Our Perception Makes Our Reality

Our sense of time passing is an illusion, determined largely by how quickly our brain processes what's happening around us. Color is another thing determined by our brain, each specific shade determined by the way our brain interprets information received from the cones in our eyes. Our taste buds actually do relatively little to tell us about the food we eat – instead, our brain takes the information received by our nose, adds in backup data from our tongue, and cooks up an entirely new sense known as taste.

Most of what we perceive as reality, in fact, happens inside our head. Even when other parts of our bodies are what's actually receiving the data, it's useless to us until our brain translates it into something we understand. And, unlike computers,  each set of neurons and stem cells is even more unique than our fingerprints. It's more than a cliché that no two people see the world in exactly the same way – it's scientific fact. And, when you're human, how you see the world determines how your world actually is.

That's even more true when it comes to less tangible things. If brain waves determine color, taste and even time itself, then they're definitely in the driver's seat when it comes to things like beauty, goodness and wonder. That's why everyone's taste is different – what one set of neurons sees a beautiful may not be what another set of neurons sees as beautiful. So if someone doesn't find you attractive, that's says nothing about how you look. It just means that their way of perceiving the world simply wasn't compatible.

It can't change the data of your life – horrible events will happen, no matter what our attitude is – but it can change how you translate that data. It's the inside of your head that tells you whether to focus on the good things or the bad things in your life, or if a particular challenge is something you're capable of overcoming.  You don't get to decide what happens to you, but you do get to decide what it all actually means.

It also determines how we see ourselves. Your perception of your own attractiveness has an effect on how attractive you actually are to people, because it changes how you carry yourself and the confidence you project when you interact with others. If you see yourself as brave, you won't get intimidated by challenges that come your way. You will, in fact, will yourself into bravery.

If you see yourself as stupid, you'll get easily frustrated by tasks and give up on things you decide are "too hard." If you see yourself as smart, on the other hand, you'll set yourself to the challenge of problem solving because you know you're intelligent enough to succeed. You'll be more likely to solve the problem simply because you were willing to use all of your energy and intelligence to tackle it. Your IQ and skill sets don't change, but the results do.

We can help program our brains, shifting our perceptions inch by careful inch. It's not easy, and sometimes you need help in order to make it happen, but you can literally change your life by adjusting your mind.

There's an entire world being built inside your head. Make sure it's the one you want to be living in.

Textual Salvation

"Power of Words" by Antonio Litterio

I've kind of been going crazy for the last several days. Something had had been working is suddenly not working anymore, the IT people deep in the heart of a faceless corporation that I desperately need to talk to won't acknowledge my e-mails, and to top it all off I was in a constant tailspin of worry that I wasn't figuring out a way to fix these things immediately. You know, my entire future was on the line, I was blowing my chance, failure was imminent, that sort of thing. It was all I could think about, and because there was nothing I could do to fix it I had absolutely zero interest in doing anything else.

Then I had a realized that I had a metric ton of writing to do, and the deadlines were about to hit me over the head.

It was like a miracle. All of my anxiety about my future and success suddenly narrowed down to the simple fact that if I didn't get these writing assignments finished, I would be screwed in very concrete and practical ways. I'm a journalist by trade, so I respect deadlines in a way I respect few other things in my life, and here was a whole stack of them in front of me.

My worry narrowed down in a wonderful way from things I couldn't control to things I could. Even better, I could control them by writing, which is something I would rather be doing than nearly anything else in my life. I'm terrible at social interaction, marketing, long-term planning or convincing people to respect me, but I am freaking great at putting one word in front of another.

I might not have been able to fix my life, but I could absolutely sit down and wrap up the blog assignment I had finally found the perfect idea for. I couldn't predict the future, but I could definitely start slugging my way through the pile of articles I had been putting off for days that had a very immediate deadline. I had little interest in being inside my own head, but I could happily fulfill my obligation to characters whose company I vastly preferred to my own.

Writing saved me, as it has before and as it undoubtedly will again. I see a purpose in it in a way I can't always see a purpose in myself, and I can give myself over to it wholeheartedly when the inside of my head is just a little more than I can take at the moment. Every time I write an article, a story or a poem, I am validating my own existence one more time. Yes, I may be kind of messed up, but look at this awesome thing I made.

I think ... no, I hope, that Robin Williams's movies saved him for a long time. Like everyone, I wish they'd been enough to hold him here with us even longer. And I wish for you all the inexpressible gift of finding some form of expression that might help save you. 

Mapping my mind

One of the most important tasks of a map is to identify the dangerous places. Landslides, impossibly strong currents, jagged rocks – we mark down where they are, so the people who come after us can know to stay away. Some choose to venture in anyway, but the map helps them know they need to be cautious.

            There are days when my entire head seems to be a dangerous place. There are hurts so old and deep that the resulting emotional scar tissue rises up like mountains. Waves of emotion will crash into me at unpredictable moments, strong enough to send even the toughest ship off course. Monsters of panic lurk in the shadows, always ready to send their claws at my throat.

            I started mapping the inside of my head when I was in high school, trying to time the waves so I would at least know what direction they were going to toss me in. It took me years of careful, methodical study before I could predict them as well as the tides, trying to organize my life so that my tasks best suited my emotional state and forgiving myself when I couldn’t. Learning to let the water only carry me so far, and to never forget how off course I was.

            Those years added more details to the map, cautious expeditions into the thickets of fear and careful outlines of the boundaries of the pits of self-doubt. I know the shape of my scar-tissue mountains, and have carefully outlined a few careful trails that will let me navigate the foothills without getting caught in an unclimbable area or falling to my death. I have marked many of the places where panic waits, and though I can’t avoid it I am no longer surprised.

            None of this has razed the mountains, cleared the jungles or defeated the monsters waiting for me. The purpose of a map is only to identify what’s already there, leaving the choice of what to do with it to the person reading. It’s a light in the darkness, not a weapon.

            But oh, how I need that light. The world is still a terrifying place, full of uncertainty and things that want to hurt me, but over the years I have stopped being afraid of myself. I know the contours of my mind as I know few other things, and even the dangers have become as familiar to me as the walls of my bedroom. I have learned how to navigate them, and because of that they are no longer enough to stop me from exploring the wild, beautiful places my mind contains as well. Any jungle has its treasures as well as its dangers, and if you watch for them both there is no place that’s closed to you.

             I’m not quite there yet. There are still a few shadowy places that I’m not brave enough to venture in, too uncertain what I’ll find once I cross beyond the boundaries of what I know. But I will, one day.

            A map maker doesn’t like blank places.  

Being Different

Every once in awhile, I wish I was normal.

           
No, it wouldn’t be as fun. Normal people have to dress a certain way, and not raise their hand and say anything that their neighbors wouldn’t like. Normal people can be warm and wonderful, but they’re bound by the societal rules pretty much every second of every day. 

           
But surely it would be easier. I get to ignore the rules, dress/think/act how I want to, but in exchange for that I have to figure out everything pretty much on my own. The normal people are in the carefully mowed park, having a picnic, while I’m lost in the deep woods hoping that the berry I’m about to eat isn’t poisonous. Yes, I get to see things no one else can see – secret waterfalls, wild animals, and sunsets designed to bring tears to your eyes. But I also get scratched and desperately, desperately lost.

           
We don’t wander out into the woods on purpose. The rules sound like an alien language to me, and the years have proven that I am physically incapable of doing things the way that normal people do them. Because of the way I look, because of the way I think, or maybe just some weird pheromone nobody bothers to tell the freaks about, I don’t get the option to do things the way normal people do. The rules are written into your skin, behind your eyes, and those of us who were born unmarked are cast out to fend for ourselves. We have to stumble through without a map.

           
My brain bends sideways. Some of the most brilliant figures in the arts and sciences have had the same problem, but there’s only so many of us who get to shine that brightly. I’d like to think I have some talents, but I accepted a long time ago that I can’t shine enough to make people forget that there’s something not quite right about me.

           
I’m not broken. I remind myself of that every day, sometimes every minute, and I try with all my soul to be the best whatever in the world I am that I can possibly be. There’s no shame in being something new. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, there’s even glory in it.

But it’s exhausting always having to forge a trail before you can move even a few feet. It’s exhausting not having anyone to ask what to do next. Forgive me for occasionally wishing that I was in the park, eating boring but beautifully cut sandwiches. 

Fairy Godmothers, Inc. fiction: Squirrel Lessons

Photo by Jenniffer Wardell

Squirrel Lessons

By Jenniffer Wardell

It was supposed to be a simple job.

The client was the soon-to-be Viscount of Thornby, a young man who had spent the last six months as an enchanted squirrel. He’d annoyed whoever cursed him enough that they’d also taken away his ability to talk like a human, but Kate had found a squirrel translation charm that solved that problem.

The curse could only be broken by a kiss from a maid who was genuinely pure in heart, which was a slightly more complicated problem. Still, careful research and some legal wrangling over the definition of “pure” had turned up a perfectly nice young woman named Leslie who seemed to fit the bill. A rumor about a unicorn sighting had gotten her into the clearing, she had found the artfully displayed translation charm that someone had just “happened” to leave behind, and everything was ready to go.
 

Hiding behind a tree, Kate turned to the enchanted squirrel perched on her shoulder. “That’s your cue,” she whispered.

The squirrel nodded, then leapt down off her shoulder and headed into the clearing. He’d stop in front of Leslie and begin the speech they’d prepared, and Kate would add a little sparkle just to help get the point across. She lifted her wand, ready to nudge things along….

Only to have Thornby head straight through the clearing and disappear into the trees on the opposite side.

Shock had Kate frozen for a split second, then she hurried through the clearing after him. Leslie looked up, the hope on her face disappearing as soon as she saw who it was. “You’re not a unicorn.”

Kate hadn’t planned on dignifying that with a response, but she realized she was missing something. Doubling back, she plucked the charm out of the woman’s hand. “I need that.”

It took her 15 minutes to find Thornby, who was high on a branch cuddled up to another squirrel. She yanked him down by the tail, causing a horrified squeak from the other squirrel, and held him upside down in front of her. “I should make you into a hat, you little sneak. What do you think you’re doing, running off with a poor innocent real squirrel? Does she even know what you really are?”

They both started chattering at her at once. Apparently, the translation charm worked for all squirrels.

“Okay, fine. But if you were so honest with her, why didn’t you have the guts to tell me what your little plan was?”

More chatter.

“I understand wanting to be free of your mother. But you can’t really want to spend the rest of your life as a squirrel, do you?” Kate didn’t add that she wouldn’t get paid if she didn’t produce a human Thornby.

More chatter.

“Yes, I know she’s a squirrel. But you’re going to miss food that isn’t seeds. And surely you have friends somewhere.”

More chatter.

“How can you be so sure you won’t regret this? And if you do, nobody’s going to be standing around with a convenient squirrel translation charm.”

At this, the female squirrel jumped off the tree and knocked against Kate’s hand long enough to make her drop Thornby. Kate swore, ready to start chasing them again, but then the female squirrel touched her nose to Thornby’s.
 

There was a swirl of magic, and a second later a very human man was standing in front of her. It took Kate a second to realize what had happened. “Mental note,” she murmured to herself. “Wild animals count as ‘pure in heart.’”

Thornby, however, wasn’t listening. He dropped to his knees in front of the squirrel, his face a picture of despair. “Reetcheet, what did you do?”

The squirrel started chattering, and Thornby looked even more despairing. Kate, taking pity on him, held out the translation charm. “This might help.”

He gripped it tight in his hands while the female squirrel kept talking. Kate could no longer understand what she was saying, but a moment later his expression cleared. “If you’re sure, then I’m absolutely thrilled. I’ll find a witch right away.”

The squirrel leapt onto his shoulder, and they both stood. “She wants to become human,” he said, looking absolutely delighted.

Kate smiled. She hadn’t quite gotten over being annoyed yet, but Thornby’s pleasure was infectious. “Great. Just let me handle explaining this to your mother.” It was, technically, everything the woman had contracted with Fairy Godmothers Inc. to provide.
 

She just hadn’t bothered to specify a daughter-in-law who didn’t speak squirrel.

A kid in a grown-up’s body

I don’t think I ever really grew up.

Honestly, who would want to? True, it’s always fun to be able to stay up late, and at first glance the toys of adulthood seem far cooler – speeding along an open road in a real car beats Hot Wheels every time. But when you’re an adult you also have to pay for all your toys, and the sheen of a good imagination is always going to make something more impressive than my bank account could match.

And oh, man, there are some cool kids toys that no longer fit my arm. I saw a little girl with a set of claws that actually had a sword attached. While I restrained myself from asking if I could play with it – like I said, it no longer fit my arm – I really, really wanted to.

Which is why I’m pretty sure I haven’t managed the whole “grown up” thing yet. I hold down a job, yes, but that’s really no scarier than school used to be. And I pay bills, but I was also pretty good at turning in my homework. In exchange I still get to happily go to kids movies without worrying about stealing a child for cover, read comic books without trying to argue that they have socio-political subtext, and take advantage of any and all swings I come across.

Sometimes, there’s even someone on the swing next to me. There are fewer grown-ups out there than most people realize.

PBS in my DNA

I’m a full-time journalist and about to be a published novelist, and I’m just now realizing how much PBS made me a part of who I am.

My earliest years are a combination of “Sesame Street” and “Mr. Rogers Neighborhood,” both ingrained in me so deeply that lines from different segments will still float through my head occasionally. It’s a standard line now that both shows make education seem fun, but they also taught me things I never found in a textbook. Through those shows, I found out that words have a wonderful rhythm that can be as fun to play with as any toy. I found out that everyone has their own story to share, and you can find out the most wonderful things if you’re just brave enough to ask a question. I learned that it’s okay to be scared, but that things will probably work out if you take a deep breath and jump in.

Then there was Bob Ross. I’ve never really painted, and most certainly not with oils, but when I was a kid he was the only creative person I knew. In a way, he opened up the entire world of creativity for me. You could watch him paint these beautiful, complicated scenes, and he would break it all down into these simple-sounding steps that made it seem like anyone could make something that beautiful and complicated. I know Ross really believed that, and he was warm and encouraging enough to feel like the kindest, most loving teacher in the world. There were no mistakes, only “happy accidents” that you could turn into something wonderful. On a more fundamental level, the fact that he loved what he was doing radiated out of him every second he was onscreen.

Bob Ross might not have succeeded in teaching me how to paint, but he definitely taught me that making something out of nothing is one of the happiest, most welcoming experiences a human being can have. How was I supposed to say no to that?

Learning to appreciate August

August is the most bittersweet month of the year for students, a desperate attempt to slow down time so those last few days of summer freedom can be appropriately savored.

Even if you liked school you find yourself hating the thought of going back, and so you start trying to partition each moment down to a trickle so you don’t miss anything. At the same time, that first day back in school looms over the top of every moment, making it sweeter and reminding you it’s going to end. It’s passionate, intense, and in the end completely exhausting. 

Summers aren’t nearly so exciting when you have a real job, since bosses and the need to pay bills keep you attached to your desk no matter what month of the year it is. One thing it has done, however, is give me back August, which is a perfectly pleasant (if hot) month when I’m not dreading September. The skies are blue, school crossing zones/speed traps haven’t been turned back on yet, and my schedule is starting to clear out. It’s almost relaxing.

Of course, I don’t mention this to the students or teachers I still know. I don’t think they’d appreciate the sentiment.

The terror and relief of admitting cluelessness

It’s terribly stressful to pretend you know what you’re doing all the time. Not only does it tax a person’s acting skills, which may not be all that great to begin with, but it leaves us without any opportunity to stop, look around, and take a few moments to try and understand the mess we’ve just gotten ourselves into. People who want to look like they know what they’re doing don’t dare slow down, because they’re already supposed to have figured it all out and should be charging ahead getting things done. So you barrel on, panicked because you can’t admit to anyone that you don’t have the slightest idea what’s happening.

It’s infinitely easier, I’ve found, to be able to admit to being completely clueless on occasion. Most people will respond at least reasonably well to comments like “I’m embarrassingly lost. Can you please tell me how to get to [insert name of wherever it is here]?” or “This exploded and I don’t know what happened. Please fix it.” I’ve never asked them, but I believe that most people are kind in these circumstances because they hope that someone else will be if they ever need to admit cluelessness.

Doing so can make you feel more than a little vulnerable – high school flashbacks, I think – and there are times it can be downright scary. But it can also be such a relief to stop, give someone else the steering wheel for just a few moments, and figure out how to get back to that patch of road you know so much better than you do this one.

Boxes, borders and extra puzzle pieces

Society expects people to make sense. In fact, it generally tries to force the issue, squeezing us all into convenient little boxes it can use to label and categorize. The vagaries of the need for solitude are forcibly paired up with those unable to reach out and are called “loners,” while those who love to talk, those who love to have people to talk to, and those who are desperate to keep talking so no one sees inside their hearts are all called “social.” It looks better on a spreadsheet, true, but it crushes the wonder of human complexity into a series of bullet points.

When society can’t find the box to stuff you in, it doesn’t know how to handle you. Where do you put the extroverted introverts, who love talking but only to a very small and select group of people? Or the quiet rabble-rousers, who don’t shout or speechify but are secretly full of righteous fury and desperate to change the world from behind the scenes? Do they move between the boxes, or do they exist outside them somewhere?

If it’s the latter, what happens to those who don’t force the world to see them? Are they free, or do they disappear? Are the boxes cages, or are they tribes?

Sigh. If this is what it’s like for an English Lit major in a quiet moment, I can’t imagine what poor Philosophy majors have to go through when they start thinking too hard. For their sakes, I hope they have an off switch of some kind.