Life

Billions and billions.

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Have you ever asked a child to draw their world? It is interesting to see how the drawings differ depending on the age of the child. A three year-old will give you a few lines and maybe a circle for the sun. A five year-old will add in some people, some green grass, and maybe a rainbow. Or two!

But something happens in grade school. A third-grader will give you a picture of the round earth, and the sun and the moon, and maybe some planets and stars. Theirs is a completely different "world" -- instead of one centered on themselves, the older child draws their conception of a small planet moving around a massive solar system. 

I can remember my first trip to the local planetarium. I'm sure I was seven or eight years old at the time. I remember giggling when the lights went off, and then oohing and aahing as the stars lit up. I can even remember Carl Sagan's voice challenging me to reflect on the limitless cosmos. And in that moment was planted the first seed of a frightening and profound thought: "Wow, maybe the world doesn't revolve entirely around me."

Almost all of us learn this lesson at some point in our lives. Most of us start to understand it as kids. The lesson deepens when we are adults, maybe as an outgrowth of tragedy or hardship, or perhaps as a result of immense gratitude. A few of the more preoccupied among us don't fully get it until we are very old. An unlucky few never really get it, and die missing one of the core messages of the universe. 

Here's the thing: There are billions of people on the earth, and the fact is that the worries and concerns and goals and priorities each of us carry around don't matter much to anyone we meet, and don't matter at all to the people we don't. We are immeasurably insignificant to the universal machinery. 

And yet the other truth is that we each have been given a unique combination of gifts and talents. The limitless cosmos is made of individual stars. As much as you might not want to admit it, you are distinct. There is a role somewhere that only you can play. You are immeasurably important to the universal outcome. 

As we enter the new year, I find this duality daunting and inspiring. If my worries don't matter, I must be wary about my own vanities and understand that I will be most useful outside of my own head and in the world at large. And if my part is uniquely important, I must find the courage to push myself past my own doorstep.

As we enter the new year, I have no doubt that you offer something unique and I have no doubt that we need you to offer it. My 2014 wish for us all is that we find the humility to push past our individual conceits and find the courage to unlock our distinctive talents. It is indeed a big universe, but we need as many stars as we can find. 

Happy new year!

Cross your bridges.

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We've all learned not to burn our bridges as we make friends, build relationships, pursue our careers, and live our lives.

I've recently learned that this concept goes all the way back to ancient China, and specifically to Miu-King, a soldier and earl, who burnt his boats as he invaded Tsin to ensure the only options for himself (and his relectant troops) were victory or death. We see this concept again in the famous story of Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon. Caesar led his army over the Rubicon River, and saying "The die is cast," sealed his fate (and again, the fate of those around him) to one of only two options. 

As new languages emerged and people spread across the globe, the allegory evolved, and the old world idea of "burning one's boats" became in America "burning one's bridges." And something else happened, too. Apparently as we've traveled through time we've gotten more willing to hedge our bets, and the idea of burning one's boats has transitioned from a statement of determination to a warning against hemming oneself in to only a few choices.

I've burned my share of bridges, some on purpose and some accidentally, and I have to say I think I've regretted it each time. As you look at the pile of smoldering ash you think, "Well, that could have gone better. Now I'll have to find another way around." And sometimes there's no short way back. Sometimes you've got to tighten up the pack and prepare for a long hike.

At the same time, as I consider my own life and as I talk to people around me I've realized that we often take the advice "not to burn our bridges" as an excuse not to cross any bridges at all.  And without knowing who you are or anything about you, I can tell you that is the wrong advice for you.

I know this to be true: We are presented with opportunities and it is our test in life to take them. The bridge in front of you leads to something different, and possibly harder, but it is worth walking across. You don't have to drop a match once you get to the other side; leave the lighter fluid in your pocket. But you should go ahead and make the crossing. There's something new on the other side of the ravine. You've been on this side long enough.

Quick life advice.

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Here it is:

You may not be the best at anything, but you can do your best at everything.

Nearly everyone learns this at some point, some earlier in life, some much later. And many, like me, learn it the hard way. But once you learn it, an old rigidity falls away and a new world opens.

Give it a try.

Unfurl.

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On Saturday evening we had the good fortune to get ourselves invited out on a friend's sailboat for an evening cruise. (If you remember only one piece of advice from my entire blog, let it be this: Make friends with someone who owns a sailboat.)

Our hosts created a fantastic spread of appetizers. As we ate and enjoyed a cocktail (or two), we motored out of the harbor and down the shoreline. We watched the houses reflecting the oranges and pinks of the sun setting behind us. 

The lake was calm with rolling waves. A nice breeze was picking up. We all talked and laughed as we cruised along the beach.  

But of course, motoring is not what a sailboat is designed for. A sailboat really wants to glide with the breeze.  As the last bits of light disappeared the rising wind was too much to ignore. We headed into the wind, raised the sails, and we were underway with the air.

At first we weren't going much faster than we were with the motor, and everyone kept talking and laughing. But when our skipper cut the engine, everything changed. We'd all become accustomed to the engine noise and had adjusted our voices accordingly. Suddenly, we could appreciate how beautiful -- and silent -- the night had become. One by one we dropped our voices. Then we stopped talking all together. The wind and water had more than enough to say. There's was nothing we could add to it.

 There are a lot of things in our lives that essentially just add up to an overwhelming amount of engine noise. We adapt and adjust; with each decibel of intrusion we get louder and louder, hoping to outshout the distractions. 

Maybe what we need to do is actually point out how loud the engine has become. And then someone just needs to say, "Let's take a chance and unfurl the sails." Maybe then all the interference will slip away. 

For everyone to see.

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It is Saturday morning and as I write this I'm sitting in the kitchen with a cup of coffee. Saturdays in the summer provide some welcome time to slow down, rest, and recover from the week. I can stop and sit in the kitchen instead of just passing through.

 I look out onto the back deck and see waves of green leaves rising in the trees around me. They move exactly the same way as waves of water, rolling up and back. Highlighted by the morning sun the leaves are more yellow than green; green in my mind, golden in reality.

Our ability to see what is actually in front of us is the subject of a fascinating article by Maria Popova about artist and educator Josef Albers. Albers wrote The Interaction of Color, a classic expansion on the relative nature of color. The Interaction of Color is more than just "an art book" -- it is a treatise on perception and more fundamentally, an invitation for us to open our eyes and look around. 

What really caught me was Popova's quote from several Albers biographers:

Albers believed that in normal seeing, we use our eyes so much because the world is controlled by our vision, but we become so accustomed to it that we take things for granted. And when he talked about visual perception, he meant something much more profound than just the way we look at the world — he would stop and look at the world, look at the smallest object, smallest event, and see through it in a deep kind of way. … He would see magic, he would see something deeper. And he believed that the majority of people just missed the true reality — it was available for everyone to see, but nobody was looking. And that was where his notion of “to open eyes” really comes from.

In my odd mind this reminded me of a line from the modern-day classic Joe Versus the Volcano (well, it's a classic to me, at least!): "Almost the whole world is asleep. Everybody you know. Everybody you see. Everybody you talk to. Only a few people are awake and they live in a state of constant, total amazement."

Open your eyes. Good advice for a Saturday morning. 

When friendship doesn't matter...

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Oh, this is so cynical to say but one thing I've learned the hard way is that when someone says to me, "I know our friendship matters to you," I start backing slowly away, because what is coming is an attempt at manipulation. Wait, maybe if our friendship mattered to you, you wouldn't try to leverage our friendship by using it as a point of discussion. How about that? 

It is the same thing as someone telling you how trustworthy or charitable or generous or nice or tough or cooperative they are, because would anyone who is really any of those things actually need to tell you they are?

It is sometimes tough for all of us to be kind people when the survival tools we learn hobble the kindest among us. But on the other hand, how wonderful when you meet someone who just exudes character and kindness! And those people never have to mention how wonderful they are.

The red spot in the yard.

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As we grow up we learn how to pick out what's wrong. Which one of these kids is different? Which one doesn't belong?

A few weeks ago I was standing on our deck looking through the trees in our back yard. Our house borders a small plot of land owned by the town. Most days, the town parks its leaf truck on the gravel driveway there. The leaf truck is large and bright red. It is ugly and impossible to miss.

As I looked at the stain parked next door and contemplated a painting commando mission, my daughter walked up to me.

"What are you looking at Daddy?" she asked. 

"The big red thing over there. See it?" I said. 

She looked around for a minute and then lit up. "Oh! Daddy, a cardinal! How pretty!"

I had completely missed the bird a few feet in front of us. 

It is easy to pick out what's wrong. It is harder, and much more valuable, to see what's right. 

A short verse, worth reading.

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I'm reading the wonderful WWII history A Man Called Intrepid by William Stevenson, which details the formation and activities of the British secret service during the war.

Stevenson writes that during the war Eleanor Roosevelt carried in her purse this prayer:

Dear Lord
Lest I continue
My complacent way
Help me to remember
Somewhere out there
A man died for me today
-- As long as there be war
I then must
Ask and answer
Am I worth dying for?

Worthing reflecting on.