"The point of the journey is not to arrive."
This is my last week of taking a break from writing. It’s been filled with visiting and, well, my Honey-do list! Lots of painting and the like—it’s all good. It gives me time to get caught up on some enlightening podcasts and breathe new life into tired parts of our home… I’ll take it!
This week’s dive into the archives highlights one of my favourites, for many reasons. Enjoy!
Today is Neil Peart’s birthday—he’d be 72-years-old.
Those of you who know me appreciate that I’m a huge fan of the Canadian rock trio, RUSH. I have been for decades. And Neil was, for the majority of those years, the drummer for the band. And not just any drummer, but one who could create mystic rhythms and pulsing beats with the precision of a surgeon. In fact, he would affectionately come to be known as The Professor. For what it’s worth, he reached a level of acclaim where many in the music industry considered him the best drummer in the world. And of course, those who knew Neil would know he hated those sorts of accolades. What does that even mean? And, more to his thinking, what does it matter? It’s not why Neil Peart played the drums—it’s not what drove him.
Of the many online interviews that exist regarding RUSH, one of my favourites describes the first time that Alex Lifeson and Geddy Lee, the two other members of the band, first witnessed Neil play the drums. It was at a “try-out”—their previous drummer, John Rutsey, had retired from playing for health reasons, leaving them without an integral part of what all good rock bands had … a solid drummer.
The audition was in an old warehouse in Pickering, Ontario. It was July of 1974 when Alex and Geddy hosted four drummers, all vying for the prize spot. Neil was scheduled third. He showed up in an old Ford Pinto and carried his drums in from the parking lot with each drum carefully wrapped in a garbage bag. As Geddy recalls, “He was this tall and lanky guy—kinda nerdy looking. But when he started drumming, he just beat the crap out of those things—I knew in an instant that he was our guy!”
Soon after, Neil would acquire the additional role of lyricist. As a prolific reader, he took to the added challenge beautifully, eventually creating storylines that many a listener would relate to and treasure. Me being one of them—Red Barchetta, The Spirit of Radio, Limelight, Closer to the Heart, Zanadu. Too many to mention—but they all spoke to me and many other admirers.
One of my own personal stories relating to Neil was that our grandmas were best buds. Grandma Peart lived across the street from my grandma Scott (my mom’s mom) in Port Dalhousie, Ontario. As a young teen, Neil would often cut grandma’s lawn. And once, when she was in the hospital, now in his twenties, Neil showed up for a visit—likely at the encouragement of grandma Peart. The story goes that grandma Scott was none too pleased with Neil’s chosen attire. It was 1976, and their album 2112 had just been released. If you look at photos from the cover, the band is decked out in black silk robes.
Well, Neil, not seeing the problem with one of those robes being his chosen outfit for the day, entered our grandma’s hospital room. Although feeling under the weather, she still had the gumption to give Neil a piece of her mind and threaten him with a tin ear for showing up “looking like that.” Similar to Neil, I too was the recipient of many a stern warning from our grandma. I can easily imagine the scene—awkward and hilarious!
However, Neil’s journey, as it were, wasn’t always an easy one. Tragedy struck in 1997 when, while driving to university, his only daughter, Taylor, was killed in a single-vehicle accident. Ten months later, Neil’s wife, Jacqueline, died after a brief battle with cancer—although Neil believed it was a broken heart.
At this, his lowest point in life thus far, Neil decided, mainly for self-preservation, to embark on what he referred to as a healing journey. He would ride his motorbike from Quebec to Alaska and down to the Baja. Ghost Rider would be the byproduct; a book chronicling his remarkable trek back to life and eventually sitting behind his drum kit on stage with his bandmates.
After a long hiatus that left many, including Geddy and Alex, wondering if the band would ever reunite, they finally did, producing Vapor Trails in 2002. Two more albums would follow until they embarked on what would prove their final tour in 2015, celebrating 40 years together, producing their brand of rock music. I attended their last Canadian concert in Vancouver from that tour—I won’t lie, I got choked up during their encore. Like so many others, I was going to miss them.
Shortly after, in August of 2016, Neil was diagnosed with glioblastoma, an aggressive brain cancer. He would live three more years. I’ll never forget the day I found out. It was January 7th. We were working in Kelowna with a large storage container company. It had been a fun morning spent with a hundred-plus people in a hotel conference room sharing stories and strategies. We were on a lunch break when my phone rang. It was a friend who rarely called without a good reason. “This isn’t good,” I thought to myself.
“Have you heard the news?” is how the call began. Immediately after hanging up, I grabbed my computer, found a photo of Neil online, and created a slide to work into the afternoon’s session on legacy. As I shared the news of Neil’s passing with the group, I could see other men my age getting teared up—it wasn’t just me.
What I appreciate about Neil’s line, “The point of the journey is not to arrive,” taken from the song Prime Mover off their 1987 album Hold Your Fire, is the invitation it holds—for all of us. In so many ways, its sentiment flies in the face of Western culture and what we’re taught from day one. We grow up hearing that we should chase our dreams, inferring that there’s a moment awaiting all of us—a finish line perhaps—where if we chase and work hard enough, life will be better when we achieve that dream.
However, when the dream is finally realized, it is invariably followed soon after with another one. Why? Because the dream didn’t bring what we thought it might. And it never does.
Being invited to consider that life doesn’t have finish lines, we open up to the possibility that our days aren’t meant to be busy chasing after all. In every moment that fills our days, can we simply be human beings, each living our own human experience, fully engaged in whatever it is that brings us joy? Is that enough?
What I love about this approach is that it aligns with our coaching paradigm, where our joy comes from the simple act of getting better. Regardless of what we do, can the single pursuit of getting better be a fulfilling life worth living? Are there any limitations to stacking day upon day with this line of thinking? Neil’s drumming accolades might be the answer—best drummer in the world! Sure, not his intent, but his lifelong pursuit of getting better brought him to this moment, like it or not.
According to Neil, he still wasn’t done—he hadn’t arrived yet—even if others tried to convince him he had nothing more to do. But for Neil, there was always more. And that was the buzz for him—the idea that tomorrow he could be better than today.
Imagine a life where we never arrive; where we truly hold and experience our lives as journeys? Awaking each morning intent on discovering what could be possible that day? What might we achieve with that mindset? And how would that life leave us feeling?
Only one way to find out!
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