Category Archives: little lessons
The Value of Everything
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
No truer words have ever been spoken. Especially if you have a 5 year old in your house.
My son is a collector. Not baseball cards, or action figures. Just stuff. All kinds of stuff. Stuff you or I would probably dismiss as trash. He finds it on walks outside, on the floors of department stores, everywhere. He’s a regular magpie.
As I was once again picking up some of his “treasures” from around the house today (that’s them up there), it dawned on me — he actually sees value in these things. He doesn’t see them as discarded bits (or bits that should be discarded), but items that can be repurposed or reimagined, or just enjoyed for their texture or how they reflect light in an interesting way. He still appreciates things in a way that most of us have forgotten.
As he grows up the world will tell him what to value, and he’ll begin to believe. It will train him in its consumerist ways, dictating what is cool and what’s not, what should be coveted and what should be cast aside. He’ll want the newest video games and lust after techno gadgets, instead of that really odd-shaped rock.
And thinking about that makes me kind of sad. I hope he holds on to a bit of that appreciation for the quirky beauty of simple things. In the meantime I’ll retrieve these weird little odds and ends from between the sofa cushions and put them back in his treasure box. Because today they’re still treasured.
Will you know when the game changes?
Picture this: It’s a gorgeous summer evening and you’re out playing hide-and-seek with the other neighborhood kids.
Early in the game you find the PERFECT hiding spot behind old Mrs. McPherson’s shed. You keep yourself perfectly concealed and quiet, happily checking out the bugs under an old brick for amusement and confident that you are the master of the game.
…except the other kids stopped looking for you half an hour ago.
While you were back there basking in the glories of your superior hide-and-seek skills, everyone else decided to play freeze tag instead. Now all sweaty and happy and thoroughly worn out, they’ve gone back to Bobby’s house for ice cream. You’re sitting in the shadows with the bugs.
What if you had poked your head out from behind the shed once in a while? Sure, you might have given away your position — but you would have also noticed when the game changed. You probably would have had more fun. You could be eating ice cream right now.
Playing expertly by the rules won’t help you much if the game changes.
When’s the last time you poked your head out from behind Mrs. McPherson’s shed?
Make a wish. (Or two.)
When my son and I take walks we look for dandelion heads to “blow wishes.” While we were out the other day I picked mine and asked, “should I wish for something I really-really-really want, or something I’m pretty sure I can get?”
And then it occurred to me that I should pick two and wish for both.
I sometimes think that our wishes are the very things that hold us back. We too often wish for the seemingly impossible, something so far out of today’s grasp, that we don’t even try to grab for it. It’s an impossible wish, right? We’ll never get there, right?
Well, maybe. So why not make two wishes?
First go ahead and wish for the seemingly impossible. Set the bar ridiculously high. Higher than you can achieve today. Higher than you can achieve next year, in 5 years, maybe in a lifetime. Go for an all-out, break-the-bank, a this-would-be-utterly-bleeping-amazing-if-I-got-it kind of wish.
Now wish for something that isn’t too far from your grasp. (Go ahead! Really, this isn’t cheating in the wish department. I promise.) Make a wish for something that you’re pretty sure you can achieve today, or in the next 6 weeks, or in the next 3 months.
Wish, achieve, repeat.
A decade from now look again at your big wish. Did you achieve it? Maybe not. But look back on all the little wishes and see how far they have taken you. Sometimes big wishes are exactly that — big wishes. But more often than not the little wishes become reality, and a sweet one at that.
Leo Burnett once said,
When you reach for the stars you may not quite get one, but you won’t come up with a handful of mud either.
He’s right. So make two wishes. Go.
Rockin’ it out
This morning I had the most incredible experience.
After breakfast my son and I cleared the table, I turned on some punk rock (even at 5 the little one is a huge fan of the Replacements and the Ramones), turned up the volume to sufficiently disturb the neighbors, and we danced.
And I mean we really danced. We completely cut loose. We jammed all over the kitchen and the living room, taking turns with a play broom as an air guitar. We jumped in the air and wiggled side to side, being serious rock gods one minute and laughing ourselves silly the next.
And it felt good. No — it felt AMAZING!
And then it occurred to me that I really don’t dance enough. That, despite having such a completely joyful experience that’s completely free and at my disposal at any given moment, I just don’t. But why?
Because just like you, I’m a little afraid. I’m afraid that I don’t dance well. I’m afraid that people will laugh or judge. I’m afraid of putting myself out there.
Nobody cares if you don’t dance well. Just get up and dance. ~ Dave Barry
He’s right, you know. Nobody else really cares. (They’re probably too worried about what people will think of them to pay much attention to me.) If nothing else, I owe it to myself for the health benefits alone—it’s good for the body as well as the soul.
So today I hereby give me (and you) the permission to crank up the music and go ahead and dance. In the living room. At the wedding reception. Down the aisle in Target if we want to. Is someone watching? Ask them to join in. Is someone laughing? Good for them —they just got a health boost as well.
Why let a little silly fear rob us of our joy? It just feels too good not to indulge in it more often. So go ahead. Give yourself over to the music.
Go ahead and dance. My kid and I will be right there with ya.
(Here’s a sampling of our playlist to get you started.)
Treat your employees like children
Children are not imbeciles. They’re incredibly smart—perhaps moreso than we give them credit for. They have a vast capacity to absorb information, but starting out they lack the knowledge and skills they need to successfully negotiate their way through.
Employees start out like that, too.
As a parent it’s my job to teach my child. To help him build his skill set, nurture his individual talents, and instill confidence in his own abilities.
As he grows it’s my responsibility to resist the urge to be a helicopter parent and let him try things on his own–and fail. Failure is part of learning, and experience is the best teacher. It’s not my job to “fix” his mistakes or assign blame, but to help him identify the missteps and ways to avoid them the next time. And then I need to let him have a “next time.”
As he grows and matures, I’ll give him increasing levels of responsibility and autonomy. If he’s done his job right, he will have earned it; if I’ve done my job right, he’ll have the knowledge he needs to handle it well.
I’ll need to have the intestinal fortitude to let him make hard decisions on his own. Sometimes he’ll make good choices and sometimes he won’t. I’ll bite my tongue and let him take the lead on figuring his way out of the bad ones, but I’ll always be available for advice and a helping hand when needed.
One day (probably sooner than I expect) he’ll be ready. I’ll swallow my fears and misgivings and let him go out into the world to make his own mark. He’s learned his lessons well; he’ll do just fine.
As parents, we know all this. But as employers?
Perhaps we should take more time to nurture the talents of our employees and help them succeed. Perhaps we should give them more opportunities to lead the way, instead of insisting that they follow. They might turn out to be incredibly smart—perhaps moreso than we give them credit for.
Perhaps businesses would do well to take a page out of Parenting 101.
Obey the rules, or obey the muse?
In all my years as a professional creative, probably the most influential teacher has been my son. (If you’ve been following along here, you already know that. If not, check out the “little lessons” category at the top of the page.)
He’s been helping me rediscover all the cool stuff we instinctively know as kids but lose along the way to adulthood. He’s kind of like my creative Yoda, only without the big ears and disturbing muppet voice.
This Christmas he taught me yet another lesson about exploring things creatively, instead of just doing things the way they’re “supposed” to be done.
Like every other little boy, this year my son is head-over-heels in love with Buzz Lightyear. “Santa Mom” decided to score big with the Buzz Lightyear Star Command Lego set. Little did I know, “Santa Dad” was planning to score big with said set as well. Over the holiday vacation dad beat me to the punch and they put the set together at his house first. When it was my turn, my little one wasn’t so interested in building the space ship anymore; he just wanted to play with the pieces.
Not a big deal, really, except that I had spent $30 for a 250-piece space ship model. For that same $30 I could have bought a plain old box of Legos with twice as many pieces. Shouldn’t we really build the space ship, since that’s what the present was intended to be?
After a bit of silent internal wrestling I decided to let him mix up all three bags of pieces, forever dashing any hope of sorting them out again to follow the assembly instructions. It’s his gift, so I figured I should let him make the call on this one.
You know what? It was the best decision I ever made. He’s played with those legos nearly every day now, building that little Lego Buzz more space vehicles than Starfleet Command could have ever dreamed of. He’s using his imagination to come up with all these things. He’s giving his young problem-solving skills a workout by solving the “design flaws” when pieces fall off. And most importantly, he’s having a BLAST. If we had put the kit together like we were supposed to, dollars to donuts it would be discarded in a corner collecting dust already.
This month’s lesson at the feet of the young muse: “supposed to” doesn’t mean “have to” in the realm of the creative mind. Put things together the way you see them; it opens up greater possibilities, and it’s much more fun.
The stupid little guy behind the tree
‘Tis the Christmas season, which means time for many of us to honor longstanding cultural traditions: decorating the Christmas tree, putting up lights in the freezing cold, awaking to presents on the morning of the 25th, and gorging ourselves on turkey and stuffing with our extended family (even if we can’t stand to be around them any other day).
One of our family’s more recent traditions is the stupid little guy on the back of the tree.
Back when I was little, my grandfather used to take my cousin and I to the local Gaudio’s store Christmas display every year, and then let us pick out any ornament we wanted. Of course, having the aesthetic tastes of very small children, my cousin and I came home with some doozies. That crazy thing pictured above was one of them.
Every year my mom and I would battle it out as to whether he would even make it out of the ornament box. She thought it was the stupidest thing she had ever seen (she did have a point there), and thought we could do without it. I, on the other hand, was adamant that he be allowed to hang out with the other ornaments. To my mom’s diplomatic credit, she agreed that he could go up — on the back of the tree where she didn’t have to look at it.
And thus a Clifford family tradition was born.
For the last 30-something years that little guy has had a place of honor on the back of my tree. He’s survived countless moves to adorn trees big and small, live and fragrant, fabricated and pre-lit. My mom wasn’t the only one I battled with over the years to get him his place, but thanks to the “back of the tree” rule she initiated, I always managed to win out. “If you can’t see him, why do you care?” I’d argue.
This Christmas my son is almost five, and in the full throes of Christmas glee. We decorated the tree together, and when I pulled out the stupid little man I told him this story and then hung it happily behind the tree.
“But it’s your tree now, mommy. Why can’t you hang him on the front?” my son asked. ”I could put him on the front,” I replied, “but hanging him back there every year reminds me of those fun arguments I had with my mom long ago. That’s our tradition. It’s where he belongs.”
My son is enthralled with this story, and has asked me to tell it to him again nearly every day since. I’m sure it has something to do with the “kid wins argument with mom” undertones, but it makes me smile nonetheless. In some small way it helps me bring together my mom who passed away years ago with the grandson she never had the chance to meet.
One day I’ll pass that stupid little guy on to my son. I look forward to the day when he’ll argue with his wife (and hopefully win) as to why this hideous thing has to be on the back of their tree, and then tell his kids the tale of their grandmom and great-grandmom who battled it out year after year over that silly ornament.
In a way that only our family will really understand, generations will be brought together for at least a moment, and through a poorly designed piece of flocked plastic our collective memories will live on…
Buried Treasures
About five years back a colleague of mine said, “Wait until you have kids; it will improve your work.” I’m not exactly sure what he meant by this, but he was absolutely right.
My 4-year old son is possibly the greatest teacher I’ve ever had. There are lots of important lessons we can learn from our kids if we just pay attention. But perhaps the most important lesson he’s taught me is how to reconnect with my creative self.
Children are born creators, explorers and innovators. How else do you negotiate your way through this crazy world you’ve been thrown into? My son has a seemingly endless supply of curiosity and desire to try new things. He dances, sings, builds, draws, makes up games with complex rules, and dreams up wildly imaginative stories. He doesn’t limit himself; he constantly pushes his own boundaries and limitations. He’s not afraid of what other people think, and he’s perfectly content to just be himself. Important lessons that we, as adults, would all do well to re-learn.
Somewhere along the path to adulthood something happens. We forget to explore and choose instead to take the well-worn path. We stop differentiating ourselves. We stop speaking in an authentic voice. Why does the creativity go away? Why do so many of us abandon such wonderful innate gifts?
I’m rediscovering my own abandoned gifts by studying at the feet of my very young sage. I’m re-learning to explore and test boundaries. To expand my potential by trying new things. To not get so hung up on outside opinions and really enjoy being creative again. And you know what? It feels good. I feel more “me.”
Conformity will only get us so far. Creativity is where the future lies; it’s the basic building block of what will come next. We all have these buried troves of it inside of us. Have you started digging out yours?
Creative Regression Theory
I’ve decided that I need to be 4 again. Well, maybe not the actual age — that could be problematic with the limited income and lack of driving skills — but I would love to rediscover that devil-may-care passion I misplaced somewhere over the last couple of decades.
Somewhere around the age of 4 we hit the creative “sweet spot,” where there is a perfect convergence of factors to produce incredible amounts of creativity. Around that age is when imagination fully emerges and kicks into high gear, motor skills improve to include fine detail, the brain is able to synthesize disparate pieces of information into original expression, and — here’s the best part! — self-censoring in deference to societal norms hasn’t really kicked in yet. To a 4-year old, anything is possible.
Have you ever really watched a kid at that age? It’s amazing. I hand my son some crayons or paints or legos or just about anything, and he will throw himself into his work with complete and utter abandon. He doesn’t worry about the “right” way to do it; as far as he’s concerned he is doing it the right way because he’s having a blast. And if he doesn’t like the way it comes out, he just starts over. No biggie. For him it’s just a reason to extend of the fun and maybe try something new. Nothing to sweat about.
He doesn’t really care if real trees aren’t purple, or that puppies aren’t supposed to have seven legs. So what? It’s his picture. If you don’t like it, go draw your own.
I think as adults we should all resurrect that inner 4 year old. Let’s give ourselves permission to pursue our passions and indulge our creativity. Let’s come up with crazy ideas, and try doing things in ways we haven’t tried before. Let’s stop worrying so much about whether we’re doing it “right,” or what everyone else will have to say about it.
Everyone’s entitled to their own personal vision. And if you don’t like it, go draw your own.
The Power of Why
photo by walknboston
Like every parent, I am subjected to the question “Why?” oh, about every 15 minutes or so. Barring “How long until we get there?” it is my son’s favorite question. These days it seems like every statement I make is met by a 4-year-old equivalent of the Inquisition.
The apple apparently doesn’t fall far from the tree – back in the day I tortured my parents the very same way. However, my line of questioning was often blocked by a parental “Because I said so.” As a kid I thought this was a bogus response; as an adult I still think it is. What’s the value in that kind of answer? What do you learn, other than to obey without question? How do you do something with purpose, if you don’t know why?
Knowing that there’s legitimate value behind the question – despite the annoyance of being drilled with it – I try to answer to the best of my abilities whenever asked (whether it’s my kid or my boss). And I still persist in asking that question myself (whether it’s my kid or my boss) whenever I think there’s more to the story than I’ve gotten so far.
The importance of this simple three-letter word was really driven home in a presentation given by George Eid of Area 17 at the Event Design Summit this week. George told us a personal story about the failure to ask why. Nearing completion of a lengthy website project for one of his clients, the CEO sent word that the bar at the top of the webpage needed to be removed; despite the fact that it destroyed the integrity of their visual design, they acquiesced. (After all, the customer is always right, especially if you want to get paid.)
After all was said and done, George asked the client that all-important question: WHY did it need to be removed? Turns out the CEO had just bought a 13-inch MacBook and wanted to be able to see the full page on screen – the part that was hidden was just about the width of that bar…
… But when they removed the bar, they only removed the bar; they didn’t shorten the page. Even though they followed direction to the letter, the failure to ask WHY resulted in a failure to meet the customer’s expectations.
As George so eloquently put it,
“Keep asking why. Ask why all the way back to Adam and Eve.”
By continuing to ask why (even to the point of considerable annoyance) we get to the root of the problem, the core of the expectations. It is only by asking why until we are satisfied with the answer that we can move forward from a point of knowing and understanding. It is only by asking why that we can learn enough to truly get it right.
So I’ll take a deep breath and indulge my son’s never-ending why’s. He’s only trying to get a handle on the reasons and expectations so he can get it right. I can’t really fault him for that.
As for the other question?
“We’ll get there when we get there.”
