Tag: illusion

Rabbit Out of a Hat

What’s behind your ear?

The question perplexed me.

There wasn’t a thing back there. I was as sure of it as I was of anything.

And yet, my godfather seemed to believe otherwise. Why else would he ask?

So, with a healthy dose of caution, I replied Nothing.

Check again, said my godfather.

I ran my finger along the back of my ear, only to find a quarter nestled back there.

How did this happen? I thought, before realizing I’d blurted my question out loud.

Magic, my godfather replied.

Magic, I repeated to myself. Silently this time.

I should have been amazed. I should have been awestruck from the spectacle of the impossible becoming probable.

But instead, I was annoyed.

Not at my godfather. At myself.

How could I have let this happen? How could I have allowed a quarter to materialize behind my ears? How could I not be aware of my surroundings?

From then on, I was jaded. I wasn’t trying to find the secret behind the magic trick. I was attempting to avoid being the subject of it.

Still, it all looked the same to my godfather, or to anyone else I encountered seeking sorcery. My resistance, my denials — they were only inspiration to lean in harder, to create a bigger spectacle.

The tension built, and my dissatisfaction festered.

Even as I grew older, and the magicians chased after a new crowd, I remained unhinged. I once traveled to Disney World seeking to dispel the notion of Disney Magic. I scoured TV sets for trap doors and other funky shortcuts. And I built a healthy disdain for card games.

I was on a mission. Not only a mission to avoid being hoodwinked. But also a mission to end all hoodwinking, period.

As you might expect, this quest got me nowhere. I was as likely to put an end to sorcery as I was to stop the world from turning, particularly in the age of Harry Potter.

And yet, the mission wasn’t a complete waste. Far from it.

He sure pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

We’ve all likely heard that phrase a time or two — generally when something improbable has happened.

The rabbit in the hat routine is a magician’s staple. A spectacle of illusion so over-the-top that audience members can’t help but be filled with awe.

I’ve long loathed this trick. So much so that I grew a disdain for both rabbits and top hats.

But recently, all that has changed.

Not too long ago, my back was against the wall. I was hopelessly behind on assignments for work and an article for this publication. Time was short, commitments were high and the chances of me delivering were small.

My only hope was to put the hammer down and hope for the best. So, I did. And to my surprise, I got everything done ahead of the deadline.

I sure pulled a rabbit out of a hat there, I thought to myself. It’s simply amazing that I got all of that done so quickly.

That’s when it hit me. Magic is not about illusions and spells and distractions. It’s about speed.

It takes quick action to get our senses to deceive us. It takes quick action for quarters to appear behind our ears. It takes quick action for rabbits to emerge out of hats in broad daylight.

This speed is not a given. It takes talent, precision, and persistence to harness it. And those who manage to do so deserve a better fate than scorn and incredulity.

This whole time when I was hating on magic, I was missing the forest for the trees. I was blowing hot air at the grand spectacle, unaware that the real magic came from the shadows.

Yes, it’s the little things that can make the biggest difference.

As I thank back on that moment with my godfather and the quarter behind my ear, I’m filled with questions.

Not about the stunt itself. I know better than to ask a magician to divulge their tricks.

No, my questions are about my godfather himself. How was he so calm and casual while operating at warp speed?

It seemed completely out of character.

My godfather is a kind-hearted, deliberate man — someone likely to roll through a social outing with the steady rhythm of the incoming tide. But this whole turn to magic hit me like a thunderbolt.

Yes, my godfather had pulled his own rabbit out of his hat, trading out his whole demeanor in service of the illusion.

I might not have appreciated it then. But I sure appreciate it now.

Those who know me best know that I’m a fan of Malcolm Gladwell.

He’s made his living as a journalist and an author. But Gladwell made his name as one of our society’s great contrarian thinkers.

Gladwell takes what we view as gospel and flips it on its head. For instance, his renowned podcast series focuses on things overlooked and misunderstood.

Malcolm Gladwell is a master at pulling rabbits out of hats. At suspending our disbelief. At causing us to see the world just a bit differently.

And yet, it’s hardly smoke and mirrors. Rather than building an illusion, Gladwell is ripping down the curtain.

He surprises us, time and again. And through that process, we find ourselves delighted.

Perhaps more of us could take a page from Gladwell or my godfather. Perhaps we can focus on the process of pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

This doesn’t require a cape or a fancy catchphrase. It simply demands an unwavering curiosity, a willingness to sweat the small stuff, and the determination to see the task through.

In an ever-evolving world, these attributes are the keys to lasting success. But they can do so much more.

They can fill the gaps in our understanding. They can help us forge good habits. And they can make us better at all that we set out to accomplish.

So, let’s not get distracted by the bells and whistles. What lies beneath all that flash is what truly matters.

It’s time for us to harness it.

The Fixed Pie

I wish I had more.

These five words are at the start of so many statements of regret.

Some share those words while pining for a loved one who left their life. Others use them as they share dismay about their financial situation. Others utter them to rue missed opportunities.

Such laments can seem trite. After all, we live in the land of abundance. Why curse the past when the future is still to be written?

And yet, I think these five words can stand for something substantial. In fact, I believe they’re the key to setting our lives on a more sustainable course.

America is a land of entrepreneurs.

From coast to coast, there are plenty of people who’ve created new ventures or taken nascent businesses into household names. Often devoid of supporting resources, these entrepreneurs rely on instincts and guile.

This idea of pulling oneself up by one’s bootstraps is ingrained in American heritage. Ever since the frontier era, we’ve had to be scrappy to survive.

This has provided great risk. But with it has come great opportunity.

Prosperity is not limited to those who score the best on an entrance exam, who train with the right mentors, or who have the best connections. College dropouts can create billion-dollar companies. Single parents can turn side hustles into empires.

Although I took a rather conventional path in my career — completing my undergraduate degree and later getting a Master’s in Business Administration— I have great respect for entrepreneurs. What they’ve achieved is admirable, and worthy of praise.

However, there’s one element that concerns me about the Do-It-Yourself playbook. Namely, that it often leaves budding business minds without an understanding of economics.

Now, economics is hardly the most prized corner of business education. Theoretical by nature and dominated by pessimistic academics, it’s a discipline that’s often mocked.

Economics doesn’t help balance the books, ward off competitors, or sell more items. It simply explains the shifting playing field that business is conducted on.

And yet, that’s precisely why it’s so important.

You see, economics forces us to reckon with reality. To master it, we must learn to properly allocate scarce resources. This often means taking the least bad option, recognizing that such choices will expose vulnerabilities.

There is no way to have all the upside without any of the downside. For a central tenet of economics is The Fixed Pie — the idea that there’s only so much to go around.

It’s a basic principle. An inevitable one.

But it’s a principle that has all too often been ignored — by both the entrepreneurial community and broader society.

To infinity and beyond.

So goes Buzz Lightyear’s catchphrase in the movie Toy Story.

I was only a child when this film hit theaters. I had no idea how ridiculous this phrase was at the time. I didn’t understand that there was nothing beyond infinity to shoot for.

And yet, all these years later, there are some adults who fail to see the irony of Buzz’s words.

As the world has gone digital, the desire to go beyond infinity has grown. Companies have exploded in size and valuation, unencumbered by the constraints of the analog world. People have been able to save artifacts to the cloud without inviting that musty attic smell. The ultra-rich have seen extra zeros added to their name as they eat breakfast.

The eternal hunger for more is being fed at warp speed, without much to slow it down. And yet, we are fraying at the seams.

For try as we might, one dimension resists the vacuum of acceleration and leaves us flailing in its headwinds.

That dimension is time.

Time. It’s inevitable.

There might be trillion-dollar companies these days, but there are still only 24 hours in a day. And while we might live longer than our ancestors, we’re only young for so long.

I’ve written before about our efforts to defang time. I’ve spoken out against our ill-conceived efforts to defray it into oblivion.

Such warnings seem prescient, particularly in the wake of a pandemic that spawned widespread burnout. And yet, I feel no desire to take a victory lap.

For I have failed to heed my own advice. I too have tried to bend time to my will.

Indeed, as the world slowed down during the pandemic, I sped up. I accelerated my efforts to stay fit, stay fed, and stay fulfilled.

I’ve largely achieved these goals. But they’ve come at a cost.

I’ve been getting far less sleep than I did just a few years ago. Not because of insomnia or restlessness. But because I’m doing so much in my day-to-day.

I know that this dearth of sleep will catch up with me sooner rather than later. Yet, I still find myself clinging to the false belief that I can take my productivity to the max.

Why? Because I’m human.

I don’t want to choose. I want all the pleasure and none of the pain.

Even if it’s all a grand illusion.

There’s an old tale of a couple living in paradise. Blind to their surroundings, they lived in uninterrupted bliss.

Then, a serpent brought temptation into their midst. The two of them ate from the forbidden fruit and encountered knowledge for the first time. Shame and hardship quickly followed, as they were banished into the cold.

The tale of Adam and Eve is our origin story. God might have created them, but their saga created humanity.

And yet, it’s often viewed as a cautionary tale.

We openly wonder what would have happened if they hadn’t bitten into the fruit. How idyllic would life be?

Our recent exploits seem like attempts to answer that question. Our pursuits of perfection and abundance seek to send us back to the Garden of Eden.

But despite our efforts to avoid it, reality is out there. The fixed pie is omnipresent, and with it comes tradeoffs. Getting what we desire often means giving up something else we covet.

Those who pine after what they’ve lost might sound pitiful. But at least they’re clear-eyed.

They’ve played the game. They understand its rules. And they know better than to hide from the inevitability of tradeoffs.

Perhaps we can learn from them. Perhaps we can drop the charade and accept our circumstances. And perhaps we can use this awareness to find more equilibrium.

This might not lead to a better life. But it will allow us to live life better.

And that just might be enough.