William John “Jack” Hooper died at 57 years of age on November 12th, 2010. He left behind a close knit and loving family, scores of friends, admirers and colleagues. In all likelihood Jack also left behind a few detractors, those whom may have felt the sting of his well honed wit or perhaps his impatience with obstruction or lack of pluck. Such is the fate of men who speak plainly, exhibit unflappable common sense and loyalty and who embrace their life fully, live it well and large. Jack could take up a lot of space in a room, not pretentiously, but rather through the force of strong character and an engaging personality. He was a leader, pure and simple, the kind of man to whom others naturally looked for guidance and direction. Jack was the type of person you wished you could be more like and one who you would gladly embrace as a friend. I heard someone call Jack a hero. That’s an awkward word for Canadians to use; it’s not one that we ascribe carelessly. But if a hero is someone who faces adversity without recourse, if a hero is someone who speaks truth in the face of power, if a hero is someone to whom you would instinctively entrust your well being, even your life then Jack Hooper was a hero. He was certainly a hero to his family and friends as evident in the words of his son, his brother, and his closet friends in their eulogies of him, each laden with humour, love and respect.
You will be missed Jack, no matter the depth of our relationships with you, each of us who knew you, whether well or less, are indeed better for the experience ... thank you Jack.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
Why I deleted disappointment ...
Every now and then things happen in your life that make you want to take stock of who you are, where you are and how you got to where you are. It's usually a significant event, however sometimes it can be something that appears benign to the casual observer ... but to you, its manifestation at a particular moment in time and under the right circumstances, has the same effect as if it were a clear game changer.
But the thing about taking stock during these moments, in my opinion, is that you really aren't in any useful frame of mind to do a very good job of either stock taking or building a plan to deal with the results. You're either too up or too down. You're not really rationale, after all "something" has just happened ... you've been startled out of your stupor, your lizard brain has taken over to respond to the "threat", your more rationale human brain has been instinctively shut down .. its fight or flight time. In all likelihood, given the emotive energy present during one of these "oh shit" moments, you're probably legally impaired. It’s like falling in love ... it feels nice but it’s been proven, by people who spend our tax dollars proving these types of things, that you are not functioning on any plane that is either remotely rationale or reliable. Don't believe me ... go ahead take a good look at your life partner right now ... now think back to how you felt about seeing them in the heady courting days before farts were funny ... is your tummy all a flutter, I seriously doubt it. If it is ... take a Tums, it should settle down before bed time.
Despite the fact we are reacting to an experience that is transitory at best, we suddenly feel a need to question ourselves deeply, find meaning and reason behind our moment. We launch ourselves into some sort of self discovery mode and more often than not, having no real skill at this, fall far short of any real insight.
Pop icons, psychos, socio-paths, emotional cripples, ego maniacs, and just plain crazy MFs aside, most people are just trying to live decent and productive lives, grab a few good meals, belong somewhere and maybe rip off something strange... okay maybe not that last bit.
Now if you buy-in to the possibility of this opinion being remotely accurate then here's my advice to you; when the pooh hits the fan and a round of self discovery seems imminent.... stop what you are doing and drink heavily. Not because that's going to solve anything, quite the contrary, it will probably make it worse but at least you'll have a good reason for behaving like an ass.
We don't come with manuals and there is no real factory setting (we just make that up) ... if you want self discovery do it when your completely certain you don't need to ... you'll probably get more out of it in the long run and you won't have any excuse for not taking your own advice.
But the thing about taking stock during these moments, in my opinion, is that you really aren't in any useful frame of mind to do a very good job of either stock taking or building a plan to deal with the results. You're either too up or too down. You're not really rationale, after all "something" has just happened ... you've been startled out of your stupor, your lizard brain has taken over to respond to the "threat", your more rationale human brain has been instinctively shut down .. its fight or flight time. In all likelihood, given the emotive energy present during one of these "oh shit" moments, you're probably legally impaired. It’s like falling in love ... it feels nice but it’s been proven, by people who spend our tax dollars proving these types of things, that you are not functioning on any plane that is either remotely rationale or reliable. Don't believe me ... go ahead take a good look at your life partner right now ... now think back to how you felt about seeing them in the heady courting days before farts were funny ... is your tummy all a flutter, I seriously doubt it. If it is ... take a Tums, it should settle down before bed time.
Despite the fact we are reacting to an experience that is transitory at best, we suddenly feel a need to question ourselves deeply, find meaning and reason behind our moment. We launch ourselves into some sort of self discovery mode and more often than not, having no real skill at this, fall far short of any real insight.
Pop icons, psychos, socio-paths, emotional cripples, ego maniacs, and just plain crazy MFs aside, most people are just trying to live decent and productive lives, grab a few good meals, belong somewhere and maybe rip off something strange... okay maybe not that last bit.
Now if you buy-in to the possibility of this opinion being remotely accurate then here's my advice to you; when the pooh hits the fan and a round of self discovery seems imminent.... stop what you are doing and drink heavily. Not because that's going to solve anything, quite the contrary, it will probably make it worse but at least you'll have a good reason for behaving like an ass.
We don't come with manuals and there is no real factory setting (we just make that up) ... if you want self discovery do it when your completely certain you don't need to ... you'll probably get more out of it in the long run and you won't have any excuse for not taking your own advice.
Saturday, 18 September 2010
Conversations from Logan
I’m marooned at the airport in Boston courtesy of my own questionable planning and attention to detail. The weather is less than inviting so a trip into the maritime city, which would normally be a good idea, seems less appealing under overcast skies. No problem I have a new book to read by Tony Hiesh of LinkExchange and Zappos fame. Settling in for the read I can’t help but overhear one side of a nearby cell conversation. A smartly dressed forties something is explaining to someone that he is in a bit of a bind. Apparently without his knowledge someone, trying to be helpful, removed his bag from his rental car and stowed it away at his last business call. Now here he is at the airport for a soon to depart home bound flight minus his threads. Figuring that he could have the bag couriered he dropped off the rental and rushed off to grab his flight. But like many problems, this one had another twist. He has now discovered that his car keys for his car parked in Philly are lounging in the orphaned bag.
Problems are like that, aren’t they? It seems that once a problem arrives others pop up like dandelions in springtime. Proverbially they come in threes; I’m left to wonder what his third strike will be.
This hapless story is quickly followed by another. An annoyed sounding gentleman is reciting an e-mail over his PDA. It appears to be directed at his former bride. I’m not sure if he’s talking to his lawyer or a friend, but it’s a zinger of note chastising her for some egregious act she has recently perpetrated. I’m left with the impression that she is the one who has changed their life course leaving him to deal with the remnants. He’s clearly pissed and feeling the victim. Not satisfied with one opinion or one venting he’s soon on to another friend reciting the same scathing missive.
Sharing our trials is as important as recounting our victories, having someone listen to our woes can aid in restoring our well being. Sharing allows us an opportunity to put to the collective our joy and anguish. In revealing both strength and vulnerability we can feel connected to one another satisfying in turn our base need to be understood, to be cared for, to be accepted, to belong.
A couple of twenty something’s are reviewing their impressions of a business meeting they’ve just finished. But they’re not talking to each other; they’re both on their phones checking in, presumably with the mother ship. Though initially upbeat and excited (I can almost feel the energy coming off them), too soon they are doing more listening than speaking … it seems from their changing demeanour that someone at the other end of both of their conversations is telling them what needs to be done now. One of them, a chic looking young woman, tries but fails to interject in her conversation, finally she resorts to creating an opportunity to come back to this issue at another time telling her cell counterpart, “. . . okay Steve, but I have a few ideas I’d like to share with you when I get back.”
I find young people invigorating; they can fill the air with their enthusiasm and desire to do. It’s a shame that most organizational cultures seem to do their best to crush that level of engagement. Perhaps not intentionally, and certainly not all organizations, but far too many pay little attention to keeping their cultures fresh and open to ideas and change. More often the trend seems to be one of ensuring conformity, rewarding caution and discouraging alternative views. Telling trumps listening and getting fresh perspectives is eschewed for doing it the way it’s always been done. It’s like watching a beautiful red balloon deflate into a skinny ugly rubber worm.
I’ve retreated to the curb to have a cigarette with all the rest of the social outcasts, when a young woman arrives alongside me speaking angrily into her cell. She’s clearly upset, in fact close to tears, a few well emphasised expletives erupt from her now quivering mouth, her eyes are tearing and her voice is breaking with both hurt and anger. She’s thrashing about in her oversized purse for a light, I pass her a lighter feeling some fatherly compassion for her feelings despite not knowing her plight or her role in this mini-drama. She brightens for a moment and returns to the conversation, though now with a little less anger and fewer choice words. My intervention has likely reminded her that she’s in a public space, though maybe the small act of kindness itself softened the moment, regardless the tone has changed and now she’s calmer or at least more restrained.
Life is filled with emotions; we bounce from state to state from joy to anger from complacency to passion and points in between. We feel our lives in the living of them; our emotions have a powerful influence not only on ourselves but on those who surround us, intimate or unknown. It is a state of being that we share with all higher animals; but it is our ability to consciously manage these feelings, to channel them towards darkness or light that maybe our greatest gift and our darkest curse.
I like airports; they are filled with little stories, dramas, comedies, and benign moments. Most people are not so keen on the experience, long lines, missed flights, bland food and over priced goods more often come to mind. But I think it’s all in your perspective, you can choose to see the experience as an ordeal or take a different view... one that provides you an opportunity to watch us, being us in every imaginable way. If you pay close enough attention you might even learn something about yourself.
Problems are like that, aren’t they? It seems that once a problem arrives others pop up like dandelions in springtime. Proverbially they come in threes; I’m left to wonder what his third strike will be.
This hapless story is quickly followed by another. An annoyed sounding gentleman is reciting an e-mail over his PDA. It appears to be directed at his former bride. I’m not sure if he’s talking to his lawyer or a friend, but it’s a zinger of note chastising her for some egregious act she has recently perpetrated. I’m left with the impression that she is the one who has changed their life course leaving him to deal with the remnants. He’s clearly pissed and feeling the victim. Not satisfied with one opinion or one venting he’s soon on to another friend reciting the same scathing missive.
Sharing our trials is as important as recounting our victories, having someone listen to our woes can aid in restoring our well being. Sharing allows us an opportunity to put to the collective our joy and anguish. In revealing both strength and vulnerability we can feel connected to one another satisfying in turn our base need to be understood, to be cared for, to be accepted, to belong.
A couple of twenty something’s are reviewing their impressions of a business meeting they’ve just finished. But they’re not talking to each other; they’re both on their phones checking in, presumably with the mother ship. Though initially upbeat and excited (I can almost feel the energy coming off them), too soon they are doing more listening than speaking … it seems from their changing demeanour that someone at the other end of both of their conversations is telling them what needs to be done now. One of them, a chic looking young woman, tries but fails to interject in her conversation, finally she resorts to creating an opportunity to come back to this issue at another time telling her cell counterpart, “. . . okay Steve, but I have a few ideas I’d like to share with you when I get back.”
I find young people invigorating; they can fill the air with their enthusiasm and desire to do. It’s a shame that most organizational cultures seem to do their best to crush that level of engagement. Perhaps not intentionally, and certainly not all organizations, but far too many pay little attention to keeping their cultures fresh and open to ideas and change. More often the trend seems to be one of ensuring conformity, rewarding caution and discouraging alternative views. Telling trumps listening and getting fresh perspectives is eschewed for doing it the way it’s always been done. It’s like watching a beautiful red balloon deflate into a skinny ugly rubber worm.
I’ve retreated to the curb to have a cigarette with all the rest of the social outcasts, when a young woman arrives alongside me speaking angrily into her cell. She’s clearly upset, in fact close to tears, a few well emphasised expletives erupt from her now quivering mouth, her eyes are tearing and her voice is breaking with both hurt and anger. She’s thrashing about in her oversized purse for a light, I pass her a lighter feeling some fatherly compassion for her feelings despite not knowing her plight or her role in this mini-drama. She brightens for a moment and returns to the conversation, though now with a little less anger and fewer choice words. My intervention has likely reminded her that she’s in a public space, though maybe the small act of kindness itself softened the moment, regardless the tone has changed and now she’s calmer or at least more restrained.
Life is filled with emotions; we bounce from state to state from joy to anger from complacency to passion and points in between. We feel our lives in the living of them; our emotions have a powerful influence not only on ourselves but on those who surround us, intimate or unknown. It is a state of being that we share with all higher animals; but it is our ability to consciously manage these feelings, to channel them towards darkness or light that maybe our greatest gift and our darkest curse.
I like airports; they are filled with little stories, dramas, comedies, and benign moments. Most people are not so keen on the experience, long lines, missed flights, bland food and over priced goods more often come to mind. But I think it’s all in your perspective, you can choose to see the experience as an ordeal or take a different view... one that provides you an opportunity to watch us, being us in every imaginable way. If you pay close enough attention you might even learn something about yourself.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
Star gazing ...
The other night I wandered out to the back yard for a quiet sit down. The yard was bathed in pale moonlight, a nearby streetlight added to the eerie effect, although it played only a bit part. It was cool outside with summer drifting into fall, but the patio stones were still warm from the day's sun. I sat down, lit up a smoke and stared into the night sky. I live close to a major metropolitan area so the light pollution significantly waters down the effect of starlight. Nevertheless as I sat there letting my head fall back I could see a hint of the majesty of the night, stars twinkled back at me as if trying to be seen through the city's glare. The effort didn't go unnoticed; I was at once transported back to a simple childhood memory.
I was probably around eight or nine years old at the time. I recall camping out in the backyard of friend's house which bordered on a large open grassy field. Lying on our backs, our heads poking out from a pup tent, we were engrossed in that 1960's something sky, a sky filled from horizon to horizon with brilliant stars of every size. We lived on a small Air Force Station nestled amid farm fields and woodlots halfway between two very small towns in Southwest Ontario. There was little man-made light back then the night sky commanded alone humbling me even at that tender age.
We lay there, we two buddies, pointing out shooting stars and curious lights, thrilled by their passing and convinced that some were likely spaceships poised to steal us away. I can still smell the grass and feel the dampness of the dew outside our tent. It’s a vivid memory, one that reminds me of how much joy can be felt by simple things, of the value of sharing such things with others, and how nature’s presence can bring out our innate curiosity and humility.
I've seen that sky a few times since, although seeing it now requires travelling miles from home to find a spot clear enough to enjoy the richness of it. Unfortunately over the years it seems I have had fewer and fewer opportunities to do so. Unfortunately it’s not just a case of glare or convenience that denies this treat, it seems my gaze is now, more often than not, fixed closer to the ground and on earthly pursuits; pursuits that seemed to have pushed aside my childhood wonders and delights.
But every now and then something inside me sends me out to the backyard or to some quiet place to stare into the sky again, to embrace the wonder, the majesty, the incredible beauty of our night sky; a sky that at once reminds me of how infinitesimally small and yet how incredibly precious we are.
I was probably around eight or nine years old at the time. I recall camping out in the backyard of friend's house which bordered on a large open grassy field. Lying on our backs, our heads poking out from a pup tent, we were engrossed in that 1960's something sky, a sky filled from horizon to horizon with brilliant stars of every size. We lived on a small Air Force Station nestled amid farm fields and woodlots halfway between two very small towns in Southwest Ontario. There was little man-made light back then the night sky commanded alone humbling me even at that tender age.
We lay there, we two buddies, pointing out shooting stars and curious lights, thrilled by their passing and convinced that some were likely spaceships poised to steal us away. I can still smell the grass and feel the dampness of the dew outside our tent. It’s a vivid memory, one that reminds me of how much joy can be felt by simple things, of the value of sharing such things with others, and how nature’s presence can bring out our innate curiosity and humility.
I've seen that sky a few times since, although seeing it now requires travelling miles from home to find a spot clear enough to enjoy the richness of it. Unfortunately over the years it seems I have had fewer and fewer opportunities to do so. Unfortunately it’s not just a case of glare or convenience that denies this treat, it seems my gaze is now, more often than not, fixed closer to the ground and on earthly pursuits; pursuits that seemed to have pushed aside my childhood wonders and delights.
But every now and then something inside me sends me out to the backyard or to some quiet place to stare into the sky again, to embrace the wonder, the majesty, the incredible beauty of our night sky; a sky that at once reminds me of how infinitesimally small and yet how incredibly precious we are.
Monday, 23 August 2010
What's your passion?
A senior executive once asked me about my passion. Sadly I was stumped, embarrassed that I couldn't put my finger on my passion I blathered something about managing programs, developing people, solving problems, blah, blah, blah my lips were moving ..
My passion? Are you freak‘in kidding me? It’s not enough to be present, engaged and seeking to better the status quo, now I have to be a frigg’in cheerleader for something? it's not that I've never been passionate; it's just that well damn I guess I've lost that loving feeling. Shit happens. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not dead ... I love, I am loved, and I'm moved by this glorious gift of life, its beauty and even its ugliness. But when it comes to the kind of passion this person was eluding too, the work kind, I would have to say, "Not so sure"?
I guess my passion should be obvious to me at least that seemed to be implied by the question. Or perhaps it was just MBA speak. A handy disarming blurt meant to throw off a worker bee from their routine to serve some other agenda. Well it worked. What the heck is my passion; I'm not a Toronto Maple Leafs fan so clearly self flagellation isn't my thing. I enjoy all sorts of experiences from travel, to books, to movies, to camping, to working with my hands ... but passionate about one of these? I’m not so sure. I mean I’ve seen passion, my sweetie’s daughter is an up and coming basketball player who has already seen nibbles by Division 1 teams. Now she has passion for the game, she breathes it; she’s intense in training and playing. I get it, but I don’t think I have it. Am I required to? What you can’t just roll through the deli of life taking a little taste of this and that, here and there … you actually have to pig out on something specific to claim having passion?
Shit I wish I’d seen the memo on that one … I could have worked into something. I could have created a whole persona around something really cool like fly-fishing or marketing. But I didn’t, I was too busy living my dopey life from day to day. Now what am I going to do? Geez I’ve got to come up with something that I can say that will achieve two things (1) hide the fact that I don’t have a passion to share, and (2) if pressed claim something so obscure that most people would prefer to talk about themselves than ask me questions about my bogus love. Yes that’s got to be the ticket.
Of course it may be possible that the asker didn’t really give a rat’s ass about my passion … the program I was working on was not placed in their sphere of responsibility, although they wished it to be so …. perhaps what they really meant to ask was why are you MK, doing what you do?
If, at the time, I had my wits about me I guess I could have said ... because I was asked to, because I was and remain prepared to take on a challenge which at best has only a long shot to see the light of a corporate morning, to do something promising but fragile, to take up a challenge that lies outside the daily deluge of mediocrity, routine and conservativeness ... that's why I do what I do.
Hmmm maybe that's my passion ...
Hmmm maybe that's my passion ...
Thursday, 12 August 2010
Product loyalty ...
A very special person I know said something interesting the other day. In fact it bordered on profound, although I don't think she intended it so, but then isn't that the nature of profound statements.... something simply said so as to seem obvious, but in reality plumbing the depths of insight.
She said, quite off handily, "I have no loyalty to hairdressers." Accustom to her pithy ways we all stopped talking and looked to her expectantly, she went on to explain. Apparently she tells all would be coiffeurs and stylists straight out that she is for all intent and purpose a hair hooker willing to ply her locks about town in search of the perfect orgasmic "do". Even if satisfied with their work she refuses to be owned by any salon, preferring to remain footloose and ever-ready to strike out on the hair highway.
Being true to complete satisfaction without developing some false sense of commercial camaraderie seems her point. Why marry yourself to one hair stylist, one product, and one outcome. Businesses of every description vie for your loyalty every day; they spend billions of dollars in advertisement and branding every year not just to sell their products and their “experience”, but to own your purchasing soul. Companies want you to buy into them; they want to create a visceral connection between what they flog and your sense of self, seducing you with their promise to the point of automation. I think my friend would argue that buying into a label, defining yourself in any way with a product is to buy into something that ultimately is not in your best interests. It seems to her, and I have to agree, remaining free to go where you want and open to other possibilities applies equally to your commercial experiences as it does to your character.
For my friend being loyal to a vendor, a brand and a product serves only to sell “you” short...
She said, quite off handily, "I have no loyalty to hairdressers." Accustom to her pithy ways we all stopped talking and looked to her expectantly, she went on to explain. Apparently she tells all would be coiffeurs and stylists straight out that she is for all intent and purpose a hair hooker willing to ply her locks about town in search of the perfect orgasmic "do". Even if satisfied with their work she refuses to be owned by any salon, preferring to remain footloose and ever-ready to strike out on the hair highway.
Being true to complete satisfaction without developing some false sense of commercial camaraderie seems her point. Why marry yourself to one hair stylist, one product, and one outcome. Businesses of every description vie for your loyalty every day; they spend billions of dollars in advertisement and branding every year not just to sell their products and their “experience”, but to own your purchasing soul. Companies want you to buy into them; they want to create a visceral connection between what they flog and your sense of self, seducing you with their promise to the point of automation. I think my friend would argue that buying into a label, defining yourself in any way with a product is to buy into something that ultimately is not in your best interests. It seems to her, and I have to agree, remaining free to go where you want and open to other possibilities applies equally to your commercial experiences as it does to your character.
For my friend being loyal to a vendor, a brand and a product serves only to sell “you” short...
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Plays within a play
There are many analogies to describe a life lived ... for me a series of plays within a play feels right. Plays are of course stories, which more often than not begin with a beginning and end with an end, although every now and then they start at the end and go to the beginning. I have to admit I like those types of "deconstructions", because it's like eating your dessert first and working back to your salad. Something you should do every now and then just because. Either way the heavy lifting is always in the middle. Back to my analogy, I could have just stopped at saying life is like a play, or your life is a story, but I think that does all the bits in the middle an injustice. More than simply subordinate acts to the sweeping epic of your life, the various parts in between the proverbial beginning and end (regardless of the order in telling) are in themselves little dramas that I believe are worthy of their own beginnings and ends. By treating these moments of your life as distinct morsels you can better savour them, enjoy them for what they were, and not what each vignette could have been or should have been. You see that's the problem with treating your moments in time as subordinate clauses to the paragraph of life. One is often tempted to do the impossible, and re-write them or worse give them greater meaning than they deserve. If only I had done this, then that would have happened. Oh, really? A fatalist wouldn't see it that way, and neither would I.
Rather it seems to me that each little play had its protagonist, supporting cast, extras, a stage and even an audience. You could have been at once all these things. You played your role whether you were aware of its character or not. Each performance adding something to the whole and each, once played, is what it was. To dismiss these subordinate moments or favour them above others, is to either throw away bits of your life or exaggerate them beyond truth, and in doing so deny them as well. I try to see these vignettes, no matter how mundane or trivial, as moments in time, ingredients essential to the whole, but no less or more important than the ultimate product or the other ingredients.
While admittedly I don’t always succeed, I try to embrace all of these little life plays and my roles within them whether protagonist, supporting actor, bit player, or extra, for the unique perspective, knowledge and awareness each creates.
PS: You may wish to consider as well the real possibility that for the most part the roles that will make up your legacy are those that support the performances of others.
Rather it seems to me that each little play had its protagonist, supporting cast, extras, a stage and even an audience. You could have been at once all these things. You played your role whether you were aware of its character or not. Each performance adding something to the whole and each, once played, is what it was. To dismiss these subordinate moments or favour them above others, is to either throw away bits of your life or exaggerate them beyond truth, and in doing so deny them as well. I try to see these vignettes, no matter how mundane or trivial, as moments in time, ingredients essential to the whole, but no less or more important than the ultimate product or the other ingredients.
While admittedly I don’t always succeed, I try to embrace all of these little life plays and my roles within them whether protagonist, supporting actor, bit player, or extra, for the unique perspective, knowledge and awareness each creates.
PS: You may wish to consider as well the real possibility that for the most part the roles that will make up your legacy are those that support the performances of others.
Wednesday, 14 July 2010
Be happy ...
I met a friend of mine I hadn’t seen in many years for dinner recently. She confessed to me early on in our conversation that she is happy. Not just run-of-the-mill happy, but really happy, almost stupid happy, glad to be who she is, grateful for her life, happy. She's happy with the way she looks, she's happy with and for her kids, her mate, her home, her friends, her job ... pretty much anything you can be happy about, she is.
Clearly she's mad.
Nobody has the right to be that happy, do they? It seems almost seditious. Something like that could really get out of hand. What if other people started being happy about everything? Next thing you know there'd be nothing to watch on the news. People might even start being randomly nice to one another. They might stop day dreaming about things they can't have and get on with living in the moment. Good god that could devastate lottery ticket sales. If she has her way, there'd be nothing to gripe about over a beer. Hell, every time you would try to feel sorry for yourself some idiot would start singing, "... don't worry, be happy." It might even lead to complete strangers smiling at you on the subway. No, no this isn't a good thing, she has to stop.
As I was sitting there listening to her talk and laugh about her life, her passions, and the people closest to her, I suddenly felt myself being affected by all her giddiness. I was being slowly seduced from my natural state of detachment; she was dragging me into her lair of contentment. My god, when I think back on it, her constant cheeriness, love and generosity of spirit nearly had me re-thinking the time honoured notion of ... "if only I had this ... then everything would be ...” . Can you imagine! Good grief!
I admit it, I was weak at the time, transfixed; unable to move away, this temptress had me locked in with her eyes … which, by the way, were quite beautiful, bright and happy. Oh, the horror of it. Fortunately after hours of talking, laughing and sharing, I was finally able to tear myself away. Well, actually she had to go. But nevertheless, I wanted to tear myself away just as soon as I had a second night cap … which of course was only to anaesthetise myself from her wily charms.
As I drove home (well under the legal limit) I could still feel the effects of our conversation, I caught my own reflection in the rear view mirror, smiling. It was frightening, fortunately moments later, I had the opportunity to cut someone off and flip them the bird … that snapped me out of the trance and brought my world back into alignment.
Damn close call.
Clearly she's mad.
Nobody has the right to be that happy, do they? It seems almost seditious. Something like that could really get out of hand. What if other people started being happy about everything? Next thing you know there'd be nothing to watch on the news. People might even start being randomly nice to one another. They might stop day dreaming about things they can't have and get on with living in the moment. Good god that could devastate lottery ticket sales. If she has her way, there'd be nothing to gripe about over a beer. Hell, every time you would try to feel sorry for yourself some idiot would start singing, "... don't worry, be happy." It might even lead to complete strangers smiling at you on the subway. No, no this isn't a good thing, she has to stop.
As I was sitting there listening to her talk and laugh about her life, her passions, and the people closest to her, I suddenly felt myself being affected by all her giddiness. I was being slowly seduced from my natural state of detachment; she was dragging me into her lair of contentment. My god, when I think back on it, her constant cheeriness, love and generosity of spirit nearly had me re-thinking the time honoured notion of ... "if only I had this ... then everything would be ...” . Can you imagine! Good grief!
I admit it, I was weak at the time, transfixed; unable to move away, this temptress had me locked in with her eyes … which, by the way, were quite beautiful, bright and happy. Oh, the horror of it. Fortunately after hours of talking, laughing and sharing, I was finally able to tear myself away. Well, actually she had to go. But nevertheless, I wanted to tear myself away just as soon as I had a second night cap … which of course was only to anaesthetise myself from her wily charms.
As I drove home (well under the legal limit) I could still feel the effects of our conversation, I caught my own reflection in the rear view mirror, smiling. It was frightening, fortunately moments later, I had the opportunity to cut someone off and flip them the bird … that snapped me out of the trance and brought my world back into alignment.
Damn close call.
Monday, 12 July 2010
Deadlines
We are confronted by deadlines pretty early in the life game; in fact even before we know there’s a game people are expecting us to show up on time. Usually we get a little leeway on that one, but after that mulligan, the leash gets a whole lot shorter.
Now love them or hate them a deadline is a pretty standard practice worldwide - mind you in some parts of the word deadlines aren't so much a point in time, as they are a sort of, well ... suggestion. Do a little living, working or visiting outside of North America and you'll get that ... eventually. But, in North America, a deadline, or more accurately meeting a deadline, has an almost religious connotation. If you don't believe me just miss one that has your 'leader" lose out on their bonus round and you'll get a taste of some real old time religion. For those brave souls who habitually ignore deadlines, they can expect all manner of unpleasantness, from career stutters to an express ticket to new opportunities - now that flogging has fallen out of fashion.
Of course it’s obvious that deadlines are important; isn’t it? I mean it’s pretty hard to get things accomplished without determining the when, right? There are some things in life that need to be coordinated, controlled, organized … you couldn’t build a building for example with everybody deciding independently when they were going to complete their bit. Mind you the contractor finishing our basement doesn’t seem to be suffering any cognitive dissonance as a result of his incongruent deadline setting versus deadline achieving. Since when do two or three weeks have sixty two days? But his mañana-like approach aside, deadlines are seen almost universally as an important tool in organizing human effort.
I see deadlines as the spawn of expectation and time; the former often exceeding the latter. Regardless, deadlines whether rigid or vague, punctuate much of our lives creating control where there would be chaos, motivating us, even inspiring us, sometimes threatening us, a seemingly endless source of both excitement and depression. And like clothes, deadlines set us apart from the rest of the animal world. You don't see lowland gorillas contemplating deadlines, weighing the pros and cons of further procrastination. No deadlines are pretty much a human thing ... except of course that final deadline. The one all living things are guaranteed to meet.
So fear not there is hope for even the most determined deadline anarchist to finally get one right.
Now love them or hate them a deadline is a pretty standard practice worldwide - mind you in some parts of the word deadlines aren't so much a point in time, as they are a sort of, well ... suggestion. Do a little living, working or visiting outside of North America and you'll get that ... eventually. But, in North America, a deadline, or more accurately meeting a deadline, has an almost religious connotation. If you don't believe me just miss one that has your 'leader" lose out on their bonus round and you'll get a taste of some real old time religion. For those brave souls who habitually ignore deadlines, they can expect all manner of unpleasantness, from career stutters to an express ticket to new opportunities - now that flogging has fallen out of fashion.
Of course it’s obvious that deadlines are important; isn’t it? I mean it’s pretty hard to get things accomplished without determining the when, right? There are some things in life that need to be coordinated, controlled, organized … you couldn’t build a building for example with everybody deciding independently when they were going to complete their bit. Mind you the contractor finishing our basement doesn’t seem to be suffering any cognitive dissonance as a result of his incongruent deadline setting versus deadline achieving. Since when do two or three weeks have sixty two days? But his mañana-like approach aside, deadlines are seen almost universally as an important tool in organizing human effort.
I see deadlines as the spawn of expectation and time; the former often exceeding the latter. Regardless, deadlines whether rigid or vague, punctuate much of our lives creating control where there would be chaos, motivating us, even inspiring us, sometimes threatening us, a seemingly endless source of both excitement and depression. And like clothes, deadlines set us apart from the rest of the animal world. You don't see lowland gorillas contemplating deadlines, weighing the pros and cons of further procrastination. No deadlines are pretty much a human thing ... except of course that final deadline. The one all living things are guaranteed to meet.
So fear not there is hope for even the most determined deadline anarchist to finally get one right.
Sunday, 4 July 2010
Lawn love ...
You know you’re getting old when you take a deep interest in your lawn.
Recently I have come to love my lawn or more accurately my sweetie's lawn ... a long story. I sort of own another lawn but that's an even longer story about choices made ... been there, done that. Anyway this lawn, of which I speak, has become "the lawn". I didn't love the lawn right out of the gate, I mean it's a lawn for goodness sake; it's made of grasses, likely not indigenous, and the odd weeds, likely very indigenous. But over time I've fallen for the lawn and the lawn and me seem to spend a lot of quality time together.
The lawn beckons me daily to march its perimeter, ensuring that it is clear of unwanted intrusions; cigarette butts, bits of paper, the odd Timmy-cup left behind by some coffee swilling cretin, and of course the greatest insult ... doggie doo. Now I have nothing against dogs, a dog’s gotta doo what a dog’s gotta doo. In fact, I love dogs. But I'm less than enamoured with dog owners who seem to feel that the world is their puppy's toilet and that someone else besides them should do the flushing. They sort of remind me of people who hold strong opinions but do nothing tangible with them. Blah, blah, blah ... if I could I would but I'm too busy shooting my mouth off right now to solve world hunger. Okay, maybe I resemble that remark from time to time. But I am doing something with my lawn.
Now doubtlessly there are those of you out there who will protest that my lawn nurturing is nothing more than me doing what is expected by "the man", others might argue that I'm perpetrating some horror on the environment, or worse that I'm acting on some self absorbed one-up-manship, gloating over my lawn challenged neighbours. To you and all of your well meaning and articulated arguments, I salute ... you're probably right, I'm a lawn toady. I didn't start out that way, really. I was once lawn ambivalent. Lawn equalled chore. Chore equalled me not doing something really important like sitting, quietly, for long periods of time. I should have called it meditating and I would have lived guiltlessly, but it was really just sitting. But living life changes you and now I'm a servant to my lawn.
Some people don't like the idea of being a servant. Servant equals servile, and well we can't have that. I once suggested to people I work with that we could approach delivering a new service as "servant-facilitators", working towards improvement by serving the interests of others. They were horrified. "You can't use the word servant," they protested, "people will take advantage of you, and it’s demeaning!" So I suggested "consultants", they went apoplectic. There's just no satisfying some people.
Anyway, I serve my lawn; I feed it, water it, weed it (by hand) ...and I now use the word Dandelion as an expletive. Neighbours have taken to remarking on my lawn ... although I suspect a number curse me as I've seen them goaded into spending more time pampering their green space, no doubt shamed from the TV by an envious partner. Now my lawn isn't quite a golf course, but we're working on it; my lawn and me.
Maybe the lawn is a metaphor for my changing attitude of self ... from knight to squire. Not that anyone else fancied me a knight, but I certainly felt that I was more than perhaps I really was ... but life, like water seeks balance. Now the idea of being a servant doesn't frighten me. I'm not a titan of industry; I'm no longer concerned about the size of my office or whether people hang on my every word. I just want a happy, healthy lawn, which I can walk barefoot on without finding Fido’s surprise.
Recently I have come to love my lawn or more accurately my sweetie's lawn ... a long story. I sort of own another lawn but that's an even longer story about choices made ... been there, done that. Anyway this lawn, of which I speak, has become "the lawn". I didn't love the lawn right out of the gate, I mean it's a lawn for goodness sake; it's made of grasses, likely not indigenous, and the odd weeds, likely very indigenous. But over time I've fallen for the lawn and the lawn and me seem to spend a lot of quality time together.
The lawn beckons me daily to march its perimeter, ensuring that it is clear of unwanted intrusions; cigarette butts, bits of paper, the odd Timmy-cup left behind by some coffee swilling cretin, and of course the greatest insult ... doggie doo. Now I have nothing against dogs, a dog’s gotta doo what a dog’s gotta doo. In fact, I love dogs. But I'm less than enamoured with dog owners who seem to feel that the world is their puppy's toilet and that someone else besides them should do the flushing. They sort of remind me of people who hold strong opinions but do nothing tangible with them. Blah, blah, blah ... if I could I would but I'm too busy shooting my mouth off right now to solve world hunger. Okay, maybe I resemble that remark from time to time. But I am doing something with my lawn.
Now doubtlessly there are those of you out there who will protest that my lawn nurturing is nothing more than me doing what is expected by "the man", others might argue that I'm perpetrating some horror on the environment, or worse that I'm acting on some self absorbed one-up-manship, gloating over my lawn challenged neighbours. To you and all of your well meaning and articulated arguments, I salute ... you're probably right, I'm a lawn toady. I didn't start out that way, really. I was once lawn ambivalent. Lawn equalled chore. Chore equalled me not doing something really important like sitting, quietly, for long periods of time. I should have called it meditating and I would have lived guiltlessly, but it was really just sitting. But living life changes you and now I'm a servant to my lawn.
Some people don't like the idea of being a servant. Servant equals servile, and well we can't have that. I once suggested to people I work with that we could approach delivering a new service as "servant-facilitators", working towards improvement by serving the interests of others. They were horrified. "You can't use the word servant," they protested, "people will take advantage of you, and it’s demeaning!" So I suggested "consultants", they went apoplectic. There's just no satisfying some people.
Anyway, I serve my lawn; I feed it, water it, weed it (by hand) ...and I now use the word Dandelion as an expletive. Neighbours have taken to remarking on my lawn ... although I suspect a number curse me as I've seen them goaded into spending more time pampering their green space, no doubt shamed from the TV by an envious partner. Now my lawn isn't quite a golf course, but we're working on it; my lawn and me.
Maybe the lawn is a metaphor for my changing attitude of self ... from knight to squire. Not that anyone else fancied me a knight, but I certainly felt that I was more than perhaps I really was ... but life, like water seeks balance. Now the idea of being a servant doesn't frighten me. I'm not a titan of industry; I'm no longer concerned about the size of my office or whether people hang on my every word. I just want a happy, healthy lawn, which I can walk barefoot on without finding Fido’s surprise.
Monday, 21 June 2010
Monkeys know
Recently I learned that I've been peeling bananas from the wrong end. For too many years now, I've been wrestling with the stem end of bananas, slicing, ripping, biting and generally mauling my hapless bananas open. No doubt, for you banana aficionados out there, these loutish attempts are likely akin to watching your brothers’ latest date slurp happily from her finger bowl at a family dinner; ridiculously funny in the retelling, but somewhat embarrassing in the moment.
As it turns out, bananas are damn easy to peel, just ask a monkey. All it takes is a little pinch at the opposite end from the stem and voilà ... you’ve split your peel revealing the banana’s delectable pasty white flesh to your hungry gaze. Now some of you, especially those who are in the know, may be thinking ... this man is an idiot. Harsh words ..., though understandable, if you are one of those people who routinely confuse knowledge and intellect. I simply did not know what every two month old monkey does. Apparently this little banana fact had been kept from me, perhaps purposefully by some shady government entity. After all, no one specifically imparted this knowledge to me; rather I stumbled upon it quite by accident. My friends, if you can call them that in the light of this discovery, never told me. No teacher paid by the state has ever revealed this truth, and my family has been virtually mum on the subject.
Yes, it’s clear to me now that this little edible fact was purposefully kept from my menu. God knows what could have happened differently in my life, if only I had known how to properly peel a banana. How many times has some promotion or opportunity been lost, when some snobbish bastard noted my clumsy banana handling and dropped me from the short list? I can almost hear him exclaiming to his cronies, “MK ... are you mad? We can’t send him to London; the man can’t even peel a banana!”
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
Standing about in lines ...
We spend a considerable amount of our allotted time here on the blue planet standing in lines of one type or another, some sources state as much as three to four years. Compare that to the average amount of time spent having sex; six months ... geez, I wonder if those are guy months or girl months? Anyway, I think I must be hitting well above the national average ... for standing in lines that is. I seem to be forever in a line, and to make matters worse, it's always the slowest one. I have this uncanny ability to pick the slowest moving line from any number of possibilities. I even try to trick myself; I pick a line and then randomly walk to another. But it doesn't seem to matter, if it was clipping along the next person up to bat asks a hard question like, “How much is this?” or worse they can't figure out how to use their debit card causing the whole frigg’in process to grind to a halt.
My average line day includes; waiting to use the bathroom (four women, three bathrooms on two levels and yet one or more of them is always in the one bathroom I need), I line up for my coffee, then there’s the traffic, the elevator at work, the lunch line up, the boss's “I’ll just be a minute ...” - line up, and on it goes, the bank, the restaurant, the car wash, the grocery store, yadda, yadda. It’s a seemingly endless series of lines.
Apparently lining up or more accurately "queueing” has a whole body of academic and applied work around it. People study queueing, there’s even an academic journal called "Queueing Systems". “Queueing”, by the way that is the correct spelling, apparently it is the only word in the English language with five consecutive vowels. I guess even consonants have to wait.
All this queueing has forced me into the disagreeable position of having to listen, really listen, to my inner dialogue. Its fine to have an inner dialogue tripping along with you while you’re interacting with the world; but it’s another thing to be actually doing nothing while your mind is chattering away. Now I have to actually hear the inane things I think – my thinking has a voice, actually a number of voices and one of them has this real annoying English accent that I think got stuck in my head from watching too many Monty Python skits. But I digress. Standing about in a line means that I’m not distracted by “activity”, activities which normally break up the whole dialogue thing, leaving me with the false impression that there’s actually some purpose to all my inner blabbing, but standing in a line with virtually nothing to do, leaves me vulnerable to the drivel that makes up my conscious thoughts. I’m like the poster boy for attention deficit disorder. I’m all over the place.... one minute I’m solving world hunger and the next I’m trying to figure out if that’s a popcorn bit jamming up my bottom teeth. Then there are the haphazard visions that pop up for no particular reason from R to PG. It’s a mess of slapdash stuff. Yet I seem to function more or less normally when not standing still, at least no one has recommended pharmaceutical remedies to this point.
I can only assume similar goo is going on all around me with some of my fellow line prisoners. Of course you would know better than me ... I only know for sure the goofy stuff that clangs around in my head. Although I can pretty much guess that the woman in front of me sighing heavily, rolling her eyes and muttering to herself is probably thinking about something that involves firearms.
Squirrel!
My average line day includes; waiting to use the bathroom (four women, three bathrooms on two levels and yet one or more of them is always in the one bathroom I need), I line up for my coffee, then there’s the traffic, the elevator at work, the lunch line up, the boss's “I’ll just be a minute ...” - line up, and on it goes, the bank, the restaurant, the car wash, the grocery store, yadda, yadda. It’s a seemingly endless series of lines.
Apparently lining up or more accurately "queueing” has a whole body of academic and applied work around it. People study queueing, there’s even an academic journal called "Queueing Systems". “Queueing”, by the way that is the correct spelling, apparently it is the only word in the English language with five consecutive vowels. I guess even consonants have to wait.
All this queueing has forced me into the disagreeable position of having to listen, really listen, to my inner dialogue. Its fine to have an inner dialogue tripping along with you while you’re interacting with the world; but it’s another thing to be actually doing nothing while your mind is chattering away. Now I have to actually hear the inane things I think – my thinking has a voice, actually a number of voices and one of them has this real annoying English accent that I think got stuck in my head from watching too many Monty Python skits. But I digress. Standing about in a line means that I’m not distracted by “activity”, activities which normally break up the whole dialogue thing, leaving me with the false impression that there’s actually some purpose to all my inner blabbing, but standing in a line with virtually nothing to do, leaves me vulnerable to the drivel that makes up my conscious thoughts. I’m like the poster boy for attention deficit disorder. I’m all over the place.... one minute I’m solving world hunger and the next I’m trying to figure out if that’s a popcorn bit jamming up my bottom teeth. Then there are the haphazard visions that pop up for no particular reason from R to PG. It’s a mess of slapdash stuff. Yet I seem to function more or less normally when not standing still, at least no one has recommended pharmaceutical remedies to this point.
I can only assume similar goo is going on all around me with some of my fellow line prisoners. Of course you would know better than me ... I only know for sure the goofy stuff that clangs around in my head. Although I can pretty much guess that the woman in front of me sighing heavily, rolling her eyes and muttering to herself is probably thinking about something that involves firearms.
Squirrel!
Friday, 11 June 2010
Aliens
When I was growing up, there was a time when girls were either moms or aliens. There wasn’t a lot of ground in between. Moms I got, they looked after you, they made sure you were fed and watered and they were generally nice to you. They spent a lot of time talking to other moms and doing stuff around the house. Oh yes and they hugged you when you needed a hug and sometimes even when you really didn’t need one. The only real downside of moms was they made you take a bath more often than you really wanted to and they insisted that you come home when the street lights came on.
The aliens on the other hand, were mostly annoying. I had two of them living in my house. One was allegedly a year younger, although she always acted like she was older, and the other was three years younger. I was never really sure what she did, the younger, besides suck up to Dad 24/7. Some friends of mine had aliens at their houses too, and there were other aliens at school. With a few exceptions they seemed to spend a lot of time whispering and giggling or playing dumb games. Mostly I didn’t pay much attention to them. My friend Steve was luckier than me; he only had brothers, no aliens. It was cool hanging out a Steve’s house there was always something to do and his mom loved feeding us. When we weren’t at Steve’s, or playing road hockey, we were catching dew worms, fishing, swimming or just exploring. It was great.
Then ... I met the red headed alien.
She just sort of showed up one day. Her father, like my father, was Air Force. Friends came and went in the Air Force, every year kids moved and new kids arrived, sometimes it was you coming or going. It wasn’t great but that was part of our world then. Anyway she just showed up and started talking to me.
I’m not sure what it was about the red headed alien, but she seemed different than the rest of the aliens, maybe it was the hair. It turned out she had a name and liked doing stuff, like playing tag, building forts and watching movies. I sort of liked being around her, she made me laugh and didn’t seem to care about stuff the aliens at my house cared about. Steve thought she was okay too, for an alien, and tolerated her hanging around with us.
One day she and I were together, alone, goofing around outside her house. During a little rough housing I gave her a push knocking her to the ground hard. She cried out once and then lay motionless. I called her name but she didn’t respond... I knelt down by her side thinking I might have really hurt her. I never saw it coming. Next thing I knew I was flat on my back and she was on top of me, pinning me down. I remember thinking that this wasn’t good, but on the other hand it seemed ... then, without any warning, she kissed me. On the mouth! Before I even had time to react, she was up and gone. I wasn't sure what to think, or do, but something happened, something changed.
That was the end of the aliens for me.
The aliens on the other hand, were mostly annoying. I had two of them living in my house. One was allegedly a year younger, although she always acted like she was older, and the other was three years younger. I was never really sure what she did, the younger, besides suck up to Dad 24/7. Some friends of mine had aliens at their houses too, and there were other aliens at school. With a few exceptions they seemed to spend a lot of time whispering and giggling or playing dumb games. Mostly I didn’t pay much attention to them. My friend Steve was luckier than me; he only had brothers, no aliens. It was cool hanging out a Steve’s house there was always something to do and his mom loved feeding us. When we weren’t at Steve’s, or playing road hockey, we were catching dew worms, fishing, swimming or just exploring. It was great.
Then ... I met the red headed alien.
She just sort of showed up one day. Her father, like my father, was Air Force. Friends came and went in the Air Force, every year kids moved and new kids arrived, sometimes it was you coming or going. It wasn’t great but that was part of our world then. Anyway she just showed up and started talking to me.
I’m not sure what it was about the red headed alien, but she seemed different than the rest of the aliens, maybe it was the hair. It turned out she had a name and liked doing stuff, like playing tag, building forts and watching movies. I sort of liked being around her, she made me laugh and didn’t seem to care about stuff the aliens at my house cared about. Steve thought she was okay too, for an alien, and tolerated her hanging around with us.
One day she and I were together, alone, goofing around outside her house. During a little rough housing I gave her a push knocking her to the ground hard. She cried out once and then lay motionless. I called her name but she didn’t respond... I knelt down by her side thinking I might have really hurt her. I never saw it coming. Next thing I knew I was flat on my back and she was on top of me, pinning me down. I remember thinking that this wasn’t good, but on the other hand it seemed ... then, without any warning, she kissed me. On the mouth! Before I even had time to react, she was up and gone. I wasn't sure what to think, or do, but something happened, something changed.
That was the end of the aliens for me.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Failing
We don’t generally celebrate failure; we don’t salute its arrival, at least not in a military way. Neither do we cheer when somebody we like or respect messes up. We don’t slap them on the back and say, “Hey man that was a spectacular screw up!” And people don’t wake up in the morning looking forward to failing at something during the day. Overall it’s probably safe to say that for most people, failing at something is a negative experience.
Now many of you have probably had someone tell you that failure is a part of life and that we should learn from our mistakes and move on, and that it is okay to fail. I have certainly heard it … heck, I’ve even said it. But it always sounds to me just a little, well … forced. Saying it is okay to fail doesn’t flow off the tongue like an enthusiastic “atta boy”. I mean do we really believe in our hearts that it’s okay to fail … if it is; it certainly never feels okay to me. Mostly it makes me feel crappy. So the walk here doesn’t live up to the talk … and there’s a reason for that, me thinks.
Somewhere, on the trip from womb to grave, we learned that failing should feel bad, not just be bad, and that success should feel downright euphoric. Given the apparent strength of these feelings, I suspect the notion that failure = bad and success = good was reinforced sufficiently in every aspect of our lives, young and old, to become a truism. So for most of us, no amount of cheery talk and theorizing around the appropriateness and acceptability of failure is going to have us wrestling for the bragging rights.
Of course the paradox of failure isn't anything new, we have known forever the value of experience, of trial and error and the its power to teach us everything from tying our shoes to finding cures for diseases. But we are conditioned as humans to seek approval and to belong and that seems to come more readily to those who have “succeeded” than it does to those who have failed. So we have stigmatized failure and those who have failed, seeing “failure” as something definitely less desirable than success. Admittedly the consequences of failure can be high, even fatal and irreversible so it is easy to see why failure and its authors have gotten such a bad rap. But as unpleasant as failure is ascribed to be, it’s an essential ingredient of the human condition and it’s only through failing, that we can be properly positioned to learn, grow, and develop as individuals and as a collective.
So we need to fail, and we need to allow ourselves and others to fail and embrace those failures as opportunities to learn. Now I’m not suggesting that we start letting people fly or drive without licenses, clearly people need to be competent before independently doing a host of activities. But true competency is gained through effort and by implication, serial failure. What I am suggesting is that the stigma associated with failure needs to be shelved along with the emotional negativity that makes failing a bad thing, instead of an important step towards improvement.
When we fear failure we limit ourselves, we become timid and unsure of new experiences. But embracing the inevitability of failure, like we did when we were learning to tie our shoes, will lead us to doing things better. The way I see it, always being successful means you've never really tested yourself.
Now many of you have probably had someone tell you that failure is a part of life and that we should learn from our mistakes and move on, and that it is okay to fail. I have certainly heard it … heck, I’ve even said it. But it always sounds to me just a little, well … forced. Saying it is okay to fail doesn’t flow off the tongue like an enthusiastic “atta boy”. I mean do we really believe in our hearts that it’s okay to fail … if it is; it certainly never feels okay to me. Mostly it makes me feel crappy. So the walk here doesn’t live up to the talk … and there’s a reason for that, me thinks.
Somewhere, on the trip from womb to grave, we learned that failing should feel bad, not just be bad, and that success should feel downright euphoric. Given the apparent strength of these feelings, I suspect the notion that failure = bad and success = good was reinforced sufficiently in every aspect of our lives, young and old, to become a truism. So for most of us, no amount of cheery talk and theorizing around the appropriateness and acceptability of failure is going to have us wrestling for the bragging rights.
Of course the paradox of failure isn't anything new, we have known forever the value of experience, of trial and error and the its power to teach us everything from tying our shoes to finding cures for diseases. But we are conditioned as humans to seek approval and to belong and that seems to come more readily to those who have “succeeded” than it does to those who have failed. So we have stigmatized failure and those who have failed, seeing “failure” as something definitely less desirable than success. Admittedly the consequences of failure can be high, even fatal and irreversible so it is easy to see why failure and its authors have gotten such a bad rap. But as unpleasant as failure is ascribed to be, it’s an essential ingredient of the human condition and it’s only through failing, that we can be properly positioned to learn, grow, and develop as individuals and as a collective.
So we need to fail, and we need to allow ourselves and others to fail and embrace those failures as opportunities to learn. Now I’m not suggesting that we start letting people fly or drive without licenses, clearly people need to be competent before independently doing a host of activities. But true competency is gained through effort and by implication, serial failure. What I am suggesting is that the stigma associated with failure needs to be shelved along with the emotional negativity that makes failing a bad thing, instead of an important step towards improvement.
When we fear failure we limit ourselves, we become timid and unsure of new experiences. But embracing the inevitability of failure, like we did when we were learning to tie our shoes, will lead us to doing things better. The way I see it, always being successful means you've never really tested yourself.
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
Living with Baba
When I tell people that I live with my sweetie, her two teenage daughters and Baba, I get a real range of reactions ... my personal favourite is the head tilt with furrowing brow and questioning eyes (the puzzled dog look). A look that usually emanates from other munga-cakes like me who have no idea what "Baba" means ... when I say grandma aka mother-in-law ... their less than gracious expressions only deepen. It seems for many the idea of sharing close quarters with your significant other's mother is, well, not ideal. “Isn’t that a little difficult"? Some hazard to suggest, to which I usually counter, "Which part? Living with Baba or being the only one who stands to pee?"
Truth is, you’re actually not encouraged to stand and pee when you live with four women, apparently checking to see if the toilet seat is down is not a reflexive behaviour for women. There are a number of other challenges but that is truly the stuff for a separate post . . . back to Baba.
Baba, at least this Baba, is a pretty cool lady. The woman is a Trojan; she can do more in a day than I can do in a week and she’s eighty! She has lived a full and good life by her own account, and has every intention of continuing to do so. She’s truly a hyphenated Canadian, happily living in her two worlds, one of tradition and expectations (the ethnic factor) and the other fast paced and ever changing (the new age). Baba seems to have struck a workable balance between these two places. Roger Martin, the educator and innovation writer would describe her as practicing integrative thinking; the ability to constructively face the tensions of opposing models. Of course if I told Baba that, she would smile at me, shake her head knowingly and ask me if I was hungry. Such hypothesising and categorizing is mildly interesting to Baba but the obituaries get first read at our house. Not because Baba is morbid, but because she wants to be sure she doesn't miss anyone, that she gets an opportunity to pay respects to those she has known and to tell their stories. For Baba, their world has infinitely more meaning and interest to her than some academic musing (no offense Roger).
As you may be able to imagine the most important world for Baba is the world of family. To her family is everything, it is the beginning and the end, it is the omega purpose. She is steadfast in this, both in word and action. Baba continues, despite her years, to be an active participant in her life and the life of her family. She is at the center of every family get together, every family meal, she is there to listen to all, provide an opinion if you want it - sometimes even if you don’t - hold a hand, brush away a tear, hug a kid, be a mom and be a friend.
The Force is strong in Baba.
Probably the most important thing I’ve learned from Baba is the value of the extended family. In my old world, moms and dads didn’t usually live with their grown kids. Now I know that historically they often did, I even knew a few people who had grandparents living with them when I was younger. But I could never imagine what that might be like ... it certainly wasn’t something that was going to happen in my world.
But it did, and now I feel a little sorry for all those people with the puzzled dog look ...
Truth is, you’re actually not encouraged to stand and pee when you live with four women, apparently checking to see if the toilet seat is down is not a reflexive behaviour for women. There are a number of other challenges but that is truly the stuff for a separate post . . . back to Baba.
Baba, at least this Baba, is a pretty cool lady. The woman is a Trojan; she can do more in a day than I can do in a week and she’s eighty! She has lived a full and good life by her own account, and has every intention of continuing to do so. She’s truly a hyphenated Canadian, happily living in her two worlds, one of tradition and expectations (the ethnic factor) and the other fast paced and ever changing (the new age). Baba seems to have struck a workable balance between these two places. Roger Martin, the educator and innovation writer would describe her as practicing integrative thinking; the ability to constructively face the tensions of opposing models. Of course if I told Baba that, she would smile at me, shake her head knowingly and ask me if I was hungry. Such hypothesising and categorizing is mildly interesting to Baba but the obituaries get first read at our house. Not because Baba is morbid, but because she wants to be sure she doesn't miss anyone, that she gets an opportunity to pay respects to those she has known and to tell their stories. For Baba, their world has infinitely more meaning and interest to her than some academic musing (no offense Roger).
As you may be able to imagine the most important world for Baba is the world of family. To her family is everything, it is the beginning and the end, it is the omega purpose. She is steadfast in this, both in word and action. Baba continues, despite her years, to be an active participant in her life and the life of her family. She is at the center of every family get together, every family meal, she is there to listen to all, provide an opinion if you want it - sometimes even if you don’t - hold a hand, brush away a tear, hug a kid, be a mom and be a friend.
The Force is strong in Baba.
Probably the most important thing I’ve learned from Baba is the value of the extended family. In my old world, moms and dads didn’t usually live with their grown kids. Now I know that historically they often did, I even knew a few people who had grandparents living with them when I was younger. But I could never imagine what that might be like ... it certainly wasn’t something that was going to happen in my world.
But it did, and now I feel a little sorry for all those people with the puzzled dog look ...
Sunday, 30 May 2010
Reunions
Damn, was that another week that just flew by...
I just saw some pictures on Facebook of yet another of my High School reunions that I didn't attend. People smiling, enjoying a moment together, being who they once were one more time, their wonderful lived faces beaming; a few whom I now only vaguely remember mixed with the few that I will never forget.
Funny thing memory ... our lives and destiny plays out before us and occasionally we rewind in the mind's eye vignettes of those moments, good and bad, reliving events and emotions for as many reasons as there are memories. It seems to me however that each time we hit the rewind button the details of those memories get a little altered, like some photocopy that over the course of time loses more and more of the original's detail. Things that happened around us and to us fade with each viewing, perhaps to better suit our inner dialogue, or our changing perspectives on self and others, until inevitably it is truly a unique memory, different from the memories of that moment held by others.
I guess reunions are a way to retouch those memories, bring them back into sharper focus. For some I suppose they relish the opportunity to share those memories to replay the scenes of their lives, to be with those who lived their time, to be remembered as they were, or at least as they wish they were. While others.... maybe not so much. They have little desire to be reminded of their story, good or bad, for these few the past is better left behind.
I'm not one of the latter, although I'm certainly not judging that choice, for me memories are powerful stories ... stories that can continue to shape our lives. If used wisely these vignettes of life can become the touchstones to a life well lived, no matter if the memory was good or bad ... but if used poorly memories can hold you back from your potential.
On the other hand memories, and in particular sharing memories, can be well.... just plain fun ... sorry I missed you guys!
PS Cathy, you are as beautiful today as you were when you were seventeen.
I just saw some pictures on Facebook of yet another of my High School reunions that I didn't attend. People smiling, enjoying a moment together, being who they once were one more time, their wonderful lived faces beaming; a few whom I now only vaguely remember mixed with the few that I will never forget.
Funny thing memory ... our lives and destiny plays out before us and occasionally we rewind in the mind's eye vignettes of those moments, good and bad, reliving events and emotions for as many reasons as there are memories. It seems to me however that each time we hit the rewind button the details of those memories get a little altered, like some photocopy that over the course of time loses more and more of the original's detail. Things that happened around us and to us fade with each viewing, perhaps to better suit our inner dialogue, or our changing perspectives on self and others, until inevitably it is truly a unique memory, different from the memories of that moment held by others.
I guess reunions are a way to retouch those memories, bring them back into sharper focus. For some I suppose they relish the opportunity to share those memories to replay the scenes of their lives, to be with those who lived their time, to be remembered as they were, or at least as they wish they were. While others.... maybe not so much. They have little desire to be reminded of their story, good or bad, for these few the past is better left behind.
I'm not one of the latter, although I'm certainly not judging that choice, for me memories are powerful stories ... stories that can continue to shape our lives. If used wisely these vignettes of life can become the touchstones to a life well lived, no matter if the memory was good or bad ... but if used poorly memories can hold you back from your potential.
On the other hand memories, and in particular sharing memories, can be well.... just plain fun ... sorry I missed you guys!
PS Cathy, you are as beautiful today as you were when you were seventeen.
Sunday, 23 May 2010
Okay ... I'm up
Somedays I'm just plain tired .... right to my bones.
But, I get up just the same. I put on my tarnished armour and drag my sorry butt out of the castle one more time ... all the while hoping to God that the dragons have slept in.
But, I get up just the same. I put on my tarnished armour and drag my sorry butt out of the castle one more time ... all the while hoping to God that the dragons have slept in.
Saturday, 22 May 2010
Monday, 17 May 2010
Choice
If we have the intellectual capacity to exercise choice, then it's all about the choices we make - life that is.
We all make them, choices; big ones, small ones, in-between ones. Choice is at the center of our lives, in fact there are so many choices to make that we need to introduce all kinds of shortcuts just to make living possible. Shortcuts like how we get dressed, where to buy our morning coffee, what to say to the people we don't know but see every day (often numerous times). These "routines" are a good thing, without them we'd probably never get anything done. But whether automated or not, these actions we do are choices. Choices we make and which we could also unmake ... not necessarily easily ... but we could choose differently. But we chose, always.
There’s danger in not recognizing that you make choices, always. Dangers like, not accepting accountability for the consequences of your choices, or more importantly the real possibility, dare I say likelihood, of you continuing to make choices which are, well, really bad.
In making choices then, even a choice that may be a choice of one, we exercise a truly innate freedom, and while the choice we make might not always be the preferred or ideal choice, it is still of our making.
Now, you can suggest or argue that there are occasions where one has no real choice, but I’m not sure that’s really true. We are always free to make a choice, even when we are forced or threatened with only one alternative. These situations may not be terribly comfortable, or pretty, or just, but a choice they remain ... at the very least a choice to comply or not. Claiming no choice is really more often an application to a convention of convenience, an application that others will often approve, with appropriate sympathies, if only to maintain easy access themselves to that remedy on some future occasion.
Yes nothing more comfy, I think we can all agree, than a nice pair of fuzzy victim slippers … Oh the humanity, the bliss of having our conscience bunions so readily relieved.
We all make them, choices; big ones, small ones, in-between ones. Choice is at the center of our lives, in fact there are so many choices to make that we need to introduce all kinds of shortcuts just to make living possible. Shortcuts like how we get dressed, where to buy our morning coffee, what to say to the people we don't know but see every day (often numerous times). These "routines" are a good thing, without them we'd probably never get anything done. But whether automated or not, these actions we do are choices. Choices we make and which we could also unmake ... not necessarily easily ... but we could choose differently. But we chose, always.
There’s danger in not recognizing that you make choices, always. Dangers like, not accepting accountability for the consequences of your choices, or more importantly the real possibility, dare I say likelihood, of you continuing to make choices which are, well, really bad.
In making choices then, even a choice that may be a choice of one, we exercise a truly innate freedom, and while the choice we make might not always be the preferred or ideal choice, it is still of our making.
Now, you can suggest or argue that there are occasions where one has no real choice, but I’m not sure that’s really true. We are always free to make a choice, even when we are forced or threatened with only one alternative. These situations may not be terribly comfortable, or pretty, or just, but a choice they remain ... at the very least a choice to comply or not. Claiming no choice is really more often an application to a convention of convenience, an application that others will often approve, with appropriate sympathies, if only to maintain easy access themselves to that remedy on some future occasion.
Yes nothing more comfy, I think we can all agree, than a nice pair of fuzzy victim slippers … Oh the humanity, the bliss of having our conscience bunions so readily relieved.
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Mother's Day
It’s Mother’s Day.
Now I could take this thought in a few different directions. I could recount its historical references, regal you with its various manifestations or lack thereof around the world. I could just as easily rail against it as some offensive and sweeping generalization that ignores the harsh reality that some mothers don’t live up to any notion of motherhood, or I could point out that there are many women who have chosen alternative paths, and while they may celebrate or not this day with their own mothers, they are, for various reasons good or sad, living a life without children and this day could serve to alienate many of them. I could ride on Mother’s Day and use it to raise my voice in protest or concern on some tangential issue, of which I am sure there are many equally good and equally sad. Yes there are a number of things I could say in relation to Mother’s Day and mothers, including the most appropriate and obvious for my life.
Thanks Mom ... for literally everything.
Saturday, 8 May 2010
Saturdays
I’m ambivalent towards my Saturdays now.
I march to the beat of a Monday to Friday, Weekends off drum – so Saturday is allegedly my break from the parade. Saturday is the day I don’t technically have to go to work (although I can be found there more often than I care to admit) ... on Saturday’s I get to do something else; something I really want to do like.... mow the lawn, or go shopping, or wash the car, or clean the house, or whatever other administrative detail that needs my special skills and attention.
Yes, I know there are people who love doing all of those things, in fact even I like ironing (really I do), but no matter how much “grin and bear it”, “whistle while you work”, “live the moment”, rationalization I attempt. I can’t get past the thought that all these weighty responsibilities, these lists of things that must be done; serve only to suck up my ever dwindling allotment of time on this blue planet. I’m not saying that life is one big chore, or a seemingly endless series of administrative routines, separated by brief moments of distraction (golf, drinks with friends, vacations, dirty weekends, church) I’m just saying . . . my Saturday’s really aren’t what they use to be ... the Saturday’s of my youth that were, and remain in my mind ... magical.... when I really got to do what I wanted (without trading off something else, or making a pact with the devil, ignoring what was expected of me, etc) like going fishing with my buddy Steve and his little brother Danny, the three of us swimming in the river in our underwear chasing turtles, smoking an old cigar butt we found and getting caught up in a tree surrounded by cows.
Now those were Saturdays.
Wednesday, 5 May 2010
Blast from the past
An e-mail popped up today, nothing extraordinary in that of course, we all receive dozens of theses micro letters every day, but this one stood out from the daily deluge, the sender's name bringing back a flood of memories and feelings. It wasn't from an old sweetie, or some long lost friend. It was from a former colleague, a young man who once worked "for me", if reporting to someone in the corporate food chain can be described that way. He found his way to me, he expained, through a friend of a friend; I guess that happens more and more these days with all of us plugged in like so many Kevin Bacons.
I described him as a young man, but he's not so young now, some 10 or 12 years later but that's how I remember him, young, bright, full of promise and maybe a little wonder. I liked him, he was good at what he did, he was fun to be around and we were developing that kind of working relationship in which we would both learn and benefit.
We worked at one of those shady acronym government places that sounds intriguing to everyone who doesn't work there. Unfortunately for our budding corporate partnership he found another acronym to work for, one that offered him regular exotic travel and I suspect better heeled company. So we parted ways, and I never really expected to hear from him again, only about him. But here he was e-mailing me and in doing so opening up doors I haven't looked behind in years. And despite some reluctance to have those doors opened again (long story) it was great to hear from him. I don't know if we will reconnect in the real world, this may just one of those "facebook moments", you know the kind where you connect in the ether, get up to speed in three or four missives and then return to ... well, nothing really ... I hope not, but my track record is pretty weak here ...
I really should do something about that ... tomorrow.
Welcome
I was driving the other day to visit my kids, a daughter 21 and a son 18, they live a couple of hours away, it was one of those perfect driving days, dry and bright with only a few cars on the road. The trip normally takes a couple of hours and usually I'm trying to make good time, but this day, I was all about the journey. I had purposefully turned off the radio, I wasn't interested in listening to music or gab and certainly not the news and its litany of grey. Instead I wanted to think, not about anything in particular, just about whatever it was that I knew would be sitting at the back of my head waiting for all the other busy noise to settle down. I don't know about you, but there are a lot of voices in my head - I don't mean strange voices telling me to vote conservative or buy a chainsaw - but voices that sound out my life. The bits of daily conversation, disagreements, laughs, troubles, desires, frustrations, pain, joy and the random stuff that arrives uninvited. Anyway, I was hoping to quiet all that noise down and give it, the voice in the back of my head, a chance to say what it wanted to say. I am never quite sure what is going to come out. But I do know, that when I take the time to really listen, I am better for it.
It didn't disappoint.
You see the voice, the one from the back of my head, is the wise one, the one that waits until I'm ready and then puts into words that which I really need to hear. It does not admonish me, it simply presents another story. Stories of other possibilities ... of different perspectives ... of alternative views.
I like that voice - the best of me is heard through that voice. Unfortunately it speaks so softly that it's often hard for me to hear it clearly through the din.
P.S. I had a great visit with my kids.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)