Author: T

The way she learns

Watching kids learn is so insightful. My four-year-old has picked up a longboard (my longboard, or something formerly known as mine). The way she tries to ride is so interesting. There is absolutely no stress about mastering the skill. She looks at what I do, she listens to my advice — sometimes she follows it, sometimes she doesn’t.

There’s absolutely no pressure. She holds my hand — one foot on the board, the other one pushing. She then steps with the second foot, and waits for the board to stop. She tries to do the same by herself a few times, succeeds. Then goes back to holding my hand. Then, after a bit, she sits on the board and pushes with both feet. Or she runs around, carrying the board, “looking for a place to start”. Then she tries again.

My instructions are often redundant, because what I have in mind is very different from what she’s doing. While I’m thinking in terms of “how do I learn this”, along with “how do I get past the embarrassment of not being able to do this well”, she is playing. She is not concerned with the looks, or with the mastery. She is simply having fun.

And I bet, with an approach like that, kids learn better than adults.

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Monday quote: Haruki Murakami

I used to have a habit of copying down all quotes from books that i read into a notebook. That habit is long gone, but I like going back to the quotes of something that I once read.

Today is Monday — start of the week for those who don’t consider the weeks to be starting on Sunday. I can add the first thing I read on a Monday here, and maybe in a year, it’d be interesting to go back and revisit what I was reading. It’s not a quote, as something that I found particularly interesting, or true, or could relate to. It is the first thing that I had in my reading day.

Last night, I started reading a new collection of stories by Haruki Murakami, titled “First Person Singular: Stories.” I read just one story before bed, and today, I started with the second story, “On A Stone Pillow.” Here’s the quote, beginning of the story.

I’d like to tell a story about a woman. The thing is, I know next to nothing about her. I can’t even remember her name, or her face. And I’m willing to bet she doesn’t remember me, either. When I met her, I was a sophomore in college, and I’m guessing she was in her mid-twenties. We both had part-time jobs at the same place, at the same time. It was totally unplanned, but we ended up spending a night together. And never saw each other again.

Haruki Murakami “On A Stone Pillow”

Tomorrow, Daniel Kahneman’s new book is released, “Noise. A Flaw in Human Judgement”, let’s see what I’m reading next Monday.

By the way, one story from Murakami reads like part of Salinger’s “Nine Stories,” juxtaposed over Japan a few decades later. It’s “With The Beatles.”

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Got anything?

Every day I pick her up from daycare, she asks, “Have you got anything for me?” and often, “What is it? What do you have for me?”

I’m her drug dealer.

(Of course I’m her drug dealer, I give her chocolates in doses that are far from homeopathic. Highly addictive at the age of four.)

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A stranger in a familiar place

Waiting at a train or a subway station feels very different if you are in an unfamiliar city, traveling for example. I was thinking this as I got a bit stuck in transit. I was on my way home after dropping off my daughter in daycare. And I remembered the first months after moving to Berlin: the city still unfamiliar, as well as the language; trains and busses still something new — not as a concept, but as this specific country’s variety. I paid more attention to how things were written, even more as I didn’t fully understand their meaning. A lot of little daily things that I hardly ever notice today, I watched and watched back then. The signs, the typography, the green text in the wagons showing the next station and an arrow to advise on which side the platform would be… The same way my kid now notices and gets excited when we are on a new train, how the upholstering in the train car is different, and how this train is unlike the older ones in the little details. It is only when we travel and encounter new things, we are able to revive the sense of wonder and puzzlement that we had as kids.

Another thought is about childhood. Looking back, we underestimate how confused we were as kids. We remember the sense of wonder and joy and surprise. But we forget the endless confusion, puzzlement and the necessity to rely on a trusted adult to figure things out. The trusted adult who is not going to pay attention to the minute details, but will make sure that we are safe in navigating the city, or any environment.

Growing used to the place, we stop noticing, we stop looking. Not a bad thing. But one needs a sense of novelty every now and again. Maybe this is the sense that we can find in ourselves — using our old environments in a new way, doing something different in them. If we are still on the topic of being in transit, you can get on a bus or ride a bike instead. And that will be new. You can pick up a new activity, and it will bring you a sense of having potential, which means seeing fresh, being something new that you haven’t been before. There is always a measure to the amount of comfort and certain numbness to the environment we want to have, maybe to focus on the inside of us rather than the outside; and equally, there is a level of wonder and looking with fresh eyes that life wants.

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Learning styles myth

Dividing people into subtypes based on their dominant perception — auditory, visual, and tactile — has always felt a little wrong to me. Sometimes, kinesthetic is added into the mix. This subdivision is often applied to learning styles. Do you learn better when you look, listen, write (or is it doodle? take notes?) or do things by hand? (See EducationPlanner as an example.)

I thought of myself as mostly auditory; maybe because I liked music, I was a DJ, and I wanted to be in touch with my hearing/listening perception. But then, who isn’t a visual type? We all perceive information better when presented in a diagram or with similar visual aids, than when listening to it — in numbers, especially. And touch. Isn’t touch important to me? Oh, it is, no doubt about it.

So, by attributing yourself to one of the senses, you’re robbing yourself of everything else. We are multi-faceted. Everything is important. It is unnecessarily limiting to stick to what you think is right for you, without exploring other things that could be equally or more beneficial. This attribution to one of the senses is supposed to be a hack, and instead, it does not benefit you. You don’t learn faster, better and stronger by focusing only on one type of skill or one sort of exercise. You can’t train just one muscle. You can’t learn a language by only learning grammar, or not learning grammar, for that matter. You have to, and you inevitably will, engage all senses that are available to you.

As I’m googling the subject more, I find articles, including this one from American Psychological Association, debunking the myth of learning styles:

“Previous research has shown that the learning styles model can undermine education in many ways. Educators spend time and money tailoring lessons to certain learning styles for different students even though all students would benefit from learning through various methods.”

As much as our brain loves categories and simplifications, we should not be depriving ourselves of a broader outlook. There is no simple hack: do this, and get the ultimate result. You have to do this, and this, and that.

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Reading for guidance and curiosity

I recently picked up a culinary book from World War II, first published in England in 1942. The title is “How to Cook a Wolf”, written by MFK Fisher.

As I was only on the first pages, I thought about how different this experience is from reading something written recently, 80 years after. An old book like that can be treated as an interesting read, a curiosity — without the assumption that this will be taken as immediate advice. There have been huge advancements (and some setbacks) in the science of diets and health. Recently written books are, essentially, guides. Just one type of how-to writings that the reader is supposed to pick up from the shelf or a Kindle version of the shelf, and learn from it. We as readers are told what we have been doing wrong, and how to improve ourselves, as taught by an expert, or an investigator (journalist) who asked the experts on our behalf. Being a learner, having a clean slate is one thing. Thinking that you need to learn or re-learn everything, is another. It’s anxiety-inducing. It’s sad.

Think about these fresh guidebooks, as read from a distance of twenty, or fifty, or a hundred years. Readers then will stand on the shoulders of giants, having uncovered new knowledge in the realm of eating, or whatever the topic of interest is — anything, really. Why then, not read them with a grain of salt (because salt brings out the flavor of all foods, so yeah, pun totally intended). Read these new books more with curiosity than the worry that you have been doing something wrong your entire life. Surely, not every old book is a carrier of wisdom. Some parts can be wise, other parts have their right to be outdated. And yet, there’s something completely different in how I read old books, as compared to new.

I find old, well-written books more relaxing than most of the do-this-don’t-do-that contemporary books. Not all old books are good. If we keep to the matter of healthy eating, all the Dukan and Atkins and I’m sure many other diets are questionable today after what, forty years since their invention. And the shift from blaming fat on everything to blaming sugars and other carbs… Examples are plenty. But generally, because with older books, I have more expectations around the style of writing that direct advice, I find them a more relaxed reading, done for the purpose of elevating the soul, if you forgive the high style, — rather than educating.

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Backpack obsession and organizing mania

My twenties were in a lot of ways about optimizing. I wanted to organize and reorganize. I could say, this was one of my themes since childhood. I wanted some sort of order, my own, something that would increase my comfort. It was also the time of productivity and lifehack blogs sprouting like mushrooms, it was easy to fall into this kind of religion — you improve, optimize, get things done, et voila, you are the winner. Sometimes, I have to admit, overattention to organizing does the reverse — it keeps you busy without much outcome. Form over matter. In any case, that’s where my writing about the things that make you feel at home come from — this particularity about some things that matter to me.

I haven’t felt a sharp need to organize in a while. Or, at least, I made small incremental improvements as I went, but I wasn’t spending so much time thinking about it. Until last week.

My good old Herschel backpack was getting less good and more old. And I started looking for a new one. I initially thought that I’d replace it with maybe a different color, and that’s all. But then, I thought, I often carry not even one but two water bottles with me (my own and my kid’s). It would be much more comfortable to have a backpack with at least one external bottle pocket. A simple request. And here’s where it all started. After a while, I was researching camera bags, external carry, learning a new abbreviation of EDC (not ‘eau de cologne’, but ‘everyday carry’), going as far as creating a comparison table of the backpacks that got into my shortlist.

Luckily, this project has been short, albeit intense. My research was good, but not too extensive. I looked into a few options, removed the ones that I didn’t like visually and chose from the ones that had the most features that mattered the most to me. I found something that looks like my ideal backpack, and ordered it. If it blows my mind as much in use as it did in its description, I might write about it sometime.

What do I want to say with this writing? I don’t know.

Maybe I want to share my surprise and excitement of finding a whole new realm of daily backpacks with enhancements and features. Technology isn’t limited to electronics and such, one can also find advancements in clothing and in everyday objects and in almost every sphere of life. Maybe I want to admire industrial design in its many forms. (I re-watched Objectified documentary about a year ago, when Hustwit made his films available for free when pandemics started). It’s impossible to notice all the changes that happen in the world, but everything moves on, and improves drastically. You have so many more options that what you think the defaults are.

Maybe I want to think about how you can choose between complexity (a space rocket of a backpack) and simplicity (a canvas bag with just one feature, being a bag) — and you can be happy with either of them. Depends on you.

Maybe I want to say that it all doesn’t even matter, and yet, there are so many games to play, if you want and can afford. You can pay attention to some things and disregard others. Your life, your games. Organic food or it doesn’t really matter? Latest phone model or whatever has internet? Obsessing over things is okay, I guess — as long as it’s something that doesn’t harm you or others and that you enjoy.

A few backpacks to get you started on this slippery slope if you’re curious about what I was looking at:

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Carrying my home with me

Monday morning. I’m looking at people on the street, in the middle of what I think is their daily routine. People getting their morning coffee. A young dad with a toddler in a stroller, very leisurely looking. A girl with a yoga mat heading to, or from, her (socially distanced, appropriate) practice. I feel joy with a pang of envy looking at them. The others’ outside tells me that they are enjoying their morning habits, while my inside asks me, “why haven’t taken your longboard with you so that you could practice during your lunch break?”

I’m a creature of habit. I find comfort in the things that are familiar. Love my routines. Love my comfort zone. It’s about something different than never pushing myself out of it — the longboard is one of the things I’m currently exploring, way beyond my comfort zone; and trust me, it is definitely uncomfortable when I can’t brake. Yet, I have to admit, the simple routines — knowing that now it’s time to get dressed and go, now you have time for reading and making yourself a cup of tea, and now you have to dive deep into work — this kind of familiarity is essential to me.

I think of my young daughter and how her behavior deteriorated on one weekend trip when she was three. We drove to Dresden, and gosh that was tough! She was never happy, always fighting with everything. Acting out, refusing to eat anything (but ice cream and chocolate, which “is not food”), saying (more like screaming) “NO” to everything we offer. Even the playgrounds didn’t help for long — on the pretence of lacking trampolines. Spoiled little brat, in other words… Then we get back home to Berlin, and — fingers crossed it lasts — the gremlin is gone and the girl is back into her more adequate self.
All the while, I have to question myself. This disobedience was likely not a sign of a poor upbringing, rudeness and obnoxiousness, but a response to the changed environment. Just a certain sensitivity and lack of control because she found herself in an unfamiliar place. The first thing she did when she got home? Played with all of her toys. Ah, the relaxation of being at home, surrounded by habitual things. No need to fight anymore.

For sure having the elements of one’s routines around is comforting. (That’s why, for example, I often take my tea set on my travels.) But also, finding joy and comfort in the things that you do often, looking forward to them in your habitual, daily life, is crucial. Especially emphasized by the lockdown, I suppose. Sometimes our response to the unknown is like the toned down version of a toddler temper tantrum. We can fight something just because our need to feel secure outweighs the curiosity of exploration. In such situations, having something familiar at your hands, a piece of your daily that you can resort to helps to ground you up in your day, and to deal with the “chaos” around you.

Some of such things that I have are:
1. Notebook. A physical notebook is good, and I often (but not always) carry it on me. If not, then notes — on phone or tablet. This is also a place to go to. Yet, recently I got a little notebook in addition to a bigger one, so that I can carry it around and use anytime I need a mind cleanse.
2. Tea. On trips, I prefer to have a small travel-sized teapot/cup combination with me, and a thermos tumbler to keep water hot. And one or two sorts of tea. This helps me to slow down when needed, and even in a hotel room, make a good cup of tea. When going on a long walk (an approximation of travel that we now can afford), normally there’s also some tea in the thermo bottle.
3. Music. I have to admit, I resort to reading more than to music lately. Yet, for as long as I can remember myself, from childhood, whenever I didn’t have access to music, I was starting to feel uncomfortable very quick.

I don’t know if there’s anything else that I need to make myself feel “at home” — meaning, peaceful and more of myself. But these for sure are my essentials. Doesn’t mean that I always have them with me or even if I do, I always use them. These are just a few hooks that I can use throughout the day to feel better.

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Potentially anything — notes on running and having potential

I’ve been getting into running in the past few weeks. I was starting to run a number of times since last fall, and either it was too cold, or I pushed myself too much, and got exhausted after a minute or two. About a week or so ago, I started running with my phone, and Nike Running Club app, and that’s when I was able to pick up my pace.

The following are my notes after completing the “first run” with NRC. This will not be strictly about running, although as you can see I’m pretty exhilarated by my new discoveries.

I did the “first run” with Nike Running Club app and the “built-in” coach Bennett. Wow, what can I say, it was unexpectedly fantastic. The fantastic part of it being that I could run for twenty minutes without getting out of breath. Although it’s technically not my first run, it still feels like level zero. I ran at the recommended too-easy pace, which ultimately increased my average pace from the one time before when I tracked my run. I didn’t, before. I didn’t want it to feel like a competition yet, I just wanted to enjoy the movement. However, the guidance actually led to better results, and hopefully a better technique in running.

My post-run thoughts, filled with excitement and a bit of pride, were around the word “potential.” How I haven’t felt like I had potential — in anything — in a while. I never thought of myself as someone who would be good at sports. Now, influenced by my morning run, I feel powerful. Able. With potential.

“Not my thing” is being replaced by “I’m actually enjoying it”. And the potential that I’m feeling right now is less about a specific kind of physical achievement, like being able to run a marathon, and much more about potential for enjoying the physical activity. Today’s run was pleasant. It was joyful. It was relaxed. It was — easy, and comfortable.

I missed having potential.

This last sentence stuck with me.

“Potential” is such a young word. The more time you have ahead of you, the less you developed and established yourself in one thing, the more potential you have. As you grow older and gain the eponymous life experience, the more you can feel potential fading away. It develops into skills, or talent, or both, in a few spheres — and drops, naturally, in the rest. You trade your potential for something more tangible, and you cut off some hypothetical roads to build a few real ones.

Whether you feel like you have fully or sufficiently realized your potential in something or not, the sense of having this storage of possibilities is diminishing. Being young, we naturally tap into new territories, because so much is new and so little has already been claimed as ours.

One of, and maybe the biggest appeal of traveling is uncovering fresh potential, venturing out of the constraints of our daily lives and into something else, that could have been ours, if we were born differently or if we wanted to make our home elsewhere. That’s why it’s difficult to endure lockdowns during the pandemic: because our daily activities are limited more than ever before. And even if you’re comfortable with your daily life, there’s less sense of potentiality.

We measure our capacity by seeing new horizons, often by pushing ourself out of the comfort zone, or by being curious about something that hasn’t got our attention before. When we start something new, or see a way to develop a skill or knowledge further, we get excited, it starts getting fun. And eventually, we can think about ourselves in new terms.

I have never thought of myself as “athletic”. Even less so a runner. But when I’m running, that’s what I am — a runner. Whether it’s my first or my fourth run (that I completed a few hours ago). Something that I thought of previously as “not my thing” is becoming a source of joy, energy and some kind of pride for me. This is one of the unexpected places for me where I feel I’m at the starting line (almost too literal to be a metaphor), and have a way ahead of me to look forward to.

Having only recently written about the need to build defences against social narratives, I am aware that I might be sounding now as if I’m preaching for running. In reality: I don’t think everyone should do it; I don’t think I’m even nearly “there yet”, to be talking from a point of view of someone who knows stuff or has achieved anything in running. The only thing that I can claim as an understanding (and hence, an achievement) is the power of potential, and the curiosity about either a completely new activity or interest, or a new cycle of something that you have already claimed as “yours”. It’s important. It’s what makes you feel young and, synonymously, alive.

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Playing with curiosity

I was playing chess today… So that you know, I’m a lousy chess player, I know the rules, but I never could play well, I never think through moves beyond the one I’m making, with its immediate implications. Being one of those people who never play consistently, only for a few months a long time ago as a kid, and then never again for years, I am far from considering myself even an amateur chess player. This is to give you a background into where I am in terms of chess.

I was playing chess today, as something interesting happened. I realized that somewhere along the road my paradigm shifted. Before, I would want to win; even when I thought I wouldn’t be able to, I still would have my mind set on the concept of playing to win. Now, the way I was making my moves, was to see what would come out. How far I can get, how risky I can play it. After all, not every game needs to be won. The one I played today (I lost), was about research and investigation. And — it was a far better game (by “better” I mean more interesting for me) than most of the games I play.

When you approach something with a mindset other than winning/failing, there is less stress, no pressure to win. It’s not your ultimate game of chess. It’s not your ultimate move that defines your life (I’m not talking about chess anymore, but almost anything in life). In a safe environment, it’s better to be grounded in exploration rather than winning. Curiosity is a far interesting field to play.

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