PSY 121 was an important class. An undeclared Psychology major, I had looked forward to a serious introduction as long as I could remember. That's not what was waiting for me in Strong 001. I'm still praying that the class itself was some sort of experiment- the subject of which is so groundbreaking that it was worth the sacrifice of half of my respect for academia.
The hypothesis must have involved intrinsic motivation. Lectures were a stream of consciousness occasionally distracted by a set of unattractive PowerPoint slides and aggressively solicited class participation. The better received comments from my fellow students involved experiences with unprescribed pharmaceuticals.
In PSY 121 we learned that if one experiences a brain injury on the left hemisphere, one permanently looses the ability to see the right side of any room. We learned that schizophrenics see the world as a colorful abstract painting covered in eyeballs. We also learned that it was physically impossible to love another person until the age of twenty-five. I ended the semester with a grade of 141% after the optional final, and a declared course of study in a "more scientific field".
In the interest of popular positivism and with the aid of hindsight, I have convinced myself that a few hundred dollars bought a lesson in curiosity. In what sort of universe do I live in which THIS situation with THAT comb-over and THOSE cargo pants is possible? What made such an impression around the twenty-fifth year of this weirdo's life that he publicly deems all of humanity incapable of the most subjective emotional state until then... with academic authority?
A hopeless romantic, I kept that question in mind. What seems different about my relationship to other people at twenty-five? Have I finally aggregated enough challenges, failures, successes, betrayals, and recoveries to forge stubborn electro-chemical patterns of identity? Is calm more reflexive as my acceptance of the things that I like is no longer plagued by the value judgements of more desperate years? Effective choices are interpretations; so why should one human's choices ever threaten another human's capacity to do well?
The more people I meet- and given my occupation that can be a lot- the more my definition of love has evolved. My definition today? --An accessible undercurrent of respect for beliefs and opinions in the face of the uncertainties in life INCLUDING the interpretation of our actions and hearts by the people in it-- Sure it's not the emotional high I had been chasing since my first Disney movie, but it seems to me that something as universal as LOVE should not be an isolated event for anyone. I'm not claiming that this is an original idea, only sharing how I got back here.
Every time I publish this blog, I experience anxiety. Prone to over-analysis, I imagine negative responses- mostly to my lack of tact or a youthful naivety. Submitting involves trusting that I am not alone in my curiosity and capacity to enjoy seeing myself in others. If you made it this far, I'm at least right about the curiosity thing. :)
