Alana sent this to me tonight as we send favorite art pieces to each other. It’s appropriate for her to send that to me as she has always been the one that helps me Listen – both to myself and to others around me.

“LISTEN
We often forget who we are.
We often forget what is really important.
We often forget who’s really important.
We are so easily distracted.
We forget how to listen.
We forget.”

via Gaping Void

In a recent article in the New Yorker, James Surowiecki summarizes the lesson learned from Blockbuster’s fall as poetically as possible, “Sometimes you have to destroy your business in order to save it.” That simple closing to his well-written article had me thinking about how to apply that lesson to my own life – from personal dealings to business ones. As I sit here on the cusp of my 30th birthday, I reflect on the ways that I had to destroy my own life in order to redefine it.

When I moved out to Colorado 4 years ago, I was somewhat lost and unsure of where I wanted to be in the world. I knew I had some skills – my web skills were becoming increasingly sought after – but I still wasn’t sure what I wanted to be. By uprooting my existence, by moving to a place I had never even visited before, I was blowing up my business model. A lucky strike here, an opportunity there – and my life changed. I got the job I was meant for, propelled to career success, and by the time I returned east – I was a changed man. My business was booming. It was the best move of my life….to destroy it in order to save it.

So my life here in NYC has been an interesting one. I’m a success. I have the love of my life. Yet, for the most part, I find something missing. There are variables that I miss from my days in Boulder that are lacking here. A bit of the work/life balance. Friendships. Fresh air. These things; things that I don’t always value when I develop my equation for happiness, are all running at a deficit now. And I’m feeling it. So I’m making attempts to reformulate my business plan here.

The investments that Blockbuster – both literally and psychologically – were their eventual downfall. As humans, the psychological investments that we make are often the hardest to analyze. So what investments have I made that are tough to let go? In Boulder, I often waxed poetic about the hiking and living close to the mountains. It was only when I let go of the psychological investment – one that saw very little actual return since i never went into the mountains – that I was able to really focus on coming back east. I realized I wanted to be seen as someone that enjoyed the mountains more than I actually wanted to enjoy them. And cashing out of that failed investment early, allowed me to come and be prosperous in a region that is more of a fit for me. Are there currently similar psychological hang ups? Are there things that I’m currently doing that I’m more invested in my head than I am in reality? I think understanding that part of me – and it’s a struggle for anyone to achieve that sort of introspection – is important for profitability (i.e. happiness) in the fourth quarter of this year and the start of the fourth decade of my life.

When Jeff Tweedy wrote “War on War” for the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot album, he wrote the lyrics “You have to learn how to die if you want to want to be alive.” I’m not sure the mindset he was in, but that tumultuous album saw the fracturing of his band, the dissolving of a relationship with his record label, and ultimately a rebirth as one of the best bands of the first decade of the 21st century. “You have to learn how to die” is the same concept as Surowiecki’s advice to “destroy you business.” It’s easy to fall back on what feels safe, but only through constant destruction and reconstruction do we truly evolve. You have to learn how to die if you want to want to be alive….

Here are some old images from my journaling days:

I have over 45 journals of my writings. They are hidden in boxes and will probably be discovered after I pass. I don’t know what’s in most of them. I do know I keep important things written down. I chronicle the things that matter to me. I’ve moved to the digital realm but I miss the feeling of really writing. It cleans out the soul. I need to get in the practice of it again.

I was sitting with Sarah at a nice wine bar called 10 Degrees on St. Mark’s between Ave A and 1st, when she shared the story of Spanish Conquistador Hernando Cortez.   The story, in its basic form, goes like this:  When Spanish Conquistador Hernando Cortez landed in Mexico, one of his first orders to his men was to burn the ships. Cortez was committed to his mission and did not want to allow himself or his men the option of going back to Spain. By removing this option, Cortez and his men were forced to focus on how they could make the mission successful.

After sharing the story, Sarah looked at me and asked, “What would you burn the ships for?”   I paused.  It’s a very profound question.  I think there’s a definite part of me that would “burn the ships” for love.  In my younger days, I was probably more of a serial arsonist when it came to that subject.  As I’ve grown older and become more enamored with the world in general rather than people in specific, the things I would “burn the ships for” have become more and more rare.

We discussed the topic more and more in depth.  It was a great conversation – complete with some good Sangria, the right soundtrack in the background, and enough smiles and laughter that made the depth of conversation still feel light and airy.  We came to one conclusion:  You can only “Burn the Ships” about one thing.  That seems relatively obvious but it’s also somewhat a scary concept.  After all, if you are willing to “burn the ships” for a passion – like your career, a charity (like the charity Sarah works for: Starting Bloc), then are you giving up on love?

I told her the story of people like Sloan and Amy from ReasontoWander.com.  They “burned the ships” and went around the world together – succumbing to their wanderlust together.  Isn’t that proof that you can do it?  Ultimately, there’s passion and there’s ship burning.  You can be passionate about many things – I am passionate about writing, building community, marketing, the internet – but none of those things necessarily have me carrying a container of kerosene and matches.  So can you burn the ships for one thing but still have a passion for another?  I’m not sure – I have never burned the ships for anything….

* * * * * * *

Earlier in the evening, Sarah shared a story about how her friends Jeff and Russ started to have an argument about what happiness is.  She then stopped and asked me what I thought it was.  I paused, contemplating how to answer it.  The only thing that popped into my head was one word:  “fleeting.”  This isn’t some pejorative because I’m melancholy due to my lack of luck with les amours.  Instead, it’s a realistic view on life that conjures up the promise of a life worth living.  You see, I think humans are naturally drawn to a stagnant form of contentment – the kind of life where you go through activities because you have to, not because you want to.  Routines, structure – all those things that are integral to survival, yet aren’t anything to get “excited” for.  If you think about it, the people that you think are the happiest in your life are generally people who still get excited for the things that are normally in their routine.

So, as we get older and newer experiences become fewer and far between, finding excitement in the everyday becomes harder.  It also becomes harder to get out of that mindset – harder to give up the comforts of this contentment.  Ultimately, there needs to be some sort of inertia to get people back to seeking that excitement.   It can come in many forms – some healthy, some not so much – but learning to create your own inertia is something that I think is important.  So, when I say that happiness is “fleeting,” it’s not to say that you can’t have it but that you have to continue to chase it.  You can never stop and become stagnant.  I know this view won’t be popular with everyone.  I know many people will disagree.  But, since I adopted this philosophy a few years ago, I’ve been the happiest I’ve ever been.

So – I’ve spent time thinking about what Sarah said.  I’d love to know what your thoughts are on these subjects.  Comment below, write your own blog post, or whatever it is that makes you happy….

~John Moe; Radio Host

Via my SECOND Starbucks Chai of the day

~Dan Wilson – musician.

Via my Starbucks Cup

Henry Miller
“The Air Conditioned Nightmare”

Irene is the city visible when you lean out from the edge of the plateau at the hour when the lights come on, and in the limpid air, the pink of the settlement can be discerned spreadout in the distance below: where the windows are more concentrated, where it thins out in dimly lighted alleys, where it collects the shadows of gardens, where it raises towers with signal fires; and if the evening is misty, a hazy glow swells like a milky sponge at the food of the gulleys.

Travelers on the plateau, shepherds shifting their flocks, bird catchers watching their nets, hermits gathering greens: all look down and speak of Irene. At times, the wind brings a music of bass drums and trumpets, the bang of firecrackers in the light-display of a festival; at times the rattle of guns, the explosion of a powder magazine in the sky yellow with the fires of Civil War. Those that look down from the heights conjecture about what is happening in the city; they wonder if it would be pleasant or unpleasant to be in Irene that evening. Not that they have any intention of going there (in any case, the roads winding down to the valley are bad) but Irene is a magnet for the eys and thoughts of those who stay up above.

At this point, Kublai Khan expects Marco to speak of Irene as it is seen from within. But Marco cannot do this: he has not succeeded in discovering which is the city that those on the plateau call Irene. For that matter, it is of slight importance: if you saw it, standing in its midst, it would be a different city; Irene is a name for the city in the distance, and if you approach, it changes.

For those who pass it without entering, the city is one thing; it is another for those who are trapped by it and never leave. There is a city where you arrive for the first time and there is another city which you leave never to return. Each deserves a different name; perhaps I have already spoken of Irene under other names; perhaps I have spoken only of Irene.

Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino

National Geographic Emerging Explorer and co-founder of Machik, a nonprofit helping communities on the Tibetan Plateau

(As seen on the cup of my Venti Soy Chai (No Water) from Starbucks)