I woke up early on December 24. There was something odd about the lighting, and I was right. We had snow. It was snowing all day, and on Christmas Day, the land outside was transformed into a magical wonderland. We rarely have a White Christmas on Bowen Island where I live. It doesn't take much, probably fifteen inches or so, but the result was terrific. It brought back all my winter memories, and for me, as always, it was the time spent in the Polish mountains. There was so much snow.

At the time, the skiing industry had not yet conquered our small village, but the spirit of entrepreneurship had. As a result, the first ski lift was a horse with a thick rope attached to a harness. As I recall, the capacity was limited to five to six skiers, which was the strength limit for this poor animal. To make the ride a bit more eventful, the horse, from time to time, managed to deposit a little something behind, which caused the whole line to swing left and right, trying to avoid those presents. Of course, being first on the line was the most challenging, and we all tried to be at the end. At lunchtime, the owner of the ski lift disappeared with the lift engine, and the only way to enjoy the snow was to hike up the hill after each run. Nobody seemed to complain, and we all had a great time. A few years later, the first t-bar was installed, and inevitably, a small ticket booth appeared. I was one of the lucky ones. I was considered a local, so the guy checking the ticket punching a small hole in the printed book of ten passes pretended to punch mine—a nice perk for a small kid with skis that were way too long. After a decade, I grew up, but the idea of hiking the mountain with skis on my shoulder was still with me. When it was impossible to get the tickets for the Kasprowy Wierch gondola, at the time, the only gondola in the Polish side of the Tatra Mountains, we often hiked to the lower station of the chairlift. The path swung gently through the trees, passing a few streams—getting over was slippery—and it was so much better than being squeezed into the cabin. We often joked “What you call a gondola that crushed to the ground? Spam, or Lunchmeat ("Mielonka turystyczna" in Polish).” The car's shape reminded us of the round shape of t a spam can.

I am not sure what triggered the idea, but yesterday, on December 31, the last day of the year, my son and I threw our skis into the back of the car and drove to the base of a nearby hill. I know, a totally ridiculous idea. We grabbed our gear and hiked up the hill, trying to find a nice line to ski down. We had so much fun skiing down the tree line ending on an empty parking lot. We even built a small jump. However, a significant rock that stood right in the center of the landing convinced us that this was probably not the best idea. We even became a local celebrities as passing people started to take photos of the two idiots with the skis. The ride back home took a whole 5 min, and we promised to do it again, perhaps tomorrow? But we did not go. 

If you don't do it this year, you will be one year older when you do ~ Warren Miller

So often, when we try to recreate the past the moments that left an impression, an emotional imprint, can never be recreated. The restaurant, the evening meal, or the scenic route, which created a long-lasting experience, are now dull, boring and frankly, have less of an impression than the original memory. That is why we left the snowy hill. We may do it again, but it must be the right moment. That was not today. 

The same goes for our professional lives. We list all the past experiences, remembering the team or the project. All the skills used at that time. Next, we try to plan for the future. What will be or should be the next project or who would I like to work with? But the only reference that we have is the past, so really, the future, if it unfolds the way we are planning, will be based on the past.

What about the actual future? What new experiences, emotions, people or projects are we about to encounter? All of these will be brand new, not based on the past. If the past informs the future is the future really a version of the past? This is not very inspiring. So what is the magic formula which opens the door to a pristine snowy path with absolutely no tracks on it? The unknown territory. The real future is a future of many possibilities, exciting outcomes, and challenges. I wonder if taking ownership, an initiative to make it happen could provide a stepping stone towards the unknown. Trusting more to our emotions and relying less on our analytical minds.

At Ibbaka, we are working on a better visualization of skills on the platform, in the individual, team and organizational context. I am sure there are ways to improve the presentation. However, I do not hope to capture just the past, which we know. Instead, offering choices and possibilities leading to an exploration of potential that is not just based on the past is our design goal.

I wish we all have this white untouched, deep powder in front of us starting in 2022. Let's have the run of our life this year. All the best!