The Fisherman

I was called into an impromptu meeting with my boss. I had been with the company for about six months and our relationship was still in its beginning stages; surface level conversation without much depth. The topic of the conversation was something that I had not spent much time thinking about, it didn’t keep me up at night, I never spent a thousand words exploring it in this blog. It dawned on her that despite our close working quarters and daily conversations, she had never asked me what in retrospect is a pretty important question for her to understand.

“What motivates you?”

I don’t know how many people are prepared to answer that question, but I recommend taking some time to figure out your own response. Quick on my feet, I put together a response that was not only accurate, but has proven so well-aligned with the rest of my life that it’s become something of which I can be proud. Before I said anything, she told me that vacation time was her motivation. Employee incentives rewarded a few extra days, up to five, if you were a high-performing employee the year prior. Every extra day she could travel or relax was worth the investment. So what about me?

“Work-life balance.”

Which might not have been the answer she wanted to hear, now that I think about it. But I could not have better summed the reason I get out of bed in the morning. I want to do enough and do it well enough to do what I want. If you get too heavy on the work side, you forget the reason why you’re working. What’s the point of busting your ass in the office if the rest of your life is passing you by? So you can retire at 50? Great. Have fun going snowboarding with a replaced hip. If you get too heavy on the life side, then you can’t possibly expect to maintain your lifestyle. Take two months off to travel Europe? Phenomenal. Now here’s some debt that will haunt your next decade.

The benefits of balance should be so apparent. I’m not a prophet or a revolutionary or even a qualified professional, but I know feeling. And I know sadness. And I know happiness. I once underwrote a quote from ‘The Pursuit of Happiness’ describing the pursuit as the true representation of happiness, but in my maturing years I’ve come to the realization that that’s bullshit. Happiness is not a slippery, elusive, morphing, contorting, phantom that always rests inches beyond your grasp. Happiness might not be material, but I’ll be damned if it’s not real and attainable.

I spent my fair share of time without it, so I know what it feels like to have it. I spent time shuffling my feet, bullied, timid, and lonely. And while I might not have been facing clinical depression or active thoughts of self-mutilation, but I knew I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t confident, I wasn’t self-aware, and I was not living up to my full potential. Every teach in my life was correct: great potential, lacks motivation.

Well here it is, in the simple words of a former, awesome colleague: work hard, play hard.

I found a profession that instills confidence, creativity, and passion. I found people in my life that instill compassion, comradery, and a sense of belonging. And I found activities and hobbies that stimulate my senses and engage my mind. And I’m not willing to sacrifice any of it, at least not yet. Because the end game is already here. It’s the end of the movie when Will Smith’s character says “this part is called happiness.” Don’t let life pass you by because you think that happiness is the destination. There is no destination. Happiness is real, attainable, and simple. Find balance in your life the rest will fall into place.

I want to end with a short story that I heard told by Al Madrigal on the Pete Holmes podcast You Made It Weird. I found a slightly different version that I edited again, but the point is identical and the message is clear. Check out the podcast if you’re into that kind of thing, but more importantly, read the story.

An American investment banker was at the pier of a coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The banker complimented the fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.
The fisherman replied, "only a little while." The banker then asked why didn’t he stay out longer and catch more fish. The fisherman said he had enough to support his family’s immediate needs. “But what do you do with the rest of your time?"The fisherman replied, "I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, then stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos." The banker scoffed, "I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You could leave this village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually New York City where you will run your expanding enterprise.""How long will this all take?""15 – 20 years.""What then?"The banker laughed, "That’s the best part. When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would be a millionaire!""Millionaire – then what?"The banker said, "Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife, and stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos."

 

Nothing to Prove

Tuesday night marked the 5th time I’ve seen Machine Head perform in concert. It was raahh and grrr and bwaahh and whatever to almost everyone reading this, but to me and the dozen hundred black clad brethren screaming their lungs out, it was everything. Frontman Robbie Flynn even questioned at one point, ‘Isn’t this why you’re here? To let loose?’ For so many of us, heavy metal music has always been about a release, an understanding, and an acceptance that we so lacked in the rest of our lives. And the dancing of heavy metal involves pushing, pulling, bumping, hitting, shouldering, stomping, circling, colliding, bouncing, rolling, and occasionally Bravehearting, all to the beat of bass drums, shrieking guitars, and balls-to-the-wall vocals. My first concert was in February of 1999. I was 13 and went to see four bands that I barely knew, only overheard. I was a slender build, definitely not equipped to handle the physical demand of being on the floor at the Metro when Fear Factory took the stage, but I felt like one of the cool kids when I helped line the edges of the pit while my brother and his metal cohort gallivanted through the chaos with ironic glee, pushing and guiding any sweaty figure that came into my line of sight. And line of sight is important on the floor of a concert, and as any true metal-goer will confirm, the north edge of the pit is the clearest view of the band you can attain, assuming you can handle cattle-prodding the angry masses and occasionally relying on the folks behind you to add as an extra support system. It wasn’t until my next concert that I broke my moshing cherry. And as more and more concerts stacked up, the pit became my friend. Why would I put my under-sized body through such seeming torment? Because surviving the biggest or the fastest or the nastiest feels like getting a purple heart pinned to your chest. To us, those were battles and it was an honor to say ‘I ran through the biggest and the baddest, so look at me.’ The highlight of my career was Ozzfest 2004, second stage, through the gravel and the dust, bandanna covering the lower half of my face, galloping through what seemed like acres of confusion and pain while Lamb of God broke down the nastiest of songs. Runner up: Disturbed, Killswitch Engage, Lacuna Coil, and Chimaira at Northerly Island where I took about 5 songs off total over the course of the show. See, bragging is part of the game. Or it was. A part of the metal or alternative culture is always attempting to be the craziest or the first or the coolest dude or dudette around. You want to wear the shockingist T-Shirt and seen the most amount of live music and drink the most amount of beers and wait-hold on… this shit happens everywhere; in every group. The day before the Machine Head concert I had returned home from a snowboarding trip to Snowbird, Canyons, and Park City Mountains near Salt Lake City, Utah. This is a completely different group of guys, a completely different mentality, and a completely different approach to a group dynamic… right? All we can talk about is the fastest we've ever bombed down a run, or the steepest slope we've ever survived, or the deepest powder we've ever struggled through, or the most air we've ever landed off a kicker. We have apps that tell us how many vertical feet we travel in a day; thanks for making it easier to perfectly compare who was better. It’s all we can talk about. If you talk about how cold it was, I will tell you my coldest adventure (-15 for a high). It’s a constant state of one-upping. But as a seasoned 29-year-old with a steady head on my shoulders, as long as copious amounts of alcohol aren't part of the equation, I’m past that life (or at least I try to be). Because I realized that either one of two things are true. As I stand behind some over-excited concert goer standing in front of his reserved stool at the House of Blues, people will either look at me and think I’m not as cool as they are for whatever reason, or they won’t have a second thought. And either way results in me not giving a shit. I don’t have anything more to prove. It might be a sign of adulthood, or laziness, or just being tired of having to keep up, but it feels so damn good to let it go. For years I felt like I had something to prove. That the little guy at the concert needed to rough it up with the big boys to gain respect. That the rookie had to fly over a jump to gain respect. That the socially challenged dud must find someone to show off. Truth of the matter is I don’t give a shit anymore. Your destructive opinion of me doesn't change my empowering opinion of me. Less judgment, more balance, more happiness.

Photo credit: Joe Lazzerini