Three Things #17: May 8, 2022
On invisible assumptions, choosing a calling, and compartmentalizing spaces
Thing #1: The Back of Your Mind
I’m on a constant quest to KonMari everything in my life, question everything, and regain agency. This involves delving into the subconscious and unconscious mind—where, incidentally, there is a lot going on that we’re not aware of on a day to day basis. Meditation helps with this process, but it takes time.
Recently, as part of this process, I began to notice something. We all have certain comfortable, untested assumptions in the back of our minds. It’s hard to say precisely where they come from. They may arise spontaneously, or develop gradually over time, but they’re probably not the product of an intentional, focused thought process. Because if they were, they wouldn’t sit unnoticed for a long time, sometimes (at least in my case) for many years.
Some of these assumptions can be identified pretty easily: for instance, you probably expect to still be alive tomorrow. The possibility of dying tomorrow is probably not something you think about very often—it’s an untested assumption. And it’s not an unreasonable assumption, either. By the same token, you probably expect that your company, university, city, state, and country will still be here tomorrow, and next month, and next year—and that, while many small things will change day to day and year to year, not so many big things will change. (This is true until it isn’t.)
In my case, I think I have many social assumptions: I don’t ever need to be alone, if I don’t want to be. I have close friends that will always be there for me. I can always make new friends, anywhere, anytime. Things like this.
These are all reasonable assumptions, too. The problem is that nothing is static. Our lives, and the world around us, are changing constantly, albeit gradually and often in ways that are subtle and almost imperceptible. But we often don’t update our assumptions in the face of change—especially when that change is gradual and subtle.
You will probably still be alive tomorrow. But, each day, the likelihood of that still being true goes down a tiny little bit (and then, eventually, it starts to drop more quickly). You don’t notice this change day to day—but how might you live your life if you could see this changing, gradually, over time?
Here’s another example. My father has a tiny spare bedroom in his apartment. For years, decades even, he has always assumed that, when the time came, if necessary, he could find a student to live there—if he needed the extra rent money, or if he needed a little extra care, or if he just wanted to have someone else around. This was a pretty reasonable assumption two or three decades ago. He’s a retired professor and he lives in a nice building in a good location near several universities.
However, fast forward two or three decades and several things have changed. For one thing, he’s in his nineties, and his care needs have increased beyond the point that someone without special training could possibly attend to. For another thing, Covid makes things much more complicated today. Dad never tested or updated his assumption, and when the time finally came that he needed it to be true, it no longer was.
In a similar fashion, I’m not so sure that I can rely on the assumption that I can always easily make new friends. I think I can, but the older I get, the harder it becomes. People my age are, by and large, totally absorbed by their careers and their family lives—and this is increasingly true for me, too. I can (and occasionally do) hang out with friends 10 years younger than I am, but I can’t drink or party or stay out late the way I used to, and there’s a limit to how much longer I can do this. It’s worth considering whether and to what extent this assumption still holds today, and whether and how much it matters if it doesn’t. It also makes me wonder what other comfortable, untested assumptions are lurking in the back of my mind.
For more: Reflect on what hidden assumptions you might be making. Go through the systematic process of identifying and testing those assumptions.
Thing #2: What to Work On
The single biggest thing I struggle with is deciding how to spend my time and what to work on. (I recognize that I am privileged, and not a day goes by that I don’t feel gratitude for this.) There are a few angles to this question: which specific projects to work on, which companies, organizations, teams, or ecosystems to contribute to, what things to design, create, or build, what sort of role to pursue, etc. I feel a bit trapped by the paradox of choice, choosing among a number of good options. In fact, I started writing an article on this topic at the beginning of the year. I tried to list the projects and initiatives I was seriously considering, and the list grew to 30-35 items before I gave up writing. Rather than trying to list specific projects and ideas, I want to stay high level for now.
First things first: why do I find it so hard to decide? For one, I have a lot of curiosities, interests, and passions. I find it easy to generate curiosity about new people and places, new ideas, and new domains of knowledge. I would be equally fascinated to discuss military history, botany, or cooking as I would more obvious, proximate topics like sci-fi and crypto. For another, I like novelty and I’m bad at saying no. I’m excited by new opportunities and I chase shiny things. New opportunities are exciting because they feel like a blank slate, a chance to start over from scratch, fix everything that went wrong before, and get things right. I’m bad at saying no because I like to contribute to things where and when I can. I like to be helpful, and generous with my time. In the moment, when asked, I’m super enthusiastic about doing a new thing. After the fact, I often realize that I’ve got too much on my plate.
Secondly: what high-level buckets or categories of opportunities am I considering? One is technical: I want to build really great, robust, human-centric software. One is social: I want to explore using DAOs and decentralization more generally to design and build better human organizations and institutions, with incentives that are fairer and better aligned. One is research-oriented: I want to understand political theory, political history, and modern practice of governance and design better, more inclusive systems of governance based on this history and theory. One is spiritual: I want to deepen my study and practice of Buddhism and, someday, find enlightenment (whatever that means). One is ambitious and career-driven: I want to be a part of the biggest, most successful projects, and I want to manage ever-larger teams and budgets. One is entrepreneurial: I want to execute on a particular, pie in the sky vision I have for the future and build something epic and valuable that doesn’t exist yet. One is humanitarian: I want to do the most good I can for the most people in my lifetime. One is creative. I want to write a lot more, I want to write a book, and I want to create art that defies genres and mediums. All of these ideas sound genuinely attractive and valuable to me, and none immediately jumps out to me as the single, best thing I can do.
Thirdly, and most importantly: how to choose among all of these? There is obviously no simple, universal answer. What works for one person might not work for someone else. I think it requires a combination of analysis, trusting your gut feeling, and leaning into your values.
The best framework I’ve ever seen for deciding is ikigai: in brief, find something at the intersection of a. What you love doing, b. What the world needs, c. What you’re good at, and d. What pays the bills. This is helpful, but it’s not a complete system for ranking or choosing among a set of good ideas. For instance, I think all of the broad ideas I listed above could check all of these boxes.
The effective altruists have their framework, but I’ve written about how an overly rational, quantitative approach leaves out important forms of value. For instance, I don’t see spiritual leadership on their list of recommended, valuable career options.
Clearly, I haven’t made up my mind yet, nor have I even chosen how to choose. But I’m beginning to understand that, at the end of the day, the ultimate answer doesn’t matter as much as the way in which the choice is made. If it’s made with humility and compassion, and if you choose a project or an occupation or an organization that aligns with your skills and values, and that creates net good for the world and its people—and that you can survive on—then I think you (and I) will be fine, regardless of what we choose. So maybe we should stop fretting about trying to pick the optimal thing, and just get started.
For more: Reflect on the ikigai framework: how much does your current (or planned) occupation make you happy, do good in the world, play to your strengths, and pay the bills? Is there something that might score higher?
Thing #3: Why I Can’t Do Yoga at Home
We have strange relationships with the physical spaces we inhabit. It’s tempting to think of rooms, buildings, and the other spaces where we spend our time as open, flexible, multi-purpose, and unopinionated. Put up four walls and a roof, add heating and a couple of windows, power and wifi, and what more do you need? It could be an office, a bedroom, a meeting room, a nursery, or any of a thousand other use cases, right?
Alas, if only architecture could be so straightforward. Spaces are complex not just for their immediate attributes—size and shape, airflow and light, temperature, sound, materials, colors, etc.—but also for indirect things such as what’s next to them, how one reaches them, who else has access to them, what sort of feelings and moods they invoke, etc. The same exact space installed in two different locations can serve two very different purposes and invoke entirely different feelings.
It was through sleep and meditation that I first began to understand the way in which physical spaces separate not only furniture and other objects but also activities, rituals, moods, and modes of being. Good sleep hygiene dictates that we only use our beds for sleeping: not for eating, consuming media, or taking calls and meetings. And having a dedicated space for meditation, even if it’s just a cushion in the corner somewhere, is absolutely essential to establishing a real meditation practice. When this isn’t possible—I’ve lived in homes that are too small and cramped to have a dedicated meditation spot, and on the road I often have to meditate in hotel rooms or, god forbid, airports and airplanes—I immediately feel the difference.
The simple fact is that dedicating a particular space to a particular task is a very powerful, effective idea. When you step into a theater, you begin to feel anticipation for the show to come, speak more softly, and focus your attention on the stage. When you walk into a house of worship or a meditation hall, your body and mind immediately, subconsciously begin to adjust and prepare for the act of prayer or meditation. And when you walk into a yoga studio, through some combination of thoughts and feelings—memories of previous practice in the space, the overall atmosphere, the demeanor of the people around you, the sights and smells—you automatically switch into yoga mode. I’ve done yoga hundreds of times in studios, and loved it, but try as I might I cannot enjoy doing yoga alone at home.
This is one of the many reasons I feel frustrated working from home all the time. I see the benefits, some of which are quite measurable and tangible (e.g., no commute time), but the downsides, which are somewhat intangible, are nonetheless substantial. Some days I really struggle to get into a focused, work-oriented frame of mind. Some days I find myself distracted throughout the day by personal tasks, or by the desire to go make a snack or take a nap. By and large these were not issues when I used to have a separate office away from home. And this is to say nothing of the tendency that work from home has to bleed into every aspect of home life: taking calls from the kitchen, early and late calls, etc. Say what you will about the downsides of office life; it serves as a pretty effective way of compartmentalizing personal and professional life, physically, psychologically, and functionally.
If you’re an exceptionally focused, disciplined person, you can probably work quite effectively from home (or do yoga at home!). But for those of us on the ADHD spectrum, this is quite difficult. I think having set working hours and a separate, physical space—even if it’s just a room dedicated purely to work, and ideally a separate, distraction-free building—can make a huge difference.
For more: Try paying more attention to what you feel, and how you react, as you enter a new space. What elements of the space cause you to feel or react this way?