I'm in a poetry groove lately. The other night again I finished work in the wee hours and sat down in the big chair with every intention of falling asleep quickly. But I picked up a book of poetry and before long I was furiously memorizing Prospice, by Robert Browning. An hour later I finally drifted to sleep, my lips unintelligibly repeating the stanzas. The next day I kept repeating it, until it was mine--a companion for life.
Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat,
the mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form
Yet the strong man must go.
For the journey is done, and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight 'ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter; so,--one fight more,
The best and the last.
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore,
And bade me slip past.
No! Let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,
The heroes of old.
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave;
The black minute's at end,
And the elements rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend, shall change,
Shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
'O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!
Poetry is so personal and so subjective. "Prospice" is to look forward. Browning wrote this poem a few months after the death of his dearly beloved Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And yes, he is looking forward to seeing her again. In many ways, that is his reward. But it's important to him that he die well--with courage and honor. Maybe to deserve to be in her presence. But I think, perhaps, more because it is part of his being a real man.
Does he fear Death? Well, yes. Like a man would fear a harsh storm in the night, like he would fear an enemy sentinel, like a warrior fears battle, or a condemned man the firing squad. But like a good sailor, we will head out into the storm, wtih the fog in his throat and the mist in his face; he will walk past the sentinel; he will fight the last battle and face his executioners without a blindfold.
He does this because he has overcome his fear of death. That is duty and honor--to discipline yourself to do what is right no matter the challenge. He has put it in perspective. If this world is a test, then surely this is the final passage, and to live life well is to die well too. Is it painful? Well, yes, but instead of running from the pain, embrace it heroically. Death is the price we pay for life, and until we meet our death, we are in arrears, and in fact we will never clear the balance without an honorable death, that is, the measure of our lives will be found wanting.
And then, as the light expires, everything changes. Our existence is transformed from temporal travails to a celestial existence, the apex of which is to be reunited with the love of his earthly life. How beautifully, emotionally, hopefully and lovingly he describes this passage, where Elizabeth waits on the other side. Read it deliberately:
And the elements rage, the fiend-voices that rave
Shal dwindle ... shall blend ... shall change ...
Shall become first a peace out of pain ...
Then a light ...
Then thy breast ...
'O thy soul of my soul ... I shall see thee again!
And with God be the rest.
The last line is interesting.
I think--that now we will spend the rest of eternity together with God.
But maybe--I have passed my earthly test well, and judgment is in God's hands?
I have been given my reward (to be with my love), and let God turn his attention to everyone else?
Enough rambling--really steam-of-consciousness and excruciatingly long for a blog. Learning a poem is a beautiful thing.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Leaving Las Vegas
Having spent most of the week in Las Vegas at the Consumer Electronics Show, I am most happy to be leaving. Las Vegas is a metaphor for the very worst of our society, the lowest of our inclinations, and the basest misuse of our achievements.
For one thing, I am always taken aback by the unabashed marketing of sex, which is invasively pervasive. It is as if the rules of common decency have been proudly suspended. Near-naked women adorn the sides of building and busses, each sex show flaunting itself as grander than the rest, each "gentlemen's club" promising a more fulfilling night of fantasy. And alas, the entire service industry seems to have been caught up in the spirit of promiscuity, the restaurants and casinos filled with silicone-enhanced women eager to be tipped by half-drunk revellers with the fantasy of fulfillment in one hand and a five-dollar bill in the other.
And of course there is the gambling, which is where the real money is lost and made (by the gamblers and the casinos, respectively). If P.T. Barnum was right and there is a sucker born every minute, then that explains the steady stream of hopefuls sitting thoughtfully at the blackjack tables and mindlessly at the slots. Pushed to explain, they would grudgingly acknowledge that the odds are stacked against them. Even those with skill and smarts would admit that for all their wiles at best they improve their chances to something less than 50-50. But in the name of entertainment, there are always those ready to spend their hard-earned money for the outrageous possibility that in the final tally they will beat the house.
But perhaps the most repulsive aspect to Sin City is the thin veneer of false glamour that has been laquered on in thick, gaudy brushstrokes to every element of the experience. It is the artistic equivalent of painting by numbers; the aesthetic sensibility of velvet likenesses of Elvis and wild horses. Walking through the hallways of even the most prestigious hotels I am embarassed by the clumsy monuments to cheap decadence made by crafty artisans at union wages.
So my favorite time in Las Vegas is the moment I say good-bye, turning in my hotel room keycard with the scantily-clad dancer and putting behind me the images of tawdry hucksters counting their money under the neon lights of Gomorrah.
For one thing, I am always taken aback by the unabashed marketing of sex, which is invasively pervasive. It is as if the rules of common decency have been proudly suspended. Near-naked women adorn the sides of building and busses, each sex show flaunting itself as grander than the rest, each "gentlemen's club" promising a more fulfilling night of fantasy. And alas, the entire service industry seems to have been caught up in the spirit of promiscuity, the restaurants and casinos filled with silicone-enhanced women eager to be tipped by half-drunk revellers with the fantasy of fulfillment in one hand and a five-dollar bill in the other.
And of course there is the gambling, which is where the real money is lost and made (by the gamblers and the casinos, respectively). If P.T. Barnum was right and there is a sucker born every minute, then that explains the steady stream of hopefuls sitting thoughtfully at the blackjack tables and mindlessly at the slots. Pushed to explain, they would grudgingly acknowledge that the odds are stacked against them. Even those with skill and smarts would admit that for all their wiles at best they improve their chances to something less than 50-50. But in the name of entertainment, there are always those ready to spend their hard-earned money for the outrageous possibility that in the final tally they will beat the house.
But perhaps the most repulsive aspect to Sin City is the thin veneer of false glamour that has been laquered on in thick, gaudy brushstrokes to every element of the experience. It is the artistic equivalent of painting by numbers; the aesthetic sensibility of velvet likenesses of Elvis and wild horses. Walking through the hallways of even the most prestigious hotels I am embarassed by the clumsy monuments to cheap decadence made by crafty artisans at union wages.
So my favorite time in Las Vegas is the moment I say good-bye, turning in my hotel room keycard with the scantily-clad dancer and putting behind me the images of tawdry hucksters counting their money under the neon lights of Gomorrah.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
On Coleridge
I've been working very long hours lately, and have found relaxation in reading poetry. A few days ago at 3 a.m. I started reading Coleridge, thinking it would probably put me to sleep. Instead, for the first time in my life I read his most famous work: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and found it extraordinary in its compelling story line, lyrical verse and haunting imagery. I highly recommend it.
In the process, I learned that the poem has been the source for a number of commonplace expressions, including "an albatross around the neck," the line: "Water, water all around, nor but a drop to drink" (often misquoted), and the phrase: "a sadder but wiser man." Most surprising, I learned that the same poetic structure and cadence was, quite appropriately, used in the theme song of Gilligan's Island.
One stanza stood out, and I memorized it:
Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk with fear and dread,
And having once turned round, walks on
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
This was the dawn of romantic poetry, and he has certainly added a lilting flourish to an experience I suspect we all have known. He was also an opium addict, and perhaps that illuminates the stanza more insightfully.
I was also amused by this little epigram from Coleridge:
Sir I admit your general rule
That every poet is a fool.
But you yourself may serve to show it
That every fool is not a poet.
He would have scored big in a poetry slam.
In the process, I learned that the poem has been the source for a number of commonplace expressions, including "an albatross around the neck," the line: "Water, water all around, nor but a drop to drink" (often misquoted), and the phrase: "a sadder but wiser man." Most surprising, I learned that the same poetic structure and cadence was, quite appropriately, used in the theme song of Gilligan's Island.
One stanza stood out, and I memorized it:
Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk with fear and dread,
And having once turned round, walks on
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
This was the dawn of romantic poetry, and he has certainly added a lilting flourish to an experience I suspect we all have known. He was also an opium addict, and perhaps that illuminates the stanza more insightfully.
I was also amused by this little epigram from Coleridge:
Sir I admit your general rule
That every poet is a fool.
But you yourself may serve to show it
That every fool is not a poet.
He would have scored big in a poetry slam.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Absolutions and Resolutions
We have come not to praise last year's resolutions, but to bury them. Their spirits have left their bodies and we will see them later on, perhaps on Judgment Day. It is now time to turn our attention to matters of relevance: today, and tomorrow.
I like goals, and I like resolutions. But they are mates of different sorts. Resolutions are completely within my control. Resolutions, whether great or small, are individual battles: My Will vs. The Seven Deadly Sins, or sometimes opponents with a less distinguished pedigree. It was not difficult to quit playing Free Cell a few years ago, and I dispatched that minor villain in short order, but Gluttony is less like a weekend scrimmage and more of an ongoing rivalry. We are scheduled to meet again this afternoon, his bowl of Chocolate Fudge Swirl met by my determined resolve not to replace all of my pairs of pants in 2007.
Goals are less tangible things, involving a combination of effort, ability, and generally at least a small helping of good fortune. I have a goal to publish a work of fiction. Whether this is possible I do not know, for I have not mustered the effort necessary to succeed. When I do, then I will look to tag-team with Lady Luck. (Seneca said "Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.")
I will set my goals this week, as I have for the past 20 years. And I will resolve to do a few things as well. And every so often I will sneak a peek at both lists, to see who is ahead, me or my opponent.
I like goals, and I like resolutions. But they are mates of different sorts. Resolutions are completely within my control. Resolutions, whether great or small, are individual battles: My Will vs. The Seven Deadly Sins, or sometimes opponents with a less distinguished pedigree. It was not difficult to quit playing Free Cell a few years ago, and I dispatched that minor villain in short order, but Gluttony is less like a weekend scrimmage and more of an ongoing rivalry. We are scheduled to meet again this afternoon, his bowl of Chocolate Fudge Swirl met by my determined resolve not to replace all of my pairs of pants in 2007.
Goals are less tangible things, involving a combination of effort, ability, and generally at least a small helping of good fortune. I have a goal to publish a work of fiction. Whether this is possible I do not know, for I have not mustered the effort necessary to succeed. When I do, then I will look to tag-team with Lady Luck. (Seneca said "Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.")
I will set my goals this week, as I have for the past 20 years. And I will resolve to do a few things as well. And every so often I will sneak a peek at both lists, to see who is ahead, me or my opponent.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Nary Christmas
It wasn't a very satisfying Christmas. Work was a major distraction. We didn't have a very spiritual Christmas Eve. And our family struggled to gather together at one time. But I think I could have gotten over all of those things were it not for the one missing ingredient: I didn't serve. Oh, we tried to do a few things. I bought a couple of gifts, but never really got into it. Lanee and I made almond bark, and the family visited some families to pass out the candy and do a little presentation. I bought a recent widow a book of poetry. And that was it. No real sacrifice. No sustained effort. Not much interest in brightening lives. And a Christmas virtually lost.
It is easy to decry the destructive forces of commercialism in Christmas. It's obvious that we have completely lost the meanings of the symbols we take from the attic every December to decorate our houses. And it's all too convenient to complain about the hustle and bustle every year, and Christmas sneaking up on us, like it does to everyone, every year.
It's easy to sing the carols without being touched. To wrap the gifts as a matter of course. To substitute funny Christmas movies for thoughtful ones.
But the one act that overpowers them all is when we give of ourselves for the sake of others; when our hearts are filled with love and compassion, and our hands are busy trying to make a difference. That is Christmas pure and undefiled, and without it nothing else matters.
It would be painful to have to wait until next year for redemption. Fortunately, only the holiday is confined to December. With that thought, I'm hanging a lovely Christmas ornament in my closet that I will see every morning and every night, to remind me that giving is also a beautiful thing, and that the spirit of Christmas can be all year long, even without the bells and tinsel.
It is easy to decry the destructive forces of commercialism in Christmas. It's obvious that we have completely lost the meanings of the symbols we take from the attic every December to decorate our houses. And it's all too convenient to complain about the hustle and bustle every year, and Christmas sneaking up on us, like it does to everyone, every year.
It's easy to sing the carols without being touched. To wrap the gifts as a matter of course. To substitute funny Christmas movies for thoughtful ones.
But the one act that overpowers them all is when we give of ourselves for the sake of others; when our hearts are filled with love and compassion, and our hands are busy trying to make a difference. That is Christmas pure and undefiled, and without it nothing else matters.
It would be painful to have to wait until next year for redemption. Fortunately, only the holiday is confined to December. With that thought, I'm hanging a lovely Christmas ornament in my closet that I will see every morning and every night, to remind me that giving is also a beautiful thing, and that the spirit of Christmas can be all year long, even without the bells and tinsel.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Cha-Ching!
After a month of soliciting and selling, convincing and cajoling, presenting and pleading, and grunting and groveling, we put our financing in place for our retail expansion. Money was wired to us yeterday, and we wired it out to display manufacturers, who wired it to China, who probably started parsing it out to the millions of workers who make stuff over there, to the tune of a few dollars a day.
I suppose I should celebrate, but I never do. It is both a blessing and curse. I breathe deeply for a few minutes, smile about a milestone reached, then immediately begin worrying about what needs to be done next to ward off disaster. I've never been able to enjoy any success for very long. But the bitterness of my failures is a taste that lingers on forever. As a result, I'm not driven by the trappings of success, but rather by the fear of failure.
We're all driven by different things. I've grown comfortable with my motivations and doubt that they will change. I wear them like an old pair of shoes--scuffed tops and worn heels, but they are comfortable and fit me well.
I suppose I should celebrate, but I never do. It is both a blessing and curse. I breathe deeply for a few minutes, smile about a milestone reached, then immediately begin worrying about what needs to be done next to ward off disaster. I've never been able to enjoy any success for very long. But the bitterness of my failures is a taste that lingers on forever. As a result, I'm not driven by the trappings of success, but rather by the fear of failure.
We're all driven by different things. I've grown comfortable with my motivations and doubt that they will change. I wear them like an old pair of shoes--scuffed tops and worn heels, but they are comfortable and fit me well.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Merritt James
Our second grandchild announced himself to the world this morning. Mom, Sam and I were in the waiting room while Merritt and Stacie finished a long night of labor. He is a handsome little guy (6 lbs. 14 oz.) with lots of dark hair. They named him Merritt James, but plan to call him James.
There is something very mellowing about the birth of a new child--at least, once the birth is concluded! Everyone is softened. We dim the lights and speak in hushed tones. And we gently pass the child from person to person, and stand in line to get our touch of love, as if something magical will rub off on us.
Merritt and Stacie will be wonderful parents and I look forward to watching young James explore this brave new world, and the strange creatures in it. Yesterday I only had one grandchild, who I love with all my heart. But today I have a second who I love just as much. That's the thing about love--you can give all you want without running out.
There is something very mellowing about the birth of a new child--at least, once the birth is concluded! Everyone is softened. We dim the lights and speak in hushed tones. And we gently pass the child from person to person, and stand in line to get our touch of love, as if something magical will rub off on us.
Merritt and Stacie will be wonderful parents and I look forward to watching young James explore this brave new world, and the strange creatures in it. Yesterday I only had one grandchild, who I love with all my heart. But today I have a second who I love just as much. That's the thing about love--you can give all you want without running out.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Christmas Ditty
Last night we visited families in our neighborhood with this message:
'Twas a week before Christmas
And all through our Stake
We thought we'd find out
Just who was awake.
Perhaps you were nestled
All snug in your bed;
And the sound of the doorbell
Brought nothing but dread.
And when you discretely
Glanced from the curtain
And saw it was us,
Well you groaned, I am certain.
Maybe our visit here
Should be explained.
Don't think for a minute
You'll be entertained.
We had visions of caroling--
Our own little choir.
But calling us singers
Would make you a liar.
We considered performing
A play in three acts.
But as thespians go
We're a sad bunch of hacks.
It's not like we're visiting
The entire ward--
Just those that we thought
Might be home and be bored.
So let's get to the point,
Let's get right to the facts:
We wanted to come by
And bring you some snacks.
'Cause a week before Christmas
is a time that is right
To give you our love
On this cold snowy night.
And to bring you some sweets
And a bit of good cheer;
And wish Merry Christmas
And Happy New Year!
'Twas a week before Christmas
And all through our Stake
We thought we'd find out
Just who was awake.
Perhaps you were nestled
All snug in your bed;
And the sound of the doorbell
Brought nothing but dread.
And when you discretely
Glanced from the curtain
And saw it was us,
Well you groaned, I am certain.
Maybe our visit here
Should be explained.
Don't think for a minute
You'll be entertained.
We had visions of caroling--
Our own little choir.
But calling us singers
Would make you a liar.
We considered performing
A play in three acts.
But as thespians go
We're a sad bunch of hacks.
It's not like we're visiting
The entire ward--
Just those that we thought
Might be home and be bored.
So let's get to the point,
Let's get right to the facts:
We wanted to come by
And bring you some snacks.
'Cause a week before Christmas
is a time that is right
To give you our love
On this cold snowy night.
And to bring you some sweets
And a bit of good cheer;
And wish Merry Christmas
And Happy New Year!
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Money-Raising Part III
It's not that I'm obsessed with money-raising, but it's been such a big part of my life recently. Today I went to a Speed-Pitching Luncheon, and presented our business to 10 different angel investor groups in rapid succession. There's something a little bit demeaning about summing up your business in five minutes, a little like an obituary, except no one asks nasty questions after you are dead.
The concept was modeled after Speed-Dating gatherings, which have become quite the rage of late. But they did not exist when I was in season. We had Bridgemans, which served great chocolate malts, and a roller skating rink and big parks and hockey games and a five-mile stretch of beach called Park Point. If you couldn't meet a girl in one of these places, you were probably better off single. I doubt that I would have been a good speed dater. I think I'm more of an acquired taste.
Today's Observation: There is nothing more dangerous than a venture capitalist that made money as an entrepreneur selling a business. Now he thinks he's an expert at everything. He was probably awfully lucky, but is convinced it's because he was smarter than everyone else. Do not let these people on your board!
Today's Commitment: If I ever make enough money to be an angel investor I will not be a jerk and will treat people with respect.
Today's Conclusion: Still broke.
The concept was modeled after Speed-Dating gatherings, which have become quite the rage of late. But they did not exist when I was in season. We had Bridgemans, which served great chocolate malts, and a roller skating rink and big parks and hockey games and a five-mile stretch of beach called Park Point. If you couldn't meet a girl in one of these places, you were probably better off single. I doubt that I would have been a good speed dater. I think I'm more of an acquired taste.
Today's Observation: There is nothing more dangerous than a venture capitalist that made money as an entrepreneur selling a business. Now he thinks he's an expert at everything. He was probably awfully lucky, but is convinced it's because he was smarter than everyone else. Do not let these people on your board!
Today's Commitment: If I ever make enough money to be an angel investor I will not be a jerk and will treat people with respect.
Today's Conclusion: Still broke.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
All Night Long
I pulled an all-nighter last night. It's been a while since I've done that, and I'm not exactly sure why I did. Maybe to try to trick myself into believing that I'm still young. But I was working at the office and experiencing this highly productive surge of energy and the night grew long and my to-do list grew short and then it was morning. So I grabbed some breakfast, worked out and came home to start my day normally, except for the fact my body kept reminding me that something very strange was going on. And my mind kept deserting me. And all of this has dashed my delusions of the limitless energy of an eternal youth.
Nevertheless, I like the idea of working all night. It screams of passion and dedication. It waves a flag of commitment above and beyond mortals who have chosen paths normal and sane. Yet there is a foolishness to the proposition that can only be attributed to a thirst for excellence, and a hunger for more better faster. There is a chaos in the act that appeals to the anarchist in me, as I pose chin-out in counter-cyclical defiance to the laws of commerce or physics.
I won't be young forever, even in my own mind. But if I am nimble old age can not creep up on me. And then one day I will pass that portal, with a bowed head and creaking knees, in the middle of the night, while the watchman sleeps.
Nevertheless, I like the idea of working all night. It screams of passion and dedication. It waves a flag of commitment above and beyond mortals who have chosen paths normal and sane. Yet there is a foolishness to the proposition that can only be attributed to a thirst for excellence, and a hunger for more better faster. There is a chaos in the act that appeals to the anarchist in me, as I pose chin-out in counter-cyclical defiance to the laws of commerce or physics.
I won't be young forever, even in my own mind. But if I am nimble old age can not creep up on me. And then one day I will pass that portal, with a bowed head and creaking knees, in the middle of the night, while the watchman sleeps.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Money Raising: Part II
So there we were, Lee, Matt and me, having an investment discussion with a guy who has made quite a bit of money, and is now in the business of giving short-term loans at usurious interest rates. It's not pretty, but it may be our best option to fund our retail deal.
But here's the thing--this guy likes us and believes in our product. He wants to help. But he knows how onerous his terms are. So he doesn't really want us to take it. He's like a friendly loan shark.
And here's the other thing--he looked miserable. He's making lots of money, but agonizes over possibly making a deal that might not be more lucrative than the last. He looks pained, like a man wrestling with his conscience. We all may be broke and sacrificing paychecks, but I think we sleep well, and we were smiling and comfortable. We all commented that it looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
Investing in us is a moral decision for him. He's known that for some time, as he almost invested a year ago. It doesn't matter nearly as much to us as it does to him, because he is wracked with guilt over choosing money over his desire to help.
Everything in life has a price tag. But wealth is often the worst value.
But here's the thing--this guy likes us and believes in our product. He wants to help. But he knows how onerous his terms are. So he doesn't really want us to take it. He's like a friendly loan shark.
And here's the other thing--he looked miserable. He's making lots of money, but agonizes over possibly making a deal that might not be more lucrative than the last. He looks pained, like a man wrestling with his conscience. We all may be broke and sacrificing paychecks, but I think we sleep well, and we were smiling and comfortable. We all commented that it looked like he hadn't slept in a week.
Investing in us is a moral decision for him. He's known that for some time, as he almost invested a year ago. It doesn't matter nearly as much to us as it does to him, because he is wracked with guilt over choosing money over his desire to help.
Everything in life has a price tag. But wealth is often the worst value.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Raising Money
There are few things so inherently demeaning as raising money. Oh, it's one thing when times are good (OK, like they are now) and you have a great story to tell (I thought we did). Then it's shooting ducks on the pond, as we used to say. But generally the process of fund-raising is a relentless task, filled with endless rejections and excruciating frustration.
One annoying reality is that most people with money to invest think they are brilliant. They made their money because they were smarter than the other guys. And now, in 45 minutes, they can drill down to the very essence of your business and understand the secrets which have eluded the principals for the five years they have labored long and hard to build it. Their reasons for investing in A or rejecting B often can't stand up to any scrutiny but their own. But frankly, they are absolutely entitled to their opinion. It's their money, and how they evaluate investments is their inalienable right.
We have been out pounding on doors now for over a month. We are doubling our volume organically, have a major retail account in hand for 2007 (that will give us another 600% growth), very good momentum, no more legal entanglements and a management team that has, by most accounts, pulled off the seemingly impossible. And we haven't been able to put the cash together to fund the retail expansion.
Admittedly it's not all glitter and fairy dust. Our balance sheet suffered from litigation expenses and we have very tight timing on the raise. (I'm convinced that if we didn't need the money now, we could put together a very nice VC round in March or April.) We're stuck as a "tweener." We don't have time to raise an institutional round, but we need more money than private investors are typically comfortable with.
This is a long sob story, recorded for posterity perhaps. But it is what it is. I have become an organ grinder, playing my heart out on the busy streets of commerce, but my monkey keeps returning with an empty cup.
If we can't fund this retail deal it will blow up in our faces. Our reputation will be shot. And all that we have fought and sacrificed for will be lost. Our success will be our failure. Life is full of ironies, both comic and tragic. But this is only money, and not funny enough to tell at parties, or tragic enough for sympathy cards. Maybe if I could teach the monkey to dance ...
One annoying reality is that most people with money to invest think they are brilliant. They made their money because they were smarter than the other guys. And now, in 45 minutes, they can drill down to the very essence of your business and understand the secrets which have eluded the principals for the five years they have labored long and hard to build it. Their reasons for investing in A or rejecting B often can't stand up to any scrutiny but their own. But frankly, they are absolutely entitled to their opinion. It's their money, and how they evaluate investments is their inalienable right.
We have been out pounding on doors now for over a month. We are doubling our volume organically, have a major retail account in hand for 2007 (that will give us another 600% growth), very good momentum, no more legal entanglements and a management team that has, by most accounts, pulled off the seemingly impossible. And we haven't been able to put the cash together to fund the retail expansion.
Admittedly it's not all glitter and fairy dust. Our balance sheet suffered from litigation expenses and we have very tight timing on the raise. (I'm convinced that if we didn't need the money now, we could put together a very nice VC round in March or April.) We're stuck as a "tweener." We don't have time to raise an institutional round, but we need more money than private investors are typically comfortable with.
This is a long sob story, recorded for posterity perhaps. But it is what it is. I have become an organ grinder, playing my heart out on the busy streets of commerce, but my monkey keeps returning with an empty cup.
If we can't fund this retail deal it will blow up in our faces. Our reputation will be shot. And all that we have fought and sacrificed for will be lost. Our success will be our failure. Life is full of ironies, both comic and tragic. But this is only money, and not funny enough to tell at parties, or tragic enough for sympathy cards. Maybe if I could teach the monkey to dance ...
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Football Rivalry
BYU beat the University of Utah football team 33-31 yesterday at Rice-Eccles stadium. It was the culmination of a magical season for BYU, and especially senior quarterback John Beck. And it ended another annual "Rivalry Week" between the two schools, which got too heated, too personal, too vituperative, venemous and vindictive.
Angelica and I went to the game and we were fortunate to sit amongst BYU fans, and a few Ute backers that were very nice. In contrast, the line to the men's room (which was interminably long) was over-populated by Ute fans who drank too much beer during the first two quarters, leaving them with full bladders and empty heads.
The Utah fans in front of me also said that last year at BYU they were treated very rudely, so it goes both ways.
We ought to somehow rise above these primitive instincts. We are no longer warrior-tribes that must rise to a feverish pitch for battle; or nomadic hunters who require courage to fill the bellies of our women and children. No, we are a pampered society with too much time on our hands, and too little good sense to know how to use it. So we dress in red and blue and gratify ourselves by cheering the home team to victory, or wallowing in its defeat.
Next year I am going to the game in Provo. I am going to wear blue, and I am going to make it a point to do something nice for Utah fans.
Angelica and I went to the game and we were fortunate to sit amongst BYU fans, and a few Ute backers that were very nice. In contrast, the line to the men's room (which was interminably long) was over-populated by Ute fans who drank too much beer during the first two quarters, leaving them with full bladders and empty heads.
The Utah fans in front of me also said that last year at BYU they were treated very rudely, so it goes both ways.
We ought to somehow rise above these primitive instincts. We are no longer warrior-tribes that must rise to a feverish pitch for battle; or nomadic hunters who require courage to fill the bellies of our women and children. No, we are a pampered society with too much time on our hands, and too little good sense to know how to use it. So we dress in red and blue and gratify ourselves by cheering the home team to victory, or wallowing in its defeat.
Next year I am going to the game in Provo. I am going to wear blue, and I am going to make it a point to do something nice for Utah fans.
Thankfully
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I like that it doesn't require a lot of preparation, other than cooking for the day. I like that it's always a four-day holiday weekend--the only one of the year. I like the big traditional meal. I like that it involves football. And I especially like the simple and unappreciated idea of remembering all the things we have to be thankful for.
Maybe it's because of these reasons that Thanksgiving has become a major event in our home. Because I like the holiday so much, we try to share it with family and friends. This year we played our traditional Turkey Bowl in our new ward. Rodger Pickett and his daughters were in town, spent Wednesday night with us and played football Thursday morning. Then the customary big dinner with family and friends from Park City and Salt Lake. Followed by lots of games, including something of a Settlers of Cataan marathon. And of course football. And then, as has become another tradition, officially starting the Christmas season by watching the movie Mixed Nuts.
None of these activities are particularly meaningful by themselves. But over time, they become important traditions for our family, anchors to our past that help define us, that give us something to look forward to, that give relevance to our gathering together.
I'm thankful for these traditions. I'm thankful for Thanksgiving. And I'm thankful for family and friends that make them enjoyable and meaningful.
Maybe it's because of these reasons that Thanksgiving has become a major event in our home. Because I like the holiday so much, we try to share it with family and friends. This year we played our traditional Turkey Bowl in our new ward. Rodger Pickett and his daughters were in town, spent Wednesday night with us and played football Thursday morning. Then the customary big dinner with family and friends from Park City and Salt Lake. Followed by lots of games, including something of a Settlers of Cataan marathon. And of course football. And then, as has become another tradition, officially starting the Christmas season by watching the movie Mixed Nuts.
None of these activities are particularly meaningful by themselves. But over time, they become important traditions for our family, anchors to our past that help define us, that give us something to look forward to, that give relevance to our gathering together.
I'm thankful for these traditions. I'm thankful for Thanksgiving. And I'm thankful for family and friends that make them enjoyable and meaningful.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Viva la County!
In 2005 I served on an advisory committee for Summit County to consider a change in our form of government. The seven of us met approximately twice a month for a year, in addition to various public hearings, research interviews and the like. After a year, we recommended a substantial change to our government structure, going from a three-person commission to a five-person council, and hiring a County Manager to assume all executive responsibilities, reporting to the Council.
The current County Commission approved the measure for the ballot this year, and on election day, despite strong opposition from current county employees, voters narrowly passed the recommendation. How narrow? The difference was only 236 votes out of nearly 11,000 cast.
I've always been attracted to politics, and even though I am no longer a Summit County citizen I was asked to serve on the Summit Steps Forward committee to help get the measure passed. I wrote numerous letters to the editor (from myself, and for others), manned a booth at the Farmers Market, did a radio interview and call-in, wrote emails, helped with publicity, etc.
And here's the gratifying thing--what I did mattered. Not just serving on the committee, which anyone could have done. But rather, getting actively involved in the political process. Volunteering. Serving. In fact, the vote was so close, that I suspect that there were hundreds of people who did something in support of the measure that turned out to make a crucial difference.
It's very easy in elections to assume that your efforts are lost in the tidal wave of the majority. And perhaps that is often the case, although I'm sure that someone's contribution is pivotal. But in this case, everyone who raised his or her voice may have provided the deciding call.
We throw our pebbles in the water and hope that in a sea of calm the ripples dance to distant shores.
The current County Commission approved the measure for the ballot this year, and on election day, despite strong opposition from current county employees, voters narrowly passed the recommendation. How narrow? The difference was only 236 votes out of nearly 11,000 cast.
I've always been attracted to politics, and even though I am no longer a Summit County citizen I was asked to serve on the Summit Steps Forward committee to help get the measure passed. I wrote numerous letters to the editor (from myself, and for others), manned a booth at the Farmers Market, did a radio interview and call-in, wrote emails, helped with publicity, etc.
And here's the gratifying thing--what I did mattered. Not just serving on the committee, which anyone could have done. But rather, getting actively involved in the political process. Volunteering. Serving. In fact, the vote was so close, that I suspect that there were hundreds of people who did something in support of the measure that turned out to make a crucial difference.
It's very easy in elections to assume that your efforts are lost in the tidal wave of the majority. And perhaps that is often the case, although I'm sure that someone's contribution is pivotal. But in this case, everyone who raised his or her voice may have provided the deciding call.
We throw our pebbles in the water and hope that in a sea of calm the ripples dance to distant shores.
Friday, November 17, 2006
In Memory of Laurence Lyon
I attended Laurence Lyons' funeral on Tuesday. It was one of the more interesting funerals I have been to. Laurence was a devoted husband and father, a talented musician and composer, and a well-versed LDS scholar. And I learned that his family called him "Laury," which I found surprising because he seemed so formal to me.
There was a lot of music, including several pieces that he had written. We sang one of his hymns. And there was a duet, and a string ensemble and a recording of a choir. It was all very appropriate, given the role music played in his life and heritage.
Sam and I have been home teaching Laurence and Donna for six months. He had been in and out of the hospital quite a bit over the past six weeks. We were by there about a month ago and I sensed a real change in him. He had softened (not that he was ever nasty, just a bit stiff, and perhaps judgmental). But I saw in his demeanor that he had experienced a change, and it occured to me that he was now seeing life from an eternal perspective. As we left the house, I commented that he was acting like a man who didn't have long to live. It was the same when Sam and I visited with them again a week later. He was positively chatty, which was unusual. (When I set up my first appointment, he said he'd like a 20-minute visit, with a lesson, and not much "chit-chat.")
I will remember him mostly by his impish grin, which came from the inside out, and genuinely reflected the pure delight of something he found clever or amusing. It was a boyish smile, and I delighted to see it. At the funeral, his brother described his sense of humor as "Puckish," and hearing that, the pieces fit together.
A great quote from the funeral, from his daughter. She said that as her father got older, he found household fix-it projects to take much more time and energy than previously. As a result, he had resolved to: "Never do anything for the first time." I wish I had said that.
I like funerals. There is such a sweet outpouring of emotions. And what a wonderful cultural tradition to gather together to learn of the best of people and to reflect on our fondest memories. It was good to know Laurence in life, and good as well to know him in death.
There was a lot of music, including several pieces that he had written. We sang one of his hymns. And there was a duet, and a string ensemble and a recording of a choir. It was all very appropriate, given the role music played in his life and heritage.
Sam and I have been home teaching Laurence and Donna for six months. He had been in and out of the hospital quite a bit over the past six weeks. We were by there about a month ago and I sensed a real change in him. He had softened (not that he was ever nasty, just a bit stiff, and perhaps judgmental). But I saw in his demeanor that he had experienced a change, and it occured to me that he was now seeing life from an eternal perspective. As we left the house, I commented that he was acting like a man who didn't have long to live. It was the same when Sam and I visited with them again a week later. He was positively chatty, which was unusual. (When I set up my first appointment, he said he'd like a 20-minute visit, with a lesson, and not much "chit-chat.")
I will remember him mostly by his impish grin, which came from the inside out, and genuinely reflected the pure delight of something he found clever or amusing. It was a boyish smile, and I delighted to see it. At the funeral, his brother described his sense of humor as "Puckish," and hearing that, the pieces fit together.
A great quote from the funeral, from his daughter. She said that as her father got older, he found household fix-it projects to take much more time and energy than previously. As a result, he had resolved to: "Never do anything for the first time." I wish I had said that.
I like funerals. There is such a sweet outpouring of emotions. And what a wonderful cultural tradition to gather together to learn of the best of people and to reflect on our fondest memories. It was good to know Laurence in life, and good as well to know him in death.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Stranger than Fiction
If you've seen the trailers, you know that in Stranger than Fiction, Harold Crick suddenly hears a narrative voice describing the occasional scenes he encounters in life. While one might naturally expect this to be troubling, the urgency to understand this curious phenomenon increases when the narrator drops the off-handed line that Harold's death is imminent. A shallow and boring IRS auditor, he seeks help first from a psychiatrist, then a literature professor (Dustin Hoffman), falls in love with an auditee (Maggie Gyllenhaal), and eventually discovers the author who is trying to finish Harold's story (Emma Thompson).
Maybe they should have called it Eternal Despair in an Author's Mind. Yes, this seemed a lot like the Charlie Kaufman movie that is one of my all-time favorites. And there are too many similarities to be accidental. Fiction is a surreal dramedy about a socially maladroit guy in his 30's (played by a wildly succesful comedic actor trying to make a transition)who has an unlikely romance with a wild and beautiful yet sensitive young woman. And both have a surprise ending.
Stranger than Fiction has a better supporting cast, including Emma Thompson, Dustin Hoffman and Queen Latifah, which adds some heft, but still doesn't make it as good as Eternal Sunshine because, frankly, it isn't written nearly as well. Fiction is also a funnier movie (particularly Hoffman), although most of the audience at my showing didn't recognize the humor. But in the end, Stranger than Fiction is a cool idea searching for a William Goldman to come in and make it a great movie.
Even more disappointing, Will Ferrell is miscast and turns in a woeful performance, either that or he's been watching too many Wes Anderson movies. And both Emma Thompson and Queen Latifah are workmanlike at best. But Maggie Gyllenhaal once again proves her mettle, and Dustin Hoffman (the greatest actor of his generation) further demonstrates his comedic range and extraordinary ability to make every role his own, unique creation. Without him, Stranger than Fiction would be tiresome, although even Hoffman can't overcome an uneven script.
This could have been a great movie. Instead, it is a singularly interesting idea of the interwoven realities of art and life that manages to mildly entertain as it meanders its way to the final chapter.
Maybe they should have called it Eternal Despair in an Author's Mind. Yes, this seemed a lot like the Charlie Kaufman movie that is one of my all-time favorites. And there are too many similarities to be accidental. Fiction is a surreal dramedy about a socially maladroit guy in his 30's (played by a wildly succesful comedic actor trying to make a transition)who has an unlikely romance with a wild and beautiful yet sensitive young woman. And both have a surprise ending.
Stranger than Fiction has a better supporting cast, including Emma Thompson, Dustin Hoffman and Queen Latifah, which adds some heft, but still doesn't make it as good as Eternal Sunshine because, frankly, it isn't written nearly as well. Fiction is also a funnier movie (particularly Hoffman), although most of the audience at my showing didn't recognize the humor. But in the end, Stranger than Fiction is a cool idea searching for a William Goldman to come in and make it a great movie.
Even more disappointing, Will Ferrell is miscast and turns in a woeful performance, either that or he's been watching too many Wes Anderson movies. And both Emma Thompson and Queen Latifah are workmanlike at best. But Maggie Gyllenhaal once again proves her mettle, and Dustin Hoffman (the greatest actor of his generation) further demonstrates his comedic range and extraordinary ability to make every role his own, unique creation. Without him, Stranger than Fiction would be tiresome, although even Hoffman can't overcome an uneven script.
This could have been a great movie. Instead, it is a singularly interesting idea of the interwoven realities of art and life that manages to mildly entertain as it meanders its way to the final chapter.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Crossing Arizona
I don't like propoganda films, especially documentaries.
Monday night we went to the Public Library for a showing of Crossing
Arizona, a documentary about illegal immigration from Mexico over the Arizona border. Producer Danny DeVivo (no, not Devito!) was there to talk about the movie, which purported to show all sides of a sticky and complex issue. But to me, it looked about as fair and balanced as Bill O'Reilly discussing Hillary Clinton.
Nevertheless, the movie had no obvious premise, glossed over the problems and offered no meaningful solutions or insights, except perhaps that George Bush and the conservatives are mean-spirited idiots. How else will the director get invited to the cool Sundance parties?
Tragically, over 3000 people have died on the Arizona border in the past 10 years, wheras prior to that none had. The cinematic finger keeps wanting to point to NAFTA as the cause, suggesting that subsidized U.S. produce flooding into Mexico has crippled the market for competing Mexican goods. Well, maybe that's part of it, but ... even the movie acknowledges that stiffened border policies in California and Texas in the 90's had a siphoning effect, leading more illegals to attempt the more dangerous Arizona route across the deserts. And while U.S. agricultural subsidies make an easy villain, the low prices probably have more to do with the same large-farm production efficiencies that have put most domestic small farmers out of business. And why didn't we learn why Mexico signed NAFTA in the first place? After all, at its conception it was supposed to benefit the Mexican economy. But unfortunately, even with the elimination of tarriffs, the Mexicans can't compete with the Chinese economic juggernaut fueled by ultra-cheap labor.
But somehow the filmmakers made this all look like George Bush's fault, even though Clinton signed NAFTA. I thought Bush was the guy that was at least floating solutions, while ost politicians preferred to ignore the problem as a no-win issue.
But what reallly bothered me was the emotional manipulation to sell a point of view. I didn't like the selective portrayal of the "Minutemen," the armed volunteer border patrol, who came across as racist zealots, hunting Mexicans like so many bucks and does. And I resented the lingering and sensational footage of the dead, pregnant Mexican woman. It's so easy on film to create good guys and bad guys. Give me a camera and a limited budget and I can make you love or hate almost anyone.
Crossing Arizona was at its best when showing the many selfless volunteers that place water along the routes to help save lives. These people aren't for or against illegal immigration. They are humanitarians. And above all, it was these individuals that I found most compelling.
There are no easy political solutions. Afterwards, DeVivo talked about the failed U.S. immigration policy, but without offering up alternatives. He has every right to make a political documentary if he wants, even a manipulative one that feigns impartiality. And I guess the audience had every right to react with anger and indignation, truth and reality notwithstanding. Welcome to America.
Monday night we went to the Public Library for a showing of Crossing
Arizona, a documentary about illegal immigration from Mexico over the Arizona border. Producer Danny DeVivo (no, not Devito!) was there to talk about the movie, which purported to show all sides of a sticky and complex issue. But to me, it looked about as fair and balanced as Bill O'Reilly discussing Hillary Clinton.
Nevertheless, the movie had no obvious premise, glossed over the problems and offered no meaningful solutions or insights, except perhaps that George Bush and the conservatives are mean-spirited idiots. How else will the director get invited to the cool Sundance parties?
Tragically, over 3000 people have died on the Arizona border in the past 10 years, wheras prior to that none had. The cinematic finger keeps wanting to point to NAFTA as the cause, suggesting that subsidized U.S. produce flooding into Mexico has crippled the market for competing Mexican goods. Well, maybe that's part of it, but ... even the movie acknowledges that stiffened border policies in California and Texas in the 90's had a siphoning effect, leading more illegals to attempt the more dangerous Arizona route across the deserts. And while U.S. agricultural subsidies make an easy villain, the low prices probably have more to do with the same large-farm production efficiencies that have put most domestic small farmers out of business. And why didn't we learn why Mexico signed NAFTA in the first place? After all, at its conception it was supposed to benefit the Mexican economy. But unfortunately, even with the elimination of tarriffs, the Mexicans can't compete with the Chinese economic juggernaut fueled by ultra-cheap labor.
But somehow the filmmakers made this all look like George Bush's fault, even though Clinton signed NAFTA. I thought Bush was the guy that was at least floating solutions, while ost politicians preferred to ignore the problem as a no-win issue.
But what reallly bothered me was the emotional manipulation to sell a point of view. I didn't like the selective portrayal of the "Minutemen," the armed volunteer border patrol, who came across as racist zealots, hunting Mexicans like so many bucks and does. And I resented the lingering and sensational footage of the dead, pregnant Mexican woman. It's so easy on film to create good guys and bad guys. Give me a camera and a limited budget and I can make you love or hate almost anyone.
Crossing Arizona was at its best when showing the many selfless volunteers that place water along the routes to help save lives. These people aren't for or against illegal immigration. They are humanitarians. And above all, it was these individuals that I found most compelling.
There are no easy political solutions. Afterwards, DeVivo talked about the failed U.S. immigration policy, but without offering up alternatives. He has every right to make a political documentary if he wants, even a manipulative one that feigns impartiality. And I guess the audience had every right to react with anger and indignation, truth and reality notwithstanding. Welcome to America.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
For People Who Talk
We often underestimate the importance of our words. Many people will rationalize their words with the explanation that they weren’t intended to be mean (or nasty, disrespectful, critical, etc.) but they were misinterpreted. The fact is, we are continually judged based on what others hear us say. If we’re misinterpreted, it’s our problem. Others can’t read our minds. And besides, almost every time I’ve heard these rationalizations, it occurs to me that they are exactly that—feeble attempts to logically justify poor judgment or thoughtless behavior.
Beyond their preeminent importance as a communication tool, words can be used to shape how we feel and think, to drive the subconscious in directions we would like it to go. It's not what goes in, but what comes out of the mouth that defiles us.
So here are my Ten Principles for People Who Talk, for your consideration:
1. Think before you speak. If I mastered this one principle, I would silence a fourth of my words and change another fourth.
2. The less “I’s” the better. So many of us want to talk about ourselves, not recognizing that the listener is politely bored. How about a few questions?
3. Quit complaining. Complaints are the static in life's radio. Everyone wants to change the channel.
4. Quit making excuses. Your friends don't need them and the rest won't believe them.
5. Don’t criticize. Didn't your mama teach you that if you don't have anything nice to say about someone ...?
6. Graciously give and receive compliments. This takes surprisingly little practice to master. Mainly sincerity. And if you don't immediately see something worth complimenting, look more closely.
7. Resist the urge to correct. Most egregious is that you might be wrong. But really, is it that important? Probably not.
8. Be an active listener. Don't do this to feign interest. Do it to enhance understanding and appreciation.
9. Be honest. It's easier, and usually more fun. And it's one less thing to worry about.
10. Overcome the desire to win. It's always a hollow victory. And in the same vein, only play "I can beat that" at frat parties.
11. Never pretend to know more than you do. 'Cause you don't, OK?
12. Remind yourself to Shut Up! Much better than waiting for someone else to remind you.
Beyond their preeminent importance as a communication tool, words can be used to shape how we feel and think, to drive the subconscious in directions we would like it to go. It's not what goes in, but what comes out of the mouth that defiles us.
So here are my Ten Principles for People Who Talk, for your consideration:
1. Think before you speak. If I mastered this one principle, I would silence a fourth of my words and change another fourth.
2. The less “I’s” the better. So many of us want to talk about ourselves, not recognizing that the listener is politely bored. How about a few questions?
3. Quit complaining. Complaints are the static in life's radio. Everyone wants to change the channel.
4. Quit making excuses. Your friends don't need them and the rest won't believe them.
5. Don’t criticize. Didn't your mama teach you that if you don't have anything nice to say about someone ...?
6. Graciously give and receive compliments. This takes surprisingly little practice to master. Mainly sincerity. And if you don't immediately see something worth complimenting, look more closely.
7. Resist the urge to correct. Most egregious is that you might be wrong. But really, is it that important? Probably not.
8. Be an active listener. Don't do this to feign interest. Do it to enhance understanding and appreciation.
9. Be honest. It's easier, and usually more fun. And it's one less thing to worry about.
10. Overcome the desire to win. It's always a hollow victory. And in the same vein, only play "I can beat that" at frat parties.
11. Never pretend to know more than you do. 'Cause you don't, OK?
12. Remind yourself to Shut Up! Much better than waiting for someone else to remind you.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Imperfectly Perfect
I have become a fan of imperfection.
Not too much, mind you. But I have discovered that a couple of flaws here or there is preferable to the elusive ideal of exquisite perfection.
I discovered this paradox when we moved to our current house, which is older and smaller than other houses we have had in the past 20 years. The inconveniences became immediately apparent: There is no air conditioning on the main floor and we sometimes need fans in the summer. The living room is cold in the winter. My shower sprays water like a bad radiator hose. Our closet is small, and the door is so narrow you have to walk just right to get through with a laundry basket. There is no fan in the downstairs bathroom. There's not enough cupboard space anywhere. The refrigerator is small. There is a cellar that is accessed from outside the house. And the list goes on.
Day One I started noticing these things, but for some strange reason never really considered them as negatives. They instantly became part of the charm of the house, and I have mostly gotten used to them. But more importantly, I have grown comfortable with the realization the that the house is never going to be perfect. So I'm more relaxed. I don't feel the urge to pick up stuff all the time. I'm OK leaving my laptop on the counter, or a book lying near the fireplace. The old couch and the frayed rugs don't bother me as much in their new context. And I don't feel guilty about the little things that would be quickly attended to by someone more conscientous than myself.
Here's an example--our yard has several different kinds of grass (one of them is "crab"), a couple of bare spots around the edges, and the occasional mushroom patch in wet shady parts. It's the perfect yard to play in, and when Sam and his friends etch home plate into the lawn it's not such a big deal.
I think this is a good strategy for relationships, and probably for self-analysis as well. None of us is perfect, and the sooner we get used to that the happier we will be with our spouses, our children, our family, friends and co-workers, and ourselves.
I like our house. And I appreciate its charming imperfections. In fact, I wouldn't have it any other way. Except maybe the bathroom fan.
Not too much, mind you. But I have discovered that a couple of flaws here or there is preferable to the elusive ideal of exquisite perfection.
I discovered this paradox when we moved to our current house, which is older and smaller than other houses we have had in the past 20 years. The inconveniences became immediately apparent: There is no air conditioning on the main floor and we sometimes need fans in the summer. The living room is cold in the winter. My shower sprays water like a bad radiator hose. Our closet is small, and the door is so narrow you have to walk just right to get through with a laundry basket. There is no fan in the downstairs bathroom. There's not enough cupboard space anywhere. The refrigerator is small. There is a cellar that is accessed from outside the house. And the list goes on.
Day One I started noticing these things, but for some strange reason never really considered them as negatives. They instantly became part of the charm of the house, and I have mostly gotten used to them. But more importantly, I have grown comfortable with the realization the that the house is never going to be perfect. So I'm more relaxed. I don't feel the urge to pick up stuff all the time. I'm OK leaving my laptop on the counter, or a book lying near the fireplace. The old couch and the frayed rugs don't bother me as much in their new context. And I don't feel guilty about the little things that would be quickly attended to by someone more conscientous than myself.
Here's an example--our yard has several different kinds of grass (one of them is "crab"), a couple of bare spots around the edges, and the occasional mushroom patch in wet shady parts. It's the perfect yard to play in, and when Sam and his friends etch home plate into the lawn it's not such a big deal.
I think this is a good strategy for relationships, and probably for self-analysis as well. None of us is perfect, and the sooner we get used to that the happier we will be with our spouses, our children, our family, friends and co-workers, and ourselves.
I like our house. And I appreciate its charming imperfections. In fact, I wouldn't have it any other way. Except maybe the bathroom fan.
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