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Sunday, May 1, 2016

The Rest of the Room



I was so focused on what was right in front of me that I never saw the rest of the room. When I looked up there was so much more opportunity for me than I'd realized. 


There are times I forget how fortunate I am in this journey of mine. 

My work space changes daily, sometimes hourly. There is always a fresh face and perspective waiting.

Sometimes I don't recognize it until it's slipped past me - Like a gentle breeze.

"Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them."


Henry David Thoreau wrote that observation a few hundred years ago. We rarely see the entire quote. The final phrase is conveniently left off. Maybe, it's because if we looked at it in its entirety, we'd have to face the fact that we leave this world with things unfinished or incomplete.

I don't like thinking about those sorts of things, do you?

I'd rather blame you or or the people who think, act and live differently than myself. I'd rather blame them for my lot in life.

It's easier.

It's easier not to acknowledge the rest of the room.

I can't sing your song.

You cannot sing mine.

There are times I forget how fortunate I am in this journey of mine.

When I sleep with the bedroom window open the sirens wake me up in the middle of the night. There's a large retirement community a mile or so away and the EMT's shuttle back forth.

Some nights I lie on my back and think how selfish I am. How my fear and anxiety prevent me from singing that song whose notes were written only for me and how somewhere, someone is robbed of its melody and insights.

There are times I forget how fortunate I am in this journey of mine.

A coaching client of mine made the initial observation in this posting and it struck a chord. Her rest of the room is Thoreau's going to the grave with the song still inside of us

Our rooms are rather large. In the corners and crannies lie those treasures, those songs that are written only for us.

That is what success sounds like - Your beautiful and often discordant song, crooned at the top of your lungs.

There are time I forget how fortunate I am in this journey of mine.