A 93-year-old told me he ran until he was 88. Then he invited a stranger he'd just met on the beach to dinner.
A few days after I arrived in Bethany Beach, a fox showed up at my sliding glass door. That was unexpected, given I'm about 200 steps from the ocean. When I mentioned it to a friend, she read me the Medicine Card for Fox, from a deck rooted in Native American animal teachings. Fox’s gift is camouflage. “Fox is seemingly able to vanish amidst the lush undergrowth of the forest.”
I can see now how this foreshadowed how I would spend my time here. I’m sure it has shaped it as well. My whole nomadic life is a kind of cocoon, and Bethany became a mini cocoon within the larger one. Withdrawing from the world a bit. Recharging. Watching.
A Cocoon Within a Cocoon
I’ve had very little in-person connection in Bethany, other than the regular encounters with dogs and their human companions on my morning runs. A good friend was in the area and came by to visit earlier this week. Only then did I realize how little in-person connection I’d had. It had been two and a half weeks since the last one. That last one produced an unexpected dinner with a fascinating couple.
The connection began as they usually do. I stopped to greet a dog. As I spoke with his owner, the man shared that he was 93 and had run until he was 88, when he needed a knee replacement. There was an amazing synchronicity here. The day before, I connected with an old friend over Zoom who had recently met a man who said the exact same thing. He was 93, and ran until he was 88. My 93-year-old is a traveler. Perhaps we met the same man.
We talked about running, discovered we were both philosophy majors, and found a lot of common ground between my coaching and his career. At the end of our conversation, he said, "You know, I really want to take you to dinner."
Of course I said yes. The next night I had drinks with this man and his wife at their beach house, and then we went to their favorite restaurant in town. A delightful evening, born from a chance conversation on an empty beach, filled with stories of an amazingly rich life well lived.
The Return of Doing
When I first coined the word teliodosis, the integration of doing and being, doing was receding in my life and being was rising. In Bethany, doing has resurged. I've been working more hours in my fractional leadership role. And my relationship with AI has shifted in a way that has reawakened the developer within me. The love of creating.
But this doing is different. My old doing was unconscious. Now it's conscious. Chosen. What’s different about the doing now is a shift from subject to object. In the past, I was one with my doing. There was no separation, no awareness of it. I simply did. Now, while I'm doing, I can hold the doing in awareness and see it, apart from the doing itself. This isn’t just happening with my work. Athlete Josh has raised his head as well, bringing back a rigorous (albeit far less intense) wellness regimen, including meditation, running, strength training, and nutrition. Both come from my doing identity. Both now happen in the light of awareness.
Have To, or Want To?
Over the weekend, I sat down to do some work, which is unusual for me these days. Before starting, I paused and asked myself: am I doing this because I feel like I have to, or because I want to?
The answer was clear. I wanted to. No one was requiring it. I checked in and realized I would really enjoy spending my Saturday this way.
If the answer had been "have to," I would have stopped, reconsidered how to spend that time, and probably gone for a walk in nature. The old me would have just sat down and worked, without asking.
I realize not everyone can walk away from "have to." Sometimes the work truly is critical. But the deeper question isn't really "have to or want to." The deeper question is, “Why do I think I have to?”
So often, the "have to" is self-imposed. We let work take the number one slot without a second thought. When we examine it, the rigidity often dissolves, and other solutions appear. And when the work truly is critical, we can choose it consciously rather than being swept along.
Wrapped in Being
Integration, I'm learning, isn't flipping between doing and being from one day to the next. It's holding both at once. Doing occurs, wrapped in the warm embrace of being.
I imagine the waves of doing and being will keep cresting and receding for the rest of my days. Perhaps, over time, the difference between high tide and low tide will shrink. Should they shrink so much that all you see is a still, placid lake, that would not imply being without doing. That apparent stillness would embody doing and being in perfect harmony.
I think again of my new 93-year-old friend. I wouldn’t say he is a still lake. He has spent a lifetime doing: he went from Harvard Business School to building a small furniture company into a billion-dollar business, ran until 88, and has raised a family of five children and more grandchildren and great-grandchildren than I could count. Yet he was fully present with me at every moment of our time together. Still doing. Deeply being. The waves are still there, but they are much softer.
Putting It Into Practice
Take a moment to pause. Consider the doing and being in your own life. Is it happening with awareness? Or is one of them in the driver's seat?
The next time you sit down to work, ask yourself, “Am I doing this because I want to, or because I feel I have to?” If the answer is "have to," ask yourself, “Why do I think I have to?”
You don't need to change anything. Just notice. Bring the answer into your awareness, and let it work its magic.