Possibility needs an open door

~ curiosity can’t do much from behind the curtains

Someone asked me recently to ‘tell me about Mark’ … which is a long winding story I’ve yet to lay out, but in recent days I’ve been getting closer to completing that project (that’s code for ‘actually starting it’), so I’m trying to accomplish some of the important parts that matter most in this piece … and the historical record will be shared with only that person, privately, but for here and now - since I think much of what I’m trying to say well here, is something most people my age might be thinking about, or wrestling with … or choosing to ignore, or to not think about at all.

An invitation - so to whom it will concern:

Fear doesn’t get more than one chair at the table.

It gets one, yes, it belongs at the decider table, but it speaks only for risk management, leaving the other ‘directors’ around the table to vote their minds about creating value, inspiration/perspiration, and dismissing the oversupply of F.U.D. (fear, uncertainty and doubt), because, while caution belongs at every decision table, it shouldn’t be able to overturn the table without a fair and balance vote.

Those other strong voices inform us today, knowing full well we’re normal humans with a sometimes sketchy past too, so we have to bite our tongues …

That doesn’t give us everything, or not all at once … because some doors have locks for good reasons. What’s left behind the door is left behind the door for someone’s good reasons - it need not be sinister. Just private. That’s fine for most things with most of us, right?

OK, sometimes …

And, in the case of curiosity about the unknowns, we tend to tolerate risks that we choose to unlock anyway, expecting what is beyond the door is worth the risk, and proves to be the expected excitement or challenging problem to be solved - and not so scary as to scuttle something great before it gets out of the starting gate.

Easy to grasp if it’s a ‘thingy’ thing, not the same as a ‘people’ thing…

Certainty rarely introduces us to somebody new, different-thinking, outside our circle/comfort zone or geography.

And I think, from my experience, a lot of people would rather reject all the close/easy choices over little-things shite, and yet be far less discriminating when they're considering long-distance, far-away adventures … because it’s easy to open minded with words when talking about things that are so unlikely to happen.

Though sometimes we venture, at least in theory - beyond old boundaries, past behaviour and beyond what our peers and friends might expect or consider ‘normal ’-and as we age, tolerances or shared views are less likely, methinks.

So, maybe curiosity should be unleashed, or at least given more rope …

I’m retooling for reasons I’ll explain.

I wonder why some things don’t seem magical for everyone.

Not magic-trick magical; no rabbits coming out of hats, magic wands a waving, smoke and mirrors, trapdoors, or somebody sawing an inconvenient relative in half.

I mean the strange human magic that happens when, for reasons we can’t completely explain, we trust. We choose to trust, often with little evidence or research …

Why are some people naturally open and curious, while others keep every door locked, every curtain drawn, every card pressed tightly against their chest?

And why, occasionally, do we go full open-vest?

Metaphorically - emotionally naked before another person, saying:

• This is me, warts, baggage and all

All of it.

Including the pieces I don’t ordinarily show anybody.

How is that possible?

Is it courage? Instinct?

Temporary insanity?

All of the above?

Or is it simply part of being human without our guard up?

We take some forms of trust for granted because they’ve become institutionalized. A fragile patient sits on the head-doctor’s couch and trusts that confidence, that room to be safe to say anything. A client with a complicated problem tells a lawyer all the ugly facts, fears, errors, embarrassments, and missteps that helped make the mess so messy. A person of faith enters the confessional and says aloud things that may have been carried silently for years.

Trust requires vulnerability.

Vulnerability requires trust.

There’s some magic in that.

The scarier magic happens when there is no professional framework, not an NDA in sight, no established relationship, no history, and no obvious reason to believe the other person will react kindly.

That’s every first encounter, isn’t it?

Every new client.

Every stranger.

Every new friendship.

Every first date.

Every relationship that might become something more.

Every moment when we step into that strange territory called what other people think.

Or, more accurately, what one person in particular thinks - and we temporarily freeze, because we’re wondering what they’ll think of us ...

Will they sing my praises? Will they co-celebrate my well-intentioned follies and pratfalls? Will they laugh? Will they understand? Will they care? Or will they show me swiftly to the door?

This is long before we consider the deepening of the deeper selves we become to one another - will they help me when I’ve fallen and get up? Will they trust that I’ll help them when they’ve fallen and can’t get up?

And that raises more questions for ourselves:

What do I want?

Not what do they want, but also, what do I not want?

Gets tricky, doesn’t it?

That matters in business exchanges, contractual transactions - and it serves parties well, provided they keep up their obligations, and provided they still want to …

So, why shouldn’t our personal relationships meet similar tests?

And, given my age, and those of similar age - expecting and hoping the pairing they seek will be their last one, a successful one …

Not so easy, is it?

But couldn’t it be?

Companies needing services I offer have choices. Plenty of them. Many already have long-standing relationships with people who look perfectly capable of doing what I do.

So there I stand, one more talking head waving in a field of bearded barley on a hot summer day, ripe, ready, and difficult to distinguish from everyone else trying to win some business.

The only useful response I know is to be more completely myself, not less.

Which should be easy - I’m here, I know myself, but that seems to be not the simple solution required in today’s dating/mating/matchmaking world …

So, who am I?

Just a person alone, navigating the landscape of other alone people, who has wondered whether geography is the boundary for others, as it was for me in the past, might not be the same issue, or a deal-breaker. Sure, where people live and what they do, or did, isn’t a measurement of suitability or fit?

First, technology has stretched near and far until both have become negotiable. Of course, nearer still matters to most people.

But surely character, humour, curiosity, intelligence, empathy, tastes, habits, values, and some reasonably reality-facing view of life matter too.

At my age and stage, what is it that creates an interesting cohort?

• Truth-tellers, over fakers; givers, not takers

• Timid or bold is a surface distinction, but not a clue on what’s inside

• The brave, creators, thinkers, busy big brains, and arm-candy too - but does any of the box ticking and list matter when two people confidently say,

Yet, in exploring anything with anyone - experience has everyone (I think) dealing with a set of criteria that make them say NO without much investigation, and I think we all want to feel sure we’ve seen people as they are, not as they are or wish they are:

• People with dreadful spelling - no thanks.

• People with excellent spelling, but with a history of questionable judgment

• People who are extraordinarily sensitive to everything.

• People apparently sensitive to nothing.

• People losing it.

• People who’ve lost it and haven’t received the memo yet

No, those are ‘screen out’ folks …

The answer isn’t so quick and easy - you can’t be sure without learning more …

And, yes, widows and widowers carrying histories that deserve respect, including some who understandably fear being alone while simultaneously hoping the next person will resemble the departed one closely enough to feel familiar, except perhaps with the inconvenient parts magically removed. Yikes, those scare me a bit …

I recently rejoined a few dating services, but I’ve now opted out again. They’ll have no more of my cash, which isn’t a declaration of defeat.

Quite the opposite, I surrender to a different process.

I’m not shopping for the new-thang widget, or anything else rhyming with Gidget. I’m working at something far more complicated, and more interesting, which is figuring out what is right for me, not just for a she.

And no, I’m not providing a play-by-play, blow-by-blow serialized drama here.

There’s plenty to tell.

And I’m not tellin’, not yet.

Others in similar situations have their own stories, and I enthusiastically invite them to go make their own dream into reality - I’m too busy working on mine.

Which gets complicated because I’m also busy working on too many other things, so it’s time to stand back, look around and assess the situation:

Several projects are already underway.

Some are stalled.

Some paused.

Some interrupted.

Some nearly launched.

Some where I’ll be finished by fall, or maybe next spring.

Then by summer.

Now, confidently, by fall.

AND, meanwhile, ideas live in drawers.

And the drawer below that.

And the drawer below that.

Then there are piles on the floor.

Culling is obviously high on the agenda.

But that itself becomes a form of triage.

What didn’t I do?

What didn’t I follow up?

What once seemed brilliant and now looks ridiculous?

What looked ridiculous and deserves another look?

What opportunity did I miss because I was distracted?

What opportunity remains alive because I never quite got around to killing it?

That’s fertile ground.

And yes, there is always a BUT.

Some who know me well will say:

“Oh, it’s Mark’s ADHD.”

Fair point.

Sometimes it is.

Sometimes my brain apparently believes every interesting thought deserves its own department, budget, committee, file cabinet drawer, and emergency meeting room.

But distraction isn’t the whole story.

The deeper issue is openness.

Openness to people.

Openness to possibility.

Openness to things I didn’t plan.

Connections often begin before trust has earned its credentials.

Then, someone we haven’t met calls.

Or writes.

A client we’ve never seen asks for help.

We reach out to a stranger because we know something, can do something, know someone, or simply think we might be useful.

Sometimes we ask:

“Can you help me?”

Sometimes we say:

“I can help you.”

And wonderfully, sometimes somebody answers.

I’m never entirely confident I understand the hows and whys of that. I’m smart enough to recognize it when it happens, and experienced enough to know it doesn’t always work.

Because:

We misjudge people.

We misread opportunities.

We misunderstand motives.

We trust people who disappoint us.

We sometimes mistrust people who deserved a chance.

And every so often we stumble into something astonishingly good that would never have happened if everybody involved had waited for certainty.

Trust, instinct, imagination, experience, and hope are all at work.

Usually without a committee meeting.

Often without documentation.

Sometimes without common sense making a particularly strong appearance.

Scary?

Sure.

Also exhilarating.

AND, since I’m discussing how we all see things, sometimes more alike than we like to admit:

We’ve seen another form of connection unfold recently as Calgarians followed the story of Parker, the search for a missing boy. Most of the people paying attention, volunteering to search, didn’t know him. They didn’t know his family. Yet somehow any stranger’s fear became a feeling personal enough that thousands of people cared.

They watched. They looked. They hoped. They waited.

A family’s crisis crossed the distance between stranger and neighbour without anyone needing to formally introduce anyone. That fascinates me. We’re capable of reaching across distance, circumstance, age, profession, familiarity, and sometimes common sense to connect with another person.

Why?

What mechanism makes us care?

What makes one story pass by while another reaches directly into us?

Why does one stranger remain a stranger while another becomes somebody whose outcome matters to us?

There is no tidy answer. Maybe there shouldn’t be.

But if we’re capable of that much openness toward people we don’t know, why do we sometimes hide behind the curtains when the possibility of knowing someone we can get to know knocks on our own door?

That question has been following me around lately. Especially as I think about my BHAGs (big, hairy, audacious goals) … and how I want to live the rest of my life.

We’re encouraged to pursue ambitious things when we’re young enough to believe time is unlimited, bodies are indestructible, money will somehow work itself out, and every bad decision can be corrected next Tuesday.

Fine.

What about later? What about now?

For this point, I’m calling out anyone 60 and older.

Including those way-way-way older. And, incidentally, if you’re 59, you’re already in your 60th year. Congratulations. Welcome aboard.

At this stage of life, shouldn’t the question be less about what’s safe, familiar, comfortable, sensible, and expected, and more about what remains possible?

Not recklessly, but ambitiously, excitedly - hopefully, and lovingly.

I’m not suggesting anyone walk toward an edge when the ground feels unstable and leap into darkness without knowing whether the drop is three inches or three hundred feet. There are legitimate cautions we all need to consider, right?

Health. Money. Responsibilities. Energy. Timing. People who rely on us. Commitments we’ve made. Health care. Promises we intend to keep. And good judgment deserves a chair at the table.

Experience deserves one too. So does prudence. Fear doesn’t get every chair - because that distinction matters.

Openness isn’t recklessness.

Imagination isn’t naïveté.

Trust isn’t stupidity.

Being vulnerable doesn’t mean being indiscriminate.

And exploring someone new, an unlikely opportunity, a strange idea, an unfamiliar place, an enormous project, or a possibility that doesn’t arrive fully assembled isn’t evidence that we’ve lost our minds - maybe it’s great evidence we’re still using them.

There comes a point when accumulated experience can become either a launch pad or a barricade.

We’ve learned plenty. We know bad things happen. We know people disappoint. We know plans fail. We know money disappears faster than it arrives. We know health is temporary. We know time has started behaving less like an endless highway and more like a narrowing lane.

Fine.

We also know more now than we did before. We know what matters. We know what doesn’t. We know who we are, or at least we should be getting closer.

We know which mistakes we’re willing to repeat and which ones we’ve finally had enough of. We know that some doors really should stay closed. That means we can be more deliberate about the ones worth opening.

I’ll soon complete my 75th year and begin my 76th.

No illusion. No faulty math. I understand what that means. I also understand what it doesn’t mean. It doesn’t mean I’m finished. It doesn’t mean all the interesting chapters are behind me, because I got plans, man. It doesn’t mean I’m required to narrow my life because the calendar has accumulated evidence. And it certainly doesn’t mean I’m obliged to become sensible in every possible way.

I’m asking myself something increasingly simple.

What’s stopping me from having a great time doing something bold and adventurous?

Not once. Not symbolically. Not as some bucket-list stunt so I can prove I remain ambulatory. I mean genuinely choosing possibility. Choosing connections. Choosing the improbable conversations.

Note ~ Maslow didn’t make this:

The new project.

The unexpected trip.

The call I didn’t make.

The person I haven’t met.

The offer of / request for help.

The thing that scares me just enough to suggest there might be something worthwhile on the other side of it.

And I’m asking this of you too, readers, friends, strangers - all of you:

If you’re 60, 70, 80, 90, or simply old enough to have learned that guarantees are mostly marketing material, then what are you waiting for?

If there is something you want to do, make, experience, begin, rebuild, explore, or become, how much additional evidence do you require before allowing yourself to try?

Maybe magic isn’t something we find.

Maybe we make it.

Not with smoke, mirrors, rabbit holes, or magic wands for waving.

We make it by showing up. By asking. By answering. By offering help to those who need it. By accepting help when it is offered to us. By being interested. By being interesting. By trusting carefully, but never timidly.

And maybe by being 150 percent, over-the-top ourselves, because anything less gives possibility a counterfeit version of us to work with. I don’t know exactly where the magic is. I’m increasingly convinced it’s somewhere on Earth …

And it won’t wait for me to take action at some uncertain date after other uncertainties have magically been removed from Limitations Column A without being replaced by something from Disease Column B.

And I’d rather be out looking, making, risking, connecting, and occasionally getting it completely wrong than sitting safely behind the curtains waiting for it to ring the doorbell twice.

What are we waiting for?

Maybe the right question isn’t where we’ll find magic, but whether we’re still willing to be fully present when it finds us.

I made this:

‘me‘n you’

The new project.

The unexpected trip.

The call I didn’t make.

The person I haven’t met.

The offer of / request for help.

RSVP …