A bottle with green leaves and a white label sits on a bathroom counter. The label reads eucalyptus mint body wash. The blurred background holds other bottles and objects.
The system has a predetermined function, a reason for existing. It’s fairly apparent. The function of this system is to deliver eucalyptus mint scented body wash.
To work the system, you press the pump on top. Simple.
If you use a washcloth, and hold it as close as you can to the neck of the bottle when you press the pump, the system works just fine.
But!
If you use, say, a loofah which has more bulk than a washcloth, you can’t get it right next to the neck of the bottle. The neck is too short. When you press the pump, the body wash gets delivered not to the loofah but to the bottle itself. The spout is too short.
The system only functions correctly for certain types of tools held in a precise position.
Poor design.
Here is another system, with the same functionality:
A translucent pink bottle sits on a bathroom counter. The label reads rose oil body wash. The blurred background holds other bottles and objects.
The pump has a higher neck and a longer spout. If you hold your body-washing tool (washcloth, loofah, exfoliating glove, scrub brush, banana peel, whatever) anywhere near the neck of the bottle, the system works just fine.
The system functions correctly for basically any type of tool, held in any position.
Good design.
These small systems are part of the larger system:
A silver rack with two shelves is in the corner of a shower with mediocre greige tile of the sort favored by landlords. The top shelf holds shampoo. The bottom shelf holds the two aforementioned body wash bottles as well as a third mysterious black bottle with the label facing away.
Since I can access either one of these small systems anytime I want, the poor design of the one isn’t a big deal to me. I can choose which small system to access based on the tool I want to use and the precision I’m able to achieve.
But what if I only had a loofah, and I only had the poorly designed body wash delivery system?
A few things would happen:
I’d use up my resources faster. Not because I wanted to, but because my only accessible tool does not work well with the poorly designed system.
I’d have to expend more energy. It would require more effort from me, the user, to get the same result that other people (with access to better tools and properly designed systems) could get with a fraction of the same effort.
I’d be frustrated and demotivated when I used the system. I might be aware of the problem: poor design, mismatched tool. So I might be frustrated with the system designer. I might be frustrated that I don’t have access to a better tool that I could use with the system. ….Or I might not realize the problem is with the system. I might think the problem is with me. I might begin to think I’m just not a very good user, not very intelligent, not very capable.
I might be blamed for the system’s failure. I might complain, rightly, about the system. But other people, with access to different tools, or with more system options, might not understand. They might say things like, “It works fine for me,” or “I don’t have any problems like that.” I might be able to articulate my complaint in a way that was clear and understandable and they might get it, and work to help me access better tools, or redesign the systems. Or they might dismiss my complaints, call me lazy, and blame me for the problems. I might not have the time or energy to articulate my complaint, anyway, since I’d be so busy trying to make up for missing resources, work with a poorly designed system, manage my frustration, and stay motivated long enough to get the needed results.
September 4, 2023 at 11:32 AM ⮕ Oct 24, 2024 at 6:51 PM
I write two things over and over. Different versions of the same two things, over and over. And sometimes, a third thing which is not really different but is just a combination of the first two things.
One thing I write is something like Wow. Like, wow, look at this. Awe. Worship. Wow, this tree. Wow, that moss. Wow, these humans. Wow, this experience. Wow, life. Wow, here we are.
The other thing I write is something like Ouch. Pain, ah, hurt, grief, sadness, oh, suffering. Ouch, this hurts. Ouch, my heart is breaking. Ow, this pain, this experience, this moment.
The third thing is, like I said, not really a third separate different thing but just a combination of Wow and Ouch and it’s something like What the fuck. What the fuck everything is so amazing and also Ouch why does it all hurt so bad. The heights of love! The depths of grief! All of it all the time! What the fuck.
And that’s pretty much it. Two expressions and a question. Wow. Ouch. What the fuck? (Similar to three essential prayers but slightly different.)
I’m just repeating these things over and over, which is a reflection I guess of what life is. Nothing new under the sun, or something like that, but I still find it worthwhile.
And I’ll keep living it and writing about the same two things and asking the same question and this will probably keep me pretty occupied until I die, and in the words of Bukowski:
This post was originally published May 01, 2017. I freshened it up a bit and republished it Oct 22, 2024 at 8:04 PM because I’m feeling nervous about the state of things, about my country which I love so deeply it hurts, about the world in general, about what happens next. It’s easy to focus on what I can’t do. I want to focus on what I can do, however small. None of us are helpless.
A small stick figure human kneels, shaking, holding a candle, while surrounded by giant menacing gray toothy beasts that seem to be closing in.
At least my faith doesn’t look brave.
My faith looks like me being terrified.
“It will all work out.” “Don’t worry.” “It’s going to be okay.” “Look for the good!”
These are things people say to help you have faith. At least that’s the idea.
I think most of the time people say these things because they’re uncomfortable with the raw, broken, messy, rough reality of faith. Faith is a thing with lots of jagged edges. Faith is small and dangerous. Faith is not a thing with feathers that perches in the soul. Faith is painful because it keeps you believing instead of giving up.
The small stick figure human is standing now, still trembling and still surrounded by the beasts, but holding the candle up. The light is brighter.
Guess what hurts more, believing in something that’s not happening or giving up on it and moving on?
Giving up on something is hard. But you give up, and you let go, and you sit in that grief and anger for a bit and then you start moving on.
Faith is not like that. Faith is torture. Faith makes you keep going. Faith won’t let you lay down and die already.
Faith is what you have when you can’t give up on something, even though everything and everyone are telling you that you should.
Faith is a roaring screech of desperation that keeps you up in the abandoned hours of the night.
Faith is a tiny shard of glass stuck in your soul. It won’t let you get comfortable. It keeps you aware enough that you can’t go numb.
Faith makes no fucking sense.
The small stick figure human has raised the candle high and the light is almost blinding! The monsters are still there, but they seem dim and weaker, somehow.
Faith is the tiniest flame. It’s like one of those trick birthday candles that relights itself. I’ve doused this thing over and over again. Dark, cold breezes and hurricane-force winds have blown it out, over and over and over again.
It won’t stay out.
It keeps coming back.
It won’t let me lay down and rest in the dark. It won’t let me quit. It won’t let me put my head in my hands and give up. It won’t let me sink into the soft gray doubts all around me. It won’t let me be.
Reasonable people make plans. Reasonable people have goals. Reasonable people see obstacles. Reasonable people understand how the world works and concede. Reasonable people reach into their souls, remove that pesky shard of glass, and carry on.
I don’t know what I’m doing. Don’t take advice from me.
Reasonable people know what they’re doing. They figure things out. They work the systems. They get it.
I’m just here with this stupid candle.
The monsters have disappeared. The small stick figure human is standing, smiling, holding the candle aloft while glorious light fills the space all around them.
I’ve been meaning to write this down for a while. Inspired to do so now by John Philpin’s post.
I don’t have any insight on Dunbar’s categorizations. Sorry, lol.
At some point in my life, unrelated to Dunbar’s numbers/circles, I started thinking of my relationships in concentric circles.
I did this because I needed a way to orient myself in the various relationships I’m lucky enough to have.
I’m kind of an all or nothing person, and I like that about myself. But sometimes it’s tricky because I tend to be all in on people (yay!) but when you 1) don’t know how to have boundaries and 2) are all in on a bunch of people you will 3) quickly have nothing at all left for yourself.
Not great, not sustainable.
To protect myself, I’d learned to flip to the nothing side of all or nothing, which meant disappearing on the friends who really mean a lot to me, for weeks or months (or more!) at a time.
Not great either.
So, the circles are a mental model or map for me to determine how much give-and-take I am going to be giving-and-taking in these different relationships.
It gives me a hierarchy, of sorts, which helps me make decisions.
Like this: If someone in layer 4 or 5 asks something from me, I first consider whether saying Yes will keep me from tending to the relationships in layer 3 or 2. This helps me a lot because I WANT TO SAY YES. I want to say yes SO MUCH. But if I say Yes to something in a layer 4 relationship and it keeps me from being there, the way I want to be, in a layer 2 or 3 relationship, something is out of whack and I need to adjust.
It feels a little cold and heartless to group relationships this way, I dunno. But it’s important for me because of that all-or-nothing tendency I have. It’s not appropriate or healthy to invest the same amount of energy into every person in my life. It’s also not appropriate or healthy to tunnel underground and resist communication even from my actual best friends because I’m overwhelmed by investing the same amount of energy into every person in my life. So. This model helps me, and I use it.
Quick definitions:
Me: Seems self-evident.
The most important: My kids. This layer used to include my spouse, but he oopsed himself right out of it. His loss, oh well, moving on.
The inner circle: These are the people I will bury bodies for, no questions asked. I talk to/hang out with them regularly. We are doing life together or doing our best to support each other doing life, if that makes sense.
The arena people: They’ve been through shit with me, or I’ve been through shit with them, or (more likely) both. We’ve buried a few bodies together. We may not talk regularly/often but if they need me, I’m there, and I know I can count on the same from them. If they need me to bury a body I’ll probably ask a few questions just for context, but I’ll ask while I’m shoveling dirt.
The current connections: People who are part of my life because I want them to be. Degree, intensity, and amount varies. I often interact with #5 people on a more regular basis than #4 people. Everybody who is a #4 or #3 person started as a #5 person.
The wider community: The situational relationships in my life. Work colleagues, school parents, etc. etc. etc. Some of these folks move into layer #5. Some stay solidly in #6 and are relegated to #7 as soon as the situational scenario ends.
Everybody else in the world: All ~8 billion of them.
How do you think about your relationships?
Also here’s a song I just listened to and I like it.
