I found this “note to self” in papers dated 1977:
"Art, this is a note from me to some future you. Once again you were fearful of something, and once again it didn’t happen. I feel sheepish but relieved. Sheepish because I thought I was done for. Relieved because, of course, it all worked out. This has been happening over and over. Make a note: the things you are most afraid of never seem to happen. So please, please stop investing in your fears. Me. 1977"
Okay. So. Thirty-two years ago.
In my business I have had lots of things to worry about (three recessions, 9/11, SARS, a stock market crash, H1N1). When the media grabs hold of these things and does their job, my blood pressure rises and I lose some sleep.
But I think I’ve improved over the years. Now as storm clouds come I take shelter, but the trembling has been reduced.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Monday, November 16, 2009
One Unsolved Crime
On my 10th birthday my parents gave me a bicycle. It was the best birthday present ever. I remember the excitement -- something akin to Sally Field crying on the academy awards show, "You love me, you really, really love me".
I did have a little niggle about it though. The bike was for grown-ups. My father even had to put blocks on the pedals so my short legs could reach. I had already experienced "optics" issues when my mother made me wear a pink snow suit -- not so good for a little boy. I think she got a deal on it or something.
But my father was right. I outgrew the need for the blocks.
I REALLY loved that bicycle.
Indeed, the size paid off. My friends had those kid-bikes with “suicide bars” so they could play motorcycle. Not me. I had the coolest, fastest machine in the neighbourhood. Sure, I attached baseball cards on my spokes with clothes pins so my bike would SOUND like a motorcycle – but otherwise mine was practically the real thing.
I now know another reason – maybe the main reason – that I loved the bike so much; it was my escape pod. At the first sign of tension in my household, off I would go, cutting through the wind as fast as my blue dart could fly. And on sad days I would journey farther than I was allowed.
One day, when I was 16, I rode my bike to the variety store to buy cigarettes for my mother. When I came out of the store the bike was gone.
I absolutely could not believe it. I obsessed about it for months. Sure, I ultimately got a replacement bike, but it wasn’t the same. I had lost a friend.
I always kept my eye out for my blue bike.
I am 55 years old now. Believe it or not, the subroutine in my brain is still there: if I even get a glimpse of a sky blue 26-incher, my head tilts, my eyes squint, and my thoughts race to the salient question: is THAT my bike?
I did have a little niggle about it though. The bike was for grown-ups. My father even had to put blocks on the pedals so my short legs could reach. I had already experienced "optics" issues when my mother made me wear a pink snow suit -- not so good for a little boy. I think she got a deal on it or something.
But my father was right. I outgrew the need for the blocks.
I REALLY loved that bicycle.
Indeed, the size paid off. My friends had those kid-bikes with “suicide bars” so they could play motorcycle. Not me. I had the coolest, fastest machine in the neighbourhood. Sure, I attached baseball cards on my spokes with clothes pins so my bike would SOUND like a motorcycle – but otherwise mine was practically the real thing.
I now know another reason – maybe the main reason – that I loved the bike so much; it was my escape pod. At the first sign of tension in my household, off I would go, cutting through the wind as fast as my blue dart could fly. And on sad days I would journey farther than I was allowed.
One day, when I was 16, I rode my bike to the variety store to buy cigarettes for my mother. When I came out of the store the bike was gone.
I absolutely could not believe it. I obsessed about it for months. Sure, I ultimately got a replacement bike, but it wasn’t the same. I had lost a friend.
I always kept my eye out for my blue bike.
I am 55 years old now. Believe it or not, the subroutine in my brain is still there: if I even get a glimpse of a sky blue 26-incher, my head tilts, my eyes squint, and my thoughts race to the salient question: is THAT my bike?
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Get to Know Me
Truly I used to love the notion that I am my will. Very powerful. It even helped me quit smoking. By equating myself with my choices I realized that when I chose poorly, I was my choice. What else could I be if not the guy reaching for the smoke? That “definition” of me worked for quite a while.
But, although it helped me define MYSELF, it didn’t help me define others. I could not know their will. Nor did it familiarize me with others.
Then I heard someone ask the rhetorical, “What am I, if not my word?”
It seemed profound to me. It said that an individual is bigger than the private act of choosing. It added interpersonal accountability to the equation. It offers: you can define me by my word—when I give it, it is I; when I fulfill it, that was me.
But ultimately I found myself mistrusting the person I heard it from. Sure, I could see that, from his perspective, his “being” was in his choices. And, from my perspective, he lived by his word. But I sensed a hole in the rhetoric. No, I couldn’t identify him by his word.
So I sought another way to indicate one’s identity to others: Who am I, if not my word and my actions? THAT’s the ticket, I thought -- accountability for behaviours that are unrelated to commitments made or kept.
How nice.
But then you’ve got your budding con artist Eddie Haskell Jr. from the “Leave it to Beaver” show. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Cleaver. I’ll be GLAD to carry those groceries into your house.” Young Mr. Haskell's little gesture might be noble, but who knows the real motive?
So here it is, my new identity formula, for oneself, and to offer others: I am my will, my word, and my consequences.
But, although it helped me define MYSELF, it didn’t help me define others. I could not know their will. Nor did it familiarize me with others.
Then I heard someone ask the rhetorical, “What am I, if not my word?”
It seemed profound to me. It said that an individual is bigger than the private act of choosing. It added interpersonal accountability to the equation. It offers: you can define me by my word—when I give it, it is I; when I fulfill it, that was me.
But ultimately I found myself mistrusting the person I heard it from. Sure, I could see that, from his perspective, his “being” was in his choices. And, from my perspective, he lived by his word. But I sensed a hole in the rhetoric. No, I couldn’t identify him by his word.
So I sought another way to indicate one’s identity to others: Who am I, if not my word and my actions? THAT’s the ticket, I thought -- accountability for behaviours that are unrelated to commitments made or kept.
How nice.
But then you’ve got your budding con artist Eddie Haskell Jr. from the “Leave it to Beaver” show. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Cleaver. I’ll be GLAD to carry those groceries into your house.” Young Mr. Haskell's little gesture might be noble, but who knows the real motive?
So here it is, my new identity formula, for oneself, and to offer others: I am my will, my word, and my consequences.
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