In each shave lies a philosophy...

attributed to Somerset Maugham by Haruki Murakami

As we age, often we aren’t actually seeing things differently—we are indeed seeing different things. Recall the focal points of the early days of parenting—not a lot of time for navel gazing was there? In fact, I am pleased that I often attempted to suspend time. Trips to the toy store or library often reminded me to slip my watch into my bag and let the boys be the keeper of time and deciders of “done”.

This was in the days before smart phones stole so much of our attention.

We beat our chests in outrage from transgression while searching social media to see not only who our fans might be but who dares to disagree.

I don’t know about you but in the last few years I have grown weary of it all. Professionally I now focus on writing books, public speaking, or specific workshops/discussions around creating more data driven workflows and governance strategies. Ten years ago I was flying almost every week. But I was working to build someone else a better life. Selling their idea, their product, or expanding their product line.

But now I am unable to distort my thinking into a new perspective. I needed to simply look at different things. Different solutions to problems that might not improve the bottom line for a client. Or to no longer drink the pre-clinical kool-aid and believe that the new “blockbuster” investigational product would be the answer to the un-well masses. The new different thing to focus on for me became “why” and “where”. Why this population and where is this happening?

Haruki gets me. I actually teared up when I heard him explain his running life. The running life is like a meditation. Haruki likens it to being contemplative mainly because of the mundane and repetitive nature of the activity. Like Murakami, I don’t seek to make anyone a runner. I am instead sharing the serendipity of reading someone else’s words with such a deep resonance that I am forced to write about it in order to sort out the complexity.

The writing life and running life have been on my mind as I notice “friends” moving into and out of my life. When your days start around 5:00 a.m. and are front loaded with non-negotiable commitments and are book-ended by an early (and preferred bedtime) where is the give?

Not much time for pickthanks or extraneous activities that move you away from your goals or the environment to thrive and do your best at something. I am not a great runner or an exceptional writer although I am good enough to make a living at one of the two.

I am fixated on the repeated dedication to something that becomes sacrosanct over the years. This writing may seem jumbled but I am distracted by profound loss around me. A mother and young wife, a sister, a brother — none of them my kin but I have been touched by some part of all of them. The memories of them all — even if just connected by words shared with me or read in quiet contemplation—commingle with my own ideas, experiences, and disappointments. The breath in the morning forest and the sound of the birds as they welcome the sun—its all in the mix. We need our routines to recalibrate our lives through all of life’s tortuous paths. The philosophy metaphor is exquisite. We can see our way forward through the small tasks.

The honorific beginnings and endings will see us all home—one jimp* at a time.

David Whyte has a wonderful poem, Coleman’s Bed:

Make a nesting now, a place to which

the birds can come, think of Kevin's

prayerful palm holding the blackbird's egg

and be the one, looking out from this place

who warms interior forms into light. Feel the way the cliff at your back

gives shelter to your outward view

and then bring in from those horizons

all discordant elements that seek a home. Be taught now, among the trees and rocks,

how the discarded is woven into shelter,

learn the way things hidden and unspoken

slowly proclaim their voice in the world.Find that far inward symmetry

to all outward appearances, apprentice

yourself to yourself, begin to welcome back

all you sent away, be a new annunciation,

make yourself a door through which

to be hospitable, even to the stranger in you.

See with every turning day,

how each season makes a child

of you again, wants you to become

a seeker after rainfall and birdsong,

watch now, how it weathers you

to a testing in the tried and true,

admonishes you with each falling leaf,

to be courageous, to be something

that has come through, to be the last thing

you want to see before you leave the world. Above all, be alone with it all,

a hiving off, a corner of silence

amidst the noise, refuse to talk,

even to yourself, and stay in this place

until the current of the story

is strong enough to float you out. Ghost then, to where others

in this place have come before,

under the hazel, by the ruined chapel,

below the cave where Coleman slept,

become the source that makes the river flow, and then the sea

beyond.

Live in this place

as you were meant to and then,

surprised by your abilities,

become the ancestor of it all,

the quiet, robust and blessed Saint

that your future happiness

will always remember.

*Grooves placed between the blade and the handle that helps with grip and control during your shave.