Iterate |it-uh-reyt|
- To operate or be applied repeatedly, as a linguistic rule or mathematical formula (Dictionary.com)

- Perform or utter repeatedly. Make repeated use of a mathematical or computational procedure, applying it each time to the result of the previous application; perform iteration. (Oxford American Dictionary)

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Each day is a blank slate. And I really mean that: my days have no set-in-stone structure. I commit to engagements, have meetings, attend events, etc.–but even those things are at my discretion. My days are wide open.

“Every day is like a blank canvas
Carving my initials in the planet like I brand it
Hand picked to live this life we take for granted

I choose adventures each day. Usually small, not-adventures-to-anyone-but-me adventures. This adventuring is one of the benefits of my current freelancer/grad student/wanderer lifestyle.

Despite these blank slate, daily adventures, I feel like I’m static and moving nowhere in an impossibly repetitive way.

Smiling through the trouble we face, trying to manage
my way without pumping my brakes and staying stagnant
Feeling like I’m checking out a game from the sideline
I got to try different things in these trying times

Iterating Up

As I search for and grow meaningful work and hone in on my thesis topic, I often feel like I’m approaching challenges in the same way I’ve always approached them. BLEGH. I am not innovative enough (for my own liking) in my problem-solving/solution-generating.

But this process of iterating is more than just going through the motions. I wonder if I could iterate upward–as though in each machination of iterating, I’d be building and moving up. To borrow from Oxford’s definition of iteration: “applying a procedure each time to the result of the previous application.”

An upward iteration–now that resembles growth.

Transition/Limen

Kendall Ruth talks about liminal space–a transitional period.

“Now the irony is, over the past several months – months wherein I’ve not been able to get anything off the ground other than various freelance writing/editing gigs, months where I’ve lost a lot of the normal things that give a person a sense of security and place – I have felt more in my skin on most days than ever before. Maybe that’s a result of Liminal space, “a place where boundaries dissolve a little and we stand there, on the threshold, getting ourselves ready to move across the limits of what we were into what we are to be.”

[You'll better understand my post if you read his in full--his post was the inspiration for writing this. I'll be here when you get back.]

I thought that when I quit my job and pursued grad school full-force that I was transitioning. That seems like a logical transition, right? But I’m not sure that was the case.

I think I’m transitioning now.

And this transition is neither tangible nor precise. Which is weird to me. It’s not even an actionable transition–it’s balancing, just so, on the precipice; I’m in the implausible space between forward momentum and hurdling off the cliff.

I’m spilling forward into flight.

Whole new blueprint, brand new layout

Iterating Flight

All my iterations have put me here. Now. My iterations were micro-adventures and work projects and brainstormings on notepads and endeavored ideas and final class papers and books & articles read and coffee shop conversations.

I think I might have a backlog of iterations.

So you can stop and refresh the rules
Breathe in, breathe out, let it heal all your exit wounds
Something inside said that’s the move
and made it today, I’ll restart fresh and new”*

These are some of the things I want to iterate while I move with my current transition/limen: I want to be involved in building a business. I want to rock out my thesis. I want to continue meeting people. I want to iterate myself again and again and again. I want all of this to look like upward iteration.

* Lyrics from The Roots “The Day” on the How I Got Over album. You can listen to the song here.

Image c/o TwilightFairy on Flickr

>> Aaaaaaand action!

It’s 11pm and I’m standing in the middle of the kitchen, juggling three Cuties clementines.

As I juggle, I try to keep the oranges at the same height and the same distance apart as they braid in the air. I want them to look balanced, symmetrical. Then I drop one. And then all three.

But the faster I throw the oranges and the less attention I pay to keeping them consistent, the better I juggle.

>> Cut to director’s commentary

I’m not sure what inspired me to juggle at 11pm for absolutely no reason. And don’t pester me about the fact that I can juggle. I’m well aware it’s completely dorky and peculiar. But it’s fun—and cathartic in a weird way.

It annoyed me that when I conscientiously tried to carefully juggle the oranges, I couldn’t keep them in the air. But when I quit thinking so hard about it, I didn’t drop them—not once.

In fact, I wasn’t even looking directly at the oranges. I was staring past them, using my peripheral vision to make sure I caught each one. It was somehow…natural.

>>Cut to profoundly philosophical macrocosm of life. Maybe.

I hesitate at kneeling to the cliche phrase “juggling priorities,” but juggling is exactly what I’m doing.

I’m always (and I very much mean perpetually) learning how to juggle priorities. I take on way too many projects, tasks and responsibilities. And then, once I’m overloaded, I:

1. freak out,
2. don’t sleep, get everything done butjustbarely,
3. don’t sleep, get nothing done and implode in a stressball, or
4. drink copious amounts of coffee and prance around the kitchen juggling small citrus fruits.

None of these options is healthy.

Forcing the juggling made it so unnatural. But trusting myself allowed me to be much more natural.

Though juggling oranges in my pajamas late at night doesn’t count as “artful” by any sort of fashionable or being-cool standard, I think there’s a way to be artful in juggling the excess of responsibilities many of us take on.

How? Well, for me, I’ve realized I can’t force-fit everything. If I create too many to-do lists, or assume I have it all figured out without being receptive to new ideas, or plan each day down to 15-minute increments, or super-miniscule-look!it’sdust!-micro-manage each of my tasks, I will drown in my own strategizing. (After which I will promptly burn for having uttered the word “strategizing.”)

If I give space to my ideas, endeavors and responsibilities–if I let spontaneity play a part–my responsibilities are no longer burdens. They become challenges.

Perhaps a little bit of thoughtful strategy and a little bit of unrehearsed juggling are the keys to accomplishing goals.

{But the next time you freak out about the gajillion things you have going on, try juggling some fruit, in your kitchen, in your pajamas. I recommend citrus fruits; if you’re a lousy juggler, at least you can make juice when you’re done.}

“You will hit a stride in life and you’ll be unstoppable.”

My dad said this to me a few weeks ago. I wanted to refute him—to tell him that he was just indulging my whining about currently feeling directionless. But I thought better of refuting him. He is my dad, after all.

I want to believe my dad’s words—I want to peer into my future (even the next few months would suffice) and exclaim, “There—I see it! There’s my stride!!” Somewhere in a corner of my brain, I know my dad is right. I just don’t know how his words will play out. Not yet.

I’m ready to become unstoppable, but first, here’s my valediction to stillness.

===

I have written about giving myself space…slowing down and reprioritizing…learning stillness in motion. In my time of stillness—the last three months—I have:

• Read. A LOT.
• Written. Thousands and thousands of words.
• Incubated ideas. Excellent ideas, terrible ideas.
• Slept. Mid-afternoon naps are excellent.
• Spent time with my mom, dad, siblings and nephews.
• Critically explored my current skills and figured out some skills I want to develop.

I’ve sat still, breathed, reflected—the things I set out to do. And I’ve completed so much by setting out to not complete anything. I have accomplished my goal of sitting still.

I never imagined I could sit still as long as I have. And to be completely transparent, it was mostly uncomfortable. I always felt that I ‘should’ be doing more—I should be working long hours, volunteering at events or devising new projects. But in the stillness, I learned about my own strengths and weaknesses. I also learned more about the world around me. I’ve learned better how to observe with intention and how to ask quiet questions.

I’ve had time to breathe and be still. And I’m ready to move again.

Now, as I begin my unstoppable stride, I will concentrate on:

• Helping
• Working
• Connecting (<< can’t help it…I love meeting people!)
• Learning

That’s a vague list, huh? I’m okay with that. I’m excited for a wide-open horizon.

I think my dad is right. I hope my dad is right. {Thank you, Dad.}

Last week I visited the Denver Art Museum with two of my sisters. We wandered through Embrace!, a project showcasing one-of-a-kind traditional, conceptual, sculptural and digital installations from 17 artists.

Lawrence Weiner’s installation, As To Be In Plain Sight, caught my eye the moment we entered the building: enormous bright green letters embellished the white wall between the third and fourth floors of the Hamilton Building. Each time we rounded the staircase to the next floor, I glanced up at the statement. It was absolutely in plain sight.

It was vibrant, unmistakable on the white walls.

I am not in plain sight.

As social a creature as I am, I keep much sheltered in little corners of my personality, heart, life.

I am in one of the most fertile, exciting spaces of my life. Right now. NOW! And I’m holding myself back by not being in plain sight—not owning who I am.

This is particularly true in my search for work. While grad school is my top priority, I still need to work part-time. I’m extremely fortunate because I can be picky about work: I quit a “good” job because it wasn’t in line with my career. I’ve declined other job offers because they weren’t in line with my career. But I’m still figuring out what my life-work looks like. I know it will change and evolve. But boy, do I have the energy right now to be working, building, innovating.

I need to put myself in plain sight.

I haven’t asked for help from friends, peers, colleagues or new acquaintances. In fact, I haven’t even shared with many people that I’m work-hunting. Part of it is fear that I am unqualified for the Super Awesome Work I imagine myself in; part of it is not knowing what the Super Awesome Work looks like.

I know that both of those fears are insensible. I’m highly qualified. And I need to just start working.

I’ve kept my skills, passions and ideas out of sight. How on Earth could I expect to find work that I love if I’m not revealing myself? *sigh* I am so featherbrained sometimes.

The moments, the phrases, the spaces in which I let my guard down and move forward are the times when I encounter opportunity—and when I grow the most…sometimes uncomfortably, but always upward and outward.

My first step is to ask for help. And to share my skills, my areas for growth, my passions. Writing this post on the stone walls of the internet is another step (thanks for reading! :]).

So begins a new intention. Here I am.

As to be in plain sight.

But caligater, didn’t you just write about Failing with Finesse?! Yes, yes I did. I was prompted and inspired by Jason Markow’s latest Think (here) project to write more about my failures. His project, FAILweek, is an event “designed to showcase and celebrate failure.”

Visit Welcome to #FAILweek for an intro to Jason’s project. Think (here) is where it’s at.

I failed at writing the first draft of my business plan.

Two things are (potentially) annoying to some of you in this statement:

1. To some, business plans are worthless exercises in shuffling paper and creating vapid, useless documents for potential investors and venture capitalists.
2. If it’s a first draft, who cares if it’s a failure?

I’ll respond to these two annoyances in just a moment. But first: the stage, fireball and lessons of this failure.

The Stage

In my Master of Social Science program, I had the opportunity to take the course Business Plan Writing for Social Entrepreneurs. The end product was going to be the real deal—not an outline, not an executive summary—a business plan. My academic work would launch me into my career after grad school.

Guided by an excellent instructor and surrounded by experienced and driven classmates, I began the semester knowing I was set up to hit my plan out of the park.

I rode on my excitement and intellectual momentum for the first two months of the semester. I already had quite a bit of initial marketplace research and competitive analysis completed, as the business plan I was writing was born several months earlier. I had inertia to dive headfirst into the plan. And dive I did.

The Fireball

Simultaneously, my non-school life began to take new shape (in fact, I was conscientiously changing that life-shape when I quit my good job and simplified my priorities). Although my decisions were meant to give me unbridled time to focus on school, so much disruption in my life actually took away focus on my schoolwork.

I lost momentum. Although I reprioritized my responsibilities, it happened too late in the semester. I struggled to complete the business plan—including scrutinizing cost models and how to make my business profitable; fleshing out my marketing plan based on that cost model; and exploring the best organizational structure. {HELLO—the critical parts of the plan!}

I realized I wasn’t going to hit my business plan out of the park. In fact, I knew that it was going to be disjointed and weak.

I grudgingly turned in my plan, deeply ashamed that it wasn’t my best work. And as fair and supportive as my instructor was, I received the grade I had earned. It wasn’t a good grade.

I actually cried.

The Lessons

The poor grade meant that I had disappointed my instructor and myself. It meant I had failed at creating a piece of work important to my future (and beyond the grade or the class). Though not all of the factors that contributed to my failure in drafting a business plan could easily have been changed, there were some areas for improvement. Next draft I’m going to remember some of my lessons of failure:

• Make use of resources – I was surrounded by really smart people in my class. And if I had asked, I imagine several of them would have helped me. Duh!
• Aim for consistency – I should have set aside 3+ hours each and every weekday to work on the plan. At least.
• Be (mentally) prepared for obstacles – I spent the semester reading/talking/hearing about the need for entrepreneurs to be ready for unanticipated consequences. I didn’t consider that I would encounter obstacles while writing the plan. Low and behold—the plan-writing is part of the entrepreneurial process! Duh x 2!

…Back to the two annoying things:

1)   For me, a business plan is a framework, a way to organize my thinking, prepare, mitigate risks, and build an intellectual—and tangible—launching pad. I’m not writing my plan for a venture capitalist. I’m writing it for me.

2)   The failure of my first draft was like getting sucker punched as soon as I stepped into the ring. I’m going to get back up, but that first blow did sting.

The entrepreneurial horizon looks expansive and fertile from where I’m standing. As much as I drafted failure, I am moving forward in drafting success.

With failure come the cliché-but-true aftereffects: you learn, grow, understand what not do next time around and are (hopefully) better for it. These aftereffects are the glints of light pushed up in the dark corners of failure. Some failures take a lot of stumbling in the dark, others are swift and quickly overcome.

There are plenty of people talking about failure. I have read about failing with humility, learning how to fail fast, and making a study of personal failures.

Clumsy failures

This past year I’ve failed at:

• meeting work and school deadlines
• being punctual
• paying my car insurance bill on time
• earning straight As in my graduate program (overachiever much?)
• winning 1st place (or sometimes, even placing at all) in all of my dance competitions
• heeding the advice of mentors
• fulfilling others’ expectations–and perhaps more disappointing, meeting my own expectations

I’ve failed at many other things this year, but I’ll spare cataloging those for the sake of your patience. None of the above failures are individually a big deal; we’ve all been late to a lunch date, turned in a late bill payment, even ignored solid advice from those closest to us.

It’s that last phrase on the last item on the list–failing to meet the expectations I set for myself–that jars me to the core.

Don’t get it twisted–I don’t obsess over failure. Rather, as I reflect on 2009 and find footing in my life projects, I realize that 1) many of the failures were trivial and impermanent and 2) the failures that hit me a bit harder had valuable lessons.

But let me return to that last item on the list above.

Forfeiting before game time

I frequently manage to talk myself out of something before I’ve started. I’ve done this many times in the past year. I’m unreasonably good at finding every justification, excuse and (imaginary) angle of a situation that hasn’t even happened and then acting on those pretend scenarios. This bad habit lacks anything that resembles reason or forward movement. This bad habit is perpetuated through my fear and self-protection.

“What better way to avoid failure than to not try in the first place?!” I think, smirking at my supposed stroke of genius.

The problem with this illogic? I fail before I’ve even had the chance to fail. It’s failure squared. And it tends to hurt even more than the pain of trying and failing.

When I forfeit before the game has begun, I completely fail to meet the expectations I set for myself. I then bottle up all the shadows and pains of failure squared and cast dark, starless light on my other life projects. It’s an ugly domino effect. Falling short of my self-expectations is okay. Giving up on those self-expectations is not okay. It hurts my heart to even write about these failings, but I know that in laying bare one of my biggest weaknesses I can set in motion a healthier, more productive way to fail.

Failing with finesse

The hurdles, stumblings and failures of this past year have had a potent aftereffect: my capacity for gratitude. Failure has taught me about gratitude–gratitude for the lessons learned, for the unexpected opportunities along the failing way, for the people that buttressed my self-confidence and put up with my foul attitude. I have expanded the capacity in the gratitude corner of my heart. I’m blessed to be exactly where I’m at as well as to be able to move forward, even though I may stumble.

My failures of 2009 also shone a sweeter light on success. My successes stand tall, triumphant among the failures.

As I launch forward into continued and brand new life projects, I want to fail with finesse. Most importantly, I want to fail because I have taken risks and pursued my goals–and avoid failure squared and self-defeat. When I stumble–and I certainly will–I want to work on the subtlety and grace that are required to fail with finesse.

I’m participating in Gwen Bell’s Best of 2009 Blog Challenge. Click the link. Check it out. Pick one prompt or all 31. Reflect on your year. Day 24 Prompt: Learning experience. What was a lesson you learned this year that changed you?

The last year of my life dropped me at a crossroads. This has been a special crossroads—one that launched me to chase my dreams and jump into the unknown.

Quitter!

From an outsider’s perspective, the past year of my life looked comfortable: I was working at a great company, plugging away at my Master’s degree, living in an adorable little studio near downtown Denver and fitting in fun-time with family and friends. But what I was grappling with behind the scenes was less than comfortable.

I have a hard time saying “no.” To that end, I was working far too much. I was taking on extra responsibilities and making commitments I had no business making.

My inability to say “no” gradually turned into falling behind in classes, earning mediocre grades, functioning like a drone at work, failing to deliver good work at my volunteer position, and flaking on plans with friends and family. I began to have minor health issues. My anxiety was unmanageable. Sometimes I was driven by an adrenaline high and other times I was cranky and moody.

So, I quit my job.

You should probably quit your job.

Yes, I quit my stable/good pay/great benefits/excellent coworkers/in-line-with-my-career job. I didn’t have any regular, long-term work to fall back on. My apartment lease ended on the last day I was at my job. I didn’t have another apartment lined up. Why, oh why, would I be so imprudent?

I quit the work that was consuming a rather hefty portion of my time. What I really did in making this decision, though, was reprioritize my life-projects. I realized that graduate school was my passion and my chief priority…and I was de-prioritizing school by saying “yes” to everything else.

So, I think you should quit your job, too. And by “job” I mean whatever commitments that are hedging in your time and keeping you away from what you really want to be doing.

“Blah, blah, blah…” you say?

I know it seems much easier said than done. But think about what you do each day. Is there something—one thing—that could either be relinquished or put on hold?

Could you go to happy hour once instead of three times per week? Could you consolidate your errands into one evening? Could you turn off the intertubes/Facebook/Twitter for one hour? [*clears throat*…I wouldn’t know anything about that…] Even one reshuffling act could allow you more time to work on your bigger goals.

Jumpstarts

"Start" by nickfarr under Creative Commons license

I bit the bullet: I quit my job so I could take on less work; I put dance lessons on hold [oof—that was hard]; I paused my volunteer work. It wasn’t easy to backburner any of these activities. I’ll be able to pick these things back up in the near future–when it’s okay to say “yes” again.

Now, as my momentum increases, I know I did right by putting first things first. I’m pouring myself into graduate school and loving every book, paper, project, and late-night-cramming session that it offers. I’m also working on other priorities that will launch me into my future even while I’m reveling in the present.

I quit so I could start. What can you start, today?

A while ago, a friend shared with me an article, Welcome to Your Quarterlife Crisis. I shuddered after the first two paragraphs; I felt queasy after finishing the article.  Is THAT what it is? I’m in a…quarterlife crisis (I’ll abbreviate as “QLC,” since, ya know, I’m a bit jumpy as a QLCer)?

Affluent youth who have education, social capital, cultural capital, and so many other resources—in essence, young adults who have options—couldn’t possibly claim a painful plight of mediocrity and apathy. It’s not a “crisis.” Ugh.

The first statement in the article that emotionally backhanded me: “An obvious choice for panicking twentysomethings with a post-undergraduate sense of displacement and for the ones that aren’t fulfilled by their jobs is grad school.”

Hm. I’m working on a Master’s degree right now.  Did I panic, and in a fit of anxiety apply to graduate school in hopes of prolonging my arrival at bona fide adulthood (whatever that elusive thing is)? I would like to say, “No.”

But… did I?

I was a super-duper-extra-special undergraduate senior at the University of Colorado, Boulder.  I thought it would be clever to earn both a BA and BS. I graduated and got a job in my field. Then, merely one year after I graduated, I began my Master’s. Before entering graduate school, I did indeed feel “displacement.” And I wasn’t intellectually or socially fulfilled by my job. So back to school I went.

Wow. The QLC symptoms actually fit.

With just a little research, I found news articles and opinion pieces, blogs, magazine articles, books and fiction novels. Even Oprah had a television episode dedicated to the “Turbulent Twenties.”  This QLC business is being talked about.  But does the talk actually tell us anything?

I searched in academic journals—psychology, sociology, social science journals—to see if there happened to be any academic work surrounding QLC.  I didn’t find anything. That I didn’t find anything academic made the QLC theory that much more tangible, manifest, relevant: it’s a fresh concept. My generation is trying to figure out where it’s standing and where it’s going.

"ripercussioni" by emio_me under a Creative Commons license

While the QLC symptoms fit, I don’t consider myself in anything resembling a crisis. Rather, I’m rockin’ a Quarter Life Crossroads. And at this crossroads, I choose to move—forward, upward, through, in-between and outward. Let’s get moving!