Que sera, sera…

I very recently experienced unexpected disappointment where I missed out on being shortlisted for a job I had good reason to believe may have been mine for the taking. It was quite the bitter pill, and its aftertaste still lingers.

The few people I told were very supportive and often provided stories from their own experiences as a balm to my own, still open, wound. On a number of occasions their empathy was accompanied by a familiar refrain – something along the lines of, “If you didn’t get that job then it just wasn’t meant to be.”

As much as I appreciate and value the concern and intent with which my friends and colleagues sought to lift my spirits, that particular lens on life doesn’t really work for me very well.

I admit to finding the notion that anything was or wasn’t ‘meant to be,’ prior to it actually being anything at all, somewhat vexatious. To those more theologically or philosophically minded there is in me more than a hint of revolt against any suggestion of determinism – that one’s life is somehow already written and what we do is either live out its script or, at best, tinker around the edges, making our own minor tweaks without ever really adjusting its overarching trajectory. Of course, I am not alone in this rebellion and, to a certain extent I think we all react against worldviews where we have no say in determining the direction of our own lives, or where any decisions we make are already written ‘in the stars.’ But I’m not about to launch into a treatise outlining the age old conundrums between determinism and free will. I’m barely qualified to spell ‘determinism,’ let alone expound freely on its merits, or otherwise.

Regardless of where we stand on this issue, I can only assume many of us have struggled, at one point or another, to understand our own place in the universe. Admittedly, there is something attractive and comforting in believing that certain things are ‘meant to be.’ I can imagine it removing some of the anxieties surrounding big decisions in our lives and, more importantly, their outcomes.

But I am restless. I want to be in that ring. I want to be the one going toe to toe. I want to be the one throwing the punches; blocking; getting hit. And if anyone’s ever going to be throwing in the towel on my behalf then I want it to be me and no one else. Of course, no serious contender jumps into that ring without putting in some hard training, without surrounding themselves with the right coaches, mentors, friends. A fighter’s reach is only as long as those who helped put them in front of their opponent.

And so while I refuse to believe the fight is fixed, where I do draw strength and comfort is in the belief that I am never fighting alone. Yes, at certain moments it will be me, and only me, against whatever Goliath I need to face. But up until that moment, and after that bout is over, regardless of its outcome, there will be those who will help me heal, those who will guide me in learning from my mistakes, and those who will prepare me for the next round.

I don’t yet know what the next fight will look like. I just know I’m not fighting alone.

And I’m grateful.

streamofconsciousness

I wrote the following very quickly, though not in the one sitting. Just thought you should know, for the sake of full disclosure…

Is it possible to write a blog such as this and not censor oneself? I doubt it, as I can already tell that my fingers cannot keep up with my mind and, in this instance, even the punctuation betrays any intent to write as quickly, and as freely, as my mind dictates. And it’s not only the mechanics of writing that betray my intent at removing any possibility of self-censorship; I am also deeply aware of grammatical structures and the need to make sense. But why this need to make sense if all I am really doing is expressing myself and whatever thoughts happen to come out of my very noisy head? Well, part of the issue is a paradoxical relationship between wanting to express myself without self-censorship and the deep desire to communicate something of myself – whether it be an idea or a portrait of myself – via the written word. I write because I want to connect with someone. In this case you, dear reader. And I write also because I wish to unburden my mind of an accumulation of thoughts that, after a while, begin to weigh heavy on my mind. But in order to cultivate this connection with you, I cannot afford to alienate you. And alienation can come in many forms – poor writing, poor grammar, poor expression, poor choice of topic, and a general sense of meandering meaninglessness. I must acknowledge your time is valuable and, for whatever reason you have chosen to take some time out of your busy day to spend a little time with me, you may not be as freely predisposed to literary (please excuse the aspirational intent) experimentation as I am, whose time is perhaps less valuable than yours. However I can’t help but wonder whether the possibility of ever breaking the shackles of my touch typing limitations, together with a fear of losing that connection, as well as the likelihood of writing nothing but pure dross, would eventually furnish me with a freedom of expression that would be tantamount to the feelings experienced during surfing, skiing, riding a motorbike on a country road – or perhaps free-falling from a very high altitude. It also strikes me the pursuit of such  freedom in this writing is really another expression of a broader search; a search that might yield a similar experience in other walks of life – imagine a sense of unencumbered movement and decision making in the pursuit of our own careers, our own passions, and our own destinies. Too lofty? Perhaps, but I do think these little micro-speculations, at least for me, point to bigger aspirations. This is especially the case for me at work, where it is often difficult to align my desire for freedom and creativity with the often mundane, but necessary, aspects of the daily work routine. And I’m sure I’m not alone. But at the same time I try similar ‘micro’-experiments at work, trying different things out and seeing how they fit, how people react and, most importantly, how much I can get away with. You’d be surprised. Or perhaps not. But I do believe that by maintaining at least a very thin thread of creativity that weaves through the every day, then the outcome is often delectable subversion. Try it sometime. It’s a welcome reprieve from the mundane. Self-censorship is often a social necessity, but when that necessity morphs into a moral imperative for everything we say, do or write, then I think we need to rethink. And if we cannot think outside the square, then try thinking really really fast inside it. Something’s bound to spill out.

Inspirational Jobs

“I’m convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You’ve got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle.” Steve Jobs

The recent death of Apple’s co-founder and, until only a few weeks ago, its CEO, has generated a considerable amount of tributes and accolades. And the internet (bless its virtual heart) takes some of these into the realm of viral distribution – for everyone to see, immediately, countless times. The above quote is one such example.

But Jobs’ passing isn’t the first to generate such effusive expressions of respect – even indebtedness – from both, close friends and total strangers. The structure of such expressions is often quite similar: they were visionary, pioneers, inspirational, they changed the world, they changed my world. In addition, these claims are often substantiated by some type of quote or passage, attributed to the dearly departed, and included as a way of inspiring those they leave behind, to encourage us to emulate their path, whatever it may take, as it will surely extend their life’s project – inevitably leading to a better world.

In terms of my admiration for someone like Steve Jobs, I believe I fall squarely within the mainstream. However, in the end I don’t buy the extent to which people seek inspiration from what is, essentially, human remains. Such frenetic activity after the passing of those we might consider ‘great people’ feels both blindly ravenous and misguided in its apparent lack of self-reflection. Like hungry scavengers many of us look for bite-sized pieces of inspiration that we can then re-appropriate and use to inspire us to become better selves. I don’t mind the objective, but I am very uncomfortable with the approach.

Look at the quote again. Aside from admiring Jobs for having achieved what he did, and setting aside the possibility that, like many autobiographies of both great and lesser people, the espoused philosophy is as much about reconstructing history as it is about explaining it, how much of what is said can we, in our current lives, relationships, careers, mortgages, actually embody in our day to day lives? If you can honestly say you are able to, or have already, incorporated even a small fraction of what is suggested, then I am genuinely happy for you. Unfortunately, as is my propensity to overthink just about everything, I have not yet been able to achieve this felicitous integration between my passion and my work. Perhaps I’ve “settled.” Perhaps I am suffering from “passion envy.” Whatever the case, it is my issue, I know.

I think the biggest reason my for own discomfort here is that many of these posthumous ‘sound-bites’ are consumed as immutable truth. Very rarely are these snippets understood either in their context or in their potential [or lack thereof] to be of any real use in our own realities – the ones we inhabit in our own skins. I acknowledge that this discomfort is my own, and that I am reacting to a particular trigger that, for many people I’m sure, is of little consequence. My baggage, my trip.

In my case, the discomfort I speak of is underpinned by a few questions:

1. Is there anyone, currently alive, who truly inspires me?

2. Have I told them and explained how they manage to do this?

3. Upon reflection, how might I distill this inspiration? A quote or sound-bite? Or something else altogether?

4. Is there a point in my life where this type of inspirational message is no longer relevant, where I have already made all my major life-choices and now it’s just a matter of seeing them out? What then?

I’m not going to try and tackle these questions right now (sorry to disappoint). I just want them to sit there for me for a little while. Of course, I’m also scrambling for more time, in the realisation I am probably incapable of answering these for myself with any degree of deep satisfaction – particularly the last one.

My point? Don’t look to the dead for inspiration. At least, not only to the dead or, more relevant in this case, acknowledge them whilst they are still alive – maybe even let them know (stalking does not count).

Who knows, you might open a portal to further inspiration – perhaps even a dialogue with those who matter most to you.

Yes, it really IS that easy.

I have yet to see any problem, however complicated, which, when you looked at it in the right way, did not become still more complicated. — Paul Anderson

I spend most of my working days wondering why so many people insist on approaching the most banal of tasks as if participating in something akin to the complexities inherent in a space shuttle launch.

Let’s provide some context here. I am not in the business of saving lives, nor launching space shuttles. I am not part of a think tank seeking to uncover a universal theory of the cosmos. I am involved in an industry that provides mobile telephony and data to a relatively small population inhabiting a very large geographic mass. Questions around the technicalities of engineering aside, nothing too complex.

However, for those people who come to mind, they must believe (or at least operate under an unspoken assumption) there is some positive correlation between the complexity of a solution (ideally one they helped to architect) and their own intellectual or professional prowess. I’m here to tell you there ain’t none. A complex solution does not a complex person make.

So please, stop compensating for your intellectual insecurities, take a deep breath, look at what you’re proposing, and lets remove the unnecessary complexity. It’s not always easy, but not always as impossible as you’ve convinced yourself it is. An ethos of simplicity (not to be confused with over-simplification) is what drives, feeds and sharpens intellectual rigour.

If you want to contribute in an intelligent manner, then find the simple solution.

Holding on to time… before it escapes me.

Two weeks. Two posts.

Given I have thrown my lot in with the Postaweek2011 initiative, I am more or less on track. However, it’s not been as I had hoped, at least not the last few weeks. More specifically, I am concerned that my time is slipping from under me. Nothing too catastrophic, mind you, but I feel the need to call it out – mainly to myself, as a reminder of why I am doing this; how writing, as a form of investigation and expression, is how I can continue to be kind to myself.

I still believe it.

The biggest offender is work. On second thoughts, the biggest offender is me, not being able to manage the encroaching demands of work on my personal time. I can see it coming, and I’m naming it, hoping the universe will be kind and supply me with just a little more awareness and tenacity.

So consider this a stopgap post. A way to witness me trying to re-group and re-confirm my committment to this little journey.

Until the next post.

Balls. Apparently they’re important…

I recently made what I consider to be a rather significant decision with regards to work. The decision was a long time coming, and required some serious thought and consideration. All available paths carried their own risks. In the end, having exhausted options, and myself, in the process of deliberation, I made a decision. It could also be re-framed that, in a number of ways the decision was made for me. Or made itself (I simply acquiesced, humbly and willingly, perhaps even gratefully).

As I began to explain to family and friends what I had just done, once the initial gasps subsided, the response back seemed to fall within one of two camps (A large percentage, anyway. There were other, smaller, fringe camps, but I won’t go into those):

“Wow, that was ballsy…”

and

“Wow, aren’t you worried?”

Thank you, and thank you.

As these conversations accumulated what I began to notice was the loose (and I use the term quite deliberately) gender divide with respect to who uttered what. More females than men enquired after my state of mind. More men, however, complimented me on simply “having a pair.” Do with that observation what you will.

Two things immediately strike me about these interactions:

First, the differing levels of emotional complexity inherent in the object of each utterance: The state of my emotional and mental wellbeing? Complex. The fact of having a pair of testicles? … not so much.

Second, what the males seemed to lack in immediate emotional depth, they made up for in their sheer intensity and spontaneity of feeling.

As much as I appreciated and engaged with the questions around the impact of my decision on my mental state, and that of my family, it was the crude elegance of the testicular metaphor that connected with me most powerfully. I don’t think it’s simply because I anatomically align to those statements, nor the similarly reductive suggestion that it’s because I share the same gender. They both play a part, I’m sure, but I’m looking for something else here too.

I’m not exactly certain what that is, but I suspect in some cases there is a fundamental, innate, understanding amongst men – particularly those with families. They seemed to be able to quickly step into my skin, understand the stakes, and empathise in the simplest way possible, without diluting either the power of their connection or the implied solidarity of their own vicarious journey through my haphazard decision-making. It is tribal, pre-linguistic, and of a much lower order than the empathy offered by my female interlocutors. But it is for precisely this reason that I seemed to be both moved and affirmed.

The irony, of course, is that I should couch such “pre-linguistic” encounters in all this verbage. I’ll shut up now, before someone revokes my membership to the ‘tribe’.