Imperfection

I was thinking about perfection- the concept of perfection; its meaning- its implications, its consequences.

Perfection, according to sources, is “a state of completeness and flawlessness.” In this life, in work and within ourselves, many of us strive for perfection. Others say that it's the imperfections that make life interesting- it's the imperfections that make people interesting. However- there are flashes and glimpses of perfection that we sometimes feel or see- and they often define our memories- the best of our memories.

I have begun to believe that I would rather everything around me be flawed than come close to perfection without ever reaching it.

I suppose it is a subjective concept- that of perfection. I can see something as perfect- a work of art, a person, a building- and I could be the only one in the world who sees it that way. Which, alternatively, would make me imperfect. Or it would mean that my opinions are imperfect- according to everyone but me, that is.

As for relationships- and the people in them- an individual can be perfect for one and completely unsuitable for another. So does perfection really exist at all? What I am beginning to realize is that “close to perfection” is easy.  And oftentimes, coming close is worse than being completely off…like a silver medal in the Olympics or being the 2^nd man on the moon. Who remembers the number twos? Furthermore, the closer something comes to perfection- a situation, an endeavor- there always seems to be a bottomless supply of obstacles that will continue to pop up rendering perfection impossible. Sometimes striving for perfection could very well be striving for the impossible and therefore, maybe it is in all of our best interests to be happy with what is- instead of what can never be.

About a week ago, I had an evening that bordered on perfect- it was one of those nights when almost everything fit into place and, momentarily, I felt utterly satisfied. Before I even finished defining my mood, I realized that someone was missing- and this absence tainted everything- it made it all imperfect…it made me sad.

It was then that I realized maybe coming “close to perfect” causes more pain than never nearing it in the first place. The missing piece of the evening served as a piercing reminder of the pieces that should have been there, shaping themselves into what can be defined as “flawlessness.”

“Perfect” is an adjective that we (I) throw into casual conversation too loosely. Maybe we (I) shouldn't even bother striving for perfection in the first place. Because wouldn't something perfect be called so by universal standards? And wouldn't that mean it is uniform in form and undistinguished in existence? I could never consider “ordinary” perfect.

Take a person- a model even. He or she may be “referred to” as perfect but clearly there is something particular about their faces or their bodies- something that the camera catches and turns into beauty- something imperfect. And if this model were “perfect” wouldn't there be thousands of other individuals out there just like them? And that wouldn't make them perfect at all- it would make them clones- moving mannequins.

Maybe I’m being abstract here- or not abstract enough. But I’ve had a few experiences lately that pushed me to ponder perfection. One was a conversation with my mother the other evening- where we spoke about my future- where I will be what I will be doing. We differed on a few points. It was then that I said that I had always tried to be perfect for her. And suddenly, it hit me that perfect for her is not necessarily perfect for me and I have been wrong all along. This “perfect” that I speak of could never exist- because there would be at least one party unhappy with the results.

Going back to the previous discourse- the notion of the “almost perfect” evening was where I am right now, in Rome. It was the 40^th anniversary of the Apollo and in order to commemorate the event, Moby held a concert in Piazza del Popolo. I was the guest in a spectacular apartment looking right over the stunning piazza, surrounded by friends in an ideal atmosphere in an ideal city on an ideal night. 

I found myself hanging out the window with a swaying glass of wine in hand listening to one of my all-time favorite performers from my birds-eye view play the songs that have held so much meaning for me throughout my many experiences. I sat there smiling and mouthing (like a dork) the words that I know by heart- when a particular song came on. It was a song that holds significance with one person- and I turned around only to realize that he wasn't there with me. And there was no person in the world I would have rather shared that moment with than him. And all this “perfection” came crashing down and turned into imperfection in a flash of an instant.

It was then that I realized that I would have been better off not having “almost” reached perfection at all because the absence of this person would have been barely felt and the emotional capitulation of the evening would have never existed.

Maybe, for me, imperfection is as close to perfection as I will ever get.

Chiara's Wings

Today I was provided with a good dose of perspective. Today I realized that someone very close to me needs my help. Today, someone I love has received horrifying news.

My very good friend Stefano’s daughter, Chiara- a beautiful five year old, has been diagnosed with one of the most degenerative forms of muscular dystrophy. It has been confirmed, after months of invasive testing and endless waiting, that she has Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy (DMD). This disease affects all voluntary muscles as well as the heart and breathing muscles. The symptoms start early and worsen rapidly, as the patient is rendered defenseless.

Chiara has been given a maximum of seven years to live- and in those seven years, her condition will worsen, she will suffer, and her kind and loving family will watch their beautiful little girl disintegrate before she reaches the age of 12.

 I am not a parent, nor am I a member of Chiara’s family but what I am is a friend that has spent time with this little girl and I have watched the faces of her parents crumble as they describe the heartbreaking circumstances and wonder what they could have done differently to protect their daughter.

Chiara must now begin treatment in order to prolong her life, while her loved ones wait for a cure that does not yet exist.

Chiara is sick and she and her family need help.

Therefore, I am asking you- all my faithful blog readers and family and friends to help me because for one of the first times in my life, I feel absolutely helpless.

You will find a link on the right to place a donation under “Chiara’s Wings.” Any amount will help, I assure you. And I promise that your contribution will not go unnoticed or unrewarded. (You can also donate anonymously).

Please feel free to e-mail me should you need any further information about the disease or Chiara and her family; morgankw@gmail.com

Lastly, I would like to note that I know we are in the midst of a financial crisis. I know that there are very few people out there with the ability to donate exorbitant funds at a time like this. But what I do know is that I have spent my life surrounding myself with generous and kind individuals and I know you understand the importance of providing help at a time like this. Therefore, your contribution will be doubly appreciated. I wouldn't ask if it didn't mean the world to me.

As soon as I get my hands on one, I will post a photo of Chiara and maybe you too will understand the importance of this little life that will soon be lost.

With your help, Chiara’s family will hopefully be able to shoulder the financial burden and therefore, will be able to provide the best treatment and care for this little girl.

I am always talking about perspective. There are days when I feel like everything has gone wrong. There are days when I feel empty. Today, I realize that I have always had everything as long as those I love are safe and healthy. I realize that I took this all for granted and focused on trivial burdens as excuses to pity myself. I wish, today, that I could take it all back. I would take a million of those days to give Chiara a normal and healthy life. I would take a million of those days to help her family feel at peace again. Regrettably, none of this is possible.

Now what is left is hope. 

This is for Chiara. And this is for everyone who will help Chiara’s family. Thank you. You are all truly wonderful.

Indietro

Yesterday, in an excessively long car trip from Milano to Roma, a song came on the radio- It's a new release from Tiziano Ferro- link below.

There was a line in the song that made me think about my own life at the moment;

“Il mondo va veloce ma tu vai indietro”

Translation; The world moves ahead fast but you go backwards”

(It’s much better in Italian- meaning and the sound of the words.”) But anyway- I was in the car, watching the mountains of Emilia Romagna pass me by and change into the Cyprus trees and palazzos of Tuscany when this song came on. I had heard it before- in a restaurant or a store, and immediately recognized it- but for the first time, I listened to the words.

I listened and realized that the serenity I have been searching for may have never had anything to do with me at all- but that everything else around me seems to move at an accelerated rate. “Il Mondo va veloce,” as time moves ahead with a fervor I seem to be incapable of abiding by. I don't think it’s an incapacity to move along with it- I can keep up and have done so in the past. It’s more about the lack of desire to pursue what I know won’t fulfill my desires when the pursuit is over.

Possibly, it’s why I was drawn to Europe in the first place; the slower pace of life, the ability to sit down, step back and enjoy. Although, even if I have somewhat found my place in Europe- the world seems to still move to quickly and I began wondering what it is that I am resisting?

Then this song came on. And Tiziano said, “ma tu vai indietro”- and the sudden thought occurred to me that- I’ve been heading backwards.

I’m still working this thought out in my own mind- in the context of my own life…but I’ve come to the conclusion that I am not so much regressing as moving in another direction. There is this strong current pulling me one way- pulling the world in one way- from medicine, to technology to the simple act of ageing. It has been said that salmon swim upstream. And here I am, a Salmon…swimming upstream my entire life- tiring myself out.

I once had a thought that maybe I would one day eat Salmon- despite my vegetarianism- being that salmon seems to suffer their entire lives- swimming in the wrong direction- struggling against a partly invisible force until they are either caught or die.

Although I don't see myself with quite the same strain as salmon undergoes- it's a mental strain…the desire to move in one direction while the world passes by at an unalterable pace. Its like a train ride through the countryside in a rare and beautiful part of the world- everything flying by the windows is so astonishing that you want to reach out and touch it- but before the view has a chance to register in your mind- it is gone. And even worse, something else even more beautiful shows up in its place and then, without fail, that too is gone. You feel the pull to go back and understand, feel and experience the first thing you saw- the lure to move backwards. By the end of the trip- you have only gotten a taste- a mere glimpse of each landscape. It moved so quickly that even the momentary memories are now fading. All you want to do is go back, all the while trying to figure out where it is you wanted to end up. That's what I’m doing- trying to figure out where it is I would like to end up.

And here I am, going backwards against all the flashing lights pointing me forwards. Maybe its time to give in and swim with the current. Because what is the point of it all? I’m behind and I’m only making it worse for myself because the world will never change directions- time will never slow down- the current will never slow its pace.

The last line in the song, out of line with my current thinking, is “Il bene più segreto sfugge all’uomo che non guarda avanti, mai.” Translating to; the most secret escape is to not look ahead, ever.”

So as with any important decision or fork in the road- there are at least two directions to go in. One, the most reasonable and probably the sanest of options, is to move forward along with the world and two, to ignore the world that is passing me by at the speed of light.

And what’s so bad about being a Salmon? There has got to be a reason they do it- a reason they were put on this earth, and in their streams- only to face a struggle. There has got to be a reason I have spent the bulk of my life moving in another direction. Unlike the salmon, maybe I can be strong enough to beat the current- or to stop the train even for a day. 

Running Revelations

You know you are no longer in the throes of the tedium of coursework when the content of the communication from and between your schoolmates drastically shifts gears.

During the year, e-mails are circulated from compassionate classmates who are kind enough to provide advice for upcoming exams or hints at how to arrive at the solutions to finance cases. The standard e-mails include ideas as to what would be the best positioning for a new product concept in marketing or good websites in which to find information for upcoming research papers.  

And then, as suddenly as the first year of the MBA ended- the communication between the students shifted as well. I opened my inbox to find emails from the same familiar people with the same guiding tones, but the type of advice was significantly altered.

In the case of Friday’s e-mails, the advice being circulated was regarding the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona. A large group of us decided to partake in the celebrations and were preparing for the yearly festival when the wise-worded reminders began popping up cautioning and advising…

 “Should you have the misfortune to fall or trip up, stay down hugging the ground without moving except to cover your head with your hands. When the stampede has passed, someone will give up a tap on the shoulder to let you know you can get up in safety. Don't try to run behind the bulls. Don't attempt to touch the bulls. A lot of people seem to want to touch the bulls for some strange reason. They shouldn’t be touched even in the slightest way, as there is another potential risk in distracting their attention. Don't stand still during the run. When everyone starts running, you must run too.

If you want to be a spectator, stay on the other side of the fence. The only reason you cross over that fence is to run. Fan out when you run into the ring. Spread out when you get through the entrance to the ring and head for the barriers round the edge of the ring. Should you find yourself in the middle of the ring, you are in the path of the bulls who can move much faster than you, you are in a totally defenseless situation, as well as being a disturbance to the drovers in their work. Don't disturb the drovers and herders. These people are responsible for getting the bulls into the bullpen as quickly as possible. The quicker they do it, the less danger there is. Don't carry anything on you when you run. If you can’t find a safe place to leave your pack, video camera or whatever, then just forget about the idea of doing the run."

 And so on and so forth…

Gotta love friendly advice from classmates.

 I suppose kindness and concern can translate from class to the bullring after all.

Another major realization- and one of the saddest ones this year to date is that I have aged considerably. The words, “I think I’m getting too old for this stuff” actually came out of my mouth. I never thought they would- I never thought I would be one of those people who “gets too old” for things.

But at about four in the morning, stumbling around the city strewn with passed out partygoers and mounds of trash, noting the ubiquitous drunkards sprawled across any green patch of land they could find, covered in wine and bodily fluids, snoring and shivering- I realized I was not a part of it. I was wearing the typical white and red- I was drinking- I was being festive- I was happy to be there and I was dancing- but I wasn't really part of it.

Maybe I was too sober. Maybe I was too sane.

Or maybe, as I think I finally realized, I have just grown up too much to savor drunken stupors and citywide slumber parties. San Fermin- the running of the bulls, is no more a cultural festival than full moon parties at Koh Phangan in Thailand (another party I am not so sure I could ever take again). I don't think that the event, the encierro, is any longer like what Hemingway described in “The Sun Also Rises." It's more of a bunch of English speaking tourists (Americans, Brits, Australians)- and a few other cultures thrown in, even some Spaniards- who all made the pilgrimage to the region of Navarra (my pilgrimage being a 6 hour bus ride)- to get drunk and risk being gored by the horns of a mistreated bull. The beautiful and well-kempt city had become a dump- a literal dump.

At least there was uniformity in the clothing. And I did have fun. The fireworks were great. But I really am too old for this stuff- regardless of how much beer I consume before, during and after…I think I’ve crossed over the barrier from festival-goer to resort-guest. Or at least somewhere in between.

Nonetheless, I’m glad I went. Afterall, it was just another experience indicative of my short stint in Spain, getting to know- even better and on different levels- all the people that are sharing this MBA experience with me. Glad I did it. But glad it’s over.

I think that may be the end of festivals for me. To quote (in my own context of course) the man who made the Running of the Bulls famous,"You know it makes one feel rather good deciding not to be a bitch." 
-Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

Fear of Flying?

My version of “pigs flying” happened to me yesterday. Ironically, they (the pigs) flew when I was about to fly…

Me, the incessant traveler- the perpetual passenger- someone who has probably spent more time in airports than at home, had a panic attack as I was about to board a flight.

It was a standard route- Milano to Barcelona- nothing extraordinary. Yet, all of a sudden, as my car pulled up to the airport- my chest tightened, I couldn't breathe, my hands were sweaty and started shaking, and I felt like I was going to throw up.

My friend, Stefano, who had accompanied me to the airport took my pulse and basically told me I may be having a heart attack- in not so many words. (not a good thing to tell a hypochondriac in the throws of anxiety). Which, of course, made me freak out even more- so I ended up in “pronto socorro” – the Italian version of the emergency room- camped out under terminal one- and a doctor who was all of 21 years old manhandled me by means of an EKG.

Everything was fine until I actually started yelling at the kid for unnecessarily exposing my entire upper body, at which point my anxiety turned into anger and I felt much better. The nurse gave me Valium and I got on the plane and came home.

Not a good start to a summer full of numerous international flights. This is going to be an interesting obstacle to my lifestyle, to say the least. Updates to come…  

Times of India Piece

Just published (in case you're interested...)
Publication: Times Of India Delhi;
Date: Jun 29, 2009;
Section: Education Times;
Page: 57
FIRST PERSON
A more liberal candidate
DID A LIBERAL ARTS BACKGROUND MAKE THE MBA TOUGHER? NO,IT MADE IT DIFFERENT,SAYS MORGAN WITKIN, STUDENT AT ESADE BUSINESS SCHOOL, SPAIN

Among the countless sum of quantitative subjects MBA candidates are exposed to during the first term of an MBA, ESADE Business School’s class of 2010 embarked on a ‘Global Context of Management’ course about a month into the degree. After dissecting and tackling various issues concerning management practices in a broader social context, our professor left us with something to think about. He said, “The value of your lives can be measured in your personal relationships.” I loved this; it stuck with me.

Now, looking back at the first half of the degree, I would like to believe that this is the very reason I am working towards an MBA. Of course, there are the typical motivations — better career opportunities, higher salaries and a large number of additional advantages. Collectively, an MBA, despite the cost, makes for a relatively attractive option for any young professional. For me, an individual with a strictly liberal arts background, the appeal lay in fundamentals. I had the desire to fill the gaps in my knowledge so that I could do anything — run a business, manage a company or start my own enterprise.

My liberal arts background has not made the MBA harder; it has made it different. The way I learn, the way I think, and hardships and the things that come easy to me are all unlike that of the traditional MBA student. However, looking at the importance of interpersonal relationships, I am coming out of the first half of the MBA with a different ‘motivation.’

When researching MBA programmes, any prospective student takes the alumni network into account. These are the people that will open doors, offer guidance and essentially create a strong and influential group of colleagues and associates. Almost every MBA programme provides an opportunity for its students to create a useful network of contacts, including fellow students, professors, staff members and professionals who may be involved with the programme. In fact, most universities take action in order to promote alumni networking. And in addition to the vast alumni connections and associations, each distinct graduating class creates its own modest network.

The first day of the MBA, we are all strangers. By the first month, we knew each other's names, backgrounds and aspirations. We understood the strengths and weaknesses of our group members and were learning how to develop our collective skills and abilities. By the third month, we had become a family — undeniably stuck together and at times dysfunctional with the characteristic issues that any family faces. Yet all things considered, the levels of respect between my fellow MBA candidates and the amount of affection we have for one another is tremendous. Further, due to the fact that we (like any family) experience ups and downs, accomplishments and failures, we are undeniably fused together and, therefore, afforded the opportunity to learn from one another. I have discovered more from my friends than what 10 MBAs could ever teach me. And yet, without the MBA, I would have never met them. I would have never been placed in a single building, for hundreds upon hundreds of hours — to brainstorm, strategise, research, calculate, examine and sometimes even philosophise with these exceptional individuals.

I am paying nearly 60,000 euros for the MBA. I am paying this to walk out of ESADE less than a year from now with an esteemed degree that will, undoubtedly, open doors in the future. I am paying this money so that once these doors are open, I will have the knowledge and competencies required to succeed. I am paying this so that in the future, whatever I decide to do or wherever I choose to go, I will not only be an asset but a leader in my chosen activities and endeavours.

What I did not pay for, nor did I expect, are the people that surround me every day: individuals that constantly teach me, support me, push me and sometimes even learn from me. These people, this 'network,' of friends, classmates and colleagues are unlike any I would have ever met outside the MBA — all placed together in this 18-month experience. They are my inspiration, motivation and encouragement and they are defining my MBA. That, to me, is invaluable.
Morgan Witkin

http://epaper.timesofindia.com/Repository/ml.asp?Ref=Q0FQLzIwMDkvMDYvMjkjQXIwNTcwMA==&Mode=HTML&Locale=english-skin-custom

All I Wish For and All I Need

 “…caught in between all you wish for and all you need…” is the sentiment that has been lingering in my subconscious for days. These are the lyrics of a song that my i-pod appropriately stumbled upon during one particularly long metro ride, when I realized that the words reflected exactly what it is I have been feeling since the end of classes.

It’s an incredible song…listen: 

Michael Stipe & Coldplay - In The Sun

(this is the Michael Stipe and Chris Martin version…the best).

So that’s it- I think that I am, fundamentally, caught in between what I wish for and what I need. Maybe that's the human condition. Maybe it’s my condition. I suppose there are some fortunate individuals out there whose desires are consistent with their necessities. Lucky them. I, on the other hand, have entirely polar wants and needs- where the things I long for couldn't be more different from the things I require. I’m not referring to the “givens” as in- I need water but I want champagne…I need sleep but I want waking moments.

No, those aren’t specific to just me. (Trust me, I took a poll)

Instead, I boast a wide range of conflicting interests that tend to result in daily internal struggles:

I need calmness but I want chaos. I thought that the end of school- and the space between one obligation and another would be good for me- that I would finally be at peace after a long stretch of calamity. Instead, I find myself unsettled- frantically twitching inside my own head wondering how I found myself doing nothing and how to make it stop. I know I need still surroundings- serenity- to breathe and think and walk at a pace where the people behind of me start cursing under their breaths.

Instead- I want Bangkok in the dead heat of summer- I want Manhattan at rush hour- dirty metro stations filled with people, pungent smells and the sounds of bums singing and wheels screetching- back to back taxi cabs, feet pounding the pavement and the honking of horns. I actually like the feeling of fear in the pit of my stomach, sweat rolling down the nape of my neck- I want anger and love and hate and passion and desire all at once- traffic and noise and lights and the feeling that it will never end- that the pandemonium will continue for as long as I will…or as long as I can bear it. I know I require rest, my body knows it- sleepy afternoons with the shades drawn. But it’s not what I crave- It drives me mad.

I need a relationship with someone who can wrap me in his arms and shelter me from any harm that may threaten me. I should want a relationship that I feel safe in- that is comfortable and stable. I want to want devotion and harmony- peace and comfort. What I find myself craving- and subsequently seeking- is unrest…the dramatics and ups and downs- the passionate fighting and then if I’m lucky- passionate making-up. I don’t want to know how it will end and what’s around the next corner. I want to wonder- I desire the surprises and disarray. I make messes and if I can’t create them myself, I invite them in. I wait for turmoil to find me. The commotion is what I feed off of and when all that mess turns to something good- and healthy- and normal…I get bored and move on to the next fiery rapport.

I know this is not wholesome- that I should probably go for something more nourishing…but its what I do. It’s what I require.

I need to find myself a career path that is stable and comfortable and profitable. I should want a clean cut route- a 10 year plan. I’ve been making lists of attainable goals- 401ks and tenures. The things I want have no pension plans- no road signals- no straights and narrows. I don't even have a 10-month plan. And in the case that I did- I would probably swerve off the path at month 5, crash, and a little piece of me would die.

So what I NEED- is far from what I want. And now-in the serenity and long empty daylight hours that I thought I wanted…a time where I actually have a second to sit and look back on having accomplished a part of what I needed- I am slowly figuring out that what I knew I wanted has been the same all along. I’m undeniably caught in between all I wish for and all I need….and it seems like this is going to be a lifelong affliction.