Chaos, Control, Creativity

Here's a premise for your consideration: as life becomes more complicated and chaotic we apply more controls and disciplines to help us manage the mess. As we do so we necessarily, though unintentionally, constrain our natural creative resources, the resources we most need to employ if we are to successfully navigate additional and increasing complexity.

As "it" gets messier, we hold on tighter to feel more in control and by doing so limit our flexibility, our mobility and our range of options. We narrow our vision down to a very direct line of sight, one that while increasing our focus, diminishes our peripheral capacity. We see more of one thing and less of everything else. As such, we see more of the problem/challenge/difficulty/uncertainty and less of the possibilities for dealing with it as they remain beyond our ability to see.

Additionally, this focusing ability - nature's gift to us in the game of survival - requires so much concentrated energy that we're left with just enough to "get by" - sometimes sufficiently and successfully, sometimes not - in other areas of life. That is to say, we figure out how to fake it.

This is the best way I can think to explain the last five weeks of my life, which also and interestingly, though perhaps only coincidentally, happen to be the last five weeks of the year. I have been so singularly focused on one developing issue, one slowly evolving melodrama, that I lost my ability to focus on - to be present in -the creative outlets in my life that give me joy, inspiration and encouragement.

This is both my acknowledgment and my resolve. My commitment to move past the creative hijacking of circumstance and get back to work on what matters.

© 2010 David Berry

All My Fears and Failures

I choked up during the opening song at church this morning. Two verses into it and I'm standing there, overwhelmed. I don't know why it hit me so hard, but it stayed with me all day long. As only music can do, it burrowed inside me and stole my breath away before I knew what hit me. Here's the line that landed the blow:

"So take me as you find me, all my fears and failures..."

It's a simple, powerful request to be accepted, embraced, loved and respected for exactly what I am and exactly how I am. In my spiritual tradition this acceptance is a promise of faith that I have a responsibility to live into. It's waiting for me whether I am willing or able to see it; whether I am willing or able to allow myself the comfort of that embrace.

And, as overwhelming as that kind of acceptance is, more overwhelming still is the responsibility to offer it to others. Yes, that's the message of the song that's hardest to accept. Those "others" are all around me everyday; looking for and quietly asking for a generosity of acceptance, hopeful that I will see them not for who they are but for the better self they are trying to be.

And, there I am asking them to do the same for me.


© 2010 David Berry

Something New

How many times in your life have you been a part of something new? When were you on the ground floor of a new endeavor, experience, initiative or opportunity? When were you either invited to join a new effort or assertive in creating something that hadn't been done before?

I think of my marriage as a powerful "something new" that I agreed to help co-create. This relationship had never before existed and a decision, one of both head and heart, was made to see if together we could build something that would last. To this day, it is my proudest accomplishment.

Fatherhood and parenthood was a gigantic "something new." Talk about a shot in the dark! Again, a commitment of both head and heart, we agreed that we wanted to build a family and then we rolled the dice. All the planning in the world doesn't allow you to mitigate the variables in that particular new event.

I traveled to Whidbey Island near Seattle this week to take part in another "something new." I accepted an invitation to attend the launch event for the Institute for Conversational Leadership. This new organization is inspired by and formed around the work of poet/philosopher David Whyte who has been applying his work to organizational settings for the past twenty years. The purpose of the Institute is to provide a greater level of sustainability for the courageous conversations David inspires during his talks. Organizations asked for a way to carry the work forward and the Institute is the response. I do not know what my role will be in this new endeavor but I do know that I was there at the beginning and, like all beginnings of significance, it was exciting, energizing, messy and rife with unanswered questions.

I found myself deeply enjoying the experience especially because it is not yet known what it will be. The mystery of the new and the exhilaration of standing at the threshold is a powerful force in the early going.

The common thread of these examples, and of anything that is deeply meaningful, is that they marry fear with excitement, uncertainty with energy. And, as such, they require courage - acting in the presence, not the absence of fear.

It's easy to fall in love with the idea of marriage, fatherhood, writing a blog or building a change organization. It's another thing altogether to recognize your fear of beginning and still decide to put a shovel in the ground and get to work.

© 2010 David Berry

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

Hope, Faith, Love

“Nothing worth doing is completed in our lifetime; therefore we must be saved by hope. Nothing true or beautiful makes complete sense in any immediate context of history; therefore we must be saved by faith. Nothing we do, however virtuous, can be accomplished alone; therefore, we are saved by love.”

- Reinhold Niebuhr -

I am wrestling with the idea of creation. I am wrestling with the truth that any act of creation requires far more than the actual doing of the thing; far more than a "Eureka!" moment that galvanizes action. I am wrestling with the fact that creation, as a choice, requires letting go of what I think it should be to create the space for what it may become.

If I choose to be among the creators, I choose to start something that cannot be finished; something that may not be understood; something that will demand an unmatched level of connection to and relationship with others. I choose to walk a new path rather than one well-worn by the cavalry of what's been done. 

Niebuhr provides us with the framework against which to apply our creative aspirations. I can almost hear him urging us to let go of completion, sense-making and the trap of "I must do it myself or it doesn't really count." He is urging us to trust that beginning is enough. If it is of deepest meaning to us, begin it. And, once begun, follow where it leads, nurture it to strength and call on the help of all who will help it grow.

Is it worth doing? Is it true and beautiful? Is it possible only in relationship with others?

Yes? 

Then, with hope, faith and love in your heart, begin it.


© 2010 David Berry

Pursuing Greatness

I am wondering if it is a cruel joke of the universe that at exactly the time I have discovered a reservoir of clarity, energy and purpose in my professional life - at the time I have found my vocation - that there should exist an exactly proportionate array of preexisting realities with equal rights to my attention, focus and care.

In fairness, these "preexisting realities," less coldly described as marriage, children, family, faith, friends and community, laid claim to my attentiveness long ago. Perhaps this "vocation" is the impostor, the one whose intentions must be questioned as it relates to integration and harmony. As it relates to keeping the peace.

The question is this: how do I incorporate my vocation into the structures of my life - relationships and commitments - in a way that preserves, extends and expands all? Yes, I am asking, how do I have it all?

I don't want to be a good dad and a great speaker. I'm not interested in being a great husband and a good leader. I don't want validation from my professional community and a dearth of real friends. I want the both/and. I want greatness.

And the difference between good and great is very, very small. One choice in one moment at a time. It is a constancy of awareness; a level of attentiveness that is unsurpassed. And it is a generosity and kindness with myself. A reminder to be about the journey and not the destination. To keep negotiating balance and integration. To stay in conversation with my life.

Yes, to stay in conversation with my life.


© 2010 David Berry

The Other Side of Silence

"That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of its frequency has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind, and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heartbeat, and we should die of that roar which lives on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk around well wadded with stupidity."

GEORGE ELIOT - Middlemarch

I am overwhelmed by this quote. It appears in the front pages of a biography of the author, Richard Yates. If you've read Revolutionary Road or anything else by him you know him to be a master of exploring "the other side of silence." His work conveys the deep pain of the unnoticed and the unexpressed.

I am overwhelmed by Eliot's quote and drawn to it in the same way I was overwhelmed by and drawn to David Foster Wallace's commencement speech at Kenyon College in 2005 (read it here: http://online.wsj.com/article/SB122178211966454607.html).

In the same way I was overwhelmed by and drawn to Oprah Winfrey's declared purpose; that her show existed to help people be "seen, heard and understood."

So much unmet need. So much fear of loss. So much pain. All of it swirling around us; in us. All of it waiting to be noticed and tended to. I am overwhelmed and drawn to these words because they represent an immovable, impossible standard which, in my imperfection I am failing, utterly failing, to meet.

It is beyond humbling to be reminded that I am walking around "well wadded with stupidity." That I choose to display a version of ignorance that matches what my ego can tolerate at that moment. I have so much to do, say, be and become. Please don't derail me with your needs, wants and desires. Please don't ask me to be about you, for you, for even five minutes, unless you want my resentment and frustration.

Please don't act out a script which I have not written and cast for this occasion. Just play your part. I will play mine.

Places, everyone.

© 2010 David Berry

See. Hear. Understand.

I don't watch Oprah. I'm not saying I wouldn't or would rather not, it's just that I'm at work on most weekday afternoons. That said, this Oprah has something special going on and now that's she's in the last year of her show I'm starting to pay attention. What caught my ear the other day was a commercial promoting her final season in which she talked about the moment when she realized what her show was really all about; the moment she understood at a visceral level why she was doing what she was doing...why her work mattered.

She said that what she had come to learn is that all people (ALL PEOPLE) want three things:

1. To be seen.
2. To be heard.
3. To be understood.

And that her show existed to help the unseen be seen, the unheard be heard and the misunderstood to be understood. Simple. Powerful. Obvious. 

Oprah's work facilitates the inspiration of millions by sharing the stories of other human beings who are trying to overcome, trying to survive, trying to move forward. And those stories compel us to act. Or do they?

What I wonder is if we have become so anesthetized by the proliferation of Oprah-style media that these "real" stories have become a substitute for our own experience. A way to spend a few minutes feeling virtually-authentic emotions before re-engaging the real challenges - the real messy challenges - of our own lives. It seems to me that a lot of empathy is spent on people we will never meet when the neighbor, family member, and teacher at our kid's school goes unseen, unheard and misunderstood.

I'd like to believe that Oprah would be happy with a lot less viewers and a lot more people experiencing real emotion and real inspiration in the face-to-face interactions of everyday life. I'd like to believe that.

© 2010 David Berry

Sweet Darkness

I am tired tonight. Tired. My head is heavy...pulsing with the days events...things accomplished, things left undone. Intensity at work. Intensity at home. Always on. Going, going, going.

These are the days I know to expect. Small kids at home. Big opportunities at work. Limits are pushed. Patience is tested. Life is full. And there's not much left for the "want to" when it is all spent on the "have to."

Celebrated fifteen years of marriage this week. If not for that; if not for her: no way.

And so, in the darkness of this night, I am thankful. And I will rest in anticipation of a new day.

Sweet Darkness
by David Whyte

When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.

When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.

Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.

There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.

The dark will be your womb
tonight.

The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.

You must learn one thing.
The world was meant to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it take darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness

to learn

anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.


© 2010 David Berry

Women Living Fully

Molly Davis, Kristine Van Raden

http://www.womenlivingfully.com/

"I could not, at any age, be content to take my place by the fireside and simply look on. Life was meant to be lived. Curiosity must be kept alive. One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life."

- Eleanor Roosevelt -

Today, I am honored to dedicate this space to the work of a friend and her colleague. Molly Davis and Kristine Van Raden have been invited to lead the opening session of the upcoming conference, Women Living Fully. The goal of the conference is to "offer women the opportunity to reconnect with that which is most important to them and find new ways to live that are reflective of who they are and what they value."

To kick off this 3-day conference, Molly and Kristine will be facilitating conversations on Courage, Contentment and Grace and it is my pure pleasure to bring this opportunity to as many people as I can.

The more I got to thinking about "Women Living Fully" I began to consider all of the women who have "lived fully" in contributing to my life; women who have sacrificed, labored, loved, expressed, engaged, befriended, listened, laughed and patiently tolerated so that I might be something more; someone better. In appreciation and gratitude, I honor some of them here. It is a privilege to say thank you and to assure them of my commitment to "living fully" for them, however they may need me.

Theresa, my wife - beautiful believer, quiet strength

Avery, my daughter - gorgeous, creative, powerful

Davis, my daughter - lovely, curious, wicked smart

Nancy, my mom - ageless, the spirit of youth

Marcia, my sister - energy, courage, laughter

Kristina, my sister - fiercely loyal friend and mother

Jennifer, my sister - magnetic, joyful

Sheila, my counselor - present, always

Lia, my friend - always faithful

Stephanie, my friend - supremely competent, super silly

Lisa, my friend and colleague - deeply caring listener

Laura, my friend and colleague - really funny, really smart

Marlene, my friend and colleague - wisdom, kindness, freely given

Marcie, my friend and colleague - passionate, soulful

Amber, my friend and colleague - courageous, all-in

Lisa, my friend - ambitious, generous

© 2010 David Berry

Labor Day

"Work isn't to make money. You work to justify life"

~ Marc Chagall ~

When I was 17 years old I knew exactly what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I just didn't know that it was possible to apply what came naturally to me to a formal educational and professional pursuit. And so began a 14 year journey to find what it was I was supposed to do with my life. When I finally landed on my vocation I was shocked to find that I had known the answer so many years before; that the answer had always been in me, just waiting to be unlocked and reintroduced to the world in a new and more profound way.

Of course, had I not wandered in the desert, searching in vain for the perfect fit; had I not been tested and molded by so many "roads to nowhere" I never would have found the road to somewhere. It was because of the work that was not my work that I was able to find the work that is.

James Michener wrote, and I'm paraphrasing heavily, that until we find our "thing" everything else we do along the way is creative. It's all part of the process of learning who and what we are and how we are meant to use it in and for the world. Another sage, David Whyte, is fond of reciting the following quote, attributed to Joseph Campbell:

"If the path ahead of you is clear, you are on someone else's path."

In other words, your path - the work of your life - is the one with all the obstacles. You have to fight for it, up and over, through and around; clawing, scraping, racing, pushing, pulling. This is how you know it is yours. And, in my experience, while all of that is happening you are deeply gratified by knowing that this fight is your fight. This labor is your labor; the work meant for you and you alone.

And what a joy it is to find that work. Truly, it is an exceptional thing to realize that this is my offering, my contribution. And with it comes a deep and significant responsibility to fully explore, fully realize and fully practice that which I am meant to do.

I am grateful on Labor Day to have found my work. More than that, I am grateful to have the permission, support, trust and expectation to fully express it.

"Real generosity toward the future lies in giving all to the present."

~ Albert Camus ~

© 2010 David Berry

Walk This Way

Phillipe Petit - World Trade Center - August 7, 1974

I find myself at the edge of opportunity. A stepping off point that is at once unexpected and the result of years of passionate exploration and refinement. It's as if I have suddenly arrived at a place I have been hoping to visit for a very long time. It's the moment - I think of my wedding day, becoming a father, giving my first significant speech - when anticipation gives way to experience. The feelings are fascinatingly polarized: this is exactly what I thought it would be AND I am an intruder in someone else's experience because this is certainly not my life!

As I consider the path that is opening up before me I find myself suddenly aware (if I am to inhabit this foreign land with fullness and belonging) of how much focus, energy and discipline it will take to walk it well. It feels like the difference between a walk on the beach and a walk on a tightrope.

On the beach: sand giving way under foot, footprints straying up and down the waterline; not quite directionless but a coming and going that is marked by neither intensity nor purpose. It is a wandering of the very best kind. Lose my balance and my pant legs get wet.

On the tightrope: eyes on the horizon, pole leveled for balance; one foot at a time testing the tension of the wire, the body relaxed and contained. Every move unified by the connection of body and mind. Lose my balance and I fall down and away, no longer going towards.

My challenge at this new frontier is to get into a rhythm that reflects my priorities. To give form and focus to the opportunity is to learn to deny that which will take me off balance. To move away from the comforting distractions - the wandering - and to find the relaxed containment necessary for a joyful journey across the tightrope.

I find deep inspiration in the story of Phillipe Petit, whose incredible feat of walking a wire between the Twin Towers, is brilliantly captured in the documentary "Man On Wire." His was truly a joyful journey.

© 2010 David Berry

"SHORTCUTS CAUSE EROSION"

Mt. Adams, Washington - photo by Marc Adamus

I received the following note from my friend, Molly, this afternoon:

"Two things this weekend made me think of you and thought you might enjoy...one is this quote:

'In the new economy conversations are the most important form of work.'

- Alan Webber, Harvard Business Review

The second came in the midst of our hike up on the flanks of Mt. Adams. Alongside the trail there was an old forest service sign that said:


SHORTCUTS CAUSE EROSION

...because as soon as I saw it I thought of your blog. Just loved all the possibilities with that..."

What a gift to have someone so generously toss a few fresh coals into the fire. It's great material to be sure, but it's how it fits together that is so gratifying.

If our conversations truly are our "most important form of work" then certainly it must matter whether or not we go all the way. It must matter if we sidestep, avoid or otherwise shortcut the real conversations; the big ones that scare us because they might just involve something dangerously close to the truth.

For me, the "big ones" are usually about unmet needs; experiencing disappointment in people I rely on. It's never been easy to confront that because, in the catastrophic version going on in my head, they will simply decide to leave me for a relationship that isn't so much bother. Instead of moving towards it, I think I gain their continued loyalty by refraining when in fact I'm just wheeling truckloads of unspoken resentment into a vast and ever-expanding warehouse!

My good work has been to discover that by stepping into those waters, by sharing what I feel as openly and as quickly as I can, I am actually strengthening the very foundations upon which these essential relationships are built. That's serious erosion control, folks. Of course, I know Alan Webber was talking about the "New Economy" (the one in which the speed of change is so fast that people feel more vulnerable than ever) and not so much about my marriage and my friendships. Still, I know that if I don't get those conversations right I don't stand a chance of having and facilitating the conversations necessary to help my organization make sense of the new world order.

It's first things first in my book. Get it right at home, and we just might get it right at work. And if we start to get it right at work (one tough conversation at a time) we may find that, once and for all, we can do away with "management," "performance reviews" and every other antediluvian constraint on authentic dialogue in the workplace.

Sure, I'm idealistic. Considering what's at stake, is there another way to be?

© 2010 David Berry

The Fire Forest

The longleaf pine woodlands in Georgia is one of the most fire dependent ecosystems in North America. According to The Natural History of the Fire Forest by R. Todd Engstrom, et al, "...these woodlands depend on frequent fire (every one to three years) to maintain their biological richness and ecosystem health today, as they have for tens of thousands of years."

For the system to survive and to thrive it has to burn. Clearing out the old growth to make room for the new.

When we are stuck; when we are caught in a pattern of our own making and it has outlived it's usefulness; when we know there is a bigger "more" waiting for us and we have no idea how to move towards it; when we are deathly afraid of taking the next, new step because it is just so foreign and we feel just so helpless; that's when we've got to create the Fire Forest in our own life.

And, from my own experience I can offer two things: (1) The burn of that fire, fueled by underbrush, tumbleweeds and ancient, explosive kindling, is a long, hot burn. (2) That burn produces a healing, life-giving heat that nurtures new growth like a greenhouse nurtures a tender seedling.

Just like the Fire Forest each of us is a system that needs renewal; one that is capable of adapting to the cycle of regeneration and growing more richly and more abundantly because of it. Unlike the Fire Forest, we get to choose if and when we will enter the cycle and just how much fuel we will bring with us when we do.

© 2010 David Berry

The Chaos of Collaboration

"Insanity in individuals is something rare - but in groups...it is the rule."

Friedrich Nietzsche

I finally figured out why so many people, so much of the time, would simply rather do things themselves than in collaboration with other people. Let me re-phrase that: I finally figured out why I, so much of the time, would simply rather do things myself than in collaboration with other people.

Collaboration is chaotic, unruly and messy. It quickly gets completely out of control. Boundaries aren't set. Expectations aren't clear. Roles are undefined. Needs go unfulfilled. It's enough to make you crazy. Collaboration is so often a Pandora's box of good intentions which, once opened, is impossible to close.

The problem with this, of course, is that nothing truly meaningful gets done alone. Sure, you've got your painters and your writers whose accomplishments are works of singular creative energy. The work of the world, however - the work that produces goods and services, creates jobs and feeds families - is not done by creative artists. It is done by people working together in organizations who, if they don't cooperate and collaborate, don't get much done. And, when that stuff doesn't get done, other people suffer - quality erodes and jobs are lost.

Furthermore, there are plenty of organizations in which the stuff gets done in spite of poor cooperation and collaborative efforts that are no more than lip-service being paid by "command and control" managers who think employees are too stupid to know better. Do you work there? Do you want to?

It is the rare organization, the one attempting to become truly great through a culture of meaningful relationships and learning, where the stuff gets done - the product designed, made and shipped; the service provided efficiently and effectively - because "we" matters more than "me."

Do you work there? Do you want to?

© 2010 David Berry

Vacation: Finally, Time To Get Some Work Done

I'm officially on vacation and I find it very hard to slow down. Now, it's not like I'm on a "lay-on-the-beach-all-day-whilst-sipping-MaiTai's-under-majestic-palm-trees" kind of vacation but, nevertheless, vacation is a time to check-out, relax, break the routine and try new stuff. Or at least I think it is...and I find it very difficult to get into that mode.

Sadly, I see my vacation as a time to do some real thinking about/planning and organizing of all of the things (mostly work related) that I don't have time to think about while I'm at work. I actually spent the last two weeks saying to people that "I am looking forward to my vacation because it's going to give me a chance to work on some stuff I really need to work on." (It's painful to read that sentence...please, PLEASE tell me you can't relate to it!)

People, this is a problem. It's a problem, first and foremost with me. I am clearly not aligning my time to my priorities if the stuff I really want and need to work on has to wait for an eight hour car ride and nearly two weeks of family visits and rounds of golf.

How did I get here? Well, fundamentally, I think it's about staying busy as a way to validate my importance. But that's the subject of another post. For now, I must vacate this chair and go get some work done.

© 2010 David Berry

The Myth of the Individual

"If I have seen further,

it is by standing on the shoulders of giants."

- Sir Isaac Newton -

A friend of mine once told me that I’d make a great consultant because of my ability to “detach.” I think he meant that while I’m good at helping a group or a team identify and work toward their goals, I’m not really interested in being a team member, allowing me not to get attached to outcomes and allowing me to remain an objective source of perspective and support. At the time I took it as a compliment because it validated my self-perception. I valued my autonomy, the ability to be (or at least act like) the expert but to do so in my own way, on my own terms. I liked being needed and I valued the ability to leave when I was done. Mostly I liked that this model kept things very clean. No attachments and no mess.

Today, I don’t see it as a compliment. What I believe is that my friend was seeing me accurately and describing it in very generous terms. I believe he saw someone who was on the run; afraid to attach because of what it would demand of me; afraid to be needed because I might not have enough to give; afraid to be a part of a team because doing so required me to care less about myself and more about others; afraid to be about “us” instead of about “me.”

The myth of the individual is about thinking I can do more on my own than I can do with others.

The myth of the individual is “I did it by myself” and “look how great I am,”
hollow pleas for affirmation and recognition.

The myth of the individual is that being separate brings distinction when it really brings isolation.

The myth of the individual is that others are a means to an end rather than a source of joyful support, encouragement and inspiration.

The myth of the individual is that keeping score of my riches is more fulfilling than making riches possible for others.

The myth of the individual is that I was born and will die alone, as if no one has provided for me along the way; maybe not everything, and maybe not how I would have wanted it, but enough.

The myth of the individual is that by playing it safe I protect against my fear of loss instead of risking the real loss that comes from a life lived in self-imposed exile.

The truth is this: there is nothing I will ever accomplish in my life, at any level and to any degree of significance that will not require the faithful support, trust and deep generosity of others.


© 2010 David Berry

When "Work" Becomes a "Job"

Human beings are impressively driven to produce. We are powerfully drawn toward creation and contribution, both out of necessity (survival!) and because, when the conditions are right, it feels so good to apply and extend our vast physical and mental capacity. We create for ourselves and we create for others, connected as we are to communities of mutual support and aspiration, be that family, team, faith community or work group.

In short, we want to work.

What we don’t want – what I especially do not want – is a “job.”

“Jobs” are organizational constructs masquerading as “work.”

“Jobs” are someone else’s typically quite limited idea of what meaningful work – my innate desire to create and contribute – should look like for me.

“Jobs” represent most company’s painfully antiquated belief that human beings are actually satisfied with trading time for money; that we will happily set aside our need for creative expression and meaningful contribution in order to serve the organizational good. No thanks.

Making matters worse is that “jobs” come with managers. And most managers don’t know what to do with us.

In Get Rid of the Performance Review!, Samuel Culbert writes: “Few managers get their jobs because of their keen understanding of people, or their ability to bring people together when there are misunderstandings and differences. Most managers have never been taught how to be good managers. It’s almost as if they learn how to be managers the same way they learn how to do performance reviews: by filling in the blanks. Instead of being guided by an understanding of human nature, treating the people who work for them as unique human beings, they base their actions on self-serving logic and clumsy attempts at control.”

Sound familiar? It doesn’t have to.

Life is short and you are a one-of-a-kind creative genius.

Anyone can find a “job.” Go find your work.


© 2010 David Berry

Into the Wild

They want a wilderness with a map

but how about errors that give a new start?

or leaves that are edging into the light?

or the many places a road can't find?

- William Stafford -


So many say they want it to be different. I want it to be different. More participation; more employees (all employees?) ready, willing and able to express themselves, surface ideas, share challenges, engage in open conversation about present challenges and future progress.

"This is what we want, right?" They nod, “Yes. Yes we do.”

I don’t think so.

I don’t think they know what it means to follow that path. Have they anticipated the possibilities? The chaos of expression and its hanging expectation? The messiness of “we want to hear it but we probably won’t do anything about it”? The massive shift in control from the few to the many? The cynicism, the frustration, the “I told you so.”

Do they really know what they are asking for?

I don’t think so.

And yet, there is, down that rough trail, through that dank forest, beyond that surging river and over that mountain the possibility of a new way.

We should go there.

Let's go.

© 2010 David Berry

All In Good Time

Two months ago I was diagnosed with a nodule on my vocal chord. I was told that if I was a Very Good Boy for two whole months it would be all better. (Very Good Boy is defined as follows: strict vocal rest for two weeks; no coffee, no chocolate, no alcohol.)

Today was my two month check-up and I was proud to report that I had indeed been a Very Good Boy. Strict vocal rest was about 85% successful; I haven’t had a drop of coffee and only crumbs of chocolate (you know how “Cookies-n-Cream” is mostly cream, right?) and on a few ‘special occasions’ I had a couple of drinks. It is summertime, after all. All in all, I think I did pretty good. And, when I do pretty good, I expect a pretty good reward.

While I knew from the quality of my voice that I had not quite won the war I was confident that I had definitely made progress. Just not enough. The good news is that the nodule is smaller by one-third. From three millimeters down to two. Somehow my doctor managed to restrain himself from offering an exuberant high-five. (We did manage to congratulate ourselves on how we handled the scope-up-the-nose-down-the-throat-routine. He tried to claim he must be getting better. I assured him I deserved the credit for both my mental preparation as well as my execution at the crucial moment. I was truly “in the zone.”)

Happy though I was to hear of my nodular reduction, I said to him (in a subtle this isn’t quite the birthday present I was hoping for tone): “I thought you said that in 8 out of 10 cases this is resolved in two months,” regretting every one of those “special occasion” drinks. He considered me as the father considers the child’s incessant need for instant gratification and said: “No. It can take longer.”

Silly me. I go back in three months.

And, come Halloween, the drinks are on me!

We're Still Here

"If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put foundations under them." - Henry David Thoreau -

One year ago this week a very significant individual left our company. He was responsible for beginning, cultivating and inspiring a powerful cultural shift in the organization. That shift became transformational for the business over the years and it is still very much alive today. More than that, it continues to grow and evolve. And, it does so because he was more interested in building something that would last - something that was about and for all of us - than building something that was about him, sure to slip away not long after his leaving.

I've had the opportunity over the last five years to help build that lasting infrastructure and what I have learned is that by making it about the whole rather than about the self you ensure a lasting, even permanent legacy of impact.

Thanks to that way of thinking - that singular, motivating vision and the thoughtfulness to support it - it's one year later and we're still here.

this kind of fire

by Charles Bukowski

sometimes I think the gods
deliberately keep pushing me
into the fire
just to hear me
yelp
a few good
lines.

they just aren't going to
let me retire
silk scarf about neck
giving lectures at
Yale.

the gods need me to
entertain them.

they must be terribly
bored with all
the others

and I am too.

and now my cigarette lighter
has gone dry.
I sit here
hopelessly
flicking it.

this kind of fire
they can't give
me.

Independence Day

What it takes to form a nation:

Dedication to higher principles.
Clarification of identity.
Exploration of the unknown.
Devotion to a cause.
Consecration to learning.
Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice.

And, what's at stake:

Freedom from tyranny.
Independence of purpose, thought and action.
Manifest destiny.
Discovery of new frontiers.
Becoming your own authority.

What it takes to develop the self:

Dedication to higher principles.
Clarification of identity.
Exploration of the unknown.
Devotion to a cause.
Consecration to learning.
Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice.

And, what's at stake:

Freedom from tyranny.
Independence of purpose, thought and action.
Manifest destiny.
Discovery of new frontiers.
Becoming your own authority.

© 2010 David Berry

The Henry Kissinger I Never Knew

I am a child of the Reagan Revolution. I was 10 years old when the "Great Communicator" entered the White House and, as a result, I became fascinated with politics, government and American history, but especially the presidency itself. And, as I read more and learned more about the men who had held the office I found myself increasingly pulled toward Richard Nixon. I found him utterly fascinating, a tragic character at a tragic time in our country's history, possessing both a brilliant mind and a deeply flawed character. Nixon and those in his inner circle were redefining the American political landscape in ways they couldn't even imagine.

One morning during the fall of my senior year of high school I was having breakfast and watching the morning news when I heard that Henry Kissinger was scheduled to speak that very morning at a conference taking place just 10 minutes from my home. I turned to my mom and said "I'm not going to school this morning. I'm going to hear Henry Kissinger." And so I did.

I put on a tie, found my way to the conference site and discovered that Dr. Kissinger was the keynote speaker for the annual meeting of the National Radio Broadcasters Association, or something like that. I walked into the foyer of the ballroom into a sea of VERY SERIOUS ADULTS gathering over coffee and continental breakfast. At that moment my youthful boldness wore off and I was scared. A child impostor, living on the edge, sure to be discovered and tossed out on my ear. And so I did what anyone would do in this situation; I had a danish. Desperate to fit in, I choked it down and headed towards the ballroom entrance. Once inside, I made what turned out to be both a crucial and fortuitous error: I walked to the very far side of the room, leaving myself no escape.

I took a seat in the back, appreciating that the ballroom was dimly lit, the proceedings were about to begin. My confidence began to return - I had made it. I survived the gauntlet of the crowd and was poised to hear a very significant man talk about very significant issues. What I didn't count on was what happened next: as I'm settling in, the emcee of the session proceeds to the lectern to welcome everyone and then says some version of "AS WE DO EVERY YEAR, WE'RE GOING TO KICK OFF OUR MEETING BY HAVING EVERYONE INTRODUCE THEMSELVES AND TELL US WHAT RADIO STATION YOU'RE FROM!." I panicked. (There was a very brief moment in which I entertained the idea of introducing myself as "David, from WKRP in Cincinnati" but I saw no sense in hastening my doom.) As they got started with the introductions I got the hell out of that room, bursting into the foyer only to run smack dab into Dr. Kissinger himself.

Well, more accurately, I ran into Dr. Kissinger's security detail on whose faces I quickly read, not exactly fear, but serious annoyance that I was even in their presence. As they subdued me (that's a gratuitous word choice but go with me on this) all I could say was "But, I just wanted to meet Dr. Kissinger!" at which point the good Dr. turned around, assessed that I wasn't exactly a Khrushchev or a Mao, and called off his dogs. I explained that I was a local student interested in hearing him speak and he said a few kind words in that well-known growl, signed an autograph and was on his way.

I never did hear him speak. I was too freaked out by that point to go back in. But, I did get to meet him and that was well beyond my imagination over Cheerios and the morning news.
What happened when I got back to school is what I have been thinking about a lot lately. You can imagine my gleeful confidence at being able to report to my classmates what I had accomplished. I was especially excited to go to my government class and share this with my teacher, sure that I would be hailed for my boldness in pursuit of a “real” education. This is not what happened. In fact, I remember his reaction as being more annoyed than anything else. Annoyed that I had skipped school and annoyed that I was disrupting his class.

What a colossal, massive miss. Here I was, truly engaged in my own learning, taking ownership for it, acting on my passion for the subject matter, only to be met with annoyance. In retrospect, that just sucks.

In Seth Godin’s new book, Linchpin, he talks about how the school system, rather than being a catalyst for creative problem solving and leadership skill development, more often than not is just in the way. Sadly, he’s right. And I can’t help but ask, what of our organizations? In so many ways they just pick up where the schools leave off: Fit in this way. Do it this way. Don’t embarrass yourself. Stand out just enough to make a name for yourself but not enough to really share your passion. Don’t make us look bad by really caring about your work. Strive for a “met expectations” and be happy with it. You’re a cog. That’s just the way it is.

Well, that’s not the way it is. Not anymore. And, the sooner we figure that out – really figure it out - the better.

I can’t help but wonder how things might have been different if that teacher had accurately read my enthusiasm and gone out of his way to nurture, challenge and support it. What new paths would have opened up? What spark would have become a flame? As with so many of life twists and turns I am left to question, what might have been?

© 2010 David Berry

Father's Day

I sit here on Father’s Day feeling blessed to have had three fathers in my life. Some are lucky to have one, truly exceptional father. Others, sadly, have faced life with no fatherly influence at all. And, there are many of us in between, some with ambivalent fathers and others with multiple paternal influences through divorce, death or other of life’s difficult transitions.

I have gained, of course, from the gifts of their wisdom, faith, strength and experience. I have also benefited from their mistakes – poor decisions, character flaws, painful transgressions. In short, I have learned from their humanity. I’ve had a front row seat for both the good and the bad and I am grateful for all of it.

Timothy, my father, was the priest. He taught me the power of language. He shared both his passion for reading and his gift for speaking with strength and conviction. He was a model of faith, staying close to scripture throughout his life in an effort to deepen his learning. Through his own failures he taught me to respect marriage and inspired me to build a family life that will stand the test of time.

Duncan, my stepfather, was the physician. A quiet, gentle man, he valued the work of the hands. Whether it was caring for a patient or baking bread he did it steadily and without airs. He taught me that quiet reliability is just as important as dramatic flair. I didn’t understand that as a young man but I certainly respect it now. I saw him get really angry only once. He taught me to do so only when it counts.

Robert, my father-in-law, is the engineer. Smart and practical, he turned the lessons of a country life into success in the executive suite. He intimidated me for many years with his penetrating questions and the certainty of his belief. I now understand this as deep curiosity and impressive conviction. He teaches me to keep things simple, to be concise and to consider all the variables. An affable man, it’s his interest in others and his desire to learn that I admire most.

A priest, a physician and an engineer. It’s hard to imagine covering the bases any better than that. It’s with deep gratitude that I consider the impact of these men as models in my life and I feel keenly responsible to memorize the lessons I have learned from them and pass them along as best I can.

Mostly, I hope for a long and fulfilling relationship with my own children. One that is marked by a humble commitment to learn what they have to teach me.

© 2010 David Berry

My New Car

I drive a 2001 Subaru Outback. It has 121,000 miles on it and I am the original owner. I bought the car for two reasons. The first is that in late 2000 I worked for a company based in Salt Lake City and you can't turn a corner in SLC without seeing a Subaru Outback. I made dozens of visits to Salt Lake over a two year period and I guess the thing just grew on me. I saw it as practical-yet-rugged, sporty-yet-humble. Really, I just thought they were cool. (Yes, I recognize I am saying something significant about my definition of "cool").

The second reason is that in late 2000 my wife and I were hauling our infant son around in a Honda Accord and a Saturn. I drove the Saturn. Nothing wrong with either of those cars but we were ready for something that said "family," "fun," and, of course, "cool." And, there was no way in hell Theresa was going to drive a minivan. (She's from Portland, after all, the only city in America with more Subaru's than SLC.) So, it was agreed, she'd keep driving the Honda, I would trade in the Saturn and we'd get a Subaru.

About a month ago, almost 10 years later, I decided I need and/or want a new car. After a recent speaking engagement which I felt had gone very, very well, I encountered someone from the audience as I was getting into my car. And my car was a filthy, disgusting mess. I, dressed in a suit and looking pretty dandy, felt a painful sense of incongruity with my vehicle. We just didn't go together anymore. We had grown apart and there, under the watchful gaze of someone I was now sure could remember nothing I had said but only how ridiculous I looked next to my car, it was clear we had to part ways.

I rationalized it this way: one of the keys to success is looking like you're successful even if you're not. Anyone in sales or real estate knows this. It is ESSENTIAL to invest in the right car, among other things, to create a perception that you are someone who's made it. Who wants to do business with someone who hasn't? My goals being what they are, I felt it was time that I look more like "ACHIEVEMENT" and less like "ASPIRATION." Yes, it's shallow and, yes, it's ridiculous AND in this world of utter madness it's also completely and utterly normal. I just wanted to fit in!

So, I started shopping. A BMW or a Lexus sounded about right. Nothing too flashy and nothing brand new. "Certified Pre-Owned" felt like a reasonable, sensible and thoughtful way to go. Something with about 40,000 miles on it and a couple of years old fit both the budget and my sensibilities. The only thing to do now was to sell the Subaru. Assuming a quick sale, I gave it a good scrub, took a few pictures, posted it on CraigsList and waited.

And, I'm still waiting. A number of inquiries, a number of low-ball offers and one seemingly serious suitor later, I am still the owner of a 2001 Subaru Outback. Yes, I'd really like a new car. That's what's true. Forget looking successful, forget any other psychology you can attach to it, I just want one. And, the thing is, I don't want it that it badly. I'm not going to extreme measures to sell my car. I'm not going to accept less than what it's worth. And, my worth is not going to be determined by what I drive, by me anyway.

So, I have my "new" car. We've reconciled. We've agreed to stick it out. It needs a timing belt and a good tune-up. It could really use a deep cleaning and some touch-up paint. The thing is, it's mine, it's paid for, and we're going to keep going down the road together for a little while longer.

© 2010 David Berry

Graduation Day

My daughter graduated from Kindergarten today, the first of many commencements to mark her life of learning. In the past I've been a little cynical about things like Kindergarten graduations. I think of the line from The Incredibles when Mr. Incredible, incredulous that he has to attend his child's fourth grade graduation, says "we keep finding new ways to celebrate mediocrity." It's Kindergarten, for goodness sake. One down and a whole bunch more to go.

No such cynicism for me today. Today is a day to celebrate a very special event in the life of a very special girl. Avery is as smart as they come. The problem is, she's not smart in the way the school system needs her to be smart. She doesn't conform to some of the "standard operating procedures" teachers require to effectively manage too full classrooms. (A Kindergarten class in California today has 34 students. Seriously. It's a miracle anything productive happens with that many 5 and 6 year-olds gathered in one place.) And it makes it pretty obvious why a child who strays from the behavioral or academic mid line needs the accommodations of a "special day class." Yes, my daughter is "special."

She started having seizures when she was about a year old. Her Epilepsy has been successfully controlled with medication for a long time now and the impact of that early seizure activity has staying power. The best evidence of it is in her fine motor skills and her emotional immaturity. This is a terribly difficult combination when you are learning how to write, among other things. We believe she knows how to do the work, that the cognitive ability is there. When it comes to executing a task like forming letters, however, it can be painfully frustrating for her, and she makes that clear by either acting out or withdrawing.

In the face of all of this her progress over the past two years has been remarkable. It is the result of her own very hard work, patient and dedicated teachers and, most significantly, a mother whose advocacy for her daughter is unfathomed.

Watching her today it was clear to me that Avery's learning path is truly going to be her own. There will be both significant challenges and glorious victories. And, if the last few years are any measure, it will be anything but boring.

Thank you, Avery, for putting my cynicism in its place. Thank you for showing me another way to see the world. My pride in your achievement is massive. My hope for your future is abundant. My confidence in your singularity is beyond measure.

© 2010 David Berry

Dental Despotism

I have been massively anal retentive about my teeth for as long as I can remember. I'm guessing I have a pretty good shot at the Guinness book of World Records for consecutive days of flossing. It's probably a twenty year run at this point. I brush twice a day, once with a manual and once with an electric, and I go to the dentist at least three times a year. I know, it sounds like some sick fetish but I've got a genetic predisposition to plaque buildup and I'm desperate to avoid the really deep cleaning. Also, I'm a control freak, but more on that in a minute.

When I was a child, around 5 or 6 years old and living in the Bay Area (that reads funny, as if I struck out on my own, found a cool flat over my kindergarten and joined the city's subculture of innocents), my older sister worked in a dentist office in San Francisco. I was deathly afraid of this place because she and her colleagues put the fear of God in me that if I didn't take care of my teeth, my teeth would rot in my mouth and I would rot in hell. Impressionable young lad that I was, this successfully planted itself as a permanent, non-negotiable part of my make-up.

Rotting teeth and rotting in hell = bad.

Taking extremely good care of teeth = good.

Given this backdrop it should be fairly easy for you to draw some conclusions about how I approach my children's dental hygiene. Yes, I'm intense. I brushed my son's teeth until he was about 6 or 7 years old. Now, of course, he doesn't do it right, has two cavities to show for it and is no longer getting any Christmas presents.

As for my daughters, ages 6 and 4, I have been brushing their teeth from the beginning. And just a couple of months ago I finally hit the wall, exclaiming to my wife that I hate brushing the kid's teeth and I don't want to do it anymore. A couple of months later I realized, in a blindingly obvious insight, that I actually don't have to brush their teeth anymore. I could (GASP) teach them to brush their own teeth! And, this is where the control freak comes in. I already made this mistake once and dare not to be burned again!

In spite of this internal resistance, I have started small and started slow. I told the girls that it's important (all quality concerns aside) that they learn to brush their own teeth. They looked at me with sweet confusion, like "Really, Dad? You're going to stop squeezing my cheeks, bending my neck backwards and jamming me in the face with my toothbrush? How could I ever let that go?" I reassured them that this was both really important and that I would still be available to help them. Now I help them get the toothpaste on the brush and then give them a few minutes to do their best before I squeeze their cheeks, crane their necks backward and jam them in the face. That, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call progress!

I can't let them do it on their own, I just can't. It sicks me out. And, I have to let it go. I really do. It's no fun for me and, though I know they would really rather have me do it (see the dependence I've created!), I don't think it's much fun for them either. Problem is, I haven't made it clear to them what's at stake. Better have them talk to their brother.

© 2010 David Berry

Friday Morning Run

I am going to write a book and I have no idea how to start. Some helpful people have told me to "just start writing." I have found that this is not very helpful. Of course, I understand their point: if you want to write a book you actually have to sit down and write it. I think it's the enormity of the task that's got me stalled: it's "A BOOK!" after all. I know this is the biggest challenge because at this very moment I am actually in the act of writing but since this is "only" a blog post it's no big deal. Not that it's easy, it's just way, WAY more manageable on my fragile, less than confident psyche.

When I think about writing a book, I hold a few key images in my mind. First, it has to be FINISHED. Second, it has to be FANTASTIC. Third, people must LOVE IT. Fourth, it must open the door to a bright and compelling future. In other words, it must be PERFECT. Pretty good recipe for not getting started. I used to think of this blog that way. And then I just started writing. Perhaps I could learn from my own experience. What a concept!

Yesterday morning I went for a run. I don't carry an iPod when I run because I like to listen to the world as we pass each other by. I also like to let my mind wander. Early in the run, quite unexpectedly, my mind landed on this phrase: "Nobody's listening. Nobody cares." There it was; my "non-book writing" subconscious rushing to the surface to keep my company. So much for positive affirmations (sorry, Stuart Smalley). I laughed to myself that if I kept repeating that phrase it was sure to be the hardest, longest run of my life.

Instead, I switched gears and tried on another phrase: "Everybody's listening. Everybody cares." I considered this one for a few more strides and it felt really good. It just didn't ring true. Better than the first, just equally inaccurate. And then I found in myself the ability to do the thing that I have been working on for years now: the ability to move from polarized and limiting thought to thought that carries the seeds of possibility.

I said to myself: "Somebody's listening. Somebody cares."

And so I will write the book. I'm really not sure how to start. "Just write," I suppose. And, knowing that I really could use some help, I called a writing coach. We're going to talk at 9:00 on Monday morning.

I wasn't looking for anything on that run. And I found exactly what I needed.

© 2010 David Berry