Aboodi Shabi

In the work I do at Newfield, we spend a lot of time working with, and looking at, moods and emotions. Not in the psychological sense, but more from the perspective of moods and emotions as pre-dispositions for action. For example, if I am in a mood of anger, or resentment that pre-disposes me to different actions than if I am in a mood of joy, or gratitude. We are always in one mood or another, and understanding that is a key part of our work. By exploring where we act from, we have much greater capacity to change our actions, and the results we can generate in life.

If we move away from the idea of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ moods, we can instead see some moods as more helpful than others in specific contexts. For example, we can see that in some situations, fear is useful – alerting us to danger, and making us careful. At the same time, fear can be unhelpful if it stops us taking actions that would serve us. On the other hand, we can see that a mood of ambition will help us to create new projects and ventures, but, also, at the same time, it might blind us to the dangers or pit-falls in that project.

All moods have their benefits, or lessons, for us, and there’s no one-size-fits-all mood that is helpful in all situations. However, I have been exploring one mood that I think is especially dangerous, and while I wouldn’t go so far as to call it ‘bad’, or ‘wrong’, I do think we need to take a good look at this mood – cynicism – and the damage it can do.

I wrote a few months ago about the new coalition in the UK , and mentioned the cynicism which accompanied the new Government’s ambitions to create a ‘new kind of politics’. And, since then, the British press and the commentators on “have your say” columns have seized plenty of opportunities to talk about how “it won’t last”.

Cynicism is exactly that – the belief that something new can’t work, a belief that kills off any sense of possibility.

This is not an argument for blind optimism; indeed, a certain skepticism, or questioning of new ideas/ventures etc, is necessary to prevent falling into pit-falls, and to provide a certain groundedness in moving forward – making any new initiative or project into a success is not simply a case of “building it and they will come”. But, when we are in a mood of cynicism, then it’s as if we are saying “Don’t even bother to build it”, “don’t try to do anything new, different, because it will fail” (often, accompanied by the unspoken suffix “it will fail as anything new has done”). A mood of cynicism is often the result of having tried in the past, having believed in something, and then having been disappointed or let down.

In the introduction to his fascinating book, “The Politics of Meaning”, Rabbi Michael Lerner writes:

“There is a profound difference between cynicism and a methodological scepticism which rightly asks for some reason to believe that the world can be different. Much of this book is a response to the sceptic. But it will never satisfy the cynic, who holds with religious intensity the view that nothing fundamental can be changed. Pointing to the terrible crimes that have been committed in the name of social change, and relying on the disappointments most of us have felt when we gave ourselves to social movements or religious or spiritual traditions that promised transformation but actually reproduced some of the distortions of the past, the cynical wisdom of our age insists that to be sophisticated is to know in advance that no attempts to change the world could possibly work, and that anyone who thinks otherwise is necessarily a fool, or dangerous.

Yet, I insist on the possibility of possibility.”

I think that last sentence is an exquisite declaration, an insistence that, despite maybe several disappointments, several failures, it’s still worth trying to make something better.

A life that admits no possibility of possibility is the bleakest, most hopeless, kind of life, one I’ve certainly known in my own life from time to time.

However, it is one thing for me to be hopeless about the possibility for change in my own life – that creates plenty of misery for sure, but quite another thing to be cynical about the possibility of change for others, or in the world, that truly is the worst kind of mood because it has the potential to kill off any hope in anyone that things could actually be better.

Israel is almost always in the news, and it’s an area I take a keen interest in – I have plenty of family there, and it’s a place I know reasonably well. I read commentators in both the British and Israeli press, and often attend talks about Israel in London.

One of the things that strikes me the most, however, is not about Israel per se, but about how we talk about Israel.

For example, I recently joined The Economist group on Facebook, and, every time The (famously dry and even-tempered) Economist posts a link to any article about Israel, it takes about ten minutes for its Facebook page to fill up with comments, most of which are attacking the views of others, denouncing opposing views as ‘stupid’, ‘naïve’ ‘supporting terrorism (or state terrorism)’, or worse. You can see such polarised views on Twitter (do a quick search of hash-tags “Gaza” or “flotilla”), or on the “have your say” columns of any online news site.

And, the other night, I was at a debate in a synagogue in London. Even while the speakers were presenting their views, people from the floor were shouting “rubbish!”, “you’re wrong!”, etc. One man even had a home-made sign saying “Incorrect!” which he would hold up from time to time. There was a comedy element to this, and, indeed, there was plenty of laughter, mixed in with irritation, amongst the audience, but, ultimately, it was just very sad that there couldn’t even be a debate about the topic, with respect accorded to speakers whose views might be different than those of some of the audience. At one stage, a rabbi in the audience shared that for her, some of the views expressed were very uncomfortable, but what was more uncomfortable for her was the mood of hostility towards those expressing alternative views: “If we can’t respectfully listen to views very different from our own, then what hope is there for peace in the world?”

Despite all of this heat, there is almost no discussion about how we talk about Israel. In fact, we rarely talk about how we talk about anything, but what strikes me about talking about Israel is how quickly any discussion turns into a heated conversation, often turning very ugly very quickly.

And it has reached an even uglier place, where Arab Israeli members of the Knesset have received death threats for having a ‘poisonous stance against Zionism and Israel’. In other words, “if you disagree with how I see it, not only are you wrong, but you deserve to die”.

How can this be? How can we become so heated about an issue that we lose sight of the human being, and merely see whether or not they agree with us as being the key issue? And, how can we be so sure we are right, even without the hostility and the heat?

I think the key to what’s at play here lies in the confusion between our interpretation of reality, our beliefs about life, and reality itself. In other words, we don’t say “these events happened, and this is how I interpret them”, or “this is how I see the world”, we say “this is the way the world is”.

We think that what we see, and know, are “the truth”, but actually we are shaped towards seeing the world in a particular way, by the stories we grow up with, by the conversations we are immersed in, by the cultures in which we live, and then we claim that the way we see the world is the way the world is. And then, of course, because we are “right”, anyone who sees differently must be wrong (and, often, therefore, somehow less human).

In the introduction to “Presence”, by Peter Senge is a beautiful story from a leadership workshop which Peter Senge was running in South Africa, in 1990, when the apartheid system was in its last days.

During the workshop, which was for both blacks and whites, the participants were shown a video of Martin Luther King’s I Have a Dream speech, which had never been seen in South Africa before.
After the video was shown, one of the participants, an Afrikaans business-man turned to one of the black community leaders, Anne Loetsebe, and said to her: “I want you to know that I was raised to think you were an animal.” And then he started crying. Anne just held him in her gaze and nodded.

Clearly, the man’s views are shaped in a particular direction by growing up, and living in, the cultural discourses of South Africa at that time. This point is made several times in the exquisitely good “Playing the Enemy: Nelson Mandela and the Game That Made a Nation”” by John Carlin, about Nelson Mandela, and about his role in the Springboks victory in the 1995 Rugby World Cup in South Africa.

As the author points out several times, there is no “truth”, there are only ways of seeing the world, and the beauty of Mandela was that he understood that, and then sought to meet people where they were, understanding and legitimising their world-view, and seeking to allay their fears and concerns, even to the extent of learning to speak the language of his “enemy”. The culmination of his years of “meeting the enemy”, always treating him with courtesy and respect, is a very moving piece where he turns up on the pitch for the final game, in front of thousands of white Afrikaaners, wearing the green Springboks shirt (which was hated by black South Africans as a symbol of apartheid), and is greeted by shouts of “Nel-son! Nel-son!” by the mostly white crowd. It’s an astonishing moment of reconciliation that moved me to tears as I was reading it.

So, it is possible to have a very different kind of conversation, even about the issues we disagree on most. But it starts, I think, with one fundamental thing – the capacity to care for the other, and to legitimise that they might see the world very differently from us. I’ve been lucky enough to have had some very good conversations with some of my family and friends about Israel, where we disagree, but where our care about the relationship is more important than being right. When that happens, the conversation is wide open, and there’s nothing to prove – just the capacity to understand why someone sees differently than I do.

Quote

“A good conversation means lend me your eyes.” – Julio Olalla

Let me begin by saying that in my 30-ish years of adult life, I have always been on the left politically (apart from a few years of flirtation with anarchism), and have always regarded the right with suspicion and dis-trust. Often, this felt more of a gut reaction than a rational response, but, nevertheless, I have consistently never wanted a Conservative government in this country.

The recent election we had was no different, except that this time I knew that the Labour government was tired, and unpopular, and was resigned to a government I didn’t want being in office for the first time in thirteen years. As I watched the election results come in, I hoped, despite the polls, that there would, after all, be a strong vote for the Labour and Liberal party, and that we would see a broad-left coalition government.

It was not to be. The result is of course well-known by now, but when I woke up to a hung Parliament, and the possibility of a Conservative minority government, or some kind of Conservative-Liberal alliance, I was dismayed.

One of the most surprising things to have happened to me over the last eighteen months or so has been my exploration of Judaism.
Although my father was Jewish, he wasn’t at all observant, and I was brought up in the Church of England, and then, as an adult, after an initial foray into Buddhism, landing up as a fairly consistent committed atheist, albeit with ‘mystic tendencies’.

And then, quite by chance, I found myself on a train back from a coaching course with a fellow student. We started talking and found an initial connection with his wife being the daughter of my father’s tailor. We then moved on to discuss Judaism, my new companion’s faith.

What he said then has stayed with me ever since, and has been one of the most important things I’d heard in a long time. “Judaism,” he said, “is, for me, not about the religion itself, but a series of practices that help create a sense of community”.

Although I have identified as an atheist for years, I do have a love of ritual, and believe strongly in the importance of ritual as a way to give both structure and meaning to life. But this was something stronger than that. Here was a part of my heritage that I had never integrated, nor even explored, suddenly making immediate sense to me.

The next months were a period of fascinating and very rich exploration – I went to synagogue a few times with a friend, began reading a few books on Judaism and its rituals, and went to Limmud (a Jewish philosophy retreat, which was amazing despite the fact that it involved camping in the rain!). I found much to love. And, the fact that Judaism has space for atheism has helped to make it attractive to me.

But, more important to me than that, has been the practice of observing some, but by no means all, of the rituals. And especially the weekly ritual of Shabbat – the seventh day.

In one of the books I read, there was a lovely explanation of the whole ritual of Shabbat – of preparing for the day of rest by making sure that all chores were done before the lighting of the candles on Friday night, so that one could enter the day of rest with everything done, and enjoy and celebrate the day of disengagement from one’s working routines.

And, each week, unless I am teaching a course, I now spend part of Friday making sure that my home is clean and tidy, and that all my shopping is done (I am not a fastidious observer of Shabbat, so I will cook and wash up etc), and that all my work is complete, so that I can be ready to relax into the evening ritual of lighting candles and switching off.

I am very lucky, too, in that I live next door to the oldest Victorian Turkish Baths in London, so that every Saturday morning I go for a session at the Baths – a weekly ritual that has become very important to me, and very much a part of my day of rest. I love the simplicity of the place – men from all walks of life come there to switch off from the week, to unwind and relax, to sit in companionable silence, or to argue about football, computers and politics. There are men who have been going there every week for fifty or more years, which definitely speaks to the importance of the ritual as a cornerstone of a full life.

And then, after the Bath, the day is mine to do what I like with – no more spending Saturdays catching up on e-mails, or planning a coaching programme, or feeling obligated in some way. The day is now one of withdrawal from the world of engagement. The more I practice this ritual the more important it becomes, and the more I travel and do the work I do, the more I realise how much I need this part of my life.

In an increasingly busy and full life, I think we have a greater need for some way to find peace in the busyness, to acknowledge the cycles and rhythms of life, to find ways to disengage from the everyday world, and take time to restore and feed the soul.

Reflections

How do you replenish your soul?

How might you build a practice to acknowledge the rhythms of life, to provide a “ground” for you to come back to yourself after the engagements and busyness of the week?

Quotation:

“Rest is not just a psychological convenience; it is a spiritual and biological necessity. Perhaps that is why, in most spiritual traditions, “Remember the Sabbath” is more than simply a lifestyle suggestion. It is a commandment…” – Wayne Muller

Like many of my friends, I have been watching Obama’s battle to introduce health care reforms into the US with some concerns – concerns about the issue itself, and about the heat of the issue on both sides.

And, all that said, it was still a relief for me to wake up this morning to the news that the bill has now been passed, in part because the cost of failure would have been huge for Obama.

However, I was also especially intrigued by this analysis from Michael Tomasky, who said: “at its heart the story is about the tension in American society between the individual and the community – whether we are just a loose confederation of individuals who should be left alone to pursue self interest, or something more than that, a community of citizens with mutual ties and obligations.“

That wider, more philosophical, perspective makes so much sense. It resonates a lot with the work I do around cultural discourses, and sheds light as to just why the issue was so important, and makes me even gladder that Obama was successful.

The piece below on “Lies to stop believing” has attracted a wide range of views, both complimentary and critical.

I’ve just been reading the Jewish philosophy magazine, Tikkun, and come across this piece on “Wanting Fully Without Attachment“, which contains the following excellent couple of paragraphs, which resonated with what I was trying to get across:

“If you are an activist or in some other way engaged with working to transform external reality, you may wonder whether this path would ultimately lead to apathy or lack of engagement with the world. What about children’s need for food or safety, for example? How can we not insist that these needs be met? Yet, even in this acute example, we can still see the difference between giving up and letting go of attachment. It is not about giving up on the hope for all the children in the world to be safe and have sufficient food. Nor is it about giving up on working to eliminate hunger and violence. Rather, it is about being able to tolerate internally the possibility — which is also the current reality! — that it just may not happen that all the children in the world will be safe and have sufficient food. If we cannot tolerate the possibility, then how can we have space inside to interact with life as it is? If our approach is based on what should happen, without this capacity to accept life, what would keep us from trying to force a solution? We have all seen so many historical examples of revolutions that turned into a new regime of horror. How will we ensure that we can sustain our vision and openness if we cannot tolerate what is happening and those who are supporting what is happening? To protect ourselves, we often turn away from the dual horror we need to experience to keep our hearts open. We protect ourselves from the horror of knowing that one child under five years old dies every six seconds, or almost 18,000 daily, from malnutrition and related causes (not to mention the effects of wars of all kinds). And we protect ourselves from the fear of succumbing to the anger and desperation that lead to re-creating domination and horror. Without the tools to keep our hearts open, many of us do, indeed, shut down and tune out the plight of the children so that we can even manage to continue with our own personal lives.

If, however, we remain open to the possibility that no solution will arise and at the same time continue to bring our heart and attention and action to working toward a solution, our work takes on an entirely different flavor. We work toward our dreams, we embrace the vision and our needs in full, and we remain open in the face of what is happening. In doing so, whether or not we have external success (and so far as I know, none of us knows how to move the world from here to where we want it to be), our work itself becomes a modeling of what the world could be.”

I wish I’d managed to put it so well!

After a difficult financial year last year, and knowing that the future looked uncertain, I decided to move into a smaller and cheaper flat, which I did towards the end of last year.

Although the flat is smaller, it is a much nicer space, or at least it has the potential to be, and it has a proper management company who actually care about the building and the residents.

One of the things that I liked most about the flat was the elegant parquet flooring through-out the apartment. Admittedly it was covered by a hideous carpet, and badly in need of sanding and re-varnishing, but I new that once Id decorated the flat, Id be able to get the floor restored and was looking forward to the beauty of a newly-polished old wooden floor.

But, it was not to be.

The management company, on finding out my plans, pointed out that one of the rules of the building is that all floors must be carpeted to minimise the noise disturbance to the other residents. Of course, I was disappointed, but the more I thought about it the more at peace I became with this. I had a long discussion with the Building Manager about it, and ended up telling him that I would rather live in a building where there were rules and a structure to take care of the residents than in a free-for-all like the last place I lived in, where the communal areas were shabby and neglected.

And, it made me think again about the idea that getting what we want is always a good thing, and that restrictions and limits are a bad thing. Actually, the benefit of community is one that I think its worth making personal sacrifices for.

As regular readers will be aware, one of my pet themes is the problem of entitlement. And in an apartment block, or neighbourhood, or country, or even a world, in which getting my own way, or doing what I want, is more important than following the rules of a community, or respecting limits, then, I think, things soon fall apart.

The dark shadow of the cult of individual freedom is that, ultimately, community becomes seen as restrictive or limiting, and we put our own personal satisfaction above the good of the whole. Werner Erhard used to talk of a world that works for everyone, which requires a very different way of being in the world than the pursuit of individualism and personal freedom at all cost.

From the perspective of a world that works for everyone, we have to navigate between my personal wants and freedoms and the good of the community, and there are some important things for us to reflect on:

What are the things that I want, and how do they impact on the community, and on the wider world?

What are the benefits to me of the community, or relationships, that becomes available to me when I let go of getting my own way, or of doing what I want?

What difference will it make to my community, or to the world at large, if I let go of some of my personal freedoms?

Quotes:

“We can choose to live in a ‘you or me’ world, or in a ‘you and me world”. – Werner Erhard.

“You see, the whole thing in marriage (for marriage, substitute, community/neighbourhood, etc) is the relationship and yielding – knowing the functions, knowing that each is playing a role in an organism… marriage is an ordeal; it means yielding, time and again. That’s why it’s a sacrament: you give up your personal simplicity to participate in a relationship. And when you’re giving, you’re not giving to the other person: you’re giving to the relationship. And if you realize that you are in the relationship just as the other person is, then it becomes life building, a life fostering and enriching experience, not an impoverishment because you’re giving to somebody else. This is the challenge of a marriage.”- Joseph Campbell

The personal development world, in particular, makes many claims about the kind of life that is possible for us, if we follow certain routes, or buy certain books/workshops/coaching, etc.. Some of these claims speak directly to beliefs that we hold about life, too.

There’s nothing wrong with aspirations, or wanting ‘a better life’, but I think we have come to hold these aspirations as expectations – the idea that we are somehow entitled to them, and that, if only we do the right thing, those expectations will come true.

I call these claims “lies to stop believing”, because I have found, both in my own life, and those of the people with whom I work, that there is a lot of suffering caused by the disappointment when these expectations aren’t met.

What are some of these “lies”?

Some day, my prince(ss) will come. Not necessarily – many people face a lifetime of not meeting their prince or princess. An increasing number of us might have to face a future of growing old alone, and accept that there isn’t “someone out there, just for me”.

You can make your dreams come true. You probably can’t. This is one of the ones I hear and read about most often, and perhaps one of the most insidious. Yes, we can aspire to fulfil our dreams, but we need to be grounded in the reality that most of us aren’t going to be able to have the ‘life we always dreamed of’.

Things will get better. No, they might not. This might be ‘as good as it gets’.

If you build it, they will come. Again, they might not.

I deserve better than this. Perhaps, most harshly of all, why? Deserving is absolutely tied up with entitlement, and it’s a myth that I deserve anything – it’s an act of sheer good fortune that I have the comfortable life I have, and am not living on the streets of Rio de Janeiro, or languishing in a prison-cell in Baghdad.

Sorry to be so blunt, but there it is – life is unfair. The good guy doesn’t always get the girl, and the bad guy sometimes wins. We can have our dreams, do our affirmations, practice chanting and meditating on our goals, do the work, network, go on plenty of dates, and still not get what we long for.

This might sound negative, defeatist even, especially from a coach, but I want to suggest that acceptance of the possibility that we might not get what we long for is also a route to peace.

When I accept that life isn’t necessarily going to bring me what I long for (of course it might, but it equally might not), then I have the possibility to ask different questions about life, and to navigate with what is, rather than the striving for, and pain of disappointment if I don’t get, what I yearn for.

What if I am single for the rest of my days? What if I never write that book I’ve been meaning to write? What if my life never gets any “better” than this? What then?

For me, this is deeply connected with the Buddhist ideals of non-attachment. Have goals, by all means. Apply yourself to them with passion and zeal. But the real practice is to accept that you might not live the life you expect to lead, or feel entitled to have. And, yes, there is a paradox there.

In addition, there are many other dimensions to this – the implications for others when we give up our entitlement, the cultural idea that we are somehow responsible or, worse, actually “to blame” if we don’t have a perfect life (unfortunately sometimes disseminated by parts of the personal development world), etc, and, as I said this is a theme I will be returning to frequently.

For now, though, some reflections:

What “lies” do you believe?
What has been the cost to you of those?
What happens when you accept that you might not get what you want (or what you think you deserve)?
What then?

Quotes

Sometimes what seems like surrender isn’t surrender at all. It’s about what’s going on in our hearts. About seeing clearly the way life is and accepting it and being true to it, whatever the pain, because the pain of not being true to it is far, far greater.

Nicholas Evans, The Horse Whisperer

You are not a precious and unique snowflake; you are the same decaying organic matter as everything else.

Tyler Durden in Fight Club

… I am in the middle of a house-move right now, with its accompanying challenges and stresses. Yesterday evening, I received some news that looks like delaying my move a couple of weeks, which is bad timing for me. I was immediately consumed with anger, and ranted at length about it.

Looking back on my rant yesterday, in the cold, fresh, light of a new day, I realise how much like a spoilt child I can still be sometimes, when I don’t get my own way.

There’s nothing inherently wrong about my having to wait an extra two weeks or so to do a move – it’s hardly the end of the world, and yet I was so angry about it for a couple of hours that I could barely think about anything else, even when in conversation with someone else about something quite different.

It made me think again, about how easy it is for me (and others) to act as if the world should go along with what we want, and how badly I can react to things not going my way.

It’s all part of the problem of entitlement, isn’t it?

I should be lucky to have a home to live in, and to have all the other things and people I have in my life, but instead of being grateful for that, I slip right back into spoilt child ranting because I can’t get my way.

Physician, heal thyself.

There’s a lot of talk about branding and personal branding these days, and many businesses (and freelancers) invest a lot of time and money in creating a strong brand.

But there’s also something much more personal that we are doing all the time, without even thinking about it, and that is creating a public identity. We literally build an identity with others by our actions, and by what we say. You can also think of your public identity as the “listening” other people have for you.

For example, I used to have a few of my friends complaining that I didn’t answer my mobile ‘phone (usually because I forget to take it off silent mode). I then found myself being described as someone who “never answers his ‘phone.” A public identity of me as a man who doesn’t answer his ‘phone had been built very quickly by a few simple occurrences.

This works both ways. For instance, I also am someone who generally responds very quickly to e-mails, and so in that domain, my public identity could be said to be that of someone who is reliable.

Or, if you consistently say no to offers, you may find that people start to see you as someone who doesn’t say yes. I had a friend years ago, and whenever we had a party and invited her, she would always decline – she always had some “good reason” not to attend, but she always declined. And, eventually, people stopped asking her to parties.

The thing about this is that other people base their relationships with us, and their future actions on that identity.

The old cliché of, “If you want something done, ask a busy person,” is a good example of this in everyday life. How long would you continue to call someone who “never answers his ‘phone”? How many times would you continue to invite someone to a social event if they always declined? Whom would you rather trust to get a quick answer from by email—someone who responds quickly, or someone who doesn’t? Whom would you be more likely to do business with?

Now this may or may not be “fair”—you might argue that these things are superficial, or that we shouldn’t make such assessments of people, but the thing is that we do. We are always making assessments, sometimes usefully (as in the case of an interview where I need to assess your capacity to do a specific job), and sometimes less usefully.

Public identity is closely connected with trust – we literally shape the reputation we have with others, and that builds, or diminishes, their trust in us. In their excellent book “Building Trust“, Fernando Flores and Robert Solomon identify three separate elements we consider when assessing whether or not to trust someone:

1) Sincerity – do I assess that you mean what you say?
2) Competence – do I assess that you can do what you say?
3) Reliability – given our history, do I assess you as reliable? Have you done what you will say do in our past transactions?

Public identity is based on reliability, or lack there of, in any given domain – if you always say ‘no’ to invitations, then I will eventually make the assessment that you cannot be relied upon to respond to invitations, and will stop asking you. Or, if you never return my calls, I will assess you as unreliable in communication, and that will weaken my trust in you (and therefore, for example, my willingness to do business with you).

Clearly, it is helpful to be aware that, to some extent, we create how others experience us, and that maybe we shouldn’t be surprised if opportunities don’t come our way if we keep saying no!

And of course, we can change our public identities—we are not “doomed” by them, they are not set in stone.

There are a number of ways to change this public identity—one is simply to develop new habits. For example, I can pay more attention to whether my ‘phone is in silent mode when it doesn’t need to be. I had to put up with some teasing from my friends when I first started answering it right away, but now the identity of me as “someone who never answers his ‘phone” is diminishing.

Another might be to make a public declaration of a new identity (maybe as someone who is available to go to parties, etc., to go back to the example of my friend above). Of course, you will need to follow up the declaration with actions to build a different identity and it might take time and application.

Or, you might need to do some work on yourself to change a way of being that you assess doesn’t bring you the identity you wish to create. In my case, I also have had a history of being seen as “difficult” (not without good reason unfortunately), and that required some work on myself, including some coaching and workshops. It’s starting to pay off, too—some of the people who’ve known me a long time have told me that I am a lot less “difficult” than I used to be.

Reflections:

• What public identity do you think you create in different domains of life?
• How are you seen by others?
• How does that impact on your success?
• On your effectiveness?
• On your connection to others?
• What aspects might you wish to change?
• What practices might you adopt to support building a different identity?

Coaching can help you build the public identity you want. To find out more, contact me.