Friends, have you been feeling entirely too calm recently? Feel like it’s far too long since you’ve gotten unreasonably angry at a stranger? Is there not enough cause in your life for anger and outrage? Allow me to introduce you to the internet. 

It can be hard to stay grounded when you’re online. There is more than enough anger and fear to go around. On social media, and in every comment section imaginable there are more than a few gauntlets thrown down, more than a few would be martyrs and zealots, looking for a hill to die (and kill) on.

Of course, you’re going to come across some fights that seem worth fighting. But that takes a lot of energy, and it’s easy to lose sight of true north when you’re triggered in the midst of an exchange. As a general rule, I try not to expend energy reading things online that I know will make me crazy. But this is a general rule, not an absolute. And there are exceptions.

Such was the case when I recently came across an article written by a conservative Christian organization. Now, if getting angry at something that a right wing religious organization publishes seems a little silly… well, you are correct. And certainly that organization has produced more toxic publications than this article. But like so many things that trigger us, I had a dog in this fight. Maybe three.

The article was outlining the dangers of “Progressive Christianity” as a pathway to atheism. It wasn’t particularly well written, and it wasn’t particularly effective at making it’s central argument. But it did concern, and make make assumptions about, three groups of people: Conservative Christians, Progressive Christians, and Atheists.

Now, I’ll get to how these groups relate to my story in just a moment, but first, a small exploration of each of these groups and ideologies.

Atheism, of course, is the disbelief in the divine or supernatural. But it is worth mentioning that atheism as a worldview is as varied as the individuals who hold to it. Some atheists are anti–theist, levelling arguments against any belief in the supernatural, while others are more ambivalent about the role of faith and religion in humanity, without believing in it themselves.

Within the Christian ideologies identified, ‘Conservative evangelicalism’ is probably the correct umbrella term for almost every protestant church you can think of. If you pass by an established church building on your way to work, or have ever gone to a non- Catholic Christian church service, chances are good that it was likely a conservative evangelical church.

Finally, “Progressive Christianity” is probably best identified as a recent re-interpreting of the Christian faith (which itself has seen countless interpretations over two millennia). This re-interpretation is often in response to a discomfort with conservative evangelicalism. It may have a focus on social justice or environmental stewardship or inclusion of repressed or minority voices. Since it is a re-interpreting, there are multiple interpretations, and everything is up for grabs. And since this term refers to an ideological critique rather than an organization, it’s hard to find your local “Progressive Christian” church building.

In light of drastically different interpretations, it’s natural that the established, conservative churches would want to identify the boundaries of what is, and what isn’t, Christianity. And this, I believe, is where the aforementioned article was coming from. An established organization looking for ways to establish the boundaries, writing to its base to say “see, those (progressives) are not like us (conservatives), but they are like them (atheists)”. This is an argument about who is in and who’s out, and atheism plays the role of the ultimate boogie man. Because if you are an organization that decides the boundaries for how people interact with the divine, there is nothing scarier than someone calling out the truth that the divine may not exist at all.

Now, in general, the language of us and them always raises my hackles. Shortcuts are always taken when dividing something as nuanced and intricate as people and their ideologies. And in this particular article I was very familiar with the groups being depicted and divided.  

Over seven years ago, my wife and I experienced our first late term pregnancy loss. A little over a year later, we had a second, even later, pregnancy loss. It devastated us. In the days and weeks and months that followed, that devastation acted as an invitation to re-evaluate everything (I’ve written about those losses, and what they birthed in us, here).

Before and during these losses, I attended an evangelical Protestant Christian church, the type of conservative evangelical church I spoke of earlier. That church was filled with a lot of good people. All of them had their own biases and shortcomings, just as I did, and still do. But many of those people had kind and generous hearts, and a willingness to try and make the world a better place.

But after our losses, continuing to go to that church felt impossible.

It could have been possible, I suppose, to keep going. To keep singing the happy worship songs about how God was in control, and everything would work out to our benefit. To hear sermons of the love that God had for the world, (but with the understanding that that love looked a very particular way, required a particular mental assent, and specific language of response). To continue to bow our heads in prayer, no longer sure of how to pray, or if anyone heard or cared. It felt a lot like going through the motions. But it was exhausting propping up the thing which no longer felt animated or alive.

In my devastation and anger, I found the willingness to uproot everything that couldn’t speak to the new reality we found ourselves in. And we stopped attending that church. Stopped reading the religious books, stopped singing the religious songs, and stopped praying. Stopped everything.

Anger sustained and animated me in those days. I was angry at God, angry at the aspects of my faith and certainty that now felt offensive. Ashamed of the now dawning realization that those aspects were offensive to other wounded and suffering people too.

I returned to university to start my Bachelor of Nursing around this same time. And without meaning to, without an intentional decision, without a letter of reformation nailed to a church door, I began gain great affection for secular humanism.

As a profession within the empirical, data driven, medical model (which is not without its faults and biases), nursing is up close and personal with the human condition. The interplay between who the nurse brings to the bedside, and how they interact with obvious physical and mental suffering is a dance. And it is beautiful. The secular humanist argument that we need to be grounded in reality, and yet work for the best outcome for each member of our species (and even other species that we share this earth with) captured me. It still does.

A few years later, I also was invited back to a church. A much smaller church. A church also full of people with kind and generous hearts, and willingness to try and make the world a better place. Also with their own biases and shortcomings. I had the same problems with some of the happy clappy worships songs. The same problems with the desire for certainty and boundaries around what and who the Divine is. Even the questions of whether the divine or supernatural was real at all. But this time I asked them. This time I didn’t pretend I was okay when I was angry. This time, in a smaller circle, around friends that I trusted, I was honest. Secure in the belief that any question, honestly asked, with consideration of those around you, was worth asking.

And over days and months and years I began to see in those friends, and in the friends from my previous church, and in the books I began to read again, and the podcasts I would listen to on my walks alone, a way to hold the tension of belief in, and love for, a relational centre of the universe. A way that allowed and included the reality of suffering; the welcoming of mystery and doubt. Some of these friends and voices had even found a way to love the words and actions of Jesus. Some even had affection and reverence for the Bible, full of its contradictions and ancient (and often offensive) language.

I was (and am) keenly aware that there may be no relational centre, that Jesus may have been just a man, that the writings in the Bible may just reflect our ancestors interaction with the concept of the divine and each other. But the love these people held for God, for church, for scriptures, for tradition, for each other, this was real. I borrowed some of their faith in the beginning, and have slowly unearthed some of my own.

This is obviously a big lead up, but I include it because every story is personal to someone. The article that made me angry identified three people groups, but didn’t do justice to any of them. The reasons for disruptions of faith, dismantling and examining, deconstructing and reconstructing are always personal. In the past seven years, I have considered myself a conservative evangelical Christian, I have felt my old faith die and wondered in the dark if I was now an atheist, and I have sorted and sifted as I gently held a faith both new and ancient.

When I first read the article, my original reaction was outrage. In trying to connect the common beliefs between two outlying groups (Progressive Christians and atheists), I could feel the author reaching. Logic was flawed, indistinct phrasing was used but never defined. I set about writing pages of counter argument to the articles’ main points, identifying the holes in the authors logic. When I was finished, I felt I had completed a thorough theological slam dunk on my (unknown) opponent.

But who was it for? For the small group of Progressive Christians that I might share it with? How was that any different than the original article speaking to its base? What was the fruit of such an argument? To prove that progressives and atheists were actually in, and conservative Christians were out? I was just redrawing boundary lines.

Every time I came back to this piece of writing, I puzzled at it. The post was finished, and could be uploaded at any time. But it needed to be different, better. And I wasn’t sure how.

Eventually I was reminded of a recent interview with the 2018 US poet laureate, Tracy K. Smith.  After an evening of discussing her work and reading some of her poetry aloud, a member of the audience asked Smith how to balance ‘sitting down for poetry’ and outrage over the current racism facing black women in the United States. Tracy K Smith is a black woman, and speaking to this moment, she would be keenly aware of the racism and sexism all around her. It would be apparent how divided and outraged the United States is. She would know the reasons and justifications for outrage.

But this is her response:

“I think there is a value to outrage. I think that it activates a kind of power that we can choose to act upon. In art, I think that outrage might lead me to the page, but it has to go sit down somewhere else when I’m writing a poem, because — I really do believe this — a good poem isn’t going to be the result of the certainty that drives emotions like anger and outrage. If I know I’m right, and they are wrong, my poem is going to be a tract. But if I can say, what are the weird spaces that are under-imagined? What are the areas where I either am already perpetuating something that is part of what I envision as the problem, or what are the imagined spaces I can enter into where I have to get uncomfortably close to that problem? That’s where something really, I think, interesting starts to happen.”

The moment I heard these words, I wrote them down. I shared them with my friends. I’ve written them upon my heart and carried them with me. I knew they were true, and true for more than just poetry. True for all our creative expressions. True for the way I wanted to think and write and create.

And when I remembered these words, I knew what was wrong with my rebuke. My response was so certain. And I knew it was a tract. I was preparing for a debate, when I needed to be writing a poem.

And the poetry, the weird and under-imagined spaces, the places where I am uncomfortably close to the problem, these are always personal. The stories of belief and disbelief, faith and doubt, leaving or returning, these are our stories. This my friend who is now identifies as an atheist after spending his entire adult life as a revered member of a church. This is my friend who goes to a local church, and wonders if she can continue there as the organization tries to determine how literally it should interpret an ancient (and offensive) text. It’s the author I’m reading who left the church for years and questioned everything, and has somehow found a way back to cherishing being part of a local church. It’s my friend who just took boxes of theological books to the thrift store because he doesn’t think that way any more.

And in a strange sense, this was the sum total of the best of my arguments. That the original article kept people and stories at a distance, to label and sort them. That it was too certain of who was in and who was out to accept the ambiguity and complexity of those involved. That it reduced belief or disbelief as the mathematical result of proper or improper values.

One of my favourite authors, Richard Rohr has a quote that I think of often. “The best critique of the bad, is the practice of the better”.

When we are surrounded by boundary lines that offend us, by language that divides us and narratives that make simple the complex, it is natural to be angry and outraged. But perhaps the practice of the better is not a debate, not a punching match, but a poem.

And that poetry, is always found in the personal.

Meet Your Heroes

A few weeks ago, I met one of my honest to goodness heroes. Not just a celebrity or skilled performer (though he could certainly be considered either of those), but someone I both admire and imitate. This man has been speaking (over podcasts and books) into my life for a decade. His words have helped shape and challenge my worldview, have helped shape and dismantle my religious ideologies. He is a fantastically engaging communicator, and I have very little shame in leaning in close for any and all tips that I can glean from him.

Anyway, I had a big ol’ crush on this man, and I was about to see him live in Seattle. It was a much needed vacation away with my wife, with two other couples, all without our kids. It was all very exciting.

The venue where we were seeing my hero was small, 800 seats at full capacity, and I expected there was a decent / outside chance I might actually get to meet my hero, and I needed to be prepared. What do you say in the brief moments shaking a stranger’s hand who has shaped your thinking and aspirations for over a decade? There was too much.

So I did what any sane (slightly obsessed) person would do. I began to write a letter. A letter of thanks, less than a page long, concise but heartfelt. Some written words I could leave with him, as he had left so many with me. A really good letter.

I had my wife read it on the drive down. After she got over the disappointment that I had not gotten up early to write her a note of adoration, she looked over at me and smiled sweetly. “Ah, hon, that’s really sweet. It’s hardly stalkerish at all!”.

(My wife always gives the best compliments).

The letter was folded and placed in my back pocket where it would be worked over through the day, my right hand sometimes absent mindedly feeling for it, other times removing it from my pocket to be sure it was still there.

My anticipation was palpable. We met up with our friends, and I showed them the letter, too. I wasn’t sure how this letter was going to get to my hero, only that it was going to be amazing.

When we arrived at the venue, we somehow found ourselves in the 5th row from the stage (we threw some elbows). We were practically spitting distance…or airplane throwing distance.

A plan was taking shape. I would throw the articulate paper airplane letter onto the stage at an appropriate time during the performance. He would certainly find that odd, but would doubtlessly pick it up, and likely place it in his jacket pocket for later. Then we could hang out and go for tacos and scotch or whatever. I hadn’t over thought it.

My hero took the stage to rapturous applause, and held the vast majority of the audience’s’ attention for nearly 2 hours. I hardly heard what was said. I folded and re-folded my note into the best tiny little airplane I could manage. I even hooked the nose to give it better weight in the front. What I needed was a straight shot, I didn’t need excessive loft or distance. I hadn’t over thought it.

I could feel our host begin to wrap up the evenings’ opus. He delivered his final thoughts and hopes and blessings for us fellow sojourners on this journey of life. The audience took to their feet to applaud, I joined them, and then stood on my chair. It was time. Standing half a person higher than all others in my row, I called out loudly and waved my airplane in my hand. My hero looked at me half blinded by the stagelights with a confused smile. The small crowd around me looked at me in amusement. I pulled back my arm and then I let my tiny aircraft fly… where it immediately curved upwards and then nosedived into the backs of the people in the second row.

My hero bowed and left the stage, and I was deflated.

Had my insane plan worked, I would be a god among men. There would be tales of my boldness and ingenuity. My hero would mention the letter in a podcast and we would become fast friends. I hadn’t overthought it.

But it did not work. I had not overthought it, and it dawned on me that perhaps this plan could have benefited from some actual planning. I suddenly felt incredibly foolish. I stepped off my chair, and waited for the crowd to disperse to pick up my rubbish paper airplane. My embarrassment morphed into anxiety. The whole evening hinged on this letter! How was I going to get this defunct paper airplane to my hero?

My friend noticed my distress and picked up the cause. We peaked behind curtains. We pleaded with security guards, who wanted no part in being note passers (we were likely the most trouble they ran into on this motivational speaking tour). Eventually a sound technician suggested that if I leave my letter on the soundboard, there was a good chance that my hero might see the letter when he returned to collect his iPod, which was currently connected to the system. It was as good a chance as any, and I was ready to be rid of the burden of carrying this now weighty letter.

We stepped out into the cool night air, huddled around and trying to decide where to go next. While I felt ran over, my friend was resolute. He was going to meet my hero (his hero, too). He explained that he had scoped out the exits, and the only exit remaining led out to a side street beside the venue. He had to exit out the side door. To the chagrin of our spouses, we were going to wait.

My friend was right. Less than 20 minutes after the crowds dispersed, a tall figure stepped out of the exit. He was cornered, and we pounced. My friend was articulate, thanking our hero for all that he had poured into his life. Both our lives. I mumbled something likely incoherent about being the guy who stood up on a chair and tried to fly a paper airplane letter to the stage. He was kind and smiled anyway. He shook my wife’s hand and introduced himself. And then he graciously posed for a picture with my friend and I, and we were away. I wanted to stay, and I wanted to disappear completely. To retreat as quickly as possible.

As our small group headed back to our rented house, everyone seemed electrified. We sat around the living room with good wine and scotch in glasses, chocolate and nachos on the table. We laughed and talking about the bigger themes of the night, what it might mean in our individual lives as we returned home. It was the kind of conversation and community that I live for.

But something was off, deep inside. The joy of the evening felt hollow, empty. As ridiculous as it is to admit, I was in mourning for what almost was. Mourning  my expectations for the evening. If only the plane had reached the stage! If only any of the sound or security crew were less professional and led me backstage to impinge on my heroes privacy and security! If only I held onto the letter instead of setting it down on the soundboard! If only, if only…

They say you shouldn’t meet your heroes, lest you find that they are less then your expectation of them. Lest you realize that their feet are made of clay. Lest you see their failings and frailty and humanity.

But what if the problem is not with our heroes? In an evening when all that could be reasonably expected was admission to a show, I actually succeeded in meeting my hero, shaking his hand, getting a picture. He was kind and despite having just finished two hours of speaking, still seemed appreciative that we had sought him out. And I still felt empty and disappointed. 

What if it’s our expectations that betray us, not the person on the other end receiving our adulation? What if it’s our expectations that make or break the adage, “Don’t Meet Your Heroes”?

In anticipation of writing this post, I found a Reddit thread exploring people’s best “don’t meet your hero” moments. Within the thread are multiple accounts of famous actors attempting to shop in grocery stores incognito (the nerve!), lead singers of bands that were assholes (imagine it), and multiple accounts of famous people being short when come upon in airport layovers (suspend your disbelief!).

It’s a great time wasting read, but what really comes through the thread is the humanity of both the heroes and those seeking them. People are tired, people are drunk, and occasionally, people are genuinely warm and compassionate. What really plays into the story is the level of expectation behind the act described. One person related spending hundreds of dollars and traveling on an international flight to meet members of a favourite band. Do you suppose that in the months and weeks and days leading up to that event, with all the money spent and with international airfare tickets in hand, that dreams and hopes could have festered into sky high, specific expectations? I’d say from personal experience that its entirely possible.

Is it wrong that I wrote a letter to one of my heroes and attempted to sail it to him on stage? Of course not. Had that worked it would have been incredible. But my expectations set that specific unfolding of events as the only desirable outcome for the evening. My expectations showed a failure of imagination.

And this is the danger of our expectations. Not that they are good or evil, but that they specify the parameters for our joy or success. This result will mean that an endeavor is a success, that outcome will mean it was a failure. And those parameters can rob us of the everyday, unexpected joy that falls outside our expectations.

The night of  event, as we sat in the audience, I noticed the rapt attention of everyone around me, and my own anxious energy inside as a contrast. The jokes hit my ears late. The nuances of the performance coming in and out, drowned out by my nervously tapping leg. At the very moment that I should have been most present, I was awaiting the end of the evening so I could try (and fail) to sail my tiny airplane letter onto the stage.

I was there, and not there. I had momentarily forgotten how to be here.

The day after I met my hero, after my expectations had been dashed, and I was no longer consumed with what could have been, I was left with what simply was. A wonderful vacation away with my wife. An unexpectedly sunny day in Seattle. A leisurely bike ride with good friends. A spontaneous ferry ride to a nearby island. A stumbled upon restaurant with exceptionally great Mexican food and margaritas. An evening of playing games together and laughing till it was difficult to breathe. It was a day that simply was – devoid of all expectations.

It was wonderful, and easily the best day of the trip.

So meet your heroes. Let them be who they are.  Let them be gracious outside of venue side doors, or let them be assholes, annoyed at one more clamouring fan. Our heroes deserve to be real people. But let us meet our expectations, as well.

Meet the expectations that sneak in as you’re eagerly awaiting something. Observe them as they try to promote a specific outcome. Notice their lack of creativity.  Be mindful as they as they try and up the ante during a perfectly enjoyable evening with friends. Take note as they privilege any number of possible futures over the certain now.

Meet them and be kind, as they are a part of you, after all. Shake their hand, thank them for showing up and introducing themselves. And then remind them (and yourself) that you need to get back to the present moment, the exact moment that you inhabit always.

A while ago I wrote about how your failure is not guaranteed. I was in the midst of an intense period of online and clinical training for my work, and my thoughts were spiraling under the weight of it. Writing that post was a cathartic exercise. I needed to assure myself (in writing and in the investigation that brings) that my failure was not a forgone conclusion.

And sure enough, I didn’t fail.

Didn’t fail my exam, my paper, or my clinical. Did not fail my interview for my new position.

Did. Not. Fail.

(At those particular moments, anyway).

But even if failure is not guaranteed, neither is success! There will be times when we will fail spectacularly.

Friday was one of those times.

A few weeks ago I was still in my last week of clinical training, and on Friday, we had been unexpectedly let out early. I felt radiant that afternoon. The last hurdle had been leapt. I could hardly remember an evening where each moment was not spoken for, and where the weight of what was to come wasn’t pressing down on me. But now all the deadlines were blissfully past. It was the end of the week, the sun was warm and hazy, and the wide open possibilities of a full weekend off lay in front of me.

When I came home the shine began to wear off. It’s movie night at our house on friday, but each kid seemed agitated, continually in the other’s space. Ignorant to the preordained sovereignty of each couch cushion, limbs spilled over their respective area to hang off their annoyed sibling. Feet digging into sides.  It was the general restless energy that always seems to result in wrestling (or it’s more accurate nomenclature, wrastling)

It’s my belief that wrastling at home only ever ends one of two ways: when the parents shut it down, or in tears. It was tears on Friday as the goofing around became violent and resulted in my 8 year old boy punching an arm that had held him too long.

I called him away from the chaos of the couch to talk about how we need to be careful when we’re angry. How we can’t physically lash out when we’re upset. But it was no good, he wasn’t hearing any of it. A wiser person might have considered the emotional state of his audience (and the growing frustration inside myself). I did not.

And so in moments he was yelling, and unexpectedly, I was yelling too. 30 years between us, but the 8 year old and 38 year old were shouting at each other in the hallway. Cooler heads prevailed (which means my wife tagged me out and I retreated to the patio), but the night was ruined. After that moment, all previous successes evaporated. The end of my course and the interview that went well, the sunny day, the wide open possibility of the weekend before me. Vanished.

In case you somehow missed the incredible irony, I was telling my son that we need to be careful in our anger – seconds before I simultaneously made my point and lost all credibility.

It was a big failure. One that betrayed who I wanted to be, and revealed something deep inside myself.

I’m always embarrassed for those who can’t hold their emotions together in public. The couple that doesn’t mind if the neighbours hear them yelling at each other on the patio, the hothead in the car behind you who lays on the horn and flips you the bird for driving the speed limit or slowing down for a yellow light, the restaurant patron who needs to berate the waitress for the food taking so long at lunch hour. These have always looked to me like weakness.

It’s not strength that caused me to raise my voice to my son, it was weakness. The need to be powerful and heard. It’s strange, you puff up and yell to feel bigger, but the moment after you feel smaller than ever before.

A week after this outburst I was travelling across the border who hear two of my favorite speakers. A spiritual pilgrimage of sorts. These speakers are wisdom teachers, tackling big ideas and concepts; unearthing what it means to interact with the biggest mysteries in our lives. How to live a good life. How to craft meaning. Sometimes simply to wake to your life.

I had been listening to similar content for years now, but if ever I was beginning to believe the delusion that I had reached some plateau, some new level of enlightenment and wisdom, my outburst on Friday cured me of that pretty quickly. Because all the big ideas in the world don’t have the least bit of value if you can’t take them home with you.

The only thing worse than the person who flips you the bird as they pass you is seeing their bumper sticker promoting tolerance. The only thing worse than the person laying into their waiter is that assailant being a spiritual guru or church elder. I’ve always noted the pastor who leads a group of hundreds at church and whose children hate him and rebel as loudly as possible. The therapist who can engage with anyone, as long as they aren’t family.

They say that we often show the greatest disdain for others when they exhibit our own weaknesses. When my conversation devolved to a yelling match with my kid, it revealed both what little control I actually have, and the fraudulence of my enlightenment.

But enlightenment is a strange term.

In my life, enlightenment has always been a ridiculous word. Either far too light and ethereal to ever be of any real value, or else imbued with magical status. Enlightenment (and you could throw in synonymous contemporaries such as the evolution of consciousness, awakening or woke) can become a McGuffin of sorts – a thing that people long for and strive after without ever realizing what it really is, or why they pursue it.

It occurred to me after this failure that to enlighten something literally means to cast light upon it and reveal it. If we truly wish to be enlightened, we had best prepare for the possibility that we will not like what it illuminates in our self. ‘Enlightenment’ gets lumped in with unexamined cliches such as ‘knowing yourself’, but knowing yourself includes the good, the bad and the ugly. Because it’s all in there. Knowing myself includes knowing all the petty little ways I clamor for control. It includes revealing my temper and triggers.

We can ignore those dark and angry and embarrassing places inside of us, but that’s not enlightenment, that’s just posturing and repressing. And posturing and repression may look good on the outside, but it certainly won’t bring us any peace.

And that’s the goal, right? Less yelling matches with our kids? Less taking it out on the waiter? Less road rage? Enlightenment, waking up, progress, evolution. These might be a bit idealistic,  but these are all good things, worthy of working towards.

After our blowout, when we had both cooled down, my son sat next to me on the hammock as I held him tight, asked for his forgiveness and once again, in a slightly new context, discussed the importance of controlling our behavior when we’re angry. It doesn’t negate everything that came before it, but it was a nice moment.

In the days and weeks that have followed, I’ve been thankful that our closest relationships are cumulative. The strength of my relationship with my son is not absolved by one misstep, any more than it is secured by one success.

I think it’s similar with our enlightenment, our progress, our waking up. It’s less our arrival and more our continual, staggered march forward. It is a direction and movement over time. It of course includes our successes, but it graciously includes our failures as well.

Interiors and exteriors.

I spent hours the other day hanging pictures.

We did not just move in. We’ve been here for years. We did not just paint.

And yet, here we were, sorting through pictures ordered and developed years previous. Dusting off frames. Measuring and re-measuring, holding frame, hammer, nail, level and pencil all simultaneously (with hands, lips, knees and ear, obviously…).

It was as if we declared once again that yes, we do in fact live here.

My wife likes to snicker at me with my notepad, pencil, tape measure and level. This is serious work. What she could (literally – if I would allow it) bang off in mere minutes will be conceptualized, eyeballed, measured, re-evaluated and probably adjusted in an hour or so by myself.

And so, a couple of questions (asking for a friend):

If your door is frequently open towards a room, do you measure from the open door to the far wall, or measure from wall to wall to find your mid point?

If you are hanging curtains on both the window and the closet, and the closet is significantly lower than the window, do you hang the rod at the same level, or the same distance from the top of each respective height?

If you are creating a collage of photos, do you have equal spaces between all frames? How is this even possible once you start introducing different sizes? What do you do with decorative items than have no rectangular shape?

Perhaps these are the questions that have kept our walls bare for years.

There is a short story by Sherman Alexie that I ran across in university that came back to me this week. It was about a couple that fought regularly. Their fights were epic. Screaming, shoving, hitting matches. And lamp throwing. Regularly the protagonist or his girlfriend would throw a lamp against the wall and smash the bulb. After each fight they would pick up the lamp, replace the smashed bulb inside. Until the next fight. And the next. A few paragraphs later the couple just stopped replacing the bulbs. They lived and fought in darkness.

Which has had me thinking about the ways we give up. Stop replacing bulbs. Accept that the next fight, the next lamp throwing as inevitable. And thinking about years with empty walls and no curtains up. And that spot in the bathroom where I used the wrong paint, and never found the right one. And the paint that’s peeled off the handles in the kitchen. And the stair where the moulding ripped off, and it’s still off, hidden away in the closet for when I finally take it to the store to color match it’s replacement.

Of course, these are all just aesthetics.

But what if they’re not?

That’s the discomforting assertion of the latest chapter in a book I’ve been reading. That our exteriors are a reflection of our interior. That as we are mindless and unfocused in ourselves, our houses and workspaces will be cluttered, neglected.

To be fair, certainly I’ve been busy.

Certainly I spend most days just trying to regain some semblance of balance from work.

Certainly trying to keep a clean a floor with a large dog and three kids is like our own personal sand mandala ritual.

Certainly I spend enough time in the evening just packing lunches and cleaning dishes and wiping counters and handles, let alone repaint them.

But still… when years have past with empty walls and broken stairs and off coloured and worn off paint… When years have passed and you still haven’t changed the bulb. You have to ask yourself why.

The problem of course, is that once you accept that exteriors are a reflection of your interior, it’s easy to feel like you are left with a to-do list. Maybe you start on the exterior. Time to bring out the paints and repaint that wall. Time to bring that long neglected piece of stair molding to the store.

But you are an integrated being. And if our exteriors are reflections of our interiors, then it is not just the walls that need decoration, or the stairs that need repairing, or the bathroom wall that needs painting. It’s also the overflowing cutlery drawer. And that corner of the room downstairs that barely contains everything you don’t know what to do with. And your desk covered in half finished projects, old textbooks, and that mug (and whiskey glass) that you didn’t bring up from the last time. 

And. And. And…

When you really come to wrestle with the notion that your exteriors reflect your interiors, you’re left with the life work of organizing the chaos of your internal life.

And if, hypothetically speaking, you find the prospect of hanging a mismatched collection of frames on a wall daunting, then organizing your interior life may just make you want to lay down in the fetal position. That to-do list is crushing. And you may not even know where to start.

Hypothetically speaking.

…

Okay. It’s me. Maybe it’s you, too.

I uncurl from the fetal position in my mind. I say the following to myself (but it is for you as well if you need it).

You are an integrated person. We all arrive at this moment through different paths. Some of our interiors are more cluttered than others. So be it. This is your interior, no one else’s. Accept this moment. The cluttered chaos inside you is still your own. And the clutter is only one part of your interior. You are so much more than simply the parts you’d change.

Accept that a life’s work may just take a lifetime. It might be enough (for now) to see this. To look at it soberly, but without judgement. Maybe this awareness helps in the moment you feel pulled in ten thousand directions internally. There is no easy fix for the way we are. But it is still good. We can desire change without hating who we are in this present moment.

There is work to do, certainly.

Breathing. Quieting your mind. Affirming who you are, acknowledging that which we are thankful for, as well as that which we want to improve. None of those things will hang those pictures, or paint that bathroom, or fix that stair.

But it might just eek out a little peace. Clear away a small corner of our hectic and anxious thoughts. Set aside a bit of the clutter internally, even if just for a little while. If our externals mirror our internals, it’s as good a place as any to start.

And maybe, just maybe, it frees you up to hang one more methodically placed picture on the wall.

Your Failure is Not Guaranteed.

When was the last time you attempted something where failure was a real, legitimate possibility? Where you have started out, and suddenly realized the cost, the effort, the skill, the knowledge, the resilience required of you might be more than what you have? Where you find yourself on the edge, peering over into the great expanse of failure.

Some people seem to run towards that edge. Some seem to be most alive when the stakes are highest, when they are pushing against their previous boundaries and limits.

I… am not one of those people. Not intentionally, anyway.

Those of you who know me (or flipped over to the bio page) know that I am a nurse. I don’t write much about my interactions and experiences as a nurse, due to a number of reasons (confidentiality, governing body regulations, a desire to spend less mental time there…). But I will share a little of that world with you today.

Currently I am taking a condensed course to work in the emergency department. It’s all the things you think an ER can be (except absolutely no one is having sex in break rooms, because once you work there you realize that sex in a hospital is about the grossest thing you can imagine). The Emergency Department is fast paced, interesting and chaotic. And it’s demanding.

I’ve been nursing for almost three years, which is to say that I’m still new to this career, but not so new that I’m seeing things for the first time on a regular basis. At least, until I started in the ER. I hadn’t become comfortable, but I had started to settle in. To find a rhythm in each shift. I’ve learned a lot about what you need to know, and just as much about how to handle yourself when you don’t know something.

And in the ER, I have become well acquainted with the gaps in my knowledge. Too well acquainted. Each day, each free moment, I am searching for some symptom, flipping through any number of reference books. And each night I open up my coursework, online articles and textbooks. Trying to ready myself for the next day, the next patient.

As in all things, some days are much better than others.

Some days, you know what you’re looking at, what you’re looking for. You know what the results mean. You know what is coming next.

Other days, you feel your heart in your throat. You focus on your breathing because you feel like each breath needs to be taken intentionally. Like you’re wearing a turtleneck shirt that’s 3 sizes too small.

On those days, I have to be careful where my mind goes.

On those days, I ask myself what life will be like when I am disgraced, unable to finish this practicum. When I fail my course. When everyone knows, I know, that I’m not smart enough. Not experienced enough. Not working hard enough. Everyone will soon know all I don’t know, all the ways I fall short of what’s required. I start to make plans that include my upcoming failure, because it looms inevitable. A great expanse before me.

But it’s not inevitable, is it?

I’m still in the middle of this practicum as I write (and record) this. It’s hard. I’ve handed in a paper that I’m not so sure about. I’m studying flowcharts and algorithms that appear impenetrable. There is a chance that all of my greatest fears could be true. But there’s also a good chance that they’re foundless. That I will get through this course and practicum like every other course and practicum and challenge before. That I will not fail.

Even failure is a deceptive term. What if I do fail this practicum? What then? Each time I feel like an idiot and search a new term, look up a new result, I know more than I did previously. I can read an electrocardiogram now. I couldn’t do that before. I’m quicker at identifying dangerous heart rhythms than I was before. I don’t know all of the cardiac meds we use on a regular basis. But I know some. And I’m learning more. There is (and should be) ultimately a cut off. A decision as to whether I meet the requirements set out for nurses that wish to work in the emergency department. That is a tangible standard that I will either meet, or not meet. But in my practice, in my growth, I am better than I once was.

Their are external realities, such as failing a course, but in the larger context of our life, we get to define what failure looks like. And that defining means we need never fail completely, even as we miss and screw up and struggle.

For me, the greatest threat from failure is always retreat. Opting out. The threat of failure gives me an out as I mentally berate myself for taking such a risk. And at the next risk, the possibility of failure threatens to shuts me down before I even start. ‘Better to never try, rather then try and fail’.

What a steaming pile.

You and I were made to bump up against the threat of failure. To push ourselves past what we know we can do comfortably and safely. We may chase this intentionally, or we may bump up against it accidentally, but if we are growing, we will come across the threat of failure. We need to occasionally be overwhelmed, to bite off more than we can chew. How else would we possibly stretch and grow and learn?

The threat of failure shows us another truth in life. Beware the binary, dualistic answers pitted on either side. You may fail a course, you may let someone down, you may be fired, your marriage may end. But your life is not a pass/fail.

When we look at the binary, dualistic nature of how we judge our success – whether we’ve passed or failed – we know to be wary of it because of its results in our life. What are the results of feeling you’ve failed completely? Defeat, retreat, shame, resignation, the unwillingness to attempt the difficult in the future. And the results of feeling that you’ve passed, that you know all you need to about about given subject? Pride, certainty, and ignorance (because there is always more to know). Neither of the pass/fail terms are ultimately adequate or accurate for our life, and neither term is good for our learning and growth, either.

But I know all too well that that reasoning is firmly in the head. It’s hard when your anxiety is tightening around you, hard to remember that failure is an inaccurate construct when it has it’s boot on your chest.

So remember this: Your failure is not guaranteed. Neither is mine.

I think this is one of those truths, hiding in plain site. It’s so obvious we never look at it. But I think we should. Examine it, remember it, write it on a scrap of paper and fold it in our wallet for the next time we need it. For the next seemingly incredulous thing we want to do. For that moment when you start to play out how the thing won’t work. How it will end up a failure. We can take it out and say: “yeah, you’re right I might fail. But I might not”.

Because your failure is not guaranteed.

Everybody wants a piece of you.

Today I went to the bank. I changed some things around to hopefully keep a more watchful eye on finances, simplify things somewhat, and keep myself from having to double check the various balances in the accounts in the dying hours of each month.

I’m not great with finances. That’s more than a bit of an understatement. Like quite a few people I know, making more money has not solved my financial frustrations. A few years ago we began to make some smarter decisions. Installed Mint. It’s a good start, but it’s still an uphill battle for me.

A few months ago I remember sitting down to pay some ignored bills and being notified of yet another bill, while paying the others. “Yeah, get in line”, I spoke into the ether.

Everybody, it seemed, wanted a piece.

The feeling of everyone wanting a piece of you may be familiar. It certainly is for me. And it’s by no means restricted to finances. What is true in one area, is often mirrored elsewhere. It’s when you’re rushing to work and one of your kids says they feel sick and you can’t find your keys. It’s when you have loads of laundry to do because it’s flu season and suddenly the dryer stops working (admittedly, marginally better than the washing machine not working…). It’s when your money, your resources, your time, your attention, your affection, your ‘whole-ness’ is gone. And you don’t know where it went.

Everyone wants a piece of you.

A friend of mine wants a piece. Not of me, particularly, but of anyone, everyone. My friend has just started up a new business doing something he loves and has dreamed about for years. My friend imports coffee beans from all over the world, and roasts them in small batches in his garage. He showed me his setup once. He has a large shelf that houses his equipment, which he lowers on a pulley system he devised (cause there’s not really room for a full coffee roasting set up in their garage 24/7). He regularly sets up shop at a local artisan market once a week to chat with customers and share his passion for each cup. Did I mention he also works full time shift work, and that he is a father to a young child? Because he is. And he needs a piece.

His wife also recently started out in a new career. Which means both of them are in the unenviable position of trying to promote themselves, their product and services, constantly. And so each of them are in the position of needing support from those around them, and feeling like everyone needs a piece of them too.

Their story is actually not that unique. Is it any different from anyone with the courage to ask for support? Consider the coworker who needs to ask for help moving, or the friend hosting a tupperware party to make some extra money, or even from myself, asking for your time and attention to read these words? We all need a piece of those around us, and feel like everyone needs a piece of us.

When everyone needs a piece of us, how do we possibly stay whole? And beyond that, how can we possibly have enough to give to those around us?

Because the truth is, when you acknowledge that everyone wants a piece of you, you need to start making decisions about who gets what. There are more people, products, and companies out there that want a piece of you than you have pieces to give.  You need to choose. This sounds exceedingly simple, but I don’t think we do it very well. I think we may hope of giving our attention, our energy and our resources to those and that which matter most to us, but do we? When I turn on the computer, I may have the intention of paying a bill, writing a journal entry, or working on school work (all priorities for me that I desire to spend my energy and time on), but then I thoughtlessly open Facebook, or get lost in trying to say something clever on Twitter.

I think we often spend our resources unaware, until we are left feeling utterly depleted, and confused at where all the time/money/energy has gone.

We need to make smarter choices about what we give ourselves to. Because we cannot give ourselves to everything and everyone. You can’t do it all.

Did you hear that last part? I’ll say it again (to both you and myself): You. Can’t. Do. It. All.

If you are feeling ragged, you have my compassion. I know what that feels like. If you are exhausted, pulled in ten different directions at once, I know how tiring that is. If you are in an extremely busy season of your life, with little kids, with long hours, with anxiety over the countless demands that everyone places upon you, I want you to know that as much as one being can understand another, I understand this.

But I also want you to know that no one will make it better for you.

If that seems a bit harsh, it is because it is intended to be. Even very wise, very safe, very giving people in your life will only be able to lend you their hard earned wisdom. But it will not help you from feeling run ragged, depleted, whispering to the ether “get in line”.

It is easy to get angry at the bill that comes in when you can least afford it. The job that constantly asks for more. The next invite from a friend selling something. The next email asking you to give. The small child who grabs you by the face and directs your attention where they want it. But this is life! There is no end of the requests on you! Yours is the job of resource management. It is only natural that the child would desire your undivided attention. Only natural an aid organization will send out requests for funds. Only natural that a good friend will want to tell you all about the dream they are pursuing. You have so much to give, but you also only have so much, and so you must choose.

And one of the first things you must choose, is to care for yourself. As often as you need, as often as you can make happen, you are allowed to care for yourself first. To have boundaries. To set aside something for yourself.

Because what happens when you’re run ragged and someone asks you for one more thing? Maybe you do it, resentfully. Maybe you shut down. Maybe you yell at the kids. Maybe you put off the bills for one more day. This is the counterintuitive thing about self care. Without it, what you can give to others is severely limited, or tainted. What you do and who you are will be less than what it can be, less than who you can be.

There is this common belief hanging in the air about self care. That it is selfish. That we need to put others first. But that belief doesn’t acknowledge that we can only give out of what we have. When you’re empty, depleted, resentful, you hold what little you have left with clenched fists. When you feel that you have nothing left in you, you have nothing left for anyone else, either.

Your life is not a sprint, it is an endurance race. Some people sprint down the track, not thinking of how to care for themselves over the long haul. Their bodies will exact their toll. In a week, a month, a year, you will see them on the sidelines, unable or unwilling to run the race set before them.

You are allowed to take time for yourself. To read a book. To listen to a podcast. To have a whole mug of coffee or tea, uninterrupted. To go for a walk. To go out with the guys, with the girls, with a good friend, or new acquaintance.

You are also allowed to do the (less fun) things that make your life easier. Set up a menu plan, use the slow cooker, set up online banking and automatic deposits, go to the gym (some people would put this in the fun list, but I’ve never understood those people).

You are allowed, permitted, encouraged, cheered on, instructed, commanded… to do whatever fills you up. And then give yourself freely, and intentionally, to those and that which matters most.

Because everyone wants a piece of you. And you have so much to give.

Fall is my favorite season.

I’m fortunate enough to say that where I live, the season of summer gets disqualified on blistering heat alone. I live in a lake town that is transformed in the summer, and I win no friends by complaining about how uncomfortably hot it is for anyone not wearing a tank top and shorts.

So I keep my sweaty grumbles to myself.

In fall it’s blissfully back to jeans and plaid button up shirts, cardigans and even an overcoat on a cooler day. Every male my age (let’s say mid 30s) looks about the same come fall. But we all look good.

The days are still bright, but also crisp. Less insects buzzing about your ears, and less noise overall. Everything seems slightly subdued in fall. Until the leaves begin to change. Then the noise is visual, not auditory. A vast field of green changing to yellow, gold, amber, orange, pink and red, not all at once, but in a chorus. These are the photos we take. The best photographers and best equipment still failing to capture the jubilation before them.

But that is not the fall around me now.

Because I am writing this in late November. Yellow, gold, amber, orange, pink and red have all gone. Now there is only brown. Snow, rain and wind have stripped the trees bare. And their once vibrant leaves are now compacted into the muddy ground. The days are much colder now, and darker. No snow covers over the decay and death around yet. We are in the in-between time. Past the magic of autumn, and before the magic of winter.

Perhaps not surprisingly, we often think of death in late fall and winter. As beautiful as the falling leaves are, we know that the vibrancy of spring and summer is coming to an end. We know that the gorgeous colour comes from the death of the leaves themselves. As we think about the seasons, we most often consider late spring and summer to be full of vibrancy and life, not so much the darker, colder months of fall and winter.

But we don’t get to spring and summer without the death and rest of fall and winter. We know this of course, and we still act like it is a mystery. When I see that first crocus break through the snow in late winter or early spring, or the first tree buds begin to awake, I’m always amazed. “How did this get here!?” I wonder, ignorantly.

I say ignorantly, because I don’t think of the planting that is obviously happening in fall. Death, is planting. The tree doesn’t get to keep its leaves through the winter and still develop new buds in spring. The seed must be buried in the ground and hidden, before the spring flower blooms.

In the seasons, in nature, we see that death is part of the deal. That the new comes at a cost, and that cost is the old passing away. There is no change, no new growth without death.

How have we convinced ourselves that our life and growth would be any different?

When something new has begun, it is because something else has ended. Despite this, some change we don’t call death. Some change, we simply acknowledge as progress. Before I began my current job, I had to say goodbye to a workplace that I had invested in and grown with for years. It was an ending, a death of sorts, and so it was grieved, but it was easier to see the new that it was making room for.

But sometimes the new is hidden. Some change is so devestating, it can only be thought of as death at the time. It may be a physical death of a loved one, a divorce, a betrayal, a job loss, an upheaval. These things don’t feel like the ebb and flow of progress. They feel like the end of life. They feel like the dark brown dead leaves trampled under foot, it feels like darkness when you wake, and darkness when you head home. It feels like winter.

A few years ago my wife and I lost a child in the second trimester of pregnancy. And then it happened a second time a year later. We named those children, marked their death, and began to mourn.

Those deaths, signaled another unexpected death. The death of our old life.

Sometimes, we tried to go back to our old life. But it was gone. Like trying to come back to a house that you’ve moved out of. You walk up the steps of the landing, reach for the doorknob, but it won’t open to you. Even if the door is unlocked, the house you walk into is no longer your own.

What do you do when your old life is dead? You start living a new life (whether you know it or not, admit it or not). A new life that includes the excruciating event you both went through. Maybe you stay at the same place you lived, maybe you stay in the same jobs you worked previously, maybe you have the same friends and family. But you have changed, and so everything has changed.

It took a long time for me to admit that my old life was dead. Like that person who insists on wearing shorts in December, I was in denial that the seasons had changed.

When I finally did admit that the old life was dead, I began to grieve it, as well. White hot seething anger, unexpectedly crying at both the best and worst moments, both needing loved ones and withdrawing from them, and eventually  identifying and making peace with a deep sadness within me.

If someone were to tell me in those dark and cold days that everything was going to be alright, that spring was just around the corner, I might want to punch that person. Because the awful, the Earth shaking, the dream stealing losses in our lives need to be mourned. We do ourselves no favours being dishonest with ourselves, denying or suppressing the winter of our hearts.

But hidden from my eyes, in my grief, in my anger, death was planting something new. It grew without my awareness, often certainly without my permission. It grew under snow. And then suddenly something new appears, like the first crocus peeking through the snow. The first signs of life where you only expected, and accepted, death.

In the midst of my winter, a friend expressed that his hope for me was that I would come to see all of the events of my life, including our losses, with thankfulness.

I wanted to punch that person then, too. It seems cruel, and disingenuous to ever consider something so horrific with thankfulness.

But I live with the paradox that without the death, the person I am now would simply not exist. Death was planting within me a new way of experiencing heartbreak, and also a new way of identifying with those who are suffering (psst – that’s all of us). Death showed me what it was to greive and grow towards another with whom you are simultaneously both unified with and separate from. Death freed me to challenge the way I thought about the Devine, to rage against and eventually forgive God, and then myself, for the failings of my previous certainties.

Simply put, death was planting a new way to think about everything. And for that I am thankful.

Every week Facebook mocks me.

To support this blog and hopefully develop some conversation around some of the bigger subjects, there is a “something from everything” Facebook group, which basically just alerts members when I’ve finally posted something on the website.

Each week Facebook offers helpful behind the scenes insights. How considerate of them! How many people clicked that link!? Who scrolled through your website!? Who hovered over the article and then remembered that Facebook is the productivity killer and closed the window?

Recently, it’s been a bit of a broken record. “No new likes this week! Post something you lazy writer!” (or something like that). It’s all there, encouragement and shame, along with Facebook’s incredibly generous offer to ‘boost’ my posts and introduce it to new audiences. For a small fee.

Now, no disrespect to Facebook and that particular business model. A friend of mine in marketing once related to me that for all his marketing magic and skill set, there is still a direct correlation between money spent and eyeballs seeing a thing. This is no different.

If fact, if I was selling a thing, then I’d really want to know about these metrics!

Let’s say I had a home based business. Let’s say I had a big hairy dog that loses about half his weight in fur every couple of months. Let’s say I decided to make miniature knitted doggie dopplegangers out of the excess shedding. And let’s say I wanted to sell this disgusting (and intriguing!) abomination.

(By the way, this is one thing I love about the internet. When I first wrote that line about making a dog-hair miniture, I didn’t know it was a thing. But then I searched for it, and of course it is…)

I might want to study all the variances on likes and clicks and appropriate keywords. And I’d be all over a chance to boost my exposure. Maybe people don’t know that you can make things out of your dog’s disgusting discarded excess hair. Maybe I don’t know how much a fine product like that would be worth, or how big the audience is for such a conversation starter. In that case, would happily exchange money for eyeballs…

…And then dog hair for money.

Writing is a bit different. When I’m staring at a metric constantly reminding me that my group hasn’t gotten any likes this week, a few (or a lot) more eyeballs seems attractive. But why? What’s the end result? A few more likes? A few more comments? All of that is appealing, but not important. And when you’re bombarded with the wrong metrics, that can be easy to forget.

There are a lot of other examples of looking to the wrong metric, but I’ll focus on another one on Facebook.

A few years ago I tried to get a book club together. It was born out of very similar desires as this blog. Gather some friends around some big topics, try to engage in some honest conversation. I picked a book that was shooting for the stars, asking the question of how to become wise. How to take that wisdom and live a life that mattered. I set up a schedule with questions we could answer. I set up an online group page where we could interact with each other’s comments. And at the conclusion I figured we could get together over a meal to celebrate and discuss in person.

It all fell flat. An online forum of some, then one. (You might notice the preceding paragraph had a lot of “I” s in it.)

It took me another full year to finish that book. It was great (still is), but I was soured. Soured by the whole en devour falling flat.

In my frustration, I vented to a close friend. He didn’t console me (strangely, few of my friends massage my bruised ego…)

“Why should people care about your thing?” he said (a little bluntly). “People are overwhelmed with their own stuff, why should they pile on yours’?”

Like many unwanted truths, this was of little value at the time.

Time though, would show him to be correct. Everyone did have their own stuff going on that summer. Everyone was (and is) busy. And the value of something is very much in the eye of the beholder, and very much in the beholder’s valuation at that moment.

What’s interesting for me is how I stopped reading that book. The book’s quality didn’t change. When I sat down with it I was highlighting whole paragraphs (dangerous work, that – all the pages get coloured yellow), writing in margins, talking about it with anyone who would listen.

But my metric of success was starting a thing. Online discussion around a book and group of topics I had a lot of interest in. My metric could have been simply enjoying the book and looking for the wisdom it could speak into my life. But I valued the former and neglected the latter.

Currently I’m listening to a recording with Parker Palmer, the Quaker activist, writer and speaker. Though technically an audiobook, it’s really just hours of conversation with Parker and his interviewer. Early in the conversation, Parker relays one of his favorite wisdom teachings from a Taoist in 200 BC. He relays the story of a wood carver who is asked by a prince to create a great wooden sculpture to suspend the village bell from.

The village bell is an object of great value, beauty and ceremonial worth. The wood carver has over 50 years of experience, and is the best of his trade, but he is afraid at the summons to create such a thing. He withdraws from the village, and when he returns with the sculpture, it is a work of such beauty that the people accuse the spirits of doing the work for him, judging that no human hand could produce such work.

In explanation, the wood carver simply stated that he went away, and committed to free himself  of the desire for gain or success, praise or blame. He withdrew and fasted until he was collected by the single image of the carving in his mind, and then went into the forest to see trees in their natural state, to find the willing partner that contained such a sculpture within it.

(or at least that is my third hand account of the tale, Parker Palmer is relating this from memory during the interview).

Parker Palmer speaks of this concept as the work before the work. The internal work of getting ready. He identifies that the wood carver strips everything away that doesn’t belong in himself, long before he picks up the chisel and begins to strip away the wood.

And this brings me back to the wrong metric. The wrong metric can be a lot of things, and I’m willing to bet that they are almost always more accessible than the right metrics. I’d even go as far as to say that the right metrics are often hard to discern. For the wood carver, the wrong metrics would include trying to recreate a similar sculpture to one he had completed in the past, or a design that he feels would please the prince. The wrong metrics actually include a vast number of things, but the carver cuts through all those potential missteps by preparing himself. His desire for gain or success, praise or avoidance of blame, these are the wrong metrics, and he knows it.

And that’s why the ticker on facebook, or the empty book study forum are the wrong metrics. Because behind them is the desire for gain and success, praise or avoidance of blame. In both cases I wanted to create a beautiful carving, but I didn’t strip away everything that doesn’t belong from myself first. I didn’t do a good job of work before the work.

Now obviously you can run in circles with preparation. ‘The work before the work’ is a big concept, and everyone needs to start somewhere.

Emptying yourself of the desire for gain and success, praise or blame is a life’s work. But it is a good north star.

And failures make great teachers.