understanding patterns; connecting dots

In my last post I listed some deeply held, unquestioned beliefs that got inverted for me and in me, and wondered out loud what would be next. I kind of already knew, but it’s fresh so didn’t want to include it in the retrospection of the last set of notes. Most of the previously listed inversions were cultivated by multiple inputs and their traction took some time. Not so this one, the inversion was dramatic and sudden. Margaret Wheatley spoke heretical words that I knew instantly were true. The ground had been cultivated for this inversion by sophisticated skeptics that have challenged my comfortable view of the world from inside social change and consulting paradigms. Nassim Taleb ( Skin in the Game and other writing) and Anand Giridharadas ( Winners Take All: The Elite Charade of Changing the World ) are the most notable for me. And then, in an unassuming little book called So Far From Home: lost and found in our brave new world , Margaret Wheatley said it straight up, “I no long

I subscribed to Monocle magazine in 2011. That’s quite a few months ago. I was intrigued by their evangelical commitment to hard copy journalism when everyone seemed to be going digital and the news stand was on the verge of extinction. The design of the monthly publication had six sections: Global Affairs, Business, Culture, Design, Entertainment, Fashion. I loved the mix. It inspired me and even grounded me. It was, and is beautifully produced so the practice of reading it was sensually pleasing. And then it changed. Or actually, it didn’t change. I did. So much so that it started to feel offensive. I cancelled my annual subscription, at least I thought I did. But I must have made an error because it auto-renewed for another year. I made sure I got it right last time, 12 months ago. So today I decanted my last edition, two years after I had intended. It is unsettling to realise I’ve changed as much as I have. It’s unsettling because I had no inkling of the areas of my life that would

There is a difference between doing celebratory things, and celebrating. After my morning swim a few days ago, over coffee I was exchanging Christmas catering stories with my friend Nik as we dunked panettone in our coffee. I made an intuitive comment about how our Christmas had felt more celebratory this year ... but when I tried to explain why I floundered. So over the last couple of days I've found myself pondering.  We are lucky. For the most part we live a pleasant and enjoyable life that includes family, friends and good food. Our normal everyday lives are peppered with what many people would consider 'special occasion food and circumstances.' There is a heightened sense of that for Maria and I after we decided 10 years ago that we would endeavour to live where people holidayed. Since then a resort on the Sunshine Coast, the Seaport Marina in Launceston and Barwon Heads have been home. So the general community vibe is chilled and casual. Special occasions therefore a

  Winter Solstice is an underrated celebration.  It could be so meaningful in these ridiculous times of evolution and uncertainty. Why and how should the winter solstice become more than an excuse for a skinny dip? (Although as per below, that is one of the best ways to embrace the turning of the seasons.) So-called advanced civilisation has relentlessly sold us the lie that humanity is in control. We have believed that 'we have the technology', that we can tame nature, plunder the natural environment for our  energy needs with impunity, and scar the earth forever with bitumen and buildings. We have considered the planet to be a resource in our service. But the excesses of industrial capitalism are finally catching up with us and we are slowly recognising that Country cannot be tamed, that the earth is boss, and that it is we, not it, that must learn to conform. It became conventional during the Covid 19 pandemic lockdowns to say to each other, almost in a religious chanting ki

  Starting on my birthday in early September last year, I set out on a journey of observation and curiosity that has profoundly helped me. The first time I ever did something similar was back in my uni days, when, for two weeks, I recorded everything I did and the time I spent doing it. I was curious to see how I was spending my time and if it reflected the story I told myself about what matters most to me. The point being that sometimes the story we choose to believe about ourselves is not matched by the incontestable data. Even though I didn't broadcast what I was doing, a couple of my mates found out; they thought I was bonkers. What kind of nutjob does such things? This last years year's journey was not about gathering data about something as simple as time. It was something much more difficult. There were two things that happened that provided the incentive and impetus. The first happened at the Mullumbimby Farmers Market in July. We were lucky enough to spend a few months

  I woke up half an hour before I wanted to get up. Like many early risers I don't have to set an alarm so I get to wake up slowly under the warmth of the doona. This morning I could hear the faint sound of the ocean surf, a little breeze in the trees near our bedroom window, but not too much. Good. The water has been between 9° and 11° this last week. As I lay in my cosy bed, I started to look forward to stripping off and jumping in. I arrived at 19W about 10 minutes before first light. As I often do, I wandered down the short track to 'have a look', something my board riding friends have taught me to do - always. As I took the above snap, I met a few early shift icebergers who had already been in and out. These lockdown days we are staggered out over the hour before sunrise. "'Morning Col. You won't need fins (ie, there's not much surf), and there is lots of thick seaweed (unusual for RAAFs Beach)".  Hmmm. Doesn't sound that pleasant. A lot of pe

Two years ago I was carrying some groceries home from the IGA when it started to rain. I was only 500m from home so I decided to jog to try to avoid getting wet. Nice try old man! I was dismayed at how, despite other kinds of fitness, I seemed incapable of what seemed like a relatively basic task ...  When my knees started giving me grief about 20 years ago, my GP told me I was not going to be able to run (for exercise) again. I'd never been a good runner, but living close to the Merri Creek Trail meant I had easy access to a good running track. The silver lining of that prognosis was that I started swimming at the local YMCA once a week and swimming has become an important part of my life these days. And I'd given up on the idea of running. Until that day running home in the rain. The difference was that I'd been riding a bike regularly so my leg muscles and those around my knee felt stronger. A few days later I put on my old runners and set off for a lap of the village pa

In the mid 1990s I was in Birmingham (England) for work and had supper with a colleague and his family in their home. I had read in my Grade 5 Reader that 'English people like their tea strong, white and sweet', and I'd known since then that 'tea' in England was more culturally significant than it was here in Australia. I can't recall how they drank their tea that evening in Birmingham, but I do remember that the massive metal pot had pride of place in the centre of the table, and was continually being poured from and refilled. It was both the social lubricant and the centring symbol of a sharing community. I remember it wasn't a fancy teapot, rather it was beautiful in its simplicity, plain silver, presumably aluminium with black handles (one at the front too). Sharing a cuppa, has always been an invitation to slow down, retreat from the busyness of life, and chat. I love coffee, and as a Melbournian, am probably a tad snobby about it. But sharing a coffee