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.
Friday, 25 March 2011
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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)