The Remembering Self

In Daniel Kahneman's book, Thinking, Fast and Slow, he discusses two selves that we all carry around with us: the experiencing self and the remembering self. The two selves have different perceptions of their own happiness. Kahneman even goes so far as to claim, “Odd as it may seem, I am my remembering self, and the experiencing self, who does my living, is like a stranger to me.” 

The first thing that comes to mind when I consider this internal division is the self that reflects on personal experience after a substantial passage of time, or that has learned something new between the formation of the initial memory and reflection upon it. We can all see that our 30 year old selves view our teenage years quite differently than we did when we were living them. But what surprises me is the weight that my remembering self attaches to moments that escaped deliberation in the very distant past.

Just this morning while I was getting ready for work, I remembered with such poignancy how my three year old followed me out to the garden on Saturday morning to see what was growing. We were delighted to find the kale plants exploding and she asked excitedly if she could pick some. I said yes, and explained that you have to peel the bottom leaves away from the stalk. She understood but wasn't quite strong enough to do it herself. So as she tried, I helped each leaf along until it fell in her palm and she felt accomplished. She insisted on carrying a big armload of leaves into the house herself for washing.

It hadn't even occurred to me until this morning that that was a bonding experience; I felt so connected to her as we worked together. Her simple joy in the task was infectious. How is it that I failed to note the depth of the experience as it was happening? 

Sometimes I think my experiencing self is unbearably stupid and that that is why I need to spend so much time writing and reflecting on the small moments in my life. I never grasp their importance until later on.

Time & Meaning

I recently heard an interview on NPR of a brain surgeon who treats young children who have brain cancer. He is frequently in the position of having to inform parents that their children are going to die. He described the most touching parenting scene he has ever seen. One day, after telling a mother and father that their child was about to die, he went up to the child's hospital room to see how the parents were coping. What he saw was a child in bed waiting expectantly for her parents to draw back the curtain to reveal their faces and exclaim, "See! This is what it will be like when you die. You will be on the other side of the curtain but we'll still be here! Just like this!"

And the point of the story was that a life, no matter how long or how short, is still a complete life. The point at which it ends doesn't determine its fullness. It is still something beautiful.

I think we become confused when we value things in relationship to time. I work in a profession where we charge by the hour, and I will tell you that my fleeting moments of insight into the cases I'm constructing are very short-lived and yet they make the case. They are like a spark thrown from the flint of my efforts that set the whole thing ablaze. To charge hourly for my labors ignores the only piece that matters- the piece that exists apart from time.

We are forever trying to harness the value of human experience to time, and we are forever failing. Whatever time is, it bears no direct relationship to meaning. Things that are meaningful exist outside of time, make time irrelevant.

Light Inescapable

Light, inescapable, bathes the tall faces
Of buildings whose ground floors still mingle
With shadows and footfalls and breaths
That have just become visible this time of day.

This may be the one morning all year
That we feel the earth tilt on its axis
And see- perhaps down an alleyway
Drowned in the shadows-

The tunnel of years we collapse
In our memories down to their bones,
To the way the light fell
In its journey of angles to darkness.

A New Ending

I remember seeing the two of them walking down Elmwood Ave. toward me, hand in hand, and the way the smiles grew on their faces as they approached. I was working as a paralegal at an immigration law firm at the time and was working on his application for permanent residency as the spouse of a US citizen. They asked me to come to their house, down the street, to watch a movie with them. They gave me a tour and he showed me the new kitchen floor they had just put down. We ate popcorn and watched Waking Life and chatted through the whole movie about the philosophical concepts it raised. I barely knew them but they brought me in; it was as if their love grew to encompass me for an evening and I felt a sense of belonging.

I held on to that sense in the coming months as I worked on his case. His ex-wife, also a US citizen, had accused him of immigration marriage fraud, and he was barred from ever becoming a permanent resident until we proved otherwise. I worked closely with the attorney on the case to discover everything I could about his history, and ultimately was responsible to write his story. It was a labor of love. There was a way of viewing the facts that was unfavorable to him, but I had felt the genuineness of his present marriage and didn't believe him capable of committing fraud. And so it became easy for me to see his version of events and how they were believable. Ultimately, he became a permanent resident.

Only this past summer did I find out that he was charged in another state with a pretty heinous crime. From the facts available in the news, it seems pretty obvious that he's guilty. I don't know that there is any other way of looking at these allegations. He is in jail awaiting trial and probably will not be free for decades.

I have long since moved out of the city and into the suburbs, but I was in the Elmwood village recently, walking alone down the street as I had so many years ago when I met them. I could see their ghosts mingled in the crowd with their simple joy. I felt the weight of what could have been his life. I wish I could write a new ending.

What does it mean to forgive?

This post is a question to the handful of people who bother to read my blog. I am genuinely puzzled about what it means to forgive someone and I thought maybe some of you would have some insight.

I understand forgiving a discrete transgression or even a pattern of harmful behavior that is not deeply damaging. I can understand letting go of these things and giving a person a fresh start. But there are situations, such as when someone is abused, where it is unhealthy for the victim to wipe clean the slate and start afresh with the abuser. Often, for these victims, cutting off all contact with the abuser or figuring out a way to keep them in a place where the abuse cannot continue are incredibly healthy moves. Yet I often hear these victims being counseled to forgive their abuser.

It's all well and good to relinquish a sense of vengeance. But I have to assume that forgiveness means something different in this context than it does normally. Because normally, I think that forgiveness should be an utterly complete act, an act in which I dismantle all of the internal barriers I've constructed against someone else's poor behavior-- to truly begin the relationship anew. I think that when victims of abuse are counseled to forgive their abusers, their counselors either don't understand the true nature of forgiveness, mean to convey something different, or are stupid. Am I missing something here?

A Human Face

When I was pregnant with my first baby (who's now 6), I spent a lot of time doing yoga and relaxation exercises. I developed the idea through things I read that the process of giving birth was an ancient ritual to which I should trust myself, and that my role in the process was as little more than a vessel. More than actively doing anything, I needed to not do-- not clench muscles, not collect the physical stressors in my body-- I needed to step out of the way and let everything flow through me. (I could wax ecstatic elsewhere about the joy of natural childbirth but I will spare you of it here).

I didn't plan to continue using those exercises but they came back to me as I nursed my babies. I was surprised, when they were new, at how much time I was required to spend passively providing their nourishment. I was a busy career woman and not accustomed to spending large swaths of time doing, ostensibly, nothing. I learned not to watch the clock. I watched their faces. I felt their warmth. I did not think about what came next. I practiced relaxation techniques. I centered myself in those moments.

Shortly after my oldest was born, I started taking clients to the border to present applications for admission to the U.S. I was still establishing myself as a credible attorney and I would spend a lot of time in waiting rooms with clients where I could feel tension begin to collect in my body. And I found those same relaxation techniques coming back to mind as a necessity. I began to stay inside of those moments of seeming nothingness and to focus on what was right in front of me: my client-- a person just as stressed out (if not more so) than I was, someone who had placed an enormous amount of trust in me, whose livelihood was on the line. And I began to talk to my clients with the kind of focus I used in bonding with my babies, as if there was nothing outside of that moment with them. I learned later that that kind of attention to people was part of what made me good at lawyering, but at the time it was nothing more than a coping mechanism transferred from that humbling patience of motherhood which shows us we are always only vessels through which something larger than ourselves is always trying to emerge. We resist this process with our very bodies as something uncomfortable. We tense up. We exert our strength in the way that is natural to us, by doing something active, when what is required is to open ourselves through relaxation to what is happening around us, to participate in the seemingly inconsequential moments between the things that we deem important. So often this means looking into a human face. 

How To Sleep At Night if You're an Attorney

I've been an attorney now for 6 years. The first couple of years were pretty rough, and I gather that's par for the course. But I have gradually learned that the key to minimizing the stress of my job lies in recognizing and operating within the parameters of my role. I imagine this is true for many professionals, but I can speak only from my own experiences. My role, as I view it, is twofold: I am a counselor and an advocate.

As a counselor, my only job is to advise my clients. Advising clients is nothing more than researching all of the possible options available to the client and telling him what consequences could flow from following each course of action. Sometimes there are only a couple of options and the results are pretty straightforward, but other times the possibilities branch out in all directions. The most important thing to keep in mind in advising clients is that the decision as to which course of action to follow always belongs to the client. It is never my choice. I provide information and convey the level of risk involved. That is all. Some clients ask me what I would do if I were in their shoes, and with some disclaimer as to the fact that I am not, in fact, able to stand entirely in their shoes, I have no problem stating what I would do and explaining why I would do it. This is sometimes helpful to the client. But unlike George Bush, I am not the Decider. Recognizing that fact takes an enormous burden off of my shoulders. As long as I have provided the client with accurate information, I have done my job. Whatever consequences flow from the client's choices are the client's to bear.

I should note that the only course of action I will not follow on behalf of a client is anything that is illegal. I will advise those clients who propose such courses of action as to all of the penalties that can flow from that action, but if, after hearing those penalties, they still wish to engage in illegal behavior, I tell them that I cannot represent them. Engaging in illegal behavior, like making decisions for the client, is something outside the scope of my role and I just won't do it.

As an advocate, I represent my client in whatever course of action he or she has chosen, before the government. In my practice, I do not do so in a court of law, but to administrative agencies within the Department of State and the Department of Homeland Security. For the most part, my cases are presented in writing with no in-person appearance. However, I do represent people in person before Customs at the border. I credit that representation with my ability to understand how adjudicators think, and it has deeply informed the way that I prepare cases that I mail in as well. Not only will I not submit a case that offends logic, I also won't present anything that won't pass the sniff test of a seasoned government official.

Often the cases I present are so clearly approvable that there is virtually no chance of denial. Other times, there is a great deal of discretion involved on the part of the adjudicating officer. And I do have clients who choose to present cases that I have advised them may be approved but are unlikely to be approved. Those cases are actually a little bit stressful for me, and that is because it is a judgment call on my part as to whether I want to take a case like that. If there is a very low chance of approval, I often just turn the case down because it's not worth having to deal with the client, who will be very high maintenance and won't want to pay his bill. But sometimes there are cases which I believe really should be approved under the law and yet probably won't be because of current government attitudes or adjudication trends. I think those cases are worth fighting for, if the client is aware of the risk involved and chooses to pursue the case anyway. I like to push the boundaries of current government opinion when it is wrong.

My role as an advocate, then, is somewhat less clearly defined, and situational, than my role as an advisor. However, the important thing to keep in mind is that once I have chosen to represent a client and the client has chosen a course of action, my job is to advocate zealously for that course of action. I push to the side all of the what-ifs and possible pitfalls associated with the strategy and put together a solid case. I try to present each one as if it is unimpeachably logical. But once I present it, I have done everything I can and the final decision rests with the government. If a case is denied, I can choose to appeal it. But once I hand that case over, it is again out of my hands and I really don't think about it until I get a decision.

There are limits to what any of us can do. It is sometimes tempting to over-estimate the power that you have over others, but it is an illusion to think that we truly have control over what anyone else chooses. And ultimately, if someone gives you that kind of control, it's a mistake on their part that will harm you both. Everyone makes their own choices. The best we can do is to inform people's decision making process. Recognizing the limitations of our roles is a way of letting go of things that were never in our control to begin with. I love my clients but I don't carry their problems home with me at the end of the day, and I don't pin my happiness to things I can't control. I am happy when I have advised and advocated well.