Seeing/not seeing

Yesterday I was preparing dinner and began searching for the vegetable peeler. I knew what I was looking for: green plastic handle that splits to hold a peeling blade horizontally. I bought it at William Sonoma years ago, and it makes quick work of peeling a potato. I dug around in the kitchen drawer for several minutes and couldn't find it.

Only when I went into another room to get something did I remember that we had lost that peeler long ago and a while back I bought a new vegetable peeler. This one, from Bed, Bath, & Beyond, has a bulbous orange plastic handle and the peeler blade extends vertically from the base. It also is effective, but looks very different.

The interesting thing to me is that once I had the right picture in my head, I located the peeler in the drawer immediately.

My initial wrong expectation (green gadget) kept me from finding what I was seeking (orange gadget). I'm sure my eyes saw the orange handled peeler in the drawer, but the message never made it past my "expectation filter" to my brain.

This has happened to me before.

Arriving at the airport from out of town, I was expecting my husband to pick me up outside baggage claim. I was looking for his large SUV. I was positioned to see vehicles approaching from a great distance. He came into view and drove to the curb beside me before I recognized him -- because he was driving my little four-door car. Even though I am intimately familiar with my own car, it wasn't what I expected to see. My mental filter rejected it, failing to recognize my ride home.

One more example: several years ago I was shopping for groceries, looking for a bag of fritoes. I went up and down the chips aisle several times, unable to find the corn chips I wanted. Finally, after much frustration, I began examining closely each bag of chips. Only then, did I find the fritoes I wanted -- in newly redesigned packaging. It wasn't what I had expected to see. (Which calls for a different post on the importance of consistency in brand identity!)

In each of these examples, my expectations kept me from seeing reality. My physical ability to see was fine, but my mental filters sorted out any information that did not match my expectations. In each case, I thought I KNEW what I was looking for!

Now . . . . not spotting a vegetable peeler is no big deal.

But I wonder if I suffer from this same sort of blindness in other situations -- more important situations.

Wonder how often my expectations cause me to fail to see the reality about the people and circumstances around me? Wonder if it is possible to disable or override those filters?

Handiwork

How often have you said with great glee, "I did it with my own hands!" Such an air of accomplishment floats around those words!

There is just something intrinsically satisfying about working with your hands.

Maybe it's the immediacy of it. Maybe it's the pride of doing something with no help from others.

Small children are delighted to be able to tie their own shoes -- to do it all by themselves. Older people enjoy a similar thrill when mastering a new skill.

But it isn't just new skills that yield this pleasure: yesterday I folded and stapled some booklets I had written, designed, fed through the copier, etc. I felt strangely successful when I completed the stack.

When I fold clothes from the drier and place them in drawers and shelves, I have such a feeling of completion and worth! (Yes, I know -- out of proportion joy. They are towels for goodness sake!)

I wonder if these simple pleasures are a reaction to the kinds of assignments most of us battle every day. Many of my daily tasks are collaborative; my part is a piece of the whole. It's hard to point to something and say that I (and I alone) did that.

I work with project teams and working groups and taskforces and committees. And as a result, I don't control the final product.

Also, in this "information age" so much work results in intangibles..... ideas, plans, messages, advice.

Occasionally, it's nice to do something visible, measurable with my own two hands.

Observations

Morning exercise.

As I drove to work, I looked at the people in my subdivision getting their exercise along the road.

Just a few blocks from my house I see the same man almost every morning. I always wonder why he is has chosen to jog for exercise. He has his head down, trudging along, appearing to hate every step. I wonder: does he hate to jog, or (even worse) is that the way he approaches all of life?

Seemingly designed for contrast, a few streets over there is a man jogging along who has his head thrown back as though to soak up the blessings of the early morning. He has a pleasant look on his face, and although he is sweating, he seems delighted, expecting to see someone or something he likes.

Further along is the young mother, ponytail swinging, pushing one of those three-wheeled jogger strollers with baby all bundled up inside. Mom looks like the picture of good health and positive potential, trying hard to do the right things for herself and her child.

She swerves around and passes a very thin, very tan older woman in tennis clothes who is fast-walking with tremendous determination. Heel-toe-heel-toe, elbows pumping energetically. I imagine that she is mentally going over the list of the day's commitments . . . maybe a bridge game at ten . . . maybe a volunteer committee luncheon.

I enjoy observing people and imagining their lives. I'm fascinated by the endless variety of humans around me.

And I wonder how many of my snap assessments are close and how many are dead wrong.
Then I wonder what people surmise when they see me.

In the know

Perhaps the most tantalizing thing on earth is a secret.

From our earliest days as children, we love secrets and we know the power they have. I have strong memories of kids chanting the sing-song, "I know something you don't know!" (I bet each of you filled in the tune when you read it!)

But it isn't just children. . . adults are just as susceptible to the lure of a secret.

In ancient days, the Gnostics, whose very name speaks of "knowing," devised an elaborate hierarchy of knowledge for adherents to discover.

Many other groups through the ages have used secret knowledge as the foundation for membership. That, of course, is the whole story behind the DaVinci Code, for example.

Sometimes it is as simple as a secret handshake to be able to get into the treehouse, but sometimes it is much more complex and sinister.

Marketing and advertising have taken advantage of this aspect of our psyche. How many campaigns have you seen that begin with a word or phrase plastered everywhere? Then once everyone begins to wonder what's going on, the product is unveiled. It works everytime.

You have probably noticed in many stores the ubiquitous book, The Secret. It's in bookstores and at Costco and probably will soon be at the gas station too. How we love anything that purports to be a secret!

I wonder about this almost irresistible desire to KNOW. I assume it is part of our DNA and that we are designed in our innermost selves to be seekers.

My mother used to tell me that 'curiosity killed the cat' -- a strange statement at best -- but it is probably our curiosity that determines the path we take in life. Can it be said: we are what we seek?

Greener grass

From childhood I've heard the saying about the grass always being greener on the other side of the fence. And I've always laughed about it, as though I was immune to such a mistake.

At the same time, I've been prey to a similar error. It's not that I want things that other people have. It's not that I envy other people's lives or circumstances.

I've noticed that for me the "greener grass" is more likely to be a different point in my own life, my own situation. For instance, 'things will be great after I finish this project at work' or 'I just can't wait until it's cool again next fall' or whatever.

I think a lot of people do this, and it happens at all ages of life. Some are straining forward to the day they graduate, some to when they retire. Some are anticipating having a family, some are planning what they will do when the kids are out of the house.

It makes me think of the man who walked past the diamonds because he was searching for pearls.

I understand the psychological benefits of hope and the joys of anticipation. Like most things in life, though, I think there should be a balance -- while we enjoy the glow of things to come, I think we would benefit from learning to recognize the delights of today.

I think I'll hang a sign on my mirror reminding me to notice what's good about right here, right now.