My Mother (or Father or Grandparent), Myself

I’m currently writing the life story for the father of one of my best friends. I’ve known “Mr. Jones” for more than 30 years now, since his son, “Jack,” and I became close in high school. Jack’s father is an exceptionally bright man, and it’s been a joy to work with him, learn more about his history, and discuss his feelings about religion and politics. I knew when we decided to write this book together that I was in for a series of interesting interviews.

What I didn’t realize was how much I would learn about my friend.

It’s not so much that we’ve talked in detail about Jack. Mr. Jones hasn’t told me any secrets that I didn’t know about his son. In fact, I can’t point to a single sentence or discovery that, on its own, strengthens my understanding about Jack. But, as we’re closing in on the completion of the first draft, I feel certain that my insight into Jack’s own personal make-up has grown. I see much more clearly, now, how Jack became the person he is.

And while this discovery came as a surprise to me, if you think about it, it really shouldn’t have. In fact, it makes nothing but sense. Mr. Jones is Jack’s father, a hugely influential person in a son’s life. His gestures, speech mannerisms, thought patterns, and philosophies were all passed down to Jack through years and years of father/son engagement. And while I came to know Jack as his own unique individual (which he obviously is), now I see the history behind him. The influences that guided him. The places where his father’s impact was huge (and the places where Jack opted for a different course).

This learning has been profound for now I see yet another benefit of writing one’s life story: to allow our children to understand themselves better. Jack is not his father but he certainly is a product of his father’s upbringing. Equally, I am not my mother (or father or grandparent) but certainly I have been significantly impacted by them. My son, in turn, is being impacted by me.

When we tell our stories, we allow our children to see the roots of their own lives.

The advantages of telling your life story seem to grow at every turn.  Please let me know if you’re interesting in joining the adventure.

Humans of New York

Have you heard about Humans of New York? It’s been around nearly four years now, but it’s new to me, and it was just last month that I joined five million other Facebook users who “like” the site. But I more than like it. I LOVE it, and literally overnight, I became a regular visitor. If you haven’t checked it out yet, please do. Aside from being wildly entertaining, it’s insightful, penetrating, educational, and, at times, breathtaking.

And, like many exceptional things, it’s simple. Very, very simple.

The site includes photographs of everyday people and along with each photograph, a quotation. That’s it.

Each day, Brandon Stanton stops a handful of “humans of New York” as they roam the streets of the city. With charm and grace, the 29-year-old asks if he can take their photograph and speak to them for a few moments. Here’s a sampling of what he’s heard:

·         “I was a real asshole,” says one man, holding a bouquet of flowers.

·         “I never found my passion,” says an older woman.

·         “It’s tough being someone who cares about a drunk,” muses a lonely 20-something.

When you combine these moments of truth – shared with a stranger – with the portraits that Stanton creates, the results are riveting.

And why is this?

Because we’re all curious about each other’s lives, their thoughts, their experiences. Everyone, the site clearly shows, has something fascinating to share, an exceptional insight, a unique history.

Now, take it a step further. If this is how much we care about strangers, can you imagine our intrigue if we knew the person personally? If it were our mother or father? Our grandparent or friend?

We’d clamor for their words, we’d hit refresh to find more pictures.

We’d want a book.

Are you ready to share your story? You may not get five million followers, but trust me, your family will thank you.

How Do You Want to Tell Your Story?

I recently watched Billy Crystal’s 700 Sundays on HBO. It’s an amazing program, like all things Billy Crystal in my opinion, in which the actor/comedian performs the story of his childhood before a live audience. Standing on stage, in front of a makeshift house resembling the one from his youth, he tells of the happy moments, tearful moments, and deliriously funny moments (of course) that filled the first 15 years (700 Sundays) of his life before his father died unexpectedly.

I was immediately taken with his history, his obvious love for family, and his award-winning performance. But what hit me later was the realization, once again, that there are many ways to tell your story.

Crystal is a performer; he chose to share his memoir on stage, live, with lights and props and makeup. The list of credits at the end of his HBO program was extensive, and certainly few of us have the means to tell our stories in such a public and extravagant fashion. But, I’m fairly certain, even if we all had Crystal’s fame, few of us, likely, would replicate his particular mode of delivery. Acting out our childhoods before millions, is not the default option for most of us.

My passion is writing. And so for me, the way I tell stories – for myself and for others – is through writing books (aka – Leaves of Your Life). Many of my colleagues help clients tell their stories on video, creating works of art through digital technology.

But there are so many possibilities open to those who want to share their memoirs. You could create a scrapbook or photo album with relevant notes on each page. Or write letters to the important people in your life, conveying significant moments from your past and wishes for your family’s future. You could pull together a book of your favorite family recipes and attach recollections along with each dish (“This was my favorite meal when I was a kid, and Mom made it for me on my birthday every year until I turned 19.”). You could make a quilt, containing scraps of important clothing from yesteryear and write a quick memory about each patch.

The options are endless.

How do you want to tell your story? If it’s through a book, and you’d like help, I’d be thrilled to work as your partner in doing so. But if it’s through another medium, please pursue it.

Billy Crystal called 700 Sundays “the most satisfying experience of my career.”

Now it’s your turn.

Branching Points

Last month I began a class on how to become a Guided Autobiography (GAB) instructor. In simple terms, GAB is a process in which individuals produce a record of their lives, in writing, and share their writing with other class participants.

It’s a fascinating program. Each week students are asked to write about a specific topic – family, money, health, etc. “Sensitizing questions” are provided, giving participants roads to ponder as they decide where to take their writing for the week. My class is currently in week four and I know more about my “classmates” than I know about my neighbors. There’s an awful quick learning curve in this kind of environment.

It was in week one, before we even knew everyone's name, that we were sharing a “branching point” in our lives. A moment when the direction of our lives took a sharp turn and changed our trajectory forever. Some wrote about changes in their health or family. Others wrote about one-sentence, off-the cuff statements from a significant other that made them aware of a new reality or belief system for themselves. The essays were as varied as the participants.

The subject of my two-page story came to me easily, but I realized, mostly when listening to the stories of others, that I’ve had many branching points. We all do. The truth is, without these branching points, our lives – both public and private – are straight lines. The branching points are what give our stories depth and texture. They explain how we got be who we are today.

What are your branching points? There are obvious ones, like a move to a new town or the chance encounter with a boy you ended up marrying. But there are others too – light bulb moments when you realized a new truth about yourself.

Before you write your life story, spend some quiet time really thinking about all the different branching points in your life. You’ll be amazed how clearly they map out how you became you.

What is Wisdom?

A recent article in the New York Times titled, “The Science of Older and Wiser,” drew me in immediately. The thrust of the article, as the title suggests, is how personal wisdom is impacted by the aging process. Definitely interesting stuff, but that’s not what grabbed me. What I found absolutely fascinating was the definition, stated early on, that researchers traditionally apply when studying “wisdom.”

According to the article, “wisdom consists of three key components: cognition, reflection, and compassion.”

What a thought-provoking definition! Superior cognition – the smarts that we are born with – comprise just one-third of experts’ understanding of the term. Those who are truly wise, the definition asserts, are masters of reflection and compassion as well. Two skills that we, as individuals, can employ and perfect on our own choosing!

A second reason I was drawn to the definition was its direct correlation to the skills that I ask my clients to draw on in telling me their own life stories. Cognition, of course, is important in recalling the moments that hold particular significance for us. But reflection is also critical – how do we understand those moments now, years later, in retrospect? And compassion – considering with kindness, why family and friends may have behaved the way they did – also sheds a light on our stories that could not be illuminated otherwise.

As I said, this article captivated me. And educated me profoundly. Wisdom, I learned, is a trait that we fully control. And wisdom, once an elusive term according my thinking, is truly the key to telling a meaningful life story.