Hey, I discovered I'm a cited scholar! Well, compared to my faculty colleagues, not
really. But Google Scholar says I've
been cited 22 times by people writing articles or books. Eleven were citations of an article I wrote
about the dramatic debate over faculty tenure at the University in the
mid-1990s, seven were of my dissertation about the role of the faculty in
governing college sports, and four were of an article I wrote about who should
be represented in internal university governing bodies (their senates). So I suppose I can be pleased that in some
very tiny way I may have contributed to advances in knowledge.
But I've been one-upped by my friend Scott Eller, who's
been cited 81 times for an article he co-authored (with a political science
professor and political science graduate student) in 1977 about
gerrymandering. Given the recent uptick
in court cases related to gerrymandering, I can imagine that the number of
citations of the article may increase.
* * *
Roy
Baumeister, Professor of Psychology at Florida State, wrote an intriguing
article a few months ago about the distinction between a happy life and a
meaningful life. He, along with a U of
Minnesota colleague and two others, surveyed 400 Americans ages 18-78 and
offered some interesting findings. I
hadn't thought much about the distinction but it's clear they aren't the same,
although they overlap.
Parents often
say: ‘I just want my children to be
happy.’ It is unusual to hear: ‘I just want my children’s lives to be
meaningful,’ yet that’s what most of us seem to want for ourselves. We fear meaninglessness. . . . When we lose a sense of meaning, we get depressed. What is this thing we call meaning, and why
might we need it so badly?
(I must confess that he almost lost me with these opening
sentences, because when one believes in an entirely physical universe that is
indifferent to life here or anywhere else, it is difficult to conclude that
life has meaning in the cosmological sense of the term. But I, like most people I know, do want my
life to have meaning at a local level.)
When the
researchers surveyed people, they didn't define either "happy" or
"meaningful" and left it up to the respondents to rely on their own
interpretations. They asked a large
number of questions so that they could identify what factors were associated
with happiness and which with meaningfulness.
Even with
overlap between the two, they found five elements of each that were unrelated
to the other (or were even negatively correlated with the other).
One, "getting what you want and need," was
important to happiness but had no relationship to meaningfulness. So if you have enough money to buy what you
want and do what you want, you're healthy and feel good, you'll be happy. (People can feel bad or be unhealthy and
still have meaning in their lives.)
Two, the time frame matters. "Meaning and happiness are apparently experienced
quite differently in time. Happiness is
about the present; meaning is about the future, or, more precisely, about
linking past, present and future."
Oddly (I think), the more you think about the future, the more
meaningful life will be—and the less happy it will be. (I can understand that after the 2016
elections and the fact of global climate change.) The more time you spend thinking about the
present, the happier you'll be, especially if you're mostly getting what you
want and need. "Meaning, on the
other hand, seems to come from assembling past, present and future into some
kind of coherent story." (There
have been a couple of articles I've seen recently, however, that suggest we
should quit imagining life as a story.
The authors of those pieces obviously haven't read about this research!)
Not sure what I think about this, because I don't know
enough to have an opinion, but worth contemplating.
This begins
to suggest a theory for why it is we care so much about meaning. Perhaps the idea is to make happiness
last. Happiness seems present-focused
and fleeting, whereas meaning extends into the future and the past and looks
fairly stable. For this reason, people
might think that pursuing a meaningful life helps them to stay happy in the long
run. They might even be right — though,
in empirical fact, happiness is often fairly consistent over time. Those of us who are happy today are also
likely to be happy months or even years from now, and those who are unhappy
about something today commonly turn out to be unhappy about other things in the
distant future. It feels as though
happiness comes from outside, but the weight of evidence suggests that a big
part of it comes from inside. Despite
these realities, people experience happiness as something that is felt here and
now, and that cannot be counted on to last.
By contrast, meaning is seen as lasting, and so people might think they
can establish a basis for a more lasting kind of happiness by cultivating
meaning.
The statement doesn't seem to be related to the research
they conducted, but the claim that "happiness is fairly consistent over
time" and if we're happy today we're "also likely to happy months
even years from now" rings true for me.
I wonder if another term for those unhappy now and unhappy about things
in the future is "depressed."
Three, and contrary to received wisdom, social life is an
important factor—but not as one would expect.
Of course "connections to other people turned out to be important both
for meaning and for happiness. Being
alone in the world is linked to low levels of happiness and
meaningfulness." But the nature of
the connections determined whether they made life happy or meaningful. The latter "comes from contributing to
other people, whereas happiness comes from what they contribute to
you." If helping others makes you
happy, it's because of the overlap between meaningfulness and happiness, and
when they untangled the relationship, they found that helping others actually
subtracts from your own happiness. They
had a couple of examples. Non-parents
taking care of children gained neither happiness nor meaningfulness; parents
gained meaningfulness but neither gained nor lost happiness. Asked to rate themselves as
"givers" or "takers," the givers had more meaning and less
happiness in their lives. The reverse
was true for takers.
It also
seems that the nature of the social relationship matters. Being with friends ("having a few beers
with buddies or enjoying nice lunch conversation with friends") provide
pleasure but seems irrelevant to meaning.
Being with loved ones is the opposite:
it provides meaning but has no relationship to happiness. They speculate:
Time with
friends is often devoted to simple pleasures, without much at stake, so it may
foster good feelings while doing little to increase meaning. If your friends are grumpy or tiresome, you
can just move on. Time with loved ones
is not so uniformly pleasant. Sometimes
one has to pay bills, deal with illnesses or repairs, and do other unsatisfying
chores. And of course, loved ones can be
difficult too, in which case you generally have to work on the relationship and
hash it out.
Four, "struggles, problems, stresses and the like .
. . in general . . . went with lower happiness and higher
meaningfulness." They "asked
how many positive and negative events people had recently experienced. Having lots of good things happen turned out
to be helpful for both meaning and happiness.
No surprise there." But
having bad things happen are part of a meaningful life, it seems; "we
begin to get a sense of what the happy but not very meaningful life would be
like. Stress, problems, worrying,
arguing, reflecting on challenges and struggles — all these are notably low or
absent from the lives of purely happy people, but they seem to be part and
parcel of a highly meaningful life."
They observe that going into retirement is an example: demands and stresses of work are gone so
happiness increases—but meaningfulness drops.
I'll see in a few years if that's true for me. My job, to be truthful, just didn't have that
many stresses. Significant, often heavy,
demands on my time, of course, but not what I'd call "stresses"
except on occasion. So far, a year or so
into retirement, I haven't felt any loss of meaning. One question, it seems to me, is whether one
can, at some age or point in life, decide you've achieved meaningfulness and
you don't have to think too much about it any more. I figure I did do meaningful things in most
of my work—and I don't have to be "meaningful" in that sense any
more. Moreover, given item three, I
still have relationships with loved ones (although after this year, one fewer
than I want). Can you fill up the
"meaningful" bucket and just get on about being happy? I don't know.
Five, an
amorphous category, "had to do with the self and personal identity. Activities that express the self are an
important source of meaning but are mostly irrelevant to happiness." Rating activities as an expression or reflection
of the self, 25 of 37 correlated with meaningfulness and only 2 with happiness
(socializing and non-alcoholic parties, the latter of which I am highly
skeptical about, given the amount of alcohol that is consumed at most social
events). "If happiness is about
getting what you want, it appears that meaningfulness is about doing things
that express yourself."
Even just
caring about issues of personal identity and self-definition was associated
with more meaning, though it was irrelevant, if not outright detrimental, to
happiness. This might seem almost
paradoxical: happiness is selfish, in
the sense that it is about getting what you want and having other people do
things that benefit you, and yet the self is more tied to meaning than
happiness. Expressing yourself, defining
yourself, building a good reputation and other self-oriented activities are
more about meaning than happiness.
So writing
this letter helps me have a sense of meaning in my life! But it also makes me happy because it forces
me to keep my brain functioning and, I like to think, provides both amusement
and knowledge to those with whom I share it.
The goal
clearly has to be the achievement of both meaning and happiness.
* * *
About the comparisons of loss. I
wrote in my memorial to Krystin that it seemed to me fruitless to compare
levels or kinds of grief—and that it is difficult to imagine legitimate
research that could quantify or evaluate grief.
Shortly after I wrote the memorial I had a lunch conversation with a
friend who related that she lost her (loved) father at age 14.
It occurred to me that a child of a certain age (e.g., has reached a
sufficient level of cognitive development, like we are at 12-13-14) who loses a
loved parent may come the closest to suffering the grief a parent suffers from
the loss of a child. A 5- or 6-year-old
will cry about the loss of his/her daddy/mommy without understanding the full
implications of the death, but a teenager will realize that the voice and body
have been stilled permanently and the loss is forever. It's odd, but it seems to me that the two
situations--the mirror of each other, in a way--may be the closest in terms of
the magnitude and depth of grief.
I can't defend that claim any more than anyone else can defend claims
that some grief is worse than other. But
something tells me that those two are very close—and may be about the worst any
of us can suffer. It may also be
true—this is pure speculation—that the child's loss of a parent may be
attenuated over time more than the parent's loss of a child. (I add the caveat that I mean the
circumstance where a youngster loses a parent; I think it's quite different
when an older adult loses a parent who's in his/her 80s or 90s.)
I commented to Kathy that while some research suggests that the loss of
a beloved/long-time spouse/partner is the worst that can happen to someone, as
far as I can find, those lists of life events didn't include the death of one's
child). When I give voice to a little
black humor —which is really rare for me—I conclude at least in the case of a
deceased spouse, assuming you're not on the edge of the grave yourself, you can
sometimes find a "replacement."
We all know of people who've lost someone and eventually
remarried—happily. Not the same, not a replication,
but the restoration of happiness is possible.
Obviously, it's not possible to "replace" a child.
* * *
The Danish
concept of hygge (hue-guh) received a fair amount of press last winter. CityLab
had a nice summary, "Finding Joy in Urban Winters," by Melody
Warnick. Hygge is one of those terms in
another language that doesn't translate exactly into one English word. Some suggest "coziness" as the
closest match, "although togetherness, enjoyment, relaxation, and comfort
capture angles of it, too." A
Danish author of a book on the subject says that "the true essence of
hygge is the pursuit of everyday happiness." Wikipedia adds more: "a form of everyday togetherness . .
. a pleasant and highly valued everyday
experience of safety, equality, personal wholeness and a spontaneous social
flow. . . . The noun 'hygge' includes
something nice, cozy, safe and known, referring to a psychological state. . . ." Collins English Dictionary named hygge the
runner-up (after Brexit) as word of the year in the UK in 2016."
The concept has become (probably fleetingly) popular as
people try to make life more livable in cities in the winter, and the Danes
forever rank as among, if not the, happiest people on earth—so why not go to
the experts on winter and happiness?
Copenhagen
is clearly ground zero for hygge. Through a magical alchemy of urban design,
business development, and cultural conviction, residents revel in simple
pleasures, particularly when the weather turns foul. In Copenhagen, you defy
the cold. . . . A love of hygge ensures
that Danes find ways to enjoy a city that sees just seven hours of daylight in
midwinter.
There are
four "principles" of hygge, "a starting point for changing
winter in the city from a Spartan endurance race to an extended season of
joy." The four principles are
warmth, light and color, access to nature, and gathering places. Warmth includes buildings built for cold
climates—and saunas. Light and color
means candles on dinner tables and creative outdoor lighting and lights in a
multitude of places, including windows and festivals and playgrounds. Access to nature includes things like skating
rinks, sledding hills, and cross-country skiing paths. Gathering places includes both
restaurants/bars/cafes and winter festivals and activities.
The
Minneapolis newspaper featured hygge.
It's both cosy and comfortable, according to one Dane who spoke to the
reporter. And, "'It’s being
comfortable and feeling at home, even if it’s a place you’ve never been
before,' said Erik Bruun, a native Dane on the board of the Danish American
Center." Further amplification was
provided. "At its heart is a sense
of conviviality, bringing people together in a warm embrace of candles,
conversation and a few calories."
Its genesis is climate; Denmark has 180 days of drizzle per year, said
one. "'There’s a need for light and
color.' Candlelight counteracts the dreariness outdoors."
Danes, of course, are pleased by the attention that the
Danish are receiving, because we all know that Minnesota is seen as a
Norwegian/Swedish culture (even though the largest group of immigrants to
Minnesota was the Germans). In my case,
my maternal great-grandparents were immigrants from Denmark, in 1879 (him) and
1880 (her), and down the street from our house is St. Peder's Lutheran church,
which, while I was growing up, always had services in Danish (no longer). My grandmother, born in western Minnesota,
spoke only Danish until she was 5 years old and went to school—and she
abandoned Danish as she grew up so that I never heard her speak it. At no time in my life, with both a Danish grandmother
and great-aunt, did I ever hear of hygge.
So what's
not to like about hygge? There is a dark
side to it. A writer in Slate pointed
out the drawbacks. Calling it "the
Danish aesthetic import that elaborates comfort into a life philosophy," one
author calls it a "complete absence of anything annoying or emotionally
overwhelming." Hygge is against
conflict and discomfort, distrustful of newness or challenging viewpoints. It is a closed system." Another writer about hygge defines it
similarly. "Hygge is very gentle.
There is no discussion of politics or anything controversial that makes you
feel uptight."
The
far-right politicians in Denmark also embrace hygge. "Pia Kjærsgaard, the leader of the
right-wing, anti-immigrant Danish People’s Party, has publicly extolled the
virtues of the lifestyle, insisting that her office remain cozy and hyggelig at
all times." Hygge is conservative;
"Anything that threatens that safe community, including alien values and
ideologies, cannot be tolerated."
An English
author and journalist who moved to Denmark wasn't impressed, either. "Hygge can seem like self-administered
social gagging, characterized more by a self-satisfied sense of its own
exclusivity than notions of shared conviviality." Another writes that
"poured into hygge’s candlelit sweetness, like a cloying cream filling,
are inevitable and explicit cases of xenophobia and racism."
On the
whole, however, taken in its innocent meaning and application, it's not a bad
way to think about living in the winter.
In reality, moreover, I think many of us, including me, seek a hyggelig
environment during the long winter months without realizing it. We have the colors of the Christmas tree, we
light candles, we create warmth both physical and psychological. We just didn't know what it was called.
Later on
in the year this appeared in twincities.com, otherwise known as the St. Paul Pioneer Press:
"The former Bedlam Theatre in St. Paul’s Lowertown has
been converted into a coffee shop and cafe called Hygga Lowertown." "The eatery is named after the
Scandinavian word that is like a cultural identity. It can loosely be translated 'to slowing down
to spend time with friends and being cozy.'
The most common spelling of the term is 'hygge.' Hygga’s website promises 'comfy ambiance,
warm service' and that the business will 'cultivate a sense of
conviviality.'"
* * *
Whenever a question or
problem arises, I have always urged my children and spouse and myself to go
look at the research/what the experts have to say. I will not, in these messages, dwell on
Krystin and her death. But I finally,
nearly seven weeks after she died, decided to look at what's been written about
grieving parents. As you can imagine,
there's a lot. I only looked at what
might be called the counseling side.
Here is a small sampling; I've abstracted what struck me as portraying
my own experience. (I have jumbled
together sentences and paragraphs from multiple websites; none of what follows
(in italics) is my own wording except what's in the brackets.) The upshot is that there's bad news and good
news.
For many, the
death of a child is unimaginable. That said, it’s important to note that there
are no “levels” of loss. No two relationships are the same, so it’s important
not to compare one person’s experience to another’s. [A point that I've made as well.]
The loss of a
child is the most devastating experience a parent can face—
and missing the child never goes away. A piece of yourself is lost and your future
is forever changed. It doesn’t get
“better." When your child dies,
there is no “getting over it” [and] people do not “snap out of it” as the
outside world often thinks we should.
This loss is not an illness from which we recover. When you’re newly bereaved, you don’t see how
you can put one foot in front of the other, much less survive this loss. You’ll never “recover” from your loss nor
will you ever find that elusive “closure” they talk of on TV—but eventually you
will find the “new me.” You will never be the same person you were before your
child died. It is a life-altering change
that forces us to build a new life for ourselves and our families, in a world
that no longer includes our loved one.
The journey
through this grief is long and difficult.
It has been said that coping with the death and loss of a child requires
some of the hardest work one will ever have to do. In the early moments, we may find ourselves
in an all-consuming pain beyond description.
It can be tough to live our everyday lives, challenging to think about
anything other than our loss. Even happy
memories may bring us pain for a time.
This grief cannot be avoided, ignored, or put away. You must go through
it in order to emerge on the other side.
Your grief will shift and become less all-consuming as time goes
by. But right now you must follow your
instincts and allow your heart, mind, and body to grieve.
Grieving
requires patience and acceptance [and it is] a slow process. Be gentle and patient with yourself and your
family. Allow yourself to cry, to
grieve, and to retell stories as often as needed and for as long as you need
to. You will never forget your loved
one; he or she will be with you in your heart and memories for as long as you
live.
It may be hard
to believe now, but in time and with the hard work of grieving (and there’s no
way around it), you will one day think about the good memories of when your
child lived rather than the bad memories of how your child died. You’ll laugh again. You’ll enjoy life again. You’ll love again. But you also might cry every Christmas
morning, every birthday and sometimes just because. That’s okay.
You’ve experienced a wound that doesn’t ever fully heal. You loved with
your heart and soul, and your grief is simply a manifestation that your love is
still alive – forever.
Gary writing
again: the literature I looked at
reports that one of the thoughts that crosses the minds of surviving parents is
along the lines of "if only I had 5 or 10 minutes more with my
child." Sometimes it is because
they want to make up or be sure that nothing is left unsaid. That wish for a few minutes has occurred to
me repeatedly. But when I consider the
desire more carefully, I realize "no."
I've been
"lucky," if that's the right term in such a funereal context, that of
my five close family members who've died (mother, father, grandmother,
great-aunt, and now Krystin), there was nothing left unsaid between us. With both my mother and Krystin, that was
explicit (although not in the immediate context of death). With the other three, I just know it. So I've never needed to wish for a last few
minutes to settle misunderstandings or affirm love.
As Kathy pointed out
when we were talking about this subject for a few minutes, at least in some
cases (including Krystin), it is purely selfish. Having had a few more minutes with Krystin
could only have happened if everyone knew she was going to die shortly—which
would have meant that she faced the terror of death. She didn't, and to successfully wish her back
for a short time would have been unmerciful.
So I've been able to get away from that sentiment.
It seems to me as well that many (not all, obviously) of the preceding
italicized comments apply in varying degrees to the loss of any loved family member—and probably
extremely close friend as well. The
opening declarative sentence in the second paragraph is nonetheless probably
true: The loss of a child is the most devastating experience a parent can
face.
* * *
For those of you who
may have missed it in my list of examples of Krystin's humor:
Well gosh
darn, that high school math finally paid off. I had to use the Pythagorean
theorem yesterday to solve a work prob--oh wait, what am I saying? No, no I
didn't. [In response to a comment:] Yeah! I've never used either of them since
10th grade math. Ever. Sometimes I sing the quadratic equation song to my cats,
though. . .
My continuing
rant. We insist kids learn the quadratic
equation to get into college but we don't insist they learn how to read graphs
and tables and evaluate statistical claims so they can be intelligent consumers
of news. Pfui.
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