Pantoum

I find it harder and harder these days to be surprised.  Maybe I can blame it on my age, or, more likely, a lifetime of vigilance over-exercised.  If I’m constantly trying to anticipate what will happen next, it’s nearly impossible to be truly surprised. In any event, pencil and notebook in hand, in front of works of art at a writer’s workshop conducted at the Art Institute of Chicago, I found myself very pleasantly surprised.

An experience I’ve wanted to try, this one was short and sweet.  Little more than a taste; a toe in the water with the choice to plunge right in or hastily retreat to the shore.  To be honest, it was a little of both for me.  I struggled in the first session, faced with imagining what was going on in the heads of subjects in paintings, famous and not.  But, thankfully, the instructors moved us around quickly, never left to stew too long in stagnant juices. 

The second session was a different story.  The beauty of one particular writing exercise being I had no idea where I was going with it, nor any expectation for an end product.  The instructors asked us to highlight words or phrases that spoke to us from the first week’s writing, and to combine them with the same from the second week, in the form of a poem with a very prescriptive formula for repetition from stanza to stanza.  The process left me free to combine thoughts from totally unrelated subject matter into a new message.  With a little editing and intentional application of punctuation, I present my poem; a testament to the moment we live in. 

A country erupts;

slaughter dresses the table.

Its humanity in chains,

voices dying to speak.

Slaughter dresses the table.

Bound together in shameful silence,

voices dying to speak

stories the world aches to hear.

Bound together in shameful silence,

tongues hang out in defeat.

Stories the world aches to hear,

never to be believed.

Tongues hang out in defeat.

Mirrors reflect indifference

never to be believed.

Vacant stares graze the horizon.

Mirrors reflect indifference;

a country erupts.

Vacant stares graze the horizon:

It's humanity in chains.  

-- Sharon Feller, October 6, 2018

Opening

It’s become my habit, after I flip the switch on the “OPEN” sign, its red light now glowing in the window glass, to spend the first few minutes of my front desk gallery hours taking in the month’s new exhibit.  Such diversity of media, composition and content makes my head and heart swell.  Amid all of this talent and creativity I’m finding it hard to hold at bay the pressure I’m programmed to put on myself. The urgency to get my act together quickly is palpable.  

I moved into my art studio about 45 days ago.  I’m still pinching myself, really.  Furniture pieces curated, ordered, shipped, delivered and installed, I’m unpacking, organizing and reorganizing, pondering how to create my identity, how to put my artistamp on my very own space.  

I vacillate between activities that all feel like fun yet crushing priorities:  Spending time designing and producing business cards and creating a signature piece to announce my identity outside my studio door.  Making baby shower invitations and starting on my annual holiday card to respond to the business of life.  Furthering the sketching techniques shaken out of hibernation through classes at The Art Institute of Chicago.  Working in new media and larger scale as I ache to one day exhibit in this extraordinary space. 

Turbidity owns the day these days. All at once I am paralyzed by the work I feel needs to be done to establish myself, intimidated by those who appear so comfortable with themselves and their art in this community, overwhelmed by the opportunity just standing in this space presents me, intrigued by the new and unknown path I’m sure will reveal itself.  I’m full of pride in finding the gumption to make this happen for myself, and oh so grateful for matriculation into this tribe. 

It feels like kismet, landing here in this beautiful 100+ year-old limestone building with its hardwood floors, exposed ceilings and skylights in the historic district of town.  The coincidence that the artist who labels her work “sea art” finds a home in a studio on Water Street is not lost on me. Yet I know it is probably time to reinvent my brand as the opportunity to broaden my reach presents itself in this non-profit with the mission to make the arts accessible in this community and beyond. 

I recently asked a subordinate for some feedback on my day job and I can’t help but draw a parallel from his response to my entre to studio life.  He’s been with me for nearly my entire tenure in this role.  He points out that he’s watched me grow tremendously in this position over the last three years.  It’s taken a while, but I’ve settled in and I’m now putting together a proposal to reorganize and expand my portfolio of accounts, something we both know I would have never been ready for when I started this job.

This awkward uncertainty is nothing more than the hallmark of the beginning.  It’s scary and exhilarating all at the same time to be the new kid on the block.  But what I’m slowly learning about this place is there is no pressure.  We are all here to do our own thing, to engage with the group as we see fit.  I will make friends.  I will be embraced when it is my time.  I’m not here to be anyone other than myself.  Assimilation cannot be rushed. I’m the only one bothered by the fact that I’m not yet ingrained. I’m the only one who needs to get comfortable allowing myself some time to steep in these surroundings and discover my niche. 

And so it is with anything new.  It’s expected we need time to get our feet wet, to learn how things work, to experiment, make mistakes, and experiment again.  To invent ourselves and intuit where we belong in the world our passion draws us to is what it’s all about. The gallery is open and so am I. 

Approbation

Her voice breaks as she elaborates on the story I’ve just summarized to explain why she is deserving of the recognition I announce to the team.  She “did it anyway” says the Everyday Bravery pin I present her with.  She held to her own moral compass and convictions, choosing to do what’s right instead of acquiescing to the client’s prejudice.  I’m struck by just how vindicated she feels to have stood her ground, to have this act noticed and celebrated.  

We call it managerial courage.  It’s demonstrated when someone is able to have the hard conversation, to speak up for what is just even when no one else is, to share the bad news in spite of the fact it may incite conflict, to admit to a mistake before it is discovered, to be the messenger who just might get killed. 

The concept of managerial courage extends far beyond the work of a manager. Hard conversations and hard situations are everywhere, every day, not just in our leadership at work, but in our relationships, our friendships, our parenting.  They are the choppy waters on the open sea disrupting the smooth sailing we think we’re entitled to.  And we like to avoid the choppiness at all costs.  Yet the windward souls who take on these encounters are so rarely recognized for their bravery. 

When I took the job I'm in today I felt ambushed by the number of hard conversations I was having.  They were presenting themselves multiple times a week.  I would tie myself up in a knot of anxiety, spending as much, if not more, time worrying about them than actually having them.  I thought if I planned out what I was going to say and anticipated what the other person would say I would feel more at ease.  But the reality is I felt worse.  No matter how much planning I did the one thing I could count on is the conversations would never go as expected.  I knew I had to either change my approach or change my job. 

My fever finally broke when I decided to accept that I was going to have a hard conversation every day.  I now make a practice of embracing them and as with anything I practice, I am getting better. I’m becoming acclimated to the business of exposing challenges and provoking tension in the name of positive change. 

“I am constantly amazed at how courageous and radical speaking the truth is.”  — Melissa Etheridge, singer/songwriter, activist

I shared this quote with my team of leaders when I added recognition of managerial courage to our regular team meeting agenda. As I reward them for their bravery and we start to dig into why straight talk is so hard I wonder if I am meeting my own high standards when it comes to initiating the hard conversations. While I’m ready to face them and more comfortable with my role I find there are some I’m still avoiding.  I’m questioning whether there are any limits on speaking truth.  Should we be able to broach any topic?  Am I being brave enough?

In the business world, the willingness to initiate hard conversations is tethered to our assessment of whether we’re putting our own jobs on the line or how empowered we believe we are to put a piece of business at risk. If we go out on this limb will anyone be there to catch us if we fall?   Telling a client about the dysfunction you see in his organization or sharing your assessment that his top leader is in over his head is dicey if your client hasn’t openly asked for such feedback.  Having those conversations could lead to the end of a business relationship.  But conversely could be the beginning of a trusted advisory.  It’s all in how you have the conversation. 

And that’s it really.  The preparation for a hard conversation isn’t laying out your exact words and scripting what you expect to hear in response, it’s in showing up with your perspective, a few really good questions, and an earnest desire to make things better. It’s in trusting you’ll be able to take the conversation in a healthy direction and create a safe place for your counterpart to let down his or her guard gracefully.  

The funny thing about hard conversations is they can be fantastically liberating. Every time I have one, even if it doesn’t go as well as I’d like, I am flooded with peace at having said my piece, to have put my position out there.  Hard conversations are the dam breaking. They move what’s stuck forward.  They plant the seed of reflection in those open to understanding.  Without them real change can’t happen.

 

The good feelings that come out of this type of genuineness really are enough; but I find calling out such authenticity and vulnerability inspires others to take the leap too. And is the spark I need to keep coming back for more.

Everyday Bravery pins, the brilliant creation of artist Emily McDowell, recognize that courage isn’t reserved for grand gestures, it’s mustered every day in moments that go largely unnoticed.  Don’t miss an opportunity to give yourself or someone you’re proud of some credit.

Seagirt

“Let’s book it,” I tell him after perusing the photos for about 30 seconds. He’s been talking about renting a big house somewhere fun, and inviting family members to join us for community living and connection.  Ridiculously cheap airfare from Chicago to Denver to San Diego in January eventually makes his dream come true.  He giddily surfs the net for accommodations; my sole stipulation is we must be on the beach. In what seems like no time, he surfaces a spectacular 4-bedroom townhouse on the sliver of land in southern California sandwiched between the lion of Mission Beach and the lamb that is Mission Bay. We can literally watch the sunrise and the sunset over the water from the rooftop.

The trip becomes multi-generational, a celebration blending, defining and cementing family:  My dad and my oldest son along with their lovely ladies, and Glenn’s brother and equally lovely sister-in-law.

My love affair with San Diego is the worst-kept secret; I haven’t been able to take my eyes off her since we met in the summer of 1988.  Is it wrong that I want to share her with my guests, that they yearn to be her mistress, too?

We have plans for the week, but not really.  Herding all of us cats is not as laborious as I expect it to be.  We’re together, yet free to spend our time as we like.

With a little negotiating, rented bikes from the shop across the street are ours for the week, delivering instant mobility and freedom. There is always someone to ride with, and a ready escape if you need to be alone.  San Diego is designed for biking and we pedal for miles.  Even I see this city I know so well from new vantage points.

Most of us beat a path to the Starbuck’s along the beach and the boardwalk. Nothing heals like a morning walk on the shore. Some of us conduct business back home on our cellphones while sipping our favorite brews. We find each other in our comings and goings, sometimes we stop to chat or tag along, other times we wave a big hello.

We take a day trip to Ocean Beach, with the requisite tourist photographs in front of Hodad’s, and the surfers catching waves next to the peer.  I stop in my favorite artisan-owned jewelry shop, Noon.  We meet for lunch at a Mexican restaurant.  We admire the majesty of the mighty Pacific at Sunset Cliffs.

We explore La Jolla from top to bottom, making the winding drive uphill to Soledad and back down to sea level to watch the seals sun themselves on the beach at The Cove.  While the trip up pales in comparison to the Colorado mountains, the views at the top are no less breathtaking. I feel Californication gripping our travel companions as they fall hard and fast for the edge of western civilization.

The weather is perfect during the day, a little chilly at night. Under the stars around the fire pit on the roof the almost-full moon lights a path over the water. Social lubrication sets in.  We share stories and opinions and failings that maybe the kids shouldn’t hear. We get to know each other a little bit better.

We roam the shops of Temecula, share a final meal al fresco and part ways with Dad and Judy. Remembering this vacation makes me both melancholy and exuberant at the same time. The intersection of these fine souls, at this moment in time, sharing the house surrounded by the sea will never happen again. And what an amazing blessing that it did.

Thank you, G.  xoxo

Invictus

I dream of a capacious light-filled space with high ceilings and bright white walls primed for an ever-changing canvas, storage space cleverly designed to display its treasures for a constant stream of creative inspiration. A large table sits in the center of the room with plenty of surface to spread out and stools to pull in close, inviting into my atelier a muse, a loved one, or any tender-hearted soul with a cup of coffee and time for compelling conversation.  There’s music when the spirit moves me and silence when I’m still.  A comfortable chaise sits in the corner begging me to stretch out and read under the light of a lamp dripping in sparkling crystals.

Twenty years ago, I started a slow fade away from commercial design toward project management. It was a safer place for me, hiring all the experts who would design and build a space rather than being responsible for designing it myself. I haven’t spent much time thinking about why this happened.  I’ve always chalked it up to being a “bad” designer. Maybe I haven’t given myself enough credit.  The notion that I really can’t stand having my creativity questioned and judged is probably closer to the truth.

 

I placed the “bad” designer label on myself when I was challenged by colleagues who didn’t agree with what I was doing, didn’t like my ideas or style. These professionals did this work for far longer than I did, they must know more, know better. Contemplating the experience now, I conclude I’m far more willing to back down stewing in resentment than to stand up and build a compelling argument for my case.  Which is so interesting to me because I can defend my position with the quiet and methodical logic of a seasoned barrister almost anywhere else in my life.  But when it comes to my creativity I am rendered mute. It’s a crippling fear that I now realize limits me.  I’m sure it’s what keeps me from hiring an editor and finally publishing a book.

Selling is a skill I’ve never fully developed.  I would much rather be back stage, comfortable in the role of influencer. Sales is front and center, under the spotlight; a whole other realm.  But one you need to enter if you want to take on the naysayers, defend the relevance of your own work and see the vision in your mind’s eye brought to life.  It’s almost sad how our strengths can unwittingly be stifled, even sacrificed by our own incestuous determination to conceal and protect our weaknesses at all costs.  What kind of designer could I be if I was willing to stand strong in the face of judgement and just sell my heart out?

Creative ideas are born in my mind and killed off multiple times a day. There is no requiem; no flowers at the gravesite.  I move on, in fact, I probably forget more great ideas than I actually execute. Yet these days when an idea dies on the table I find myself compelled to induce CPR with a ferocity I don’t recognize, and I’m the only one who can pull myself off the body and call time of death.

It’s easy to be generous in the face of abundance, to surrender when there is so little at stake.  But when every idea is challenged, when nothing is guaranteed to be a sure thing, I begin to wonder if somewhere in the steady drip of acquiescence or compromise I will wake up one day to discover I’ve lost myself.

And this is the beauty and promise of my dream studio, that one place where my creativity lives out loud, untempered, unapologetic and requires no explanation, no defense.  It’s the threshold that beckons, and when crossed by those who know me well, reveals a haven recognized as unmistakably mine.

I know in my heart that creativity cleaves, that I wear it on my sleeve and it always finds a way.  I know I could no sooner stop its flow if I wanted to.  But I long for abandon somewhere.  It is my saving grace. 

Galoshes

I invite them over to my house for dinner. During the course of the conversation he is having with his brother I learn he is wearing cloth gym shoes to his dishwashing job and coming home at night with soaked feet.  He takes me up on my offer to buy him a pair of rubber boots he can slip over his shoes; I’m on Amazon later that evening making arrangements for them to be shipped directly to his place. 

I know it’s an awful cliché, but this stage – adulthood – IS the hardest stage to parent. Yes, I said we were at the hardest stage when they hit high school, and before that when they went to middle school, and likely before that when they entered elementary school.  I know I definitely said it during potty training, and when I changed diapers, toted them around in a car seat I could barely lift, and woke up to feed them in a fog in the middle of the night. And okay, maybe during childbirth, too. But I really mean it now.

I am not a helicopter parent.  If I were to place myself on the involved parent continuum, I’m definitely farther to the left. This is proving itself to be true as the time between when we all parted ways last summer and now stretches out a bit; more and more stories of my parenting negligence and ignorance are coming to light.  While it’s embarrassing, they survived and I’m certain I’m not alone.  Regardless, all parents spend a fair amount of time doing for their children.

We try to feed our kids nutritious foods, at least what was deemed to be nutritious at the time.  We make sure they get their vaccinations, take their vitamins, visit the dentist regularly.  We read to them, send them to school, do our best to pester them to do their homework. We encourage them to have friends, to pursue their interests, cheer them on at their sporting events.  Yet, all the while, in the background, they are quietly absorbing what they really need from us:  A value system, a sense of justice, a work ethic, resourcefulness, persistence, resiliency. They glean from us how to express compassion and empathy, manage anger and frustration, show leadership, listen for understanding, how to choose to love. They say the beauty of a Liberal Arts degree is the focus on teaching critical thinking.  Isn’t this something we teach at home, whether we realize it or not? 

I know these are things I learned at home.  And maybe it feels obvious and that it all happened by some happy accident because it seems like it was a simpler time.  Our family was large by today’s standards. One salary supported us all. Time and money were spread thinly across many. My parents couldn’t physically do as much for us, but they made sure what they did mattered.  Mom volunteered at the school.  Dad was a den leader for Cub Scouts.  They both taught confirmation classes attended by me and a group of my eighth grade peers in our living room, much to my horror at the time.

As I start to realize what my adult children need from me now, I have a greater appreciation for the parenting my dad has done and continues to do for his own adult children.  Drawing the line between helping out and enabling (and staying on the proper side) takes an enormous amount of courage and restraint. My dad asked us to take out student loans and carry the burden of paying them off, and then one day requested the payment book so he could take care of the balance himself.  Listening without passing judgement can mean a tongue perpetually scarred from being bitten.  I don’t recall ever hearing “I told you so” when I slunk back home after having experimented with some aspect of living that didn’t go as planned.

I now understand that Dad continues to show up and be lovingly present in our lives even though he may harbor wariness or unexpressed disagreement with choices we make, whatever those may be:  Where we live, who we live with, how we raise our own children, how we conduct ourselves in this world. And he somehow finds peace in the ceaseless silent worry for the health, happiness and well-being of his offspring that is starting to slowly strangle me. I can only hope to be this good.

We want to redact our stories, to share only the highlight reels with our parents.  We want them to be proud of our every move. Yet, there are times when we need to expose our flaws if for no other reason than to validate that we are still worthy of being loved. Conversely, as parents we want only the best for our children.  We know we sometimes can’t bear to watch their struggles, and that at any time they could call with news that has the power to break us.  Yet we show up anyway because love for our children makes us impervious; we will weather any storm they bring to us. We show up because love offers no other option.

It’s hard to stop doing for our children and trust that they’re equipped to find their own way. Amazon allows me to get my fix occasionally, to let them know in some small way I am still looking out for them, sending love from a safe distance. Yet if I had it to do all over again, I would do less and counsel more.  Sure, they were responsible for their laundry in high school, cooked their own meals when I was out, secured steady part-time employment at 15 or 16, but despite their burgeoning maturity, I spent a fair amount of time mired in telling them to act differently instead of helping them see why they should want to act differently. While I didn’t always succeed, I strove to be a sounding board instead of sounding off.  And this is what they need more than ever from me today. 

Thanks, Dad, for continuing to do the hard work, for supporting choices you may not agree with, for resisting the urge to tell us we screwed up and you saw it coming, for letting us be our own people, for displaying a love impermeable to our imperfections, and for showing us how to put on our rain gear and head out into the storm.