Mike Stevenson

As a small child I fell off a 30ft high terrace in northern Pakistan, dismounted a horse headfirst in Lahore, was pulled back from climbing overboard an ocean liner, had to be coaxed in from the window sill of a fourth floor tenement window and permanently carried hundreds of cuts and bruises.

Risk taking – stretching beyond our safety to learn is one of the most basic of human instincts. Watch any small child and they will persist to get what they want – no matter how many falls and setbacks. As a child, I had this capacity in spades. But asthma then curtailed my flair for adventure. It was the cosseting and the persistent cries of “Michael, you can’t do that” that kept me in what now seems like a straitjacket.

My parents, doctors, teachers and a whole cast of adult conspirators did that to me. I don’t blame them. Asthma is unpleasant – in fact it is downright terrifying. You can’t breathe. Your throat and your chest are constricted. You feel helpless and hapless. You think you are going to die. I know. I wheezed my way in and out hospitals more times that I care to remember. But I would have adapted far better if I had been allowed to deal with the attacks without an army of concerned adults whispering their concerns and pulling me away from strenuous activity.

What happened to me is what would to any child in that situation. I began to believe that I couldn’t do things that others could. I began to seek the succour and sympathy an asthma attack would bring. Slowly, I my dependence on that support grew. As I gasped for breath my eyes would avert to the nearest adult prop. Without it I became fearful, my body craved attention – the rubbing of the back, the soft palm on my forehead and the whispered assurances. I learned to use my vulnerability to elicit affection and favour.

I know now that I was overprotected and that served me ill as a child.

Leaving home, at sixteen, (like so many before me, I headed to London) I breathed deeply and with such blessed relief that I knew then what to do – to put my body on the line and to live life on the edge – it was a liberation. Sleeping out on London’s cold and damp streets, working my fingers to the bone on dusty building sites, smoking heavily – the list is endless. What did I find out about myself? For a start, I was a great deal tougher and more resilient than my parents, doctors and peers ever gave me credit for.

But there was more. I learned I was resourceful. I knew how to stretch a little to make a lot. I took beatings – a lot. I was and, am a survivor. The challenges life throws up are there to be faced up to and overcome. My addiction to being cosseted was replaced by an equally ferocious passion for risk.

That’s why today’s uncertain climate excites. We need now more than ever to make more of the resources we have and to come up with new ideas and fresh approaches. We need to turn fear into excitement and something else I learned in my early adulthood – don’t moan about it, do something. Make things happen.

I have organised a few Thinktastic workshops recently and when I have given people the tools and encouragement to find from within that resourcefulness, it’s dynamite.

This period of economic turmoil is an opportunity for the new.

In Scotland, we have an unfortunate habit of representing even the sunniest of days as a prelude to darkness. “Aye, it’ll rain tomorrow” or “That’ll be our summer.” How often I have heard these sentiments. We can’t control the weather so let’s learn to live with it and while we’re at it, thank our lucky stars we don’t face hurricanes, forest fires, droughts or skin cancer (by natural sunshine). Some argue it is our weather that gives us this propensity for doom mongering, but that doesn’t add up when we read that Iceland scores higher than any other European country on the happiness index.

To prosper as a nation we have to change the script. We need to use language to make ourselves feel better and others feel better about themselves. Why? Because we know positive affirmation is better than criticism. We also know we can talk ourselves into success or failure. That’s why I applaud recognition for those who go beyond the call of duty. Their efforts in work and out of work should be shouted from the rooftops. It is vital to encourage and support great practice. For young people encouragement can be life changing. What they hear today can shape their mindsets, language and outlook in the future. When the repeated use of ‘you can’t’ and ‘don’t’ echoes in a child’s ears is it any wonder that these become embedded in their adult vernacular.

As an employer, I seek above all else in my staff – enthusiasm, a can-do attitude, the ability to look someone in the eye and converse and, yes, the willingness to take risks. These are the essentials for a thriving workplace but they also enable people to grow, to socialise, to travel, to care, to lead, to teach and to continue on the learning journey.

I get frustrated when blame is poured on teachers and parents. That is too easy and it is a dereliction of our collective responsibility. We all help to create the mood music our young people grow up with and we all share a responsibility to change the record. I know it works.

Running a series of workshops for a large housing department. It became quickly apparent that tenants felt undervalued and staff unmotivated. They carried the torch for a bygone age of council housing and hadn’t moved on. But by changing from bureaucratic to customer focussed language, taking time and effort to thank tenants who abided by their tenancy and using a more upbeat and communicative approach all round, results were impressive – higher satisfaction, greater propensity to pay rent on time and more homes filled. Add higher staff attendance and performance and you get the picture.

Positive communication can move mountains so let’s be shrewd about how we use words. Let’s work hard to create a more affirming environment at home, at school and at work. A ‘thank you’, a ‘well done’ or a ‘you can do better’ say I notice, I respect and I value you. What do the posters and notice boards in your corridors say? Do they remind people they are important and do they reinforce positives?

In one Edinburgh housing estate I was asked by a resident why everything that came through her door reinforced poor health and poverty while her friend up-town was being sold takeaway restaurants and furniture.

Words are powerful – they stigmatise and they damage self-esteem but they can also make people believe they can take on the world. My plea – let’s do the latter.

I’ve never subscribed to the “best small country in the world” line. Why? Because it seems to do what we specialise in – belittle ourselves. Why is every positive statement so often qualified by a diminishing one? Small? Yes, we are in relative terms, but let’s not flag that up unless we really use it to our advantage. Our compactness is an asset and offers a multiplicity of opportunities – swifter communication, fewer cultural tensions, less red tape, greater freedom for ideas to come to fruition more quickly, national initiatives developed and implemented more easily, and barriers to progress knocked down with greater ease. (more…)

Two conversations during the past fortnight have sparked this plea. One was in Burnley, East Lancashire when a student mentioned to me that she had never been to Scotland. “You must visit”, was my hospitable suggestion. “But it’s very cold up there isn’t it?” she asked. Now there may be the occasional variation in temperature between the North West of England and my home city of Edinburgh, but that is usually almost negligible. It’s certainly not worthy of mention. Yet, this image of a land of persistently darkened skies, snowclad streets and a thriving warm-wear industry persists. Just for the record, I think she has now been sufficiently persuaded to take the plunge and make her first foray north of the border – I am confident she will do so without any wardrobe extremities. (more…)

I remember Gordon Brown, our new Prime Minister, as a gangling teenager slouched against a playground wall. It was during the early to mid-sixties, we were both pupils at Kirkcaldy High School and yet our paths rarely crossed. We belonged to different cultures within the school – I, desperate for an escape to freedom and he, looking forward to a seamless university entry. I was seduced by my then status as a small town rock star– albeit at the lowest level of celebrity imaginable. He had his sights set on a more lofty aspiration. (more…)