The Story Behind The Story

I had started writing a different letter to you this week and then, as I watched this sunset from a friend’s porch in the Banhoek Valley, this letter started to write itself and so here we are, with a different letter to the one that I intended to send you.

I am going to cheat slightly though, because that unfinished letter had begun with this beginning, and I am keeping that…

In May, I told you about Atang Tshikare’s solo exhibition, Peo e Atang. The show was a courageous move. He had put the show on himself, outside of the gallery system, something that very few artists do, and even fewer successfully. I was taken by his work, and immediately bought an edition of the shapeshifter, Khodumodumo.

My spontaneous decision has been affirmed both by the fact that the Khodumodumo series has sold out, and then Atang was invited by Dior Maison to be one of seventeen artists to reimagine one of Dior’s defining emblems: the medallion chair.

I was excited to see him working on that global stage. The work is titled Dinaledi, and it is a representation of Atang’s ongoing work with culture, tradition, cosmology, and the desire to build a world that is more at peace.

On a South African front he has recently completed this astonishing table with South African architect-led design house, Okha.

In a few months, he has moved from the seeming precarity and risk of a self-funded show to high-profile collaborations. Of course, this in turn builds on years of dedicated effort and focused intent.

His success represents, for me, so many of the themes that energise my coaching work and my writing to you, namely that our actions create new possibilities, that connection to our pasts, our selves, and our stories enable us to imagine new ways of living and being in the world, that it is through a deep connection to ourselves that we are best able to influence others, for that connection ensures that our actions are authentic, they have a truth that resonates with others souls.

The thought that took shape as I watched the sky put on its pink and grey nightclothes, was that it was two months since I had written to you to tell you of my journey through Covid. I have said little about it since. I have maintained the appearance of ‘back to normal’. Yet, underneath has been a different reality, and so the sunset thought was that perhaps there was value in me sharing some of that with you. That perhaps me pausing might create the same possibility for you so that you’re able to explore more creative conversation and connection with those around you.

/ Strategy 

As you know, I commit 12 hours a week – 600 hours a year – to reading articles and books and listening to podcasts. I do this to hone the skill and knowledge that I bring to my coaching practice, and to this writing to you.

Since the beginning of the year, I have heard a tension, one that has gathered in intensity over the last few months. I am not quite sure how to articulate the two sides of this tension, because they’re not strictly ‘sides’, perhaps they’re tendencies, for often they’re not just out there but they live alongside each other, in our hearts and minds.

The one is an almost impersonal force; it is a statement that declares that the time has come to return to normal. It is the stuff of press releases and memos to staff. It is also the declaration that we make to ourselves, the determined ‘just get on with it’, and it inadvertently becomes what we transmit to those around us.

In quieter more personal, more private moments, there is doubt and a more tentative conversation that tries to make sense of where we are, where I am.

They’re conversations about fatigue, of not wanting to ‘go back’, about the desire to keep the connection with family life, to travel less, about profound pain of personal loss, and of economic vulnerability. About the confusion of who am I now and what kind of life do I want to build?

These conversations bubble into our consciousness in articles about how European city officials are trying to find ways to manage tourism more effectively, to return cities to their residents; others speak of the ‘great resignation’ – PWC recently published survey results stating that 65% of US employees want to change their job in the next year (my immediate thought was where will they all go? If the overwhelming majority want to leave where they are, that suggests that arriving in a new job may not bring what one hopes for); there is a flood of commentary on economic inequality; increased awareness of mental health;  and debates about the length of the workweek.

The ‘back to normal’ statements try to swallow this complexity. Yet, the complexity can remain stubbornly in place. And, if we try to build our recovery on shifting sands, we will fail.

The same is true for each of us. We make bold declarations. We need to. We need to envisage and declare our futures…and there is complexity, tiredness, fatigue, frustration. Both are true. We need to work with both.

We need a vision of the future to move forward, there is the urgency of wanting our businesses and lives to thrive, and we need to pause to have the conversations, to allow ourselves the space and time to explore new ways of doing things, to be curious about what else might be possible. How might we do both, continue, and be renewed?

/ Self 

Underneath these big themes, is you, is me, is us. It is our actions that shape our worlds. What is happening in our lives, in our hearts?

Let me tell you what I haven’t so far. Let me share the flow of life that has happened, beneath and around the steady flow of my letters that arrive in your inbox each week. The story behind the story you’ve seen.
Midway through my Covid journey, Roxanne slipped and fell on the stairs, tearing ligaments in her ankle. We didn’t know it then, but she would need ligament replacement surgery.

I hadn’t heard her fall, but I heard the sounds of her crying coming up the stairs. I got out of bed and shuffled down to the kitchen. She lay half on the floor, legs still twisted back on the stairs, face covered in tears, ankle ballooning.

That night, there was little we could do. I was too weak to help her stand. She shuffled up three flights of stairs on her bottom, one stair at a time with me stooped over her, pretending, trying, to be helpful. At one point we started to laugh.

She could no longer navigate the stairs in our home, her father moved two beds downstairs into the lounge. She battled on; her foot vacuumed into a moon boot. I remained too weak to move.

In the days after Covid released its grip on me, she kept consulting with her orthopedic surgeon on her progress or rather her lack thereof. Eventually, he suggested an MRI scan. The scan revealed that her ankle ligaments had been completely destroyed. Her told her to get into bed and not move until he could schedule surgery to attach artificial ligaments.

So, we have spent the last two months recovering in parallel. The first five weeks were hard. Roxanne was confined to bed. Her pain was overwhelming, and sometimes – amusingly – the painkillers even more so. I was still struggling to breathe and move normally.

Mornings were strange. I would wake up with my usual optimism, but by the time I had made it downstairs to the kitchen, I was overwhelmed with heart palpitations and anxiety. I gave up trying to figure out whether it was physiological or psychological, I decided that it simply was, and I would just wait it out. I learned that eventually, it passed.

I was determined to ‘return to normal’. Roxanne needed to be cared for. She had cared for me. Meals needed to be cooked, teas made, life needed to continue at its normal pace. I had clients I wanted to work with, and letters I wanted to write.

And, as much as I declared that normal must return, life conspired against me. Covid recovery would regularly and carelessly toss me into a sludgy pit where movement felt impossible. You know that plate of pasta and midday chardonnay feeling? That feeling! Randomly! Repeatedly! It was, at first, overwhelming and then, after a while, I would confront the dark clouds with profound irritation – ‘you again!’, I thought. Strangely, acknowledging their return helped make those moments more bearable. They seem to have mostly gone.

By the day’s end, I was exhausted, hardly able to make it up the stairs, and was astonishingly, uncharacteristically, explosively irritable. I would put myself to bed by 20h00 to avoid saying anything unwarranted and unforgivable. On colder nights, my chest ached. It still does, from time to time.

During this time both of Roxanne’s elderly grandfathers passed on, and so did a dear friend of mine. Some of my clients had severe Covid, some lost colleagues, friends, and family, others had horrible reactions to the vaccine. We have all experienced so much loss. Friends and friends’ children got swept up in the Delta wave, thankfully all recovered. The country burned. People were killed. All around the anxiety of what might happen next.

/ Soul

Our story is not unique. I know that yours is similar.

I share this with you because each week you receive my letter, my declaration that says, ‘here I am, doing my thing’, and yet underneath there has been all of this. There’s a story behind the story that you read.

That is also true for you. That is true for everyone around you. We all need to ‘do our thing’, and yet what magic might we unlock if we paused to hear their stories?

So, how might you slow and listen, to yourself, to those around you? We do need the declarations of action, of rebuilding, and we need the healing of connection. Bringing them together holds the possibility of creation and innovation. Pausing to acknowledge and explore will help us craft new ways of being that help.

As I type these final words, Roxanne is moving around the house. She has been for two weeks, the spring sun is heating the mountains, there are francolins calling somewhere from the vineyards, there’s a book to be read, the world is moving, there are people to connect with, stories to be heard, and the possibility of shaping something that serves us and our planet better. This feels good. The sunset caused me to pause, to share with you the story behind the story. I hope that it helps.

Sometimes, always, admitting that it’s hard is the first step to renewal.

Karl

PS: If you’d like to know more about my coaching practice this is my website, and this is what my clients say about working with me.

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(this letter was first published on 12 Sept 2021)