A Simple Mind

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I was a fairly serious athlete when I was a boy and young man, and one of the first things you learn if you want to be good at any sport is you can’t think while you’re trying to jump a hurdle or catch a pass or sink a basket. Thinking is too slow for the speed at which athletic choices must be made. Not-thinking becomes a skill of its own, and why, I think athletes – or jocks as they are sometimes referred – have acquired a reputation for not being all that bright.

When I was a teenager, I often worried that I was a bit of simpleton at heart because I was so willing to not think. I needed to stop thinking to run track, to play the flute, to listen to music, and, of course, to write. Writing always begins by clearing the mind. Until the mind is clear of all the noisy thinking of daily life, nothing new can come in to write about.

Also, friendship, for me, couldn’t begin until I stopped thinking. I couldn’t feel the necessary connection to another person until my mind was still. It would take me years to understand that writing is a relationship—just about as long as it took me to begin deliberately practicing not-thinking. By that time, I was no longer afraid that I was a simpleton. Instead, I spent my time looking for the simplest answers to what I had once found complicated.

I still love thinking. I do it all the time. And I love talking to people with active, bouncy, curious minds, minds like jackrabbits that want to run free. It’s fun throwing an idea ball back and forth, seeing how far we can go with it together. But at the end of the day I’m not my ideas, nor all the knowledge I’ve accumulated, and neither is anyone I know. We are something bigger and more complete than mere thoughts, something so big I must still my mind to know it in the same way I know what to write next.

If you like the ideas and perspectives expressed here, feel free to contact me about individual coaching and group workshops.