Keep Going

There is no secret.
Keep going.

{@Oiselle}


It’s easy to chase the silver bullet, the guru, the program, the process, the event, the equation, the one missing piece that will bring everything together and lay before you the clear path on which you will glide through your life.

A couple of times each semester I bring in a guest speaker to talk with my undergraduate students. I bring them in because of their particular expertise, of course, but my secret agenda is to provide my students with more examples of non-linear paths to “success.”

Everyone I know who has achieved his or her definition of that word has done so in a way that defies logical explanation. They have done it for one clear and simple reason; they learned and decided to keep moving forward, to say “yes” to new experiences, along with an occasional “no” to what no longer served them.

In other words, they kept going. They keep going. And that’s what sets them apart.

There is a path for each of us. At its trailhead stands a marker and on that marker is your name. Along the way it is neither clearly marked, nor easily traveled. In fact it is often difficult, stretching out over terrain for which you feel ill equipped and unqualified.

And this is how you know it is yours.

Keep going.


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People Hugger

fullsizeoutput_2528My dad was a tree hugger. Not an environmentalist and not a demonstrator, but someone who so loved trees that he would occasionally depart the trail and hug one.

I find myself following in his footsteps. And while I may not be quite as demonstrative about it as he was, when I see one that wants to hug me back, I’m not going to miss the chance.

Sometimes, if we wander enough, explore enough, stay open enough, we get lucky; we stumble upon a reminder that the world, both natural and otherwise, is waiting to embrace us.

At that moment I can think of no better response than to step in and receive it.


 

The Return

You pack, you clean, you toss, you save, you bid fond farewells with new commitments made.

You drive, you wait, you board, you cross, you watch.

You wait for the other side.

You are going home now, to the same but different place. They are not the same, it is not the same. You are not the same.

How can you be? There is no stopping in our separateness, there is only growth that we cannot see.

Until, at last, we are home again and with eyes and hearts enlarged by renewal, saddened by departure and energized by return, we take in what has become.

To feel this – all of it – is to be alive.


 

Shaped, and Shaped Again

“We shape our self to fit this world and by the world are shaped again.”
{David Whyte}


fullsizeoutput_24fcThere is a dance we all must do. It is the dance of forming ourselves well enough to meet the requirements of our lives while also allowing ourselves to be formed by those same forces.

Those requirements, those forces, are not static, linear or concrete. Those forces are dynamic and fluid, most often we call them other people.

It is a deeply vulnerable act to willingly, as an accomplished and self-assured adult, allow others to use the tools of their dynamic selves to transform our own soft clay into something even more beautiful.

To trust the possibility of that happening is to trust those people, first of all. And as we know, that only happens when we create the space, the time and commit the energy to building a reservoir of trust that is filled by our mutual offerings.

A question to consider is this: do I allow myself to remain soft enough that I am able to be formed? And another: do I cultivate relationships with people whose forming power I can deeply trust and who are open to receiving my own?


Offered with affection for Tom, Molly, Kyle, Alia and Theresa.

At Midday

At midday, the tender needles
of the Douglas fir cradle rain drops
not yet stolen by the sun.

A brush of the hand and they are yours,
diamonds dripping from your fingers.

By touch or time, by gusts of wind from below
the sloping hill, they must, against my longing,
fall to the earth.

It is evening now, and I hold a secret wish
that in those unseen places,
away from touch and sun and wind,
some drops remain.

But I cannot know for sure.

I am not there, and I dried my hands long ago.

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Brokenness Aside

broken tree growth

Please look at the upper left section of this photograph. Please notice that the branch you see in the foreground is the same branch that has not quite snapped off of the tree. Please also notice that this broken limb is sprouting many healthy shoots, new branches well on their way.

This branch is not whole but it remains connected. And the connection that remains is enough to provide the nutrients necessary for new growth.

You are broken in places, and I am too. Our breaks do not define us unless we choose to let them. Our breaks, if we let them teach us, make us more resilient and more committed to find a way to grow, to make life happen in ways we could not have otherwise imagined.

Do not lose heart in the presence of your brokenness. Take comfort; this is your moment to shine.

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Lost With a Map

Whidbey MapSeth Godin published a brief, excellent piece this morning called The Thing About Maps:

“Sometimes, when we’re lost, we refuse a map, even when offered. 

Because the map reminds us that we made a mistake. That we were wrong.

But without a map, we’re not just wrong, but we’re also still lost.

A map doesn’t automatically get you home, but it will probably make you less lost. 

(When dealing with the unknown, it’s difficult to admit that there might not be a map. In those cases, a compass is essential, a way to remind yourself of your true north…)”

His writing took me back to a series of October mornings in 2014 which I wrote about in the early pages of my bookA More Daring Life: Finding Voice at the Crossroads of ChangeI hope you enjoy this excerpt and that it inspires a bigger conversation about how you navigate the unknown.

~~~

For just a moment, I considered staying in bed. It was 6:15 a.m. and my commitment to getting out for an early hike was being tested by the darkness of the hour. A peek out the window had me convinced it was the dead of night and the thrumming rain only strengthened my impulse to hunker down for a little more sleep.

I was in a cabin on the grounds of the Whidbey Institute in Washington State, a property crisscrossed by forest paths I had first seen in the light of day the previous afternoon. During that well-lit walk in the woods, I realized with satisfaction that the trails would provide an ideal way for me to get some exercise each morning of the leadership conference that I had traveled here to attend.

But once I’m up, I’m up. And I can be a stubborn guy when it comes to changing my plans. Dismissing the darkness, the rain, and my embarrassingly limited knowledge about the property, I got ready to go.

A trail map in one pocket and a small flashlight in hand, I headed down the lane with my usual confidence and a focus on completion. I might as well have taken along a candle and a fortune cookie, so closed-off was I to any form of help. With huge drops of water tumbling from the pine trees above and mud squishing under my heels, I was enthralled by the moment and blind to my arrogance. I had concluded in reviewing the trail map that by navigating the intersecting trails in just the right way I could construct a three-mile loop that would maximize the uphill climbs. It was this loop I was seeking as I crashed into the darkness, assuming that what made sense on paper would materialize before my eyes. It did not, and I got lost. Again and again I was forced to stop, frustrated and breathless, so that I could reorient to the path. I did not complete the route I set out to do. I was lucky to get back in time for breakfast.

On the second morning, I was smarter but no wiser. I was not ready to do the essential thing required of walking in this unknown forest in the darkness: to slow down and notice. I would not let go of my head’s agenda, still believing that I could just figure it out along the way. I backtracked multiple times, misread the map, and found myself at the end of a trail in an open field next to a school. It was one of many recalculations that only took me farther off course.

On the third day, in what I believed was my growing humility, I committed to a different approach. I took the flashlight along but left the trail map in my room. I reasoned that this would leave me no choice but to rely on presence. I would have to notice what was around and available to me at a given moment. I would have to slow down to see the trail markers and to recognize aspects of the landscape I had seen before and could use for guidance.

I got lost again.

This time, I was incredulous. Although I had good intentions, my actual choices did not back them up. I wanted to slow down, but I just wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t let go of my head’s need for completion and achievement. As I contemplated the perilously steep incline of my learning curve, I shuddered to think how a fourth encounter would have gone. My saving grace was the reality of scheduling and a return flight home.

I like to think I would have finally “discovered” the forest in the way that it was so patiently waiting for me to do. I like to think I would have taken care with my time and energy to assess and clarify the best path. Perhaps in a few days (weeks?) something would have shifted. Some new awareness born of the repetition of my obstinacy might have emerged, and little by little I might have started to learn. Perhaps.

I recognize that this kind of insistence – a stubborn refusal to accept the reality of my circumstances – says an awful lot about my particular makeup. I also know that I am not alone in this. What I see, as those who are most afflicted are best equipped to do, is a raft of leaders continuing to do things that no longer make sense. We are operating under radically different conditions than we are used to and we are ignoring the resources at our disposal. We are acting more like heroes on whose shoulders all responsibility must fall rather than like learners who are vigilant in their curiosity.

Doing the same thing, only faster, is an insufficient response to complexity and change. We have to make a different choice in the face of the unknown. We may, finally, just have to stop and get our bearings, about as radical a thing we can do in a world that is constantly on “go.” Coming to a standstill has a way of getting our attention in a new way. What might happen if we stopped long enough and frequently enough to get a deeper understanding of ourselves?

What might happen if we made just enough space for a new conversation about why we are so insistent on continuing down paths that no longer serve us?

DAVID BERRY is the author of “A More Daring Life: Finding Voice at the Crossroads of Change” and the founder of RULE13 Learning. He speaks and writes about the complexity of leading in a changing world.