Wesley Dowler

I think a plan is just a list of things that don’t happen.

~Christopher McQuarrie

Peter Gollwitzer has conducted a number of studies on how people process and initiate their goals. Part of his studies ask if “sharing one’s behavioral intentions with others reduces the enactment of these intentions, given that such public intending may produce a sense of identity completeness.” Typically, I compile a list of about four major goals at the beginning of each semester and refine them for two weeks through conversations with anyone who is willing to listen. This fall, I took a different approach based on Gollwitzer’s research: I compiled my list of goals and discussed them with only one person.

I’m going to try this method again in the spring. I prefer it because there is more freedom (if my passions change, my goals can change) and ownership (I’m not going to do a goal simply to fulfill a commitment).

Written by David Lindsay-Abaire, Rabbit Hole originally debuted as a play, winning the Pulitzer Prize and later being adapted into a movie. The plot centers on a young couple, Becca and Howie, who suffer the loss of their only child (named Danny). Intertwined in the story is Izzy, Becca’s younger sister, who is about to have her own child out of wedlock. In addition, there is Nat, the mother of Becca and Izzy, and finally Jason, the teenager who accidently killed Danny while driving. The plot follows each character as they create their own reality in an attempt to reconstruct life amidst the grief. As each character develops, they begin to understand their relationship to one another and how Danny’s death has defined their isolation.

The diversity of the responses can especially be seen between the husband and wife. Howie finds comfort in the memory of his son, evidenced by numerous keepsakes, watching old family movies, and not clearing Danny’s room. He isolates himself from the rest of the family by preserving the past, and eventually begins a relationship with another woman who is struggling with a similar loss. On the other hand, Becca is searching for an escape from the constant memory as she puts Danny’s artwork in storage, erases family videos, gives away the family dog, and pleads with Howie to sell the house. She experiences pain as she remains suspended in a past life she cannot escape through a career, so she grasps for rebirth in the future. First, she goes against her husband’s wishes and reaches out to Jason, who desperately seeks some form of forgiveness. Later, she acknowledges the advice her mother offers based on her own experience of losing a son to heroin:

Becca: Does it ever go away?
Nat: No, I don’t think it does. Not for me, it hasn’t – has gone on for eleven years. But it changes though.
Becca: How?
Nat: I don’t know… the weight of it, I guess. At some point, it becomes bearable. It turns into something that you can crawl out from under and… carry around like a brick in your pocket. And you… you even forget it, for a while. But then you reach in for whatever reason and – there it is. Oh right, that. Which could be awful – not all the time. It’s kind of…
[deep breath]
Nat: not that you’d like it exactly, but it’s what you’ve got instead of your son. So, you carry it around. And uh… it doesn’t go away. Which is…
Becca: Which is what?
Nat: Fine, actually.

The random, senseless pain stemming from Danny’s death is shown to be universal in this dialog. The empathy Becca discovers in this scene – realizing the two deaths are dramatically unique, yet surprisingly similar – provides one of the most relieving moments in the drama. While no answer is ultimately given to the aching humanity displayed throughout the play, Becca begins to see how her suffering is intimately related to others, and decides to uncover meaning through this realization.