Not So Grounded

Goodbye - Hello

2009-09-07T12:05:10-04:00

Started a new blog, Goodbye - Hello, all about Maddy's last year at home. Not sure where it will go (or where she will go, for that matter) but thought I'd be more structured than inundating my poor friends with rambling emails on the subject.

Home Again Home Again ...

2009-08-03T17:24:31-04:00

Just returned from 3 weeks away, from home in the Blue Ridge Appalachians several thousand miles north west to western Washington. Our family of four crashed with close (and very kind & accommodating) friends in Bellingham. We did tons of cool stuff (photos on FB): watched 3 pods of frolicking Orcas, kayaked past bald eagles and their nests, skylight train to Vancouver, very fast dips in glacial water ... wild flowers, volcanoes, big ol' juicy oysters, nightly Mallards ice cream (Maddy always got basil), and camping camping & more camping. (Okay, a little too much camping for the rest of my family ...)

Three weeks is a great amount of time to be away. Cleared my head, my perspectives, my priorities, my schedule, my stress. For three weeks I did as I pleased.

Interestingly, I worked a lot. And loved every minute of it. This trip, more than any other, allowed me to enjoy my professional life seamlessly. I worked whenever & wherever I dang well felt like it, played just the same. Completely unencumbered by physical location - just my laptop, wireless, blackberry and iPod (free Kindle app, favorite reading tucked into my pocket). Calls got made, work got submitted, bills got paid, I yakked with friends, I kept up with our dog-sitter ... all while walking new streets enough that they grew familiar.

I suspect I sound delusional. That vacations are supposed to Unplug, not ramp up the Plugging. But I felt exhilarating freedom, permanently released from an office, a house, four walls and a land line. Untethered from a permanent address that defines where I technically belong. From the static practice that I am a local Here and an interloper There. That one place is home and all others are not.

To be sure, I am delighted to be back in my own bed, watching the summer rain dance on the poplars by my windows. But it's also nice to know that in only a few weeks the arid western vistas grew just as sweet. Imagine how different the world would be if everyone felt Home no matter where we were?

Being Happy

2009-06-27T14:54:59-04:00

Some people believe I am too happy. This has nothing to do with my very ordinary life, which is not perfect or enviable or full of unique and miraculous things. Nor does it reflect my last couple of weeks where I've had a miserable cold, been working too much, and fighting with my husband. My flaw is that I am happy nonetheless. It sounds ridiculous at first, like saying the sky is too blue, the falling snow too magical. Is it possible one can be too happy?

I am rarely accused directly, for the underlying implications would be rude to say out loud: being too happy suggests I am overly naïve, unwilling to see life realistically, or too stupid to get it. I continuously grapple with two diametrically opposed messages about happiness. Our make-believe culture – fictionalized life in movies, tv, ads, music, Disney World – portrays glossy smiles and silently suggests perpetual happiness is ideal but unattainable. “Real” culture -- in the news, talk and reality shows, documentaries, meaningful films -- typically describes unhappiness, highlighting pain, suffering, violence, injustice, bitterness, or struggle. Mindless movies end happy and sappy; award winners showcase the shadows, sorrows, and trials of life.

The message is Happiness = Escape, Denial, and Fantasy. Unhappiness = Reality and Awareness. Only the shallow or ill informed could possibly stay happy. Eyes wide open see the troubled Truth. If you’re not pissed off, you’re not paying attention, the bumper sticker admonishes.

I get more confused because those “real” stories often end with personal transformation, which I do value. I am told over and over again that suffering inspires growth. Happiness is an opiate, dulling our senses, while sorrow transforms. Hitting rock bottom leads to self-discovery. Images of disaster victims or dying soldiers awaken our otherwise dormant compassion. A crisis renews our troubled relationships. Very few of us have ever read German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, but his edict is everywhere: what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.

Ironically science suggests that’s not really true. Happiness (feeling good about our life overall) and positivity (feeling good about the current moment) actually makes us stronger, or at least they’re linked to better health, relationships, creativity, and even work outcomes. Those who identify themselves as happy, optimistic, hopeful, or content seem to have lower incidence or severity of cardiovascular and pulmonary disease, diabetes, hypertension, colds, and upper-respiratory infections. When we eat or have sex we release the brain chemical dopamine, which activates feelings of pleasure; principles of evolution suggest pursuit of that joy perpetuates our species. Research shows positivity – collaborating, asking meaningful questions, exploring opportunities -- dramatically improves team performance. Psychologists say engaging with people and activities most important to us and using our personal strengths to serve a larger end – all life-enhancing acts -- makes us deeply happy.

Current research echoes what spiritual voices have sung for ages: problems and pain may sound an alarm, but we truly evolve through joy, love, beauty, peace, creativity, compassion … happiness. We transform when we begin to rise from rock bottom. We grow through forgiveness, not the original injury. Acts of compassion, not more acts of violence, unravel injustice. We are born to be happy, whether biochemical impulse or spiritual seed. As we age and acquire a more varied and complex life, being happy becomes a personal choice, offered over and over again with each experience, nurtured by commitment and habit.

Scientists, physicians, and sages from every tradition offer the same advice. Every day, every moment, explicitly, and with purpose … Be mindful. Be kind. Be grateful. Spend time with those most precious, do work you love, and savor life’s pleasures. Forgive and let go. Take gentle care of yourself.

I’ve had some wild runs the last few years – death, serious illnesses, crashed relationships, shaky finances, loss, rapid-fire change … a good time to test the theory and look for the joy. More accurately, I’ve clung to joy like a blind woman stranded at sea who hopes she’s grabbing a raft and not a shark. Every day, every moment, I try to find a joy groove, like steering my tires along cleared tracks in the snow. Sometimes it’s easy – the traffic jam’s not moving anyway, so I put on some great music. Sometimes it’s uncomfortable – when everyone’s criticizing a political injustice that I, too, abhor, it’s embarrassing to express compassion for all sides. Sometimes finding the positive is just plain annoying, and I’d rather rant and rave after a tough day. Sometimes that joy groove runs alongside pain in equal measure; sitting bedside with my nephew in the hospital I forced myself to prompt the esoteric conversations we both love, acting as if he wasn’t sick at all, even while I silently feared for his life. And occasionally I must steer a gut-wrenching turn in the road, ending relationships, leaving jobs, and changing beliefs when I’m faced with the uncomfortable truth that they no longer serve me. Choosing happiness can be surprisingly hard, but every day I still choose to do it.

Psychologist Barbara Fredrickson suggests a tipping-point – if we conjure at least three positive thoughts or emotions to every episode of negativity, we spark a cascade of greater positivity and, more importantly, better actual results. In our relationships, our work, our perceptions, and our day-to-day experiences. When I find the joy groove I seem to step into the next moment, the next day, the next experience wiser, more energized … and happier.

Truth is I prefer “happier.” Maybe I am naïve or unrealistic or just plain stupid. Even so, I’ve decided there’s no such thing as too happy.

You Go, Oprah!

2009-06-03T08:29:52-04:00

I can't decide if Newsweek's grotesque photo of Oprah demonstrates that she has finally hit a mainstream nerve or that Newsweek is far more frightened about its future than I suspected.

Either way, this week's cover story confirms for me the magnitude of the intellectual and cultural shift sweeping this country. And the sad irrelevance of traditional publications.

I could certainly offer contrary facts, statistics, and stories to counter Newsweek's indictments against Oprah and her messages. But I'll leave that to others who, I'm sure, will flood Newsweek's mailboxes.

Instead let me just say that despite the fact that I'm the magazine's primary market (48, advanced degreed, entrepreneur with substantial disposable income, an educated and prolific reader), this issue shows the desperation of an elite losing things far more fundamental than the value of their 401(k)s.

Here are some different truths: vast swaths of the world believe that our thoughts and intentions shape our reality, for example, and we no longer feel compelled to wait for the physics industry to catch up. In 2005 the Centers for Disease Control reported that 65% of us routinely access "alternative" healthcare; the Institute of Medicine then revealed that we spend more out-of-pocket on those alternatives than on visits to our primary physician. We recognize bioidentical hormones do not benefit from double-blind studies because they are unpatenable (ie unprofitable, ie unable to generate the revenue necessary to fund those studies), not because they are ineffective. So we're using them and experiencing life-changing improvements.

We're moving forward without Newsweek and its peers. In droves. And this issue suggests their fearful sense of abandonment is palpable.

Newsweek may gloat sardonically in its intellectual superiority, dutifully reporting facts, all perfectly checked, that demonstrate collapsing securities markets, melting polar ice caps, and clashing political enemies. But they miss the real story. They miss the fundamental demise of the paradigms and epistemologies that cause all those horrors.

That is the story Oprah bravely explores.

I do not always agree with her. I, too, bristle sometimes at what I believe is her misplaced enthusiasms. And I certainly regret that she must weave evocative material between banal celebrity interviews.

But the real secret is Oprah remains steadfastly relevant, and Newsweek does not. Unfortunately at a time when we most benefit from national dialog, Newsweek chooses to be a gasping periodical in a dying industry, regurgitating the same empty story week-after-week, with writers and editors -- no matter how skilled and well-intentioned -- increasingly talking only to the shrinking pool of people just like themselves.

There's a whole new world out here, far larger than Newsweek's antiquated universe. Maybe if they took some bioidentical hormones they'd finally feel well enough to find it, join it, and share that story.

Timeless Value

2009-05-12T22:56:23-04:00

[An essay I published about a year ago ... suddenly remembered it after too many long work days & nights.] It’s 11:10 on a Thursday morning and I’m sitting with my husband in a cozy, local coffee shop listening to live music. Rhythmic and lyrical, Boubacar Diébaté plays a traditional instrument – wood shaft atop a round skin-covered base that’s part banjo, part drum. My husband and I share an overstuffed upholstered chair and a nut and raisin muffin. He doodles the musician’s likeness on a napkin; I casually write.

This is not what we typically do after dropping the kids at school, and I feel a quiet, ever-growing blanket of guilt unfold across my lap. Listening to beautiful music is not what one does at 11:10 on an average Thursday morning in our culture. Not on a workday. Not when there are projects to complete, clients to call, and bills to pay. I feel indulgent, and a little defiant. But mostly, I can’t stop eying the clock, wondering how much longer I can justify this temporary escape from what I’m really supposed to be doing.

Yet why do I feel guilty?

I can rationalize playing a little hooky. I’m self-employed so I can work anytime, as long as I get it done. I could easily label this a lovely, spontaneous change in routine, a justified “mental health break.” Aren’t we instructed to take an occasional time-out for pure enjoyment, to relieve stress and recharge for another round of productivity?

But I’m plagued with larger questions about the definition of time and its worth.

Bottom line: I do not get paid for listening to music with my husband. Technically it has no value in our economic system, a system that increasingly measures everything in our culture. So technically listening to music with my husband is worthless. This startling fact causes me to inventory other things that have no monetary value: raising our children, tending our homes, caring for our families, and nurturing our communities. Sure, those activities are revered. But fulfilling these vital responsibilities does not guarantee a woman food on the table or a roof overhead, let alone means to support her family, healthcare, and security in her old age. A woman may get paid for tending other women’s children, but doing so for her own – those she undoubtedly loves, understands, and can help the most – is essentially worthless according to how we compensate an hour of work. This seems backwards to me.

Admittedly sharing music and a muffin with my husband does not sound as noble as nursing an infant or caring for an elderly relative. But when I take money completely out of the picture – if I was independently wealthy or, better yet, if all our needs and desires were met outside the confines of monetary exchange – I truly believe nourishing my new marriage is far more important in the long run than any professional project I’m momentarily neglecting. I increasingly believe experiencing joy, expressing love, or listening to beautiful music is a better way to spend my time. For me, my family, my community, and the vibration of the world. This moment feels far better than the moment in my office from which I have escaped. I have a growing sense that feeling good in this way, sharing love and causing not an ounce of harm to anyone or anything, is also far more important. It seems to be the best use of my time.

Paul Hawken suggests there are actually four different types of “time.” Commerce-time is about innovation and change, perpetually moving fast and rewarding those who keep up. And it’s all about money. Governance-time creates the things that give us structure – governments, religions, and systems of economics, education, or health. It moves slower than commerce, with predictability and consistency its main currency. Culture-time moves even more slowly, rooted in deep, long-held beliefs and anchoring our identities and sense of belonging. Its currency is safety, nurturance, living our true potential, and love. The slowest of all is earth-time, a natural flow that lasts far longer than generations of human life and changes at a snail’s evolutionary pace. Instead of dollars, it deals in resilience and sustainability.

Hawken warns we have let commerce-time run amok. We are thrown into a breathless frenzy dictated by lightening-fast market economies, forgetting that time isn’t just about money. Time also marches to three other drummers, and we’d be wise to restore balance among them:

“What makes life worthwhile and enables civilizations to endure are all the elements and qualities that have poor returns under commercial metrics: universities, temples, poetry, choirs, parks, literature, language, museums, terraced fields, long marriages, line dancing, and art. Nearly everything humans hold valuable is slow to develop and slow to change.” (Hawken, 2007, p. 134.)

As I sit in this coffee shop listening to this beautiful music I can imagine millennia of ancestors sharing a similar experience, sitting on prairies or mountains or coastal cliffs, as musicians, storytellers, and communities gather around similar harmonies. Times when time itself moved differently, and sharing legends about the woods had greater value than clear-cutting the trees. Maybe I’m romanticizing a past no longer relevant, or maybe I’m trying to justify my own laziness. But sitting peacefully still, enjoying something beautiful, and sharing it with my husband seem like the most important – and should be the most lucrative – things I could possibly do. And so tomorrow I will do them again.

From "To-Do" to "I Want"

2009-05-09T18:45:42-04:00

It's been a really weird couple of weeks ... my nephew is on his 3rd distinct hospital stay in less than a month, first with what turned out to be Crohn's, then 4 days in a cardiac unit with an irregular (without discernible reason) EKG, and now 103-temp without infection. Oh, plus, recurring panic attacks. Yet he says all these incomprehensible ailments seem to force him to do exactly those things that have always been most tough for him. He's texting me insights sometimes hourly.

My best friend's Dad secured an unclear lung cancer diagnosis, had questionable surgery which prompted post-anesthesia dementia, spent two weeks at a completely incompetent rehab, was sent home without any instructions (her Dad signed something forbidding her from asking Rehab any questions), and died five days later. She was reeling, but at the same time we both said when this whole thing began ... her Dad was making weird medical decisions as if he wanted to get worse, not better. As if he wanted to die.

My dear sweet golden retriever was having an increasingly tough time hiking. I sensed something was wrong, but ... A trip to the vet became a four-day stay and, despite momentary improvement, all her organs shut down and we put her to sleep Friday before last.

At the same time our little nucleus is humming along just lovely. In the big scheme John, the kids, and I seem to be happier than ever. (Good solid crying about Jenna, notwithstanding.) And there's great stuff among my circle, too: a dream job secured, new kiln fired, work-transforming insights sparked & connections rooted firmly. Some of it really huge and exciting.

Things seem to be intense. The good, the bad, the beautiful, the painful. It's all just BIG, one way or another. And swift. It's like the universe has lost its subtlety --you got an issue or illness you've been ignoring? Yeah, well, we're gonna get your attention! Ambivalent about something? Forget that -- time to make a choice. Have a dream you've been working steadily on awhile? Yeah, well, hang on 'cause here it comes full force.

My best friend said she hasn't had a normal day since March 5th, yet I'm not sure what normal is anymore. I used to define my to-do list each morning, assuming my rational step-by-step activities prescribed my fate. Lately I've been writing down what I want instead -- everything from a quiet productive morning, a restful night's sleep for my ravaged nephew, a peaceful transition for my suffering dog, and some relaxing weeks for my friend. That seems to be the only thing I can genuinely affect. These days a good loud "I want ..." seems the only way to get me safely, sometimes even joyously, to the end of the day.

Reality's Overrated

2009-04-29T10:48:14-04:00

I've come to believe reality's overrated.

Admittedly, my grasp has always been tenuous, but I threw out the line in a recent management training, went public. Upped even my own ante. And surprisingly learned I'm not the only one thinks we're more productive if we quit being so realistic.

A thoughtful, intelligent senior manager was regaling a typical work horror -- powerful, egomaniac colleague priding herself on hoarding information, shucking blame, pitting folks against each other, and wreaking general havoc and mayhem. He'd dug his heels deep into the office carpet over a particular battle with her, and while absolutely justified, intransigent & pouty were not his nature. He was unnerved as much by his own behavior as by her's.

So I suggested he pretend like she was a normal person, just engage as if she was the most rational, easy--to-get-along-with colleague imaginable. Act normal and expect she'd do the same. Then see what happens. Worst case, she'd still be a jerk, but at least he'd maintain his integrity. And feel better.

I'm not sure he took my advice. (He's a psychiatrist; flights into imaginary fancy are kinda frowned upon in his business.) But I got lots of other head-nods.

Seems many of us are weary of reality's game. Screw it, we're saying. And not with muffled voices buried in the sand. But with a fledgling recognition that we -- the good, honest, compassionate, kind, decent folk -- actually outnumber those who are greedy, mean, violent, and power-hungry. They've been louder, richer, and sure get more prime-time attention. But we outnumber 'em. By a lot.

So let's pretend -- better yet, imagine & intend & assume -- that our values run the world's show instead. Telling that crappy co-worker, lousy teacher, rude sales clerk, or even the Guantanamo torture-memo authors, the encroaching Taleban insurgents, the Burmese junta, Sudanese President Omar al-Bashir & his Darfur genocide, the pesticide executives harassing Michelle Obama about her organic garden ... I'm sorry, that's not how we play this game.

PS check out the 5 Congressmembers arrested yesterday for civil disobedience.

Verve & Money

2009-04-03T14:40:47-04:00

Just posting my new piece in Verve.

Trombone Player Wanted

2009-04-02T22:23:11-04:00

I'm in San Antonio and besides the warm weather, riverwalk dining, prickly pear margaritas (the most luscious shade of bright pink), Lee Ann & I are teaching our annual management training. End of today we showed the first two segments of Marcus Buckingham's Trombone Player Wanted, (download parts 1 & 2 free on iTunes).

It always makes me cry. Not cause he's so adorably cute, dimpled chin, sky bright blue eyes and everything ... but 'cause he encourages, with passion unprecedented, that we all go with our strengths. Not our responsibilities. Not what we've grown into. Not even what we're good at. But what we knew age 5 and 8 and intensely 14 those few things that carried the blood through our souls.

This clip doesn't do justice, but it's short enough to entice. And ya get to see the dimple ...

Not So Grounded

2009-04-01T23:21:02-04:00

Welcome to my excuse to write. About big ideas, little moments, weird observations, or funny tidbits. I like to play with concepts, push and stretch 'em wide until they tumble headlong over a cliff. Thanks for joining the leap.