Read Online The Secret Letters of the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari by Robin Sharma - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robin Sharma
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“Come meet the new member of our team—the young but impressive Jonathan Landry.”
There were introductions and a tour, a team lunch afterward at a local greasy spoon. Juan had me start in right away, working on a redesign. I spent the afternoon hunched over a computer screen, conscious with every second that ticked by of how much I wanted to succeed. At about five o’clock I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Juan smiling at me. “I’d say that was a pretty busy first day, wouldn’t you?” he said. “I’ve got some paperwork to finish up, but you should head home. Good work.” It hardly felt as if I had accomplished anything, but Juan’s confidence in me was reassuring.I took a deep breath, saved my work and then shut down the computer.
The entire week proceeded like that. I would be sitting over the computer, concentrating intensely, and just as my shoulders started to cramp or a headache began to dig into my temples, Juan would appear at my side to ask how I was doing or to offer a suggestion, or even, on occasion, to suggest I take a short break. But despite all his support, I managed to blunder before my very first month was out—a careless miscalculation that had sample plans rejected. Juan’s boss had marched into the lab and flung a sheaf of papers onto one of the counters. “Whose work is this?” he demanded. Juan appeared immediately, picked up the papers and scanned them.
“Many apologies, Karl,” he replied. “I can see we made an error here. I’ll be sure to get you corrected plans by the end of the day.” Karl hovered a moment, casting a suspicious glance in my direction. “My mistake,” said Juan, moving toward the door, clearly trying to get Karl out of the lab. “But it’s a quick fix. We’ll get at it immediately.”
After Karl disappeared down the hallway, Juan came over to my workstation. “Just shows that we can’t be too careful in our work,” he said as he dropped the report down in front of me. “But you should never be afraid of making mistakes,” he added. “It’s how we learn.”
That was Juan in a nutshell. No blaming me or the fellow who had checked my work before it went out. Calm and philosophical. Unfailingly positive. Supportive of everyone who worked for him. He got the best out of us. I truly believe that.
Back then I couldn’t have guessed that, eight years later, Juan would be gone. And before Juan disappeared completely,a harried, harassed version of the man would be all that was left. His shoulders stooped, his face pinched, his hair an astonishing shock of gray. I would no longer be working for him, but worse still, I would no longer be speaking to him.
T HE APPEARANCE OF THE S EINE interrupted my thoughts of Juan. I had arrived at the Notre Dame bridge. I headed across and then wandered the streets until I reached the cathedral. I stood for a long time outside those magnificent doors, the stone walls peopled with saints and gargoyles, the glass of the rose window flashing in the sun. What breathtaking work. What a humbling accomplishment. I took out my phone and snapped a couple of photos to show Adam when I got home. Then I headed in.
I spent the rest of the day walking and hopping on and off the metro, hitting the tourist spots, exploring the streets of the Latin Quarter, eventually stopping for a late afternoon rest in a bistro called Les Deux Magots near Boulevard Saint-Germain. The sky had become overcast, but I still chose a table outside. I ordered a citron pressé and leaned back on my cane chair. I put my hand over the little pouch that hung under my shirt and watched the pedestrians file past. It had been a pleasant day, but now I felt my heart sag in my chest. I was on my own—and for how long, I had no idea. I wanted to be back home. Adam would come for the weekend. I would be with people all week at the office. Maybe I would get up my nerve to ask Tessa to lunch. Or dinner. That would be a good way to avoid my
There were introductions and a tour, a team lunch afterward at a local greasy spoon. Juan had me start in right away, working on a redesign. I spent the afternoon hunched over a computer screen, conscious with every second that ticked by of how much I wanted to succeed. At about five o’clock I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see Juan smiling at me. “I’d say that was a pretty busy first day, wouldn’t you?” he said. “I’ve got some paperwork to finish up, but you should head home. Good work.” It hardly felt as if I had accomplished anything, but Juan’s confidence in me was reassuring.I took a deep breath, saved my work and then shut down the computer.
The entire week proceeded like that. I would be sitting over the computer, concentrating intensely, and just as my shoulders started to cramp or a headache began to dig into my temples, Juan would appear at my side to ask how I was doing or to offer a suggestion, or even, on occasion, to suggest I take a short break. But despite all his support, I managed to blunder before my very first month was out—a careless miscalculation that had sample plans rejected. Juan’s boss had marched into the lab and flung a sheaf of papers onto one of the counters. “Whose work is this?” he demanded. Juan appeared immediately, picked up the papers and scanned them.
“Many apologies, Karl,” he replied. “I can see we made an error here. I’ll be sure to get you corrected plans by the end of the day.” Karl hovered a moment, casting a suspicious glance in my direction. “My mistake,” said Juan, moving toward the door, clearly trying to get Karl out of the lab. “But it’s a quick fix. We’ll get at it immediately.”
After Karl disappeared down the hallway, Juan came over to my workstation. “Just shows that we can’t be too careful in our work,” he said as he dropped the report down in front of me. “But you should never be afraid of making mistakes,” he added. “It’s how we learn.”
That was Juan in a nutshell. No blaming me or the fellow who had checked my work before it went out. Calm and philosophical. Unfailingly positive. Supportive of everyone who worked for him. He got the best out of us. I truly believe that.
Back then I couldn’t have guessed that, eight years later, Juan would be gone. And before Juan disappeared completely,a harried, harassed version of the man would be all that was left. His shoulders stooped, his face pinched, his hair an astonishing shock of gray. I would no longer be working for him, but worse still, I would no longer be speaking to him.
T HE APPEARANCE OF THE S EINE interrupted my thoughts of Juan. I had arrived at the Notre Dame bridge. I headed across and then wandered the streets until I reached the cathedral. I stood for a long time outside those magnificent doors, the stone walls peopled with saints and gargoyles, the glass of the rose window flashing in the sun. What breathtaking work. What a humbling accomplishment. I took out my phone and snapped a couple of photos to show Adam when I got home. Then I headed in.
I spent the rest of the day walking and hopping on and off the metro, hitting the tourist spots, exploring the streets of the Latin Quarter, eventually stopping for a late afternoon rest in a bistro called Les Deux Magots near Boulevard Saint-Germain. The sky had become overcast, but I still chose a table outside. I ordered a citron pressé and leaned back on my cane chair. I put my hand over the little pouch that hung under my shirt and watched the pedestrians file past. It had been a pleasant day, but now I felt my heart sag in my chest. I was on my own—and for how long, I had no idea. I wanted to be back home. Adam would come for the weekend. I would be with people all week at the office. Maybe I would get up my nerve to ask Tessa to lunch. Or dinner. That would be a good way to avoid my
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