 I was travelling to Melbourne with mixed emotions, excited about my daughter Lily’s twenty-first birthday party that evening, but also worried I had no idea what to say in my father’s speech.
The risk of getting it wrong was high. I’d heard Lily and friends groan regularly about cringe worthy ‘Dad jokes’ at birthday party speeches. Humour had to be avoided. Even worse were some of the awful fathers’ speeches I’d witnessed. These men told embarrassing stories about their children, ironic and sometimes clever, but lacking warmth, acknowledgement and appreciation. I’d hoped these dads were just trying to be funny. Or wanting to counterbalance the gushing emotional tributes sure to come from friends and family. Or maybe I was being too sensitive. Yet I could not help feeling these birthday boys and girls had been profoundly let down by their dads. I wanted to do better in my father’s speech. But high up over the Nullarbor with only ninety minutes to landing, I was drawing a blank. I flicked through my e-mails, my standard delaying tactic for avoiding challenging tasks. I noticed an unopened message from Lily sent the previous day containing an ‘interesting article’. As I read on I knew Divine Inspiration had come at just the right time. I had all I needed for the speech and hastily scribbled some notes before the plane landed. Here is what I said: “Good evening all and welcome to Lily’s twenty-first celebration! Just yesterday she sent me an article called Why Gen Y Yuppies Are So Unhappy maybe some of you read it. If the article is accurate there are a lot of unhappy people in this room! If you have not read it here is a quick summary. We are introduced to Lucy, a typical Gen Y who has been told her whole life she is special. But when faced with the reality of working life she soon realises she is not special at all. In fact, she is like most everyone else, and well behind some massive high achievers. All those medals she’d received for finishing ninth in the dressage competition count for little now in the Deloitte Graduate Programme. So the message to Lucy is something like get over yourself and get to work. At the end of the article, the author fails in his attempt to shift from relentless negativity to something positive. His final message to Lucy is ‘Ignore how other people are doing, keep dreaming big but stop thinking you’re special.’ I wonder how poor Lucy feels after all that. If I was her I’d be confused and discouraged. She’s been raised in a culture comprising social media, friends, school, university, colleagues and her employer who all constantly compare her to everyone else more publicly than any time in history. Furthermore, since she was small her ambitious parents have told her she’s special because of her achievements great and small. Lucy is trapped in this world view.” I paused, feeling time slow down. Confident smiles on the faces around me faded, revealing an aching vulnerability. Beneath their poise was uncertainty about themselves and their futures. They were hungry for encouragement. I kept going. “So I want to propose a radically different view: I think you Gen Ys are special! Each and every one of you. Not only for your grades, sporting achievements and career prospects, as important as those are. It’s really about who you are as human beings. No one who has ever lived or will live is like you. Each one of you has a unique gift to offer the world. Please take time to find out who you really are. Not just the superficial stuff we can all see. Ask people you love to tell you what they see in you. And hold on to it for all your life. I cannot wait to see who each one of you becomes as you blossom into your full selves. Now I’m going to tell you about someone particularly special this evening – Lily – and the twenty-one things I love about her as a person, in no particular order:
The mood had lifted. When I finished many young people thanked me. They felt special! A few had private conversations with older people in the corners to voice their self-doubts and gain reassurance. Soon, however, everyone was up having huge fun, dancing away like mad fools until the early hours. It was one of the best parties I’ve ever been to. I was reminded how crucial are such milestones in life. Even more important is that men step into these opportunities to bestow blessings on young people, fill them with confidence, let them know we believe in who they are and stand with them. Why are these moments so powerful? Unlike the love of a mother who bears and nurtures a child from inception, a father’s love is discretionary[1]. The indifference of many men toward their kids is in part reflected in lukewarm speeches at weddings and birthdays. Sadly, these guys seem to forget the immense power we men have to build up our children. Or worse, we shy away from it. By naming a child’s strengths and gifts publicly, telling the whole community why this young person is a special human being, a man is announcing his full approval to the world and sending them forth. If you are a father, or have a close relationship with a young person, please create occasions to speak into their lives both privately and publicly. Or if you know a father, please encourage him to do so. And we need to recognise more than achievements and awards, the useful but ultimately external stuff that fades away. Instead we must keep reminding our children who they are as unique human beings. It is one of the most important jobs we have as men. [1] Adam’s Return by Richard Rohr
2 Comments
 A lot of fathers assure me they do.
But what do the boys think? Do they feel they’re getting what they most need from their Dads? I decided to find out. I approached a private boys’ school in my neighbourhood in Perth, Western Australia to conduct a survey. More than 250 boys from years seven, eight and nine participated, over 50% of the twelve to 14-year-old cohorts. We asked the boys to respond to six questions, giving them a range of responses to choose from (maximum three) plus a free text option. Here is a brief summary of the survey results.
Our conclusion: Teenage boys need support from their fathers to face the future with confidence, not through telling, pushing or nagging but by dads being interested, encouraging and acknowledging, and giving boys space to learn. We were eager to share these results so the school invited almost a thousand fathers of boys from years seven to twelve to come to a discussion evening. We were hoping for a couple of hundred but on the night forty men turned up. It was disappointing. Over ninety-five percent of the fathers weren’t there. I rationalised many must have been busy with other pressing priorities at home and work. They probably pushed the invitation to one side and soon forgot about it, like I often do when I’m under the pump. And then there’s ‘school fatigue’ from too many invitations throughout the year. Maybe some fathers thought this survey wasn’t relevant or they already knew it all. Possibly some men felt they’d be criticised and stayed away. But there was no way to find out. I had to let it go and switch my focus to the men sitting in front of me. We had a lively discussion interpreting the results. Most of the fathers came to a similar conclusion as we did: They need to spend more time encouraging, building up and guiding their sons to fulfil their dreams for the future. But a light touch is needed, providing a supportive backstop whilst allowing their boys to figure life out for themselves. But then suddenly, out of the blue, one man shouted out, “I have a real problem with all this. My son spends every waking minute on his bloody PlayStation. I don’t know what his problem is. When I was eleven my mates and I were camping on our own!” You could hear a murmur of agreement coming from pockets around the room. Obviously this guy wasn’t alone in his concerns. I did a quick fact check in my head. My first canoe trip as a boy back in Canada was led by two 17-year olds rigorously trained to lead wilderness experiences, backed up by adult staff back at camp. It would have been impossible on our own. My friends in the Scouts went camping at eleven, but were always supervised by adults. Another friend recently told me how at eleven years old he and a friend pitched a tent two hundred metres from the house on the family farm. But they were home in their beds by ten o’clock, terrified by the sounds of the night. I concluded these grumbling men were idealising their own childhoods, exaggerating memories of independence and freedom. They were not curious what forces act on their sons to choose PlayStation over being outdoors. I learned a lot that night, concluding fathers need to get to grips with three things. First, we need to be aware of ourselves and the environment in which our kids are growing up. Men cannot allow the negative aspects of technology, consumerism and busyness to consume our children, and must actively intervene on their behalf. Second, many men give more to their jobs than their families. I did for a long time, telling myself I was ‘providing’. But I was also very ambitious and funding an unsustainable lifestyle. I had to learn be honest with myself and clarify what was most important. Third, I realised a lot of fathers get stuck in short term behaviour management with their kids - homework, chores, punctuality, squabbling. Men must understand the big game is to prepare their sons to face the world, which requires learning how to encourage, affirm, listen to and empower their boys. At the end of the night we announced a series of six seminars for fathers on how to address these challenges. Half a dozen men regularly turned up. They were humble guys, eager to share. No one had taught us the critical skills so we learned from each other. We began by talking about our own Dads, both the positive and negative, to understand better a father’s role. We dug deeper into what boys need from their fathers. We learned how to identify and nurture a boy’s strengths. We explored the essentials of developing responsibility, discipline and collaboration. We discussed how to talk to boys about sex and pornography. And lastly we looked at rites of passage for boys. I know most men want to give their boys what they need. The challenge for all of us is to invest the time and develop the skills to do it. Miles and his colleagues run rites of passage events for fathers and sons. Please get in touch if you are interested. Lesson 6 – The Wisdom of Gollum ‘Lesson from the Road’ is a series on the discoveries I made about myself both as a man and husband whilst walking almost 600 kms together with my wife Deborah.
Our journey followed The Way of St Francis, an ancient pilgrims’ route through central Italy. It was a beautiful and uplifting time for both of us. But along with the joy we also experienced tears. As we walked, issues came up I’d never fully addressed and could no longer push away. I’m glad to say by the end of the pilgrimage, my twenty-five year relationship with Deborah was stronger. These stories from the road recount what I learned on the way. I hope they entertain, illuminate and even help in your relationships with the people you love. Here is lesson six. Please share it with others who might want to read it. Walking is a form of therapy. There are few distractions as you trudge down the road for hours on end. As the scenery slowly passes by in front of you, your life passes by inside in much the same way. One thing I began to notice was how much I talk to myself. It’s as if there’s a conversation going on inside between two quite separate people: ‘me’ (whoever that is!) and a Gollum-like character I never see. He seems to sit just outside my peripheral vision, rendering judgement and opinions on just about everything. And I defend. One day after a sharp disagreement with my wife, the little guy had the volume turned right up. ‘Nasty Deborah,’ said Gollum, seemingly on my side for a change. ‘Nasty, nasty, nasty. She was so mean to you!’ ‘Yes, she was,’ I silently replied. ‘Totally unreasonable. She made me so angry!’ ‘You were right,’ he continued. ‘She deserved to cry.’ He got me. I suddenly felt a surge of remorse. What a jerk I’d been! Gollum then cunningly changed tack. ‘You are the nasty one!’ he cried. ‘Nasty, nasty, nasty. You made her cry!’ ‘I know, I know,‘ I said. ‘Shut up about it will you?’ ‘You’re cruel,’ he went on. ‘She is your wife. How can you live with yourself?’ And so on it went for kilometres! Am I crazy or is this normal for at least some people some of the time? To try to make sense of it all I visited Steve, a psychologist I’ve known for many years. First, he reassured me I’m not crazy. He then had me look at my past to understand why I behave the way I do. After the death of my mother I was thrust into a role of responsibility at the age of fifteen. I had to be strong for Dad and my three younger brothers. If I fell apart I feared the family might too. I did such a good job looking composed I can’t recall any adult ever asking how I was doing. That was hard. I wish someone had the insight to realise it was all a pretence. I just got tougher, concluding if I’m not going to get cared for then no one will. We had no outlet for our grief at home so there was a lot of conflict amongst the siblings and with Dad. I felt compelled to act as disciplinarian and peace maker. The end of school was on the horizon and I desperately wanted out the day it was finished. I became an achiever, pushing aside my feelings and the desires of my heart, and trying to looking competent and in control. Weakness and failure repelled me. Gentleness was a luxury. When the pressure was on no one got a break, especially me. This way of operating did not change much over the ensuing forty years. My harder edges got a bit rounder here and there but looking back at my life this way, I can see why I still react the way I do. When my wife Deborah gets sick, for example, I have little empathy. Instead I feel like an adolescent, protesting, ‘Who is going to look after me?’ If she makes a trivial error, I criticise her because people shouldn’t make mistakes. If she wants to sleep in on the weekend and walk around all morning in her pyjamas, I get anxious because I think there is too much to do. Sometimes I even make up ‘rules’ I impose on her without consent; for example, if I get up early to exercise so should she. After each outburst I feel remorse for being so hard. I don’t want to be this way but I do not feel I have much choice. I always end up in an endless loop arguing with Gollum! The powerful insight from Steve was to give myself a break. While it’s useful to take responsibility for my behaviour, self-condemnation leads nowhere. So I’ve started some experiments. Like hanging around with Deborah doing nothing. No achieving, no results, no agenda, no schedule. Just chilling. Giving her a hug and getting some in return. Picking a rose from the garden and putting it in a little vase on her bedside table. Laughing at my mistakes. Encouraging her to walk around in pyjamas on the weekend. Maybe even having a nap after lunch. And just because I can do something, I might even say ‘no’ and trust it will take care of itself. Gollum seems to be a bit quieter lately. Have you ever realised just how superior you are to other people? I do, sometimes even with my wife. It’s not a recipe for a success in a relationship! Look out for lesson seven. I’d love to hear your story and maybe even publish it in an article! Write something, paste it into the Comment box on the Contact page and send it along. Lesson 5 – Two Hearts Are Better Than One‘Lesson from the Road’ is a series on the discoveries I made about myself both as a man and husband whilst walking almost 600 kms together with my wife Deborah.
Our journey followed The Way of St Francis, an ancient pilgrims’ route through central Italy. It was a beautiful and uplifting time for both of us. But along with the joy we also experienced tears. As we walked, issues came up I’d never fully addressed and could no longer push away. I’m glad to say by the end of the pilgrimage, my twenty-five year relationship with Deborah was stronger. These stories from the road recount what I learned on the way. I hope they entertain, illuminate and even help in your relationships with the people you love. Here is lesson five. Two Hearts Are Better Than One “… Once I spent my time playing tough guy scenes But I was living in a world of childish dreams Someday these childish dreams must end To become a man and grow up to dream again I believe in the end, Two hearts are better than one Two hearts, girl, get the job done Two hearts are better than one…” Bruce Springsteen I’ve lived most of my life believing a man must be self-sufficient and all-knowing, or at least pretend he is. I got it from my father who modelled it to the extreme. Sometimes it did not go so well for him. Once he took the family out into the open Atlantic in a rented sailboat with no idea how to sail it. He hadn’t asked because he thought he should know. Soon, however, the breeze picked up and the boat started heeling over. Dad hauled in the sail hard, thinking it would get us back on an even keel. But anybody with just one sailing lesson knows hauling in does the opposite, catching even more wind. We kept heeling over and started shipping in water. Poor Mum was on the downward side, desperately trying to stop falling backwards into the ocean. ‘Pull the sail in!’ she screamed. Of course it made matters even worse. Fortunately for all we were soon grounded on a sandbank and walked to shore safely. Every other time, however, Dad somehow seemed to get away with it. On moving to Canada he set up a business building bridges, roads and later multi-storey buildings. He learned as he went along, all without formal training. A number of his projects were recognised as firsts in North America in terms of energy efficiency and creative construction methods. And none of them fell down! I was so proud of his ability to learn and turn it into something real. But I also know he was often under great stress, which he always dealt with on his own. He would withdraw completely through these periods. It was hard to watch. I carried similar behaviour into adulthood. I need to have all the answers and don’t naturally seek the input of others. It has frustrated my wife to no end. Some of my best life decisions I resisted fiercely at the beginning, such as leaving a high flying investment banking job I hated (but could not admit it), or moving the family to Australia. It took Deborah months of negotiating, discussion and argument to drag me into heaven! Another time, years ago, I’d started my own consultancy and was confident of instant success. Deborah did not share my optimism. She advocated we use my redundancy money to pay down some of the mortgage and reduce our monthly payments. I disagreed. I had a graduate degree in Economics and fifteen-years’ experience in investment banking, so you’d think I knew what I was talking about. But my perspective was based on a spreadsheet, whereas Deborah was looking from our values. She waged a long, hard campaign to get me onside. It turned out to be a great decision. I was grateful not to have the pressure of a mortgage. It was not until years later when we were on the road in Italy, walking every day together, did I accept how hard I’ve made it for her to contribute to me. And vice versa. I’ve also missed many opportunities to contribute to Deborah. I didn’t think she needed it. Right from the start of our relationship, for me she’s always been independent, strong and competent. Everyone loves her. But as I’m discovering, ‘two hearts, girl, get the job done’. The marriage vows I took almost twenty-six years ago declared we had become ‘one flesh’. To someone with no religious background at the time it seemed just a quaint expression read from a service book by a dear old gentleman in a funny robe. Now I know he was pointing to something eternal and wise. We need to get behind each other and intertwine, Deborah’s strengths bolstering me and mine hers. She wants my encouragement to face the world every day, no matter how strong and competent I think she is. I’m going to have to develop new habits and skills to do this well. And I need her to help me, starting with little things like packing a suitcase and organising travel. Then there’s the big things I can’t do by myself, like feeling I’m a whole, complete man. I need her respect, desire and admiration. The ‘old me’ does not want to depend on her generosity, but I need to surrender. ‘To become a man and grow up to dream again I believe in the end… Two hearts are better than one.’ Have you ever found some people intolerably judgmental? Me too. I couldn’t stand them. Then I realised how judgmental I am! Look out for lesson six. Lesson 4 – Diary of a Control Freak‘Lesson from the Road’ is a series on the discoveries I made about myself both as a man and husband whilst walking 580 kms together with my wife Deborah.
Our journey followed The Way of St Francis, an ancient pilgrims’ route through central Italy. It was a beautiful and uplifting time for both of us. But along with the joy we also experienced tears. As we walked, issues came up I’d never fully addressed and could no longer push away. I’m glad to say by the end of the pilgrimage, my twenty-five year relationship with Deborah was stronger. These stories from the road recount what I learned on the way. I hope they entertain, illuminate and even help in your relationships with the people you love. Here is lesson four. Within the space of a few days on the road three women we knew died. The first was the daughter of a friend, in the prime of her life travelling and studying abroad, who succumbed suddenly to an undetected infection. Another lost a tough battle with cancer after being in remission for years. Yet another passed away from the complications of early onset Alzheimer’s. Her husband had cared diligently for her at home for ten years. Only just last week, a friend’s husband - a man totally dedicated to loving marginalised people - died after muggers beat him senseless. A few weeks ago a former colleague was ‘king hit’ from behind by a complete stranger whilst leaving a pub. He had to have parts of his face rebuilt. One morning recently another friend collapsed getting out of bed, suddenly paralysed from the waist down, and now faces months re-learning how to stand up and walk again. All around me I see people suffering from illness and loss they did not expect. There is no pattern, just brutal randomness. One day it’s all good and the next you’re on a plane to pick up your husband’s body. Whilst I remain untouched others are stopped in their tracks by catastrophe. Major life change is forced upon them. How can anyone make sense of their fate? Sometime my life will also be changed against my will. All the exercise, meditation and church attendance in the world cannot prevent it. At times it makes me wonder, ‘Why bother?’ Like why should I sort out a disagreement with someone I could simply unfriend? Or why apologise to my wife for something she could just sweep under the carpet? ‘These days, all I trust are the tears’*. From these tragedies emerge two essential truths I’m trying to accept:
In other words, I cannot anticipate nor manage what is going to happen to me. I don’t know who will be afflicted or spared. I cannot guess when my turn will come or how. Yet when I look back, I’ve put so much effort into trying to control life. Most of my focus has been on trivial things like stacking the dishwasher efficiently (i.e. my way) or ensuring we follow the ‘fastest route’ according to Google Maps. As if this is going to affect anything substantial! A great spiritual commentator, Richard Rohr, observes that people obsessed with control cannot enjoy, or at least accept, what is inevitably going to happen to them no matter what they do. They resist almost everything at some level. They live with one foot on the brake and wonder why the accelerator is not working very well. I can see myself in all of this. I know people who have let go of the need for certainty and control. They are wise and ‘holy’ sages in the old fashioned sense, as if in touch with the Divine. They are grateful to receive what they need, rather than clamour for what they want, expect or think they deserve. They know nothing they have has been earned but rather bestowed as a blessing. Richard points out people like this get a lot more done, without getting tired, because they no longer struggle against the inner voices of resistance. They ooze compassion and energy. I feel safe around them. How did they learn to let go? For most it’s the hard way. Like me they spent the first half of life trying to establish control over their lives – education, career, income, family, home. That’s all fine but then they experience some kind of kairos – an old Greek word used a lot in the Bible meaning ‘opportunity for change’ or ‘things coming to a head’. In a modern-day context, the best example is a mid-life crisis. If they surrender to it, the kairos shoves them into the second half of life, which then becomes about letting go of the need for control, accepting what happens and surrendering to the flow of life. It has taken me a long time to understand there even is a second half of life, although chronologically I got there seventeen years ago and have had more than my share of kairos events. The rules here are very different. The areas to control are not trivial ‘first-half of life’ concerns but difficult, on-going choices involving attitude and behaviour. For example, in the video I talk about ‘keeping the toilet bowl clean’. I take this to mean I must: keep short accounts in my relationships; say sorry a lot; don’t let the sun go down on my anger; put myself out there when I’m called to do so; refuse to accept falsehoods like ‘I don’t have enough money’ or ‘There is not enough time’; focus on my own shortcomings rather than judging others; be true to my values rather than my wants or complaints. Any one of these things is hard enough on its own, let alone taking them all on. But in the second half of life you can’t do anything else. The sages put their faith in life for the big stuff (which in reality is outside of anyone’s control). If tragedy strikes, they trust in the love and support of others, and the spiritual strength within themselves, to deal with it. So for now, I’m just going to keep trying to scrub the stains off the toilet. Watch out for lesson five next, which tells how my wife’s strengths could help me in ways I never imagined. *Someone famous said this but I don’t know who! Lesson #3 - Solving Conflicts with Aperol Spritz‘Lesson from the Road’ is a series on the discoveries I made about myself both as a man and husband whilst walking 580 kms together with my wife Deborah.
Our journey followed The Way of St Francis, an ancient pilgrims’ route through central Italy. It was a beautiful and uplifting time for both of us. But along with the joy we also experienced tears. As we walked, issues came up I’d never fully addressed and could no longer push away. I’m glad to say by the end of the pilgrimage, my twenty-five year relationship with Deborah was stronger. These stories from the road recount what I learned on the way. I hope they entertain, illuminate and even help in your relationships with the people you love. Here is lesson three. Navigating is the most frequently visited conflict zone in our marriage. Other big ones include preparing dinner parties, getting ready to go on holiday, and infrequent tasks like erecting a tent or moving furniture. But driving is the clear number one. A typical scenario: “Shouldn’t you be going that way?” I ask as we whizz past the freeway entrance. “I’ve chosen the route I want to take, thank you,” replies Deb. “OK,” I say. I fidget silently for a minute but can’t contain myself. “Google maps says going on the freeway is much faster,” I blurt. That’s when Deb starts to get annoyed. “Fine, but I didn’t ask you to look at any maps,” she says. “I’m driving so please just let me do it my way.” “But according to Google your route is six minutes slower!” I say waving my smart phone at her to prove I’m right. “That’s just irrational.” Then it goes downhill from there. Once we cool down, Deb and I sometimes ask ourselves why we have these unhealthy interactions. I know my behaviour has deep roots in the past. As the oldest of four boys who’d just lost their mother, I learned how to survive stress at home by getting everyone to do things the ‘right’ way, particularly around eating, homework and keeping the place tidy. If it looked like we were doing things the ‘wrong’ way, I’d panic and seize control to get things back on the ‘right’ track. I could end up being pretty bossy and harsh. I know now there is never one ‘right’ way to get anything done in life. Yet this behaviour became so hard-wired I can’t seem to stop myself. Each time it happens I end up feeling terribly guilty. Denying Deb the freedom to do things her way makes her feel disempowered and undermined. Then she pushes back and I defend myself. It’s a vicious cycle. These conflicts are wounding. Sometimes it can take a day for us to recover our affinity for each other. Fortunately, out of this bleakness we had a breakthrough on the road in Italy. I hope it will change everything going forward. As I describe in the video, we’d just had an argument over directions and were trudging along in sullen silence. But we then did two things that were so smart and outside the norm I still cannot believe we thought of them. “Can we just forget this argument?” I asked. “Like it never happened?” Deb looked at me puzzled. “Whenever we fight like this,” I continued. “We spend too much time afterwards going over what happened. You become upset. I can’t stop apologising and feeling guilty. So it never makes any difference. How about I simply say sorry, then we leave it and move on?” Deb smiled and said, “Yes. Good idea. Let’s just leave it. And celebrate later with a drink.” What a genius! We walked in silence for a couple more hours. At this point I’d normally be wallowing in guilt. But because we’d let it go and wiped the slate clean all the negativity evaporated. I felt free, able to enjoy the beauty of the countryside. We even held hands. Both of us had embraced the fact I can’t stop reacting the way I do, for now. From time to time it’s likely I’ll try to force the ‘right’ way of doing things on her. Perhaps in future I’ll be free but not now. Deb seems OK with that. She’s not taking it personally. We also both realised too much discussion is counter-productive. It’s far better to starve the argument of oxygen. A couple of hours later we arrived at our destination. It was time to celebrate! We found our little hotel, showered and headed out to a chic looking bar across the square. We ordered a couple of Aperol Spritzs, our new favourite drink (three parts Prosecco, one part Aperol - an Italian bitter aperitif - plus sparkling water and a slice of fresh orange). We helped ourselves to snacks from the bar and settled down to watch the locals taking their evening passagiatto. The drinks arrived and we toasted each other. Nothing needed to be said. Spritz was all that was required. Our lives occasionally need a major clean out. Watch out for Lesson Four. Lesson #2 - Why the Hell Should I!?‘Lesson from the Road’ is a series on the discoveries I made about myself as a man and husband whilst walking almost 600 kms together with my wife Deborah.
Our journey followed The Way of St Francis, an ancient pilgrims’ route through central Italy. It was beautiful and uplifting for both of us. But along with the joy we also experienced tears. As we walked, issues came up I’d never before addressed and could no longer push away. I’m glad to say by the end of the pilgrimage, my twenty-five year relationship with Deborah was stronger. These stories from the road recount what I learned on the way. I hope they entertain, illuminate and even help in your relationships with the people you love. Here is Lesson two. What is grace? I’ve heard it described as giving something valuable away freely with no expectation of a return. The cost to the giver is often sacrificial but, paradoxically, he or she doesn’t ask for anything in return. They’re not doing it for reciprocation or acknowledgement. Giving is joyful for its own sake. In the accompanying video you heard the story of an opportunity I had to be gracious with my wife. But my reaction was, ‘Why the hell should I?’. I blew it. Later on, trudging in sullen silence, I wondered from whom I’d picked up this tough and unsympathetic way of behaving. It certainly was not my father. He was a charming and sophisticated central European. He spoke English with a beguiling accent, and many other languages besides. He was a cultured man, a supporter of the arts and was graceful on the dance floor. Most importantly, he loved women; my mother above all, but he was always kind and appreciative towards any woman he met, whether a waitress or prima ballerina. He did not expect it but they appreciated him in return. I can’t think of a lady who did not tell me how wonderful he was. As a podgy, spotty thirteen-year old, however, desperately unhappy inside my ungainly body, I couldn’t imagine how to be like Dad. I was terrified of girls and a hopeless dancer. And he was so un-Canadian, not interested in drinking beer or analysing the previous night’s hockey game. Around that time my mother became terminally ill with cancer. Instead of feeling empathy I was repelled by seeing her physically deteriorate. With limited time on her side she tried to shape me in the mould of a young English gentleman. I resisted fiercely, choosing instead to model myself after the hockey-playing ‘jocks’ a year or two ahead of me in high school. They weren’t cultured but rowdy, confident and earthy young men, all physicality and no romance. Yet girls found them attractive, and that was enough for me. My father’s gentle ways seemed to be from a bygone age. Males in groups strictly regulate each other’s behaviour. Even as adults we cannot deviate outside our particular group norm without being sanctioned or corrected in some way. Fear of getting pushed outside keeps us in line. It’s primal. I craved acceptance from the jocks and quickly aligned with their behavioural norms. I suppressed the vulnerability and pain I felt inside (and so did the other guys, as I discovered years later). Our culture was about being cool and superior. We mocked those outside the group and jostled each other for position. When Mum died I decided I could not show any weakness. The most important thing was to put on a brave face and be strong, no matter what was going on inside. It had me pick on weaknesses I perceived in others: their mistakes, failings, and especially doing things the ‘wrong’ way (instead of my - the ‘right’ - way). The problem was I never grew out of this way of thinking. Even on our pilgrimage, forty plus years later, I was getting sucked back into the teenage time warp, treating my wife like one of my brothers or a guy on the team. I soon had another opportunity to be gracious. Up to that point Deborah had been asking me to slow down and match my pace to hers. But it hadn’t yet sunk in. I often found myself a long way ahead and have to wait impatiently for her to catch up. Then we were walking through a dense forest in the mountains, miles from anywhere. At some point I realised she was a long way back and stopped. When she caught up I saw then how upset she was. “What if I’d fallen over or twisted my ankle?” she asked. “The mobile doesn’t work. You wouldn’t even know.” I finally got it. I promised to walk at her speed for all of the remaining 500 or so kilometres. And to do so cheerfully without comment or complaint. Although I occasionally had to remind myself to slow down, it turned out to be a pleasure walking at Deb’s speed. We had great conversations. Sometimes we held hands. When we wanted silence we agreed not to talk. I was more aware of my surroundings. I learned an act of grace blesses both giver and receiver. Do you ever have arguments with your significant other about Directions? Look out for the solution in Lesson Three! Please feel free to share this article with your friends and colleagues. Lesson #1 – An Alien on My Face‘Lessons from the Road’ is a series focusing on what I learnt about myself as a man, whilst walking almost 600 kms through Italy with my wife Deborah.
The Way of St Francis was a beautiful and uplifting journey. But along with the joy we also experienced tears and pain. As we walked I discovered things about myself and our marriage I could no longer push away. I’m glad to say my twenty-five year relationship with Deborah grew as a result. These stories from the road recount the lessons I learned. I hope they entertain, illuminate and even help in your relationships with the people you love in life. Here is Lesson One. Do you remember how the extra-terrestrial creature from the film Alien would latch on the face of an unsuspecting astronaut? That’s how I felt on Day 1 of our pilgrimage; an alien was on my face and would not let go. As I recount in the video, for most of the 32 km's we walked that day I was consumed by anger and frustration, all because I thought my wife was going too slowly. Before coming to Italy I would not have described myself as an angry person. I’d have said I was compassionate and kind. Many of my friends and family would have agreed. For thirty years I’ve been trying to squeeze the ‘bad stuff’ out of me, like the toothpaste out of a near empty tube. In the Eighties I signed up for personal transformation courses like The Landmark Forum. Soon I was teaching the principles to others in seminars. It was good stuff. My relationships and confidence improved dramatically. In the Nineties I embraced Christianity, which brought a spiritual dimension of forgiveness and healing into my life. Then Deborah and I took The Marriage Course to learn tools to improve our relationship. We soon began leading the course for others in our community. We counselled dozens of couples on their marriages. We’ve had marriage guidance ourselves. Last December we celebrated our twenty-fifth anniversary, both feeling very much in love. So I was feeling pretty enlightened. If there was ever a guy who could claim he was sorted, it was me. My illusions were shattered, however, once I began walking in the quiet countryside, re-tracing the steps of gentle St Francis and having time to reflect. I could see myself getting angry with Deborah over a trivial thing. The anger seemed to take me over. I couldn't stop myself. When it dissipated I experience terrible regret, feeling like I was back at square one again. “How often does this happen?” I asked her. “Often enough,” she said. “Until now you’ve always denied it.” A friend suggested I think of anger as simply another form of violence. Under the law it’s not as serious but is perhaps part of the same moral and spiritual domain. At first I could not accept her argument. But when I see the impact of my anger on my wife I realise the two are not as separate as I want to believe. For the sake of argument, I would rate the impact of physical violence on a scale at ‘10/10’, and then rate the effect of harshness and raising my voice at ‘5/10’. Anger is lower, but even if less bad, it’s still bad! I don’t like seeing this about myself. But it’s strangely comforting finally to name something I have not wanted to admit to during forty years of adulthood. As a colleague once told me, “Awareness is curative.” Will I ever be able to change? I don’t know. Yet accepting my shadow side allows the light in. Even if now it’s only through a tiny crack. I haven’t spoken to many people about this. Am I an outlier or one of many? I know others before me faced the same problem. I just read about a hermit called Ammonas who lived in the Egyptian desert during the fourth century. He spent fourteen years praying to God day and night to be delivered from anger. So it’s unlikely I’m going to get rid of my shadow side any time soon. Instead it would be good for me to come to an understanding and allow it to be there. I know I’m also capable of being compassionate, kind, generous and other good things. I suppose I must get used to being a paradoxical creature. The good news is, right now, the alien’s grip on my face is loosening a little, step by step. Please feel free to share this article and video with others who might find it helpful. Watch out for Lesson number two on Grace. It’s coming soon. Last September I completed nine years running a busy management consultancy. It had taken a lot of energy to serve clients, staff and my boss, not to mention be available to my family. But now I could finally let go. The warm Australian spring gently welcomed me to its bosom. I felt like a punctured air mattress slowly deflating in the pool. I began to decompress.
Soon my vitality was restored. My wife Deborah and I decided now was the time to have the adventure we’d talked about often but never yet embarked upon: walk The Way of St Francis, an ancient pilgrimage route running almost 600 kilometres from Florence to Rome. It promised spiritual refreshment, beautiful countryside, picturesque hill towns and Italian food every day for a month. Deb bought a guide book* and quickly organised for us to Skype with the author, Rev. Sandy Brown, an American pastor and walking enthusiast known as The Caminoist. Deb was concerned the walk might be too arduous and wanted to speak to the expert. He graciously gave us an hour of his time. I’m not the sort of person who asks for help. I’d read Sandy’s book. I had the GPS tracks and could see the steepness and difficulty of the terrain on the topographical maps. I did not want to appear as if this was something I could not figure out. So I joined the call reluctantly. “Have you ever been on any long hikes together?” Sandy asked. “No. It’s our first,” said Deb. “Wonderful! Do you walk at the same speed?” “I walk faster than Deb,” I said. What I did not say was I can also be very impatient and tend to storm ahead, waiting (sometimes irritably) for her to catch up. “But I guess I could walk at her speed,” I added hastily. Sandy shared that he and his partner Teresa also walk at different paces. She is a runner and often vaults ahead, whereas Sandy chugs steadily along. To avoid losing touch they established a rule never to walk out of sight of each other, especially in the wilderness areas on their own with no mobile phone coverage. If either gets into trouble the other is always able to assist. “Do you think you can handle that Miles?” he asked. “Waiting for Deb?” I was getting uncomfortable. I had not expected this kind of conversation. Nevertheless, I agreed. It was the safest, most sensible thing to do. “It’s going to take a lot of patience from you, Miles,” he added. Stop going on about it, I thought. I got the message! I could feel my hackles rising. “It will be no problem at all,” I said, trying to shut down the conversation. “I’ll walk at her pace.” “Maybe this is part of what your pilgrimage is about,” he said. “That’s a really interesting thought,” I replied. “But really Sandy, I’m confident I can do it.” Sandy paused. “How are you two at resolving conflict?” he asked. It was turning into a marriage guidance session. Not what I signed up for. “We’re really good,” I said, trying to sound confident. “We’ve been married twenty-five years. We’ve participated in marriage courses. We’ve led marriage courses. We’ve written about marriage. We’ve worked with dozens of couples on conflict in their relationships. We’re good at resolving conflict.” Deb looked at me sceptically. “We argue a lot over directions,” she said. Oh yeah, I thought. I didn’t mention that. “That’s an area where we experience conflict too,” said Sandy. “It could also be part of what your pilgrimage is all about.” I had not signed up for this. But I didn’t say anything. There was no point. I told myself all would be sweet. Little did I know, however, how prescient Sandy turned out to be. The man has a sixth sense. Or maybe he is just better plugged in to Divine Wisdom than me! This series of video blogs and articles recounts some of the challenges we faced along the way as we walked almost 600 kms through Italy. There were some difficult moments. But our marriage grew tremendously as a result. Please watch and share them with people you think might be interested. * Sandy Brown The Way of St Francis, Cicerone, London, 2015 Lesson Seven: It’s Not About Me I recently spent a week in the middle of India facilitating an extraordinary leadership immersion programme created by The Hunger Project. Instead of attending courses at Harvard or INSEAD, twenty leaders from a large financial services company went to India to learn about leadership from women elected to serve on their local village councils (‘gram panchayat’).
I learned a lot from these women but to my surprise the most impactful was what the world needs most from me as a man. There were seven lessons in total. This article is the last in the series. We returned to our hotel in Khajuraho one afternoon to see dozens of staff members outdoors preparing for a big event. One group was putting together a spectacular entrance arch made entirely of pink balloons. The audio-visual guys were blasting Bollywood videos over a giant screen and speaker tower. Another team was laying down a dance floor the size of a tennis court. Women staff were festooning dining tables with pink ribbons and garlands of flowers. Others were assembling a buffet stretching the full length of the hotel swimming pool. We spied our favourite waiter pushing a trolley piled high with metal steam trays and asked him what was happening. A wedding? A corporate function? A state banquet? No. A local tycoon was celebrating his daughter’s first birthday. What a waste, I thought. How could a child that age have any idea what was happening? But I was fascinated and watched the preparations from the bar like it was some kind of performance. At nine o’clock around two hundred guests arrived en masse. The parking lot filled with the latest Toyotas and Nissans. Prosperous men from the most privileged castes chatted in small groups. The women gathered to talk and admire each other’s saris. Children were chasing each other through a wonderful fantasy world. Everyone was having fun. There were speeches, music, dancing and masses of food. This party could have been in a wealthy suburb of Los Angeles or Sydney instead of one of the poorest parts of India. That’s when I got upset. We’d spent most of the day in a dirt poor village meeting women elected to serve as representatives on their local councils. The contrast between then and now was brutal. Few of these women can afford a bicycle, let alone a car. They come from the most marginalised castes. Many were mothers by the age of fourteen and never received an education. Yet as elected representatives they’ve taken on the big issues facing their communities, like poor sanitation, girls’ education, child marriage and domestic violence. It is hard, grinding work that would rarely trouble these party goers. I wondered what the others in my group were thinking, but the music drowned out all conversation. I went to my room in disgust. On my way, however, memories of my daughter Lily’s birthday parties began flooding back: the excited children; the magicians, entertainers, makeup artists and even a chef; the skating rinks, bowling alleys, wave pools, climbing centres and cinemas. Not to mention the piles of food, cake and decorations. They were such fun. Then there were her friends’ birthday parties, over eighty before she was fourteen. The most memorable involved a limo taking a dozen girls in ball gowns for a photo shoot! Yet just down the road from where we lived was one of London’s most deprived neighbourhoods. We never invited any of those children to attend our daughter’s parties. Neither did our friends. Our lives simply did not intersect. Now I was in turmoil. Of course it was right to celebrate Lily’s birthdays. The joyful memories will stay with me forever. But maybe I was as thoughtless as the wealthy man throwing this huge party. The next day our group discussed the birthday event. Some others felt as confused as me. We needed a mindset shift. The person to do it was Pana-bai, an elected woman representative we’d recently met. Her approach to children’s birthdays (and everything else) challenged our fixed way of thinking. She’d taken us to visit a brand new crèche in her village. As we arrived a little girl was being presented with a birthday cake, for the first time ever in her life. All the village children under six were invited. We sang ‘Happy Birthday’ and everyone got a little piece of cake. To us it seemed like any normal birthday celebration. But the girl’s mother was moved to tears. Pana-bai explained this little party was not normal at all. Usually only boys’ birthdays are celebrated. Publicly acknowledging a little girl as a valuable, treasured human being is rare. Just as uncommon is the idea of including every child in the village. Pana-bai and her colleagues have shifted their mindset from ‘there is not enough to go around’ to ‘no one is left out’. They believe their own poverty shouldn’t stop them from sharing what little they have. Pana-bai does not say, “I’ll wait until I have enough and then I’ll help.” She makes whatever she has go around. As elected representatives she and her colleagues are role models for generosity. Instead of directing it to themselves (like other politicians), they ensure the most marginalised benefit first from new infrastructure like electricity, roads and street lights. School places go to those who most need them. Pensions, free school meals and government assistance are directed to the deserving poor - the widows, the disabled and the desperate - not those who can cheat the system. Some elected women have even prospered but they never forget where they come from. Instead of protecting and enlarging their wealth they are more generous. They feel their duty is to help others. The Hunger Project’s training reinforces their innate generosity: Unless everyone wins, no one wins. These women have learned to trust that, in giving, their needs will be taken care of. Years ago I was out of work and ‘on the bones of my arse’ financially. Earlier we’d made a large commitment to The Hunger Project, who were now asking for the money. I could have backed out but chose instead to increase our mortgage. I finally understood what it was like to be on the outside. Life wasn’t all about me. I had to trust. This is counter cultural for us Westerners. When I started earning again it was easy to be magnanimous. But life became all about me again. Now, years later, I’m not working. I could get a job but want to create something new. And also be generous. I need to remind myself what life is really about. And learn again how to trust. The Hunger Project is a global NGO committed to the end of hunger and poverty by pioneering sustainable, grassroots, women-centred strategies and advocating for their widespread adoption in countries throughout the world. In India they coordinate the training and development of the most marginalised elected women leaders for the entire five years of their tenure in Life was all about me office, enabling them to be effective in ending hunger and poverty in their villages. |
RSS Feed