My dad is German.
For him, rules matter.
If there is a process, follow it.
If there’s a best practice, that’s the only practice.
If the sign says no, yes is not an option.
And I’m not wholly unlike him.
I do love a good system. And the truth is, chaos gives me a stomach ache. Civilization requires rules - I’m all for it.
But sometimes, something else tugs at me.
This doesn’t make sense…
This rule maybe shouldn’t apply here…
This is creating an unnecessary obstacle.
Not a cry for anarchy - just this gnawing voice, running in the background, wanting me to shake things up. (Did I mention that my mother is Sicilian?)
Recently, I saw a meme about a conversation between an American and a German about a revoked driver’s license.
American: What would happen if you drove anyway?
German: Well, I can’t drive - I don’t have a license.
American: Right, but what would happen if you drove?
German: I cannot drive. My license has been taken away.
American: Yes, I understand. But what would happen if you did?
German: …
I laughed for about 15 minutes and then sent it to every member of my family.
Once I came up for air, I realized that there’s something bigger here - something more important than whether we’re rule followers, rule breakers, or the guy with the stomach ache who’s trying to decide which one she is today.
It’s an alarmingly slippery slope from I shouldn’t to I can’t. And the space between knowing there’s a consequence and believing no other option exists is even slipperier.
Eventually, we don’t see that there was a rule at all.
We stop asking the questions about why it was created, who created it and whether or not it still serves anyone.
It simply becomes a reality.
Worse, the rules that actually run our lives aren’t explicit at all. Nobody posts a notice or hands you a list of consequences. These rules live on through sideways glances, off hand comments, and raised eyebrows.
Those are the rules my husband doesn’t think about at all.
Paul wanted to learn to sail.
He took a few lessons and bought a 30-foot boat.
Then he hired a crusty old New Englandy captain to take us out enough times to ensure that we wouldn’t kill anyone out there.
The whole thing took about 60 days.
Then he started sailing.
It wasn’t pretty. In our first month there were accidental jibes, a lost anchor, and the time we ran completely aground in front of a yacht club’s happy hour.
And that’s just when we were out on the water.
We had gotten a slip at a lovely marina on a river off Long Island Sound.
Lots of lovely boats filled with lovely people drinking very lovely wine.
And watching.
At first, we didn’t understand why none of the sailboats ever left their slips. It didn’t take long to learn that docking a boat with a full keel on a river with a strong current was not for the faint of heart - and definitely not for newbies.
And they were always there.
Sipping.
Watching.
We got stuck so many times. Once, I had to jump off and pull her in with the lines by hand. Another time, we got turned around in the fairway - me running frantically from bow to stern and back again, pushing off other boats to turn us around while Paul steered us straight. I think I partially blacked out the time the current was so strong it pinned us between two very serious looking boats, because I honestly don’t remember how we got off those pilings.
I was mortified.
Paul was undeterred by any of it.
Over the next two seasons, we continued sailing. Paul volunteered to help crew open-ocean boat deliveries in order to gain more experience. He built a sailing resume. We went to the BVI and were able to charter any boat we wanted. Not because Paul is some sailing savant, but because he sailed while everyone else waited to be ready.
There were plenty of people in that first marina who owned sailboats.
Paul became a sailor.
Watching him, I got suspicious of the word can’t.
Not dismissive of rules - my father raised me better than that.
Just dubious about unexamined ones.
Sometimes I can’t means I genuinely cannot.
Sometimes it means that I won’t because there is a rule in place where the potential consequence to me or others is too great.
But all too often it means I could, but somebody with a glass of wine and a raised eyebrow might be watching.
Now I know better.
I have sailed.
I have swung out on a boom in my bathing suit to pop the keel out of the sand when we ran aground in the entrance of a bustling harbor.
I have climbed to the top of the mast to reclaim our halyard.
I have been terrified, embarrassed and joyfully alive.
I won’t condescend to ask you what’s holding you back.
You’ve been asked that too many times already, and you knew the answer even before you were asked.
But I am wondering…
What would happen if you left your marina?
Rules, assumptions, patterns and identity shape more of our lives than we realize.
If you you’ve been sitting on the stern with a glass of wine for too long and you’re wondering what it would look like to leave the marina, private coaching may be right for you. I’d be glad to answer your questions.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.