Lightbulb moment
We’re having a new kitchen put in. It’s been traumatic. The suffering, of course, is insignificant compared to what other people endure. But to quote the great Mary Oliver: “Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.”
The disruption is bearable. The part that wears me down is the seemingly endless succession of decisions that need to be made. For example, we’re on the third set of lightbulbs. The first we ordered were too bright, the second too dim.
The kitchen project has given me an opportunity to think about how I relate to decision-making. I’ve discovered an interesting model that I’d like to share. It suggests there are typically four ways we can respond to choices.
The first is to associate choice with difficulty. We don’t know what to do, we worry about making the wrong choice, and that makes us anxious. From ‘what should I do with my life?’ to ‘should I write about lightbulbs?’ – even if we make a choice, the anxiety lingers.
The second is to freeze. Overwhelmed by indecision, we disassociate. Whether physically or mentally, we exit stage left. We avoid making any decision, often by pretending that it doesn’t matter to us or that we are far too busy with something else. In my example this would be telling the electrician he should talk to my wife about the lightbulbs.
The third response is to BE DECISIVE. This is in capital letters to reflect the energy that comes with it. There’s something seductive about strutting through the world making choices. We cut through the uncertainty. We simplify the complex. We show leadership. It feels great. I AM IN CONTROL HERE! Our culture elevates people who behave like this. But at what cost?
There is a fourth way, which I’ve been experimenting with. This is to experience every choice and decision as a glorious mystery. What should we do about the lightbulbs? I don’t know – but there are many possibilities. And when a decision needs to be made – which, surprise, surprise is not yet – I trust that the right choice will be apparent.
I’ve worked with the power of ‘not knowing’ or ‘don’t-know mind’ for many years, but more as a strategy for coping with uncertainty, less as a way of opening to possibility.
To smile and say I don’t know is a strategy that’s applicable beyond home improvement projects. Perhaps you might be writing a book that seems to flit between different forms and voices or refuse to take shape. Surely you, the author, need to decide what it is, or what it’s going to become? Faced with that decision, will you fall into anxious rumination, abandon the project and pretend it doesn’t matter, or impose your will on the mess? Or could you just luxuriate in the possibility that you have no idea what you’re doing?
Perhaps you’re writing the thing to discover what it wants to be? Perhaps that is the joy of doing it? And perhaps your insistence on controlling the work and imposing your will on it is killing that joy? Maybe you could trust that when you do need to know what it is, it will tell you?
Some vision of where you’re going is useful – but it might be just a glimpse, seen by the light of a very dim bulb.
If this way of thinking resonates with you – embracing not-knowing, making space for uncertainty, exploring your creative path without rushing to control it – you might be interested in something we’ve just announced: a small-group coaching journey called Walking Your Path.