Gleam

These early mornings during the holiday season, at the crack of dawn as my mother used to say, I find myself on the living room sofa with my gingerbread latte in front of the Christmas tree ablaze in white lights.  Strung with globes, flames, icicles, and twinkling minis, this tree still somehow positively glows in spite of the fact that an alarming number of bulbs are burned out. Next year we’ll be overdue for new lights and I’m hopeful energy-wasting incandescent white is still out there somewhere (did I really just say that?); the blue cast of LED lacks all warmth.  I’m spending my quotidian five minutes of “me” time here, soaking in a little energy before yet another crazy day begins.

 

When this practice starts, it’s time used to "armor up" as Brene Brown puts it, to decide how I will steel myself against everything each new day brings for me to fear:  That big (or little) presentation where I socialize a new idea, challenge the status quo, or compel someone to add yet another task to their already full plate, that conversation I need to have with a wayward teenager about consequences for veering off the path to adulthood, anything that takes me out of my comfort zone.

It can feel like we live in our suits of armor; we’re never quite comfortable enough to leave them in the closet.  They become heavy, laden with the smell of fear, if that’s possible.  Public speaking, pitching new ideas, defending our opinions, crucial conversations and reasons to uphold unpopular decisions are ubiquitous.  These are not just periodic events with plenty of prep time, which also bring the requisite time to get properly worked up; they are roiling fast and furious like the life-giving pains of labor speed up as the moment of birth draws near.  We need to learn how to roll with them because there is literally no breathing space in between.

When we armor up to protect ourselves from failure and hurt, we live a life that becomes all about just getting past the next scary thing.  We want it over with quickly so we painstakingly script an approved message to be presented stiff and frozen, praying there are no questions to ad lib. Or we avoid conversations completely, choosing to stay on the surface, never clearly resolving issues or requesting exactly what we want. We give only part of ourselves to those we engage with because bringing everything we’ve got means being vulnerable.  We think if we can squeeze ours eyes tightly shut, clench the bar pinning us inside the seat of this rollercoaster, we can take the next stomach-turning plunge and cross ourselves when we make it out alive.  Life is a tumultuous ride, for sure, but we miss it when we live with our eyes, our lips and our hearts closed.

Maybe what we’re really afraid of is when we embrace who we are we unleash a blinding light so powerful we truly can change the world? 

  

Instead of suiting up during my morning five, I’m challenging myself to look differently at what I fear. How can I approach situations from another place, bringing the best of me to the table, so that I’m not living to get beyond the moment, but living through the moment?  I want to commit to the belief that everything I’ll ever need to live my best life exists inside of me.

When we think we’re too flawed to put ourselves out there, the unique gifts we possess to light up the world remain buried beneath our protective armor.  But I need only to look at my Christmas tree to see that despite broken filaments extinguishing countless bulbs it’s still possible for an incredible, fiery glow.

Perfection is not required to change the world (or your life for that matter), nor is it a prerequisite to worthiness.  Go ahead, open the gift inside you; light the world on fire. 

gleam.

  

Exegesis

My first experience with global work is conducted via conference calls. I am routinely in a panic. Everyone around me appears to understand everything being said.  I am lost.  We’re all rumored to be speaking English, but laced with the heavy accents of Mexico, Argentina, China and India I’m straining to find my native tongue within these strange dialects.  I’m much more comfortable today, but I’ll admit to sometimes even having a hard time when my British colleagues get on a roll.  They, of course, are quick to tell me we Americas are the ones who do not know how to speak English.

 

Once I begin to understand what’s coming out of their mouths, I realize the words don’t mean the same things. Culturally the same process is done very differently.  A commitment to deliver the materials on Tuesday carries no weight in Chile; in the Banana Republic, I learn, it gets there when it gets there. But I’ve built my schedule around the US expectations, and I’m also counting on the fact that proven methods of escalation work south of the equator.  Well, they just don’t.

Next comes the technical speak.  When you’re tasked with leading a project comprised of multiple specialties, you need to come up to speed quickly, going way deeper into, let’s say, how a data center works than you’d ever care to go.  But this matters because you can’t sequence the project or bring the right people to the table at the right time if you don’t understand some of the details. 

   

And then we get to the layer so deeply buried and complex it can seem like it takes a psychologist to understand.  Human feelings, our experiences, our baggage; these cause us all to view situations differently, respond differently.  This could very well be the most crucial level of understanding, but it’s also the most difficult to break through.

 

When you get down to it, an unbelievable amount of information is lost in translation.  We fail every day because of a lack of understanding. Deliverables at work get missed, schedules are blown.  We even fail to understand the source of our manager’s anger.  Is it about the mistake we’ve made or the impact to another’s reputation if the project fails?  Head-butting between parents and their teenagers is germane to this.  Our kids deliberately keep us in the dark as they wrestle with the unbelievably difficult task of showing us who they are.  They barely understand themselves, how can they explain anything to us?  Relationships with our spouses and significant others, those meant to be the most intimate of all, fail on a regular basis because we’re unable to open up to the loved one who matters most to us.

 

When I contemplate it, it seems miraculous that anything ever gets done right at all.  How much of our accomplishments and successes are achieved at the surface level because navigating to a basic level of understanding is relatively safe?  What truly breakthrough work could we deliver or mind-blowing relationships could we revel in if we all seek to really understand each other?

At Trader Joe’s I’m asked by the very friendly cashier what I do for a living.  It takes only a second to do the math in my head and decide explaining my job as a senior leader at my company will take some time to explain, so I blurt out that I’m a project manager.  The minute I say it I feel like Ralphie in “A Christmas Story”, desperately clawing his way back up the Santa slide after he realizes he’s made a huge mistake requesting a football instead of the coveted Red Ryder BB Gun coloring his every thought round the clock. I walk out of the store angry at myself for diminishing the title I’ve worked hard to earn because it will take a few extra words to get to understanding.

 

To be understood and to understand is humbling.  It requires wholehearted, vulnerable living. It means admitting you just don’t get it. This can feel like exposing a weakness.  Aren’t we supposed to know everything about the job we’re tasked to do, the child we gave birth to, the spouse we’ve laid beside for the last 20+ years?  The further removed our beliefs about how much the other may expect us to know are from what we actually do know, the easier it is to admit the disconnect.  No one expects a real estate agent to know how to split an atom, so it’s hardly risky to ask that question.  But if you’re working on a project in the realm of your expertise, or spend every weekend with your boyfriend, it becomes harder to raise your hand.

Understanding requires trusting that the person on the other side of the conversation has the patience and desire to explain the situation or himself to help you understand. And that he will be there for you, without judgment, for as long as it takes for you to get it. Ultimately, if you can’t move to the same place, then it means trusting you’ll be able to coexist, respectfully and happily, on two different sides of the same issue.

 

Getting to understanding is hard work you need to be willing to do. If you won’t spend time learning about the equivalent of quadratic equations or nuclear physics when all you really care about is getting to the launch plan for the product that incorporates this subject matter, you risk the success of the project because you can't effectively lead the team doing the work.

Nothing about this is easy because we need to show our weaknesses, so we leave the tough questions unasked, we avoid the work required to get us to understanding.  It’s easier to ask to be removed from the project, or to respectfully exit the relationship and move back into our safe place, that place where we’re not challenged. But if we don’t identify the brokenness and fix it, we leave wild success and wild love on the table.   As one of my favorite people at the office told me this week, “Development hurts."

Lost in yet another translation, I’m accused of not taking my own advice.  Ouch!  It hurts, but in this case it’s spot on.  I know what needs to be done, but I’m just as fallible as the person next to me.  It’s not about eating my words; it’s about teaching myself how to feast on them.  

Manipulation

I’m compelled to look this word up, much hangs on its connotation and it’s important for my heart that I get this right.  When vocabulary.com reveals two definitions, it’s not that I don’t know they exist, but they coexist so surreptitiously in what I consider to be a sacred space.  That one can be extraordinarily skilled in this dichotomy ambushes me; that I’m able to recuse myself from intoxicating, inimitable splendor in order to shield myself from an inevitable, insalubrious erosion of my soul makes walking away a testament to the power of sheer will.

Anthropomorphism

It’s a cold Sunday afternoon and I’m glued to the television watching “March of the Penguins”; a documentary film recounting a year in the life of the Emperor species, endemic to Antarctica.  To me the fascinating part of this story is the degree to which the male penguin participates in caring for the chick, acting as an incubator and present when it hatches, as the emaciated female must embark on a slow journey in search of food not long after she lays the egg. Before taking off she transfers this precious cargo to the feet of the male, a process so delicate they must practice many times before actually doing it; if not done properly, the embryo dies.

 

This is probably 8 years in the past, but I remember it as if it were yesterday.  As I’m watching, all I can think is that if my mate and I are Emperor Penguins, our chick will surely perish; we are incapable of the level of cooperation required to keep the embryo alive. And even more sadly, when the female returns home devastated to discover the baby she has never met has died, I know in my heart we are incapable of forgiveness, too; I would be no less fierce with my admonishment of the male.

What is it that allows some couples to work so well together and others not so much? 

Fast forward to today, and maybe I’ve discovered the answer in a heated debate I find myself in at dinner.  I call myself a feminist, to which he retorts we don’t need them anymore.  We’ve made tons of progress since the days of Mad Men, he says this is enough.  Life’s pretty much unfair all the way around, even to the white male; this he believes strongly; pounding his hand on the table as punctuation, launching into a diatribe on affirmative action.

I’m stunned by the fire in his belly fueling a diametric response so intense I can’t believe I’d missed his position on this before.  I want desperately for my point of view to be heard, and my attempt to express it calmly causes his head to turn the other way. Frustrated and a little disillusioned, I’m on the brink of tears and walk out of the restaurant.  Not my proudest moment.

We’re all entitled to our opinions; this I believe.  So when I think about what really bothers me in this situation, it’s not that we disagree (although this is a hard one for me to swallow). While his position is unfathomable to me, and I can hardly see how we should stop talking about equality for women now that we’ve tackled the low hanging fruit of feminism and are no longer groped in the office, I do know this:  He believes in his viewpoint as strongly as I believe in mine.

What bothers me is that in this moment he refuses to let me be heard.

 

No two people ever agree on absolutely everything.  Solid, fulfilling, unbreakable relationships are built on collaboration and compromise. But to get to those, you need to listen.   Listening is a form of respect.  We listen to learn.  It’s not about shifting someone to your opinion; it’s about understanding why they believe in their own.  When you take the time to understand where the beliefs of another are rooted, you can get to common ground, that space where we all live, that space where collaboration and compromise can move in and make themselves at home. Equanimity in this world comes only from a relentless desire to understand.

  

The documentary still fresh in my mind, I find a set of four vintage penguin ornaments, in beautiful red and mercury colored glass. I hang them on the tree.  And when it’s time to put the decorations in storage, one penguin lands on my mantle, instead;  a symbol of hope for better days ahead. The truth is, that chick that belonged to my Emperor Penguin mate and I did perish in our inanition.   He was too busy pushing his own agenda to hear me, and I got tired of fighting to be heard.

   

Although it’s been many years and I’ve healed and moved on, I think it’s time to put the penguin back on the mantle after the holidays, this time to remind myself not only that I deserve to be heard, but there’s always room to be a better listener, too.

Umbra

Their kisses suck out your very soul. The room goes cold when they are near. They steal your positive energy, your happy memories. You can’t see them, but feel them acutely.  They are the Dementors, phantoms of doom and gloom from Harry Potter fiction, but we’ve all run across them in real life.

 

Their power is in the disguise they wear, for these individuals appear happy and confident on the outside, like they have it all together.  Yet when we’re around them, we feel inexplicably uneasy, in a constant state of inanition.  We quail, questioning our capabilities, querying our confidence, quavering over our conclusions, as if we are somehow less than qualified.  Surely, it must be us, something we’re doing.

 

It can take some time to realize that they’re casting onto us the shadow of doubt and deficiency they wear upon themselves. The give-away is that in no other arena do we feel this inadequate, sapped of all of our strength. The moment we’re away from them we’re resuscitated.

Dementors have ways of tricking us into being untrue to ourselves.  They fill us with the insatiable need to visibly prove ourselves; announce we’re making progress, take all the credit for getting the work done.  They can cause us to raise our voices to make a point, reduce us to tears as we attempt to claim our worth. They can drain us of all passion we possess to do the work we absolutely love.

Luckily, you don’t need to know the Patronus Charm in order to break the spell of the Dementor.  He maintains his hold over you only until the moment you recognize him for who he is. He never really disappears, but you win back the power to quell your own feelings and return to your authentic self.

The irony is the Dementors in our lives can bring out unexpected brilliance within us.  As we fight to retain our sanity and our souls, we develop a sophisticated, almost stealth-like approach, allowing the Dementor the dignity he so desperately needs to maintain with his disguise, bringing a new level of humility to our leadership. 

That's the kiss I'd like to receive.

Kindle

Leadership is not a hierarchy.  From the vantage point of the ranks; however, it looks like one. Logic says survival of the fittest, the most talented ascend to the top, but this isn’t always the case.  The most senior leaders in any organization are not necessarily the smartest people in the room. The truly brilliant know they are surrounded by others who are, in fact, smarter, and relish the opportunity to rub shoulders and learn.

The irony in my leadership journey is that I thought I’d get to a place where I knew the answer to every question, could solve any problem, and at that point I’d be on top.  Now I know that the journey never ends, and no one ever has every answer.  It doesn’t mean I can’t be a great leader. It just means I will always be discovering.

What we learn in any given day crosses the spectrum from the mundane to the momentous, as evidenced by this sampling of insight coming my way in the last 24 hours:

My super cute, waterproof fashion boots really serve no functional purpose in snow.  As I push my cart to the car, it's apparent I would have been better off in the ski boots I warily eyed a woman in the grocery store sporting.

It is possible to listen to my iPod in my rental car.  All that’s needed is the right cable, available courtesy of Nate’s room, which is a warehouse of auxiliary cords for any electronic product you could ever dream of juicing. Who knew?

Despite the precision required for baking, it doesn’t have to be curtains for the batch of cookies when you accidentally add one more tablespoon of cocoa powder than stated in the recipe. In fact, these types of missteps make the delicacy uniquely yours. This, I believe, is how that nebulous ingredient called “extra love” came into being.

Nelson Mandela knew that if he was ever going to do the work of freeing an entire people, he needed to first free himself.  “As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn't leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I'd still be in prison.”  Makes me wonder where in life I’m holding myself back.

When a teenaged boy wants to walk to a friend’s house in the snow, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s up to no good.  It could be he needs a little time with himself to re-chart his course. Sometimes it is good to let him be; he’s going to need to get to know who he is on his journey to becoming a great leader.

Respire

The last line of her message reads “Wine soon?”  I’m up to my eyeballs in holiday preparations; it’s like she’s thrown a life preserver to a drowning woman.  I ask if she can meet tonight.

Yes, it’s true; I haven’t yet cracked a single egg for cookie dough. My tree is a nightmare of cords fueling white light bulbs of all shapes and sizes, with an alarming number dead or dimming as they await last rites. The ornaments are in a box, save for the handful of ill-placed giant, personalized, shiny globes hanging at the precise height of the narcissistic teenaged boys rifling through for anything eponymous.  So much for elegance and balance.  Of course I need a drink.

A few years ago at my church, the pastor was so taken with a homily presented by one of our priests that he requested a repeat on a subsequent Sunday.  It’s one that resonates the very first time he speaks it.  The highlight is this:  If you’ve got time to pray, pray for 15 minutes.  If you don’t have time to pray, pray for an hour.  It’s such an awesome reminder that we all just need to slow down, to focus on what truly matters. And so I tell my beloved friend that the last thing I have time for is a night out, which is exactly why I’m pushing all my work aside to go out.

Dinner (and wine) with my friend is cathartic. She is exactly what I need as I take a well-deserved time out from the rush of the season.   The sparkle and splash of my holiday cards and cookies is a labor of love, but a labor nonetheless. And the demands of ordinary time often can’t be held at bay while we get our jingle on, which means we’re squeezing more into already packed lives.

The few remaining days between us and the holidays are guaranteed to race by faster than those coursers pulling the sleigh. To have any hope of actually enjoying them, we need to take some time for ourselves.  So I delegate all tree decorating to the teenagers.  I’m not sure I’ll be able to resist the urge to relocate a few (well, many) ornaments, but the heavy lift is done.  And while the mercury glass-colored glitter glue is drying on my stacks of handmade greeting cards, I’m taking a moment to sit by the fire and pen this post.  No, I don’t have time for it.  That’s why I’m doing it.