Life Purpose

Arthur C. Brooks recently wrote in the New York Times:

In a 2009 study published in The Journal of Positive Psychology, researchers interviewed 806 adolescents, emerging adults. and adults about their purpose in life. A key finding of the study was that being able to articulate a life purpose was strongly associated with much greater life satisfaction than failing to do so. In contrast, purposelessness — no matter how closely tied to worldly prosperity — generally defines a hamster-wheel life, alarmingly bereft of satisfaction.

What struck me from this statement, first of all, is that, on this particular study, it didn't even matter what you had articulated as your life purpose - some purpose was better than none. Imagine, then, the level of satisfaction that can result from a truly meaningful life purpose, and one that's deeply right for you.

What is your purpose? Can you put it into words? According to the study cited, that in itself can make a difference in a positive way. And the clearer you are about your sense of purpose, the easier it is to assess potential goals, business opportunities, and even social activities. If you're vague about your sense of life direction, meaning, and purpose, it becomes difficult to know what to say yes to and when to say no, apart from momentary feelings. But temporary feelings aren't always our best guides to long term good. A sense of purpose is a great guide forward.

What's yours?

The Bell Jar Danger

 A friend recommended that I read Sylvia Plath's 1963 novel, The Bell Jar, as an example of an early and quintessential piece of Young Adult Literature. Plath was a gifted poet at a young age, but had struggled with getting her work published. One magazine rejected her 45 times before it accepted one of her poems. She then wrote this novel under the sponsorship of The Eugene Saxon Fellowship affiliated with Harper and Row. But when she submitted the final manuscript, the publisher rejected it, calling it "disappointing, juvenile and overwrought." It went on to publication initially in England, and it subsequently become a rare modern classic, read throughout the world. Plath even posthumously received a Pulitzer Prize for her collected poems.

The protagonist of The Bell Jar is a college-age woman named Esther Greenwood. We get to know her first while she's on a fellowship in New York City, working during the summer for a famous women's magazine, and being treated to gala openings, parties, and celebrity events. The "girls" she works with are portrayed with that distinctive and witty chatter often seen in movies made during roughly the same period, in the 1950s and early 60s. You can clearly hear the rapid fire delivery of clever dialogue exchanged between the young ladies visiting the magazine. In the course of the story, Esther descends from Bright Young Thing With a Promising Future to psychological madness and a serious attempt at suicide. After a period of confinement in an asylum and a series of electro-shock treatments, she eventually seems to be returning to some semblance of her old self, however fitfully and slowly. But the story ends right before she's set to be released from the institution and launched back into normal life. The author herself famously committed suicide about a month after the book's first publication in the United Kingdom, and it was quickly seen as autobiographical.

I'm writing about it today because of its main image - the bell jar, a common piece of laboratory equipment at a certain stage of modern science that was shaped like a dome or a bell, and most often made of clear glass. It could be used to create a special atmosphere for plants, or a weak vacuum when most of the oxygen was removed from it. As she returns to clarity, Esther sees herself in her madness as living in a bell jar, with little atmosphere, where it's hard to breathe. But then she insightfully extends the metaphor to the college girl she knew in her dorm, gossiping, playing cards, and living an endless round of parties and boys that's cut off from the real world outside the artificial atmosphere of the campus.

What struck me most about the book is the bell jar image and its wide applicability. It's very easy for any of us to get stuck in our own bell jar, with an artificial atmosphere that we take to be real, but that actually cuts us off from the broader world around us. The bell jar can be many things - madness, or superficiality, obsession, or desire, or something professional and work related that gets out of control. Years ago, the executives at Enron and several other high profile companies were living and working in their own bell jar. So were many mortgage officials and traders, just a few years back, and they were as a result the people whose work plunged us all into a deep and long recession.  

A bell jar is created around us when we allow something to cut us off from the real sources of meaning and insight that are to be found more broadly and more deeply in life. There is a spiritual sickness and even a kind of death that can result. A life can spiral out of control. A business can crumble. Self destruction can ensue. We all know of leaders who've created around them an echo chamber, cutting themselves off from any fresh breeze of truth. They're in a bell jar of their own making. 

Any person, or group of people, can be endangered by a bell jar that results from their attitudes and actions. Are you in one? Is your company or community?

The bell jar is a serious danger that we're all well-advised to avoid. Don't let anything become your bell jar, and cut you off from the fresh air of life and wisdom and love and meaning that you could and should be breathing. Keep on your guard. It's hard to see at first when one descends around you. Its transparency, or invisibility, is especially insidious. And that's why it's such a common trap. When you allow yourself to escape the confines of any such bell jar that threatens to constrain you, you benefit from a rush of fresh air, and get enough of an independent perspective to recognize the jar for what it is, and stay out of it, as a result.

Richard Branson on Second Chances

A number of CEOs and prominent individuals in the culture were recently asked what advice they would give their 22 year old selves, if that were possible. Richard Branson, the founder of The Virgin Group, said something very interesting about how we view ourselves and others - and, especially, how we react to the mistakes that other people have made in their lives. He wrote, at his present age of 64:

I am not the person I was 42 years ago. I am not even the person I was two years ago. We all change, we all learn, we all grow. To continually punish somebody for the mistakes they made in the past is not just illogical, it is plain wrong. 

He advises his early self, and any of us who will listen, to be a person who embraces the possibility of change, both in yourself and in others. He says:

We all deserve a second chance. Next time you have the opportunity to give somebody their second chance, don't think twice.

I know I've needed second chances, and sometimes more chances than that. Maybe you have, too. It's good to remember this when we consider our attitudes toward others. When we give people the chance to change and grow and improve, we enable ourselves to benefit from what can result in their lives, so that our mercy, forgiveness, and even embrace of them can enhance our own lives as well as theirs.

Here's to second chances! And more. And to Richard Branson's bit of life wisdom.

Friendship and Forgiveness

Today, I came across some statements from the poet David Whyte that I want to share. In his new book Consolations, he writes this about one of our most important ongoing experiences in life:

Friendship is a mirror to presence and a testament to forgiveness. Friendship not only helps us see ourselves through another’s eyes, but can be sustained over the years only with someone who has repeatedly forgiven us for our trespasses as we must find it in ourselves to forgive them in turn. A friend knows our difficulties and shadows and remains in sight, a companion to our vulnerabilities more than our triumphs, when we are under the strange illusion we do not need them. An undercurrent of real friendship is a blessing exactly because its elemental form is rediscovered again and again through understanding and mercy. All friendships of any length are based on a continued, mutual forgiveness. Without tolerance and mercy all friendships die.

That's a beautiful characterization of an immensely valuable thing in life, whose importance we easily forget. And I want to give you one more passage, because of the deeply wise advice it provides:

To remain friends we must know the other and their difficulties and even their sins and encourage the best in them, not through critique but through addressing the better part of them, the leading creative edge of their incarnation, thus subtly discouraging what makes them smaller, less generous, less of themselves.

Real friends help each other grow. We help our friends best when we encourage the best in them. Sometimes, yes, we need to point out a flaw with that honesty that only true friendship will muster. And it can be effective, when given and received in the right spirit. But more often, we help our friends most by encouraging them to be their best selves, through genuine praise and reinforcement. 

Life is a team sport. Great friends make for great teams.

A Land More Kind Than Home

There's a novelist named Wiley Cash who lives in my town. I've never met him but we have at least one friend in common. I recently picked up his first novel, A Land More Kind Than Home, and once I started reading it, it was hard to put down. The story is told from multiple points of view in a way that actually works, and helps, rather than confusing the reader. It's a winding tale about some people in the mountains of North Carolina, and crucially involves religion, big snakes in church, crime, murder, heavy drinking, a family broken apart, and a long road to redemption for one man you'd never have suspected as capable of it. My favorite sentiment in the book, one that the story has richly earned the right to announce, is uttered by an older lady near the end. As she sums things up, she says:

It's a good thing to see that people can heal after they've been broken, that they can change and become something different from what they were before. (305)

This is a hope that we all have, and a truth that many of us can attest. Something is going to break us, if we live long enough, and we can change and heal, given enough time yet to come. And the healing doesn't have to look likely, in order to happen. Redemption is the result of a multitude of forces at work over time. If we give people the chance to turn around, sometimes they will. It's a prime example of the true alchemy in our world.

Wiley's story is rich with a resonance of North Carolina's mountain people. But you might see and hear something similar in any poor, remote area of the country. The words and cadences of the characters reflect even what I heard in the piedmont portion of the state, growing up on the edge of a town in an eight hundred square foot rental house. Its setting strips away a lot of the complexities of modern life, to allow some of the elemental things to shine through. The story of the book will fascinate you, disturb you in good ways, and then lift you up.

I'd recommend it as a great summer read. And now, Wiley Cash already has another book out. So I've got more reading to do.

Where Are The Philosophers?

On Sunday, the New York Times Columnist David Brooks wrote an essay from the midst of his book tour called "What is Your Purpose?" He begins the piece by reminding us that there were times in this country, and around various parts of the world, when wisdom seemed to be readily available. A theologian or philosopher could appear on the cover of a major news magazine. The top publishers put out books that helped us reflect more deeply on our lives. The morning talk shows were visited regularly by psychologists, economists, historians, astronomers, serious novelists, and, yes, an occasional philosopher. Even late night TV surprised us now and then with a real thinker. I remember as a child enjoying the Cornell University astronomer Carl Sagan on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.

In my own career, I've had the opportunity, many years back, to talk philosophy with Regis Philbin, at the height of popularity for his morning show (now Kelly's show), with Matt Lauer, on the NBC Today Show, on CNN, CNBC, and NPR's Talk of the Nation and Morning Edition. But that hasn't happened in a while, for me or any other philosopher I know of. It's not what the programming people are looking for, these days. We've left the big life issues out of the public square, squeezing them to the margins of the culture. And we wonder why we're feeling adrift.

I'm old enough to remember the golden days of TV talk shows like Donahue, and the early days of Oprah, when there were always intellectually challenging guests grabbing my attention, and helping me to think about some new, or old, topic that was relevant to my life. But then other shows came around where people yelled at each other and threw chairs, and the carnival had then come to town to stay.

I've almost come to believe that a superficial entertainment culture is just a subtle form of nihilism. People despair of meaning and purpose, and so, as Pascal said in the seventeenth century, they find diversions to keep from thinking about the deeper issues of life, death, and meaning. But when we engage these things, we can make great progress. We can actually get our bearings in the world. And we can change our lives.

I've got no problem with "Keeping Up With The Kardashians." When I go into the gym, and enter the back room where the really heavy lifting happens, I often turn the channel to E! to see what my favorite celeb family is doing. But the ancients had a principle that's deep and telling. I like to call it "The Functionality Rule": The value of nearly anything in our lives is dependent on how we use it. Entertainment is fine, as long as it functions in a positive and limited role. Our work, and other recreations can be even more fun than catching up on your favorite Bravo show, or watching the finale of The Voice.

David Brooks reminds us that in a cultural vacuum of reflection on real life issues - the proper territory of philosophy at its best - we all suffer. We have no great guidance on the big issues that loom in our lives and that people have confronted forever. My role model for being a public philosopher is Ralph Waldo Emerson, 150 years ago. I have to go that far back to find someone outside the university system bringing philosophy into people's lives where they live and work. We need to turn this around. Of course, early in the twentieth century, we had William James and John Dewey, and then later the existentialists and the ever irascible Bertrand Russell came along. Even the even more irritated Mortimer J. Adler made a splash in his time. I remember when it was a big thing, in all the papers, when theologian Hans Kung would publish his latest big book on God. It was almost like a Harry Potter publication day, but for everyday intellectuals. 

We need to bring back the wisdom. Where are the philosophers? Let's go find them. It can greatly help in our work and our lives.

Diane von Furstenberg on Clarity

For 25 years, I've spoken on what the great philosophers realized about attaining success in anything we do. Long ago, I isolated seven universal conditions for success. The first two are:

1. A clear CONCEPTION of what we want, a vivid vision, a goal clearly imagined,

2. A strong CONFIDENCE that we can attain the goal.

In this week's Sunday Business Section of the New York Times, Adam Bryant did his great "Corner Office" interview with fashion legend Diane von Furstenberg. I've referred to it earlier this week. Let me share one more question and answer here:

Q: How do you get the best work out of creative teams on your staff?

A: I think the most important thing is to believe in what you do. And identifying a goal, to have clarity, is very important. You cannot fake clarity. When you don’t have clarity, you don’t. And then all of a sudden, the fog lifts and you’re clear. It’s very important to constantly try to look for clarity, like pruning a tree or cleaning the plumbing.

DVF starts with condition #2 and quickly backs it up with condition #1.

I've found that a lot of CEOs take for granted that everyone around them is clear on their corporate goals, while fog is actually enveloping everyone on the ground. We can't just assume that our own clarity has been communicated well. And sometimes, we find that we ourselves aren't as clear as we need to be. We allow general vague slogans with feel good language to substitute for rigorous clear thought. And that's always a problem. We need to heed the fashion mogul's words. In any pursuit, Confidence and Clarity are needed. And they'll never go out of fashion.

For a video related to the interview with DVF, click here.

The Night I Flew the Plane

Have I ever told you about the time that, as the sole passenger on a fairly large twin engine corporate airplane flying through a blizzard at night somewhere over the midwest, I was called up into the cockpit by the pilot, and asked to fly the plane? 

Yeah. In case I’ve never mentioned it before, I’m not making this up. I was staring out my window from my plush leather seat on the right side of the plane, looking at the torrent of huge snowflakes swirling all around us in the darkness, when the co-pilot suddenly came back to my seat and told me the captain wanted me up front.

What? Was it a logic emergency? Or an unexpected metaphysical conundrum? In the circumstances, I was hoping he didn't want to chat quickly about arguments in favor of life after death.

When I got over my surprise and made it into the cockpit, the somewhat elderly looking captain said, “So, I’ve been told you’re a little worried about flying.” I was, at that time in my life many years ago, actually worried more about crashing, but I agreed to his milder characterization, not even wanting, in the situation, to bring up that other topic, or even the word.

“Have a seat,” he said. “I want you to fly the plane for a while.”

“Wait. What?”

“I’m going to show you how to fly the plane.”

"Right now? In all this snow?”

“Yep.”

“Are you sure?”

He said, “I don’t think you’ll ever be worried any more.”

Or anything else any more, I thought. “You’re really absolutely sure?”

“Yes, indeed. Take the open seat here.”

So, to make a long story short, but not as short as it could have been, with the plane under my command, I learned how to fly that night.

And I learned how far we are, in normal circumstances, from really paying attention to what we’re doing. There are times, like, for example, in flying a plane for the first time in your life, and at night, in a blizzard, where your senses are instantly so enhanced you almost feel like you have perceptual superpowers. Your mind is so clear that you can’t believe such a degree of clarity is possible. Your focused concentration is so complete - well, you get the idea. If we could tap into that in more normal situations, just imagine.

It helps the story for me to tell you that the airplane was a vintage Grumman Mallard, a sea plane that had been shot down and dredged up after the second world war from the bottom of Tokyo Bay and then completely rebuilt. And, no, I’m not making this up, either. That’s what they told me when I had said how remarkable it was. It was such a beautiful plane, full of gorgeous woods and supple leather, and all in a style not seen since 1945. When I first got on board, I felt like Humphrey Bogart. That was before I started feeling like Amelia Earhart.

That night I learned a lot about how airplanes fly, and how the controls work - enough to have great admiration for the people whose job is to get us in this mode to where we’re going. And for some reason, that surreal experience did give me more assurance about flying. I mean, if I can do it, even for just a few minutes, I guess I can trust the licensed professionals, two of whom are busily getting me somewhere as I type these words. I just hope they don’t need me up there again. It’s a 757, a little big for my current and rusty skills.

And, Oh, this blog post should probably have a philosophical point, or moral - so here goes: Philosophers are capable of more than mere flights of fancy.

Just kidding. If a philosopher can fly a plane at night in a blizzard, then I guess almost anyone can do almost anything - at least, with a trained professional hovering close by.

And if you ever see me walking down the street wearing surgical scrubs, or SWAT gear, don’t look so surprised. My toga might be at the cleaners.

What an Idiot!

The country club swimming pool not far from my home is a great social place where neighbors visit and watch their kids frolic in the water, when they're not themselves swimming laps, or just lounging about in the water, often with a drink and a story or two. Last year, I had an interesting experience there. In the pool house locker room for gentlemen, I noticed one day that someone had left dark blue swimming trunks hung on a hook outside the showers. No big deal. But the next day, they were still there, and the next, and the next. One day I said to myself, "Who leaves swimming trunks hanging here and doesn't even know they're missing?" The next day, same thing. I shook my head. 

I think I had to travel for a few days, or maybe a week, to give some talks around the country, and when I got home, I decided to go back to the pool for a little exercise. Walking into the locker room, I couldn't help but notice - there were the same swimming trunks in the same place as before. I thought, "Really?" And, well, to make a long story short, my sightings of the shorts continued pretty much daily on through the summer. As the weeks passed, the blue bathing suit, as we say, stayed on the hook, like a flag flying in honor of missing items everywhere. "But who would use this locker room once, and forget his shorts, and never come back to get them?" I was puzzled. Most people who used the facility did so as often as I did, or nearly as often. Who would not notice their shorts hung up alone on this hook?

I told my wife the tale of the swim shorts, and some of the people working at the Sports Center complex that contains the pool. I'd regale them with the story of the forgetful idiot who loses his pants. I'd make it funny. We'd all laugh. And I'd still feel perplexed. 

By the end of the summer, I remember walking into the pool house, seeing the now very familiar trunks once again, and saying to myself "I really do wonder who the idiot is who still doesn't realize he's missing these?" And then for reasons unknown to me, I walked over and looked more closely.

It took me a second before I had a stunning realization and said to myself, now this time out loud, "Oh. I'm the idiot."

And, yeah, the moral of the story is just a little too obvious. So, fellow physicians, join me and let's heal ourselves.

Life's Lemons

Ten years ago, I realized I knew a lot of people who had trouble dealing with change in their lives. I would get asked over and over, "What do you do when bad things happen, or disappointing things, unexpected and difficult things?" People wanted strategies for handling challenges in their lives.

I had grown up hearing the old adage, "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade," which pretty much sums up the attitude of the ancient stoic philosophers toward the problem, but in my childhood no one who repeated these words also explained how to do it. How do you turn lemons into lemonade? So I got to work, reading all the great thinkers on the topic, and writing my own book of advice. It was called "Lemonade!" Then I changed the name to "Lemons to Lemonade" and after 24 total re-writes, it became "Plato's Lemonade Stand: Stirring Change into Something Great." Previous versions have been turned down by publishers 45 times, because they're not convinced that a practical book about the personal alchemy needed to turn something sour into something sweet will sell. I'm convinced they're wrong. And whenever I've done the ideas on retreats, people have insisted on having the book available. No one has seen the newest version yet. And I really, really like it. But I'm prepared for more lemonade making before someone in the world of publishing says, "Wait. People need this."

In the Sunday Business Section of the New York Times, Adam Bryant had a very interesting interview with the fashion designer and design mogul Diane von Furstenberg. Let me give you one Q&A:

Q. You’ve said many times that your mother was your biggest influence. What are the most important lessons you learned from her?

A. My mother was a Holocaust survivor and, having survived 13 months in the concentration camps, she taught me that fear is not an option. And no matter what happens, never be a victim. Life is a journey, and when you face obstacles the only thing you can do is accept them and embrace the reality. Very often, with things that are bad or not what you wanted, it’s your job to turn them into something positive.

I love the sentiment about accepting obstacles. Maybe the things that block your path can be taken up and assembled into just the bridge you need. That last sentence of the answer says it all:

Very often, with things that are bad or not what you wanted, it’s your job to turn them into something positive.

That's one of the enduring themes of the practical philosophers. And it's become something I believe deeply. So, when you face your next challenge, difficulty, or disappointment, get out a paring knife, some sugar, ample ice, and whatever additional spices you think you'll like, and make from the lemons that confront you some world class lemonade. Plato would have wanted it.

Your Money Or Your Life

Decades ago, the famous television comedian Jack Benny did a routine that played off his reputation as being a cheapskate. In the sketch, a robber came up to him with a gun and demanded "Your money or your life!" Benny just stood there, silent, staring into space. The robber said something like "Come one! What'll it be?" And Benny replied with frustration, "I'm thinking. I'm thinking."

Let me ask you a question. Why do you do what you do? Is your goal in life to make as much money as possible? Maybe that's not a realistic aim in your current job. But is it a dream? Many people tell me that they indeed fantasize about "The Number" - the amount of money they'd have to make and save in order to just stop working and enjoy themselves lavishly for the rest of their lives. The fantasy is one of immense wealth and all its trappings. So they start a company, or play the lottery, whichever path their circumstances seem to allow. Some people work almost all the time, in pursuit of that number. They'll do whatever it takes. They'll pay any price.

But do a thought experiment with me. Suppose you came across a wise person with the ability to see the future. Imagine that she's always right. She has an unblemished track record. She could see what is to be, and also what would be if you were to keep on your current path. Imagine then that you shared with her a dream of riches and she said to you, "You can be wealthy beyond imagining, if you choose, but you will be miserably unhappy if you take that path." Let's say you asked for clarification. She replies, "Chase money, and you'll be wretched. Pursue a greater purpose and you'll find happiness."

How would you react? Would you doubt her words? Or would you heed them? 

Many people replicate the Jack Benny skit in their lives. The guy with the gun is just pointing out the choice they face. Will they give up their entire lives just to get as much money as possible? Or will they give up some money for the sake of a life?

I attended a meeting the other day where my friend Matt Ham spoke to a real estate company on the topic of his new book, Redefine Rich. His presentation was about how to define riches in a way that will be deeply satisfying, and and that will lead you to pursue all the right things, so that the treasure you attain will be something that no one can take away. There is no amount of money that's forbidden to a wise person, as Thales in the ancient world demonstrated. But there are ways of living that are. When we understand that, we truly prosper. 

Should You Study Philosophy?

A couple of weeks ago, the New York Times columnist Nicholas Kristol wrote an essay in praise of the humanities, entitled "Starving for Wisdom." In it, he argued vigorously in favor of college students taking serious courses in philosophy, literature, history, and the other humanities and arts. In prose reminiscent of C. P. Snow's famous book, The Two Cultures, he showed ways in which we need both the sciences and humanities in our educations.

The comments the piece generated were telling. Angry fathers wrote that a humanities degree wouldn't get their kids a good job. Barely literate rejoinders suggested that such frivolity is a luxury for the elite who come from vast wealth, and can't be indulged in by students who have had to borrow the money for an education.

I found myself worried about both the negative comments and many of the positive ones, endorsing a study of the humanities. Whether college coursework in the humanities is worthwhile or not ultimately turns on a principle you learn while studying the humanities - a view from ancient Greece and Rome that the value of most things in this world depends on how they function in our lives. Will a college course in philosophy elevate a student and bring practical wisdom, or will it deprive him of a vocational boost that he could have gotten from one more course in business, or engineering? It all depends on the way in which the course was taught and the way in which the subject was studied. Both the professor and the student have the chance to ruin their time together by their choices along the way. But if each is performing masterfully well in his or her own respective capacities, magic can happen.

It may surprise you to learn that, as a philosopher, I don't go around recommending that people take philosophy courses or read philosophy books - except for mine, I should quickly add. The wrong courses and books can be an absurdly monumental waste of time. But the right courses and books can be life changing. It took me years to learn how to tell the difference.

There is a game that academics learn to play, and play well. Professors in the humanities are typically smart enough to discern what will get them promoted and tenured, and even intellectually esteemed by those who work in their field. That doesn't necessarily translate into writing or teaching on issues of general life significance and value. But those who focus on the right issues and take penetratingly wise approaches to those issues can confer on their students advantages in work and life that are impossible to replicate in any other way.

Great philosophy confers great advantages. And the same is true of work in any of the humanities, which is not just an area of study for college, but for life.

That's why I often recommend to people what great books they may want to read. Books can be great for different reasons, and not all of those reasons relate directly to a life well lived or work extraordinarily done. The right books, though, can make all the difference for cultivating personal wisdom and guiding professional success. When you do it right, there is no study worth more than work in the humanities.

True Grit

Looking back over my life so far, I've noticed an interesting quality, which is, actually, a firm tendency.

Knock me down, and I'll get back up. Knock me out and I'll wake back up. I stay in the game, regardless. I have what seems to be an innate drive never to give up, even on goals that look impossible and things that seem hopeless. Maybe I'm just trying to live up to my middle name. Victor.

My first book was turned down 36 times. At rejection number 20, I guess some people would give up. I couldn't. I've had another book "passed over" by editors 45 times. Ditto. That's part of the reason I've had over twenty books published. If I have something to say, I'm going to say it.

When I was a professor at Notre Dame, I would often suggest something very new to the administration. As a result, I typically heard the words, "Well, there's a problem with that." I would always respond, "That's fine, I'm a problem solver. What can we do about it?"

There are many psychologists now deeming this to be the most important quality for success. They call it grit. I'm glad I have it it. And maybe it's no surprise. Nearly every morning of my southern childhood, I grew up eating grits. And at least one remains. And it's a big one. Grit. Determination. Persistence. Heart. Consistency through trouble, disappointment, and "No."

Is it a form of optimism? Often, yes it is. But really, it can even be independent of any confidence that I will in the end prevail in a certain project or aim. I'm going to keep going whether I win or not. Shut down the arena, turn out the lights, and I'll probably still be at it. Stubbornness may indeed be a close cousin to this drive.

When you're passionate about what you're doing, when you're a true believer in the task, then giving up seems dishonorable, disloyal, and maybe, at times, a disgrace. We may not be in this world always to succeed, but it seems to me that we're here to persist. That doesn't mean that you can't change tactics, adjust a goal as you learn, and perhaps go at the whole thing in a new way. It just means you never fold accept defeat. Any failure along the way is a step, an opportunity to learn, a moment to rest on the canvas before your next charge.

If the game is not worth the effort, then you're in the wrong game.

When I was in high school, I had long-distance friends in Chicago who liked to make fun of my North Carolina accent, but not nearly as much as they enjoyed mocking me for my love of grits. One of the greatest days of my life was when I was able to present them with a large container of  standard Quaker Grits, turn over the cylindrical box, and show them on the back the words 'Made in Chicago.'

Where is real grit made? In your heart. In your soul. And if you don't feel you have it, you can cultivate it. You can create it. You just have to find a way to be passionate about what you're doing, to care with all your heart. Commencement speakers are criticized this days for advising graduates to "Do what you love," as if that's a luxury available only to the very few. But anyone can be advised to "Love what you do." Because there's always a way. By nature, we are all discoverers of meaning. But most of all, we're makers of meaning. When what you're doing, or seeking, or chasing is meaningful to you, there's an extra resilience in your soul, a flexibility and strength that we all need for tough jobs, and worthwhile achievements. And that's true grit.

Bruce Jenner and Gender

Anyone who did not see Diane Sawyer's masterful two hour interview with Bruce Jenner on ABC television recently missed a Master Class on philosophical anthropology, psychology, and ethics. Jenner's evident intelligence, sincerity, and sensitivity to the big issues surrounding his lifelong struggle with gender issues helped to make the show instructive in ways I had not anticipated.

For anyone who missed the show, and who has not had the chance to glance at the cover of almost any magazine recently, the former Olympic great and Decathalon gold medalist, once declared "the greatest athlete alive," has revealed that he's had a lifetime struggle with gender identification. Born, of course, with the body of a man, he says that he has since childhood felt like a girl, and then a woman, in perspectives, thoughts, and interests. He sought to make clear that he is not homosexual, or gay. What he's experienced is different from that. He has been married three times and has fathered several children. He has loved his wives. 

One thing the interview made clear was that gender is a more complex issue than most people assume. Anatomy doesn't necessarily confer it. As in most things, the world is a more rich and complicated place than we often give it credit for being. I initially watched the interview out of curiosity, and came away with a deep sense of compassion, not just for what this one individual has been through, and is likely to go through, still, but for all of our brothers and sisters who are misunderstood in any way, and feel forced by social pressure to pretend to be something they're not, something that's not authentic, along any deep dimension in their lives. It brought home to me in a new way the power of the emphasis in eastern philosophies on compassion for all creatures, and wonder in the presence of the real.

When we understand the New Testament emphasis that "God is love," and grasp the profound empathy that real love embodies, we can approach issues like this with a new heart and a new wisdom. Despite the fact that these revelations have come out amidst the flamboyant media circus that is everything Kardashian, we, in a sense, have that whole spectacle to thank for providing such a public stage and forum for this issue to be raised - not only of gender identification, but of the need for compassion in all things.

In our complex world, a few things are simple. One of them is compassion.

A Fox Makes a Sandwich

I just finished watching a video online of a BBC television crew visiting the Chernobyl nuclear reactor area with a Radio Free Europe crew, where no humans have lived since the late 80s. The video shows a fox trotting down some steps and onto the road, with no fear of the people at all. They start tossing him slices of bread and some pieces of sausage, just dropping the food items down into the road near him. The fox at first appears to consider the ingredients, and then begins carefully assembling them into a 5 decker sandwich, which he promptly takes away, hoping, perhaps, to enjoy his culinary creation with a bit more privacy.

Late word from the BBC is that the guys are thinking about buying him a blender.

Who could have imagined that the lingering radiation of a massive accident decades ago could be turning animals into future contestants on Top Chef? At least this one would likely be able to out fox the competition.

I know that my blogs need a philosophical point. So here it is: We live in a crazy world.

And: It's no wonder that Aesop, wanting to spread wisdom long ago, wrote about talking animals. He knew how to get things to go viral in the ancient world's version of social media.

Your Photos

The world is always moving and changing in a constant flood of events, as if there is a vast movie spooling forward from some cosmic film reel and being projected onto a limitless metaphysical screen. Because of the dynamism of everything, you might think, at first consideration, that actual movies of our lives, or our work, if we could have them made, might give us just the insight we need in order to be able to understand more deeply, and perform more excellently in whatever we do. Like sports teams studying game film, if we could just have something like a film of our work and life to review, we could perhaps gain tremendous insight that we otherwise lack.

But my movie would just show me for most of any given day at my desk, thinking. You might as well just take a photo. And this, I suspect, is at least one of the reasons why Ryan Seacrest has never pitched to me a reality show about my life. Who would watch an hour of me sitting still? But then again, compared to some of the shows currently running, it might not be the worst.

Would you like to be the star of your own movie, or TV show? Would watching yourself help you to understand your life better? I've learned something interesting. Photographs can be just as illuminating as film. And sometimes, even more so. My daughter, in her work, often makes slide shows from great photographs she's taken and then set to music, displaying the visuals over an appropriate soundtrack. When I watch such a show on my computer, each shot, each individual photograph, stays on the screen for three or four seconds, it seems, before another appears and lingers, and then moves on.

Each photograph captures a moment in time in a way that was impossible before this distinctive art developed. We live a fluid flow of moments eliding into each other in such a manner that we can't directly experience the freezing of any one moment for examination and reflection. We can't stop the ever flowing stream of life, except in photographs. And then, when we do, we can contemplate, for a time, what took place at a time. In other words, we can think through, over a period of time, a snapshot of one moment in time. We can notice things that might have passed unnoticed in the real spooling forth of the filmic procession that is our lives. We can ponder that moment and what it shows. We can take the time needed to reflect more deeply on a fleeting second that may have been lived through initially devoid of reflection.

A photograph can be misleading in many ways. But it can be revelatory in others. It can be an aperture into a new vision for ourselves and our lives. We have more pictures available to us now than ever before in modern times. But do we use them well? Do we squeeze out the insight or wisdom from them that may be there to be gained?

I suspect, for the most part, not. And maybe this is something we need to think about more. How could you really benefit from those selfies on your phone? Contemplate it. Consider them. Linger in reflection. Illumination may occur.

Moods or Goals?

I think I remember an episode of Seinfeld where Jerry says about something, "I'm not in the mood," and George replies, "Well, you better GET in the mood."

What is a mood? It's something like an emotional inclination, a sensed attraction or repulsion to some activity or thing. Moods come, and they go. And we normally don't think of them as something within our control. You're in a bad mood, or a good mood. It's almost like the weather, we think. It is what it is. And it will pass.

How often do moods determine what you do, or don't do? I suspect that mood plays more of a role in most of our lives than we acknowledge, on first consideration. And it's usually quite subtle. You don't feel like making the call, or writing up the report yet, so you don't. You feel like taking a break, or a walk, and so you do. "I'm not in the mood for any more of this right now" can indicate a lapse of patience, or perseverance, or tolerance, or even a loss of focus that could result from not enough sleep, or not enough breakfast, or too much of something else the night before.

"You're in a real mood today."

"I think I'm in the mood for pizza tonight," or "Mexican" or "Italian." And, here's something interesting: We hardly ever think or say, "I'm in the mood for working really hard today" even though we might be. And we never say, "I'm in the mood for striving consistently toward my goals for the next five months." Why not?

We normally think of moods as temporary, passing, or fickle, and goal oriented behavior as, by definition, rational, continuous, or, ideally, consistent. Moods are about what you feel like, now. Goals are about what you're committed to bring about, eventually.

I've come to think that it's fine to respond to many of our moods, in moderation. It can even be good, if the mood itself is. But life is all about the balance, the dance, the weave and integration of rational and non rational elements - what the Greeks called the Apollonian and the Dionysian (for Apollo, god of rationality and Dionysius, god of the emotional and sensual aspects of life). If we're, overall, goal oriented and have as goals valuable aims that we really believe in, then that will in itself be something of a mood governor.

The wise man or woman's moods can most often be indulged, because they're the result of a life well lived. But the long path to wisdom requires monitoring, and often overruling, the fleeting and often blind demands of mood. On that path, we train our emotions, and our moods, to work in concert with our rational purposes and goals, giving us both boosts and breaks when we need them, and moments of restoration when that's required. We're not to be machines in work or life. And our moods can express our humanity.

What are you in the mood for, today?

Half Glass Living

One night at dinnertime, years ago, when my son Matt was at the ripe old age of thirteen, he walked into the kitchen, put a plate on the table, and said, out of the blue, “Dad, I've figured out that glass question.” I drew a total blank.

“What glass question, Matt?” I asked as I quickly searched my memory for anything we might have been talking about in the preceding hours.

He said, “You know, the one about the glass being half empty or half full.” Oh, that glass question. You know the famous scenario: A water glass contains liquid up to its midpoint. The question is then asked whether the glass is half empty or half full. Everyone then tells us that a pessimist will say it’s half empty, while an optimist will say it’s half full. The situation is supposed to be a test for inner attitude. It’s assumed that there's no objectively better answer. Either can be right, and yet neither is objectively preferable. What you say will be determined by what you are as an observer, not just by what the glass is as an item apart from you in the world.   

Well, my son wasn’t about to buy that. He had heard the question somewhere, and apparently it had been bothering him. He now had his own take on it. “So, what's the answer?” I asked with real curiosity, wondering how someone his age would approach this old classic. And, in reply, he said something that proved to me again the simple truth that you can be a philosopher at almost any age.  

He thought for a second and said, “It all depends.” Well, of course, when I heard these opening words, I thought that we’d be quickly going straight into the familiar and well trod territory of attitude relativism. But his next words surprised me and took us into a totally different direction. He said, “If you were filling the glass up just before you got to that point, it’s half full. If you were drinking from it or pouring it out just before that, then it’s half empty.”    

Aha! “It all depends,” people have always said, but they’ve thought the answer depends on the attitude of the person looking at the glass. Matt couldn’t accept that as the final word. It does all depend, he was saying, but it depends on what real process had been going on previously, in order to bring the glass to its present state. What something is sometimes depends on where it came from, on how it got to be as it is, and maybe even on where it’s in the process of going. That’s a pretty profound insight.  

There’s a lesson here for us all. How’s your glass these days? How’s your life? Is it pretty good, or pretty bad? If you’re like most people, you may think of yourself as somehow representative of roughly half-glass living. There are some good things in your life. And there’s a lack, or an empty space, as well. Well, then, if this is even remotely an accurate representation, the question arises: Is your life generally half full, or basically half empty? According to young Matt, it all depends. Have you been emptying it out, dissipating your energies, squandering your deepest self, alienating those who are closest to you, and as a result losing things of real value – or have you been filling up your life in the best possible way, adding elements of true value and deep worth to your daily experience? Have you been depleting or enriching yourself? What real process has been going on up until now, and is perhaps still presently occurring in your life, right now, or in your business? Where have you been, in this regard, and where are you now going?

Memory, the Past, and Now

What's your first memory? Mine is of sitting on a tricycle on the sidewalk outside my little red brick duplex apartment on Englewood Avenue in Durham, North Carolina. It was in the morning, I think. I was coasting down the sidewalk on the gentle hill and feeling my first sensation of speed. My mother was standing at the front door. She seemed far away. It was my first feeling of being out on my own, and responsible for my own safety, and experience. The passage of time was different then, much slower. There was an extended fullness of the present moment that most of us don't feel after those early years of childhood.

We moved from that house before I was three. So, I'm pretty sure that the remembered moment on that tricycle came from when I was two. The year was then 1954. I have a few other memories from that house. But that's it. And I now wonder. What was my consciousness like in those days, generally, moment by moment, from first waking up in the morning, until falling asleep at night? Was the expansive fullness and self awareness of that remembered moment reflected in every other moment? I don't know. I can't immediately recall much from those years. I don't remember my bedroom, but know that I had one. It was a two bedroom apartment, with one bathroom and a small living room, and a tiny kitchen. I remember the white sink in the bathroom. And the creaky screen door that was beside the little table where we ate. 

What was my mind like six months before my that moment of my first memory, or a year earlier? What was my experience like? I wish I could recall all of it. Because, otherwise, I wonder: What was I, as a person at that early time, like? Was there a sunrise of consciousness, but one that memory can't quite reach back to reveal? When was my first moment of self reflective awareness, being both conscious of the world, and aware of my consciousness? When was yours?

I remember, while living in that little house, entertaining one day what was likely my first philosophical thought, right after watching a show on our black and white television set. I mused: "I wonder if my life is like a tv show where I'm the star, and all the other people around me are just here on my show." And then I remember asking myself, "Or maybe do they think that all of this is their show and that I'm just on it?" And then, "Who's show is this, anyway?" I'm amazed that I had such thoughts prior to the age of three, but maybe we all have early musings about what this world, and this life, really is. Did you?

When did you become the person you are now? What shaped you and formed you? Are you still in a state of becoming? Aristotle thought so, even without knowing you. What are you becoming now? And how does your childhood, and your memory function in that becoming? We all tell ourselves a story about who we were and how we got to where we are now. Are you telling yourself a good story, a deep and empowering one that will set you up well for whatever comes next? Is your story helping to make you better as a person, or not?

The past prepares us for the future, but doesn't define us, or ever need to hold us back. And yet, still, it can give us hints, of things we need to develop, or shed, or build on, or overcome. I'm at a stage of life when I'm thinking more than ever before of consulting the past as a way of understanding more deeply the present, and then moving more deliberately into the future that awaits. And it's a practice I can recommend.

It's important for us all to make good use of what we have. Because, after all, it's most likely, in the end, that we're all costars in this show that we act, and write, in many mysterious ways, together. What improves one of us improves the entire show.

Last Words

I've been reading a novel this week whose main character is fascinated with the last words of great people in history. As a southern boy myself, I've always loved the mythical last words of the legendary southern redneck: "Hey! Watch this!"

Or: "Look where I am! No, up here!"

Or: "It ain't dangerous at all."

Or: "Yeah, you can eat it. Watch me."

Or: "No. It's not loaded. I promise."

Or: "You just gotta hold it right. And, it's not that poisonous."

But most of those statements, I think, are normally followed by a profanity of some sort.

And they wonder why the southern redneck is a dying breed.

Last words can be instructive. One enlightenment philosopher, eating far too much at dinner, was told by his wife that he should not take another bite. Picking up an apricot and waving it in her face, he said, "What harm could this possibly do?" Then he popped it into his mouth, ate it, and dropped dead at the table.

My grandfather's last words were, "It's beautiful."

Thomas Edison was hardly more specific: "It's beautiful over there."

Steve Jobs' last words, reported by his sister, were "Wow," repeated several times.

But maybe my favorite last words were those of a famous nineteenth century American minister, Henry Ward Beecher, who said, simply, "Now comes the mystery."

Indeed.