Category Archives: Autobiographical

What Are You Running Out Of Time To Do?

“They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.”― Andy Warhol, The Philosophy of Andy Warhol

“A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.”― Charles Darwin, The Life & Letters of Charles Darwin

Hello friend,

I just returned from a wonderful trip with my wife and kids to New York City.  After walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, ferrying to the Statue of Liberty, absorbing the sobering power of the 9/11 Museum & Memorial, strolling Central Park, taking in a Broadway show, and gazing out over all of it from the 93rd floor of a skyscraper, you know what I felt the most when we arrived back home from this grand adventure?

RELIEF.

Yes, relief.  Not because it was stressful to lead three people around a massive and hectic (and stinky) city they knew nothing about.  Not because I needed to be sure two teenagers stayed entertained and as minimally teenagerish as possible.  Not because we got stuck there two extra days with a dwindling supply of money and clean clothes (and perhaps patience).  And not even because I am not a big fan of crowds and airplane travel.  No, I felt this overwhelming sense of relief after the trip simply because we finally had a major family memory imprinted on us for life.

You see, I’m running out of time.  My kids just turned 16 and 14 and I am beginning to freak out about losing them to adulthood and faraway lands and significant others.  It’s not just that I love this fatherhood thing so much and can’t imagine how I will go on without them around every day—though that part is truly killing me—but rather that I feel this intense need for them to take with them out into the world the most beautiful and heart-warming memories about their childhoods.  I just don’t have any time left to waste.

If another whole Summer had passed without a serious core-memory-maker for my kids, I don’t think I could have managed my disappointment in myself.  It had been weighing on me for what felt like forever.  I like the idea of providing them with a unique Summer adventure that they will remember forever.  I think, memory-wise, it makes for a nice complement to annual destinations that they can count on.  So I have been quite disciplined about doing ritual family trips to visit family at lakes in Minnesota, beaches in Florida, and frozen tundras in North Dakota.  And I had been on the hunt for another grand outlier.

I love that when I look back to the halcyon days of my youth, I can say things like, “We always went to my cousin’s rustic cabin at the lake in the Summer,” or, “We always stayed at my grandparents’ house on weekends.”  Honestly, I don’t have a clue how often we were really there, but the way it imprinted on my mind at that age, it felt like we were always taking those visits.  The thought brings a smile to my face, no matter how accurate it is.

Complementing those regular trips to the town two hours away where my parents grew up and all of my extended family seemed to live, my mind clings to the idea of a couple of big Summer road trips we took with my Mom in the family van during my elementary school years.  One was to Nashville and one was to Boston.  My Dad had a convention and would fly into the city, leaving my poor Mom to command the traveling circus of five kids across the country, hopped up on Coke (Mom) and Mello Yello (kids).  FIVE KIDS!  Could she possibly have enjoyed it???  I cannot imagine the stress of managing the five of us in a car going across town, much less the COUNTRY!   A small-town lady about five feet tall accustomed to gravel roads or two-lane highways rolling through Chicago, finding campgrounds in the middle of nowhere in the dark of night, and then pulling up to the fancy hotel in downtown Boston with five feral children tumbling out of the car hoping my old man would be there to meet us.  It is mind-blowing to me, and I would love to know if she found it worth the headache.  But my goodness, when I think back to those trips, even though the specifics are hazy, I have nothing but a happy glow around all of the memories.  I am so, so grateful that we did that together as a family while we had the chance.

That happy glow is exactly why I am so pressed to get these core memories formed in my children’s minds.  I want them to look back glowingly not just about the ritual family spots but also the signature Summer adventures.  Five years ago, when it seemed like they were finally able to really roadtrip (as a verb), we took a giant, 15-day drive out to the mountains and camped in Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks.  It was the best!  Not realizing how quickly they were going to grow up, I didn’t feel so much urgency to plan the next big one.  Finally a couple of years ago, we loaded up the car again for another big one centered around Washington, DC.  Again, amazing.  So much family bonding and signature memories.  Last Summer I surrendered to the idea of doing a trip just with my wife for our 20th anniversary.  While it was so much fun, the unfortunate effect was that it ate up the Summer’s vacation days and dollars.

That set me up for the sudden existential panic that came over me this Spring when I realized that we probably only had two Summers left with the four of us all together.  After my pleading with Father Time to stop his wicked game showed no signs of success, it struck me like a slap in the face the urgency to get a major memory-maker on the books.  I knew that if I failed to finish this parenting-of-children thing strongly, I would regret it for the rest of my life (which I am also trying to finish strongly, with only slightly less urgency).  After months of vague discussions about possible destinations (the Northeast?  the Canadian Rockies?  the Pacific Northwest?), Summer arrived without anything firm.  My panic deepened and added a terrible layer or DREAD.  What if we don’t do something the kids will always remember?  What if I am not demonstrating to them just how important family and adventures (and family adventures) are?  Will they not have their childhoods bathed in that happy glow I still have when I think of mine?

I carried the dread of those questions not just through the booking of the trip but all through the planning.  I tried to leave it there, knowing I did my best to plan a great trip for all of us.  But I realized when we finally got home that I had carried a bit of the dread with me even across the Brooklyn Bridge, to the Statue of Liberty, through the museums and up Broadway to Central Park, and all the way to the top of the skyscraper.  It was only when it was all over and it seemed that everyone had had fun and made good memories that I finally let it go.

For a moment.

Of course, now I am thinking about it again and realizing that Father Time kept playing while we were gone.  Now I have even less time to play with my kids and to make magic.  I realize that I will feel that Tick-Tick-Tick increasing its speed with each passing month until they are gone.  The pressure to both savor every moment and do all of the best stuff with them will only grow.  There is no use kidding myself.  College is two years from now.  I’m on the clock.  I better nail this.

This acknowledgment of my stress and dread about the countdown to college and maximizing my time has me thinking about the many forms this curse takes in the course of a lifetime.  I suppose most of us feel some version of this urgency to do something before it’s too late.

The biggest regret I can think of from my childhood is not going out for the high school basketball team even though I loved the sport and my friends played.  I had been a hockey player through middle school and when I decided to stop that, I secretly fantasized about becoming a basketball player.  However, every year from 9th grade onward, when it came time to try out for the team, I told myself that it was too late, that these kids had been playing since elementary school.  No parent or coach ever asked me if I was interested or nudged me to do it, and I took my secret with me all the way through school, all the time pining to play.  When I think back to that time, I wasn’t too late in 9th grade and maybe not in 10th—I was a good enough athlete to catch right up—but I didn’t believe that.  I thought I had missed the deadline for starting and it really ate at me.  I think I have been keenly aware of the vanishing nature of time and opportunities ever since.

I think of my kids in high school and their friends, being embarrassed if they got a phone after everyone else or whether they might be the last one to get a girlfriend or boyfriend.  I think about couples struggling with fertility, wondering if they are becoming too old to become pregnant or if their future child, however it might arrive, will be embarrassed that its parents are so old.  I wonder about the estranged parent who thinks if they wait any longer to reach out, they may never again get a chance to have a relationship with their kids.  I think about the person with substance abuse or other mental health problems who may not be able to make it much longer if they don’t ask for help.  I wonder about, for all the time I spend thinking about a pivot in my career, at what point it will actually become too late to make one.  I often think about my parents, both hovering around 80, wondering how much confidence they have left in their abilities to be adventurous and what things they are urgent to get to before they are truly out of time.

Based on my current trajectory, I cannot imagine that this issue becomes less urgent with age.  I understand that we are all built differently and that some things that stress me may not be of much concern to you.  It just feels like this is one thing that touches all of our lives at one point or another, and for some of us (me) at all points in our lives.  I seem to be constantly aware of Time and how I am using my allotment of it, particularly how much Beauty and Wonder I can squeeze out of what little I have left.  There just never seems to be enough for me to do it all.

How about you?  At this point in your timeline, what is the thing you feel like you are running out of time to complete?  Open up your journal and explore the distance between where you are and where you want to be?  How much time would it require to take the steps necessary to get you to that destination?  Is it a long process or just a simple step that you have merely been putting off?  How big is your window of time for this project?  Will it close rapidly?  How do you think you would feel if you missed it?  Can you live with that?  What are the potential upcoming milestone-type events in your life?  Marriage?  Child-bearing?  Relocation?  Career change?  Divorce?  Lifestyle change?  Empty nest?  Retirement?  Loss of mobility?  Death?  Is it these larger life events that you seem to be racing against when it comes to your To-Do List, or is it more subtle or personal markers?  Are there things you feel you need to do before you can feel fulfilled?  What is keeping you from taking the necessary steps?  Is it money, lack of time, fear, something else?  What small thing could you do today that might create momentum in the direction you need to go?  In the end of your life, do you think you would regret more trying to get this done and failing, or not trying at all and never knowing whether or not you could have made it happen?  Are you willing to live with that regret?  How quickly do you believe you can change your situation or the path of your life?  Do you feel this urgency increase or decrease the older you get?  Leave me a reply and let me know: What are you running out of time to do?

Keep taking steps,

William

P.S. If this topic resonated with you today, please share it with your people.  Let’s support each other in becoming the best version of ourselves, one brave act at a time.

P.P.S. If this way of examining your life appeals to you, consider buying my book, Journal of YOU: Uncovering The Beauty That Is Your Truth, at your favorite online retailers.  Namaste.

All The Things You Thought You Were (But Really Weren’t)…

“It’s like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story.” –Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind

“When I discover who I am, I’ll be free.” –Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

I have been on a photography kick for the last year or so.  I have always liked taking pictures and wished I knew more about how to make good ones, but this year I have started to take it more seriously.  I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed with it–not yet anyway–but I am definitely fascinated and absolutely eager to learn everything I can about it.  It’s an artform that I really connect with.  I want to think I have it in me, too.  I would love to one day feel like a “real” photographer, able to create jaw-dropping images of the people and places in my world.  Full disclosure: my current fantasy is not just to feel like a professional; it’s to be one.  I daydream about people hiring me to take their portraits or buying my photos for the walls of their homes.  The thought of it gets me all stirred up inside.

Here’s the kicker, though: becoming a “real” photographer requires not only the talent for it and the time to invest in learning the art and science, but also many thousands of dollars for the equipment to try.

Whoa!  Time to pump the breaks!

I am such a cheapskate!  I can’t stand the idea of spending what little “extra” money I have, especially not while I have people depending on me for food and shelter, not to mention fees for sports and the prospect of college in the near future.  How dare I think of blowing cash on myself?  Especially for something as decadent as multi-thousand-dollar art supplies?  It just feels greedy and irresponsible to splurge on something I can’t even be sure I will make happen.

I mean, it feels right to me now.  It’s giving my belly all the tingles and my brain a flood of fantasies.  I can really see myself doing this and loving it.  HOWEVER—ugh, I hate the however—I know I need to check myself.  I am aware that I have a tendency to get excited about stuff, especially my kind of stuff—adventures, art, physical activity, mindfulness, self-improvement, etc.—and allow my mind to run away with fantasies of an entire lifestyle of whatever that thing is.  I realize that I can get sucked into an Inspiration Du Jour.  I own that.  So when I really get into something new that feels oh-so-exciting and potentially fulfilling, I have to remind myself I have been here before.  A few times.

When I was in my twenties, I read so many books.  I loved books!  But not only did I love them, I thought I should own all of them.  I fancied the idea of owning all of the classics, leather-bound.  I would line my walls with bookshelves and fill them all from floor to ceiling.  And of course I would read them all.  And not just the classics but every book in the genres I was into at the time.  Every sacred religious text, every book of modern spirituality.  Every great work of philosophy and poetry.  Biographies, too, of course, and works of history.   I liked dictionaries and thesauruses, too, as well as books of quotations and idioms.  I wanted them all.

And now?  I am SO GLAD I did not buy them or commit to reading them all!  I would be thoroughly disappointed in myself.  The book collector and nonstop reader idea matches up beautifully with someone who has neither children nor other major hobbies or obligations (like a job!).  I still think it is a romantic idea, and it may be perfect for someone with a lot of extra time, space, and money.  I don’t have any of those things, so it wouldn’t be a good fit.  I never stopped loving books, though.  Now I mostly just get mine from my library’s app, though, and read for a few minutes in bed before I fall asleep.  I thought I was a book collector and devourer.  I was wrong.

That is a lifestyle/hobby example, which is significant. But it doesn’t feel like as big a miss as those involving a career.  I don’t know which category the photography thing will end up falling into, but if it is the career misfire, I’ve already been down that road, too.

About a decade ago, when I was ready to transition out of coaching tennis professionally, I became quite excited about the idea of becoming a life coach.  I had thought seriously about becoming a psychologist when I was in college (and still believe that would have been a solid choice for me), but ultimately I went a different direction.  But what I liked—and still like—about the concept of life coaching over therapy is dealing with “well” folks who aren’t looking to have their problems solved but just need someone to help make the path to their goals more clear and manageable.  They want to go from good to great.  That gets me charged up.  Like therapy, though, life coaching is one-on-one and highly focused on going deep with a person, which suits my personality beautifully.

I enrolled in course work and was fully engaged, doing lots of practice coaching sessions with my classmates and other volunteers.  I found I had a real knack for it and enjoyed being a part of someone else’s progress toward their goals, similar to the reason I loved coaching tennis.  I believed I was making the world a better place, too, which is important to me.  It felt like a perfect fit.  I was into it!  I believed this was going to be a smooth transition into my next career that I would ride all the way to retirement.

NOPE.

It turned out I was missing one important piece of the professional life coach’s toolkit: salesmanship.  Life coaching isn’t covered by insurance, and doctors aren’t sending patients to coaches like they are to physical therapists or other specialists.  There is no pipeline of clients banging down your door once you put your new website online.  These folks are independent contractors, so they have to attract each client to them, convincing them of the value of coaching.  You have to be willing to put yourself out there, strike up conversations with strangers about your skills, have an elevator pitch, and all of that kind of stuff.  And because lots of regular people don’t really know what a life coach even is or what they do, it puts extra emphasis on the salesmanship element.  I quickly realized that no matter how well I thought I could do the coaching, if I wasn’t willing and able to do the selling, I was not going to be a life coach.

STRIKEOUT.

Just telling that story bums me out, because it really felt like the right thing for me.  And not doing it obviously shaped the course of my life in a major way.  I wish I had been right.

I’ve been wrong about less consequential things, though, too.  When I was in my early twenties, I developed a great love for the mountains and camping in the great outdoors.  I was so happy to be out on a hike in the wilderness or sitting by a campfire looking up at the magnificence of the night sky before zipping myself into my sleeping bag in the tent, listening to the sound of the forest as I drifted off with a grateful smile on my face.  I was an outdoorsman!  And I was right about that—hooray!

But then I met my less outdoorsy wife and got busy with little kids in suburbia.  When I believed they were finally ready, I planned an epic family adventure during which we would camp in the spartan national park campgrounds at Yellowstone and Glacier.  We would do it like proper outdoorspeople: prepare our own food outside and sleep in the tent.  I bought all the gear and supplies, as though this was our new lifestyle.  And we all did it!  It was great, our best trip yet.  So of course, I was sure we had just become a camping family.  My wife and kids would be begging for trips to the national parks, and we would know the tent sites and hiking trails all over this beautiful country.  I was thrilled! I would be communing with Mother Nature again and I could pass it all down to my kids.  A legacy of campers!

NEGATIVE.

We haven’t camped as a whole family since, and the gear is collecting dust in the attic.  No one is begging me for more nights in the tent or tough mountain hikes.  I still hold out hope that they will come on another big adventure with me to the Tetons or Sierras, but I have a feeling we will need to rent a cabin or hotel room and eat at restaurants rather than by the fire.  I was wrong again!

I’ve always been fascinated by vision boards.  You know, getting a piece of posterboard and then searching through magazines or the Internet to cut out pictures or words that speak to you about who you want to become.  The resulting collage strikes me as so inspirational and a good reminder of what you are striving for.  I love looking at them.  I’ve never made a vision board.  I bet if I had at any point along my journey, many of the pictures or words I pasted on my board would have been proven flat wrong by the way I have lived my life.  That seems weird to me.  I tend to think most people’s paths are much steadier than mine, much less erratic.

This is not to say I have never been right about who I am and what I ought to do, even if I no longer do that specific thing directly anymore.  I have always been a coach, even if I no longer do it as a full-time job.  Any time I drive by a tennis court at a local park, I still feel the pull to give someone a stroke tip or some encouragement.  Even though I no longer act on stage, I still feel that artform inside of me and would surely be delighted to find some role in a community theatre production when I have the time.  Even though I write these letters to you much less often than I used to or than I would prefer, I still know deep down in my soul that I am a writer and always will be.

Maybe my disconnect is about distinguishing between what I love to do, what I do well, and what I can reasonably sustain as a career.  I have shown a propensity for believing I ought to make a career out of things I love to do, especially if they involve being some sort of artist.  I guess that’s where I am right now with this new fascination with photography.  I know I enjoy it and that it scratches my creative itch.  I know I am eager to learn everything I can about it.  I know it plays into my ideals of setting my own schedule, being my own boss, working alone (in some cases), getting to be outside for parts of the day, and producing something people will enjoy or be inspired by.  All of those things are great.   But can I???  Will I be able to learn enough of the technical skills to become competent?  Am I gifted enough in the artistry of it to make my images worth paying for?  And, perhaps most crucial given my track record with entrepreneurism and salesmanship, do I have the marketing and business savvy to actually create a functioning business out of it?  If the answer to any of these is NO, well, then I am wrong again about the thing I imagined myself to be.

But is being wrong about this actually so wrong?  I mean, if I never become the professional photographer of my recent fantasies, I will still be a guy who loves taking photos.  There are thousands of people who do that as their hobby and are deeply fulfilled by it.  They plan trips around it.  They save their pennies to get new equipment, which is endlessly exhilarating.  They take family photos as favors to their friends.  That is all positive stuff.  It’s a different lane than what I have envisioned, but still beautiful.

Also, and only in this moment am I truly seeing this as a golden truth, just getting excited about being something new and different is its own kind of magical gift.  It’s like falling in love.  There’s that giddiness and thrill of this brilliant novelty that you can’t wait to do everything with.  You generate all sorts of fantasies in your mind about how wonderful it will all be.  The dopamine rush of it all is the best thing in the world.  It’s truly intoxicating.  Does it work out in the end?  Not usually.  Does the disappointment of that hurt so much that you swear you will never do it again?  Maybe.  But is that sheer joy and the anticipation of coming magic worth feeling over and over again?  Absolutely!

So, I guess being wrong about who you thought you would be or what you thought you would be doing isn’t the worst thing.  Sure, it can be disappointing.  And it can be hard to find your way back into balance after striking out on a lifestyle you thought was meant for you.  But think of all that curiosity you get to quell by giving it a shot.  Think of all the different things you can become pretty knowledgeable about.  Think about all the fascinating people you meet by diving into a new space.  Think of the courage you gain by trying something new.  Think of all the things you learn about yourself in that trying, and even in the subsequent “failing” or course-correction.  And definitely think about the privilege of getting to the end of your life with no regrets, no What-Ifs.  That is a priceless gift you can only give to yourself.

I don’t know how many more of these “I think I’m going to be a…” I will cycle through before I die.  Probably several.  I’m guessing most people go through a handful of them in their young adulthood and then fewer and fewer as they age, but I seem to keep churning them out.  Perhaps it means I am just not satisfied yet, that I haven’t found the thing I am supposed to be doing.  Maybe it means that I am incapable of sitting still for long, incapable of being satisfied by any one thing.  I don’t know.  I just get the feeling that I am meant to keep learning and growing and discovering everything I can about this world and everything it has to offer.  One of the hazards of this inclination is that I fall in love quite frequently, with things like psychology, self-discovery, travel, music, journaling, acting, spirituality, tennis, philosophy, writing, the outdoors, movies, books, coaching, and now photography.  And even if I can’t claim to be an afficionado in more than a few of those pursuits, each one has taken its turn filling my life with such magic and inspiration.  Even if they didn’t turn out to be “Who I Am” for the rest of my life, I wouldn’t remove any of them from my journey.  And I can hardly wait to see what magnificent pursuit will captivate me next, even if I’m pretty sure it will ultimately slide onto the back burner.  I’ve been wrong about myself before.  It won’t stop me from diving in again.

How about you?  What are all the things you thought you were but simply weren’t?  Open up your journal and tell your life stories.  What things have gotten your fantasies popping with visions of your future?  What kind of career field have you been pretty sure you were headed into?  Did it start with the “What do you want to be when you grow up?” question from childhood?  What did you believe your future looked like way back then?  What was your job going to be?  What else would you be involved in?  Did you picture your family situation?  How long did you hold onto your childhood fantasies before adapting to the natural changes that come with maturity and adulthood?  How many different career paths have you gotten excited about over the years?  Of those, how many remained only in your imagination, and how many did you actually put some time and effort into exploring?  If you look at your employment history, would you say you have had multiple careers or just one career (possibly with multiple different jobs)?  Are you currently in the field that you once daydreamed about?  How close are you to that?  Has it met your expectations?  If you are not doing what you dreamt of, why not?  Are you still hoping to go for it one day?  Is the thing you wish you were doing a reasonable option or something that would be highly unlikely for someone of your talents and means?  Can you still do something like it as a hobby?  Would that still be fulfilling to you?  What other hobbies or passion projects have you imagined that you would take on?  Have you fantasized about getting into the arts in some way, like becoming a musician or a painter?  Have you dreamt of building things?  Do you see yourself as a someone who volunteers their time for worthy causes?  Have you wanted to be a mentor to someone?  Do you have aspirations to run races or do a triathlon?  Do you imagine your body looking a different way?  Is there a lifestyle change you think would be perfect for you, like traveling or outdoor adventure or a religious commitment?  How many significant changes have you undergone along your journey regarding who you think you are or what you do with your time?  Did you change more often when you were younger, or has your rate of change been fairly consistent over time?  Do you think your lifestyle is more or less stable than the other people in your life?  What do you attribute that to?  If you aren’t fully satisfied with your current lot, do you have any ideas brewing in your mind about what else you might do for fulfillment?  Which ones excite you the most?  How reasonable are the options?  Which are you most likely to take a chance on?  Of all the different ways you have lived to this point, which suited you the most?  What about the least?  Have you been pretty close most of the time?  Do you see each new effort to fulfill a fantasy as a gift—like falling in love is a gift–even if it doesn’t stand the test of time?  Leave me a reply and let me know: Of all the things you once thought you were, how many have you been wrong about?

Keep diving,

William

P.S. If this letter resonated with you today, please share it with your community.  Let’s talk about this stuff!

P.P.S.  If this way of introspection appeals to you, I encourage you to buy my book, Journal of YOU: Uncovering The Beauty That Is Your Truth, at your favorite online booksellers.

What To Cut? The Urgency of a Short Life

“How did it get so late so soon?” –Dr. Seuss

“A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.” –Charles Darwin

I was recently “invited” to a meeting at my place of work to discuss work matters with my coworkers and a superior.  The twin catches were that 1) it was not during my contracted work hours, and 2) I would not be paid to attend.  I considered it for less than a second before deciding 1) it was a waste of my time, and thus 2) I would not be going.

I knew my co-workers would be going, though, and so it got my mind stirred about my position on (not) attending the meeting and how I might defend it if challenged.  Not that anyone was going to challenge me, but I enjoy these mental exercises.  This is where my journal comes in to help me understand how I feel.  So I played it out.

First, I am a big believer in the idea that when we agree on the terms of employment, we stick to them.  I am also big on if you want me to do extra work, you give me extra money.  But I realized that neither of those principles had anything to do with my instant and fierce rejection of the invitation.  I knew it was a meeting where nothing would be achieved.  And even bigger than that, IT WAS A MEETING.

For my money, meetings are probably the single biggest time-waster in the world.  I loathe them in the core of my soul.  When I was a manager, I hosted as few of them as I possibly could for my employees.  As an employee, I attend as few of them as I possibly can.  I understand that there can be some benefit to camaraderie and team-building and such.  I think those things are important.  But most topics in most meetings all over the world are pointless and could be sent in an email that requires a few minutes to read rather than an hour of meeting time.  As for the people who hold them just to hold them or make them last the full hour just because they blocked off that much time in their calendar, I resent them with an earnest passion.

DON’T WASTE MY TIME!!!

I turned 50 this year, and though I don’t think this had anything to do with my attitude about time-wasting, I don’t rule it out.  I guess I have felt this thing in my bones most of my life, but the point on it has grown finer and finer over the years.  At this stage I might even say it is the dominant theme of my mental life.  Every proposition—how to spend the morning (or the hour, or the vacation, or the Summer), whom to pass the time with, what to talk about, what to learn about, what to create—has to be filtered through that essential prism: Is this worth my precious time?

What has become so much clearer to me in recent months than ever before in my life is this basic belief that I can only now say out loud: I don’t have much time left.

This is not a revelation of some deadly disease or anything like that.  I truly don’t have a clue when I am going to die.  It’s just my intellectual reality.  Even if I live to 100, that is simply not much time.  It seems to be flying by me like a high-speed train in recent years, and that trend does not show any signs of reversing itself.  The next 50 years, even if I were to be so lucky, will go by in a blink.  So, what if it’s only 5 more years?  Or 25?  Those are micro-blinks.  Nothing.  That’s how I am thinking these days.  I simply don’t have much time left.

You might be thinking, “That’s a horrible way to look at things.  Doesn’t that give you anxiety?   Or sadness?  Just relax and enjoy all of these years you have to go!”  I disagree.  Sure, it puts more pressure on me to be certain my priorities are clear and to make wise decisions with my schedule and the company I keep.  It can make me a bit hard on myself for poor choices.  But what it really does is keep me focused.  I know that when a situation arises in my life, it is immediately going to be run through my priority filters.  Is this going to enrich me?  Is this going to be fun?  Will I be happier or wiser for this experience?  Does it get me excited?  And possibly most critical, Is this going to keep me from something I want more?  I don’t have to mentally go down a checklist of these questions, as I have already internalized the process and just let it happen naturally.  If I had to make it into a question that required a formal answer, though, I’m guessing the question would be: Is this a good use of my time?

If it is something like that work meeting, my system is as efficient as can be.  That’s an automatic NO.  On more complex questions, I generally have an immediate feeling but then am open to persuasion, whether by me or other people.  I like to hear a good argument.  I like logic.  I also like an emotional plea.  I am sympathetic to both.  Both elements can make something a good use of my time.

I’ve had this ongoing battle in my head over the years as to what is enough in terms of what I am doing.  Again it boils down to the answers to certain types of questions: Am I helping enough people?  Am I using my gifts enough?  Have I pushed myself enough? Am I being brave enough in the face my doubts and challenges?   Am I laughing/learning/loving/adventuring enough each day (or year or decade)?  Will I be satisfied enough with my run when it is time to die?  All of the questions framing this battle again return to my use of the limited time I have to maximize my potential.  Their collective weight makes it seem completely natural to weigh every decision through the lens called Time Well-Spent???

This Summer and last Summer have had, for me, totally different vibes attached to them.  By the time last Summer began, I was mostly committed to the attempt to write my first novel.  With each passing day and each passing chapter I wrote, I became increasingly committed and excited about it.  It was doing all the things for me: enriching me, exciting me, challenging me, inspiring me, drawing out my creativity, being fun, and letting me dream of a beautiful future.  And even though it kept me from doing some other things that I love each day, I knew it was so worth it.  Quite simply, it was a good use of my time.  Not at all a waste.  This Summer has been so different.  I have not had a major personal project to drive me, no labor of love that gets me to sacrifice my other priorities.  I have been busier with other things than last Summer, but it has been just regular Life busy, errands and tasks and the like.  Necessary stuff, but nothing that I would describe as enriching, exciting, challenging, inspiring, creative, or fun.

I can only go so long without doing something that stirs up my soul before I start to question the path I am on.  I get not only restless about the capital-P Purpose of my life but also suspicious of my work ethic and focus.  I like “production” to point to as proof that I am getting somewhere.  I start to question how I will ever be satisfied with my accomplishments if I am having such a period of stagnation in my soul.  I get antsy.  This is where I have been this Summer.

As a defense mechanism against this onset of existential doom, my brain has concocted a new argument as to why I can go on with this Busy Life mode for a bit more without being overrun with guilt or submitting to a life of eternal dissatisfaction.  It goes something like this: maybe it doesn’t always have to be that I am working on that super-inspiring project that is giving me an adrenaline jolt and meaning to my life—those projects will ebb and flow naturally as I stay vigilant-but-open to them–but it DOES always have to be that I am not including things in my schedule that feel in my heart and mind like a waste of time.   It’s not always going to be writing a book or painting a masterpiece, but it can’t be sitting in a pointless meeting.  Obviously this explanation requires a little psychological tapdancing in order to convince my ambitious, “true” self that the Busy Life things I am doing are necessary for bigger priorities—like a happy family—rather than actual time-wasters cleverly disguised to allow me to be lazy.

It seems to be a matter of constantly being honest with myself about whether I am being disciplined enough with the projects that stir my soul and keep wind in my sails, balanced with some grace to allow for periods when Life just doesn’t allow much time for all of that.  I can’t be constantly chiding myself for not doing enough to advance my dreams.  That’s not healthy. On the other hand, I refuse to waste time.

Thus, it becomes: Which things can I cut from regular Life?  The meetings are the obvious answer.  But then it gets tougher.  There are not hard and fast answers.  General guidelines might be better.  Most gatherings I find wasteful—too much small-talk and nonsense, not enough true connections and passion shared—but certainly not all.  Limiting television and social media seems wise, but I don’t want to eliminate either completely.  I would like to figure out a way to spend less time driving.  Perhaps a work-from-home job would make me feel more productive.  I’m sure there are others.  I just have to be present and hyper-aware of the value of everything on my itinerary as I pass through the day so that when I come across a waste, I make the mental note and skip that the next time.

Because there aren’t so many next times left.  I keep going back to that again and again in my mind: I don’t have many Summers left.  Even if I could talk to my 20-year-old self right now, I would tell him, “You don’t have many Summers left, kid.  Don’t waste a single one.”  Autumns, Winters, or Springs, either.  They just go so fast.  The value of each one gets higher with every passing year, because there are that many fewer to go, no matter how long your lifeline is.  It’s not getting longer, only shorter.  What’s the line? “We’ve been dying since the day we were born.”  Something like that.  I don’t really like to think of it as we are dying so much as that we have less and less time to live.  I am here to LIVE!  All the way to the end and not just once in a while.  It’s time to be efficient with it all.  I better get busy living.

How about you?  How much of your time feels wasted?  Open up your journal and take a walk through your schedule and what your actions say about your current priorities.  Is your life full of activities and people that are in line with who you want to be and how you want to be spending your fleeting years?  Are you working toward something that, even if you aren’t exactly doing it now, you know that this path you are on is a positive use of your precious time?  When I am driving my kids around, I remind myself that even though it looks boring and so time-consuming, this is valuable and very important to me because of the commitment I made to being the best, most present parent I can be and raising them well.  What are the things in your life that look trivial and wasteful but are actually in the service of your highest priorities?  What are your habits or items in your regular schedule of activities that look most obviously like excellent uses of your time?  Which priorities do they satisfy?  Are there any of your “buckets” or priorities that simply do not get attention on your calendar?  Why is that?  What things on your schedule could stand to be removed and replaced by things that would better match what you believe your priorities to be?  Would you go so far as to say these possibilities for removal are time-wasters?  What kinds of things—meetings, social media, bad company, etc.—make you think, “Well, I will never get that hour back.”  Are you ever bored?  Would you say boredom is a sign that you are wasting your time?  Is it easy or hard for you to admit when you are wasting your time?  Do you get antsy like I do when you haven’t “accomplished” or “produced” anything in a while?  If so, does that pent-up feeling cause a reckoning like this one in which you re-examine your time and kick yourself in the butt to get going on something more productive?  When I say to you, whether you are 25 or 85, “You don’t have much time left,” how does that strike you?  Are you more inclined to defend and be like, “Oh, sure I do.  I’ll be around for a long time.”?  Or are you more like, “Holy crap!  You’re right.  It’s getting away in a hurry.”?  Do you feel like they are both true, or is only one true and the others are either delusional or pessimistic?  Do you always answer the same way, or do you go back and forth depending on the season of your life?  At the moment, are you content coasting along under the assumption that you have loads of time left, or do you perhaps need a little jolt of urgency about the length of your stay here and what you ought to be doing about that?  Leave me a reply and let me know: How could you better spend your numbered days?

Choose wisely,

William

P.S. If this topic resonates with you today, please share it with your community.  Let’s help each other to clarify our position on the timeline.

P.P.S. If this type of introspection appeals to you, consider buying my book Journal Of YOU: Uncovering The Beauty That Is Your Truth at your favorite online retailers.  Namaste.

For What Are You Willing To Risk Rejection?

“Everybody said, ‘Follow your heart.’  I did, it got broken.” –Agatha Christie, The Mysterious Affair at Styles 

“I really wish I was less of a thinking man and more of a fool not afraid of rejection.” –Billy Joel

Hello friend,

When I was in my early twenties, I had the biggest crush on Miss California.  Well, to clarify, she was not the reigning Miss California at the time, but she had been a few years earlier.  We were in acting class together, and after a few weeks of class and getting to know her a bit, I came to the conclusion that she was perfect in every way.  I was crushing hard!  I REALLY wanted her to be my girlfriend.  I kind of let a mutual acquaintance know I was interested, and we even went out in a small group once, sat by each other and had a great time.  Her friend nudged me to ask her out for real.  And I wanted to SO BADLY.  But I just couldn’t do it.  I justified it by telling myself I didn’t want to make our class awkward for her if she said no.  But basically I didn’t do it because she wasn’t hunting me down and making glaringly obvious gestures—like messages on billboards or banners behind airplanes—begging me to ask her out.  Never mind the logical thinking that would scream, “She is a global fashion model and, oh yeah, Miss Freaking California!!!  Of course she has not ever needed to ask anyone out in her entire life!  She is not starting now!”  Nope, not even the obvious could make me pull the trigger on something I wanted so much and that seemed to be quite promising.  I simply couldn’t risk rejection.  I just didn’t dare.  I could not stand the prospect of being told I was not good enough.  And so, I let the opportunity slip away.

Here I am almost 30 years later, and you can bet I haven’t forgotten my cowardice.  I’m ashamed of it.  Not because she and I were going to live happily ever after or anything like that.  No, I’m ashamed because I lacked the courage to go after something that could change my life for the better just because my ego might take a beating.

Miss California wasn’t the first crush I ever had that I failed to act upon.  I have been a coward more times than I care to admit when it comes to asking people out on dates.  I grew up in the place and time when, generally speaking, it was the boy who asked the girl to go out.  I hated that rule!  I would like to say that was because I was ahead of my time when it came to female empowerment.  Really, I was just scared of getting my feelings hurt.  If a girl—and later a woman—wanted me to ask her out, she basically had to hit me over the head with her eagerness about it before I was willing to take the risk.  If she didn’t, well, it just wasn’t going to happen.  I wasn’t going to pursue.

I am embarrassed now not only about how hard I made people work and how vulnerable I made them feel just to get my affirmation, but also how much less Life I lived by being so scared to put myself out there.  I could have had so many more deep, rich experiences with so many fascinating, wonderful people.  I could have gotten closer to the marrow of Life, could have had a bigger ride.  It’s a real shame.  If only I had been willing to be rejected.

Rejection has been heavy on my heart and mind these last few months.  I am swimming in it!  And I can see why I was so scared of it, too, because it is no fun at all.  It hurts!  Down deep in the soul and all over the body.  It hurts.

After I finally finished writing my first novel late last year, I started researching exactly how one goes about getting a novel sold to a real publisher who can get it into real bookstores and put real dollars in my pocket.  Even though I started writing it just to see if I could do it and then continued writing it because I was having so much fun trying to create a real story, I realized partway through that I actually wanted an audience for it.  I wanted readers.  Of course, I also would really like to make a living putting words together.  So, I had to admit the truth: even though I would have written the book for the pure joy of it alone, in the end I wanted someone to pay me for it, too.  That meant I had to learn about a whole new world: the bookselling world.  It is full of people and things like queries, synopses, pitches, agents, editors, publishers, and so much more.

As it turns out, there are tons of other fools like me at this very moment trying desperately to find someone to buy their novels, too.  For that to happen, they have to pass through a few gatekeepers.  The first is the agent.  Literary agents get flooded with thousands of query letters every year from authors pitching their stories.  If the agent thinks it sounds interesting, they get a sample and then maybe the entire manuscript.  If they still like it, they agree to represent the book.  But for every one they accept, they reject hundreds of others.  And there are boatloads of these agents rejecting oceans of books.

Of course, to the authors of these books—their labors of love that they probably spent years of blood, sweat, and tears creating—it is not the book that is getting rejected but them personally.  Many of the agents don’t even bother to respond if they aren’t interested.  Others just send a form email to all of the rejects: “it’s not right for my list at this time” or “it’s not a good fit for me” and other such impersonal replies.  To the authors, no matter what the wording, the rejections all land like this: “You are a really bad writer.  Your idea is terrible.  Give up.  Find a new dream.  You are worthless.”  Imagine receiving that message dozens and dozens—maybe even hundreds for some writers—of times.  It’s rough.  Well, “rough” may be too vague.  It’s horrible.  It’s staggering.  It’s humiliating.  Yes, that’s it: humiliating.

While I am pleased to report that I have made it through this first wave of gatekeepers and am onto the second wave–the powerful people who might actually buy the book from the agent—there will undoubtedly be much more added to the pile of rejections.   The, “It’s not right for us,” will continue to land like, “You just suck, William.”

On the rare occasions that I can pull myself out from under the dark cloud of all this humiliation, I find myself laughing about this whole game and what kind of crazy masochist I must be to subject myself to this level of repeated rejection.  I guess the potential prize—saying someone bought my novel, a few bucks in my pocket, the feeling of living my dream–means that much to me.  Because otherwise it really is insane.  I mean, who in their right mind volunteers to get shot down so directly and so often?

It has me trying to think of people who live like this all the time.  When I think of rejection, I think of telemarketers or old-school door-to-door salesmen getting hung up on, insulted, yelled at, or doors slammed in their faces.  I could never do those jobs.  I wouldn’t last a day.  The only other people that come to mind immediately are other kinds of artists.  I think of the actor going in for auditions and not getting the roles.  Dancers and models, too.  They go to the audition, show off their talents (or appearance) and skills that they may have worked a lifetime to perfect, and essentially ask, “Am I good enough for you?”  And the answer is pretty often, “No, you are not.”  It’s brutal.

When I put it in those terms, though, I am reminded of another group of people who subject themselves to that kind of vulnerability, just not for their jobs: daters.  You know: people who are actively in search of romantic and/or sexual partners.  The more open and assertive one is about their intentions, the more obvious and frequent the rejections, I would imagine.  I am not exactly sure how dating and hook-ups work with modern apps—like, is it always clear you have been rejected, or is there some ambiguity about it?—but I imagine that even if the interaction doesn’t happen in public and even if you haven’t even met the person “in real life,” the pain of rejection is still there.  And with these apps—I know I sound like I’m 100 years old when I talk about them like this, so I am laughing at myself and my ignorance as I write this—I imagine that the number of potential rejections is quite high.  That has to be difficult.

Still, I think for most people in their ordinary work lives, they are not really facing true rejection on a frequent basis, if at all.  When I go to work, I am never putting my ego and my feelings on the line.  I don’t come home shattered from rejection or relieved and overjoyed that someone accepted me.  My friends and family don’t really either.  Oh sure, they may put in a bid for a project and get outbid, or ask for a donation and not get it.  They may be told they are not doing well enough and need to do better to keep their job.  They may get in an argument with a coworker or even have a customer complaint lodged against them.  Criticism is a possibility for almost everyone on some level.  But basically, most of us are wholly spared from true rejection in our day-to-day.

I’m not saying it’s a picnic to go to work for anyone and that we can’t all get our egos bruised from time to time by something someone says.  But that is different than putting yourself and the work of your soul out there for to be judged on a plain YES-or-NO basis, with the odds of a NO being pretty darn high.  That kind of raw vulnerability and defenselessness is not a scenario I wish upon anyone.

And yet, here I am also claiming it is worth it.  I want my novel sold!  I want that badly.  I hope it not only sells into a hardcover book and then many reprints in paperback, I also hope it turns into a series of books and that the rights for those get sold to some Hollywood studio for a movie or television series.  It is my baby, and I have big dreams for it.  And if all of this rejection is the price I have to pay for a real shot at that, well, I have decided it is worth each one of these many gut-punches and blows to my ego.  Maybe it’s because I feel like I am meant to do it.  Like a calling.  It seems like the thing I have to do in order to feel I am giving this life of mine a true go, like I am not being a coward and hiding from it just because it is difficult and ego-destroying.  The potential regret of not putting it out there seems more agonizing than this heartache from all of the rejection.  I guess you could say it’s worth it because my very soul is at stake.

So, would I summon this courage and conviction to subject myself to such a volume of withering and unrelenting rejection for anything else?  That question stretches my imagination.  I can’t think of any “regular” jobs I would do it for.  Like I said, I have always hated anything “sales-y” where people are constantly telling you NO.  I can’t imagine ever wanting to date again, even if were not married, so that doesn’t qualify for me.  I would risk anything for my kids, but they are getting to the ages where I am trying to empower them to lobby on their own behalf.  So none of the regular stuff seems to move me.

I guess the only thing that I can think of that I would be willing to risk this kind of baked-into-the-process rejection for is something else artistic. I mean, if I was so moved to create something from the depths of my soul—a painting, a photographic collection, some form of music, an acting performance—and felt that it would be more fulfilling with an audience involved, I could see subjecting myself to wholesale public rejection for that creation.  It’s true that I almost certainly don’t have the talent for any of those things, but hey, a year ago I didn’t think I had it in me to write a novel either.  I would love it if some other bit of magic sneaked up on me.  Outside of some true soul creation, though—some “art”—I think I will skip this kind of rejection.  It’s just not much fun.

How about you?  For what in your life (or dream life) are you willing to risk consistent rejection?  Open up your journal and find yourself in the moments that could leave you most vulnerable.  Are there times in your ordinary schedule where you really put yourself out there in a way that your ego feels unprotected?  How accepted do you feel at work both in the relationships you have there and in the actual work you do?  Do you hear “NO” there very often?  If you do, is it in a way that makes you feel rejected?  How often is your work performance judged by your bosses?  Does that process leave you feeling vulnerable?  How about your non-work life?  Do you have hobbies or interests that involve you leaving yourself open to judgment and rejection?  Do you create anything or perform anything and enter it into contests?  Do you try to sell your creations (arts, crafts, etc.) anywhere?  When was the last time you applied for a job?  Did it leave you feeling exposed in this way?  If you didn’t get the job, did it feel like they rejected you?  How about dating?  Are you now, or have you been in your dating history, the one who sticks their neck out and does the asking?  How do you take the NOs?  As a personal affront?  Are you able to let them roll off your back and keep going, or are you staggered by the rejections?  Do you imagine the modern, app-based dating makes the rejection part easier or harder?  If it has been a long time since you started a new relationship, how confident would you be in putting yourself out there in today’s world?  Of all the ways you might leave yourself vulnerable to strong rejection—for a date, a work requirement, a passion project like my book—which ones, if any, do you feel are most worth the risk?  Does it really just come down to whether the pain of potential regret for not having given your best effort to have what you truly want is bigger than the potential pain of rejection?  If that is the calculus, what is your answer?  Leave me a reply and let me know: For what are you willing to risk rejection?

May you summon the courage that Life demands,

William

P.S. If this topic resonated with you today, please share it with your community.  Let’s support each other in living our most courageous, authentic selves.

P.P.S. If this way of examining your life appeals to you, consider buying my book, Journal of YOU: Uncovering The Beauty That Is Your Truth, at your favorite online retailers.  Namaste.

Happy Old Year!!! The Highly Specific, Totally Personal BEST OF 2022 List

“Make improvements, not excuses.” –Roy T. Bennett, The Light In The Heart 

“We don’t need to have just one favorite. We keep adding favorites. Our favorite book is always the book that speaks most directly to us at a particular stage in our lives. And our lives change. We have other favorites that give us what we most need at that particular time. But we never lose the old favorites. They’re always with us. We just sort of accumulate them.” –Lloyd Alexander

Hello friend,

Happy New Year!  I love this time of the year for its outward permission to begin again and to be optimistic.  It’s expected that we set some goals, make some plans, and generally set out to become a better version of who we were last year.  That sounds good, right?

Yes, BUT….

While I am so excited for what 2023 has in store for me—I’m sincerely thinking it could be my best year yet—I am not quite ready to just leave 2022 in the rubbish pile.  I adored 2022!  I so often found myself thrilled at what I was engaged in, whether that was a physical challenge, a streaming series, or a delicious beverage.  So before I go bouncing excitedly into the new year, I want to make a list of the best things I did or saw or got into in 2022.  Not the usual Top 10 Movies or 10 Best Television Shows type of lists that are everywhere lately—I do love those, too, however—but rather something very personal and specific, and yet also random.  I’m thinking of any little product I discovered or thing I added to my routine or even advice I heard.  Just stuff I kind of test drove in my life.

Since I am constantly tinkering with my life in hopes of making it the most productive, efficient, fun, adventurous, and helpful it can possibly be, I love when I find a good hack or pro tip or simply something that tastes amazing.  These are the kinds of things I am always trying to pry out of people I know: their secrets for making Life a little easier or happier.  Some people seem to have a ton—my sister is good at this–and I love when they are willing to share.  So, in the spirit of bests, here are some of my favorites from 2022:

  • Best Follow-My-Gut Moment: When I randomly wrote the first chapter of what became my novel. I had no clue about the plot of the story at the time, but I just decided to write a page simply to see how it felt.  The result: I was completely alive, every synapse in my brain exploding like a fireworks show.  Clearly I was onto something.  I didn’t know what, but I knew I needed to see where it would lead.  By the end of the year, I had a draft that I actually liked and felt like a real book to me.  We will see in 2023 if any publishers think so, but even if they don’t, this was absolutely one of the coolest and most rewarding things I have ever done.  I now feel like I must give myself permission to seize upon my gut instincts more often and take more chances creatively.  Who knows what other magic might be inside of me?
  • Best Addition To My Health & Fitness Routine: Bedtime yoga. I don’t know if it’s actually yoga.  Maybe it’s just stretching.  In any case, it has been so, so helpful to both my sleep and my waking life.  I have had back problems my entire adult life, including surgery and lots of rough weeks bent sideways in spasm.  I am always searching for ways to make those rough weeks fewer and further between.  This year I think I finally discovered one (knock on wood).  On a mat in the dark when I am otherwise completely ready for bed, I roll my back out with my Chirp wheel and then invert myself so my feet are in the air.   I do a bunch of stretches for my legs, hips, and torso.  I include focused breathing and a few regular yoga poses to finish up.  The whole routine—it has definitely become a routine—takes about 20 minutes.  Then I climb into bed feeling wonderfully relaxed and clear-minded.  I have had far fewer days of physical agony this year than any in recent decades, which means I can do more of the things that fill my bucket.  This addition to my routine, to which I have been faithful even when busy or exhausted or on vacation, is definitely something I am going to keep.  I am beyond grateful for it.
  • Best Electronic/Device To Keep Me On Track Physically: A Fitbit. For years I resisted getting any kind of step counter or fitness tracker or smartwatch, not because I didn’t believe in their usefulness but because I tend to get a bit obsessed with statistics and metrics of all sorts.  They are just too fascinating to me.  I knew that would happen if I got one of these gadgets, but I just couldn’t resist any longer.  I asked for one at the holidays last year and have been dialed in ever since (I started with a Charge 5 and just got a Sense 2 last week).  I love all the numbers: active zone minutes, steps, miles, sleep stages, heart rates, skin temperature, oxygen saturation, and on and on.  Beyond just being interesting, it got me to move more often and set more and different goals, sometimes many times per day.  And by judging me and assigning a sleep score every morning when I woke up, it tapped into my competitiveness and really pushed me to get to bed on time and sleep more.  Getting more active and sleeping better—it is a very satisfying combination for me.  I’m sticking with it.
  • Second Best Device To Keep Me On Track Physically: A scale. I know I know!  It’s not supposed to be about your weight but about how you feel.  I get it and I agree.  And I was also a bit hesitant to bring a scale into the house of young adolescents, as I don’t want them obsessing about their own weights.  I did it anyway, not long after I got the Fitbit.  All my adult life I had stayed fit but my weight kept creeping up almost imperceptibly, maybe a pound per year lately.  I had started to accept it as natural, but I just couldn’t convince myself.  I decided to make subtle changes and wanted to see if they worked.  I wanted the scale to give me one type of measurable data.  It absolutely did.  Yes, I admit that I am obsessed with it, checking my weight multiple times per day to understand my body’s patterns.  But it has also worked—along with the other things I have already mentioned—in helping me lose weight for the first time in my entire life.  I’m not saying a scale is for everybody, but for me it has been an excellent addition to my health plan.
  • Best New Tool For Yardwork & Chores: Battery power. This Spring, when it was time to get the stinky gas mower serviced again for the season, I instead got into heavy research about what has intrigued me for a couple of years: battery-powered mowers.  Since I absolutely loathe the smell of exhaust from gas engines and figured I could be doing something positive for the environment (and not be frustrated annually by the chugging of my engine and questioning which gas is right and how long it can be in the tank, etc.), I went for it (I got an E-GO brand).  Other than the battery not lasting as long as I needed to finish the yard in one pass, it proved to be a total game-changer.  It is so much more quiet, cuts well, and no more awful smell.  And good-bye cord-yanking; I just push the button to start it.  When Fall came and I needed more repairs to the even-less-trusty-but-more-stinky snowblower, I decided to cut my losses and get the battery-powered one from E-GO.  I can use the same batteries as the mower interchangeably and now won’t worry about running out of either.  I am never going back to gas.  Go Science!
  • Best Addition To Oral Health Routine (Hey, I said personal!): A water flosser (a.k.a. WaterPik). I have been intrigued by these things since I was a little kid but had never tried one.  At my last checkup, the hygienist said that because of grooves and pockets in my teeth, they can collect unwanted food during the day.  She suggested a water flosser.  As luck would have it, one soon went on sale at Costco.  The verdict: so worth it!  I don’t wait for the end of the night.  I do it a few times a day if I am around.  It feels so good and really does clear the food out.  I am committed for life!
  • Best Media Addition: I never understood how people had time for podcasts (or television series or movies, for that matter), so I just never considered them before.  However, on a trusted friend’s recommendation, I tried an episode of Jay Shetty’s “On Purpose” as a substitute for listening to music while working out.  I got hooked, first on that particular podcast and then on the medium in general.  Who knew there was so much to learn and laugh at?  Answer: probably everyone but me.  But now I do, and I love it.
  • Best Podcast: I smile just typing the word.  This interview show hosted by the brilliant comic actors Will Arnett, Jason Bateman, and Sean Hayes along with one famous guest has brought me so many hours of enjoyment this year.  I listen to it while lifting weights, so along with the regular grunting and panting from me dying in my attempts to stay fit, you will hear me giggling along to the show as they mock each other to oblivion.  The guests are excellent, but the hosts are the best.  I hope this show never ends!
  • Best Indulgent Drink: Big Train Spiced Chai Latte. I’ve had a lifelong sweet tooth and have always enjoyed a huge ice cream habit.  Part of my attempt to lose weight has been to ease up just a tiny bit on the sweets, and that includes ice cream.  However, I think I may have simply traded one very sweet treat for another this year.  I like the idea of tea, but my usual favorites are about half tea water and half honey.  This year, though, I allowed myself a splurge and bought some chai latte powder.  Big mistake!  I loved it too much, especially with some added Caramel Macchiato creamer from Aldi added to make it even more sweet and creamy.  I can’t even pretend it is good for me, as I like to do with other teas (honey is a health food, right?).  It is a dessert, plain and simple.  I do my best to not drink it every day, as I don’t want to admit it is a habit.  I will just say it is fantastic and hard to resist.  I’m a big fan and yes, hooked.
  • Best Streaming Stuff: Okay fine, I surrender! Since I love television and film, I can’t pass up the chance to share things I have enjoyed this year.  Full disclosure: other than the occasional weekend evening of watching an entire episode or movie with my family, I only ever watch things while on a piece of cardio equipment.  That means I watch movies in two or three sittings over the course of a week, and episodes get broken up randomly depending on my workouts.  It’s not an ideal way to watch and probably alters what I like and dislike, but it’s the best I can do for now.  Anyway, I feel like I have watched a lot of HBO Max and Apple TV+ this year.  My favorites from there and elsewhere have been Black Bird, Severance, Euphoria, Heartstopper, Ozark, Slow Horses, and Bullet Train.
  • Best Musical Artist: Though this was not a new find for me, I was deep into Matt Nathanson this year. His new album “Boston Accent” got by far the most plays on my Apple Music app.  My daughter and I just bonded over his Holiday Livestream on Friday night.  I believe I have been transformed from a fan to a superfan.
  • Best Advice From A Meme: “Be you. The world will adjust.”  Enough said.

I suppose I should take it as a good sign that I have not gotten too old and set in my ways that I can have this many fabulous new additions to my life in just one year.  I do love my routines and am undoubtedly highly opinionated, but I am constantly tinkering and trying new ways to see if I can make both my mind and my entire existence better.  And since I love learning, new experiments, ideas, and art forms are the natural way to scratch that ever-present itch.  This year I just happened to get lucky on many of the things I tried, leaving me feeling pretty darn satisfied with my Best Of Everything list and fairly certain many of these will become long-term positive changes in my life.  I love that.  So bring on 2023 and all of the new things I can try out!  My mind is open for business.

How about you?  What is on your Best Of Everything 2022 list?  Open up your journal and move your mind back through your year of new attempts at changing your world one little thing at a time.  Get specific and keep it very personal.  Which physical items (e.g. gadgets, tools, furniture, toys) made your little corner of the world a happier place?  Is there something that makes you more comfortable?  More efficient?  More organized?  Happier?  Which things that you tried or changed have made you healthier?  Which part of your daily routine or schedule have you changed the most?  What improvements have come from that?  Is there a special food or drink item that you have added to your diet?  How about a new favorite recipe?  Have you added any new people to your circle that have become favorites?  Which media that you consumed this year (TV, movies, music, books, podcasts, etc.) do you find yourself recommending to others?  Is there one medium that you have been particularly into this year?  Which artist(s) did you spend the most time with or appreciate the most?  What is the best advice you got this year?  What is the most important thing you did?  Did you spread your wings enough?  Did you get uncomfortable for the sake of growth?  Twenty years from now when you look back on 2022, what will be the most poignant and lasting item on your Best Of list?  Do you leave the year satisfied that you tried out enough new ideas, foods, art, and adventure for one year?  Will you be more or less willing to test your limits and stretch your comfort zone next year?  Do you expect next year to be even better than this one for you?  Leave me a reply and let me know, What is on you Best Of Everything 2022 list?

Onward and upward,

William

P.S. If today’s letter resonated with you, please share it with your community.  Examining our lives makes them so much more sweet and vibrant.

P.P.S. If this way of self-reflection appeals to you, consider buying my book Journal Of YOU: Uncovering The Beauty That Is Your Truth at your favorite online retailers.

Have You Come To Terms With Your Age?

“It’s paradoxical that the idea of living a long life appeals to everyone, but the idea of getting old doesn’t appeal to anyone.” –Andy Rooney

“How did it get so late so soon?” –Dr. Seuss

“A man who dares to waste one hour of time has not discovered the value of life.” –Charles Darwin

Hello friend,

I just turned 50.  I am embarrassed to admit that it was hard for me to type that sentence.  I am still not quite there yet.  Fifty sounds OLD!  Whether it is or isn’t, I will leave that for you to debate.  It still sounds that way to me.  And I guess I am not yet at that place of acceptance or surrender or whatever you want to call it that will have me agreeing that I am OLD.  Because if I agree, what does it say about what I have left in me?  Not much time, and even less vigor to do what I need to do it with.  I need some time to sit with that one.  Sadly (or ironically or something), time is the one thing in short supply here.  It is tough turning 50!

I started processing 50 the moment I turned 49.  It was the first time I could no longer deny it.  At 48, I could still convince myself I was in my mid-forties.  Sure, it was a stretch, but I was in the mood for a stretch at that point.  When 49 came around, though, that was it.  I started telling myself I was already 50 just to get used to the idea.  I guess I wanted to soften the blow, to normalize the whole concept of being in my fifties.  I said it over and over.  I could tell it wasn’t really sinking in, though.

I blame my grandparents and my great-uncles and great-aunts.  My Mom’s parents, as was common back then, married in their early twenties and started having kids.  My Grandma had two sisters, and the three of them and their husbands were the best of friends and hung out together–though they called it “visiting,” which makes me smile now to remember, as they are all gone from this world except for these beautiful memories–as often as they could.  They were all great to us kids, and I loved them.  But they were definitely OLD to me.  They had things like false teeth and canes and pipes—genuine Old People stuff.  But they were in their fifties!  At least when I got to know them they were.  I’m sure they had jobs and mowed their yards and built stuff.  You know, regular adult activities, not senile, nursing home activities.  None of that registered to me, though.  They were OLD.  Period.  End of story.  I think that first impression of fifty-somethings being OLD really stuck.  I didn’t expect to ever get that old, but if I were to get there, then surely I would be OLD, too.  It’s logical.

Well, here I am.  Fifty-something.

Getting over the sound of it is one thing.  That will take its own time.  And hey, that’s the silly, unimportant part of this process.  The much more salient part for me is to figure out what being 50 years into my life means.  In essence, it puts the spotlight on the question: Where am I in my lifetime, and what does that mean I have left? 

Over the past year of processing this, I have probably approached it in almost every possible way.  At different points I have decided I am right where I need to be and also nowhere close to what I should have done; feeling great for my age and feeling like a rickety dinosaur; believing I have special things still to create and lamenting that I don’t have time to create them; and just about every other dichotomy you could dream up.  And I’ve not just ridden the extremes.  I have also slid subtly along the spectrum of any imaginable scale of optimism, despair, or acceptance.  Basically, I’ve learned it’s going to be a weird and complicated psychological ride on the way toward making any semblance of peace with my age from this point forward.  Ambivalence will be my constant companion.  That’s unsettling to me.  But whoever said this stuff was easy?

Although I have tested out every mindset and approach to turning 50, the one that seems to be settling in now that I am actually here is the sense of urgency to do the things now.  All of them.  As soon as possible.  It is an overwhelming sense of “I’m running out of time!”  I keep wondering: How many years do I have left?  And to put a finer point on it since I both work in education and naturally adore Summer, it usually comes down to this: How many Summers do I have left? 

This Summer I spent working hard to complete the first draft of my next book.  It felt amazing but also highly pressing.  I was keenly aware every day that Summer was short and I had to take advantage.  That is a microcosm of how I am feeling about what remains of my life at this stage: there isn’t much left and I better use every bit of it wisely.

I’m guessing there are lots of people out there who would look at it completely differently.  Like, “Hey, I’m only 50.  The average life expectancy is around 79.  I’ve got a solid three decades to go.  That’s plenty of time for accomplishment, adventure, and a relaxing retirement.  What’s the rush?”  I can see that point-of-view.  I get it.  It just isn’t me.

For one, I simply never pictured a very long life for myself.  I hope I have lots of healthy, happy, and productive years ahead of me, but the vision doesn’t come naturally.  The other thing is, during the process of writing this letter, one of my best friends from childhood died.  Forty-nine years old and gone.  He didn’t even make the 50 that I am bellyaching about!  In the midst of my grieving these last few days, a thought has occasionally slipped free of the fog in my mind: There are no guaranteed days left.  It could end any time. 

Of course that is true every day since your arrival on Earth, but it never feels true when you are young, right?  Today, though, when I am thinking about my friend’s kids who no longer have their Dad and his wife who no longer has her husband, it feels very, very true.  Life is so darn short.  And whether I make it to 51 or 81, I am well beyond the halfway mark now and the end will be here before I am ready for it.  That clarity is enough to make me feel older than I want to be.

The bottom line is that turning 50 has ramped up my urgency to be the person I feel I was born to be and to do the things that make me feel joy, fulfillment, and sure that my presence here was a net-positive for the world, especially for the people whose lives I have touched.  This sense of urgency and responsibility is something I imagine will only increase as I age, especially as I monitor and recognize my continued failure to reach the standards I have set for myself.  I simply must rise to the occasion that is this beautiful Life.  I will start immediately, because I have A LOT to do!

How about you?  Have you made peace with your age and where you are in the cycle of Life?  Open up your journal and sort yourself out in its pages.  How old are you?  When you say it, what feelings does it bring up?  Do you cringe, even just slightly?  How old do you feel in your mind?  Do you fancy yourself much more young and carefree than you actually are?  What percentage of people do you think actually feel OLD inside?  How does your physical health affect your perception of your age?  How does the way your body feels compare to the way your mind feels?  Do you imagine that gap will only get wider with age, or how do you see your disparity changing?  How much does age matter to you?  Is it something you think about often?  Does it stress you out at all?  Do you dread your milestone birthdays that announce to the world that you are in the next decade?  Has your view on which age is actually OLD changed as you have aged?  At this point, what is the age when you start thinking of people as OLD?  Are you included in that group?  If so, does that bother you, or have you come to terms with it?  If you are not yet what you consider to be OLD, how do you think you will handle your arrival there?  At your age, what is your best guess about how much longer you will be around?  With that number in mind, how urgent is the need to get going on things you plan to accomplish before you go?  What are the things you have left to do in order to look back with a sense of fulfillment and peace about your time here?  Which is the most pressing?  What is one small step you can take today to move forward on that goal?  I hope you take that step.  Leave me a reply and let me know: Have you come to terms with your age?

Wishing you the most beautiful life,

William

P.S. It today’s letter resonated with you, please share it with your community.  Our awareness of our own journey improves the intertwining journeys of everyone around us.

P.P.S. If this type of self-reflection for the purpose of growth is appealing to you, consider buying my book Journal Of YOU: Uncovering The Beauty That Is Your Truth at your favorite online retailers.  Namaste.

What Is Your Next Great Challenge?

“Do one thing every day that scares you.” –Eleanor Roosevelt

“You never change your life until you step out of your comfort zone; change begins at the end of your comfort zone.” –Roy T. Bennett

Although on the surface my life has looked pretty boring for the last several months, inside I have been completely on fire.  Circuits have been popping, fireworks have been exploding, and something magical has been coursing through my veins.  I have felt thoroughly ALIVE.  It’s why I haven’t written to you in so long, despite my best intentions to do so.  I just couldn’t take a chance on letting that electric feeling in my soul fade away.  I couldn’t risk it.  So I just kept at it until at last I was sure I had a hold of it.  And now here I am, dying for you to get some of what I got.  It is the best drug I know of.  The best part: it starts and ends inside of you.

I wrote a book.  And not just any kind of book.  I wrote a novel.  A work of fiction.

Never in my life have I ever believed I could write a novel.  Never.  Oh sure, I fancied the idea of being a famous novelist in the same way I fancied being a singer-songwriter-guitarist touring successfully or a renowned painter or sculptor.  These are skills I have never trained for and talent that I fantasize about but simply do not possess.  It is a sturdy characteristic of my long existence that I wish I was so much more artistic than I actually am.  I truly adore the Arts and the artists that create them.  I just don’t have the gifts.

The closest I have ever come is writing these letters to you.  I like to think there is some element of the artistic in finding the right combination of words to convey my ideas.  It is not purely robotic.  So I flatter myself and motivate myself by regularly reminding myself, “I am a writer.”  It appears over and over again in the pages of my daily journal entries.  “I am a writer.”  I use these letters as proof and the repetition of the mantra to convince myself of its truth.

But I know the deal: a writer of true words and opinions, even if anguished over and painstakingly executed, is no novelist and no poet.  Those are the true artists under the writing umbrella.  I suppose I have always felt like more of a journalist or a columnist for a magazine or newspaper, occupying the rungs on the writing ladder that are “of this world.”  A regular person who writes, not an artist (like a house painter compared to a Renoir or Monet).  The artists are the storytellers and the poets, the songwriters.  You know them.  Stephen King.  Amanda Gorman.  Bob Dylan.  All touched by The Muse in a way regular schmucks with a keyboard like me have never been.  I have known my limitations and been humble enough to stay on my side of the line.

But then I got an idea.

It came to me this Spring.  It wasn’t a story so much as it was a character: a confused kid who needed to sort out his life.  I could see him, but that’s about it.  The protagonist, if you will.  The narrator.  I thought he was worthy of a story, even if I didn’t know what that story was.  Mostly I thought, “Too bad you landed in my brain instead of a real writer’s.”  I figured he would languish there and die, fading away like other moments of inspiration that I have felt along the way.  I’m guessing we all have them: little signs from the Universe that we choose to either notice or ignore.  I bet the real artists notice them better and latch on for dear life, fully aware that how they handle inspiration is the only true currency of their oh-so-short lives.  Well guess what?  All of our lives are oh-so-short.

Maybe I realized that when this narrator kid showed up in my brain.  Maybe I knew deep down that I had been coasting too long, enjoying my life but knowing it lacked the thrill of a genuine challenge.  I admit that I had become aware that I had been taking it easy in the prior months, that I had uneasily given myself permission to be less ambitious.  My tolerance for ease has never been great.   Maybe my soul couldn’t stand it anymore.  Whatever it was, something about this kid in my head struck me differently.  He wasn’t leaving.  He needed a voice, an outlet.  He had something to say.  Though I felt bad for him for landing in my unimaginative brain, I offered him my best attempt.  He accepted.

Not long after, I wrote his first words.  I just thought of it as a writing exercise.  Like, “Okay, here’s this kid.  What would he say?  Go!”  So I went, awkwardly but excitedly.  I wrote this in my journal the next day:

“Big news: I started the middle grade novel last night….it was so fun…It is so exciting—a rush is an accurate term—to create again, and especially in this fiction way.  It is new and thrilling.  I feel the hormones popping.  No matter what comes of this, I am glad I started.”

And that’s how it went.  Early on, I had so little time that every chance I got to work on it, my journal the next day was bubbling with the joy and inspiration I was feeling alongside the tension of venturing into the unknown and feeling unequipped.

“This is going to be hard and fun.”

“I am eager to get back into the story tonight, as last night I felt the story begin to take shape.  I am in the middle of introducing the villain, and that makes me feel like my teeth are finally getting into it.  It’s exhilarating.  I am a writer!  For that, I am grateful and so happy.”

“I have lots to flesh out.  I wish I had a couple of months obligation-free so I could grind it all out.  I am so curious to see what The Muse will draw out of me.  It is exciting.  I am so glad I dared to start.”

“It really is fun to work on it.  It opens something in me.  I love being a writer.”

I just love looking back and seeing those words over and over: FUN, EAGER, EXHILARATING, CURIOUS, EXCITING.  And that was only the beginning.  About a month into it, I hit the 5,000-word mark, which felt like a ton to me (it would eventually get close to 50,000).  The next day’s journal entry kind of summed up what it had become for me:

“I am in the midst of the biggest ‘story chapter’ yet, with some relationship development and scene-setting and other things that seem like a real novel.  That is a bit surreal, but it is fun and invigorating.  This project has really ignited something in my soul.  It is a huge challenge, but it stirs a part of my brain that has been dormant for far too long.  It reminds me of Jay Shetty talking about ‘flow state’ being when your challenge perfectly matches your abilities.  It is totally a challenge for me—and honestly, I am not 100% sure I can pull it off—but for now I am pretending that I am plucky enough to give it a whirl.  When I work on it, I am fully engrossed.  I can feel my hormones being stimulated like crazy.  I can’t wait to get back into it.  I am incredibly grateful for its arrival in my world.”

As exciting as it was, though, I still felt way past my comfort zone and wildly anxious about it.  It was a constant dance with my self-esteem to keep soldiering the project forward.  My joy would push forward, and my insecurity about my talent and competence would pull back.  There was a real element of torture to it.  A couple of weeks after that last entry, I wrote this:

“I am up to 8,400 words, which is pretty decent.  Another 1,600 and I will feel fully entrenched in it.  I am fully engaged now, but I think that numerical milepost will give me permission to be like, ‘Yeah, I’m writing a novel,’ maybe even out loud.  I have to keep convincing myself to trust that I have a real story to tell, that I have enough words to fill the pages, that I can land it in the appropriate length range.  I get a little panicked about all that sometimes, I fully admit.  I just have to keep showing up and putting down the next word, knowing that there are many rounds of editing to go.  I have to believe in myself, or at least suspend my disbelief so I can keep working.  I press on.  It is so engaging, though.  I love how I can feel all of these neurons firing all over my brain.  It’s like fireworks in there.  It’s fantastic.”

I inched forward, battling with my fears and insecurities every step of the way.

“I just love what comes out each time I sit down to the keyboard.  When I try to plot it out ahead of time, I only seem to get disheartened.  But when I sit down to work, something always comes out.  I have to remember that so I can keep the faith in the inevitably challenging times ahead.  It is in me.  The Alpha and the Omega.  I love being a writer.”

“I am getting good exercise squashing down all these fears and anxieties about it.  The best antidote is just to keep sitting down to write.”

As I worked through that first half of the book and came to accept that it was going to always be difficult and always a test of my self-belief, I began to appreciate both the process and the greater significance of this undertaking in my life.  I could feel the supreme importance of facing my fear and embracing the challenge with both hands.  I started to see little nuggets like these more often in my daily entries:

“Oh, how I love this the deeper I dive.”

“I am so, so grateful that I took the chance to begin.”

When I reached the last page of that volume of my journal (that is sixty-something now, I believe), I was close to the halfway point in the novel and wrote this to myself:

“This book, in the long run, is going to be remembered for the start of the novel.  That is going to be a big thing in my history, or at least I hope so.  I don’t know if it will lead to more books or just more courage, but either would be a win.  I am proud of myself.”

Even now reading back those words, it feels a bit surreal and pretty darn awesome.  For one, I love that I recognized that what I was doing was going to make me more courageous going forward in my life.  That is absolutely one of the things I am always wishing I was more of: brave.  So, hooray for that.  And second, I am finding it so cool that I wrote that I was proud of myself.  That is not something I think about or claim very often as I pass through this world, so I am glad I had that moment at least once in my lifetime.  I with that upon everyone.

That is way more of my journal entries than you probably ever wanted to see, so I will spare you the many things I said as I pushed through the second half of the novel.  I will just say that there was undoubtedly a lot of glowing about how much fun it was to create mixed with a lot of anxiety about whether I was up to the task.

The brilliant relief is that I was up to it.  That is not to say the draft that I produced is any good.  Chances are good that it is quite awful, in fact.  Of course, I hope it isn’t.  I hope some publisher wants to pay me a million dollars for it and then some movie producer wants to pay me another million to adapt it for the big screen.  I hope it becomes a sensation with readers and that they demand a sequel.  I want all that.  But let’s be real: it is probably terrible.  I will probably find no interested publishers when I get to looking.  It will likely never be read by more than a few people who are either doing me a favor or are bound by blood.  It will almost certainly go down publicly as a failure.

But as much as I wish those things weren’t true, I am still going to look back at this as one of my most favorite life experiences.  Sincerely, I am so grateful about everything this experience has brought me.  Forget the outward stuff, the intrinsic rewards have been more than I could have ever imagined.  Even from that first night in grinding out the first few words, I was surprised and impressed that I would even try something I was so patently unprepared for.  And the mountains of doubts that I pushed through in the early phases of writing–mostly due to the fact that I hadn’t even thought of a story before beginning—I was pleased every time I could face those doubts and still bring myself to write down some words anyway.  It was such a brilliant lesson in sacrificing things that I really wanted to do this Summer for this thing that I just wanted to do more.  In the remaining years of my life, I will carry that lesson of saying no even to things I like because they are not the thing that stirs my soul.  Because man, did this ever stir my soul!  Those tingles and whirrings and can’t-wipe-it-off smiles are truly the stuff of a life being lived the right way.  They are priceless.  The fact that I could have this little period of frequent and regular tingles in my soul is something I will treasure forever.

Now I want more.  That is one of my biggest lessons from this experience.  I need to find more projects or adventures or whatever that will bring more of this feeling into my system.  Obviously it is great to just do more cool stuff and make more memories with things like vacations or concerts and the like.  But what I am talking about is not just the stuff that feels good but that also is a huge challenge for my skillset and something that puts me just past my comfort zone.  What has made this book so singular and special to me is not just that I am making something that can last forever or that can potentially help people but that I never believed I could do such a thing.  I never believed I could write fiction.  I didn’t believe I had a story interesting enough to tell, certainly not one long enough to fill a book.  It was a daily challenge both from a skill perspective and from a psychological perspective.  It required all of my determination, persistence, and self-belief to keep it going from one day to the next.  Thankfully, it then rewarded me for my efforts with these delightful tingles and glows.  But it was a battle.  From this perspective, I can see what a boon the sheer challenge of it has been to my overall life satisfaction.  If it had felt easy and natural, it may have been enjoyable but not nearly as satisfying.

I was listening to a podcast last week with the brilliant documentary filmmaker Michael Moore as the guest.  In his long career, he has taken on the most controversial, hot-button issues of our time, such as gun control, health care, and climate change.  The host asked him how he chooses what his next subject will be.  He said he chooses the topic that scares him the most, the one that will be most difficult or personally risky.  I love that!  He is doing it right, leaning into his growing edge by working in a medium he loves but making it a constant challenge that requires him to grow.

In the end, I suppose my very biggest takeaway from this book-writing experience is that what I want for myself is also what I want for everyone else.  It is not just me that I want adopting a growth mindset and pushing my limits in the service of igniting my soul and blowing my hair back.  It’s everybody.  We all need that, whether we realize it or not.  I want to feel again that same sense of tension between my joy of working on something I love and the fear that I don’t have what it takes.  I want to claim the thrill aspect of that risk and the satisfaction of pushing through.  And I want you to feel it, too.  Maybe mine will come from writing more books.  Or maybe it will be something totally new, like learning the guitar or starting a business.  I hope I am open to the inspiration in whichever form it arrives.  I am eager for my next great challenge.

How about you?  What is the next thing that will stir your soul, challenge your skillset and your self-belief, and potentially be wildly delightful in the process?  Open up your journal and plot to uncover your next great challenge.  Consider what you have already done.  What are the things in your life story that fit the description of a true soul-stirring challenge?  Was it some kind of educational pursuit (getting a degree, a licensure, etc.)?  Was it taking some sort of Art class or taking up an artistic endeavor on your own (e.g. photography, painting, a musical instrument, writing a novel)?  Was it having a child or taking on childcare responsibilities?  Was it a career change?  Was it some sort of physical challenge (e.g. weight loss, marathon training, crossfit, martial arts)?  In which pursuits have you grown the most as a person?  Which challenges left you feeling most fulfilled?  Which were the most pure fun?  In which challenge did you fail at what you were trying to accomplish but still gained so much from the experience?  Which of your greatest endeavors would you want to do all over again?  Which would you never even consider trying again?  Which would you recommend to others?  Are you in the middle of a pursuit now, or are you in a coasting phase?  Is coasting satisfying to you, are you like me and get antsy to achieve something if you are passive for long?  So, based on your review of all of the challenging pursuits of your lifetime so far, are you generating some ideas about what might be next for you?  Is it creative, physical, intellectual, or something else?  Which type of challenge is most likely to pull you quickly out of your comfort zone?  How badly do you need that big plunge into the deep end to jumpstart your soul?  Which type of challenge pushes you just hard enough to be engaging but not so much that you feel your self-esteem questioned?  What is something you have always secretly wanted to try or learn?  What keeps you from taking the next step toward doing it?  Is that an excuse you can live with?  How many more years do you think you have left to live?  Would it be okay with you if you arrive at your end and realize you haven’t pushed your limits and reached your potential?  Which challenge could be your first step to finding out?  I dare you to try.  Leave me a message and let me know: What is your next great challenge?

Wishing you so much courage,

William

P.S. If today’s topic resonated with you, please share it with your community.  All of us living more boldly would make for a truly wonderful world.

P.P.S. If this type of deep dive inside your beautiful mind appeals to you, consider buying my book Journal of YOU: Uncovering The Beauty That Is Your Truth at your favorite online retailers.  Namaste.

How Many Different Careers Are You Meant For?

“The crowning fortune of a man is to be born to some pursuit which finds him employment and happiness, whether it be to make baskets, or broadswords, or canals, or statues, or songs.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson

“I’ve learned that making a ‘living’ is not the same thing as ‘making a life’.” –Maya Angelou

Hello friend,

Writer.  Waiter.  Actor.  Maid.  Tennis Instructor.  Librarian.  Secretary.  Manager.  Laborer.  Teacher.  Personal Trainer.  I could go on if I had to.  I have made money doing all of these things at various times—sometimes at the same time—of my life.  Most of them I have found interesting and have been quite engaged in.  A couple I even thought of as “my career” at the time, and even now when I look back, I might say, “That one was my career.”  But none of them have lasted.  None have had me saying, “This is all I am going to do until I am 70 years old.  I’m good now.”

It seems like the overriding message that our culture sends to our young people is that you go to college (or trade school or whatever) to get a specific degree that will get you a specific job in a specific field, and you are meant to stick in that specific field until you retire.  Get a hobby if you want, but your career—that thing you answered when asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”–is meant to last until retirement.  So, don’t jump ship.  No “mid-life crisis” career changes allowed.  No new callings.  Stay In Your Lane!  I think that works for a lot of people, too.  Most, really.  It just hasn’t worked for me.

I thought I was more or less alone with my wandering eye for new paths, new skillsets, and new areas of expertise (and, frankly, felt pretty ashamed about that across my lifetime, like it made me a quitter).  But a couple of weeks ago, I came across a book called How To Be Everything, and it turns out it is written directly at me.  Or, more accurately, the author seems confident that there are enough people like me that she wrote it for this large, scattered, anonymous collective called us.  I was floored.  She (Emilie Wapnick is the author) calls us “multipotentialites,” but there are other words for us (e.g. “polymath, generalist, Renaissance person, scanner”), in contrast to “specialists,” regular folks who really can tolerate and enjoy doing one thing for the long haul.  I am only a little bit into the book, but needless to say I am quite taken by the idea that a misfit like me not only has peers but may also have something in my wide combination of interests and skills that might even be usefully combined in a career or series of careers that mainstream society could appreciate.  It has me wondering: How many people out there are made for more than one gig, and how many are actually pulling it off?

I am trying to think back on my ancestry and immediate family for clues to my proclivity for multiple passions and interests and inability to settle on just one thing forever.  One of my grandfathers was a lifelong dentist but also was in charge of the family farm, so I suppose that could be something.  My other grandfather managed a lumber yard, but he also liked to build homes on the side and was into the stock market.  My Dad was always a business guy and has been in his same job forever, still not retired yet at 80 years old.  He, too, likes the stock market, but other than reading, I have never thought of him as someone with hobbies.  My Mom started as a teacher very briefly before becoming a full-time Mom, then eased back into the workforce doing some advertising and eventually selling real estate.  I wouldn’t necessarily associate any of them with the “Renaissance person” or “multipotentialite” moniker.  I am quite sure my inability to stay on one track has caused them all some frustration and disappointment along the way, as I am plainly the apple that fell furthest from the tree.  As with most everything else, my siblings are better at staying on the expected path than I am.

Growing up, I always assumed I would be a doctor.  That’s what you were supposed to do if you were smart.  I never questioned it until I was deep into college and started learning a bit about the arts.  Suddenly I felt as if committing to medical school would keep me from exploring anything else I might be interested in.  I decided I wanted to become an actor.  It was completely different in every aspect of my life.  I loved the acting part—the variety of characters to explore was fascinating–but not really the rest of it.  I spent some years just reading nonstop about tons of topics but was primarily interested in religion and spirituality.  I then went back to school, and after some debate between becoming a therapist or a sociologist, I settled on becoming a Philosophy professor and activist.  When I had had enough of that—it didn’t take long—I had a panicked, “Oh my gosh, I am getting old, so what am I going to do for a real career?” moment and decided to go back to the thing that I had always loved but never thought of as a career: coaching tennis.  It wasn’t long into that before I realized I not only wanted to teach but also to be in charge of the program.  That combination of private coaching, group coaching, teams, and then managing a group of people within a large corporation—with budgeting, payroll, hiring and firing, ordering, planning, marketing, and so much more—gave me the kind of variety and challenge that my mind thrives on.

But then I had kids, and—shocker to no parent ever—my perspective changed.  The career was suddenly not so important if it took me away from them.  I gave up the management aspect and just continued the coaching, spending far fewer hours at work than ever.  It was really that change that, as I look back on it now, got me away from feeling like I have a real career and into feeling like I just have a job.  I loved to teach still, and the beautiful uniqueness of each character kept me engaged, but how old can one be and still chase a tennis ball around all day long?  So, I decided to manage a store, the main selling point being not the work but that I could keep being around for my kids for whatever they needed.  I realized I was settling for less than a career I was passionate about so long as it fit into the bigger priority.  When I took my next job at a school, it was the same.  I was willing to be uninspired by my work as long as my bucket got filled in the hours I was not there.

It is hard for me to admit to myself that I am not going for it all, accepting less than having everything up to my standards, being fully satisfied in my work life, family life, and all of my hobbies.  It feels a bit like giving up, which bothers me, but I also know that Life goes in seasons.  I know this time with my kids is fleeting, and giving up some career aspirations in exchange for a completely engaged, no-regrets kind of parenthood is a bargain I am willing to make (though I have plenty of moments when my passions tug at my sleeve like, “Hey, buddy, did you forget about us?”).

It is a good thing that I have so many interests to study and explore, and that each new thing seems to open doors to several new others, making Life an endless maze of discoveries and growth.  I have been writing these letters to you through Journal of You for seven years now, and threw in a book partway through.  I took courses in Life Coaching, which was quite enlightening and inspiring.  Through books, documentary films, and the Internet, I have learned about a wide array of topics that sometimes seem directly connected to the previous thing, sometimes a world apart. I am dying to know more. I am all in on my health and fitness.  Music continues to enthrall me.  My eagerness to be outside and connected to Mother Earth is strong, and my interest in the workings of my own mind remains as strong as ever.  I love to document it all with my pen and my camera.  All of these keep me excited to get up in the morning and deeply engaged until bedtime.  There is never a day that ends with me thinking I had enough time to do all of the things I wanted to do.  Even with a pretty dull work experience.

Because in the end, I understand that it is really about having a satisfying, engaging LIFE.  That is the real goal.  In some seasons of Life, the career part may be deeply meaningful, and hopefully the hobbies and people in my life are, too.  In other seasons, like this one for me, the “career” is just a job and it is the rest of my life that is there to fill my bucket.  I have mostly made my peace with it for now—like I said, I like it when I have everything my way—but I know it won’t be this way forever.

So, what is next?  The one thing I think of as the “career” I had was a tennis coach and program manager.  The other things I think of as jobs along my path.  I guess I am wondering now if the next 20 years or so are going to be about another thing that feels like a “career,” or will I just keep piecing jobs together until I get to the end of the road?  And also, because of my multipotentialite mind, will I ever be satisfied in just one job for very long, or will I need to have multiple jobs at once or a series of short “careers” just to keep my curious mind engaged?  Maybe there is even a multidisciplinary job meant for a guy like me who has a wide range of talents and a need to utilize them all in order to be satisfied.

I think often about my options and my evolving interests.  Just recently my wife bought me a new lens for my camera, and it got me thinking of what it would take to earn a living as a photographer.  I think I would like the variety of subjects and the opportunity to use the artistic part of me.  That is how I think about writing.  I love it every time I sit down to write to you: it’s challenging, it’s different every time, it lets me feel like I am putting something positive out into the world.  It is something I would feel comfortable having that real career feeling about.  I could see that about the Life Coaching thing, too: I felt like it was using my skills to do help a lot of people while satisfying my need for variety and challenge.  I think if I had more years left in my career era, I would consider going back to school for some kind of counseling or therapist training and make a go of that.   My Mom used to say I should be an addiction counselor at a rehab facility.  I can see commonalities in the things I am drawn to: helping others to reach their potential while facing somewhat new and different circumstances and puzzles every day for my mind to find the best way forward.

Who wants to pay me for that?  Anyone?  I know there are jobs out there that would be better suited to me than ones I have done in the last decade or more.  Mine have worked because they were in the mold of my children’s schedules, but maybe I should have been more ambitious or more selective.  I know I have been held back from things like freelance writing or Life Coaching because I am a terrible entrepreneur.  For all of my skills and my great desire to work alone and not be managed by someone else, I am really not good at marketing and digging up business.  It’s a problem that may ultimately dictate the fate of my employment future.  Will I have a job—a career, even—that perfectly suits my talents and my temperament for the long-term?  Will I skip from one thing that interests me until I learn enough about it to become bored and then on to the next thing that interests me, having lots of temporarily satisfying mini-careers?  Or will I just keep doing what fits in my family’s schedule and save all of the meaningful and rewarding stuff for the hours outside of work?  All of those seem like legitimate possibilities at this point.  And honestly, though some look like much more satisfying options than others, I believe that I could live a happy life in any of the worlds.  Not necessarily a happy work life, but a happy life overall.  I have no doubt that no matter which job or jobs I choose to do, my curiosity and thirst for fun and adventure, coupled with the people I spend my time with, will succeed in filling my life with joy and fulfillment.  But hey, why not have it all?  I will work on it.

How about you?  How many different careers are you meant to have over your lifetime?  Open up your journal and think about your working life to this point.  Make a list of all the different jobs you have ever held.  How many felt like just jobs, and how many, if any, have felt like your career?  If you have a career, what is it that appeals to you about your specialization?  Have you always known you would do something like that?  When you were younger and were asked what you wanted to be or do when you grew up, what did you say?  Did that dream career actually fit your personality and talents?  Whether you consider yourself to be in a career or not, what kind of career are you truly best suited for?  Do you have the right temperament to be a specialist, someone who can do the same job day after day, year after year, as most people do?  If that is you, do you make up for the monotony at work by having lots of things outside of work that satisfy your need for variety and meaning?  Now make a list of all the different jobs that you have ever fantasized about doing before you retire.  How different are those jobs from the one you do now?  How different are they from each other?  Would you be able to stick with only one for the long haul, or would you more likely have to cycle through them, either one at a time or doing multiple gigs part-time to sustain your interest?  What are you most looking for in a career?  If every career made the same amount of money, which would you choose from among your talents and interests?  What needs do these fantasized careers fill for you that your current career does not?  Before you retire, how many different twists and turns do you imagine your career path taking?  Is that more or less than you imagine other people’s paths taking?  Would you consider yourself a multipotentialite or Renaissance person?  If not, how far from that are you?  Are there people close to you whose interests and passions vary widely and who feel compelled to pursue them no matter how often that sends them off the career ladder?  Is it harder for you to empathize with a specialist or a multipotentialite?  Are you a big believer in people pursuing their passions as a career no matter what, or do you look at it more practically and suggest people pursue their passions as hobbies outside of work instead?  If you had one more career to choose today and stick with until the end, what would it be?  Does that thought experiment stress you out, or is yours an easy answer?  Leave me a reply and let me know: How winding and disjointed is your career path meant to be?

Live your Truth,

William

P.S. If this topic resonated with you today, please share it with your community.  Let us all explore the beauty of our differences.

P.P.S. If this way of introspection appeals to you, consider buying my book, Journal of YOU: Uncovering The Beauty That Is Your Truth, at your favorite online retailers.  Namaste.

Saying Goodby To Your Childhood

“Growing apart doesn’t change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I’m glad for that.” –Ally Condie, Matched 

“My hometown… was always there, at all times, unchanging. What I think… is not that we go back to our hometowns, but that someday our hometowns come back into each of our hearts.” –Jirō Taniguchi, A Journal Of My Father

Hello friend,

My old man turned 80 years old a few weeks ago.  Eighty!  How the heck did that happen???  Anyway, since it was a big one, my four siblings and I agreed that we would all make the haul back to our hometown to celebrate the guy who made us.  With the exception of last year—the Year Of All Exceptions—I have always gone back for Christmas.  Other than that one annual trip, though, my visits to the place I grew up have been few and far between.  Because I only go at Christmas, when the outside air hurts anything it touches, I really just hang out in my house for the few days I am there, usually taking a couple of walks around my neighborhood to remind myself of who lived in which house all those eons ago when I had the run of the place from sun-up to sun-down.

I am a sucker for nostalgia.  I love pouring back over childhood memories in my mind.  I had a truly enjoyable youth, so I am all smiles when I let my mind swim back through that sea of images.  Getting a texted photo from a sibling or old friend from some long-forgotten event is always a delight for me.  So, walking through my old neighborhood at Christmastime each year, even with my nostrils frozen shut, gives me all the good feelings.

I have been semi-consciously attempting, these last few years, to put a bow on my feelings about the two places that have always felt like childhood home to me.  One is the lake cabin we have been going to since I was a kid, and one is my actual childhood home.  I want to say goodbye to them while they are still in my life, not from a distance when they are suddenly taken away from me by my parents either selling them or dying.  I wouldn’t have a lasting peace about it unless I can fully soak them in and say goodbye (even if I might be back again next year).  As much as I have felt them as an essential part of me and my foundation, I want to let them go gracefully.  Now that I think about it, I guess I am doing that with the people in my life who might be leaving soon, too (but that is a letter for a different day).

To be clear, I am not trying to cut these places (or people) out of my life; I am just trying to be at peace with them and the inevitability of their loss.  I hope this will help me feel less empty when they go, whether that is tomorrow or ten years from now.

I feel like I have done pretty well with this project on my most recent visits home (and to the lake cabin).  I have really felt each of the rooms in the house and taken in their memories and the positive energy they have filled my soul with over the nearly-half-century I have spent there.  I have let myself simultaneously celebrate the memories and mourn the eventual loss of the place from my life.  I have made Peace and truly given each space, including the yard and my neighborhood, a soulful salute, a great big “Namaste.”  I hope to visit again many times, but if I don’t get the chance, I have some measure of closure already in the bank.

However, until this most recent trip back, I sensed that I was missing a key element of the goodbye.  I could feel deep down that I wasn’t satisfied that it was complete, that I hadn’t let it all go.  I hadn’t covered all my bases yet.

You see, on all of those Christmas trips home over the years, when I didn’t leave the house but for the occasional sledding run with the family, I always told myself that I wasn’t missing anything.  I swore that the only place I wanted to hangout in my hometown was in my house (I really do love my house).  I had no desire to go to the local mall to find after-Christmas sales or to the local bars to meet up with old school mates.  I was content to just be home with my family.  In my home.

Going back this time in the Autumn, though, when everything wasn’t so frozen solid, snow-covered, and dark for most of the day, gave me a chance to think about home in a new way.  It let me think about the actual town where all of my memories were made, a town that I once loved very much but haven’t thought much about in recent years.  When everything is frozen over, I sneak in, hunker down in my house, and then sneak back out.  The town goes untouched, unnoticed.  This time, though, coming in off the highway, it felt like a real place, like it had a soul.  I felt the stirrings in my own soul and understood just what had been left undone.  I needed a personal reckoning with my hometown.  I needed to take it all in one more time, to make Peace with it so I could bid it a fond farewell.

So, one afternoon when the kids were busy with their cousins, my wife—who was also raised there but has a very different history and relationship with the place—and I got in the car with the stated intent to “tour the town.”  The only two certain stops on the trip were the old Scandinavian church in a park where we were married and the cemetery where her father is buried.  The rest of the itinerary was left to my whimsy, which is exactly how I like the world to be.

We started off heading to the other end of town, going past a couple of the houses she grew up in (unlike me, she bounced around town a bit), laughing about how small her elementary school looks now and how that walk that felt to her like a mile was really only a couple of blocks.  We pointed out the stores we frequented for candy, and every treasured Dairy Queen.  We kept going past friends’ houses and places we had been to parties or taken late-night drives until we arrived at what used to be the very end of town but is now a bustling neighborhood and huge new school.  I asked for a special favor to go into the tennis club where I used to play as a kid (and later worked).  The lady at the desk indulged me in a quick look around and even gave me an old black-and-white photo that had been left there from the era when I learned tennis, of my first coach, my high school coach, and my former boss, all as young adults in their short-shorts.  The memories came flooding in, and so many emotions rolled over me.  I am so glad we stopped.

Next, we started the long, circuitous journey from the farthest North end of town to the farthest South, weaving our way in a scattered zig-zag from East to West and back whenever a new idea struck me.  We laughed about the old hotels where birthday parties and Homecoming nights took place.  There was the bowling alley where we had gone together before we were officially dating a few decades ago.  It was a sad discovery to drive by the town roller rink I used to go to on Friday nights and see that it was no longer a roller rink; I loved that place.  I had to go by all of my favorite tennis courts where I spent countless hours with friends and foes, every court holding a memory of what was once an all-important match.

We visited all of our schools, including ones that are no longer even there, lost in a flood a decade ago.  Those school memories had no end for me.  There was my elementary school—now with an addition—every teacher and friend so crystal clear to me still.  We went by the football fields outside my middle school where we once shot off the rockets we made in Science class.  Around the back side of my first high school, I thought of the school dances in the pitch-black basement cafeteria.  We drove around on the course where our Driver’s Ed class happened, laughing about “The Serpentine” and parallel parking nightmares.

We stopped at the hill above the high school football field and tennis courts and looked out across the valley of the city.  There was so much of my life in that view: my friends’ houses, my Dad’s workplace, the place I spoke at my high school graduation, the streets I biked and later drove, everything.  In the distance I spotted the college football field in whose parking lot I had my first kiss.  Just down the street from that view, we stopped at that Scandinavian church where I “kissed the bride” on my wedding day.  Everywhere I looked that afternoon, there was some memory to smile about.  This was the town of my childhood.  My childhood was a happy one.  It was worth remembering.

As the years have gone by and I have matured and embraced my Truth, the rose-colored lenses I once viewed the town with have evolved.  As with everything else in my little corner of the world, I have taken a deeper and more critical look at the place.  I have realized some things about being raised there that I wish were not the case, things I was vaguely aware of then but can now put a finer point on.  It was an extremely homogeneous town.  It felt like everyone was White, straight, and Christian, and I am quite sure it was pretty horrible for anyone who did not appear to fit into those strict categories (my wife being one of them).  It was heavily conservative and narrow-minded.  None of the institutions—schools, churches, etc.–did anything to nurture the compassion and progressive values that I hope my current community is modeling for my own kids.  You were treated well if and only if you fit the right description.  At the time, I was quite clueless about how privilege works—which is part of the definition of privilege—and thus no doubt contributed to the culture.

Looking back, all of that makes me sad.  The town could have done a lot more for me than it did.  I am a little bit amazed at how I turned out morally (and, by extension, politically), which makes me feel there is a lot more Nature than Nurture going on.  But there is something I have been working on in my heart and mind in recent months, especially in these times where political (i.e. moral) differences are tearing families and friendships apart, sometimes in one dramatic moment and other times through silence and slow distancing (my people prefer the latter).  Old friends, parents, and siblings, the people whom you have loved and been loved by forever, are not going to survive a measuring by your evolved and refined standards.  They just aren’t.  Your Dad is going to be a racist or misogynist (or both), your sibling is going to be a homophobe, or—clutch the pearls—your childhood bestie is going to be a Democrat (or whatever horrific thing you want to fill in the blank with).  They are going to disappoint you in ways that pain your heart and make you question the wisdom and sanity of every future visit.   My new goal in these interpersonal relationships with people whom I genuinely love but still struggle with their beliefs and actions is to appreciate them for all the things they ARE and HAVE BEEN for me and let go of all the things they ARE NOT and HAVE NEVER BEEN.

This long, circuitous drive let me do the same thing for my hometown.  I got to forgive it for all the things it was not and set that aside so I could fully appreciate it for all the things that it was to me for so long, for what it has helped me to still be all these years later.  There were so many great things about it, so many places all over the town that gave me happy thoughts.  I saw the place through the rose-colored glasses of my youth—I guess I always will–and I loved it all over again for one beautiful afternoon.  Not only did I love it, though; I appreciated it.  Through my nostalgic grins and chuckles and “I-remember-whens,” I got to give the place that made me one final, grateful salute.  An honest, heartfelt Thanks for everything.  And with it, a Goodbye.

I needed that Goodbye.

How about you?  What is your connection to your hometown?  Open up your journal and take a deep dive into the sea of your childhood memories.  What was your town like when you were a kid?  Do you have memories from around the entire town or mostly just your neighborhood and schools?  Where did your friends live?  How close was your house to school?  How big was your range for “going out to play”?  Were you on your bike a lot?  What was your relationship to school?  Did you like your teachers?  How many friends did you have?  Where did you go to buy candy or other treats?  Where did you usually play?  Whose houses were you comfortable in?  What were your favorite things to do?  As you got into your teens and high school, how did your friend group change?  How did your feelings about school change?  How much more of the town did you cover once cars entered the scene?  What activities were you involved in?  Did your activities connect you with different parts of the town and new friends from a broader area?  How much of your town were you familiar with?  Could you always find your way home?  What about the town itself?  Did it have any unique features?  What were the main hangouts when you were in high school?  At the time, would you have said you liked the town?  Do you remember your time there fondly?  Were you dying to get out when you finished school?  How big of a role did the town’s places—its parks, schools, movie theaters, malls, etc.—play in your enjoyment of it?  How would you, as a kid, have described your town’s population and culture?  How has that view changed as you have aged?  Do you have a clearer sense now of the town’s general attitudes and cultural leanings then?  Does this evolution make you view your childhood and feelings for the town differently?  What is your relationship with your hometown now?  Do you visit?  Do you have friends and family there?  Would you go back if they weren’t still there?  If you still live there or have moved back, what is the draw?  What makes the place special?  Is it the same things that were special to you when you were a kid?  If you don’t still live there, what is your attitude toward the people who do?  Are you more like, “That is so cool!” or “What is wrong with you?”  Wherever you live, are you able to see the shortcomings of your hometown or ways you wish it had better treated you or prepared you for the world?  Do you feel like the town provided you with your values or that you either brought them to the scene or developed them in spite of the town?  What things about your hometown are you appalled by?  Given where you are in your life right now and who you are, would it be a good fit for you?  Would you choose to raise kids there or recommend it to others?  Do you wish you were raised elsewhere?  Have you forgiven it for all that it wasn’t for you?  Even if you dislike some or much of it, are you still able to think fondly of the places and people that you liked when you were a kid?  Are you able to be grateful you lived there?  If you no longer live there, have you taken the time and effort to make peace with the place?  Have you done a stroll down Memory Lane—either in your memory or an actual drive like I did—to say a true goodbye to all the spots in town that live in your heart?  If you never saw the place again, would that sit alright with you?  If not, what can you do to rectify that feeling and get some closure, if anything?  Will you?  Leave me a reply and let me know: Have you said a real goodbye to your hometown and your childhood?

I wish you Peace,

William

P.S. If this resonated with you today, I hope you will share it.  Sometimes people need a nudge along their path to Peace.

P.P.S. If this way of self-reflection appeals to you, consider buying my book, Journal of YOU: Uncovering The Beauty That Is Your Truth, at your favorite online retailers.  Namaste.

What Good Is Life Without Your Health?

“The first wealth is health.” –Ralph Waldo Emerson

“When health is absent, wisdom cannot reveal itself, art cannot manifest, strength cannot fight, wealth becomes useless, and intelligence cannot be applied.” ―Herophilus

Hello friend,

I spent some days last week in a hellish level of back pain, so bad that my mind was pulled toward a topic I had no wish to visit: suicide.  To be clear, I was not suicidal; I was merely pondering suicide as a concept, examining it from multiple angles, considering the motivations.  The pondering itself, and even more so the strength of the magnetic pull to the topic, was telling of my state of mind.

It took me back nearly two decades, the last time my back exploded and had me almost delirious in pain, culminating in a body full of drugs and an emergency surgery.  Through all of my days of agony prior to the surgery, one subject came through clearly in my otherwise desperate mind: suicide.  I had never thought so much about it in all my life (and haven’t since).  My mind was all over the topic: the how, the why, the who, the aftermath.  The everything.  I couldn’t seem to clear it from my brain.  I am fairly sure the obsession stemmed from the fact that, racked with pain at a level I had never imagined possible, for the first time in my life I could totally get why some people no longer want to live.  Honestly, I don’t know how much longer I could have gone on like that if I didn’t believe a cure was coming.  Pulled from an otherwise blissful life, I suddenly had absolutely no capacity for joy.  It didn’t feel like a life at all.  It just felt like misery.

Some years before that episode, when I was in graduate school, one of the professors in the department was suffering from bowel cancer or colitis or some other very serious disease of the digestive tract.  And when I say “suffering,” I mean truly suffering.  I hadn’t known him well and had only heard that he had something and did not understand its severity until I took a brief visit to the bathroom one evening before class.  It was a tiny bathroom, and I spotted someone’s feet in the single stall as I stepped up to the lone urinal.  That’s when I heard the sounds of a man in the throes of pain and anguish, still trying to keep quiet.  I felt terrible as I rushed out of there, haunted by another human’s suffering.  A few months later, I heard that he committed suicide.  I understood why.

I have been wildly blessed throughout my life, probably in no area more important than my mental health.  I mentioned to you in a letter once that one of the things that has surprised me most in my years on this Earth is just how prevalent and truly commonplace mental illness is.  When I was a kid and learned that a family member had an eating disorder, it absolutely floored me.  I never dreamed someone close to me would have psychological problems, and I was sure it shouldn’t be mentioned to anyone.  As an adult, the more I learn, the more it feels like almost everyone is dealing with some measure of addiction or other mental illness, or at least has dealt with it.  I am grateful to have been mostly spared.  Because of that, my only insight into depression (or other)-induced suicidal thoughts is from Psychology classes and lots and lots of memoirs.

So, though it is a fascinating topic to explore and one that I would like to know more about, I am not here today with strictly mental states on my agenda.  Not the kind that decide it is preferable to be dead than alive based only on how dark and painful it is inside the mind, anyway.  Rather, I want to know about how physical pain and disability shape one’s sense of the value of one’s own life.  Because one day I was feeling physically fine, with a few aches and pains like anyone my age has, and I was thinking I was living a great life full of blessings that I wanted to keep experiencing indefinitely.  And the next day I was doubled over in pain, wondering if it was all worth it to go on.

I admit, that instantaneous loss of my life’s value freaked me out a little.  Okay, maybe a lot.  I mean, is the value of existence so fragile that once the body stops cooperating, the whole game needs to be forfeited?  If so, what of all these emotional and intellectual gymnastics we constantly perform to keep ourselves believing how sturdy and enduring our many blessings are and how they will carry us through the low points in life?  The love of our families and friends, our connection to the Divine, our sense of accomplishment from the work we have done, the creations we have provided the world, the dreams we are on our way to fulfilling.  If it all collapses with the slip of a vertebrae, how solid was the ground that sense of Value was built upon?  I am being haunted by that question now.

I am thinking of the many times an injury has kept me from doing the things I wanted to do.  I have always been an active guy, and I have had my share of injuries along the way.  Usually, I just play through it, as I cannot stand to be inactive.  But even so, when I cannot do everything I want, I know that I don’t enjoy myself as much.  Just this Summer, when a slow-healing gash on my foot kept me away from my favorite activities for a couple of months, I found life much less fulfilling.  Sure, I found other things to do and enjoyed them, but it was much less satisfying than what I wanted to do.  I swallowed my frustrations and did my impatient best to be patient and positive, but that was because I knew the end was in sight.  But I wonder: What if there was no end in sight?  What if I could no longer swim or run or play?  Would my base of happiness start to erode?  I am fairly certain it would.  And then, how quickly would it erode?  And even bigger picture: when I hit my low point with it, would that level still be called “Happy,” or would it be something very different?  Would that something different be something I could go on living with?

Even at this point in my aging/erosion process—I am almost half a century old—I can’t do so many of the things I once could due to previous injuries and simply the reality of a body at this age.  I can no longer go out for a real run.  Bending over to lift heavy things can take me out of commission for weeks.  My elbow hurts after I play tennis, and I cannot serve even half the speed I once could.  Believe me, the list goes on!

For a guy most at home when playing a sport or sweating out an outdoor adventure, this new reality is deeply frustrating.  I was tempted to say it is awful, but it only relatively awful.  That is, when I imagine how much fun it would be to still be doing that stuff, it feels awful to my heart.  And yet, I definitely don’t find that my life is awful.  I am quite happy (just maybe less satisfied than I could be).

I can’t say how it will be as I age and gradually lose more and more of my physical capacities–perhaps my mind will continue to adapt as well and find increasingly innovative ways to find Joy in my little world and offset the thrills and satisfaction of physical exertion and mastery–or if I suffer an injury or illness that renders me instantly unable to perform.  This is something I would like to interview some elderly and physically disabled folks about—the ways they have adapted, and what their perception of their own happiness is compared to how it might be if they had all of their physical tools working at full capacity.  Do we all just go through our journeys constantly adjusting our standard for Happiness and Fulfillment based on what seems realistic given our physical circumstances, most everyone finding themselves able to say, “Yeah, I’m doing alright” even if they would have felt sorry for someone in their present circumstances no so long ago?  Are we that wisely and graciously adaptable, or are we deluded suckers?  I hope it’s the former.

With my foot injury this Summer and at other times in my life, such as when limbs were in casts, even though I was unable to use the limb, I had the benefit of not being in constant pain.  So, even though I may have been frustrated—which I may have described as “misery” at the time—I was not in physical agony.  As someone who has suffered the worst kind of back pain, I can tell you that that is where this whole issue turns into something different.  When you are racked with an extreme, unrelenting physical pain that leaves you simply unable to enjoy anything—no, it’s not that you can’t “enjoy,” but rather that you can feel only anguish, only suffering–we are in a new realm.  This is, I am guessing, where my old professor was.  It is where I was in the days before my back surgery.  The only difference was that I believed that surgery was going to improve my situation; I would have deemed it unbearable if that wasn’t an option.  He didn’t have any assurances.  I understand the route he chose.  “There, but for the grace of God, go I…”

I see now that this is where the discussion really splits and there is a need for two separate inquiries.  Loss of the use of your physical abilities—even with some accompanying moderate pain–is one thing, but severe pain is quite another.  I am coming to believe through experience that I will still be able to be grateful and happy if or as I lose my athleticism and flexibility and such.  I am less sure that that I will feel fulfilled without that physical element, but I believe I can achieve happiness.  I have faith that my life can still feel fun and valuable to me.  I don’t have that same confidence when it comes to living with chronic pain.

I would like to believe that it is simply mind over matter and that I could find joy, gratitude, and peace of mind in any physical state.  But I remember the pain I was in last week as I tried to get out of the car and walk down the sidewalk without collapsing and without crying.  And I still shiver as I think about those days before my surgery years ago, my body stuck in a wholly unnatural position due to the spasms from the herniated disc in my back and me barely able to breathe without sobbing uncontrollably.  That was not a life that could be maintained.  If it had value, I couldn’t see it at the time.

In the end, I guess my answer is YES, my life can still be quite valuable without all the things I love about being fit and active, but that value probably begins to deteriorate once chronic pain gets past moderate intensity, with the value then becoming inversely proportional to the pain as I move toward full-on agony.  It’s a theory for now.  I hope I don’t have to find out the truth.

How about you?  How does your health dictate the value of your life?  Open up your journal and your memory and search for times when your health shaped the way you value your life.  What are your very worst experiences with your health and physical abilities?  Are they illnesses that knocked you flat and made you feel like garbage?  Migraines?  Are your worst times from acute injuries that brought your pain immediately to an extreme intensity?  Do you have chronic pain at a high level that shapes your perception of your life’s value?  Whatever your worst experiences, did they ever reach a point where you began to wonder if you could go on much longer in that state?  Did you ever, at your very worst point, realize that it no longer even felt like living, but instead just endless suffering?  If so, how did that realization play on your psyche?  If you haven’t experienced this level of physical agony, do you know someone who has?  How closely do you believe you can empathize with it?  Who in your life has lived for long stretches in the greatest physical pain?  Was it from an illness—like cancer or arthritis—or from injury (e.g. spine trouble or concussion)?  Have they adapted and created a happy life in spite of the pain?  Do you think you could be happy no matter your level of chronic pain?  Do you believe there is a level of pain that would lead you to take your own life?  Do you have any judgment about people who do?  Okay, let’s switch gears.  How much does a diminished physical capacity affect your mindset?  Have you ever been incapacitated with an injury that limited you enough that it affected your happiness or life satisfaction?  What did it keep you from doing or feeling that you missed so much?  Did you find a substitute for that previous ability to fill in the happiness gap, or did you simply adjust your standards?  Was your loss temporary or permanent?  What can you no longer do that you once could (e.g run, play a sport, garden, etc.)?  How has that loss affected you?  Do you harp on it psychologically, reminding yourself how much you miss it and maybe cursing your luck?  Have you given yourself grace as you have aged, letting abilities go without too much bitterness or mourning?  Have you found that life can be just as good without the physical gifts of youth?  Can you think of a physical loss that would almost certainly cause you to devalue your life (e.g. paralysis, blindness, obesity)?  Is there a physical loss that you can imagine making life seem no longer worth living for you?  Are you at all embarrassed to admit to that last answer?  Are we weak and shallow for tying so much of our happiness and life satisfaction to our health—rather than, say, spiritual peace or wisdom–or is that just the reality of the human condition?  Leave me a reply and let me know: What good is your life without your health?

Be as well as you can,

William

P.S. If this resonated with you, please share it with your community.  We rise together!

P.P.S.  If this way of self-exploration appeals to you, consider buying my book, Journal of YOU: Uncovering The Beauty That Is Your Truth, at your favorite online retailers.