This is one in a continuing series of posts which explores in more depth the exercises in The Next Ten Minutes. In this post I discuss some of the ideas behind the exercise “Memorize a Data Sequence.”
Introduction: meditating on memory
The exercise “Memorize a Data Sequence” is all about memory, but it’s not about memory in the ways that we usually think about it. Most popular discussion about memory focuses on the experience of common forgetfulness and on ways of staving off memory loss as we age. But the focus of this exercise is about something we don’t usually stop to think about: how our minds create discrete memories from the seamless flow of our experience.
Rather than suggesting ways to improve our memory, the exercise uses the present moment experience of memory (and its failures) as an object of meditation. What’s the point? Simple. As we observe the mechanisms of our own memory in action, we increase our capacity to reflect on the workings of our mind, which brings us the benefits of mindfulness meditation in whatever form we practice it (as summarized by Dan Siegel): we become less reactive to our inner experience; we enhance our ability to attend to sensations, thoughts and feelings, whether pleasant or unpleasant; we train ourselves to move through our lives with greater awareness and we foster a non-judgmental attitude toward our own experience.
But just because the exercise cheerfully ignores the practical functions of memory in real life, that doesn’t mean that I’m not just as distressed as any guy (especially any guy who recently turned fifty) about the declining state of my own memory. In fact, my struggles with memory in recent years have been greatly compounded by my struggles with Chronic Lyme Disease, which has neurological effects that fog my brain making it very hard to think fluidly and retrieve material from memory. (For instance, I just spent over a minute – I’m not kidding – trying to retrieve the word “retrieve.”) All of this often leaves me feeling rather like Dorrie, in Finding Nemo:
Pieces of Pi
Lyme Disease aside, though, declining memory and aging do of course go hand in hand. And for all the early Alzheimer’s jokes, for the most part it’s not pathological. It’s intriguing to me, though, how little my own distress about the state of my memory motivates me to do anything about it. If I were really motivated to improve my memory, I might spend more time doing exercises at the Memory Gym. Or I might take memory-enhancing vitamins and supplements. I could practice the many commonly-suggested techniques for maintaining a healthy memory, such as these suggested by the Mayo Clinic. Or I might simply play endless games of the simple yet utterly maddening game N-back, which has been demonstrated to improve both memory and “fluid intelligence.”
Better yet, I might start applying some of the techniques Joshua Foer describes in his fascinating new book Moonwalking with Einstein: the art and science of remembering everything, in which Foer describes how he, a person with a completely average memory, trained himself to memorize strings of random information so well that he wound up in the finals of the USA Memory Championships. As it turns out, the capacity to retain prodigious amounts of information doesn’t actually require special gifts. It’s simply a matter of discipline and persistence. (If you want the short version of his story, Foer also summarized some of the ideas ideas in the book in a New York Times Magazine piece titled Secrets of a Mind Gamer,)
When I wrote The Next Ten Minutes, I had no idea that there were competitions dedicated to the sorts of tasks I describe in this exercise – memorizing the order of a shuffled deck of cards, strings of random digits, etc. But I was fascinated by the Pi Day contest at my son’s school, in which students attempted to memorize as many digits of Pi as you can. (Want to get started? Here are the first million digits.)
I’d had some recent experience with similar tasks, most notably in my efforts over the past few years to teach myself Chinese. Learning any language requires a great deal of memorization, of course, especially when you’re trying to building vocabulary. But Chinese, with its ideographic written system (in which every word is expressed by different character) presents unique challenges to one’s memory. Especially for someone like me, because my visual memory is simply awful. I do reasonably well (although not great) memorizing words and grammatical structures aurally. But when I try to memorize Chinese characters, my brain simply flails. It’s extremely difficult to make the imagery before me attach itself to any sense of meaning. So I have the experience, over and over again, of watching my brain struggle as it tries to force itself to create a memory. It feels like a micro-version of the experience of the famous amnesia patient Clive Wearing:
Both the Pi contest and the task of trying to memorize Chinese characters capture my attention because of the way they combine something so seemingly pointless with something so deeply human. Our identities are shaped by our memories (more on that in a moment), but memory in and of itself is without any inherent meaning. Memory is simply a mechanical function through which the brain’s short-term processing encodes some portion of the information in our experience into long-term memory. The more detailed processes through which memory works, however fascinating, are beyond the scope of this post (and frankly they’re largely beyond my comprehension). But the underlying paradox bears repeating: the mechanical act of encoding memories is essentially without meaning; but it is only through that act that a sense of meaning in our lives can arise at all.
Meaninglessness
On one side of this equation lies the experience of meaninglessness. The fascinating thing about the digits of Pi, for instance, is that they are both absolutely fixed – determined – and deeply meaningless. The human brain is averse to meaningless, to such a degree that we will relentlessly impose a non-existent sense of meaning on things which are truly random. (For instance, check out for instance this short NPR story on the existence or non-existence of true randomness of the iPod Shuffle.) In fact, creating something which human beings experience as truly random is really quite difficult. Monty Python was often pretty good at it. And Samuel Beckett may be the closest thing we have to a master at this art:
How much of what you hear in this text is actual meaning as generated by the artist, and how much of it is imposed by the need of our own minds to find this string of text meaningful? Although it’s probably an impossible line to draw, it’s fair to say that a large part of the “meaning” that we make from Beckett’s words comes from our own imposition of order upon them.
Meaning
While the neurological workings of memory are complex beyond my understanding, the subjective experience of memory is my stock in trade. As a psychotherapist, I often conceptualize my essential job as that of matching present emotional experience with memories from the past. A key question I am regularly asking my clients as they talk about something that’s distressing them, is whether they have any memories of feeling this way in the past.
There’s an assumption underlying that question: that our behavior in the present is shaped by our past experience. Or, more properly, by the memories that we have constructed about our past experience.
Because the other assumption in that question is that our memories are an accurate reconstruction of what happened to us in the past. But the hard truth about the subjective experience of memory is that it is extremely malleable. Memory defines us. And yet it is deliciously fallible. People don’t want to hear this – we don’t believe that the memories which define us may not be true….or may not be as true as we believe them to be.
But there’s no question that our memories are subject to distortion. In fact, studies have shown that it really is possible to manipulate memories into existence of things that never happened. But here’s the thing: just because your memories aren’t “true” doesn’t mean that they’re not true. While all of us (therapists not least of all) can get into trouble insisting on the literal truth of the content of a memory – that this person did that thing in precisely the way someone remembers it, a memory can be emotionally true whether or not its literal content is accurate. As a therapist, I find it to be very useful to broaden my definition of memory to allow for an emotional truth which transcends the literal specifics of any given memory.
I could say much more about this, but it’s beyond the scope of this post. I’ll end by recommending a little game that I sometimes play with my wife – you can do it with any with whom you’ve shared past experiences. Choose a memorable moment that you’ve been through together. Then, without talking about it, separately write down everything you can remember about the event. When you’re done, compare notes. You’ll almost certainly find that some things you remember almost exactly the same. And that your partner’s memories will trigger things that you had forgotten. But other things will be more blurry – did it happen that way or not? And, most fascinating of all, some things you will disagree about completely. It’s likely that you will isolate at least a few details which you simply cannot resolve. Both versions cannot be true. And yet each separate version is true to that person’s experience. Here’s the challenge: can you allow your memory to be both true and not true at the same time?
Musical memories
There are many, many songs about memories, many of them completely awful. But I’m going to take the opportunity here (which I may never have again) to pair Philip Glass with Barbra Streisand. Glass’s opera Einstein on the Beach is not explicitly about memory. But it from one of my favorite pieces of music and it contains a text which requires singers to memorize long sequence of random numbers, which makes it a perfect accompaniment for this exercise:
And I must balance the avant-garde minimalism of Philip Glass with a nod to one of my least favorite performers (and songs) of all times, which is, of course, explicitly about memory:
If you think I should have chosen something different, or you can think of a song which better embodies the spirit of the exercises, let me know in the comments.
Further reading
I’ve created an Amazon list which links to each of the suggestions for further reading at the end of the exercise. You can find it here. The specific books for this exercise are:
In addition, I want to provide a link to Joshua Foer’s book…
…and to Dan Siegel’s wonderful book, The Mindful Brain, which has inspired me in many ways and from which I drew the summary of the benefits of mindfulness listed earlier in this post:
And as always, if you’ve got suggestions for other books on any of the topics in the exercise or in this post, please leave them in a comment.
Beyond the Book 5# – Memorize a Data Sequence
This is one in a continuing series of posts which explores in more depth the exercises in The Next Ten Minutes. In this post I discuss some of the ideas behind the exercise “Memorize a Data Sequence.”
Introduction: meditating on memory
The exercise “Memorize a Data Sequence” is all about memory, but it’s not about memory in the ways that we usually think about it. Most popular discussion about memory focuses on the experience of common forgetfulness and on ways of staving off memory loss as we age. But the focus of this exercise is about something we don’t usually stop to think about: how our minds create discrete memories from the seamless flow of our experience.
Rather than suggesting ways to improve our memory, the exercise uses the present moment experience of memory (and its failures) as an object of meditation. What’s the point? Simple. As we observe the mechanisms of our own memory in action, we increase our capacity to reflect on the workings of our mind, which brings us the benefits of mindfulness meditation in whatever form we practice it (as summarized by Dan Siegel): we become less reactive to our inner experience; we enhance our ability to attend to sensations, thoughts and feelings, whether pleasant or unpleasant; we train ourselves to move through our lives with greater awareness and we foster a non-judgmental attitude toward our own experience.
But just because the exercise cheerfully ignores the practical functions of memory in real life, that doesn’t mean that I’m not just as distressed as any guy (especially any guy who recently turned fifty) about the declining state of my own memory. In fact, my struggles with memory in recent years have been greatly compounded by my struggles with Chronic Lyme Disease, which has neurological effects that fog my brain making it very hard to think fluidly and retrieve material from memory. (For instance, I just spent over a minute – I’m not kidding – trying to retrieve the word “retrieve.”) All of this often leaves me feeling rather like Dorrie, in Finding Nemo:
[finding nemo video]
Pieces of Pi
Lyme Disease aside, though, declining memory and aging do of course go hand in hand. And for all the early Alzheimer’s jokes, for the most part it’s not pathological. It’s intriguing to me, though, how little my own distress about the state of my memory motivates me to do anything about it. If I were really motivated to improve my memory, I might spend more time doing exercises at the Memory Gym. Or I might take memory-enhancing vitamins and supplements. I could practice the many commonly-suggested techniques for maintaining a healthy memory, such as these suggested by the Mayo Clinic. Or I might simply play endless games of the simple yet utterly maddening game N-back, which has been demonstrated to improve both memory and “fluid intelligence.”
Better yet, I might start applying some of the techniques Joshua Foer describes in his fascinating new book Moonwalking with Einstein: the art and science of remembering everything, in which Foer describes how he, a person with a completely average memory, trained himself to memorize strings of random information so well that he wound up in the finals of the USA Memory Championships. As it turns out, the capacity to retain prodigious amounts of information doesn’t actually require special gifts. It’s simply a matter of discipline and persistence. (If you want the short version of his story, Foer also summarized some of the ideas ideas in the book in a New York Times Magazine piece titled Secrets of a Mind Gamer,)
When I wrote The Next Ten Minutes, I had no idea that there were competitions dedicated to the sorts of tasks I describe in this exercise – memorizing the order of a shuffled deck of cards, strings of random digits, etc. But I was fascinated by the Pi Day contest at my son’s school, in which students attempted to memorize as many digits of Pi as you can. (Want to get started? Here are the first million digits.)
Pi image
I’d had some recent experience with similar tasks, most notably in my efforts over the past few years to teach myself Chinese. Learning any language requires a great deal of memorization, of course, especially when you’re trying to building vocabulary. But Chinese, with its ideographic written system (in which every word is expressed by different character) presents unique challenges to one’s memory. Especially for someone like me, because my visual memory is simply awful. I do reasonably well (although not great) memorizing words and grammatical structures aurally. But when I try to memorize Chinese characters, my brain simply flails. It’s extremely difficult to make the imagery before me attach itself to any sense of meaning. So I have the experience, over and over again, of watching my brain struggle as it tries to force itself to create a memory. It feels like a micro-version of the experience of the famous amnesia patient Clive Wearing:
Clive Wearing video
Chinese image
Both the Pi contest and the task of trying to memorize Chinese characters capture my attention because of the way they combine something so seemingly pointless with something so deeply human. Our identities are shaped by our memories (more on that in a moment), but memory in and of itself is without any inherent meaning. Memory is simply a mechanical function through which the brain’s short-term processing encodes some portion of the information in our experience into long-term memory. The more detailed processes through which memory works, however fascinating, are beyond the scope of this post (and frankly they’re largely beyond my comprehension). But the underlying paradox bears repeating: the mechanical act of encoding memories is essentially without meaning; but it is only through that act that a sense of meaning in our lives can arise at all.
Meaninglessness
On one side of this equation lies the experience of meaninglessness. The fascinating thing about the digits of Pi, for instance, is that they are both absolutely fixed – determined – and deeply meaningless. The human brain is averse to meaningless, to such a degree that we will relentlessly impose a non-existent sense of meaning on things which are truly random. (For instance, check out for instance this short NPR story on the existence or non-existence of true randomness of the iPod Shuffle.) In fact, creating something which human beings experience as truly random is really quite difficult. Monty Python was often pretty good at it. And Samuel Beckett may be the closest thing we have to a master at this art:
Beckett video
How much of what you hear in this text is actual meaning as generated by the artist, and how much of it is imposed by the need of our own minds to find this string of text meaningful? Although it’s probably an impossible line to draw, it’s fair to say that a large part of the “meaning” that we make from Beckett’s words comes from our own imposition of order upon them.
Meaning
While the neurological workings of memory are complex beyond my understanding, the subjective experience of memory is my stock in trade. As a psychotherapist, I often conceptualize my essential job as that of matching present emotional experience with memories from the past. A key question I am regularly asking my clients as they talk about something that’s distressing them, is whether they have any memories of feeling this way in the past.
There’s an assumption underlying that question: that our behavior in the present is shaped by our past experience. Or, more properly, by the memories that we have constructed about our past experience.
Because the other assumption in that question is that our memories are an accurate reconstruction of what happened to us in the past. But the hard truth about the subjective experience of memory is that it is extremely malleable. Memory defines us. And yet it is deliciously fallible. People don’t want to hear this – we don’t believe that the memories which define us may not be true….or may not be as true as we believe them to be.
But there’s no question that our memories are subject to distortion. In fact, studies have shown that it really is possible to manipulate memories into existence of things that never happened. But here’s the thing: just because your memories aren’t “true” doesn’t mean that they’re not true. While all of us (therapists not least of all) can get into trouble insisting on the literal truth of the content of a memory – that this person did that thing in precisely the way someone remembers it, a memory can be emotionally true whether or not its literal content is accurate. As a therapist, I find it to be very useful to broaden my definition of memory to allow for an emotional truth which transcends the literal specifics of any given memory.
I could say much more about this, but it’s beyond the scope of this post. I’ll end by recommending a little game that I sometimes play with my wife – you can do it with any with whom you’ve shared past experiences. Choose a memorable moment that you’ve been through together. Then, without talking about it, separately write down everything you can remember about the event. When you’re done, compare notes. You’ll almost certainly find that some things you remember almost exactly the same. And that your partner’s memories will trigger things that you had forgotten. But other things will be more blurry – did it happen that way or not? And, most fascinating of all, some things you will disagree about completely. It’s likely that you will isolate at least a few details which you simply cannot resolve. Both versions cannot be true. And yet each separate version is true to that person’s experience. Here’s the challenge: can you allow your memory to be both true and not true at the same time?
Musical memories
There are many, many songs about memories, many of them completely awful. But I’m going to take the opportunity here (which I may never have again) to pair Philip Glass with Barbra Streisand. Glass’s opera Einstein on the Beach is not explicitly about memory. But it from one of my favorite pieces of music and it contains a text which requires singers to memorize long sequence of random numbers, which makes it a perfect accompaniment for this exercise:
Video: Einstein on the Beach: numbers
And I must balance the avant-garde minimalism of Philip Glass with a nod to one of my least favorite performers (and songs) of all times, which is, of course, explicitly about memory:
Barbra Streisand: Memories
If you think I should have chosen something different, or you can think of a song which better embodies the spirit of the exercises, let me know in the comments.
Further reading
I’ve created an Amazon list which links to each of the suggestions for further reading at the end of the exercise. You can find it here. The specific books for this exercise are:
In addition, I want to provide a link to Joshua Foer’s book:
And Dan Siegel’s wonderful book, The Mindful Brain, which has inspired me in many ways and from which I drew the summary of the benefits of mindfulness listed earlier in this post:
Beyond the Book 5# – Memorize a Data Sequence
This is one in a continuing series of posts which explores in more depth the exercises in The Next Ten Minutes. In this post I discuss some of the ideas behind the exercise “Memorize a Data Sequence.”
Introduction: meditating on memory
The exercise “Memorize a Data Sequence” is all about memory, but it’s not about memory in the ways that we usually think about it. Most popular discussion about memory focuses on the experience of common forgetfulness and on ways of staving off memory loss as we age. But the focus of this exercise is about something we don’t usually stop to think about: how our minds create discrete memories from the seamless flow of our experience.
Rather than suggesting ways to improve our memory, the exercise uses the present moment experience of memory (and its failures) as an object of meditation. What’s the point? Simple. As we observe the mechanisms of our own memory in action, we increase our capacity to reflect on the workings of our mind, which brings us the benefits of mindfulness meditation in whatever form we practice it (as summarized by Dan Siegel): we become less reactive to our inner experience; we enhance our ability to attend to sensations, thoughts and feelings, whether pleasant or unpleasant; we train ourselves to move through our lives with greater awareness and we foster a non-judgmental attitude toward our own experience.
But just because the exercise cheerfully ignores the practical functions of memory in real life, that doesn’t mean that I’m not just as distressed as any guy (especially any guy who recently turned fifty) about the declining state of my own memory. In fact, my struggles with memory in recent years have been greatly compounded by my struggles with Chronic Lyme Disease, which has neurological effects that fog my brain making it very hard to think fluidly and retrieve material from memory. (For instance, I just spent over a minute – I’m not kidding – trying to retrieve the word “retrieve.”) All of this often leaves me feeling rather like Dorrie, in Finding Nemo:
[finding nemo video]
Pieces of Pi
Lyme Disease aside, though, declining memory and aging do of course go hand in hand. And for all the early Alzheimer’s jokes, for the most part it’s not pathological. It’s intriguing to me, though, how little my own distress about the state of my memory motivates me to do anything about it. If I were really motivated to improve my memory, I might spend more time doing exercises at the Memory Gym. Or I might take memory-enhancing vitamins and supplements. I could practice the many commonly-suggested techniques for maintaining a healthy memory, such as these suggested by the Mayo Clinic. Or I might simply play endless games of the simple yet utterly maddening game N-back, which has been demonstrated to improve both memory and “fluid intelligence.”
Better yet, I might start applying some of the techniques Joshua Foer describes in his fascinating new book Moonwalking with Einstein: the art and science of remembering everything, in which Foer describes how he, a person with a completely average memory, trained himself to memorize strings of random information so well that he wound up in the finals of the USA Memory Championships. As it turns out, the capacity to retain prodigious amounts of information doesn’t actually require special gifts. It’s simply a matter of discipline and persistence. (If you want the short version of his story, Foer also summarized some of the ideas ideas in the book in a New York Times Magazine piece titled Secrets of a Mind Gamer,)
When I wrote The Next Ten Minutes, I had no idea that there were competitions dedicated to the sorts of tasks I describe in this exercise – memorizing the order of a shuffled deck of cards, strings of random digits, etc. But I was fascinated by the Pi Day contest at my son’s school, in which students attempted to memorize as many digits of Pi as you can. (Want to get started? Here are the first million digits.)
Pi image
I’d had some recent experience with similar tasks, most notably in my efforts over the past few years to teach myself Chinese. Learning any language requires a great deal of memorization, of course, especially when you’re trying to building vocabulary. But Chinese, with its ideographic written system (in which every word is expressed by different character) presents unique challenges to one’s memory. Especially for someone like me, because my visual memory is simply awful. I do reasonably well (although not great) memorizing words and grammatical structures aurally. But when I try to memorize Chinese characters, my brain simply flails. It’s extremely difficult to make the imagery before me attach itself to any sense of meaning. So I have the experience, over and over again, of watching my brain struggle as it tries to force itself to create a memory. It feels like a micro-version of the experience of the famous amnesia patient Clive Wearing:
Clive Wearing video
Chinese image
Both the Pi contest and the task of trying to memorize Chinese characters capture my attention because of the way they combine something so seemingly pointless with something so deeply human. Our identities are shaped by our memories (more on that in a moment), but memory in and of itself is without any inherent meaning. Memory is simply a mechanical function through which the brain’s short-term processing encodes some portion of the information in our experience into long-term memory. The more detailed processes through which memory works, however fascinating, are beyond the scope of this post (and frankly they’re largely beyond my comprehension). But the underlying paradox bears repeating: the mechanical act of encoding memories is essentially without meaning; but it is only through that act that a sense of meaning in our lives can arise at all.
Meaninglessness
On one side of this equation lies the experience of meaninglessness. The fascinating thing about the digits of Pi, for instance, is that they are both absolutely fixed – determined – and deeply meaningless. The human brain is averse to meaningless, to such a degree that we will relentlessly impose a non-existent sense of meaning on things which are truly random. (For instance, check out for instance this short NPR story on the existence or non-existence of true randomness of the iPod Shuffle.) In fact, creating something which human beings experience as truly random is really quite difficult. Monty Python was often pretty good at it. And Samuel Beckett may be the closest thing we have to a master at this art:
Beckett video
How much of what you hear in this text is actual meaning as generated by the artist, and how much of it is imposed by the need of our own minds to find this string of text meaningful? Although it’s probably an impossible line to draw, it’s fair to say that a large part of the “meaning” that we make from Beckett’s words comes from our own imposition of order upon them.
Meaning
While the neurological workings of memory are complex beyond my understanding, the subjective experience of memory is my stock in trade. As a psychotherapist, I often conceptualize my essential job as that of matching present emotional experience with memories from the past. A key question I am regularly asking my clients as they talk about something that’s distressing them, is whether they have any memories of feeling this way in the past.
There’s an assumption underlying that question: that our behavior in the present is shaped by our past experience. Or, more properly, by the memories that we have constructed about our past experience.
Because the other assumption in that question is that our memories are an accurate reconstruction of what happened to us in the past. But the hard truth about the subjective experience of memory is that it is extremely malleable. Memory defines us. And yet it is deliciously fallible. People don’t want to hear this – we don’t believe that the memories which define us may not be true….or may not be as true as we believe them to be.
But there’s no question that our memories are subject to distortion. In fact, studies have shown that it really is possible to manipulate memories into existence of things that never happened. But here’s the thing: just because your memories aren’t “true” doesn’t mean that they’re not true. While all of us (therapists not least of all) can get into trouble insisting on the literal truth of the content of a memory – that this person did that thing in precisely the way someone remembers it, a memory can be emotionally true whether or not its literal content is accurate. As a therapist, I find it to be very useful to broaden my definition of memory to allow for an emotional truth which transcends the literal specifics of any given memory.
I could say much more about this, but it’s beyond the scope of this post. I’ll end by recommending a little game that I sometimes play with my wife – you can do it with any with whom you’ve shared past experiences. Choose a memorable moment that you’ve been through together. Then, without talking about it, separately write down everything you can remember about the event. When you’re done, compare notes. You’ll almost certainly find that some things you remember almost exactly the same. And that your partner’s memories will trigger things that you had forgotten. But other things will be more blurry – did it happen that way or not? And, most fascinating of all, some things you will disagree about completely. It’s likely that you will isolate at least a few details which you simply cannot resolve. Both versions cannot be true. And yet each separate version is true to that person’s experience. Here’s the challenge: can you allow your memory to be both true and not true at the same time?
Musical memories
There are many, many songs about memories, many of them completely awful. But I’m going to take the opportunity here (which I may never have again) to pair Philip Glass with Barbra Streisand. Glass’s opera Einstein on the Beach is not explicitly about memory. But it from one of my favorite pieces of music and it contains a text which requires singers to memorize long sequence of random numbers, which makes it a perfect accompaniment for this exercise:
Video: Einstein on the Beach: numbers
And I must balance the avant-garde minimalism of Philip Glass with a nod to one of my least favorite performers (and songs) of all times, which is, of course, explicitly about memory:
Barbra Streisand: Memories
If you think I should have chosen something different, or you can think of a song which better embodies the spirit of the exercises, let me know in the comments.
Further reading
I’ve created an Amazon list which links to each of the suggestions for further reading at the end of the exercise. You can find it here. The specific books for this exercise are:
In addition, I want to provide a link to Joshua Foer’s book:
And Dan Siegel’s wonderful book, The Mindful Brain, which has inspired me in many ways and from which I drew the summary of the benefits of mindfulness listed earlier in this post:
And as always, if you’ve got suggestions for other books on any of the topics in the exercise or in this post, please leave them in a comment.
And as always, if you’ve got suggestions for other books on any of the topics in the exercise or in this post, please leave them in a comment.
