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.

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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:

Drawn to the Dark - Day 26 (Boxing Day)

Day 26 (Tuesday 26th December 2017 - Boxing Day)

26 December is known as Wren Day instead of Boxing Day in Ireland, the Isle of Man and parts of
the United Kingdom, Spain and France. As Christian mythology would have it,
God wanted to know who was King of the Birds and hence set a challenge
to see which could fly highest - the eagle nearly won, but at the last minute the wren,
which had been hiding on the eagle's back, flew up and hence was higher and so
became King. Because of this supposed treachery, mummers, known as Wren Boys,
dressed in concealing costumes used to hunt down a wren, tie it to a pole
and dance from house to house demanding money from townsfolk as a ransom
to save the wren's life or to provide luck in exchange for a feather -
the money raised would pay for a party (a Wren Ball). It is probable that the tradition
originated in pagan times when there were animal sacrifices to encourage the spring to return.
The mummers would sing a variations of "The wren the wren the king of all birds/ St Stephen's Day
was caught in the furze/ Her clothes were all torn- her shoes were all worn/
Up with the kettle and down with the pan/ Give us a penny to bury the "wran"/ If you haven't a penny a halfpenny will do/
If you haven't a halfpenny/ God bless you!".These days a toy wren, as opposed to a live bird, is used.

It's Boxing Day. How are you feeling? I think perhaps I should not have eaten so much yesterday.

Today's warm and perspicacious post is written by my very good friend, Simon Heath. I first met Simon via Twitter (his handle is @SimonHeath1) and I am delighted and proud to have been one of his first clients, when he took the plunge and founded his business after a long and successful career in corporate life. Simon is an artist. he is perceptive and, having worked in the conventional world of work, he understands the issues in the workplace - commercial drivers, silo mentality, the importance of communication and leadership. He is a good listener and can catch the essence of a point in a pithy illustration that is the perfect aide memoire. My company has won 3 major awards this year for our ability to engage people who work with us and to effect positive change, it is no exaggeration to say that Simon has been a significant influence in our transformation. He has created some masterful animations that helped us share our vision and celebrate success and I have used many of his excellent illustrations to stress a particular point or to remind people of what we need to do.

Outside the work environment (actually in and out the work environment) Simon is a delight to spend time with. He is a deep thinker and determined to do his bit to make the world a better place. Some of my best moments over the past few years have involved sitting, sipping a decent single malt, and chatting with Simon. He is a devoted father (with two talented children) and a loving husband and family man. This of us who know him are very fortunate.

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Perhaps it's a peculiarity of having been born in England, heir to English weather, that a brilliantly sunny, brash, shouty and suddenly insistent dawn leaves me cold. I've much preferred my dawns creepier. Not breaking, but slithering smudgily over the horizon. I don't want some Riviera daybreak hammering impatiently at the shutters demanding a croissant and espresso, pronto. The house lights thrown abruptly up, breaking the spell of the cinematography. There are very few things more infuriating than being awoken by some well meaning soul flinging open the curtains with a cry of "Up and at 'em!". Better by far to gradually awaken as the gloaming begins to glisten with a silvery hue, shadows drawing cautiously closer in to their owners. And this time of the year is delicious in this respect. The days are fleeting. The dawns drawn out. And the descent back into darkness starts sooner.

Autumn brings the advent of the dark days. Days of galoshes and mackintoshes. The night expanding stealthily to fill the daylight saving hours. A sense of anticipation as, before a movie, the lights dim to let the dreaming begin and December beckons in the company of the ghosts of Christmas past. When I first heard the theme for this year's Advent Blog series, so thoughtfully and generously curated by my wonderful friend, Kate, I thought I'd struggle with darkness. My life is not touched by it to the degree that so many others are. My cares are more workaday and mundane. But then another friend, the kindly and wise Michael Carty, reminded me that darkness needn't be negative. And how right he is. So, I'll take this opportunity to share with you some reasons to be cheerful after dark. Things that, for this Englishman at least, simply wouldn't be the same under the mad dog midday sun.

A blanket-built fort in the desert illuminated by explorers' torches

The magnesium magic of children drawing dreams with sparklers 

The "Oo!" and "Aah!" of Bonfire Night

The peaty perfume of a single malt

The exuberant pop of the celebratory cork

The cool side of the pillow

Stars as far as the eye can see (those billions of light years)

Our patient lunar companion

Motes of dust dancing in the projector's beam

The acid luminosity of be-glowsticked revelry

The reassuring warmth of familiarity of the sleeper beside you

The laser trails of tail lights

A doner kebab

Walking up the path to a house full of people who'll be delighted to see you

The sense of anticipation you get from that walk

The liquid joy of the carnival lights reflected in her eyes

The unseen crisp smack of a bat catching its prey

The bedtime story

Closeness

My life is not a hard one. The grumble and grouse of the normal run-of-the-mill life. But like so many George Baileys, it is often only by standing in the darkness, looking in at the window of our life, at the warmth and joy within, that we get a true sense of our good fortune. And that's how I'll close. By wishing you all good fortune.

Melancholia on Ice

Day 9 (Friday 9th December 2016)

9 months after being appointed Manager of Leicester City
(the UK football club, who were seen as underdogs, having narrowly avoided relegation
the previous season), Claudio Ranieri led the Foxes (as the club are known) to win the Premier League title.
The win has been described by football experts as the most improbable win in sporting history.
The Foxes were at odds of 5,000/1 at the start of last season
(worse odds than Elvis being found alive, which were 2,000/1)

We have reached the end of the week and I am sure you will agree with me that the blogs so far have been stunning - 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 knowledgable 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 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

Advent Hopes

Day 1 (Tuesday 1st December 2015)

Number One London – the informal address of Apsley House,
the townhouse of the Dukes of Wellington. 
It was lived in by Wellington, who acquired the house off his brother, 
after the Battle of Waterloo (which celebrated its 200th anniversary in June)
It gained its name because of its being the first house passed by travellers when
entering London via the toll gates at Knightsbridge.
It stands in dignified isolation amongst the chaos at Hyde Park Corner.

It is the first day of Advent. Welcome to the 2015 Advent Blogs Series. It is both a privilege and pleasure to host this annual event for a second year and I can promise you some wonderful blogs over the next few weeks. I appreciate that a few people found this year's theme of "Comet Tails and Coal Dust" challenging, but the thought and effort has paid off. New and experienced writers have interpreted the theme in a variety of ways. I hope you enjoy reading these wonderful posts; they were written for us as a seasonal gift and have become a tradition within a broad community. I always find the Advent Blogs a wonderful time for reflection, sharing, celebration and making new contacts - 2015 will be no exception.

The first post in this year's Series is written by my good friend and occasional work associate, the inspirational consultant artist, Simon Heath. As many of you are aware, due to Simon being a popular contributor on Twitter (his handle is @SimonHeath1 ) where he speaks openly about his past, Simon had a successful career within commerce - culminating in being Head of Operations for a number of significant financial services businesses - before taking advantage of redundancy to follow his heart and step into a new, more creative career. He founded Speech Bubble EQ in January 2013 and is now recognised as a leader in his field, providing pithy and witty illustrations for conferences, senior leadership and training events and the communication of crucial messages. He has the knack of appreciating the importance of what is being said by others, his commercial grounding helps, and is capable of turning thoughts and words into memorable and impactful images. Today he has done something different and used his creative talents to write a poem around the Advent Series theme (of Comets and Coal Dust) that encapsulates much of the festive excitement of children and families in the lead up to Christmas.

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Trailing through the winter sky

The comet spotted up on high,

Brought Shepherds out to gaze aloft

With toes and fingers firmly crossed

‘Twas Christmas, see.  And at that time,

People up their trees did climb,

To put on top the shining star

They’d seen across horizons far.

And children out, all bundled up

While parents steaming glasses cup

Faces turned towards the sight

Of stardust lighting up the night.

All Advent hopes dispel the fear

That in the night no one would hear

The jingle bells, the “Ho, ho, ho!”,

The crunch of footsteps in the snow.

At the Pole, the patient elves

Turned once more to fill the shelves,

Hoping that the job was done

As in the East, appeared the Sun.

The turning handle, stopping banter

And in the room comes striding, Santa!

Then by the sight all there were cheered

Of dabs of coal dust on his beard.

Thank you Simon, the countdown has begun....

Beguiled By Beginnings - Day 24

Day 24

24 - the number of blackbirds baked in a pie in the well known nursery rhyme
My favourite interpretation of the meaning of the verse is that it refers to King Henry VIII who
was offered an entremet of live birds in a pie by Anne Boleyn (she was a Maid in Waiting
to Henry's first wife, Catherine of Aragon and became Henry's 2nd wife, until having
more than her nose cut off, she was beheaded). The word "sing" was Tudor slang
for stinking (much like "hum" today) and live birds shut inside a pie crust for hours
were reported to smell vile when the pie was opened...

This wonderful post is by the ever inspiring and often challenging Simon Heath. It is my delight to call him my friend and we have had some great times working together (and just messing about) over the past couple of years. Simon, having escaped corporate toil (he was COO of a significant Financial Services business) is now using his significant artistic talents as a freelance facilitator, illustrator and observer. I first met him via Twitter (his handle is @SimonHeath1) when he was just setting out on his new career. It has been fantastic to see his popularity and reputation grow. 

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Those who remain unmoved by the wind of joy silently follow the Path - Bodhidharma

Mark and Kathryn Daughhetee's garden, Seattle

Paths and perceptions, eh?

Paths and perceptions.

Journeys and discoveries.

Well, I’ve had a pretty unconventional journey on the way here and my perception of the world has been shaped as I’ve travelled. Often crashing into the sides. Which is fine. It knocks the rough edges off.  I left school in 1989. I couldn’t see much point in pretty much everything school wanted to teach me so I could pass exams. 

1980's Science lesson

So I didn’t pass exams. But I learned more at school than I’d ever have imagined possible. 

Clifton College's Tribe Building (which housed the Art School)

Some people will try and tell you that if you don’t have great grades and decide not to go to university, because you don’t have a clue what you want to do with your life, a lot of doors are closed off to you. That, quite frankly, is utter baubles. The people that tell you these things work behind some of those doors. These are the doors you want to slam gleefully shut as you run naked down the corridor of possibilities. 

Running Naked by Steven Pippin

Protest at D&G Spring fashion show 2014

Who wants to climb on the conveyor belt churning out command and control stormtroopers when the world of work has moved on? A skills gap that had been opening at a glacial pace is now yawning open at such speed that it’s swallowing entire industries whole.

Charles Chaplin as the Little Tramp in Modern Times, 1936
A satirical Fordist nightmare of the future of work & society

And yet still the handle keeps turning in the sausage factory.

You do your SATS. Your GCSEs. Your A-levels. You go off to university. 

You get a job (perhaps). 

You wear a suit.

And.

So.

Does.

Everybody.

Else.*

Genuine advice provided in The Art of Manliness, December 2011,
illustration by Ted Slampyak

You aren’t everybody else. When you stick your anorak hood over your head and wear it as a superhero cape and whizz round the playground going “Neeeeeyyyyyyyaaaaaarrrrrrrrr!!!!”, you’re not everybody else (especially when you’re 43). 

It’s your path. 

Your life. 

Let others choose it for you and the next time you regain consciousness you’ll probably find yourself sardined on a train, the windows fogged with the condensing breath of a hundred other slowly marinating mammals. 

Tokyo Compression, photograph by Michael Wolf

That’s not what you imagined as you danced round your bedroom singing into a hairbrush. When you swallowed a tadpole because Sean Jenkinson dared you to. When you waited on a street corner for two hours in the pouring rain on the off-chance that Laura Mills would walk by. When you climbed the tallest tree in the park even though you were so scared you called out for your Mum in front of your friends when you slipped on the way down. When you swung so high on the swings it felt like you had a zero-G bladder. When you got an Etch-A-Sketch for Christmas. When you spent three hours one Saturday perfecting your stone skimming technique. When you laughed so hard at a joke someone told you that a little bit of wee came out (again, especially when you’re 43).

Advent is all about waiting. Don’t wait. Don’t let life happen to you. Don’t be everybody else. Take the road less travelled. Write your own story. It’ll be unconventional and uncomfortable. Sometimes (a lot of times) it’ll require bloody hard work. But tomorrow, for a great many of you, it’ll be a day off. Of celebration and relaxation. With friends and family. Amongst all the turkey and trimmings take a moment to reflect. It might not be too late. Advent ends today but your story could be just beginning. 

Brave First Steps

Merry Christmas and Bon Voyage.

*I realise that not everyone does this. A lot of people have to go off and do real jobs. The jobs that make our society function. The people who keep the world turning. And the lights on. And make sure when you do a poo after Christmas lunch and pull the flush that wee jobbie actually has somewhere to go. But those folk don’t have time to read blogs so I wrote it for you lot.

Simon at work

A silly song for Christmas Eve

sung by Bryant Oden