Ten months ago, our team was asked to lead a weeklong Leadership conference for nearly 200 participants.

Simple enough.

"But it's a paperless event, so no handouts.  Please provide softcopies."

Easily done.

"Oh, just one more thing—we also need you to utilize social media throughout."

A what?

Now call me old-fashioned, antiquated, a troglodyte, a Luddite, whatever—each is, I suppose, apropos to some degree.

After all, I'm 42 years old and, to my way of thinking, a website, a periodic blog entry, an email account, a LinkedIn profile, a gauzy Facebook profile, a 1-lb laptop and an iPhone should more than suffice.  Each one was hard enough to come by, must there be more?

Apparently, there must.

A writerly friend of mine, with whom I visited over a nice meal not that long ago, was absolutely aghast when I described my blog.

"Good gosh, Blake.  No one blogs anymore," she proclaimed, drawing out the word as if having seen me tie my horse to the hitching post before entering the restaurant.  "People don't have time to read blogs.  You've got to tweet!"

And earlier today, a colleague commented, "Have you ever noticed how 'young people' (under 30 or so) don't answer their phone?  All they do is text."  He went on to share a story about a dear family friend, 22 years old, with whom he has communicated literally hundreds of times in a decade, "But perhaps only five times by phone.  I'm serious.  In several near-emergencies, I've had to send her a text saying, 'Hey, I'm going to call you.  Please ANSWER YOUR PHONE when I call.'"

We went on to laugh about 'landlines.'  "The majority of people who call are telemarketers," we concluded.

And so, with great trepidation, I have begun to populate my Twitter account (first created for me by a colleague at the aforementioned conference).  Thus far, it is merely quotes.  They are meaningful quotes, not robotically generated, and each is important to me for one reason or another.

I suppose, in time, I might use Twitter for ostensibly "important announcements" about upcoming public seminars or strategy sessions.  Or to remind folks that our daughter is selling Girl Scout cookies, and please buy a dozen boxes.  (Seriously, please do.)  Or to launch a new 360 or app or video series, each of which we have in the mix for 2012-2013.

And, if you choose to follow me (I am currently following 126 thought leaders, universities, colleagues, researchers, writers, TV shows and celebrities—in an attempt to learn the ropes), I promise that I will not tweet about my trips to 7-11 for Dr. Pepper slurpees.  Or my trip to see Snow Patrol in concert.  Or about how I mistakenly packed new shoes for a weeklong trip, "And man, do my feet hurt!"

Well, at least, I don't think I will.

After all, guns don't kill people.  People kill people.

In the hands of the masses, with a noble, shared agenda, Twitter has partially animated the topplings of militaristic, despotic regimes that might otherwise have continued governing tyrannically for several more decades.

Who am I to defile such a powerful tool with my inane comings and goings?

I will do my best to continue blogging, which itself is so far from longform writing as to (channeling something Ricky Gervais might say here), "Make the former look as classless as Kim Kardashian and the latter as classy as Kate Middleton."  (I'm not sure where this leaves tweeting.  Probably Tonya Harding territory, I would concede.)

Along the way, I'll have to learn more about HootSuite, bitly, hashtags (#) and @ symbols as I tweet Tweeple from Twiland, the Twittersphere and beyond.  And it appears I'll have to do some regular gardening and pruning, because for every 'real follower' there is one automatically generated spambot, sexbot or weed that crops up, making my wife dubious about Twitter in general and the notion of followers specifically! 

Best case, I'll be able to keep up with folks a little better, and they with me.  Worst case, well, I suppose there are three potential worst-case scenarios: (1) I'll offend someone by tweeting, and they'd rather I simply crawl in a hole and die already.  (2) I'll trip over my tail, being the ancient dinosaur that I am, and uncouthly SHOUT because I know neither the Twitter dialect, norms or taboos.  Or, and this one is most likely, (3) I'll find some modicum of value via the medium and yet, either because of my own ineptitude or time/energy/resource constraints, I'll neither consistently leverage Twitter in the months/years to come nor keep up with it (or its potential surrogates or inevitable scions, finding myself, once again, "behind the times" and dogpaddling).

We shall see.

Time reliably remains the greatest truthteller, nearly always revealing what was once hidden, unknown or altogether 'un-see-able.'  (Which, no, is not quite the same as invisible, or hidden, for that matter.)

Meanwhile, I do hope a dozen of you will tweet me your comings and goings, even if we are, now and then, reduced to sharing news about airport delays and the simple diorama the child next to us has crafted from the glops and blobs of gum beneath his seat.

Who knows, maybe now I'll be able to read about topplings and presidential campaigns first-hand, from dead-center in the stream itself, rather than waiting for my ABC News app to refresh or, even worse, until Diane Sawyer tells me in person on that large piece of glass we used to call a television set.  You know the one.  It's that thing in the room you rarely enter, was once a piece of 'furniture,' and families—so we're told, 'gathered' around it at static, appointed times, like a radio.  Or a fire.

Here's to tomorrow, the future, and the dawn of a new era.  Or, as your teenager might say, "So yesterday."

p.s. I can't help but wonder, so surely you do too, "What would Gutenberg think?"  Considering it took roughly 10 hours for a typesetter to create a typical, one-page document as recently as the turn of the 18th Century, or a monk several days to do the same prior, I cannot help but be, and I'm quite serious now, in awe of today's media.  What was virtually impossible two decades ago has become pedestrian today.  We live in AMAZING, breathtaking, awe-inspiring times.  May we relish them, treasure our personal liberties and endeavor to more fully exploit and capitalize on our technologies virtuously, that they might improve the quality of life for, literally, billions who rise each day and surely wonder, "Will tomorrow be any better than today?"  Communication holds this potential and this promise.  It always has and always will.  From the most enlightened to the most evil, all influential leaders know this in their bones.  Contribute to the message, and you may influence more.  Lose the message, and all the rest is in vain.  

*  *  *  *  *

"Ideas are more powerful than guns.  We would not let our enemies have guns, why should we let them have ideas?"  (Joseph Stalin)   

On this, the sixth anniversary of your birth, you are on the hearts and minds of all who know and remember.

Thankfully, it was gorgeous today; the sun shone brightly and warmly on our faces.

A couple weeks ago, I watched Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life.

Talk about "Give a Mouse a Cookie!"

It's not really a movie.  It's more an exposition on existentialism.

Sure, it's presented via film, but it's primarily a hallucinogenic journey from creation to destruction, with Texas and philosophy residing somewhere in between.

The early lines about two ways to live, via grace or nature, are breathtaking.  And, as the journey unfolds, similarly heartbreaking.

But the film led me on a Terrence Malick bender, proceeding from The Tree of Life to Badlands, Days of Heaven and The New World (which was particularly rewarding because, after devouring A Land as God Made It and A Kingdom Strange [both by James Horn, about the Jamestown and Roanoke colonies, respectively], I had also just returned from an emotional day at Jamestown Colony). 

After growing up in Waco, TX, Malick graduated from Harvard with a degree in philosophy.  He then attended Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar, but he did not complete his doctoral work, opting instead to drop-out, become a journalist, writer, itinerant professor at MIT and, surely, one of this century's most reclusive, enigmatic, brilliant directors.  His personal story is marked by lows and highs, from his pianist brother's crippling his own hands and eventual suicide to Malick's three marriages and his ultimately directing what many regard as the finest film ever made, Days of Heaven, which proved that 'the magic hour' right before dusk can be the most gorgeous time to roll tape. 

Malick's own inquiries, evident in everything he has touched, are about Being.  In fact, one of his best known scholarly works is a translation of Martin Heidegger's (1889-1976) Vom Wesen des Grundes, published by Malick as The Essence of Reasons.  Heidegger, a controversial figure then and now, explored the meaning of Being, determinism, our role in the world ("in situ," as it were)--and the extent (or limited extent) to which we can be, in short, "masters of our domain," advocating instead that we are probably just "leaves in a stream." 

These films by Malick, the books by Horn, my introspective day at Jamestown (during which, virtually alone for hours, I felt like an alien landing on earth some 300 years after it imploded)--coincide with my 42nd birthday--placing me (God willing and health permitting) smack-dab between my own creation and (carnate) destruction at the intersection of Texas and philosophy.  Mid-life, to be sure.

As I've written before, our daughter articulated her first, deep existential angst about one month into 1st Grade.  As I lay her in bed one night, her heavy head on the pillow, tinkly music drifting in the background, she stared up at me with her big round eyes and inquired (God as my witness), "Daddy, is this all there is to life?"  Perplexed, I asked, "What, Sweetie?"  Sighing, she said, "You know...dressing, eating, sitting in plastic chairs all day listening to a teacher.  Coming home to eat, undress and do it all again tomorrow?" 

Needless to say, I was first taken aback.

Who spoke these words?

In return, I was speechless. 

There is, to life, a number of days in plastic chairs.

And a number of hours standing in line.

Along with perhaps 87,600 meals.

And 29,200 showers.

And, if you want them and are fortunate, perhaps 2.5 kids, a couple cars, a house in the cul-de-sac, a few diplomas on the wall and all the rest.

Sure, yes, there is much about life that is pedestrian, pragmatic, prosaic.

As we spoke, for what amounted to perhaps one hour, we proceeded to move beyond these ideas though, at which point I tried (speaking to a six-year-old) to describe meaning, belief, service, faith, hope, love and all the rest.  And, very briefly, to describe a sense of calling, living a life on purpose, and talents.  (Hey, she asked.  We're too far in to turn back now, I reasoned.) 

Looking back over the nearly four years that have lapsed since then I can say, with a degree of shock, that it did seem to click.  She was listening.  She more than heard me--she somehow, through her tiny ears and wet eyes, understood.

And her journey, like mine--yours--ours, is often about Being more than Doing.

We are trained, most of us, to focus on "behavior," as it is, from a reductive standpoint, observable and, therefore, "measurable and coach-able."

But I must say, as I get older, that any worthwhile reflection on one's personhood begins much deeper.  Not at the 'genetic' level, mind you, but certainly at the 'atomic' level of, say, one's Being and Beliefs.

To make this demonstrable, consider the hypocrite.  The politician, for example, who Is and who Believes one way, yet consistently Behaves obversely.

More slippery still, consider the person who Behaves well toward you, demonstrating wonderful actions, when all the while a brew of anger, hate, jealousy or vengeance roils right beneath the surface.

Psychologists and philosophers have wrestled with and written about these "veneers" and "masks" for millennia, and they always will.

The questions of "Who am I" and "What do I believe" undergird and give shape to our very existence.

They precede Behavior and, to my current way of thinking, actually supersede it.  True, I care about Behavior.  I/we all do; should; will.  Agreeing with the cognitivists (e.g., Maslow, McClellan, McGregor, Herzberg) more than the behaviorists (e.g., Pavlov, Skinner and all the rest), I believe that, while actions and reactions matter, behaviors are primarily symptomatic in nature, with one's starting disposition being more causal.  (Yes, yes, there are limitless exceptions, from seatbelts and smoking to aromatic foods, ringing doorbells and vibrating phones, but these do not dissuade me from my 51/49 lean.) 

As I reflect on Malick's films, the colonists who forged this nation, the founding fathers who (nearly 160 years later) canonized its liberties...and even David Fincher's interpretation of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, I am convinced beyond certainty that Being and Beliefs, while not quite prologue, are immeasurably paramount.

When I coach someone who has had "a change of heart," his/her ears and eyes are wide open.

When I coach someone who "intellectually understands," yet maintains a concrete bunker around his/her heart, we both fail.

I share these ruminations in the magic hour of 2011, as dusk is coming and, with it, the sun is slipping below the horizon.

All too soon, 2011 will be but a distant memory and we, like the rooster, will be crowing about 2012 and all that dawns ahead.

May this New Year be your best one yet, so abundant with blessings that your storehouse nails pop clean out, boards bursting at the seams, flat-out overflowing.

But more than this, much more, my hope and heart and mind and prayer is this: may you find and be at peace with your own Being and Beliefs.

So much that, should this or that be your last hour, you might rest your head on a soft pillow knowing, tomorrow and beyond, there is unquestionably Meaning, Reason and Hope well beyond the plastic chairs. 

It is the way of grace.

JamestownPhotos.pdf (12.52 mb)

Recently, I bought a magical new toner cartridge for our home printer.  After installation, the printer produced a bizarre test page.  Upon this page were printed these random Observations, Laws, Constants, Corollaries and Rules.  Where they came from, gremlins only know.  But as I read them, I chuckled--and thanked the gremlins.  After reading them, you just might do the same.

Laugh on.

Ettore's Observation: "The other line moves faster.  This applies to all lines--bank, supermarket, tollbooth, customs and so on.  And don't try to change lines.  The other line--the one you were in originally--will then move faster."

Boren's First Law: "When in doubt, mumble."

Murphy's Law: "If anything can go wrong, it will."

O'Toole's Commentary on Murphy's Law: "Murphy was an optimist."

The First Corollary to Murphy's Law: "Anything that is to go wrong will do so at the worst possible moment."

The Unspeakable Law: "As soon as you mention something, if it's good, it goes away; if it's bad, it happens."

Non-Reciprocal Law of Expectations: "Negative expectations yield negative results.  Positive expectations yield negative results."

Howe's Law: "Every man has a scheme which will not work."

Zymurgy's First Law of Evolving System Dynamics: "Once you open a can of worms, the only way to re-can them is to use a larger can."

Skinner's Constant: "The quantity which must be multiplied by, divided by, added to or subtracted from the answer you get to give the answer you should have got."

Law of Selective Gravity: "An object will fall so as to do the most damage."

Jenning's Corollary: "The chance of the bread falling with the buttered side down is directly proportional to the cost of the carpet."

Barth's Distinction: "There are two types of people: those who categorize people into two types and those who do not."

Ninety-Ninety Rule of Project Schedules: "The first 90% of the job takes 90% of the time, the last 10% takes the other 90%."

Farber's Rule: "Necessity is the mother of strange bedfellows."

The other night, our daughter had a sleepover with one of her friends who's eight.

At dinner, she asked Lauren (our eight-year old) if she had an email address.

"No, not yet, but everyone keeps asking me when I'm going to get one.  All our friends have one.  Mom, why don't I have an email yet?"

For several minutes, this inquiry went 'round and 'round.

And then Lauren asked her sweet little friend, all forty inches of her, "Heather, do you really GET emails.  I mean, how many emails do you get?"

"Oh, man, tons.  I get tons of emails."

"Really?" our daughter asked incredulously.

"Sure.  I mean, like, for every email I send, I get at least one back."

And then my wife chimes in.  "Heather, WHO emails you?  Your family, Pottery Barn, who?"

"Oh no, not Pottery Barn.  I don't know them and they don't know me."

"So, who?" my wife continues, the hint of a smile creeping across her face.

"Well, my sister has an email at veroozon and my grandma has one at yee-haw, so I email them all the time.  But most of the time, the person that writes me lots is postmaster."

...

I gotta tell you, dear reader, I'm standing at the sink washing my dish when she says this and, I swear, hand to God, as soon as she matter-of-factly chirps, "the person that writes me lots is postmaster," I laughed and snorted so hard snot came flying out my nose.  My wife and I guffawed so hard and so long that I thought we were going to have to leave the kitchen or enter the restroom.  Several days later, my sides still ache.

Her second biggest pen pal is...wait for it...mailerdaemon.

...

The kid's got spunk, to be sure.

Here she is, prattling on and on about her active social life with postmaster and mailerdaemon.  Two phenomenal pen pals...the kind who ALWAYS write back when one sends emails to people with unique domains like 'veroozon' and 'yee-haw.'

Gosh almighty, kids are wonderful, aren't they?

Write on, Heather, write on.

My wife and I were chortling the other day about several funny childhood memories.  They are countless, right?  Of course they are!  

Here's just one, shared for no apparent reason whatsoever, other than perhaps because every time I think of it I laugh so hard peas fly out my nose. 

I remember my first day of 6th grade as if it was yesterday.  I made quite a...splash.

All of us had been in the same school, grades 1-5.  The move to grades 6-8 was a biggie, primarily because it was an entirely different school several miles and one big bridge away.  Its scope and scale were colossal by comparison.  In the course of one year, we jumped from carrying tubby-trays with Big Chief tablets and fat pencils to a campus replete with lockers, designated smoking areas, a quarter-mile track, sports fields, science labs, woodworking and welding shops, labyrinthine hallways and an amphitheater with a sound system. 

I entered this grandiose facility for the first time wearing a bright red t-shirt with gold lamé writing that read, "I am FANTASTIC!" in a big arc across the front. 

After a day of proverbial swirlies, wedgies and being placed upside down in trash cans by 8th graders, I returned home and stood--defeated--in the kitchen with my mom.  "Mom--I am NOT fantastic."  And whoosh, off came the shirt and into the trash can it went! 

It's surreal recalling that day--thirty years ago now.

I'm not sure what the moral is, or even if there is one.

But I can guarantee you this: I do not wear red anymore.  Ever.  And Hades will become tundra before I wear pronouncement-clothing again.

It's not unusual (cue Tom Jones) for our little group to research, write and speak to Generational Differences in the Workplace, so my antennae are already piqued for changes among my cohorts: the "Forty-Somethings."  And I am definitely sensing pre-tremors that I believe will lead to tectonic shifts within our generation--shifts that will be quite noticeable in years to come.

For lack of a less loaded phrase, let's call the primary shift Chic Frugality.  (Whereas material fruits--possessions--were once synonymous with success, they are slowly becoming hallmarks of foolishness, recklessness, garishness and waste.  Clearly, this signals a potential attitudinal sea change for consumerism in our society.  Pure & Simple = More.  Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, indeed.) 

As children of older Boomers, Forty-Somethings experienced the most prosperous childhoods since America's creation.  More prosperity = more wealth, more choices, more education, more travel...the works.  Granted, this doesn't describe the reality of everyone born in the mid-late 60's, but there is no question that the access to opportunity afforded to my generation was unparalleled in American life.  We grew up on Leave it to Beaver re-runs, watched Lassie save the Forests and reveled as Kwai Chang Caine educated unsuspecting Californians with his feet in Kung Fu.  The sacrifices of our parents and grandparents yielded many fruits; the world was our oyster and the harvest was frequently bountiful.   

"Want a great job?"  "Then get a great education."  The formula for success was not complicated.  Hunker down in school, get good grades and the rest would take care of itself.  Scholarships, financial aid, competitive tuitions...relatively easy peasy.  It was unusual to meet someone who wanted a college education but didn't get one.

< Here is one of the most powerful videos around that shows how education began--and why it is now failing. >

Wow, have times changed.  Today, all bets are off and employment is anything but formulaic.  How's this for a statistic: "Six qualified applicants exist for every available job in the United States."  It is an employer's market, not a graduate's market--and it's not unusual (there's Tom again) to hear of unemployed friends who have had >150 interviews in 2 years...with no luck.

According to the Higher Education Research Institute, an army of 1.5 MILLION students entered college last fall.  Among those interested in East and/or West coast schools, 47% applied to SIX or more universities...roughly twice the number in 2007.  According to Collegia, a consultancy that helps cities market their colleges, 250,000 FAMILIES pass through Boston each year to visit Harvard, Tufts and BU.  The University of North Carolina has seen a 24% increase in campus visits this year, primarily because they now welcome elementary-school age visitors.

In the midst of this competition, uncertainty and unemployment, expectations and confidence are eroding.  If they have not already, nearly all my demographic cohorts (those in my age range) are shedding material possessions like snakes in spring, downsizing homes and cars, stuffing limited cash under their mattresses and recalibrating expectations for their lives and the lives of their children.  The evening news is depressing, politicians are divided and the forecast calls for mostly cloudly with a chance of rain--forever.  At best, maybe we can slash our national debt by $4 to $6 TRILLION USD and hope to claw back to a debt of only >$10 TRILLION?  Oy and Oomph are right.

For grins, check out the US Debt Clock.  Be sure to squint; it'll hurt your eyes.

At the granular, individual level, allow me to share a few personal anecdotes about how I see these oppressive realities affecting many of my friends and cohorts.  Here are direct quotes folks have shared with me during conversations in the last month in three different states:

"It's real simple for me, Blake.  Faith, family, friends."

"In light of all that's happening, and particularly now that I'm getting older, simple is better."

"We tried everything: the house, the land, the car.  None of it brought happiness...and we'll never go back to living that way again."

"Three years ago, I was so driven.  Anything was possible and my wife and I were willing to hunker down and stay.  But now...now, I'm just flat-out tired.  I want off the ride.  My ego's not what it was, I don't hunger for promotions.  I've become much more contemplative and think I'd be happier living in that proverbial van down by the river."

"I am so non-committal.  We've sold virtually everything--and now I'm scared to buy anything!  If I can't lease or rent it, I won't touch it."

"It's funny--we live like we have fear of future buyer's remorse.  Everything stretches out before us, but we fear that if we pull the trigger, the bottom of the market will drop out from under us again and we'll be left holding the bag with no job to back it up."

"My husband and I live this nomadic life now.  We were fortunate enough to sell our home and hit the road.  We spent two years home-schooling in Europe and now we're heading out to the great Southwest.  We live on $1,600/month instead of $12,000."

From Hummer to Prius, home to travel-trailer, these comments have begun to roll in like waves.  For those who are gainfully employed in secure positions or markets, life remains their oyster.  But this reality is becoming a narrow beachhead on a shrinking strip of sand.  The foundations of our capital markets have been rocked, federal employees describe living on "borrowed time," and nothing feels as certain as the evening TV schedule of old.  Now, it's reality, reality, reality...drama, drama, drama...economic disaster after natural disaster after global climate change.

(I loved the headline on the cover of a recent Newsweek magazine, "Kate the Great: In a world gone to hell--thank God, a wedding.")

So much has changed since Princess Diana walked that long path to the altar.  And perhaps a fitting metaphor, too, as many in our generation feel an innocence lost.

But time marches on and, with time comes new opportunity.

It has always been thus, and thus it will always be.  Vanguards, harbingers and horizons.

The key (whether you've lost it all, are hanging on by your toenails or have your arms wrapped tightly around it) is to remember the transformative powers of letting go and of faith.  It was never about the things and never will be. 

Watch Instinct again, with Cuba Gooding, Jr. and Anthony Hopkins and the dialogue will crackle and resonate more than ever:  "What have I taken from you," Anthony asks.  "The illusion of control."  From here--and only here--we can begin to move forward again and envision a new and better way of living. 

We Can Reverse This Lie:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42E2fAWM6rA

This past Tuesday, November 9th, was a most contradictory day.

Ask me what I think of it, and I'm not quite sure...yet.  As they say, "Ask a writer what he thinks and he will reply, 'I won't know until I've written about it.'"

The day was an array of emotions, from grave to uplifting and tragic to beautiful.  In short, twelve brief hours were spent on a Staff Ride with U.S. Army War College professors touring Gettysburg--and I concluded my day at 10:30pm packed like a sardine among Georgetown students at a Jonsi (of Sigur Ros) post-rock concert.

Of course, any attempt on my behalf to more adequately summarize Gettysburg would be adolescent, so I will simply say:

1. 11-09-10 will go down in history as one of my most significant learning experiences.

2. The courage, commitment and collaboration of the tens of thousands who fought and died on that hallowed ground are...and I'm sorry for repeating myself, both sobering and awe-inspiring.

3. I had no idea (until I walked so far that my back, knees, ankles and feet ached and throbbed) how large...massive...sprawling the campaign grounds were.

4. To hear stories of soliders who walked 30+ miles in the day prior only to engage in a deafening 3-day series of battles in which they would lose cousins, brothers, fathers, sons and friends-in-arms in some of the most brutal and horrific fighting of the war...is to learn of things which defy description and complete understanding.

I simply cannot articulate it satisfactorily: the sturm und drang, the blood, the waste, the noise, the smoke, the adrenaline, the fear, the bravery, the foreboding silence that accompanied Lee's men in their last approach.  Our group walked that final mile in real-time, approximately twenty minutes.  Five minutes into it, the end becomes clear--one is in a topographic bowl and there is no turning back and no getting out--alive.  Approximately 10,500 Confederate soldiers were reduced to hundreds in a matter of yards.

The ground ran red, and many more battles were to come for those few who inexplicably escaped.

On the long, reverent, eerily quiet bus ride back to D.C., we were each possessed by introspection, fatigue and emotions.  A sense of hollowness, thinness and history, an appreciation of things worth fighting and dying for--and of battles that ended in fields 145 years ago yet which continue to this day across the social tapestry of our country and the world at large.

Two hours and one long, additional, personal cab ride later, I find myself in the 9:30 Club in D.C. at the food counter visiting with three twenty-somethings about my order.  In a matter of minutes, a small crowd of 80 becomes standing-room-only for 600, all of whom--like me--are transported once again.

Since the first time I heard Sigur Ros on the Sundance Channel, their music has haunted me.  It is melodious and ethereal, quiet and powerful.

Jonsi, the inscrutable and eccentric lead singer, is only 2 nights away from returning to Europe.  He plays here tonight and I know that he departs for NYC tomorrow, the 10th, and then returns to launch his final leg in Belgium on November 21st.  The entire crowd knows this too, of course, and co-creates what must be one of the sweetest send-offs.  I was, in fact, absolutely blown away by the serenity of the crowd--and the utter absence of smoke that might otherwise explain it.

For ninety timeless minutes, undergraduate and graduate students, vegans, young urban hipsters, white collar professionals, several dozen older couples and a mosaic that represents the U.S. in the heart of D.C. stands enraptured at the sublime nature of it all.  The set is, by turns, so quiet one can barely hear it and then so loud my sternum reverberates for one hour after returning to my hotel room.

When it is all said and done, we pour from that collegial tin can and fan out across D.C. like old friends, many of us catching rides or cabs to nowhere.

By midnight I find myself practically alone, enveloped in the silence of the night and accompanied only by the memories of gunshot and powder, life and death and the thump-thump-thumping of massive overhead speakers carrying Hopelandic and Icelandic lyrics through strobing lights and across fog-machine puffs.

Even now, nearly a week later, I'm not quite sure how to further process or internalize Tuesday...how to reconcile its disparateness or incorporate it into my being.  Sure, one could argue it was "just a walk and a concert," but I know better. 

Maybe it comes down to this, or something like it: I am amazed at what human beings are capable of, both in their beliefs and in their creations.  The breadth of human accomplishment is astounding and humbling and the diversity of our beliefs and creations often defies description.

A day bookended there by the gravity of war, heroism and loss...and here by peace, cordiality and hope among strangers.

I'd say, "only in America," but I've lived too long and done too much to believe, naively, that such experiences are anything but universal.

Unique, perhaps, but nonetheless representative of any great experience that transcends nationality and reminds us what it is to be alive, for however long, and to cherish the brevity and meaning of it all.

Yesterday was my beloved's birthday.  (A big one, though I probably shouldn't say anything further on that front.  Okay, I just did.)

And today is mine.

I am 364 days older than my wife and it is her life's mission to ensure I never forget this.  (Though soon enough, I am destined to forget this--and much, much more  ;-)

By their very nature, birthdays are nostalgic; they always take us back, and they inevitably bring old friends into our lives once again.  (Facebook and LinkedIn are wonderful tools that ensure we 'pop up' on busy people's radars.  We live in amazing times, agreed?)

It's been a great couple days--phones ringing, emails chirping, and lots and lots of thoughtful people singing songs into speakers half a world away.

Maybe you don't celebrate your birthday anymore, but you should.

I hit a patch several years back when I stopped celebrating mine, but then I had a good friend pull me aside and say, "Blake, not only do you rob yourself when you skip the day, but you rob all those who care about you and want to say so."

This perspective changed my tune.  After all, he's right.  There really are few 'official' opportunities that create a natural excuse to say to folks, "Hey--you mean a lot to me, and I'm glad I know you.  Have an awesome day."

Stop being miserly with your birthday, keeping it to yourself...downplaying it...or focusing on the 'dark sides' (gravity, loss, the inevitable).

Instead, think of it as a really neat excuse to throw yourself a hootenanny, nosh on some ultrarich cake, tear open handmade gifts and, most importantly--through notes, cards, letters, texts, tweets, calls, voicemails or smoke signals--allow others to say what you enjoy saying to them: "Love 'ya, am thinking of you today...and just wanted to let you know I'm glad you exist."

After all, life is super-short and there are zero guarantees about future shindigs or rodeos.

So wedge yourself into those bluejeans like Yosemite Sam and imbibe.

When asked, "What's the occasion?" tell 'em it's your birthday and to rouse up the entire restaurant, "Cuz my friends and family wanna hear a hundred strangers obnoxiously singing my praises at the top of their ever-lovin' lungs."

The day will come when you'll be glad you did.

Not quite, but my promise to you today is one of pithiness.

Of all the words that have been written about leadership, performance and the like...of all the 'ornamentation' we hang here and there to garnish the tree, it always comes down to this:

CONNECTION & CONTRIBUTION within RELATIONSHIPS defined by TRUST.

End of story.  Period.

We all desire a sense of connection--to others, to purpose.  To make a difference, to contribute something.  To buzz the work and get 'r done.  To see, as Steve Jobs wrote, "a dent in the universe."

"I made that," the credit rolls...

If we can truly connect to someone and something--and be trusted to achieve worthwhile outcomes, life is good.

Don't believe me?  Read any study, particularly longitudinal ones like Harvard's 70-year-old 'Happiness Study.'  Or faster yet, ask an unemployed person why he or she is periodically depressed.  "I'm drifting, untethered.  I feel emasculated and small.  I want to engage and provide and be counted."

Whether we look at it as a parent, sibling, child, employee, citizen...it makes no difference.

To reach our potential, to sing our song, to paint our masterpiece, to live life to the fullest--this organism requires connection and contribution within relationships defined by trust.

Now go get yourself some air, water, sunlight and soil.  Plug-in and power-up.

And if or where you struggle, don't lose hope or give up the fight.

Even weeds find sunlight through concrete, and so do we.

Connect and contribute in even the smallest of ways and, like a spark in the night, the rest often takes care of itself.

I had one of those "if it weren't so dang painful, it'd be comedic" sort of weeks last week. 

It culminated at the rental car counter where the attendant pronounced, "Wow.  It sucks to be you."  (He was not smiling.) 

Needless to say, though practically everything did seem to be working against me, I got a kick out of the comment (though the 'customer service critic' in me flinched at his...honesty?).

We all have our ups and downs, but I don't live in flooded Pakistan right now...or another war-ravaged 3rd world country...or in a dark corner of the globe where personal liberties are non-existent and beautiful, innocent young women suffer having their bodies mutilated at the hands of savages. 

Have I got problems?  Duh.  Who doesn't?  But there are 'problems' and there are p-r-o-b-l-e-m-s. 

* * *

As I walked through a parking lot earlier today, I came across a woman spilling out of her car with this bumper sticker--and couldn't help but laugh...and wonder, "Huh.  Where does she park her car at work and how do her colleagues feel when they read the sticker?"

There are so many days that stink; so many days when we might be inclined to feel absolutely microscopic and insignificant.

Days when we envy even the lab rat.

But buck-up, little camper, because there is hope:

Pretty funny, no?  Can I get even a snicker or a giggle? 

I aim to please.  And to remind you: laugh every now and then, will 'ya?  It releases neato endorphins, puts things in perspective and helps you remember, you ain't all that and this too shall pass.

Just like Grandma's fruitcake or Aunt Emmie's deviled eggs.

See? 

I told you.  Endorphins.

Next time you're searching for computer desktop/background/wallpaper images, promise me you'll try here.

Trey Ratcliff, an SMU graduate and Austin resident, creates the most glorious artwork from already amazing photos.  They run the gamut, from Icelandic meadows and Texas biker rallies to international airport terminals and shots of his family at Christmas. 

You'll enjoy them, others will enjoy them, and they'll transport you into what feels like an alternate universe.

But I must forewarn you: if you think you'll be spending "only 10 minutes" in his site, you're deluded.  Most of my friends pop-out 1+ hours later, wondering what they've been missing all these years.  Put on a pot of coffee and fall into a deep, cozy chair--cuz I predict you're gonna be a while. 

I just love announcing people with talent, and this fella's got it in spades.  Fortunately for him, Getty and the Smithsonian discovered Trey long ago, and the kid seems to be doing all right for himself.    ;-)

God bless the supra-talented who find their callings and thrive living them.  Way to go, everyone.  Keep up the great work.

This is way off-topic, but it's so funny...I just have to share.  And after my prior post, perhaps we're all in need of a good laugh.

Our 8-year-old daughter begins 3rd grade on Monday.  As part of her summer conclusion, my wife (as usual) has planned many excursions and outings for her.  You know the drill: the ice cream store, the American Girl store, the skating rink, the water park, etc.

Last night was "dinner and late-nite TV plus sleepover" with one of her sweet friends from 2nd grade.

I found myself puttering around the house very late, as usual. 

And I was wearing an undershirt, a long sleeve button-down oxford, boxers and black knee-high socks.  A real finger-poke to the eyes, no doubt.  (I resembled that proverbial old man down the street--the one who wears the same--plus suspenders and straw hat and who waters the grass with a roaring hose while smoking a cigar, swigging a beer and periodically blotting at his boundaryless forehead with a bright red handkerchief.)

So here I am padding around the house in my thin socks at midnight.

And my daughter and her girlfriend see me down the hallway.  My daughter squeals and implores, "WHAT ARE YOU WEARING, DADDY?" 

I say nothing.

She then says, "You     are     a     mess.     It's a miracle I'm normal."

I say nothing.

And then, as if on cue, her 8-year-old friend chirps, "Well at least he doesn't walk around in a bra and high heels like my dad."

End of story.

Game over.

Man, did I inadvertently trip and fall into a gold mine, or what?

Needless to say, when I see her father (who's a real stitch...a practical joker...a card...and whom I can entirely visualize playing "funny dress-up" with the family), I'll probably grin so big that my face will tear in half.

I can't wait to see you, Mr. You-Know-Who.  It's on.

Don't worry, this isn't a Hemingway book review.  (Though surely it would be better if it was.)

My wife and I just returned from a funeral for a precious 2-year-old girl.  The church was packed; there must have been 300 people there.

What an absolute gut-wrenching tragedy.  It's the sort of day when everyone files solemnly out of the building...a long procession of shaking heads and swollen eyes.  For believers, a reminder of the promises of eternity, though nothing assuages the loss of a child or the promise of years unlived. 

We are each constantly reminded that growing old is a privilege promised to no one, are we not?

When I was a boy I yearned to be a man: to have car keys and a place of my own.  The irony is, I am once again a subject outnumbered and surrounded by girls...my wife and daughter have a profound capacity for turning our home into a sorority house within hours of walking in the door.  Pots, pans and dishes everywhere, clothes strewn all over the floor, curling irons and hair dryers and make-up all over the place.

I am privileged, indeed, and count my blessings.

Though 'all grown up' (chronologically, at least), it's clear to me now how simple and naive my understanding of 'adulthood' was.  I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Several weeks ago, I drove to pick my daughter up from a sewing lesson.  As I stood in the lobby of the 'arthouse,' a dozen eight-year-old girls were squealing and screaming about some apparently super-exciting item of doll clothing they had just completed.  But here's the funny part: one of the girls looked at me, then turned her head to another girl and asked, "Is that your dad?"

"No," replied the 2nd girl, "My dad doesn't have white hair."

Ouch.

Apparently, I am becoming my father.  (That, however, would undoubtedly be both an improvement and a high compliment.)

If you are reading this blog, God/the universe/fate/karma/destiny/luck/fortune/chance (whatever you believe or do not) has been inarguably kind to you--gracing you with yet another hour to squeeze your kiddos or hug your spouse or, even more special, to thank one or more of your parents (yet again) for bringing you into this world.

You might not enjoy being known as the parent with white hair, but take it from me--it's a blessing to be a parent at all, and it's an unpromised privilege to live so long that everything aches, creaks, pops or burns upon use.

We should only be so fortunate.

For any of you who, tragically, are the parents of a child who has passed--for whatever reason--I understand fully that there are zero words of consolation.  Such a loss, like our dear friends', is a hole that never stops seeping hurt. 

Time may pass, sediment or scar tissue may build up around the wound, but the nerve endings throb forever.

There is nothing so unnatural as outliving a child.

Had things gone differently, our precious daughter would have a 4 1/2 year-old brother by now.  His name was Will.pdf (827.78 kb), and he didn't quite make it.

Not a day goes by that we don't hurt, pray for his soul, or see a 4-5 year-old boy and wonder, "What if only?"  These ruminations are natural, and I know they never go away, especially for parents who lost children they came to fully know...children whose smells and smiles are emblazoned in parents' memories as if sensed or shared this very morning.

May we cherish however much time we have on this earth, brief or long.

And where it's brief, and you feel suffocated in the darkness, remember that you are not alone.  Our losses--and they are incalculable across all humankind--remind us that, if nothing else, matters which have nothing to do with life, death or eternity are virtually trivial.  The speeding ticket, the bosshole at work, the neighbor with his rock music and the tone-deaf blowhard politician: these are each simply part of the scenery, trivialities of the ninth order.

Sniff and snort and huff and puff if you must, but remember: (1)you cannot step into the same river twice and (2)the world will continue spinning.  Don't waste any more time on distractions that keep you from living your life to the fullest for as long as you've got or that keep you from holding those who know you (and love you nonetheless!) close to your bosom.

"My friendship with the Hitch has always been perfectly cloudless.  It is a love whose month is ever May."  —Martin Amis, The Independent, January 15, 2007.

What gorgeous phrasing, no?

I just stumbled across it last night and thought you might enjoy.  (Amis is describing his dear friend and the oft-irascible author, Christopher Hitchens, who was recently diagnosed with esophageal cancer.)

It is a great reminder that, even for those of us who otherwise hide within our introverted caves, a friendship to survive the decades is precious as platinum. 

Whether you postulate 3 people would attend your funeral--or 3,000--may however many tomorrows stretch out before you be bathed in deep, rich, abiding friendships with those who know you entirely and love you nonetheless.

"Life without a friend is death without a witness."  —Spanish Proverb

In ancient Greece (469-399 BC), Socrates was widely lauded for his wisdom. 

One day the great philosopher came upon an acquaintance who approached him excitedly and implored, "Socrates, Socrates, do you know what I just heard about one of your students?"
 
"Wait a moment," Socrates replied, "before you tell me, I'd like you to pass a test, the Test of Three."
 
"Test of Three?"
 
"That's correct," Socrates continued, "before you talk to me about one of my students, let's take a moment to test what you're going to say, shall we?  The first test involves Truth.  Have you made absolutely sure that what you are about to tell me is true?"
 
"No," the man replied, "actually, I just heard about it."
 
"All right," said Socrates, "so you don't really know whether it's true or not.  Then let's try the second test, involving Goodness.  Is what you are about to tell me regarding my student something good?"
 
"No, on the contrary...."
 
"So," Socrates continued, "you want to tell me something bad about him even though you're not certain it's true."
 
The man shrugged, a little embarrassed.
 
Socrates continued, "Hope remains, though, because there is a third test, the test of Usefulness.  Is what you desire to tell me regarding my student useful?"
 
"No, not really...."
 
"Well then," concluded Socrates, "if what you seek to tell me is not True nor Good nor Useful, why share it with me at all?"
 
Defeated and ashamed, the man said no more.
 
This is one of the many reasons why Socrates was such a great philosopher and held in high esteem.
 
It also explains why Socrates never learned that Plato was cavorting with his wife.    

(Sorry, some web-crumbs are simply too hilarious to keep to oneself.  Come back tomorrow; maybe I'll be serious then.)

Not quite true, perhaps -- but certainly a "different" life.

I had my own personal Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and Shop Class as Soulcraft moment today, as I collected my 'ol bucket-of-bolts from my mechanic, Allen.

Allen is equal parts eccentric, intellectual, fatalist, believer and martyr.  (If only he were chubby, he'd be the perfect little Buddha.  Even without rubbing his tummy, existential wisdom emanates as from a fortune cookie.)

Today, on his shop whiteboard, were 2 images that caught my eye.  This being a Friday, my gift to you are these photos, each worth well over 1,000 words.

             and            

The first, a timeless reminder that we must generally choose two (not three) from among Speed (fast), Quality (good) and Cost (cheap).

And the second, a reminder that -- yes -- there is light at the end of the tunnel.     :-)

But meanwhile, there are really nifty toys and treats to anesthetize us along our journey.

Remember 1982 and that brain-rut-inducing Thomas Dolby song, She Blinded Me with Science? 

Science can be blinding--and blind--but today let's explore how Emotions can be, too.

(Science, of course, can be blind because it presumes itself to be the determinant of what is real.  It is the great judge, jury and executioner.  And yet, on matters such as art or ethics, science has little if anything to say.  Genomes or no genomes, deconstruction is no panacea.)

But what do I mean by "Emotional Impairment" or "Emotional Blindness?"  Simply put, I mean that emotions can swallow us whole and, once enveloped within their darkness it is virtually impossible to see our hands in front of our face.

There's a great book that describes similar phenomena, but let me attack it this way...

Forget for a moment the limbic system and all the hormones (which play absolutely vital roles in emotion) and let's just focus on two psychological elements: (1)Loss Avoidance and (2)Commitment.

As denoted by the image below, when one's "Opposition to Loss" (loss avoidance) and "Commitment" escalate, we have a recipe to brew disaster.

Examples are ubiquitous, from gambling and airplane crashes to suicide and high-risk behaviors.  Wherever we see an individual tied to high-stakes, we are right if we see trouble.

Let's take a current example, one that I'm sure has universal applications: War.

Whether we look at "Civil" Wars, Korea, Vietnam, Afghanistan, Iraq...or the thousands of wars that have been waged non-stop since the dawn of humankind, we see leaders in the crosshairs.  Leaders like Lyndon B. Johnson, who felt a tremendous pull between the war in Vietnam and his commitment stateside to create the Great Society.  Here's a great, representative quote from LBJ in 1968.  At the time, America had 500,000 troops in Vietnam and there had been tens of thousands of U.S. casualties:

“I knew from the start that I was bound to be crucified either way I moved.  If I left the woman I really loved – the Great Society – in order to get involved with that bitch of a war on the other side of the world, then I would lose everything at home.  All my programs, all my dreams to provide education and medical care.  But if I left that war and let the Communists take over South Vietnam, there would follow in this country an endless national debate – a mean and destructive debate – that would shatter my presidency, kill my administration, and damage our democracy.”

What happens when we, as leaders, become consumed by Loss Avoidance while simultaneously Escalating our Commitment?  We go blind.

We send more and more troops into un-win-able wars.  We change mission.  We broaden mission through scope-creep.  We change the game.  We change the rules.  We change the scoreboard.  We sell, we push, we spin.  We beg for more.  We ask and take and dicker and steal and we, along with all those around us, go up in flames.

I have a sweet friend whom everyone calls, "Zippo."  Why Zippo? 

Because every time he opens his mouth, he lights himself on fire.

He has no (in the words of my mother) "governor."  No filter between his brain and his tongue.  Or, perhaps too permeable a filter.

We all know Zippos.  "Did he just say that?" we ask ourselves.  And maybe, just maybe, it occurs to them after they've said what they've said..."did I just say that out loud?"

Beware your emotions.  Yes, they serve a prehistoric purpose, without which you will win the Darwin Award.

As human beings, it is true that our emotions often supersede rational thought.  We are reaction machines, our pulse often telling the story before we ourselves are attuned to our anger.

Be vigilant and self-aware, especially when--while reaching for the prize--you scale to the tippy-top of a precarious ladder comprised of self-justifying rungs named "I cannot lose" and "No turning back."  The air up there gets very, very thin...and where so, we stop thinking, stop seeing clearly and become blind to our own emotionality.

Surround yourself with buddies, fail-safes, ejection seats and fire extinguishers.  People who can say, "What are you thinking?  What are you telling yourself?  Why are you acting like this?  Who have you become, Mr. Hyde?"  And mechanisms designed to break the glass and douse the flames while you extricate yourself from your burning building and all that you have wrought.

While literally countless important questions swirl around us every day, there are few that stimulate me as much as, "What makes a great leader?"

It's a loaded question, of course, because embedded within it is another question, "Are leaders born or made?"  (The short answer, for today, is—"Yes."  But more on that Russian doll another time.)

Leadership is such a perennially important issue and this year is no different.  Every generation believes its time is unheralded and novel, and ours is not unique: we continue to live in undeniably tremendous times—an era of explosive growth, ceaseless change and limitless potential.  (But again, the same could be said 4,000 years ago...2,000 years ago, and again during the Renaissance...it is no less true today.)

As always, we need great leaders and greater leadership if we are to continue progressing in fields and practices as diverse as geopolitics, science, economics, finance, spirituality (yes, spirituality), innovation and sustainability.  From natural to man-made disasters in Alaska, New York, Sri Lanka and India to Thailand, Haiti and Louisiana, the importance and effects of leadership (or its absence) are—if we are fortunate—a broadcast away. 

In future blogs, I commit to writing more extensively about leadership at large, but today I will limit my thoughts to the importance of formal education (e.g., the University) as a mechanism and greenhouse for creating and growing tomorrow's leaders and will then conclude with a rough table differentiating poor from great leaders.

My preliminary comments are inspired today by John Sexton, President of New York University ("NYU").  My later comments are inspired by John Maxwell, author of 21 Irrefutable Laws of Leadership (among other books). 

Though I believe there are indeed few 'new things' under the Sun, to the extent these men's ideas are held tenably together, I am to blame.

Universities for Tomorrow

Describing the University for Tomorrow requires a few thousand dissertions and years of research, to be sure, so I will simply take a slipshod whack to get your mind whirring.  You, along with millions of others who are already studying this opportunity, can do the remaining 99.9999% by filling in the gaps.

Fact #1: 70 of today's 85 oldest organizations are, in fact, universities.  (Vatican City and Parliament are examples of the other 15.)

Fact #2: If you want to create a vibrant 'center of thought,' create a great university and wait 200 years.

Fact #3: The universities-within-walls which brought us this far will not lead us into the future.

What NYU is doing in Abu Dhabi is right on the money: it's primarily about people, programs, teaching and research (and just so happens to serendipitously be what my doctoral program was, but on steroids to the 100th power).  I attended the modest Union Institute & University, the first "University without Walls" and participated in classes hosted in Brattleboro, Montpelier, Cincinnati, Los Angeles, Sacramento and Miami.  We regularly embraced eccentric professors on sabbaticals from the Ivy League who operated 'unfettered' from many of the restraints they described occurring in Cambridge, New Haven, Providence, Princeton, Philadelphia, Hanover, Ithaca and NYC. 

...but I digress...

What encouraged me about Mr. Sexton's comments was the notion that tomorrow's university is an open, diverse, ecumenical, organic circulatory system of ideas and best practices that will focus on creative, exploratory thought and nuanced discourse.

I couldn't agree more. 

Indeed, any university, even the ones mired in the past (the ones we revere, historically) are mandated to help students learn to think (and critically) for themselves.  But my impression, far too often, is that university life can quickly become High School 2.0, packed to the gills with memorizing facts, completing rote work, regurgitating information or defending knowledge.  Unquestionably, we should possess societal standards of 'minimum knowledge,' but I expect this work to occur more fully in grades K-12.  The undergraduate years can round-out this process, but the fact that today's ACT and SAT tests still emphasize standardized knowledge, facts, reading, mathematics—and some writing (though many admissions boards admit they don't quite know what to do with this element yet)—I remain concerned that our perspectives are deficient.

While the United States is proceeding toward national standards in 48 of the 50 states, China is migrating toward a more exploratory curriculum designed to create great THINKERS and INNOVATORS rather than fact-regurgitators.  The ideal approach is, of course, a hybrid that includes the best of both.  We need a hygiene-oriented 'bare minimum' (which should be rigorous, not minimalistic; a 'threshold knowledge base' if you will) combined with strong creative and critical thinking skills.  IQ has never been a predictor of leadership success and it never will be.  Similarly, while standardized admissions are undoubtedly sufficient at predicting university success, they are representative solely of the coursework comprising undergraduate schoolwork—which illuminates my point and the 'smallness' of what we expect today.  Moreover, IQ and standardized metrics will never wholly predict a leader's ultimate societal contributions, service to humankind or general performance, so whatever the University of Tomorrow intends to look like, it must quickly learn to shed historic metrics in favor of indices that get at meaning, contribution and potential.

The single greatest determinant of student performance in the classroom is the teacher's expectations.  Knowing this, we should ourselves have the highest expectations for tomorrow's teachers, educators, instructors, professors...and each and every one of them should be well-versed in the Pygmalion Effect.

Finally, the university of tomorrow should be a bastion of deep discourse, not soundbytes.  Mr. Sexton described at length the disadvantage that today's thoughtful politicians start from when they find themselves embroiled in conflicts with opponents adept at dumbing down exceedingly complex issues.  The media loves sticky slogans ("It's the economy, stupid."), but we must have an appetite for prolonged, nuanced, systemic dialogue if we are to more fully understand issues, one another and create students and leaders capable of doing the same.

Poor vs. Great Leaders

Perhaps contary to popular opinion, the leader at the helm of such a university is not terribly dissimilar from the sort of leader who thrives in enterprise.  In the comments of John Sexton and the work of John Maxwell, I see similar threads regarding how students, university officials and tomorrow's leaders interact with the world around them. 

In this light, I conclude today's very embryonic blog with the following table differentiating 'poor' and 'great' leaders.  I trust that it might prove handy somewhere along the line.

More on these and adjacent thoughts in the weeks to come. 

It has been raining for several days now.  The weather is cool, there's a breeze in the air and the skies are overcast.

Our entire family is recovering from what feels like 'weeks' of events, parties, evening meetings and Saturday-Sunday commitments with no end.

But today was different. 

We relaxed, read, turned on the television and tuned out.

Somewhere in the afternoon, however, our daughter Lauren (who turned eight last month) gathered her pillow, some blankets and her pink journal...and created a really cozy 'nest' in the bathtub of the bathroom adjoining our bunker for the day.

This evening, over dinner, she shyly shared her notes with me.

I found them to be wonderfully encouraging and thought perhaps you might, too. 

Here we go; her 'entry for the day,' unfettered and unvarnished. 

The Story of Life, by Lauren Leath

8 Years Old

Life is a simple message. 

People think that if they try, they will get it right.

Sometimes that's not true.

But people can change over time.  They are not always the same.  Maybe when they are 9, they like sports.  When they are 35, they don't like to be outside.

People don't always change, though.

So, here are my 10 Rules for the Road:

1. Life is to enjoy (so enjoy your life, instead of just having a boring old life)

2. Take your time

3. Be positive (make one choice and stay the course)

4. Be bright (shine, show people what you can do, help others)

5. Stand up for yourself (if someone's not treating you nice, don't take it, use your voice)

6. Look at everything around you (don't focus on yourself, pay attention to other people)

7. Encourage others

8. Be your true self (don't try to be cooler than you are, because then something bad can happen)

9. Always believe (just because the vet says Daisy's not pregnant doesn't mean she's not)

10. Figure out who you are (don't spend your whole life wasting your time, figure out who you are and what you like and do it)

These are my 10 Rules for the Road.

...to be continued

"I am sending you out like sheep among wolves.  Therefore be as shrewd as snakes and as innocent as doves."

                                                                                                                                  Matthew 10:16

I've been asked to speak to a group in a couple months on a topic entitled Trust & Influence.  I'm excited because these are really fascinating elements -- the sort that undergird virtually all human interactions. 

The amount of literature in these areas is super-duper-bountiful, so let's make some moonshine today by distilling a few key ingredients into a couple potent drops.  These will be my primary talking points for the group in April.

Let's start with Trust.  My perspective on trust is that it is currency, so I tend to think of 10 'coins' -- the Trust Coins if you will.  Now, none of these coins is 'new,' they are, in fact, abundantly found in one form or another throughout nearly all trust literature.  But I like thinking of them in terms of money because, essentially, we're either broke, flush, or break-even in our relationships with others.  As Covey might say, "If you're broke in your relationship with another person, you cannot make any withdrawals."  Conversely, those who love us extend a great deal of grace...a relational 'line of credit,' perhaps.  (As an aside, a word of wisdom: Obey the 'platinum rule' [which is even better than gold] by treating others as they wish to be treated.  The day will come, as it always does, when you will screw up royally and wish you had been nicer, more forgiving or...more gracious.)

In short, if you want to be 'relationally rich,' mind your coins.  Be approachable (open door, receptive), Know your audience (meet others where they are, not where you want them to be), Demonstrate character & integrity (consider your 'brand' and live a life whole and undivided; contrast this with many current politicians), Be competent, Find commonalities with others, Be credible (believable, reliable), Demonstrate empathy (remember, the boomerang often returns), Demonstrate win/win/win intent (you, others, the organization at large), Demonstrate propriety (appropriate professional behavior), and Live consistently (back to the idea of integrity, your pattern of behavior over time is a huge predictor for 'being counted upon' or not). 

Continuing to the notion of Influence, then, the correlations become clear.  Someone who is 'relationally rich' is vastly more likely to be influential.  But influence is an exceedingly deep and broad topic, so let's break it down into 2 bites: Principles & Personhood.

Essentially, influence manifests through two sources -- a half-dozen principles and about nine related aspects of one's personhood.

What does this mean?

Well, take principles, for instance, which are sort of like phenomena.  Where we see Consistency occur (for example, if you behave consistently 'good'), we tend to see influence increase.  Where we see Reciprocation occur (for example, you 'give' because you realize this increases the likelihood that you will 'get'), we tend to see influence increase.  And the same is true for Social Proof (a group of us stares at a building across the street and 'everyone' stops to stare...something must be going on or important!), and Scarcity (the fewer iPads available on Day 1 and the longer the lines will be), and Authority (a police officer's badge 'does' something) and Liking (those who are liked tend to be more influential than those who are disliked).    

But personhood, while conceptually related to these principles, is unique: it is influence that emanates from who you are more than what you do or solely how you behave.  Indeed, it's difficult to uncouple the two, I know, but think of it this way: a principle is something 'going on' while my personhood is 'who I am or how I'm perceived.'  Intertwined, yes...but distinct.  A skeptic might argue, "But isn't WHO I AM...WHAT I DO?"  And the anwer, of course, is complicated.  In short, it is 'yes, mostly...' but 'no, not necessarily.'  Perhaps more on that another day. 

Your 'personal' influence, then, often derives from nine common sources, two of which (Legitimate and Referent) overlap with principles I've described above.  Legitimate influence emanates from the fact that you are, say, the boss!  And as the boss, "What I say goes!"  (But only so far, in fact.  Legitimate influence is actually among the least influential.  After all, when the boss turns his back, what do we do?  That's right...now you've got the idea.)  Referent influence is similar to Likeability...I am attracted to you, for whatever reasons, and as a result I tend to like you and, therefore, I'm more inclined to be influenced by you.

The dark side to influence is that charlatans, sharks, snake-oil salesmen, con artists and Ponzi schemers exploit these principles and elements of personhood by pursuing just the right sort of pigeons/marks/prey most inclined to be influenced: those in distress, the lonely/isolated, the naive/trusting/gullible, the caregiver, the person who thinks he is smarter than the ploy or -- as Jesus Christ indicated in the scripture above -- those who traipse through life as doves, always trusting and denying the existence of wolves.  (Just because I deny their existence does not mean they don't exist.) 

By way of interest, Mensa members and Nobel Prize Laureates are regarded by con artists as easier prey because their success and confidence give them a false sense of security.  Luminaries reason, "I'm smarter than everyone I know.  No one can dupe me."  And voila, just like that the credit default swapper (aka 'institutional pickpocket') distracts them with feigned awe, ignorance, brilliance or a 'once-in-a-lifetime opportunity' that 'no one else sees,' pivots around their sense of imperviousness and takes them for all they're worth.

The remaining seven elements that shape influence include Affiliation (e.g., my mafia or gang membership gets me a good table on Friday night), Coercion (if you don't do what I say, I'm the type who will beat you about the head and shoulders with this bat), Competition (the pizza only has 8 slices and every piece I eat is one less for you, aka 'zero sum'), Expertise (I'm the doctor and what I say goes), Guilt (for as long as you disobey, you're in my doghouse), Information (I have the data and I lord it over you) and Reward (if you play nice, I'll give you a cookie).  No doubt, these seven elements have a lot to do with principles but, essentially, many people are 'wired' a certain way...nature, nurture, or the combination of both have shaped their personhood like a river stone and we come to 'know them' as being this way.  (There is, of course, flexibility or redemption, but these are unquestionably bigger topics for another month!) 

Summarizing then, Trust & Influence operate circuitously, one reinforcing the other.

On your journey to make the world a better place, keep a third eye on your own behavior (how you are seen, perceived) and the behaviors of others, lest you over or underestimate them.  Some are wolves in sheep's clothing -- seeking to manipulate and take advantage under guises, ruses, masks and the covers of trust...while others, like Christ himself, are mistaken by many for lunatics or heretics when they come open-handed with nothing but goodwill.

In his bittersweet swan song, The Last Lecture, Carnegie Mellon professor Randy Pausch shared countless pearls of wisdom about living and dying.  Ten months later, he died at the age of 48 from pancreatic cancer, but not before saying, "You have to decide if you're a Tigger or an Eeyore."

Every hour and minute of every day is difficult and tragic for someone somewhere.  I've touched briefly on the subject of grief over the years, but paraphrasing now Associate Justice Sonia Sotomayor, "What perspective does a WASPy, middle class, opportunity-fortunate American have?"  Perhaps very little...as little as a Princeton and Yale Law School graduate might have. 

A few statistics to set a baseline for 'perspective:'

1. 876,213 children were reported missing in the United States in 2000 (FBI National Crime Information Center).  Remarkably, the NCIC estimates that kidnappings comprise less than 2% of all violent crimes against juveniles reported to police.  This means that a lot worse is likely happening than we know.

2. In the summer of 1931, between 1 million and 4 million Chinese died in a flood. 

3. In 2004, approximately 230,000 innocents died in what is known as the Indian Ocean earthquake. 

4. An estimated 230,000 more died 35 days ago in Haiti. 

5. Between 1348 and 1350, 'The Black Death' pandemic killed an estimated 30-60% of Europe's population. 

The list of such atrocities, from those perpetrated upon the most innocent among us (children) by the most evil among us (ill and/or wicked adults) to natural disasters, is a long one.  For all intents and purposes, it might as well be infinite. 

As I glance through my last 155 blog entries, it appears that I've written about loss or death perhaps a dozen times.  Generally, I strive to encourage.  So why am I periodically moved to consider end-of-life issues, wisdom for my daughter, or matters as seemingly vainglorious as 'legacy?'

As someone who writes often and has for many years, writing becomes -- in retrospect -- a bit like a Rorschach inkblot...reflecting (obviously) one's thoughts and emotions.  The same is true for all of us, of course, though I doubt very seriously that busy people proofread, for the sake of comparison, archived emails as much as I do this blog.  What glutton would? 

I share these uncharacteristically personal and intimate thoughts for a reason.  Yes, there is a point.  I am going somewhere with this seemingly random stream of consciousness...hang in there. 

This has been a difficult week, but only temperately compared to the grievous losses sustained by two dear families who -- quite unexpectedly and most certainly prematurely -- watched as beloved individuals died in their arms.

The pain at 'ground zero' is always the greatest, fading more forgivingly as it ripples out and away from the epicenter like waves in a pond.  9/11...the loss of a child...a sibling...a parent...a friend...we all know loss too well, undoubtedly experiencing our own round in the ring and logically concluding this tour with the ultimate reckoning. 

While the sum of all losses occurring across the globe is unfathomable, unimaginable, incomprehensible...we each have our very personal and proximate narrative of loss.  As budding storytellers in grammar school, we are educated to start with something smallish: a child is born, a boy hurts his knee, a girl falls in love, a family seeks a better life.  And from such seeds, we extrapolate.  The story bounces along, characters come and go, things happen.  On the way, the reader is drawn in, drawn down, drawn up.  And perhaps at the conclusion thinks, "Wow.  That's me."  Or, "That's humankind." 

I cannot wrap my head around famine and disease in Africa.  But I can wrap my hand around the hand of Kiki, the seven-year-old boy in Haiti who emerged from the concrete eight days after the quake.  Or I can hug him, or pay for his medical attention, or feed him, or promise to pay for his education, or all of the above.

So rather than minimizing my own life experience because it is too WASPy, simply lamenting the woes of nearly 1 million U.S. children who are reported missing each year, or throwing my hands up in despair because I do not know how I can possibly help Africa...I should instead ask myself something manageable like, "Will I be an Eeyore or a Tigger?"

This mindset applies not only to the most important matters of life and death, but also to the routine and trivial: Will I whine when my pizza has too much tomato sauce?  Or when the man with the world's longest torso places himself before me in the movie theater?  Or when the parking slot closest to the entrance is 'stolen' by a spritelike teenager in a Porsche?

No, I shall not.

Eeyore would, but I will not. 

I may not be the archetypal Tigger that Pausch embodied, but I cannot, in good conscience, be an Eeyore.

Eeyores are over-populated already, and it would be a crime to enlarge their number.

My own take is this: We rarely know even at the end whether we released Boomerangs or Balloons throughout our life, but no matter.  Both were meant to fly.

Sometimes I aim high and throw hard -- and life reciprocates.  I give love, and love comes back.  I study and work hard, and the world opens her arms.  I discipline my child, and she thanks me later by living a life replete with joy and grace and contribution. 

But sometimes, no matter how high I aim or how hard I throw, there is no echo...no feedback.  Just silence.  Or tragedy I cannot understand.  The love I give...gone.  The sacrifice I make...gone.  The job, the purpose, the savings, the home, the child, the dream, the freedom, the country...gone.

Whether a flood, an earthquake, a plague, or an intimate casualty -- we can only comprehend so much.

But we must, and we shall.

And when we're gone, so will those behind us and those behind them.

Humankind is resilient and people, particularly Tiggers, are wired to move forward.  And the rest must be encouraged to rise to their feet, dust themselves off, and soldier on.  After all, we're not always Tiggers or always Eeyores -- these 'labels' are really just descriptions of behavior...so from time to time, we're one or the other.  You'd be amazed at how contagious Tiggerness is.  (Or Eeyoreness, for that matter.)  Such things are viral and communicable (like clapping, laughing, and crying), as has been proven anecdotally, empirically, and statistically more times than you might care to know.  

The majority of people are inclined to inquire, seek, and find that boomerang you threw into the fray all those years ago.  Or that balloon you released in the stillness of night, the one they eventually untangle from the tree halfway across the state.

So don't worry about what life will bring or doubt whether you can make a difference.  The last move, whether a boomerang or a ballon, is the same: let go. 

The ripple effects of your life are best recounted by those who succeed you, for they will tell your story personally just as I am generally. 

If you lived estimably, there will be those who remember.  Who will wish they could call you, hug you, see your smile.  And they will weep at their loss but rejoice in your life.

It's one of the greatest ironies in life's orchard: The fruit only ripens when you leave the grove.

So do the very best you can with all you've got for as long as you're given -- and embrace joyfully the realization that those behind you will indeed experience your harvest. 

This morning I received a rather humorous email alleging, "A magazine recently ran a Dilbert Quotes contest, eliciting quotes about real-life Dilbert-type managers submitted by their employees.  Here are some of the best submissions from corporate America..."

Alleged Dilbert-Manager Quotes.pdf (99.48 kb)

I apologize for being remiss these past three weeks and not posting -- I cling to my bias: If one doesn't have anything worth saying, remain silent.

Hopefully there's a pony in the pile today worth finding.

I had a recent client engagement that simply reminded me, "Most of what we value is free." 

Too often, organizations focus on the 'extrinsics' (the 'havings and holdings') and strive to motivate employees through pay, policies, and pavement.  You know, bigger checks, better procedures, larger cubes or offices, designated parking, etc.

Along the way, they sometimes lose site of 'meta-pay,' which is free.  The 'intrinsics' (the 'beings and feelings') that foster a sense of achievement, recognition, growth, respect, personal esteem, value, etc.

Interestingly, of course, extrinsics cost money and can become sinkholes.  How much is enough?  A key fob, a company jacket, a steak dinner..."What have you done for me lately?"

When the intrinsics fall by the wayside, people receive too few at-a-boys and arm hugs to realize how much they are appreciated.

This past week, solely because I passed a hallmark birthday, I've received way more than my deserved share of arm hugs and at-a-boys.  And like everyone, I beam. 

More than wrapped packages, what I'll remember -- and what we all remember -- are the feelings communicated and shared by those who care.

So to the extent you can, seek to be that employer -- and person -- who engenders a particularly authentic, selfless and magnetic feeling in others, one whereby they know how much they mean to you.

I was exhausted last night as I shuffled onto the plane in the dark amid the sleety rain in Michigan.

I shoved one bag under the seat in front of me, another above me, and gingerly took my seat where I slept like a tranquilized boar for two hours.

When I awoke, I had a pleasant conversation with the young man beside me -- Brian.  Brian is around 30 and works at Sewell.  Begun in 1911, Sewell is a very values-based car company, "And we really believe in it.  For us, it's not just talk."  We visited for over an hour and, somewhere along the way, quite nonchalantly, Brian commented, "I have brain cancer.  See this scar?"  (It ran from ear to ear, across the top of his fuzzy skull, and was easily 3/4" wide and almost 3/8" deep.)  "I've finished seven weeks of radiation and now I'm in chemotherapy."

"Wow.  And you're working?  And travelling?" I asked incredulously.

"Yeah.  What else am I gonna do?  I'm tired all the time, sure, but we gotta keep moving forward, right?  Plus, we just had a huge meeting in Detroit with GM."

"What's your prognosis, Brian, if you don't mind my asking."

"That's God's call, not mine.  I can only do what the doctors suggest.  After that, it's out of our hands."

It is indeed, Brian; it is indeed.

As we parted ways, he shook my hand.  "It was nice visiting with you, Blake."

"You, too, Brian.  You, too."

And with that, I watched him stride toward the front of the plane.  Along the way, he helped a businesswoman remove her very heavy bag from the overhead bin.  She was jabbering away on her cell phone, complaining to someone back in her office, "I simply will not work for that amount of money.  You can tell him I said so."  She never made eye contact with Brian and didn't say a word to him.  Not even a 'thanks.'  But he smiled and kept moving forward.   

As if the billions who preceded us are insufficient signposts, God repeatedly sends emissaries carrying more 'perspective' our way.   

No one promised you another day.  Make this one count. 

Oh, and another thing.  A couple personal favors, really.  One, remember to say "Please" and "Thank you."  It's just mannerly, okay?  And two, stay off the phone when you're in confined spaces.  We didn't call you and, frankly, we'd rather avoid the assault.

I noticed the Michael Jackson autopsy the other day.

You know what my impression was?  How small we are.

In the end, we simply leave these husks that we occupied for so long...and in the case of Mr. Jackson, we are reduced to an accounting of scars, tattoos, chemicals, and sundry measures. 

136 pounds.  Can you imagine?  So tiny. 

If we're not careful, we can make too much of ourselves, no?  Sure, the Jackson estate will generate $100,000,000 in new revenue in the next 12 months...but the progenitor is gone. 

Throughout the course of our lives, we are this, that, and the other thing.  We may build fortresses, armaments, or empires.  But in the end, it's all just rubble held together by water and sand.

This past weekend, our precious daughter drew two pictures, the first a toothy chipmunk, the latter a trumpeting elephant.  Despite my bias, each is irrefutably adorable: Chipmunk&Elephant.pdf (71.63 kb)

Let's make a pact: We shall not take ourselves too seriously, however serious our work.

After all, we're just moms and dads and kids and nephews and sisters-in-law and whatever.  We may dedicate ourselves to great causes, or hope to leave legacies for our children, or aspire to contribute something timeless...or to make a mark, leave a dent, achieve. 

But while Billie Jean will echo through time, as we all hope to, it's just notes in the wind. 

Here today, faded tomorrow.

Make the moments -- every single one of them borrowed -- the very best you can.

The announcement by GM yesterday that, in effect, "Saturn is dead" is a tough, tough blow for many.  Not just employees and their families, but customers and so many others who developed an affinity for the little-brand-that-tried-but-just-couldn't.

I remember all too well studying Saturn in 1988 as a Case Study.  Just three years old then, it held so much promise: to be union free, to be collaborative, to be lean, to offer no-haggle pricing.

It really did aspire to be different and to survive outside the GM solar system.  But in the end, it proved to be entirely unprofitable.  It was mostly "all show, but no go."  The hype proved incongruent to the product.

The many reasons for its demise are clear to anyone who's been paying attention, but I'm certain GM's Saturn will be as infamous a Case Study as Johnson & Johnson's Tylenol.

My focus for today, therefore, is hardly to flog such a valiant effort on a ruthless industry battlefield.  (It'd be akin to picking on an airline, where survival is victory.)  After all, there are far too many cynics and observers who host rock-throwing parties in glass houses. 

No, instead, I simply wish to remind you that you are not the sum of your employment.  Not at all.

For the many who remain unemployed this day, or who will be in short order -- be it from Saturn or wherever else -- you are much more than your employment.

You are a human being, potential incarnate, and I lift you up today.

Keep putting one foot in front of the other.  Remember, it's not how many times you get knocked down, it's how many times you stand up.

As Bruce Lee used to say, "Walk on."

Well, this is a neat idea!

Mike Gathright, a professional acquaintance, is now 8 months into a yearlong (or more, or less) sabbatical that involves traveling around the world with his family.

The photos are beautiful and the gang looks happy.  What a fun trip, especially during these times.

Let us live, albeit briefly and vicariously, through his amazing photo album and blog at www.3amtraveling.blogspot.com

We all -- each and every single one of us -- present.

Just as we all sell and negotiate each and every day.  Life is one long dialogue about what to do, with whom, and in the context of finite resources...be they time, money, attention, energy, effort, etc.

When I am asked for recommendations on Presentation Skills, I always recommend http://www.presentationzen.com/. 

And I do so again today.

Presentation Zen is a crisp, clean, clear blog rife with countless book recommendations, videos, checklists, and other wonderful resources.

Enjoy and, if it benefits you, please share it with others.

I spoke with the kindest man last week.  Mid-sixties.

Regarding his vocation, he commented, "I have finally found my sandbox."  And his eyes twinkled and his grin beamed.

Wow, yes.  Our sandbox...  That which we are called to do.

Remember..."vocation" -- from the Latin "vocāre" -- to be called.

May we each find our sandbox and, ideally, before the final straightaway of life's run.

I think this is really inspiring, beautiful, haunting, heartbreaking, overwhelming, and personally convicting: http://emichrysalis.co.uk/players/sigurros/unicef_photostream/ 

Count your blessings, pray, and work tirelessly each and every day to make this world a more tolerable place.

-------------- 

Peter said to him, "We have left everything to follow you!"

"I tell you the truth," Jesus replied, "no one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields for me and the gospel will fail to receive a hundred times as much in this present age (homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, children and fields—and with them, persecutions) and in the age to come, eternal life.  But many who are first will be last, and the last first."

Mark 10:28-31

"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace.  In this world you will have trouble.  But take heart!  I have overcome the world."

John 16:33

On last night's SHARKtank, an entrepreneur named "Cactus Jack" (aka Jack Barringer from Ames, Iowa) pitched his "push-up machine."  (See 'Week 5, Episode 105.')

Nothing revelatory about the device, of course.

But he made a comment that I've heard in less memorable ways.  As he put it, "The one lesson my daddy taught me that I still remember: 'You can trade hours for dollars or ideas for millions.'"

You go, C.J.  Move those machines.

The world, of course, only goes 'round via both.  We need brain surgeons to create new ideas, but we also need brain surgeons to operate.  The equation doesn't work without a numerator and a denominator.

But I got a real kick out of Cactus, and I thought you might, too.

At long last, I have finally escaped from and exorcised the 770 pages of Cheever: A Life by biographer Blake Bailey (based upon Cheever's 4,300 page journal which spanned multiple volumes and nearly five decades of reflection).¹

Upon completing the 1977 manuscript of what would become his most successful novel, Falconer, Cheever wrote, "I think the work is successful and that I may be rich and famous.  I claim not to care.  I can always scythe my fields and walk in the streets.  It is the strangeness of this excitement that I must examine.  Why should it seem so strange to succeed?  I do not mean pride or hubris.  I mean only to have solved most of my problems and to have exploited, to the best of my intelligence, my raw materials."

We should all be so lucky as to find use for our raw materials.

And yet, although Cheever did indeed achieve sobriety in his final years, "Rarely has a gifted and creative life seemed sadder," wrote peer John Updike after the publishing of The Journals of John Cheever, nine years after Cheever's death.

Cheever's 'lostness' for so long, coupled with the interpersonal destruction that accompanied his alcoholism is staggering. 

A Cheever friend reflected, "He was extraordinarily blessed by anyone's standards -- fame, wealth, a wonderful wife, great kids who did him proud and loved him, a long and highly successful career, talent, friends, on and on -- but he liked to say all he had in life was an old dog.  There was his despair.  And then there was his inability to comprehend the despair and self-negation he inflicted on others."

Having been consumed by Bailey's authorized biography in the nooks and crannies of many plane flights and otherwise wasted moments in boarding areas, I have completed the book with much relief.  Cheever's is a difficult life to inhabit, even temporarily and only intellectually and from beyond the veils of time and space.  His was a life in which brilliance was tempered and metered by such depression, addiction, and self-destructive narcissim that one cannot help but wonder, "What if?"

Posthmously, Cheever was described by Dave Eggers as "some kind of freakish winged book-writing angel beast."  Undoubtedly, his writing was periodically otherworldly and often breathtaking.

Yet his life serves, in my opinion, more as a cautionary tale than something to be desired or envied. 

After all, at what cost giftedness?

¹See August 10, 2009 entry.

Strolling thru Barnes & Noble the other day with my wife and daughter, I stumbled across a biography by Blake Bailey entitled Cheever: A Life.  Reading the jacket, I bought the 770-pages brick and am consumed by it in the margins of night time and pre-flight checks.

John Cheever, the highly acclaimed and prolific author of Falconer, The Wapshot Chronicle, and dozens of The New Yorker short stories was one miserable soul.  He said it himself, and I agree.

I’m in 'Chapter 1960' (he lived from 1912 to 1982), and his life remains a dark, overcast sky of alcoholism, loneliness, identity confusion, and depression.

It is heart wrenching yet engrossing to read as he fights, fails, and rises again, only to be consumed by disparaging thoughts, self-doubt, worry, feelings of inadequacy, and so much more.  His life is a proverbial yo-yo caught in the downward position.

I remain hopeful that – as his alcoholism lifts – the clouds may part. 

But I am doubtful; the omens indicate otherwise and I suspect that my hopefulness for him will be dashed by reality.

But I will learn nonetheless and, perhaps, come to appreciate all the more what so many of us take for granted.  Namely, a belief that many if not all things work for good, that tomorrow might be better than yesterday and that, as Viktor Frankl wrote, there is meaningfulness in hope itself.

It appears this week that many, many friends, colleagues, and clients are on vacation.

Outstanding -- it's late Summer, and this is as it should be.

But if you know me, you know I love words, and this morning I was thinking about two, in particular: Vacation and Vocation.

(My minor musings may not necessarily interest or inform, but I'll share them nonetheless.  Heck, we're here.)

The root of Vacation is vacāre, which literally means, to empty.

And the root of Vocation is vocāre, which literally means, to call. 

Sometimes, if we are exceedingly fortunate and blessed, our profession/vocation/career is the same as our calling.  (You know, we're doing what we were designed and called to do, as opposed to 'doing this or that in the interim while going to school and then searching for a j-o-b.')  Pinch yourself if you get to, as one client recently said, "Spend the rest of my career here and be happy with that."

But for the sake of balance, be sure to periodically 'empty yourself.'  Emotionally, physically, labor-wise.  Forget things, lay things down, set things aside... release and let go.

We all need 'fresh perspectives' and the opportunity to get away, clear our head, recharge, and get in touch with who we are, who we've become, where we're going, what it's all for, and to reconnect with those intimates around us -- close family and great friends.

To be called, then to empty. 

A natural rhythm in life that must be heeded if we are to be intra- and inter-personally healthy.

Enjoy the kayaking, the hiking, the cycling, the swimming, the skiing, the camping, the riding, the driving, the flying, the sleeping in, the standing still, the breathing deeply -- the 'whatever' that may call you away in the near future. 

We'll see you when you get back.

Wisdom is an interesting thing.  Technically (etymologically), it is the confluence of knowledge (generally acquired thru experience), discernment (or prudence) and, as Hippocrates wrote, "self-control."

I spoke with a woman today who commented, "Sometimes things are better left unsaid."  Boy, is that a hard-learned lesson. 

Too often, in people's attempts to be honest, transparent, forthright, thorough, complete, accurate -- whatever -- they come across as hurtful or graceless or abrasive.

If there's one thing deficient in this little world of ours, it's forgiveness.  I have found the most sustainable relationships have, at their core, an abundance of 'benefit of the doubt' and 'trust' and 'forgiveness.'  As one dear mentor once said to me, "Trust is the lubrication of all good relationships.  Without it, there is much friction, irritation, burning, and pain." 

Indeed.

So, as much as you can be -- being fallible and human yet tolerant and gracious along the way -- be wise.

And relish those around you who strive to do the same.  Just as a tiny drop of food coloring can transform a large body of liquid, so too do wisdom and grace transform relationships.

Having described Grand Canyon & Grey Towers and a great haunt in Toledo, I'll conclude this 'photo album' trilogy (!) with one final entry: The Great Wall of China. 

All I can say is, it's a 50° grade in some places (compared to a standard U.S. grade-range for stairs of around 38° to 39°), it's visible from -- well, not quite space -- but far, because it's so large as to be practically unfathomable and, equally important, it's hot as Hades but more humid.

As always, for the interested, here is a photo album with brief captions.  The attachment concludes with a few organizationally relevant thoughts regarding vision, potential, and the like.  Remember, be patient as the file loads, it is somewhat large: GreatWall_WisdomFromTheSchoolOfHardKnocks_photos_July2006.pdf (1.36 mb)

I'm a sucker for great, small, fun, authentic... 'dives and diners.'  Packo's isn't necessarily either, but it's close.  It's smallish, high-energy, and serves a real gut-busting dog 'n chili mac.  But more importantly, it's a great example of a small, thriving, third-generation family-owned business. 

Every time I go there, the line is practically to the door, whether it's 11am, 1pm, or evening.  The food is simple quality, the service is great, the faces are friendly, and the 'barkers' keep the line moving.  (Simple behaviors, and ones that any organization would do well to demonstrate.) 

Enjoy the food and, as importantly, take a moment to appreciate how Packo's markets itself with clever ideas -- from hundreds of autographed hot dog buns to celebrity photos and a thriving little store... all in this unassuming joint by the river.

And just one more thing, don't forget the Tums.  The place ain't known for salads and tofu. 

In the past couple weeks, having sprinted from working with groups in the Department of Interior to the Department of Agriculture, I can't help but be awestruck by the tirelessness and commitment with which their employees and leaders serve.  They are literally 'on the ground' each and every day, year after year, decade after decade -- preserving America's greatest natural resources and interacting with and educating the public.  

Grand Canyon, of course, makes nearly any short list of "world's greatest natural wonders," but I have absolutely got to share how phenomenal and breathtaking the less-well-known Grey Towers is.  A 'summer cottage' for Gifford Pinchot, the Pinchot Institute at Grey Towers (the residence itself) covers a sprawling 105 acres and rambles pastorally across gorgeous hills in Milford, PA at the juncture of New York and New Jersey.   

It would require pages and pages and more energy than I possess to describe the experience of spending five days at Grey Towers working with some of the greatest thinkers and doers in the natural resources arena, so I'll suggest instead that you research Gifford Pinchot himself, his amazing wife Cornelia, read about the infamous Fingerbowl and, most importantly, if you ever find yourself in that neck of the woods, take the tour of the estate with your family.  The Grey Towers website has videos and podcasts about the Pinchot family legacy, and one cannot immerse him or herself in it without coming out the other side feeling... humbled and motivated.   

There is much great work to be done in the world, and it's individuals like the Pinchots and the often anonymous federal employees who extend their work and add anew who inspire us all.  

Research-on and, for the interested, 21 photos with brief captions.  Be patient while it loads, the file is relatively large: GrandCanyon&GreyTowers_photos_July2009.pdf (5.50 mb)

I recently watched Nothing But the Truth with Kate Beckinsale, Alan Alda, Matt Dillon, David Schwimmer, Angela Bassett, and Noah Wyle. 

Movie synopsis: "In Washington, D.C., a female reporter faces a possible jail sentence for outing a CIA agent and refusing to reveal her source."  I won't give any of the plot twists away; I just wanted to share this great quote:

"Great people are inseparable from their principles."

And they then trotted out a few examples... MLK, Gandhi, Christ...

It was a stellar movie, very under-the-radar. 

And I just love that line, because to the extent we are blessed enough to come across people who are really committed to their principles, despite the cost(s), faith is buoyed.

With the recent celebration of our 16th wedding anniversary, followed immediately by the occurrence of Father's Day, I have a whole wallet stuffed with Barnes & Noble gift cards.  One of the 'givers' inquired, "What did you buy?"

In response to her, and a client this morning who asked, "What are you 'bedside reading' these days?" I offer this brief defense.

The table is spilling over with magazines: The Week, Inc., and Time -- to stay abreast of 'the serious issues.'  And I've got a couple issues of Entertainment Weekly, for those moments before take-off when my mind wants empty calories rather than world events.  There are undoubtedly moments when I cannot bear to read 'heavy stuff.'

I also purchased an assortment of interesting books, a couple new ones and a classic.  A Different Life by Quinn Bradlee looks promising.  A young man with VCFS who has memoir'ed his journey as a learning-disabled student, son, and friend.  I love the dedication page, "To my mom -- my archangel, and my father, who is my sword and shield."  We should only be so appreciated.  Losing Mum and Pup by Christopher Buckley, about his inimitable parents and their respective deaths in 2007-2008.  A loving tribute from a complicated son.  All the King's Men by Pulitzer Prize winner, Robert Penn Warren.  A classic, and more timely than ever, even 63 years later.  Finally, I've got an Idiot's Guide to Latin beside the bed because it has always fascinated me and I don't want my brain jell-o-ing to mush.  To keep a muscle, you gotta use it!

It'd be nice to be one of those folks who grows younger as he grows older (more curious, more free, more fun), rather than the other way around (less curious, less free, less fun)!  (Sort of a Benjamin Button, if you will, minus the drool and diapers at each life-endpoint.)

Keep the recommendations coming; I'll read all I can.  As a great mentor, Carveth Kramer, once said to me, "Leaders are readers" or, at least, they should be. 

As is often the case, I notice things when they happen in 'threes.'  Sometimes, perhaps rarely, I'm quick enough on the uptake to notice things in isolation, but more infrequently than I care to admit, even to myself.

This past week, I spoke with and coached a few folks who were frustrated with what we might call 'taking behaviors.'  Specifically, people with whom they were frustrated because the relationships were lopsided: my 'coachees' were GIVING and the 'wrongdoers' were TAKING.  You know the drill; we've all been perpetrators and victims in the same circuit.

Such is the human condition; always has been -- always will be.  Don't mean to be a fatalist, just a realist.

That said, I've always most admired The Invisible Man.  Not the cheesy-movie one, but the real man (or woman).  You know, the unassuming type, like Clark Kent, whom we later learn is really super.  Or the quiet one in the back row, whom we later learn is illuminatingly bright.  Or the awkward and seemingly powerless one, whom we later learn is a mogul's son and thrice-over gazillionaire eyeball-deep in curing cancer. 

I share these thoughts, not because anyone need be super, smart, or rich in order to be worthwhile (quite the contrary, I postulate), but because there is something to be said for not placing oneself onto every stage.

But moreover, I believe, because the legacy of Takers -- whether others' time, attention, credit, or sundry finite resources -- is one of emptiness.  I have been to many a funeral, and the Taker's is the least attended.

Better to be humble in life, listening to and encouraging others and supporting them behind the scenes, than to gluttonously devour the entire banquet table for oneself.

Give me the Givers, please, though we should all give regardless.

As tomorrow is Memorial Day, I hope that all Americans who can... will appreciate the many 'ultimate sacrifices' made for this great country.

It is 'holidays' like tomorrow that serve to remind us what liberty and freedom really cost.  For millions, it cost everything.  Through democracy, we elect and assign our leaders -- and fire those with whom we disagree.  Our soldiers, however, serve where they are sent, and whether we agree or disagree with their literal marching orders, their service warrants our respect and honor.  After all, were it not for them, we would lack our freedom of speech and the right to, in public fora, approve or disapprove of what they are called to do.  We all understand that war is not the answer, but en route to the day when peace is unilateral and terrorists and jihadists surrender rocket launchers in exchange for olive branches, we are left with irreconcilable ideologies and conflicts during which we have the responsibility to demonstrate values while preserving the security and rights of those without voices or defenses.   

As a great nation, we are duty-bound to be grateful for those who do this and put themselves in harm's way, and as any entity which possesses much, we are obligated to be humble.  And so, today, a few brief words on gratefulness and humility.

"Do nothing from rivalry or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves.  Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others."  (The letter of Paul, to the Philippians, chapter 2, verses 3-4.)

Regardless our petty differences, be they individual, organizational, or geo-political, we are called to love one another and be gracious with others, especially those with whom we disagree.  Similarly, to become great, we are to become nothing.  To die unto ourselves that we may serve others and, forsaking ourselves, help others become greater.  In short, we are to be grateful.  Where we are currently insatiable, we are to be satiated by little and pour ourselves out for others; to appreciate and be thankful for the difficulties and sorrows, that we might appreciate more the seasons of bounty and blessing.

And equally important, to find that in giving to others and contributing beyond ourselves, we are more fully restored.  In the words of a great counselor-friend of mine, "Nothing helps the clinically-depressed so much as volunteering and serving others."

To provide a tangible example of gratitude, gratefulness, humility, forgiveness, and service, allow me to share a super-brief story. 

Three hundred years ago, the prolific Matthew Henry, scholarly theologian and commentator, was attacked and mugged and beaten to within an inch of his life on a dark, London street.  As he reclined in his bed, recovering, he was asked for reactions to his assault.  He thoughtfully replied, "I am thankful."  Seeing the puzzled look on others' faces, he elaborated, "I am thankful, first, because I was never robbed before.  Second, because although they took my purse, they did not take my life.  Third, because although they took my all, it was not much.  And fourth, because it was I who was robbed, and not I who robbed."

Is this how you reacted when you realized half your net worth had evaporated in the last fourteen months?  Is this how you reacted when you were laid off?  Is this how you reacted when the world or its many minions danced gleefully on your failures, stomped on your heart, stole your livelihood for personal gain, or crushed your soul?  I doubt it.  And yet, we are to count our losses as blessings, and our sorrows as joy, if we are to be a grateful lot.  May Matthew Henry serve as a gentle reminder this coming Monday, week, and year.  When all seems lost, may you perceive the gain. 

Despite your worldviews, political persuasions, or views on the hereafter, may we all bow our heads on Monday and say a prayer for those who made -- and make -- it possible for us to enjoy this land, our family, and our harvests.  However great or small we perceive them to be, we undeniably and inarguably reside in a free country that has gone out of its way for 233 years to endow each and every citizen with three very enviable, exceptional, and uncommon rights.

e hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness...

On Monday, if you do nothing else, give thanks and count your blessings.  They are likely more abundant than you perceive, starting with the truth that you choose how you will spend your Monday, while many around the world cannot.

For those of you who were kind, curious, and committed enough to devour my last blog in its entirety, today I am serving a tiny and tasty morsel for dessert. 

This very morning, I had the most wonderful time attending a Professional Women's Networking Breakfast and sharing some ideas on the topic of Resilience.

Throughout, and particularly afterward, I was overwhelmed by their own resilience, positive spirit, degree of engagement, stories of inspiration, and general entrepreneurship and drive.  These dynamic women are clearly tackling the world with a zest for life; the morning was absolutely buoyant.   

One of the most common topics that arose in the 'post-presentation' dialogues was Purpose & Calling.  A number of the attendees inquired, "Where can I learn more about 'purpose' and 'calling?'  I am personally at a crossroads, and eager to read and learn and discover more about myself and where I am destined to contribute, collaborate, and work."

In answer to this perennial question, I offer up the work of Richard Leider as a great "go to" resource.  Dick is a best-selling author, executive educator, life coach, teacher, speaker, and counselor.  His most well known books include The Power of Purpose, Claiming Your Place at the Fire, and Re-Packing Your Bags.  He is a calm spirit in a blustery gale, a temperament which serves him well -- especially given his profession.  I consider him one of the most pivotal mentors I ever had in my earliest years as I stared-down several proverbial 'forks in the road.'

If you have, are now, or ever do face your own 'fork in the road' moment, bookmark the following two resources.  You'll be glad you did.  

Are You Deciding on Purpose?  (An easy, breezy interview from Fast Company Magazine) 

Purpose&theGoodLife.pdf (1,016.52 kb)  (A rich, scholarly study on Money, Medicine, and Meaning as subsidized and published by MetLife) 

 Robert Frost

What a difference seven months make.

In October, as the unwinding of our world's economy became crystal clear, so many perceived it as 'temporary.'  "The prey must make its way through the python, then all will be well in the end," they seemed to say.

And perhaps that is entirely true.  2010, 2011, 2012... I suppose things could return to 'normal' by then.

But I think not.

I think what's done is done, what was was, and we've entered a New World Order.  I believe the 'unwinding' was, in fact, a re-calibrating. 

I believe the waterline of the former market was, for all intents and purposes... former.  And we may not see Dow Jones at 14,000+ for another generation.  Call me a heretic, an idiot, or a doomsday-sourpuss-naysayer; I've been called worse.  But I believe the snake oil salesmen who are selling fiction disguised as hope are unrealistically optimistic or altogether deceptive. (I see the difference as their 'knowledge' x their 'intent.')

I attended an economic conference several weeks ago, and ALL the economists were prophesying, "This will blow over in a few months.  Q3 2009 will see a return to business as usual," guess-hypothesis-theory-lie.  I'm sorry; I just don't buy it.  While I fully understand FDR's lamentations about 'fear itself' and the need for positive psychology to lead the market, I believe it's time to come to terms with reality and adapt rather than hope for stable sand castles found primarily in Utopia. 

I imagine the market as we knew it before -- with easy loans, bottomless debt, and raging home sales -- is a thing of the past. 

Is the bottom near?  Perhaps, though I agree with Warren Buffett's sentiment that we probably won't experience it until the Government stops reaching in and tweaking the knobs.  At some point, probably where 'rescue' and 'reality' intersect, we will indeed experience a legitimate transition, but I don't think 'bottoming, leveling out, and climbing' are synomymous with 'back to business as usual.'  (At least, not for everyone.  One of the great ironies of this current economy is the disparity between the haves and have-nots.  While many people and clients and states I interact with are STARVING, many others are THRIVING.  On the one extreme I hear, "The sky is falling!" while on the other extreme I hear, "Crisis, what crisis?  We have so much money we don't know where to spend it all!")

Some might argue that I am sounding a bit like Chicken Little, but I believe that history and conventional wisdom will reveal that I am among an unintentional chorus of Shepherd Boys who would rather be wrong.  And by unintentional, I mean to say, "non-economic types" who wind up being in the majority and on the side of right, not because of knowledge, but because of intuition. 

I believe we're entering an era of Business as Unusual or, said another way, The 'New' Economy is The Economy.

2,600 years ago, the Greek slave, Aesop, wrote well over 200 brief fables, and many of them specifically for children (though they apply to most everyone).  Among them is The Shepherd Boy & the Wolf, more commonly remembered as The Boy Who Cried Wolf.  The theme of the story is best recalled in the final line of the fable:  "Even when liars tell the truth, they are never believed.  The liar will lie once, twice, and then perish when he tells the truth."

Only time will reveal whether the 'renowned and expert economists' are right (and Q3 2009 will reveal a miraculous, magical, and unheralded 'market bounce' that eventually leads us back to earlier Dow Jones health, employment, and worldwide productivity as before) or if those who said once and twice (without knowing why), "the world is changed for a generation" will be deemed right.

Again, I would prefer to be wrong.

At this point in life, most of us have endured one sort of surgery or another.  I equate today's Shepherd Boys as those who scratch at our scar tissue.  What was once sensitive and irritated (October 2008) is slowly becoming thick and numb (May 2009).  The 'jump' in our step has faded a bit, we've ignored the alarms for too long, and many are awakening and coming to grips with a potentially new reality.  A sense of, "Okay.  Um.  So, this REALLY isn't going away next month?  It wasn't just a drill?  All righty then, let's see... what shall I do now?"

History has an enviable way of efficiently and accurately sorting the misfits and malcontents from the rest.  I know most of us would LOVE to see a return to a pre-9/11 or pre-2009 economic world order, but the hairs on the back of my neck just don't sense that coming anytime soon.  Do yours?   

Meanwhile, whether it's only a few years or an entire generation plus, I suppose we should return to our work, reprioritize, rebalance, and find ways to survive through and thrive within a minor economic winter.  There is plenty of work to be done, there are many fields still lacking qualified applicants, and as Nature reminds us, life is binary.  It's either 'find a way to Grow' time, or 'embrace the slumber that has no end' (e.g., die). 

I elect to fight, as I'm sure you do, too.  It's buckle-down time.  Not for an illusory and fabled 'comeback' of lore, but in pursuit of creating a more sustainable future for our children, our customers, our constituents, and all those we hope will follow.

Onward.  Perge.  Semper fidelis.  It's on.  Let's roll.  Bring it.  Go time.  All that jazz.

Sometimes the smallest, simplest things catch my attention.  I don't know why, but it intrigues me, as do the teensy lessons the things themselves reveal.

Last week, Lowe's delivered several pallets of mulch to our driveway.  Once the bags were emptied and spread, I began to wonder what we might make of the remaining wood from the pallets themselves.  Coincidentally, my wife, Dawn, had been talking about a "flower wagon" for our front porch for several days.

Though it took a while for the cogs to engage, eventually... klunk-kerplunk, eureka... Mother's Day is coming. 

She printed a photo from the internet, and bam -- I was off to the races.

From Friday evening through Sunday, I became a man possessed.  My aged and creaky body beneath me, I painstakingly broke down the eight pallets with a hammer, crowbar, pliers, and ripsaw.  Our family ran the errand to Lowe's and purchased chain, hinges, angle brackets, more screws, a second drill, and another saw blade.  Three days later, we have five wagon-bodies awaiting the arrival of their axles and wheels.  Upon completion, we'll distribute the wagons around the yard and load them up with flowers, grasses, watermelons, or pumpkins as the seasons dictate.  In time, and with age and weather, we think they'll work well.

But as I was bending, standing, hobbling around my sawhorses, experimenting, screwing up, starting over, measuring, re-measuring, marking, cutting, re-cutting, drilling, screwing, sanding, and spraying, my mind was free to drift and float.

On Saturday night as I did 'bedtime' with our six-year-old daughter, Lauren, we played a memory game.  She's working on her math and, as we wound-down for the evening, with all the lights off in the room, she said, "Let's play a numbers game.  I need to work on my math, okay?" 

Into the ink-black darkness I said, "Okay.  How many curtains are in your room?" 

Her mind whirred through the room and she said, "Five."

"Yes, five," I replied.  "That's right.  Good.  Okay.  How many doors do we have upstairs?  Downstairs?  Be sure to count the closets, attic, and doorways with no 'literal' doors, okay?  And how many gates do we have outside?"

In time, she gave me great numbers for every question.  She was right-on.  And then she said the coolest thing,

"Isn't it neat that while my body is here in bed, my mind is roaming the house and yard?"

Y e s    i t    i s

It is, literally, mindblowing.

And as my body and hair and eyelashes and shoelaces and fuzzy legs and arms became covered and more covered with fine sawdust, my mind traveled to Beijing and Paris and London and Toronto and Phoenix and Toledo and Orlando and to the movie and grocery stores down the street and the mall across town and that terrible O'Hare which always strands me.  It roamed to cars and planes and people and politics.  To religion and mailboxes and dogs and squirrels.  To the wind that blew and the rain that fell and nearly ruined my tools, to the neighborhood boys revving their engines and blaring their tunes, to birds and ants and leaky roofs and mosquitos, and to the meals I could smell through the windows and the shower I longed to take when I was finished each evening.

And like our precious Lauren, growing inch by inch and word by word, I thought to myself, "Isn't it neat that while my body is here, my mind can go anywhere."

Y e s    i t    i s

The mind is a terrible thing to waste, but too often, I see organizations and leaders who don't allow (much less expect... demand...) their people to hope and dream and think.  And we confine people, and their minds, to cubicles and repetition.

Henry Ford once lamented, a century ago, "Why, when all I need is a pair of hands, do I have to get a whole person?"  (Yes, people are complicated, but oversimplifying the workplace so people can solely be more effectively 'managed' borders on malpractice.)  Toyota, and countless companies defined by 'predictability,' have found ways to ensure job enrichment and variety.  Have you?  After all, though it is indeed complicating, you get much, much more from a person when you demand they also think creatively and constructively about your business.  And yes, sometimes the most constructive changes arise like a phoenix in the face of 'creative destruction,' not unlike Market Darwinism and what we are seeing in broad scale around the world today.  

(There is an anecdote that Bill Gates, Sr. tells about his then-adolescent son.  After repeatedly yelling up the stairs at Bill, Jr. to come down and get in the car, his exasperated mother inquires, "WHAT are you DOING?"  "I'm thinking, Mom.  Don't you ever do that, too?" he replied.  Later that evening, his mother and father admit to one another, "No.  We really don't take enough time anymore to just think.  Just think.")

And no, I am not advocating 'daydreaming,' but I am encouraging you -- as a leader -- to facilitate and foster an environment in which people can indeed imagine and think, wherein you allow their minds to explore new and heretofore uncontemplated opportunities.  As they do at W.L. Gore, we should consider allowing people 'dabble time.'  It's where Gore finds breathable plastics and 3M finds Post-Its.

And for all of us, including my daughter and me, it's where we find doors and freedom.

We stood at the counter, Dawn, our six-year-old daughter Lauren, and me.

And from Lauren's tiny mouth come these words, "I'll have a banana smoothie, please."

She had read this $2.50 line-item from 20' away and ordered it herself.

My, oh my, how times change.  A year ago, she could read one and two-syllable words.  Two years ago, at age four, I think she 'recognized' words, but I don't recall her reading many sentences.  But here we are, May 2009 at the age of six, and she's reading chapter books, street signs, movie titles, Viagra commercials, Disney Channel barrages... she can, in short, read just about anything.  Words like 'catastrophe' throw her, but with these wily exceptions, she can pronounce most everything.

Like soft mid-sections and wiggly skin, I know that, as adults, undesirable things creep up on us.  But the year the world begins to reveal itself to a child like a blossoming flower in Spring is a welcome year indeed.

Life itself is like this, I believe.  We are born into utter darkness, ignorant of all.  And year by year, bit by bit, our eyes open.  They open to the good, the bad, the indifferent -- but they open.  And over time, we assert ourselves (or fail to) and become a person with proclivities, opinions, preferences, and biases.

What an amazing thing, life. 

Relish it.

And every now and again, stop and smell the flowers -- indulging and appreciating the awesomeness of simplicity.

After all, there's more to saying, "I'll have a banana smoothie, please" than meets the eye.