Alan Fox

Two weeks ago my blog began with a joke, and ended with a challenge.

The joke:

How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?

Only one.  But the light bulb has to want to change.

The challenge:

I gave myself two weeks, until November 21, 2017, to neaten up my workspace.

My report today, November 21, 2017, will begin with a joke.

How many psychiatrists does it take to neaten up my workspace?

None.  I hired someone else to do the job.

As for the challenge, I’m happy and relieved to report success.  See the photo of my desk that I took yesterday.

I knew I was too attached to all of the loose papers and folders cluttering my desk, even those I haven’t looked at for years, and since I’m not very good at organizing physical things I hired my friend Jeanne to do the job.  Over the years Jeanne has successfully organized my books and papers at home, and last week she did a great job organizing my desk.

My personal reaction to my neat desk is:

1. I think I’m walking into the wrong office.
2. I’m afraid I will not be able to find something I need. But for the past week I have found everything I need.
3. I’m concerned that Jeanne has set a standard I will not be able to maintain, and that my desk will soon be a mess again. But that hasn’t happened yet.
4. After more than fifty years in business, I’m still learning to delegate assignments — those I either don’t like to do or those I’m not good at. Next time I won’t wait twenty years to ask Jeanne to take over for me.
5. I feel a sense of freedom, and it’s now easier for me to focus on the task at hand.

So the challenge I gave myself worked – especially because I made it public.  One colleague whom I’ve worked with for more than thirty years mentioned that she will be stopping by my office today to inspect my desk for herself.  I hope she will be pleased.

Just for fun, if you have any kind of clutter that you’d like to neaten up, send me a photo and I’ll post it.  I will not reveal names – just photos.  It would be interesting to see what kinds of physical chaos other people face in their lives.

I wish everyone a very happy Thanksgiving, and in the words of my mother, “Finish everything on your plate.”

Of course, after years of practice, cleaning everything off my plate, if not my desk, is something I’m pretty good at.

Alan

My red Tesla is the best car I’ve ever owned.  It accelerates quickly, plays the music I love, and drives itself on the freeway so I can arrive at my destination fresh, rather than worn-out.

My Tesla and I have a deal.  It carries me along the road, GPS as a guide, bathing me in comfort and music.  And every evening I plug in its electric cord to supply the charge it needs to operate the following day.  That’s the deal.  The Tesla does its part and I do mine.

One recent evening, despite my best intentions, I failed to do my part. The following morning my Tesla was not fully charged when I began a drive from Studio City to Reno.  I knew there was a Tesla charging station along the way and assumed I’d be fine, but as I drove along a highway north of Los Angeles a steep incline drained the power more quickly than I had anticipated. Before I reached the summit just three miles of electricity were left.

I stopped at a gas station with an electric charger.  But it was not a Tesla charger, and the attendant couldn’t help me.  She said I was only two miles from the top and once there I could coast twenty miles to the Tesla charger on the other side.  She noted that I still had three miles of electricity, and wished me luck.

I don’t normally sweat, but for those last two miles I did.  I felt like I was on the road to H*** but instead of the needed energy the road was paved with nothing but my good intentions.  I drove slowly, and apologized to the heavens for my neglect.  My apologies didn’t help.  Then I pleaded for just enough juice to reach the summit. That didn’t help either.  With just five hundred feet to go my beloved Tesla quit.  Out of energy, it stopped, without even warning me to pull off the road.

I let my Tesla roll backward, hoping it wouldn’t be hit by oncoming traffic, and parked it on the shoulder.

I closed my eyes and slumped against the steering wheel, then got out of the car and cursed.  After that, I cried.  Then I thought of all of my wonderful excuses for not fully charging my car the evening before.  Nonetheless, my Tesla rested where it had stopped, unmoved, unmoving, on the side of the road while I waited for a service truck to arrive.

Late that evening I arrived in Reno, tired, angry, and ashamed.  I had narrowly avoided two accidents along the way because I failed to pay proper attention to my driving.

This is not just the story of a doomed driving trip.  It’s a parable for every human life.  Good intentions are great.  They help us feel good, make us smile, and show a generous spirit springing from a reservoir of kindness.

But good intentions, unaccompanied by actions, pave the road to emotional wounds to our family, our friends, and ourselves. Good intentions, without good actions, create toxic bonds of blame and a world littered with strained or ruined relationships.

Please, please be as kind in both your words and deeds as you are in your mind and heart. Or you might find yourself alone and stranded by the side of the road, many miles from where you intended to be.

Alan

I was watching Saturday afternoon football on TV, and wondering what I would write my next blog about when I received the following email.

Alan,
The buyers have agreed and signed our counter offer. I will open escrow on Monday and be in touch with you, Congratulations!
Bill O.

I thought, “Great!”  But at the same time I felt hollow.

The house I have for sale is located across from the Mission Ranch on Dolores Street in Carmel, California. I was introduced to the quaint, seaside town of Carmel more than fifty years ago by one of my very best friends, John.  The house on Dolores is the first one I ever built. It’s surrounded by cypress trees and beauty. It’s where my family and I celebrated Christmas with friends for more than thirty years. But last year I spent Christmas on a Caribbean cruise – the tradition of Christmas in Carmel finished because of my divorce, and, partly, my own declining interest.

On reading the email that the house in Carmel might be finally sold, I initially thought “Great!” And then I felt hollow.  That’s the way it often is – my mind goes one way, my heart goes another.

The “Great” was from my head and completely justified.  Over the past twenty years, other than for those few days during Christmas, I had seldom visited the house.  Once I showed up in July without giving anyone notice.  The house was a mess.  The caretaker had assumed I would never arrive unexpectedly, and I found the sheets and towels from Christmas still piled on the floor in front of the washing machine.  But by then even Christmas in Carmel had lost its zest, even if the spaghetti sauce I prepared each year for thirty or forty guests had not.

Also, I had blocked the CPA part of my mind from telling the rest of me that the Dolores house was costing me tens of thousands of dollars a day for only five or six days a year of actual use.  Mortgages and property taxes don’t care about Christmas.

“Great!” my mind now said.  “You won’t have to take care of that house any longer.  No more new roofs, no gardener, no painting.  And I won’t have to replace the thirty-five year old carpet (still the original).  Selling Dolores will be a blessing!”

But at the same time there was a hollow place inside me where all the good memories still live. I spent many wonderful hours in that house: playing pinochle until dawn with my father brother, enjoying my young children as they tore off wrapping paper to find their gifts, feeling the warmth of a crackling pine fire during many chilly winter nights.

I hold on to people, and to places.  I simply don’t like to let anything go.

But, hopefully, my Carmel home away from home will soon be owned, probably remodeled, by another family who will bring to it their own dreams, experience in it their own joys, and create their own sweet memories.

As the American Indians use to say, we don’t really own anything.  We only get to use it for a while.

Alan