Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Context, Dad, Emotion, Empathy, Fatherhood, Honesty, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Childhood, My Fatherhood, Otis
I’m back.
Kinda.
Hang in there, because this is going to be a longish post.
I should say the length is not just because I want to make up for the fact you had a whole week without being subjected to my rubbish … but because you’re getting another week.
No really.
You see by the time you read this, I’ll be in LA.
I know … I know … but it’s for work, honest.
OK, I admit I am looking forward to it because I not only get to see a bunch of mates, I get to do something with Mr Weigel as well. Which means it will be fun, regardless what happens. Certainly fun enough to miss my 16th Wedding anniversary on Friday, which – let’s be honest – is possibly the best present I could ever give Jill.
[Sorry my love, but we both know you will have forgotten, ha]
So as you get another week of peace, I thought I’d leave you with a big post.
But unlike my usual rubbish … this isn’t about strategy, Birkenstocks or Queen.
But it is about sentimentality and love. But not mine – for once.
You see a few weeks ago, I read an article in The Guardian by the author Katherine Heiny.
I don’t know why I read it.
I didn’t know Katherine or any of her work and the article was about her hard-of-hearing Dad … but despite all that, I did.
And I’m so glad.
It was wonderful.
A longish train ride that made stops at laughter, smiles and – at the very end – tears.
Because what Katherine had done so perfectly was capture the increasingly complex relationship we all have with our parents while also realising – hopefully before it’s too late – that for all their sometimes stubborn, stuck-in-their-way views and ways, we love them, admire them and respect them.
Maybe it was because I was reading it at 2 in the morning, but at the end, the tears flowed.
Great big dollops of them.
Not just because she’d captured the love she had for him in such a beautifully raw – yet gentle – way, but because it triggered how I hope Otis will one day think of me. Preferably without the frustrating bits in-between.
Anyway, the impact of the story compelled me to write to her.
I knew there was the risk I’d sound like a stalker … not to mention the high chance my email would be consigned to the junkmail bin either inadvertently or deliberately … but I wanted to let her know how much her writing meant to me.
Yes, I know she’s an author – an accomplished one as it turned out – but how she writes just connected with me more than many other authors I’ve read.
Which is why I was thrilled when, a few days later, I received this from Katherine:
Dear Rob,
Your email made my day (as did the fact that you think I have staff, or at least an assistant). It was the exact opposite of pointless and silly. It really touched me. I miss my parents too. My mother told me once that even after her mother died, my mother thought of things daily that she wanted to tell her. Now I do the same and it seems to me like a way to say “I hold you always in my thoughts.” Please friend me on FB if FB is something you do and thank you (x a million!) for writing.
Katherine x
That she wrote back at all was wonderful.
That she wrote such a lovely message and asked me to FB ‘friend’ her is unparalleled.
Don’t worry though. Because in an act I assume was designed to continue to help Mark Zuckerberg win back public sentiment – boosted massively by the stupidity of Elon Musk – Facebook stopped me ‘friending’ Katherine, as they correctly pointed out I did not know her.
My loss was surely her – and Mr Zuckerberg’s – gain.
Or it was, until Katherine persisted and found a way for us to connect.
What a brilliantly generous human with such an alarming lack of judgement.
Which leaves me to say this …
Thank you so much Katherine.
Not for writing back – though I’m grateful for that – but for celebrating the emotion that comes from honesty, even when it can be the most uncomfortable journey of all.
You can read the story that started this journey, by clicking here.
I’m back next Monday. That should be enough time to have stopped laughing, crying and telling your parents you love them …
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Anniversary, Attitude & Aptitude, Birthday, Cannes, Creativity, Culture, Dad, Daddyhood, Emotion, Family, Friendship, Holiday, Jill, Love, Martin Weigel, Metallica, Mum, Mum & Dad, My Fatherhood, Nottingham Forest, Otis, Parents, Paul, Paula, Planners, Planning, Queen, Shelly
So let’s start with the good news …
This is my last post until the 26th June.
That’s over 2 weeks of peace and quiet!!!
You lucky people. [Though who knows if anyone reads this now comments have stopped]
The bad news is this post is going to be loooooooong. Proper long.
And possibly ‘jealousy inducing’ … or at least insult igniting, given the blagging I’ll be acknowledging.
But there are valid reasons behind it all. Honest.
First up is that I have a bunch of birthday’s to acknowledge …
First of all is mine, because on Monday, I turn 53.
FIFTY FUCKING THREE!
This means I am closer to 70 than 30 …
Normally that would be depressing as fuck, but I was recently given the best present ever when Metallica’s management said I was, “immune from maturity”.
Of course, I appreciate under normal circumstances this would be a big diss, however at my age – and when they represent genuine Rockstars – this may be the best compliment ever.
Let’s be honest, it’s going to have to be because there’s not many more reasons to be happy.
But 3 days later, it’s my darling Jill’s birthday.
Whereas I get more immature with age, she gets more wonderful.
I wish that was simply my attempt at being a romantic husband … but she really is.
I would love to detail how, but as I’ve mentioned before – she hates the attention on her, especially on this blog – so just know it makes me very happy to see because she’s the best thing that has ever happened to me and is more than I deserve.
Happy birthday my darling Jill, I hope you have a wonderful, wonderful day.
Now you may think I have suddenly become a soppy-sod – and I am OK with that – but you may feel a bit differently when I tell you that on the night of Jill’s birthday, where most people would be having a celebratory dinner – I will be waving goodbye to her, getting on a plane and flying to England because the next day it’s …
Paul’s birthday.
That’s right, for the first time since 2020, I’ll be spending Paul’s birthday with him and seeing him and Shelly for the first time in over a year.
I’m so, so happy I can do that. I’m also so excited to see them.
The older I get, the more I want to be closer to them – even though I appreciate how ironic it is to say that when I have chosen to live just about as far away from them as I possibly can.
Who knows what will happen in the future to change that [actually, I do, I just don’t know when] but I’m thrilled I’m going to get to spend Paul’s special day with him and hang out with him and Shelly for a few days.
That I get to be with 2 of my most special and treasured people on their birthday .. means that however hard 2023 is, it is going to be a great year for me.
Thank god for horrific timezone difference between NZ and UK.
Which all leads to the final journey of my blog silence …
And that is me leaving Nottingham to fly to Cannes to present on stage with 2 more special and treasured people – Paula Bloodworth and Martin Weigel.
Like Paul, the last time I saw them in person was a year ago, so to not just see them … but present with them … is an utter thrill.
I say that, but at the time of writing this post, we have only written 4 slides so unless we pull our finger out, it may be a case of being happy to see them but a total nightmare to present with them – hahaha.
And finally, as much as Cannes can drive me nuts, it gives me an opportunity to see a bunch of old friends from my past which will be bloody wonderful – especially as George and Lee will be there and so it can feel like I’ve let comments back on this blog, haha.
So there you have it.
That’s why I’m not writing any posts for a couple of weeks.
And while some of you will claim its a massive holiday, it’s actually me reconnecting to life.
That’s honestly how it feels.
I appreciate that sounds overly dramatic … after all, it’s not like I don’t talk to them all pretty much every week.
And obviously, in the case of Jill, I get to see here every single day.
I also appreciate the privilege of being able to fly over there to see the rest of them – not to mention I am the one who put myself in the position of being away from them.
But this is more than just being in their physical company – which will be special in itself – it’s about the undivided time.
No zoom time limits … or snatched moments before the next interruption … actual time.
Time to go on endless tangents.
Time to go down multiple rabbitholes.
Time to enjoy the pregnant pauses.
Time to talk shit … rather than maximise the time allocated. Or allowed.
Time to be cocooned away from the other stuff that likes to interrupt and dictate.
And while many may think they get this every day, I’m not so sure.
Yes, being physically close to people you care about does – in theory – make this easier to do.
But proximity doesn’t automatically equate to intimacy.
You have to want it. Demand it. Not be satisfied with a different version of it.
And most of the time that’s not the case …
We don’t even realise it’s happening because we get so caught up in the whirlwind of life.
Dealing with the pressures, demands, expectation and – for some – the self-importance of our own lives.
And that’s why there is something to be said about living away from those that matter.
I know … that sounds the opposite of what I’ve just written … but hang in there.
You see I used to think the benefit of living around the world was that you could discover and explore possibilities you never knew even existed … let alone were actually possible.
And it’s true.
I’m not exaggerating when I say everything I have in my life – outside of Paul and Shelley – is because I chose to explore the world rather than stay in Nottingham,.
Every. Single. Thing.
That doesn’t mean people who stay where they are from can’t also discover new possibilities, but it’s definitely going to be harder which is why I will be forever grateful for the opportunity – and my naivety – to go and explore what life was made of, despite not having the faintest idea of what I was doing.
It’s why I always tell people who have been offered the chance to live overseas that they shouldn’t let the things they’ll miss, hold them back … instead, they should think about all the things they may discover.
And I still stand by that.
But of course, missing the people you love is a big thing.
A huge thing.
I definitely missed my parents every single day and I went through a lot of emotional challenges on that journey.
But I was also extremely lucky my parents wanted me to explore.
Of course they missed me.
Of course they would have loved me to be closer.
But they wanted me to forge my own life, not be restrained by theirs, which is an act of love that still takes my breath away.
Even more so when they could have – and maybe should have – asked me to stay, given my Dad’s health situation that happened 6 weeks before I was due to leave for Australia.
I offered.
I meant it.
But they said no … and I swear it’s because they knew if I didn’t go then, I may never go at all.
That’s just so typical of my parents … always wanting the best for me while also understanding the reality of me.
And while part of this was them having faith in the values they’d taught me – for example, chase a life of fulfillment, not contentment – I think another part is they realised something I’ve only just started to discover.
Distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, it makes your relationships more present.
Greater focus, awareness and understanding on what makes you work together. The confidence to dismiss the differences that stand in the way of your connection. The willingness to be vulnerable – not just to enable greater intimacy – but to acknowledge their desire to want to help you, even if you feel they shouldn’t need to. And an openness to the uncomfortable in the knowledge, you’re not being judged … you’re reaching out.
I appreciate this all sounds like a post-rationalisation for being away from the ones I love and care about.
And maybe a bit is.
But as I’ve said before, creating space so the people who matter get the best of me rather than what is left of me is important.
It’s not easy.
It comes with challenges and sacrifices.
But while proximity keeps you near, maybe – just maybe – distance helps close the gap.
See you in a couple of weeks.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Cannes, Dad, Emotion, Empathy, Experience, Friendship, Fulfillment, Jill, Love, Martin Weigel, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Paul, Paula, Planning, Shelly
So it’s the first of June.
How the hell did that happen?
On this day last year, I wrote about how amazing my May had been, well this year it seems the next 30 days will define how 2023 ends up for me.
I’ve got my birthday.
Jill’s birthday.
Paul’s birthday.
I get to go to the UK and see Paul and Shelly after a year.
I then go to Cannes and get to present ‘Strategy Is Constipated, Imagination Is The Laxative’ with the wonderful and brilliant Paula Bloodworth and Martin Weigel.
That’s quite the month of events.
It also means there will not be many posts this month – you lucky sods.
But it is also a reminder of a couple of important things.
The first is that regardless of age, there’s still things that can excite you.
There’s an attitude that once you hit 50, you’re supposed to act like you’ve done it all … and seen it all. But that is plainly bollocks.
Of course, a lot of that is down to attitude and opportunity.
Now I appreciate my privilege in being able to do these things – but as I’ve said many times, as you get older, you realise you have less time to do things and so there’s an urgency to try and cram as much in as you can. But the problem is, the more you do, the more you find you want to do and so you end up in this endless loop that is both fulfilling and frustrating.
You live with it because the alternative is far worse … hence I’ll always throw myself at things that are interesting, exciting or just curious weird.
That said, at the beginning of 2023, I decided this was the year of me saying ‘yes’ … so I’ve accepted a whole lot more things that I normally would do, driven by that fear that time to do this is getting less so I better take advantage while I can.
The other thing is being close to the ones you love should never be underestimated.
By all means go and explore the world.
Have adventures. Mess up and do stuff.
But don’t forget how important the people are who make your life special.
Now for me, it’s Jill and Otis who define that … but I can’t forget Paul and Shelly.
And while we’ve been apart for decades – bar my 2 years in England – the need to be physically closer to them is growing. It’s ironic that this has happened when I’ve never been so far away … but whereas seeing them once or twice a year was fine, it isn’t anymore.
So while I haven’t figured out how I change that yet – but I am working on it – it does mean I’m beside myself that I get to see them soon. Even better, on Paul’s birthday … something I’ve not been able to do since 2020.
Which reinforces 2 things.
One is how lucky I am. The other is how I am trying to fulfil my parents lesson of living a life of fulfilment rather than contentment. It took me till I was about 35 to really understand what that meant, but I do now and I hope I am doing it in a way where they’re looking down and nodding.
I haven’t heard your voices in years.
But everyday my heart still has conversations with both of you.
Sometimes together.
Sometimes on your own.
Grief hurts.
They say it gets better with age, but it’s not that it goes … it just changes and evolves.
From starting as a tsunami to eventually some waves … waves that seemingly come and go as they please, sometimes close, sometimes only seen from afar.
But when they hit. Oh boy, do they hit.
That intense feeling of being overwhelmed.
Being lost in the dark. All by yourself. Wondering if you’ll survive.
Which is ironic, given those are the moments when we’re probably as close as we can be these days.
So I remind myself all that pain is an expression of love.
A longing. A tension. A harmonious connection.
And so while the pain is pretty agonising when it’s in full flow, it’s so much better than the alternative.
Which is why I love letting the conversations go on … with the hope that one day, your voices are heard, not simply felt.
I miss you Mum and Dad.
Happy 59th anniversary.
Filed under: Anniversary, Comment, Dad, Death, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis
Today is the 8th anniversary of my Mum passing.
I’ve written a huge amount about how her death affected me.
How I realised that the operation to save her life, had cost her her life.
And yet, unlike Dad’s anniversary – that looms large over me, every year – Mum’s often slips my mind. There has been more than one occasion where the only reason I remembered it was because a friend wrote to send me their love on her anniversary.
Now I should point out I utterly love my Mum.
She was an incredible human who continues to influence how I look at the world.
But while her birthday is cemented in my heart and mind, the anniversary of her death isn’t.
Of course the circumstances between Mum and Dad dying were vastly different.
+ Dad died first.
+ I was 29 when Dad died and 44 when Mum did.
+ I was single when Dad died and a married father when Mum did.
+ I had just left home when Dad died and lived in lots of countries when Mum did.
+ When Dad died my Mum was still there to talk to, but when Mum died, I was alone.
I should point out when I say ‘alone’, I don’t mean literally – I had my wonderful Jill, who was amazing – but even that is different to having someone you can talk to about the life of the person who has died because you were both part of it for many years.
If you read this one day Jill, I hope you understand what I mean.
You were a rock to me. You helped me get through one of the worst times of my life without letting it become more terrible. So please don’t think I didn’t appreciate you – I did and I do and I always will.
This is all a bit rambling isn’t it?
The irony is that while I feel guilt about having to consciously remember Mum’s anniversary – despite having a tattoo of it on my arm – Mum would probably be very happy about it.
For her, she would see it as me remembering her birthday more than her final day – and that’s exactly how she would want it.
It took me 10 years to get to that stage for my Dad, but with Mum it was much quicker.
Again, there are probably many reasons for it – including Otis being only 3 months old when Mum died – but when I think of her, I think of her warmth, compassion, curiosity and spirit.
She was a gentle woman but also a determined one.
Actually determined isn’t quite right … she was, but in the pursuit of her independence. By that I mean in terms of her mind, beliefs, interests and life.
The older I get, the more I appreciate how she handled life.
It wasn’t the easiest, but she never complained or wanted help because she always recognised there were people worse off than her.
I can’t tell you how many ‘discussions’ we had about me wanting to give her money to make her life a little easier and her refusing to take it. It took years for us to find a way to make it work for both of us … which was me putting money in her bank account and she not spending a penny of it. Hahaha.
Oh I miss her.
I miss her voice, her face, her eyes, her questions and her love.
I am so glad I was with her when she died.
I knew one of her biggest fears was being alone when it happened … we had talked about it after it had happened to my Aunt – which is why of all the things I could do for her, making sure this didn’t happen is the one that I know she would have appreciated most.
Of course, not everyone is so lucky to know when this could happen – but with both my Mum and Dad, circumstances meant we were together and I’m so grateful for that.
Not that I always felt that way …
When I was much younger, the idea of being with my parents when they died was too overwhelming for me to consider.
I think I may even have told my parents.
How I imagined it would destroy me.
And it did.
But it was also incredibly important.
Because at that moment, everything was about them.
Their comfort. Their peace. Their ability to take that final step.
I’m not saying it was easy … I’m not saying it didn’t hurt … but in my mind, if it helped them, that’s all that really mattered.
And it helped both my parents.
Which means it helped me.
Because when they needed me most, I was there.
And while the pain of them dying will never heal, I know being there means it didn’t go as deep as it could.
When I think of this day, I think of everything that happened over that day.
It still stings.
But as much as I wish none of it happened, I am so glad I was able to be with her – and Dad.
Because I now see it as the most unlikely beautiful gift we could give each other.
I miss you Mum.
Love you.