gedankenexperiment

What Is Will? (1)

I. Will and Intention

The usual conception of will is that it is mental intention; a thought of doing something. “I will knit a sweater.” Then the brain sends signals to the muscles, and the act of knitting is performed. This would be an example of free will: choosing a course of action and executing it. Having the thought of doing something, then doing it.


But why is it that our will doesn’t seem to work sometimes? It is a rare human being indeed who has never experienced intending to do something that didn’t get done, such as reply to a letter or e-mail, or write a report, or fix a dripping faucet. I’m not talking about conscious choices not to do something you originally planned to do; I mean the activities that simply end up not having happened. This is what makes procrastination so baffling: procrastination isn’t really a choice; not when it feels like procrastination, anyway. Procrastination—the “dilatory”1 kind—is what we do when we’re not doing what we intended to do. The mental intention is there, but the intended action isn’t. When we intend to do something, we say, “I’m going to do that,” as if to mean, “I’m squarely facing that activity and I’m on my way toward it, but I’m not there yet.”

A Short Zero-Act Play Not About Will

Scene: Millie, while texting, talks to Willy, who is playing a computer game.

Millie: I’m going to knit a sweater.

Willy: Are you knitting it right now?

Millie: No, but I’m going to.

Curtain

Of course it is possible that, in a revision of the above play, Millie could demonstrate determination and grit and actually do what she intended. In that case her claim, “I’m going to,” would turn out to have meant: “I will knit a sweater, even if it’s the last thing I do!” This alternate scenario is closer to the essence of what will is. That which is willed will in fact happen. There is no such thing as willed activity in theory; that’s an oxymoron. There is no such thing as will in intent only. Will is will in action by definition.

We don’t look at Hamlet when he’s deliberating whether he should revenge his father now while the murderer is defenselessly praying on his knees, or whether he should wait for a more opportune moment when the murderer will more likely go to Hell instead of Heaven—we don’t watch this scene in the theatre and admire Hamlet’s willpower while he intends and intends and intends to act. Meanwhile, the two other characters in Shakespeare’s tragedy who have lost their fathers—Laertes and Fortinbras—both singlemindedly pursue their respective revenge plots. Neither is able to achieve his goal immediately. Laertes must collude with the king, because his target is Prince Hamlet himself, whom Laertes kills at the first viable opportunity. Fortinbras marches his army into an utterly profitless battle, just to move into position to get what he wants and takes at the end of the play, which is the crown and country of Denmark itself.

The proof of will is in the follow-through. For Millie’s sweater to get knitted, all that’s necessary is Millie’s will—plus some dexterity, some yarn and knitting needles. And yet, if she knows how to knit, and has the tools, won’t the act of knitting follow naturally? Why is her will necessary?

A Short Zero-Act Play About Will

Scene: Willy visits Millie in the rec-room at the Home for Ennui.

Willy: Aren’t you going to knit your sweater?

Millie: I don’t want to.

Willy: If you don’t, they’re going to take away your needles and yarn.

Millie: I don’t care.

No further action. The curtain doesn’t fall. Eventually the audience gets bored and wanders away.

Will is necessary because it is the force that overcomes inertia. Without the will to knit, poor Millie will waste away in the Home for Ennui watching reruns of Lost.

But how can she engage her will to knit if she never says or at least thinks: “I’m going to knit”? Doesn’t she need intention as well as will? If her will is free, then sure. If she chooses to knit a sweater of her own free will, her intention will be evident in her choice, as her will shall be evident in her follow-through action. But does intention always precede an act of will? Is intention a prerequisite for action? As we’ve seen, intention is not the same thing as will. Intention goes hand-in-hand with choice and decision, but does not necessarily lead to execution. If Millie chooses to knit, she will have that intention, as she did in the first play, but this does not guarantee that she will knit the sweater.

What about the reverse case?—If she in fact knits the sweater in an exercise of will, must she have intended to do so?

A Short One-Act Play About Will

Scene: Willy, dressed for Saturday night, tries to get Millie to go out with him.

Willy: Come on.

Millie: I’m busy knitting a sweater.

Willy: Every time I look at you you’re knitting a sweater. Why are you knitting a sweater now, anyway? It’s midsummer.

Millie: I don’t know. Everyone in my family knits sweaters all year round. It’s just what I do.

Willy: Stop knitting! (He grabs the yarn.)

(Millie stabs him with a knitting needle. She keeps knitting. Willy crawls to the emergency room of the nearest hospital and eventually lives happily ever after, but is a little cold in winter, because he never wears a sweater.)

Curtain

Millie does indeed knit the sweater. Her will is strongly evident: she will knit, despite Willy’s attempts to dissuade and stop her. But far from freely intending to knit, she appears to do it out of habit, perhaps even mindlessly. Knitting in this case is more like an inherited trait than a choice. She is impelled to knit. The forethought that we associate with intentionality is not there.

It is the freedom in free will that complicates will. With freedom of choice we may do as we intend. But then whether or not we follow through on our intentions we can’t predict with any certainty. We may intend to act, but (in a condition of freedom) we are neither impelled nor compelled to do so. Free will is evident when conscious choice and the will to effect that choice are united. For Millie to exercise her free will, she would have to say (or think) “I’m going to knit a sweater,” and then actually knit one.

If, just for the purpose of observation, we remove the complicating element of freedom of choice, will as the pure force that effects action is much easier to see. Will that is not free looks like instinct. It’s involuntary and inexorable. This is what we’re seeing in the last short play, above. Millie’s behavior in that play is a bit unnerving, because there’s something just a little inhuman about her this time (even without the stabbing); something almost mechanical. She’s like a knitting machine. In other words, she’s like a spider.

Spiders that spin webs2 do so instinctively.3 It’s what they do. If you ask a spider, “Why are you weaving a web now?,” she will reply: “I don’t know. Everyone in my family weaves webs all the time. It’s just what I do.”4 If you destroy her web, she will not stab you, because she’s not big enough to hold knitting needles (silly!). But she will start making her web all over again without hesitation. If you destroy the web again, she’ll weave it again. If you destroy it a hundred times, she will weave it again every time, until she dies. The spider will weave her web.


We tend not to notice will in these kinds of contexts—spiders and their webs, ants and our picnics, birds and the worms that eat of kings—because we free-willers automatically associate will with intention. But distinguishing will from intention can clarify confusing behaviors, like procrastination, in which conscious intention points in one direction and unconscious will—perhaps in the form of an underlying aversion, or an interfering habit—goes in any direction but the chosen one.

The story of will so far:

  • Will is not one and the same as intention.
  • Whereas intention is the idea of an action, will overcomes inertia and initiates action like a force.
  • It is possible to intend something but lack the will to make it happen.
  • It is possible to act with will without intending to do so.
  • Less complex life forms—spiders, for instance—demonstrate powerful will in their behaviors. Spiders do not have free will, though; their will is instinctive.
  • We human beings have free will, in the sense that we may choose (i.e. intend) a course of action, and then carry it out in an exercise of will. But there is no automatic guarantee that we actually shall follow through.

What is it that makes our will free, while the will of spiders is solely instinctive? In this post’s following two episodes, we’ll answer that question by searching more deeply into how will functions. We’ll also go into the reasons we conflate will with intention, and tend to see intention when we’re really looking for will (as when we’re trying to get ourselves to do something we’ve intended to do, but keep not doing). It all turns out to be related to bodies, intelligence, and executive functioning.

To be continued…


Gedankenexperiments

  1. What kinds of activities do you…

    • intend to do, but just don’t?
    • do without intending to?
    • have no trouble intending and doing?
  2. What does “the will to win” mean? How do you manifest it? Where do you feel it, and what does it feel like?

  3. Try to feel your will when you stick to your guns.

  4. Try to feel your will when you change your mind.
     


  1. “Often with the sense of deferring through indecision, when early action would have been preferable.”—Oxford English Dictionary

  2. Not all spiders spin webs. Many hunt down their prey (gulp!). However, for the purposes of this post, in which I am comparing web weaving to knitting, every time I refer to spiders, I will mean those types of spiders that spin webs. 

  3. I am indebted to Dr. Scott McPartland for the image of spiders weaving webs as a metaphor of instinctive will activity. 

  4. Don’t take my word for it. Ask Charlotte (from Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White, page 39):

    I’m not entirely happy about my diet of flies and bugs, but it’s the way I’m made. A spider has to pick up a living somehow or other, and I happen to be a trapper. I just naturally build a web and trap flies and other insects. My mother was a trapper before me. Her mother was a trapper before her. All of our family have been trappers.

What Is a Preposition? Let’s Go Inside and See

Prepositions—e.g. “over,” “under,” “before,” “after,” “in,” “on,” “of,” and dozens more in English—are words that denote relationship between things; things including people and places;—you know, nouns. When handling prepositions it’s especially important to remember that actual people, places, and things (including ideas and other non-material yet no less real things) are what we mean when we refer to “nouns.” When thinking about prepositions if we bring to mind the real things, places, and people that are in relationship, we can accomplish two things: (1) understand the meaning of the preposition we’re using, and (2) rediscover the living pulse of language.

But before we get into the woo woo stuff, let’s solidify what prepositions are and how they work. (For your reference, here is a handy list of prepositions.) It was first explained to me that prepositions are “Anything you can do with a mountain”1: you can go over a mountain, tunnel under a mountain, hammer your way through a mountain (if you’re John Henry), and so on. Over at the website Grammar Revolution, you can see a similar graphical representation of prepositions using an apple and a worm. So far these mountain and apple examples are showing relationships of space: if you’re under a mountain you’re either a skilled spelunker or you’re screwed (like Jonah, when he found himself buried under a mountain), but in either case the mountain is spatially above you and you are spatially below the mountain. But it’s also possible to use prepositions to show relationships of time, as in the question, “I wonder what was here before this mountain rose up from the earth?”

Indeed, the apple and the mountain might be prepositionally related in various ways. The apple could be of the mountain (or of a tree that is of the mountain). The mountain existed long before the apple (and yet, should a meteor suddenly flatten the mountain, it’s possible that the apple might continue to persist after the mountain is gone). The apple might be rolling down the mountain. The apple might be thrown at the mountain. The apple might be formerly of the mountain, have rolled down the mountain, been picked up by a girl who lives in a cave of the mountain, been rejected because it is wormy, and at this very moment be poised to be thrown at the mountain in disgust.

Most of the prepositions in the previous paragraph show relationships of space, and a couple show relationships of time. The preposition “of” (and some others, depending on context) shows a different kind of relationship: a familial or genetic one. Think of the prepositional phrase that concludes the first paragraph of this post: “the living pulse of language.” There is a necessary connotation of oneness: the pulse and the language that the pulse is of participate the same existence; the pulse being spoken of is orphaned without the language that it is of.2 In the phrase “the Queen of England,” the Queen does not belong to England as a possession so much as she is inseparably related to the land of that country; she can only be the Queen of England and of no other land, just as she can only be the daughter of her mother and the mother of her children. What’s important here is the nature of the relationship per se, not whether the relationship between the Queen and England is more like the relationship between a daughter and a mother or more like that between a mother and a child. The essence of the preposition is in the relationship that exists between the two related things.

In this respect, the preposition “between” might be the queen of prepositions. For the relational meaning of any preposition is neither the one thing being brought into relationship nor the other; that is, the meaning of “of” belongs neither to the Queen nor to England, but is something else in itself. But what? How can we best grasp the meanings of prepositions? This might sound like a daft question not worth asking, but many English teachers have surely begun to notice a marked deterioration in the use of prepositions by their students in recent years, including my favorite pet peeve, the oxymoronic “based off of.”3

One of the most effective ways to choose the right preposition is to gesture with your hands. Try it. Use your hands to place one thing in another. No, really, don’t just imagine it in your mind; physically use your hands to do it. Prepositions are physical. When you walk alongside a fence, for instance, you are walking a long sidealong the side ofalong beside that fence. Gesture “alongside” with your hands. Gesture “this is for you” with your hands.

Physicalizing prepositions can help us understand them deeply. You can use your hands to gesture “between.” You can also stand in a doorway for a full minute—neither on one side nor on the other side—but right between. Try it with the outside door of your house or apartment building or dorm. Stand in the doorway between inside and outside. What is that experience of between-ness like? The doorway is analogous to the preposition: it establishes a certain relationship between the space on one side and the space on the other. There could be a quite different relationship between those two spaces; there could be a wall between them; there could be a partial wall that ends, and where the wall ends the two spaces that were separated then come together and become the same space.

Using our hands doesn’t work as well for prepositions of time. The only gesture we can make to show “before” is a spatial one, as in the lyric from the nursery rhyme “Sing a Song of Sixpence”:

Wasn’t that a dainty dish
To set before the king?

That’s a spatial “before.” But to experience the sense of time in “before” as well as in “after,” we must employ memory. Without resorting to photographic records, compare the way a place appears before and after. Before and after what? you may ask. Try thinking about “before” as before after, and “after” as after before, in pure relationship to each other. You might recall a room that was painted, or a field that recently was snow-covered but now is beginning to bud with early spring. Contemplate the experience of the place changing from before to after; the relationship between the before and after appearance of the place. Try to hover temporally in between the two different appearances of the place, which, like photographs, are static. The in-between time relationships of the prepositions “before” and “after” themselves are not static: “before” moves from later to earlier, while “after” moves from earlier to later.

If you sit meditatively with prepositions, they begin to pulse with living meanings, meanings that inspire the kind of understanding that comes from lived experience.

Here are some mind-bending prepositional gedankenexperiments to take with you. For most interesting results, contemplate one for two uninterrupted minutes per day for several days, before moving on to try another. Focus matters here.

  • Pick a preposition, any preposition, and contemplate its meaning in and of itself.
  • I’m not sure why, but a whole class of mine once got freaked out by this preposition in particular; so consider yourself warned. Contemplate the meaning of the preposition “in.” (Is it scary? Really?)
  • There’s a spatial sense of being with a friend (as opposed to being apart), but when you reassure your friend that you are with him or her, what more than bare proximity do you mean?
  • Contemplate the relational meaning of the preposition “because.”
  • When you say you are thinking of a number from one to ten, what does it mean to think of something?

  1. Dr. Scott McPartland 

  2. In preemptive retort to grammar tyrants who will brook no prepositions at the ends of sentences, I quote Winston Churchill: “This is the sort of English up with which I will not put.” 

  3. Think about it: based and off of are contradictories. 

What Makes a Pen Real and a Falling Tree Make a Sound?

Pick up any ordinary pen and consider what you see.  Supposedly your eyes will do their job, which is to represent the physical structure of the pen as a particular configuration of rods and cones. But your mind will not acknowledge the object in your hand as a bunch of rods and cones, nor as a structured mass of molecules (which is what a pen and everything else is made of). Your mind instead understands the object simply as a pen.

There are two stages involved in knowing that what you picked up is a pen. First, your eyes and your fingers communicate sense impressions, or percepts; to your brain. These percepts are in the form of electrochemical stimuli traveling through your nervous system, and they no more resemble a pen than a weather map resembles an actual rain storm. Second, your mind then organizes this raw data into concepts. It is the concept of a pen that the mind grasps, and to prove this, simply put yourself in a room that contains no pens and then reread this paragraph. You still understand what a pen is, even though you’re not perceiving one at the moment.

The first of these two stages is really nothing more than passive observation. What is a pen, materially? It’s a mass of molecules, which are composed of atoms, which are composed of subatomic particles. Has any human being ever actually seen—as in laid eyes on—those subatomic particles? No. Even the most powerful microscopes can only bump over some thing that physicists have mathematically postulated to be an electron, but no one has ever perceived an electron with his own senses. A pen in its raw state, like every other object in the world, is just a mass of particles.

The second stage, the concepts stage, is where we get our sense of reality; for if we did not organize the constituent particles of matter with our minds, we would forever be confronted with a universe of undifferentiated particle soup. A pen is made of particles; air is made of particles; and the particles in both are fundamentally the same (i.e. protons, neutrons, electrons).1 It is consciousness that differentiates between the two by forming two distinct ideas. The idea of a pen is a coherent representation of the sensory data we receive in the form of percepts. The raw data—the particles themselves, as well as the sensory impulses traveling through our nervous systems—remain unrepresented until our minds make comprehensible forms out of them.


This extra-sensory, reality-forming activity of the mind is what philosopher Owen Barfield calls figuration: After passively perceiving undifferentiated particle structures with the senses, the mind figurates those structures and forms an image of the real world. Barfield calls the process of perception and figuration, taken as a whole, participation.2

Thus, the world, without consciousness to participate3 it, is an abundance of unrepresented phenomena. Such unrepresented phenomena would certainly exist in their own right, but they would not be real in any sense that is useful, because they would have no conscious meaning. In terms of an existential state, unrepresented phenomena do not depend on consciousness for existence (in other words, the particles, the quanta of energy, are there whether consciousness figurates them or not); but in terms of conscious reality, what is unrepresented lingers in the realm of the potentially manifest. Thus the answer to the long-debated question, “If a tree falls in a forest but no one hears it, does it make a sound?” is, No, it doesn’t. But it does make something, something as yet unrepresented. Particles of what a participating person would recognize as air would move precipitously. And if a participating person were in the forest, that unrepresented movement of particles would indeed be recognized as sound.

Perhaps the hardest part of participation to swallow is that without consciousness there is no reality. Raw percepts, what I called “particle soup,” aren’t anything without concepts. But neither have concepts any reality without percepts. As philosopher Georg Kuhlewind noted in The Logos-Structure of the World, the percepts bring the weight of evidence to our perceptions; in other words, the percepts of our sense impressions tell us that something exists, that something is actually there. Concepts structure the something-there into an intelligible, experiential reality. It might be useful to distinguish between what exists and what is real in this way: something which exists potentially may occupy consciousness and join with concepts, whereas something real has already so appeared in the mind and been conceptualized by it. Even for the tree to fall in the forest, a participating consciousness is prerequisite. Otherwise the best anyone can say is that, because he’s been in a forest, or experienced artistic renderings of forests (in paintings, for example), he can imagine that in some forest a tree might fall, and if it did fall, he can imagine that it would make a sound. In the absence of a participating consciousness, there is no tree even, and no forest. Something exists, and something is happening in the world of unrepresented energy-particles.

Though it is difficult, using conventional wisdom, to think of a phenomenon as part of existence and yet simultaneously unreal, it is a viable distinction; otherwise, the word real in the philosophical sense could just as well be stricken from the dictionary as redundant, and the distinction between represented and unrepresented phenomena would be impossible to make.

There are many practical implications of the above philosophical excursion, not the least of which is that our collective reality is correlative to our collective concepts. It follows that what we make of the world in fact makes the world. What we do with our minds matters. This is one of the major foundational principles of The Conscious Learner.


  1. You might argue that the configurations of the subatomic particles make all the difference, but if that’s so it must be by a magical process: the mathematical differences between one atom and another do not in any way resemble the qualitative differences between a pen and air. Nor do molecular structures determine that a pen is a pen and not a hippopotamus. A molecular structure is a set of relationships, bonds, between atoms. These bonds are said to determine the substance’s physical properties, its conductivity, hardness, soluability, and melting point. But all of the terms being used to describe molecular structure are conceptual. A bond is a particular kind of relationship involving attraction. Conductivity, hardness, soluability, and melting point are all concepts. Thus a molecule’s physical properties are the product of consciousness’s figuration of percepts. 

  2. See the first four chapters of Barfield’s Saving the Appearances, which, especially as far as the argument here is concerned, may be read as his magnum opus. 

  3. This usage of the verb participate can be found, says Barfield, on nearly every page of Aquinas’s writings. E.g. “Suppose we say that air participates the light of the sun, because it does not receive it in that clarity in which it is in the sun.” (De Hebdomadibus, chap. 2—quoted in Saving the Appearances, p. 90.) 

Implex and Complex

Brain teaser: what’s the opposite of “complex”?

“Simple,” right? Perhaps. But one could argue that “simple” represents a lack of complexity, not its polar opposite. I propose a different answer: the opposite of complex is implex (or maybe it’s the inverse—so sue me).

For example, a building is a complex, built brick by brick. But a human is an implex: an individual being that has many inner dimensions. Whereas complexes tend to be artificially constructed, an implex is a whole which has the unique capacity to unfold like a flower, like a brilliant plan, like an exquisite idea. Whereas a complex is an organized aggregation of separate components, an implex is a single whole entity that contains within itself many things that can be identified as parts but which are not separable from the whole. A complex consists of parts and synthesizes a whole. An implex consists wholly in itself and can (if plumbed) be analyzed into parts.

Nowadays we typically have trouble imagining an implex, and here’s why. First, we don’t normally think of anything as either an implex or a complex, unless those words are used in the name of a thing, as in an “office complex”; and there are no such current phrases that I know of that include the word “implex.” So, to ask the question whether something—say, a poem—is an implex or a complex, we have to stop and think about the thing (the poem) in question. If we are cognitively able to make the distinction between an implex and a complex, then when we start thinking about it, we are apt to think about it analytically, which is the predominant mode of scientific and philosophical thinking. Well, the word “analysis” means a disassembling of something to examine its component parts (Greek ana + lysis). Thus, the default mode of analytical thinking is to regard anything—a poem, a human body, a song—as constituted of separable parts, and therefore as a complex. Analytical thinking reveals to us that everything is made of parts, right?—even the atom is composed of subatomic particles.

But this is an error in our thinking. We know that we will be able to discover parts within virtually any whole. And so, as Henri Bortoft often notes (in his book The Wholeness of Nature), we start at the end of our thinking process (with our finished thought) rather than the beginning, and assume that all wholes are built up from parts. While this is certainly true of a Chevy Corvette, it is not true of a human baby. The only way to get at a human baby’s parts is to open it up—and since babies are not subject to psychoanalysis, this would require vivisection. But, one might argue, a single baby is a complex of multiple biological processes. While this is, quantitatively speaking, true, this view artificially carves a baby’s physiology into discrete processes. But the blood, the heart, the brain, the finger muscles and the vocal chords of a baby are all inseparably implexed in a whole. The whole human being is not constructed from parts in the manner of the “replicants” imagined by Philip K. Dick in Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (made into the film Blade Runner). Rather, the whole organism evolves, just as Darwin observed. A baby is a single entity, not a team entity. It is not legion, it is whole. The notion that human beings are constructed of numerous organs, bones, and so on is literally science fiction. Only a pervasive intellectual habit—this insistence that anything we can carve up must be piecemeal by nature, and therefore everything is the sum of its parts rather than being an existential whole (which implies that mysterious thing identity)—only this stubborn habit stands in the way of our perceiving the obvious.


A daisy plant

Thus the word “part” itself may express these two distinct and contrapuntal senses: on the one hand of being inseparably part of a whole, as in being part of a family, or part of a plant (say, one flower); and on the other hand of being an isolable piece of a construction,

A daisy chain

as in being part (i.e. a member) of a chain gang, or one component part of a daisy chain.

An implex can unfold into a complex. How? How can a human baby unfold? Contemplate this: a fertilized egg can become a fully formed human being, and that human life can become a biography. What stories from your life stand out and say something about who you are? When you have lived a long life, what is the relationship of any one of your many experiences—a bar mitzvah, the moment of falling in love with a lifelong partner, the birth of a child, the death of a parent—to the whole of your life? If you write your autobiography, in which sense is each chapter a part of the whole book?


Gedankenexperiments

  1. Your unconscious mind is clearly an implex, because to your conscious awareness your unconscious is and remains monolithic until it is dredged with the aid of a highly paid professional. In other words, your unconscious is a whole which can be plumbed and analyzed. But what about your conscious mind? Are your conscious thoughts one whole interweaving implex, or a complex of separate ideas? Can thoughts be separated from each other? If so, how?

  2. Try to discern the moment when an experience, which is an inseparable part of your whole life, can become an isolable part of your constructed biography.

Go Fish in
Streams of Consciousness:

absenceacceptanceaccomplishmentADHDaimsanalysisannotationanxietyAPAappearanceappleappreciationargumentartistaskingattachmentattentionawarenessBatmanbeingblank mindblissboatboring!brainstormingbraverycandlescenter of gravitychoicechoosing collegecognitioncommunicationcompassionconclusionconfidenceconsciousnessconversationcreative writingcreativitydawdlingdiagnosisdoorsdramadreamdrinkingecologyemotionenergyessaysessentialevidenceexamexcitementexecutive functionexerciseexperienceexpositionfailurefearfeelingfightfigurationflowfootballfrederick douglassfreewritinggamegedankenexperimentgesturegetting startedgoalgrammarhappinesshealinghearthonorhopehumanideasimaginationimagination_exerciseimplexinnovationinspirationinstinctinterestjubileekinestheticknifeknowledgelogicloudlovemagicmanagemasterymeaningmechanicsmedicationmeditationmetacognitionmilitarymindmistakesMLAmothermotivationmountainnontraditional collegenote-takingnotesorganizeout-of-the-boxparticipationpartspassionpatiencepeak-experiencepedagogyperseverancepersistencephysicalizeplanplayingplaywrightingplotpoetrypositive pointingpre-writingpreferenceprepositionpresenceprioritiesprocessprocrastinationprofessorsproofreadingputteringquestionsreadingrealityreflectionrelationshiprelaxationrepresentationreservesresourcesresponseresponsibilityrevisingsanctuaryself-actualizationself-assessmentself-relianceseptembershort storysocratic methodsoulspacestorystrengthsstressstudyingsuccesssummariessynthesistalkingtasksteachingtechniquetest anxietytest-takingThanksgivingthemethesisthinkingtimetolerancetomorrowtreetrusttruthunderstandingveteransvisualizationvoicewaldorfwelcomewholewillwillpowerwomenwordsworkingwriter's blockwritingyearningyesterday

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