19. On the Paralysis of Perpetual Analysis

"Nothing," replied the artist, "will ever be attempted, if all possible objections must first be overcome." (Rasselas, by Samuel Johnson)

One my strengths--at the very least according to the StrengthsQuest assessment--is "strategy." I tend to be a visionary and a strategic thinker, I like imagining possibilities, and dreaming about what could be.  But another of my strengths is "context"--meaning I "look back."  I look back because that's where answers lie.  I tend to see the past as something of a blueprint for life as I move forward.  The past provides me with a frame of reference.

Anyhow, there's something about what the artist says to Rasselas in Johnson's book that struck last night when I read it.  I'm totally frustrated by an academic culture that insists that all possible objections must first be overcome before we try anything new. I don't know if it's in spite of my strengths or because of my strengths that I find the endless nay saying about moving forward with some innovation (a new venture, a new course, new curriculum, a new structure, etc.) until everything is in its perfect place and we've anticipated every possible little thing that could go wrong to be enormously frustrating.

Nothing is ever perfectly in its place.   There's not going to be a much better time for me to start writing that novel, to start that new workout plan, to start eating more helpings of vegetables and drinking less coke.  There will always be reasons why now isn't such a good time to move forward.

I am strategic--it's true.  But I've realized my best strategies are often only half-baked plans that I can adapt on the fly to meet unforeseen challenges.  Because if I sit around waiting until I've answered every possible objection, I'll never get a blasted thing accomplished.

This quote from Rasselas is not without irony, of course.  The artist who says it is at work creating a pair of wings so that he can fly.  Prince Rasselas questions him about the pitfalls and dangers.  The quote above is the artist's reply to him.  As it turns out, the artist does crash into a lake and nearly kills himself.  The chapter closes with this delicious little gem: "His wings, which were of no use in the air, sustained him in the water..." (ch. 6)

In life, there is the risk of crashing, but it sure beats the paralysis of perpetual analysis.  And you may not fly with those wings you've dreamed up, but they might actually save you from drowning.

I like that.