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Life: A Trip Towards Trust

Chapter One: Answers Needed - Questions Unknown

"One must feel the chaos within to give birth to a dangling star."

- Nietzche

I was successful in my chosen career. I was working hard, maybe a little too hard, but I was driven by my ego and my ambition. I wanted to make pots of money and be even more successful. I wanted to be the author everyone talked about, the international speaker everyone listened to, the expert people turned to for advice. Boy, was I getting there. It was 1996 and in just a few more years that would be me.

But I wasn't happy. I wasn't contented or fulfilled. I felt, in a way, that there was a void inside and that, despite the money, the success and the hard work paying off, I wasn't really going anywhere significant. I was restless and unsettled; irritated by my own restlessness when, from the outside, everything seemed to be going so well. Okay, I didn't have a truly committed, fulfilling personal relationship with the woman of my dreams but, hey, I was man enough to realise I couldn't have it all, not the way I was living my life.

The thunderclouds of personal crisis were clearly visible on my previously sunny and cloud-free horizon. I could feel them out there, drawing ever closer, driven by the chill winds of unnameable discontent.

Before I even identified it myself, this impending crisis was addressed at an unlikely time by an unexpected and initially irritating source. I met Oliver on a course promoting Neuro-Linguistic Programming as the new technology of success high up in the Colorado Rockies. Where else would I be? Success was an end in itself, after all.

Oliver spoke in a slow and deliberate voice. A six foot two, thin-framed and middle-aged man, his tone and way of speaking reflected his appearance. His slow verbal delivery annoyed me intensely. The more he spoke, the more it grated in my head. I wanted to replace his batteries. 'Hurry up: life is short!' my inner voice screamed. That was my problem, not his.

Strangely, despite my personal antipathy to the man and our lack of anything in common, something inside me propelled me into asking him for guidance. I just couldn't understand it. At the time, I didn't think I needed any help. Despite this, my inner voice wasn't convinced by the success of my outer world and kept pushing me towards what was going to be, for me, a very strange rendezvous.

I didn't know what to ask him. I had nothing to say to the man, and that was a first, but still I had to talk to him. I was looking for answers when I didn't even know the questions. It was madness. In the evening, I approached Oliver.

"I would like to meet you for a chat. Is that possible?" I asked. Thankfully, he agreed without asking me what the chat would be about, because I would have been hard-pressed to come up with a believable answer.

We met the following afternoon and I began by saying honestly: "Oliver, I don't know what to say to you. Have you anything to say to me? Advise me."

He started by praising my intelligence and my "sponge-like quality", that ability I have to soak up information, twist it around and turn it into something new and more useful. I agreed with his assessment but didn't have time to preen. Oliver warned that I was likely to ascend to the top too quickly on my current life curve, only to find there were no other mountains worth climbing. A personal crisis, he predicted, would ensue. His advice was simple: take some time out to contemplate, to allow my mind to settle and to let my internal wisdom dictate my course. It was time to get off the self-imposed treadmill that narrowed and limited my world and my life, Oliver said.

This was my first wake-up call. In his slow, methodical voice, he seemed to dismiss the paradigm that had worked so successfully for me to date. I believed success is ninety-nine per cent perspiration and one per cent inspiration. I was taken aback by his view because, to my rational mind, up to this point in my life, taking a timeout would be the ultimate waste of time.

On the other hand, it also seemed that work, work and more work couldn't, on its own, deliver the sense of fulfilment for which I had lately started to yearn. Oliver didn't give me a definitive blueprint for my journey. His nebulous advice was all I got and I had to trust that the blueprint would form over time. Inside, something told me that I was going to have to learn how to be comfortable in the unknown and how to deal with uncertainties in order to find the certainty I was seeking.

When I returned home to Ireland from the United States a short time later, I got another jolt. This time, the rug was pulled out from under me by a very likely source: a good friend and long-time confidante who had a talent for making casual but telling observations.

"You know, Kevin," Inez said, "Every time you speak about your work you're full of energy and passion, but when you speak about your girlfriend, the energy disappears. Your work is so important to you, but I don't believe you will ever survive in a long-term relationship until you feel the same about your partner as you do about your work."

When I thought about it I knew she was right. Work was my number one and my relationship was coming in a distant, well-beaten second. The silver medal was no longer good enough. I woke up. There was no doubt about it, a crisis was looming.

I was cut adrift and had to find my way without a map for the first time. Before I could even begin to assess where I should go, I had to look at where I was coming from, what influences had made me what I was, and at what I had become.

*****

Ballintubber. Chances are you won't have heard of it, but it was my home. In 1966, I was born into a middle class family in this small town in Roscommon, Ireland. My parents shared responsibility for running the family business, a petrol station and convenience store. In addition, my father worked as a Community Welfare Officer for the regional health authority five days a week. While he worked, my mother ran the business and simultaneously looked after us five young ones. Time off was a rare luxury for my parents because the family business closed for only four days in each year.

Being brought up in a business environment had its advantages and disadvantages. On the plus side, I had the chance to develop my communication skills at a very early age. Our kitchen table was a battlefield with each of the protagonists fighting for airtime and attention. Like my brothers and sisters, I learned to get my point across in the most succinct, direct way possible. Keeping it brief and to the point was important for us because if that overused word 'pump' was heard, you had lost your place in the discussion and it was time to serve a customer and time to make the family some money. With that background, it's fair to say my public speaking career started at a very early stage.

I met every imaginable type of person in our petrol station and store. I can vividly recall people telling me their life story when little Kevin was just about old enough and tall enough to be able to look over the shop counter. It was simply that kind of place: a slow, small town in an era when some people had time to talk.

On the other hand, many people didn't have time to bid you the time of day, and wouldn't! That had it's impact too, and in addition, being brought up in a constant on-the-go culture meant that it was always difficult for me to sit down and relax: to simply stop moving.

Like most kids of my era, indeed of any era, school-days loomed large on my young and narrow horizon. What strikes me now is how some people have such vivid memories of their school-days while, for me, only a few incidents are really clear in my mind.

Like life, school for me has had its highlights and its low points. Among the latter were a few incidents of not getting to the toilet on time, along with the associated embarrassment, and writing the longest essays ever recorded or so it seemed to me then. I remember stealing what amounted to -- in my memory at least -- hundreds of cigarettes from our shop to boost my ratings with my school peers.

I recall playing soccer too: kicking ball on warm summer evenings. Soccer was my first love at that stage of my life. Having been nicknamed Kevin Keegan -- a famous soccer player of my childhood era -- at a very young age, I followed the great Liverpool team of the decade and attempted unsuccessfully to emulate my idol. Following my team was an emotional rollercoaster; one without parallel. On many occasions, I would go missing mysteriously and later be discovered up the garden, crying because Liverpool had just lost a game. On other not much happier occasions I would be spotted running around the shop and house, in a state of near-despair because Liverpool were losing. I was truly Roscommon's youthful answer to Forrest Gump!

The tears stopped but the moods remained on entering 'big' school. I was a late bloomer so to speak, and right throughout second-level or high school I was one of the smallest in my class: a target for harassment. The fear of being bullied -- the possibility that it could happen at any time -- made some days uncomfortable for me.

At a relatively young age for the time, I was allowed to go to discos and nightclubs. Just before my fifteenth birthday I made my uncertain début on the dance-floor. I had already discovered that talking to customers at the petrol pump at home was much easier than talking to girls. Indeed, enticing the pump customers to spend more was a piece a cake, compared to making a sale when some lovely young one was buying. No doubt about it, asking a girl to dance when I was fifteen was the physical and mental equivalent of undertaking a bungee jump for me. My hands sweated and my heart raced at even the thought . . . of asking the girl, not the bungee jump! Even more worrying for me was what I would do and how I would cope if a 'relationship' came my way. I recall wisely seeking counsel from my best buddy on the all-important question at that time.

"What is French kissing?" I asked him, heart racing at the thought. I could only assume that it was wicked because it sounded as if it must be so.

With the calm ability of a trained counsellor, Frankie assured me that there was nothing to it. "Just stick in your tongue and move it all around," he replied.

Good, I thought, that sounds easy. All that's needed is some practice. A few weeks later I ended up behind the Brothers Hall in Castlerea in the West of Ireland after a disco. Poised for my First French Kiss, it transpired that unfortunately my advances and new-found knowledge hit an early snag.

"You can kiss me anyway, but not French kissing!" my lover informed me. Puzzled and disappointed, I realised it was time to move on. All in all, acne and protruding teeth made meeting Miss Right a difficult proposition for me!

One night at a local disco it seemed like my lotto numbers had come up. My dream date cast a couple of enquiring looks at both me and my acne. Having overcome what seemed like insurmountable hurdles, I succeeded in winning her hand, well, for a dance or two anyway. The excitement of knowing I could walk her home almost caused me to drown in my own sweat. Losing the run of myself entirely, I decided to try to entice her (for entirely honourable reasons, of course) up a dark alley. Many detours later my cheeks remained cold and devoid of the warmth of intimacy. 'Ah, well, it can only get better,' I mused. With an optimistic mind I wished her a platonic goodnight and walked home, light-footed with the promise of tomorrow.

Tomorrow came: the telephone rang. It was my 'girlfriend', and she declared her intent without much ado.

"I am finishing the relationship." she said.

'Okay,' I replied, sighing. Devastated, I ran up to the top of the garden and bawled my eyes out for what seemed like hours. During this record emotional low I decided this would never, ever happen again: the sensitive, shy style was history. That day, I chose not to expose myself emotionally again. No more pain, no more vulnerability, and no more insecurity: this was the way forward.

It wasn't long before another emotional peak of a different kind registered on my psyche. I was hitchhiking home from a disco when I spotted a local man across the road. He was just passing the gate leading to Castlerea Psychiatric Hospital when I opened my big mouth, purely in jest.

"Going in for a holiday?" I enquired smoothly.

He didn't think it was funny. One head-butt and three left hooks later, I was on the ground, blood running freely from my nose and mingling with my tears. Regardless of my attacker's mental condition, I accepted that watching my words in the future was of paramount importance. It was a painful learning experience but I learned it well.

My final memory of school days is of bawling like a baby on the day the Leaving Certificate results were released. I simply hadn't made the grade. Three 'C's weren't enough to escape the system. Before I could start a new chapter in my life it was necessary to finish the old with another year in school. A year later, with the hurdle of the Leaving Certificate finally cleared, I escaped to college. This was a new beginning in almost every aspect of my life. Commerce was my chosen field, and in second year I specialised in marketing, a topic that ignited my interest.

On the recreational side of life, music took centre stage and I started to spin records in some of the nightclubs. With the financial help of my sister, I had been collecting records from the age of thirteen. Being a DJ was something I enjoyed immensely. Nothing delivered a greater high than watching people really enjoy themselves, and playing a part in creating an environment conducive to fun was an extra bonus. After each gig it was virtually impossible to sleep through the 'performer's high'. As a college student, I was having more luck attracting some female attention but was in no position to get carried away. There was no suggestion of me becoming an 'overnight success' in that department!

Each year I studied only enough to scrape through the end-of-year exams. During my first year in college, worry set in that my version of 'enough' wouldn't be sufficient to satisfy the examiners. Fraught, I decided to join my father on a unique pilgrimage to St Patrick's Purgatory in Donegal, part of Ireland's bleak but spectacular north-western region.

As the name suggests, pilgrims go through a purgatorial seventy-two hour spiritual experience including fasting for three days. Sleep deprivation kicks in too because prayers are recited throughout your entire first night on the island. Lack of sleep and food, added to the inclement weather conditions that are Donegal's hallmark, make the pilgrimage a unique experience.

Pilgrims also must complete a number of 'stations' during the three days. The stations involve reciting numerous prayers while walking barefoot around a church, then around and inside penitential beds 'protected' by stones. These stones of varying shapes and sizes made contact with my tired, cold feet and it wasn't comfortable. It still amazes me to remember how refreshed I felt leaving the island after going through such a tough experience. The need to focus on words through prayer and on nature through the sharp stones in the penitential beds helped me.

There, I could 'empty the container' and reduce my mind's activity: this helped to reduce stress and increase clarity. The connection with God through prayer and contemplation helped me to cleanse my spirit and connect with my essence.

The following week brought the exam results. For me, this meant three near-fail grades, one pass and one honour mark. I just about passed. It must have been divine intervention.

Before long, my writing instruments were unceremoniously dumped into the bin outside the college library building. I was finished learning from books. My college days were over and the 'Big Apple' beckoned.

New York was definitely the ultimate experience for the young Irishman of my generation, but before I could start experiencing I needed to find work. Lion's Rock was a prestigious restaurant on the Upper East Side, so I was told, and within a few days I was filling out an application for a busboy's job. It sounded good to me. The form asked for an indication of work experience so, after consulting with my friends, The Shelbourne and The Burlington -- two very upmarket hotels in Dublin -- were hastily scribbled onto the page. 'No problem,' I thought, 'sure who around the Upper East Side would know them?'

The manager's family came from Belfast so he was looking forward to interviewing a fellow paddy when he greeted me at the restaurant on 77th Street.

"I see you worked in the Shelbourne. Excellent," he said. Before I could open my mouth, he asked me to show how to set a dinner place, Shelbourne style.

"Well, it's probably different to how you would do it here," I suggested lamely, simultaneously feeling my cheeks glowing.

"Was it like this?" he asked, demonstrating.

"Yes," I replied.

I got the job, and working there was a treat. For a naive, sheltered young Irishman, it appeared that just about every type of person with every type of sexual orientation worked there. Roscommon was never like this! I made enough money in four days of gathering dishes and entertaining clients to do whatever I wanted with my pals in New York, New York.

After a night spent enjoying Starship and Roxette in concert in Radio City Music Hall, one of my friends suggested we visit Park Avenue on the Upper East Side. He had reason to believe that this street was the epicentre of all the beautiful available women in the universe. Despite a little concern, I followed the leader. Within moments of arriving on the block, a coloured gentleman who had 'pimp' written all over him in big letters approached us. 'Time to go,' I thought.

"You guys want girls?" he enquired.

It was a reasonable enough question given the location, but before I could draw breath, one of the lads answered: "Ya."

"Okay, what hotel are you in?" Pimp asked. Each of us mentioned a different hotel, but he was satisfied and continued the pitch. "Okay. I got French, American, Asian, Irish . . . what would you like? Fifty dollars for the works."

My only thought was to get out of there. This guy wasn't interested in entertaining us: this was business. The conversation was stalling when one my more reserved friends asked: "Are there any discounts for students?"

Manfully, I struggled with the impulse to fold myself over in laughter.

"Okay," said Pimp. "I will be back in five minutes with your girls. Stay here."

We nodded innocently. Moments after his departure, all of us sprinted to the closest subway, hearts in our mouths with fright and amusement.

This wasn't the only bizarre event to occur in New York during my first visit there. My friend Caroline and I were walking down Broadway when we noticed one of the many street traders selling rip-off merchandise. In this guy's case, the speciality was expensive watches . . . Rolex, Gucci, you name it. Rightly or wrongly, I sensed this trader had pigeon-holed us as two innocent young leprechauns, leaping about innocently and fresh from the farm! He was asking thirty-five dollars for a Rolex. It seemed quite a snip to us considering prevailing prices for the real thing (trader's name and address available at the back of the book!). Being the quintessential child, I decided to have a little fun.

"How much was that Rolex watch you were pricing last week . . . eighty dollars or a hundred?" I asked my friend.

"It must have been a hundred," Caroline agreed.

The trader looked on in bewilderment. I turned to him and said clearly: "There must be something wrong with these. If you're selling them for thirty-five bucks, they can't be the real thing".

"Yes, they are," he said, protesting.

"Well, I am not buying something that's dodgy," I retorted, making a dismissive gesture at the merchandise. "If they're all right -- and they certainly do look great -- they must cost at least sixty dollars."

The trader looked at us with that 'what planet are you from?' expression as he pondered his next moves. Moments later he said: "Okay. Fifty Dollars." Three minutes later we got him up to sixty. Shortly afterwards the penny dropped. . . . We were children at play!

"Are you having fun here?" he asked in a less than fulfilled tone.

"No, no, no" we declared, laughing as we skipped off through the proverbial tulips! So who says you can't haggle upwards! New York, New York. It was definitely an experience.

Four wonderful months later, it was time to go home to Ireland. In a few weeks I had done the whole tourist thing and more: Twin Towers, Circle Line, Empire State, Macy's, marriage proposal. . . .

There was only one thing left to do: borrow money for a cup of coffee at the airport.

END OF CHAPTER ONE

*****

Copyright (c) Kevin Kelly 2002. All rights reserved. No reproduction or republication is permitted without written permission.

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