Blog

Make the bed
Take a shower
Dress well
Put on a watch
Pour a hot drink
Use a pen you like
Schedule breaks
Read a devotion or pray
Stretch
Eat vegetables

Although I’m tempted to stay in my pyjamas, it’s the little acts of self-care and self-respect that add up over time to air out those self-isolation blues.

Following on from yesterday’s post about memory triggers, it got me thinking about another device in my home. As part of the shift to working from home, I’ve been using Facebook’s Portal to dial in and out of work calls.

It also has a feature called Superframe, which puts the device into a ‘digital photo frame’ mode whenever it isn’t being used for something else.It integrates with my social media accounts, and I also uploaded a large number of photos.

Since I started using the feature, I’ve been transported back to memories from years ago. I’ve relived kayaking trips with friends, visits to see family, and the laughter of my nephew as he’s grown from a baby into a toddler.

For the longest time, I thought digital photo frames weren’t for me. But in this time of social distancing, and given that I live a long way from family, I welcome the micro-reminders.

I love how smells, sounds, and tastes can take us back to memories of old.

Although we may forget those memories in our day-to-day, all it takes is a little reminder to trigger nostalgic reflection.

There is a unique smell that hits me every time I walk out of the airport in Malaysia. It’s almost like I can smell the humidity, and it fills me with anticipation for the fun few weeks I have ahead with family.

I’ve also spent time this week listening to my previous Annual Top 100 Song playlists on Spotify. The songs that sit atop my 2017 playlist immediately take me back to the feelings I had when Maru and I had just moved to the UK.

And finally, earlier this week I opened a jar of plum jam from the supermarket. Although it wasn’t exactly the same, it reminded me of afternoons picking plums with my late grandparents under the large tree in their backyard. I remember hanging CDs at the end of jute string from the branches of the tree to keep the birds away. I reminisce about smelling the sugar and plums bubbling on the stove. And boy, do I remember how that jam tasted on my toast each morning for breakfast.

My modus operandi in the kitchen is to move fast.

If I can prepare a meal in fewer than 7 minutes, I call that a win.

However, there are often unintended consequences. I usually make a mess.

Speed and efficiency have its casualties.

So I’ve embarked on a journey to slow down a little. Cutting, moving, placing, and pouring with a little more care than I usually give.

Yes, my kitchen is a little cleaner, but I also feel lighter.

Sometimes I need the reminder that “leisurely” is not sub-optimal. In fact, it may be just what’s needed.

I learnt how to ride a motorcycle in the dark, in the rain, and in Vietnam.

This was back in 2014, and since then, I like to think I’ve gained a few brain cells.

Maybe it was the thrill of needing speed to keep balanced, or the rushing air, or being so nimble when compared to driving a car; riding a motorcycle was intoxicating.

Barely two weeks after my first ride, a colleague and I signed up to a weekend motorcycle tour from Hanoi to a village close to the Lao border.

We rode for 5-6 hours each day on winding roads that crept through impressive mountain ranges. I felt like a badass.

On the second day, I began to feel comfortable, but that quickly devolved into arrogance. I felt I could go a little faster, lean a little more into the corners, and travel a little further out from safety of the shoulder of the road.

However, late in the afternoon we rounded a blind corner, and 40 metres ahead, one large truck was trying to overtake another. The two trucks were moving towards us at pace, and they occupied both lanes of the road.

We immediately veered to the side where there was—thankfully—a strip of gravel about 2 metres wide. I was travelling too fast, though, and my back wheel slid out from underneath me.

Now don’t picture some dramatic Hollywood skid out, the bike and I only slid a few metres together, but it was enough for a small part of the bike’s frame to squash my ankle.

Our guide immediately came over to make sure I was okay, and helped me check my ankle—I was lucky that it was only badly bruised, and that my hobble would last less than a week. But I’ll never forget what he said to me, “You became arrogant, and you put yourself in danger. That was on you.”

I had no reply.

It was true.

I learnt a big lesson that day. Comfort with something can easily lead to arrogance. And in certain situations, the consequences of arrogance can be life altering.

Some call me a little over-the-top, but since then, I haven’t ridden a motorcycle. I’ve seen the risk, and I know my mind, and it’s not a game I want to play.

In many video conference calls this week, I’ve heard sounds of dishes clattering and babies laughing. I’ve also seen family members glide through the frame, and flatmates hurriedly cleaning.

We’re all inside. We’re all packed in with our loved ones.

And this proximity allows for human moments to be sprinkled throughout our work day.

No, they’re not a distraction or an annoyance. In fact, they’re moments that remind us we’re all living through this experience together… albeit, with a little distance.

I made a 15-second silent film last week. My goal was to make my team laugh, and to say, “Just because we’re working from home doesn’t mean we need to give up on our hobbies.”

I hope you enjoy my silent film debut!

Yesterday evening the UK government put out a call to its people: Volunteer and help our National Health Service (NHS).

They wanted young, fit, and healthy people to volunteer for roles that would see them help the 1.5 million vulnerable people in the UK over the coming 3-4 months.

There were 3 types of support proposed: 1) picking up and delivering essential supplies like food and medicine, 2) taking the vulnerable to and from medical appointments, and 3) offering to call and talk with people who are living alone in self-isolation.

The government had a target of signing up 250,000 volunteers over the course of a few days. Within 24 hours, over 400,000 volunteers had registered.

This outpouring of support from UK residents inspired me. It’s a glimmer of hope and goodwill in a dark time. And it’s a sign that collective altruism is possible.

I signed up to provide (distanced) company to those in self-isolation. And I’m thrilled I get to play a small part in the bigger effort.

Many of us are currently figuring out this Work From Home thing.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to give you, “Dan’s 6 tips for Maximum Productivity when Working From Home.”

That’d be gross.

But I did want to share something I’ve been using with my team—and with friends—to make sure we’re still having fun, despite not being able to see each other in person.

I was introduced to Jackbox Games a few weeks ago. They are a company that build easy-to-play party games for groups. One person buys the software (it’s currently $16), and everyone else just has to have a web browser to play.

They have 6 party packs, each with about 5 games. And after a bit of researching, I found that Party Pack 3 is the best overall bundle.

A game that I particularly like in Party Pack 3 is Quiplash. Each player provides a funny answer to a weird question, and all players then get to vote on which is the best answer. It also a great game to ensure everyone in the team can be involved.

So how did it go? I loaded up the software on my Mac, dialled into a video conference with my team, shared my screen, and each player logged into our specific game with a unique 4 letter code. It was easy and straightforward.

Even though we’re apart, it doesn’t mean we have to miss out on the fun and comedy that comes with working in teams.

During the past 2-3 weeks, I’ve been reflecting on a concept—which I don’t think has a name yet—so for the purpose of this post, I’m going to call it Implicit Decisions.

I’m going to butcher it if I try and explain it in the abstract, so I’m going to use an example.

When the ER doctor decided to pursue a career in medicine—regardless of how long ago that was—they made an implicit decision to be on the frontline if something like the COVID-19 pandemic occurred.

I doubt there was cost-benefit analysis performed by the young student. The bright-eyed optimist was committed—come hell or high water—to look after the sick, irrespective of what brought the patient into the hospital in the first place.

I’m in awe of what healthcare workers around the world are doing to fight this disease. I’m grateful for the courage our police, fire, military, and emergency workers are showing on a daily basis. I admire how our governments are placing priority on human lives above all else.

The people in these roles didn’t sign up for this; it was thrust upon them. However, they all made Implicit Decisions to be here, present, and bold in the event of a crisis.

And with each day that passes, I’m more and more grateful for the work they do.

“Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants.”—Epictetus

Epictetus uttered these words more than 2,000 years ago, and through all the different shades and tides of humanity’s challenges, it continues to be as relevant as ever.

If you’re considering writing more—publicly or privately, and especially during this time—I hope this post helps you.

Last year, a friend shared with me this quote from Clive Thompson’s book ‘Smarter Than You Think,’ which has helped me on my journey.

“I’d argue that the cognitive shift in going from an audience of zero (talking to yourself), to an audience of ten people (a few friends or random strangers checking out your online post), is so big that it’s actually huger than going from ten people to a million people.”

The critical mass of readers required for great conversations is lower than you think.

A handful of people is all you need.

You just need a few people who are willing to tell you when you’re wrong, to tell you when you write something that resonates, to tell you that you missed the point, or to tell you that you sound too much like a Hallmark Card (thanks, Kevin!).

My first thirty days of blogging—where I did it in complete secrecy and didn’t share it with anyone—was lonely. But as I opened up, regardless of the quality of my posts, it has allowed me to meet a group of unique, positive, and insightful people.

Whether it’s on a blog, in an email, or even a Whatsapp message, your thoughts and words can be meaningful to someone.

Heck, if you’re worried, send it to me. I’m at the very beginning of a lifelong journey of writing. I’ll cheer you on.

I only started drinking coffee when I began full-time work.

I was 22, and I’d just moved to Melbourne; a destination coffee pilgrims consider as a holy site. Its tucked-away lanes and suburban streets are packed with cafes. It’s common to find a young, tattooed barista pumping out pour-overs, lattes, flat whites, and fancy filtered coffee.

I became a coffee snob. It was the first time I had enough disposable income to get one (or three) cups per day from the overpriced cafe across the road.

A few years later, however, when I decided to sail the Mississippi, I was no longer working full-time, so I needed to save every penny.

In a moment—literally overnight—I switched to instant coffee. I still got my caffeine hit every day, but at a 95%+ discount.

In the hidden depths of my mind—because I wasn’t willing to share it publicly—I wore it like a badge of honour. I was proud that I could forego a luxury for a bigger goal.

And although there’s an espresso machine at work (which I use when I’m not social distancing!), at home I still have a jar filled with instant coffee.

I still enjoy the smell and taste, but I also love what it represents. It’s unique to me and my story, and that’s what makes it special.

People don’t usually think about postponing their wedding.

Getting married is a pretty binary decision. It’s usually, “Yes, I do,” or, “No, I don’t.”

When Maru and I found ourselves faced with a growing amount of coronavirus evidence over the past 2 weeks, we each had a growing suspicion that our 18th of April wedding in Argentina was looking less likely by the day.

It took a while for us to get to the point where we were willing to consider the thought, “Shall we postpone?”

We ended up sitting down and asking ourselves 3 questions:

1. Could we guarantee that all of our guests would be safe during our wedding?
2. Could we anticipate the situation to improve significantly over the next few weeks?
3. Could we ask our guests to travel two weeks ahead of time to self-isolate? (Which are the current self-isolation-upon-arrival rules in Argentina)

The answer for all of these questions was a resounding, “No!”

But we were hampered by doubts. What would this mean for our guests and their travel plans? What would this mean for all the plans we’d made with our vendors? Would people come in a year’s time?

Despite these doubts, we pushed ahead and postponed. Within a week, our decision was justified. Argentina closed all borders to foreigners, and flights from the UK and New Zealand were cancelled.

Strangely, the feeling we had after making the decision wasn’t anguish, but rather relief.

The build up to postponing was painful, but knowing we would be keeping our loved ones out of harm’s way—by not hosting a large event—gave us peace.

The pill has been a little easier to swallow due to the overwhelming support we’re received from our family and friends. Let’s just say, everyone understands the current situation.

We also took time to pause, be grateful, and think of others. As there are many families around the world experiencing life-altering pain and loss at this moment.

Finally, we chose to see the good. We didn’t postpone our wedding, we just extended our engagement.

Simone is one of my good friends here in London. We worked together at Bulb, and have spent the past 3 years playing amateur poker games and swapping book recommendations.

However, it was only today that I learnt about his hidden talent.

He’s a talented accordionist, and even better, he plays niche accordion that only exists in his region of Italy. It has no keys.

I love learning about the hidden talents of my friends. We learn wonderful things—and the world is better for it—when we’re willing to share.

Enjoy!