I'm in the process of preparing my second book for print. Cheaper Than Therapy: How to Take Risks to Create the
Life You Want - The Lesson of the Chopsticks will be released this fall.
Also, I'm in risk-taking mode once again (see The Leap below). Both events have sparked this
issue's metaphor on risk. Below is a preview of the introduction to The Lesson of the Chopsticks.
Harry taught me how to eat with chopsticks when I was 17 years old. I had taken a break from college to work full
time, and we were colleagues. Our office was located in lower Manhattan near Chinatown, and every payday Harry and I
walked to his favorite Chinese restaurant for the Friday lunch special.
"Do you know how to eat with chopsticks?" Harry asked me one day. "No," I said, embarrassed. I had grown up in the
shadow of New York's Chinatown, eating Chinese food countless times. I'd always looked past the wood or plastic
chopsticks unable to fathom how to tweeze slivers of meat or vegetables, never mind grains of rice.
It was my answer to Harry's follow-up question, "Would you like to learn?" that would change me forever.
Before I met Harry, I was a 16-year old college freshman (I skipped the eighth grade and I was born in December).
That was too young. I didn't have a clue about what I wanted to do with my life. I had no models for collegiate
experience in my immediate family, no one to guide me through the logistical labyrinth of higher education.
I managed to muddle through the admission process for community college. I wanted to test the waters of academia
before committing to a four-year school. Yet, adrift in the choppy waters of early adulthood, I skipped classes, which
led to a transcript filled with F's, and a decision to leave school after a year to find work.
That's when I met Harry. And the timing was perfect. Harry listened to me over Chinese food every other Friday for a
year. My overwhelming memory of him is one of trust.
When Harry asked, "Would you like to learn how to eat with chopsticks?" what had previously felt unfathomable seemed
within my reach. The idea of becoming adept at using chopsticks presented itself as a door held ajar onto a world of
possibility. If I could learn this, what other experiences might be available to me simply by being open to them? Who
would I be? What might I become? During a tiny, quiet moment in an unassuming restaurant, Harry offered me a pathway to
possibilities that have informed the direction of my life. "Yes," I told him, "I would like to learn."
At age 17, acquiring what seemed to me an uncommon skill did more than boost my cool quotient with people who knew
me in my knife-and-fork days. It was the seedling of a new self, the formation of a willingness to push toward
increasingly greater change. For one, it emboldened me to confront my lifelong dread of math to take a college entrance
exam. I still didn't know what I wanted to study long term. But my new-won confidence helped me to trust that I could
figure out my next step when the time came.
At the end of my work year, I returned to school and eventually earned a master's degree. I never saw Harry again.
But I think of him when I teach others his simple, three-step method for eating with chopsticks. He is there when I try
something new without sweating the outcome. And he is with me each time I trust my instincts to shift my life in a new
direction in spite of my resistance.
This is The Lesson of the Chopsticks.
That seemingly small lesson has sparked some big risks for me including a solo trip around the world, career
transitions, three marathons and a willingness to put my heart on the line more than once. And little risks, too -
listening to music I had categorically dismissed, staying open to contrary opinions and driving down unfamiliar roads
instead of bypassing them while continuing to wonder where they lead.
The psychic nerve that is agitated when, as novices, we attempt to eat with chopsticks may not differ much from the
sensitivity we feel when we brush against dreams deferred or actions not taken. Is that agitation a lack of patience or
confidence? Fear of looking foolish? A reminder of past disappointments or the weight of life's demands?
Exploring these possibilities for yourself is at the heart of Cheaper Than Therapy: How to Take Risks to Create
the Life You Want.
The Lesson of the Chopsticks is an occasion to practice departures from the familiar, and take little risks
as preparation for stepping up to the big ones that matter most when opportunities arise.
It's also cheaper than therapy.
In the previous episode, Gina learned to have fun when marketing her book despite the
weight of a 40-hour workweek. In this installment, she turns her full-time job into a part-time creative
opportunity.
I'm at it again. And this time, I have a stronger net.
My first leap into a more authentic work life - the one that sparked this column four
years ago - began with a solo trip around the world
and no plan for full-time employment when I returned. That was one
extreme. Attempting to squeeze my publishing life around a 40-hour workweek is another.
It's time to try the middle way.
I'll be working 24 hours a week at my day job beginning July. That means a steady, albeit lower income stream, full
medical benefits, and two extra days to write new books and market the latest one. Also, I'll stare at the grass, sit
in a chair and listen to music, and nap. In addition to a computer, pen and paper, these are among my many writing
tools.
I’m nervous and excited all at once. The nerves signal I’m taking a running leap to push past the
familiar and plunge into the unknown where the unnamed scary things live. I’m excited about the possibilities I
can’t yet imagine. And this ride is an internal adventure as much as it is an external one. It’s like
getting in a car and heading out on the open road without a map, and being pleasantly surprised at what I discover
along the way as I let my intuition guide me toward my destination.
I hope you will continue to join me for the next leg of the journey…
Carla from Austin, TX writes: “Long ago, long before it could have truly meant something to me, I read, in an
advice column, letters from widows/widowers who missed spouses and said they’d give anything for the dish in the
sink, the toilet seat left up, and so forth. These letters left a germ behind – they must have – and it
changed into something that works nicely for me. When I see the sponge in the sink, the lid off the cat food container,
and so forth, I smile. It seems so odd that he would leave it that way (seems more like something I would do). I move
the sponge to its proper place, replace the lid and, each time, I hope there’s something I do which
‘should’ irritate him but somehow it doesn't (because it shows I've been there and makes him smile to think
of me).”
I'll only share the names of books that grabbed me from the first page. And I'll use three or less words to describe
why. I'd love it if you would do the same. Below are the books I've read since the last issue of my newsletter.
What are you reading?
Tell me about your Symbol Life. How have your own metaphors for living shaped you? What leaps have you taken? I'd
love to hear about them.
Thanks for taking time to read my newsletter. I'll be writing to you again in August.
E-mail this newsletter to a friend.
