In Search Of The Best Move

As a chess player I’ve spent years searching for the best move.

My dad taught me the basics.

Then as a motivated school boy in the 80’s I studied every chess book I could find.

A sporadic tournament career in my 20’s was sensibly checked by professional and family priorities.

Now I’m an active online player, often top board for Team Australia at           

Winning chess hinges on consistently playing strong moves.

But finding these moves is a complex calculus.

Located at the intersection between the games objective variables and my many subjective influences.

“Make the decision, Take the risk, Pay the price”

After minutes, hours or even days of thought, I make a move.

Yet as I play the move on the board, I know my assessment of ‘best’ really means ‘the best I could find’.

To be tested for Truth by my opponents response …

En Passant

As time passes, I realise that my best chess moves are independent of any individual game or result.

One real reward comes from pursuing a passion over many years, through immersion, enjoyment and striving to learn and improve.

And now it’s about sharing my enthusiasm with another generation as a mentor and very tough opponent 🙂

Sydney Leadership Formation

The most recent cohort with well earned smiles.

In a reflective moment toward the end of the Retreat, I asked who it was that first nudged each to start into the work.

The answers were telling and representative: my manager; my CEO; my wife; my friend.
All past participants or closely allied, paying it forward.

A very fine move!

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Marking Progress

Each Sunday morning I join a local painting group.

We learn ‘old school’, classical techniques under the guidance of Jules.

I retain memories of daunting early classes. Experienced peers dashing off landscapes, portraits, animals etc on real canvases!

While I painted aubergines and apples onto cheap, small boards.

Two years later (i.e. last week), carrying a large work-in-progress canvas home, an elderly couple approached.

I noticed the woman looking at my picture.

As we drew level she caught my eye and said, “That’s a really great find you made!”


Confused at first, I saw the footpaths were covered with council cleanup junk.

She thought I’d salvaged the painting from someone’s discard pile.

I grinned and replied, “Actually, I’m painting this one.”

Laughter all round.

An unexpected, sideways compliment.


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Roadside Assistance

Walking our dog last week, I came upon an elderly man changing a flat tyre.

Crouched in the gutter, midday sun scorching down, I was moved to ask: “Are you alright? Do you need a hand?”

He turned toward me with a wary, bothered glance. And relaxed.

“Yes. I’m recovering from an operation.”

A surprisingly immediate and frank admission.

So I hunkered down in his place, jacked up the car and changed the tyre.

As I worked he told me he’d had surgery 4 weeks earlier. That he’d visited his doctor for another matter and been diagnosed with an abdominal aortic aneurysm (AAA).

He lifted his shirt and showed me the raw scar up his torso.

Surprised again. I told him that four years earlier my father died of a ruptured AAA, alone and undiagnosed.

Tyre changed, he asked if I lived locally. “Yes. Down the street. The house with all the piano music.”

Later in the evening my wife told me a man had knocked at the front door.

He said I’d helped him earlier and he wanted to leave me a gift.

She passed me a bottle in a brown paper bag.

A long-neck of Tooheys Old.

My dads beer.

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Crossing The Great Water

Our dreams are rich with insight, if we decode the messages.

This week, while facilitating a residential leadership retreat, one came my way.   

“A long suspension bridge spanned the ‘Swan’ river. Sagging, it dipped beneath the surface of the water for a great distance. Yet people in cars and trucks were still crossing. I sensed a man beside me and began to question him … how do those cars manage to cross? Is there visibility under the water? Is there a strong current? How do you seal the car? How do they stay on the road surface? etc. And to my growing concern, he gave me no answer …”

In exploring dreams, the literal rarely makes sense, so I seek connections and associations.

First I was surprised how clearly I knew the name of the river. The Swan River. I know it’s the name of the river running through Perth, but this has no strong relevance to me.

Then I remembered the previous evening watching parts of Jonathan Swans’ interview of President Trump. Swan, an Australian journalist and son of Dr Norman Swan, impressed me with his very straight forward, almost innocent approach.

The second obvious association was with Covid-19. The pandemic and it’s impact was a dominant background to all conversations over the preceding two days.

The perilous crossing of the bridge in my dream, seemed a fair metaphor for the unknowns which lie ahead.

Finally my thoughts traced back to my roots where I grew up on a property located behind Fawcetts Creek, in northern NSW.

Each February, during the rainy season, the creek would flood. At times we would need to cross it.

The process was always the same.

First a scouting of the natural ford, to assess the depth of water (above waist deep was too dangerous) and whether the creek bed was stable and unobstructed.

Even now I can recall the mesmerising swirls and power of the red-brown torrent.

If driving across appeared feasible then the Land Rover was prepared.

WD40 sprayed onto the electricals, a hessian sack tied to the grill to reduce the water surge onto the radiator fan and engine. 

The sturdy Rover was revved up and driven into the water at a confident speed.

Momentum is crucial. As is the ‘DO NOT STOP’ principle.

Once committed, there’s no room for hesitation or gear changes.

Fortunately we made each crossing safely.

When however the flood water was clearly too dangerous, we’d park the Rover.

Then hike three wet kilometres, skirting the creek along a track on higher ground, to a welcome home.

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In 2010 I subscribed to The New Yorker magazine after years of reading dated copies from the local library.

Quality essays, quirky cartoons, a weekly education.

And then occasionally, like in this April article, ‘Baking Bread in Lyon‘, a real gem shines.

An unremarkable pair of sentences to most readers, I am certain. An oblique aside, explaining a French term.

Yet to me, those words leapt from the page, full of meaning.

Describing a special relationship between formation and callingcomme c’est magnifique!

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Half Century

Earlier this month I passed the half century mark.

Obviously not the first to reach this milestone, nor the last, just another one of billions passing through.

Yet I am glad to have made it this far. At this time.

What does it feel like to turn 50?

Well … it feels like this picture!

On reflection, I am grateful to all who shared parts of my fifty year journey, through highs, lows and plateaus.

It’s true, I really wouldn’t have it any other way 🙂

What Really Matters

In passing 50 I notice what I care about most is clarifying and that I feel more inclined to give voice and take action on those matters.

    ‘If not now, when?’ I ask myself.

How heavily we humans tread upon this precious planet. Australia’s wounded relationship with Indigenous people and culture. 

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Gradual Progress

This week I found myself reflecting on progress, prompted partly by the launch of the latest Leadership Formation series.

But more viscerally and visually by my participation in a local painting class.

Each Sunday morning I join a small circle of students learning with the guidance of a classically trained French artist.

All newcomers begin at the beginning, by painting an eggplant still life.

Then moving at our own pace, we follow our inclinations into more challenging territory.

My latest project (my first commission!) is a violin for my wife to hang in her music room.

This progression represents six weeks effort …

Unsurprisingly the parallels to my work with teams, or in leadership formation are striking.

Trusting the process, gradually accumulating depth, pausing and painting, course correcting, parking the critical voice, steady absorption in the work.

And before you know it, with care and patience, what began as a rough intent, takes form as an expression of your Self.

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Travel Light

Last week I flew to Melbourne to scout the foundations of a Leadership Formation series there.

As the plane waited for take-off, the steward made familiar announcements and then added, “We won’t be serving tea and coffee on this flight due to expected turbulence.”

In his voice I heard uncertainty, whether saying this was the right thing to do, but there it was, said.

So on that beautiful, clear morning I started to quietly imagine lurking air pockets and Luna Park like plummets.

I always choose a window seat.

I like observing cloud structures, the topography of the land and the cities passing below.

And for another reason. Looking out the window I watch the bands of cloud we pass through and mountain ranges we fly over and so I can ‘explain’ the occasional bump and shudder. I guess this gives me a sense of security.

Anyway, at this point I wasn’t traveling light.

Anxious expectation floated in the cabin as the plane climbed out of Sydney and jetted south west.

Forty five minutes later we passed above the stunning Snowy Mountains. Isn’t this planet incredible!

And then the cabin crew passed by … serving tea and coffee.

Not long afterwards the pilot announced our imminent descent into Melbourne. He warned of strong winds from the south and the likelihood of a few ‘bumps’.

Again, the burden of worry infused the cabin …

The plane cruised out over the Bay and curved around to land from the south, the first time I’ve experienced this approach into Melbourne.

We landed perfectly, after what felt like the smoothest flight of my life.

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Small Synchronicities

Two Fridays back, intending to write this note but weary, I turned my laptop off for the day.

A train ride took me to Newtown with a vague idea to walk and browse, maybe watch a movie, sit in a cafe and discreetly observe passing life.

At the Dendy I smiled to myself and rolled the dice, asking for a ticket to the next movie showing.

I confess to a momentary pause on discovering it was titled, ‘On The Basis of Sex’ … too early in the day for eros?

With half an hour to wait, Elizabeth’s second hand book shop called me.

Where a Leonard Cohen biography stared from the centre of a trestle table. An aunt who came of age in the sixties, once said he was a better poet than Dylan and more deserving of that Nobel literature prize. So the $14 seemed a bargain for me to decide for myself.

I notice my curiosity turning toward the ways art in all forms can stimulate and sustain a human spirit.

The film was excellent, telling of Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s early legal career fighting sex discrimination. However, what caught my attention and really moved me was the portrayal of Ruth’s relationship with her daughter Jane. Clearly it was a mirror I needed to look into that day.

Afterwards sitting with coffee, feeling a little out of place on bohemian King Street, I skimmed my new book.

Refreshed by a day of small, unexpected finds.

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