Computers Killing Social Complexity?

I watched a dating show where a team of coaches helped a young computer geek improve his chances. In his test date he was attentive and he had a charming sense of humor. His face and his voice though, was flat. He did not (appropriately) smile or frown. Here is an apparently intelligent man who was failing to display basic social cues. Was it because in his daily life he was mostly using a third party, the computer, to interact with others? The team coached him to be more engaging when meeting people in the flesh.

I wonder also what effect that computer role playing games (RPG's) might have on young people who might be missing social cues in the real world. After all, computers can only simulate human interaction. Their responses are programmed and therefore predictable. A good gamer will quickly work out what responses to feed a computer generated personality to get him what he wants. I've noticed a disturbing trend with my son, a dedicated gamer, to say whatever he needs to in order to progress as quickly as possible. In a gaming world, commitments don't matter. Once you pass a level, whether you lied to a computer avatar or not won't matter.

What if the flat world of computer gaming is preventing vulnerable personalities from developing a rich repertoire of facial recognition and expression? Might they be missing important social cues? Even worse, what if integrity to the computer generation doesn't matter, as long as the "right thing" is said?

Gentle Change is not TV Friendly

This thought has been percolating for a while. Our television is flooded with "reality" shows where people are prodded, insulted, and put through incredible pressure in order to bring about dramatic change. http://www.realityshows.com/ Along the way there are many casualties. I fear with so many models put in front of us that people may come to believe that this sort of drama is normal or necessary to bring about change.

On the contrary, I suggest that gentle change is the norm and my gut tells me it is much more successful. I have my own life to show for it, too.

So why does television do it? Because dramatic television depends on confrontation, conflict, and high emotion to grab the viewer's interest. Gentle change is boring to watch. From my own example though, slow personal change does have high reward. The bootcamp mentality even, set me up for a succession of failures through the years. So here I am, forty-eight, and I am finally catching on to my own rythm and respecting it. I'll share what I've learned so maybe you can gain new confidence that personal change is not out of reach.

So how did I get bought in to the bootcamp mentality? Dad did it. A graduate from the Army reserves, he believed in pushing us harder, faster. His revelation, which he tried so hard to share, is that one reaches a moment when all reserves are exhausted and you go on anyways. Why do you do it? Because your sergeant told you to. How did you do it? You find out that you have greater reserves than you ever imagined. You dig deep in your gut and make it happen. Dad tried dearly to pass on that lesson, but it fell off me like water off a duck's back.

I have a vivid memory of "doing laps" in the pool, and reaching a personal best, "Look dad, what I did", he smiled indulgently and asked me to do ten more. I couldn't do it. I wilted, and I lost what I wanted most in the world, my dad's approval. I am sure he felt the failure, too. It wasn't like he wanted me to feel bad. He wanted me to have that same experience he did. But it was not to be. I thrive on play and frequent rewards. The more often you tell me I'm doing a great job, the more I will do.

So finally, at forty-eight, I am putting that voice in my head to rest, "Onward, higher, more, more." I'm exercising and dieting with greater success. I've got a great support team for me, all gentle cheerleaders, and I have a new voice in my head.

Some of my great support people this time around, are all gentle in their suggestions. There's my doctor, who shyly suggests that perhaps a reasonable goal is to shed ten percent of my current weight, not to achieve my "ideal" size. As I consider what she says over the following weeks, I start building myself a new picture of what success looks like. I'll still be rotund, but how much more a svelte rotund I will be. With greater energy and mobility, too.

My massage therapist, as well, as she prods my muscles to new shapes, is an oasis of calm and reason. Massage is new to me but I already love it. I get all tongue-tied when I talk of the experience, though. Her fingers drum a message that speaks to the inexpressible parts of my soul. So I'll leave it at that. If you want to know what massage can do for you, try it.

My hubby from the first, approaches me with new habits with a gentle persistence that is disarming. His tidiness gene is much more activated than mine. He lives for an empty sink and a clear counter every day. Every day for the past eight years, he gently suggests we get the dishes done together. Every night I consider, and most nights I concede. Without really noticing, my kitchen and my home has gained a sense of order and tidiness. I only notice when he's gone for a few days. For whatever reason, he never tires of asking, and he is never angry or impatient in his request. The ritual of asking is part of our routine and is strangely soothing.

He also is part of my support team, challenging me when I choose to break my fast. By now he knows the dietary rules I have made for myself, and challenges me when I choose to break them. I'd like to say I listen, but most of the time I don't. But perhaps I cut the binge to one piece of toast instead of a half-dozen. He's the added voice of reason when I choose to live in a haze of denial for a while.

Nowadays I forgive myself frequently. Every day is a new day. Slip-ups happen to normal people, and every good choice is a success. I am enjoying myself, I am having fun, and I bask in the praise of small successes. It works, so why fight it? I'm not a television show "reality" contestant. I won't be voted off, no-one revels in my drama, and my ultimate success, though painfully slow to watch, is great living.

Dramatic interventions I also suspect have only limited success, whether it be to help an addict face his demons, or a cultist the danger of his religious choice. I've only watched "Intervention" once, but the story was terrifying in it's reality. The addict did finally accept treatment, but only for a short while. He died within weeks of leaving the treatment facility. I suspect as dramatic as an intervention is (and maybe with these extreme cases is the only hope) that a gentle coaxing to new ways of thinking and doing has more success. It's only "gut" now, but I'd like to search out if my gut is true.

Word Power

My daughter asked me what I was writing during church. She was astute enough to know that it was too productive to be sermon notes. So I told her. I had written that I am too quick to "write people off". She agreed with me, much to my embarrassment. She even gave an example where I spoke frankly about a nutty neighbour, months before she became a member of the condominium board. I still do privately think of her as nutty, but it does turn out she also is an outstanding parking coordinator, resolving several disputes in a very short time. We'd had a cold snap, you see, and everyone hustled to find their spot to plug in the car. More than one resident thought they had the same spot. Our newest board member sorted them out, literally within days, nipping in the bud a whole lot of ill feeling. I grudgingly agreed with my daughter that I had been too quick in my assessment.

This morning I woke up thinking of the power of words, especially written words. I'm marking history with my own perspective and flavor. Mine will hold sway simply because it's recorded. Private thoughts influence us for a time. Privately shared words influence our neighbours, and often have lasting effects we did not intend (the power of gossip). But the written word, oh the power! I am reminded days, weeks, or years later how I saw my world. Written words are more definite, like gospel. I can weave for myself new realities that will be harder to refute. Written word acts like truth. I have to remember, though, that it is not. Truth stands on it's own.

So this is what I wrote during the sermon yesterday, completely unrelated to the pastor's topic. He was not that boring, really. He spoke convincingly of how special interest groups impose on Jesus their own idea of what a Messiah would look like. They are all wrong.

Back to those private notes. I write off people too often and too fast. I must speak up sooner, articulate the offence, and forgive quickly.

Why do I do that? It is a habit from childhood, when my "elders" or the "dominant" or the "other sex" in the room declared themselves the experts and proceeded to work on whatever needed fixing. I had the answer, but I was re-inforced, often, that my opinion did not count. I quickly figured out that it was more efficient to say nothing. The better lesson was to wait for the failure. Then I would step in with the fix. People learn faster from their failures than from preaching anyways.

But I think also I've done a disservice to my colleagues. I could have potentially saved them from embarrassment and a whole bunch of wasted time. I could have lifted them up from the first and helped them look better.

So, now, the power of writing this down takes effect. I cannot pretend I did not get this lesson this week. Let's see how well I put it in to practice.

The photo I borrow from Concurring Opinions, a general-interest legal blog operated by Concurring Opinions LLC, a Pennsylvania Limited Liability Corporation.

Reflections on my Week

What a week I had. The first half was a mess of obligations that I struggled to keep, only satisfying anyone in part. In the second half, I caught my wind. What pushed me over the edge? Four days of workshops and seminars. There was no time to keep up with my regular obligations. I couldn't just shut them all off for a few days, either. Two were "people obligations", opportunities to show that I care that would not come again. The third was a demanding customer with an urgent deadline of her own. So I rushed through the days, late from one appointment to another.

Then at the end of the final day I browse through my blackberry and find that a meeting was rescheduled for that very afternoon, and that I could make it. I cursed under my breath. After four days of obligations, I'd vowed to keep that day for me. I'd turned down two other meetings already, and my plan was to finish the afternoon at the fitness club. I found a compromise. I called my hubby and asked if we could skip our plans for dinner that night, if I might just go relax instead. I would go to the fitness club after work, and forego dinner out. His voice warmed over the cell phone, and he set me free from this final obligation. I warmly thanked him back.

I don't know what it was, but those few hours when I could dawdle and do what I want, transformed me. I relaxed completely. The effect carried well on through the next day and this. I hope I keep this lesson, that fitness is more than preventative maintenance. It can give me that very much needed mental break.

Now, about the wonderful course I attended. The facilitators Jim Beaubien & Karen Caesar of Hope Learning, took us along on a wonderful journey of discovery. They also took the time, in that room of forty people, to make me feel very special, telling me I have a talent for writing. I sense these are people worth hooking up with, that their passion for a building a better world one person at a time resonates with my own. How do we bring about change? Find those catalysts for change, those mavens, who influence maybe hundreds of other people. Jim and Karen are clearly mavens, experts in their field.

One of the subjects we talked about in the course was the influence of the generations. Jim argued convincingly that Obama is speaking directly to the Millenials. I've checked with my own children what they think of his message, and they brightened up immediately. "Does that mean he will stop the war in Afghanistan?" They are a funny generation, careful. I am earnestly warned of the dangers of aspartame. My daughter worries about the transportation infrastructure. What if it would fail? Our stores would be emptied instantly. She vows to grow vegetables next summer. She wants to learn to preserve the fruits of her labor. The loves the idea of seeds, a tiny investment that with the smallest amount of care, becomes a plant that renews year after year.

Who are the Millenials most like? Jim says that every fourth cycle, the characteristics repeat themselves. If so, my daughter and granddaughter would be most like my grandfather.

Thanks to the improvements in health care and natural longevity, my daughter has memories of her great-grandfather. She reflected the other day of one of the one letter he wrote to her. He urged her to get an education (his had been cut short by the depression) so that people wouldn't think she is a "dumb cluck". Grandpa regretted that he lacked that formal training. His letters represented hours of effort, as he struggled to write what showed so clearly in his living. Grandpa's heritage to us all was his integrity. The beetling brows and steely stare, I think, came from my grandma. Both my dad and my daughter have the scowl, rarely used but perfected. Maybe I have it too. Being on the inside, I can only guess about it's effectiveness from the reaction of the recipients on the rare times I've used it.

Anyways, grandpa had integrity. He gave of himself and did the right thing regardless of the personal cost. He kept his promises. For the sake of his family, he went off to the lumber camps when he was a young man. When he married, for the sake of his young family, he did not join the army. Where grandpa is different than me, my dad, and my daughter is that he wasn't wound so tight. He had an easyness about him, cheerfully working out his days. He had a simple solution to grandma's nagging; he turned down his hearing aid. He happily joined the boys in their annual moose hunt, but never managed to bag one himself. Rather there are pictures of him rocking on the rustic front porch in his plaid and flannel, playing at the great outdoorsman. He also told great truths through stories.

I once asked him what story he wished he had told, that no-one had time to hear? He told me the story of the invention of nylon thread, which he was there to see. The first synthetic fibers were smooth. They were smooth because the nozzles forming the fiber were smooth. It turns out that smooth thread doesn't stick very well. When you knit it or weave it, it swiftly unravels. It was a team of Canadians who found a way to change the nozzle so the thread came out rough instead. Now we had nylon thread that stuck. It was a great leap forward. Some Americans came up to take a look and asked a lot of questions. You can guess what came next.

I wish I could say I was a rapt audience, but I failed grandpa that time. It took all I had not to nod off. I could tell when grandpa's story tailed off that he was a little disappointed. But he did not say so out loud.

Anyways, that heritage of integrity has spanned the generations. Dad is a model and a leader of integrity most of all, and his example has marked my life. A most honorable demonstration was the way he cared for his second wife when she died of cancer. He watched over her and fiercly protected her, even when his own reserves were drained dry. He adopted her adult children as his own, and made sure they were taken care of. If we all knew that our partner would do the same, what a comfort that would be.

You know, now that I think of it, it's my granddaughter who most personifies grandpa's combination of integrity and easy grace. Her mother worries about so many things like aspartame and creepy strangers. My granddaughter cheerfuly negotiates all that while sharing with me her victories in negotiation. She has a large heart and freely shares it. In kindergarten, the parents of a new girl asked my granddaughter if they could meet her parents. They told my daughter they were so impressed how Naomi took in their daughter on her first day there, putting her arm around her and telling her they were going to have a great day. That little girl came home raving about how wonderful Naomi was.

Naomi is also successful negotiating the little things. Her mom packs nutritious snacks, no sugar. There's fruit and cheese and crackers. Naomi pointed out to her mom that she has an allowance that she can freely spend and how tempting it is to use it on the vending machines at school. She knew how much her mom hated those machines, as mom has no control over the quality or nutritional value of their contents. Naomi pointed out, wouldn't it be much better to buy organic chips from the store, than to waste her allowance on the vending machines? My daughter relented, and Naomi gave me a private high-five.

If a generation like my Naomi are primed to take care of our world, we have a very lucky planet.

I borrow the photo from the Breathless Moon - http://www.burgesslegacy.org/coal.htm

Obama's Inauguration as 44th President - Rising Hope

I had the privelege of watching the opening moments of Obama's inauguration on a big screen yesteday, along with forty other class participants. I was in a group learning about effective leadership, as it turns out. I worked hard not to break in to tears. What moved me was the crowds of people, filled with hope. I haven't been so moved since the Berlin wall fell, and when aparteid was abolished. Then, too, it was as if a great cloud had lifted from mankind. Which is ironic, considering that Obama spoke of "gathering clouds" as his own administration takes over.

Obama's speech was inspiring, and I'll talk briefly about that later. But I was moved well before that, by the sight of the crowds and this piece of music by John Williams called "Air and Simple Gifts" performed by Yo-Yo Ma , Itzhak Perlman , Anthony McGill and Gabriela Montero . My heart swelled as I heard it, and this is what I wrote:

Four talents, at their peak

in an original composition

for the delight of the

president elect; his

pleasure first, and

then for all.

I am near tears,

I imagined the days of

practice leading up to the

event. Four great talents

collaborating for a moment

of beauty.

I am near tears, as when the Berlin wall fell.

A world of people gathering to celebrate good, a barrier demolished, oppression is torn down.

Our blue sky smiles.

It was most deliberate, don't you think, to bring together a French-born Chinese American, an Isreali American, a Venezuelan born pianist, and the only African-American musician to hold a principal position in a major orchestra? The delicacy by which they played this piece was a delight to the ear.

Here it is again if you would like to hear it:

http://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=02Ao9jyq5Vk

I then took some notes from Obama's speech. He spoke of the need to emulate our forefathers, who "worked their hands raw" to build the nation. It will take that sort of effort to "gather for a common purpose" to rebuild the country. For government, we are to "reform [our] bad habits, do our business in the light of day". He spoke to nations around the world, "Your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy", and "We can no longer afford to ignore the suffering outside our borders."

His international scope gives me hope that America will broaden it's view beyond itself. Yes, there's much to be hopeful for.

Obama's inspiring speech is a gift to the crowds, to the world. All those hearts gathered, bursting with hope. May we ride that wave of good feeling and raise this world to a better place.

An open letter to e-mail broadcasters everywhere

I would love to hear from you once in a while but I have an allergy. I am allergic to forwarded e-mails. No matter how lovely the poem, how profound the sentiment, how cute the picture, how urgent the plea…every forwarded e-mail gives me hives and indigestion. They are just too easy and just a little too much like a chain letter.

The only e-mails that don’t make me queasy are original and written from the heart. I like meeting and knowing original people. Do please keep in touch, but if you do write me, let it be something you want to say.

Your ever friend,

Me

Random acts of blessing a curse?

To give you some background, I travel a lot through the downtown core during the day. My staff are scattered throughout several buildings in the middle of Edmonton. My day is made up of meetings in different buildings, and I scoot several blocks down Jasper Avenue to get there. When I am late I use the bus, waving my transit pass as I fly by. From practice I've found the bus faster than walking, light rail transit, or car.

So I am late and I scoot on the bus, waving my transit pass at the driver. I ask him if he drops off at 107th. He does. The bus is mostly full, only a few spare seats. I sit down beside a balding man reading his book. I haul my own book bag in my lap for courtesy sake and take out my own novel. Space Opera, delightful escapism, borrowed from the library. The bus rumbles off, smelling of sweet diesel and wet sand. The man looks up from the novel and tells me gravely, "God bless you."

Alllll right.

I look him in the eye and say, "Thank you." There is a tinge of madness in the corners. I swiftly look away and absorb myself in my own book. I am swamped with a feeling of violation, and vow to explore those feelings later. I also take sly note that he is reading a hardcover novel, not a bible. Unusual for someone so socially forward, he's wearing i-pod headphones. My stop comes, and I rush back out in to the warm winter day, full of slush and people rushing to their own purpose, office towers dropping ice and a meeting to get to.

I make a whole bundle of assumptions about that man's random act of blessing. He's likely evangelical. I understand that history. I've been there myself. He's passionate and he has a sense of mission. Though he knows nothing about me, he considered his random act to be blessing, to be an investment in the world's spiritual bank account somehow. Perhaps he hopes that I would absorb his message and take my own spirituality more seriously. I have a definite impression he does so not for his own benefit but for what he sees as a terrible lack in our society. I am in need of reforming, dashgnabit. Me and the rest of the poor, lost world.

But I'm not lost and I do have a firm sense of where I am. I am warmly comfortable with my God. And I do have a strong sense of purpose that transcends the everyday. I, too, want the world to be a better place.

But he would not know that because he did not bother to know me first. In his mind I must be no more than a caricature, a cut-out that he could pull from the book he is reading. I am not a person, I am a sounding board. I provided a a vehicle for his blessing, but he did not bother to know or care if I was primed to receive it.

Where was I in that blessing? Does the blessing fall flat if it is not recieved?

The picture I borrow from a myspace feed, http://www.oneyearbibleblog.com/