It’s easy to get so caught up in the loop of self-improvement, of always trying to better yourself, always trying to get to that next level, that you lose sight of the why.
But just before you hit the buy button on Amazon for yet another self-improvement book, promising you a better life, a book much more likely to change the author's wellbeing than yours, stop.
Take your finger off the mouse button and ask yourself this:
What would you do if you weren’t so consumed with becoming?
Read on...
Clocks dialled back.
Sunday morning.
05:48 AM:
And I’m sitting here.
Thinking.
Blinds drawn open, staring into the early morning umbra against the light behind my monitor.
My mind kickstarts as the black coffee infiltrates my system, the caffeine blocking adenosine receptors, allowing neurotransmitters to boost my mood.
I remember a moment early yesterday driving through the countryside towards my home.
And I get it down.
A watery yellow disc fills the sky as the Earth turns around the Sun, accelerating into the ecliptic, spiralling, forcing copper leaves to fall from the trees like manna from heaven.
The blank page filled with my one true sentence, I give a nod to Hemmingway.
Blank no more.
Manna from heaven. Zeus. The Gods.
Connections.
Ideas flow.
I called a prospective new customer this week.
Called really means pitch. A large multinational company.
They declined.
And they even gave me a reason.
A.I>
I laughed out loud.
It’s the future of direct response, they said.
Sorry, they said.
I laughed some more.
We’ve all had times like this.
When you swing and miss.
And you doubt yourself.
Your worthiness.
It's human nature.
Quieten your mind.
When you're pitching your business, we’ve all had times when the person you need to talk to is unbelievably unavailable. Busy.
Lean in: Nobody is ever that busy.
This guy was harder to talk to than Jimmy Hoffa.
Or Jesus.
Perhaps God.
Or Elvis.
And at times like this, I go into myself and think of someone famous.
Someone undeniable.
And I put them on the stage.
A stage in my mind.
A scene.
Imagine a future where someone needs to get somewhere fast. And in this future, after the War, there’s a guy, beaten down by circumstance, ignored by everyone.
And they need someone to drive. Drive fast. Drive true.
There’s a crowd. And many of them are volunteering. Shouting, scrambling to be seen. To be heard.
A pistol is drawn and fired. The baying crowd, silenced by its authority.
And at the back, quiet. The guy stands up.
He pulls down his hoodie.
‘I’ll do it.’
They look.
A voice shouts out, ‘Does anyone know who the fuck this is?’
‘I do,’ one of them replies. ‘Trust me. Give him the key.’
Slowly, the guy walks towards the crowd. They part. He’s older now, the bloom of youth gone, his small stature somehow walking as if over six feet tall. But recognisable.
And they see him.
It’s Lewis Hamilton. A driver. Once, before we lost our minds, The Driver.
Story. It motivates us. Makes us cry. Makes us laugh. It draws out the best from us.
I take a sip of coffee. Holding the cup between my hands. Warming my palms and fingers.
And I think about time and place.
About life and death.
And education. And striving. And becoming.
And the engineering of insatiable need.
More. Be the best. Never ending ─ Go Go Go.
And complexity.
How simple things are now hard. And complex things, easy.
I go back into myself.
There’s a packed theatre.
An old man shuffles in, jostled by the crowd. He removes his hat and quietly takes a seat. After getting comfortable, he exchanges pleasantries with the younger person sitting next to him. A guy, the old man guesses, is around thirty years old, and, inevitably, the conversation moves on to their love of music.
The young man, who, like most of his generation, attended university, explains he's studying music, working towards another degree in music theory, but currently works as a civil servant, making it clear this was only a temporary situation until he could sell his own songs.
The old man listens as the younger man confidently explains the skill he's most proud of is being able to read and write music. A skill he simply couldn't be without, a skill that he hopes will, one day, allow him to achieve his dream of being a professional musician — saying that it's impossible to write songs without being able to do it.
The old man, struggling to get a word in, says he's been writing songs for 65 years, since he was a boy, and he still writes now, because, even after all this time, it is still magical.
‘Never too late,’ the young man says, ‘Never too late.’
‘Especially since I can't read or write music,’ the old man says, nodding.
Putting on his best sympathetic expression, the young man, wary of the condescension, says that even at the old man’s advanced age it will only take a year or two to learn, and it will give him a hobby, something to do, especially over the winter months.
The old man smiles. ‘I never went to university, but I used to play in a band — a four-piece. And the other guy I wrote songs with couldn't read music either.’
Not quite sure of the tangential non sequitur, the young man, looking confused, just nods and says, ‘I bet you did, but imagine what you could have done if you had learned to read and write music.’
‘Yes, imagine.’
‘It's great you and your friends had so much fun, but if you'd have learned to read music, you never know, you might even have got to play in a place like this. By the way, what was the name of your band?’
The old man smiles. And holding out his hand, he says, ‘My name's Paul, and we called ourselves The Beatles.’
Paul McCartney and John Lennon were, arguably, the most successful songwriters in history.
Neither of them could read music.
My eyes twinge. And fill. Just slightly.
Story, doing its job, fortifying my soul, drawing me out of complexity and back to simplicity.
As it always does.
And I remember something vital.
Something motivational.
A tonic if you’re working too hard and banging your head against an academic brick wall, your degree now relegated to prerequisite, guaranteeing you nothing except a job at Starbucks.
It’s hard to escape but escape you must.
From the Gurus.
You know who they are.
Nail gunning you with their brilliance.
But are you there yet?
Or are you too busy?
Becoming.
Striving.
Instead of
Accomplishing.
Doing.
There’s a novel.
The Hair Carpet Weavers by Andreas Eschbach.
Perhaps you’ve heard of it.
Or even read it.
Set in an ancient Empire on a distant planet, The Hair Carpet Weavers is a story about the obsessive ritualistic lives of a people. Where generations of men dedicate their entire lives to weave beautiful carpets made from the hair of their wives and daughters.
But carpet weaving has gone past tradition. It’s now an unbreakable, hereditary duty, passed on from father to son.
The process is slow and meticulous, taking a lifetime of devotion.
A life with only one goal.
To complete a carpet.
For a fee.
Haggling with the carpet traders for money.
Money to fund the next generation of weavers.
And have it presented to the unseen Emperor of an all-powerful Empire that controls every aspect of its citizens’ lives.
An entire planetary economy, weavers and traders, husbands and wives, sons and daughters, built on the production of a product that takes a lifetime to master and create.
But, gradually, the truth is revealed.
Once the carpets are delivered to the Empire, they aren’t preserved or displayed, and the skill of the creator isn’t applauded and recognised for their effort.
There is no Carpet Weaver Hall of Fame.
Because the carpets are destroyed on delivery.
Burned without ceremony.
Thrown away.
The Hair Carpet Weavers is a story about power and control.
And obedience.
To a cause that no longer exists.
An illusionary framework controlling the lives of others.
The real purpose of the ‘tradition’ is to keep its citizens in permanent submission.
Requiring little intervention, perhaps a nudge now and then, to keep a civilization cowed. In reverence.
The story reveals the soul-crushing consequences of blindly following a devotion to a cause that, unknown to its followers, has become meaningless.
We live in a complex world.
With unseen Emperors.
And we too have carpets to weave.
Espoused by courtiers promoting a better you.
The never-ending process of becoming.
But click bait titles promising a better you rarely deliver.
Instead, they enshittify. Dominating search results.
“Six Ways to Clean Your Cat’s Asshole, Even If You Hate Cats” outranking them all.
But their saccharine promises are empty. Devoid of usable knowledge.
An endless rehash of comments and phrases repeated and reposted by courtiers who believe in carpets for a living.
So next time you're browsing Amazon, scanning the self-help, striving to be a better you, stop and ask yourself this:
Are you weaving a carpet for an unseen Emperor?
Because if you are, there is a simple solution.
Decide what you want.
Then throw away the Gurus. All of them. Consign them to the bin.
And once you decide.
Click your fingers.
You have become.
It’s as simple as that.
Now.
Just Be.
And just Do.
You need permission from no one.
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Where do you get the inspiration for this?! Absolutely brilliant. And I had to apologise to the couple next to me as I spat my coffee out when reading - “Six Ways to Clean Your Cat’s Asshole, Even If You Hate Cats”. I'm still giggling now. Hilarious and deadly serious at the same time.
A great reminder on the importance of fully visualizing exactly who you want to be.