vignettes

Split

I once knew a man who claimed he was in love with two different women. Equally. One was his wife, and the other, his soul mate.

Each day that would pass, he held this conflict inside of him. I watched as it ate through him from the inside out. Every morning he would leave his first love at home (his wife) to spend the day at the office with his second love (his colleague). And at the end of each day he would do everything in reverse.

The next day he would start all over again.

He asked me once to tell him what to do. But I wouldn't. Because I couldn't. My heart just doesn't work that way. I have never been so fortunate (or perhaps, cursed) to have two "equal" loves. One always feels a bit closer to the Truth. One always feels a bit closer, a bit more true, to me.

It took me a while to see that his heart didn't actually work the way he thought it did, either. The conflict that tormented him was not the conflict between two "equal" loves. The conflict was between the man he thought he was (a man of duty) and the man he wanted to be (a man of will).

I find that when I am having to make a (seemingly) difficult decision, I am always best served by consulting the feelings in my heart. In the quietest moments, I know they will guide me in the direction that best serves the person I am becoming. The person I want to be.

When deciding how to live, how much of you is shaped by duty and how much by will?

True nature

"It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him." —The Hobbit

I live between worlds: the artistic and the analytical, the rich and the poor, the old and the young. I am, and always have been, somewhere in between. Which means I am much more comfortable living on the edges of society, than living in its center. I find comfort and safety in the unknown, rather than the assumed, conventional, or expected.

I am more comfortable here. In this space that relies on self recognition and self worth, rather than the often biased judgment of others. This is how I create safe space. This is how I honor who I am.

When you know your true nature, life gets a lot easier. Everything is a little bit simpler, a little more clear. We are better able to draw boundaries, inviting the right people in, and keeping the not-so-right people out. Because life is just too short to compromise.

What stands between who you are, and who you could be?

The age of innocence

When I was six, the world opened up to me.

It happened the moment I discovered the math inside my A-B-C's.

I remember vividly, the first word I spelled by myself: d-a-y, "day." And it was in that moment that I knew my life had become my own.

That I could create my own world, my own future. That I could begin to imagine and author the events and adventures I might have. That my life was not bound forever to the limitations into which I was born, but could reflect my own dreams, imaginings, and desires.

Words quickly became my trusted friends. They protected me from a world of chaos and confusion and carried me to new places of growth and discovery. They have given me a life of opportunity and learning, and they have never let me down.

When we are six, we are standing at the outer edge of our innocence. We are aware of our person, and we haven't yet learned to be embarrassed by our circumstances, or afraid of our differences. We still wear our feelings on the outside for everyone else to see.

When we are six, we are as free as we will ever be. Unless we learn to live our lives deliberately.

Who were you when you were six, and where is that person today?

To free, or not to free?

Yesterday, I lost a battle with my television.

I tried to free myself from its soothing company, only to discover that I still needed it, flaws and all.

The saga began after a week's visit to Prague, city of enchantment and endless beauty. It was a feast for my senses and I found it effortless to keep them occupied.

Over the course of seven days I watched the castle glow pink and green at night and the sun make silhouettes of the saints lining the Charles Bridge in the morning.

I listened to the Vltava river whisper secrets to the birds that took refuge along the water's edge, and I woke up before the sun (and everyone else) so that I could hear my footsteps mark time against the cobblestones as I made my way along Nosticova Street to catch the invisible hands of the invisible person who rang the morning bells of the monastery nearby.

I listened to every combination of harp, cello, bass, violin, piano, and soprano as they filled the air and lifted my soul to the ceilings, the frescoes, and the stained glass windows of St. George's Basilica, the Lichtenstein Palace, St. Nicholas church, St. Michael Monastery and the inner steps of the Narodni Muzeum.

I sipped Cafe Vienna at the Cafe Savoy with a Czech mate who wore a fedora and a miniature felt flag around his neck, and bore chiseled cheekbones and a cleft chin and discussed the merits of romantic servitude as the chandeliers sparkled overhead.

I found companionship in the pages of Bohumil Hrabal, the other Prince of Prague (next to Kafka), weeping for the raw simplicity of his most popular work, "I served the King of England," and packing three more titles in my suitcase to keep him alive long after I left the music and the spires and the bells behind me to come home.

In the span of a week, I found my sensibilities and habits altered. It was as though my very DNA had changed, that Prague's magic and beauty had somehow seeped into me.

I came home purified. Vowing that I would fill my waking hours in San Francisco the same way that I filled them in Prague. I would rid myself of nutrient-poor stimuli and fill the void with more books, more movies, more art, more writing, more "together." And the first step would be ridding myself of my television.

What I learned is that habit has a way of silently enslaving us. It quietly slips into our lives, lulling us into a passive existence by swaddling us in the comfort of predictability, and all the while deceiving us with the illusion of choice. And that even when we are fully aware of the habits that steal from us our time and our lives, we are unable to rid ourselves completely until we have something (or someone) better to substitute.

We are all captive to something. 

Who (or what) holds you in captivity?

The metronome

"Life is long if you know how to use it." —Seneca

I have always held other people's expectations for me a bit suspect.

While I believe that others have the best intentions for me, I think that our hopes and fears for each other are often colored by our hopes and fears for ourselves. This makes the task of finding our own way much more difficult and complex because, in the process of making ourselves happy, we run the risk of making those around us unhappy. Once-beloved relationships become the unintended casualties of our need to find harmony in ourselves.

In writing the soundtrack of our lives, we must decide how fast or how slow we want it to go, when we seek to create harmony, and when we don't, when we borrow influences from others, and when we invent a whole new rhythm or chord. But the one thing we cannot decide is how long it will play.

Time is the only resource in each of our lives that is truly finite, and with each day that passes, we have even less to work with. It quietly slips away, measured by this silent metronome that keeps ticking in the background even while we sleep. And yet we live as though we were unaware.

We spend our time doing things that do not make us happy and we don't make enough time to embrace the things that do. Until something happens that startles us awake—a tragedy of our own, or a tragedy of someone else's—that restores our sense of urgency to do the things that make this life worth living, and make us worth remembering.

Where is the music in your life?

 

The missing peace

"It was missing a piece, and it was not happy. So it set off in search of its missing piece."*

I love the Stoics. Seneca, Epictetus, Marcus Aurelius. I like to think of them as the "Buddhists of the West."

I stumbled upon them by accident, and found in them something that had been missing for me: a philosophy about personal happiness. It was simple, pure, complete. But most importantly, it was accessible. Because these were real people who lived real lives and toiled with this thing we are all navigating, celebrating, suffering to the best of our individual ability—the Human Journey.

I sometimes wonder what the world would be like if we each became more accountable for our own happiness.

Instead of blaming each other for not being better parents, lovers, siblings, or friends, we would be more accepting of everyone for who they are and what they bring, celebrating what is and letting go of what is not.

Instead of measuring the value of our lives in terms of milestones and material things, comparing our lot to the lots of others, we would be grateful for what we have and stop romanticizing what we don't.

Instead of reliving the past or fixating on the future, we would accept that wherever we are in this moment now, it is the result of choices we made to craft this life and no other. That this one life is the reward. And every opportunity—good or bad—gives us a chance to learn and grow and give back to the world around us.

If we did these three things, it would mean that we would no longer look to the outside world for answers to the question of what makes us happy. Instead, we would turn our attention inward and look no further than ourselves.

Where do you find your peace?

*The Missing Piece, Shel Silverstein

Man, tool, or fool?

"You must either make a tool of the creature, or a man of him. You cannot make both." —John Ruskin

In 1974, Philippe Petit, a lithe and nimble Frenchman, did the unthinkable—he rigged and walked a tightrope between the two towers of the World Trade Center. After years of pondering and preparation, he gave his childhood dream flesh and bones, made it a reality, and shared it with the rest of us. Thirty five years later, the towers are gone, but the story of the man on the wire remains.

In life, we admire those who live on the edge and beyond our reach. Their actions fuel our imagination, and awaken us to the tightrope we could walk, or the windmill we would conquer, if we only gave ourselves the permission (and room) to express our freedom.

In living our lives, our dreams can easily get displaced by the dreams of those around us: our children, our spouses, our family, friends, and employers. Habit and duty settle in and make us forget that our dreams matter, too. And that's when we must ask ourselves if, while helping someone else live their dream, we do it at the expense of our own.

Whose dream are you living?

Moving on

"Winners never quit, and quitters never win." —Vince Lombardi

While this mantra may unite and inspire a team to seek SuperBowl legacy and fame, I often wonder how well it works for individuals, especially when the time horizon is sure to outlast a single football season.

As we cultivate the story of our lives, we become entangled with others. We commit to a life of growing old together (in exchange for fidelity). We commit to creating a financial return (in exchange for investment). We commit to our employer (in exchange for remuneration and experience). But even the best intentions are not always enough to sustain a commitment over time. Circumstances change, as do the people involved.

From what I've experienced, there are three tell-tale signs to help us recognize when it's time to stop trying to make things work, and time to start looking for the exit: there is the unfair exchange rate (we are giving more than we are getting), the empty well (we've exhausted our available resources of time, energy, and money), and the philosopher's dilemma (there is nothing new to learn or do).

As someone who has held on too long (to a failed business venture), and let go too soon (of a childhood love), I can't help but wonder:

How do you know when it's time to go?

The genius of George

In December, 2006, Esquire published their Genius issue with a picture of George Clooney on the cover.

Not Albert Einstein.
Not Richard Feynman.
George Clooney.

It was so much more than genius. It was intrigue: Beauty and Intellect had equal parts on the page.

What we know of great art is that it often invites the audience to participate. We are left to wonder about what it was that made Mona Lisa smile, the process by which Michelangelo determined (then discarded) the untrue remains of David, and the variety and provenance of the pigments used to paint the Sistine Chapel.

In that issue of Esquire, men (and women) were invited to unearth the genius of George. On the heels of his debut as a director (Syriana), he shares without subtlety, his underlying motivation: "I am doing all that I can now, so that I can be creative for as long as possible."*

What is your genius, and where is it taking you?

*My imperfect recollection of his statement.

White space

In design, we use white space to create depth, drama, and pause on a page.

In business, white space gives us permission to challenge the status quo and to think and act in ways that are not limited by what we already know, or have the resources (and permission) to pursue.

In either case, white space is the deliberate act of making room to see, or be, or do something else.

In living our lives, it's easy to get caught up in the work we must do, the relationships we must nurture, the to-do list we must attend, that we forget to make room for new people, new experiences, new ideas.

We fill every moment with duty, and miss out on the opportunity to do nothing. Yet it is through doing nothing that we are often led to unexpected somethings: a new friend, a new hobby, a new adventure, a new idea—a whole new way of seeing, being, believing.

How do you create white space in your life?