Musings

There are some moments that you are able to relive instantly, almost as vividly as you did the first time.  I don’t care how old you are or how many wild experiences you’ve had, some moments just stand out.  They normally do because, whether we realize it or not, they change us.  They change us for better or for worse.  One could even argue that there is no “better” or “worse” there is simply change, and it is.  There are moments that change us.

I was at a workshop a few years ago, and we were asked to tell a story about a time in our lives when we first realized that we were different.  My moment sprang to mind without hesitations.  I was 8 or 9, about my oldest son’s age.  I had to walk home from school from the bus stop.  The problem was that I got off at the wrong stop.  Why?  Not relevant.  I just did.  

Boy, was I screwed.

See, I wasn’t exactly fluent in Spanish back then.  This is a problem when you live in a Spanish-speaking country.  I couldn’t ask for directions, so I didn’t.  I just walked.  And walked and walked and walked.  I have no idea how long I walked.  It must have been a long time because when I finally got home, my mother did one of those “I’m going to kick you ass/THANK GOD YOU ARE ALIVE!!!” numbers on me.  My poor mother…  

As I roamed the streets, I became more and more frightened.  I could see a dog wandering here or two wandering there.  I saw brown people, older and very much unlike me.  I was in Mexico, remember?  I may look like I have “olive” skin to the locals here in Illinois, but I was pretty much as pale as they came back then.  I was a kid.  What can I say?  I noticed these things.  I recall being so frightened that I would do everything in my power to walk by any place where there were any living beings regardless of size, shape, color, or species.  Dog barking behind a fence up ahead?  Dart across the street.  Two women walking towards me?  Dart across the street.  The sound of kids playing?  Some men walking home from work?  Zombies?  Dart, dart, and more dart.  I can’t recall how long this went on for.

I don’t know when it started, but I think I cried most of the time.  Heavily.

Then, a man walked up to me.  I was weeping, and he looked at me.  He spoke: “BLAHBLAHBLAHBLAHBLAH?”  I don’t know what the heck he said.  He was short.  His hair was black.  And his skin was brown.  I recoiled in terror.  It must have shaken the poor guy because he took a step back.  He’d been walking towards me, but my reaction stopped him dead in his tracks…slid him back a few steps.  Then he spoke again.

“Donde vives?”  he asked.  “Where do you live?”  He was stern this time.  There was an edge to his voice that snapped me back to reality.  I still couldn’t speak, but the hysterically crying abated just a tad.  I looked around.  Consciously or subconsciously, I’d been lingering around a street sign that rung a bell.  Then I realized: that’s MY street name.  

“Aqui,” I managed to blurt out.  “Here.”  I pointed to the sign.  The problem was that I could tell which direction the sign was telling me to go.  I was at a “T” intersection, and I felt like I’d already gone in circle in both directions.  In fact, I had.  The streets around my house could be tricky.  

“Bien.  Camina.  ALLI!” he yelled.  “Good.  Walk.  THERE!”  

I looked at him.  I was still crying, but I felt the panic leaving me.  “OK.”  I responded.  He nodded.  That’s when he smiled.  I started walking.  Eventually, I found my way home.  Happy ending.

Yet…20-something years later, that was the story that popped into my head.  So, I talked about it.  I shared my story with about four other people in my small group.  I told my wife about it that night.  I contemplated why that story came to mind when I was asked about a moment when I knew that I was different.  The reason was clear.

As a child, I felt foreign that day.  I felt alien.  I was in a strange land where I barely spoke the language and could not really read the street signs.  I felt completely isolated because every person I met was different from me…or, rather, I was different from every one of them.  THAT is what did it for me.  Before, in the car or on the school bus, I was surrounded by people like me.  I was like a fish in a bowl with other fish just like me.  Then, I was scooped out of the bowl and dropped into the ocean.  You sort of realize that there are a lot of other fish out there that are NOT like you.  More of them, in fact, than there are of you.  That became startlingly clear.

But I never forgot the man who helped me.  He set me back on my way, the right way.  He could have walked right by, ignoring the balling child, but he chose not to.  Instead, despite my hysterical state, he talked to me just long enough to snap me back to reality and guide me home.  He probably never gave it a second thought, but to me that was the other lesson in that moment.  I may have been frightened and lost, but I wasn’t alone.  

Different but not alone.

We are all different, aren’t we?  That’s what makes meeting new people and experiencing life with them so wonderful.  And just the fact that there are so damn many of us on the planet should tell us that we’re not alone.  Too bad we tend to forget that.  It really makes managing the rough spots a little easier.

We’re different, but we’re never alone.

I like randomness.  I like life without constraints.  I like days without structure.  I like open-ended questions.  I like meandering streams and meandering conversations.  I like waking up and not sweating what needs to get done every minute of the coming day.

I like order.  I like life with boundaries.  I like days with purpose.  I like specific inquiries that lend themselves to specific answers.  I like getting to the point and not dawdling.  I like waking up and knowing exactly how the day is supposed to unfold.

This is me.  Plural and singular.

Poetically, the contrast is cool.  Practically, the contrast is more like a conflict.  It can be maddening.  You see, I can live my life both ways and be completely content.  I just need the freedom to be both of me.  For me, freedom means that I get to choose which me I am going to be and I get to choose all the when, where, and how.  When someone infringes upon my right to exercise that freedom…yeah, I don’t like that so much.  When I feel that I don’t have the choice…yeah, I don’t like that so much either.

I bristle at those times when freedom is taken away from me.  I can adjust on the fly when I adjust by choice.  I can be happy following an agenda all day just as much as I can be happy letting the day take me where it will.  I can be unhappy in both situations, too, if I feel I’ve lost control.  My experience has been that most people respond the same way.  Loosing control is a tough thing to swallow.

What I have come to understand is that control is a perception.  It’s a function of what we believe should be happening in the world around us at any given moment in time.  All we really control is our reactions to things.  Once we embrace the circumstances of the moment, we choose how we want to react.  Understanding this is crucial to finding freedom in situations we might have otherwise perceived as lacking freedom.  If we choose the reaction, then the reaction can be anything.  

Like randomness. Like life without constraints. Like days without structure. Like open-ended questions.  Like meandering streams and meandering conversations.  Like waking up and not sweating what needs to get done every minute of the coming day.

Like order. Like life with boundaries. Like days with purpose.  Like specific inquiries that lend themselves to specific answers. Like getting to the point and not dawdling.  Like waking up and knowing exactly how the day is supposed to unfold.

The freedom to be both of me, whenever and however I want, is a choice.  It’s your choice, too.

I had the chance to open a department meeting today, and, while not my finest performance thanks to the cloudiness of a “stuffy head,” I felt a deep connection with the central theme of my talk: choosing where to go from here.

Life is a series of choices, each leading to another choice or two. It’s like the “Choose Your Own Adventure Books” of my youth…only I can’t flip ahead and work my way back from a cool ending.

Or can I?

There was a young man in Malawi, Africa, who survived a terrible drought and subsequent famine that occurred during the early part of this new millennium. His name is William Kamkwamba. Most of the people who live in rural Malawi are subsistence farmers. They grow their own food, being sure to save food for the times when their crops do not grow. In Malawi, most farmers grow tobacco, too, and sell it as a way of making a little money so they can buy other things that they may need. Their lives are intimately intertwined with the seasons and the cycles of rain and drought. This is why any blip in the system can have a devastating, fatal effect.

When the drought hit, William’s family lost not only their source of food but their source of income, as well. His parents were not able to pay for his school fees. At the age of 14, he dropped out of school. There was little work to be done in the fields. So, with nothing to do and, literally, starving to death, William decided to spend his time at the library in his village. It was little more than a small room with several shelfs of books. Among those books, William found a book called, “Using Energy.” Within the pages of the book, William saw a picture of a windmill. The picture captured his imagination, and William learned that windmills could be used to generate energy, electricity.

Electricity.

William built a windmill. If he had failed, it wouldn’t be much of a story. He built a windmill and produced enough electricity to power one bicycle light bulb which he hung from the ceiling of his room. The windmill changed his life forever.

William’s windmill was vision made reality. It was a dream pulled from the ether and given tangible form.

For a long time, windmills have been a symbol of futility. Miguel de Cervantes, Saavedra wrote a book about a character named Don Quixote who lives in such a dream state that, at one point in the story, he attacked a windmill because he thought it was a giant. The term quixotic is used to describe something that is not sensible or practical, something delusional.  And the term “tilting at windmills” represents the ultimate quixotic endeavor: fighting the unwinnable, futile battle.

Or the impossible dream.

We are presented with windmills throughout our lives: challenges, trials, opportunities, changes.  How we view these windmills is truly a matter of choice.  Unwinnable battle or impossible dream?  I know what William would say.

On a farm somewhere in Malawi, the blades of a windmill spin furiously in the hot desert wind.

I posted this elsewhere today and offer it here again with some edits…

I believe that anyone who searches too hard for purpose is struggling with fear…fear that has something to do with recognizing and acknowledging their true purpose. I empathize with the journey. I’ve felt what the seekers are feeling, and I didn’t feel any better until I began to understand the role of fear in keeping me off the path. Too much thinking created noise, and the noise gave my fear a place to hide. When I found it, I grabbed hold and didn’t let it go. I embraced my fear and learned to love myself in spite of that fear. I found my footing and my way back to the path. It wasn’t until someone reminded me that I had to go back to the place of stillness within and stop THINKING SO MUCH that I can say that I recognized that I was once again on the path.

I believe that the harder we churn, the more likely that we are working off nervous energy or fear or abject terror. Doing anything and everything keeps us from doing the one thing we should be doing. And the most important “one thing” we should be doing is attuning ourselves to our life’s purpose. Until we understand that, no matter how much we produce and how great the things we produce might be, they will never fill that gaping hole, fulfill that insatiable void, inside of us.

I believe in shipping; in drawing lines in the sand and challenging ourselves to meet our own deadlines. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that the concept of shipping as Seth Godin describes it is essential to not stagnating. I just believe that what I ship should align with my desire and intent for my life. Purpose? Sure, I’m still searching for a connection to a greater purpose, but I recognize that the search is internal. The longest distances, the greatest depths, and the most astonishing heights are all part of the journey, and that journey exists almost entirely within me. I know inside is where I will find purpose.

Wherever your feet are is exactly where they are meant to be. The path follows you wherever you go. It’s a matter of aligning the path to the calling. That is how I would define “purpose.”

Or, perhaps, it isn’t a path as much as it is a stream…

 What an odd juxtaposition of concepts today.

First, I took the day off from work.  My wife and I went to visit our kids’ school.  It was another one of those observation days when we get to spend some time in each child’s class simply observing the daily environment.  Most of the kids are pretty good about ignoring the parents sitting in the corner watching.  Some stare for a minute or two.  Others whisper to one another.  Mostly, though, they forget you are there and go about their business.  So, you get to watch them at work in their world.  It’s always interesting, and with increasing frequency, it provides for a nice, silent bonding moment with our children.  I wish every parent could have this gift.  I wish every school was set up to allow parents to become active participants in the school lives of their children.

I also took the day off to being what I have begun to think of as “The Great Purge.”  No, we are not preparing to hunt Jedi as a means of serving Emperor Palpatine.  Instead, we are beginning a Great Purge in our home.  It is one that I hope will lead us to shed much of the material debris that weighs us down physically, spiritually, and emotionally.  Peter Walsh calls it “cluddah;” Eckhart Tolle refers to it as “the world of form;” and HH Dalai Lama uses the term “material things.”  They are all speaking about the same thing, and what they are talking about us the collection of stuff that we accumulate through the years of our lives.  The “why” behind the stuff…the very personal reasons we decide to keep this thing or that thing…is fascinating to me.  The more I ask myself that question, the more I learn about myself and the nature of spirituality itself.  The connection between what we collect around us and what we collect inside of us is startling.  I am only now just beginning to understand it.  We will see where this Great Purge will lead.

And then there was “Who Do You Think You Are?” which is a new NBC series that chronicles the journeys of various famous people as they learn about their ancestry.  While the premise sounds a bit self-indulgent on the part of Hollywood, there is a central theme that is apparent to me.  It is one that I just heard a few days ago, in another form, while listening to the audiobook version of “The Power of Now” by Eckhart Tolle.  The theme is this: those who have come before us…our ancestors…have the power to speak to us.  What they say to us affects how we perceive ourselves today.  Or at least the potential for such shifts in self-perception exist.  Whether you believe these ancestors literally speak to us, in hushed whispers or through artifacts that we “happen” to find, doesn’t seem as relevant as whether or not you believe that it is possible for the emotions and burdens of past generations to be passed down to those who are living today.  It’s a fascinating idea, and the explanations don’t have to be metaphysical in nature.  It is possible that culture and the sub-culture of our own families can perpetuate the way we experience emotion, deal with adversity, and even view the Universe in general.  It could all be psychological.  Or, as some suggest, there is spiritual energy that we hand down to one another through the ages.  

I woke up today disoriented because it was Friday, and I wasn’t going to work.  I prepare for bed today disoriented because I cannot figure out if I am headed down a path that will disassociate me from some some connection to the past or one that will just result in my having less crap in my house.  Heck of a range of possibilities, huh?

Starting is actually not the hard part.  Starting is easy.  It doesn’t take much to start.  It’s finishing…finishing is the hard part.  At least that’s how it works for me.  My experience interacting with other human beings over the years has proven to me that most people have the opposite issue; for most, I believe, starting is, indeed, the hard part.  I used to think not being able to finish was worse.  Now, I recognize it’s just a matter of perspective…like all things.  After all, our problems are the biggest problems in the world because they are closest to us, no?  That’s another rant, though.

It is easy to ignite a fire.  Trust me.  I have experience with starting fires, lots of experience.  Just ask Sergio.  He’ll tell you.  The number of times that the two of us avoided serious injury…I can’t count.  Like the time we were in…I can’t believe I’m typing this…a closet, pouring alcohol into a dish and lighting it in the dark.  Yes, we were in a storage closet under the stairs in his parents house.  Naturally, it’s the closet where his parents stored ALL THEIR OLD NEWSPAPERS.  Those are the best closets in which to start fires.  We controlled those fires, of course.  Since we were…oh, I don’t know…TWELVE…we knew everything there was to know about controlling fire.  We did a pretty good job of it, too, for a while.  Everything was going well until one of us boneheads decided to pour more alcohol into the dish…in the dark…while the dish was ON FIRE.  Yeah, that pretty much was a bad idea.  Something in Sergio’s gut probably screamed out to him because he said, “Uh…maybe we shouldn’t…”  His words were drowned out by our physics lesson.

We both watched in bewilderment as the fire sort of trotted up the flowing alcohol and right into the bottle.  Did you know that apart from being flammable, rubbing alcohol is explosive?  Luckily for me, the alcohol was still flowing, so it exploded outward, through the mouth of the bottle.  If you’ve ever abruptly squeezed a plastic juice bottle, you get the gist of how the liquid shot out.  Unluckily for Sergio, he was sitting pretty much sitting in front of the stack of newspapers, holding the bottle of alcohol.  His eyes were as big as saucers.  I suspect mine were, too.  At that point it occurred to me that I could actually see Sergio’s face in what should have otherwise been pitch black darkness.  Then I noticed that every stack of newspaper was alight with the bluish glow of burning alcohol.

Sergio and I both screamed.  I don’t know what we said.  Maybe we didn’t say anything coherent, instead reverting to some sort of prehistoric, early human howls of terrors.  Sergio managed to open the door and disappeared into the laundry room.  I ran into his bathroom and grabbed a glass of water.  I ran back into the closet and poured the water into the dish.  Hooray.  One fire out.  Meanwhile, the alcohol burned off the newspapers, and some of them started to actually catch.  His father’s work boots were aflame, as were other assorted pieces of footwear.  I recall thinking something along the lines of, “HOLYFUCKINGSHITWE’REFUCKINGSCREWED” when Sergio returned…with a bucket.

He doused the flames.  He turned and looked at me, triumphant.

“Uh…Serge…?”  I said.  “Your hand is on fire.”

A hand soaked in alcohol can burn for quite some time.  If you’re lucky, enough alcohol means you won’t char your skin.  The way I remember it, Sergio’s hands were tender and smooth for a few days after that, but nothing worse.

There was also the time we were on balcony off Sergio’s brother’s room one night with yet ANOTHER dish of alcohol, burning things.  We sat outside, happy as two arsonists with flamethrowers, when Sergio said, “Oh shit, Ric!  I just knocked over the bottle of alcohol!”  It was as if Mother Nature herself heard us for not a moment later, the wind shifted in impossible ways and sent one lone flame dancing off the dish.  She merely caressed the spreading pool of alcohol.

“FFFWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSSSHHH!!!”

That’s the sound of a wall of fire appearing out of nowhere.  I think that time it was my turn to get the water.  I can’t recall.  I lost count.

I don’t have a problem starting things.  Starting is like igniting a fire.  Finishing…different story for me.  Finishing is like finding the right amount of water to douse the flames.  OK, bad analogy.  Finishing is finishing.  It’s very final.  It’s very scary.  It’s very dangerous.  As long as you are in the middle of it, you can’t be judged.  You can’t be blamed for not meeting expectations if you haven’t even put on the finishing touches.  Surely, it’s unfair to look at an unfinished anything and judge it, right?  So, as long as I haven’t finished, you can’t judge.  Not that you’d judge me nearly as harshly as I would.  That’s another rant, though.

Finishing is about letting go, about walking away, about starting the next thing.  It’s about busting open another bottle of alcohol and finding a box of matches.  What do I burn next?

My youngest read his very first book on Saturday. It’s hard to believe that the baby of the family is already reading. Some day, maybe he’ll read the stuff I’m reading! Speaking of which…

At the beginning of the year, I read “Linchpin” by Seth Godin. My journey through the book was life-changing. It came on the heels of a transformational experience, so the book was the icing on a cake that shifted all of my life-paradigms. Last week, I finished “Drive” by Daniel Pink. Sheesh. I thought I was done with all the transforming. My only conclusion after reading “Drive” is that Mr. Pink and Mr. Godin are involved in a conspiracy to unleash terrible powers of creativity upon the unconscious status quo! Conspiracy, I tell you! There is no other word for it!

I guess which book is a companion for the other is a matter of which book you read first. Regardless, there’s no denying that the two books build upon each other in eerie and uncanny ways. Although I’ve already it twice, I think I have to read “Linchpin” a third time after having read “Drive.” And, I am sure, once I do that, I’ll want to read “Drive” again. With each pass of “Linchpin,” my level and depth of understanding, insight, and reflection increases, and I definitely feel that having read “Linchpin” helped me appreciate “Drive” in ways that would not have been possible without it rattling around in my brain.

I’m not here to write a full-on review of “Drive.” I am here to tell you that, if Seth opened your eyes to why YOU have to change, Daniel will open your eyes as to how you can help nudge others towards that same change. They cover a lot of the same ground, but they provide different perspectives on the implications. For example, they both discuss how the conventional education system in the United States promotes and instills certain kinds of behaviors, but the reason they expose this truth is different. For Seth, it’s about overcoming the lizard brain. For Daniel, it’s about motivating others in an effort to help them overcome the limitations of their lizard brain. On their own, each perspective is fascinating and full of more than one “a-ha” moment. When you consider both together, you gain a more complete picture of the issue, making way for some truly profound, life-shifting moments.

I’m reading a few books right now. Among them is “The Leader’s Way” by HH Dalai Lama and Laurens van den Muyzenberg. The book is written in an interesting style. As opposed to some of the other book collaborations in which the Dalai Lama has been involved, this book reads less like an interview and more like a conversation. Often, the Dalai Lama’s book collaborators write about a thesis or central idea on their own, then add in details about discussions they have had with His Holiness on that and other topics. The books come across as written by the collaborating author with supporting comments from the Dalai Lama. “The Leader’s Way” is different. It comes across as a series of 2-part meditations on topics that form a sort of central outline. Each part is an essay written by Laurens and by the Dalai Lama, alternatively. It’s incredibly effective in presenting two very different points of view on the same subjects.

I bring this style up because, in my mind, this is the next logical step for Seth and Daniel. I would LOVE to read a book written in this style by these two authors. A Godin-Pink collaboration…wow. I’m not sure if the world could handle it! There is too much to consider in this world already without the two of these guys building a compelling argument for change TOGETHER! “What Matters Now” makes it obvious that Seth could propose this kind of exploration with just about anyone. Think about how cool a book written by Seth to which different authors and thinkers respond, section by section, would be. My brain aches just considering the possibilities…

In the absence of an overt collaboration, you’ll have to settle for the conspiracy version. Go read “Drive” after you’ve read “Linchpin,” then go read “Linchpin” again. You’ll thank me for the suggestion. And when you’re ready for the inspiration to make figurative windmills out of garbage, read “The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind” by William Kamkwamba. You’ll thank me for that, too.

 Literally?  Up to you.  

Figuratively?  For sure.  And this is all I am talking about: embrace the moment.

Embracing the moment means embracing the ideas of those around you in an effort to understand other points of view.  Embrace arguments, even if you are sure you are right and they are wrong.  Embrace the dumb ideas.  Embrace the possibilities.  Embrace other perspective, genuinely, and you will open hearts as well as minds.  If your beliefs are strong, there is nothing to be lost by embracing the beliefs in the moment.  Nothing can come from them but understanding.

After all, every embrace must end.

And when you are done embracing…well, what you do next is up to you.  However, the mere act of embracing will inevitably change your world view, even if just a little.  And the mere act of embracing might just change another world view, even if just a little.  You see, by choosing to care enough about others to hear them out, you deflate the resistance that might have otherwise been put in your way, even if just a little.  Or a lot.

Listen.  Embrace.  Open doors that would have otherwise been closed.

 I find that there is one essential first step to any meaningful interaction with another human being: listening.  Talking is good.  It helps establish that you are among the living and interesting in engaging the other person, but listening is really where it is at.  I find a good into is crucial.  Something about what you do for a living or how you do what you do is a good way to start.  Get them interested.  Once you do, turn the table on them.  Switch it up and let them know that YOU are interested in THEM.  Then, listen.

Listen.

That’s “Step 1” to drawing someone into your world.  A good friend of mine wrote in his book that your intro…your personal brand, if you will…is what you use to connect someone to your purpose and make them a part of your story.  That’s right; your story.  You can substitute “story” for “journey” or “adventure” or “life.”  Or maybe it’s your own personal train wreck.  Regardless, once you get someone engaged, you are free to exercise that mighty first step, listening.

Listening is tricky.  Sometimes, you just want to jump in there and offer your few cents.  I’m as guilty of it as anyone.  Sometimes, I feel compelled to keep the conversation moving.  Other times, I want to demonstrate how clever I am.  And there’s always the burning desire to offer your opinion.  At a cocktail part or a mixer, that might work out OK.  After all, chances are you’re just shooting for the casual, superficial conversation.  Or maybe you’re not.  Either way, in social situations, you’re probably only going to go so deep.  But…what about those other times?  You know, those times when you want to make a real connection?  Or those times when you want to help someone out when they are struggling?  

Listening opens doors.  Often, the solution to a problem is hidden within the problem statement itself.  If not in the problem statement, then in an explanation of the details of the problem.  When you get someone talking and resist the urge to interrupt, you create a space that allows the individual to begin exploring their own hidden solutions.  My experience has been that there are very few people walking around with a problem for which they have not already envisioned a dozen different solutions.  What they need is an opportunity to hear themselves think.  They need an opportunity to develop their ideas a little more.  You can be the catalyst for that process if you choose listening over talking.

You’ll know when the time is right for you to participate in the process.  Just give it time to develop.  Listen.  It’s a far more satisfying gift than talking, and you’ll find it builds deeper bonds with others.