Amy Swift Crosby

What happens to our belief in the fantastical… once we know better?

This year, I found myself at a high-stakes pivot with my kids, smack dab in the crosshairs of a zero-gray area dilemma. Do I reveal or do I conceal? As a parent, you get used to the daily toggle between what you disclose (about life and death, headlines, anxieties,) and what you spin. These re-messaging strategies are a fundamental dimension of parenting, on most days.

But there is this one particular chapter of childhood that feels especially weighty. It’s that precarious transition from a world where fairies trade teeth for dollars and Santa Claus shimmies down 6-inch chimney pipes, to one where a steady stream of Amazon Prime deliveries trigger a Pavlovian response. Which is to say that for many, the first big secret of adulthood is: it was your mom and dad all along. 

This is that year for us.

After four failed mornings of Elf on the Shelf (which is to say the Elf failed to move from his previous location…#problematic), I had to come clean about who was actually moving him. Not totally unexpected, as the Santa and Easter Bunny conversations had also transpired this year, I thought it would be a slightly heartbreaking conversation. But it turned out to be a fairly practical one. They kind of already knew.

Still, it gave me pause, and not just because I tend to be our household’s chief magic maker, nor because of the mixed emotions stirred by a crossed threshold. What arose in me was a deep need to explain to my kids that while this theatrical version of magic was changing for them, the magic of another sort was just beginning.

Just yesterday it seems they were racing around the house searching high and low for Freddy the Elf, consumed by which crevice he’d chosen that day. Now, while only 8 and 10, our parental dramas around Freddy and “Santa” were met with eye rolls and finger quotation marks.

While I hope a pre-teen attitude isn’t settling in early, what I really hope is that they don’t lose touch with their belief in the good things they can’t see or touch — with magic as a spontaneous possibility. 

It got me thinking — what is it that makes magic possible? What are the conditions under which magic can make an unscheduled appearance? What is it that exists in kids naturally, that we lose, or give up, in exchange for adulthood?

The answer is naïveté; Unseen dimensions. Belief in things we can’t explain; Manifestations that have seemingly nothing to do with what we’ve achieved, but are simply the result of who we are.

But how often do we see smart, successful adults cultivating the qualities of gullibility and guilelessness?

A lot of us unknowingly (and preemptively) forfeit the ties to our dreams and hopes as a way to avoid disappointment. The desire to be all-knowing, un-flappable — the kind of person who won’t get fooled, manipulated or tricked — becomes paramount to our security. We adopt an unspoken attitude of defensiveness as a shield to life’s right hooks, a way to curtail lingering grief about our un-realized destinies, or what may just not be possible for us. But in striking this pose, I suspect we sacrifice something along the way, which is neither intellectual, nor analytical, nor even spiritual, actually – it’s belief.

Magic can’t find a seat at a table filled with doubt. By definition, one has to live as though she doesn’t know everything, can’t explain it all, and doesn’t want to be privy to what’s around every corner. For as much beef as we have with uncertainty and all its sharp elbows, when it comes to wishing for more magic, there’s no alternative. It has to come out of left field to even qualify as magic.

Not to be confused with the magical, which might be a sunset on the drive home, a song that moves emotion — a bite of something sublime – these sensory high notes are legitimately magical and should be labeled as such — as any conscious person with an ounce of gratitude for life can appreciate.

But magic as a concept seems like something you can’t plan or force…a gift that by definition has to be unbeknownst to you to be certified as magic. Which might call for us to adopt a mindset that encourages surrendering to the unknown in order to experience it. Maybe we could go against all our mature instincts and assume a position much like sleeping with our mouths open, vulnerable to anyone watching, so that by removing our layers, a surprising, maybe even forgotten dream – finds its way in.

This year’s Elf fail marked the end of certain childhood myths, which comes with some melancholy for me. On one hand, I feel relieved to stop setting alarms before bed to move the beanbag man, throwing up roadblocks to delay entrance into a room with dead giveaways. On the other, I’m inspired to discover new magical threads in the fabric of life and make magic a priority, to be noticed — and not exclusive to a season.

I explained to my girls that although they now knew the truth about some imaginary characters they thought were real, I also reassured them that there were plenty of wonderful surprises that would still mystify them throughout their lives. In fact, I said that the really mind blowing magic is all the good things that will seem to come out of nowhere — yet seem totally right, as familiar as their own fingerprint.

With surprise and awe, I said, you’ll marvel at these surprises, and wonder what you had to do with having them. You’ll discover answers to some, but find no explanation for others. Just being who you are set a butterfly effect into motion — which resulted in a much-needed presence… whatever “it” is.

The trick is not to doubt the goodness — not to become too smart to believe in what isn’t obvious or reasonable. Just because it’s no longer manufactured, does not mean it can be explained.

Trading pragmatism for fairy dust wasn’t the parenting moment I thought I’d have, but turns out – it’s what I want to teach them most.

Do the weight of certain words change according to the times? In 2018, might we need to reset our relationship to ideas that at one time, might have seemed empowering?

I recently came across a lecture series, created and hosted by a major fashion retailer in New York City, designed to get the attention of someone exactly like me.

The series was called “Fearless Women.”

F E A R L E S S.

Is this what times like these call for? Having no fear?

This past week, as Dr. Christine Blasey Ford began her congressional testimony, the word she used to describe her reluctant recounting of traumatic personal events was “terrified.” She’s not the first to use that word. But what marketers choose pluck from #metoo and movements giving voice to previously silenced audiences, though earnest, feels tone def. The impulse to package fearlessness doesn’t actually make fear go away.

Even before last week’s stunning news cycle, I found myself questioning the thinking behind a message like “Fearless Women.” The word is featured prominently next to entrepreneurs on the cover of People, in GOOP and throughout likeable memes on Instagram. I’m wondering if the teams who voted for “fearless” have ever started something from scratch, pressed send on a piece of art, spoke up when it was easier to be quiet, or stepped into the ring when the sitting on the bleachers was more comfortable? If they had, they might not have imposed the idea of fearlessness on anyone.

Unspoken traumas aside, the intended audience is presumed to be creative, entrepreneurial, autonomous, powerful, self-made women who, as risk-takers, already have a close and consistent relationship with fear. Is this (seemingly blatant) truth lost on those who’d like to get credit for supporting a movement? Here’s where what sounds good in copy is in danger of overshadowing the real meaning of the call to action.

It’s no secret that messaging and campaigns organized around a cultural zeitgeist are tactic #1 for raising visibility for brands. It’s a strategy that creates a halo effect around companies that want to be viewed as relevant and empathetic — more human. Women, and our ancillary interests and concerns, are predictable breadcrumbs for a fashion retailer. So at first glance, women and fearlessness may seem like a match made in marketing heaven. But is “no fear” really what the speakers at this event — visionary, pioneering, bold women — have in common? Do they identify with fearlessness, or are they being asked to organize their stories around a narrative of fearlessness because the retailer has decided that fearless is this season’s must-have accessory?

On many an occasion, when interviewing people who have achieved some degree of fame or public recognition, I have noted a consistent sentiment. It was rarely, if ever, fearlessness, but rather resilience, in spite of fear, that pushed them to put one foot in front of the other. To layer fearlessness over an already unrealistic blueprint of what it takes to be great feels like a misunderstanding at the highest levels of an organization.

When decision makers forget their humanity, they miss the most obvious truths. We actually don’t want to buy fearlessness, even when we’re terrified.

But here’s what we do want.

We want to know she almost didn’t do it.
We want to know she doubted and cringed and stopped and started — had awful, uncomfortable conversations, and got up again the next day to do it again.
More than stoicism or fearlessness, we want to know how she faltered and won, then lost and then tried again.
This is the version that speaks to us.
But it’s a less tidy marketing package.

Since this retailer is known for its exceptional shoe collection, might I suggest a series called, “A walk in my shoes: Blisters, Bunions and Finish Lines.” It would accomplish the same thing — but is a promise that can be kept. It gives everyone the space in which to tell her story — as she really sees it — which hopefully was the company’s original intent.

We don’t slay our dragons as much as learn to tame them. Let’s not hold up “fearless” as a necessary prerequisite to success, or an ingredient for achievement or worth. Few of us steps outside her comfort zone fearlessly. Propagating a narrative that says she should is yet another box we’ll ultimately have to crawl out of.

Summer, for many of us, impacts productivity, disrupts established processes and changes the pace we strive to hit the rest of the months of the year. More than any of the other seasons, it forces us to make tradeoffs, to negotiate for the summer pleasures that can only be done during these magical months. For me, there’s always something that ‘has to give’ to make room for everything else I want to savor.

Hot days are the reason to power down early, to cancel meetings; days off are legitimate needs more than they are guilty pleasures. Deadlines are accommodated, whereas new initiatives — and the requisite heavy lifting — those, we wave off to fall.

In July and August, we forgive erratic, work-disrupting kids’ schedules and colleagues’ inconvenient vacation notices because, for this fleeting period, work can wait. There’s an unspoken, collective agreement that because summer is a rare window of time, all is forgiven. It provides the ultimate “hard out,” a season that demands we milk every minute, without judgment.

But the transitional days between the end of August and early September feel less clear. Cues that point to more prescribed rhythms compete with our lingering desires to be spontaneous and open-ended. These weeks have us in a collective no-man’s land of bumpy starts, even for those of us ready and wanting of more structure. It’s easy to feel (temporarily) unmoored as expectations shift.

This was especially true for me as I sat down to write one recent morning, the first uninterrupted personal work day in (many) weeks. In spite of the numerous messaging projects I’ve completed for others this summer (it’s not as though I didn’t work), I found myself undone. I’d even go as far as to say panicked – by a palpable sense of incongruence. Was it my unusually quiet house, with kids now back in school? Was it an over-stuffed in-box, full of unanswered emails? Maybe.

But if I’m honest, the unexpected strangeness hit me as I began this blog entry. Sentences that usually come so easily felt rusty and punishing. After a six-week hiatus from personal writing — a self-imposed pause intended to uncover new perspectives and be present to other areas of my life — the exercise of unearthing clear dialogue, in this format, was sharply awkward.

I can’t tell you that a flash of regret didn’t seize me, because it did.

Please tell me you’re having a similarly clumsy transition.

Should I have been here, at my keyboard, so as not to lose all the momentum that suddenly appears to have evaporated? 

Is the consequence of enjoying more summer —time, people, experiences — the loss of something else — art, progress, life’s work?

(This is long, but if this sensation is at all familiar, stay with me.)

As I thought back to why I chose to break the status quo, I was reminded of how fatigued I’d felt last spring, bored by the inescapable expressions of my own stirrings. Have you ever tired of your own output? I remember craving a new way to relate to the observations that have defined my work, a desire to evolve in some way. Maybe this acute, uninspired slump was the toll to be paid on the road to creative rehab. 

But that narrative feels too punitive. Why is the nature of internal dialogue so sacrificial? Why is enjoying our lives — themselves works of art — often characterized as hedonistic? Could the real price of mental rest — especially because what was gained was both novel and meaningful — be thought of as walking down a path without footprints? Could we gently remind ourselves that we have not undone hard fought achievements but are simply in the realm of the unfamiliar?

Transitions don’t always appear productive, on the outside.
Nor are they very comfortable, on the inside.
But they are, quite often, the precursor to the new story we’ve asked for.

I’m not sure any of us have any clue to what we’ve released or acquired until we get back into relationship with it. It’s in the doing that we see what percolated and grew while we stepped away from it, particularly for those of us who create something…from nothing.

Sometimes the world invites us to a conversation we can’t refuse, and the roar of a wonderful, important, or worthwhile force takes over. But it doesn’t mean whatever has gone quiet, set aside for rest or recalibration, isn’t making its own magic while you’re not watching.

I get the sense that a new path is waiting, once my feet hit the ground. It may be overgrown, thorny and even a little formidable, looking at it right now. But trusting that there’s a way through it, that the part of me that churns and moves isn’t so much dormant but unexplored, is one reassurance that helped me take this first step.

How are you, friend?

Sometimes I go to bed at night with a deep sense of reward. Finally, I think to no one but myself, a nice, long stretch of rest before I face all of the decisions, demands, and solutions to be required of me tomorrow.

But then… the next morning comes — about 5:15 am usually (thank you enthusiastic birds of New England) and I wake up thinking: Already? Seriously? Is it time to do this again?

For me, it’s not about dreading my day or resisting the phase of life or work I’m in. Of course, some weeks feel mentally heavier, while others more light/productive. Yet others create the sensation of bailing water out of a sinking boat. But this life… especially when you bite off a big chunk of it — whether creative, financial, managerial, analytical, intellectual, operational, emotional, parental — or any other role that shoulders the wellness or future of something or someone important, is demanding as fudge.

It’s so interesting to me to observe that as we grow in our vocations and are able to take on more risk or responsibility, we must also grow internal capacity to bear more uncertainty. But being metaphorically out of breath and in an almost constant state of whiplash… ain’t no way to live.

For me, this past month proved to be opaque. What I thought would happen, develop, grow, become real…showed up as something completely different…and with many a curveball. Because the reverse pattern seemed to repeat itself, I decided to start looking at things like the flow of a river; “where the water flows, so shall we go.” Corny, yes – but I needed it.

If the meeting seemed difficult to nail down, I released my need to have it.
If the person didn’t seem sure, I prepared to let them go.
If the idea didn’t resonate, I put it away for later.

Sometimes the world/ universe/ spirit/friends are throwing up roadblocks to steer you in a different direction or help you see an alternate route. I’m trying to watch for those now, instead of muscling through with an unyielding force. Which isn’t to say I’m not persistent and determined, but there’s something to be said for observing the flow. While you know clichés give me hives (but here goes), “meant to be” usually presents as the right time, place, words, opportunity — a sign of some kind, or ease, that reassures.

Exhaustion comes from thinking you have to deal with it all.

Restoration comes when you realize a lot of “dealing with it” may have nothing to do with you.

Who’s taking up space? Are they paying rent, or squatting?

Forgive the self-focused angle this week — but it does the best job of explaining what you could easily apply to your own life if it resonates.

Sometimes (but not often enough) I have the forethought to take inventory of the “tenants” residing in my thoughts. These are threads of a conversation I might only be having with myself, that have become semi-permanent without my realizing it. Recognizing them is a contemplative exercise that requires some wherewithal and practice. Why? Because it requires a thought looking inside a thought, as they tend to camouflage themselves as “normal.” In reality, they’re depleting, diminishing and distracting. But I don’t tend to challenge them because I get slowly used to co-habitation.

I wouldn’t call them a belief system as much as a more contained grievance, regret or worry.

Having participated in my share of brand-related hospitality and real estate projects, I tend to think of it in exactly those terms.

A (good) real estate developer considers a property (like a mixed-use office campus or a retail lifestyle center) in a host of ways. The questions contemplated are often:

What is the optimal ecosystem? Will big, established brands balance smaller, riskier concepts and together will they create something authentic? Compelling? Is there a juicy anchor tenant paying a lion’s share of the rent, but who can attract complementary businesses?
Will the addition of one tenant turn off a series of others? And, at what cost?

As anyone who reads this blog knows, there’s not a lot of daylight between my musings and a (good) metaphor; I love them. But the reason I like this one is because life doesn’t always feel intentional in the way that decisions made by real estate professionals are. We’re “in” properties of our own making, yet not always of our own design.

So I’ve started to distinguish my literal tenants from my invisible but nevertheless vocal ones. Realizing there was a difference was a victory in and of itself.

There are the tenants that see the light of day — professional commitments, family time, hobbies, personal work, cultivating curiosity and interests — even common stressors around deadlines, finances, and relationships qualify. You could say that these are the tenants of our days. This stuff is obvious and makes for the ingredients for a full and meaningful life (managing this is its own mission.)

But there are other tenants that are unseen, that can’t be spotted on a schedule, but who, like a squatter, are uninvited occupants in our minds. They tend to be demanding, entitled, and perpetually unsatisfied. Some are old scripts. Others are punishing messages about what we haven’t yet started, completed, or might never get to, despite deep and sincere desires. Fleeting bouts of this can be expected; but when a stray idea sets up shop, a good property manager notices — and investigates.

We all want good tenants — which is to say inspired, benevolent streams of consciousness. But there’s a certain amount of rigor required to spot the sneaky ones taking up space, not just for days or weeks, but months…who have no storefront.

Some hidden occupants are great — like an idea percolating that hasn’t taken shape. But when they feel more like anxieties, chronic frustrations or mounting crises, they affect the whole “property” in ways seen and unseen.

I like to know who and what I’m hosting, so I can evict them if necessary. Giving them notice is a matter of seeing them, as a first step. They may not leave, and a resolution may not be clear to me, but they can’t be there without permission from the landlord (me), either.

Even when I can’t give them the boot entirely — because they’re thoughts, after all – the conversation often reveals something I need to see.

What to do with them depends on what they tell me.