Efficacy

The first time I recall hearing this term it rolls off the tongue of a Professor of Illuminating Engineering in a capacious auditorium at the University of Illinois in the mid-1980s. The coursework for my interior design degree back in the day includes material of some substance, not just “coloring” as a not-so-kind acquaintance used to say.  The curriculum is quite technical, and fascinating at the same time.  I wish I could say I remember exactly its definition, but given that it’s been almost 30 years (eep!) since I’ve set foot in a university lecture hall, I’m leaning on the Department of Energy and Mineral Engineering at Penn State, where they define it as “the ratio of light output from a lamp to the electric power it consumes, measured in lumens per watt (LPW).”  Translated loosely into my words, it’s how effective a light source is relative to the energy it takes to emit the light.

As the bewitching hour on this last day of the year draws near, and we contemplate the resolutions we will declare at midnight, loudly (but for some maybe not so clearly), I’m thinking about change, and the energy we expend as we strive for transformation.

Resolutions fail to come to fruition because we burn out. We promise ourselves monumental change, and then expend enormous amounts of energy in the name of attaining it:   I’m not just talking about the physical energy required to take action, but the mental energy we burn trying to infuse new and foreign behaviors into our daily routines, and worse yet, the emotional energy as we listen to the voice in our heads berating us for lack of follow through. Most of us surrender without ever sustaining the outcome we’re desperate to reap.

I’m a self-described change agent.  This week I contemplate my success at the office this year, and over the past three years. A common theme materializes; each team I lead looks dramatically different today than when I started, yet without upheaval.  They’ve all been reshaped, slowly over time. Just as I have. I look at myself, who I was in April of 2012 when I wrote the very first post for this blog, and who I am now. No raging infernos, dynamite or explosives required, just a steady flame of conviction.

Transformation is about producing a desired effect.  It’s kind of scientific, too, because it’s also about producing a desired amount of that desired effect. It’s pretty normal to question whether we have the power or capacity to do this at all, yet alone with precision. So instead of taking it on ourselves, we make our success contingent. It’s easy to say our results are dependent on what others around us do.  And convenient to shift the blame when we don’t get the results we want.  We let the accountability reside anywhere but with us, because what does it say about us if we fail?

But here’s the thing, and it’s the same thing I’ve been saying over the course of the last 270 blog posts:  The power is within you. All you need to do is want it.  Someone else can’t want it for you, you can’t want it just because someone else does, and your success is not predicated on the presence of that someone you think you need around. You've got this.

I’m encouraging you to think differently about your resolutions this year. What is the change you want to make in your life for no one other than yourself?  This is the only resolution to make. It’s the only one guaranteed to increase your lumen output, and the very best one to make for those around you. Because when you burn brighter you make the world a better place.  

Bustle

It is three days after Christmas; the front door closed behind the last planned guest of the year yesterday evening. I’m lingering on a photo in my Instagram feed of a beautifully painted teacup perched on a table beside a glittering, decorated evergreen.  The photographer reminds us that Christmas actually starts, not ends, on Christmas Day, and writes about how much she loves this post-holiday peacefulness, this time to be still.

I recall, not twenty-four hours earlier, asking myself how fast I can get the ornaments boxed up and leave a trail of pine needles from the living room to the curb. Only pure exhaustion prevents turning this thought into action.  The build-up to December 25th is so protracted, I’m not surprised when on Christmas Eve morning my coffee is presented to me in the white Starbucks cup of ordinary time; the store has run out of this year’s controversial red cup before we even get to Christmas Day!  Yet, there is never enough time.

I’ve been spending every waking, non-working moment since Thanksgiving making lists, amassing the precise materials and quality ingredients for my artistic creations, assembling greeting cards, baking, freezing and packaging cookies, planning menus, buying groceries, preparing feasts, decking, cleaning and clearing the halls, hiding in cabinets, closets and cupboards all evidence that a family actually lives in my home, all for the sake of hosting festive holiday gatherings. Cyber-shopping is squeezed in somewhere; gifts are hastily wrapped at the last minute.  At one point I remember thinking taking the time to attend parties is eating into my time to prepare for parties. No wonder I am salivating over the idea of a few minutes to savor the fruits of my labor.

And so I’m thinking differently this morning.  A snow and freezing rain mix is pelting the windows, propelled by a stiff, howling wind.  No one is going outside. After a warm, green December, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. I, too, can sip a warm cup of tea in front of my own twinkling Christmas tree.  Lap tops, after all, are designed to sit in our laps.

Everything up until today is for others.  What if I take the time between now and Twelfth Night to absorb the beauty of the season, to live in stillness?  It’s time to be kind to myself, to remind myself of all the good I’ve accomplished in the past year, to take inventory of everything and everyone I am grateful for, to forgive myself for all my frailties, to set goals for the coming year that respect my limits as a human being, to connect with those who make me better. Isn’t this what the season is about?

Joy

“Thank you for waiting so patiently,” she chirps sincerely to the woman in line in front of me, finally returning to her station behind the counter.  My guilt nestles in like a pit in my stomach.  This noble woman in front of me stands stoically, listens wordlessly to me when, not a minute earlier, I wonder out loud with much annoyance, “Does anyone work here?”

It’s so unusual for me to open my mouth in these situations. I can’t stand it when other people do it. I try hard to muster compassion, and when I can’t, I pride myself on keeping my mouth shut no matter what mean spirited thoughts threaten to squash the sugar plums dancing in my head. I can’t help myself in this moment, and regret it almost immediately.

While the transaction ahead of me takes place I prepare myself, ready to admit wholeheartedly when I am thanked for my patience that I hadn’t exhibited any at all.  I think about what in this situation is frustrating me.  There are two cashiers, yet it isn’t readily apparent there are two lines, as towers of grab and go bling hide completely my compatriots beside me. It seems silly to me that my dander is up.  I’m not in hurry.  I don’t need to be anywhere else.  The load I am carrying isn’t heavy.  This year’s green Christmas means I’m not sweating beneath a heavy parka. I actually ate before I shopped. And I’m finding the gifts I came out seeking.  Why do I choose an outburst of selfish frustration instead of understanding the obvious pressures of a holiday store clerk?

I name my Christmastime blogs with words that are associated with the holiday season. It is rare to hear glisten, coursers, tidings, wassail, or swaddle in the vernacular of ordinary time.  It surprises me when joy pops into my head as a Christmas word. We can’t seem to find enough of it.

Joy is a choice that can be difficult to see.  It can seem like we live in a world with nothing but problems; that we live our individual lives in constant turmoil.  We’re far more comfortable complaining about what is not right, admonishing ourselves for what we don’t do, then we ever are voicing gratitude for what’s great in our lives and patting ourselves on the back for the good we do. We’re programmed to focus on fixing what is not right and to downplay what is right. We wrap ourselves in an angry story written in isolation, a yarn wound so tightly from our own vantage point that we can’t open up to any other perspective.

To me, the path to seeing joy as a choice and ultimately being capable of choosing it lies not just in a willingness to seek understanding, but in a tenacious commitment to attain understanding, to broaden our purview. And then to forgive both ourselves and our loved ones for the blindness and brokenness inherent in all of us.

Had I thought a minute about what it might feel like to be the customer getting excellent service from a cashier so willing to leave her post and search the stockroom for a coveted gift, I’m sure I would have felt quite differently. My inability to keep my disparaging thoughts to myself while shopping is my humanity making itself visible, much to my chagrin.

I believe we are constantly in repair.  Waiting to choose joy until we’ve got it all together is not an option.  The question isn’t how do we solve all of our problems and live a flawless life, it is how do we accept our humanity and that of those around us, so that joy can be uncovered in the mess.