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.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
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.
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