Caliper

Gazing longingly at the work table in my art studio, wishing I had time to dive into my next sketchbook, I spy buried beneath the markers, colored pencils, glitter, fibers, beads and scraps of my favorite colorful papers the scrapbook created back in 2010 encapsulating our year.  Titled “525,600 minutes”, inspired by the Rent theme song “Seasons of Love”, the concept the book is built upon expands on my Christmas card messaging that we measure our year in love.

As I flip through the pages I’m struck not only by how much my boys have grown in only three short years, the changes striking as they move from boys to men, but by how much we really packed into that time together.  Our seasonal traditions of egg dying, blowing out candles on top of cakes, vacations at the desert and the beach, pumpkin and turkey carving; along with more pedestrian activities like hockey on the frozen pond in the backyard and skateboarding, all chronicled in thirty-two 6X6 pages.

Today, before he leaves the house to spend yet another day with his friends, I tell Nick I miss him.  He starts seriously, “I know”, and ends with “I’m here now” and a hopeful grin. It’s never been more evident that our time these days literally is measured in minutes as both boys move on with their lives.

It seems a little like kismet that I stumble upon this book today, fresh from yet another round of thinking maybe I haven’t done enough, said enough, invested enough time to make a real difference in my boys’ lives. Today I’m grateful to be gifted with the creativity that compels me to capture the story of us, both the ordinary and the extraordinary, in a way indelibly marked as my own.  I’m reminded that yes, the time we have together is enough; it’s documented lovingly and emphatically.

We often believe that in order to ensure the values and behaviors we want our children to exhibit are really ingrained, we need to go overboard in saying the words out loud (sometimes in raised voices, even). We forget the power that living side by side, under the same roof together affords in communicating our beliefs and philosophy for living.  It’s in the way we greet each other, how we handle the joy and duress that goes with the everyday business of life, how we love each other, how we say goodbye.  It just may be that being together, even if it’s only for a few minutes at a time, allows who we are to be more fully absorbed than anything we could ever say.

How do I know this to be true?  One of the last pages of the scrapbook is a photo of the boys on either end of the wishbone rescued from the Thanksgiving turkey we dined on alfresco in the desert that year.  Underneath I’ve written “Nick ended up with the “bigger half” - he wished for a safe flight home.”

Maybe I should give myself a well-deserved break from second-guessing?   When I see reminders like this I think I’m doing just fine. This book, I decide, belongs in plain sight.

Insufflation

On a recent conference call, one of my colleagues stops me early in my kick-off remarks to ask who else is on the phone and whether we all know each other.  A super friendly guy; I forget that he often starts meetings in this way. I’m a little embarrassed that I don’t always think to lead with such basic pleasantries.  I’ve grown up in the workplace as strictly business; operating for years under the assumption that I need a sternly professional demeanor in order to be creditable.  But as I’ve progressed in my career, I’ve also come to believe this truth:  Businesses don’t exist without the human element; businesses are the people who run them.

As so it just makes sense to me that business theory can apply to what’s human in all of us.  I devour books chronicling the stories of leaders, their successes and failures, on the lookout for the visceral humanity, for this is where our sameness lives and parallels lie, waiting to be drawn. My latest conquest, “How the Mighty Fall” by Jim Collins, does not disappoint.  It explains the research project Collins undertook identifying distinct stages of decline businesses fall through, evoking visions of the graphic AMC’s Mad Men repeats with each episode:  The silhouette of a businessman tumbling precariously down the side of a New York City skyscraper.

Collins outlines the intensifying signs of distress through case studies of well-known companies ailing early in the new millennium. He illustrates how success and profitability cause leaders to become fat, happy and eager for more.  The thirst to become bigger pulls resources away from the core business, and the careful vetting of talent falls by the wayside as rapid growth opens the hiring sluice.  As companies stray from the products and services that make them great, margins in the core business begin to erode. Without thoughtful consideration around expansion that honors the company’s values and strengths; ventures fail. When the writing starts to appear on the wall, many leaders refuse to see it until it’s too late, viewing questionable data through rose-colored glasses.  By the time they are willing to admit the problems are real, the business has sunk to hadal depths, disaster is looming and decision makers flail in careless, panicked, last ditch efforts to recover quickly. Many don’t.

Not exactly a happy story, but as I read, I am excited about this book as preventative medicine on so many business levels.  It doesn’t need to apply only to an entire company battling an aggressive disease, but the health of a frail client account, or the low grade fever a massive independent project can’t seem to shake.  Knowing what decline looks like can help us take steps toward recovery before it’s too late.

And what if we apply this to our relationships?  If couples read this book will they develop awareness, before apathy sets in, of the invisible erosion so many long-term unions suffer?  I like to think yes.  And if so, the prescription for a good healthy relationship might look like this:

Believe it could happen to you.  When things are good, we find it impossible to fathom we may fall prey to decline:  It happens to everyone else, not us.  Much like the infancy of a start-up, solid relationships are born from the passion two people feel and the blood, sweat and tears they invest getting to really know each other. The relationship becomes great because of this level of commitment; if you take this for granted it could happen to you. 

Keep focus on each other and what makes you great together. This is your core business. As you open your relationship up to friends, family and children, new priorities steal your attention. While the needs of these so-called outside ventures may feel pressing, balancing them with focus on each other builds a solid base upon which everything else draws strength. 

Pay attention to signs of trouble. Full and stressful days pass with lightning speed; it’s easy to miss or explain away the knell of distress, easy to listen with only one ear, especially when you’re busy growing other parts of your life. Any good business employs measures to gauge its health.  Doing the same with your relationship is paramount to its success.  Asking each other if you’re okay and being brave enough to have the difficult conversations when you’re not keeps you solid.  

When things get really bad take convalescence seriously.  Insidious problems can lurk in the background for an inordinate amount of time before rising to the surface. Fixing them requires patience and an understanding that the road to recovery will likely be slow if it is to be sustained.  If you’re going to escape inurnment you need to give the same time and passion to rebuilding as you did to the start-up.

I love that Collins also gives more than a nod to lady luck in this book.  We all like to think we control everything, but the happiest people acknowledge that luck has a permanent seat at the table.  She keeps us honest, making it impossible to overestimate our abilities and merit, and easy to ignore the temptation to rest on our laurels.

The sage leaders behind businesses that operate on the premise of “What have you done for me lately?” inoculate themselves against decline.  We can do the same in our relationships too.  Humility, not hubris, keeps the mighty on top.  I say love more and often.

Tether

I’m so busy lately that when I finally pull my head up from the bulging list of items I need to review with my manager, I realize I can barely remember the last time we saw each other.  By the time I get on his calendar, we have so much to cover that we bleed into overtime and I literally need to stay tuned for “part 2”, like the cliff hanger of an old soap opera, to be continued the following day.  But even though our business is unfinished, as I hang up the phone I am flooded with relief.  We have connected and I can breathe again.

Overachievers in the crowd, and those people pleasers who believe they need to go it alone to prove they are capable, can surely relate.  We know how to get the job done, yet we forget that when navigating uncharted waters, our proven and dependable methods don’t always work.  Left to our own devices, we can derail ourselves trying to boil the ocean, expanding our scope beyond the intended boundaries. We need a little guidance, someone to take the wheel for a few minutes and course correct, steering us to safety.  It doesn’t mean we’re weak or that we can’t get the job done.  The best leaders know when they need to allow themselves to be led.

Sometimes we forget these lifelines are out there and push ourselves to the limits of our resources, abilities, or endurance.  Sometimes we get so engulfed in the intensity of a new situation or relationship that we let ourselves get caught up trying to make things happen instead of letting them unfold. 

It’s not until my manager coos sweet nothings like “you should not be worried about this part of the work”; “I need to shield you from the politics, you’ve been shielding me” and “can I assist you with your presentation?”, that I’m tugged back into sanity, calmed and soothed by the salve of empathy, understanding and support he covers me in.

It’s amazing to me how some people in our lives just ground us in their very presence; how the sound of a voice or the squeeze of a hand is all it takes to feel reassured you’re on the right path, you’re where you belong. 

Don’t deny that voice that says “I feel like I need to connect to you again”. It takes some courage to admit that you may be a little lost or overwhelmed.  “Are we okay?” is nothing more than a gentle tug on your lifeline.  And there’s nothing better than finding out almost instantly that yes, we are. 

Proponent

Stowing groceries in my car the other day, I am somewhat puzzled to find the sole of a very large sneaker lying in the trunk.  I say that this is only mildly surprising because it’s not unusual for footwear in my house to be deliberately dismembered, discarded and then darned with shoo goo, duct tape or some other creative fix. My kids seem to burn through shoes at an alarming rate, wearing out the soles before ever blowing out the toes, in spite of the fact that their feet continue to grow.

They put some serious miles on their footwear, and over the past several years as these boys race through the tumultuous times of teenagers, I’m finding it pays to work really hard to understand where exactly their feet take them on the road of life.  While I cannot prevent my boys from making the inevitable questionable choices, I can bring a little peace to my own mind when I can glean what’s inside their minds.  It doesn’t change the fact that I feel ridiculously powerless in my ability to influence them in the moment, but what it does do is help me to better coach them for the long haul.

As I dive deeper into my latest project at work, I’m becoming cleaved to the undeniable fact that, like my parenting, the success of my product design hinges on only one thing:  My ability to engage my user.  It doesn’t matter how great my offering is if my target audience does not have a compelling reason to embrace what I put out there. In a recent Fast Company post, the answer to solving the user experience problem resonates when it’s presented to me in my native language:  "To become a better writer, one needs to become an advocate for the reader."  It goes beyond just understanding what my clients, team or children need, it’s about walking a mile in their shoes, seeing the situation from their vantage point, being keenly attuned to how they naturally interface with the experience and then fighting tooth and nail to make sure that’s precisely what gets into the product or service I’m providing.  It’s not about what I think they need or what I would like to see, it’s about tailoring what I have to offer to support their needs in a manner so appealing and utterly irresistible they are left with no choice but to follow my lead.   

When I talk with my children I often do so with the understanding that what they covet more than anything is freedom.  I’m able to paint a stunning picture of what this looks and feels like through the eyes of a teenager, still imparting the fact that while it may say otherwise in the Constitution, teenagers are exempt from this unalienable right.  When we work in a currency so meaningful and precious to them, it’s easy to quickly get clear on exactly what’s required to access this commodity. To become a better parent, one needs to become an advocate for the child. 

As design progresses on my project at work, I keep asking myself who will approve our final concept, the one we decide to implement?  While the obvious answer is a committee within my company, I’m certain this cannot go to market without input from the population we are attempting to please.  The opinion of those who will interact with this product is really the only one that matters. Our product will be better if I fight to get the voices of my client heard.

When we consider ourselves to be authorities in our field, whether it’s our area of expertise at the office, parenting our children, or sometimes nothing more than bestowing the wisdom that comes with having walked the path before, it’s tempting to put our knowledge at the forefront.  But the real key is to put yourself in your user’s shoes, listen for what's needed and become a tireless champion. You’ll win every time, I guarantee.

Veneration

Yesterday my baby turned 15. Yet another reminder of how quickly time rushes through our fingertips, escaping like water finds clefts no matter how hard we try to cup it in our hands. In his wake is a lifetime of birthdays celebrated at the beach with our closest friends; we have vacationed together this same week in July since the year he turned four.  He has no recollection of a party absent of our cottage rituals and his partner in crime Kyle, the two meeting at the same milestone within days of each other.

This summer circumstances find us at home on his day, but not without our loved ones.  We decide to meet at the restaurant where our torrid affair began back in 2002:   An invitation extended over hamburgers and beer to join new friends at their vacation spot solders a bond that weathers the inevitable change accompanying over a decade of living.

I, of course, remember the original meeting like it was yesterday; the boys have no memory of it at all.  So this dinner for them brings no nostalgia. In some ways it feels like a completely different lifetime. In other ways little has changed, like our traditions at the beach:  Sand castles, bars and dunes, horseshoes, kites, go-carts, pizza, ice cream, cosmic candy, sunsets, campfires, and conversations that begin in the lingering gloaming flowing ceaselessly until well after spectacular starlight floods the sky.  It’s these constants in life, I’m reminded, that get us through the welter of change.

I’m glad my son’s special day is forever steeped in such happy memories.  With little more precious than the gift of time, what makes more sense than to honor its passing with the people who matter most?

Caesium

Since the beginning of time, human beings have been compelled to track time.  Before we evolved to the precision of atomic clocks, time was measured, according to this evening’s edition of Wikipedia, in cyclic events and movement like “the apparent motion of the sun across the sky, the phases of the moon, the swing of a pendulum, and the beat of a heart.”  While time itself is a constant, how we relate to it is another story completely. As we age it somehow seems to speed up to the point where we feel like we never have quite enough of it.

Have we ratcheted up the pace of our lives with technology in response to our thirst for more time?  Do we now move in high gear at all times just because we can?  Where is the value in warp speed?  With an overwhelming amount of evidence presented on the virtues of slowing down, many of us still find this impossible to do.

 

Although I’d like to be, I’m not exempt from the uncomfortable heat of time breathing down my neck. I should be wise to the dangers of overfilling my plate, experienced in the degradation of quality that comes with spreading myself too thin, attuned to that feeling that I’m doing so much I can’t do anything really well.  In a recent conversation with a colleague, I’m perplexed by this sense that I never win.  I don’t lose per se, but I don’t come in first.  I chalk it up to the fact that I am fortunate to work in an environment full of ridiculously talented people where there will always be someone smarter, faster or better than me at something, but there’s a part of me that can’t quite shake the idea that maybe if I slow down and tackle less I will feel like I win.

And so I’m contemplating simplicity. I’m looking at the tasks at hand at the office and prioritizing according to the value I can add and the passion I have around each assignment, with the intent to suggest delegation or a pause for those that fall to the bottom of my list. I’m willing myself to regulate the pace where it’s in my control to do so. This evening’s run with a friend, intentionally slowed to a comfortable cadence, was the most enjoyable 3-1/2 miles I’ve moved through this summer, in spite of the fact that it was still eighty degrees outside. I think I’ll feel better. Less is somehow more.

Even though life’s clock ticks ceaselessly, time really is a constant.  The pace is in our heads. There’s a soothing and confident voice repeating again and again that you have plenty of time.  You need to trust it.  Because when you do, amazing things happen:  It becomes easy to listen; I mean really listen.  The need to race to the finish line falls away.  You begin to feel comfortable enough to open up and wallow in the journey. You’re more than okay with completely losing yourself in the moment you’re in.  And with the discovery that you really can take a little extra time to alter the way you experience life, what once seemed difficult becomes easy.

 “It’s always the simple that produces the marvelous.”  -- Amelia Barr

Entrainment

There’s a moment in “Atlas Shrugged”, Ayn Rand’s tome replete with rich, memorable characters and endless soliloquy, where our heroine Dagny Taggart having just crashed her airplane on the outskirts of John Galt’s utopia wakes from her daze to say “We never had to take any of it seriously, did we?”  Dagny is of course referring to the relentless struggles she faced keeping her railroad business alive almost single-handedly. Having alighted in this surreal sanctuary, gazing into the eyes of the man she’s never met but somehow knows is made for her, all of those extraneous cares and concerns wondrously vaporize into thin air.

Reading that passage in the novel never fails to take my breath away, dog-eared for easy reference the first time I tackled this epic several years ago.  Could you even imagine meeting someone who would make you feel so comfortable you’d never need to worry again; everything will truly be okay?  We think this is the stuff that makes up romance novels or only exists with the help of a magical philter in a fairy tale.  Surely this doesn’t happen in real life, does it? 

Maybe it does.  Maybe it is possible to find that inimitable connection, unleashing a slow dance into harmony that cannot be reckoned with, like clock pendulums that when placed next to each other can’t help but adjust to swing in perfect synchrony. Maybe this phenomenon is unfathomable until you are lucky enough to find yourself in it because such enchantment can only exist exclusive to those who create it for each other.  As the poet Robert Graves says “The act of love belongs to two people, in the way that secrets are shared.”

I found myself in a different place today; an Eden that begins to shine a light on this possibility.  Atlas, of Greek mythology fame, is a metaphor for Dagny and her fellow protagonists who hold the weight of the world on their shoulders. One by one these staunch non-believers shed their burdens, losing themselves in Galt’s utopia.  What if I could do the same?  What if I could allow myself to believe in nirvana and surrender to it?  What if I could let myself shrug?

Aurora

Although I have every intention of sleeping in the sun has other plans for me, reaching in between the sheers draped over my bedroom window to brush a kiss across my forehead just ahead of six bells.   Some days I’m able to burrow under the sheets in extended slumber, but on this morning the philosophical business of life inexplicably rushes in, replacing the last lingering ephemera of blithe sweet dreams with the true and the questions.

“I want to get more comfortable being uncomfortable”; “I want to get more confident being uncertain,” proclaims Kristen Armstrong, a talented Runners World blogger and author, her message flooding into my brain before I’m even able to fully rub the sleep out of my eyes.  Can we really apply the comfort and confidence we cultivate living in the tried and true to those new and risky situations we know we need to explore if we’re going to follow our passion, realize our dreams, make life what we want it to be?

When you approach uncertainty with confidence and look for the comfort in what’s uncomfortable a funny thing happens.  That line between the known and the unknown that you imagined to be so impenetrable begins to blur.  It becomes hard to distinguish where the safe and the familiar ends and what you thought you were so afraid of begins. The decisions that seem impossible to make become absolutes you have no problem putting out there. You trust your gut because you trust yourself.

And then it dawns on you, you’ve taken a step forward.