Fragments: David Willows

The long shadow of the season

2012-01-07T08:40:19Z

Well, that’s it for another year.

When the tree in the corner of the living room looks more like the sole survivor of a nuclear winter than a winter wonderland, then we tend to know it’s time to call it a day, pack up what’s left of the lights and twinkling ornaments, and return to our work-a-day lives.

We’ve travelled, eaten, played, laughed, argued sometimes.

We’ve opened, bought, given, smiled, perhaps even cried.

But has any of this festive cheer changed us for the better? Are we in any way different because of the story of Christmas that we have, in one way or another, re-enacted?

I’m not particularly speaking of faith here, although clearly this is where the story began. I’m simply wondering whether, as the dark days of winter begin to take their toll (at least for those of us living ‘above the line’), the light that grew with all these ‘good times’ will be strong enough to last the onset of yet-again-ordinary life.

Or perhaps we’re accustomed to letting it fade away slowly – faith, hope and charity eroded by the winds of anxiety that accompany the stresses and strains of modern family life.

Looking back with the hindsight that January tends to bring, I notice that most of us head into the New Year firmly resolved to do less than what we did back in December.

Eat less, drink less, make less mess.

Could it be, though, that is where I tend to go wrong? Are we too quick to extinguish the long shadow of the season and settle back into something less than real life?

American writer and broadcaster, Andy Rooney, died just before Christmas, only a few weeks ago. “One of the most glorious messes in the world,” he once is reported to have said, “is the mess created in the living room on Christmas day. Don't clean it up too quickly.”

Don’t clean it up too quickly.

The tree in our home is gone. To be perfectly honest, I’m not at all sad about that.

And yet, this year, I’m determined not to forget too quickly those few days of seasonal cheer, surrounded by those I most love in the world. I’m determined not to forget the feasting, lounging, playing, and long half-meaningful conversations that end deep into the night.

That is my resolution.

After all, these are the moments that my children will remember. The rest is nothing but white noise.

The end of the Christmas card

2011-12-19T20:14:23Z

The postman rarely comes around our way, except to deliver bills or spam.

Even at Christmas, this messenger’s route is stubbornly unchanged. But it never used to be like this.

Perched on the window sill, back when I was the age my daughters are now, I can clearly recall the feeling of exhilaration as our local postman came into view at the far end of the street. Holding an impossibly large collection of letters and small packets (the large ones would come later in the day by van), I remember, on each of the days between the end of school and Christmas Eve, trying to guess how many he would drop through our letter box.

The wait was almost painful, but eventually and without fail a dozen or so white envelopes, each one adorned with special festive stamps, would land on the carpet, spraying in all directions across the floor.

By Christmas Day, each one of these cards had been opened, read and placed on suspended strings right around the walls of the living room – a festival of colour and testimony to the fact, I thought, that my parents had so many ‘friends’.

I still recall the magic that accompanied all this red, gold, glitter, and seasonal goodwill; simple messages of cheer now posted on a wall. They never said very much (except for those who chose to add a typed attachment, describing in tedious detail the wonderful achievements of their children). In the end, though, 140 characters was normally enough to get the message across.

A generation later, there is no one waiting for the postman. Not in our house, anyway. A few cards have dribbled in, but sadly not enough to hang upon the wall or convince the kids that anyone is thinking of us at this particular time of the year.

The Christmas card, at least at this end of the street, is dead; replaced by another Wall, where our messages of hope and love are posted by those we chose to call our ‘friends’.

The medium has changed, but our human need to reach out to others and let them know that we are thinking of them during this season of goodwill, clearly, has not.

And probably never will.

Telling the story of a school with hedgehogs

2011-12-14T19:37:18Z

This story needs little explanation.

It's simply an attempt to stand out from the crowd and tell the story of a school at a moment in time when words and pictures no longer differentiate us.

So sit back.

Relax.

And if you like it, share it.

Children say the funniest things 2011

2011-12-10T16:19:35Z

At the start of the year I took a few moments to look back and capture the wisdom and wit expressed by the youngest members of our family.

You can read it here.

Twelve months on, these moments in time keep on occuring: surprising us, delighting us and, on occasion, stopping us in our tracks.

That’s what kids do, I guess. They see the world in colours that, with increasing years, we tend to become blind to.

So, without further ado, here’s a look back on 2011 as captured by two seven-year old twins.

Enjoy!

****

"Daddy, when you wear that scarf your neck looks very small."
(Juliette, On giving someone a Complex)

"Daddy, I feel like a slup."
(Lea, On the importance of not confusing your Ps and Ts)

"I spy something beginning with F. It's not an object. Give up?...fun!"
(Juliette, On seeing a dimension of life in the Emergency Room at 0230hrs that adults are simply blind to)

”I can't touch you, Daddy, because you are sick and I'll catch the fleas.”
(Lea On bedside manner)

"Daddy, why is it that humans can eat chocolates, but chocolates cannot eat humans?"
(Lea, On standing up for the rights of others)

"Daddy, in my new library book it says that if you have a Border Collie like ours, you have to buy 24 sheep. Otherwise, it will get bored."
(Lea, On pushing modern pet care a step too far)

"After next year, I'll be in Grade 2 and then we go to High School."
(Lea, On accelerated learning)

"No, Daddy, I don't want to come for a walk with you this morning - unless you want to take me in a pushchair."
(Lea, On taking laziness to a whole new level)

"Daddy, there are humans and there are aliens. We don't actually know if there are really aliens. Apparently, though, if you go onto the internet you can find out for sure."
(Lea, On the ultimate Google search)

“So the snake was Harry's mummy."
(Lea, On summing up the Hogwarts adventure)

"Is there police in England? It doesn't look like it."
(Lea, On mindless acts of violence)

"Did you hear about London? Someone broke it."
(Juliette, Discussing recent social unrest with a friend at summer school)

"Today was a fabulous day. Amazing. Super."
(Juliette, On being in grade 1)

"ISB is a vere gu schol. Mum is a fablus wurcr. Dad is a fublus wurcr."
(Juliette, On learning to write)

"Daddy, Daddy, I came second in the track race today!" (Twin 1)
"Daddy, Daddy, I almost came second too.... second to last." (Twin 2)

"Someone in my class can turn their tongue into a flower. I wish I could turn my tongue into a flower."
(Juliette, On green envy)

Juliette was proudly reading her reading book tonight when she came across the line, "Sam got some water for the ditch." It was a bad day to get her b's and d's mixed up.

"Why are you rushing? You don't have a boyfriend waiting for you at a restaurant."
(Juliette, On why Lea should colour in the lines)

"Ooh Dad, you said the 'sh...' word! ..... (pause).... Shtupid!"
(Lea, On swearing)

"You exist. I exist. Ghosts don't exist."
(Juliette, On the meaning of the word existence)

"Daddy, you MUST not set the alarm or make a fire this evening or St Nicolas will not be happy when he comes by tonight."
(Lea, On making sure nothing will spoil her chances of getting the present she wants)

‎"Daddy, can your boss chuck kids out of school? Because, if he can, I have a name for him. Someone who has been really mean to me today."
(Lea, On pulling strings)

"You know, Daddy, when we went to the Grand Place we saw sheep and kings and shepherds and the baby Jesus. We even saw God. But it was the fake one."
(Juliette, On seeing things as they really are)

THE END

Plates on a stick: a short story

2011-11-24T18:14:47Z

This story begins somewhere outside of Paris in the summer of 1918 along the banks of the river Mame. The story is less than half true.

During this, the last major German offensive on the Western Front during the First World World, more than 139 000 allied troops lost their lives or were wounded in not even three weeks. Among them, a young man named Alfred. Alfred, like so many others, wasn’t born a soldier. He was a poet – a sentimentalist – in love with life and all that it had to offer. But that was then, before the world collapsed.

Sitting in those stinking, rotten trenches of human despair, Alfred Joyce Kilmer (for let us use his full name) was undoubtedly less sentimental. All light now extinguished. All hope now gone. And yet his words and his story remain, as I recently discovered through happenstance and with a little help from Google.

Alfred, just two years before his death, I discover, was fascinated by what he called “The magic of the circus”.

We who every morning at the breakfast table read of war and desolation need to cheer our hearts with the burlesque battles of the clowns; we who ride in the subway need to exult when the charioteer, with streaming toga, guides his six white horses on their thunderous course; we whose eyes are daily on our ledgers and sales records need to lift them, if not to the stars, at least to the perilous wire on which a graceful pedestrian gayly flirts with death. (The Circus and Other Essays)

I wonder whether Alfred thought of clowns and therein found comfort on the day he died? Did he still believe this theatre of childhood dreams was the “greatest poem in the world”?

Fast forward to 1971. There’s Bradley standing a short distance away from the expectant crowd, just next to the row of caravans that had been the closest thing to home that Bradley (and the rest of the Troup for that matter) could recall. In the wake of the Second ‘Great’ War, jobs were hard to find and any sense of purpose even harder.

People love the circus, his father used to say. It gives them something to believe in. Faith arising from something as simple as a poster telling them that “there are in the slide-show a man with three legs, a woman nine feet tall, and a sword swallower.” That’s all it takes.

Bradley didn’t have three legs and wasn’t particularly tall. But he could make a plate turn upon a stick. He was a clown, you see - the clown that once had cheered his poor father’s heart, right up until the day he died on that unfortunate summer’s day.

Now in his sixties, any sense of cheer was long gone. Children and their parents came and marveled, came and laughed, came and sat in awe of those who painted themselves to hide the sadness of who they had become.

Fast forward to 1996. Bradley doesn’t spin plates any more. In fact, he doesn’t do much at all except watch the television in the corner of the room that seems to be the only form of permanent entertainment the nurses want to offer. On this particular day, though, the old man lifts his head in time to catch a glimpse; recognizing immediately that familiar lassoo and flicking of the wrist that is sufficient to produce the magical gyroscopic effect. David Spathaky, assisted by Debbie Woolley, it is reported, has managed to spin one hundred and eight plates simultaneously on live television . A new Guinness World Record is set.

Fast forward to 2009. Sue never knew her dad, just rumours about him. And the rumours weren’t sufficient to arouse much curiosity beyond that point. In any case, there was too much to do these days to get all sentimental about things. There was nothing sentimental about her life, she thought. Three children, a long forgotten man in her life, a job she didn’t care for and a boss who didn’t much care for her. It’s like spinning plates, she’d say. I just can’t do it anymore. Sooner or later they are all going to come crashing down at my feet.

And on the banks of a river, just outside of Paris, the memory of a voice rang out from the darkness.

You are exactly right. They might just do.

But by daring to do what you do – nurturing those now adolescent children in the way that you do – you have now become the greatest poem in the world.

Your grandfather would be proud.

Does any story make sense of it all?

2011-11-13T20:12:30Z

I opened my eyes. Had I been conscious all this time or was it simply the aftermath of a terrible dream?

In any case, I was now most definitely awake and, in the most silent hour of the night, still moving closer to the edge; daring myself with each premeditated step to look into the infinite abyss that now lay just a little way ahead of me.

My heart was racing, causing my body to perspire more than it should. Breathe was short and hard to catch. A sign a panic, no doubt.

It took a few minutes, especially in this state, but I managed to crawl far enough to catch a glimpse of what, for as long as I can recall, had consumed me with a sinking feeling of absolute dread.

I saw myself and my future; a future, decades, centuries, millennia from now; when I am no longer even a memory; when my footprint on this earth and every one of my best efforts have been obliterated by the winds of time.

I saw the terrifying fact of my eternal non-existence and felt the sinking dread of my humanity, facing up to the realization that none of this actually matters. At least, not in the grandest scheme of things.

Like the brightness of the noonday sun, it was impossible to look at directly. Short, terrifying glimpses, viewed from the corner of my hand, with my hands covering my face, were as much as I could muster.

It was morning now and, even if the sun had not begun to rise, I had a train to catch. Already packed, I reached for the book that was still unread beside my bed and headed straight for the station, headed for London - a city that lives, breathes and sells a very different kind of story about the way things are.

The book's introduction, after the night I had, intrigued me. It was dedicated to a family member - and all others like him - that felt that their life on earth had been unimportant and without meaning, significance or love.

I was already gripped and happy to indulge in the tale of an old man and the people he meets immediately in the the 'days' following his death, after an accident at the fairground where he worked until the age of 83. Eddie, I discover, lived an unimportant life and, yet, each one of these post mortem encounters is singularly designed to help him make sense of his life, bring meaning and perspective, and understand the story of who he was from some more central region. Heaven, in short, is the opportunity to fit together the broken fragments of his life once and for all.

It could be said (and no doubt someone, somewhere, already did) that Mitch Albom's best-selling book, The Five People You Meet In Heaven, is nothing more than a sentimental attempt to postpone my fear until such time as I am no longer able to feel at all. Perhaps. But, still, it certainly left me thinking.

Three simple, loosely tangled, thoughts:

1. The power of a single story lies in its ultimate connectivity. 'No story sits by itself,' says Albom, 'Sometimes stories meet at corners and sometimes they cover one another completely, like stones beneath a river.' If I look at myself, whichever way I look, I will always find a fragile story of almost utter insignificance, But it's not just me is it? My story, as Albom illustrates beautifully in Eddie's meeting with the Blue Man, is inextricably bound up with those around me and reaches across space and time - each voice joining another, until finally the chorus of dissent against the abyss is harder to ignore. That is the beauty of the crowd. And, in the history of the universe, humanity will at the very least declare itself to be a 'moment' of energy and unparalleled beauty accompanied by the orchestra of the natural world (or perhaps the other way around). 'The world is full of stories,' Albom concludes, 'but the stories are all one.' We learned from our ancient predecessors the importance of knowing ourselves. What they forgot to say is that every one of the stones that today make up the sands of our time come from somewhere.

2. There is one story that covers us - defines us - almost completely from our beginning until our end. 'All parents damage their children,' says Albom as Eddie comes to understand better his relationship with his father. 'It cannot be helped, Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.' As I get off the train and fall again into the arms of my adorable, teenage son. I look for signs of wear and tear; smudge marks left by my carelessness and selfish ambition. Later in the day, he tells me that he is stressed because something about his mobile phone bill is not quite right. He is the victim of a cheap phone scam. I see his anxiety and recognize myself in his reaction. At the same time, in that moment, I remember my night and how, in the ultimate end, this moment will not and should not define how he feels about himself and who he is. I want to do nothing else except pull him close and wipe away all of the heaviness from his heart. Forever. I refuse to let him wait until his time has passed before understanding how much he is totally and utterly loved. My beautiful boy.

3. If I am in control of my own story, I'd rather meet my five on earth. The point, in the end, is a pragmatic one. If I'm honest, I don't actually know if I'll have a chance to meet my top five after my sand has run out. And I'm not sure I get the opportunity to help others understand quite how much they influenced, inspired and loved me along the way. So I'd rather play it safe and start now. That way, when my day comes and I am required, for better or for worse, to jump into the abyss - I will do so knowing that I have lent my voice to the chorus of this wonderful life and sung my heart out from the cheap seats at the back.

Eddie's death at the age of 83 was unexpected but predictable:

A stunning impact.
A blinding flash of light.
And then, nothing.

But, then again, Albom explains, every story has at least two different angles. So who knows how to make sense of it all?

This is my story, what's yours?

2011-11-07T11:04:40Z

I am not sure precisely where or when this particular story began; but, looking back, I’d say that it was just around my tenth birthday when I first stumbled upon writings of C.S. Lewis and his imagination-absorbing tales of Narnia.

The fascination continued when, as a young theology and philosophy undergraduate, I learned of a world where Truth could no longer be reduced to a series of objective facts, but captured in the meta-narratives that define and guide our reading of the way things are. Then, and I am really not sure why, I started reading the work of people like Stephen Denning and his ground-breaking work on storytelling and organizational change.[i] Despite the fact that I knew nothing at the time about the world of Corporate Communications, what he had to say still had a ring of truth about it – and not just to me. Today, more than a decade later, narrative approaches to what we do are everywhere and Denning is arguably responsible for a brand new tribe.

Now I say we, but who am I kidding? I work in a school – with kids! Isn’t that a world apart from the real business of Corporate Communications? In one sense, of course, it is different. Entirely different, unless you follow David Perkins’ line of reasoning when he says that all organizations are really only about conversations and that, notwithstanding the particular line of business we are in, effective leadership is always about helping people to have better, smarter conversations.[ii]

And if you talk about conversations in one breath, you surely have to mention stories in the next. After all, stories are the ‘stuff’ of most conversations and unique in their ability to bring meaning, pattern and order to the otherwise disconnected fragments of our lives.

Not convinced? Well just try and think of any recent, meaningful conversation, at work or in the office, in which you did not tell a story to illustrate your point, contribute an idea, raise an issue or make a connection with somebody.

In short, it’s all about stories.

In fact, these days, notwithstanding the complexity of our art, we are in the end nothing more and nothing less than a band of storytellers: Telling the story of our organization and helping other people find their place in that story. It really is that simple. Everything else – all our plans, budgeting, annual targets, policies, and protocols – is just white noise.

Now this does not mean, of course, that we have left our work-a-worlds and plunged into a realm of fantasy and make-believe. On the contrary, as Michael Margolis explains, for those of us who communicate on behalf of our companies or organizations, it is high time we faced up to the fact that ‘people don’t really buy your product, solution, or idea, they buy the stories that are attached to it.’[iii]

So what does a storytelling approach to Corporate Communications look like? The good news is that today there are a bunch of people out there, like Margolis and Denning, redefining and bringing the narrative dimension of what we do into sharp relief. Rather than simply tell you what they already know, I will therefore stick to what I know best: my practitioner’s tale, which turns upon three story-focused questions we happened to ask along the way, and some pointers for further discussion.

Is our story coherent at every stage along the way?

Have you ever sat down at your desk only to stumble upon a lack of coherence in the story that you were trying to tell. It’s the moment you first notice that, despite the best laid plans and awe-inspiring publications, inconsistencies have appeared like bubbles on a freshly painted wall.

Of course, in a school with 1500 students from 70 countries and 300 employees, inconsistencies are everywhere. So where to start?

Our approach began by recognizing that, just as epic tales conjure up characters , each one of which may happen to be on some kind of journey, everyone connected with our organization also is journeying and could literally be mapped on a continuum between first ‘attraction’ and ‘release’ (See Figure 1).

Of course, each one of my colleagues focuses upon different aspects of this life-cycle depending upon their prescribed roles within the team. From a storytelling point of view, however, it was critical that we came to a common understanding that it really is all part of the same process: telling the story and helping people – students, parents, donors, partners – find their place in that story.

Having seen ourselves connected in this way, we went on to ask whether there was sufficient coherence between each of these ‘staging posts’. Concretely, was the experience of ‘inclusion, challenge and success’ that is so much a part of our brand proposition in Stage 1 so keenly felt as students and their families journeyed through the school? After all, it is one thing to have a story. It is quite another to see it lived out in every aspect of who we are and what we do.

Is our story listening or even making sense?

A wise man once wrote that ‘if a story is not about the hearer he [or she] will not listen … A great lasting story is about everyone or it will not last. The strange and foreign is not interesting – only the deeply personal and familiar.’[iv] From a storytelling point of view, the idea that a story is as much about the listener as the narrator is hardly new. Yet it was only a few years that we all sat reading The Cluetrain Manifesto, transfixed by the suggestion that this truly was the end of business-as-usual; pondering that audacious proposal that markets are now conversations and that ‘in just a few more years, the current homogenized "voice" of business—the sound of mission statements and brochures—will seem as contrived and artificial as the language of the 18th century French court.’[v]

A little more than ten years on, sitting in our communications offices, it is all too apparent how prophetic this manifesto was. The Internet, to say nothing of web 2.0 and social media, has changed everything – forever. Even at school, we have become accustomed to a world of daily Google alerts and moderated Facebook or YouTube comments. Via our website and other online platforms, we have got used to the fact that we can no longer get away with the digital equivalent of our dusty, old brochures, but instead are required to offer a space where conversations about learning take place; a dynamic environment in which people feel that their questions are pondered, opinions heard, and values, well, valued.

Personally, we are not there yet. That said, we keep coming back to this question with two simple observations.

First, in story terms, our school website is slowly becoming as much a narrative about the organization we want to be as the organization we already are. Again, to Margolis’ point, it is not the product (even if that ‘product’ is an education) that is driving effective conversations with our prospective customers or future employees. No, it’s the stories behind that product – all of the values, aspirations, struggles, ideas and customer feedback – that capture the imagination and inspire people to believe that we really could become the school we desire to be. So, rather than being narrators of a static script, everything is today far more fluid. It’s less about giving information, more about sending out invitations to join the discussion.

Second, there is the lingering issue of losing control vs losing the plot. As social media inevitably and relentlessly pushes us to become better listeners, have better conversations and become more flexible in relation to our ‘customers’, it is clear that sooner or later we will all have to give up the myth that we can control what people are saying about us, our companies or organizations. They always did talk about us, in fact. The only difference now, with the advent of Web 2.0, is that we can listen in more easily and, in some cases, measure what people are saying out there. Even if we have lost control, however, a lot of our customers are enjoying a great deal of ‘airtime’ right now and it’s time to ask ourselves whether we are really ready to throw up our hands in despair and give ourselves up to the winds of common opinion? Or is there another way of championing the story, holding on to the vision, and guiding people in the right direction.

Can we play with the story and is there a chance it will break?

If effective communications is all about storytelling, then it follows that there must also be an innate playfulness to our art.

This association is not new. Alan Kelly, CEO and Founder of The Playmaker’s Standard has spent his career analyzing the communications role and come up with what he believes to be a series of essential, irreducible elements – ‘plays’ – which together make up a lexicon, a lingua franca, by which we can talk about, strategize, organize and predict the impact of the conversations we are having out there.[vi] Communication, Kelly argues, is thus akin to a game of chess; a game with rules, strategies and, if not predictable outcomes, predictable moves.

As we reflect upon our roles within the organization, however, it may be that predictability is not the first word that comes to mind. We may consider ourselves playful, but more along the lines of the Shakespearean fool who pops up at key points in the narrative to simplify things, summarize, explain or simply bring a different perspective to the conversation – always looking for new ways and new opportunities to engage those around us.

The key to change, in this sense, is innovation. So we can never forget that ours is also the task of understanding, communicating, criticizing and reinventing the story almost on a daily basis – like a child rearranging Lego™ bricks to mirror constantly the imaginations of his or her mind.

There is a chance, of course, that a story under such pressure of re-invention will shatter into a thousand tiny fragments. At the same time, as C.S. Lewis once wrote, it is only by playing that we can break the story and begin to tell a truer tale.

Talking of truth, you may well ask, is any of this true? Well, like a good communications plan or any other good story for that matter, to ask the question is to miss the point entirely. After all, stories – even Corporate stories – are always personal and can never be reduced to matters of fact. Are the tales of Narnia true? Of course they are! Like effective communication, they are sealed with a ‘ring of truth’ and spoken with an authentic voice. In the end, even as communications ‘professionals’ that is surely as much as we can ever hope for.

This article was written for publication in Communication Director: Magazine for Corporate Communications and Public Relations. To view the article in PDF format, click here.

[i] Denning, S. The Springboard: How Storytelling Ignites Action In Knowledge-Era Organizations (Butterworth-Heinemann,2000)
[ii] Perkins, D. King Arthur's Round Table: How Collaborative Conversations Create Smart Organizations (Wiley, 2002)
[vi] Kelly, A. The Elements of Influence: Introducing The Playmaker's Standard: The New Essential System For Managing Competition, Reputation, Brand, And Buzz (Dutton Adult 2006)
[iii] Margolis, M. Believe Me: Why Your Vision, Brand, and Leadership Need A Bigger Story (Get Storied Press, 2009)
[iv] Steinbeck, J. East of Eden (Penguin Classics, 1992)
[v] Levine, R. et al. The Cluetrain Manifesto : The End Of Business As Usual (Basic Books, 2000)

What are your 'green pants'?

2011-11-06T20:08:38Z

At this time of year darkness creeps into both ends of the day.

The sun has finally given up its fight, it seems, and stays permanently low in the sky. We raise our voices to celebrate light coming into the world, but find ourselves more accustomed to its absence.

Away from city lights on nights when the stars are covered by a blanket of cloud, the woods are particularly dark. And with only the dog as my companion, I find myself alone with my thoughts and, more particularly, my fears.

I recall that Joseph Campbell described life as a journey; a journey in which our doubts and fears act as guardians, taunting and daring us to leave the country that we know and stride towards whatever lies in the darkness ahead.

Campbell’s view was that, in the end, fear was a positive thing inasmuch as ‘the very cave you are afraid to enter turns out to be the source of what you are looking for.’

Okay. But still I find the darkness weighs heavy around me.

It is just as Dr. Seuss described in his humerous tale, What Was I Scared Of?

Then I was deep within the woods
When suddenly I spied them
I saw a pair of pale green pants
With nobody inside them

I wasn’t scared but yet I stopped
What could those pants be there for?
What could a pair of pants at night
Be standing in the air for?

And then they moved! Those empty pants
They kind of started jumping
And then my heart, I must admit
It kind of started thumping.

Through this silliest of stories, Seuss conjures up for children and adults everywhere an impossible world in which a spooky pair of green pants waits, lurking in the shadows.

And now he’s got me thinking: what are my green pants? What’s out there, lurking in the woods, waiting for me to wander by?

Statistically, the answer is that there probably isn’t actually anything out there that is going to getting my heart thumping any time soon. And yet the anxiety remains.

In the morning light, I know this path will take on an altogether different complexion, but for now my mind is powerful enough to keep the light at bay.

When the shoelace breaks

2011-10-20T16:46:01Z

It has happened to all of us, so I know you know what I mean.

Normally, it happens to me when I am already late for work. Perhaps it to me happens because I am late for work. In my haste to be out the door on time, I yank on the lace just that little bit harder and, well, for an instant it feels like my world has fallen apart.

Not that replacing the lace would be any big deal. I keep spares in the drawer for precisely this kind of emergency. Yet my behavior in these moments is anything but rational. I am all at sea, it feels like my world is falling apart, so what’s the point of upgrading to a new lace?

For the rest of the day I typically end up walking around with a makeshift, temporary knot in my shoelace – a simple reminder that, for not at least, all is not well with my world.

Of course, the Arabic idiom that most people use to describe these kinds of situations involves a camel and a solitary straw. Not that a piece of dry grass could ever inflict damage on a four-legged beast, any more than my shoelace could ever reasonably be blamed for ruining my day. But that’s not the point, is it? We all know It is the combination of events, culminating in this ‘moment’ that is really to blame.

Once upon a time, there was a philosopher-chemist, Michael Polanyi, who had a similar view on things. We view the world, he argued, through a particular lens – a conceptual framework that, for a time at least, makes sense. The problem is, over time, anomalies begin to occur like blotches on the horizon; things that, according to our view of the world, don’t quite make sense as they used to.

Over time, these anomalies build up, like the strain on my shoelace; until at a particular moment, the story breaks down completely, a rupture – a paradigm shift – occurs. And, in that moment everything changes.

Looking back, many of us will remember the moment when the story of our life just ‘changed’ – forever. In psychological terms, it’s the aha moment, when we literally step out of one story and find ourselves caught up in another. If you are Malcolm Gladwell, it’s the tipping point that catapults us into a new reality and gives us the energy and drive to change career, home, religion, or life partner.

Once the moment has passed, people will invariably ask: what was the last straw that tipped you over the edge? The fact is, though, the last straw tends almost always to be an irrelevance, compared to the thousand other ‘straws’ that came before.

So next time the shoelace snaps and your world falls apart, consider the fact that this moment has been coming for a while.

On mediocre parenting

2011-09-21T04:32:21Z

I met a stranger today who will become a dad in 2012.

As I enthusiastically shook his hand and congratulated him on the exciting news, I caught a glimpse of the father he dreamed to become.

If I had known him better (or at all), I would perhaps have given him a word or two of old man's advice. Instead, though, I walked quietly away; thinking back to my day in his shoes.

That feeling on parenting Day One, you may be lucky enough to recall, is like a crisp autumnal morning; full of promise, opportunity and hope. It's like New Year, moving house, and a 'Come to Jesus' moment all rolled into one. All our sins are forgiven, we pass 'Go' and collect 200 pounds, and as far as that big parental slate in the sky is concerned, we've got full marks just for showing up.

But here's the truth folks: perfection ends there.

Or is just me? Am I the only parent who experiences a few discordant notes when it comes to modern family life?

Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't say that I am a bad parent. The glass is still half full and each of my children know (God, I hope they do) how much they mean to me and how my love for them extends to the moon and back.

The point is, there is always so much more that I could do and be. I take them for walks in the forest, but then forget to read them stories before bedtime; I cook them healthy meals, but don't monitor their teeth cleaning routine as closely as I should; I encourage them to see the world and enjoy everything that it has to offer, but then don't have much patience when it comes to biology homework on a Sunday night.

That's my opinion, in any case. Of course, if you want the inside scoop, you'd have to ask the experts. Kids generally, it seems, are particularly insightful when it comes to giving verbal and non-verbal feedback on how well mum and dad are doing and, strangely enough, are born with a detailed and deeply impregnated impression of what good parents looks like. I called it ‘Parents-Are-Always-Greener-On-The-Other-Side Syndrome.’

Where does that come from? I wonder.

Somewhere in London tonight, though, there is a stranger becoming a dad; a couple of young adults anxiously choosing trendy pushchairs and infant-friendly colour schemes for the nursery; a couple far too distracted to be reading this blog.

But just in case you do, here's what I should have said this afternoon:

It's brilliant. It's wonderful. It's so exciting that you are about to embark on this new chapter of your life. But don't ever expect a perfect score. You'll never become the perfect dad you dream to be. You'll make mistakes, every single day. Without fail. You'll be mediocre at best.

But don't beat yourself up too much for that. This is not a sad story. At least, if I've learned one thing over the years, it's this: despite my own mediocrity, the love of those in my precious charge heals me and reassures me every day. Warts and all.

And as long as you don’t pretend you are better than you are, mediocre is the new good enough.

Bike ride with the kids, anyone?

2011-09-18T16:51:07Z

Today is ‘No Car Day’ across the city of Brussels; a day on which the cyclist within each one of us is woken from temporary slumber or, in my case, eternal sleep.

As I ventured into the garage, just after lunch, I had this picture in my mind of Mum, Dad and two happy, children making their way along a sun-kissed street. In just a few minutes, I promised the girls, we’d be on our way; laughing, telling stories to one another, and enjoying the refreshing breeze that comes with cycling at speed.

First, though, I had to mend a set of brakes, pump up all the tyres, find the safety helmets, and work out why my bike had one wheel that no longer turned on its axis. It wasn’t the start I was hoping for.

As we rode away from the house, I guess I should have sensed where this was going; just by looking at the stats.

Mum: 21 gears, wheel diameter approx. 60cm

Juliette (aged 6); 5 gears; wheel diameter approx. 50cm

Léa (aged 6); 0 gears; wheel diameter approx 30cm

Me: 0 gears; wheel diameter approx. 25cm… with an annoying squeak for free.

Within a hundred meters, it was clear that Léa and I were going to struggle, especially when it came to navigating any kind of incline. By the time we’d reached the 1km mark, I’m guessing we were already walking most of it and only occasionally catching sight of Mum and Juliette far ahead at the top of the street. Despite our handicap, though, Léa was being extremely brave and even offering occasional bursts of speed.

At 2km she asked me a question:

Daddy, Why is this street so bumpy?

At first, I didn’t understand. It wasn’t… unless, like her, you happened to have a flat tyre.

It was clear, by now, that we were holding the others back. My squeak was embarrassing. Her back wheel clanking and clunking with every turn.

So, at 2.5km, we gave up.

We said goodbye to the others, goodbye to the little pink bike that was too small for her anyway (hopefully someone will find it tonight and give it new life), and carried each other, plus my fold-up squeak machine, towards the tram.

One hundred stops later, we got off the tram and headed for home. Léa was exhausted; but still not tall enough to ride my bike. So she sat on the saddle , while I held her steady and ran.

And all the while, as I continued to jog home, the cyclist within me was desperate to go back to bed for at least another year.

Sometimes family life is not exactly what our imagination tells us it will be. But it's memorable, nevertheless.

Do families have a personality?

2011-09-17T15:07:48Z

To try and find an answer to this question I decided to send out a survey.

It wasn’t a scientific study, just ten simple questions to my immediate and more extended clan; a somewhat naive attempt to test the ‘theory’ that families (at least my family) had a personality or recognizable ‘identity’, in just the same way as you or I.

Human identity is, of course, extremely complex and full of subtlety; just like the stories that define us, capture who we are, and illuminate the path along life’s way.

That said, you may have noticed that first introductions between strangers are often broad, sweeping, and almost childlike in their simplicity.

What’s your name? Where do you come from? What’s your favorite colour? Are you happy? Are you shy and quiet or outgoing and talkative? If you were an animal, what would you be? If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

These were the kind of questions I therefore decided to ask my family. And, thankfully, they were gracious enough to play along.

So what did I learn? Here’s the short story:

Whilst everyone felt an emotional connection to the clan, there was no common understanding about where we came from or where our story began.
On the whole there was a feeling of happiness – on holiday, at work or school, and at home.
We had several favorite colours – but the majority of my immediate family settled on purple.
If we were an animal, it was perhaps not surprising that we'd be a dog or rabbit. We’ve clearly begun to resemble the pets around our home.
And if you trust the results, we’re a friendly bunch, if not a little talkative and sometimes loud.

So far so good, but nothing too illuminating really. It’s perhaps only when we are six that ‘favorite colour’ is a sufficient explanation of who we are. Time to dig deeper.

Thankfully, the last three questions began to get to the heart of who our family is.

What should our family start doing? What should our family stop doing? What is one word that sums up the story of our family?

These were more difficult questions to answer, but there was remarkable coherence in the answers of both young and old.

We are a large family, everyone agreed; a family that for a generation has smiled to the phrase “Nanny’s knickers”. Fragmented and complicated by size as well as distance, however, we need to stop cleaning, exercise a little more, take time to see each other more regularly, and stop fighting over things that are, ultimately, of no importance.

That, in a nutshell, is us – the story that is ours to tell; that we, almost without knowing it, are passing on to our children.

So who are you? Surely its at least worth asking the question.

Admissions as midwife

2011-09-07T20:33:10Z

Like many ideas, it started with a question.

Sitting in the Admissions Office with my colleagues this morning, reflecting on a set of survey responses from families who have just joined the school, we were curious about the answers to one particular question.

Did your campus visit make you more likely to apply to the school?

No.

This overwhelmingly negative response surprised us. At least, it didn’t seem to make much sense.

For most of us, when we think of the international schools admissions process, we imagine the onsite visit to be a critical turning point in the prospective family’s journey towards eventual student enrolment. In marketing speak, it’s the ‘point of sale’. So we spend extraordinary amounts of time, energy and resources on scheduling and gathering information about the family in preparation for the visit; creating and collating relevant documentation; and, then, meeting the family and bending over backwards to respond to every one of their individual, sometimes quirky, questions.

So how come, when they look back and reflect on the process, they seem to throw it back in our face and tell us that it had no impact on their final decision? Does it mean our efforts were in vain.

Perhaps in an attempt to fill the silence that had descended upon our office, I said the only thing that was in my mind: ‘That’s exactly how it should be! This is a sign of this team doing its job.’

Suddenly, all eyes were on me, waiting for an explanation.

Then it came to me (or perhaps I knew it all along): the role of the admissions officer is just as Socrates had once described the teacher – a midwife.

To recap. When Socrates considered the role of a teacher, his conclusion was that truth is latent in the human mind and that, through conversation and asking the right questions, the educator literally brings to birth what was previously forgotten.

Could it be that the craft of those of us who seek to become travelling companions for families in their moment of decision is approximately the same?

There are at least three parallels I can think of.

Socrates taught us that the role of the educator was much less about imparting knowledge and much more about asking questions that would lead people to a moment of insight or decision. Surely most of us, by now, have realized that the age of an admissions office as information bureau is dead.
Socrates also taught us that in almost every case the truth is already there, waiting to be remembered. In modern times, writers such as Malcolm Gladwell have put this in a different way: often the decision we have to make, the choices we have to take, occur in the blink of an eye – and the complex business of justifying those decisions takes place after this fact. Again, let’s consider the possibility that many parents make their decision before we ever utter a word and that all our words, brochures and walks around the campus are simply ways of reinforcing an already-taken decision.
Finally, Socrates taught us at the end of the maieutic relationship, the midwife disappears into the background; just as when as child is born, the focus is entirely upon the mother and child. Here again, parallels are plentiful. At a certain point, the admissions team is central to the school-family relationship. The reality is, however, it won’t last and perhaps, in the end, we’ll vanish altogether. Hence, our survey results.

People used to think that anyone could do the jobs we do. The more I think about it, though, there’s much more to this role than meets the eye. The more I think about it, it’s perhaps time to give a new set of definitions to our craft.

Discuss.

While the world turned

2011-09-04T15:41:07Z

It’s been five years since I left you in the fading summer of 2006.

The clocks stopped for me on that day. And for you, I guess, it must have felt the same, at least for a little while. We had lived as if this love would last forever. In the days before my fiftieth birthday, it was made clear that we were wrong.

While the world continued to turn, I slept; finally at peace and free of pain. I liked it here. The garden is so quiet and my rest so rarely interrupted. Time stands frozen and only the days when you come to leave me flowers stand out.

Of course, I wish that you, my precious daughter, could have been spared these visits, these flowers, and the river of tears that flow with such consistency; and that I could have seen my daughter’s children run and play on another patch of grass. But here is not a place where dreams come true. There is no more story, lurking in the shadows, waiting to be told.

Sometimes you came around and told your children stories about me, huddled close together on a nearby bench. But the echo of your voice and their laughter would always quickly fade and find itself replaced by the long silence of half lived lives.

Today, you see, everything is yesterday for me and never holds the promise of a tomorrow – always memories and never hope.

Still, it’s good to see you here again; once more reminded of a life that lies outside these garden walls.

I can see my sisters also in the distance. How they make me smile. It’s been hard for them too, I guess. But, in the end, it’s you that has always and will always make the difference to who I was and the story that was mine to live. In the end, my end, it was you that made my life complete.

I can hardly believe it has been five years already. Has it really been that long?

There is a sadness in your eyes that wasn’t there before. But it is time to take a long look at yourself. Don’t you see? Is it not clear to you yet? As the world has turned, you have grown, almost without noticing, into the mother that I always dreamed the best of me could be.

Today, we are called upon to say another goodbye, as one hundred million fragments of who I was are scattered on the ground.

And just in case you say that nothing now could come to any good, do remember this! You are my good and the very best of who I was lives on.

Lovingly,

Maman.

Have you ever seen a bear-dog?

2011-08-27T09:38:20Z

This story is inspired by the imagination of my children and begins in a traditional way.

Once upon a time, in a large house on the other side of the forest, there lived a bear-dog. No one had ever seen this terrible woodland creature, but everyone knew he was there and everybody talked about him.

A dog of apparently bear-like proportions, the beast regularly invaded the dreams of children sleeping in bedrooms in the nearby village. And if you happened to walk past the school gates, once the sun had returned, you could hear the very same children huddled together in small groups, singing a braver song.

If you go down to the woods today, you're in for a big surprise.
We're going on a bear hunt. We're gonna catch the big one. We're not scared.

The fact is, though, they were scared. Everybody was scared.

Locals who ventured deep into the centre of the forest, along muddy paths on late-Summer evenings, would arrive at the crossroads in a small clearing between the trees and consider their route; deciding to travel straight on in search of Spider’s Web, turn right towards the Wasp’s Nest or simply turn around and retrace their steps towards home. Never left in the direction of Bear-Dog Lane.

Only a silent stranger in a long, leathery trench coat, accompanied by a malevolent hound, dared to walk along the path; left, along the lane where the trees seemed to huddle together to make an even darker canopy.

Who the stranger was, no one knew. He never came down into the village and could not be recognized by any of the regulars who could be seen drowning their fears in the local public house.

Stay away from the man and his hound, shouted anxious parents to their children as they ran out of their front doors to play in nearby streets. Stay away from him and the path he seems not to fear. Stay away from anything that will bring danger into our lives and interrupt our sleep. Stay away, above all, from the bear-dog.

Of course, the signs of this terrible beast were everywhere: scratches carved deep into fallen trees, odd clumps of animal hair strewn across deserted paths, and haunting sounds emerging from the trees in fading light.

Everything about this story made perfect sense. The stranger and his hound, the drowned memories in the local pub, the children crying in their sleep, not to say anything of the tales of those who had ventured deep into the forest only to return more convinced and more afraid.

Everything made perfect sense – except the fact that no one ever saw the bear-dog.

And no one ever will.

So what's the moral of the story?

Sometimes the things that scare us most don’t exist, but we still make choices as if they do.