For my first Random Act of Suzanne for 2024, I thought I’d do a little series on what I’ve learned about being self-employed. This year marks my 20th year of being self-employed, which coincides with when I moved to Austria, and I think I’ve learned a thing or two over the years.

I can’t pretend to know it all, but I can promise each episode in the series is something that I’ve  learned, that works for me, and that I believe in. Who knows? Perhaps they’ll be useful to someone else.  I’m calling the series – wait for it – “What I’ve learned about being a freelancer”. Creative, no?

What I’ve learned about being a freelancer #01: It never hurts to ask. Actually, it’s GREAT to ask!

Ask for what? Well, what do you want or need?

What’s the WORST thing that can happen? People can say no. They can be too critical. They might stop talking to you. Oh well. And what’s the worst thing that can happen if you DON’T ask? You’ll never know if someone would have been willing to say yes.

What’s the BEST thing that can happen? People say yes. Or they say maybe, and explain why. They make the connection, give you the work, keep you in mind, or accept your help.

I find it much easier to ask if I can help, than to ask for help (I’m working on this!) but whenever I put myself out there, make myself vulnerable, and ask… Magic happens. And it happens with perfect strangers, as well as with people who I know and love.

And honestly, this isn’t a surprise. People ask me for stuff all the time, because I invite them to do so. As long as I have the capacity to help, and the request doesn’t jar with something that I value or believe in, I am only too happy to help. It’s such a gift to be able to give back: the life I have created for myself and the work that I do is only possible because of the many people who have said “yes” to me in the past.

When was the last time you asked, and it went well? What’s the best thing that’s happened to you when you’ve stepped up and asked? If there was one thing you could ask someone or a group of someones, what would it be?

And what’s holding you back?

What if you asked? And why not?

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A thought-provoking poem about war and the posthumous awarding of hero-status on soldiers.

I get rather cross about conflict and wars. It often seems to me that the people who decide that war is a good idea are seldom the same people who are on the frontlines, having to commit atrocious acts to fulfil orders or to survive, and who return “home” with mental challenges, or physical disabilities, or in a body bag (if they are lucky enough to make it home at all). I often wonder if politicians and leaders would be so quick to declare war if in doing so, they were commiting themselves and their loved ones to be the first on the field and the first in the line of fire.

I also find this idea that parents should be “proud” that their child died on the battle field absurd. What kind of parent would prefer their offspring to be riddled with bullets or torn to shreds by a landmine rather than having them home, safe and sound?

When my husband’s godmother shared Felix Pollak’s poem with me in German, it struck a chord and when I searched for it later, I discoved an English version, and thought I’d ponder it whilst walking the tortoise…

I did not want to go.
They inducted me.

I did not want to die.
They called me a coward.

I tried to run away.
They court-martialed me.

I did not shoot.
They said I had no guts.

I cried in pain.
They carried me to safety.

In safety I died.
They blew taps over me.

They crossed out name
and buried me under a cross

They made a speech in my hometown.
I was unable to call them liars.

They said I gave my life.
I had struggled to keep it.

They said I set an example.
I had tried to run

They said they were proud of me.
I had been ashamed of them

They said my mother should also be proud.
My mother cried.

I wanted to live.
They called me a coward.

I died a coward.
They call me a hero.

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Enjoy this narrative poem by John Godfrey Saxe. What does an elephant look like to YOU?

In my (no so) secret life as an oral storyteller, I often tell this as a prose story, and I use it in my communication training programmes, too. It’s thought-provoking: if you don’t see the whole picture, how can you talk about what you think you are seeing?

It was six men of Indostan, to learning much inclined,
who went to see the elephant (Though all of them were blind),
that each by observation, might satisfy his mind.

The first approached the elephant, and, happening to fall,
against his broad and sturdy side, at once began to bawl:
“God bless me! but the elephant, is nothing but a wall!”

The second feeling of the tusk, cried: “Ho! what have we here,
so very round and smooth and sharp? To me tis mighty clear,
this wonder of an elephant, is very like a spear!”

The third approached the animal, and, happening to take,
the squirming trunk within his hands, “I see,” quoth he,
the elephant is very like a snake!”

The fourth reached out his eager hand, and felt about the knee:
“What most this wondrous beast is like, is mighty plain,” quoth he;
“Tis clear enough the elephant is very like a tree.”

The fifth, who chanced to touch the ear, Said; “E’en the blindest man
can tell what this resembles most; Deny the fact who can,
This marvel of an elephant, is very like a fan!”

The sixth no sooner had begun, about the beast to grope,
than, seizing on the swinging tail, that fell within his scope,
“I see,” quothe he, “the elephant is very like a rope!”

And so these men of Indostan, disputed loud and long,
each in his own opinion, exceeding stiff and strong,
Though each was partly in the right, and all were in the wrong!

So, oft in theologic wars, the disputants, I ween,
tread on in utter ignorance, of what each other mean,
and prate about the elephant, not one of them has seen!

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It’s been a while and a great deal has happened since I decided to record something for you – Coronavirus, the final severing of the UK from the EU, the end of Trump and the beginning of Biden – and it made me think of a book that I inherited from my mother. The book itself is tiny, filled with the most remarkable illustrations, and the name aroused my curiosity in the early 80s, shortly after I learned to read. The title of the book was Desiderata, the author Max Ehrmann, and the contents unforgettable. I’ve read the words a thousand times and a thousand times, the poem, for that is what it is, has given me hope, and today I’d love to pay it forward and share that with you.

You can listen here:

GO PLACIDLY amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

By Max Ehrmann © 1927

This is the original text written by Max Ehrmann in 1927, and although the poem has a complex history of copyrighting, I believe that this is in the public domain and something that deserves sharing. For more information about the poem, I highly recommend popping over to Sherrie Lovler’s site, desierata.com.

On that note I shall bid you a fond farewell. Go well, stay well, see you soon

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A Zen koan re-imagined for our busy world. Well, for me!

It’s been a busy 12 months, filled with learning and reading and learning and reading and… I don’t know if anything else can go “in”! I’m an oral storyteller and so this tale popped into my head.

A koan is a story, dialogue, question, or statement which is used in Zen practice to provoke the “great doubt” and to practice or test a student’s progress in Zen. They are often short, filled with meaning, and can result in rather helpful “ah hah” moments.

Nan-in, a Japanese master during the Meiji era (1868–1912), received a university professor who came to inquire about Zen. Nan-in served tea. He poured his visitor’s cup full, and then kept on pouring.

The professor watched the overflow until he no longer could restrain himself. “Stop! It is overflowing. No more will go in!”

“Like this cup,” Nan-in said, “you are full of your own opinions and speculations. How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?”

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Today, a VERY short tale from American author O Henry.

I came across this whilst roving the mysterious place that is The Internet and it left me trying to filling the gaps. A great way to Walk the Tortoise in my humble opinion!

O. Henry, was the pen name of William Sydney Porter, an American short story writer, known for writing stories frequently have surprise endings. 

Here’s the story.

In the northern part of Austin there once dwelt an honest family by the name of Smothers. The family consisted of John Smothers, his wife, himself, their little daughter, five years of age, and her parents, making six people toward the population of the city when counted for a special write-up, but only three by actual count.

One night after supper the little girl was seized with a severe colic, and John Smothers hurried down town to get some medicine.

He never came back.

The little girl recovered and in time grew up to womanhood.

The mother grieved very much over her husband’s disappearance, and it was nearly three months before she married again, and moved to San Antonio.

The little girl also married in time, and after a few years had rolled around, she also had a little girl five years of age.

She still lived in the same house where they dwelt when her father had left and never returned.

One night by a remarkable coincidence her little girl was taken with cramp colic on the anniversary of the disappearance of John Smothers, who would now have been her grandfather if he had been alive and had a steady job.

“I will go downtown and get some medicine for her,” said John Smith (for it was none other than he whom she had married).

“No, no, dear John,” cried his wife. “You, too, might disappear forever, and then forget to come back.”

So John Smith did not go, and together they sat by the bedside of little Pansy (for that was Pansy’s name).

After a little Pansy seemed to grow worse, and John Smith again attempted to go for medicine, but his wife would not let him.

Suddenly the door opened, and an old man, stooped and bent, with long white hair, entered the room.

“Hello, here is grandpa,” said Pansy. She had recognized him before any of the others.

The old man drew a bottle of medicine from his pocket and gave Pansy a spoonful.

She got well immediately.

“I was a little late,” said John Smothers, “as I waited for a street car.”

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A few years ago, I heard a poem called “Hokusai Says”. It was written by the rather wonderful and inspiring Roger Keyes, art historian, Hokusai scholar, and co-founder of York Zen whilst he was in Venice in 1990. It came to him as was making notes for the “Young Hokusai” paper he was to give at a symposium on Hokusai the following day.

I have a million ideas, thoughts, questions, stories, to-do lists and more in jostling for space, so when I find something that grounds me in a few short minutes, I’m grateful. After hanging on to the poem for a while, I eventually decided that I’d love nothing more than to share this poem with others, so I tentatively reached out to Mr. Keyes through the York Zen (yorkzen.com) website to ask for permission to do so.

He kindly gave me permission to not only record the poem but to share it online, which means that today is a celebration of both kindness and gratitude!

Katsushika Hokusai was a Japanese artist, ukiyo-e painter, and printmaker of the Edo period who is best known – in the western world at least – as the artist who created the iconic print, The Great Wave off Kanagawa, which is part of his woodblock print series Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji. As an aside, his daughter, Katsushika Ōi was an extraordinary illustrator and artist in her own right, in addition to helping her father with his work, but that’s another story for another time.

Here’s the poem.

Hokusai says look carefully.
He says pay attention, notice.
He says keep looking, stay curious.
Hokusai says there is no end to seeing.

He says look forward to getting old.
He says keep changing,
you just get more who you really are.
He says get stuck, accept it, repeat
yourself as long as it is interesting.

He says keep doing what you love.

He says keep praying.

He says every one of us is a child,
every one of us is ancient
every one of us has a body.
He says every one of us is frightened.
He says every one of us has to find
a way to live with fear.

He says everything is alive —
shells, buildings, people, fish,
mountains, trees, wood is alive.
Water is alive.

Everything has its own life.

Everything lives inside us.

He says live with the world inside you.

He says it doesn’t matter if you draw,
or write books. It doesn’t matter
if you saw wood, or catch fish.
It doesn’t matter if you sit at home
and stare at the ants on your veranda
or the shadows of the trees
and grasses in your garden.
It matters that you care.

It matters that you feel.

It matters that you notice.

It matters that life lives through you.

Contentment is life living through you.
Joy is life living through you.
Satisfaction and strength
is life living through you.

He says don’t be afraid.
Don’t be afraid.

Love, feel, let life take you by the hand.

Let life live through you.

Find out more about this poem and how it came to be over at www.yorkzen.com.

If you’ve loved this poem and feel that it’s helped you as it often helped me, share it with someone. When the world feels like it’s about to spin out of control, something like this brings us back to earth.

And that, dear listener, is the end of today’s random act.

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