Dan Cullum

There’s a baseline set of things we do every day to stay healthy and feel our best.

We sleep, we eat, we brush our teeth, we floss, we shower, we change our clothes.

Fitness—or some form of physical activity—should be on the list too. But it’s all too easy to skip, to find an excuse, or to push it to tomorrow.

And don’t think I’m on my high horse here. Most of the musings on this blog are lessons I need to hear. I didn’t want to run today, nor did I want to lift.

But then I thought: fitness and flossing.

Yesterday I went to a Death Cafe. I know it sounds morbid, but it really isn’t.

I discovered the Death Cafe movement via a Frank Ostaseski’s seminar ‘What the Dying Teach the Living’ that he presented at the Long Now Foundation. He spoke about the value of the movement, and it piqued my interest.

In their own words, “At a Death Cafe people, often strangers, gather to eat cake, drink tea and discuss death. Our objective is ‘to increase awareness of death with a view to helping people make the most of their (finite) lives’. A Death Cafe is a group directed discussion of death with no agenda, objectives or themes. It is a discussion group rather than a grief support or counselling session.”

I had a hunch London would have a Death Cafe, and sure enough, the wonderful Blackfriars Settlement charity in the borough of Southwark hosts one every two months.

I went by myself and was a bit nervous, but the experience ended up being profound. The facilitators from Blackfriars Settlement stuck true to the ethos of the Death Cafe movement. There was no agenda, they established a clear set of ground rules, and they encouraged open, vulnerable, and honest conversation.

It’s rare in London to talk to strangers, and even rarer to talk about something as personal as death, but over the course of two hours, I spoke with six people ranging from their mid-thirties to their late-seventies, about practical, emotional, and philosophical aspects of death.

Most of all I was impressed by the level of respect, dignity, curiosity, and thoughtfulness that each participant brought to the conversation. There was no topic that was off the table, and no perspective that was shunned. Everyone approached the evening with an intention to understand.

I’m glad I went, and I’ll likely go again.

The estimate, guess, correlation, forecast, plan, and hedge are all attempts at achieving certainty in uncertain situations.

Isn’t it odd then how we act surprised when things don’t go to plan?

I’m trying to rewire my expectations a little. I still plan, forecast, and estimate. But I’m trying to worry less when things don’t go to plan, and am trying to spend more energy on my response.

I can’t tell if the shift has been slow and subtle or abrupt and immediate, but I’m now planning my food intake much more carefully around my workouts, as well as stretching deliberately before and after.

All I know is that I never used to time my fuel, or bother with recovery. It just never felt necessary. Or more accurately, my body never told me it was necessary.

But now it has become second nature. I’ll start feeling lethargic if I’m underfed, or my muscles will feel tight without proper mobility and recovery.

I don’t want to call it an age thing. But it’s an age thing.

As I’ve written about before, my goal is to train in a way that I can turn up tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that, ad infinitum.

When we moved flats earlier this year, Maru and I signed up to a gym in our neighbourhood. It’s actually a school that makes their gym, sports hall, swimming pool, studios, and tennis courts available to residents outside of school hours and term times. If you’re comfortable working out in the evening, it’s a great deal!

They’re a retro gym in the sense that most of their processes are analog. Their signup is a paper form. The class timetables are printed out on A4 sheets that you pick up from reception. And you need to call or email to book a class or tennis court. Some information like class timetables are downloadable PDFs on their website, but you can’t take any action like pausing your membership or booking a class.

And I like it. It’s less convenient compared to the digital-first gyms out there, but the team members are helpful and always have a smile on their face. It feels less slick, but they make up for it in warmth and character.

Most projects take longer than planned. They’re often more complex than anticipated. And there’s usually something that surprises the team, something that goes wrong, or something that was forgotten in planning.

Despite having seen the above play out dozens of times, most teams default to optimism and think, “This time will be different”.

The laws of physics don’t change too often though.

So one way to avoid a headache on complex projects is to deliberately add a multiplier. It could be a complexity multiplier, or a we’re-going-to-discover-new-problems multiplier, or a just-to-be-safe multiplier. You choose.

The multiplier gives a bit of breathing room for things to go wrong, because they almost always do.

Maru and I have been getting into tennis this summer. The good weather and a convenient court have made all the difference.

When I watch the pros on TV, they hit with such power and accuracy, and it’s tempting to want to do as they do. However, as a beginner, almost all my focus has been on placement, because I’m not yet ready to put any power behind my shots.

If I get too excited or greedy in a point, and I try to play with power, I’m humbled quickly. My shot hits the net or I end up hitting the ball too long.

The metaphor of power and placement in tennis applies to most learning endeavours. Our first priority should be placement; coupled with getting into flow and the right level of consistency. Only when we have those nailed should we allow ourselves to begin adding power.

When a student wrote to C.S. Lewis in 1959 asking for writing advice, he replied with a pithy list.

What strikes me is how, even after 65 years, the basics of good writing remain largely the same.

I’m pasting the eight tips below exactly as written.

1. Turn off the radio.
2. Read all the good books you can, and avoid nearly all magazines.
3. Always write (and read) with the ear, not the eye. You should hear every sentence you write as if it was being read aloud or spoken. If it does not sound nice, try again.
4. Write about what really interests you, whether it is real things or imaginary things, and nothing else. (Notice this means that if you are interested only in writing you will never be a writer, because you will have nothing to write about . . .)
5. Take great pains to be clear. Remember that though you start by knowing what you mean, the reader doesn’t, and a single ill-chosen word may lead him to a total misunderstanding. In a story it is terribly easy just to forget that you have not told the reader something that he needs to know—the whole picture is so clear in your own mind that you forget that it isn’t the same in his.’
6. When you give up a bit of work don’t (unless it is hopelessly bad) throw it away. Put it in a drawer. It may come in useful later. Much of my best work, or what I think my best, is the re-writing of things begun and abandoned years earlier.
7. Don’t use a typewriter. The noise will destroy your sense of rhythm, which still needs years of training.
8. Be sure you know the meaning (or meanings) of every word you use.

I was running home from work today, the sun was setting, and the summer air was cool. I was travelling at a leisurely pace; careful and deliberate with my form.

A family with two young boys—between the ages of 8-12—were heading towards me on the same footpath. The boys, full of energy, were running ahead of their parents. The youngest was galloping. He had great big strides, and threw himself forward with boundless energy. He bounced along the pavement with a big smile, and with complete confidence that his feet would catch him.

And here I was, carefully maintaining a short stride to reduce the impact on my knees, consciously aligning my feet and knees to ensure optimal mechanics, and keeping an upright posture whilst breathing through my nose.

When did I become so uptight? When did I lose the effortlessness?

I’m not complaining though. My goal is not to gallop, but to be able to run tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It was, however, interesting to study the difference between me and the galloping kid.

In the story of Goldilocks, she enters the home of the bears and tries each of the three bowls of porridge on the table. One is too hot, the next too cold, and the last “just right”.

Porridge is simple. Real life is hard.

There is rarely a “just right”. There’s usually a choice, a trade-off, some risk, and a bunch of remaining unknowns.

“Just right” is just an illusion.

We can spend time talking about the work, complaining about it, estimating how long it’ll take, costing it out, or checking that we have everything we need.

But eventually, we just need to roll up our sleeves and start.

That’s the antidote to the jitters.

Around the age of ten, students at my primary school got to earn their pen licence. If their pencil-based handwriting was clear and neat enough over a sustained period, the teacher would give them an official piece of paper that said they were allowed to use a ball point pen.

Looking back now, the whole thing was a bit odd. But, I tell ya, it felt big at the time. I think it was the permanence of the pen. Permission to use a pen was a sign that you were self-assured, disciplined, careful, and controlled.

It got me thinking that perhaps us adults should have to earn our pencil licences. Maybe it’ll help us feel like it’s okay to make mistakes, or that using an eraser is acceptable, or that some days we’ll be sharp and others we’ll be blunt.

Here’s to the pencil. Let’s bring it back.

I’ve been reflecting on Kevin Kelly’s Excellent Advice for Living, and one thing I love about the book is the mix of profound and practical advice.

I’ve posted about the profound advice before, but the practical stuff deserves a mention too.

Today’s post is an ode to one that I deliberately ignore all the time. So this post is as much a reminder to me, as it is sharing a good piece of advice with you.

“Take two trips. If you’re not sure you can carry it all, take two trips.”

This evening I went to my first improvised comedy show in almost a decade. I forgot how much fun they are!

I was immediately reminded of improv’s number one rule: “Yes, and…”

In simple terms, when someone offers you an idea on stage, you accept it and add to it. You do not say no, and you do not “block” the story from progressing.

I also find it amazing how the funniest parts rarely come from players trying to be funny, but rather from how they respond to, and build on, another player’s crazy idea.

If a player suggests parachuting to the bottom of the Grand Canyon, or climbing the Eiffel Tower, or cooking for the King, the only answer is yes. And then it’s up to you to extend the story.

It’s a lesson useful for improv, and also for daily living.

The Bear is an eclectic, hectic television series on Disney. The synopsis is, “A young talented chef named Carmen “Carmy” Anthony Berzatto inherits his family’s Italian beef sandwich shop after the suicide of his older brother Michael. He comes home to Chicago to run it, leaving behind his world of working in Michelin-starred restaurants.”

It’s not only great television, but a good friend—who is a chef—says the show is well respected within the culinary community for its realistic portrayal and accuracy of the hospitality industry.

There is a flashback scene where Carmy is working in a Michelin-starred restaurant, and he is facing intense pressure from the Head Chef. The Head Chef says to Carmy, “To make it better, take stuff out.”

I loved the reminder that the temptation to add more never goes away. And that the answer can often be found in not what we add, but in what we subtract.