only was a crayon
box made of tough, durable cardboard instead of soft, supple notebook paper but
also crayon box lids are relatively large and also relatively covered in wax. Anyway,
Sarah also told me that she was studying calculus. “What’s that??” I asked,
enchanted. “Advanced math.” Well, this girl basically just told me she was out
of my league. And just before summer break! <i>“Haha, not so fast!” </i>I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Shortly thereafter, on vacation, my dad and I had a quiet moment,
and I told him I needed to know everything he knew about calculus. I think he
was thrilled that I was taking an interest in something he knew a lot about. I
don’t recall following his explanation very well, but I know it included an
example involving the flow of air around an airfoil. Sadly, I ended up not
learning calculus that summer. In the fall, I asked Sarah to explain what
calculus was, and she looked at me as if I was crazy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“You said you were studying calculus,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Last May. You said you were studying it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Oh, I must have been kidding. My brother studies that. He’s in
high school.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I’d been had! That’s the last time I pursue advanced math for a
woman. Or anyone other than myself. Unless it’s going to save someone’s life or
something, and I’m the only one who can do it… But what I mean is that’s <i>probably the last time</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">For just about forever after that, my dad loved to give me math
problems whenever we were killing time together. And we used to kill a lot of
time together. He’d take me on business trips all around the state, and to
neighboring states, and the whole time at least one of us would be working out
a math problem (he would solve a problem, then give it to me, and work on the
next one while I worked on the given one). There would be a lot of silence, but
I wasn’t bored. Back then radio was an unreliable form of entertainment for
rural drives, car CD players hadn’t been invented, and there probably wasn’t
much he could tell me about his job that would interest me, nor that I could
tell him about anything that would interest him. But we did have math. A
favorite of his was base conversion. “Warren, what’s 562 base 7 in base 5?”
Those problems would keep me busy for long stretches and make the drive go way
faster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #1f497d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As I got closer to high school we stopped doing that. I’m not
sure why. I definitely didn’t go on as many road trips; maybe he didn’t either?
I was definitely getting very quick with calculations, so maybe he had a hard
time staying ahead of me with the problems. Maybe both of us just got too busy
with our own work. I know we started having other, more substantive stuff to
talk about, especially my performance in school (exemplary) and my involvement
in Boy Scouts (exceptional).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-23551996516332524462015-06-29T10:15:00.001-05:002015-06-29T10:16:40.979-05:00Knock, knock! Who's there? Russia!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Nearly two years without a blog post... and just when you thought this blog had taken its final dying breath, BOOM! The power of the motherland not only resuscitates it, but makes it stronger and more stony-faced than before, while putting a gold cross necklace on it.<br />
<br />
Lightning round of catch-up questions.<br />
<br />
<ul style="text-align: left;">
<li>Where am I? Vladimir, Russia.</li>
<li>Is the city named after Vladimir Putin? No, and that's not a dumb question because there are statues of Putin in some parts of Russia.</li>
<li>What should I know about Vladimir (the city)? It's super old. The <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vladimir" target="_blank">Wikipedia page</a> says it was a medieval capital. Some think it was founded around 1000 AD. Others think it was closer to 1100 AD. Either way, it's beautiful and there are several surviving structures that are nearly 900 years old. People from all over Russia come here as tourists.</li>
<li>Why are you in Vladimir? I'm studying Russian as a participant in the Critical Language Scholarship (CLS) Program.</li>
<li>What's CLS? It's this cool thing funded by the US Department of State that allows US citizens who study at universities the opportunity to study "critical languages."</li>
<li>What's a "critical language"? There are currently 13 languages that the US Department of State feels are critical to the future of the USA, but not enough Americans speak them. Languages include Hindi, Bangla, Urdu, Mandarin, Punjab, Arabic, Korean, Persian, Azerbaijani, Russian, and some others that slip my mind at the moment.</li>
<li>Wait, are you telling me that you're still a university student? Well no; I just finished my MBA. To be eligible for CLS, applicants must be enrolled at a university at the time of application, which was last November. I'll start work in the fall.</li>
<li>How long will you be in Russia? Until August 19th.</li>
<li>Are you allowed to leave? Not until August 19th. Our visas are only good for a single entry.</li>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
Now that everyone is up to speed, let me tell you what's happened during the time I've spent here so far (1 week).<br />
<br />
We have Russian class Monday through Friday. Two hours before lunch and two hours after lunch. Lunch is paid for, and it is delicious.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivRCcFgCDM3r0fpM7unex4Y5TVUnwLuavKqgp_dUc6FQcmn8UqfGxUEloyqF-4h-aC7qBvpyW8kchUNZSPmsJ3TpKwvmeiKBBigX1Iu4JjwQzeyMo1qNTcr7uS4wB039TN_hJCYpgF2tc/s1600/IMG_20150622_121127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivRCcFgCDM3r0fpM7unex4Y5TVUnwLuavKqgp_dUc6FQcmn8UqfGxUEloyqF-4h-aC7qBvpyW8kchUNZSPmsJ3TpKwvmeiKBBigX1Iu4JjwQzeyMo1qNTcr7uS4wB039TN_hJCYpgF2tc/s320/IMG_20150622_121127.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I was so excited for lunch, I ate almost all of my salad before I realized I should photograph my meal!</td></tr>
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There are 26 of us here in Vladimir in the CLS program, but we don't spend all day together. We've been broken up into four groups for the purposes of classes. These groups are loosely based on fluency and familiarity with Russian. When we have lessons on folklore or traditional cuisine, we are divided into two groups instead of four.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLuuXdCNGdaHRe_Gsc-nfULELvbedM2O6f3-4_CRSF0APnwGY3osH_46s9I98BEpvdHVr8rXy1nqoli6onR3Ywz43fIqWxSbiiyZ9RVHccbUk5yf7wctclFocs28fGMwB7x2Nm8XcLUWU/s1600/IMG_20150623_145104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLuuXdCNGdaHRe_Gsc-nfULELvbedM2O6f3-4_CRSF0APnwGY3osH_46s9I98BEpvdHVr8rXy1nqoli6onR3Ywz43fIqWxSbiiyZ9RVHccbUk5yf7wctclFocs28fGMwB7x2Nm8XcLUWU/s320/IMG_20150623_145104.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Learning traditional dance moves</td></tr>
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Here is a photo from when we had a lesson on Russian blini and blinchiki (which are different things, we learned!)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzMlUjqP_k0efyIQPiKz6uOh_17f7q2ArzsYoWNHfgnnnUsRR2XknkzkoYDqoJ75h6WCSivfFy7oqhR4JaeY9x9N-2erwSqHq95Y4WtvfQ-djqN6ZUpOAasL0Oz-NrnOtBXJeP_xZ7kjg/s1600/IMG_20150625_145025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzMlUjqP_k0efyIQPiKz6uOh_17f7q2ArzsYoWNHfgnnnUsRR2XknkzkoYDqoJ75h6WCSivfFy7oqhR4JaeY9x9N-2erwSqHq95Y4WtvfQ-djqN6ZUpOAasL0Oz-NrnOtBXJeP_xZ7kjg/s320/IMG_20150625_145025.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Russian way is not to smile in photos, or, more generally, not to smile for insincere reasons. This is a topic unto itself.</td></tr>
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It has rained every single day we've been here, for hours on end and sometimes with extreme force. And Russia is not exactly known for its drainage systems. It's been pretty rough walking about town. In fact, the rain was so bad this past Saturday, our excursion to a neighboring town was cancelled due to a storm warning! We'll make it up next week on Tuesday/Wednesday.<br />
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In general, we will have excursions on Saturday, but this past Saturday was freed up on account of the bad weather, and the upcoming Saturday has been freed up to allow us to go to Moscow (on our own), if we so desire. Everyone so desires.</div>
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Because Saturday was kind of wide open for me, I accepted an invitation to go to my friend's dacha. For those who don't know, a dacha is a small home in the country where people grow their own fruits and/or vegetables and/or raise animals. A lot of Russians and Ukrainians have them. I learned today that the name comes from the Russian word дать (dat'), which means "to give", because during the Soviet Union, citizens were given the opportunity to purchase for a pittance parcels of land beyond the city limits. And there they built little houses!</div>
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Anyway, it was raining when I left Vladimir for the dacha, but at the dacha it was not raining--at least for a while. It was picturesque there (at least to those who like the country).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRQjeM9NiLoWZlSLtfe3lZE5odEjll9bM5JwmmtlwtNQbhXid9UIpJg6I0Ix31lyusd9LCH9cY5PfQyBXyl_TTWwp2KdUq1N_YOQ4OmyVFkX5EfaIZgBNxiajA5iu6pnSLpk0mg-OWNA/s1600/IMG_20150627_201454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRQjeM9NiLoWZlSLtfe3lZE5odEjll9bM5JwmmtlwtNQbhXid9UIpJg6I0Ix31lyusd9LCH9cY5PfQyBXyl_TTWwp2KdUq1N_YOQ4OmyVFkX5EfaIZgBNxiajA5iu6pnSLpk0mg-OWNA/s320/IMG_20150627_201454.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglXr5XPAi4sLNmRe9gBNScrKl4zEupL9y9WEbnyQaQ2betghyphenhyphenEwFqDQG1TZ6NuOOJoW-rJrCrn8yhGVDSMpEKXLgzNuOhfXHQirYuHqEskjFNCPNech0R2K92fk0g7LZzxQjUwzRe_mdo/s1600/IMG_20150627_194630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglXr5XPAi4sLNmRe9gBNScrKl4zEupL9y9WEbnyQaQ2betghyphenhyphenEwFqDQG1TZ6NuOOJoW-rJrCrn8yhGVDSMpEKXLgzNuOhfXHQirYuHqEskjFNCPNech0R2K92fk0g7LZzxQjUwzRe_mdo/s320/IMG_20150627_194630.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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My friend's grandmother, grandfather, aunt, uncle, and cousin were there too. We had a great time getting to know each other and eating food and drinking alcohol that the grandparents had produced themselves. Later, the uncle's car got stuck in a muddy rut and I helped push it out.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieMQGeGroE44i57a4SQc2crBzUJDFRHnWhtkszsMGwGufaTNStiH-xMWS6xX325kn-Cd4E37787-zLoJ7jhQWzLdxSXZByPjjWWJXX9QAYi2ZS8-4d7pfjN89A1gFhQzmja1jjgxbUkk4/s1600/IMG_20150627_220029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieMQGeGroE44i57a4SQc2crBzUJDFRHnWhtkszsMGwGufaTNStiH-xMWS6xX325kn-Cd4E37787-zLoJ7jhQWzLdxSXZByPjjWWJXX9QAYi2ZS8-4d7pfjN89A1gFhQzmja1jjgxbUkk4/s320/IMG_20150627_220029.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Then I was quite dirty, so I went to the banya, which in this case was a small structure that functioned as a sauna. The dacha doesn't have running water, but the banya has a tank of heated water and a tank of unheated water, and they can be mixed and used for bathing. Unfortunately, I didn't bring a second set of shorts, so the rest of the time, I had to walk around in my pajama pants, even outside. But I'm glad I could help push the car out, seeing as how the family was so hospitable to me! Some kind of insect bit my leg during the process and it burns, but it probably won't kill me. I'll keep you posted.</div>
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Also, we (by which I mean the grandmother, primarily) baked pirogi and bulochki, which basically means savory buns/rolls and sweet buns/rolls. Here are some photos.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv7ar0bt5X77MNdHPfSMp8FVQfLIN50Td1shnIJviqibU4vcvf5rxlQQuMzQQqbGd-MDnub42VpLYVblhi5Fk_PLGmj_rvnz1QUd0VCfkEXkXPnMJWx3D4ajBnfJShtsG19s-RnQhhXI8/s1600/IMG_20150628_081151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv7ar0bt5X77MNdHPfSMp8FVQfLIN50Td1shnIJviqibU4vcvf5rxlQQuMzQQqbGd-MDnub42VpLYVblhi5Fk_PLGmj_rvnz1QUd0VCfkEXkXPnMJWx3D4ajBnfJShtsG19s-RnQhhXI8/s320/IMG_20150628_081151.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6xMzH5ggV7Aea4e-lON_yyxBR91JOeDeagiWO50mMi916KKK-7MRNFI6iruVUtpVbq3cl0iXGKG4KJFewjT3Db5uJzzVceKvjZYTi1jjLttylQxFK3CNbjxuKxy0QpjrmPoJ9lq_JaJs/s1600/IMG_20150628_081623.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6xMzH5ggV7Aea4e-lON_yyxBR91JOeDeagiWO50mMi916KKK-7MRNFI6iruVUtpVbq3cl0iXGKG4KJFewjT3Db5uJzzVceKvjZYTi1jjLttylQxFK3CNbjxuKxy0QpjrmPoJ9lq_JaJs/s320/IMG_20150628_081623.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmE1YUi_UI_4KISGsgdjzLujVYWeV1oWcIiicyCFCpFwnn-aQ7GbsAPbRaV2GUv29Hd8_emmp3XdS3O0Owz2nl2EWn35t5whqLDgvqwhJz_Fhw95yZk2KYwDRLpjr1WMUNovKmb4hhi38/s1600/IMG_20150628_083258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmE1YUi_UI_4KISGsgdjzLujVYWeV1oWcIiicyCFCpFwnn-aQ7GbsAPbRaV2GUv29Hd8_emmp3XdS3O0Owz2nl2EWn35t5whqLDgvqwhJz_Fhw95yZk2KYwDRLpjr1WMUNovKmb4hhi38/s320/IMG_20150628_083258.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifeI1hH6XNaawtGusorQposUF9jt001VAGTJfUJOgVQzwr6uz9SZikdF086D4I4sW-Khq1sxXXZGoGUVIh7y5KRHOJt9R3CvXOS7ZlSZ-5viewxNp_N23S_MO60fEJMg79KPyPWkDhH_o/s1600/IMG_20150628_101627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifeI1hH6XNaawtGusorQposUF9jt001VAGTJfUJOgVQzwr6uz9SZikdF086D4I4sW-Khq1sxXXZGoGUVIh7y5KRHOJt9R3CvXOS7ZlSZ-5viewxNp_N23S_MO60fEJMg79KPyPWkDhH_o/s320/IMG_20150628_101627.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWUc9P1dW01RzPh318Be93zu1CB16NjcxV_wtQx-CNc6LziIrwriYcBaoa1lyqXPn_H6yaiNx9300u6YgOUZl7GXd5Imd-JfJ622MLCanxF7MCfBVZpVKrB8n6xPvhOMa9EN3jULrfOxs/s1600/IMG_20150628_103502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWUc9P1dW01RzPh318Be93zu1CB16NjcxV_wtQx-CNc6LziIrwriYcBaoa1lyqXPn_H6yaiNx9300u6YgOUZl7GXd5Imd-JfJ622MLCanxF7MCfBVZpVKrB8n6xPvhOMa9EN3jULrfOxs/s320/IMG_20150628_103502.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidcfuc6hG7ReHwphJijoDiWsGQrwPdUJYM-po6TcA4kngHxcuAg0AvnqQhCimBIx0LZtq_z-yJUVUvFxXjXy0OL6RsnXb721_DBZwmYQ90-CGVbYTMl57VnaH9nFK_jDT1TWrnxwnZ6j4/s1600/IMG_20150628_115359.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidcfuc6hG7ReHwphJijoDiWsGQrwPdUJYM-po6TcA4kngHxcuAg0AvnqQhCimBIx0LZtq_z-yJUVUvFxXjXy0OL6RsnXb721_DBZwmYQ90-CGVbYTMl57VnaH9nFK_jDT1TWrnxwnZ6j4/s320/IMG_20150628_115359.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Today the other CLS participants and I purchased train tickets to Moscow. It's about 2 hours away. We plan to be there from Friday evening until Sunday evening. I'll give you the highlights in my next post.</div>
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Miscellaneous photos:</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch, 25 June, mine</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch, 25 June, guy diagonal from me</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch, 25 June, guy next to me</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vladimir's Golden Gates (ca. 12th cent.)</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">During our initial walk around town, during the one 4-hour period of the past week when it wasn't raining</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My room! It's narrow, but cozy. Currently no internet service, to be remedied 1 July.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shortly after our initial arrival in Moscow from the US.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panorama photo of a vista in Vladimir. Not sure whether this will be properly viewable.</td></tr>
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Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-37025039493394349592013-08-09T11:36:00.001-05:002013-08-09T13:25:16.849-05:00Good vs. TrueI didn't post last month because I spent most of it in Ukraine revisiting the people and places of my now-previous life. And in addition to affirming to me the positive memories I had, it reminded me of both pleasant and unpleasant aspects that I'd forgotten. It's so easy to romanticize the past, and one could argue it's evolutionarily advantageous. After all, sorrow and regret can be debilitating. This got me thinking: is it better to remember only the good things, or to remember things as they truly were? In what situation would it be disadvantageous to see the past through rose-colored glasses?<br />
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It should be noted that one's past influences his future at the subconscious level if nothing else. At the very least, past experiences serve to form one's worldview, which drives decision-making going forward. At most, a person actively mines past experiences for specific insights to guide him in the future. In this case, it would clearly be better to recall accurately past events--that the lemon stand wasn't as successful as the lemonade stand, despite the fact that the lemon stand did find two loyal customers in Grandma and Grandpa.<br />
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But what about the case for selective memory, or at least memory with "positive spin"? Certainly such memory protects us from the anxiety and heartache of shame and loss? Imagine for a moment that a young person asks you for advice. You give her some piece of wisdom and send her on her way. Now imagine that she didn't understand your advice, or even worse, took your meaning for something entirely different. If you were to discover that she had misunderstood, you'd likely feel compelled to set the record straight--that you did NOT advise her to join a cult or some such thing--because you, like most people, feel a need to be understood.<br />
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When I lived in Ukraine, I found that people were more gratified by conversations with me when I avoided or minimized telling them when I didn't understand. Because if I furrowed my brow or revealed my confusion, the other person would feel at least partially responsible for the miscommunication. And so, when it wasn't a high-stakes, super-important conversation, I would simply read the person's emotions when his words were unclear. In times when the meaning of a sentence eluded me, I came to be quite adept at knowing when to laugh, when to look concerned, and when the conversation was coming to an end. You might say this is shameful, that it's unconscionable to pretend to understand and let someone go on thinking all is well. Some might call it "manipulative." But from my perspective, the point of those innumerable little chats with strangers was to show that I as an American was amicable and willing to take time to stop and chat. The point was not actually about the gardening anecdote itself. It would have been selfish and needlessly taxing to force the person to explain repeatedly, with increasingly simple words, exactly what was being planted, when, where, why, by whom, and with what tools. I would have been demanding not more than I was interested and willing to hear, but more effort than the other person was willing to afford the conversation. I had enough experience to know that my patience with my own limited vocabulary and interest in learning exceeded the other person's time and energy. So I often let him walk away feeling entirely understood.<br />
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It seems to me that rose-colored glasses are a boon due to our innate human desire to fix things. Let your friend continue to believe his joke didn't fall flat. Spare him the embarrassment. Let your sister remember her childhood piano recital as a revelation. Let people remember the old pond as a hidden oasis, not as the glorified marsh it actually was. But when a charitable view of the past threatens to misinform a future decision, you should seek to reveal the truth, even if it's your own recollection you're setting straight.Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-15745576283261329122013-06-11T21:04:00.000-05:002013-06-11T21:04:14.436-05:00Gestation PeriodHow can you determine a person's potential? Is there a trick to it?<br />
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Toward the end of last month I spent a week with my father's mother and stepfather. Years before I was born, my grandmother divorced my biological grandfather and later married for a second time. During my time with the two of them, she told me that her second husband had seen in her a unopened flower bud that had yet to bloom. And she strongly feels that over the course of the last 30 years, she has been able to develop into the person she was supposed to become during the first 50 years of her life. Interestingly, I see in her second husband nearly all of the traits of her first husband that she says suppressed her development.<br />
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I wanted to know what my grandfather (her second husband) knew that I didn't. "How do you look inside someone and see what she's capable of? Is there a trick?" I asked. He laughed. "I have no idea. I don't think there's a trick, though."<br />
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Okay, so I didn't get an answer to that question. But I had another one: Why couldn't my grandmother see for herself that she wasn't developing to her fullest? That's a question I decided not to ask aloud.<br />
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But maybe that's just the way it is. Maybe people don't explicitly realize when their development has stalled. Maybe they have only a vague feeling of ennui. And was it in fact the characteristics of my grandmother's first husband that held her back? Were they really to blame? Or was it merely her perception of their culpability, and her subsequent resentment of them (and him), that made divorce the only course of action?<br />
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This fall I'm going back to school. It's comfortable and lazy to think it will be a period of great personal development. I say "comfortable and lazy" because it's a deferment of action. Why should I wait until then? What would the-person-I-want-to-be do in my position?<br /><br />I'm off to go learn something.Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-16213185540431354132013-05-02T01:20:00.000-05:002013-05-02T01:39:48.431-05:00Leap of Faith<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
(Preface: Before I say anything else, I should provide some resolution to the previous post: I've been accepted to the Booth School of Business at the University of Chicago! I found out at 5:30pm on the day of the admissions decisions. It was the perfect conclusion to an excruciatingly lengthy application process.)<br />
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In <i>The Art of War</i> by Sun Tzu, we are told of Hsiang Yu, an army commander who did something quite unusual. After leading his army across a river toward enemy troops, he ordered all his army's ships burned and all the cooking pots broken. Retreat and camp-making both became impossible, and there remained no alternative besides victory in combat.<br />
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***<br />
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I find motivation fascinating. I'm often intrigued by the forces, great and small, that cause us to do the things we do. (If you're also fascinated by these things, check out <i>Drive</i> by Daniel Pink. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u6XAPnuFjJc" target="_blank">Here's a primer</a>.) Naturally I've been thinking a lot about business school lately. <i>It's so expensive</i>, I think. In fact, that was my first thought when I got the good news. I was in, but wait--do I really want to go? In an instant I switched from dying to get in to hesitant... and in the next instant I reminded myself that I was being irrational. I knew it was expensive from the get-go. It's irrational to want something for so long and stop wanting it because you get it. (Of course, to stop wanting it because you realized you only ever wanted it in the first place was because you <i>couldn't</i> have it <i>is</i> rational, but it requires an admission of previous irrationality. But if we refuse to change our minds out of a stubborn refusal to admit prior irrationality, then that too...<br />
<br />
Anyway, why did I suddenly become hesitant? It wasn't because I suddenly got what I'd hoped for. It was because of the cost. I've never had debt before, and business school requires me to take on about six figures' worth. Now, I knew that from the moment I began applying to schools. I applied to schools that have amazing employment statistics. Every one of the schools I applied to boasts a median starting salary <i>in excess</i> of the (lofty) average debt students have when they graduate, and that doesn't account for the signing bonus, relocation package, and other compensation that many graduates accrue. And for me, the value proposition of business school is much more straightforward than it would be for the average applicant, who must consider lost wages and the needs of a spouse or perhaps children. But again, I've never had debt. I don't have a phobia <i>per se</i>, but certainly a strong aversion. I've been taught that it's bad, not to be trifled with... evil, practically. And like the vast majority of Millennials, I avoid it entirely. I've never even carried a balance on my credit card from one month to the next. Freedom from debt has allowed me freedom in other areas of life. I went to a state school that offered me a generous scholarship partly so that I'd have more freedom of choice later. There I got a degree in chemical engineering, and then bioengineering, and then I abandoned engineering because I didn't feel passionate about it. Without the pressure of student debt (and in the absence of passion), I hadn't really committed. I hadn't needed to. Attending business school will put me in a do-or-die situation. I'll <i>need</i> to land an internship this winter, and I'll <i>need</i> to get a full-time offer before graduation. I've never been in a do-or-die situation before. I've always operated over a safety net.<br />
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But wait a minute. I joined Peace Corps. I decided to do volunteer work in another country with no assurances of a future afterward. I agreed to abandon any network I had in the US and spend two years in another part of the world building a network I'd also abandon. I didn't know how to parlay the whole experience into a career; in fact I had no intention to do so. I simply decided it would enrich my life and I did it. I committed. And it worked out. Of course, I had NO IDEA what a professional risk I was taking--many of my fellow Returned Peace Corps Volunteers have been looking for work for six months now--but at least I realized that quitting prematurely was not an option.<br />
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So maybe committing to something isn't entirely new to me. Maybe I have to commit again, only now the stakes are higher. Maybe the key to success in life is committing. Getting rid of the safety net. Burning the boats, and breaking the cooking pots.</div>
Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-2668625999813817142013-03-16T22:01:00.001-05:002013-03-16T22:11:29.153-05:00Living, Striving<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I didn't post last month, but it wasn't because I forgot. I wanted to wait until I had some news.<br />
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Since the first week of January I've had my hands full working at a nonprofit during the day and doing one-on-one tutoring at nights and on weekends. I've also been waiting to hear back regarding my applications to business school. Applying to MBA programs is a process that is sometimes described as "death by a thousand cuts." It involves research, campus visits, dozens of letters of recommendation, twice as many essays, and nervewracking interviews. On top of that, applicants need to take the GMAT or GRE and the TOEFL, perhaps more than once, which is a hurdle that demands its own considerable preparation. Altogether this takes several months. Actually, the successful applicant has spent <i>years </i>preparing for business school "in the background" by showing leadership at school, work, and in community involvement; by outperforming his peers academically and professionally; and by assembling an impressive work history (preferably international) punctuated by frequent promotions. In fact, creating a successul application might just be the most difficult step in getting a top-tier MBA. While it's typical for schools to accept less than 20% of applicants, approximately 99% of those who begin an MBA program complete it successfully.<br />
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Yesterday I found out that Dartmouth's Tuck School of Management could not offer me a place in their incoming class. That marked the fourth school to reject my application and thus the fourth significant disappointment since I began the application process nine months ago. And I must say it's exhausting to hope for something so long and not get it. To be completely honest, I've never wanted anything as strongly as I want business school. And at the risk of sounding vain, nothing has ever come so hard. The two results are that it's emotionally trying yet stubbornly appealing.<br />
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The whole process has given me plenty of opportunity to reflect on dreams and goals. How long can a person continue to hope for something in the face of repeated denial? I suppose the answer depends on how undesirable the alternative is. Some obvious examples come to mind, such as risking one's life to escape abject subjugation. But let's stick to the question's application to professional development. I've talked to people who have been applying and re-applying to business schools for two or three years. Some are now 32, 33, 34... and they say upfront that this year is their last hope. It's common knowledge that business schools prefer applicants at an early stage of their careers; there exist executive MBA programs dedicated to those applicants with more professional experience. These unsuccessful, repeat applicants, three (or more!) times more dejected than I, somehow find the will to repeat the life-consuming process year after year, writing <i>four </i>essays and wrangling <i>two </i>recommendations and taking off work for <i>two </i>visits and campus interviews and paying <i>$250 </i>multiplied by <i>six </i>schools--not to mention fees associated with essay services or admissions consultants... with nothing to show for it. No discernable fruits of their labor. With every rejection, the effort required to repeat the process must grow higher and higher. It must become more and more difficult to summon the energy to try again. Or does it? Does intial rejection cause an applicant to put forth less effort, thereby weakening his application, or does he redouble his attempts?<br />
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We all know that making something unobtainable increases its allure. Kids and adults alike long for that which they cannot have. It's one of the cornerstones of the luxury goods industry. Is it possible that unsuccessful business school applicants actually have more motivation to get in after initial rejections? Do his submissions actually get stronger and stronger? Certainly everyone must give up at some point. But which man is the coward--the one too easily discouraged--and which is the fool--the one who refuses to accept defeat? Which kind of person am I? Which kind of person are you? Which would you rather be?<br />
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I'm waiting to hear from one last school. If I'm not accepted there, I'll take it to mean that I simply don't have enough work experience, or the right kind, to get in. And I'll pour all my energy into making the career change I'm striving for. The career change that I've heard is only possible through business school.</div>
Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-55544967553838904892013-01-13T21:19:00.001-06:002013-01-13T21:19:12.995-06:00Catch-up Digest<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I've been incredibly busy over the past month. What have I
been doing? I’m glad you asked.</div>
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In mid-December I accompanied my father on a business trip
to Phoenix. Then I began volunteering at a local nonprofit every day. Then I went to the
homecoming party of my friend Ashley K. Then I went to a holiday party for my
Oklahoma friends. Then was Christmas at home. Then my family and I went on vacation for a week. Then came the last of my business
school application deadlines. And that brings us to today!</div>
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Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-26542703953129010322012-11-30T20:22:00.003-06:002012-12-03T13:19:34.857-06:00A New Normal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvI3jlHHBwgk7ZxVAMUSJJzMfq3S-AprK1VhLrw9cK8XR1N9caDVsh825KYxiTlP2u1a9Hrk1vbU55kCztOxJ-DIvrvbHiXQYAI0e_LxwOQxa8_m4caqKPYUTMAoz1KiEfMtnq3ASHhQ/s1600/drama-masks-300x2381.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkvI3jlHHBwgk7ZxVAMUSJJzMfq3S-AprK1VhLrw9cK8XR1N9caDVsh825KYxiTlP2u1a9Hrk1vbU55kCztOxJ-DIvrvbHiXQYAI0e_LxwOQxa8_m4caqKPYUTMAoz1KiEfMtnq3ASHhQ/s1600/drama-masks-300x2381.jpg" /></a></div>
In Ukraine I used to fantasize about what it would be like to be back in the US and drive again. After so long riding sluggish Ukrainian <i>marshutkas</i> on pockmarked roads, I imagined how terrified I'd be to drive fast again. I recalled this yesterday as I was doing 80 mph on I-94.<br />
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It's astonishing how fast we adjust to new circumstances. We can adjust to an increased (or decreased) workload, more (or less) frequent meals, and even life with (or without) loved ones. Whether things change for better or for worse, humans always seem to reach equilibrium pretty fast. Harvard psychologist Dan Gilbert gave <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/dan_gilbert_asks_why_are_we_happy.html" target="_blank">a TED talk</a> in which he described the descrepancy between how (un)happy we expect to be and how happy we actually are following an unpleasant turn of events. The fact is, humans synthesize happiness when things go poorly. We're resilient like that.<br />
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As a generally positive person, I find this hugely encouraging. However, if people can create happiness, it follows that they can create unhappiness too. I don't think academic research is required to see there's no shortage of Debbie Downers and perma-bears among us.<br />
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Negitivity and positivity are certainly contagious to some extent. For me, it's not a person's negativity <i>itself</i> that brings me down; it's his choice to be negative that bothers me. That's right, I believe it is a choice. I believe that if a person wants to be unhappy, he will be. No matter how good things get, he has the power to put himself in a bad mood. But I believe the inverse to be true as well: No matter how bad things get, a person who wants to be happy has the power to put himself in a good mood. So let's keep in mind that happiness is ours for the taking. Our positivity will help lift the spirits of those around us (but the choice to be positive is ultimately theirs).Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-40830603656270472202012-11-22T12:16:00.001-06:002012-12-03T13:16:19.415-06:00Thanksgiving, Homecoming, and an Embarrassment of Riches<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Today is Thanksgiving, and I have so much to be thankful for. The past month has been filled with sentimental goodbyes as I parted ways with friends I've made over the past two years. My departure from Ukraine has been extremely emotional and difficult, but I take this as a positive sign. I feel that the more difficult it is to leave, the more significant this experience must have been.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My homecoming was a surprise for my mother and my sister. My father secretly picked me up from the airport, and then we killed a few hours while waiting for my sister's flight to arrive from New York. My father and I got BBQ pork sandwiches for lunch (so delicious) and then went to Sam's Club for Thanksgiving-related groceries. This is the point in the story at which my mind exploded.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">During lunch I had made note of (and even remarked on) the restaurant's large portions. The restaurant itself, a sports bar, was spacious, and it had large patrons too. But these details failed to prepare me for Sam's Club. For those who don't know, Sam's Club is a wholesale retail chain aimed at small business owners and others who prefer to buy in bulk. Customers enjoy economies of scale, as does the retailer itself. Therefore, the packages are extra large, the aisles are extra wide, and the shopping carts (or flatbed dollies) are similarly broad and capacious to match. The whole experience is essentially shopping in a warehouse.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Somewhere between marvelling at the cavernous (yet flimsy) structure of the store and the gargantuan package sizes (14-inch pumpkin pies, 44-packs of batteries, 5-gallon tubs of ice cream), I was nauseated by the excess of it all. I admit, I longed for the more intimate, modest shops of Ukraine. I wanted to buy a bottle of water, but water bottles were only sold in quantities of 36 or more. I surveyed the bakery's expansive sea of breads and pies. "What do they do with the freshly baked pastries that don't sell?" I wondered. But I already knew that unsold food was most likely thrown away. And I was reminded of a recent podcast in which I'd heard that the global food shortage isn't a problem of tonnage, it's one of distribution. That is, we already produce enough food to feed the planet; we simply don't distribute it equitably.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I also marvelled at Americans. The diversity! The smiles! The friendliness! In Sam's Club I heard English, Spanish, Polish, Russian, and another language I didn't recognize. I approached the Russian speaker, who recommended to me a local Russian restaurant. The Polish couple chatted with me about Ukraine for a while. A nearby English speaker who'd noticed I'd grabbed a particular salad mix was kind enough to recommend I check the "sell by" date, as there were two dates in stock (both viable, but one was later). Although our salad mix will surely be consumed prior to the "sell by" date, it was kind of her to concern herself. I'm overjoyed to be back in the land of the diverse and the home of the friendly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">This Thanksgiving, I'm grateful for my loved ones. I'm grateful for my family's big house, adequately heated and filled with food. I'm grateful for my country, I'm grateful for my countrymen, and I'm grateful that we have opportunities like Peace Corps. It's because of Peace Corps that I saw a little corner of the world for which I'm abundantly grateful<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">—my <i>other </i>country, </span>Ukraine. To everyone everywhere: Happy Thanksgiving!</span>Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-91407315316432085152012-11-07T07:43:00.000-06:002012-12-03T13:17:00.697-06:00Perfect. Timing.<br />
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Last week I interviewed for a position with an education nonprofit. At the end of the interview, I learned that my desired start date might be a few weeks later than the organization would like. The opportunity would be great for me in so many ways, and I'd be great for the nonprofit too... but two weeks' difference might prove to be enough to undermine my candidacy.<br />
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So much in life is a matter of timing. Sometimes we take opportunities not because they're perfect--that is, exactly what we want--but because they're the best at the time (and we don't know if or when the perfect opportunity will come). Sometimes a job will be exactly what we want now but will lead to an unrewarding job down the line. To use marriage as an example, sometimes a perfect groom develops into an undesirable husband. After all, it's not only the job or spouse that changes; desires change too.<br />
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This variability of desire leads to the question: if something perfect can become imperfect, then why can't something imperfect become perfect? If so, is there any point in searching for--and waiting for--perfection? Either way, aren't we simply going to be hoping for the best? Maybe we shouldn't limit ourselves by considering only those opportunities that appeal to us. Maybe a certain job or person is only so-so now, but will be amazing later. Maybe it's amazing now, but will be only so-so later. Maybe my total happiness will be greater if I choose not the amazing option with the uncertain future, but the one that is pretty good and likely to stay that way. There's no way to know. So why worry?<br />
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Someone once told me that there isn't a right or wrong time for things to happen in life; things happen in life of their own accord and it's always the right time, because it's at that time that they happen. And the things that happen are the right things, because they are the things that happen.<br />
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In a follow-up email with the nonprofit organization, I <i>almost </i>said that my desired start date is flexible. But then I thought why bother? If I don't get the position, I'll be available to seize other, more perfect opportunities.Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-9805563990114512012012-10-28T12:00:00.000-05:002012-12-03T13:17:16.840-06:00Wants and Needs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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People get themselves all sorts of mixed up. Sometimes we mix up wants and needs. Sometimes we consider wants to be needs and vice versa. I was guilty of one specific example of this for a long time, but I've resolved to change.</div>
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<i>Needs </i>refers to things that are essential to our existence. Water, food, and oxygen are the most common examples of needs. But our existence is more than just physical, which is why there are other needs too, such as those described in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maslow's_hierarchy_of_needs" target="_blank">Maslow's hierarchy of needs</a>. These include achievement, friendship, and self-esteem. <i>Wants </i>refers to everything that makes our lives more enjoyable but isn't a need. Wants tend to vary from person to person, whereas needs don't (although the intensity of a need and method for meeting it might). The big trouble comes when we confuse wants and needs.<br />
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I'm a pretty logical person. I used to deliberately engage only in purposeful activities that offered some clear benefit, some well-defined reason for doing them. I'm ashamed to say I used to be a holier-than-thou workaholic. In college I prioritized studying over socializing because studying offered a clear, measurable benefit (good grades, a perceived need), whereas the benefit of socializing was less measurable and clear. But now I realize that unclear benefits can be both greater and more urgently needed than clear ones. By opening myself up in recent months to all manner of work and social invitations, I've gained friends, ideas, and a sense of happiness that's long been missing from my life. And <i>these </i>are things that I need.<br />
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I'm certainly not the only one who has mixed up wants and needs; plenty of people prioritize the <i>need</i> to earn lots of money over the <i>want</i> to spend time with their families and friends. But it's worth considering: which one is truly necessary to one's existence, and which one could be dispensed with? There comes a point when an incremental financial increase isn't worth the incremental emotional decrease. People love doing things with quantifiable outcomes because it makes measuring success easier, but what good is easily measuring the wrong thing? At least for me, the successes that matter most tend to be unmeasurable. (Suggested reading: <a href="http://hbr.org/2010/07/how-will-you-measure-your-life/ar/1" target="_blank">How Will You Measure Your Life?</a>)<br />
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A few days ago I received word that my application to Harvard Business School (HBS) was denied. Though disappointing, it wasn't a total surprise. It caused me to think about what I truly need and what I simply want. HBS was a want. Ultimately, an MBA is a want. It's one of many ways for me to get something I need. And just to be clear, money is not that thing. What I need is to know that I'm making the contribution to this world that I was equipped to make, even if it's just a tiny improvement to one person's life. I need to feel that I'm making prudent use of the tools and opportunities given to me and not squandering my chances. And just like the need for water, it's a need that I could meet every day yet somehow never satisfy. Might I be pleased with my contribution? Perhaps. Content? Never.Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-23986726839355736672012-10-23T18:31:00.000-05:002012-12-03T13:17:34.311-06:00A Different Perspective<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I met a young man named John in Sergeyevka, Ukraine. He had the kind of beard that bards used to sing songs about. In fact, his appearance could be approximated by imagining two shiny eyes nestled in a mass of wiry, chestnut hair. Sometimes he smiled, which revealed to those around him the location of his mouth.<br />
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A few months after our first meeting, John shaved his beard. I could hardly believe he was the same person; I could recognize him only by holding up my hand to block out the lower half of his face. It turned out that John was usually clean-shaven, and I happened to meet him during the one summer when he grew out his beard. Then I realized that my image of John was not accurate. That is, it wasn't the image that others had of him, nor was it the image he had of himself. I had been looking at him the wrong way. I had seen just one side of him, and it was temporary at that.<br />
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Everyone has many sides, and it takes time to see them all. Sometimes we see one specific side of someone (or don't see one specific side) for so long that we think we have the whole picture. But it's a mistake to think so; there's almost always more to be seen. Every bit that remains below the surface--whether for us to see in others or reveal to them--could bring us closer or drive us apart. It might seem safer to keep our hidden sides hidden, sure. Sometimes we're disappointed to find a person's first flaw. But it's not in fact a flaw, nor is it the first; it's the beginning of a more complete picture that we simply couldn't see before. And if we weren't looking at the whole picture, then we can't claim to have liked the person as he truly is. Deep, genuine connections can't form unless we are prepared to both see others and reveal ourselves fully.<br />
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A fitting poem by Shel Silverstein:<br />
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<br />Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8695147250894920370.post-23441482137099277492012-10-22T09:16:00.000-05:002012-12-03T13:18:27.752-06:00Beginnings and Endings<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Preface:</i></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">I thought this would be a fitting inaugural post, as it marks the end of a narrowly-themed (and thus scantly updated) blog and the beginning of a broader (and hopefully more regularly updated) blog.</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">A lot of things are changing in my life. A new job, a new country. The end of a romantic relationship, the beginning of some remarkable friendships. Some of the things that are ending were part of my life for years; some lasted only a couple months. As new things begin in my life, I find myself wondering what (and who) will play an enduring role, and what (and who) won’t. But what specifically will last isn</span>’<span style="font-family: inherit;">t so important; what’s important is that the things that will last will do so because they contribute to my growth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Endings are a time for reflection. As one lives the final moments, goes through the final motions, it's natural to think back on what transpired. My fellow Peace Corps volunteers and I recently had a close of service conference, signifying the end of our international engagement. The conference meant the end of being near other volunteers, some of whom I only befriended at the very end of service. It also represented the end of my immersion in a foreign culture. But my time here, although drawing to a close, marks the beginning of my interest in foreign languages and volunteering.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Despite being the counterpoint to endings, beginnings are just as much a time for reflection. This is because beginnings are a time for growth. Beginnings cause us to identify goals and choose a direction for ourselves, and these activities require reflection. In the past few weeks I’ve seen the beginnings of many new friendships. Soon I’ll move to an unfamiliar city in a “newly foreign” country, which brings with it a new atmosphere and new opportunities. I just finished applying to business school, which was the end of an arduous process but the beginning of something much larger. Business school will mark the beginning of a new direction in my career.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Ultimately, beginnings and endings are the same thing: transitions. Transitions are everything; our life stories are told in terms of beginnings and endings. Transitions induce growth, and growth is the essence of life. There cannot be life without growth. I want to reach a point where my life consists of a steady stream of transitions, growth, and the excitement of living.</span></div>
Warrenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13368533177833564267noreply@blogger.com1