Doing, thinking, thinking about doing

I have a hard time tricking my brain into autopilot. (I think that must be why it’s so hard for me to sleep: my brain never wants to let go.)

My friend and I were talking about the bearable-ness of certain tasks, like scooping dog poop or cleaning the cat litter box. She said that she felt accepting of necessity of the objective when she scoops poop. It’s not exactly what she’d like to be doing at that moment, but it is important and it requires little thought from the brain. We then compared that to cleaning the cat litter box. When cleaning the litter box, all of the brain’s neurons are firing mercilessly at warp speed, throbbing, “I so don’t want to be doing this.”

Thinking about the thought-processes of cleaning reminded me of the concept of “flow.” The brain reaches a level of engagement in the task so that it focuses on the work at hand and lets go of all of the spider-webbed corners of the neural attic: the brain exhales. But most of the time, I am thinking, or thinking about doing, or thinking while doing, but never just doing. I rarely find that flow in the process of my life.

Relaxing while doing, letting your thoughts switch “off,” some folks call that “flow.” The architect of the concept, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, described the mental state of flow as:

1. Completely involved, focused, concentrating - with this either due to innate curiosity or as the result of training
2. Sense of ecstasy - of being outside everyday reality
3. Great inner clarity - knowing what needs to be done and how well it is going
4. Knowing the activity is doable - that the skills are adequate, and neither anxious or bored
5. Sense of serenity - no worries about self, feeling of growing beyond the boundaries of ego - afterwards feeling of transcending ego in ways not thought possible
6. Timeliness - thoroughly focused on present, don't notice time passing
7. Intrinsic motivation - whatever produces "flow" becomes its own reward

What I ended up saying to my poop-scooping friend was, “most of life is like the cat box: you don’t really wanna get in there but you gotta make yourself do it.” She disagreed, saying that most of her life comes to her automatically.

Which made me wonder, who of us is the rule and who the exception? Do most people flow through their lives accepting that they don’t have to focus their thoughts on their every action? Or are most people like me, people who can’t get their brains to flow without tricking themselves into feats that require only mental motion waves that carry the process forward?

On my unhappy days, I think I’m the only person in the world who can’t flow—except for maybe a few of my fellow loonies who don’t flow either. On my happy days, I think it must be a struggle for most people to navigate the daily commute, the daily computer log-on, the daily dinner preparation, the daily poop-scooping. But I’m not so sure right now.

Another friend of mine tells me I don’t need to benchmark my flow based on other people’s brains. My brain is my brain is my brain. Sometimes, the happy days when I think we’re all screwed, that’s OK with me. Other days, I think there has to be a better way to poke holes in my brain’s rumination and get all the musty corners breathing again.

The Chicago Tribune interviewed Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi about flow. The story, “Not-so-dirty secrets: Those household tasks that ensure domestic tranquility,” ran on January 2, 2005. The Tribune focused on something Csikszentmihalyi called “micro-flow,” a brain state that the newspaper thought happened particularly when cleaning. He was quoted: "The way our brain is put together … it does not like to be idle altogether. When it has nothing to do, it starts ruminating on things that go wrong. Depression leaps on the scene once the mind is unattended. Because of that, we resort to micro-flow, doodling, whistling, things that require just enough attention to keep away inactivity."

While I never used to be a fidgeter, last weekend I got into an ugly fight, and I couldn’t stop bouncing my left leg. I felt light-years better when jiggling my leg. Every time I tried to stop, I’d nearly cry, but the moment I began to bounce ol’ lefty again, I was fine. Going back to the definition of flow, I was completely engaged in bouncing my left leg; as time passed, I wasn’t anxious or worried. I felt more calm and relaxed, I felt peaceful and rested--even as I bounced away. Bouncing my leg became it’s own reward. I guess that was my own way of bouncing my brain into submission, not letting the rumination get the better of me. I was doing, not thinking, not thinking about doing, just doing. However, there must be a better way to flow.