We were lucky to catch up with David Harland Rousseau recently and have shared our conversation below.

Alright, David Harland thanks for taking the time to share your stories and insights with us today. What did your parents do right and how has that impacted you in your life and career?

In my formative years, my mother and father worked incredibly hard to keep a roof over our heads, working two or three jobs each, just to make ends meet. Yet, even in the leanest of times, Mom and Dad made time for family, making a point of giving my brother and I many life-enriching experiences.

As a toddler, my parents introduced me to the written word. They made time to read with me as often as they could. Work was no excuse; family came first.

By the time I entered kindergarten, I was reading to them. (Somewhere, I have a cassette recording of my five-year-old self awkwardly reading Big Max, a simple story about a detective tasked with retrieving the elephant of a king. Now, if I could also find a working tape player….)

My parents fabricated fantastic tales that ignited our imagination. (Dad was especially good at this.)

Mom introduced me and my brother to magic and wonder.

When I was a boy, we had this old Ford pickup that my Mom inherited from her step-father; Dad built a plywood cab for the flatbed. One particularly brisk night, Mom, my brother, and I packed ourselves in the truck. Mom drove us further North, about an hour outside of town, fairly close to the Canadian border. We wondered where we were going, and why — but Mom would say little about it.

The truck rumbled to a stop alongside a post-and-wire fence on a hilltop far away from street lamps. Mom cut off the headlights….

It took some time for our eyes to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, we were stunned by the clarity of the stars above, framed by a craggy tree-line. There was just enough light to make out our facial expressions. Mom’s was full of wonder as she let us in on a secret —

“Look,” she said, as she pointed North.

There, a ribbon of green and violet shimmered against the starry sky.

She whistled a few notes.

“Did you see?”

Somehow, we missed it.

“You can make the Northern lights dance.”

Another whistle.

Chalk it up to imagination if you wish, but as sure as I’m sitting here, those lights responded to her whistling.

Dad taught me the meaning of service and how to be good at being a man.

He and Mom wanted their sons to be active, so they took us down to a community event in the parking lot at the Kiwanis Pool, where I learned to swim. There, I was about to join Cub Pack 6 and begin my journey toward Eagle Scout when my father was approached by a couple of his friends. They pulled him aside.

The men exchanged pleasantries and, though I couldn’t hear what they were saying, it is clear they asked my father questions for which he did not have immediate answers. This was unusual, since my father often had his finger on the pulse of anything in his wheelhouse. He looked toward me, then to the men. He gestured for them to wait.

Dad approached. He crouched down to ask a question. This, too, was rare — a gesture reserved for praise or admonishment. (In this regard, Dad also taught me how to be clear in your intentions.)

“The pack is without a leader,” he said. “They’ve asked me if I would be interested, but I wanted to ask you, first. Would it be okay if I were to be the Cubmaster?”

I was six or seven. For my father to ask my permission to take on such a task was a huge honor. It meant that he trusted and valued my opinion. It meant that he thought deeply about how this choice would affect my experience in the organization.

Mom and Dad ran the Cub Scout pack for years, devoting nights and weekends to keep the organization thriving and healthy. When we migrated to Boy Scouts, joining Troop 7, they moved along with us, running the troop and its adjunct Explorer post for years after my brother and I graduated from High School. Mom would become one of the first female district executives in the country, and both would be Nationally recognized for their efforts.

(As an aside, my brother and I stayed in Scouting through High School; we were awarded the rank of Eagle in the same ceremony. The friends we made are lifelong friends who continue to inspire and influence us. They serve as guideposts for us when we start to lose our way.)

David Harland , love having you share your insights with us. Before we ask you more questions, maybe you can take a moment to introduce yourself to our readers who might have missed our earlier conversations?

I am a storyteller, an observer, a thinker.

Ideas, notions, and observations fill pages of sketchbooks and journals. Every line, every mark, every letter and sentence help me organize scattered thoughts, allowing me to find truth and meaning amidst disjointed distractions. These sketches and impressions slow down my thought-process, allowing me to take stock of my own perceptions and to see patterns and connections missed by others. This helps me to help others. This is what sets me apart.

The path of my discipline began at the age of seven. Then, I had a cholesteatoma — a tumor — in my inner ear, which caused intense and uncontrollable vertigo. Though the tumor was removed, my equilibrium and my hearing were affected. So, while other kids were learning to ride bikes “out there,” undiscovered worlds awaited within.

I read books. I told stories. I wrote them. I drew them. No scrap of unattended paper was safe from my musings. Cardboard boxes were blank canvases that rivaled the most expensive play sets. I was on my way….

And then, I got lost. Lost in making a living, but not a life. Lost in walking what was promised to be a safe and secure path. Lost in trying to find — something — out there.

Our cores are set. Nature or nurture, hard-wiring or soft programming, the spirit or the will, the spark or the breath. When we fail to nurture our true selves, our cores wither. Sadly, most of us harden our hearts to the keening of the dying core. Some of us hear it’s echoes, and we return to the well.

I picked up the pen and returned to drawing. I scribbled in journals and composition notebooks. My fingers flew across the keyboard. Most of it, trash — but it wasn’t about the product. It was about iteration, embracing process, and being open to growth through failure.

During this period, I was a video journalist for WTOC, the CBS affiliate here in Savannah. Behind the lens, and working alongside talented reporters and producers, I learned to listen. I discovered powerful and life-affirming stories from everyday people through the process of uniting word and image. From this came a willingness, then a desire, to let others speak truth; that grew into a genuine curiosity about the lives of others. And from that? Nascent empathy.

Listen. Discover. Relate.

As I embraced the narrative, I realized something….

Storytelling isn’t about ME. It’s about the journey of the people and the challenges they face. What do they want? Why do they want it? Why now? What happens when they don’t achieve their goals? What happens when they do?

This is more than “behaving truthfully under the imaginary circumstances.” It’s life itself.

Everyone you meet has goals and obstacles. Everyone lives under the ticking clock. Everyone. Stories worth telling reveal themselves when we allow ourselves to be still and observe.

I could say that I am a multi-hyphenate (writer, storyboard artist, actor. director, and educator), and it all sounds terribly unfocused and undisciplined. Creatives, though, know that STORY lives in the center of that beautiful Venn diagram.

I go where the story calls.

Is there something you think non-creatives will struggle to understand about your journey as a creative? Maybe you can provide some insight – you never know who might benefit from the enlightenment.

I’d like to turn this question on its head, if I may.

So many people believe that creativity is reserved only for the artistic. This is not the case.

When we engage in creative thinking, we open ourselves to new ways of thinking. This frees us up to take risks in a supportive environment that allows us to grow through learning and experimentation.

Creativity is generative problem-solving, born from observation and out of passionate curiosity. It requires the ability to analyze and consider even the most ridiculous options in order to form something new and valuable. It’s finding new perspectives and alternative solutions to existing challenges, often within a particular framework.

Here are a few examples of creative thinking by “non-creatives”:

Gunny Sacks.

From the turn of the twentieth century all the way through World War II and beyond, thrifty women recycled feedbags and flour sacks, turning them into dresses. At the height of the Great Depression, millers and their suppliers recognized the popularity (and necessity) of using gunny sacks as fabric for dresses and children’s clothing. In the 1940s, companies such as the Percy Kent Bag Company redesigned their textiles, weaving pretty prints and patterns onto the flour sacks. Any labels or instructions would be washed away in the laundry. By 1948, flour companies would be advertising these printed bags as a feature for clever homemakers who recognized that the cloth packaging, itself, was an expense.

Below Deck.

Doug Dietz, an MRI engineer, learned that nearly 80% of children in pediatric hospitals had to be sedated in order to cope with their experience in an MRI machine. This bothered Doug deeply. His machines were saving lives, but at what cost? Doug reached out to others. He engaged in atypical thinking. He turned a formal and intimidating medical experience into a game, an adventure, by redesigning the MRI exterior. No longer was it this sterile device. Now, it was a pirate ship sailing on the ocean. The staff was retrained by docents from children’s museums who taught medical professionals how to tell stories and reframe the experience for frightened children and their parents. The results? Sedation rates dropped from 80% to 10%.

Way Finding.

Ever wonder why the London Underground map looks like an electrical diagram? You have Harry Beck, an out-of-work technical draftsman, to thank. Beck knew that the people cared little for the terrain and the streets above while on the subway. The commuters cared only about the number of stops from Point A to Point B. So, in 1931, Beck stripped it all down to a series of color-coded lines arranged in a sequence limited to vertical, horizontal, and diagonal pathways. He pitched his idea — and was rejected. A year later, after numerous revisions, he pitched the concept again to the Publicity Office of the Underground Electric Railways of London (UERL). They agreed to do a limited run of 750,000 copies, released in 1933. The public readily embraced it. This newer map was easy to read at a glance, and just what the public needed.

Though largely forgotten, Beck’s legacy lives on…. In 1972, the New York City Transit Authority commissioned Massimo Vignelli to redesign the New York City subway maps. Vignelli used the same logic system introduced by Harry Beck. Those sensibilities have been adopted by other major cities, such as Los Angeles, Boston, Tokyo, and Seoul.

Quick Release.

In the 1930s, Hjalmar Hvam was on top of the world. A living legend in skiing, no one could touch him on the slopes. It is believed that in 1931, he had made the very first ski descent down Mount Hood from the summit. Six years later, after having won a race in Oregon, Hvam and a few friends celebrated by doing some backcountry ski jumping. Hvam rocketed down the slope toward the lee side of a ridge. He jumped the cornice and landed badly. One of his long wooden skis wedged in a crevasse, but the momentum kept him moving forward. However, his unforgiving bindings locked his boots in place; the torque snapped his leg.

Lying in traction in a hospital bed, Hjalmar Hvam had a fevered dream about being caught in a steel bear trap — or so the story goes…. When he awoke, he asked for a pen and paper and immediately sketched his ideas for quick-release bindings. It would take him another two years to perfect the Saf-Ski design, which would see its first run used by soldiers in the 10th Mountain Division in World War II. The bindings weren’t perfect, but over the years, other manufacturers would improve on the design, changing the mountainscape for generations of skiers.

Lost and Found.

And then there is retired dentist, Doug Leen. In the 1970s, “Ranger Doug” worked for the National Park Service for Grand Teton National Park. One day, tasked with cleaning out a shed, he saw an old poster for Jenny Lake, destined for the dump. He salvaged the poster and kept it for himself. This set him on a path to become the “Ranger of the Lost Art.”

Over the years, Doug hunted down silk-screened posters created by WPA artists during the Great Depression, particularly those illustrated by Chester Don Powell. Along the way, he located negatives, from which he created screens that would allow him to faithfully recreate posters that nearly vanished.

Doug may not have started as a Creative, but he became one. In fact, you can buy serigraph prints of National Park posters from Ranger Doug Enterprises. The work is beautiful, and Doug is a nice guy.

These innovations emerged from an ability to make connections in ways that conventional thinking does not allow.

Now, I recognize that “non-creatives” refers to those who are not in the business of, say, storytelling, art, or design, but that doesn’t mean that tradespeople, civil servants, or small business owners are less creative. It simply means that their creativity has developed in a different way, and that should be celebrated.

Many of our friends and loved-ones are rules-driven people. They need structure. They rely on the predictability of going to work at the same time, of parking in the same spot, of sitting in the same desk, of taking lunch at the same hour, and of clocking out at the same minute. This is how they order their world.

“Sounds like hell to me,” some might say.

When I hear myself say that, I try to slow down my own thought process and consider the values of others.

Those who value structure have a hard time understanding our inconsistent schedules. They worry about our health and our mental state. They care, and they know what works for them. That is their framework, and we should respect them for it. If we think about it for a moment, we realize that there are aspects about their lives we not-so-secretly admire: a steady paycheck, nights and weekends, a reliable health plan. More importantly, people who value structure and order know how to set boundaries. Let’s face it, Creatives, we could take a lesson or two from the Guardians in our lives.

Many non-creatives are made whole through service to community, devotion to family, caring for others, protecting the underserved, and giving voice to the voiceless. Their vocations give life meaning. Do good for the sake of doing good, without promise of reward.

In this regard, I dare say my brother is a better man than me. A retired firefighter, he orders his life around family and community. He is an outstanding father, a dedicated coach, and a leader. It’s who he is. He lives by a sincere code of honor. By example, he imparts that sense of right and wrong to those around him.

In his post-retirement career, he is a successful cake-maker who is booking weddings well into 2024. His customers know they can trust him to deliver. His reputation as a fair, reliable, and honest man has helped him build his brand. Unwavering alignment with his values make him exceptional.

Sometimes, as creatives, we feel frustration with those who don’t understand our drive. Our natural response is to defend our position, but no one wins then. Better still to recognize the concerns of our “non-creative” loved ones.

Reframe the conversation by acknowledging their values. Validate their point of view by explaining to them how you appreciate their dedication to whatever it is they do best. Recognize the effort they put into their own personal pursuits. For example, mention that you are proud of the way the engage with their community.

Be curious. Actively listen. Ask open-ended questions. In casual conversation, employ a mindset inspired by the Rules of Improv (accept all offers, make your partner look good, “Yes, and….”). Most of all? Say little about yourself.

Here’s why:

When we nurture the creative impulse in others, our empathy deepens. When our empathy deepens, our powers of observation grow. When we observe more keenly, we recognize patterns. When we recognize patterns, we make connections. When we make connections, we are inspired. When we are inspired, we are motivated to act. When we act, we put in the hours and hone our craft. When we put in the hours, we grow, and that inspires us to nurture the creative impulse in others.

The creative impulse lives in us all.

Looking back, are there any resources you wish you knew about earlier in your creative journey?

When I was a young man, I was angry and impatient. I was too self-involved and constantly felt the need to prove myself to others. I thought the solution was to work harder, but I was too results-oriented.

If only I learned to soften my gaze in order to see the world around me….

Curiously, the only place I was able to do this was in the woods or on a mountain. I still find this to be true: a bad day on the mountain — wait — there is no such thing.

Hiking slows down my thought process. It forces me to breath, with intention. In so doing, I notice the smallest things: a column of ants marching on a trail, tiny box turtles nestled in the undergrowth, droplets gracing the petals of flowers.

Over time, I realized that this is a form of mindfulness. You must watch your step along the trail, or else you might displace some creature from its home. Yet, if you told my younger, angry self to practice “mindfulness”, I would have dismissed the suggestion rather curtly.

Jon Kabat-Zinn brilliantly reframes mindfulness as “the awareness that arises from paying attention ON PURPOSE in the present moment, NON-JUDGMENTALLY.” (Emphasis mine.)

I think this is brilliant, because each of us has the ability to pay attention on purpose in the present moment. Admittedly, the hardest part of that may be to do so without judgment.

Shut off the phone. Go for a walk. Look around. Observe, with intention.

What’s happening with the trees at the park? Where was the old man who used to walk the dog? Does that woman on the park bench need some company? Is that young mother struggling with her pram? How is my breathing? What is that smell?

In meetings, be slow to speak in the midst of a conversation. For example, your collaborator shifted uncomfortably in her seat when a colleague commented on her pitch. Why? How can you better understand the needs or concerns of both parties? Could you lead these collaborators to a reasonable compromise, simply by asking open-ended questions based on their responses?

Your pitch and presentation was less than satisfactory, and you know it. Were you present enough to notice the moment when it all fell apart? Did you miss an opportunity to address an unspoken concern?

You brought joy to someone’s life today, without realizing it. Were you too busy to see the positive impact you’re having?

I didn’t need new technology, or a new process, or a new technique. What I wish I knew in my early days is that it’s okay to slow down and observe. It’s okay to ask meaningful questions. It’s okay to pay attention on purpose.

And it’s okay to breathe.

Remember to breathe.

Contact Info:

• Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/david-harland-rousseau-09252660/
• Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@davidharlandrousseau
• IMDb: https://www.imdb.me/davidharlandrousseau

Image Credits
Patrick Roper, Jerry Harris, Kevin Strahm