According to the Myers-Briggs test I took when I was seventeen years old, I am equal parts thinking and feeling. This doesn’t mean what I think it means, but let me tell you what I feel it means.
The principal drama of my inner life seems to be the tug-of-war between my desire to burn it all the the ground and my inkling that perhaps I ought to first hear the establishment out. My strong gut feelings are almost constantly kept in check by my sense of responsibility to the amount of information that is available to me. Of course, the amount of information available to me is astronomical, but that’s never stopped me from feeling beholden to it.
On one hand, I recognize that my creative output is a natural outcome of this inner turmoil. Many of my projects (the Mozart Festival, So Hot Right Now, even Backyard Violinist) began with a synthesis of vast amounts of information–limitations, inspirations, conversations, and observations–which eventually led to a single idea that “answered” all of it. On the other hand, I sometimes wonder if my equal opportunity stance towards traditions, conventions, norms, advice, opinions, and suggestions only amounts to a whole lot of fool-suffering.
My gut says (quite often) that it’s time for a new way of doing things. My brain responds by saying that, if I ever want my work to be taken seriously, I need to first understand the system I’m throwing off. My gut counters by kicking and screaming. My brain settles the dispute by agreeing to do nothing. For now. Again.
But the most vehement of all the warring voices in my head is the one that assures me that the way things are done is just the way things have been done. That voice has guided me, however gingerly, throughout my entire life. It tends to win out. It’s just that I can’t seem to shake this little dog who’s trailing behind me and barking, “Hear them out! Learn their best practices! You could be wrong! What do you know, anyway?”
I’ve always thought I needed to either get rid of the dog or let it lead the way, but I’m starting to wonder if the dog might have to come along with me forever. If that’s the case, maybe it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to occasionally glance at whatever the dog is yapping at, perhaps even bending down to scratch its head and say, “thanks, little guy,” as long as I stand all the way back up and continue walking toward the horizon.