...but I can see it makes no sense at all.
Do we set about our own chain reactions?
Do we instigate butterfly effects each day,
noticing a few,
but oblivious to
the million more ripples we're causing?
Or does the great grandfather clock of time
always know what it will bring
with each pendulum swing
and leave us to ride the momentum?
I don't quite know what to do with it all. Negotiating my now appendix-less darling husband down a steep downhill slope yesterday, a friend told me that it's actually really hard to tip someone out of a wheelchair. Are we all tentatively pushing our own metaphorical wheelchairs, careful not to upset the balance of the universe, when in fact our influence on cosmic events is tantamount to a whisper in a whirlwind?
No, I can't quite believe that. Individuals can change the world. Individuals should change the world.
I've had my own world views shifted this year (and I don't just mean that I flew round the back of the map - turns out you don't fall off the right-hand side, folks), and while it's terribly unfamiliar and therefore highly uncomfortable, it would be wrong to reverse it. As I've said elsewhere, change is great so long as you're the one causing it. But sometimes it leads us down awkward paths. Sometimes it completely challenges our life philosophies, as Hamlet sought to warn Horatio. Sometimes it even makes our friends attempt to write poetry. :)
So where are we landing today, dear reader? I truly don't know. Mostly my endings practically type themselves, but not this time. Earlier this month, I declared on Facebook that I was feeling at one with the stormy Sydney weather, stating that things just didn't feel right. There was something rotten in the state of Denmark, indeed. Quite literally. New Year, new start? Quite possibly.
But for now, I'm off to sleep. Perchance to dream...
Sunday 13 November 2011
Monday 7 November 2011
Learning to fail
"I'm keen to learn new things," I confidently said in the interviews. "Take on new challenges", "add to my skillset" - no doubt you've proffered similar sentiments yourself at various times, dear reader. Like attracts like, so they say (sociologically speaking, that is - let this one go, all you physicists) - so I write this post knowing my loyal readers are fellow questioners, debaters, and lifelong learners.
"I'd like to fail please," is, however, the unfortunate translation. Last week I tried a couple of new "challenges", and found myself confronted smack bang with my own inexperience not once but twice - and it hurt (both times).
My instinct, I'm quite ashamed to say, was to walk away. I have enough hobbies that fall within my comfort zone - why on earth was I stumbling around on unsure footing, driving feelings of inadequacy, and ultimately going home disappointed in myself (and vocally so, much to the delight of my poor ear-sore husband)?
Now, afore-mentioned husband countered that I couldn't really expect to be able to stand on one leg for a full 10 seconds in my first ever bikram yoga class, and that did make me feel a little better. :)
But in all seriousness: the other failing wasn't quite so easily dismissed. When it was pointed out (ever so kindly) where I hadn't met the mark on a personal (non-physical) exercise, I could only marvel at how easily I'd got it wrong. My first attempt at a second version too fell slightly short, so, like the repeated balancing acts in the yoga session, I had to demonstrate my weakness several times before I finally got it right.
I didn't like the feeling at all. It was embarrassing; I felt that I could see my mentor's view of me diminish a little, and the normal spring in my step was that little bit less carefree. But the story ends well, dear reader: fortunately I successfully gaffa-taped up the little defeatist voice in my head, and completed my piece to full satisfaction in the end.
Now, of course, I am grateful. My embarrassment was minimal; I've learned from my mistakes, and I've now most definitely "add[ed] to my skillset". Right up there (and my message, to those of you who ever so kindly believe there might lurk a message in these random witterings of mine), is this latest top tip: always keep plenty of internal gaffa tape.
And as a final note: I won't agree with the X-factor mentality that "my journey" was the best bit of this whole experience - how ridiculous. I'll stay right here, thank you very much - basking in the smug satisfaction of knowing that next time I'll get this kind of homework right the first time. And that I was able to write this whole post standing on one leg.*
* Some facts in this post may not be 100% accurate. :)
"I'd like to fail please," is, however, the unfortunate translation. Last week I tried a couple of new "challenges", and found myself confronted smack bang with my own inexperience not once but twice - and it hurt (both times).
My instinct, I'm quite ashamed to say, was to walk away. I have enough hobbies that fall within my comfort zone - why on earth was I stumbling around on unsure footing, driving feelings of inadequacy, and ultimately going home disappointed in myself (and vocally so, much to the delight of my poor ear-sore husband)?
Now, afore-mentioned husband countered that I couldn't really expect to be able to stand on one leg for a full 10 seconds in my first ever bikram yoga class, and that did make me feel a little better. :)
But in all seriousness: the other failing wasn't quite so easily dismissed. When it was pointed out (ever so kindly) where I hadn't met the mark on a personal (non-physical) exercise, I could only marvel at how easily I'd got it wrong. My first attempt at a second version too fell slightly short, so, like the repeated balancing acts in the yoga session, I had to demonstrate my weakness several times before I finally got it right.
I didn't like the feeling at all. It was embarrassing; I felt that I could see my mentor's view of me diminish a little, and the normal spring in my step was that little bit less carefree. But the story ends well, dear reader: fortunately I successfully gaffa-taped up the little defeatist voice in my head, and completed my piece to full satisfaction in the end.
Now, of course, I am grateful. My embarrassment was minimal; I've learned from my mistakes, and I've now most definitely "add[ed] to my skillset". Right up there (and my message, to those of you who ever so kindly believe there might lurk a message in these random witterings of mine), is this latest top tip: always keep plenty of internal gaffa tape.
And as a final note: I won't agree with the X-factor mentality that "my journey" was the best bit of this whole experience - how ridiculous. I'll stay right here, thank you very much - basking in the smug satisfaction of knowing that next time I'll get this kind of homework right the first time. And that I was able to write this whole post standing on one leg.*
* Some facts in this post may not be 100% accurate. :)
Sunday 23 October 2011
"Have a great life."
And so she bade me farewell - this inspiring, full-of-life lady whom I met through fate's dealing hand (such are the risks when travelling in a party size not directly equal to train seating arrangements).
I don't know why it struck me as odd that she should assume our paths won't cross again. Hers wasn't the typical American, "Have a great day." Almost, but not quite. But was that small yet significant word change simply a realistic reading of how completely improbable the chances of our geographical similitude in future, or was it in fact an instruction?
As each day in Australia draws to a close, I'm always curiously conscious that in the UK that same day's just beginning. Now arguably, there's not a lot one can offer with 10 hours' hindsight, but here I was faced with a rather more feasible reverse observation: this positive, beaming lady had about 40 years on me. I panicked for a second: what had I gleaned in that 90-minute train journey that could possibly help me live up to her command? Why hadn't I used the time better, darn it?
I needn't have panicked. We don't need to actively "use" time; we just need to spend it - not fritter it. I could have buried my head in my phone, or craned my neck the whole time to continue conversing with my companions, but instead I had fortunately identified this smiling stranger as a kindred friendly spirit. And so as we watched the breathtaking scenery speed by, we spent a glorious 90 minutes learning about each others' lives, families and fortitude.
I stepped on to that train a weary woman, hot and dehydrated from a 1-hr trek along the Inca trail that leads to the astounding sight that is Machu Picchu. But I stepped off that train light as a feather, in awe of a 70 year-old lady who'd completed the full 10-day trek; a lady with 3 Iron Mans under her belt that summer alone, a visibly strong and devoted marriage, a peaceful satisfaction in her far-flung but happy brood, and a command which I left Peru determined to obey.
I hope I make her proud.
I don't know why it struck me as odd that she should assume our paths won't cross again. Hers wasn't the typical American, "Have a great day." Almost, but not quite. But was that small yet significant word change simply a realistic reading of how completely improbable the chances of our geographical similitude in future, or was it in fact an instruction?
As each day in Australia draws to a close, I'm always curiously conscious that in the UK that same day's just beginning. Now arguably, there's not a lot one can offer with 10 hours' hindsight, but here I was faced with a rather more feasible reverse observation: this positive, beaming lady had about 40 years on me. I panicked for a second: what had I gleaned in that 90-minute train journey that could possibly help me live up to her command? Why hadn't I used the time better, darn it?
I needn't have panicked. We don't need to actively "use" time; we just need to spend it - not fritter it. I could have buried my head in my phone, or craned my neck the whole time to continue conversing with my companions, but instead I had fortunately identified this smiling stranger as a kindred friendly spirit. And so as we watched the breathtaking scenery speed by, we spent a glorious 90 minutes learning about each others' lives, families and fortitude.
I stepped on to that train a weary woman, hot and dehydrated from a 1-hr trek along the Inca trail that leads to the astounding sight that is Machu Picchu. But I stepped off that train light as a feather, in awe of a 70 year-old lady who'd completed the full 10-day trek; a lady with 3 Iron Mans under her belt that summer alone, a visibly strong and devoted marriage, a peaceful satisfaction in her far-flung but happy brood, and a command which I left Peru determined to obey.
I hope I make her proud.
Sunday 11 September 2011
Have you ever been mellow?
Have you ever tried?
Quite apart from a catchy little snippet straight out of a 90s dance remix [aside: what part of our brain decides to latch on to just two lines here and there, refusing to grace us with a full song's worth of aural pleasure (albeit a dubious phrase on this occasion) when we turn on our internal headphones? It's as if somehow we knew Google would soon replace our need for a comprehensive long term memory ("so long as I can remember enough to type into a search engine...")], this pithy two-part questionnaire almost dares us. What, you've never been in a state of blissful contentment? My good man, have you so much as attempted to put in the necessary effort?
But maybe there's some truth in it. While it might seem illogical at first that we can work ourselves into a state of tranquility, given that life is a constant quest to make ourselves feel good (my latest theory), surely peace is just another state that we can manufacture in our minds?
Australians have an interesting way of greeting each other. The phrase, "How you going?" is a small, but subtle shift on the standard, "How are you?" that we Brits tend to favour - a variation which focuses on the person's current state. Another deviation comes from that other English-speaking land: like the Aussies, our ever less formal American cousins also lean towards the future, but their typical, "How's it going?" removes the power from the responder as master of his own fate, and instead focuses on how the gods are moving him around the board.
So who's got it right? Each question has its merit, but for now I'm going to adopt the Australian way, encouraging my friends to view themselves as the driving forces in their lives, able to dictate their own happiness, develop their own futures (change is fabulous so long as you're the instigator), and, most importantly, control their own mellowness.
Quite apart from a catchy little snippet straight out of a 90s dance remix [aside: what part of our brain decides to latch on to just two lines here and there, refusing to grace us with a full song's worth of aural pleasure (albeit a dubious phrase on this occasion) when we turn on our internal headphones? It's as if somehow we knew Google would soon replace our need for a comprehensive long term memory ("so long as I can remember enough to type into a search engine...")], this pithy two-part questionnaire almost dares us. What, you've never been in a state of blissful contentment? My good man, have you so much as attempted to put in the necessary effort?
But maybe there's some truth in it. While it might seem illogical at first that we can work ourselves into a state of tranquility, given that life is a constant quest to make ourselves feel good (my latest theory), surely peace is just another state that we can manufacture in our minds?
Australians have an interesting way of greeting each other. The phrase, "How you going?" is a small, but subtle shift on the standard, "How are you?" that we Brits tend to favour - a variation which focuses on the person's current state. Another deviation comes from that other English-speaking land: like the Aussies, our ever less formal American cousins also lean towards the future, but their typical, "How's it going?" removes the power from the responder as master of his own fate, and instead focuses on how the gods are moving him around the board.
So who's got it right? Each question has its merit, but for now I'm going to adopt the Australian way, encouraging my friends to view themselves as the driving forces in their lives, able to dictate their own happiness, develop their own futures (change is fabulous so long as you're the instigator), and, most importantly, control their own mellowness.
Friday 12 August 2011
It started with a tweet...
Well, a Twitter direct message actually. Then it was a LinkedIn note, an SMS and finally a good old-fashioned (already; I know) email.
Nowadays, we traverse the digital waters with ease. Conversations move seamlessly from one medium to another. Facebook have embraced this trend, and found an excellent trick to keep disengaged users from lazily ignoring their persistent friends: what starts as an IM quickly becomes a Facebook inbox message (which, incidentally, you get notified about in your email inbox. Possibly as part of a digest [aside: interesting approach. Are their open/delivery rates that low?]).
But do we really remain constant across the channels? We tolerate mindless nonsense from certain TV networks, whilst from others we demand high-quality entertainment. Do we, in turn, change our expectations when we find ourselves participating in digital channel surfing?
- Flick: Email is for keeps. Even the most fervent of archivers will find each most recent email most likely contains a lengthy chain of correspondence. As such, are we more careful about email content?
- Flick: Interactive messaging, on the other hand, is erased once we sign off (storing logs is of course possible but, I'd wager, uncommon). Are we less discerning? More abrupt? Do we stutter our way through, asking short-fire questions rather than exchanging detailed news (the very nature of IM is that it has to follow a Q&A approach, else it quickly stalls)?
- Flick: But king still is the SMS. It might as well stand for "See Me Soon", so incessant is its cry. We'll attend to a text before any other medium, I believe, simply because it's the demanding child in the room - and, luckily, the one that's easiest to appease. It's not the right framework for a lengthy reply; the little beep is always welcome as it explains to everyone around that we're really rather popular; and the social contract is such that a simple answer is perfectly acceptable. No further questions, your Honour.
I wonder if Facebook's new fluid treatment of chats / messages will make a difference to how we "chat", knowing that it's no longer just a throwaway line. "Oi, are you there?" isn't quite such a friendly welcome in an inbox, so will we start crafting our introductions? Or possibly not bother with those long-lost friends who deserve a proper first paragraph if we're pretty certain we're not going to catch them there and then?
I'd love to see the stats. I'd love to see if messaging has increased as a result of false-start "chats" being transported into the inbox, or if the fleeting greetings are in fact ignored as being pithy and temporal - and consequently, deletable.
I'm a big fan of email, but believe Facebook chat windows will remain just that: real-time conversation openers that quite simply aren't designed to be conducted with lengthy delays. If I'm going to email someone, it'll be because that's the approach I've chosen beforehand. The method will dictate the medium - not the other way round.
Anyway; it's just gone 9am in the UK. I'm off to see who's on Facebook...
Nowadays, we traverse the digital waters with ease. Conversations move seamlessly from one medium to another. Facebook have embraced this trend, and found an excellent trick to keep disengaged users from lazily ignoring their persistent friends: what starts as an IM quickly becomes a Facebook inbox message (which, incidentally, you get notified about in your email inbox. Possibly as part of a digest [aside: interesting approach. Are their open/delivery rates that low?]).
But do we really remain constant across the channels? We tolerate mindless nonsense from certain TV networks, whilst from others we demand high-quality entertainment. Do we, in turn, change our expectations when we find ourselves participating in digital channel surfing?
- Flick: Email is for keeps. Even the most fervent of archivers will find each most recent email most likely contains a lengthy chain of correspondence. As such, are we more careful about email content?
- Flick: Interactive messaging, on the other hand, is erased once we sign off (storing logs is of course possible but, I'd wager, uncommon). Are we less discerning? More abrupt? Do we stutter our way through, asking short-fire questions rather than exchanging detailed news (the very nature of IM is that it has to follow a Q&A approach, else it quickly stalls)?
- Flick: But king still is the SMS. It might as well stand for "See Me Soon", so incessant is its cry. We'll attend to a text before any other medium, I believe, simply because it's the demanding child in the room - and, luckily, the one that's easiest to appease. It's not the right framework for a lengthy reply; the little beep is always welcome as it explains to everyone around that we're really rather popular; and the social contract is such that a simple answer is perfectly acceptable. No further questions, your Honour.
I wonder if Facebook's new fluid treatment of chats / messages will make a difference to how we "chat", knowing that it's no longer just a throwaway line. "Oi, are you there?" isn't quite such a friendly welcome in an inbox, so will we start crafting our introductions? Or possibly not bother with those long-lost friends who deserve a proper first paragraph if we're pretty certain we're not going to catch them there and then?
I'd love to see the stats. I'd love to see if messaging has increased as a result of false-start "chats" being transported into the inbox, or if the fleeting greetings are in fact ignored as being pithy and temporal - and consequently, deletable.
I'm a big fan of email, but believe Facebook chat windows will remain just that: real-time conversation openers that quite simply aren't designed to be conducted with lengthy delays. If I'm going to email someone, it'll be because that's the approach I've chosen beforehand. The method will dictate the medium - not the other way round.
Anyway; it's just gone 9am in the UK. I'm off to see who's on Facebook...
Monday 1 August 2011
The girl in the turquoise top
She took some photos, then headed back down the 494 steps to the beach. I saw her later buying a coffee as we entered the pretty waterside cafe, and then passed her again retracing her steps by the shore.
Meanwhile, we scampered back down the steps, pausing to catch our breath as we snapped the landscape; laughing as I instigated a futile game of tig. We talked, we pondered, we counted through our friends (old and new), excited about when we could bring them to this beautiful spot.
But what about her? Who shared the glorious scenery with this girl, the one with the small smile, the empty coffee cup, and the cosy cardi now draped over her shoulders? Who helped put it there?
Of course, maybe she enjoyed it more for the solitary stroll. Maybe she got to spend some much-needed "alone time", the rest of her life crowded with people and the furious art of being busy.
I didn't quite believe the excuse I found myself making for her, however. A few yards behind strolled what looked like an elderly mother and her daughter, hand in hand, both positively beaming. And over the course of the walk we'd passed proud grandparents, dog-walking chums, young lovers and valiant walking groups, all of whom seemed simply buoyed at being able to share the beauty with their companions. "Look at that!" they could hardly stop themselves exclaiming - such is the human desire to share the good and the wonderful with one's fellows on this earth.
So my message to myself (and to you, dear reader, if you're looking for one) is to live life in the plural. Yes, a moment of individual contemplation may be good for the soul, but to put yourself in such a situation that this self same soul cannot help but enlighten - and be enlightened by - others, well, that'll be even better.
And as for that girl: if she ever fancies strolling some more shores, I do hope she gets in touch.
Meanwhile, we scampered back down the steps, pausing to catch our breath as we snapped the landscape; laughing as I instigated a futile game of tig. We talked, we pondered, we counted through our friends (old and new), excited about when we could bring them to this beautiful spot.
But what about her? Who shared the glorious scenery with this girl, the one with the small smile, the empty coffee cup, and the cosy cardi now draped over her shoulders? Who helped put it there?
Of course, maybe she enjoyed it more for the solitary stroll. Maybe she got to spend some much-needed "alone time", the rest of her life crowded with people and the furious art of being busy.
I didn't quite believe the excuse I found myself making for her, however. A few yards behind strolled what looked like an elderly mother and her daughter, hand in hand, both positively beaming. And over the course of the walk we'd passed proud grandparents, dog-walking chums, young lovers and valiant walking groups, all of whom seemed simply buoyed at being able to share the beauty with their companions. "Look at that!" they could hardly stop themselves exclaiming - such is the human desire to share the good and the wonderful with one's fellows on this earth.
So my message to myself (and to you, dear reader, if you're looking for one) is to live life in the plural. Yes, a moment of individual contemplation may be good for the soul, but to put yourself in such a situation that this self same soul cannot help but enlighten - and be enlightened by - others, well, that'll be even better.
And as for that girl: if she ever fancies strolling some more shores, I do hope she gets in touch.
Sunday 31 July 2011
I wanna live like common people
For 72% of people, it all worked out rather nicely. After just two weeks, this majority did indeed report longer, fuller lashes.
It's been a month now, and I'm really quite miffed that I can't say the same.
But for 72% it worked! The laws of probability dictate that I should now be delighted with luscious eyelashes, but unfortunately it seems I'm in the unspoken stat: for 28%, the experiment wasn't quite so successful.
Now normally, I love being different:
- "Where's that accent from?" people will ask.
- "AB blood type? That's quite unusual" the blood nurses will say.
- "Oh, left-handed, are you?" remark some perceptive folks when they witness me demonstrating the dying art of handwriting (discuss?).
But sometimes, just sometimes, I really wouldn't mind being "normal". I'll be unique and special when I want to be, thank you very much - but for everything else, I'll happily huddle in with the crowd.
Unfortunately, we don't get to choose. As I continue my walk through life I find I'm proving to be more and more "exceptional" in areas that I didn't really imagine would be the case, and I find this increasingly difficult to deal with. But why should I get the easy ride? Why shouldn't I join the scores of friends I know who have to watch what they eat lest their body plays up disapprovingly? (I'm currently on a strict lactose- and gluten-free diet in an attempt to clear up my terribly dry skin). Why shouldn't I have to jobhunt for longer than the average person in order to land my next career opportunity?
And why shouldn't I make do with the reasonable-length lashes that mother nature saw fit to bestow upon me in the first place?
It's been a month now, and I'm really quite miffed that I can't say the same.
But for 72% it worked! The laws of probability dictate that I should now be delighted with luscious eyelashes, but unfortunately it seems I'm in the unspoken stat: for 28%, the experiment wasn't quite so successful.
Now normally, I love being different:
- "Where's that accent from?" people will ask.
- "AB blood type? That's quite unusual" the blood nurses will say.
- "Oh, left-handed, are you?" remark some perceptive folks when they witness me demonstrating the dying art of handwriting (discuss?).
But sometimes, just sometimes, I really wouldn't mind being "normal". I'll be unique and special when I want to be, thank you very much - but for everything else, I'll happily huddle in with the crowd.
Unfortunately, we don't get to choose. As I continue my walk through life I find I'm proving to be more and more "exceptional" in areas that I didn't really imagine would be the case, and I find this increasingly difficult to deal with. But why should I get the easy ride? Why shouldn't I join the scores of friends I know who have to watch what they eat lest their body plays up disapprovingly? (I'm currently on a strict lactose- and gluten-free diet in an attempt to clear up my terribly dry skin). Why shouldn't I have to jobhunt for longer than the average person in order to land my next career opportunity?
And why shouldn't I make do with the reasonable-length lashes that mother nature saw fit to bestow upon me in the first place?
Friday 22 July 2011
Catalytic converters
"Some of the people who know me the least are those who've known me the longest."
Someone said this to me last weekend, and I've come to the conclusion that it's either alarmingly accurate or frightfully false - depending on which friends you're thinking about as you read this.
Dear reader, you and I are no longer the same people we once were. Of course, there are people I haven't spoken to for over a decade whom I'm sure would be quite surprised to learn about the person I am now, but in a contrary flow of logic (stay with me) I'd argue that some of the people who know me BEST are precisely those whom I HAVE known longest, and the reason is simple: they expected me to change. And this is mostly because they're the kind of people who change too.
Sure, there's a lot to be said for growing up across the road from one another, or being next to each other in the alphabet when the school register's put together, or chancing to be in the same uni tutorial group, but I believe there's more going on than we realise: I believe we naturally identify kindred spirits. So no matter how much time has passed, whenever I tell my dear long-standing friends that I've made a life-changing decision, they're the least surprised of anyone, because they'd do (and typically have already done) exactly the same thing.
But to come back to my earlier assertion that we're not the same people we once were: time, places and experiences all bend and shape our thoughts and lives, but importantly, so too do people. Having recently moved to the other side of the world (see note above about being prone to making life-changing decisions) I suddenly find myself creating new social connections and establishing new friendships, and it's all a terribly interesting experience.
What's that you ask, dear reader? In an age of Skype, instant messaging and Facebook one-liners that help keep me firmly in the midst of the conversations back home, do I need new friends? What a silly question: of course I do. As humans we're social creatures (I more than most: a perceptive colleague once advised that I should never work in a solitary office as I'd end up talking to the plants all day), but more than that, people help us change - and that's (mostly) a wonderful thing.
And so it's here that I finally rest upon my point. This change can be small and uplifting: a fun new friend to go for a pedicure with, or a great new neighbour to recommend the best place to get brekkie at the weekend. Or it can be more significant: a generous new acquaintance to lend you an air bed before your stuff arrives, or a willing contact who'll act as a reference when you realise you can't register the car you've just bought as you have no utility bills in your name (thank you, all of you).
But what it should always be is a positive force in your life. I'm not saying that one's companions need always be cheery and full of sunshine: spending time with people who are going through tough spots often brings out the very best in us, and can be immensely good for the soul. No; the only thing we should guard against is inviting ourselves to be changed for the worse - perhaps becoming angrier, or more judgemental, or even just downright mean (and we've all been around people who make this slippery slope all too easy to find). The key instead is to look for - and welcome - ways to become better.
And friends, old or new, are some of the best catalysts. My wonderful old friends give me the love and encouragement to keep learning and evolving (along with the immeasurable value of a lifelong safety net). My husband brings out in me the person I most enjoy being - that's how I knew he was the guy I wanted to marry. But to be the best version of myself at all times? Well, for that I think I'm going to need some new friends...
Monday 4 July 2011
The eye of the beholder
Maybe it's being in one's thirties that does it. A friend of mine says she felt more confident when she turned 30 (though for me the overriding emotion was a slight panic that I didn't yet own any anti-wrinkle cream. Aren't women supposed to start using this in their early twenties, I pondered with the stomach-churning realisation of one whose ship has sailed? What sight would greet me on the fated birthday, mocking my blatant disregard for this youth-saving regime? Luckily there was no spell cast overnight: I still look about 17 in certain lights. Beauty marketing - nil; Fiona - 1 ).
But what does change (I think) is that as we get older, we worry less about how others see us, and the concern shifts towards how we see ourselves - or more importantly, how we feel being ourselves.
I realised this today as I pondered two potential new employers, and found myself wondering how each would look on my CV. From adolescence on we're told that doing x will "look good", but at this age, what's more important: carefully plotting out my career so I can land my dream job at the age of 65, or pursuing what is for me, in the words of Fat Boy Slim (even if I have bent the meaning slightly), right here, right now?
Does my husband care if I come home pleased that I've chalked up another day's experience that will stand me in good stead in decades to come? Or does he care that I come home happy, fulfilled and energised from a great day's work in a nice place with inspiring people? I walked past a mammogram bus today and nodded at my future, knowing one day I'll be stopping in for a check-up. And almost every day I recall the habit of one of my favourite role models (a true tale from a radio phone-in about rituals): my guy peeks open his eyes each morning, steals a mischievous glimpse at the world, and triumphantly exclaims: "Yes! I've lived to see another day." What an attitude.
Now of course, carpe diem only takes one so far. Yes, we shouldn't be so short-sighted that we jeopardise the future. But neither should we be so focused on the future that we jeopardise the present.
So next time you make a job move, forget your CV. So long as you've got your anti-wrinkle cream safely in the cabinet.
But what does change (I think) is that as we get older, we worry less about how others see us, and the concern shifts towards how we see ourselves - or more importantly, how we feel being ourselves.
I realised this today as I pondered two potential new employers, and found myself wondering how each would look on my CV. From adolescence on we're told that doing x will "look good", but at this age, what's more important: carefully plotting out my career so I can land my dream job at the age of 65, or pursuing what is for me, in the words of Fat Boy Slim (even if I have bent the meaning slightly), right here, right now?
Does my husband care if I come home pleased that I've chalked up another day's experience that will stand me in good stead in decades to come? Or does he care that I come home happy, fulfilled and energised from a great day's work in a nice place with inspiring people? I walked past a mammogram bus today and nodded at my future, knowing one day I'll be stopping in for a check-up. And almost every day I recall the habit of one of my favourite role models (a true tale from a radio phone-in about rituals): my guy peeks open his eyes each morning, steals a mischievous glimpse at the world, and triumphantly exclaims: "Yes! I've lived to see another day." What an attitude.
Now of course, carpe diem only takes one so far. Yes, we shouldn't be so short-sighted that we jeopardise the future. But neither should we be so focused on the future that we jeopardise the present.
So next time you make a job move, forget your CV. So long as you've got your anti-wrinkle cream safely in the cabinet.
Sunday 12 June 2011
Back foot forward
I got told off the other day by a colleague. And you know what: I'm grateful.
After the initial feelings of indignation passed, I quickly bumbled an apology, made the (extraordinarily nice) chap a cup of tea, and proceeded to quietly chide myself. And herein lies the key. It's not so much that, in that chiding, I've ensured one fewer future mistake. Sure, I've learned a valuable lesson: the situation on this occasion was tiny (and relatively reversible), but another time, the consequences could have been much more significant. Nope - silver linings aside, the real value lies in remembering that one is capable of making mistakes.
I have a wonderful team. I asked them for 3 blunt criticisms, assuring no offence would be taken, and even openly inviting anonymous print-outs to be left on my desk instead of personally identifiable emails. So what happened? They each emailed me positively effusive with praise, telling me all the things they like about me (and they don't need to: I'm leaving in a week). Yes, they then reluctantly went on to include some negative points (all of which I knew before because they've come up in our 1-to-1s), but still, the negatives were couched with such warmth that even my subconscious shackles didn't rise to the occasion. I've therefore pushed these known issues to the top of my list, given that these were the ones that warranted repetition, but as promised, absolutely no offence has been taken.
The example above serves merely to illustrate the value of my first colleague's scolding: the more senior we become, the less likely we are to learn of a fault we didn't already know about. But we should be taken aback (and therefore take initial offence in that time before rational thought overtakes emotion - the important thing is to understand what's happening and take ourselves away until this passes). We miss a deadline: obvious problem. We run over budget: definite problem. But what if we land a colleague in a difficult situation? Or fail to give a co-worker everything they need to do their job well? If it doesn't show up on a balance sheet somewhere, would we even know about it?
Ay, there's the rub. I see senior people making mistakes all the time. I see high-flying individuals overlook the little things that would make the difference. I hear bosses pick unfortunate phrases that just serve to alienate as opposed to motivate. Some of these people are often quite highly self-aware, completely cognisant of the fact that they don't get it right all of the time. But do they know when they aren't getting it right? Do I?
It's human nature to be nice to other people to their faces, and less nice about them behind their backs. We get that warm glow when we compliment others; it's an excellent trait of our psyche. But maybe we should fight through the discomfort, and tell people directly when they get it wrong. Once they get over the instinctive defensiveness, they'll thank us. Honest.
Well okay, maybe not everyone will be grateful. But I will. I might even make you a cup of tea.
After the initial feelings of indignation passed, I quickly bumbled an apology, made the (extraordinarily nice) chap a cup of tea, and proceeded to quietly chide myself. And herein lies the key. It's not so much that, in that chiding, I've ensured one fewer future mistake. Sure, I've learned a valuable lesson: the situation on this occasion was tiny (and relatively reversible), but another time, the consequences could have been much more significant. Nope - silver linings aside, the real value lies in remembering that one is capable of making mistakes.
I have a wonderful team. I asked them for 3 blunt criticisms, assuring no offence would be taken, and even openly inviting anonymous print-outs to be left on my desk instead of personally identifiable emails. So what happened? They each emailed me positively effusive with praise, telling me all the things they like about me (and they don't need to: I'm leaving in a week). Yes, they then reluctantly went on to include some negative points (all of which I knew before because they've come up in our 1-to-1s), but still, the negatives were couched with such warmth that even my subconscious shackles didn't rise to the occasion. I've therefore pushed these known issues to the top of my list, given that these were the ones that warranted repetition, but as promised, absolutely no offence has been taken.
The example above serves merely to illustrate the value of my first colleague's scolding: the more senior we become, the less likely we are to learn of a fault we didn't already know about. But we should be taken aback (and therefore take initial offence in that time before rational thought overtakes emotion - the important thing is to understand what's happening and take ourselves away until this passes). We miss a deadline: obvious problem. We run over budget: definite problem. But what if we land a colleague in a difficult situation? Or fail to give a co-worker everything they need to do their job well? If it doesn't show up on a balance sheet somewhere, would we even know about it?
Ay, there's the rub. I see senior people making mistakes all the time. I see high-flying individuals overlook the little things that would make the difference. I hear bosses pick unfortunate phrases that just serve to alienate as opposed to motivate. Some of these people are often quite highly self-aware, completely cognisant of the fact that they don't get it right all of the time. But do they know when they aren't getting it right? Do I?
It's human nature to be nice to other people to their faces, and less nice about them behind their backs. We get that warm glow when we compliment others; it's an excellent trait of our psyche. But maybe we should fight through the discomfort, and tell people directly when they get it wrong. Once they get over the instinctive defensiveness, they'll thank us. Honest.
Well okay, maybe not everyone will be grateful. But I will. I might even make you a cup of tea.
Sunday 17 April 2011
Tell me your secrets
We share a mortgage, a car, three cats and a surname, and yet what was I unwilling to share with my husband today? My EasyJet password.
In the connected world of the web, what is the last safeguard of personal privacy? The humble password. That single combination of letters (and numbers, CAPS and special characters in some very strict circles) that keeps our secrets safe, and our identities sound. My husband and I may have a joint chequebook, but when it comes to online account, I ain't sharing.
"What have you got to hide?" he asked - as indeed might you, dear reader. If you've been spotting the pattern so far, you'll know the answer to all the questions in this post is the same: my password. But you'll notice this time it's lost any adjective - and that's because I'm not talking about just my EasyJet password. Oh no. For my husband to "discover" that I've a preference for window seats is hardly going to provide a groundbreaking revelation. But were he to soon realise that this particular password forms the basis of the vast majority of my internet account passwords - well then, things might just take off (no flying pun intended).
Yes yes, fool that I am. Every password should be unique, extraordinarily hard to guess (and remember), and thus any damage minimized were that password to be compromised. And it wouldn't matter if it were just my Nectar points balance, favourite Body Shop basket and even (wait for it) the £5 balance I've got left on my Moonpig account that was up for grabs. Nope. It's almost everything.
(I say "almost" with a sigh of relief, knowing there is one thing that has its own, extremely unusual password: my email account. The email address I've had since I was 18; the email address that contains secrets long since forgotten but precious in their memory; the email address that I can use to verify and monitor every other online account I've had since. If I can suggest one smart thing, it's to have a separate password for this.)
But back to the other accounts: do they really matter? Of course not. Yes he could browse my Amazon history, or check up on what I've been buying on my credit card, but in reality, why would he? Why spoil the surprise of his next birthday present? Or faint when he realises just how expensive it is to fill up the car? And if I trust him with my life savings, and not to strangle me in my sleep, why wouldn't I trust him with these trivial matters?
The answer is: it's the wrong question. Of course it's not about trust, or protectiveness - or even paranoia. It's about being able to be have my own online persona that's representative entirely of me, that's under my complete control, and that's truly mine (even if it's not always me - but that's for another post...).
In the connected world of the web, what is the last safeguard of personal privacy? The humble password. That single combination of letters (and numbers, CAPS and special characters in some very strict circles) that keeps our secrets safe, and our identities sound. My husband and I may have a joint chequebook, but when it comes to online account, I ain't sharing.
"What have you got to hide?" he asked - as indeed might you, dear reader. If you've been spotting the pattern so far, you'll know the answer to all the questions in this post is the same: my password. But you'll notice this time it's lost any adjective - and that's because I'm not talking about just my EasyJet password. Oh no. For my husband to "discover" that I've a preference for window seats is hardly going to provide a groundbreaking revelation. But were he to soon realise that this particular password forms the basis of the vast majority of my internet account passwords - well then, things might just take off (no flying pun intended).
Yes yes, fool that I am. Every password should be unique, extraordinarily hard to guess (and remember), and thus any damage minimized were that password to be compromised. And it wouldn't matter if it were just my Nectar points balance, favourite Body Shop basket and even (wait for it) the £5 balance I've got left on my Moonpig account that was up for grabs. Nope. It's almost everything.
(I say "almost" with a sigh of relief, knowing there is one thing that has its own, extremely unusual password: my email account. The email address I've had since I was 18; the email address that contains secrets long since forgotten but precious in their memory; the email address that I can use to verify and monitor every other online account I've had since. If I can suggest one smart thing, it's to have a separate password for this.)
But back to the other accounts: do they really matter? Of course not. Yes he could browse my Amazon history, or check up on what I've been buying on my credit card, but in reality, why would he? Why spoil the surprise of his next birthday present? Or faint when he realises just how expensive it is to fill up the car? And if I trust him with my life savings, and not to strangle me in my sleep, why wouldn't I trust him with these trivial matters?
The answer is: it's the wrong question. Of course it's not about trust, or protectiveness - or even paranoia. It's about being able to be have my own online persona that's representative entirely of me, that's under my complete control, and that's truly mine (even if it's not always me - but that's for another post...).
Thursday 14 April 2011
To Like
I like what
You like, and
He likes it too, what
We like, because
You like it. People.
They like
To like the same things.
I set myself the challenge above when I was 17: write a poem based on a conjugation (even then I found it hard to abandon logic and simply embrace freestyle arts).
It comes to mind again now not as an exercise, but a simple truth in relation to true friendships. I've come to realise that "true" is unbelievably easy to discern: it's the people who talk to me with excitement, but with a glisten in their eyes. And the reason's simple: it's because we recognise we're kindred spirits. For all the attraction that "different" people hold while one is growing up (and I've pedestalled a few), "true" friends are people who have a bond that's been formed through mutual appreciation of the similar.
With some it's new experiences embarked upon together (a recent skiing holiday solidified a gorgeous friendship); with others it's a baring of the soul that brings a very special closeness (I've watched this happen to my husband in particular over the past couple of years). Or for a third set, it's simply an undeniable mutual respect: a shared humour, a common niche, or more often just an inexplicable realisation that you're the same kind of people.
And that's the key: the same. Old friends can be best friends - but so too can new ones. A dear friend once said to me that sometimes we have to see old friends less often simply to make room for new ones - and I knew instantly what she meant.
But then, when we talk, our eyes glisten.
Friday 25 March 2011
Life sentence
What makes us relish the present? We spend so much of our lives looking forward to the next occasion / holiday / stage - is it really about merely appreciating the punctuation of life? The bracketed holidays; the semi-colonated joy of an achievement; the new paragraph that marks the beginning of a change?
On holiday recently I reflected at how much we laughed. By golly we laughed. And it felt fabulous. But why was this a remarkable point? Of course, smiles and chuckles are part of our everyday existence (well, for most of us), but real, heartfelt, uncontrollable laughter that leaves everyone with an overwhelming tendency to sigh, "Oh dear..." as the laugh collapses into minor aftershocks - that shouldn't be a special feature. It should be the main reel.
So how to make this a continuous soundtrack, instead of merely an advert break? (Just run with the continuing mixed metaphors; you'll get used to it eventually, dear reader.) I think it's simple:
- Spend more time with friends - and the key phrase here (and in the rest of this list) is "spend... time". It's only when we stop focusing on the event and start simply being ourselves in each others' company that spontaneous fun really comes to life.
- Spend more time in situations that make us happy. Feel guilty sitting in the sun / in front of an omnibus one Saturday afternoon? Why? Why let the Protestant work ethic make us feel obliged to be productive whenever we've got a run of more than 10 consecutive minutes?
- Spend more time just being. Stop flooding ourselves with TV (not doing too badly on this one), or DVD box sets (quite guilty), or iPhone games (v guilty), and start interacting with our entertainment. Go to the theatre more - get physically involved in the atmosphere of a story. Exercise (it does make you feel better). Read (note to self: must get back in the habit of doing this every night). Write (trying...).
Life is here. Life is now. It's not on the next page, or even just a little bit further down from where you're reading. Write your own sentence.
On holiday recently I reflected at how much we laughed. By golly we laughed. And it felt fabulous. But why was this a remarkable point? Of course, smiles and chuckles are part of our everyday existence (well, for most of us), but real, heartfelt, uncontrollable laughter that leaves everyone with an overwhelming tendency to sigh, "Oh dear..." as the laugh collapses into minor aftershocks - that shouldn't be a special feature. It should be the main reel.
So how to make this a continuous soundtrack, instead of merely an advert break? (Just run with the continuing mixed metaphors; you'll get used to it eventually, dear reader.) I think it's simple:
- Spend more time with friends - and the key phrase here (and in the rest of this list) is "spend... time". It's only when we stop focusing on the event and start simply being ourselves in each others' company that spontaneous fun really comes to life.
- Spend more time in situations that make us happy. Feel guilty sitting in the sun / in front of an omnibus one Saturday afternoon? Why? Why let the Protestant work ethic make us feel obliged to be productive whenever we've got a run of more than 10 consecutive minutes?
- Spend more time just being. Stop flooding ourselves with TV (not doing too badly on this one), or DVD box sets (quite guilty), or iPhone games (v guilty), and start interacting with our entertainment. Go to the theatre more - get physically involved in the atmosphere of a story. Exercise (it does make you feel better). Read (note to self: must get back in the habit of doing this every night). Write (trying...).
Life is here. Life is now. It's not on the next page, or even just a little bit further down from where you're reading. Write your own sentence.
Monday 21 March 2011
That's entertainment.
"Thank you for accepting our invitation."
Thank me? Surely 'tis I who should be doing the thanking, as the invitee - or is it?
Sometimes you just gotta say no. Much as it pains me, at times I have to decline social engagements. And who suffers? Me? How very limited a viewpoint that is. At university I learned that 7yrs old is when children start understanding alternative perspectives (i.e. you are sitting over there so it's logical you can see round the corner even though I can't - yes, it takes until 7 to grasp this), so even though my height hasn't progressed much since then, the anti-wrinkle cream in my bathroom belies the fact that I'm big enough to comprehend the other's point of view.
So, having established that we understand the other person may desire our attendance at event x just as much (if not more) than we do, what if we don't in fact want to go? The obvious rules apply: family occasions, close friends who'll be severely let down if we don't go (though even in the case of the latter, I'll confess to not always having adhered to convention: I skipped driving at least an hour and back a birthday celebration because I actually feared I might fall asleep at the wheel - I figured that time selfishness was the correct course of action). But what of that middle range of friends - you know, the ones whom you see in social circles but never can quite remember the name of their dog?
I've got to a stage where I take the question literally. "Can you come?" Quite possibly. "Would you like to come?" Well, now that's a different story...
Thank me? Surely 'tis I who should be doing the thanking, as the invitee - or is it?
Sometimes you just gotta say no. Much as it pains me, at times I have to decline social engagements. And who suffers? Me? How very limited a viewpoint that is. At university I learned that 7yrs old is when children start understanding alternative perspectives (i.e. you are sitting over there so it's logical you can see round the corner even though I can't - yes, it takes until 7 to grasp this), so even though my height hasn't progressed much since then, the anti-wrinkle cream in my bathroom belies the fact that I'm big enough to comprehend the other's point of view.
So, having established that we understand the other person may desire our attendance at event x just as much (if not more) than we do, what if we don't in fact want to go? The obvious rules apply: family occasions, close friends who'll be severely let down if we don't go (though even in the case of the latter, I'll confess to not always having adhered to convention: I skipped driving at least an hour and back a birthday celebration because I actually feared I might fall asleep at the wheel - I figured that time selfishness was the correct course of action). But what of that middle range of friends - you know, the ones whom you see in social circles but never can quite remember the name of their dog?
I've got to a stage where I take the question literally. "Can you come?" Quite possibly. "Would you like to come?" Well, now that's a different story...
Tuesday 1 March 2011
I don't believe in absolutes any more...
Sometimes the Manics just get it right. A few of their recent songs have been a bit wishy-washy (IMNSHO), but this latest opening line really hits the mark.
As we get older, do we let more grey into our lives - both literally and metaphorically? I've been watching "Mistresses" recently, and find the way I respond to the characters fascinating: I'm hardly spoiling the series when I tell you there's a lot of infidelity (the clue's in the title), and yet, I find the women endearing.
Do we judge our friends? Should we? If they do something wrong, do we stop shy of calling them on it (judge not lest ye be judged)? Or would we be better friends, in fact, if we did?
It's a mighty fine line to tread, but I'd wager the best friends are the ones who can. We should let our friends know that we accept the grey that comes with being human (after all, if we can accept theirs, they can accept ours when next we stumble. And it's never as far away as we hope.) We should show them what friendship's really about: being someone to turn to in good times and bad. And we should give them the freedom to say what we should all better echo the older and greyer we get: the Manics' next line...
"...I'm quite prepared to admit I was wrong."
As we get older, do we let more grey into our lives - both literally and metaphorically? I've been watching "Mistresses" recently, and find the way I respond to the characters fascinating: I'm hardly spoiling the series when I tell you there's a lot of infidelity (the clue's in the title), and yet, I find the women endearing.
Do we judge our friends? Should we? If they do something wrong, do we stop shy of calling them on it (judge not lest ye be judged)? Or would we be better friends, in fact, if we did?
It's a mighty fine line to tread, but I'd wager the best friends are the ones who can. We should let our friends know that we accept the grey that comes with being human (after all, if we can accept theirs, they can accept ours when next we stumble. And it's never as far away as we hope.) We should show them what friendship's really about: being someone to turn to in good times and bad. And we should give them the freedom to say what we should all better echo the older and greyer we get: the Manics' next line...
"...I'm quite prepared to admit I was wrong."
Friday 25 February 2011
Red/Amber/Green Cross Code
How do you cross the road?
Are you obedient to the green man, patiently waiting for him to light up with permission to cross? Do you consider a quick dash if nobody's watching, but scorn those who nip across on a red man if there are children being taught to stand with their toes on the right side of the kerb until the little green legs light up?
All very admirable behaviour - or so I used to think. What if the green man's beaming, but a car's hurtling along the road with no deference to the laws of traffic lights: would you really say, "It's all right kids, it's the green man - you can cross now"?
I have a friend who'd step right out on to the road, knowing she'd be in the right if the driver hit her. Now that's all well and good, but who wants to win a legal battle from a wheelchair? Surely a far better lesson is to teach kids is to acknowledge and assess risk, and then make an informed decision. If we simply wait for all the "safe" signals, would we ever get anywhere?
This week, I've been negotiating risk. (Come to think of it, most weeks I'm negotiating risk.) And I don't just mean at work:
Are you obedient to the green man, patiently waiting for him to light up with permission to cross? Do you consider a quick dash if nobody's watching, but scorn those who nip across on a red man if there are children being taught to stand with their toes on the right side of the kerb until the little green legs light up?
All very admirable behaviour - or so I used to think. What if the green man's beaming, but a car's hurtling along the road with no deference to the laws of traffic lights: would you really say, "It's all right kids, it's the green man - you can cross now"?
I have a friend who'd step right out on to the road, knowing she'd be in the right if the driver hit her. Now that's all well and good, but who wants to win a legal battle from a wheelchair? Surely a far better lesson is to teach kids is to acknowledge and assess risk, and then make an informed decision. If we simply wait for all the "safe" signals, would we ever get anywhere?
This week, I've been negotiating risk. (Come to think of it, most weeks I'm negotiating risk.) And I don't just mean at work:
- I weighed up the pros and cons of asking a friend something awkward (and deciding he was a good enough friend that I could);
- I've considered the implications of choosing one social engagement over another (ultimately throwing out "what's easiest for me" as an invalid factor, I'm pleased to say);
- and I've chosen to voice my support for a friend who's being marginalised by people who ought to know better (though in judging this last set myself I'm not sure I can claim any sort of moral superiority - but that's for another post).
Saturday 12 February 2011
Full stop.
Good evening, I'm Fiona. Full stop.
These days it seems I'm always defining myself in relation to someone / something other: I'm Fiona, from employer x. From society y. From address z.
There's nothing wrong with being associated with something. Indeed, it's often necessary, and frequently helpful. But does it make it harder to know our own selves?
I remember as a 9-year-old child going on a school trip. We were given strict instructions as to how to behave - after all, we were ambassadors of the primary. "Nonsense," my mother said. "Don't you worry about representing the school. You're representing yourself."
Perhaps some of the oldest advice I've carried with me to this day. I gave up a summer temp job on my first day because I couldn't honestly sign my name to letters I knew not to be true (after I wrote the first few I went to pass the comments on to the marketing team as promised, who promptly tossed them straight into the bin with nothing more than a chuckle. I quit on the spot.). I've never lied in an interview. And while a great deal of my conversations are always on behalf of a bigger institution, the words are always carefully hand-picked by me, the author whose name sits immediately underneath.
But what words are our own? Those to friends and family perhaps - well, those who are not part of a semi-official extended network, at least. How many of us are friends with colleagues? How many times do we socialise knowing that our words should be kept in check? This is when my mum's "to thine own self be true" teaching comes into its own - for when we remember that we, ourselves, are solely accountable for our conduct, we can do nothing but keep ourselves right, no matter what the company. And if we can't, well, the facade was always going to fall away one day.
But before I sign off, a quick disclaimer: I'm not talking about sharing deep dark secrets with the president of your local photography club, or telling your boss you're about to propose before you nervously approach your hopefully-soon-to-be father-in-law. It's about being able to say "Hi, this is me," to anyone you meet. And everyone you meet. No explanations, no justifications - and no secret worry that they might have spied your latest Facebook status update. If it represented you, you should have nothing to worry about.
These days it seems I'm always defining myself in relation to someone / something other: I'm Fiona, from employer x. From society y. From address z.
There's nothing wrong with being associated with something. Indeed, it's often necessary, and frequently helpful. But does it make it harder to know our own selves?
I remember as a 9-year-old child going on a school trip. We were given strict instructions as to how to behave - after all, we were ambassadors of the primary. "Nonsense," my mother said. "Don't you worry about representing the school. You're representing yourself."
Perhaps some of the oldest advice I've carried with me to this day. I gave up a summer temp job on my first day because I couldn't honestly sign my name to letters I knew not to be true (after I wrote the first few I went to pass the comments on to the marketing team as promised, who promptly tossed them straight into the bin with nothing more than a chuckle. I quit on the spot.). I've never lied in an interview. And while a great deal of my conversations are always on behalf of a bigger institution, the words are always carefully hand-picked by me, the author whose name sits immediately underneath.
But what words are our own? Those to friends and family perhaps - well, those who are not part of a semi-official extended network, at least. How many of us are friends with colleagues? How many times do we socialise knowing that our words should be kept in check? This is when my mum's "to thine own self be true" teaching comes into its own - for when we remember that we, ourselves, are solely accountable for our conduct, we can do nothing but keep ourselves right, no matter what the company. And if we can't, well, the facade was always going to fall away one day.
But before I sign off, a quick disclaimer: I'm not talking about sharing deep dark secrets with the president of your local photography club, or telling your boss you're about to propose before you nervously approach your hopefully-soon-to-be father-in-law. It's about being able to say "Hi, this is me," to anyone you meet. And everyone you meet. No explanations, no justifications - and no secret worry that they might have spied your latest Facebook status update. If it represented you, you should have nothing to worry about.
Saturday 5 February 2011
Which winner takes it all?
So we're all incredibly intelligent, hard-working, so-busy-we-can-hardly-remember-everything-on-our-aspirational-"to-do"-lists people, and yet what will we do given a golden spare 5 minutes? Play a game on our smartphones.
The reason, I think, is simple. Most smartphone games are built around a very simple "win" tactic: hit the target, complete the tasks quickly, furiously tap the screen at exactly the right frequency - and congratulations! You are a winner. You have achieved. You are really something.
Successful people enjoy being successful. But the older we get, the harder success becomes. Targets move higher. Problems are more complex. And suddenly all these other irritatingly successful people are around you.*
So the chance to feel omnipotent comes along, and we grab it with both hands (literally). I've heard it said that the key to being truly successful is being free of the need to bask in glory - once released from these shackles one is able to tackle the really hard challenges, the awkward, frustrating tasks that nestle at the bottom of the "to-do" list. The not-quick wins. These won't bring frequent glory, but they will pay the biggest dividend (again, quite probably literally).
The F1 starts soon (as my excited husband keeps reminding me). At the end of the season will we remember the individual race winners, or will true success be deserved only by the driver who takes the series?
* I say this with love - most of the time my friends / colleagues are stimulating, fascinating people who support, inspire and encourage me to up my own game. But they can also be damn annoying. :)
The reason, I think, is simple. Most smartphone games are built around a very simple "win" tactic: hit the target, complete the tasks quickly, furiously tap the screen at exactly the right frequency - and congratulations! You are a winner. You have achieved. You are really something.
Successful people enjoy being successful. But the older we get, the harder success becomes. Targets move higher. Problems are more complex. And suddenly all these other irritatingly successful people are around you.*
So the chance to feel omnipotent comes along, and we grab it with both hands (literally). I've heard it said that the key to being truly successful is being free of the need to bask in glory - once released from these shackles one is able to tackle the really hard challenges, the awkward, frustrating tasks that nestle at the bottom of the "to-do" list. The not-quick wins. These won't bring frequent glory, but they will pay the biggest dividend (again, quite probably literally).
The F1 starts soon (as my excited husband keeps reminding me). At the end of the season will we remember the individual race winners, or will true success be deserved only by the driver who takes the series?
* I say this with love - most of the time my friends / colleagues are stimulating, fascinating people who support, inspire and encourage me to up my own game. But they can also be damn annoying. :)
Thursday 3 February 2011
Are autobiographers surprised when we know a lot about them?
"Dinner's ready" my husband told me. Not by yelling, or sticking his head round into the next room where I was lazily catching up on emails with half an eye on easy-watching TV. No: he Facebook-chatted me.
Quite apart from the alarming alacrity with which I replied (nor come to think of it, the fact that I replied) - such is the ingrained draw of the flashing orange taskbar - it got me thinking: how easily do we communicate across different media? I know at least one person who finds it odd to talk about online posts when in person. Yet at work, it's the norm:
- Can't get through to someone on the phone? Send an email.
- Meet a client in person for the first time? Send a follow-up email.
- Get complex instructions via email? Call / arrange to meet.
We metamorphose into digital beings as and when the professional need arises, but when it comes to friends, it's different?
There's a certain secrecy to online communications. No embarrassment behind the safety of a keyboard. An intimacy from knowing there are no eavesdroppers - or are there? Server logs and supersize inboxes can betray the deepest confidences (long after memory can make any conversation deniable), and social media is more public than an embarrassed whisper in the quiet carriage.
So why do we still insist on allowing more of ourselves online than in the flesh? Why, just when we cannot control the audience, do we fool ourselves into thinking it's only an invited select? Sure, privacy settings help, but it only takes one forward / cut-and-paste to release one's words into the ether.
And why, to go back to my friend who prefers to keep conversations single-channel, do we feel as though we've breached a trust when we force a conversation to cross the great divide? How do authors feel when they're asked about their books, I wonder? Are autobiographers surprised when we know a lot about them?
This brings me back nicely to the title of this post, so here I shall leave you, dear reader. I welcome your thoughts - anonymous or otherwise. :)
Would I have told you all this over coffee, I wonder?
Quite apart from the alarming alacrity with which I replied (nor come to think of it, the fact that I replied) - such is the ingrained draw of the flashing orange taskbar - it got me thinking: how easily do we communicate across different media? I know at least one person who finds it odd to talk about online posts when in person. Yet at work, it's the norm:
- Can't get through to someone on the phone? Send an email.
- Meet a client in person for the first time? Send a follow-up email.
- Get complex instructions via email? Call / arrange to meet.
We metamorphose into digital beings as and when the professional need arises, but when it comes to friends, it's different?
There's a certain secrecy to online communications. No embarrassment behind the safety of a keyboard. An intimacy from knowing there are no eavesdroppers - or are there? Server logs and supersize inboxes can betray the deepest confidences (long after memory can make any conversation deniable), and social media is more public than an embarrassed whisper in the quiet carriage.
So why do we still insist on allowing more of ourselves online than in the flesh? Why, just when we cannot control the audience, do we fool ourselves into thinking it's only an invited select? Sure, privacy settings help, but it only takes one forward / cut-and-paste to release one's words into the ether.
And why, to go back to my friend who prefers to keep conversations single-channel, do we feel as though we've breached a trust when we force a conversation to cross the great divide? How do authors feel when they're asked about their books, I wonder? Are autobiographers surprised when we know a lot about them?
This brings me back nicely to the title of this post, so here I shall leave you, dear reader. I welcome your thoughts - anonymous or otherwise. :)
Would I have told you all this over coffee, I wonder?
Saturday 29 January 2011
What is it about aeroplanes that turns everyone into tomato juice drinkers?
It's always amazed me that tomato juice is never something you see ordered at a bar, or in a restaurant, or even in the trolley in front of you at a supermarket - yet suddenly the cabin staff are calling for more because there's a run on it here in Economy.
The sentence above has been sitting on my iPhone since last summer, waiting for the pilot's permission to be posted to the outside world. But somehow it didn't fit Facebook, and wasn't quite terse enough for Twitter. So thus began my inspiration for a blog.
Observations, deliberations, and probably most often, pontifications - all I ask, dear reader, is that you peruse this blog with an open mind, the knowledge that the names will (mostly) be changed to protect the innocent, and, most importantly, a cup of tea.
The sentence above has been sitting on my iPhone since last summer, waiting for the pilot's permission to be posted to the outside world. But somehow it didn't fit Facebook, and wasn't quite terse enough for Twitter. So thus began my inspiration for a blog.
Observations, deliberations, and probably most often, pontifications - all I ask, dear reader, is that you peruse this blog with an open mind, the knowledge that the names will (mostly) be changed to protect the innocent, and, most importantly, a cup of tea.
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