He sighed. “It is a very common situation, unfortunately. Perfection is a pitfall. When one won’t settle for half-measures, one quickly gets discouraged and abandons all hope.” He lifted his chin. “Have you ever heard the expression, ‘The perfect drives out the good?’ Well, that is exactly what was happening with this woman.”
I thought about this. “So you simply told her to abandon her high standards?”
Finnegan’s face glowed.
“Yes I did! In fact, I told her to abandon all standards, and to immediately begin performing in a ‘whatever’ way. At first, you may recall, I told her to perform in the worst possible way. I did so to force her to focus intensely on her actions. But very quickly I eased up the regime so she was merely performing badly.”
He paused and held up a cautioning hand. “Note, however: I instructed her to perform. No more sitting around. Here is what I advised:
“To deal with her lack of organization, I told her to jot down a list of things she had to do each day, but not to worry if she forgot something or failed to carry out items on her list.
“To deal with her husband, who has been having an affair, I told her to simply carry on with him as pleasantly as possible.
“To deal with her physical fitness, I told her pick a simple exercise—she chose sit-ups—and to do ten repetitions each morning, badly.”
Despite my enthusiasm for Finnegan and his regimen, or lack of it, I felt dubious.
I lifted an eyebrow. “And this has solved all her problems?”
Finnegan laughed uproariously, so much that his shoulders shook.
“Of course it has not solved all her problems!” he exclaimed. “My Way is a way, it is not an instant solution. Everyone wants an instant solution today. Such a solution does not exist! Even you are tempted by the idea that it does. I held my tongue the other day when you said you could see signs of improvement in your workers but not ‘a complete turnaround.’ You will not see an instant turnaround in them, and this woman will not see it in her life. But she, too, is seeing signs of improvement.”
“Specifically, what?”
Finnegan ticked off the changes on his fingers.
“One, she has begun making lists, the absolute best way to get organized. Two, she is thinking about living pleasantly, which has removed her from the emotional turmoil she was having over her husband’s affair. Third, her regular exercise is lifting her depression and making her physically more fit.”
“But aren’t these very minor changes?”
Instead of looking frustrated or annoyed, Finnegan leaned forward as if to engage this point.
“Minor changes, yes, except they have the advantage of being done badly. Because they are done badly, and there is no inner voice demanding that they be done well, her daily actions are quickly becoming habits. Good habits. She is converting from bad habits such as doing things in a slapdash way, fighting with her husband, lounging around.”
Finnegan raised his hands and cupped them, as if to embrace the woman’s new situation. “Her new habits are developing slowly, gradually, easily. As they do, she is going from doing nothing about her problems—or worse, sitting around obsessing about them—to doing little things to change. She is not experiencing a wrenching change of gears, but a smooth, almost effortless shift. Before long, the force of habit will grow more and more powerful. Good instincts will be flowing through her. Subconsciously, she will be improving all the time.”
I took all this in, meditating on what he had said.
“I see what you mean. But all that is a bit complex for me.” I smiled. “Knowing you, I’m sure you can reduce what you have just said to a simple principle.”
It was Finnegan’s turn to smile.
“You are getting to know me very well,” he said. “Of course this is the expression of a principle, and here it is:
“The problem is not that people don’t perform well. It is that they don’t perform.”
CHAPTER SIX: Help Others Do Things Badly
AS TIME WENT ON, I WAS beginning more and more to believe that the methods Finnegan suggested were workable and effective, and I wanted to explore them in detail. He was always open to this.
Indeed, he was open to anything. He offered his advice readily to anyone who asked for it, and never asked to be paid. Even those who took his suggestions and went away without thanking him—and occasionally someone did—went away with his blessing.
“What are you getting out of this?” I asked him one day. “What are you getting out of counseling people, of directing them to the good by pointing them down the path of doing things badly?”
By this time, he seemed to enjoy not only my efforts to extract all his knowledge, but also my skepticism about how and why his suggestions worked. I knew that normally people did not challenge him, but simply accepted him as a wise man.
While he seemed perfectly comfortable with this role, I knew he must enjoy the intellectual stimulation of someone who tried to probe the weak points of his advice, or who—at least—questioned its underpinnings. Now I was stepping up my challenge, questioning not only the advice but his motive in providing it.
“What am I getting out of this?” he responded with an impish smile. “I’m a little dismayed at your question. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to imply criticism. Do you think I’m operating badly as an advice enterprise? Are you shocked that I’m handing out advice for free, improving the lives of people, but never making a dollar?”
Now he had me on the defensive.
“No,” I replied. “I don’t criticize you for not making a profit, although you apparently have devoted a great deal of your life to that. But we all have motives for the way we lead our lives, we all expect some sort of reward for our actions—monetary, psychological or spiritual—and I can’t see where you are being rewarded.”
“Actually, that is a good question.” He smiled. “You always ask such good questions. It’s a remarkable gift.”
“Now you are trying to reward me,” I said, “Rather than answering the question.”
He chuckled gently. “And you are so observant!”
Then he inserted his thumbs behind the lapels of his coat and began to drum his fingertips on his chest, bending his head in an attitude of contemplation.
“I apologize,” he said at last. “I have been having a bit of fun with you, I suppose. But then, fun is a motive, too, along with all the grandiose ones you have just listed. Yes, I have made a great deal of money in my life, and I suppose that from time to time, I have dwelled on whether I was also going to obtain psychological or spiritual satisfaction. But life is not nearly so clear-cut as you present it. You seem to think that every human endeavor consists of setting a goal, constantly moving towards it, weighing what we will get when we reach it.”
He sighed a bit and cocked his head toward the ceiling as his fingertips continued to beat in rhythm.
“That is not the way most people operate, and it is not the way I operate. The reason I show people how to do things badly is because that is way I have lived my own life. I have never fastened on one thing and gone after it. Instead, I have tried this and that, delighting in experimentation and failure.”
He paused, as if looking back over a very long period of time. “Along the way, I have had the most fun when I was engaged in this process with other people. Teaming with them. Reaching out through them, encouraging them, falling short and rising along with them.”
I knew that Finnegan often channeled his advice and applied it in particular fields, so I wasn’t sure if he was speaking specifically or generally.
“In all settings?” I cut in. “Or is this simply something you have done in business, or in social or personal-growth endeavors?”
“In all settings. In all settings,” Finnegan responded, continuing to gaze at the ceiling, but now clutching his lapels as if to hang on to the idea. “We are human beings in all settings. And in all times and places, we do best when we operate in harmony
with those around us. That means helping them to do badly, showing them that we are doing badly ourselves, and giving them faith that we all will muddle through.”
“You mean each of us should be an inspiration to others?”
“Of course!” said Finnegan. “An inspiration, a beacon, a teacher. All around us, there are people who are terrified of failing, who feel badly about doing badly, who get frozen up at the very idea. When they see that we are willing to do things badly, to fall on our faces, to chuckle and get up and go on, they too will be willing to do things badly. To go through the shadowed valley that leads to the bright light. They will accept themselves, they will accept us, they will accept life and all its flaws.”
For a few moments, I fell silent. I had never before taken this view of Finnegan’s Way. I had seen it as a practical way of overcoming difficulties, an effective method for getting from Point A to Point B, of evading personal-behavior traps, but nothing more.
I had not considered its wider implications, or the idea that it was a way of moving forward through life in concert with the people around me.
Still, I was reluctant to show Finnegan how impressed I was. I did not want to give up my role as his questioner, his skeptic, the analyst of his thoughts and ideas. Something told me this would not be good for me or good for him.
I needed knowledge, and he needed a foil, a sounding board to use as he refined his techniques and contemplated their implications.
Besides, I did not want our sessions to end, and I sensed that totally accepting his ideas would mean that we would have no more discussions. Because of this, I returned to my original query.
“So,” I said. “What do you get out of this?”
Finnegan laughed and shook his head. But now he seemed entirely comfortable with the question. And he appeared entirely comfortable with me.
I sensed that my analysis had been correct. He seemed especially pleased to see that our roles had not changed, that our back-and-forth would continue. He thought for a moment, looked around him, and settled on an answer.
“What do I get out of this?” he asked. “Why, a cup of coffee.” He inclined his head. “Will you have one with me?”
CHAPTER SEVEN: Imperfection Creates Partners
“YOU ARE REALLY AN INSPIRATION,” I said to Finnegan, after we had downed our latest jolts of caffeine.
As usual, his dose of coffee had the high color rising on his cheeks and his eyes flashing. He was primed for more discussion, and I knew he was ready to take on a challenge.
“Here’s the thing, however,” I continued. “I’m not clear about how we should help others do things badly.”
“How makes a big difference, so you are right to ask,” said Finnegan, rubbing his hands together vigorously as if preparing to take on a physical task. “There is a particular technique that seems to work like magic, and I’ll be happy to explain it to you.”
I was excited at the prospect of more useful knowledge, but my growing curiosity about Finnegan himself overcame me.
“Did you develop this technique yourself, or did someone teach you?” I asked. “As often as we talk, I never discover much about your history. In fact, I’ve never heard a thing about you up to this point. You seem to have labored in obscurity.”
Finnegan chuckled—rhythmically, like a well-tuned motor at idle.
“I suppose I have, at least in your terms,” he said. “But obscurity is not such a bad place in which to labor. It is quiet and restful. The English, you know, have a peculiar fondness for obscurity, a fascination for life lived out of the public eye.”
“Are you English, then? I asked.
“It is interesting that you should ask that,” Finnegan replied.
Then he was off on a completely different tack, and I never learned the truth. In fact, it took me a while to work him back around to our original subject, that of how to help someone perform badly.
“Oh yes, that,” he said, finally. “I learned the basics from a fencing instructor.”
Finally, a little personal information!
“I didn’t know that you knew fencing.”
“There again,” replied Finnegan. “At any rate, I was performing particularly poorly one day—this was in a shabby but world-famous fencing school in the outer precincts of Paris—and a veteran instructor said to me, `Don’t worry about it. Worrying is not your job.’
“`Not my job?’” I shot back. “`How am I supposed to improve if I don’t worry about my performance?’”
“`Because that is my job,’” he said. “`Your job is to make mistakes. My job is to help you overcome them.’
“Suddenly, a weight was lifted from my shoulders. I didn’t have to worry about everything. I had a partner in my struggle, and I could do as badly as I wanted without being concerned about it. Instead of having my mind clouded with guilt over my miscues, of having to fight through psychological barriers as well as physical challenges, I was free to concentrate on the relatively minor problems of what I was doing wrong with my feet and hands.”
Finnegan, it seemed to me, had developed into a master of instruction himself, as well as an excellent advisor. His latest tale got me thinking about workers at my publishing company. Some spent so much time apologizing about screw-ups that their minds never turned to the task at hand.
I began to see how crippling misdirected energy could be.
“Is this technique good for dealing with employees who spend all their time worrying?” I asked.
“It is, indeed,” said Finnegan. “Especially for those who are always trying to make their work flawless. It is a good thing to point out to them that perfection can, in fact, be a bad thing. Beware when the boss tells you that your proposal is perfect or ‘the best she’s ever seen.’ That usually means it is doomed. If a proposal is perfect, it leaves no room for other people to get involved and exercise their creativity. This frustrates them, and no matter how good the proposal or the pitch really is, they will find a way to scuttle it. The goal in pitching an idea is to make it very good, but not perfect. Give everyone a chance to make it better.”
“So imperfection creates partners, is that right?” I said.
Finnegan chuckled throatily and slapped me on the shoulder. “You are getting better at this than I am,” he said.
“And does that principle apply in areas other than business?”
“It certainly does,” said Finnegan. “The technique we just discussed—taking on the task of worrying about the mistakes of others—is quite effective in working with teenagers. Obviously, there are many worries in this area. Teenagers must always deal with a great deal of psychic turmoil before they can settle down and do what needs to be done.”
I was thinking of a friend’s teenagers. They certainly had been difficult, and I knew she would welcome some good advice on how to get along with them, if I could induce Finnegan to explain his technique in more detail.
“Exactly how should you approach them?” I asked.
“Just as I said,” replied Finnegan. “When you deal with a teenager, don’t tell her she’s a horrible person because she misbehaved. Instead, tell her it’s her job to misbehave, and it’s your job to see that she doesn’t misbehave. This way, she sees clearly that you understand youth is a period in which people try new things, doing some things right and other things wrong. She also sees what being an adult is all about. Taking responsibility, helping other people, setting a standard for behavior.”
He paused, nodding vigorously to make his point. I sensed that this was a technique he felt strongly about—one he had spent much time developing.
“This is a lot better than putting all the responsibility on an often-confused young person. She really doesn’t know the right way to act, though she pretends she does. But she does know instinctively that it is right for her to experiment and test limits.”
He spread his hands, as if laying out the spectrum of teenage behavior in front of my eyes.
“Keep in mind that often
the reason she acts badly is to assert her independence. Good! She must become her own person, and she knows this. Instead of struggling to make her just like you, which she will never agree to— if she has any backbone—make it clear that you understand she is different from you and that she should be different. You can’t imagine how comforting it is for a teenager to be told this.”
I absorbed this fascinating piece of advice, but I was also still seeking for clues about Finnegan.
“You speak as if you have had teenagers of your own,” I said.
He grinned. “I do speak that way, don’t I?” he said. “Good for me! It is very comforting of me to do that.”
Finnegan's Way Page 3
