EOIN BANAHAN
"Learning to live and living to learn"
Up in the northern reaches of Ireland’s fair isle, there is a wild and windswept hinterland, well known amongst the frenzied followers of the BBC’s shipping forecast, called Malin Head. If you have ever been lucky enough to visit, you will recall the jagged coastline, pebbled beaches and lush, green fields that play host to a close-knit community of people more rugged than the rocks round which the ragged rascal ran, (apologies for the overdose of alliteration, just couldn’t resist it!). If you are a golfer, tired of the garishly gilded clubhouses and “easy-peasy”, 18-hole sprawls of Trump town where even my Nana could hit a hole-in-one; if you are a real, club-swinging aficionado who likes a challenge, then Malin Head awaits, to mark your card. You will need your windcheater and a stout pair of galoshes. You might as well leave your umbrella, ella, ella behind, for the wind that blows there, is a cruel mistress. Perhaps too, you should replace the grip on your clubs to accommodate a pair of Velcro gloves for, in Malin Head, the swinging of sand wedge and number 2 wood, is not for the faint-hearted. And if you find yourself, in that part of the world, looking for advice and guidance on matters of import, seek out the wise council of a “rum ole cove” that goes by the name of Fabulous Finn. For he knows what he likes and he likes what he knows. The "Fabster", as he is known to those who gather at his feet for council, is an unusual character to find in the windswept wilds of the Gael. Originating from the warmer climes of South America, Fab Finn, has become acclimatized to nature’s wrath, having dined, for many years, on a strict diet of western philosophy and natural bone broth, both of which keep the cranial fuel cells fully charged and ready for action. Who is this mighty master of mindfulness, you may ask, who stands proudly dispensing his wisdom to the weary traveler on the road to enlightenment? Lily, (the dog who must be adored), tells me that it’s rumored he is one of her canine brethren, but who knows for sure? For if it is true, how could such a small head be home to so much wisdom? It’s "a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside and enigma", to quote the great Winston Churchill. However, if you are ever up that way, ask around. Mention the name “Fabulous Finn” and gauge the reaction. If you are lucky enough to make contact with the sage of the Northern Gael, let me know, I’ll be waiting with anticipation for those pearls of wisdom.
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Can you believe it? Another exciting week ahead, full of infinite possibility.
However, I had a hard job extricating Lily, (the dog who must be adored), from the folds of the duvet this morning. It was cold outside and I took note of the other dog slaves, walking in silent resignation around the park, shoulders hunched, hands thrust deep in pockets with a look that reminded me of Sir Bob Geldof’s emphatic view of Monday morning which gave rise to many a migraine in 1979. But, as I explained to Lily, as we endeavored to walk with a sense of purpose around the park, it’s a new week and a new dawn and anything can happen. I’ve had my nespresso, (perhaps too much), and I’m ready to follow the advice of that ancient Roman poet, Horace, a legend in the realm of succinct expression, and “carpe diem”. I hope you are too! Lily, on the other hand, on returning from the park, scowled at me in a rather disparaging tone, which, if I could speak dog, probably translated into something like, “seize your own carpet, buddy”, and headed back upstairs to the warmth of the duvet. So, please don’t follow the example of an aging Jack Russell, try to suppress that annoying ditty, foisted upon us by Geldof and the rest of the “5-Lamp Boys”, take a couple of paracetamols if needs must, and get out there and reinvent yourself. Ahhhhh! Sunday morning! Don’t you just love Sundays? I like to get up just as the sun arises over the Kent Cobnut tress that line the bank of the river Medway, just beyond the boundary fence at the back of the house. I sit on the couch, eyes looking out through the window, like some over-nourished swami and listen to the birds chirping in the trees and the squirrels hoping from branch to branch, so reminiscent of Tom Cruise and his homies in Mission Impossible - the first film, not the subsequent iterations which were, lets face it, a tad unbelievable.
You see, Saturdays are for tying up those loose ends from strands of activity launched the previous week, replenishing the fridge and larder, cleaning the bathroom and, dancing the Dyson shuffle throughout the nest, an activity which, I might add, strikes fear into poor Lily, (the dog who must be adored). It seems to me that she thinks the Dyson is actually a real Dalek on a mission to “ex-ter-min-ate”. But Sundays are for quiet contemplation, a time when you can relax and review the learnings to be extracted from the week gone by so that you can design the cranial agenda for the week ahead, which, if you are particularly process-minded, you will record on your handheld device while watching Songs of Praise on the BBC. Now I make a modest living trying to help people successfully navigate life’s obstacle course on the path to self-actualization. Such work requires me to observe, analyze and explain the complexities of human behavior in the wider social system but often I find myself aghast at some of the behaviors I observe which leaves me with the question – “What on earth, is all that about?” Let me give you an example, and as I do so, please keep in mind that it is the behavior, rather than the person, that leaves me befuddled. This is important since we must accept that the human being is susceptible to extremes, one of which is taking personal insult when no insult is intended. So, with that qualification stone securely laid, let me press my case. “TATOOS!” What on earth, is all that about?” My dearest sister, who lives in the land of the lumberjack sent me a picture of her latest tattoo with obvious pride last week and, my youngest daughter, who lives in the land of, well, I’m unclear as to what Luxembourg is known for, so let’s skip the reference, would not look out of place, hanging on the wall in a Jackson Pollack exhibition. If I relate such behavior to when I was a younger man with his finger on the pulse of the popular zeitgeist, (or so I thought), I recognize the desire to express one’s individuality, to stand out from the crowd and be noticed. In my time, it was bell-bottomed jeans and platform shoes from the women’s section of the local hyper-store which, I assure you, took courage and resulted in a well-deserved black-eye from my school chums on more than one occasion. But I achieved my objective. I attracted attention. I understand the need for that! And in the current age of the FaceTube, perhaps the desire to be noticed is a far more potent driver than times past. But the issue I find so perplexing, with respect to Tattoos, is that everyone seems to have them. A leisurely stroll through the local county town is like wading through an inky morass of fractal-adorned skin but if everyone has tattoos, nobody stands out, since everybody looks the same. So, if you want to stand out from the crowd, don’t get a tattoo and when you see someone resembling a motorway underpass covered in graffiti, I, for one, won’t be surprised if you ask: “What on earth, is all that about?” Those of you who perused yesterday’s post will know of my latest faux pas with respect to my dear wife’s birthday card. Well, let me brief you now on how the day played out.
My dear wife, who despite it being her birthday, had to drag her exhausted frame out from under the duvet, to ply her trade, and satisfy the mountain of demands on her time and talent. As you will know from a previous posting, she is busier than Joe Biden on a particularly heavy day in the Oval Office. So, as she disappeared over the horizon in her trusty stead, “The Modus”, I took the hint from Lily, (the dog who must be adored), jumped into the car and headed for the florist. The florist, Javier, (pronounced Have-ee-air), is a native of Seville, a beautiful, historical city in the Andalusian heartlands where orange trees line the city streets and the sun in summer is more than fierce enough to raise blisters on Irish skin. Now, I know what you are thinking – isn’t it somewhat curious that he is on first name terms with the local florist, but Javier is more than just a florist. Besides his wizardry when it comes to arranging blooms, he gives good marriage counsel. (Although now that I think of it, perhaps I should take heed lest I find myself in future having to cozy up to the local locksmith). Being a man, and I mean a real man, a carnivore who is proud to wear boxer shorts, I know nothing of matters floral and I have enough experience to know that, when you “err” in your role as husband/life partner, it pays to have a close relationship with someone who knows his way around a bouquet. In any case, I like Javier. I admit that he has a rather flamboyant taste in clothes and a somewhat unsettling obsession with scatter cushions, but I attribute that to his aspirations for interior design. Javier greeted me with his usual affectionate, “Hola estúpido, que has hecho ahora”, which roughly translates as, “what have you done now, bonehead?” I gave him the lowdown and left with a bunch of impressive roses minus the cost of a tank of petrol – a small price to pay. Later that day, when my dearly beloved arrived home, I greeted her, blooms in hand, rather like Napoleon must have greeted Josephine, eager to brief her on his monumental victory at the battle of Austerlistz. My wife, although gracious in her acceptance of her prize, still smarting from the polling card debacle, (see yesterday’s posting), was more interested in a hot shower and a good meal. As we sat down to dinner later that evening, a sumptuous Thai feast which she had chosen herself, (it was her birthday after all), the wife looked at me. As she spooned out a decent portion of sticky rice onto her plate, she sighed, shook her head with a sense of defeat and reminded me that, since it was on her birthday that we had first met, the day also marked our 20 years together. Naturally, I had forgotten that fact! I sat back in the chair and caught sight of Lily. Her look said it all. Rather than Napoleon on his triumphant return from Austerlitz, a more accurate simile would be to describe me as a cannon ball, retrieved from the plains of Waterloo as Napoleon tossed and turned on his field cot at Quatre Bras, the night before his fateful date with the Duke of Wellington. And now, as my poor, exhausted Josephine, did her best to enjoy her Pad Thai and Massiman, that ordinance was securely shackled to her ankle. Today is truly a “momentous” day in the domestic calendar because today, is the wife’s birthday! Every year, as we slip silently into the month of April, the occasion looms large on the horizon, rather like Stonehenge, as you bowl along highway A344, as it snakes through the Wiltshire countryside.
As usual, I awoke before dawn’s early light, wiped the sweat from my brow and tried my best to quell the palpitations that were driving my anxiety. Why, oh why, do I always forget to purchase the obligatory birthday card? It’s always expected and, bonehead that I am, I always forget. I mean, it’s not as if I wasn’t given fair warning and, after all, her birthday is on the same day every year! So, “pas de panic”. The shops won’t be open for another 3 hours at least but she will expect something with her early morning coffee, in bed as usual, well before that. So, I have no choice, I need to think fast and improvise. I slither out from under the duvet, careful not to awaken my Queen, and tip-toe towards the door of the bedroom. But what about Lily, (the dog that must be adored)? Will she wake up and give the game away? No chance, Lily is sleeping like the proverbial log that has taken a handful of sleeping pills and been banged on the head with a heavy blunt object. No guard dog is she! I plough on. Once in the living room, I take five minutes of mindful meditation, just to center myself and steady the hand, before I start rifling though that drawer in the mock 18th century cabinet, the one fashioned in the style of Thomas Chippendale which I refer to as “the Chav-endale”, and into which all manner of objects are stuffed during the weekly run-around with the vacuum cleaner. I find a cadge of batteries that would power a satellite, an old watch, a bunch of keys to locks that no longer exist and, oh, a couple of pound coins. It’s a result of sorts, I guess, but nothing that could masquerade as birthday card. With the flashing light of the neighbor’s car through the window as they leave early for work, I catch sight of some papers stacked neatly on the windowsill. I grab something that looks like a piece of card and fold it in half. I grab a pen and scrawl something suitably “mushy” above what I think is the wife’s name and address, and stick it in amongst the other cards that have flowed through the letterbox during the week. I hope, that in the half light, as my Queen awakens from her dreams to my rendition of the birthday song, she won’t notice that I’ve given her a polling card to mark the occasion. However, if she does happen to notice, and give me “that look” that confirms Lily’s suspicion that I’m a useless surplus to requirements; with a flourish, I will produce the gift she so generously advised me she wanted by sending me an Amazon link the week previously. And to top it all, I will follow that up with a kiss and her cup of coffee. I might just get away with it. By the way, I should just say that my Queen is looking younger every year and is like a beautiful English rose whose petals unfurl to catch the light of the sun. Unlike Lily and I who are jostling for pole position on the grid in the race towards elderly. But that’s a story for another day. Happy birthday, my Queen! Whilst I was being taken out for my morning walk by Lily, (the dog who must be adored), who likes to take her humans for a walk, at least twice a day, because they need the exercise, I got to thinking about how our perception of self, invariably differs from the perceptions, others have of us. This then led me to consider a wider hypothesis in that we often tend to see reality for what we want it to be rather than what it actually is.
Whilst walking through the local park, I noticed how much weight Lily has put on over the past 6 months or so; for before that, as a result of intestinal issues, she looked more like Mick Jagger at the end of a month-long dietary regime of nothing but green tea. As I emerged from these thoughts, I noticed Lily looking up at me and in that instance, I realized that she was thinking the same about me. Not that I ever looked as svelte as, nor have I ever had “moves like”, Jagger. But her gaze was noticeably fixed upon my mid-rift and, there was a discernible look of pity in her eyes. OK, OK, I admit it, I’m no stranger to the nose-bag; I enjoy having my face down in the trough just as much as the next guy but I’M NOT FAT!!!!! Rather, I’m a man of substance, a well-nourished titan of a man, not some salad-munching, drink-of-water, who pigs out on nut-rissoles twice a week and has to change into sweat pants, as a result. In any case, those scales that stand so ostentatiously in the corner of the garage by the filing cabinet containing all the take-out menus that have provided a life-saving, lifeline since the start of the pandemic, are not to be trusted. They taunt me with their quantitative-assessment capabilities, but are bloody liars that deserve to have their batteries removed. When I was a younger man, before I hit that pinnacle of the bell-curve at 40, I was slim and trim. Indeed, whilst in school, I was so skinny that my class mates used to call me “skins”. But once I progressed deeper into my 40s, gradually, I began to look more like the “bell-curve” than a mere statistical representation within it. But I kept telling myself, as I still do, from time to time, its not so bad. I just have to walk more, ease up on the pastry and continue to avoid mirrors and those reprehensible liars in the corner of the garage. Whenever there is the possibility that I may succumb to the lure of what psychologists refer to as, "the confirmation bias”, or in other words, whenever I need some awakening to reality as it is, as opposed to what I want it to be, I have Lily, and of course, my dear wife, to shock me out of my complacency and into corrective action. “What is that dear? Put the pastry down, you say, and go put the batteries back in the scales?” Be still you trawler men who prowl the fishing grounds of the British Isles. From Fastnet to Fair Isle, from FitzRoy to the Dogger Bank, and everywhere in between, be advised. For what you hear in the distance is not the faint sound of warning, foretelling of adverse weather conditions ahead. It is but the insufferable fog horn that is Nigel Farage.
Yes, my dear friends, gird your loins for the latest “Barrage from the Farage”. Despite the fact that we are facing enormous challenges ahead that require dedicated concentration, creativity and problem-solving capabilities from our politicians, this “self-styled, politico with aspirations to influence is turning his (self-professed) gargantuan political acumen to the vexing issue of school uniforms and flag flying at a local school in Pimlico, in central London’s City of Westminster. Forget about the fact that otherwise hard-working individuals are struggling to cope with the loss of their livelihoods, or indeed that sectors of our business community are striving to overcome barriers to trade that this “master of the mundane” has so prominently erected for their consideration. The subject that Farage wants us all to concentrate on, in his latest posting on YouTube, is some local spat at a Westminster Academy about historical interpretation and the flying of the Union flag. Now, any politician with a genuine interest in fostering peace and harmony in the local community and a mere dribble of integrity to boot, would, in my humble opinion, have sleeves rolled up and be hard at work acting as a mediator, exploring underlying interests, generating options for compromise, calming tempers and helping to resolve dispute. But this is not the Farage approach. For this blowhard cares not a fig for the best interests of the community. His behavior is driven purely by self-interest and so, revealing his true intent, he pops the cap off the Gerry can and pours petrol on the flames. For Nigel, this conflict, which has arisen because a school’s principal, like many up and down the country, is trying to establish certain norms relating to school uniforms and hair styles amongst his student body, is now the well spring of “the worst division that any of us have ever seen in our lifetime”. I remember many occasions during my school days when my teachers would admonish me for my failure to wear regulation uniform and, on more than one occasion, the school’s headmaster told me to get my hair cut. I can even remember a particular instance in which the school thought better of flying the Irish national flag because a rugby team from Northern Ireland was visiting and the principal wanted to show some respect for different cultural identities. But I have to admit, that I don’t remember any politician, local or otherwise, ever resorting to such hyperbole and broadcasting to the world that such actions would lead to the “worse division that any of us have ever seen in our lifetime”. Get a grip Nigel, let’s not lose perspective here. We have more important challenges to address. Let’s leave schools’ principals to get on with their jobs and if they ask for help, let’s give it, in a positive, constructive way, rather than fanning the flames of conflict and division. I am fast approaching one of those milestone birthdays that stick out like a sore thumb across one’s lifeline. I’m bracing myself for the salutations from family members, flung far and wide. I can hear them now; “Congratulations old man, whilst you may be over the hill, at least, as yet, you are not under it”.
It was with this in mind that I awoke in the early hours of the morning thinking back through the various phases I have gone through in my life, none of which I could have anticipated at the time. The earliest memorable phase was in my mid-to-late teens when I went through my “emo” phase. Rather stereotypically, I was very much “into poetry, man”. Oh yes, back then, apart from my rather desperate, yet fruitless, attempts to attract the fairer sex, it was the mechanics of the iambic pentameter and dactylic hexameter that fuelled my fundamental motivations. In retrospect, it is not so surprising that “the ladies” gave me a wide berth. But now, looking back, the immortal words of Robert Frost ring out, as they do for many who, like me stand ready to accept the title “elderly” - Two roads diverged in a wood, and I - I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. Now, Lily, the (dog who must be adored), is a very happy dog as you would expect. I mean, wouldn’t you feel a sense of extreme contentment if you were the object of adoration both day and night? But I don’t think that is real source of her fulfilment. You see, Lily is a dog and she is just happy being a dog. She doesn’t strive to be anything but what she is because she is fully ceased of her fundamental motivations, in being a dog. I have the enormous privilege of helping people find their way in life and although for each person, the challenges are unique, for those starting out in their careers, the hill before them can seem more like an insurmountable mountain. Often, a young student will confide by asking, “How can I decide on what to do when I don’t have any experience to act as a frame of reference?” Sometimes, if appropriate, I will counter with, “perhaps asking – what do I want to do? – is the wrong question. Perhaps the right question is to ask, “what do I like doing?” This reframing of the question from the present simple to present continuous tense, I suggest, is more likely to lead to identifying one’s fundamental motivations and therein lies the road ahead. It would not be unusual for a student, these days, to respond with something like: “I like watching Netflix, but where is the career in that?” And I will ask: “yes, but why do you like watching Netflix? What is it that excites you about such a prospect?” The probing will continue in a similar vein until we reach the bottom of the well. For there we will find the seeds of talent from which, with a little encouragement, care and attention, we will see the prospect of future growth and personal development. The process of identifying your fundamental motivations is something we all go through at various phases in our lives and if we do so with positivity and a willingness to learn, we will, like Lily, find happiness in being ourselves. Key learning: Find your inner motivation as you climb your own Mount Olympus……..and stay clear of rhythm and meter in English poetry if you want attract the opposite sex. How many times, when communicating with friend, colleague, direct report, or indeed life partner, have you found yourself saying something which encourages an emotional response, after which you recoil with an air of mystification and reply, “That’s not what I meant!!!”
Perhaps you said something in full knowledge that it “may” incite some negative response because your intention was to see what happens. In other words, you took a risk, but now you are forced into a process of damage limitation, often with the well-worn expression, “I’m only pulling your leg”. If your communication was with a life partner, then chances are you will, soon enough, be on your way to the florist. Now Lily, (the dog who must be adored), is a master communicator who doesn’t waste time with such communication “faux pas”. To overcome this potential for miscommunication, she makes use of the doggie equivalent of the metaphor. Obviously, she can’t convey meaning through English or any other formal, spoken language so she uses her behavior to express the metaphor. For instance, when she needs to visit the little doggie room, she positions herself on the threshold of the door to the balcony in the living room and the message to her humans is clear. “Unless you want a rather pungent, yellow-tinged liquid ruining the “mock-parquet” flooring, you better take me to the river bank immediately. Or she may lie prostrate across the landing, looking up at you with a curiously accusatory look in her eye to convey the message, “if there isn’t some kind of meat content in this here bowl within the next three minutes, then you will be dealing with an acute case of malnutrition post haste, and by the end of the day you will be standing before the courts answering serious charges of animal cruelty. When I observe our leaders across society, I’m always flabbergasted at the apparent failure to understand that “meaning is not in the words and behavior that you deploy but in the way such words and behavior are perceived”. Since I’m in the UK, I will refer to our Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, as an example. I wonder does he ever consider the negative impact that he has on me, and I expect many others too, of that silly childish smirk, so visible around his mouth when he is trying to explain decisions that will affect us all. Or the rather blasé demeanor he adopts when addressing questions on such serious matters involving threat to life and limb, such as his asinine approach which is fuelling the looming resurgence of conflict in Northern Ireland. His failure to consider the impact of what he says, how he says it and what he does, inevitably leads to the “volte face” which is becoming a recognizable characteristic of his administration. I was led to believe that, after many years as a “hack” of sorts, Mr. Johnson had become a master communicator. But every time he speaks, I conclude that master communicator he is not. In fairness, I admit that Mr. Johnson does make good use of metaphorical devices but he does so with no real consideration of their impact, in my humble opinion. I think many of our leaders, Mr. Johnson included, could learn a valuable lesson from Lily, (the dog who must be adored). Key Learning: Meaning is not in the words and behavior you use but in the way they are perceived. Learn from Lily and use metaphors to convey your meaning but in so doing, give careful consideration to the likely impact before you do. Think about that as you go about your week and it may save you a trip to the florist. It is particularly important in these trying times to have a bolt-hole to which you can retreat when you need to review, and perhaps revise, your perspective. I notice that this is important to Lily, (the dog who must be adored). When the temperature rises beyond the comfortable, she retreats to a step, half-way up the stairs, where she can stretch out and “cool the jets”. But when the anxiety levels flame red, and the warning overload claxon sounds, there is no better place than in the front passenger seat of the car. The car doesn’t even have to move but once that door closes, her demeanor resembles that of a Tibetan monk on “the path to awakening”.
My happy place is my study, or office if you prefer. It’s about a three-minute walk from the house, on the opposite side of the river and at the far end of old English village where some of the buildings predate the French Revolution. In fact, when the foundations of largest residential building, which was at one time a hostelry of sorts, were laid, Voltaire was a young oily tick in short pants and Catherine-the-Great was but a twinkle in her father’s eye. Those of a more Freudian persuasion, (and I’m not one of those), might explain the need for a happy place as evidence of a need to regress to the womb. I’m not convinced by this hypothesis; its far less complicated than that. Each morning, I walk down the corridor, insert key in door and burst through breathing in deeply as I do so. For a moment I hesitate and consume that divine odor. If you were with me, you might ask, “What is that smell?” I would have no hesitation in my response; “That, my dear friend, is the rich aroma of sanity”. Once through the door, I drink in the array of flipcharts positioned around the room like the heads of wisdom (Moai), on Easter island, waiting to assist me in my efforts to revise my perspective or generate new frames of reference which will help me cope with the craziness that exists “out there”. Beyond these walls, out there across the irrational, celebrity-obsessed, flash-desire-driven, culture I can’t help but feel under siege and so I must pull back to the safety of my redoubt, at least from time to time. In the corner of my happy place there is a soft chair which is covered in dog hairs. That’s where Lily sometimes sits quietly, for about an hour at least, watching me furiously move from one flip chart to another, like some demented 19th century painter with an ear infection, trying to reduce the complexities of human nature to a four-box model. She can only manage an hour before she starts to pine for the front passenger seat of the car. Key Learning: If you don’t have a happy place then get one and make sure you spend time there. |
AuthorI am an organizational development specialist and managing director of RoundRose Associates Ltd Archives
August 2021
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