Emotion Doesn’t “Happen” – We Create It

Friday, November 14, 2025

I can’t quit thinking about how the mind constructs emotion—especially after diving into Lisa Feldman Barrett’s work on constructed emotion. I studied her findings to understand what makes my frequent “conversations” with AI feel so remarkably human—almost like exchanges with an understanding friend.

The more I’ve learned about Barrett’s theory, the more I see signs of it everywhere. I see her ideas woven into the books I read, the films I revisit, and even the sentimental corners of my own memories.

While thinking about all this, I found myself comparing two of my favorite artists—and they could hardly be more different: Woody Allen and Emily Dickinson. One lives in a world of fast-talking neurosis, humor, relationships, and urban anxiety. The other lives almost entirely inside the mind—quiet, solitary, deliberate, and intensely inward.

Despite their stylistic differences, they each reveal something profound about what we feel and how we feel it. In their unique ways, both artists show us that emotions aren’t fixed. Emotions are not automatic reactions.

Comparing their ways of creating and communicating helped me understand that emotions are interpretations—as Barrett’s work has shown. At their core, emotions are “stories” that our minds quickly construct, from sensation, context, and the emotional vocabulary we’ve learned.

This idea has become one of the most meaningful insights I’ve come across:
Emotions don’t just “happen” to us—we create them.

And once I grasped that insight, I began noticing it happening in real time within myself.

This comparison of two artists’ work highlights just how differently humans communicate emotional meaning. Yet, despite their vastly different styles, their emotional outputs converge powerfully as illustrations of constructed emotion.

Woody Allen: The Social Construction of Emotion

Woody Allen’s films are full of people racing to interpret their own sensations. His characters overthink, over-explain, over-negotiate. They construct their feelings out loud. Their emotions arrive only after they’ve decided what those feelings should be.

There’s a classic joke he tells:

A man goes to a psychiatrist and says,
“My brother thinks he’s a chicken.”
The psychiatrist replies, “Well, why don’t you turn him in?”
The man answers, “I would—
but I need the eggs.”

It’s funny because it’s true. We stay in imperfect relationships because of the meaning we’ve assigned to them—not because emotion is some hardwired force, but because we’ve built a story about what the relationship gives us. The “eggs,” in other words, become the emotional interpretation.

In this sense, Woody’s characters are demonstrations of constructed emotion in motion.
They feel tenderness, longing, jealousy, dread—but only after their minds have named the sensation, given it cultural shape, and predicted what it should mean.

His films are emotional not because the characters dive into deep feeling, but because they dive into deep interpretation.

That’s pure Barrett. And pure humanity.

Emily Dickinson: The Private Construction of Emotion

If Woody Allen gives us emotional construction in noisy, messy, social form, Emily Dickinson gives us its opposite: emotion distilled to its silent, solitary source.

Dickinson rarely names feelings outright. Instead, she describes the sensations from which emotion is born:

“I felt a Funeral, in my Brain—”

“A certain Slant of light—”

“A Chill—like frost—upon a Glass—”

She returns again and again to breath, light, gravity, space, the tiniest internal shifts. She notices the moment before a feeling forms—the flicker of sensation that precedes the story we later tell.

In Barrett’s terms, Dickinson writes from the level of interoception—the raw internal data the brain uses to construct emotional meaning. Where Woody presents fully assembled emotional narratives, Dickinson shows us the materials before they become emotion.

Where he interprets, she observes.
Where he talks through his feelings, she listens to hers.
Where he uses culture’s vocabulary, she invents her own.

Two Artists, One Truth

Despite their differences, Woody Allen and Emily Dickinson converge on a profound insight:

Emotional life is constructed by the mind—not imposed by the world.

But each illuminates a different side of that construction.

Woody Allen: Emotion shaped by the world
– by culture
– by other people
– by expectations
– by relationship dynamics
– by the stories we tell to stay connected

Emily Dickinson: Emotion shaped by the self
– by raw sensation
– by inward attention
– by metaphor
– by imagination
– by the stories we tell to stay whole

Together, they offer a full map of human feeling—both the external and the internal, the public and the private.

They remind us that emotion is not just felt;
it is built—moment to moment—out of everything we’ve ever sensed, learned, remembered, or hoped.

Why Their Work Lasts

Their works endure because they tell the truth about emotional life in ways we recognize immediately:

We don’t simply have feelings;
we assemble them from meaning.

We carry cultural scripts about love, fear, longing, loss—and we perform them.

Our bodies send sensations that our minds rush to name.

We seek connection even when connection is confusing.

We misunderstand ourselves in company, and discover ourselves in solitude.

And somewhere between the chaos of Woody Allen’s city streets and the stillness of Emily Dickinson’s upstairs bedroom lies the full portrait of what it means to feel.

We live between those two worlds—
the social and the solitary,
the comic and the contemplative,
the interpreted and the sensed.

And in that space, emotion becomes what it truly is:
the mind’s best attempt to make sense of being alive.

— Diana

Mental Mysteries

Friday, March 14, 2025

Yesterday, while clerking at my part-time job, I met a woman who had published a book of poetry. She was confident, articulate, and proud of having created something meaningful. Our conversation made me think about the persistence of creativity; it finds us wherever in life we may be.

That event stirred my memory of another recent poet—a woman who was nearly 100 years old and living in a nursing home, who took a poetry class on a whim. A year later, she published a remarkable book of poetry. I read it more than once; her words distilled wisdom and reflected an elegant mastery of structure. I was impressed by her book and even sent copies to friends. And yet, today, I can’t locate a copy of her book, can’t recall its title, and am coming up empty on remembering her name.

It’s frustrating that my mind sometimes works well and sometimes barely. I remember much about her: she had once been a landscape designer, later a sculptor, and after her husband’s death, she retired to a Florida nursing home, where she discovered poetry. The details of her life are vivid and intact in my head, but her name eludes me.

This morning, I’ve been combing through online articles, literary sites, and book lists, trying different combinations of words in search engines, looking for the correct phrase to trigger a good clue. So far, nothing.

However, searching emphasises how greatly we rely on memory to anchor our experiences. Still, we sometimes “lose things”—not just names and details but moments, ideas, and sometimes even parts of ourselves.

I am feeling a sort of loss–a “misplaced connection” to something important I once held with certainty. My active searching, however, is reaffirming its importance, and I will keep looking.

Although I have not rediscovered her name, I remember clearly what she stood for. Her personal story and her book were triple-striking. They emphasize the resilience of creativity, the refusal to fade quietly, and the courage to begin something new at an age when society often stops paying attention.

Dear Friends: Some names and stories deserve to be remembered. Diana

Mindfully, Melting

Wednesday, February 12, 2025

I routinely trudge through slow-melting snow, our first this winter, to feed my outside animals. The melting seems beyond a mere seasonal shift. It’s a transformation, stirring my senses and emotions. I see a thick, icy white blanket receding without yet revealing patches of earth and dormant grass. I’m always anticipating.

This wintery period feels like an “in-between mood.” Melting has winter loosening around here, but spring is far ahead. Our air is damp, water drips from roof gulleys, and underfoot it’s slushy, but winter still inhibits renewal.

My mood is complicated; it’s part relief, part impatience, and sometimes thoughtful. My imagination sees stark beauty in a frozen, dissolving landscape. It’s less defined as a gradual thaw releasing us from snowy brightness.

The earth is softening, and I’m eager for the earliest glimpses of green that promise more warmth. These days are stretching a little longer and increasing my energy, inspiring new planning. Yet, spring feels just out of reach; its slow arrival is frustrating. These gray skies, the oncoming mud, and this slow transition is a world not yet fully alive. Waiting makes me restless.

Watching snow disappear evokes a subtle mourning. Our first fresh blanket of snow softened the edges and quieted our world. I love seeing a snowy landscape reflecting the moonlight uniquely. At home, melting makes the landscape less crisp and pristine; it’s more messy, uneven, and unpredictable.

Melting is an in-between time for rebalancing our expectations and moods. This isn’t winter’s full-stillness; we’re not sensing new spring energy. I sense the melting snow tugging at my emotions as a “letting go” that forces another slow, inevitable shifting of anticipations and plans.

Dear Friends: Even in these deepest winter months, thinking, “Ah, Spring!” Diana

Alternatively Viewing

Friday, January 31, 2025

Today’s political environment has me constantly thinking about mindlessness vs. mindfulness.

My new book has arrived; it’s the 25th Anniversary Edition of Mindfulness by Ellen J. Langer. This book was first published in 1989 and is considered the classic work on mindfulness. My version is a 2014 revision with a new introduction by Langer.

She’s a Professor in Harvard’s Psychology Department and has studied Mindlessness and Mindfulness in everyday situations for forty years. Her learning is drawn from combinations of everyday situations and institutions, like nursing homes, schools, and businesses. She finds mindlessness both as pervasive and often unnoticed.

Langer has proposed and tested an alternative cognitive process, and it has proved relevant across multiple domains. Although referring to her process as “mindfulness,” she stresses not to confuse her concept with meditation. She draws her “mindfulness” from years of studying what she summarizes now as “mindfulness over matter.”

I will explore Langer’s work and concepts and also be seeking possible relevances to America’s new political leadership. I hope her work helps me gain understanding and optimism toward American leadership in the four years ahead.

Dear Friends: For any reason(s) one may have, this should be an excellent read. Diana

Breeze, et al

Sunday, January 12, 2025

I acquired an adorable trio of African Dwarf Goats in 2010: the mama (Sego Lily) and her twins (Breeze and Poppy). Sego Lily had originally been adopted from a herd environment, and by 2010, her real age was only an estimate; her babies were months old.

The trio was sweetly bonded and inseparable. They participated in official parades and often strolled with me on neighborhood streets, leashed, alertly cautious, and keenly aware.

Mama passed away about five years ago when I was guessing her age at fifteen. Little Poppy passed away a year ago at age fourteen. And yesterday, I lost Breeze; she was fifteen.

That morning, while outside and feeding my animals before leaving for work, I discovered Breeze lying down and apparently unable to rise onto her feet. I tried lifting her but hadn’t enough strength. Breeze’s legs were stiff and unmanageable, and she might have suffered a stroke sometime in the night or earlier that morning.

Breeze passed away before the emergency veterinarian could arrive at my place. My workplace is painfully short of workers; I felt needed and went to work, where I arranged to meet an emergency veterinarian later at my place. Meanwhile, my kind neighbors watched over Breeze and hours later let me know she had passed. Later, a concerned co-worker followed me home and helped with her remains.

RIP, my Breezey.

Remembering those three sweeties this morning, I’m sad with an empty feeling.

Dear Friends: Cute, fun, and stubbornly determined when wanting something. Diana

A Lovely Cold

By the artist Sandra Boynton (from her FB post)

Sunday, December 15, 2024

The department store where I am a part-time worker was busy yesterday; all good for the business and inspiring for its employees. After hours on my feet, checking out customers, and returning tried-on clothing to wherever the pieces came from, I leave to go home. I’m tired but happier if we’ve been super-busy with customers.

I’m off from work today and (speaking of super) anticipating tonight’s sky with December’s “Cold Moon” appearing. While driving home last evening, I couldn’t stop looking at that moon, bright and clear. From all indications, sightings of it tonight should be even better.

It’ll be spectacular, and here’s why.

The Cold Moon is the “longest” full moon illumination of the year. The moon’s proximity to the winter solstice (December 21st) gives it a longer path through the sky and gives us more viewing time.

This year’s Cold Moon happens to coincide with a rare “major lunar standstill,” which occurs roughly every 18.6 years. The standstill is caused by a wobble in its orbit that makes the moon reach its highest and lowest points in the sky.

I will enjoy tonight’s longer moon-viewing opportunity with unusually striking visual effects.

Dear Friends: Last night’s moon greatly hinted toward what’s to come. Diana

Hi, Mary!

Saturday, December 07, 2024

The other day, my mail brought a Christmas card with a So Cal return address but not the sender’s name. I chuckled over a handwritten note on the envelope: “Love that dog, Chase!”

I can’t guess how many people read my blogs because Google owns the writing platform and downloads blogs in response to internet queries about related topics. However, I know some readers in Southern California, where I’m from. I mentally played with possible note jotters and landed correctly on Mary Martini!

Mary and I used to work together at Kaiser Permanente. She’s one of the two best-organized people I’ve been lucky to work with, and she loves Chase!-my young dog; he’s strong, stubborn, exasperating, exhausting, and way too intelligent.

Okay, Mary, at the risk of repeating old stories, I’ll update everybody.

Since I last wrote about Chase, he’s escaped, and often again. Working almost constantly, I try to offset his diggings and keep him and his little companion, Mitzvah, from escaping. I continually drag large and heavy lava rocks uphill to my house, where they are lining the dog fence’s bottom, inside and outside. Strong and determined, Chase still sometimes finds vulnerable spots to dig out.

My standalone kennel has six-foot-high fencing and stands on a concrete base. Chase is a fantastic climber, so kenneling him doesn’t ensure his containment. I’ve (again!) worked on the fencing to prevent him from gaining footholds and to heighten his challenge. Now, escapes are on pause, but Chase keeps trying to defeat obstacles.

He wants to be with me, and I love him—he’s maybe the most intelligent dog I’ve known. But I worry about his safety, from vehicles and from becoming lost. I also worry about his responses if he’s loose and a stranger enters my property, for example, to deliver a package.

Taking him to a no-kill shelter and hoping he’ll find a better home is out of the question. First, because he’s so high-maintenance, and the shelters are overcrowded and begging for foster homes.

Mary, this beat goes on, and thanks for appreciating Chase. He will turn three years old in several months, the age that suggests a dog is mature. Regardless, this guy simply is who he is, and in somewhat of a miracle, he’s still here!

Dear Friends: My rounds of “Adventures with Chase” are continuous. Diana

Grumbles

Friday, December 06, 2024

In our hemisphere, the annual day of least daylight is the winter solstice, which occurs every December 21 or 22. This year, the 21st will bring our shortest daylight. I am already feeding my horses in darkness, around 4:30 p.m., and soon will in earlier darkness, around 4:00 p.m. We who must care for large animals feel stressed in these darkest days of the year.

Aside from having to work in too little light, December’s freezing cold also affects my fingers. Although gloved, my fingers can start feeling frozen and too painful to cooperate. There’s an infrared heater in my barn for thawing fingers, but rapid thawing pains, too.

I’m accustomed to wintertime discomforts, which helps me cope. I am wrapping my head around being in darkness with frozen fingers until the 21st. Then, darkness and freezing will continue, but daylight will increase gradually and noticeably.

January brings lighter days but might introduce very stressful weather. Last year, Central Oregon enjoyed relatively mild weather until the New Year, when everything changed dramatically and brought great cold, blasting winds, snow, and freezing temperatures. None of those eased until just before the Summer Solstice arrived.

Dear Friends: Today’s header image is the hoar frost at my barn. Diana

Old English “Hoar”

My Border Collie-X, Osix, in a recent outing

Thursday, December 05, 2024

Yesterday, Central Oregon was covered in hoarfrost. The beautiful and delicate ice crystals were on all surfaces, from grass, leaves, and trees to fence posts and wire fabric. This whole area looked magical. I took pictures without effectively capturing the delicate white gleaming on feathers, weeds, and knobs. Today is dawning and cold enough again for new ice-imaging opportunities.

I borrowed this image of a Canadian brush with hoarfrost from the internet.

Hoarfrost is delicate enough to coat spiderwebs, enhancing their intricacies. Here’s an example from the Science Photo Library.

Another, of hoarfrost covering trees, from the Science Photo Library.

My attachment to hoarfrost is deep because I lived for many years in Kansas City. That area hosted annual thick coatings of ice–on everything, everywhere. The freezing and lasting winter weather created gleaming structures, thickly coated roads, and shining trees.

Beauty was everywhere but treacherous underfoot or beneath a vehicle’s wheels. Oh, how I remember those days. This image, soon after an ice storm in Kansas City, was my “old winter world.”

Today, I am happier, seeing and enjoying hoarfrost! I understand that “hoar” comes from Old English, meaning “showing signs of old age,” referring to the frost’s white, hair-like appearance.

Dear Friends: Today, I will try again to capture images with bright sparkling. Diana

Challenge

Monday, October 28, 2024

I’ve looked repeatedly to see where my dog Chase has repeatedly escaped from the dog area. I wasn’t watching the right spot until yesterday when he went over a seemingly inescapable fence section. I saw Chase climb the six-foot, all-wire fencing, perch atop, balance to position himself, and then leap a gulley to reach a supporting surface.

That’s how he’d been managing. Knowing eased some of my frustrations, but countering his escapes from there was challenging. That section of fence needed heightening, but it’s in a high, rocky area where my footing wasn’t stable.

“One does what one must.” “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

So, in the dusky evening, I dragged a leftover roll of fencing fabric from the barn to the needy area. While self-balancing to avoid tripping over rocky jumblings, I unrolled, laid out, and wired a foot of new height onto the original fence. My work wasn’t stable before darkness prevented completing the job.

Nonetheless, after letting the dogs outside again, I watched Chase. He stayed in their area. Later, around midnight, I let the dogs out briefly, and Chase re-entered the house with his buddies.

Today, I’ll finish that section of fence-topping and then do more fixing. I saw partially dug spots where Chase wanted to crawl under the fence. His innate sense of physics makes him a great natural engineer. If Chase learned to read and write, he’d teach much and provide income for me.

Dear Friends: He’s a never-closing chapter that resists containment, needs safety. Diana