Dan Cullum

Last week, I received my New Zealand Election voter information pack.

I love how easy it’s going to be to vote in this year’s general election.

When the voting window opens in early October, I will simply download and print my voting papers, fill them in, and upload a photo of them to the Electoral Commission’s website.

Done.

The risk of voter fraud is minimised because I had to 1) verify my electoral enrolment earlier this month via instructions in my voter information pack, and 2) my identify was authenticated through the New Zealand Government’s Real Me online identity platform.

I paused this morning to be grateful for democracy, and the ability to vote in a secure and trusted way from abroad.

I was sad to hear of Ken Robinson’s recent passing.

Like many, I first heard about Ken through his off-the-cuff, extraordinary TED Talk from 2006 titled ‘Do schools kill creativity?’

His message resonated: children don’t become creative, their creativity is beaten out of them by a broken school system. And that we need to rethink the first principles of education to ensure this natural creativity isn’t lost.

And after reading his book, The Element, I felt validated. The “bored in class” feeling I had experienced suddenly made sense. The embarrassment I felt for asking too many questions in the classroom fell away. He helped me connect some of the disparate dots in my own educational journey, and these learnings will likely have a big impact on the way I raise my future (in a while!) kids.

Here’s to you, Ken!

I’ve been reflecting on this quote by novelist and playwright, Edith Wharton, “There are two ways of spreading light: to be the candle or the mirror that reflects it.”

We’re not one or the other. We can play a different role when it’s needed most.

We’re all part candle and part mirror.

I’m currently watching this lecture on songwriting by famed writer, Ralph Murphy.

When Ralph was writing songs full time, he’d write 100 songs per year. From that 100, he’d demo 40, properly produce 6, and would get a hit every 3 years.

Meaning he had a 1 in 300 “hit” margin.

How often is a person willing to accept those odds for anything, let alone their career?

I love this story and its lesson.

There is nothing stopping us from walking up to the plate each day and swinging at the ball. We may miss often. We may try 299 times before we get a hit. But at least were on the pitch swinging, and not settling in the stands.

We’re moving house in a couple weeks, and I’m selling a few things on Marketplace to declutter.

One of those things is my Nintendo Switch. I bought it in 2017, and have barely played it in the past 2 years.

Within 3 hours of posting, I had 7 offers to buy it. I even had someone offer to drive to my house at midnight to pick it up.

I raised my eyebrows. I’d listed 4 other items, and I hadn’t received a single message for any of them.

I realised I’d asked for below average market price for the Switch.

I sat with multiple chat screens open, pondering the question: should I go back and edit the price, or should I honour the original offer?

I decided upon the latter. I felt honouring my original offer was 1) the right thing to do, and 2) a helpful lesson to make sure I do more thorough research next time.

A good decision may go unrewarded for a long time.

The seed may choose to sprout after the gardener has lost hope and thrown away their tools.

How long will you keep at it? How long are you willing to wait? How patient are you prepared to be?

The age of Netflix has brought with it a gravitational pull towards long-form content.

We’re watching fewer movies, and instead diving into shows that need many seasons to tell their story.

The characters are deeper, the plots more nuanced, and the experience more immersive.

This isn’t limited to fiction either.

A surprising number of long-form documentaries have sprung up, and I’ve been completely drawn into the ones about sport.

I don’t follow basketball, but the story of Michael Jordan in The Last Dance is a stunning depiction of one sport’s G.O.A.T., and his path to greatness.

I don’t follow Formula 1, but the Drive to Survive series gave me an insight into the complexity, competition, and danger of the world’s fastest sport. After watching it, I’m half convinced the drivers are not human.

Finally, I don’t follow any football team, but the story of Sunderland Football Club in Sunderland ’til I Die is an amazing tale of how the history and identity of a city can be so tightly tied to the journey of its sports team.

Yes, these documentaries are about sport, but they’re also vignettes into how top performing athletes respond to the immense pressure of being—and staying—on top of the world.

At the beginning of this year, I shared some articles and thoughts about what 2020 and the next decade could look like.

Let’s just say, none of them predicted a global pandemic.

No matter how hard we think, analyse, or anticipate, accurately predicting the future is nigh on impossible.

Although we still try and figure out what is to come, perhaps we should also spend time readying our minds for what may come.

“Imagine a mountain of sand, a million miles high, reaching from the earth to the farthest heavens, and a million miles broad, extending to remotest space, and a million miles in thickness, and imagine such an enormous mass of countless particles of sand multiplied as often as there are leaves in the forest, drops of water in the mighty ocean, feathers on birds, scales on fish, hairs on animals, atoms in the vast expanse of air. And imagine that at the end of every million years a little bird came to that mountain and carried away in its beak a tiny grain of that sand. How many millions upon millions of centuries would pass before that bird had carried away even a square foot of that mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages before it had carried away all. Yet at the end of that immense stretch time not even one instant of eternity could be said to have ended.” – James Joyce

But, we get today. This moment. This precious opportunity.

And that’s something.

Some scratches heal on their own.

Others need work to be fixed.

Knowing the difference—especially in cases when work is required—can be the difference between success and failure.

At the end of last year, my family and I played and completed the board game, Pandemic Legacy. It’s a co-operative game, where you work with the other players to save the world from, well, you guessed it, a global pandemic.

If a normal board game is like a movie—where it’s over in a couple hours—Pandemic Legacy is like a TV series, where each game is part of a broader story and builds on the previous games.

It was, hands down, the best board game I’ve ever played. And we often discussed—over the 16 games we played—what would happen if a real pandemic hit the globe. Little did we know…

Us humans are good at finding the humour in tough situations, though. Humour helps us cope with, reflect upon, make sense of, and lighten the circumstances.

Over the past few months, our family has made jokes about how it’s a good thing we’re not responsible for the world’s COVID response—often poking fun at someone who made a particularly bad board game decision.

We also jokingly wonder if 2020 have been different if we hadn’t played the game? As if us playing had some Jumanji-esque impact on the world.

Of course, none of this is true, but the humour is a welcome break from the talk of lockdowns and vaccines.

Humour is a tonic.

I was recently reminded of this hilarious video from comedian, Oobah, where he breaks dated British laws in front of police.

A few examples are 1) carrying a salmon in suspicious circumstances, 2) shaking out a rug in public after 8am, or 3) being without socks within 100 yards of the reigning monarch.

Of course, the video is only funny because the viewer understands how ridiculous these laws sound. I’m sure there was a logical reason to pass the Metropolitan Police Act of 1839 preventing public rug shaking, but do we really need it now?

Although parliament may be a little slow to update their laws, it got me thinking about the rules, customs, and values we set for ourselves. How often do we say, “that’s the way we’ve always done it.”? And at what point do we say, “we can do better, our world could be different.”?

Back in 1988, Bill Clinton delivered an astonishingly long—36 minute—speech at the Democratic National Convention to endorse Michael Dukakis as the Democratic presidential nominee.

It was so long that in the final minutes when Clinton uttered the words, “In closing,” the crowd erupted with cheers. They were happy to hear he was on the verge of finishing. And that odd moment has not been forgotten.

We only have a short amount of time to land our message, to tell our story, and to persuade others. It doesn’t matter if you’re an employee, a CEO, or Bill Clinton, having a deep understanding of your audience is more than half the battle when trying to land a message.

I was recently reminded of the lesson “show me, don’t tell me”.

This principles works in almost any setting: presentations, blog posts, textbooks, friendships, and even in displays of kindness for our loved ones.

Around the same time, I was reminded of a previous blog post where I shared how you only need to water a basil plant when it’s drooping—I was previously overwatering and killing them.

So I decided to put the two lessons together this week. Here’s a before and after photo of the same basil plant—with only 3 hours and a watering between them.

Regardless of what’s going on today, remember: 100 years from now, there’ll be all new people.

And, perhaps, it can serve as a reminder that today—however bland, challenging, or joyous—is a special day.

H/T Theo Katzmann’s ‘100 Years from now’