Field notes from a donut floatie

Dr. Strange, surrendering the bone, and belly-flopping into the river

We’re watching Dr. Strange. Popcorn kernels on the couch, blanket over our legs. My fourteen year-old stepson made an ordered list of the Marvel movies that we must watch in succession. And here we are.

A wise, bald Tilda Swinton, talking about magic, says:

“You cannot beat a river into submission; you have to surrender to its current and use its power as your own.”

Dr. Strange replies, “I control it by surrendering control? That doesn’t make any sense.”

It makes sense after some practice, and before you know it, he’s wearing a magic cloak, astral-projecting, and creating portals to different dimensions (a circular arm movement we tried afterwards to no avail).

While scrolling Instagram, a misattributed quote about surrender popped up: “When you let go of control, that’s when you begin to regain your power.” It’s not Carl Jung, but its timing, on the heels of Dr. Strange, was interesting.

Last week’s issue explored imagining life at a ten, and how the five we’re settling in might need to be destroyed, or at least get some serious remodeling. But once we’ve leaned back, hands interlaced behind our heads, feet on desks, dreaming about what Tuesday looks like on a ten timeline, we need to work toward it, then let it go. A strange paradox.

I’m a pit bull with a bone when I get an idea. Try to wrest it from me, and you’ll leave empty-handed and with teeth marks. But over-indexing on one possible eventuality is a dangerous and arrogant tendency. We suck the marrow out of possibility, cradle an empty shell, when juicier options are to our left and right. We’re not creating reality in isolation.

When I met my cousin for lunch at a Korean dive last week, he asked how I was planning to generate clients and wealth when I leave my current role. I said the how isn’t up to me (as my udon noodle slipped from my shaking chopstick).

The more we try to control things, the less control we actually have.

It’s an uncomfortable spot to be in - holding an architectural sketch of what we desire and not knowing how the floor plan will be built.

That can take our focus away from acting on it, without needing to “know” the exact plan and how it will turn out. Because the truth is, we can’t know. No one does. Even the best-laid plans go tits up. This Jewish proverb captures it best: “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.” Although the illusion of knowing and control is reassuring, planning also stops us from acting because it feels like we’re doing something.

This is one of those nuanced, BOTH-AND situations. Some amount of dreaming and scheming is needed, but so is shouting yee-haw and splashing into the unknown.

I feel this way about my next book project (it’s tough to even write the words “next book” because that official proclamation shuts the exit door, and part of me is still holding it open with her foot).

It’s a dance between needing an outline, some kind of navigation that doesn’t leave me writing aimlessly, amassing pages to find the compass. I won’t know how it turns out until I start writing it. It’s hard to know when to surf and when to belly flop into the current.

As my grandpa would say, “Inch by inch it’s a cinch. Yard by yard, it’s hard.” I just need to get my wetsuit on and remember that floating, freckles darkening, is just as important as navigating, brows furrowed. It’s such a dance. Sometimes, life dips me, spinning. Other times, I lead, my breath on its neck.

When we don’t know, it can be disastrously tempting to stay in what we do know. We might as well fuck around and find out.

Seeing my cousin’s face when I said, “I don’t know, the how is not up to me,” made me feel slightly deranged for a moment, but it passed.

I’ve done both - the don’t act until I know what’s on the other side, which resulted in a standstill, and fuck it, running head-first into the chaotic unknown like a mosh pit.

But I haven’t had much practice moving toward the ten, buoyed by the current and being pulled. I’ve started dialoguing with my desires, acting on them, and letting go of the how.

As we build toward a desired future, surrendering is part of the magic. Might as well follow Dr. Strange into the portal.

Keep creating,