the story is in the telling

Devotion.

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This word and emotion has fascinated me for years. When I see it in play, whether between parent and child, entrepreneur and idea, between Frida and Diego or in the more solitary waters of personal callings — I can’t help but survey my own life for signs of its indelible footprint.

Devotion implies love and purpose — a deep and unwavering knowing. For me, it represents territory where fewer decisions need to be made; where thinking is almost bypassed, because nature and instinct initiate the direction.

To be without it is to miss the quiet, non-negotiable and unmistakable pull. To be blinded by it is to lose all perspective about anything else that might matter.

I think as we learn to “manage” in our adult lives — whether emotions, expectations, standards, sense of possibility — as our priorities are tested or we take bigger swings and risks, it’s no surprise that we crave the singularity of devotion more than ever. For myself, I love the “no matter what’s,” because at least I know the score, despite the implications or tradeoffs. It’s the straddling, the paralysis, the exhaustion of choice — standing at the fork of any road — that becomes heavy and layered with fog. 

Yet, without clarity about where to put our attention, how to spend our thoughts, with whom to invest our sacred minutes, there’s a certain kind of suffering that tears at our deepest fibers.

In fact, I’m beginning to appreciate the strength of all emotion, even in tidal proportions. The price of unequivocal clarity, in contrast to ambivalence, sounds like relief, even as I write it. This becomes even more true if you happen to live in a world of abundant choice; which most of us reading here do.

To be devoted is to be free.

And just as much, to be devoted is to be constrained.

This paradox is the surprising truth (and pain) of devotion. 

Sometimes it’s is a choice.

Sometimes it’s a truth.

The greatest gift and in equal measure the greatest anguish of this emotion is that we can’t be devoted to everything… or everyone. 

PS in case you missed it, check out our last post, TBH.

Room.

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Spacious (actually) starts on the inside.

Actors have agents.
CEO’s have assistants and VP’s.
Celebrities have PR people.

But most of us don’t have these human filters that tell us what’s important, who needs a meeting, who doesn’t, what favors should we do or not do. So we have to prioritize them ourselves. Fair enough.

We know we have to say “no” when we want to make something big — to write a book, complete a project — we accept fewer invitations in order to focus on milestones. That obviously makes sense. But what I’m more interested in are the transitional moments that might seem unremarkable — but that are meaningful all the same — that you can’t plan.

I always notice that when my work schedule is back to back, I can’t even imagine new business ideas much less recognize them if they knock on my door. And I also miss tiny, unexpected moments; my kids’ sharing a story before bedtime or a concern expressed in the car on the way to ballet. When every minute is accounted for, there’s no room for unexpected loveliness.

It’s the same rationale that a swanky restaurant employs by (secretly) keeping a VIP table open. They want the ability to say “of course we have a table for you, Mr. Clooney,” (should he walk in). But that’s intentional. Planned. Anticipated. Some “no” had to happen for that table to be available.

There’s a difference between what you know you want, and the things you can’t predict you’d hate to miss. Could be a dream opportunity, or a bath instead of a shower.

Create space. Make some room.

Generous.

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You don't have to be a sadhu to be surprisingly kind. Photo @Jenniferromans

This is a story about the (surprising) gestures of others, and their lasting impact.

When I first got out of college, I worked at CNN, as the assistant to a very visible VP. While he was away at a European bureau, my (new) used car caught fire while I was driving it, melting the gasket. I was new to Atlanta, to my job and company, with no real friends yet  – working with a limited budget — and had to quickly solve how to get to and from work every day. In 1994, you bought a car through classified ads, so most of these negotiations took place on the phone.

One day, as I zigzagged between mechanics reports on the fax machine, printing insurance documents, my busy phone bank, and a mess of papers accumulating on my desk, a nearby manager – who also reported to my boss – came by my office. She admonished my use of work hours for “personal calls” and informed me that she’d be taking it up with the boss. I was distraught, embarrassed, and unsure of what side of “right” I was on. If I was out of line, I wanted to volunteer that information myself, rather than get reported by Lady Blah Blah.

When the VP called from London later that day — back when long distance calls sounded crackling and distant — I relayed what had happened (and was so nervous that I started to cry). The first thing he told me to do was go into his office and shut the door. Saving me from office humiliation with this gesture was my first surprise.

Next, after hearing me out, and having actually already gotten an email from the ambitious manager, he said, “I got her email, but I trust your judgment. Take care of your situation, do your best job, and let me know how I can help you when I get back.”

This guy – in the midst of the Gulf War news crises — could have fired me, or at least leveled me before moving onto more pressing tasks. But he gave me the benefit of the doubt — an unproven 22-year old, and definitely the least important person there. I’ll never forget how that felt, and how it changed how I trusted myself.

We likely don’t realize how our (re)actions or words impact people for years to come, and how impressions make a lifelong mark. I could have shared a negative story to illustrate this same point  — because there are some (juicy ones) that stand out. But I wanted to share this one because we all have a choice when we react, and inside the hours of any given day, get unexpected opportunities to make one.

It doesn’t seem we can lose by choosing generosity.

Empathy.

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Of the many virtuous qualities in short supply over the past couple of months, one of the most publicly abandoned might be empathy. Besides just being part of good person-hood, it’s also a strategic skill in business. Recently elected presidents, well-meaning clients and beloved colleagues – take note.

Empathy at work looks specifically like a willingness to put yourself in different shoes and roles; For one, to better understand the process involved in what you’re asking of the people around you or who work for you— and two, in order to get what you need when you need it.

It doesn’t require you to actually know how to do those jobs, but it does demand that you imagine what it takes to do them — what data,  timeliness or processes are deployed — for mission to get accomplished.

Copy Writers are famously at the end of long email chains, forwarded by  (unaware or kinda lazy) colleagues or clients, who should probably understand that wading through what’s relevant — or not — only adds more hours (and mental haze) to their deadline. One of my favorite clients did the opposite recently — he drafted an imperfectly awesome sample of a letter he needed written, knowing that this rough draft was EXACTLY what we needed to help him with only two days notice. That’s forethought. That’s collaboration. That’s him being goal-oriented enough to say, “I know I have to have this. What will it take to get it?” As a result, we were overjoyed to move around other things to deliver it for him.

The days of handing off laundry baskets of disorganized tasks for the next person to sort, and then placing unreasonable deadlines on them, are symptomatic of a dated standard. No one really wants to work with people like that.

No clue? Then ask. It’s okay not to know. But it’s less okay not to know that asking is an option #helpmehelpyou.

Descriptions.

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We (you, me) are obliged to tell stories in the name of commerce. We are all telling one — and it’s our job to do it, like it or not.

But as people, I’m not sure we have the same responsibility. Often times, when a profound or still-unfolding experience happens, it’s hard to put punctuation around it. It can feel so big — with aspects known, and others still unknown, that it’s hard to know how to answer:

“How are you?”
“How was the trip?”
“How was your year?”

These seem like innocuous questions. But often they force us to prematurely disclose at the cost of an invaluable plot line: that which is…

How am I (really)?
What do I ( really) think?
What does this (really) mean for me?

Which leads to…what to do?
A short answer feels untrue.
A long (more real one) might cost you the much-needed conversation you’re having internally, by assigning a story to something you don’t know yet.

Here’s the thing. We don’t owe marketing, messaging or status updates to the general public of our personal lives, and maintaining the vital membrane that holds genuine reflection together can take a conscious act of restraint.

Sometimes saying less — even if it’s not super true – is the right-est thing you can do. It may be your only hope in knowing what you really think.

Teflon.

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There are times when your “surface” needs to be sealed, and other times when it needs to be porous. Often, it has to be at the same time to truly be useful.

When I first meet a client, they’ve developed “beliefs” about what can or can’t be done, either based on years of a certain strategy that no longer works, or a few traumatic experiences. These narratives may turn out to hold water, or they may be anomalies born of other factors they haven’t considered. Usually these (potentially) biased ideas have shaped what they think they’re hiring me / us to fix. But until we know more and ask more questions, we have to hold those “facts” in a suspension of disbelief. We have to treat them as wickable. If we accept them as absolute, our strategies will be as silo’d as the clients’. They need us not to believe them, as much as they need us to hear them.

“Facebook has never worked for us.”
“No one wants to read more emails.”
“People won’t buy things on the internet.”
“We’ve done it that way since day one.”
“Customers don’t want to share cars.”

True? False?

It’s often our job or role to press pause for others and drive a conversation that unpacks / disrupts / refutes / or (maybe) buys the reality of the perception. But how do you provide this valuable service to yourself?

It takes some fancy footwork to hold your own breath, stop your own film, pause your own song — long enough to see if you’ve inadvertently built a false narrative. You’re busy doing the work — so it’s not easy to also figure out what part of your belief system is being misshaped by actions as they happen in real time. Kudos if you can be that kind of ninja!

But bigger kudos if you can be open / humble enough to let someone else take a crack at it. They might challenge what you see as a certainty, or play Devil’s Advocate in a way that’s tiresome. But they’re offering you a non-stick surface, which is the only way to see blindspots — or better — unchartered territory.

You can be dual-materials to everyone else, and probably get paid to be, but the biggest favor you can do your own business is to put your precious cashmere in the hands of something more industrial, and see what happens. Could turn out to be genius.

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About Me

photo of Amy Swift Crosby

I’m a brand strategist and copy writer. I mostly work with partner agencies or directly with the leadership or founding team at a brand. My primary mission is to connect design and messaging solutions to business missions. I work with start-ups and Fortune 500 companies, across beauty, hospitality, wellness/fitness, CPG and retail. This blog reflects my personal writing and explores our humanity – often as it relates to work, space, time and language. You can review my portfolio here or connect with me here.

Photo - Andrew Stiles

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