On the road: NoMad, Manhattan New York

The beauty of Jack Kerouac’s book “On the Road” is in the details. He travelled all over the place, and had a notebook with him, and just took tiny notes of what he saw, how he interpreted life. When it was time to write, he could connect the story with so many micro-moments of meaning, because those moments had their own tiny factoid.

I don't do that very well - take notes of the tiny moments in each day - but below is a quick story where I try to pay attention to the littlest things, just to see how it writes. This was from our time in New York, pre-Covid, and the plot is nothing at all - I just leave the hotel to get coffee...

—

When I step out of the elevator, the lobby is quiet. The coffee station is bare, the concierge mostly asleep. I say “mostly” because his eyes are open, but his mind is clearly elsewhere. Across the foyer, there is a sliver of sunlight on a couch, the only indication at all that it isn’t still nighttime. New York City has always struggled with catching the sunlight this early in the morning. Too many buildings too close together, I suppose.

I zip up my coat, and push through the glass turnstile doors into the street. Now there are others sharing my morning. The palette out here is all greys and browns: dark coats and hats, leather briefcases and satchels, functional umbrellas and scarves. The streets are still glassy from the night rains, each puddle a portal to an inverted world of skyscrapers and pastel skies.

My hands are deep in my pockets, my shoulders hunched against the chill. I’ve never been good with coldness - even as a kid, I would get cold so fast, and it would always feel like an icepick sinking into my spine. I take the three steps to the pavement, and join the murky grey stream of city regulars.

Honestly, I don’t know why I’m even out here. The hotel bed is warmer than this street corner. I tell myself I’m searching for beauty. Being new in a place allows a certain fleeting naivety, which sometimes leads to wonder, and so I’m walking the streets freezing my toes off for the wonder of it all. So much wonder, I try and convince myself. An umbrella up ahead just blew inside out, and my teeth are chattering.

What I really want, right now, is none of the wonder, and none of the beauty. I just want to return to my room. It’s warm there, and it has Rach, all asleep in a cosy bed. I could be under those covers right now, instead of shivering past another block of morning commuters. No one is looking up, and there’s a kind of eerie silence behind the dull city roar. There are engines running, brakes screeching, traffic lights tick-tick-ticking, a million clopping footsteps on the footpaths, but no voices. No birdsong. No faces.

I trudge along Madison Avenue with the grey coats and black umbrellas for another block, and turn onto East 27th. Somehow the ice-wind can turn corners, and it follows me all the way to the door of Birch Coffee, finding all the chinks in my armour of warmth and dropping little daggers down my spine. I push myself into the coffee shop wishing that I had never left the hotel.

“Welcome to Birch, honey.” Her eyes crinkle in the exact places that make it seem like she means it. “There’s a bit of a queue today, but try this while you’re waiting.” A small paper cup is pressed into my hands. It’s steaming, and it thaws my fingertips. “Single origin, Honduras, twelve days from roasting - we think today is the sweet spot!” And she’s off with a wink, sashaying through the bustle with her little tray of espresso cups and a smile for everyone.

I sip the coffee, and it runs through me like a lit fuse, like some delicious lava, heating my bloodstream and closing my eyes in overwhelm. The rest of my senses awaken in response - waves of conversation and laughter wash over me, the dull scream of the coffee grinders, the swoosh and hiss of the steam in the milk jugs, a Broken Bells song playing from somewhere in the ceiling. The fruity caramel notes in my cup mix with the rich nutty aroma of the store in a way that makes my mouth water.

I look up to a grid of golden sunlight stretched across the back wall, behind the baristas and their machines. Reflected light from the windows of the dark buildings down the street, a single warm beam that clearly wanted to be part of this morning with the rest of us. The customers have shed their coats, revealing bright reds and corporate blues and excellent silk greens. A rebirth of the human palette. Everyone here has faces, too. Faces that are seeking other faces, strangers that are connecting over the shared experience of frosty mornings and the nine-to-five battle ahead.

In this fractional moment of the day, Birch Coffee becomes a bottleneck of meaningful experience, a pinch in the hourglass between the cold dark morning and the discontented workplace. I can see all the frail human vessels being restored, filled up, tempered for what lies ahead. There is no status in this space, no labels or titles or hierarchies. Just faces, open and inviting and validating the human struggle. I am feeling warmer.

The door bumps into my shoulder as another cold soul presses in from outside. Face as grey as the street, hands shaking full with his umbrella and briefcase, eyes on the next step forward. Just trying to get in, or away, or above, or out. I reach for the door, swing it wide, makes some space and take his arm.

“Welcome to Birch.” I say with a smile, and he lifts his gaze, pale blues through rain-dropped bifocals. “You should try the the single origin - it’s Honduran, twelve days from roasting.” He raises his grey brows high, a slight smile.

I lean in conspiratorially, “I think today could be the sweet spot."

Active audiencing

I love being in an audience. Whether it’s a stage show, a concert, a standup comedy routine or a cinema, when I am in the audience I feel safe, and ready to experience a world that is different to my own. As a spectator to a story, I have permission to open up my mind, consider beliefs and perspectives that I normally wouldn’t ever consider.

If the protagonist on the stage (or in the movie) is stricken with poverty, then I can safely subscribe to that identity, and for a moment walk the same path. I begin to understand why she would steal that loaf of bread, lie to her children, sleep with that man for money. As myself, I would stand strong in my narrow-minded worldview that stealing is wrong, prostitution is wrong, etc. But as a spectator, I can agree that in this world stealing is vital, the prostitution was necessary, and in fact if I were in that situation, I may take the exact same actions.

Of course, this is one of the goals of storytelling - to move the audience towards new ideas, feelings, perspectives. But the role of the audience as spectator is not a passive one. To be an observer is to invest time into someone else’s story. But more than that, it suspends judgement, observing with an open mind the perspective of another. One of the first things a storyteller needs to create is a world that feels TRUE to the audience, and the great power of observation is when you can accept another’s experience as true - even if you don’t agree with it.

When we experience a great story, we have all willingly opened our minds to it, acknowledging that “though I do not agree with this worldview, I feel completely safe to subscribe to it for the duration of the story.”

Imagine if we held that attitude in our everyday conversations?

Imagine listening to another’s story, and not immediately defending your own worldview, announcing your own belief system, arguing your truth versus another’s. It’s not that impossible to observe without judgement, listen with an open heart, consider that there may be truth in a completely different set of beliefs. After all, we do it every single time we experience a story.

This week, instead of just information-sharing or social positioning, try some active audiencing with others. Observe with an open heart, a gracious mind and a less-fearful ego. Suspend the judgement, believe that the way life is for another is as true as the way life is for yourself.

Who knows, you may just leave the show with some fresh perspectives and a richer worldview.

Piers Newton-John

Yesterday the latest edition of Dumbo Feather arrived. It’s a quarterly magazine filled with insightful articles and long-form interviews, and is my favourite publication. It arrived in my office letterbox, and I immediately started flipping through the pages. As I read, I walked, and the city streets were not safe for me. I was running into light poles and strangers, and just barely missing busses. Forget alcohol or texting, it’s the reading of a good book while in motion that is truly dangerous.

This is not an unusual experience for me, but this particular time I observed something about the way I read that I found interesting: I opened to the contents page and skimmed the topics and authors, and then immediately turned to page 52 - an article by Piers Newton-John. I didn’t know what the article was about, the title gave me no clues, and I didn’t make the decision consciously. I simply saw his name, and went to the page.

How does that happen? I wanted to read what he wrote, not because of WHAT he was writing about, but because of THE WAY he writes. That’s quite a power to hold, if you can be a writer that readers will read no matter what you are writing about.

I guess it’s that dynamic again of a good story, told well. Good thinking, but also good delivery. In Piers Newton-John’s case, I may have even decided to read him just on that good delivery. I like the way he writes.

I think every writer needs to have that aspiration: to tell their stories well. Not just to be a “thought leader” who is known for good ideas, but a writer who people want to read.

First drafts open the door

It’s 6:30am already, so pretty soon I’ll be getting in the shower, heading downstairs to wake the kids, then making the breakfasts and getting out of here. But, I need to write.

For my Story Coaching Framework, I created a diagnosis matrix, where we can place our idea on a scale of “good story” and “told well”, and see how strong it is. Right now, whatever I have to write would land right down the bottom of both areas.

Nothing to say, not written well.

But, that’s sometimes the point, isn’t it? We don’t START with a good idea all the time, and we certainly shouldn’t wait until we have the exact right words to put down. That would be a slow and tedious journey of self-criticism and very little output.

No, a good story told well doesn’t have to start at “good”. It can start at “crap story told poorly.” Just get something down, then consider the message, the content, the creativity, the love, and make the edits.

A shitty first draft unlocks the door and turns on the light. The edit puts all the crap from the floor onto the shelves. Then we take the pieces we need from the shelves, build our stories, and send them out into the world.

the few, and deeply

In workshops with health professionals, teachers or parents, I often speak about Joseph Campbell’s “Hero’s Journey,” and the key character roles within that archetype: The hero, the mentor, the victim, the villain.

The encouragement of course, is that although we play all the roles at some point in our life (or even in a single day), we should aspire to play the Mentor role when serving and relating to others. That is, we are not competing with the hero. We’re not trying to win, be the best, or any of that. We’re not even running the same race. Instead, we're sharing what we know so that the hero has her best chance of success.

In thinking about that Mentor role, you know, the Yoda character, Mr Miyagi, Gandalf, Professor McGonegall… I started wondering how a mentor might negotiate the internet.

In a mentor role, I would want to be a part of your life, but I wouldn’t want to serve you crap. It’s not my place to just dump everything that has ever happened to me on you. I don’t have the right to throw my life at you, and demand that your time is best served by listening to me.

If I’m sharing something with you, I want it to be worth your time, and valuable to you somehow. Hell, it needs to be valuable enough to be worth MY time writing it. I can imagine that would be Gandalf’s thinking too “we are living in dangerous and powerful times, hobbit, don’t let me waste my breath!”

I think a mentor would share less on the internet, but what they share would carry more weight.
“Here’s something I’ve learned that you might benefit from..”
“Here’s a statement from me, but it’s all about you: you are loved, you are worthy, you are powerful, you are beautiful, you can do this, you have great potential..."

I just can’t see Gandalf tweeting his life away about what he ate that morning, or where he is travelling right now, or how cute his pet dragon is. I see him learning things deeply, and sharing information with great respect, waiting for an invitation before investing into another's life. For the few who seek, he would share his knowledge.

I think that is the motto of every mentor:

The few, and deeply.

I know Gandalf isn’t on Facebook. I know he’s fictional. And I know the nature of the internet is that nobody asks permission: it’s all post post post post post post post. But the archetypes exist for a reason, and I’m going to try my damnedest to learn from them, stand in the respectful mentor role, and create content that is worth my time, and that contributes to the betterment of, well, you.

We are artists

We are artists. In ancient times, it was the artists who society looked to for hope and perspective. The artist saw the world differently to the worker or the politician, and so, could offer valuable insight into a situation. And perhaps more importantly, the artist could also offer an archetype of a solution.

Artists naturally reveal truths, often universal truths. And in doing so, their audience feel two things:

  • They feel known.

  • They feel hope.


It’s not up to the artist to implement cultural change, manage new systems, oversee task forces. The artist simply creates pieces of truth, that move an audience towards something they believe in.

A slower determination

Rach and I are reading Margaret Wheatley’s “Perseverance” this morning.

At 5:30am, the sun has just crested the horizon, the sky is already an apricot wash, the temperature is already 12 degrees.

And she and I sit naked in a bed, cradling our coffee cups, reading words so wise, we can’t do more than a page a day.

Wheatley writes that in the Chinese language, the character for perseverance is often the same as the one used for patience. Which I find really validating, to be honest. Perseverance often carries with it the expectation of pushing through, being tenacious, fighting forward. But, the ancient Chinese scribes used the character for slowing down, resting and waiting, managing during a slower organic growing of oneself.

I think it’s one thing to have a deadline, work all night, “persevere" to complete a task - it’s cinematic, right? The audience applauds when the lawyer doesn’t sleep for a week and finds the loophole to win the case.

But, it’s a much more courageous thing to believe, and do, over a longer, slower period of time. We need more than adrenaline when the timeframe is months and years. When the work is a life’s work.

We need patience. Grace for ourselves. It’s a slower determination that lasts the distance of a lifetime. And that’s a whole different skill set.

Perseverance doesn’t yield. It sees us through to the end. It sees the difficulties and pushes through. But it’s not a fight. More, a deep resilience that gets us through the mundane, the everyday. It’s a daily acknowledgement:

"I am everything, and I am nothing, both at once.
And I will go softly forward ever forward into this life, with patience and determination.
I will grow as the tides and rivers grow, in ebbs and flows, but ever strengthening.
There is no hurry."

On the road: The Coromandel, New Zealand

(April 2018)

We're returning from the Coromandel, heading back towards Auckland, and I'm in the back seat, staring out the window. Blurs of green and yellow and bitumen blue. In the rear view mirror I can see Tracey, just her eyes, and in the side mirror is Rach, just her collarbone, which I adore.

This landscape is so beautiful. Wide grassy plains, with occasional tightly gathered cows, heads all together like they’re planning a coup.

It’s the horizon that is the most striking now. These fields could belong to my own Australian landscape except for their horizon. Volcanic misty peaks, layered and foliage’d and quietly exciting. Patches of sunlight drift over the trees, like golden jellyfish ghosts.

Our lively conversation of the morning has dropped off now, replaced with a comfortable peace. Tracey reaches for her coffee, her eyes in the mirror are distant, contemplative. I start thinking about connection, how we do it and why. Out here in the vastness, it’s easy to feel insignificant, small, distant.

As if she saw my thoughts in her side mirror, Rach reaches a hand back behind her seat, fingers reaching, her palm a question, “Will you connect with me? Will you bridge this gap?”

My fingertips find her palm, and hers find mine, and we share a moment of no words, conveying soul-thoughts with the lightest touches, telling our heart stories to each other with tiny pressures and traces and piano taps.

I think connecting is work, and it’s risking rejection, and it demands a sacrifice of our time and our comfort and our independence. And the more we connect, the more these stakes rise. We sacrifice our reputation for vulnerability, hoping and trusting that this other soul will be a safe place for all of that. And we do it again and again, in so many forms, even after being hurt.

What’s the payoff for all this connecting work? Nothing tangible, really. Just feelings and self-worth and something we call “community”. And that intense heat in our souls that make us want to give and sacrifice even more, even if it costs us our life.

And maybe, also, when we connect we are voicing a solidarity - That us humans, in all this wide open infinite, are doing ok, and are worthy of being here, and are not alone.

Writing is just doing the work

Writing is really just doing the work, isn’t it?
We build our skill set and unique perspective of the world and of people, and then, we just have to sit down, lock out the hours, and write.
And on the other side of all the work, we are writers.

Between the problem and the solution

The way a problem works, is that it arrives out of nowhere, we scramble to find a solution as fast as possible to avoid any discomfort, and then when we have the solution, the problem goes away and we move on.

Which, unfortunately, means we’ve learnt nothing about ourselves.

If we are truly going to grow in life, if we are going to actually transcend our “normal” into a life we’d be proud to live, then we need to step back and notice what’s happening between the problem and the solution.

We need to see ourselves, watch how we react, consider why we are doing what we are doing. No judgement, just compassionate honesty.

Is it fear? Chasing comfort? Ignoring the obvious?

If we are not aware of ourselves when a problem hits, then we’ll just automate our response to it, and it will cycle back again.

Being aware allows you to move forward. Grow. And when you’re done, you might even be able to thank the problem, instead of fearing it’s return.

On the road: Abbortsford Convent, Melbourne AU

(March 2018)

We landed at 5am this morning in Melbourne.
Rach is an amazing sleeper. She sat right next to me, eyes closed and face down, completely zenned out. Like a monk in prayer.

I’m not so successful at the sleeping thing.
I spent the flight staring at the back of my eyelids, and exploring every other sensation my body had running. I imagined being blind, and how all my other senses would grow stronger, like a superhero.

I could hear the low rumble of the engines, and a few muffled conversations two rows forward. I heard every snap and click of the bathroom doors. I heard so many coughs I lost count. I wondered if I could influence dreams, up there in the sky with all these sleeping souls. So I pushed thoughts of courageous generosity out into the ether, but, no one woke and gave me 20 dollers, so I guess it didn’t work.

One of the things I love about Rachel Callander is how she does this: The travelling, speaking, training, listening thing. She hustles so strong, but at the same time she’s not grasping at all, not chasing the spotlight, even when the spotlight chases her. The learning, the studying and thinking is hardcore, but the delivery is kind of effortless.

Not EASY effortless, but, more like, joyfully determined.
Like, she’s been told her future, been given that certainty, so now, no matter what the journey looks like, or how hard it gets, she’ll lean in to it with a cavalier open heartedness.

Psychologist Angela Duckworth would call this “grit”, I think.

—-

Abbortsford Convent is a peaceful ancient thing, straight out of a Harry Potter novel. I swear I saw some kids just finishing up a game of quidditch in the courtyard when we arrived. I laid some books on a table in the hall and enquired about coffee, and Rach stepped up to the stage.

This is the third year North Richmond Community Health has run their “Conversations About Care” symposium, and it has become something quite beautiful and powerful. It feels like a summit of elders, a gathering of altruism where the conversation isn’t about personal gain, money, justice or excuses, but instead, we hear ideas about transforming the customer experience, flattening the hierarchy of ego, building equal respect for both the patient and the professional.

Rach is alive here - Softly buzzing with questions, empathy, warmth and strength. She’s taking notes and sketching models into her Moleskine, and remembering every name she comes across.

I’m terrible with names, and have to write everything down:
Susan Alberti AC - A powerhouse of forward motion;
John McKenna - The Yoda of the Health System, reminding us of our limitless potential in life;
Dr Ajesh George, Prof. John Aitken, Dr Jonathan Silverman, Lucy Mayes, Dr Ioan Jones, Dr Katy Theodore, Dr Martin Hall.
Incredible humans, investing their lives into healthcare and relationships.

Rach whispers to me in passing, “These are our people, Nath!”

And I close my eyes, and again push my thoughts out into the ether; and I see a room full of people invested in humanity and cultural change.

Looks like I found that courageous generosity after all.

We are souls first

I think someone who studies writing will write better, but I don’t think that is enough. The greatest writer will just have created a really pretty, but empty, page. What I mean is that our art, our unique style, comes from somewhere else. It can’t quite be trained.

Don’t get me wrong - I want, and desperately appreciate, the training. But an artist who learns the techniques of brush strokes and acrylic paints will not a masterpiece create. The masterpiece is born from somewhere deeper. And in that sense, I really believe I have a chance at writing things that matter, and that are meaningful.

What got me on to this thinking was a conversation with Jenni that I had last night. She said she loves to write, but that she hasn’t written for a long time. She said that when it really matters, like when she needs to write a report or a thank you letter to someone at church, she just does it naturally, and the writing is awesome.

I told her that she has always been that way, and that I have a shoebox full of letters from her, from the 15-year-old her, that probably read the same as the letters she’s writing now. I think we are first of all heart and inclination, and technique follows.

We are souls first, completely alone in our unique diverse speciality, and when we write, we are simply opening our shells, and doing our best to shape the outflow.

Which gives me so much hope.

I never wanted to be a photographer

I never wanted to be a photographer.

I wanted to be a storyteller. I wanted to tell people stories about themselves. The kinds of stories they should already know, but had somehow lost along the way.

Stories like,
“You are amazing.”
“You are resilient.”
“You are broken, but also whole.”
“You are love(d).”

So I picked up a camera, and stepped into the world of weddings, and showed these amazing couples the sparks between them. I wanted them to know that the most magic thing about their wedding wasn’t the party, nor the vows and promises. It wasn’t even that they were loved.
The most magic thing, was that they themselves, were love. That’s the story I’ve been telling in every wedding I’ve every shot.

Tonight the sky is exploding

Tonight the sky is exploding.
Trails of fizzy light erupting in spectacular bouquets of pink and green and blinding white. There's so much smoke, we can’t see the stars anymore. Below our balcony, there are heavy grey ghost-clouds just yawning their way through the city, like ancient spectres roused from slumber, and already bored.

I love fireworks, but not for the usual reasons. Celebrations like these are always monstrously expensive, and often just bring out the worst in us. Thousands of humans massing themselves on the foreshore and shouting drunken patriotic slogans at each other all night. I don’t care about that at all. But tonight, I'm only seeing the lightshow in reflections: glimpses in the bathroom glass, the kitchen chrome, the bedside lamps over Rach’s shoulder, and the tiny starfalls in her moon-earrings.

She is watching the sky, and I am watching her. She’s telling me stories of festivals back in her hometown, back in New Zealand. Her face lights up with every firecracker, and in her eyes are sparks of experience, little explosions of whimsy in the deep pools of her memories.

It reminds me of the first time I brought Sebastian to a firework show.
He was barely two years old, and he sat in my lap and laughed at the sky. His tiny hands reached out, grabbing at the fireflies, his face awash with delight and glory.

This is why I like fireworks. It’s the soft splashes of wonder on all the faces.
The droplets of eternity on our lashes.

Is this what I feared?

“Set aside a certain number of days during which you shall be content with the scantiest and cheapest fare, with course and rough dress saying to yourself all the while ‘Is this the condition that I feared?”

— Seneca, Roman Philosopher (c. 4 BC - AD 65)

Today we have no plans

I am sitting cross-legged on an excellent chair. Drinking coffee, typing words. Today, we have no plans.

The foyer of this place is beautiful. High arches, wraparound internal balcony on the second floor, domed opaque glass for a ceiling, all lit up by the sun, without any of the heat. The only other soul in this palatial retreat is Rach, curled up and surrounded by her journals, like an intellectual cat.

This week had its moments. Two nights ago I rode my bike out of work at 3am. Last night I had clients until 9pm. This week had deadlines and bills and walls.

But today, it's all done. The muscle of life contracted, clenched, choked, but has now released again. Breathing free.

I suppose this is how everything happens:

Tense. Release.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Conflict. Peace.
Pain. Healing.

I suppose, if I'm being completely honest, today wouldn't mean anything to me without the preceding conflict. It would just be another day. Boring, even. But, because of the perspective afforded by conflict, I can truly appreciate the zero.

Today, we have no plans, and I am joyfully grateful, and I am being in, and enjoying every second of, this moment.

Nostalgia feels like regret

I’m listening to songs I haven’t heard in fifteen years.

Thoughts and feelings and sensations from that era tumble past my consciousness.

And when I stretch out my hand, and run my fingertips under these waterfall memories, I feel such a curious mixture of laugh-out-loud joy, and crashing loss. I miss all the people I’ve loved. And I loved all the people.

Peter Rollins says that you have to let them go, those loves. He says, in order to remember them the best, in order to hold them in your heart in a way that’s healthy, you have to let them go. Set them free. Give up the ownership, and the pain, and the grudges, and the hurt.

So then, when you meet them again, or when you have to talk about them in the future, you won’t be pouring out your bitterness, anger, victim-ness. Instead you can speak open heartedly:
“I’m really sorry for my part in our distance..”
“I’m so proud of you…”
“I miss you, but you’d be proud of me..”
“I care about you, and want you to be happy..”
“I forgive you..”

Pete Rollins says, if you don’t do the work of letting them go, then you won’t be able to have that healthy encounter in the future.

I think he’s right, too. I can’t cup my hands and hold on to all these memories, as they cascade over me. It would be a life’s work to hold it all, and I’d never get anywhere myself.

So, I stand here with palms open, letting the nostalgias and losses splash through my fingers, releasing them to keep falling through space, eventually to hit a surface far below me with a roar, like each memory was worth celebrating, like the world is applauding.

Giving our best to something that doesn't love us

It just hit midnight here, and I’m alone with the city. All the tall buildings, the great ventricles of the city, have pumped out their last suited human, and are in a cardiac rest until the morning. Their lights have been left on, to compete with the stars, I think.

But the stars still win. The Southern Cross constellation is right in front of me, close, like it’s strung up between the Rio Tinto and BHP Billiton buildings. Like we missed a decoration when we were clearing out Christmas.

Rach said the moon was close tonight too. She texted me three hours ago, and said it was exceptional, that it sat in profile, all proud of itself for shining beautiful.

I missed it completely.

I think this is the part of life that breaks us. Not the late nights. Not even the deadlines. It’s not the hard work.

What breaks us is the pouring of our best hours into a vision that is not our own. It’s giving our best to something that doesn’t love us.

I’ll happily work all night for those whom I love, and who love me. I’ll pull an all-nighter to unpack an exciting idea onto a page. I’ll hustle so hard for those things in life I consider meaningful.

But, to put in hours of my day into a generic job? That is like death. That’s like pumping tiny suited bodies into my cubicles and letting them use up my best resources, only to leave at the end of the day without a word of thanks.

I’m with you, city buildings. I get it.
Sometimes you just want to fill yourself with inspired meaningful work, hey?
To know that worthwhile progress has been made this day. Progress towards a better world.

I think we should do work that matters. We should put a bouncer at the door and be selective about who will work within our walls.

“Joyful optimism? Come on in. Your desk is over by the window.”
“Grit? Take the top floor.”
“Prideful comparison? Sorry dude, there no space here for you today.”
“Love? Right this way. Take the boardroom.”

If I were that building, then at the end of the day, when all my people have emptied out of me and I was at rest again, I would turn on every light I had. I’d be so energised, I’d give the stars a run for their shine. And the great exhausted buildings beside me would start asking whether, maybe, they could borrow my bouncer for a day or two.

Chasing ourselves

“Rachel Callander, award-winning photographer, gives up wedding photography to evangelise the Health System.”
“Nathan Maddigan, award-winning photographer, gives up wedding photography to persue authentic story craft.”

It doesn’t matter, really. What the papers say. What the fans say. What the critics say.

What matters, is that we chase ourselves.

What I mean is, every day of our lives, we are learning more about ourselves, what we love, what we believe in, what we despise. And the more we learn, the greater the responsibility to act.

We need to chase down our authentic core. Every time we unearth a clue, every time we discover a piece of the puzzle that is “us”, we must chase it. We can’t just ignore what we know to be true about ourselves.

I’ve done it, the ignoring-my-true-self thing. I experience a moment of revelation, of what I truly love in life, where I actually want to put effort in to achieve. And then I shut it down. I’m afraid of the work, or of failure, or of success. So I push it down, and ignore it.

And when I do that, I shrink a bit. I become smaller, weaker. And I’m reminded of Viktor Frankl’s words,

“When a man cannot find meaning, he numbs himself with pleasure.”

And I’m reminded to return to the chase, keep learning, trying, changing. To not give in to the fear or give up for the comfort. To honour everything that is weird/unique/different in me, honour the calling, and to keep chasing.

Work that matters

I wrote this three years ago, but it feels right to post it here, now. It’s a slow process, doing the work you think matters, but it absolutely matters.

Jan 2018

It’s midnight, and I can’t sleep. I wish there was a great inspired reason, but to be honest, I probably had a bit too much caffeine too late in the day. So, instead of sleeping, I’m out here on the balcony of our 6th floor apartment, watching conversations on the street, and drinking whisky, and writing. A truck just drove by, loaded up with Christmas decorations. Like a giant tinsel-spider, folded up and put to rest for another year.

The world is getting back to work.

And so are we. Rach and I. We took some time out, drove 400 kilometres to the southernmost tip of Western Australia, and made our plans.

We said, “Life is not long. We have to do meaningful work”.
We said, “No matter what, we need to do work that matters.”
We took stock of what we have, and what we need to get our message out. We pooled all of our stuff, everything of value.
We climbed a mountain, and talked about Love.
Rach said the clouds felt closer up here.

Tonight Rach sold her piano.