Morning had recently stolen upon me as I sat writing a letter addressed to me in the future. I was unaware of the passing of time since waking at 5:00 am. It was the same morning the mystery voice had said, "Hello, I'm Claudia from Sweden." You surely remember my telling you about that in a previous post.
Something about that voice and the image that accompanied it had kept me from getting back to sleep, and there I was, unaware that dawn had swept the stars from the sky and that the sun had poured a rather generous cupful of sunshine onto Wonder Hall. The birds were likely singing their morning repertoire, though I hadn't noticed them either.
I may have continued to sit at that desk watching the movies playing out in my mind had Ms. Wonder not glided into the office like Catherine the Great leading her troops into the palace to get Peter's attention.
I was happy to see her, of course--couldn't have been more pleased. I told her so.
"Poopsie," I said, "So good to see you."
"Have you been up all night?" she asked with a hint of concern in her voice, the sort of concern one might show for a child who has been caught coloring on the wallpaper.
"Don't be silly," I said, "Only since 5:00."
"Have you been working on the book?"
"Not the book," I said. "I wrote a letter addressed to my future self."
"Hmmm," she said in the way she might if she'd found me building a scale model of the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks.
"You know how it is," I said, "when you have an important decision to make and you think you've made it, but instead of acting on it immediately, you must wait until it's time to commit."
"I follow you so far." Her eyebrow arched a little higher than my comfort level.
"When it comes time to act, you question the soundness of the reasoning that led to that specific decision." I said, hoping the explanation might bring the eyebrow back to Earth.
"Sure, I see what you're getting at," she said. "Prior to the time to act, you felt no pressure, and the cingulate cortex was in charge, making reasonable, logical decisions."
"Maybe," I said. "Could be." My grasp of brain parts is much less comprehensive than my collection of vintage rock concert t-shirts.
"Then, when the time to act arrives," she continued, "the limbic system generates anxiety and indecision results. It's like the poor cat in the adage."
"Cat in the what?" I asked, feeling like I'd missed my stop on her train of thought.
"Hamlet compared his hesitation to act as being like the poor cat in the adage, who let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.'"
"Well, I don't know about the cat, but I know about indecision. Someone put it well when he said, The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I understand that perfectly."
"Jesus Christ," she said.
"Ms. Wonder, please!" I said. "Language! You may dump your garbage into the Winter Canal and pollute the Neva River, but don't dump garbage into my ears."
"I have a suggestion that may bring satisfaction," she said.
"I was hoping you would," I said, and I thought it was admirably diplomatic.
"Write a letter to yourself explaining the decision you've made and why. Then, when you get cold feet, refer to the letter and you will know the decision you made is sound."
"Write a letter to my future self?"
"Precisely," she said.
"I did that just now," I said, holding up the pages before me with the pride of a fisherman displaying his world-record catch.
"Then I don't understand," she said. "What's the problem?"
"Problem solved," I said, beaming.
"I'm happy I could help," she said, with a smile that suggested she was accustomed to these circular journeys.
"Thank you, Poopsie."
"Not at all," she said, gliding out of the room with the same imperial grace that brought her in, leaving me to wonder if I'd only in that instant woken up.
Something about that voice and the image that accompanied it had kept me from getting back to sleep, and there I was, unaware that dawn had swept the stars from the sky and that the sun had poured a rather generous cupful of sunshine onto Wonder Hall. The birds were likely singing their morning repertoire, though I hadn't noticed them either.
I may have continued to sit at that desk watching the movies playing out in my mind had Ms. Wonder not glided into the office like Catherine the Great leading her troops into the palace to get Peter's attention.
I was happy to see her, of course--couldn't have been more pleased. I told her so.
"Poopsie," I said, "So good to see you."
"Have you been up all night?" she asked with a hint of concern in her voice, the sort of concern one might show for a child who has been caught coloring on the wallpaper.
"Don't be silly," I said, "Only since 5:00."
"Have you been working on the book?"
"Not the book," I said. "I wrote a letter addressed to my future self."
"Hmmm," she said in the way she might if she'd found me building a scale model of the Eiffel Tower out of toothpicks.
"You know how it is," I said, "when you have an important decision to make and you think you've made it, but instead of acting on it immediately, you must wait until it's time to commit."
"I follow you so far." Her eyebrow arched a little higher than my comfort level.
"When it comes time to act, you question the soundness of the reasoning that led to that specific decision." I said, hoping the explanation might bring the eyebrow back to Earth.
"Sure, I see what you're getting at," she said. "Prior to the time to act, you felt no pressure, and the cingulate cortex was in charge, making reasonable, logical decisions."
"Maybe," I said. "Could be." My grasp of brain parts is much less comprehensive than my collection of vintage rock concert t-shirts.
"Then, when the time to act arrives," she continued, "the limbic system generates anxiety and indecision results. It's like the poor cat in the adage."
"Cat in the what?" I asked, feeling like I'd missed my stop on her train of thought.
"Hamlet compared his hesitation to act as being like the poor cat in the adage, who let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.'"
"Well, I don't know about the cat, but I know about indecision. Someone put it well when he said, The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I understand that perfectly."
"Jesus Christ," she said.
"Ms. Wonder, please!" I said. "Language! You may dump your garbage into the Winter Canal and pollute the Neva River, but don't dump garbage into my ears."
"I have a suggestion that may bring satisfaction," she said.
"I was hoping you would," I said, and I thought it was admirably diplomatic.
"Write a letter to yourself explaining the decision you've made and why. Then, when you get cold feet, refer to the letter and you will know the decision you made is sound."
"Write a letter to my future self?"
"Precisely," she said.
"I did that just now," I said, holding up the pages before me with the pride of a fisherman displaying his world-record catch.
"Then I don't understand," she said. "What's the problem?"
"Problem solved," I said, beaming.
"I'm happy I could help," she said, with a smile that suggested she was accustomed to these circular journeys.
"Thank you, Poopsie."
"Not at all," she said, gliding out of the room with the same imperial grace that brought her in, leaving me to wonder if I'd only in that instant woken up.
