What happened to that book you bought a while back? The nonfiction one on that subject you are genuinely, intellectually curious about. Or maybe it was a classic novel you set out to conquer before the movie version hit theaters. Is it collecting dust on the bookshelf? Buried under accumulated miscellany on the bedside table? Perhaps it fell into that crevice between bed and wall where all forgotten things go to die.
Did you find it? Good. Where did the final stand take place? Does the bookmark still lay where it fell on page 50 or 75? Where did the pen markings succumb to blankness?
Now, try to recall how you felt when you bought that book. Did you feel pride in choosing to spend your hard-earned money on something meaningful to you, rather than a cocktail or a cab ride? Maybe you felt a sense of serendipity at having found this book and it having found you at this moment in time, a chance opportunity to start a new chapter. Perhaps it was a surge of intention in having deliberately looked for and found something worth pursuing for the sake of itself, not for any extrinsic rewards.
I felt all these things a year and a half ago when I walked out of Dog Eared Bookstore in San Francisco with Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi in hand. Frustrated in my research of psychology grad school options, I felt empowered by this small act of ownership--of taking the material that interested me into my own hands and diving in without any promise of degree or title change. I knew the book’s content was right up my alley. So why, a full 18 months after my purchase, am I only 84 pages in?
The short answer is agency, and my incredible knack for handing it out for free to everyone around me. Oh, I’ve had great help. Social media has opened up a million tiny portals into my psyche for the funneling of all kinds of irrelevant bullshit by anyone that’s ever known me. But I can’t blame Facebook. Every epoch has had its own mediums of distraction. And every generation has had its creators--those able to deftly navigate these obstacles and reclaim their consciousness--and its consumers, drowning in the noise. There has always been a choice.
I've finally got around to reading Csikszentmihalyi's book and, if you’re still with me and haven’t returned to your own neglected book, I’d love to share his notes on the subject. Flow draws a similiar distinction between what I’ve just called the creators and the consumers: those able to focus their limited attention “intentionally, like a beam of energy” and those who “diffuse it in desultory, random movements.” The first group, Csikszentmihalyi explains, has the ability "to focus attention at will, to be oblivious to distractions, to concentrate for as long as it takes to achieve a goal, and not longer.” This he calls “the mark of a person who is in control of consciousness.”
Why is it so important to be in control of consciousness? In short, because we can only experience so much. According to Csikszentmihalyi's 1990 calculations, the human central nervous system is capable of processing roughly 185 billion events in a lifetime--a finite amount. Therefore, “the information we allow into consciousness is extremely important," he goes on; "in fact, it is what determines the content and quality of life.” In other words, we create ourselves by what we consume and where we invest our attention. So, if you are unable to intentionally invest your limited attention in this way, and instead consume whatever content is placed in your path, you are allowing yourself to be made by the people and external forces operating around you.
Unless you woke up this morning with the clear and purposeful intent to read my weekly blog post, this rant has probably caught you in a moment of distraction or escape. Maybe you’re bored at work, killing time in the bathroom, or staving off sleep in those least inspired hours of the evening. The point is, you’ve given me--for whatever reason--control over your consciousness for this short period of time.
I’m obviously grateful, but chances are there’s something else that the most inspired, alacritous version of you would have purposefully chosen to consume. Something that you are very naturally drawn to and probably better programmed than the rest of us to process and understand. It is even possible that you were born to be an expert in this thing.
For the love of god, stop massaging my ego and go read that book. Do what you need to do to rise to the challenges posed by this age of distraction. For me (and I struggle with this every day), I have had to reduce my permeability and accessibility via the internet. That means unfollowing all the people on Facebook that derail my intention with Buzzfeed articles, endless photo albums, and linkbait videos that I just have to watch right now. It means resisting the urge to open Instagram or Snapchat accounts, despite pressure from everyone around me, because I don't need another flood of visual input into my day-to-day. It means not following friends on Twitter, and instead following only my contemporary heroes: people already doing things I want to do (travelers, authors, psychologists, yogis, artists, etc). It means constantly tweaking and adjusting these things every day to stay selective about who I am giving sway over my attention.
It’s hard. It’s definitely harder for us than it was for our parents. But that’s not an excuse not to try. And it makes the act of reclaiming consciousness that much more admirable and rewarding for our generation. Start with your biggest time-sucks; they are different for everyone. Unfollow me if you need to. Do what you need to do to take your life back. We’ve got to rise to the task if we want to add any value or say anything new.
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