Eric Tian

A farmer had only one horse. One day, his horse ran away. His neighbors said, “I’m so sorry. This is such bad news. You must be so upset.”
The man just said, “We’ll see.”

A few days later, his horse came back with twenty wild horses following. The man and his son corralled all twenty-one horses. His neighbors said, “Congratulations! This is such good news. You must be so happy!”
The man just said, “We’ll see.”

One of the wild horses kicked the man’s only son, breaking both his legs. His neighbors said, “I’m so sorry. This is such bad news. You must be so upset.”
The man just said, “We’ll see.”

The country went to war, and every able-bodied young man was drafted to fight. The war was terrible and killed every young man, but the farmer’s son was spared, since his broken legs prevented him from being drafted.
His neighbors said, “Congratulations! This is such good news. You must be so happy!”
The man just said, “We’ll see.”

There was once a ceramics teacher called Brian. One month, Brian decided to split his class into two groups. Over 30 days, Group A would be graded on the quantity of work they produced, and Group B would be graded on the quality of work they produced. Group A had to submit 50 pounds worth of pots to be graded an “A”, 40 pounds for a “B” and so on, whereas Group B only had to work on a single pot and submit it by the end of the 30 days.

At the end of the month, Brian judged the quality of the pots. Without exception, every one of the top 10 pots came from Group A, those that made one pot per day. None came from the group that focused on perfecting their single pot.

Source: Art & Fear by David Bayles and Ted Orland. Haven’t read it personally but have heard it’s worthwhile.

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It seems obvious that to get good at something, you’ll likely make some mistakes along the way. A baby doesn’t start walking without (hilariously) falling over multiple times. A photographer doesn’t learn their craft without sifting through many sub-par photos. And a potter doesn’t become world-class without practicing and improving their pottery craftsmanship technique.

Despite this, trying and failing is a difficult practice. Whether it’s the uncomfortable thought of knowing nothing or failing to meet others’ expectations, the inner critic is always there to put on the brakes before a spectacular humiliation, despite these experiences being exactly those in which one gets better. It’s a sad paradox – the pursuit for perfection prevents a beginner from improving at all.

Perhaps the cure to this perfection paralysis is a change in attitude. The liberating thought that, “Look, my first 50 steps/photos/pots are going to suck, but that’s okay. I know I’ll get better over time, but I can’t get better if I don’t start somewhere.”

Of course, this idea doesn’t apply towards all domains. There are situations where quality matters over quantity, such as focus during studying or correct form during exercise. Neglecting quality in pursuit of quantity can be devastating in these circumstances. But sometimes, I wonder what would happen if one day, everyone stared into the eyes of their inner critic and said, “Enough. I don’t care what you think anymore – I’m just gonna do something I want to do and suck at it, and do it again, and again, and again, until I get good at it, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Honestly, I think that would be pretty cool.

In 2005, David Foster Wallace gave a commencement speech to the graduating class at Kenyon College (the full transcript can be found here). He begins with a parable:

There are these two young fish swimming along, and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, “Morning, boys. How’s the water?” And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes, “What the hell is water?”

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I have to admit, I had a pretty comfortable childhood. I always had food at the table, a bed to sleep on and family members who truly cared for my wellbeing. However, as a payment for this comfort, I also quietly accepted all the narratives whispered to me. From social narratives of traditional education to more esoteric narratives of Christian doctrines, I never really put much effort into shaping my own values or beliefs. They were just kind of given to me, and I quietly conformed.

Recently though, I’ve begun questioning some of these narratives. While I was lucky to have been raised with high moral principles, I do wonder how many of these I’ve accepted unconsciously and require re-examining. For instance, doing Biomedicine showed me that I really don’t know as much as I think – an idea which crushed a narrative I’d held for a long time. This narrative was built up on 18 years of flowery pampering and breaking this illusion hurt quite a lot.

But while the process of re-examining narratives may be uncomfortable, avoiding this would be surrendering to a state of unconsciousness, a default setting: a cost I feel is simply too great. And so, I’ve decided to embark on the strange new journey of trying to be more conscious and alive. Where this will end up, and what the first step is, I don’t really know. But I guess that’s part of the journey.

David Foster Wallace ends his speech with a challenge:

It is about the real value of a real education, which has almost nothing to do with knowledge, and everything to do with simple awareness; awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, all the time, that we have to keep reminding ourselves over and over:

“This is water.”

This is a short quote I stumbled across a few months ago. It had a big impact on me and I revisit it often when I am frustrated with life. It serves as a reminder that when the change you want doesn’t occur, perhaps it is not other people that needs changing but yourself.

Changing the world

When I was a young man, I wanted to change the world. I found it was difficult to change the world, so I tried to change my nation. When I found I couldn’t change the nation, I began to focus on my town. I couldn’t change the town and as an older man, I tried to change my family.

Now, as an old man, I realise the only thing I can change is myself, and suddenly I realise that if long ago I had changed myself, I could have made an impact on my family. My family and I could have made an impact on our town. Their impact could have changed the nation and I could indeed have changed the world.

(Source: supposedly from an unknown monk, 1100 A.D.)

Since I’m graduating in just a few months (yikes) I’ve begun thinking about my future and what kind of work I’d like to do. More importantly, the reasons why I’d want to do the work I’d like to do. I’ll admit, the money factor often crosses my mind during these thoughts. And it’s often a little terrifying – what if I’m called to a vocation that isn’t financially stable? How important should money be in deciding what work I choose? Over time, I’ll share my updated thoughts on this topic, but for now one text I’ve found helpful in rethinking how money relates to work is called the Parable of the Mexican Fisherman.

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An American investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The Mexican replied, “only a little while.”

The American then asked why didn’t he stay out longer and catch more fish?

The Mexican said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs.

The American then asked, “but what do you do with the rest of your time?”

The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, Maria, and stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life.”

The American scoffed. “I have an MBA from Harvard, and can help you,” he said. “You should spend more time fishing, and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, and eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middle-man, you could sell directly to the processor, eventually opening up your own cannery. You could control the product, processing, and distribution,” he said. “Of course, you would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles, and eventually to New York City, where you will run your expanding enterprise.”

The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, how long will this all take?”

To which the American replied, “Oh, 15 to 20 years or so.”

“But what then?” asked the Mexican.

The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time was right, you would announce an IPO, and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions!”

“Millions – then what?”

The American said, “Then you could retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you could sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife and stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play guitar with your amigos.”

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Source: Ali Abdaal’s newsletter, origin of the newsletter likely from Heinrich Böll’s short story Anekdote zur Senkung der Arbeitsmoral.