Redemption in 27D

A few months ago I traveled with some business colleagues to a meeting in the Midwest. Surprisingly, we all found ourselves sitting in first class. It seems that our travel agent was able to upgrade us for some reason…we didn’t ask and we didn’t complain. On the morning of our return we learned that only two of us would be sitting in first class while the other had been relegated back to coach. It seems that, yet again, our travel agent had worked some magic, just not as completely as before. I was one of the lucky two who would enjoy first class for the trip home. And, I never felt that good about it.

No switching was expected or requested and none was offered. In hindsight I wish the three of us would have agreed to put our boarding passes in a hat and do a blind draw. It would have been an easy and high-minded way to resolve an awkward situation. Further complicating the dilemma for yours truly was that the two of us riding in style were men (past tense indicating only that this happened in the past not that I have since lost that status…though, considering my choice you could argue that as well). Our coach-bound colleague was, of course, a woman. I located my smaller, more selfish self and made good friends with it. Chivalry, or what was left of its tattered body, died on that day, my friends.

Not long after the trip I read a blog post by Seth Godin called “Demonstrating Strength” in which he offers a list of attributes like “apologize”, “tell the truth” and “offer kindness.” It didn’t take long to find the one that was meant for me. It said: “volunteer to take the short straw.” Boy, did I ever miss a golden opportunity to demonstrate strength.

This morning in the Dallas airport, while waiting for a flight home with another colleague, I was bemoaning my seat assignment – I had drawn the dreaded middle seat. And, sold-out flight that it is, I was told at check-in that there would be no chance at a better seat. Resigned to my fate I explained to my colleague that it was karma at its finest, cosmic payback for my first class transgression, the story of which I then shared as if in a confessional. At precisely the moment I concluded my story (I swear to you this is true) my name rang out over the intercom: “will passenger David Berry please see the agent at Gate 34?” I looked at my colleague and smiled, she bearing a look of disbelief. Indeed, I was rewarded for my acknowledgement of failure; a window seat had opened up and it was mine. A small karmic allowance letting me know I was headed in the right direction.

As I approached the gate agent with my new boarding pass I leaned over to her colleague behind the counter and half-jokingly asked again if an aisle seat had become available. She laughed at my bravado, looked down at her screen and, sure enough, produced yet another new boarding pass.

I am typing this in 27D. Thrilled to be on my way home. Humbled to have learned my lesson. Grateful to be on the right side of things once again.


© 2010 David Berry

The Disciplines of Learning

1. Call “timeout.” Have you ever tried to change a tire while the car is still moving? Our impulse may be to just keep going, or to go even faster, in the face of change. How about slowing down? How about stopping the action to take a good look at what's going on?

2. Decide to learn and make a plan. Sometimes we just have to give in to the fact that we are a beginner. We would prefer not to be, of course, because that means there's something we don't know. A decision to learn is recognition that we are a work in progress. A good plan both honors that truth and gets us in motion.

3. Start a new conversation and stay in it. Learning happens in relationship. Who will get into that conversation with you? Who will be your partner in your new learning? Find them and go all in. Going it alone is a relic and a myth.

4. Stop “doing.” John Wooden cautioned us to "never mistake action for achievement." The world of "doing" is insidious. It is a hiding place and it will bury you. There's always another email; does it really matter? Is it worth it when it keeps you from what you really want?

5. Go to the edge, the middle is already taken. Imagine that everything you know is in the middle of a peaceful meadow and everything you want to know - the learning you aspire to - is at the windblown cliff edge. When your footing is uncertain and your pulse is quickening you'll know you're in the place of learning.

© 2010 David Berry

Through the Eye of the Needle

Sometimes the smallest openings lead to the largest discoveries. Remember the early scene in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory when Willy Wonka leads his guests down a hallway that gets smaller and smaller the further along they go? And, there at the very end of the hall is an extremely small door which, of course, leads into the largest and most spectacular room in the factory.

I found myself in one of those tight spots this morning as my wife and I explored La Jolla Cove on a tandem kayak. With the promise of caves, kelp and sea life awaiting us we headed out on the water as part of a loosely organized "guided" tour. When we reached the cliff walls that form the cove we came upon a narrow cave opening which, from the perspective of the open water, looked pretty simple to navigate. What I realized as we entered the gap is that a good part of the ocean was entering at the same time, and it had a lot more practice than us. We glanced off the right cave wall and surged forward into an open chamber that was pulsing with the unpredictable ebb and flow of the current. It was an effort just to hold the kayak in place, much less to maneuver it around this impressive cavern. Once we got our bearings and had a few moments to take in our surroundings, we were rewarded for the effort. This impressive space, invisible just a few yards offshore, is a monument to the creative collaboration of time, wind and water.

Sometimes we have to squeeze through a pretty tight spot in order to get to an expansiveness we could never have imagined. Sometimes the only thing we can see is a narrow gap beckoning us forward, asking us to believe that with a little faith, a little focus and a willingness to ride the surge of the forces around us, we will be opened up to something we otherwise never would have seen.

© 2010 David Berry

Won't Ask, Won't Tell

My stepfather was a doctor of the general practice variety. He was also an amateur race car driver. Clearly a very smart man, he was also a very quiet man. I would never have known about the racing, which at 10 years old was WAY more interesting than his being a doctor, except for a few framed photographs that hung over the work bench in the garage. I learned over the years that he was a tinkerer. He liked to work on things, figure things out and fix them if he could. This made him both a good doctor and a good mechanic.

Regrettably, I didn't learn any of these skills from my step-dad between the age of 10 and 16. By this point he had turned from race cars to golf, a decision that resonates to this day but no more so than on one summer afternoon in 1986.  

When my sister and I were in high school and both of legal driving age, my step-dad bought us a car to share. I wish I could remember exactly what kind but it wasn't much to speak of, an early 80's Datsun hatchback or something like that. We didn't have it for too long because I killed it. I'd like to say that my sister killed it, and it's not like she didn't try to kill it, but I just didn't give her quite enough time. The role of  "car killer" fell to me and happened, ironically enough, through my effort to take care of it. It seems that I was mistakenly putting engine oil where the transmission fluid is supposed to go. Not good..

I first learned of this transgression one sunny Saturday afternoon while driving south on Interstate 15 on my way to see a girlfriend. This was a pretty long drive for a young driver (freeways and all!) so I was definitely pumped up with manly awesomeness of the "I have a car and I'm driving it to see my woman" variety. Imagine the surprise to both my vehicle and my awesomeness when the car lurched and died, forcing me to the side of the road. I have no idea how I contacted my girlfriend but a little while later she and her father came to collect me, shamefaced and beaten as I was.

Today, it's a funny story. At the time, not so much. I remember being scared on the side of the road, obviously concerned about the car and what mom and step-dad (not to mention my sister!) would think and say. And I also remember, in taking care of the car, that I knew that I didn't know what I was doing (let's call it "conscious incompetence"). I was acting in good faith but I didn't have a damn clue about what was under the hood much less what to do about any of it. And, of course, my stepfather knew everything about it and in providing us with the car he never said a word. Not a word.

Why didn't I ask? Why didn't he offer?

The truth is, I was scared to ask for what I needed for fear of revealing myself as incompetent. As for my step-dad, something prevented him from sharing vital information. Maybe he assumed we knew more than we did. Maybe he assumed we would ask. Whatever the reason, we collaborated in failure.

My son is 10 years old. When the time comes, I'm going to show him where the oil goes. That is, if I can find it myself.

© 2010 David Berry