Body, Mind & Spirit

The now-dedicated blogger in me wants to produce something profound here for myself (and the world) tonight, but the body and spirit are not entirely cooperating. As you know, I’ve talked recently about this virus-type thing I’ve struggled with. Despite my best efforts, nurturing self-care, chicken soup & Vitamin C, and thinking that I’ll be “well” any day: I'm still not recovered. I’m into whatever-this-is about 17 or 18 days now and I still have a persistent cough (that may actually be getting worse). It’s starting to have me a little worried. I did a little reading on WebMD tonight, and I’m wondering if I may have some kind of pneumonia. Yuck! Yuck! Yuck! Anyway, not only am I down physically, this is emotionally getting to me.

Tonight, I outlined my condition and symptoms to a new friend, and she strongly agreed with my assessment that a trip to the doctor’s office would definitely be in order. So, it looks like that will be added to may already busy agenda tomorrow!

With the struggles I’ve talked about regarding love and work in recent times, can any of this health-related stuff be a surprise?

Freedom & Release

"Peace and Love"
Willamette Valley Folk Festival
May 21, 2005
© 2005 Jim Arnold, Portland, OR

I’ve been lying around here like a lump on this incredibly grey and wet day here in Portland, feeling blue and lethargic. It’s one of those seasonal-affective-disorder days, to be sure. Amid all this darkness, I’m finding it difficult to find some semblance of light. (Literally or figuratively.) The Carly Simon lyrics go through my head:

Sufferin' was the only thing made me feel I was alive
Thought that's just how much it cost to survive in this world
("Haven’t Got Time for the Pain" — 1974)

As I was sitting here at the computer earlier this morning, toying with ideas for what to write about today, an email came in from one of my new blog readers. It was a brief message, wishing me well. “My most heartfelt hope and prayer for you for 2006, besides transition to a wonderful job in a location that you love, is freedom and release,” she (“C”) says.

Freedom & release. I’m thinking that C just might understand a little bit of what I’ve talked about here in these pages: for example, that I’m in Zwischenraum, literally “the space between things.” In love and work, I’ve been let go and am stranded in a lifeboat between two islands: having left both, not knowing my destination in either. And, she apparently understands my discussion of psychic prisons: the sense that I am still the prisoner, even though I’ve left the cave. I have not yet thrown off the chains because I’m being blinded by the light outside, fearful of the unknown, and paralyzed by the number of choices I have. When C and I were together, I was quite attached to my interpretation of the shadows on the cave wall. My life, thought to be on course, was dramatically altered by rejection, both personally and professionally. Yes, I have been freed and released; now it’s up to me to find freedom and release.

So, I turn to Richard Bach and the Messiah’s Handbook. As you’ll recall from Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah, one merely needs to open this book up to a random (unnumbered) page, and the answer to your question is there. Today, as I’m ruminating over my life’s issues, I read:

The only way to win, sometimes, is to surrender.

Which, of course, is exactly right. As I was thinking about the Carly Simon lyrics and “sufferin’,” I was also pondering the first two of the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism.

1. Life means suffering. To live means to suffer, because the human nature is not perfect and neither is the world we live in. During our lifetime, we inevitably have to endure physical suffering such as pain, sickness, injury, tiredness, old age, and eventually death; and we have to endure psychological suffering like sadness, fear, frustration, disappointment, and depression. We are never able to keep permanently what we strive for, and just as happy moments pass by, we ourselves and our loved ones will pass away one day.

2. The origin of suffering is attachment. The origin of suffering is attachment to transient things and the ignorance thereof. The reasons for suffering are desire, passion, ardor, pursue of wealth and prestige, striving for fame and popularity, or in short: craving and clinging. Because the objects of our attachment are transient, their loss is inevitable, thus suffering will necessarily follow. Objects of attachment also include the idea of a "self" which is a delusion, because there is no abiding self. What we call "self" is just an imagined entity, and we are merely a part of the ceaseless becoming of the universe.

I admit attachment to certain models of the universe. I was attached to living in Eugene, doing a job that I knew and did well, and was comfortable in. And, I was very attached to a model of a relationship that existed, apparently only on the cave wall. What I “knew” was not “truth.” Attachment to both of those models of the world has caused, and still causes, me much suffering. The most healthy thing I could do is to surrender to the universe, define it as “all perfect” and make a new life for myself.

I am trying.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
("Serenity Prayer," Reinhold Neibuhr — 1926)

First Do No Harm

I optimistically reported an energy “surge” yesterday. That has turned into an energy trough today. Sigh.

Ah, the ebb and flow of my life…the story continues.

A week ago, I reported on overwhelming feelings of sadness in the aftermath of some deep-tissue work on my legs. I’ve also discussed, within these entries, feelings of rejection, heartbreak and loss with respect to past relationships. Authenticity, trust and the meaning of the human experience are also topics I’ve taken on. I realize that the discussion of these, and similar, themes, are likely to continue. Examining my emotional state, awareness of my physical self, exploring spirituality and existential questions are part of the fabric of my life; I write what I know (or think I do) and ask questions as they occur to me.

But: what, exactly, am I doing this for? What is this blog about?

The simple answer, I guess: my own therapy. I write because writing is what I do. I write because it provides an outlet for thoughts and emotions I don’t have any other place for. And this particular venue gives me a place to share, should anyone self-select into my online world.

But, in writing about myself, I sometimes need to make reference to others. I said in my recent email to you that “…given that you’re in my life, it’s possible that you could end up being mentioned at some point. If that happens, I hope I respect your privacy and feelings appropriately.”

This means I’ve been doing some serious thinking about blogger ethics. Can I be true to myself, talk honestly about my experience, and still, at all times, treat others fairly and decently? I surely have no outright intention of embarrassing, attacking, angering or hurting you. So: I’ve been asking: what is the “right” way to go about this blogging business, anyway (at least in terms of a personal-experience blog like mine)?

Some thinking has gone into this subject already, of course. I’m not the first to be pondering the ethical treatment of fellow humans within this communication medium. A bloggers’ code of ethics has even been proposed.

I have explored this topic, albeit somewhat superficially, with a colleague I went to graduate school with. Although currently not a blogger himself, he is interested in my attempt here — and he's an educational researcher with keen awareness of confidentiality issues and the possibility of “harm” to participants in research studies. In terms of the kind of human interplay that is blogging, he opines that:

…we have to remember that this ain’t research!!!! It’s public, democratic, open-sourced, put it out there and see who takes a whack at it discourse.

This goes to my own sense of a communitarian, dialogical reality (put that in your blog and float it). That is, we live in a world where very little is private, even though we value privacy above much else. Privacy is negotiated, just like everything else. And a writer (blogger) has to make his/her own decisions about what s/he can live with if somebody else gets a feeling hurt.

Well, that gives me something to think about.

Now, I don’t have any tremendous insights or answers that I can share with you here today. All I can say is that I continue to think about the potential impact my public words might have on my fellow human beings. And I absolutely intend to do everything in my power to respect others’ feelings and their right to privacy.

Energy, Expo & Connections

After two weeks of struggling with whatever virus this is, I’m finally beginning to believe that health is right around the corner. My energy has been very low lately, but for the first time in days, I’ve felt, well, almost lifelike!

And, I need to stay with this energy surge. I continue to browse the web for higher ed jobs, prepare applications, and send them off. Then, of course, there’s my day job, which has its own wide array of stress and demands. The biggest project I’m currently working on is serving as director of the Mt. Hood Science Expo, a science fair for high school students that leads, for the most successful participants, directly to the Intel International Science and Engineering Fair (this year to be held in Indianapolis). Theoretically, I’m the guy in charge, but I have a dedicated supporting cast that includes five faculty members from the Science & Technology Division plus an incredibly-talented part-time assistant, all of whom are attending to the many, many details of planning and executing this major event. I am truly blessed to be surrounded by so many smart, skilled, and hard-working folks. And, they’re very supportive too: while I should be the one reassuring them that things will all work out (this is the first time any of us have done this kind of event), they are continually assuaging my anxiety.

In order to pull off this event we are going to need to have the assistance of many other volunteers as well. We’re in the process of recruiting judges to assess the students’ work during the day, as well as a significant number of others who will do everything from setting up tables to doing safety inspections of the student displays. It’s a monster effort, and the number of volunteers will likely be around 200. Wow.

Finally, today, maybe because I am regaining some energy, I had some great, even memorable, one-on-one time with about five people that I work with. It was a busy day, but, at the same time, one that allowed for some meaningful connection to others: time so well spent that it makes, on days like these, the job seem incredibly satisfying.

The Silly Putty Stalker

Do you remember that previous post of mine when I made a passing mention to Play-Doh? Well, I received an email at my work address this morning, saying:

I came across your email and post on the internet. I am looking for someone who can teach me to make Silly Putty. Have you or can you make Silly Putty? Or, do you have someone on your staff who would be interested?

I live here in Portland. I am an independent inventor and … [a] device I am working on requires that I produce a viscoelastic polymer (silly putty) type compound.

What is with this guy?

I wrote back:

Are you by any chance referring to the post on my blog where I talked about Play-Doh?

Just so you know, that website is my private blog, and is in no way associated with this email address or my duties at the college.

And, if this is really a serious inquiry (which I have a difficult time believing it is): no, I don' have any interest in anything to do with Silly Putty.

I am finding it curious that he apparently read some of this blog, and totally misconstrued the essence of the little essay I wrote. Either that, or today I have been the victim of a random Silly Putty spam message! But, why in the world would he track me down at work – and/or think that a Dean of Science & Technology would have any professional interest in Silly Putty? Very strange.

I’ll just call him The Silly Putty Stalker.

Now, here's a report of one person's response to my mass emailing last weekend regarding the existence of this blog. The message I received back was to comment neither on blog-entry content nor writing style, but rather to provide a very long (826 words) rambling reaction to the fact that I have a link (on my Blogroll, see the left-hand column) to Evolutionblog (identified as “commentary on developments in the endless dispute between evolution and creationism”).

Now, why pick on me for that?

Of course, I'm sure I'm being challenged because that blog is pro-evolution, and basically critical of those concepts identified as "creationism" or "intelligent design." So, there's a little guilt by association going on here: which happens to be totally warranted in this case.

My position on these matters is quite simple. Believe what you want. Go ahead. It's a free country (well, more or less). But, please, let's keep science in the science classroom, and allow those other ideas (which are not scientific theories, but rather alternate belief systems of some kind) to be addressed elsewhere. I'd even allow discussion in other kinds of classrooms (philosophy? religion?), but…

Intelligent Design is: Absolutely. Not. Science.

Psychic Prisons

I'm in no way a student of The Classics. I regret to report that my formal, "classical," general education has been woefully inadequate. So, when I now (presume to) speak about Plato's Republic, and "The Allegory of the Cave," well, you're going to need to take what I have to say with not only a grain of salt, but maybe an entire wheelbarrow full!

I was browsing Gareth Morgan's Images of Organization (1986, my copy of the first edition) today, still (always!) trying to make some sense of my world. (You know me: I can’t seem to shut off my mind!) In the chapter that examines the metaphor of "organizations as psychic prisons," the discussion begins with a description of Plato's cave allegory.

The Wikipedia summary of the allegory (copied, pasted, edited) goes thusly:

Imagine prisoners who have been chained since childhood deep inside a cave. Their limbs are immobilized, and their heads are fixed as well, so that the only thing they can see is the cave wall. Behind them is an enormous fire, and between the fire and the prisoners there is a raised walkway, along which men carry shapes of various animals, plants, and other things. The shapes cast shadows on the wall, which occupy the prisoners' attention. Also, when one of the shape-carriers speaks, an echo against the wall causes the prisoners to believe that the words come from the shadows. The prisoners engage in what appears to us to be a game — naming the shapes as they come by. This is sum total of their life: the only reality they know.

Now, suppose a prisoner is released and is able to stand up and turn around. At first, his eyes will be blinded by the firelight, and the shapes passing will appear less real than their shadows. Then, if he is dragged up out of the cave into the sunlight, his eyes will be so blinded that he will not be able to see anything. Gradually he will be able to see darker shapes such as shadows, and only later brighter and brighter objects. The last object he would be able to see is the sun, which, in time, he would learn to see as that object which provides the seasons and the courses of the year, presides over all things in the visible region, and is in some way the cause of all these things that he has seen.

I’m wondering if this allegory may be the source of the term “thinking outside the box” – for certainly the freed prisoner is absolutely forced to “think outside the cave” when confronted with a world so dramatically removed from his prior experience. What a total shock to the system to be freed, leave the cave, and discover what's there to be found!

Is there a modern-day equivalent to the cave? Could our families, workplaces, and/or significant relationships ever be considered versions of the cave? Is it possible we are (or can become) so myopic in terms of how we view the world that we think the shadows on the wall are “reality”?

And, what if we removed ourselves, even for a little while, from the warm cocoon that is our family, job, or relationship, and took a look around at the rest of the world? What would be our experience? Would it be similar to the freed prisoner, who, if he ever went back to the cave, would undoubtedly have significant problems trying to communicate his experience “outside” to the others still imprisoned there? How would it be possible for “the enlightened one” to share his knowledge? What resistance would be met? What ridicule and contempt would he experience for, saying out loud, his newly-acquired version of reality? How could he ever function in the “old way” (seeing and naming the shadows), when he knows “truth”? And, how could the prisoners ever accept an entirely new perspective without the external experience themselves? Wouldn’t this type of new information, so different from their own, be viewed as a tremendous threat?

Aren’t we, everyday of our lives, trapped in the illusion that our experience is “real” – and the only thing? Aren’t we convinced that this is “the way the world works?” Aren’t we, more often than not, content to remain in the dark – neither risking exposure to alternate ways of thinking nor seeking new experiences? In what ways do we all have the tendency to be(come) psychic prisoners, trapped in a reality that gives us a totally skewed understanding of the universe?

[See Morgan, 1986, p. 200, for the discussion that was my inspiration for these questions.]

Soundtrack Suggestion...

Chains, my baby's got me locked up in chains.
And they ain't the kind that you can see.
Whoa, oh, these chains of love got a hold on me, yeah.

Chains, well I can't break away from these chains.
Can't run around, 'cause I'm not free.
Whoa, oh, these chains of love won't let me be, yeah.

I wanna tell you, pretty baby,
I think you're fine.
I'd like to love you,
But, darlin', I'm imprisoned by these...

Chains, my baby's got me locked up in chains,
And they ain't the kind that you can see,
Oh, oh, these chains of love got a hold on me.

("Chains" - Carole King)

Weekend Living

It’s been a rather lazy weekend, I’m thinking, as we get near the end of a Sunday afternoon. Well, of course I’ve been lazy: I have almost no energy here in the last stages of my recovery from this recent virus. I know there are important professional football games being played today, but I’m not excited, and in fact, am barely aware of the participants. I’m more interested in knowing if there’s a new episode of West Wing on tonight, and, yes, it appears that that’s the case!

What did I get done this weekend? Well, you’ve probably noticed that I sent out an email to a distribution list of 81 folks with news that this blog now exists. Soooooo…wow, I’m really out there now. Several of you have written back to say you’re checking things out. (Remember, you can always leave your own comments right here…)

The major accomplishment of these two days appears to be the production of three new job applications: prepared, signed, and sent away. So, even with little energy, I’m still able to pump these things out. Two of the three went to campuses in California and one to Virginia. I currently have ten applications out and active now, so that feels really good. And, I made the decision this weekend to actually test out the presidential waters; a colleague is going to prepare a nomination letter for me and send if off to a community college campus in Arizona.

I’m currently reading two books simultaneously, and I’ve spent some time with each this weekend. The first is Assassination Vacation by Sarah Vowell, a tale of the author’s pilgrimage to various historical sites relating to the Lincoln, Garfield and McKinley murders. Despite the seemingly morbid subject matter, I am genuinely entertained. The other book is one that I’ve mentioned before: Her Mother’s Daughter by my friend Linda Carroll. Wow, if you think this blog is courageous with its level of self-disclosure, you should read Linda’s autobiography. I’ll likely give more complete reports on both of these once I’ve finished them off.

Then, to round out this normal, if somewhat sedate, weekend, I’ve contended with events mundane (the drainage hose slipping off the back of my washing machine and flooding the garage) to events profound (worrying about a friend who just had a biopsy and is waiting on the results).

Life: never a dull moment.

TechnoMonk Welcomes You

Here is the text of an email I sent out to a large distribution list today...

Have you heard about “blogging”? Do you know what a “blog” is? If you haven’t, or don’t, that’s ok: until recently I hadn’t paid much attention either!

According to Blogosphere: The Best of Blogs, “a blog – short for web log – is an online diary that looks like a web page.” I really wasn’t sure that I would ever be the type of person to actually participate in an activity like this, but the purpose of this email is to let you know that I now have blog. Yes, it’s an online diary, available for anyone in the world to see, and it’s located at http://TechnoMonk.us/.

Now, since it’s out there, I thought that I might at least let a small portion of the world (meaning you) in on the secret. I started doing this on Thanksgiving Day 2005, and, so far (as of today, January 21st), I’ve posted 27 entries. Apparently, I’m good for at least 3 or so posts a week…if I can really keep up this pace. So far it’s been great, though. I’m finding it more satisfying than writing daily longhand entries on paper.

Warning: There’s personal stuff here! It’s a journal, after all. If you read some of this and it makes you squirm, maybe this isn’t the website for you. Also, given that you’re in my life, it’s possible that you could end up being mentioned at some point. If that happens, I hope I respect your privacy and feelings appropriately. Of course, on the other hand, if you want to join in, there’s a way for post comments to the blog, to talk back to me in public.

At any rate: welcome to my world!

Cellular Response

I'm still recovering from whatever these viral invaders have been doing to my body, but I continue to get better. I haven't felt much like writing lately (or doing much of anything else, to tell the truth!), though I am finally, finally beginning to enter the real world as I used to know it.

I had a job interview today, which I had to go through in this rather-depleted physical state. However, I gave it my best shot. It's a position that (I believe) I am a great match for and would allow me to continue on at the college on a "regular" — rather than "interim" — basis. At least I was able to participate today and that in itself was a big deal given how gimpy and wimpy I've been feeling. If success is measured by showing up (as Woody Allen suggests), then today was a winner regardless of the outcome.

[Although, here I am, hours later, contemplating my performance. At this point, I am virtually certain that I will not be advanced in the process. It’s just the feeling I have. Still, it was something I had to pursue, and I did.]

I have a number of other job applications out there in the world, though, and I keep discovering more new and interesting possibilities every day. I'll likely be rather busy in coming days and weeks putting together packets to send away. As much as this job-search process just totally exhausts me, the options that I am able to think about, the places I may end up, the new people I will meet, and the exciting opportunities that could emerge, are all really reasons to get up in the morning to see what will happen next.

But: back to health matters...

There are other concerns, not related to my viral stuff, that have been on my mind. And I have no idea whether the issues are serious, or if they are merely long-term nuisance-like in character. I'm still working to find some answers.

Last spring, after the breakup of a significant long-term relationship, and during the most anxiety-producing days surrounding the decision of my "interim-position" status, I developed extreme muscular tension in my legs which had some other, rather scary, side effects. Ever since then, I have taken a, more-or-less, physical-therapy approach to the problem and, after long months, was making progress: almost able to see light at the end of the tunnel by December. However, over the holidays, I had somewhat a reversal of fortune, and I seem to be more symptomatic these days, rather than less.

I've approached this as primarily a muscular issue, with anxiety as the root cause. I've done many, many sessions of deep-tissue massage and ultrasound in order to attempt to settle my leg muscles down. Some of the early work, with the deepest massage treatments, produced rather dramatic emotional responses on my part. The work on my body would result in waves of feelings of sadness and loss, for example, and I would end up crying in the office before I was able to gather myself together and get dressed to leave. As I started to get better, less symptomatic, I stopped having such responses. But, yesterday, again, as we worked and probed and pressure-pointed spots on my lower body, I was once more similarly affected. Like a tsunami, feelings of extreme sadness rapidly, and without warning, totally engulfed me.

Although there are a number of possible explanations for what's going on (including neurological), I suspect my body is sending me some kind of message that, to date, I've not totally deciphered. But, my working theory is that the overwhelming loss, and potential for loss, that created last spring's anxiety led my body to react the way it did, and that the depth of the physical pain — memorized at the cell level — is reflective of the severity of the emotional wounding. Further, when my physical being is poked and prodded in just such a manner, there's a direct link to the emotional scar tissue. The physical part of the experience yesterday was quite painful, of course. But, the emotional aspect, for me, was profound. And, today, twenty-four hours later, I'm still processing and asking "what is this all about?"

Which part of my being do I heal first: my body or my soul? How do I go about doing that?

TechnoMonk R ".us"

Silly me. I went out and found a domain name for this self-centered little piece of virtual turf. The server that hosts these bits and bytes of electronic trivia will remain the same (for the time being): technomonk.home.comcast.net. However, now you may also get to these pages by aiming your browser at “technomonk.us” as well. Is this just totally narcissistic, or what? I don’t even have a readership! (Well, I apologize if you’re one of the two people in the universe who’ve told me that they occasionally check in here. I wonder who those other 134 folks are (as of today) who have checked out my blog profile!)

Is there anyone out there? CQ. CQ.

Additionally, I have added a new email address to my modest arsenal of contact artillery: starting today, to complement my long-standing comcast.net accounts (including TechnoMonk@comcast.net), you may now reach me at Jim@TechnoMonk.us as well.

[With this move, I’ve found out, finally, how to obtain the email name you really, really want: through your own domain!]

I last wrote about being sick over the MLK holiday. Well, I still am. Sick that is. I’ve stayed at home the last two days of work, feeling quite sub-par on the health-o-meter. Even early this morning, five days into this thing, I got up coughing, wheezing and sneezing. As I write this, toward late afternoon, I’m feeling quite a bit better. Not well. Just better. It looks like it’s back to work tomorrow.

Chicken Soup & Mortality

This is supposed to be a long weekend. And it is. Martin Luther King, Jr., Day is tomorrow, a college holiday. Naturally, I was looking forward to a relaxing three days away from work. Alas, it is not quite working out the way I’d planned.

I have spent the first two days almost entirely at home: sleeping, drinking fruit juice, and eating chicken soup. Yes, I am sick with a chest cold that has sapped me of most of my energy. I guess my body is telling me: TAKE A BREAK!

Then, when I’m not resting, I’ve been preparing for a job interview I have this upcoming week. I found out just before the weekend started that I am required to do a short presentation for the occasion. This is not a difficult assignment, but one requiring some time and thought and careful preparation, nonetheless.

I hate being sick. I start to dwell on the fragile nature of this existence, my mortality, whenever I’m not-well physically.

I live in a 1950s-vintage bungalow-style house on a fairly quiet street corner here in SE Portland. I rent this place, but it’s in great shape. My landlords are incredible people and, on top of that, have done quite a bit to make sure this is a fit place for a tenant to live. The house has a fairly new furnace, wiring, and newly-refinished hardwood floors. Before I moved in, they painted the living room a color of my choosing. I like this place a lot.

The bathroom has some original equipment, however: I’m sure that the tub and sink are the same ones that were here in the beginning. And the sink has a very old push-pull mechanical stopper; it’s seen better days. There is a slow leak, and when I was shaving this morning, trying to keep the sink full of water, I was comparing the slow leak with my life.

The water trickling down the drain, oh so slowly, is life lived. The water remaining in the sink is life left to live. The water that has leaked away is just a memory. The amount of water in the sink is finite: there’s only so much of it. While it’s theoretically possible to measure the amount of water in my sink at any point in time, I don’t really know how much of my life is left to live. There just is no way to measure that at all. It’s all a big question-mark. At this point, it is a certainty that most of my life has trickled away; I have lived well over half the time allotted to me on this planet this time around. How much time do I have left? What am I going to do with that time?

This weekend, I’m focusing on my health. It’s a chicken-soup party for MLK Day.

REALness, Authenticity & Leadership

I last wrote on the topic of becoming REAL (as defined in The Velveteen Rabbit). Actually, the more time I spend thinking about this topic, the more I'm coming to the place that that kind of REALness is more accurately aligned with age, maturity, wisdom, and being SIGNIFICANT to someone else. Yes, the Velveteen version of REALness appears to be a response to being loved for a long time.

Typically, though, I think of the term “being REAL” as being AUTHENTIC. I believe that being authentic is a critical factor to success in human relationships in general, and effective leadership in particular. Authenticity leads to trust which can lead to great things being accomplished.

You might ask: what exactly is authenticity?

Well, the phrase "bein' who you are" comes to mind, first of all. Being real or authentic has a lot to do with displaying your true self to the world, without pretenses or "phoniness" (as Holden Caufield might say). Openness, honesty, and transparency are also other synonyms that seem to fit. At any rate, traits such as these in an individual are ones that I admire and am attracted to and lead me to trust another. I will trust someone when I believe (when I feel) that the other person is allowing me in enough to see who they really are. They tell the truth. Their defenses are down; they allow themselves to be vulnerable. They are, simply, human, and comfortable with themselves. I love the connection that's possible when individuals are truly authentic with each other.

I see authenticity as an important characteristic of great leaders, as well. Leaders by definition, after all, need followers. And, what inspires one to follow? Well, trust, of course. How could I possibly be expected to follow somebody I don't trust?

So: Who do I trust: Who can I trust?

Answer: Somebody that I know.

In my role as an academic dean at a college, my role is one of leadership. It is that by definition; anyone with the title of “dean” has some power by virtue of the position and can exert leadership (demand followership?) — if you think that that's really possible. My style is not to rely on power, control, and role-definition, though, but rather to provide a kind of leadership based on trust: trust in me, trust in my decisions, trust that I'll do the right thing, trust that I'm someone who has everyone's best interest in my mind and in my heart.

When I came on board as the "interim dean" (and I'm still interim, eighteen months later), C asked me what my priorities were going to be. I said, "relationships." This is probably not what you'd expect your Science & Technology Dean to say, but that's me: not necessarily talking, thinking, or behaving like a science guy. I knew that to be successful (not ever having been a dean, department chair, or even a full-time faculty member anywhere, ever), I would have to build the trust of those around me as rapidly as I could. During the very first meeting of the entire Science & Technology Division, the first day of Fall term, I deliberately started to work on building that trust. At the beginning of that meeting, I took a healthy portion of time to "tell my story." I outlined my biography, highlighting a few of the twists and turns that I've taken in my personal and professional life, and exposing, I guess, some of my "philosophy of life." I believed then, and I still do, that this was a very important thing for me to do in terms of relationship- and trust-building.

I'm told that I'm an effective leader. If such is the case, then I think that's happened because people trust me. And, I believe that they trust me because they know me. My goal is to be as honest and forthright as I possibly can, with no secrets and no secret agendas. I am who I say I am, do what I say I'm going to do when I say I'm going to do it — and do my job as competently and conscientiously as possible.

I don't think that great leadership ever happens without trust. And, in my case, I know I could not ever see myself in a leadership role without letting those around me, know me.

Becoming REAL

I don't know what it is about me, but I seem to attract women into my life who apparently think of me as “little-boy-like” ... perhaps, want me to be more little-boy-like? (Or, maybe it’s something else that’s going on?)

For example, a very important person in my life right now gave me a teddy bear and some Scooby-Doo bubble bath for Christmas this year. Then, back when C and I were together, I remember she gave me, at various times, a Mr. Potato Head set, some Play-Doh, Miracle Bubbles (with wand), and a couple of children's books: The Velveteen Rabbit and The Runaway Bunny.

What is this about, do you suppose? It sure has had me a-wonderin'. Not only do I feel grown up, at least most of the time, I'm starting to feel, well, old sometimes too. How is it, at age 58, I score a teddy bear for Christmas?

Of course, as I have this on my mind, I go to the bookshelf and find The Velveteen Rabbit. Truthfully, until C gave it to me (on Valentine’s Day 1998), I had never heard of it, though I’ve come to learn that most of the rest of the world has. Since then, I admit, I have come to rather adore this book. Although it’s definitely a little kid’s story, written at a sixth-grade reading level, it has a message about life and living that is very wise indeed.

After all, it’s a tale of personal growth and transformation, answering the question about how we change. How does one become REAL, is the question…

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real. It doesn’t happen all at once. You become. It takes a long time. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” (p. 13)

Doesn’t that just about say it all?!

Possibilities

Today was the first day of school for Winter term. Everybody’s back on campus, and, as much as I like the peaceful campus and delightful parking situation during our breaks (and over the summer), it’s actually really wonderful to have students and faculty back doing their work again.

I had a long conversation with a most-treasured co-worker this afternoon. “Z” (not his/her real initial) has, most kindly, written a couple of letters of recommendation for me recently. Today, Z inquired as to whether or not I’d been applying for any college presidencies — and strongly encouraged me to do so if I haven’t. Now, this happens to be an idea I have considered, but not acted upon (yet). I just haven’t taken a tangible first step toward exploring how competitive I am for a “top job” out there.

I’ve been back in higher education full-time since 1988, and I’ve become personally acquainted with many presidents, and familiar with even more presidencies, during that time. I think I know what the job takes, and I believe I have the education, experience, skills, and talents that are required to be successful as a chief executive.

What’s my next step? I don’t know for sure…but this has definitely got me thinking along those lines…

Thanks, Z.

Take These Wings & Learn to Fly

"Give Me Wings"
Oregon Country Fair
July 8, 2005
© 2005 Jim Arnold, Portland, OR

I first became acquainted with the writings of Nick Hornby in 2000 after seeing High Fidelity, the movie version of his first novel. John Cusack played the lead character, Rob Gordon, who, at least in the movie version, began by asking:

“What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?”

Well, as you might suspect, the story line revolves around the “heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery and loss” of relationships. Rob spends a great deal of time in a self-discovery mode, visiting one former girlfriend after another to learn about what went wrong in his previous relationships. Although the Rob character is fairly self-absorbed, obsessing over such things as Top 5 Lists and the Perfect Compilation Tape (they didn’t have iPod playlists six years ago), I found him a rather endearing character as he bumbled his way through his romantic adventures. I was pretty taken with the movie (seeing it a couple of times in the theatre) and went ahead and bought the novel later, something I rarely, rarely do.

Hugh Grant starred in the movie version of About A Boy, as you might recall, and, as far as I know, Horby’s third novel How To Be Good has not (yet) been made into a film. A fourth novel, A Long Way Down, was published in 2005, and I just finished reading it.

The story in A Long Way Down is told from the perspectives of the four primary characters, one after the other throughout the entire book. There are not really four different “voices,” though, as Hornby seems to make little effort to provide identifiable narrative styles for the various players, just obviously unique views of the world.

The setting for A Long Way Down is London, and the main characters are Martin (a former morning television personality, down on his luck after sleeping with a 15-year old, going to prison, and losing his marriage and kids in the resulting scandal); Maureen (a middle-aged single female, whose only son is severely disabled and unable to take care of himself; she is the primary caregiver and has no other life); Jess (a confused and rebellious young female, daughter of a highly-placed British politician); and JJ (a young male American rock musician, whose band has just broken up). Not knowing one another, they, coincidentally, find themselves on the roof of a tall building on New Year’s Eve, all there with suicidal intent.

Well, with all those people up there at the same time, their individual plans obviously don’t work out. They collectively talk themselves down from the roof, making up the excuse that they need to find and confront Jess’ former boyfriend.

These four really aren’t very endearing characters, as was (John Cusack’s) Rob Gordon in High Fidelity, or (Hugh Grant’s) Will Freeman in About a Boy. Still, Hornby’s ability to spin a tale, I guess, is the reason I kept reading about these lonely losers. (Each was rather like an individual train-wreck about to happen, reminiscent of the title character in that new NBC series, “My Name is Earl.”) After their time together on that almost-fateful New Year’s Eve, they keep in touch, go on a vacation together, and generally support one another through each other’s hard times, even though, as portrayed, these folks were individuals I personally would not seek out as friends.

However, in the final analysis, they are their own support group. And even though they, well, suck at it, the story suggests that somehow it seems to work to have others in your life that care, if only a little bit, or are only moderately adept at demonstrating it. The group gave themselves ninety days to hang together, to see where their lives were at the end of that time. As the book ends, at the conclusion of that time period, none of them is in the same emotional space. Their lives are not “resolved,” but things are noticeably different.

I never have been suicidal myself. But, I have certainly had my down times, when I’ve needed someone to talk to, someone to support me. Sometimes, rarely, there isn’t anybody around to talk to. Usually, though, I’ve been able to find somebody to support me through difficult periods.

I have a new, young friend in need of support right now. She is experiencing the loss of a significant other, is scared about the prospects ahead, and feeling lonely. She has asked for my support, and I am delighted to provide what I can. We are all, ultimately, alone in this existence, but we don’t need to face everything alone. We need each other. We need to find each other. And, we should ask for help when we need it.

Our struggles, and our pain, are what make us human. They are what make us strong. We are all incredibly resilient, and this is how we grow. No matter what our level of pain, at some point, we are able to mend our broken wings and fly again.

Soundtrack Suggestion...

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise

(“Blackbird” - Lennon/McCartney)

Amazing Grace

Man, woman, birth, death, infinity. What is this business of living, anyway? Isn’t this existence just a total mystery? If things are totally clear to you, congratulations, for I have to admit, I’m sure having a heckfire of a time figuring things out.

Why didn’t I die during my drinking days? How did I make it through the Vietnam era without suffering a bloody, painful death in a jungle a million miles away from home? How did I luck out with a mere kidney stone, having been diagnosed with bladder cancer by two doctors one night in the emergency room? How have I made it through my depressing times of relationship and job loss?

I may be living in a state of grace, but I am still having problems figuring out why I am here. Is life totally about love and work? Is that what we’re all really here for? Do those things sum up our existence? Are they reasons enough to be born?

Surely, for love, I suspect that is the case. I fell in love with and, in my heart, “adopted” three young people (my significant-other’s kids) during the course of a years-long relationship that I have referred to in other essays here. One of those kids, two years ago, on January 9, 2004, had a child of her own. I had an incredible “first” (for me) of holding this infant at the age of six hours. This was a totally-wonderful experience, and something, at age 56, I was not ever expecting I'd have the opportunity to do. I was enchanted, enthralled, delighted, thrilled, and even a little scared. I was immediately drawn to this little one named Grace. Grace’s second birthday is coming up and I’ll not be there, now being separated from her grandmother for some months now—and no longer a part of the family circle.

I miss Grace, her mom, her uncles, and her grandmother. Even absent from them, I love them all, and send them light and love across the miles from where I reside here in Portland.

Birth. Life. Living. Loving.

Grace.

Amazing.

State of Grace

It happened on August 13, 1983. (My goodness, it’s been quite a long time ago now.) The unbelievable, unthinkable words were penetrating my clouded brain. “Mr. Arnold, I’m sorry, you are under arrest for driving under the influence of intoxicants. Would you turn around, please, place your hands on top of the vehicle, and spread your legs? You have the right to remain silent…”

With these words (as best as I remember them), I started down a path I wouldn’t have believed. The journey took me into a small-town police station and court room, a court-appointed alcohol evaluator’s office, an alcohol and drug education program, and a treatment group every Tuesday evening for months. Along the way I shed a lot of tears and took a very hard look at the way I’d been living.

That night, in Junction City, Oregon, as I was starting on my way home to Corvallis after an evening at the Scandinavian Festival, I flunked the field sobriety test in spectacular fashion. Although, at the time, I was in the process of obtaining my third college degree (a master’s degree in counseling), I found it impossible to recite the alphabet. Walking a straight line was out of the question. As I rode to the police station, handcuffed, alone in the back of the police car, what was happening didn’t seem real. I was, after all, quite intoxicated. Then, sitting in an obscure corner of that tiny station-house, I waited patiently for the sergeant to prepare the breathalyzer machine. I became confused when explained my rights about taking the test. I asked for them to be repeated. When I understood that I would lose my license automatically if I didn’t submit to the procedure, I agreed.

The results were impressive. (At least I was impressed.) I blew a blood-alcohol level of 0.19%, almost twice the statutory limit of 0.10% that was considered evidence of intoxication at the time.

“I’m releasing you on your own recognizance tonight, Mr. Arnold…”

Ok, so at least I don’t have to spend the night in jail, I thought. And I won’t have to come up with bail money in the middle of the night. As I stepped out into the cool, early morning air, I sat down on the sidewalk in front of the police station…

and promptly started sobbing.

Geez, how did I get into this mess? (I never intended any of this, you know.)

I had started drinking when I was in high school. In the small town in northern Wisconsin where I grew up, it was a pretty “in” thing to do, at least with my crowd. And during my marriage, which lasted the span of my twenties, I entered deeper into the world of chemical coping. To treat the problem I had with chronic tension headaches, I took Valium every day for over seven years. The doctors I consulted advised this route as a means of treating my affliction—and I had trusted them. In my late twenties, just about the time that I was deciding that I could and would end my marriage, my headaches improved and I was able to eliminate my need for the drug.

I thought.

My life as a perpetually-partying, single male was quite a contrast to the life I had had as a neurotic, withdrawn, Valium-dependent married person. I went back to the drinking that I had given up during the years of Valium involvement. (I had heeded the warnings about the combined effects of Valium and alcohol; the last thing my headaches needed was alcohol to magnify their intensity.) Alcohol and socializing went hand in hand during the first few years of my new single life, as they had earlier during my high school and college years.

I elected the state’s diversion program available to first-time DUII offenders. I had talked to some friends that seemed to know about such things and explained that I probably would “get off” by attending an alcohol education group; I might also have to continue on into a treatment group after that—but that was for “alcoholics.” Surely that wasn’t me.

My court-appointed acohol evaluator took a look at my involvement with Valium and alcohol from the information I supplied and labeled me a “problem drinker,” however. I was stunned. (I had not even been totally truthful about my drinking—and she still thought I had a problem!) I was particularly curious—and disturbed—how my Valium history was linked to my involvement with alcohol.

When I got to the five-week alcohol education group, I was determined to demonstrate my “responsibility” with respect to alcohol use. Although the information presented was quite on-target, I wasn’t able to fully grasp or admit how much of it applied to my own situation. At the conclusion of the group, my stated plan for handling drinking was the goal of controlling it.

When the staff recommendations were discussed on the last day of group, I was stunned. “And, Jim, we advise that you continue for a minimum of six months of weekly treatment group. You can have an appointment with me at 2:00 p.m. next Thursday to discuss what will best fit into your schedule.”

I didn’t really think she could possibly be serious. Was she talking to me?

“What? Just like that you sentence me to six more months? What is this anyway? Why are you doing this to me? Isn’t this negotiable?”

It looked like my stated goal of controlled drinking wasn’t going to satisfy these folks. I thought, Yeah, I know what you want. You want me to say I’ll quit drinking. Well, I don’t need to quit!

I left the group room angrily that day.

But… something was happening here. I was definitely being told that my use of alcohol was much more serious than I had ever admitted. Eventually, days later, my emotions settled down. Could they be right? Was I (gasp) an alcoholic?

I started the treatment group a couple weeks later. The same woman who had facilitated my education group was facilitating the group that fit into my schedule.

What a group!

As we went around for the initial introductions, my assessment was that everyone there had a much more serious problem than me.

I really resent this, I thought.

During the second week of the group I had an individual appointment with the facilitator. She recommended that I spend some time with the psychiatrist on the staff—that maybe he could offer some insights into my situation that I had not considered. I resisted, she insisted. I finally agreed to pay for a quarter hour of psychiatrist time.

Which was a turning point for me in this whole story, I guess.

The doctor I saw turned out to be OK. With my degrees in chemistry and my studies in counseling, I felt that I had something in common with him. He wasn’t there to analyze me; the hour I spent with him turned out to be quite educational and illuminating. I finally was able to listen to explanations about how my body had become dependent on the sedation it had been receiving during all those years of Valium and alcohol. And that I was, as a human being, OK. After all, I hadn’t really set out to become drug-dependent. That’s just the way it turned out.

Oh…

During this meeting and afterwards, I gradually began to become aware that if I wanted to live the way that was consistent with my self-image, I’d have to stop the alcohol altogether. What a realization! I didn’t need alcohol to have a good time—or to cope with life.

During the six months that I attended the group, I became, more or less, its co-facilitator. I became heavily invested in changing my alcohol habit to fit the healthier lifestyle that I had started the year before I’d applied to graduate school as a counselor. And I wanted to assist the other group members in this quest.

Along the way, however, I saw that just about everybody else was stuck back at the stage I had been—not really convinced of their problem. Yes, they said many things otherwise, but not persuasively.

Well, that was their problem. I knew what I wanted to do for me, so I proceeded to do just that. It was clear to me even before the treatment group was halfway over that I needed to stop drinking—totally. None of this Controlled Drinking Thinking. I realized that because of the physical tolerance I had developed I would be back at old levels of consumption if I chose to begin drinking again.

I didn’t want that then. I don’t want that ever again.

Was my treatment group a brainwashing experience? Who knows, maybe it was. To me, it doesn’t matter. What I do know is that my life has been much more fulfilling and manageable since that decision. From what I’ve seen and heard, though, I’ve had a pretty easy time of it—at least with kicking the habit. Once I decided that quitting drinking was the route I needed to go, pretty much all the rest fell into place. I’m not the white-knuckled sober drunk. I haven’t attended the meetings to stay straight. I just don’t drink anymore. Period.

Despite my initial resistance, I feel that I was very gently led into sobriety, and for that I’m thankful. Every person I encountered along this particular journey was understanding and respectful. The police officer, the judge, the alcohol evaluator, the education and treatment group facilitator, the psychiatrist—all treated me extremely well. And all the others in my life have been supportive; what a relief!

This whole experience has led me to a totally new way of living, though the personal issues that led me to substance abuse have cropped up from time to time. My control, my perfectionism, my anger… I continue to work on these and other concerns to try to make my life more manageable.

If I hadn’t had the good fortune to be arrested, I might not be alive today. I’ve come to believe that I was (and am) living in a state of grace. Perhaps, even, with a guardian angel attached. I don’t know how else to explain this outcome. I had driven drunk countless times and who knows what would have been my fate if I hadn’t been allowed to learn all this, in this way.

déjà vu all over again...

●There was a column by Margie Boule in The Oregonian today about a local blogger, Kelly Jo Horton. Dang, maybe I'm missing the boat for what it takes to put together a successful blog. Kelly Jo is an attractive 43-year old female here in Portland, who describes herself as a "prolific blogger" -- which surely is the case since she appears to have posted something every day since the inception of her blog last July. I guess she's developed quite the readership, but, after a quick glance, I can't really understand what the attraction is (I much prefer "Hoarded Ordinaries")...well, except that she does write about real life, and that's what I'm trying to do here, too. We just go about it in completely different ways. I guess I'm just a little less perky, or something (certainly not as great to look at!), than good ol' Kelly Jo is. (You don't really see many of those smiley faces here, do you?)

Now, on to the headline topic of the day...

●I went to a meeting of a workgroup of the State Board of Higher Education today, the first activity of this kind I've engaged in since my termination from the Chancellor's Office in 2004. (I can't believe I've been away for 18 months now!) I saw many, many old friends from my previous life who were either participants or observers at today's meeting. It was rather a déjà vu kinda day...and I guess that's all I'll say, given that I've more or less made a promise to myself that I wouldn't be writing here about the politics of Oregon higher education. (I'm still employed in higher ed in Oregon and I hope I have some sense about what I can say in public and what I can't! Funny, isn't it though, how I find heartbreak and rejection to be acceptable topics...and I don't even listen to country music!)

I mentioned to a couple of my higher ed friends today that I'd started this blog and gave them the web address. Of course, this happened shortly after I'd read about Kelly Jo's monstrous audience. Readers: are you out there?

Finally, one more thought for the day...

♥A word that the Dean of Humanities used to describe me this week was "sanguine," which the American Heritage Dictionary defines as

1a. Of the color of blood; red. b. Of a healthy reddish color; ruddy: a sanguine complexion. 2. Archaic a. Having blood as the dominant humor in terms of medieval physiology. b. Having the temperament and ruddy complexion formerly thought to be characteristic of a person dominated by this humor; passionate. 3. Cheerfully confident; optimistic.

I'm guessing that the applicable definition would be #3, though that seems rather more positive than I actually feel. But, perhaps, I am projecting a more confident, optimistic outlook these days than I have been in recent times. I went through a bit of a down spell after that last job rejection, but I think I bounced back rather quickly, and have ended up feeling fairly, well, optimistic, about my prospects in recent days. Maybe "sanguine" fits after all?

Winter Term Begins

It is time to return to campus tomorrow in preparation for the new academic term that begins on January 9th. Here's a recent fun photo of our tight little Science-Social Science clan. Thanks to all of you for being part of my very-important, built-in support group!


Rachelle Ham, Jim Arnold

Val Martinez, Leslie Yates
MHCC, December 20, 2005
Photo by Heather Ohana

Zwischenraum

Yes: Zwischenraum. That’s probably a very appropriate term for my life on this New Year’s Day. As I learned from reading The Painted Drum, Zwischenraum is literally “the space between things.” Or, perhaps another descriptor for my existence right now is limbo — “a state where nothing can be done until something else happens.”

Might I be just plain stuck?

I don’t know. I am, all the time, trying to make something else happen.

Well, whatever I am, wherever I am: Here I am.

I am not in a relationship. After seven-plus turbulent years, during which time I experienced repeated rejection and heartbreak, I became unattached again, apparently permanently, last spring. I have been mourning the loss of that relationship, the loss of her, and the dream of being with her, ever since, waiting for a time when I feel I’m healed and that it’s possible to move on. I’m in as in-between a place, relationship-wise, as one can be. I want to be healthier than I am; but, alas, this is what’s going on.

And, I’m in a temporary job. It happens to be a really good temporary job, but it’s a transitional one nonetheless, simply by its designation as “interim.” I am giving it absolutely the best effort I am able, but I feel perpetually unsettled, and not entirely wanted. I have been in this in-between condition professionally for two years now. The Oregon State Board of Higher Education was replaced by the Governor in the fall of 2003, and it became apparent early in 2004 that significant changes were going to be happening in the Chancellor’s Office at the direction of the new Board. So, from late 2003 until the present day, I have been leading a work life fraught with ambiguity, with no place to really call “home” professionally.

At work and at home, for months (or years…how, actually, should I count?) I have felt rejection. And, the job-search process I continue with is, practically by definition, an activity set up to perpetuate this feeling. I experienced another huge rejection two weeks ago as I came in second place in yet another search process.

Sigmund Freud has been quoted as saying that “love and work are the cornerstones of our humanness.” Another quote also attributed to him is “love and work...work and love, that’s all there is.”

If love and work, are, indeed, what defines our existence, then maybe it’s no wonder that I am feeling so off-center. I am not at all solid in either of these life dimensions at the moment, and I don’t know exactly when things will be changing.

But, still, I continue to get up in the morning, displaying a sincere curiosity about what the new day (and, now, the new year) will bring. Life is about the journey, so the saying goes. And, I need to remind myself, as Ram Dass advises, that “it’s all perfect.” I know that I am doing some good in this world, even in this place between things. I know that I am present for others and making some responsible, positive changes around me, despite my Zwischenraum state.

Here is a passage from Ram Dass’ “The Seasons of Our Lives” 1977 speech that I have on an old audio-tape. It is something that I find comforting to refer to in times like these:

“But I say to you very simply, and very directly, what happens to another human being in your presence is a function of who you are, not what you know. And who you are is everything that you’ve ever done and all the evolution that has occurred thus far. Your being is right on the line every time you meet another human being. And what they get from you through all the words of love or kindness or giving is very simply a function of your own level of evolution. And the injunction given to the physician “heal thyself,” is right at the mark because we are here to talk about our own work on ourselves, because that is our gift to each other and it’s also what we’re doing here on earth in the first place.

My guru used to say to me, “don’t you see that it’s all perfect?”

The implication of “perfect,” if you want to deal with the concept of God…if I say…“God, what are you doing, why are you screwing up?” …I, who have this little teeny limited vision, mainly controlled by my rational mind, which is a little subsystem of a little subsystem, it isn’t even a very interesting way of knowing the universe, I sit there like this little ant on an elephant and say to him “you really blew it that time.” I say “you really blew it that time” – you know where I say that from? – I’m saying it from my own fear of death…

If I’m attached to you being other than the way you are now, I’m saying to God, “if I had made him, I would have made him different than he is now,” and I forgot my guru saying “don’t you see that it’s all perfect.” What we do for each other is we create a space, by not clinging to models, we create a space that allows each other to do what we need to do…we each have our own work to do in this incarnation.”

Yes, I believe that I am doing my work in this incarnation. And, I believe that it is serious work. I simply wish, at times like these, that I had a more profound understanding of this universe and my place in it.

On this day of transition, I ask the universe for the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.