Who Moved My Nuts?

Dear Reader:


The lexicon of change is ubiquitous these days. From boardroom to vestry, we are expected to be fluent in Change Management theory. I must admit that I am hopelessly silly when it comes to the jargon, even as I know that CM is serious business.

I think I have an inherent disorder that makes me giggle at corporate-speak. The typical motivational phrase has me imagining its speaker in a tiara and swimsuit, regardless of his or her gender. I put it down to an association with a certain Miss South Carolina whom I knew at university: when asked her finalists' question in the Miss America pageant - "If you could say one thing to inspire other young women, what would it be?" - she replied in a honeyed drawl, "If you can dream it, you can be it." And that about sums up most motivational axioms for me.

I still chuckle when I hear someone say, "Who moved my cheese?"  A little more than a decade ago, Change Managers were captivated by Spencer Johnson's business fable, Who Moved My Cheese?  The title of the book became a catchphrase for the need to embrace change. If you haven't read it, let's just say that it is probably best appreciated after a long, slow toke on a hookah pipe. It goes something like this: a group of people discuss change; someone tells a parable about strange little guys and mice running around in a maze trying to find cheese while writing inspirational graffiti; then, the group discusses the parable, at a depth similar to a memory I have of contemplating the universe with slightly stoned college friends lying on the band-practice field in the wee hours of a Carolina night. (Please repeat after me, "Drugs are bad.")

To give Change Managers their due, there is no denying that a well-chosen mantra can help us stay focussed during transitional periods, and it does not need to be particularly original. During the college-year referenced above, while celebrating the New Year with these same friends and singing along to Karma Chameleon, I remember resolving "to be real" in 1984. There are worse mantras for a 19-year-old, and it served me well as I began to be more honest about what I wanted out of life rather than what was expected of me. A good idea, all in all.

So I have decided to take inspiration from my younger self and revive the practice of finding an annual motivational catchphrase. A friend from Texas once had the most creative catchphrase that I have ever heard: "This is my year of fancifying [sic]," he declared to our astonishment; a great one for sure, but utterly untouchable. Recently, I thought the Bard had given me my new phrase as I watched Vanessa Redgrave rebuff a dinner invitation in Coriolanus  - "Anger is my meat; I sup upon myself, and so shall starve with feeding." - a brilliant mantra for a crotchety vegetarian who needs to lose a few pounds; but I am not particularly angry this year, so no dice, Shakespeare. What I am feeling most these days is consternation at being less intrepid than I was in my earlier days; yet the kind of midlife restructuring that I am eyeing requires leaps and bounds of faith.

You may be attempting similar restructuring this year, whatever your age. If so, good on you. Risking major change requires a kind of courage that only comes from having a rather sizeable pair of cojones, regardless of one's gender. In such times, a bracing word goes a long way. Therefore, I am going to don a tiara and swimsuit; bastardise Johnson's fable; and ask this motivational question of myself whenever I become timid in the face of present challenges: "Who moved my nuts?" The unspoken answer of course is: no one. I still have 'em; we all still have 'em; so, viva el cambio, mi compadres con los cojones grandes. Fresh reserves of gumption are waiting to be tapped, and the ability to motivate oneself is ageless.

Reader, a perk of becoming older is learning that our ambitions only serve us well if they bring us closer to genuine fulfilment within our capacities.  Mourning the loss of earlier ambitions and unmet career goals may be a defining characteristic of the middle years, but something more subtle and sustaining is being gained as a fresh source of motivation: the emerging awareness that time is too precious to spend worrying about climbing someone else's ladder when you are purposed to be the architect of your own dwelling instead.  Does that make sense? If not, maybe we should just stick that thought in our pipes and smoke it for awhile. I'll meet you on the practice field after midnight.

Glad you are there,
P

"Let's give a cheer, Carolina is here; 

The Fighting Gamecocks lead the way

Who gives a care, if the going is tough, 

And when it gets rough, that's when the 'Cocks get going."

from the University of South Carolina Fight Song,
Sung to the tune of Step to the Rear

Talking Turkey in the New Year

Dear Reader:

Here we are at the beginning of another ride on this big blue Tilt-A-Whirl, and, partly prompted by a friend's passing, I find myself pondering if I will leave anything of enduring value when I am dead and gone. Sorry to drop the "D" word on you in the first sentence. But I do not mind telling you that I am trying my darnedest to outfox the Grim Reaper so that at least some part of me will remain evergreen beyond the ashes. Maybe you are devising your own schemes, too. If so, take heart. We are not alone.


Entire societies have been plotting to avoid obscurity. For awhile, nations thought that the surest way to secure their place in posterity was by emulating the ancient Romans.  For a case in point, think back to the usually confident Benjamin Franklin arguing for the turkey to be the heraldic bird of the US instead of the eagle, the preferred choice of Roman-wannabes for centuries prior. It seems he had the courage to do so only in a letter to his daughter. "Oh, puh-leease, Dad," Sally must have responded while rolling her eyes. Nope. A bird that could be farmed and eaten was unsuitable. The humble turkey was just too, too mortal for neoclassical aspirations. "To make a lasting impression, to reach the heights of cultural immortality, one must be at the top of the food chain," the founding fellows probably thought, which explains why the world today does not quake with fear as the Flying Turkeys swoop in with their smart bombs. I side with Mr. Franklin on this one, as I reckon that the American quest for an enduring legacy would be more grounded if, when the President arrived, his or her operatives had to whisper, "The Turkey has landed. I repeat. The Turkey has landed." 

Truth is, I am furious at being the equivalent of a gobbler by design. Yes, a big part of me is unwilling to accept that I am, by virtue of mortal birth, a middling in some cosmic food chain. Trapped within this too, too solid flesh, I aspire to 'sing in my chains' so unforgettably that I will achieve immortality through the memories of others. Surely then, this fowl will be turkey no more, as I earn my eagles' wings by cheating death and staying among the mortals. Cunning plan, eh? Then again, there is that tiny difference to consider between being a memory and actually being sentient. I guess no matter how one slices it, death comes; memories fade; and we all give way to tomorrow's poults.

So, as the new year begins, I leave my cunning schemes and return for assurance to my core beliefs: namely, that loving others well in the here and now creates ripples that will matter in the future; and that my essence will remain a part of something more ancient and enduring than eagles or empires when it is time for this turkey to call it a day. 

Reader, I want to give the final word to Mr. Franklin: of the turkey, he penned, "He is besides, though a little vain and silly, a Bird of Courage." And I cannot think of a better way to remind each of us that we are well equipped to look mortality square in the eyes, regardless of our fears.


Glad you are there,
P

"Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, 
Time held me green and dying

Though I sang in my chains like the sea." 

Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill