The Monk and the Riddle
"Yamaoka Tesshu, as a young student of Zen, visited one master after another. He called upon Dokuon of Shokoku.Desiring to show his attainment, he said: 'The mind, Buddha, and sentient beings, after all, do not exist. The true nature of phenomena is emptiness. There is no relaization, no delusion, no sage, no mediocrity. There is no giving and nothing to be received.'
Dokuon, who was smoking quietly, said nothing. Suddenly he whacked Yamaoka with his bamboo pipe. This made the youth quite angry.
'If nothing exists,' inquired Dokuon, 'where did this anger come from?'"
—from the Zen Koans Database
Indeed, where did this anger come from? Other than being whacked with bamboo pipes, It doesn't help that most of us are not exactly thrilled by the work we do and, therefore, with our lives. It doesn't help that many are so constantly burnt out, spending a large portion of our waking hours doing tasks we are not really passionate about, and spending more time in traffic getting to and from that sometimes thankless work. The burnt out corporate executive is becoming as cliché as the struggling artist, and it doesn't get any prettier as you climb down the corporate ladder to "the salt of the earth."
The fabled Midwestern work ethic has been brewed into most of the people I grew up with. We inherited it from our parents as we watched them trudge off to work jobs (that they didn't really want to do) to support their families with that quiet reservation, stoic pride and martyrdom so common in the Midwest (and so hilariously played upon on The Prairie Home Companion). It's not really unique to the Midwest, but it's strangely—and I think rightfully—an image we're proud of. The question is... is it really necessary, or even helpful?
This week's book is The Monk and the Riddle by Randy Komisar. Komisar is a Silicon Valley heavyweight. He has worked with and helped build WebTV, TiVo and Mondo Media as a "virtual CEO," was CEO of LucasArts Entertainment and was one of the co-founders of Claris Corporation. With that track record and experience, you can bet there is a lot we can learn from him. What may be unexpected is the lesson he offers and how he teaches it. No, he will not whack you with a bamboo pipe, but he may challenge some of your assumptions about what success looks and feels like.
Like last week's title, My Years with General Motors by Alfred P. Sloan, Komisar's tale is a memoir. But, it does not read like a business book and, unlike Alfred Sloan, who was entirely concerned with the minutia of "how" in business, Komisar states up front that he is much more interested in the "why." As Jack writes in his review of the book in The 100 Best:
"While he shares his own quest to discover the real meaning of work, he asks the readers this question: 'What would you be willing to do for the rest of your life...?'"
Or as, Komisar himself writes of the book: "It is about the need to fashion a meaningful existence that engages you in the time and place in which you find yourself. It is about the purpose of work and the integration of what one does with what one believes."
"No matter how hard we work or how smart we are, our financial success is ultimately dependent on circumstances outside our control."
If Komisar is right, as I suspect he is, is it not better to find something we can passionately engage in and see if that passion can not only sustain us in our career and lives, but even reap the financial rewards we so often think we have to give up our dreams for? Not only might we be happier in the long term, we'll probably be more productive, innovative, and certainly more inspired. Do we really gain anything by relinquishing our passion for a paycheck?
A good work ethic will get you through the day. Hell, it will get you through a career. It will raise your kids and put them through college, but can we not combine that with the entirely sensible desire to be fulfilled and satisfied by, to truly love our work. It is not common, I don't think, but once we know it's possible, when we see it in people like Randy Komisar, we can begin the journey, and as Komisar writes, "When it is all said and done, the journey is the reward." Well, you know, that and gobs of money.
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