A State of Flow

Aaah, Dear Friends, let me introduce Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. Some of you may have heard of him and, no doubt, all of you would like to pronounce his name. Young Grant Harder, a name you probably can pronounce, is the only person I know who can say his name properly. I will try to get in touch with this most wonderful of teachers and ask him to help me out. But, in the meantime, Dear Reader, forget I ever mentioned him, Mihaly C, that is, not Grant Harder, and try to adjust your focus to my pathetic wee tale.

I walk with a friend every week. His wife drops him off and I take him home thereafter. I was so doing a few weeks ago but had on my mind a few tasks that had to be done. It would be fair to say that I was a bit distant that day, my mind was on other things. I had just had my car serviced and was told that I really needed to replace my snow tyres as two of them were looking somewhat worn. Another expense which I could have done without. I was also dealing with an annoying bureaucratic issue which was not being sorted out in the few days it should have taken. A friend suggested that I trek along to my federal MP and that, generally, Liberal MP Jonathan Wilkinson is an help in these matters. My son suggested an excellent tyre place and my friend told me where the MP had his office. They were 100 yards apart on a local street.

I had a wonderful walk with my friend, dropped him at home and suddenly had a thought. The tyres and the MP were on the way home but I really wanted my lunch. Did I really want to pull over at an area where parking would be difficult, line up to make an appointment for new tyres a couple of weeks down the road, then pop in to Mr. Wilkinson’s office to discover that it was closed and there was nobody to help? I would give it a try but I felt it was a forlorn hope. Maybe if I had downed a chicken pot pie and sated my hunger I would have been more optimistic. I am a simple soul.

There was no parking spot, just a jagged car free zone outside the tyre place. I shook my head and pulled over and parked illegally. I went into the office where the guy behind the desk was just finishing with a customer. I explained that I needed four new winter tyres for a Mazda 3. What type of tyres? No idea. Was the car here? Out front. He dashed out from behind his desk, turned the corner and looked at my car. He gave me a quote and told me to return in 20 minutes and it would be done. I was gobsmacked. I left. I wandered down the street, found the MP’s office and was told to walk up the hill to the back and buzz for entry. I was welcomed by a young man, Thomas, who sat me down and took all my details and promised to do his best. I left, walked back to the tyre place, paid the bill and was told it was parked on the other side of the street. I was unable to wipe the smile off my face during the 20 minute drive home, Dear Reader.

So, Friends, you will know what a state of flow is because you all will have had moments when things just fit into place seamlessly. You have all been there. It is the tennis serve that always goes in; the problem with which you have struggled for hours and walked away from and then found that the solution was bleeding obvious; it’s the lesson which you taught and suddenly found that all the children were immersed in it and had learned from it; it is struggling to find the right words and opening one’s mouth and finding that they are there. I would love to hear from you on my email about your personal ‘states of flow’.

I guess that the opposite of state of flow is ‘Murphy’s Law’ when what can go wrong, will go wrong. We have all had those events, have we not? I guess that this is a ‘a state of unflow’.

My erstwhile colleague and friend, Grant Harder, has a problem he doesn’t know he has yet, Dear Reader. You see, friends and I battle with the Globe and Mail cryptic crossword every morning. Sometimes nothing happens. Try as we might we cannot get started. The world is a blank, the words do not flow. Inwardly I start to panic. Age has caught up with me. That which once I had I have no more. My head droops, my confidence wanes. I ‘woe is me’ my way home, slump in a chair and try to find my sunny uplands, serene moments and better days. I dabble in other things, I look for wee tasks, I go for a long walk. I return home and there on the dining room table is my pen and my blank crossword taunting me, teasing me, mocking me. I shrug my shoulders and pick it up. Then there is a moment. I answer a clue and soon all is revealed, I have completed the crossword, admittedly with phone call help from my friend. But all is suddenly right with my world again. But if it continues to go wrong, then I mutter ‘Grant Harder, Grant Harder’ under my breath because if he had never told me about ‘unpronounceable’ I would have just accepted that blundering on was my state of being. It was how I had happily spent most of my life but now my friend had taught me that I could achieve something better. Soooo, when ‘better’ didn’t work, I mouthed monstrous mendaciousness towards Mr. Grant Harder.

But, at the back of my mind, there is a niggle. Why, Oh, why? What was it that a few hours earlier was so difficult and now was solved with relative ease?

Maybe Grant Harder would be off the hook if I could mutter Mihaly Czikszentmihalyi under my breath. But I can’t, as I said before, the estimable Harder is the only one I know who can pronounce him.

Seasons greetings to you and yours.