A Resilient Story: The Quest for Significance

At home, we called her the gardener that we didn’t hire and can’t fire. There were fights about her being in our bedroom window garden on a Sunday morning that effectively ended Sunday morning bedroom activities. Anywhere we had a place to sit and talk was surrounded by a garden – one that she found coincidental times to maintain.

So, what I really thought was, “We can’t wait.”

The world won’t just go on without you, but we will finally get to do what we want without intervention, permission or explanation. My partner and I couldn’t understand what was so wrong with lilacs.

One day, there was an explosion of a fight when I discovered that she’d mowed down my sunflowers.

The following spring, I finally planted two apple trees. I’m making cider from them now.

Where Did I Hear That Before?

A few weeks ago, my partner’s father was treated for cancer. Happening upon him in the front yard, he declared, “What is going to happen when I kick the bucket? No one is going to be here to do the paperwork and that will be that for the business!”

I was there to ask what time I should pick him up for his coming doctor’s appointment, so I had to continue to listen.

As I listened, I realized that he had no idea that I was in the wings ready, and frankly chomping at the bit to takeover, should he decide to spend his energy on recovery, retirement, relaxation…his choice really. Not only that, but I had ample experience in the paperwork department to which he was referring.

So, what I really thought was, “What are you waiting for?”

The world won’t just go on without you, but we will finally get to do what we want without intervention, permission or explanation. I partner and I couldn’t understand why we were still writing cheques.

I hope there isn’t an explosion of a fight, and I look forward to the upcoming long ride where I can intently listen to whatever it is that he might want to share.

Do You Have Something to Share?

Last time, I held my tongue for half an hour, and he started talking. This time, we might have an entire day, and I know I’m going to learn some enlightening things.

I have the power to keep my mouth shut because, instead of the emotion of entitlement, I come from a place of service.

How can I help, I wonder, and I thought taking over was how, but I’m apparently wrong.

I’m anticipating learning of a fear of change, a fear of the opposite of what they claim – they aren’t worried the world will collapse without them, but fear that it will go on as if they never happened – or worse, be better for it.

Since that’s my fear, we’ve opted to patiently wait instead of pushing through an agenda of improvement. Even with the gardens, the change went slowly, if steadily.

Some things have divine timing, and when God must intervene, not everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Then, we go on to deal with the inevitable. Nothing ever stays the same.

Was it Worth the Wait?

So, what I really think is, “What am I waiting for?”

When the door you’ve been staring at as if it will open any moment, and yet, how patient do you want to be? Perhaps the devil you know really is waiting for you to pick up the key and unchain yourself, and he’s wondering why you are letting him get away with this self-selected hell for so long.

Today, someone told me, “You have more patience than a dead man.”

Sometimes what you see in others is simply a way for you to see what’s really in yourself. When someone has the guts to point out something unflattering to you in a subtle way, listen intently.

A younger me would have looked at both these experiences and asked, “Why me? Am I invisible? Incompetent? What?”

A wiser me knows that it has nothing to do with me. It never did.

We all seek significance. How we get it is up to us.

Too often, we seek it in low-road ways, like controlling others, acting out (like I did when I felt insignificant), or buying things above the limits of affordability.

To finally be free of those bad habits, we can choose to use our time and efforts to build something of true significance. For some, it’s their families and children. For me, it’s the downloads I offer and the work I do to bring them to others.

Working to bring them to others, I experimented with Substack. After four weeks, my last post there is Five Reasons My Substack Experiment is Over. To save you the pain of going over there, here’s the post:

What I learned over four weeks on Substack convinced me I was wasting my time and energy, but I learned valuable lessons. This third post will be my last here. Over on my website, though, I’m still going strong, publishing what I’ve learned about being between a rock and a hard place, thankful that I’ll never feel powerless again. Here are five reasons why I’m bidding farewell.

I’ve ZERO desire to make money from readers.

Substack’s profit model is derived from a portion of subscription fees. If I never plan to charge a subscriber, then I’m a freeloader. That’s a label that I refuse with a hard no. I carry my weight and more. I like to think of myself as independent, and taking advantage is something I spot and eradicate where I can.

Don’t get me wrong—although I am retired, I’m interested in earning money. I simply had secondary ideas in mind, like a speaking career, teaching, or consulting. The options are endless, but they are greased with many subscribers – who are proven to engage.

It seems readers are few and far between.

In a world where everyone is publishing and hoping to make money, who is reading and able to pay? I remember networking events from years ago, where everyone was unemployed. It might have been good practice, but it never could deliver what we wanted or needed.

Hitting publish and awaiting criticism might be good practice, especially when you realize you’d be so lucky to be noticed. It’s also helpful to develop a rubber skin for trolls, to develop a succinct story for interviewers, and to develop good answers to frequently asked questions.

I’m confused, frustrated, and stymied by the separation between publication and author on Substack.

In a world where introductions contain both a name and an affiliation, on Substack, they are separated by design. Some smart people find a way to re-merge the two, but on others, I reply to a comment attributed to a name only to realize that name is associated with a publication I’ve decided to pass.

Similarly, I don’t think people care about my name but more about what I write about; in the comments, I’m just another name. Yet, as I unsubscribe as a reader, I still see that my publication remains subscribed. I don’t know.

Maybe it inflates the number of subscribers that everyone tracks so closely. I’m reminded of jeans manufacturers changing the sizing, so I buy a pair simply so I can say that my fat ass squeezed into a size four! Can you believe it? No. I’m a size zero, and what is that?

I’ve confronted my goals with a most profound truth.

Why was I on Substack to start with? I was under the belief that I needed to find people. There’s so much talk about needing a group of people on which to lean. People everywhere say humans are social. You need to belong to a community. Really?

I say, I got this far on my own and have the inner strength to prove it. I’m more than halfway to the end now, and wise enough to question the status quo.

I don’t need the external validation that I was led to believe I did. Like-minded circles become echo chambers, inner circles become constrictions, and friends become enablers when you place too much importance on having people around you.

I’ve questioned what’s left when the need for external validation dissipates.

I thought becoming a traditionally published author was my goal, more than a way to find my people. To get there, you need all kinds of things that have nothing to do with the content of those future pages, but everything to do with your ability to sell them. As such, I was working on developing those criteria, in blind pursuit of #4 above.

However, the closer you get to a goal, the more you can tell if it will work out as you thought it would. Frankly, being traditionally published and on the book tour to sell it sounded fun, but as enjoyable as all the work it takes to get there?

The idea reminded me of trying hard to get a job, only to be put on a plane every week. I hated it—restaurant food, hotels, constant air conditioning. I felt like a plastic bag in the wind, and my employer was Mother Nature.

Completely burnt out, I quit with no job to go to within six months. To that, I say no thanks. The promise of external validation started this effort, and that fog has dissipated.