I need to be nicer to myself.

That’s what my friend said this morning. We’d been having an animated Facebook chat about our mutually ridiculous lives, and then, after one especially self-deprecating tirade, she stopped herself short and said, “Well no, I need to be nicer to myself.”

Amen sister. Amen.

Like many people, I’ve made a career out of beating myself up. In fact, I’ve gone one step further, literally tattooing reminders of three of my most impressive failures on my body. As if living them wasn’t bad enough; I felt the need to wear them like battle scars – visual representations of the fact that, regardless of my accomplishments, I’ve made mistakes. Ones that have changed my life, my relationships… me.

It sounds like a counterproductive solution. How can you possibly learn to be kinder to yourself when you’re constantly reminding yourself of your inadequacies?

In my case, my tattoos aren’t just a reminder of what went wrong. They’re a constant reminder to let go.

When I got my first tattoo, three tiny birds on my right wrist, I was at the beginning of a glorious downward spiral last summer. Some thought I was just acting out, and maybe I was a little. But it was more than that. Those three little birds absolutely remind me of the regrets and the mistakes. The things I did and didn’t do; words that should have never been spoken and ones I wished I’d had the guts to say. But look at them closely and you’ll notice that their wings are outstretched.

My painted birds are forever frozen in motion.

Because, while it’s important to remember the mistakes so as to avoid making them again, it’s more important to force yourself to let them go. That tattoo gives my regrets wings; it helps me let my mistakes go.

I look at those birds a million times a day. To the average person, they’re nothing more than black marks on a blank canvas. And I guess that’s ultimately what they represent. To the average person, the mistakes those birds represent are simply a part of my life; small flaws hidden inside of a much larger picture.

So be kinder to yourself. Let your painted birds fly. That’s why the have wings, after all.

I know. It’s embarrassing. If there’s any music I can’t stand more, it’s sanctimonious sugary girl pop.

And yet, T-Swizzle gets me every time. How? I have no idea. The girl sings about scarves and plaid shirts. Every song is dripping with affectation and artifice. It’s horrible.

And I love it.

Maybe a bit too much. I’ve been listening to her latest album, Red, for the past three days and I think it’s taking a toll on my disposition. Now, I’m not an overly cheery person to begin with, so you can only imagine how friendly I am after smothering my surly sarcasm in girly teenage angst. Couple that with the fact that I’m missing my friends back home and it’s safe to say I’m feeling slightly vulnerable and maybe a little more than slightly combative.

I’m such a keeper, right?

With that being said, I’m well aware that my current state of Taylor Swift-induced cynicism is a bit of a problem. Even so, it’s a tough thing to get over. I’ve become pretty accustomed to being the sole survivor of my increasingly crazy life; so much so, that I often forget about the innocent bystanders left in my wake. It’s taken a solid 27 years to perfect my self defence mechanisms and fortify my walls. I suppose it will take the same amount of time to bring them down.

So, to those of you who I’ve lipped-off to in the past week, I apologize. I’m a work in progress, after all.

Every masterpiece has its flaw.

(P.s… that could totally be a Taylor Swift song title.)

I hate May 31st.

Of my top five least favourite days in the calendar year, today is one of them. I won’t get into why, but historically speaking, I almost always run into difficulties on May 31st. I was kind of hoping this year would be different, but alas, misfortune tends to remember me. Which is why I wasn’t surprised when I missed my bus home from the bar last night, or when I was woken up bright and early by the screamo-loving guys who live upstairs. And that extra hot latte that I was so desperately craving this morning?

I should have known I was going to wear it rather than drink it.

Now, normally this is the point where I declare defeat and surrender to the endless string of disasters destined to make up my day. Most years, I would simply go home, bury my head under my pillow, and tell the world to bother someone else.

But this year, for the sake of my sanity, I’ve decided to refocus. Right now, it’s 12:45 pm. I guestimate I’ve got at least another 10 minutes before my espresso-soaked crotch dries itself out. In an attempt to pass the time, I’ve been running through the events of the past 12 hours in my head, looking for the elusive silver lining that people always insist is hiding just below the surface.

If you know me, you know that silver linings are not my strong suit.

Anyways this is what I’ve come up with:

• Missed bus… was actually more enjoyable than annoying. I spent a good 15 minutes hassling and being hassled by a friend before catching the late night route. What’s more, the 30 minute walk from the bus stop gave me time to listen to The National’s new album, which was anything but annoying. All in all, not a bad end to my first night out here in Vancouver.
• Screamo wakeup call… while I would have loved to sleep for a few more hours, the racket upstairs woke me up in time to catch a text from my nearly-impossible-to reach sister-friend back home. As such, I got to start my day with some stories about her crazy kids and a dinosaur pop-up book. Again, not the worst of starts.
• Spilled coffee…occurred because I was distracted by the guy sitting next to me. Quite possibly one of the most attractive human beings I’ve ever seen. Now, in a true silver lining situation, this is the point where said super handsome man should have assisted me with my coffee spill, which should have then resulted in us exchanging numbers, bladdy blah, we live happily ever after.
  
  But, since I’m not secretly starring in a rom-com, no such luck.
  
  Instead, I’m sitting here, staring at mountains, writing this while I wait for my crotch to reach a socially acceptable level of dryness. I suppose it could always be worse.

So, with roughly 11 hours left in my most hated day, I find myself surprisingly content. The sun’s shining (finally), it’s Friday, the dog outside the coffee shop is wearing sneakers, and the barista just came out from behind the counter with free Dijon pretzel samples.

Suck it May 31st. This year, I win.

My Mom: “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Me: “No, actually. I have no clue what I’m doing.”
My Mom: “That’s not very reassuring, Chan.”
Me: “I know. That’s why I’m doing it.”

The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. It’s simple really: things don’t change until you make an effort to change things.

And sometimes, in order to change things, you have to make decisions based on nothing more than gut instinct. You need to step off the ledge and believe that you can fly. Or, at the very least, trust that you’ll land in a soft place.

As much as I’d love to tell my Mother I have everything all figured out, I don’t. The last time I thought I had all my ducks in a row I was left standing in a pile of feathers. So I say to hell with certainty. You can’t plan life. If you could, there would be no point to living. All you can do is move towards the things that matter and force yourself to do things differently.

I know that I can’t keep doing what I’m doing and expect things to just figure themselves out, as easy as that would be. What’s more, I’m tired of people telling me that, because I’m 27, I still have plenty of time to “get it right”, or “figure it out”, or worse yet, “find Mr. Right”. (No offence if you’re reading this Mr. Right; as lovely as I’m sure you are, finding you really isn’t at the top of my to-do list. With that being said, you’re more than welcome to come find me.)

Because, even though I might still be young, time is always shifting weight. No one is entitled to tomorrow. And, to be perfectly honest, I’ve got a lot more mistakes to make before I throw in the towel and finally get it right.

I don’t expect my Mom to understand that. I’m not entirely sure I understand it. But, in spite of the uneven odds, I’ll throw in my chips and raise the bet. This is the hand I’ve been dealt, after all.

Might as well see how it stacks up in the game of life.

Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day. You shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

When it comes to life axioms, I often rely on my buddy Ralph. He’s the one that said life’s about the journey, not the destination. He recommended doing things that scare us. That we should never follow the beaten path, but forge our own trail. Emerson understood that you become the person you want to be, that nothing is achieved without enthusiasm, and that failure is fundamental. 

That dreamers will always encounter critics and that those who poses greatness are quite often the most misunderstood.

If Ralph was still around today, I’d love to have coffee with him. To hear him expound on the transcendentalist movement and individualism. But mostly, I’d want to ask him about complacency. Because, while I agree that it’s the journey that makes life worth living, I’d argue that staying the course and forging forever forward isn’t always easy.

Often it’s downright terrifying.

Complacency kills creativity. It turns relationships to ruin, replaces confidence with cynicism, and ultimately causes aspirations to be abandoned.

If what Ralph says is true, and life is about the journey, I’d argue that complacency is constantly conspiring to trick us down a dead end.

Don’t Confuse Complacency for Comfort

The difference between being comfortable and complacent is extremely subtle. As such, it’s easy to convince yourself that you’re content when you’re actually stuck in a rut. Complacency is saying you’re happy when deep down you know you’re off balance. It’s when you know something’s missing or forgotten. Somewhere along the way you forsook what could be in order to accept what you’d been given.

You settled when you should have soared.

And to that, Emerson would surely say, “Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen.”

So don’t stop striving. Turn off auto-pilot and remember to look around once and a while. See where that one-way ticket leads and what it feels like to face your fears.

When you wake up tomorrow, you’re going to be miles away from yesterday.

Today? Today is when you get back to the journey.

Tomorrow I get to sign my divorce papers.

After the year from hell, one final signature will end this chapter of my life for good.

Even though the bleeding stopped long ago, I still feel a nagging pain in the pit of my stomach every now and again. A reminder that, even though the past has been forgiven, it can never really be forgotten. It happens at the strangest times; certain smells will bring back memories as clearly as if they’d happened yesterday; a song will make me tear up at a coffee shop; photos will bring back conversations long forgotten.

I doubt a final pen flourish will make that stop, but I imagine it will make it easier. Once it’s done and finalized, I expect the pain will stop and in its place a sense of quiet nostalgia will remain. A reminder of what once was – both the good and the bad.

Because, as weird as it is, when all is said and done, I don’t regret it. The marriage was a bad idea, sure. We were young and naïve; but it had its moments. We had our moments. It was right when it happened. And as a result, I got to feel what it’s like to love someone and be loved in return. A lot of people don’t get the opportunity, and I’m thankful that I did.

Last year was horrible. In the past 12 months I’ve experienced a full gauntlet of emotions, from devastating sadness to full out joy. Where I used to float through life avoiding meaningful relationships with friends, the end of my marriage forced me to rely on others. It showed me that you can’t, as The National sings, “…just put it in a safe behind a painting, lock it up and leave.” You have to feel.

And it’s not fun. At times it sucks. But most of the time it’s amazing. When you’re open and vulnerable you have the opportunity to connect with people in a more meaningful way, whether it’s for a day, a month, or forever. In the past year I’ve made friends that will remain with me the rest of my life, regardless of where we end up. I’ve had the chance to become “Aunty Chanti” to a darling little girl, who unbelievingly, has caused me to soften to the idea of having kids of my own. I’ve jumped out of a plane, been published in a magazine, and have died my hair purple. I’ve stumbled home at 4 a.m. and I’ve slept an entire day away. For the first time in a long time I’ve been comfortable and optimistic, excited and uninhibited.

I feel like me.

So when the envelope arrives tomorrow, I’ll turn on some depressing acoustic music, flip through the wedding album one more time, allow myself a final cry, sign on the dotted line, and file that chapter of my life firmly in the past. I’ll never forget, because like this guy, I’ve learned some valuable lessons when it comes to living, loving, and relationships.

And after I toss the papers in the mail, I know I’ll be ok.

Better than ok, actually. I know I’ll be me.

“It’s never too late to be the person you were always meant to be.”

- George Eliot

Who’s life are you living?

Yes, you’re living your own, but are you really? Are you actually working a job that you enjoy and excel at? Do you honestly love the extra hours you spend in the office while your boss waltzes home at 4:30 every afternoon? Is that really a sense of pride that you feel when you pull into the drive of your five bedroom home, or is it just a feeling of accomplishment; another checkmark on the list of things you’re supposed to do in order to be considered happy, successful?

Perhaps your life isn’t really your own. Perhaps it’s just the one you’ve been conditioned to want.

I often wonder what the world would be like if people had the ability to pursue the things that mattered most to them. If money wasn’t an option, and class structures were irrelevant.

What would people choose to do if there was nothing standing in there way?

Would we have more painters and poets? Maybe a career in the skilled trades would turn out to be more prestigious than the practice of law and medicine. Would people gravitate to occupations that encouraged interaction or bolstered independence?

If nothing stood in our way, would we become the people we always wanted to be? Would  we accomplish the things on our bucket list sooner? Would we even have bucket lists, or would we be so caught up in living our lives to the fullest that we wouldn’t even need this kind of wish list? Would we finally stop saying, “Oh, I’ll do that tomorrow,” or “Someday I’ll have the time?”

Would someday be today, and tomorrow be too far away?

The answer, in my opinion, is no.

Money isn’t what’s stopping you from being the person you’ve always wanted to be. It’s not a lack of time or a lack of control. Your responsibilities aren’t holding you back, nor is your debt or your day job.

You’ve avoided becoming the person you’re meant to be because that person frightens you. That person isn’t afraid to be different, an outlier, a misfit. That person ignores the status quo, pushes boundaries, and believes that now is never too late. They fail and they flounder, they fight and they flourish – the person you’re meant to be isn’t perfect by any means. They just believe in their ability to be more, do more, experience more.

The person you’ve always wanted to be speaks up when they don’t agree with an accepted truth. They step in when a bully takes advantage of a situation, and they stap back when it’s someone else’s time to shine. They seek questions, not answers, and they listen more than they speak. The person you’ve always wanted to be is comfortable in your skin, and not ashamed of your talents.

It’s never too late to become this person. In fact, I’m willing to bet that you encounter crossroads, some big and some little, that enable you to become that person each and every day. Most of us ignore these moments; some of us are so far caught up in our current condition that we don’t even see them. But they’re there. Waiting for you to make the decisions that will take you one step closer to the person you’ve always wanted to be.

Just know that Eliot was right, and it’s never too late.

Become the person you’re meant to be.

I have never liked the term “constructive criticism”, not because I don’t believe in useful feedback and third-party opinions, but because criticism infers judgement. And there is no such thing as constructive judgement.

Worse yet, there is no room for improvement in judgement.

The critic is never right.

It’s easy to criticize the unknown. To call something that is unfamiliar wrong, or backwards, or impossible. The definition of “criticism” is, after all:

the act of passing judgment as to the merits of anything;
the act of passing severe judgment; censure; faultfinding.

I fail to see how that is constructive?

I’m not saying people aren’t entitled to their own opinions. They most certainly are. But there’s a big difference between an opinion and a judgement. Critics make judgements, often using the time-honoured tactic of universal deflection: “Since I didn’t like/understand/appreciate it, no one else will either.”

The critic says, “That painting is stupid. No one will like it.” Someone with a constructive opinion says, “I didn’t see the point in that painting, but someone else might.” The critic says, “This book doesn’t make sense. It will never sell.” A constructive opinion states, “I didn’t understand this book for reasons a), b), and c). People who have the same tastes as me won’t like this book.”

The main difference? The critic never takes responsibility for his judgement. Because owning that judgement is hard. I urge you to try it. Walk up to an art student and tell them you think they’re talentless. Or tell an entrepreneur, someone who’s just sunk their life’s savings into an idea, that you think what they’re doing is pointless. Please, please let them know that what they’re trying to build can never happen here.

You can’t do it because neither of those offerings are constructive.

You can’t do it because you have nothing to base your judgement on other than personal opinion and preference. And that’s not constructive. It’s not enough.

What right do you have to criticize another person’s creation? What expertise do you have in their field? Critics are always wrong, because critics have the least right to judge. Constructive criticism, to me is baseless judgement. Destructive postulating. An unfair assumption that you know more and you know best.

When really, you know nothing.

The Problem with Constructive Criticism

Judgement that moonlights as constructive criticism is fatal to creativity. It stifles innovation and stops change. This is especially true when you criticize someone who has stepped outside of their comfort zone in order to create something unique. When you judge someone for taking a risk, calling their work universally unacceptable, simply because you yourself don’t like it, the art suffers. You’ve successfully destroyed the one thing that made this creation worthwhile – its uniqueness. Its attempt to be something else.

Congratulations, I hope you feel better knowing that the world is exactly how you like it, devoid of change, and unyielding to progress.

That student will always be ashamed of his art for no reason. And you’re right, that business or industry will never flourish here. That entrepreneur went somewhere else thanks to your “constructive” analysis.

Stop critiquing.

You’re not right. By all means, provide feedback, disagree, argue, and examine. Promote learning and exploration. Push boundaries and impart educated opinions. But never judge.

The only thing your criticism is constructing is a walled garden where you feel safe.

No one ever aspires to be boring. Boring doesn’t change the world or disrupt the status quo. Boring stands in line, does what it’s told, and accepts its lot in life.

Boring is safe, not sorry.

If you haven’t read Seth Godin‘s latest book, The Icarus Deception, you really should. Like all Godin narratives, The Icarus Deception looks at innovation outside of the comfort zone. Because beyond the doldrums of office work and the age of industrialization lies the connection economy. A place where it’s better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission. Located just beyond your comfort zone, the connection economy beckons to people who balk at boring. As Godin says:

The connection economy rewards the leader, the initiator, the rebel.

The connection economy embraces the artist rather than the administrator. Because the artist isn’t organized. He isn’t regimented or regulated – half the time his socks don’t match and he can’t find his keys. The artist is difficult to contain, define, or predict.

But a part of us always wants to be just like him.

It’s this disruptive nature that has enabled the artist to maintain his romanticized position in our society. It’s why, deep down, we all want to be artists.

But being an artist means letting go of safe, and spiralling head-first into sorry.

The Opposite of Safe…

…isn’t dangerous.

Anyone can colour in the lines and follow an instruction manual. We can check off boxes on a to-do list and strive to meet key performance indicators. We’re all conditioned to follow life according to plan.

But that’s not how life was intended to be lived. You’re not supposed to punch the clock and bide your time. You’re not supposed to aspire to be boring.

But boring is safe. And safe is comfortable. Why change what you’re doing when it gets the job done?

The artist isn’t safe. He’s messy, confused, and hard to tie down. He does what he wants, answers to know one, and expresses his ideas. He does what you long to do – he creates. And while his work may be impossible to fully understand, that doesn’t mean it’s not valuable.

The opposite of safe is creative.

We’re All Artists

When was the last time you created something? Really created something? Remember how it made you feel? Like you made a mark on your world, however small it might have been.

Your brain is hardwired to be creative. Machines are designed to be safe.

Everyone has the opportunity to be an artist. All it involves is letting go of safe and stepping outside your comfort zone. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. It will hurt – you’ll be vulnerable and susceptible to failure. You’ll be scared. But that’s exactly when you have the most chance of making a difference.

And that’s a good kind of pain.

Because when you feel something, it’s because you’re doing something. When you’re numb is when you need to worry. Numb is safe.

Isn’t it time you started being sorry?

Well isn’t this a nice way to end the week…

Inklyo Ltd. has been named a finalist in the 2013 TechAlliance Techcellence Awards! We’re flattered to have received a nod in the “Innovation” category.

Check out the Inklyo Inkblot Blog for full details on the awards ceremony slated to take place in London on February 7.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for an office dance party.

Happy Friday!