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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

At another 50th birthday lunch, another milestone was also celebrated, his mothers 80th.

Close family and a few friends chatted over the meal; laughter and light memories.

(You know how it goes, the deeper, fraught family matters are parked for a while)

In a quiet moment, I turned to his mum, a few seats away and asked if she had some wise words for the table …

“No”

Point. Blank.

In that instant, I retreated into myself. She must be shy, evidenced by her gregarious husband holding centre stage.

And felt awkward about my clumsy attempt to draw her out and even a little chastised for unintended impertinence.

The day passed, as they do, and yet on the drive home from the mountains, I noticed that her ‘No’ remained.

And returned to mind in days that followed.

Until I asked myself.

What if her emphatic ‘No’ was in fact her answer to my question?

Around me, my friends are passing 50.

As a gift, last Saturday I trawled through more than 30 years of photos, digital and pre-digital, collating images of an old mate.

What an absorbing and enjoyable activity, traveling back in time, revisiting shared adventures, mischief and life’s milestones.

In all this looking back, what struck me was how quickly the years roll by.

The inexorable and most obvious metric being the sprouting upward of children …

Our past time is spent, invested, splashed and frittered; who can really discern in the midst of all the living?

Only later on reflection, the accretion of choices and how we used our allotment maybe makes sense.

So I ponder out another 30 years (touch wood), how quickly will they pass?

And what will be the view in looking back from then?

Perhaps like gazing upwards through leaves into the sky …

I grew up on a plateau, literally.

A strong formative memory is of sweeping views across hills to a saddle-backed mountain range.

These days however, reaching a plateau in your studies or career or business or personally, is typically viewed as a negative, we’ve stalled.

Isn’t progress an ever upward, straight line to mastery?

Perhaps it takes a while, but eventually we may notice that life and growth are non-linear.

Periods of success, learning and gains are often followed by dips and regression as things get hard or old habits re-assert. Two steps forward, one step back, if we are fortunate and persistent.

But what about times when nothing much changes? When we circle in one place? When ennui or staleness haunts us? When we reach a plateau?

Shouldn’t we be cracking on? Breaking through? Figuring it all out and innovating relentlessly?

How exhausting …

On a plateau we are granted time to look around, to take stock, to consolidate, to noodle on the side gig, to rest and regenerate.

Old salts know that when the wind doesn’t blow, it’s time to attend to the small jobs neglected when sails are full.

We can count on it, the next burst of activity or challenge will appear.

And in this way, we are ready.

A great friend and fine chef first introduced me to this paradoxical idea when we were making pizzas in his brick oven.

Instead of piling toppings on an inch thick as was my habit, he suggested using less and even leaving spaces where the crust was exposed, so the whole pizza would bake crisper and taste better.

Of course he was proved right, as evidenced by my soggy pizza.

I noticed this ‘less is more’ philosophy infused more than just his cooking. Whether in selecting ingredients for simplicity and quality over quantity; the manner in which he used a light touch with his staff; or in serving smaller portions leaving guests slightly hungry but with an enhanced appreciation of the meal.

Over the years I’ve experimented with ‘less is more’ as a leadership principle.

Some of what I noticed … scarcity can draw out creativity and ingenuity; reduced busyness returns the invaluable commodity of time; less force and pressure allows natural self responsibility to develop.

And crucially, less verbiage in a blog offers more clarity!