Musings

I was ready for a totally different rant today.  Well, not a rant, really.  It was more like a minor tirade.

Anyway, out of the blue, somebody sent me a note letting me know that they’d stumbled across my blog.  I know the gentleman from work.  His note was short, but it’s impact was deep.  He said two simple things.

First, my voice is in my writing.  He said, “You have a real voice as a writer; I know it’s you.” As my friend Jeff and I often discuss, finding and using your voice, your one and true voice, is the most powerful tool any person can hope to find.

Second, he simply offered encouragement.  “I know you don’t need encouragement from me,” he said.  And he’s correct.  I don’t need encouragement, but it sure feels good!  I am human, and I am a human who craves connection.  I appreciate every word of encouragement that is offered.

So, that was it.  A short, simple note from someone who discovered my blog, heard my voice in my writing, and offered words of encouragement.

Words of encouragement…wonderful gift.  Thanks, George*.

 

*Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Stuff gets old.  It decays.  It crumbles.  It falls apart.  It gets dingy and dirty and worn.  No matter what you do, you can never restore what was.  Time passes, and everything ages beyond its prime.

I live in an old house that has been restored.  It looks great.  It looks modern.  An 80-year-old home brought into the 21st Century.

But I know the truth.  I’ve looked in the attic.  I’ve seen the hole underneath the kitchen sink, the cupboard under the stairs, the drain out behind the house.  You can replace this and replace that, but, fundamentally, at its core, the house is old…80 years old.  Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but some day, this house will be aged beyond prime.  

Ideas work the same way.  They get old.  They become outdated.  They grow irrelevant.  At their core, ideas become aged beyond prime.

I think a great skill to develop is recognizing ideas that have aged beyond prime.  I think institutionalized hatred would qualify.  Recreational rioting would be another.  Basically, anything that promotes doing harmful things to other human beings…those things qualify as aged beyond prime, in my opinion.  

Recognize ’em and dump ’em.  There’s too much good work to be done in the world.

Every path leads to some place.  At times, we are lead to breathtaking, epic vistas.  At times, we are lead simply to a dead end.  Regardless of how we categorize them, all paths end.  And every end is the destination.

 

Every choice has an outcome.  Some choices result in what we most desire.  Some choices result in what we most fear.  Most choices land us some place in between.  Regardless of how closely the outcome aligns with our desires, all choices result in something.

 

Choices are paths.  We string them together throughout the course of our lives.  There is only one true end, and that end is called death.  Every other choice, every other path, is at once an end and a beginning.  We get where we wanted to go, relish or wallow in the consequence, and lift our eyes to see that there is, indeed, another path to travel.  Even going back down the path you already traveled will eventually lead to paths and choices and some place where you have never been.  Besides, the moment we turn around the familiar is somehow unfamiliar; the path changes.  Time has passed, the weather has turned, a bird has landed on a guide post, the wind is blowing the leaves in a different direction. 

 

Things change.  Paths change.  You can’t undo the choices you’ve made.  You can only ever hope to keep moving forward.

 

Every path leads to some place.  It’s the path itself that is the destination. 

 

 

If you make your way to the small town of Egham, about 20 miles southeast of London, you will find nearby a meadow along the Thames River.  The site is known as Runnymede Meadow.  In July, 1957, the American Bar Association unveiled a small, domed memorial containing a pillar of English granite with the inscription, “To commemorate Magna Carta, symbol of Freedom Under Law.”  It is one of the most historically significant places you could hope to visit. 

On June 15, 1215, in Runnymede Meadow, a group of openly-rebellious barons forced King John of England to put his royal seal upon a document they drafted.  The document became known as Magna Carta and represented the first time that the subjects of an English King attempted to limit the powers of their sovereign through law and protect their rights.  Over 560 years later, Magna Carta would influence the swelling tide of independence that was gathering strength in the colonies of English America.

235 years ago today, a Declaration of Independence was made.  As I sit here writing, a few thousand miles away, friends and family are waking up and beginning their day, a day of celebration and rememberance.  It is not just the moment of declaration that we celebrate today but every single moment since that day.  And we celebrate every single life.

The net of human connections that spans the face of this planet grows more complex with each day.  Actually, the connections have always been there; it is our ability to see and interact with them that is changing.  When I stood in Runnymede Meadow, I listened, and what I heard was the wind moving leaves in the thick woods nearby.  I heard the sound of insects.  I heard the grass swaying gently.  I heard my sons playing in the distance.  I stood, and I listened.  I listened, and I heard. 

What I heard was the sound of freedom.  From Runnymede to Philadelphia and so many points beyond, we are all connected by our right and desire to be free.  May the desire to find freedom for every last man and woman on our planet never end.

I love Converse.  I always have.  I used to have a pair of Chuck’s when I was in high school.  They were high-tops, the kind that reach up nearly to the knees.  They were two-toned with a different color inside and out.  The tops of the shoes folded over, so that you could see both colors at the same time.  Mine were white with colored pinstripes on the inside.  I also had a pair of classic Chuck hightops that were bright yellow.  I loved my Chucks.

I had a jean jacket.  I used to draw on it with permanent marker.  I wore it with pride, fanged skull blazing on the back and everything.  It was my jacket.  It was a reflection of me.  I still have that jacket somewhere.  It’s in a box in a storage unit in central Illinois.  I loved that jacket.

For a very long time…decades, in fact…I believed that the image of the starving, half-crazed artist, wearing tattered clothes covered in paint, was the only true definition of an artist.  Since I was an illustrator, painter, and sculptor, that Jackson Pollock notion of what it meant to be an artist clashed with the college-bound young man that I was becoming.  Somewhere along the way, the images of the Ivy League sweater and college pennant supplant the images of canvas and brushes, sketch pad and pencil.

When I moved to creating art in the kitchen, the image of a “real chef” kept creeping into my head.  I never looked beyond being the amateur hobbyist.  When I tried my hand at business, the suit-n-tie, super-polished, Fortune 50 CEO image seemed to be the target.  Early to arrive and late to leave for the sake of appearances became more important than creating the right environment for the people around me to thrive and deliver their work. 

Always, there were people to reinforce the norms, the institutionally-approved ideas.  Always, there were people to gently nudge me in the direction of stereotype, of living cliche.  And always, I remained troubled.  Unsatisfied.  Unsettled.  Displaced within my own concept of self.  The person I was and the person I thought I would be happy being were in conflict.

I don’t want to wear leather shoes any more.  I don’t believe that animals have to die in order for me to fit the corporate image.  My current leather shoes are over four years old.  I used to think that I’d be satisfied with a pair of faux-leather imitations shoes.  They’d save a cow or two here and there, and I’d be able to still fit in, right?

Bullshit.

I am not the super-polished, business-speaking clone in a $400 suit.  I am the super-polished, articulate, intelligent, capable individual that I have always been, and I come dressed however I come dressed.  If the suit is your gig, wear it.  If it isn’t, don’t.  You shouldn’t have to.  The world is big enough for both of us.

I don’t want to run in circles that require me to be prettied up for a pageant.  I want to wear suits when I want to wear suits.  I want to focus more on creation, on building, on interesting problems, on invigorating projects.  If I am judge when I walk in the door because of how I look, I am OK with that.  Let my reputation and the power of my presence change minds.  I can deal with the fact that some people won’t get past their initial judgement, but with a planet filled with billions of people, I think I can find more than enough work to keep me busy for the rest of my life.

So, I am going to buy a new pair of shoes.  I love Converse.  I always have.  I used to have a pair of Chuck’s when I was in high school.  Maybe I’ll buy another pair of Chucks.  Maybe not.  Whatever I buy, though, I will wear with pride.  I will be comfortable in my own shoes.  Maybe you won’t be, but I will be.  The world is big enough for both of us, and, regardless of your opinion of my shoes, you and I…we can build something together.  We can change a life.  We can change a company.  We can change an industry.  We can change the world.

Chucks or Gucci?  Who cares.  Statement, not question.

On August 12, 2007, Mike Wieringo died.  In 2009, I wrote about how Mike and his death affected me.  You can see that original post here: http://woowooleadership.com/i-blog-therefore-i-am-5.

I thought about Mike today.  I never knew Mike personally, but I knew him through his blog.  I checked it just about every day, and Mike updated it often.  I loved reading what he wrote.  It was candid.  It was genuine.  It made me feel like I was a part of his life journey.  

Mike inspired me to write.  A little over a year after Mike died, I started writing my blog.  I’d been hemming and hawing for quite some time, so I just jumped in and got started.  I’ve meandered all over the place ever since.  About 2 and a half years now, to be more precise.

Mike’s blog is still there.  If you visit www.mikewieringo.com, you’ll see his last post from August 10.  That’s just 2 days before he died.  His blog exists as proof that Mike was here.  

Mike was an accomplished, well-known artist.  He had a huge fan base.  He made money doling what he loved.  He was good at it…really good.

My little corner of the internet exists as proof that I am here.  I blog, therefore I am…right?

It’s just good to remind ourselves why we do the things we do, to reaffirm our commitments to ourselves.  And maybe doing so will inspire us to move forward and onward to bigger and better things.

As the train came to a halt, I reached back to grab one of the handholds.  I grabbed some dude’s ass instead.

“Pardon me,” I said, which is really the funny part of the story because 4 months ago I never would have said the word “pardon.”  Funny how some things just rub off on you.  The dude was standing there reading a book.  He barely looked up when I reached for the handhold and was already back into his book when I begged his pardon.

See, when you commute by train, you get used to the sardine-like conditions associated with the mad rush home.  For some odd reason, and it my experience during my working life has been that it works this way everywhere, people arrive at work on a staggered schedule yet all pretty much bail out at the same time.  This is the period of the mad rush home.  On a train, the mad rush can get…tight.  There’s bumping and brushing up and, at times, inadvertent grabbing.  Like today, for example.

What’s my point?  There is none.  Well, I accidentally grabbed some dude’s ass today and laughed about it as I walked home.  I am grateful I didn’t get my ass kicked in return.  That’s the point, I suppose.

In Lucca, we ate gelato at the first “gelateria” we found. As always, the treat satisfied. We walked a little ways and stumbled across a magnificent church and piazza. We walked some more and found another piazza. This one was bigger than the first. We walked and found another. This is how life in Rome and towns in Tuscany seems to work.

And this is how life works: up every street lies the potential for an unexpected, spectacular surprise.

Seek them out…and enjoy every minute you are there.

Be here without attachment. Be here without attachment. Be here without attachment…

I’ve discovered one of the most difficult activities I have ever undertaken: walking without attachment.

Try clearing your mind and taking a walk of any length. I walk a bunch every day. I’ve tried this clear-minded walking. It ain’t easy! Sounds simple enough, though, no? Clear mind…no attachment. Walk.

Unfortunately, the state of mind doesn’t last long.

Apparently, our brains love to work at maximum overdrive. They like to label things. The like to measure things. They like to categorize things. They like to predict things. They like to yell at people at whom they’re mad. They like to think about all the bad things that could happen at that particular moment in time. They like to think about all the bad things that can happen to your kids, your spouse, your parents…anyone you know…at that particular moment in time. They like to imagine the most inane, irrelevant, and outlandish things they can possibly conjure. If all else fails, there’s the list of things that are so very, very wrong about you and everything you do.

Our brains, it turns out, don’t like to be silent.

And that is where the soul comes in. Rather, that is where our souls, our spirits, need to come in. Our souls like silence. They like tranquility. They like peace. They like harmony. They like to find stillness and open themselves up to the world around them. They like to take in the sights. They like to appreciate without categorizing. They like to love without expecting anything in return. They like the sounds and smells and feel of everything within the realm of our senses and beyond. If all else fails, there’s the singular, indescribable sensation of becoming connected to the entirety of the Universe.

Our souls, it turns out, are the very essence of silence.

That’s the human struggle, the daily challenge: to balance the necessary work of our brains with the essential silence of our souls. I suspect that the vast majority of human beings, past and present, don’t have a problem with too much silence in our lives. I suspect most suffer from too much brain work. I know I do.

That is why my new favorite activity is to walk without attachment. Every day, it is a challenge to take one more step than the day prior before the voice of my busy brain jumps back into the forefront. The jabbering becomes the default state at some point in our cognitive development. I don’t think it ever shuts up. If you live to be 70, 80, 90, or well past 100, I suspect that voice will never, ever go away. But that does not mean that we cannot train our brains to be silent and to take the back seat, allowing our greater, connected consciousness…our true consciousness…to fill up the space. For me, the training begins each day as I walk without attachment.

Try it. It seems impossible, but perfection isn’t the objective. The objective is to simply achieve a few seconds of clarity, here and there, throughout the day. Just a few seconds of silence…

and a few more…

and a few more…

each day…

walking without attachment.