Tag: perspective

Next Play

Onward and Upward.

My advisor ended her email with those three words.

She was replying to an apology email I’d drafted. One where I’d wholeheartedly taken the blame for a televised meltdown.

I wasn’t on the air having a viral moment. I was helping behind the scenes on a college TV newscast.

But the activity off-camera was hopelessly chaotic, and the broadcast had turned visibly turbulent.

I took this all personally. I felt that if I did my job better, everything would have fallen in line.

And so, I typed up that apology. And I hit Send.

My advisor wasn’t having it. She reminded me that we’d all played a hand in the fiasco, and that falling on the sword did no one any good. The best thing to do was to turn the page.

That’s what those last three words were meant to refer to. But they turned into so much more.

Football is a game with a staccato rhythm.

The offense huddles up. Then the players move to where the referee is holding the ball, flanking the width of the field in the process.

Defensive players stare into their eyes from inches away. It’s eerily still for a moment.

And then it isn’t.

The ball is snapped backwards. Burly linemen collide where the ball once was. Offensive playmakers run in various directions, hoping to help advance the ball. Defensive playmakers seek to stop them in their tracks.

A few seconds later, the action ends. The referee blows their whistle. And the offense huddles up again.

Each of these sequences is called a play. And in an average pro football game, there are 153 of them.

All those stops and starts can be a lot to take in, particularly for the novice fans in the stands.

But for the combatants on the field, they’re best encapsulated in two words.

Next play.

If you tune out the roar of the crowd, you might hear the captains on the field barking that mantra. Or maybe the coaches on the sideline.

What happened on the last sequence only matters so much. The next play offers a clean slate, a fresh opportunity. If the team is ready to seize it.

This thinking extends to other elements of the game as well.

Football is a violent sport, and injuries are all too common. When they occur, teammates will often take a knee, and maybe give the felled player a light pat on the shoulder as he is helped to the sideline.

But there is no more time to wallow in despair. There’s still a game to be won.

So, the captains and coaches will often bark Next man up. Next play.

Another player comes into the game, in place of their injured teammate. And the contest goes on as if nothing had happened.

It’s all so crude. And it’s all so real.

My advisor was not a football coach. She was a media professor.

And yet, something in those three words at the end of her email lit a fire under me.

Onward and upward had me ready to don my helmet, buckle my chinstrap, and charge into the fray.

Not in football. In life.

You see, up until that moment, I’d viewed my actions as cumulative. Everything I’d done would impact what I did next. The book on me had already been written, and all I was doing was adding words to the page.

To a certain degree, this philosophy made sense. I’d spent 18 years under the watchful eyes of my parents and another four on a college campus. Grade point averages, course credit accumulations, and internship assessments were my only guideposts to success.

But the weight of that legacy was starting to hinder me. I’d become cautious and tentative to a fault. With each small stumble, I retreated further into a spiral of fear and doubt.

And now, I’d stepped in it bigtime. I’d put something terrible on the air. The putrid evidence had beamed into television sets and landed on tape.

I was doomed.

But those words from my advisor changed everything.

They cast the next newscast as a fresh opportunity, clear of the baggage of the prior debacle.

And the concept didn’t end there.

The next adviser conversation, the next assignment, the next experience I faced – in the classroom or out of it – would offer a similar chance to cast a new narrative. All I would need to do is compartmentalize.

I got the message loud and clear.

Not long after reading my advisor’s email, I headed to class.

I had an exam in that course that day. And as I turned in the test paper to the proctor, I wasn’t quite confident I’d aced it.

By the time I made my way into the hallway, doubt had taken over my mind. I was second-guessing all my answers, my preparation, and even my self-worth.

But then I thought about the email, and those final few words.

Next play, I told myself. And I put the exam out of my mind.

Something similar happened when I slightly flubbed an assignment at my internship the next day. And when I put a typo in the script for a volunteer sportscast at the end of the week.

Both mishaps were unfortunate. But there was no need to make them catastrophic. So, I didn’t.

Next play, I reminded myself. Keep going.

I could feel the change in me. I was bolder, more productive, and more resilient. People were starting to feed off my positive energy, and I felt inspired by their belief in me.

It was a virtuous cycle, all fed from a shift in mindset.

Eventually, I graduated and left that college campus behind. But the next play mentality has stayed with me.

It’s guided me through a career in the news media, and a much longer stint in marketing. It’s steadied my hand as a writer, allowing me to publish a new article here on Ember Trace each week for nearly a decade. It’s helped me improve my craft at cooking and achieve great things as a competitive runner.

So much of my success comes from leaving my failings behind. By focusing on the challenge to come rather than dwelling on what could have been.

It’s a lesson that’s salient for anyone. But in my case, it was lifechanging.

So, I’m eternally grateful to my college advisor for guiding the way. And I thank my lucky stars that I took a moment to listen to that guidance.

Next play. Onward and upward. Keep going.

Everything’s Changed

They put up a plant where we used to park. That old drive-in’s a new Walmart.

So go a few lines from Everything’s Changed by Lonestar. A 90’s country song about how love endures, even as a town transforms.

For years, this song seemed ubiquitous to many others from that genre and era. Catchy, comfortable, and shallow.

But such descriptors are hardly adequate these days.

After all the disruptions of recent years, it’s hard not to relate Everything’s Changed to the world we live in. With so much transformation around us, we strain to find the reference markers that haven’t changed.

Those through lines are key to our identity. They prove that while we might evolve, our core remains consistent.

Such a rationale might seem sensible. But is it wise?

An ancient Greek parable — the Ship of Theseus — dives to the heart of this dilemma.

In the parable, Theseus’ ship sets off to sea with an original set of parts and a crew. Upon its return to port, none of the vessel’s parts are the same. The crew has meticulously rebuilt the ship, piece by piece, while at sea.

The question posed from this scenario: Has Theseus returned on the same ship he embarked on?

It’s an open debate. One that has enraptured philosophers for centuries.

But if you asked a bunch of people on the street, most would likely say Theseus was not on the same ship.

Our behavior dictates this response. Time and again, we long for connections to the past. We scratch and claw for any through lines that can persevere through the winds of change.

Such adherence to consistency has some benefits, driving an air of nostalgia and boosting our reliability. But they can also make us stubbornly rigid, ill-equipped for the encroaching tsunami of change.

I know this feeling as much as anyone. As a control enthusiast, routine and familiarity are my friends. I’ve historically struggled to lean into change. And even when I did make a shift, I struggled to reconcile it with my sense of identity.

I couldn’t be Theseus’ ship. A wholesale swap would not — could not — jibe with my narrative.

But now, everything’s changed.

Several years ago, I met my father at a baggage claim carousel in the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport.

We were meeting in the Twin Cities to embark on a road trip across the Upper Midwest. Along the way, we’d go to two Major League Baseball games — one in Minneapolis and another in Milwaukee.

We would meet up for trips like these occasionally, as I worked toward my now-completed goal of watching a baseball game in all 30 Major League stadiums. It was a great way to see the country and spend some time with my father, who lived halfway across the country.

Minnesota was in a heatwave when we arrived, and the steamy weather cut our sightseeing time short. But I was intrigued by the Twin Cities and vowed to return.

I was less impressed with Milwaukee. The city seemed sleepy and oddly arranged. The baseball stadium felt dull and cavernous. And even the lakefront seemed to pale in comparison with Chicago’s, 90 miles down shore.

We were in Milwaukee for less than 24 hours on that trip. But I was excited to get out of there and figured I wouldn’t come back.

Boy was I wrong.

As fate would have it, my best friend from high school got engaged to a Wisconsin native a few years later. The wedding took place at the Milwaukee Art Museum, and I found myself back in town. Wandering down the Milwaukee River Walk, through the Third Ward and across Walker’s Point in my spare time, I noticed the charm of the Cream City.

I realized that my initial snap judgment of Milwaukee was off base, and I regretted my error. Still, as I boarded my flight back to Texas, I once again thought it was a one-way trip.

My life and my job were in the Dallas area. And as far as I saw it, they would continue to be for years to come.

But then, the ground under my feet shifted.

The COVID-19 pandemic hit a couple years later, redefining the boundaries around me.

As my world shrank to the contours of a computer screen, it ironically expanded my horizons well beyond North Texas. The contours of physical presence evaporated as the virtual world went mainstream.

Several months into this new scenario, I was hit with another bombshell. My employer was acquired by a larger company — one that was based in Milwaukee. I landed a job on the parent company’s marketing team — a role that would represent a step up in my career trajectory.

And yet, as I prepared to begin my new role, I was whallopped with an identity crisis. I had built my professional existence as a Texan, working alongside members of my community. Now, I would be working with colleagues hundreds of miles away — many of whom lived in a region I was lukewarm toward.

I had two choices. I could withdraw, diving fully into my work and hiding behind my computer screen. Or I could lean in.

I chose the second approach, making a concerted effort to learn more about my colleagues and nuances of Wisconsin culture. And whenever I had an opportunity to make the trek north to Milwaukee for an onsite, I jumped at it.

Through the process, I made friends and earned the respect of my team. And I also grew fonder of the city so many of them called home.

I’ve fully accepted this shift for what it is. An unabashed about-face.

For regardless of the twists and turns along the way, I’m here now. Just like Theseus, I’ve made it back to shore. And unlike that Lonestar song, I’m not looking backward.

I’m fulfilled. I’m happy. And I could give a darn if such blessings align with my prior narratives.

We can all be a bit more like Theseus.

Instead of holding on to rotten boards for posterity’s sake, we can tinker. We can replace, renew, and refresh.

We can dive into change where prudent, without holding back for self-permission. We can be bold, and we can be brave — all while retaining our sensibility.

This potential remains within arm’s length. But it’s our responsibility to reach out and grab it. To stop tethering ourselves to the past and to instead embrace our potential.

The choice is ours. What move will we make?

Forests and Trees

Vision.

It’s perhaps our most vivid sense.

We process the world through pictures. Through color. Through light and through shadows.

Vision facilitates our memories. It keeps snapshots of the faded past crystal clear in our minds.

Vision captivates our dreams. It makes these experiences so lifelike that we mistake them for reality.

Vision even crosses the void. When darkness sets in, our other senses kick into overdrive to compensate for what we now cannot see.

Yes, vision is essential for how we interact with the world. From the days of cave paintings to the modern day, it’s been a central part of our narrative. It’s served as a universal language.

And yet, much still gets lost in translation.

The view from my patio is leafy and green.

Not far from the railing — maybe 10 feet away — there is a large canopy of trees. And as I sit on my deck chair and take in the fresh air, the branches and leaves of the nearest tree extend out toward me, like a set of olive branches.

I love this view. It provides shade during the scorching days of a Texas summer. It provides a screen from the curious gaze of neighbors. And it provides solace from the noise and distractions that otherwise clutter my life.

And yet, this setup has its drawbacks. The trees rob me of the chance to gaze across the vast landscape. To feel the radiant warmth of the late morning sun. To ponder what lies beyond the horizon — or even see the horizon at all.

Fortunately for me, there are areas within walking distance that provide me such opportunities. But even then, there are tradeoffs. I must leave my leafy perch behind and venture out into the world.

I must decide whether to gaze upon the forest or look at the trees.

Details matter.

They might not shine like a marquee light. But they resonate.

Sure, you try and can go without them. You can stumble through life without paying attention to the little things. You might even get away with it, for a time.

But eventually, such brazen disregard for the details carries a hefty price.

So, I don’t risk it.

Yes, I have long obsessed over details. I’ve soaked up information like a sponge. I’ve looked carefully before I’ve leapt.

I’ve dumped my own health data into spreadsheets and crunched the numbers. I’ve read reviews before making a purchase. I’ve called service providers to make sure I understood how the fine print would impact me.

These habits have stemmed from my obsessive-compulsive nature, and my low tolerance for risk. But they’ve also plugged into a larger pattern.

For our society is addicted to detail.

Detail provides us the edge we need to thrive. And it provides the roadmap to live out our fantasies of perfection.

So, we follow its guidance.

We internalize adages like Take care of the little things, and the big things will follow. We make those words our ethos.

But all our efforts ring hollow.

We’re still missing part of the picture.

Tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat.

This line is widely attributed to Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese military strategist.

Phrases like these fill book called The Art Of War. That text is ostensibly about military strategy. But it’s found a far wider audience in the modern world.

In the face of fierce competition, business leaders, politicians and enterprising individuals have all flocked to military texts like The Art Of War. They’ve scoured the words of legendary tacticians, searching for translatable takeaways.

And of all the takeaways, these eight words stand our most of all.

For if we fail to consider the bigger picture, the details don’t matter. The minutia become meaningless.

We must get a glimpse at the entire forest to get a true understanding of the trees.

Some years back, I took a gondola ride up the western face of the Sandia Mountains, near Albuquerque. I had read that Sandia Peak had the best view of the city, and this was the best way to get to it.

The ticket was expensive for a gondola ride. As I boarded, I discovered why.

The gondola ride was not billed as transportation. It was meant to be an experience.

Trips were listed as flights. And a tour guide spoke with riders throughout the journey.

As soon as I heard the guide’s boisterous voice on the intercom, I rolled my eyes and tried to tune him out. This was not something I’d signed up for.

And yet, about halfway up the mountain, the tour guide pointed out something I couldn’t ignore.

Do you see that tiny black speck down there? he asked. That’s actually boulder the size of this tram car. 

I was floored. It was hard to imagine that something that appeared so tiny was actually larger than me.

The mental calculus hurt my brain. Years later, I still wince while trying to wrap my head around that fact.

That moment on the gondola encapsulates the relationship between the forest and the trees.

The 30,000 foot view provides context, but so does the ground-level perspective.

In moments of strife, we put blinders on.

We narrow our perspective, honing in on what can help us to survive the moment at hand. We consider our next move, in hopes of eradicating the threat — both now and in the future.

We focus solely on the trees.

Such a focus can help us to survive a brief shock. It can provide a lifeline in the wake of a storm, an attack or the loss of a job.

But if the struggle persists, everything breaks down.

Our laser focus makes us rigid. Our lack of perspective prevents us from adapting to our new reality.

And so, we endorse radical solutions. We turn to answers that may help in a pinch, but might have disastrous long-term consequences.

But this pattern cannot sustain itself.

Long-term crises require a dual perspective solution. They require us to focus on the forest and the trees.

We can’t just throw the most radical solutions at distressing disruptions — such as pandemics or recessions. There’s only so much runway for such stunts.

No, we must take a different tact.

We must first consider the overarching vision, the bird’s eye view. Then — and only then — can we descend into the particulars with an actionable plan.

Putting this plan into action requires a lot of it.

It means exploring the gray areas between the extremes. It means promoting sustainable behaviors. And it means thinking three steps ahead — even as the future remains wildly unpredictable.

This is hard work. Uncomfortable work, even.

But with so much at stake, we can’t hide from it.

So, let’s broaden our minds and widen our perspectives. Let’s not choose between the view of the forest and that of the trees.

Each should have its place on our plans.

Let’s make those plans a reality.

Don’t Be Stupid

One of my favorite stories my father tells is of the time he first met his future father-in-law — my grandfather.

This took place in my mother’s childhood home in Queens, New York. The home was under the flightpath of LaGuardia Airport, and whenever my father heard a plane overhead, he would duck instinctively.

My grandparents and mother stared at him like he was from Mars each time this happened. Years of roaring jet engines overhead had numbed them to the sound of low flying planes.

Once my father adjusted to the engine noise, the conversation began in earnest. My grandfather — a longtime New York City Public School math teacher — asked my father what he planned on doing for a living.

My father, who was finishing up college at the time, said he hoped to work in advertising.

“That sounds alright,” said my grandfather. “But you should really think about teaching instead.”

He then listed off the benefits of the profession — steady pay, long summer vacations, union protection, and so on.

Eventually, the conversation moved to a new subject. But the exchange left an impression on my father. He would later say this was the first time he experienced my grandfather’s ethos:

You can do what you want and be stupid. Or you do it my way.

 

Even though this story happened before my time, I enjoy hearing it each time it’s told. I enjoyed telling it again just now.

It’s hard not to chuckle at the thought of my father ducking every few minutes as an airplane flew overhead. Or to smile when imagining my grandfather effectively saying Don’t be stupid… in a thick New York accent.

Sure, my grandfather didn’t say those exact words. But the message was very New York — blunt, edgy and filled with tough love.

Yet, the story also gives me pause — for several reasons.

For one thing, my father did eventually become a teacher. After working in advertising for 8 years, he grew to loathe the profession. So, he got a Master’s Degree and rebooted his career as an elementary school teacher. Fast forward 25 years, and he’s still teaching — although he’s “graduated” to middle school now. My grandfather’s words proved prophetic.

But more than anything, it’s the moral of the story that gets me. That heavy-handed message of Do the smart thing. Don’t be stupid.

It’s a message that fits symbiotically with its source.

My grandfather was a great man. But he was also a stubborn man who could be overly simplistic. His perspective on life was shaped by his experience living through the Great Depression, a world war and two heart attacks. However, that perspective often led to a My way or the highway approach to differing viewpoints.

It’s a bit cavalier to classify people in this way. And calling people who take a differing viewpoint stupid is downright reckless.

Yet, my grandfather was a man of principle. He was a man who stopped watching baseball for 40 years after his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers betrayed him by moving to Los Angeles. He was a man who made his own repairs in his home, rather than paying a professional to fix the issues that sprang up.

He knew his way worked. He saw it. He lived it. He believed in it.

So, in his view, the other way must have been stupid.

My grandfather had a major influence on my life. I idolized him. I’ve written about him before, and I’m sure I will again.

Yet, in the years since my grandfather’s passing, I’ve come to recognize I’m more and more like him. I have a similar wit, a similar love of storytelling, a similar frugality when it comes to money. And I even have some similar mannerisms.

What I don’t have is a penchant for calling people stupid when they take actions I wouldn’t.

At least, that’s what I thought.

Not long ago, I was driving down the road in a suburb of Dallas. Traffic was relatively light, and I was making good time when a car slowly turned from a side street into my lane, just ahead of me.

I slowed down to adjust to the newfound obstacle in front of me. But to my dismay, the driver never sped up. I tried to pass the car, but a stream of cars, trucks and SUVs in the adjacent lane blocked my path.

So, there I was, suddenly going 10 miles under the speed limit in the left lane, stuck behind a snail. At the rate I was going, I would hit every stoplight on the way to my destination.

My commute had gone from a breeze to a chore. I was less than enthused.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

The car in front of me wasn’t just going slowly. Its driver seemed to be brake checking me intermittently. I found myself slamming on the brakes at random times to avoid a collision, even though there was no traffic in front of my new vehicular nemesis.

My displeasure turned to exasperation. Was this driver texting? Were they lost? And why couldn’t they pull off the road to sort themselves out?

Finally, the driver signaled to turn. But instead of gliding into the turn lane, the driver slowed down to a near stop, while still in the left lane.

I lost it.

Behind my fortress of sheet metal and glass, I screamed You are such an idiot. Why don’t you stop being stupid and learn how to drive!

That’s when it hit me.

I call people stupid when they do something I don’t agree with. Just like my grandfather once did.

To be clear, many of us would be agitated if we found ourselves in the situation I just described.

It’s hard not to be miffed when someone else blatantly disregards the flow of traffic and drives erratically in front of you.

Yet, the actions of the driver who caused this consternation were not illegal by any means. Inconsiderate, sure. But not illegal.

So why did I jump to such rash conclusions about the driver’s intelligence? Was I being as stubborn and simplistic with my perspective as my grandfather had once been?

Perhaps.

But I don’t want to take back what I blurted out behind the wheel of my SUV that day. Not one bit.

There’s an ongoing revolt against the word stupid.

It’s a small skirmish in the greater war for Political Correctness that’s overtaking our society. But for a singular battle, Operation Eradicating Intelligence Insults has raged for quite a while.

I believe it started with the release of Forrest Gump in 1994 — a movie that showed the world how those with low IQ can still live extraordinary lives. As the 90s progressed, expanding diagnoses of autism and a crackdown on bullying helped encourage a softer touch.

By the time Millennials came of age, those who didn’t meet standards were no longer stupid. They were special.

And with that shift, stupid became just another S-word. A way to swear at those we despise, but solely in the context of name-calling.

Disagree with a politician? Say they’re stupid. Frustrated that your favorite team’s quarterback threw a game-ending interception? Call him stupid.

The word is nothing more than a form of catharsis these days.

But not to me.

I wasn’t calling the driver of the car in front of me stupid just to blow off steam.

Yes, I was mad. But if I solely wanted an outlet, I had saltier language to choose from.

No, the words I chose were quite intentional.

Just like my grandfather years before, I had a definition for stupidity. And this driver’s actions fit the bill.

In my view, stupidity constitutes inconsiderate actions that put one at a disadvantage.

The driver’s lack of awareness of the flow of traffic and constant brake checking certainly put me at a disadvantage that day. The term fit.

In my grandfather’s view, a plumber or a handyman in his home put him at a financial disadvantage. Why pay their fees when he could MacGyver it himself with PVC pipe and some duct tape?

And why fully support his future son-in-law’s plan to enter the advertising world from the get-go? That field was ripe with uncertainty — uncertainty he knew would put my father at a disadvantage. Better for him to go with the sure bet of teaching.

So, yes. I guess I do empathize with my grandfather’s simplistic perspectives and brazen style. It might not be politically correct, but it isn’t entirely self-serving either.

I believe that to heal our fractured society, we must all get comfortable understanding the concept of stupidity — similar to the form in which I’ve defined it.

We must identify its sources, call it out and eradicate it.

This starts with identifying inconsiderate actions, and recognizing the disadvantages they cause downstream.

It continues when we spread the word that these behaviors are detrimental to our society, and are un welcome.

These actions, in tandem, will spur conscientious-yet-aloof offenders to change their ways. To stop acting stupidly and causing unneeded problems.

And when enough of them do, it will cause a sea change in how we interact with each other.

If this sounds ambitious, it’s because it is.

But even if the end result seems far off, starting the process is well within our grasp.

Contrary to the old adage, stupidity is a fixable problem.

It’s about time we get to work on that solution.

Scope of Perspective

What is the essence of life?

Which element do you focus on most? What do you consider most important?

Some might say the people matter most. That regardless the environment, the opportunity for human interaction is invigorating.

Some might say status matters most. That the opportunity to earn respect on the basis of prestige is what they live for.

And some might say the setting matters most. That our placement in relation to the rhythms of our surroundings sustains us.

People. Status. Setting.

All three are critical in establishing a rich and fulfilling life. But assigning priority to one over the others is like trying to find the right answer to a Rorschach test.

It all depends on your perspective.

The people perspective is the most refined. It focuses on the company we keep. What people have to say and share with each other matters more than who they are or where the interaction occurs.

As social beings, we are most naturally drawn to this dynamic. We crave social interaction. We demand trust. And sometimes, we even value intentions over actions.

Connection is at our essence. It’s why we’re so fascinated with interesting personalities. It’s why cocktail hour is such a time-honored event. And it’s why we insist on documenting every social gathering these days with a group picture on social media.

Yet, not all of us embrace human interaction equally. Those who are more reserved or less comfortable in social settings are inclined to take a wider view.

This starts with the status perspective. This level focuses on our achievements relative to others. Where we have access to that others don’t. What we achieve that others can’t.

This is the impetus for first class seating on airplanes. For gated communities of mega-mansions. For Platinum credit cards.

This all might sound a bit snobby and elitist. But in practice, many of us consider this aspect of life to be mission critical.

If you don’t believe me, consider the last time you avoided someone with different political views. Or recall that last time you spent time on the other side of the tracks. There’s a good chance this encounter wasn’t recent.

Yes, status is our middle ground. Our opportunity to soak up social interaction on our terms. To build a culture of association, and to assimilate ourselves to it.

But this coziness comes at a cost. Status is context-specific, and cultural divides can lead to closed-mindedness. Our perspective is limited by our blind devotion to measuring sticks and self-defined boundaries.

The challenge, then, is to take our perspective one level further, to the perspective of setting.

This is the Bird’s Eye View — but with a twist.

It’s where we take a 360-degree view of our surroundings, and consider how we interact with them.

When we focus on the setting, we observe the weather, the lighting, the peripheral sights and ambient sounds we encounter. We value these details as much as the interactions that take place within them.

It’s hard to operate at this level. It’s not easy to pay such close attention to detail, but also be aware of the big picture. It’s challenging to have enough humility to realize we’re part of a bigger narrative, and that we should give that narrative its due.

This is why the perspective of setting is so often reserved for those who choose to remove themselves from the din of social connection. It’s why it’s so often tied to intellectuals, introverts and authors.

These groups are predisposed to taking the wider view. But by no means do they have a stranglehold on it.

There’s much that can be learned by taking this scope of perspective.

It can make us more well-rounded. It can make us more situationally aware. And it can make us more conscientious.

These benefits are worth the work needed to adapt our mindset toward them.

So, while there’s no clear choice as to which element of life has the highest priority, there is a clear directive.

Broaden your scope of perspective. Reap the results.

The Decentering Advantage

Off the mark.

Regardless of our disposition, those are three words we don’t like to hear.

It means something’s askew. Something’s not as it should be.

This sensation doesn’t sit well with us. So, we seek a cure for it.

We set out to figure out why.

All too often, this means finding the culprit and taking corrective action. Doing so gets us to the three magic words we like a whole lot more: Back on track.

We use this framework to solve problems all the time. It’s efficient and actionable. But it features one major flaw.

Subjectivity.

You see, when something is off the mark, malice is seldom to blame. We don’t all walk around looking to stab each other in the back. No, we thrive on the concepts of trust and community. And we have done so since the earliest days of humanity, when mortal danger lurked around every corner.

So, if malicious intent is not at the root of a missed target, what is? More than likely, you can chalk up these mishaps to misunderstandings.

Misunderstandings are inherently subjective. They’re byproducts of misaligned perspectives between people.

These occurrences are perfectly natural. We each have different programming between the ears. We view the world in our own unique way.

Sometimes these visions don’t sync up with the results we observe. And we find ourselves deeply disappointed.

In these moments, the objective search for truth doesn’t work. Finding the culprit and taking corrective action does nothing except cause further collateral damage — such as bad blood, mistrust and general divisiveness.

We need to stop making misunderstandings a personal quest for vengeance. And start considering the person on the other side of the equation.

We need to decenter.

What is decentering?

It’s viewing the world from a perspective other than your own. And then using that viewpoint to find a productive solution.

Essentially, it’s taking a sledgehammer to The Blame Game, and finding a resolution upon the common ground of objectivity instead.

Now, it can be a challenge putting this strategy into motion. We’re not wired to go from me to we, to abandon our perspective in favor of another’s.

After all, a sense of pride and righteousness is at the heart of most of our conflicts. We have such conviction in our beliefs that we make disagreements personal. We treat our viewpoint as fact and declare war on those who might see the situation differently.

Stepping outside of this foxhole requires us to recognize the solution is bigger than ourselves. That our perspective might even be fueling the inferno in the first place.

It requires us to eat some humble pie, and detach ourselves from our entrenched beliefs. All for the greater good.

This is not a natural leap for us to take. Yet, it’s a critical one.

For once we can truly view the world through the perspectives of others, it can change everything. It can make us more conscientious, more empathetic and more action-oriented.

And this, in turn, can keep us from missing the mark.

Everybody wins.

So, let’s resolve to decenter today. It can deliver a brighter tomorrow for everyone.

Overcoming Old

“I’m too old for this.”

That line is a hallmark of the 1987 blockbuster Lethal Weapon. In the movie, established Los Angeles Police Sergeant Roger Murtaugh finds himself partnered up with “loose cannon” Martin Riggs. Anytime Riggs’ reckless actions put the two of them in danger, Murtaugh blurts out those iconic five words (plus an expletive).

There are certainly many moments when this line finds its way into my life. Most recently, it popped into my head as I was walking across a college campus on a sizzling late summer evening.

To my left and right were undergraduate students a decade younger than me — guys in shorts and flip-flops and girls who could best be described as “scantily clad.” (As a classmate would later quip, “It seems like the price of fabric’s gone up since we were in school. Cause no one’s sporting it.”)

In the midst of it all, there I was — dressed in business attire and feeling very out of place.

It was an eerie feeling — one I’m sure anyone might feel on their first day of grad school. For despite our efforts to break down the barriers that come between us, age is still the Great Differentiator in our society. And feeling old is kind of like wearing a Scarlet Letter.

***

Why are age divisions a hallmark of our society? Because we were raised on them.

Literally.

All through grade school, we socialized and learned with peers who were our age. As we steamed past adolescence, our age provided us access to the driver’s seat, the voter’s booth and the bar. And as young adults, we quickly learned how age (masquerading as “experience”) plays a critical role in climbing the corporate ladder.

None of this is an accident. Our system of age-based division provides us structure. It presents us with goals. And it even rewards us for merit.

Still, in certain instances, it can make us stick out like a sore thumb.

Yes, our rigid age structure self-segregates our society. It limits our tolerance of cross-generational activities. And it makes us feel self-conscious when we’re “not in our lane.”

Simply put, it makes getting old no fun at all.

***

Now, I’m generally not one to rail against the cruelty of aging.

I don’t pine for days gone by, when life was more innocent and fun. I’ve fully embraced the changes that come with maturity and experience — changes both in abilities and responsibilities. My awareness of the latter has allowed me to progress through young adulthood gracefully. Perhaps too gracefully.

I’m not kidding. I jokingly refer to myself as a “42-Year-Old at Heart.” And my favorite song is Garth Brooks’ Much Too Young to Feel This Damn Old, which I listen to every year on my birthday.

So, no. Aging generally doesn’t bother me.

Yet, when the time and place is just right, my John Wayne façade crumbles. And there I am —  sporting a button-up shirt and slacks, yet feeling as naked as Adam after he was banished from Eden.

Yes, it seems regardless of our disposition, getting old will eventually get to us.

***

So, what can we do to overcome this predicament? What can we do to stem the shame, self-loathing and decreased confidence that comes with being long in the tooth?

We can start by reminding ourselves that we belong. That we have a right to go about our business, pursue our dreams and live our lives, regardless of the crowd we might encounter along the way.

And if we still find ourselves in moments of doubt, we can remind ourselves that we have nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, the knowledge and experience we accrued should be celebrated. It lets us live a more enlightened life and have a bigger impact. And it lets us accomplish more while erring less.

You see, overcoming old is a power we all possess. We don’t need a journey to the fountain of youth or a Botox injection. We just need the mental fortitude to break with our age-obsessed society. The wherewithal to change the narrative from a glass half-empty to a glass half-full.

That’s something we should never be too old for.

Award Mentality Aversion

I still remember the first award I ever received.

OK, that’s a lie. I grew up during the beginning of the dreaded “Participation Trophy” era, so I surely got some ribbons or certificates for preschool activities that I can no longer recall.

But the first award that ever had any weight to it — I got it more than half my life ago.

It was for a top 15 finish in a Cross Country race — the charter school state championship race for freshmen.

I remember taking my medal and thinking, “I deserve this.”

You see, I was a scrawny kid back then. Couldn’t have weighed more than a buck thirty. I didn’t much care for running long distances, but I did want to play baseball. So, when the Junior Varsity baseball coach approached me about joining the Cross Country team (which he also coached), I was in no position to say no.

But I was also in no position to succeed.

The idea of pushing myself to the limit was a bridge too far for my 14-year-old self. So, I ate greasy food and downing sodas before practice. I walked backcountry portions of the course. And I counted down the days until I wouldn’t have to run quarter mile windsprints uphill in a driving rainstorm.

When I won that medal in the last race of the year, I viewed it as my reward for time served. I walked away from Cross Country, never to return.

Only now — 15 years later —  am I running outdoors regularly again.

***

I still remember the second award I ever received.

I got it my senior year of college, at the student TV awards ceremony. It was a ceremony I helped organize, through my role as treasurer of the student broadcast council.

I spent most of the evening sitting near the back of the courtyard where the ceremony was being held. I deliberately stayed out of the spotlight, as my friends and mentors picked up well-deserved accolades for their work with UMTV — our college TV station.

This night was about them, and I was happy just to be a part of it.

One of the final awards of the evening was the Rex Pompadur Award, honoring exceptional service to UMTV. I was preparing to applaud the winner when I heard:

“And the award goes to…Dylan Brooks.”

I froze.

“Is Dylan here?” the presenter asked.

Still stunned, I shakily stood up and took the long walk to the podium, nearly tripping over an audio cable on the way there. I sheepishly accepted the award to loud applause. Then I took the long walk back to my seat, wondering what in the world had just happened.

Never in a million years did I think I would win an award that night. And when I did, my only thought was, “I don’t deserve this.”

Don’t get me wrong. I was proud to volunteer many hours of my week to writing and producing various news and sportcasts on UMTV. But there were so many others who put in just as much time, if not more.

I felt the award belonged to them, not me. In fact, I felt so strongly about this that I emailed the UMTV faculty advisors, asking to return the award. They refused my request, explaining that I was indeed worthy of the award. So, I reluctantly held on it.

***

Fast forward to today. I still have both awards.

The Rex Pompadur award sits on a display tower in my living room, underneath only two items — a picture of my family at Christmas and my grandfather’s Naval portrait from World War II. The Cross Country medal is hidden in a closet.

The placement of these items speaks volumes.

You see, I’ve grown a lot in the years since I first put that medal around my neck. In particular, I’ve learned that nothing in life is granted, and that a life chasing accolades is a life wasted.

I’ve come to appreciate the journey over the destination, the grind over the glory. And I’ve witnessed firsthand how helping others to achieve their hopes and dreams can help me achieve mine more than a plaque, medal or framed certificate ever could.

In short, I’ve developed a healthy aversion to the award mentality, and all it represents.

Today, I’d rather display the award I didn’t expect — and the one I didn’t feel I deserved — to the one I desired for all the wrong reasons. It’s a better representation of who I am and what I stand for.

And while I’m not one to throw stones, I do feel the world would be a better place if more of us practiced Award Mentality Aversion.

For the dogged quest for trophies and accolades runs can corrupt us, keeping us from being team players. It can lead to self-absorbedness and narcissism, and make us less likely to share and communicate.

This is a particularly problematic trend in our divisive society. And it runs counter to the spirit of awards, which are meant to be more an honor than a giveaway.

But it’s not too late for us to change the narrative. It’s not too late to shun the award mentality and focus on what really matters.

Ready to begin?

Eyes Wide Open

It’s amazing what a bit of perspective can do.

As I grow older, it seems that I’ve finally got my eyes wide open.

Everything is coming into focus. Not only the way the world works and where I fit within it. But also the way I work, and how that affects those around me.

These types of things took time, experience and deep introspection to fully grasp. Yet, once I did grasp them, I found myself full of regret.

Regret for the ignorance of my youth. Regret for the way I once treated those closest to me. Regret for the biased worldview I once carried with me.

Yes, the error of my prior ways rang true and clear. And all I could do is play the What If game, wishing that my current perspective on life also existed in years gone by.

This, of course, is ridiculous.

Our mind doesn’t come fully loaded. We must experience, learn and grow in order to build perspective.

It’s a process that takes time, patience — and a lot of mistakes. To err is human, because the lessons from those errors allow us to explore the boundaries between right and wrong.

This first-hand experience can be messy at times, and even cringe-worthy in hindsight. But it’s also essential.

For without this, we can’t have perspective. We can’t have meaningful introspection. We can’t get to the point where our eyes are wide open.

And that’s a spot worth getting to.

So, let’s take all those regrets we might have for our prior ignorance and replace them with a new sensation — gratitude.

Let’s be grateful for the road we have traveled. For the lessons we have learned. For those who have continually stood by us, even back when we were naïve and immature.

Let’s be grateful for our newfound perspective, and for the time we have ahead of us to apply it to our experiences. Let’s be grateful for all we have now, and for all the great things that could be in store for us moving forward.

Most of all, let’s forge ahead with a clear mind and a full heart.

For while much can be learned from the past, life can’t be lived there.

Best to be looking forward with eyes wide open.

The Picture and the Frame

A picture’s worth a thousand words.

We’ve uttered this phrase millions of times, collectively, over the years. But do we really believe it?

I don’t. In fact, I feel it misses the point entirely.

You see, I love photography. It’s one of my great passions, along with cooking and writing. And it’s one of the reasons why a sweeping desert landscape greets readers as they come to Words of the West. I took that photo, and I’m as proud of it as I am my many blog articles.

Still, I feel photography is underappreciated and misunderstood. In our technologically advanced world, too many people see photos as a snapshot reminder of a moment in time — a crystal clear alternative to a thousand winding words of prose.

I feel it’s something far greater. To me, photography a blank canvas open to interpretation.

For there’s so much more to a photo than just the objects in it. There’s lighting, shadows and sky color. There’s depth of field and the signs of motion. There’s framing, balance and orientation.

All of these elements converge on one theme: perspective.

Perspective is what makes photography more than just a Polaroid of a time gone by. Perspective makes photography as much art as science, if not more.

But perspective has a unique place in the world of photography — as it’s twofold by nature.

First, there’s the perspective of the photographer. The artist who manipulates factors of light, time and frame to create his or her own window into a moment in time.

Then, there’s the perspective of the viewer. The person who takes in the image secondhand in a gallery or on an Instagram feed and makes that window all their own.

Both perspectives are significant. Both are unique. And both demonstrate that even the simplest snapshot is not so simple.

This dual narrative is what draws me to photography, what captivates me. There’s something uniquely beautiful and powerful when one relatable piece of imagery has the power to tell two stories.

Yet, there’s something sinister about equating this phenomenon with a measure of the written word.

It’s apples and oranges.

After all, writing serves a different purpose than photography. It’s about conveying a message through a protocol that both the writer and reader share — language. While effective writing can stir emotion, there is often a narrow frame of interpretation for the reader. The rules of written language make it so.

With no words to steer a course, photography is much more open to imagination. How something is captured — and what’s left out of the image — are key elements in the story. The frame matters just as much as the picture.

This is an important distinction — and one that stretches far beyond the camera lens. For in a world where technology makes it easy for all of us to broadcast, share and connect, framing matters more than ever.

We cannot take everything we see, hear or read at face value. Whether they’re filled with truth or alternative facts, the messages we consume are just one part of the story.

How we frame them matters. Our perspective matters — more than any 1,000 words can say.

So never forget the dual narrative in every experience. We have the power to shape the stories we consume. Best to use that power wisely.