The Secret

As usual, Val has said something that got me thinking. She has that way about her. Last week Sam and I made a spontaneous trek across 63rd to share a bottle of wine with our favorite neighbors and we starting talking about the best selling book “The Secret.” Val believes in the power of setting intentions. I do too, but there is a place somewhere in there where I think it feels silly.

If I say I want a red Porsche, will it cause one to miraculously appear in my drive way? I don’t think so. On the other hand, if I say I want a red Porsche, and I really do, and I remind myself everyday that I want it, doesn’t it make sense that I will start organizing my life in a way that will allow me to acquire one? Well, I think it does.

Val told us that a year or so ago she set the intention that she would be earning $40M a year from her rental properties. Now she is. She laughed, “I think I have to set the goal higher!” That makes sense to me. Val & Vern buy houses in the hood, renovate them beautifully, and lease them out to Section 8 and other tenants. They really care about their houses, their tenants, and their neighbors. Slumlords they are not. Val says she can tell a real difference in some of the blocks where they’ve purchased properties in that the neighbors seem to feel a sense of pride at having a truly well maintained property on their block. She says she’s noticed that other neighbors have begun taking better care of their properties. And because Val has never met a stranger, she’s gotten neighbors talking to each other, where before they were not.

But anyway, I digress. Val wanted to make enough to live on from her rental properties. Though I don’t know the details, I imagine that with each house Val and Vern buy, they think through the income and expense potential to decided if it will get them closer to their $40,000 a year goal. If it doesn’t fit the plan, they don’t buy the house. That’s intention in action.

I get that, yet for most of my life I have been loathe to set goals or intentions for myself. That’s not to say I haven’t gone through the motions a hundred or so times. For most of my life, I’ve had employers urging me to set goals around things I didn’t really care about. I did it, but those goals didn’t motivate me, instead they felt like a weight hanging around my shoulders. Ugh.

But there have been other goals I have cared about. When I was younger (in my 20s and early 30s) I used to make long lists of things I wanted to accomplish in my life. I would organize them into categories: trips to take, friends to spend time with, classes to take, languages to learn, weight to attain, money to earn, debts to pay, etc. Each list was several pages long. I still have those lists and they are fun to re-read, but I am not sure they actually caused me to do anything differently.

In more recent years I’ve drafted a narrative that describes the values I hold most dear in my life. I holed away in a hotel room for a day and a half to do it, and put my entire heart and soul into the effort, but I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head what I came up with. Sigh.

I guess if I’m really honest with myself, I would have to say that part of the problem with goals is that I hate setting myself up for failure. In order for it to seem a worthy goal, I end up setting the bar very high. Lose 20 pounds before Christmas – and keep it off. Now there’s a new one, and also one I’ve yet to achieve, despite having set it year after year after year. I don’t even bother putting it on my list anymore. I want to weigh less, but I also realize I don’t want it badly enough to make the daily sacrifices needed to make it happen. There is a difference between wanting the end result of a goal and being willing to do the hard work of getting there.

Which brings me back to my problem with “The Secret” which contends that all that is needed is the desire and intent. If you set your heart upon your desire then magically the hard work disappears and what you imagined will appear. If that were true, I would have been a size 4 for the last 20 years.

Well, all this thinking about goals and intentions is really the result of Val’s suggestion that we start a neighborly tradition of meeting on or around July 4th each year and setting our intentions for the year – just to see what happens.

Both Sam and I sat down and wrote out our goals this morning (and I am happy to report that no where on my list is “lose weight”) We will share them with Val & Vern later today and then Val will keep them in a safe place until this time next year when we will do it again.

I have to say that the act of having this “assignment” from Val, who both Sam and I love dearly, makes it more meaningful, and as a result I am taking it more seriously than I have in a long time.

I am not going to share my goals here, but they will be in a safe place at Val’s house, and next year on the 4th of July, I’ll let you know how we did.

At the speed of busyness, the world becomes a blur

My friend Jack has been telling me for a couple of years that only about 20% of what we do really needs to get done. The other 80% is just busywork. The problem is knowing which 20% is the part that matters.

Jack's advice has not quite been believable until recently. My busyness is important. All 100% of it. Perhaps 10% could be left undone, but that extra 10% is what sets me apart, gives me my edge. I've never been afraid of hard work or long hours.

10% I can accept, even if I do find a way to justify it, but 80%? That would mean MOST of what I spend my time being busy with is really unnecessary. What would it mean if that were true?

I was interviewed by a reporter recently and he asked what motivates me. I answered without hesitation. Fear. For most of my life fear has chased me out of bed each morning and sent me scrambling to stay ahead of the growing wave of "things to do". Like a surfer, I've ridden that wave of busyness, exhilarated by its power and immenseness and all the while terrified that it will buckle and come crashing down upon my head.

There seems always far more to do than could ever be done. My fear of not keeping up, and my satisfaction at being able to check something off my list, provides the motivation for my daily churn.

My constant busyness allows for no experience of rest, save for the total exhaustion I feel at the end of each day. There is little room for spontaneity or reflection and even less for miracle or delight.

And as the speed of my busyness intensifies, the world around me begins to blur. Lives that move at a slower pace than mine begin to lose focus. Lives not scheduled on my calendar, their very existence begins to fade.

What would it mean if all this were just busywork? What would it mean indeed?

We Need to Talk

"We need to talk."

When I was single and dating, those were words I never wanted to hear. Generally they preceeded other conversation which included phrases like "It's not you, it's me" "I just need to figure some things out" "I need time alone" and my perennial favorite "I feel like you are one of my very best friends..."

Now that I am married "we need to talk" takes on a different tone, though no less ominous. These days it's more likely to signal a financial crisis conversation than anything else.

Today I heard the words from a customer. In writing. I've had a bad feeling for a couple of weeks, but nothing concrete to tie it to. When you've been doing this (lending money) for as long as I have, you start to develop a six sense about such things.

I read the email. A chill ran down my spine. I am pretty sure what's coming is a combination of both the dating and the marriage scenarios.

Damn it. This is the part of my job I really hate.

Farming

I've been farming lately, or at least I like to think of it that way. I know the more accurate term is gardening. I'm not growing cash crops. I'm not driving a tractor, or a bailer, or a combine. It's just me and my spade and the tiny containers of hopeful shoots and buds - their fate depending completely on my ability to connect them to the life giving earth. They wilt and moan and generally hang their heads with hopelessness as they wait for me to decide where they will go. Days pass. Their heads droop further. Finally I decide. I'm not good at preparing their nest. I don't have the patience. A turn of the spade and they've been dropped into their hole. A good watering. This I have patience for. I count to 20 or 30, or 75 if it's a tree. And then they are on their own. I check in everyday. I watch their progress, trying to figure out what to do if they don't take. Usually they grow. And it amazes me that I can do this.

On Retreat

Not long ago I spent 4 days with my dear friend Lynn in Salt Lake City. Spending time with Lynn is like being on retreat. We have long, deep, authentic conversations. We eat wonderful food and drink delicious wine. We hike in the mornings, soaking up the spectacular mountain views, and spend the afternoons pampering ourselves with massage or yoga or naps. We find lots of reasons to have dessert. We read magazines, share books, go to bed early and start the day again with steaming cups of coffee and tea in the morning light. We both hate to talk on the phone. And neither of us has much time to write. We might not have another meaningful conversation for 12 months, but when Lynn picks me up from the SLC airport next June, we'll start up exactly where we left off. And that is the beauty of our friendship.

Our yoga instructor read this poem by David Whyte at the beginning of class. I've read it every day since I've come home, and so I'll share it with you too.


SELF-PORTRAIT
~David Whyte

It doesn't interest me if there is one God
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned,
if you can know despair or see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes,
saying this is where I stand.
I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living,
falling toward
the center of your longing.
I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.
I have heard, in that fierce embrace, even
the gods speak of God.

Two Figures

I’ve been strangely calm these last couple of weeks, like all the craziness of the weeks before have drained my reserves for drama. A water pipe is broken under the building, could cost $10M or more. Really? Too bad. We lose a good client at work. Bad timing. So sorry. I gain several extra pounds over night, and it turns out not to be water weight. Bummer. It all rolls off me like water off a duck’s back. My heartbeat stays slow. No sweaty palms, or racing mind.

Actually that’s not true. An e-mail last week sent me spinning. And that’s when I realized I’d not had that anxious feeling in such a long while.

It makes a difference. The anxiety is cumulative. And so is the calm. Every anxious day increases the chances that I won’t sleep that night. Which in turn increases the chances for more anxiety the next day. Every calm day, increases the chances for more calm days. And so on. And so forth. Forever and ever. Amen.

Sam and I bought a ceramic sculpture at the Brookside Art Fair. Two figures, male and female, looking out over a turbulent ocean. A tiny dingy at the edge of the tide. A white egret perched on its bow. Peace in the midst of struggle. Companionship in the eye of the storm.

Passage of Time

Not so much 40 as now nearly 41.
When did age become so important,
and the date of my birth call forth such intensity?

Today I mourned the death of a man whose phone calls I avoided.
Yet his absence has torn a hole too large to fill.

Twice I’ve called out to his spirit.
In the car, alone, where no one can hear.
"Are you ok?" I’ve asked, to no reply.

I told his daughters he was ornery and they smiled.
I meant that he was abrupt and arrogant.
Or maybe he just knew what he wanted.

Either way he is gone.
"A stinker," his wife said. "Such a stinker."

Not so much alive now, as merely dead and done.
Why did age become so important,
and the date of his death call forth such mourning?