Agreeing on the 80%

At Cactus, we’ve always had a cast of characters working for us. One that stands out in my memory was a woman who had spent decades in the apparel industry. She was older than the rest of us, and far more grounded than a bunch of scrappy, haphazard business owners who were making it up as we went along. She put up with our unprofessional ways with remarkable patience, quietly doing her job and doing it well.

One day, after she’d been diagnosed with diabetes, I asked her how she was getting on. Her response stuck with me: “You know, you get old, you get something.” It was a simple, pragmatic statement, no drama, no self-pity, just an acknowledgement of life’s realities. Age brings with it ailments, but it also brings perspective. That perspective is often the most valuable thing.

I was reminded of her words the other day when I had lunch with a couple of people, Garry Moore, former mayor of Christchurch and social scientist Carl Davidson. Garry has had his own share of health battles recently, but sitting across from him at lunch, what shone through wasn’t frailty but resilience. He retains a sharp intellect and an even sharper sense of humour. More importantly, he has that same philosophical perspective my old colleague had: an acceptance that life throws curveballs, and the only real choice you have is how you deal with them.

But our conversation that day wasn’t about ageing or illness. It was about something arguably more challenging: the state of our city and country. There we were: three middle-aged (to be charitable) white middle-class men, gnashing our teeth about the breakdown of society, the lack of vision from our political leaders, the fraying of the social fabric, and the toxic effects of social media platforms. In other words, a lunch that could have been scripted for the “three old men complaining about the world” podcast that nobody asked for.

The conversation began, as these things so often do, with a litany of grievances: politicians who have got it wrong, officials who have misstepped, decisions that demonstrate incompetence or malice. It’s an easy game, one that all of us are adept at playing. But as the food arrived and the conversation deepened, something interesting happened.

We collectively realised we were making the same mistake as the very people we were criticising. We were focusing on what divides us, on the incompetence of them, whoever “them” might be, rather than what unites us. It was a little jolt of self-awareness, the kind you don’t expect from a casual lunch.

It made me think about Venn diagrams. At one end of the spectrum, you’ve got people who see the world in one way. At the other end, people who see it in a completely different way. The temptation, of course, is to focus on the outer circles. on the differences, the irreconcilable positions, the points of argument. But in the middle, in that shaded overlapping space, there’s always common ground. And too often we ignore it.

Take the idea of a “fair go.” Ask almost any New Zealander, regardless of their politics, whether everyone deserves a fair go, and they’ll say yes. It’s deeply ingrained in our national identity. But the moment we start debating what “fair go” actually means, the disagreements flare up. Does it mean government intervention or less government intervention? Does it mean redistribution or opportunity? We get lost in the minutiae of definitions.

But maybe we’re missing the bigger picture. If we can start from the premise that we all believe in fairness, then we have a foundation to build on. Instead of weaponising the differences in interpretation, perhaps we should be celebrating the agreement on the principle. That’s the shaded part of the Venn diagram.

I’ve been reflecting on this in the context of the Gaza conflict. It’s an issue that has split communities around the world, including here in New Zealand. I’ve found myself in conversations with people whose perspectives are fundamentally opposed to mine. In the past, I might have shied away from engaging, or worse, dug in and turned it into an argument. But more recently, I’ve been trying (admittedly with varied success) to focus on that shared space in the middle of the Venn diagram.

We may not agree on the history, the politics, or even the possible solutions. But we often agree on some fundamentals: that human suffering is tragic, that peace is preferable to war, that children should not bear the brunt of adult conflicts. Those shared values are a starting point. They may not solve the problem, but they can help keep the conversation human.

It’s not easy, of course. Social media thrives on the opposite, on polarisation, on amplifying division, on rewarding outrage. The algorithms don’t push you toward the middle of the Venn diagram; they shove you as far into the outer circles as possible. But just because the system encourages division doesn’t mean we have to play along.

That lunch with Garry Moore and my other companion reminded me that cynicism is easy, but it doesn’t build anything. It’s the common ground, the quiet acceptance that we all want something better, that provides a foundation. Just as my old colleague at Cactus faced her diagnosis with a wry smile and pragmatic wisdom, perhaps we need to face our societal challenges with that same perspective: you get old, you get something. Life, society, politics, they’re messy. They break down. They disappoint. But they also give us chances to connect, to find that shared shaded space, to focus on what combines us rather than what divides us.

That’s not just an ageing thing. It’s a wisdom thing. And it’s one we could all do with a little more of.