What is going on when we’re judging the believability of an actor’s performance? Where does this sense of the authenticity, or realness, of feelings come from? In what sense can a feeling be manufactured?
The simple answer is when our big (physical) movements are reliably reflective of our internal felt state — the obfuscated micromovements — we consider our behavior coherent and authentic. We’ve developed all kinds of heuristics that subconsciously seem to classify whether someone’s “outward” presentation of affect is corresponding to what they are probably feeling on the “inside”. But I think there may be something more going on, as well. Not only do we want to know whether someone’s behavior is coherent with their felt sense but also we are interested in how reliably the emotional affect and corresponding action is going to be triggered by similar situations in the future. We are interested in perceived durability or reliability.
The fundamental question which becomes crucial to answer to ensure survival for a social organism is: When I’m in trouble in the future, how likely are you to not only feel compassion but act on it in a meaningful way to help me? This matters because we are all resource constrained. We have finite time, money, and energy. We can’t be there, in any useful sense, for everyone at once. Sometimes the thing we want to do, for some people the easy and natural thing to do, is to feel and show compassion for anyone that seems to need help. But in some sense, and in a way that seems to set off the inauthenticity detector for many people, this seems inauthentic. The detector may be doing useful work here. Even if someone can and frequently does feel compassion all the time for everyone and acts upon it in the moment, you are subconsciously (correctly) realizing that, while providing momentary relief, this person is likely to be unreliable in the future if you require a more substantive intervention than empathy. Whether we like it or not, useful and reliable relationships are necessarily bound together with some amount of specialness, exclusivity, and scarcity. Making it appear otherwise can lead to trouble.
In trying to make sense of Hoel’s theory of “causal emergence”, summarized here, I get stuck thinking about the semantics. What is a cause? What if we taboo it, similarly to how e-prime taboos “to be” verbs? The reductionist approach seems to focus on the events which seem to be the beginning of a chain of events which lead to the event in question. This is something like an attempt at pure objectivity. Alternatively, the causally emergent approach seems to seek the best predictor for a given event — the thing that provides the most information — and then treats that as a “causally emergent, ontologically real” thing that “actually exists”. Scary words. I do like this idea of gesturing towards the inherent limits of human subjectivity — we are limited by what we can observe, which appears inherently subjective. Furthermore, there are limits of computability, and maybe even something like comprehensibility. What value is a reductive theory of the universe if we lack the tools to apply it at the scales we care about? We don’t try to catch baseballs with quantum mechanics, in the words of a friend. An explanation that is true, in some sense of the word, is not necessarily useful.
What causes a set of dominos to fall over? A reductive model is forced to explain the physics back to the beginning of the universe. A causally emergent model may be willing to model it back to the point where local complexity is maximized (or something like that, *waves hands around*): the mind of the nearby human who was feeling restless this afternoon. What causes humans to act? Models can be built here, too. We can tease apart the best predictors for a given event: when they had their last meal, environmental cues, genetics, etc. Is this the actual cause? Depends on what you mean…
When we move following a pre-established path, we call this habit and it feels automatic. Barring interruption, these movements will be carried out in response to the stimulus they have tended to follow in the past. On the other hand, deliberate path creation seems to require the application of will. What’s that? Here is a funky hypothesis. Willpower is what it feels like when new desire paths are being traversed. For this to be successful, it seems to require a combination of holding the path in attention and for its prospective traversal to feel sufficiently emotionally appealing. I’m not sure how emotional appeal works but perhaps we can black box it: given a set of perceptions and the patterns they activate within the mind, some emotional affect is experienced (good vs bad vs neutral, along with an intensity ).
We can imagine ourselves typically defaulting to follow what we normally do in a situation where our attention is occupied with something else (a memory, an unrelated thought, etc), e.g. I normally follow the paved sidewalk. Changes in behavior in response to an identical stimulus tend to be enabled only when attention is applied, e.g. I’m in a rush and notice that cutting across a lawn will reduce my journey length even if no formal path exists there. This willed and deliberate change in behavior is only possible when we can feel that a sufficiently emotionally-salient and emotionally attractive benefit may result from the change. What does this say about habit change? To deliberately form new paths — habits — we usually need to be ready to attend to the sensory experience that we want to trigger the desired new path while simultaneously holding the emotionally charged prospective outcome in attention. If I hypothetically want to stop smoking a cigarette every time I leave my office, I need to prepare myself to attend to the triggering stimulus — leaving the office — as well as the emotionally charged prospective outcome — I need to imagine myself getting lung cancer 30 years later and focus on what that would feel like.
This would suggest a strong link between the ability to control the movement of attention and the plasticity of habits.
The studies of consciousness and quantum physics probably have very little to do with each other, and very little in common, with the exception of appearing chock-full of paradoxes. “Light is both a particle and a wave! When I look around at the world, there is an observer sitting in my head — but where?!” Why do we tend to struggle to speak clearly about these things? Perhaps the way we speak — down to the individual words we use — muddles things more than we realize. One potential culprit is the verb “to be”, along with its many forms of “is, are, were, was, am, be, been”. Usage of these verbs does not always cause problems but they often too easily allow for making claims about the world that obscure underlying experience (how we come to know) and make unwarranted — and unnoticed — logical leaps. Rather than “Light is both a particle and a wave” we can try to say “Light behaves like a wave when measured using instrument X, and behaves like a particle when measured using instrument Y”.
In Science and Sanity, Alfred Korzybski — along with his presentation of general semantics — suggests a ban on the usage of “to be” as an antidote to “demonological thinking”. He calls it E-prime (English Prime) — a new form of the English language. This proposed restriction on language serves to counterbalance a common, comfortable, and confused way of seeing the world: as a collection of neatly separated objects who each have some “core essence” or ideal form — Aristotelian essentialism. By speaking more precisely about how we come to form beliefs and being more careful about making logical leaps in speech, we may slowly improve how we think (a weak form of Sapir-Whorf). It may help us better accept the nebulosity around us.
Is the character of our experience purely a function of our attention and, if so, what determines it? Can we experience a mood subconsciously and what would that mean? My friend Scott brought up an example of someone who appeared happy from external physical cues but was surprised to hear that when asked about it. What is going on there? It seems like some part of our mind may be reacting to physiological stimulus yielding behavior that we pattern match to specific emotions, while another part of our mind may be experiencing something else entirely. It is unclear whether attention is rapidly moving back and forth between these experiences of a different character or whether our “background” mood is somehow “coloring” our attention-moderated foreground experiences — perhaps these are two ways of saying the same thing.
When a background emotion is aversive, such as sadness or grief, we often find ourselves seeking to drown it out with a positive stimulus — the proverbial sad person eating ice cream on the couch. Alternatively, you can have different “processes” within the mind fighting over large physical movement rather than merely internally experienced qualia (small movement). A poker player in an intense hand will be physically displaying a mixture of excitement/fear driven by his primal emotional response to the expected win or loss — anything from an elevated heart rate to a nervous tic and vocal changes. At the same time, his reasoning process will be trying to command attention towards trying to counteract these emotional signals — it predicts them to be self-defeating. The subjective experience is one of a battle for stabilizing attention — a feeling of tension or contradiction.
Differentiating between mind (thought) and body (physical action) can often be misleading. Consider collapsing both of these into the concept of movement. Small movements tend to happen within the mind — mere thought. Larger movements begin to have a more immediate impact on the surrounding environment — displacement of our body in space and the imprint of our language onto surfaces. It seems larger movements tend to dominate smaller ones — our thoughts are derailed far more easily when we move through, and interact with, the world than when we sit quietly with our eyes closed. Dissolving the distinction between thought and action can be useful for understanding habit — the familiar paths that we default to moving along. The domination of larger movements over smaller ones is quite evident when I try to change a habit. Strategizing about how to do it and thinking about my desire to do so seems to have little immediate effect. The surest way to perform habit change is to repeat the physical movement of the body associated with it, in the appropriate context, over and over. Even with a rebellious or wandering mind, it seems the creation of the path with the repetition of the larger movements wins out and the smaller movements begin to follow along over time.
Stephen R. Diamond suggests the thought experiment of isolating the effects of conscious awareness by identifying what sorts of actions are only possible — or which experiences only occur — when they are consciously attended to. He raises the example of happiness which appears to be solely a function of the contents of conscious awareness. Consider the pleasure or happiness imparted by being the owner of a luxury car. Upon reflection, you realize that you only experience this feeling when you are actively holding the car, or some side effect of its ownership, within your attention.
What other experiences are only possible when we attend to them? When preoccupied with a task I seem to be able to respond when people speak with me. However, without moving my attention away from the task in order to think through and craft a conscious thought, my responses seem to be quite simple and often illogical or poor. Inverting this example, I can participate relatively actively in a conversation — say a phone call — and still be able to perform simple tasks, especially those that are relatively “mindless” or routine. Interestingly, I seem to also be quite handicapped when it comes to decision making — even simple decisions like what to order for lunch — if my attention is elsewhere. If my hedonic valence — feelings of pleasure or happiness — is controlled by the contents of my attention at any moment, perhaps this suggests that activities or experiences that require attention are dependent on the feedback of hedonic valence to perform the underlying mental moves.
There is a popular idea of humans being able to adapt to anything. As Nietzsche and Frankl have argued, we can handle any what as long as there is a why. This seems approximately true although it makes me wonder whether certain things are easier for humans to adapt to than others. There is the idea of desire paths (or cow paths) as a response to high modernisttop-down planning — when sidewalks fail to capture the desired walking patterns of people to a sufficient degree that new ad-hoc paths start forming through shortcuts taken over the carefully manicured lawns framed by those sidewalks. Perhaps we can look for desire paths — or the resulting venting of frustration that occurs when desire path formation is restricted — across all areas of life and use them as a gauge of how human-compatible (humane?) a given system feels. Humans having a tendency to get stressed and upset about sitting in traffic strikes me as an example of the latter — there is no shortcut they can take, and it becomes sufficiently constraining that their mind seems to start attacking itself, in a sense. On the other hand, the widespread adoption of contraceptive devices seems like an example of desire paths being created successfully with the use of new technology. Given the option to have control over when one has kids, many people seem to strain against the tradition of ASAP and always and leverage technology to “move across the landscape” in ways that were not possible before. There is also an interesting counterargument to the idea that the tendency for people being drawn to constantly stare at smartphones is in some sense inhuman. Now that we have been given an affordance to let our attention easily escape states of boredom, we may merely be drawn to take advantage of it. Of course, not all time sink activities leave us feeling as refreshed as others. Taking a few moments to pay attention to one’s breath has a much better feeling aftereffect than scrolling through Twitter mindlessly.
I believe gnawing and uncomfortable sensations (nihilism, restlessness, etc) that one may not quite understand how to resolve are a manifestation of poorly understood desires, and there are concrete practices one can develop to help understand and resolve these sensations. We’ve come to associate certain sensations in our stomach with the idea of hunger because they are resolved by putting certain types of objects into our mouth and chewing. What if we didn’t know about food — how would we understand “hunger”? What does this say about a complex sensation like “anxiety”?
The human mind can be thought of as a machine that produces and satisfies desires. We become familiar with these desires from birth. When we exit the womb we don’t yet know how to breathe, but it is likely that we already desire to. It appears as though the mere exposure to air is sufficient to make the newborn aware that “breathing in” is an option available to it, and that upon doing so it comes to realize that this breathing thing satisfies some gnawing feeling (a desire for air). This is the mind’s first exposure to a “satisfaction lever” — an affordance for desire-satisfaction. As the mind matures it becomes aware of (produces!) new desires for itself: mother, food, stimulus, friends, approval, status, money, expression, meaning, etc. We create habits, both “good” and “bad”, that create their own desires. Pulling satisfaction levers gives us access to objects of desire — the things that can be taken from outside the organism and brought in — which temporarily satisfy some desire.
This may feel strange, but it seems that there is no a priori relationship between the sensations of desire and the corresponding objects that satisfy them. From our point of view, it feels intuitive that the hunger sensation in the stomach would logically be related to a desire for food. But as we can see with children, they often have little sense of when they are hungry or thirsty or sleepy and often adults must force some levers upon them — often in response to crankiness or general antisocial behavior on the part of the child. Over many repetitions, as the sensations of desire present themselves and are then followed by their satisfaction with a familiar pattern of objects — available through the pulling of satisfaction levers — the mind makes the association stronger and stronger until it just “is”. It is hard to imagine alternative manifestations of the feeling of hunger.
As the mind matures and continues to manufacture new desires, we must continue to seek the satisfaction levers that satiate them. Without a parent paying attention to our whining and offering us potential levers, we must seek them out on our own. This becomes especially tricky with desires that only rear their heads every once in awhile rather than on a daily basis. The ability to satisfy feelings of having low energy with exercise is a non-intuitive one, but once a habit is established the lever becomes one we can easily reach for because we know it’s there. However, often minds find themselves experiencing frustrating sensations that they don’t associate with obvious levers. Feelings described with words such as anxiety, restlessness, ennui, or nihilism may fall into this category. To expect to reason from the raw sensations to the corresponding action which would satisfy them seems exceptionally difficult. A more bountiful approach is to find some potential satisfaction levers to pull and pay attention to what happens to these ill-defined sensations.
Furthermore, there seems to be a capacity where we can seek out new levers, even if it is not clear what they may be for. Sometimes we accidentally pull a lever that gives us some unexpected feeling of relief or pleasure. This seems to be the satisfaction of a desire that one was not aware of or could not previously articulate. This is an important feeling. When this happens, one can take note of the relationship and begin building a list of “non-obvious satisfaction levers”. Then, periodically, one can scan this list. By allowing the mind to imagine pulling on one of these levers, it can feel out whether at that time it would satisfy some hidden, poorly understood desire. At the same time, by starting to map which levers satisfy which kinds of feelings, we are able to better understand and describe these amorphous feelings of desire.
Some ideas for satisfaction levers that may relate to complex, hard to describe desires:
Cultivating presence and mindfulness: paying attention to the moment on a purely physical level rather than to thoughts and ideas generated
Creating objects: anything from abstract art to software to social experiences
Destroying objects: getting rid of stuff, tearing something down into its parts for potential reuse, clearing away or reorganizing space
Taking physical or social risks: seeking out unfamiliar manifestations of fear
The sun is crawling its way above the horizon behind me as I wait in a queue with about a dozen other people. We assemble in front of a shipping container advertising Soup Flavored Blankets. Nothing but desert surrounds us for hundreds of meters. It looks like they’re giving out soup, and my associate and I are quite hungry after the previous night’s festivities. Blasting from behind the soup box, on comes an untidy man haphazardly steering a bicycle with one hand. Singing an unrecognizable song in a hoarse voice, his eyes wandering about in their sockets. He carries a 30-pack of Tecate beer in his lap. “Come get a beer!” he shouts at us. The people in line interrupt their conversations and shift around a bit nervously. Even for Burning Man, the guy seems a little messed up. Awkwardness indeed, but I’ve been trying to practice dealing with these very situations. “Excellent!”, I run over to him. “How about a hug?” he asks. I hesitate for a moment and oblige. He’s quite intoxicated and needs a hand with getting his jacket off, and assistance pulling out his giant foam honey bee wings that are tucked under his sweatshirt. But of course, I will help… “I also have some homemade jerky and honey” [surely made out of mescaline], which he immediately pulls out of a backpack, “and you will try some!” Everyone is staring at us a bit nervously at this point, and so I must dig right in. “My name is Bee Chaser” he declares, before sitting down on a rock and starting back into his indecipherable verse.
Three weeks later I’m sitting very, very still. My eyes are closed, and my legs are crossed, in a room with about 40 others. We have been doing a lot of this — 12 hours a day for the past week. My attention is on my right thigh. Deep inside of it, I feel what must be a ball of knives, about 3 inches in diameter, burning with the heat of the sun. Saying it hurts is an understatement — this is one of the most painful sensations I’ve ever felt, and yet it doesn’t bother me as much as I expect. I know that if I uncross my legs the pain will immediately disappear. But, from experience, I also know that if I don’t uncross my legs the pain will eventually disappear. A few seconds later, although it feels like an hour, a bright white spot appears within the center of my closed-eye visual field. It grows from a small dot to quickly encompass the blackness. The pain climaxes and then begins to disintegrate into the sensation of lightning shooting throughout my body. I am overwhelmed with warmth and drowsiness.
The typical Burning Man encounter — a meeting with Bee Chaser — illustrates the inherent choice available to embrace or avoid feelings of discomfort, anxiety or uncertainty. Similarly, an intense experience with pain at a meditation retreat highlights the primary role of our expectations and interpretations in defining how we experience reality — even the most intense physical pain. By pushing ourselves to experience these kinds of situations and practicing our responses to them, we can learn to appreciate the full range of experiences life has to offer: pleasure, pain, ambiguity, inevitability, and much more.
There are two widely adopted, and largely self-sabotaging, approaches to making sense of life’s experiences. Most people attempt to fixate meaning with a permanently stable and coherent grand narrative. Unfortunately, this is accomplished by ignoring the bits that don’t quite fit together. David Chapman refers to this stance as eternalism and it is commonly associated with religions and political ideologies. The diametrically opposed approach is to take the perspective of materialism (or physicalism) and view the world as uniformly, objectively devoid of meaning. This is typically referred to as nihilism. Both of these stances are probably wrong or confused. Meaning seems to be something that we can actively create, observe and lose. We experience it coming and going, and specific to the details of any given situation.
I think of our perception of reality as a kind of constantly evolving multi-dimensional alphabet soup that we are observing, swimming through, and interacting with. At any given time, we can find some pattern or another that strikes our fancy. Sometimes we squint and let our minds fill in the gaps since everything is moving around and a bit nebulous. Some patterns will last longer than others, depending on how quickly the soup is being stirred, but inevitably the letters will shift and patterns will dissolve into the noise of the background. In this metaphor, eternalism implies the tendency to fixate on and grow attached to patterns found in the letters. We may develop a single, all-encompassing theory that explains the soup and its messages. Soup behavior that does not fit our framework may be ignored, or interpreted in a way to make it fit. Alternatively, with enough cogitation we can realize that this is just the random shifting of graphemic pasta in liquid, how can it possibly mean anything? It must all be random and empty — nihilism.
Even if we intellectually deny eternalism and nihilism, it is inevitable to struggle with the inherent instability of pattern. Our brains are tuned to detect pattern,. We have a tendency to cling to structure and predictability. Being able to rely on the stability of the familiar gives us a sense of security, whereas change and ambiguity can trigger anxiety and fear of loss. This bias towards seeking stability in pattern, structure, and form is a powerful motivator for action. It drives the creation of, and attachment to, expectations and cravings for pattern to persist or be recreated.
Often our attachment to pattern comes in the form of pleasurable physical sensation. When they first taste ice cream, many babies react with mild skepticism and confusion, which then quickly transforms to utter delight. Thirty years later, the ice cream enthusiast may continue to chase the pleasures he remembers to be encapsulated within the cold creamy treat. At best he will be satisfied for a brief period, and at worst he may experience disappointment and frustration when the ice cream fails to materialize (god forbid the ice cream store is closed when they arrive), or it is not to his expectations.
As we grow up, we start to substitute our attachment to physical pattern with more complex, indirect (instrumental) mental structures. At some point, many of us realize that rather than worrying about the day-to-day acquisition of ice cream, feelings of belonging, and sex, we can scale up our ambitions with bigger, longer-term goals — often the acquisition of money and power — which in practice are mostly just useful for experiencing lots of ice cream, feelings of belonging, and sex in the future. As a result, individuals amass fortunes, raise armies, build monuments, and create machines to help extend our reach beyond our planet. Setting a big goal and striving towards it actively createsstructure for our minds to operate with — meaning, purpose, and reality made legible. At least, until the goal is achieved (or we fail), the form dissolves, and we are left with uncertainty, disappointment or even suffering.
Inevitably, we develop attachments to experiences we seem to naturally enjoy, and aversions towards experiences that are not so nice. So what? One response is that this isn’t a problem to be solved but rather an integral component of what it means to experience life. We should set expectations, strive for things, and occasionally sit in disappointment, flail in anxiety and wallow in suffering. This seems like a perfectly valid approach to life, but not one I’m particularly interested in. As someone with a relatively high emotional setpoint (I am almost always pretty satisfied) –I very rarely experience anxiety and have never suffered to any memorable degree — these are things I would prefer to not experience given that I have the choice. Indeed, there is a choice to be made here: to suffer or not to suffer, and how to avoid it.
Buddhism offers at least two distinct paths for solving suffering. Both function by giving us techniques to build intuition for the impermanence of all experience, amongst other insights. Sutrayana, the renunciative path, solves the problem of suffering by teaching us how to stop experiencing craving and aversion. It shows us that all expectations inevitably lead to disappointment given that all experience is impermanent. Even when things go our way, it is only a matter of time before our luck runs out. This leads to the realization that one stable solution is asceticism: withdraw from the ups and downs of experience, snuff out aversion and desire, and eventually all feeling starts to take on the same character of satisfied indifference. Stop chasing the momentary structure that forms in the soup, for it is in constant flux and it is no better than any old mishmash of letters. This works but is kind of a bummer. Tantrayana, the transformative path, offers a slightly different take. Rather than seeking to silence the passions and experiences of life, it helps us develop our capacity to transform experiences of negative or neutral valence into positive ones. It suggests that we can learn to enjoy failure, anxiety, and ambiguity in the same way that we naturally enjoy success, stability, and clarity. Delight in occasions when the letters in the soup line up and spell something interesting but also learn to appreciate the movement and confusion of the swirling chaos, the moments in between the clarity.
To be clear, this is not a matter of religion or spirituality. Buddhism is a good case study because it lays out a relatively straightforward and established process (that works for many people!) for changing how one’s mind functions. In a nutshell, these are ways of living and have been on offer with varying degrees of clarity, along with many other solutions, from wise folk for all of recorded history. However, Buddhism is one of the few (Stoicism does this to some extent as well, among others) that offers practical solutions to a problem often overlooked in other schools of thought: the sharp distinction between knowing how and knowing that. It is one thing to tell us how to behave. The hard part is actually modifying our behavior and ways of thinking — meditation is a tool for doing so. This can be roughly mapped onto the Kahneman/Tversky framework of System 1 (S1) vs System 2 (S2) thinking where knowing how becomes S1 — intuition, emotion, reaction and subconscious belief — and knowing that becomes S2 — reason, cogitation, and conscious belief. It appears that in order to experience the benefits of being comfortable with nebulosity (uncertainty, instability, ambiguity, change, etc.) we must acquire S1 knowledge of impermanence, and an S1 desire to experience the typically-defined negative emotions as well as the positive.
Reading the words above enables one to know that (S2). You may come to agree with them, but this doesn’t bring you meaningfully closer to realizing the changes suggested. Reading words and grappling with ideas won’t help you to actually feel that all experience is impermanent, and react in ways in accordance with this belief. Perhaps this is what is going on with experts in ethics not behaving any more ethically than the average person. You must have many experiences,reflect on their impermanence and your will to choose how you react, and over time develop the knowledge intuitively. Buddhism offers the tools of Vipassana — insight meditation — to develop the knowledge required to make progress. For example, in body scanning meditation we get dozens of opportunities per hour to observe the arising and passing of physical sensations (both pleasant and unpleasant) on our bodies. By paying close attention to these sensations, we are also able to witness them transform and disintegrate, e.g. pain may decompose into pressure and heat, then move around a bit and disappear. Some of these experiences will be quite profound, and after enough of them, we start to notice our reactions to and intuitions about physical reality changing. This is not about stopping and thinking about how to ideally act or react (S2), but the way our minds behave when left to their own devices — the mind of emotion and intuition (S1).
We can understand a silent meditation retreat — an approximation of monastic life — as an intensive period of S1 training for our minds. We pause the quotidian matters of life in order to train our ability to react to them. Meditative practice is often designed to eliminate thought (S2) and focus the attention on experience, over time developing subconscious intuitions (S1) about reality. The concentrated period of practice ends up leading to superlinear learning due to increased focus and a higher concentration of examples to learn from. A week of intensive meditation can result in progress that would otherwise take months or years of daily sittings.
The same lens can be applied to the Burning Man (BM) experience. BM creates an environment where one is encouraged to disconnect from the familiar patterns of everyday life and be pulled into a chaotic flow of intense and ephemeral experience — from the pleasurable and serene to the overwhelming and uncomfortable. In meditation, it is easy to “meditate” and just sit there thinking, remembering and fantasizing. Similarly, one can experience BM on “easy mode”: spend time with your friends, go to a concert by a big-name DJ, or get drunk at the bar. But if you push yourself you have the opportunity to do the kind of S1 learning facilitated by a meditation retreat. By paying the right kind of attention to its brief and strange encounters we can come to better feel the ephemerality of our realities. We can push ourselves to sit and appreciate the moments of uncertainty and confusion or to find delight in the initial discomforts of some interactions we are invited into. A week dedicated to transforming our initial negative responses to these intense moments can lead to (S1) learning that would normally take months or years. However, until we take the stance that every moment can be viewed as a chance to learn how to react with positivity and delight, and put in the effort to do so, nothing fundamental will change.