Falling Down

I fell down yesterday. Seriously. Literally. Fell right on my rear end. And, this was no minor, stub-your-toe-and-stumble-to-the-ground kind of fall. This was a late-night-sketch-comedy-worthy, prat-fall of the highest order. I don't want to brag, but Will Ferrell and his ilk can only dream of falling this well.

The beauty of this fall is not only how dramatic it was and how long it lasted but, of course, where and when it occurred. I had just finished presenting to the 50 leaders of my company. The group had moved into conversations at their tables and in my efforts to roam around the room and listen-in to the conversations I backed right into two banquet chairs. What ensued was a backward motion, cartwheeling-arms-flailing, center-of-gravity-defying, two-chair-tumbling, feeling I just might be able to pull out of it, tailspin of certain ruin. It was big. Fortunately, I only scraped up my leg a little bit and, once on the ground, certainly aware that I had gotten most of the room's attention I yelled out "I'm OK!" as loudly as I could. Laughter followed disbelief. (One just doesn't expect this sort of thing.) And, ego slightly bruised, I got back to the business at hand.

Did I mention that I had just presented to the leadership of my company? Senior team, Vp's, directors. The whole lot of them. This is relevant because what I was feeling at the time of the fall was a biting sense of disappointment in myself. I had big plans for this talk - plans to show up authentically, to relate some stories, to really engage the group. And, I didn't. I operated from fear.

During my talk I was describing the difference between employees who "just get the job done" and those who are creative and truly engaged in the work. I used a music metaphor to describe the difference: one is just playing the notes while the other is really making music. There I was, after my talk, roaming about the room, thinking to myself, I played the right notes but I didn't make music. And then I fell on my ass.

I am told that Freud once said "sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." So, maybe the fall has no meaning. Maybe it had nothing to do with how I felt about the talk. And maybe the two go together like peanut butter and chocolate, a perfect but unlikely pair. One punctuating the other in a totally unexpected but highly relevant way.

I know the talk went better than I can admit. And, I know I fell pretty hard. The thing is, I also got right back up again.

I can't wait to try again.

"To Be of Use"

a poem by Marge Piercy

To Be of Use

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a
heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things
forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who stand in the line and haul in their places,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

(with thanks to Kate Graham)

What I Think vs. What I Say

We signed my daughter up for soccer this year. She's 5 years old and she doesn't like to run. We've told ourselves, out loud and in quiet, that this is an experiment. That we have no expectations. That we want to expose her to "this kind of stuff" because it may be helpful in her physical and social development.

She has attended three practices and two games. At practice she is participating with the other girls: running, lots of running and without too much complaint. She doesn't really "get" soccer but she seems to be fitting in at practice and giving it a go. This is extremely encouraging.

As for the games, she refuses to set foot on the field once the game is underway. At the first game, in a particular touching sibling moment, her big brother walked her onto the field at halftime and just sat there with her as if to say "it's not so bad out here." Nicely done, big brother. That said, she's having none of it. We ask why she doesn't want to be out there and she won't say. She just doesn't want to. And it's driving me crazy.

It's an experiment, remember? No expectations, remember?

As much as I repeat these statements I still can't quiet the voice that says, "what if she goes the entire season and never plays in a game?" Or, "what will the other parents think?" I imagine myself explaining at length about her epilepsy diagnosis and the ensuing developmental delays and how this is an experiment and we just want to help her fit in and have some fun. It always sounds strained and gratuitous. I will never do it. But, oh the feelings I have going on about "normal" and what other's think and, not the least of which, what I want her to be versus who she is.

I'm competitive. I want to win. At everything. And that means I can be awfully hard on myself and hard on others, too. With my daughter, winning means slowing down and going at her speed. The thing is, she's amazing. The thing is, practices are going well. The thing is, it's just going to take more time. The thing is, she's who she is and she always will be. And the best way for me to love her is to fully accept that and continue to provide opportunities for her to learn and grow.

How Much Cream Cheese?

For a long time know I've been espousing the importance of personal disclosure and vulnerability as a key leadership trait. I've thought, talked and written at length about the importance of showing up more "fully human" because that's the kind of person people want to follow. Recently, I had the chance to experience first hand just how much this matters and it how it can ground us in our work relationships in ways otherwise not attainable.

A year, maybe a year-and-a-half ago, I shared with some colleagues a story that perfectly describes my style under stress. When I feel out of control, uncertain or unstable my tendency is to over-control. As you'll see, I'm not just talking about micro-managing, I'm talking about getting intense about stuff, really small stuff, that just doesn't merit the energy or attention. I've been doing this for a VERY long time and, thankfully, in the last few years I've started to notice the behavior and, as I hope those close to me will attest, started to change it.

But that's getting ahead of things. A few years back on a Saturday morning my wife and I took the kids to a bagel shop for breakfast. My son, probably 6 or 7 at the time had smeared so much cream cheese on his bagel that there was no longer any bagel. I mean, this kid had piled it high. So, control freak and hyper-intense parent that I was (emphasis on past tense!) I promptly grabbed the bagel from him and began to deconstruct it. I quickly removed the most offensive glob - the mound in the middle that just isn't done in polite society. But I didn't stop there. I proceeded to take one of those plastic serrated knives and scrape this sucker clean. I mean, the only thing left on this bagel were the tracks of the knife through what may or may not have been a pile of cream cheese.

The look I got from my wife was one of utter disbelief. And, after a painful silence, we just started laughing. I'm talking big, hearty, slightly out of control laughter. What I had done was just so bad, so clearly over-the-top that all you could do was laugh. I don't know what was going on with me then, why exactly I needed to exert so much control over bagel to cream cheese ratios. Most likely, I was still in the early stages of learning how to really see myself and feeling the need for control that that kind of examination fully engenders.

Well, as I said, in the spirit of transparency I told this story to a group of colleagues about 18 months ago as a way to describe my ongoing challenge with control needs. Just last week, one of these colleagues came to my office and expressed concern about how I was approaching an issue in our group. It was clear that she was feeling the weight of my control and to illustrate her point she somewhat tentatively reminder me of the bagel story. It was a beautiful moment. Her recollection of the anecdote was perfectly timed to coincide with what's true for me right now.

As I've written about recently, I'm in the middle of a big transition right now. My boss retired, his replacement is in place and I'm trying to find my way through the sometimes muddy and unsettled waters that go with the change. Is it any wonder that I would respond by holding on a little too tightly, exerting just a little too much control? Of course not. And, if I had never shared the bagel story my colleague could never have helped me gain the perspective I need to move through this change more effectively. She brought back to me the thing I had given her, returning it to me so I could look at it with fresh eyes and new learning. What a gift.

The truth is, there's a lot at stake right now. Lots of opportunity for me to ensure that in the absence of a hugely influential leader, the work of coaching and leadership development in my company continues to grow and thrive. What I'm really wondering is if I can be and become the hugely influential leader that I need to be to keep things going strong. Rationally, I believe so. Emotionally? Well, that's probably why I start to hold on just a little too tight.

Frankly, I think it's a good time to hold on a little tighter, to make sure what we've got going here isn't all cream cheese and no bagel. The good news, freshly reminded as I have been, is that I'm equipped to watch for my tendency to reach for the plastic knife.

(Seriously, he had WAY TOO MUCH cream cheese on that thing!)