Forgetting how to surf.
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The sunlight sparkles on the ocean like a carpet studded with diamonds. Undulation after undulation, the surface rising and falling, lifting the surfer without even noticing him.
He barely notices either; he’s gazing out to the horizon. Waiting. He’s been here for a long time, waiting. Sensing. He can feel it coming.
And sure enough, there it is. The rare moment he’s been waiting for. Imperceptible to any other eye, but to his, it’s clear. The subtle shift in the water far out there, the tiny change in the light, the tingling in his spine. It’s coming.
And it does. This water, shifted by this energy, that has gathered over a thousand miles of ocean, is arriving right now to surge upwards on this sandbar and dump itself on this beach. But not before he’s ridden it.
He’s paddling furiously, out into the lifting mass of brilliant blue water. In one fluid movement, he’s up. The wave has arrived.
And just as it begins to build intensity and curl backwards… the automation of the board kicks in. It takes over, the sensors and algorithm reading the surface geometry, the speed of the molecules, the wind and air pressure, the shifting weight of the surfer.
The board guides itself and the surfer on the perfect line, without any input from him. There’s nothing for him to do. It catches the break perfectly, through the barrel and glides into the outrun. The same as last time. The same as the next time. Effortless and perfectly uniform.
It’s the 49th wave in a row that he has caught like this. Every one timed perfectly. Every one guided by the incredibly powerful technology in his surfboard. Perfection upon perfection.
But the surfer is crying. Not just crying but sobbing, his body heaving. He sinks to his knees on the beach. His love is dead.
The waves catch his board and begin to drag it into the ocean but the board responds, moving itself up the beach, out of reach of the water. And it sits there. Waiting for the surfer.
***
“Having more power doesn’t guarantee we’ll suddenly become wise. What we need is wisdom, and that wisdom starts in the sense of who we are, what we’re doing here. I believe the point of our existence is to create, to further, to respond to, to harmonise with what is good and beautiful and true in the world.”
— Iain McGilchrist
People are promising that they can do my work for me. But what if I want to do it myself?
I’m writing an email to a client, someone I’ve known for a while. It’s some reflections on our coaching session. I’m going over her notes and my notes, eyes scanning, pausing.
Skimming over things and then returning to the start, looking for things that resonate. Resonance in the truest sense - what vibrates and is felt?
It’s all happening without me realising, it’s not conscious, it’s sensing. It’s not a superpower either, it’s deeply human.
That thing she said there - that has something to it. Some quality, some feeling to it.
I’m not sure what exactly, but I don’t need to. I’m not trying to lead her to a specific destination, I’m helping her follow the breadcrumbs. So I need to pick out the breadcrumbs and share them.
The more I do this, the more I understand her. Something is forming between us, a trail, a story. It might be the path she’s looking for, or it might be a dead end, but either way, we’ll learn something on the journey.
Only I can do this. I need to engage with this directly, to be in contact with it, without an intermediary or an interpreter. What I write is then something that came through me.
When my client reads it, she will encounter what I expressed and only what I expressed. Only with this simple facet of communication, a real exchange, can we cultivate trust and intimacy between us.
I’m writing this post. It’s the same. I sit down without knowing where this will go or end up, just the germ of an idea, maybe a single line or phrase which grows as I pull at it. Not just more thread but billowing and unpredictable fabric that is selected, shaped, crafted. I am in love with this process. Immersed.
Am I being wanky? I don’t care. We all have our art, and this is part of mine.
Even a single sentence can become a work in itself. Pausing over the choice of word. Sometimes agonising. And the other words. And the order they’re in. And the syntax, and the tone.
Does it feel right? Does it really say what I want it to say? I’m sending out a little piece of my soul here.
And then the right word, that specific word, with that particular inflection and nuance of meaning. A cloud lifts, and now words are flowing, arising from some other place.
There’s no thought, just conduction, a trance state in which ideas, imagination, feelings, suggestions, the raw material of meaning is pouring forth.
This is how something is conveyed. Something real. Not necessarily good, or entertaining, or polished, or clever - but something unmistakably real and mine.
Will you forgive me if I don’t outsource this to an algorithm? If I hold on to my archaic ways that mean I remember how to conceive and formulate? How to tussle with concepts and experiment and err?
Am I a Luddite for wanting to participate in the fundamental act of creating, thinking and sensing? Where does it all come from anyway? From somewhere, and then through me. Not through code, but through my cells, blood and bones, manifested through my hands and fingertips.
Is that too dramatic? Do I sound like a pompous prick? Good. What is writing if not some expression of yourself out into the world? Just like speaking, acting and being.
Are we not privileged to have language as a vehicle for thought and feeling in the first place?
And yet we outsource it. It’s too time-consuming, it distracts us from… from what exactly? What will you be once you’ve outsourced your ability to imagine, to grapple with an idea, to originate and foster something into being.
Without the essential act of creation, what are you other than an attempt to become more efficient and more productive, a mechanism for output? Where is the fucking joy in that?
What will you become as you gradually forget this essential flavour of being human? Like a tragic flower that cannot bloom without artificial light. Like a bird that cannot fly without motorised wings. Like a surfer who cannot ride a wave without an automated board.
What are you willing to forget in pursuit of efficiency? How much intimacy and humanity will you sacrifice at the altar of productivity?
[with apologies to any surfers who are reading - I’ve never surfed]
“Everything out there was disturbingly interlaced with everything else. Waves were the playing field. They were the goal. They were the object of your deepest desire and adoration. At the same time, they were your adversary, your nemesis, even your mortal enemy. The surf was your refuge, your happy hiding place, but it was also a hostile wilderness - a dynamic, indifferent world. At thirteen, I had mostly stopped believing in God, but that was a new development, and it had left a hole in my world, a feeling that I’d been abandoned. The ocean was like an uncaring God, endlessly dangerous, power beyond measure.”
— William Finnegan
Tipping Point: navigating collapse and crisis.
Want to live a more meaningful, vibrant life? Sit with this for a while:
“That which is essential never imposes itself, for love is always offered, is never imposed. That which is unessential is constantly imposing itself. And so we have to create a contemplative culture in our heart by committing ourselves to a daily rendezvous, to a daily quiet time.”
— James Finley
About me.
I’m a leadership coach, consultant and facilitator living in Berlin.
Contact me to:
Make sense of what’s going on with you, your work and your life through my coaching practice.
Make sense of what’s going on in your organisation through group dialogues, workshops and strategy sessions.
Have a real conversation.
At the heart of my work is helping individuals and organisations to figure out what is really going on.
You can also find out more about my work with men & masculinity here.
[main image from Nautical Channel]
Yes to all of this. Thank you for suffering the sweet agony required to express it :)