It is standard fare to pick on men for not being inclined to read instructions, and there is plenty of evidence to that being a truism, not a punch line. Guilty as charged. Then, there are times when reading the instructions leads to problems because the writer of said guidance had a particular style that blinds the reader from the wisdom of Occam’s Razor. Simple solutions are sometimes hidden in linguistic complexity and image overload.

My assignment was to put a new, easier to use head on my string trimmer. Instructions in hand, I tried and tried again. I emailed the manufacturer stating that the model number of my trimmer was not named on their list of machines it would work on. The reply was that, indeed, their universal piece would work on my trimmer. So, I tried and tried again. Eventually, I put it in a bag to return it from whence it came. Then, I watched a video.

With a chuckle, I headed to the garage to try again. About 30 seconds later, I returned, amused at the situation. “30 seconds,” I called out from the kitchen to the living room where my wife sat.  “30 seconds is all it took!”

When I did exactly what the instructions were saying in an unclear way, instead of interpreting them, I had far less trouble and frustration. It took the video of the task being done to provide me the clarity that I needed.

Though I might be inclined to think that the wisdom of this experience is “Don’t read instructions,” that would not be true. The wisdom is that different people learn and absorb guidance in different ways. I tried to interpret what  the hundreds of words were saying that could have been expressed in about 50. About 20 seconds of a video guided me better and more accurately then verbiage and images.

It pays to have enough curiosity and humility to ask people if what we are saying is understandable and useable. If not, find other ways to communicate and teach.

I am reminded of a Pictionary game of several decades ago. A friend and his wife were on the opposing team. It was his turn to draw. He drew a single image and as his wife provided her responses, he kept tapping the whiteboard with the marker. He didn’t change the image at all. He was frustrated that she couldn’t guess the word from the single, simple image that was hard to decipher for all of us who were playing. In the end, there was the one image with a snowstorm of black marks made by the dry-erase marker. Ironically, he went on to become a teacher.

I’m reminded that we should be flexible in how we instruct and guide; consider the simple solution instead of interpreting unclear instructions by adding complexity; accept that we are all works in progress, including ourselves, in the lifelong process of growth.