Buffering

Something weird has happened in the last few decades: the buffer between the human mind and the rest of the world has all but vanished. Your phone – next to your bed, or in your pocket wherever you are – can bring you right up to speed with all the world’s wars and disasters, and with a single touch you can have instant access to other people’s traumas and fears. All of it: billions of voices at your fingertips, crying out for your attention 24/7. Wow.

I’m not daft: I know there are clear and positive advantages to having easy access to information – and that information can sometimes be positive, and helpful! But I’m not rejecting the idea of learning new stuff, which is very much the definition of being human. Instead, I’m reflecting here on what has been almost lost in recent history: the buffer between the human mind and the rest of the world; between little me and everything else.

The irony is that, when faced with the bombardment of information and despair and expectation that the internet delivers, many people unconsciously put up barriers against it all; they begin to take refuge in their own certainties, and bit by bit they engage less and less with what they perceive to be a hostile and alien society… and so they are in the odd position of letting their guard down in the virtual world and becoming overwhelmed by it, and then shielding themselves almost totally from the real world. This is totally understandable.

It's also a shame for us, because the real world is literally wonder-full, and its human stewards – while capable of terrible mischief – are often canny, creative and loving creatures; and we don’t want to miss this. The solution to being overwhelmed by the world is not to get away from it, but to get out there and encounter it, one bite of the elephant at a time. But before you do that, make sure you’ve got a buffer.

What do I mean by a buffer? I don’t mean that we should all put on an impenetrable suit of armour, metaphorical or otherwise. Here’s a good example of a buffer: when I recently worked in a secondary school, the students would tumble or tiptoe into my counselling room, needing to talk or get angry or cry or just get away from their worries. But it wasn’t that easy: many of those young people associated vulnerability with weakness, or their trust in others had been so eroded that they couldn’t just open their heart and let me see within. So… I gave them a little buffer.

I had a couple of pom-pom makers. (I’m not a particularly crafty person, but I can just about make pom-poms.) I’d let the student choose their wool colour and then together, we would each make our own pom-pom, so that we were both focused on the task in hand; and as we wound the wool round and around, the student would sometimes tell me what had been going on and how they were feeling. And sometimes they said nothing at all, but the relaxed, calm atmosphere told me they felt welcomed, regardless of who they were and what they said. And not only that, but by the end of the session the student had created a soft, funky sphere of bright colour – their sense of competence and autonomy had been quietly restored.

Buffers are everywhere if you look, because we need ’em. Think about the confessional box, with the screen between and its reassuring, rhythmic patterns of prayer. Think about the earnest conversations you’ve had in the car when you’re not looking directly at each other, because one of you is focused on the road ahead. (I’ve lost count of the number of deep and meaningful discussions I’ve had whilst washing up.) Think about the stories parents read as their children cuddle in – it’s an excuse to be close, to devote time to each other, for sure, but reading stories is a buffer in itself: our own life experiences can sometimes feel too raw to face head-on, but stories can help us to connect emotionally to what we’ve been through ourselves. Think about films you’ve watched where you’ve been able to shed a couple of tears alongside an equally weepy friend. These are not distractions – they’re buffers. Even a computer is designed to buffer: when it can’t take in a bucketload of information all at once, a computer puts some of it into a temporary memory facility so it can keep functioning. Humans could learn from this!

For me personally, the ultimate buffer is walking for miles in the open countryside: getting out into big, empty spaces, and tapping into that ancient need to see far around me. The sheer hugeness of the vista around my tiny body helps me relate to the world – to realise I’m in it, not just viewing it through a screen; my breathlessness and aching limbs make me a very real (and tired) part of the picture.

Our brains have a habit of perceiving the world – and that includes other people – as ‘how it might be or should be in the future’ or ‘how it used to be and so should be now’. Our brains do this so we can make quick judgements and decisions in the heat of a moment – a useful skill. But we also need to see the world as it actually is, not just how our minds have been programmed to classify and predict it. Being present in the world whilst recognising you are perceiving it – stepping physically, literally, through the world, moving alongside other people – gives you perspective and distance in a way that a screen or untethered thought never can.

Getting the right perspective is a kind of buffer, and this entails being at the right distance from another person if you want to understand them. I’m talking about the distance between minds, not just bodies. Stand too close and you can’t see someone properly. Stand too far away and you don’t even notice them. But if you want to give someone else a buffer so they can trust you and confide in you, then stand – mentally – a little distance away: close enough to truly see them, and far enough away to gain perspective.

Psychiatrist Carl Jung took buffering very seriously. He constructed a tower near the shore of a lake… over time this tower began to represent the shape of his inner mind, but also afforded him a physical space where he could truly find peace and focus on his self-understanding. By literally building himself a buffer around him, Jung was able to perceive himself more clearly.

Humans have evolved by learning from each other. That’s why we need to get on, to live closely alongside different people. But in order to learn stuff we can share with others, every person in the world needs to develop a sense of their own self, their own identity; each human being needs to have their own thoughts, their own dreams, their own voice, their own eccentricities. Put simply: if we were all the same, nothing new would be learned and the human race would be wiped out by boredom. So, ‘being human’ is not as straightforward as just fitting in and contributing to society; we also need to stand out, stand back, have our own space, our own personal buffer – and importantly, to respect everybody else’s.