Melancholia on Ice - Day 6

Day 6 (Thursday 6th December 2018)

Six (James Six) - the name of the man who invented the maximum/minimum
thermometer in 1780. He was from a refugee family that moved to England
in the 15th century to escape religious persecution. They were silk weavers for a
few generations but, by the time Six stepped into the family concern, silk weaving
was in decline due to cheap imports from Persia and India. So he became a
meteorologist and Natural Philosopher. He studied temperature in Canterbury.

We are nearing the end of the first week of Advent and I must confess that it has been a delight sharing some of the wonderful blogs that people have written over the past five years  - we have read about love, loss, legacies and lessons. Today's post maintains the high standard that has been set before. It is written by my friend, the ever-insightful Simon Heath. Simon describes himself as a "pragmatic idealist". He took advantage of a redundancy opportunity to leave conventional corporate life, having been Head of Operations and Global Workplace Strategy for a global commercial real estate business, and having earned his spurs in financial services. He is now a consulting artist. Using his considerable artistic talents, combined with his genuine understanding of business and the world of work, he produces illustrations that help communicate and make messages stick.

In addition to being able to make people and organisations see things in a different way and to draw inspiration, Simon is a devoted family man. He lives with his wife and two children close to Henry VIII's former palace to the west of London. He is well-read and interested in and knowledgeable about films. He cares about the world and the environment. I suppose he can best be described as a wonderful polymath who remains observant and curious. He and I both share an interest in polar exploration. If you want to know more about him and his thoughts, I urge you read his infrequent blog: Murmuration or else follow him on Twitter, his handle is @SimonHeath1.

**************************************

Melancholia on Ice 

The 6^th of August 1987 was the day before my 16^th birthday. I had spent the previous night in a small 2-man tent on a patch of fine white sand at the bottom of a tumble of moraine at the side of an as-yet unnamed glacier. 

Glacier at Raudfjorden

From the entrance to my tent I could look out across the ice-flecked waters of Raudfjorden and to the left the open Arctic Ocean and over the horizon, some 500 miles away, the Pole. After a hurried breakfast we climbed the glacier to the ice-field beyond. Our destination, a previous unclimbed peak, lay off in the distance. This early in the morning the ice was still firm and we made swift progress. As we prepared for the final push our team leader turned to me and offered me the chance to lead. And so I did. A first ascent. Heart-pounding, I turned full circle. At that height, the ice-fields of north-western Svalbard stretched as far as the eye could see. 


From that height the only way was down. 

From the highs of polar exploration the only way was down. Down to the more prosaic concerns of teenage life. I didn’t bring my heart back with me. I’d left it in the Arctic.

I went back to the Arctic again three years later. And there, among the wolves, 

wolves chasing muck-oxen

the hares and the musk oxen, 

Arctic hare

I found my heart on the tundra. 

But, returning south once more, a piece of it stayed behind. I swore I’d return. But I never did. Ever since, I’ve felt the hollow sensation of its absence. I had dreamed about the Arctic since I read about the exploits of the early explorers as a wee boy. 

Shackleton (left) at Ocean Camp 1915

I never dreamt it would claim a part of me so profoundly. So profoundly that many experiences since have felt a trifle hollow. This missing part of me isn’t filled by the whisky of which I’m so fond. Or by going up mountains to ski. It’s where I am when I’m not here. On a train, but not here. In an office, but not here. In the canyons of the city, I’m most often there and not here.

The Arctic I saw is long gone. Cruise ships now visit the fjord where I first lost my heart. The tourists return more reliably than the sea ice. And gone with the ice are the seals. And with them, the bears. 

Svalbard polar bear photo by Mike Reyfman 

The boy is gone too and I don’t know how to go back.

Simon in the Arctic

In the spirit of sharing our younger selves, here is a picture of me at a similar age to Simon above:

Into the Dark - Day 6

Day 6 (Wednesday 6th December 2017)

Six sides form the typical shape of a snowflake, due to
the arrangement of water molecules in the ice crystal lattice.
The slang term 'snowflake", meaning a person with an inflated opinion of their
own uniqueness, who is easily offended and poor at coping with challenge
or criticism, was coined as a phrase by Chuck Palahniuk in the 1996 novel Fight Club .
"Generation snowflake",  referring to  young adults of the 2010s, entered common parlance
in 2015 following an incident at Yale University

Traditionally today is the day that people celebrate St Nicholas. In the Italian port of Bari St. Nicholas' statue will be carried by sailors from the Cathedral, where the saint's bones reside, to the sea to bless the water and ensure their safety over the coming year. Being the patron saint of sailors, St Nicholas was the saint that William the Conqueror chose to pray to before setting off across the Channel to invade England in 1066. Most people think of St Nicholas (or Santa Claus or Father Christmas) as the jovial fellow who delivers gifts to good girls and boys. In the Netherlands many children will have woken to find their shoes or clogs filled with gifts and sweets. In parts of Germany, Switzerland and Austria St Nicholas is accompanied by the Knecht Ruprecht who acts as a foil to santa's generosity by giving naughty children lumps f coal, sticks and ashes. I am pleased that today I have a gift to offer to you and it is a treat.

Last year Niall Gavin pledged in his Advent Blog (on this site) not to "wallow in the hollow" - although judging by this year's post 2017 has held its challenges for him, I think he has succeeded in his aim. Niall is a respected and much-liked independent L&D and learning technologies specialist (after having had a successful career working in both the public and private sectors). Prior to helping people develop and grow, Niall spent some time as an actor, a postman and a fruit picker. He writes an enjoyable blog, A Little About a Lot and is active on social media, you can find him on Twitter (his handle is @niallgavinuk). He usually has some great insights that he shares on #LDinsight every Friday morning on Twitter. Niall lives near Worthing on the south coast of England. He is a devoted husband and father. In his spare time he enjoys walking and is also an "armchair astronomer".

*************************************

It's that time of year again, when the wonderful Kate Griffiths-Lambeth (@KateGL) invites contributions to the now-annual Advent Blog series which she curates. This year's theme of Darkness and Dawn has inspired me to dig out an unrealised blog idea from Autumn this year and to flesh it out as my humble contribution.

As Summer moves into Autumn, from my West-facing home office window, I watch the sunset creep further and further South as Earth’s axial tilt moves the UK further away from the Sun. Winter approaches. Dark days ahead. My heart sinks as the clocks go back and my annual feelings of seasonal claustrophobia starts to colour my world. Time to check the weatherproofing, gather in the harvest, and batten down the hatches. Short days, long dark nights. Cold and wet. 

I'm not a Winter person. Did you notice? You'd have thought that the Scot in me would have developed coping strategies by now. Wonder if I have any Mediterranean DNA in me at all. Maybe I have a form of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). Although looking at the NHS 'Choices' info pages (https://www.nhs.uk/conditions/seasonal-affective-disorder-sad/), I suspect not.

The good news is that the seasons come round relentlessly. The cycle continues. Within a couple of months I'll be eagerly tracking the sunset's slow progress back North again, looking forward to the new seasonal dawn that is Springtime. Just like I do every year.

When I was in full-time, employed work, commuting to and from that there London during the Winter, I'd get up in the dark, got to work in the dark, travel home in the dark and, other than brief sojourns outdoors at lunchtime, spend my whole working week in the dark. 

Maybe it's the years of doing that, being triggered by those memories, that unsettles me. But, of course, I don't work like that any more. A combination of part-time work at my local college and occasional consultancy and accreditation work means I can now balance workplace visits, classroom sessions and working from home and I have taken control of if, when and how I include daytime travel into my work schedule (and now having a Senior Railcard and getting that off-peak fares discount helps too!)

But there are still dark days. I started to feel out of my depth recently and very concerned that I might be letting people down as a result. Imposter syndrome, basically. I wasn't sleeping, felt sick, anxious, scared that I would be found wanting. Everything that I wanted to avoid feeling, I was experiencing. Dark days indeed.

But if I have learned anything in the last three years since my heart surgery and redundancy, by focussing on my physical and mental health recovery and ongoing maintenance, it has been to not be a victim, to not feel that I have to accept uncomfortable situations and feelings as the norm and try to 'push on'. So I sat down and mapped out what was going on for me, clarified what I felt was 'wrong', what I needed to change and what my options might be to effect that change. And then I shared it - with my wife and with my counsellor - and guess what? Whatever decision I came to was going to be OK.

So I had the courageous conversations that I needed to have with the people that could help me resolve the problem and, together, we made some adjustments and it's going to be all right.

Out of the darkness came a new dawn. I'm good enough. And that's good enough for me.

If you’re fighting your own battle that no-one knows anything about, maybe it would be helpful to share how you’re really feeling. There’s no shame in talking stuff through, in asking for some help.

How are you doing?

Lest we forget

Day 6 (Tuesday 6th December 2016)

6 number one hits - Bon Jovi proved their enduring ability to 

entertain when their latest album "This House Is Not For Sale"

(the Group's 13th studio album, released November 4th 2016) reached

top spot on the Billboard 200. The band were formed in 1983 and play 

Hard, Pop and Arena Rock and Glam Metal.

Today's piece is a sober read from Alan Gilmour, which touches on one of humanity's hollows. It puts many things in perspective and it certainly made me think. Alan's writing does that. Alan has a day job as Head of Acquisition and Retention for the Police Mutual, but since he last contributed to the Advent Series he has taken up a not-for-profit Non-executive Directorship with BCRS Business Loans - an organisation that provides money for SMEs who struggle to access funds through traditional banking channels. 

Alan is a delightful and broad thinker - he studied Chinese History at Glasgow, long before China had risen to its position of global prominence and has an MBA from Aston. I am one of many who enjoy Alan's company, debate and engaging/thought-provoking opinions. You can follow Alan on Twitter (his handle is @alan_gilmour) or read his (sporadic) personal blogging.

*****************************************

Lest we forget  

So what moved me in 2016?

An interesting question for a dour Scot. As a race we are not easily moved. Life is easier that way.

But this year while idly gazing at a board which listed the Head Boys at a local school, I noticed something that achieved this rare feat.

For on the list was one K.R. Owen, Head Boy in 1913.

I know nothing of this individual or his family or his circumstances.

Maybe I should.

But what caught my eye was the next board. A list of all those who gave their lives in the Great War.

And there was the name, K.R.Owen, again. Killed in action in 1916.

In the space of 3 years this boy had grown into a man and become a memory.

Tragic.

A member of the Army Chaplains' Department (AChD) tending
a soldier's grave during the Battle of the Somme, July 1916. © IWM 

Every day I, like many others in business, spend time poring over numbers and spreadsheets and PowerPoint decks with statistics, charts and graphs.

Every day we obsess about sales, income, costs, FTEs, profit, capital, assets, liabilities, and many more numbers. These are the heartbeat of business.

School boys being taught about Zeppelins 1916

But as we say goodbye to 2016, a year that remembered that the 100^th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme, here are the numbers that really matter.

Numbers that should give us a real sense of perspective.

141 days. 420,000 British casualties. 127,000 British dead, 19,000 on day one alone.

Plus many more hundreds of thousands German, French and British Commonwealth casualties.

And if we include the families, millions of people seriously impacted by the events of those 141 days on the Somme.

Like a ripple across a pond.

Numbers like these make you think. They bring it all home.

And should make us think when we obsess about the numbers that govern our daily business life.

For our numbers are not a matter of life and death.

They do not amount to a hill of beans.

We may think they are important but when stacked up against the numbers of 1916 and the lives of the many, many K.R. Owens, are they really?

For they come to nought when stacked up against the lives lost, lives ruined, by the events of 1916.

It is all too easy for the anonymised count of the slaughter to obliterate the human cost for war. Any war.

It did for me as a historian. I deal in facts and figures and dates. Not people.


Until I saw the name of K R Owen. Twice.

The numbers that I deal in are unlikely be remembered by the end of January 2017, never mind recorded and remembered and commemorated 100 years hence.

Unlike K. R. Owen and his ilk.

Who went from boy to man to a memory on a board in 3 years.

He may not even have been involved in the Somme.

But that doesn’t matter. That is not the point.

It was potential lost. Brilliance snuffed out. A tragic loss.

And that is my abiding memory of 2016.

A memory that has humbled me.

The lesson I have learnt.

Christmas 1916 on the Somme Front, painting W.B. Wollen

Our numbers may be good. They may be bad. Even indifferent.

They might please or disappoint our bosses.

But we still get to go home every night, limbs and minds intact.

Unlike K.R Owen.

Ensuring that I go into 2017 with a more acute sense of what matters and what doesn’t. More acute than ever before.

Thanks to K.R. Owen and the memories from the Somme.

Lest we forget.