In planning our own individual lives, we all have a strong psychological need to believe that we can control, or at least anticipate, much of what will happen to us.  But the social and physical environments in which we live, and indeed, we ourselves, are complex systems, if you will, subject to diverse and unforeseen influences. Scientists and mathematicians have discussed the so-called butterfly effect, which holds that, in a sufficiently complex system, a small cause–the flapping of a butterfly’s wings in Brazil–might conceivably have a disproportionately large effect–a typhoon in the Pacific.  All this is to put a scientific gloss on what you probably know from everyday life or from reading good literature:  Life is much less predictable than we would wish. As John Lennon once said, “Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans.”


Our lack of control over what happens to us might be grounds for an attitude of resignation or fatalism, but I would urge you to take a very different lesson.  You may have limited control over the challenges and opportunities you will face, or the good fortune and trials that you will experience.  You have considerably more control, however, over how well prepared and open you are, personally and professionally, to make the most of the opportunities that life provides you.  Any time that you challenge yourself to undertake something worthwhile but difficult, a little out of your comfort zone–or any time that you put yourself in a position that challenges your preconceived sense of your own limits–you increase your capacity to make the most of the unexpected opportunities with which you will inevitably be presented.  Or, to borrow another aphorism, this one from Louis Pasteur:  “Chance favors the prepared mind.”


When I look back at my own life, at least from one perspective, I see a sequence of accidents and unforeseeable events.  I grew up in a small town in South Carolina and went to the public schools there.  My father and my uncle were the town pharmacists, and my mother, who had been a teacher, worked part-time in the store.  I was a good student in high school and expected to go to college, but I didn’t see myself going very far from home, and I had little notion of what I wanted to do in the future.


Chance intervened, however, as it so often does.  I had a slightly older friend named Ken Manning, whom I knew because his family shopped regularly at our drugstore.  Ken’s story is quite interesting, and a bit improbable, in itself.  An African American, raised in a small Southern town during the days of racial segregation, Ken nevertheless found his way to Harvard for both a B.A. and a Ph.D., and he is now a professor at MIT, not too far from here.  Needless to say, he is an exceptional individual, in his character and determination as well as his remarkable intellectual gifts.
Anyway, for reasons that have never been entirely clear to me, Ken made it his personal mission to get me to come to Harvard also.  I had never even considered such a possibility–where was Harvard, exactly?  Up North, I thought–but Ken’s example and arguments were persuasive, and I was (finally) persuaded.  Fortunately, I got in.  It probably helped that Harvard was not at the time getting lots of applications from South Carolina.
We all have moments we will never forget.  One of mine occurred when I entered Harvard Yard for the first time, a 17-year-old freshman.  It was late on Saturday night, I had had a grueling trip, and as I entered the Yard, I put down my two suitcases with a thump.  I looked around at the historic old brick buildings, covered with ivy.  Parties were going on, students were calling to each other across the Yard, stereos were blasting out of dorm windows.  I took in the scene, so foreign to my experience, and I said to myself, “What have I done?”
At some level, I really had no idea what I had done, or what the consequences would be.  All I knew was that I had chosen to abandon the known and comfortable for the unknown and challenging.  But for me, at least, the expansion of horizons was exactly what I needed at that time in my life. I suspect that, for many of you, matriculation at the Boston College law school represented something similar–a leap into the unknown and new, with consequences and opportunities that you could hardly have guessed in advance.  But, in some important ways, leaving the known and comfortable was exactly the point of the exercise.  Each of you is a different person than you were three years ago, not only more knowledgeable in the law, but also possessing a greater understanding of who you are–your weaknesses and strengths, your goals and aspirations.  You will be learning more about the fundamental question of who you really are for the rest of your life.
via FRB: Speech–Bernanke, Commencement address–May 22, 2009.

When we are greedy, the psychoanalyst Harold Boris writes, we are in a state of mind in which we “wish and hope to have everything all the time”; greed “wants everything, nothing less will do”, and so “it cannot be satisfied”. Appetite, he writes in a useful distinction, is inherently satisfiable. So the excess of appetite we call greed is actually a form of despair. Greed turns up when we lose faith in our appetites, when what we need is not available. In this view it is not that appetite is excessive; it is that our fear of frustration is excessive. Excess is a sign of frustration; we are only excessive wherever there is a frustration we are unaware of, and a fear we cannot bear.
via Psychoanalyst Adam Phillips on our fascination with excess | Books | The Guardian.