10,000 Hours

Malcolm Gladswell's recent book, The Outliers, postulates that it takes 10,000 hours to become successful at something. In his book, he cites several people who have become enormously successful because of this concentrated time learning their craft, whatever it may be.
10,000 hours.
The idea intrigues me--it's as if it's been simmering in the back of my brain for some time. The concept first came to me in reference to Bonnie Raitt, the blues stinger and guitarist. And you can say, 'Oh--Bonnie Raitt--well that doesn't seem like much of a measure of success.' But it is to me. Bonnie Raitt was as good as many of the blues guitarists I've heard. And I wondered how did she get that good. A girl! Didn't she spend all those hours pouring over beauty and style magazines like every other girl? Didn't she spend all her time on the phone with friends, dissecting the curious behavior of men? Didn't she spend all those hours in malls, finding that perfect dress that would make her life complete? Where DID she find the time to get that good on a guitar, and find and sing those songs of such profound meaning and relevance?
10,000 hours.
I KNEW it.
Of course, now I feel a fool. I should have been spending the 10,000 hours getting good at--well--whatever it is I wanted to get successful and famous at. And there's the rub. You have to have the overwhelming desire for something before you can get to the 10,000 hours. You have to love something THAT MUCH to put in the 10,000 hours. That is what I lacked--for a long time. I spent the 10,000 hours, instead, looking into lidded,blue eyes of the man I love--memorizing the curve of his cheek and the tone of his voice. I spent it listening to my children's voices as they read to me. I spent it memorizing the sound of their laughter in the other room. I spent it committing to memory the patterns of their thinking. I spent it taking my aging mother shopping. I spent it at family gatherings, listening to the same old stories. I spent it reading, hiking, kayaking, swimming, lying on the beach. Learning to make a gumbo. Taking my dogs for walks, brushing my cat's fur. I spent it working jobs I didn't care about. I spent it following politics.
I squandered the 10,000 hours like a drunken sailor on leave.
But things are different now. I'm dedicated to this writing thing. I'm obsessed with this writing thing. I write constantly--wildly--with abandon. I write about things, I write about nothing. I write, write, write, hoping something will come of it.
10,000 hours.
Perhaps I'll get good at it. Too soon to tell.
I'm only on the 4000th hour.

On Grooming

The whole metrosexual movement among men has really got me stumped. I like clean men, don't get me wrong--but men shouldn't be TOO clean. It's ungodly. It's unnatural. How can you trust a man that's always neat and tidy? How can he go hunt? How can you expect him to bring home the bloodied carcass of his prey? How can he fight the attackers? How can he possibly do the things a man is supposed to do if he's in the habit of obsessing about his appearance? I smell too much cologne on a man and I think 'salesman--be ready to say no.' But that's me. Maybe I'm just Old School.

Then, there are the women who also obsess about appearance, with products, and stylists, and clothing, and plastic surgery out the wazoo (am I mixing metaphors?). You cannot convince me that those women are spending an equal amount of time improving their inner selves as they are in redesigning their outer selves. Time alone doesn't allow it. Lives are busy and everyone sets their priorities.

And some might say, "Well, I have enough respect for myself to make sure I'm well groomed." I'm not talking about "well groomed." Everyone wants to be washed, and cut, and combed, and brushed, and wearing something crisp and flattering. I'm talking about that line that wanders into excess--that division that becomes self-absorbed neurosis and can even become psychosis. It's the excessive focus on the surface of things, and the neglect of all that is beneath the surface. This strikes me the reason for many of the bad decisions we as individuals, and as a society, often make. In seeing the surface alone, we agree to be easily fooled. We become like children, refusing to understand that life is complex and the true situation not always evident.

I know this all makes me sound like a bit of a slob. I'm not. I like pretty things. I like sweet-smeling things. I also like the truth. I also like real meaning.

I'm just wondering if appreciating those things is slowly going out of style. And if it is, what kind of world will we create?

The Lyrics of Scarborough Faire - Eternal Love? or He's Just Not That Into You?

I recently went to a Renaissance Faire. Now, I know what you're thinking, the whole Medieval Faire thing is totally for geeks--but I really had a good time there, what with the costumes and acrobats and jugglers and musicians. It got me thinking about the medieval song Scarborough Faire, made famous in our age by Simon and Garfunkel. Anyone who doesn't know the song should get hold of their version--and also get hold of the lyrics. It's said to be a song about lost love, and contains a riddle wherein the singer asks his lady love to perform various impossible tasks to prove her love for him.

I see something else. I see a guy making it difficult for a woman to make a claim on him.

Scarborough was a town on the coast of England where a huge, 45-day trade festival was once held during medieval times. People from all over England and Europe came to trade at this festival, and it is likely all sorts of men and women intermingled there. The parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme part? Those were herbs from the Mediterranean that were brought to Europe and England in the medieval period. The herbs no doubt figured largely in the trade goods at the Faire, because they had just become popular for medicinal and cooking uses.

So what I'm picturing is this young Englishman who comes some distance to the Faire at Scarborough. He meets a young woman at the Faire, and they...well....let's say, enjoy a moment. Maybe several moments--it was a 45-day Faire. Unsurprisingly, he returns home--with his 'parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme' and resumes his life. Perhaps later, people returning from the Faire tell him the woman is looking for him. He has no intention of returning to her, or having her come to him--so what does he do? He makes up a riddle for her to solve. Do these impossible things, then we can be together. He probably already has a wife and growing family by this time. The very last thing he wants is this one-time fling showing up in his well-ordered life.

'Then she's be a true love of mine.' Not that she IS, mind you. She 'will be.' Hmmm.

Bards went from town to town playing this song with its haunting melody, adding verses as circumstances and inspiration led them to it. But the basis stayed the same. The riddle, the promise that never comes true, the sense of remembrance.

It's not a tale of regret over lost love--it's a song of a past fling and the message, 'Don't come here.'

That's what I make of it. Read the lyrics and background and see what you get.

Parsely, sage, rosemary, and thyme.