Look To The Little Things

582. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

Megan-the-Brilliant and I talked late one night about the little things in life; we both agreed that they are the most significant things, those little moments that we almost always miss. She told me of being stunned into silence by the yellow leaves falling in a perfect circle beneath a tree. No other tree in the park was shedding its leaves. This single tree was ringed by a brilliant yellow circle of it’s leaves and in the morning light, it was electric. The next morning, on our way to the airport, she took me to see it. I gave her an assignment: I asked her to go to the tree the following morning, take off her shoes, and walk in the circle of leaves. I am waiting for a full report.

Sometimes the small things surprise you: you discover the circle of leaves. Sometimes you create the small things: you drive to the circle in the early morning light, take off your shoes, and walk through the brilliant leaves. I am practicing moving though my life looking for the small surprises. It makes me move slower, to expect the surprises. I am never disappointed as each day, everywhere I look, I see the little miracles, the kindnesses, the generosities, the electric trees, the mesquite smell in the air.

I am also practicing creating the small memories. Last week I stepped into the river. I climbed a fallen eagle tree and peered into an abandoned nest. I threw bark in the water to make a splash. I ate slowly my chili and smelled a warm, freshly baked cinnamon roll. I splashed paint with a little blonde miracle. I sat before a fire late into the night, drank wine and talked of small things.

Once Upon A Time

561. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

For the past several days I have watched Lora pull out old photo albums, unpack boxes and old suitcases searching for photographs of her mother, Margaret. She is assembling a slide show for Margaret’s memorial celebration. Her intention was simple: to gather photographs documenting Margaret’s life but as she looked for images she found something far richer.

Photographs tell a story. There are photos of the infant Margaret, the little girl with grandparents, a rowdy teenager on a motorcycle, giving a friend a boost up a tree. There is the moment, as a young woman that she held a string of fish and laughed at her father’s antics, and the shot taken in a club of a gorgeous sophisticated lady surrounded by soldiers on leave from the war. Then, there was a photo arm and arm with the one soldier, a pilot, wedding photo’s, a happy couple in a home of their own, a new mom and her baby. The frozen moments continued through surprise parties, Christmas days, a second marriage, becoming a grandmother, cruises with her daughter, widowhood and the years of Alzheimer’s, becoming a fragile little bird.

Lora’s search for photos became a family history treasure hunt. Puzzle pieces fell into place. Love letters gave a two dimensional memory its third dimension. Curious stories resolved and the veil lifted from mysterious characters. Not only has Lora documented her mother’s life, she has enriched her own life, she located herself in a narrative with more color and passion and dreaming than she realized. In weaving Margaret into the fabric of ancestry she has woven herself into a greater connection to the story line. She belongs.

Today as I walked I was aware of the many, many photographs I saw people take. I live near a beach so the opportunities are plentiful. We live in an age where the photograph is easy to take, easy to erase, easy to store, easy to forget, easy to lose as the technology evolves. As I watched people pose for their moment I couldn’t help but imagine each photograph, someday, marking the arc of the long body, how this photo might tell the story of this particular life once this particular life story has been told – and who might find a deeper experience of belonging when they dig through old files and discover this special moment once upon a time when their loved one posed for a camera on a beautiful day at the beach.

Put Down Your Book

557. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

Years ago Johnny stood on the edge of his life and made a very brave choice. He’d spent years pouring through self-help books trying to correct what was broken, adjust what needed to be fixed, find the piece that was missing (insert the analogy that applies to you). Standing in the middle of his nest of books he had a revelation: each time he read a new self-help book he was reinforcing the idea that he needed help. He poured his life energy into fixing himself instead of pursuing his dream. He decided, in that moment, to place his focus on what he wanted to create.

This may not sound like a bold choice. This may seem like a very easy thing to do but consider for a moment all that you need to surrender when you are no longer willing to tell yourself the story that you are broken and need to be fixed. Who do you become when no one else on the entire planet has your answer or is responsible for your happiness? Consider for a moment all that you need to embrace when you decide to operate from an understanding of wholeness.

Johnny said, “I could wallow in a pool of self-help books forever. They’re kind of addictive; they keep your eyes off of what scares you the most. I decided, instead of reading about action, I might as well take action. I might as well make a practice of walking toward what scares me and no book can tell me how to do that.”

Because of his brave choice and new focus placement, Johnny creates each day the life he desires. When you make it your practice to walk toward life because it scares you, monsters and gremlins lose their potency; close up they’re never as big as they seem.

Glow

554. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

Sometimes in the early morning, before the sun rises over the ridge, the osprey will soar high, higher than the ridge, catching the sun light before we land dwellers can see it, and burst into orange fire. The markings of an osprey look Egyptian to me, a pharaoh’s bird, so when they catch fire with the sun, not only am I dumbstruck with their beauty but feel as though I am witness to the appearance of a god or goddess, Thoth maybe, or Isis. And then the osprey dips beneath the ridge line and the glow extinguishes; they are once again gorgeous in their mortality, mere birds of prey. But, I caught a glimpse into their true identity, their godhood.

I feel that way about people everyday. We walk on this earth beneath the ridge line, beautiful in our mortality and every so often we rise above ourselves, we show up even for a moment, and the fire reveals itself.

During intake sessions for new coaching clients I like to ask, “What is yours to do? What is the thing that drives you?” I’ve been asking this question for years, it has become an experiment of sorts. You might be surprised to know that 100% of the time my clients respond, “I want to help people.” The form of helping varies but the impulse to serve others is universal. People seek my services because they feel they have not fulfilled their potential and fulfilling their potential always means helping other people.

It’s a paradox unique to a society that celebrates individual achievement over communal health and well being: we place our focus on personal achievement and feel vacant, unfulfilled if our work has no impact on others. We focus on the gold medals and miss the moments that truly matter. Artists who paint but do not show their work soon stop painting; there is no point without the other.

Dado delivers my mail everyday. Ron fixes things in my apartment when they break. What would I do without them? The good folks at Alki Auto fix my flat tires and don’t charge me. Jen checks me out of the Metropolitan Market; she knows my name and always asks where I’ve recently traveled. Someone I don’t even know stocks the shelves at the grocery store, someone I will never meet grew, nurtured and tended the peach that I just ate: it was so flavorful that it made me moan.

The osprey does not know when it flies above the ridge line; it does not know it is glowing with sun fire. Perhaps we would recognize the godhood in each other and ourselves if we sought our fulfillment, not in an abstract outcome like “potential” and instead took stock of the little generosities and service that we offer each other every single day.

Know Your Name

548. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

On the corner of Beach Drive and 63rd Street is William Stanton Jr. park. Each day I pass the sign with his name and I wonder who he was (or is); why does this park carry his name. It was meant to be an honor, certainly, a commemoration.

I used to consult with the Lincoln Unified School District in Stockton, California and one of their elementary schools was named after Claudia Landeen. She was a pioneer of the district and an inspiration to many educators. I met Claudia once before she died. She was a mentor to my mentor, Tom. I met her at the elementary school that carried her name and when she was introduced to the crowd as “thee” Claudia Landeen, she rolled her eyes. She whispered to Tom, “Be careful, they name a school after you when they want to put you out to pasture.” Tom, closing in on his own retirement, said, “Oh, god! There’s talk of to sticking my name on the men’s room door.”

In Seattle, we have Edgar Martinez Blvd (he was a player on the Mariner’s baseball team for a very long time), we have Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd, our state is named for George Washington; I know because his picture is on the state flag. I have several times visited the Vietnam Memorial in the other Washington; it is a wall of names that we do not want to forget; names that we hope to honor far into the future.

We are masters of naming things. Isn’t that how we locate ourselves? Don’t the names we put on things also carry a history? Don’t they serve an intention? The name gives the place an association, a meaning. I grew up in Jefferson County, Colorado and there is no doubt in my mind which Jefferson the county is named after; his name links me to a tradition, a value set, and an origin story.

Political seasons always make me perk up my ears to the names we place on other people. Like the names we stick on places, the names we stick on other people are not passive; these names carry history, intention, and many levels of meaning; and they also serve to locate us. The candidates call each other names, the parties name each other, the media adds a name or two; there are so many pundits telling me what I just heard and interpreting for me what it all means – apparently they must name my experience for me; it is a veritable circus of name calling and interpretation of the name that was just called. Often, I ask myself, “Given these names and with so many people dedicated to telling me what I just heard, working so hard to locate me, how do I locate myself?” How many of us are truly locating ourselves and how many of us are outsourcing our point of view (location)?

I just heard about a study showing that where belief is concerned, party affiliation trumps education every time. In other words, we’ve stopped thinking critically (and independently – despite what we like to believe of ourselves) and will swallow any name the party asks us to swallow. Perhaps we are lazy or too busy to think for ourselves; either way in the absence of a questioning mind the name we give to others carries a dangerous kind of power: locating “them” also serves to locate “us” and since the name we stick on “them” has little or no substance, the location we give ourselves will also be void of substance.

It is no small question when I ask, “How are you locating yourself?” Who is naming your experiences for you? To what are you sticking your name?

Keep It Simple

542. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

I heard a bit of a conversation today. It was just before tai-chi class and one of my classmates was sharing a story. He said, “I’ve learned that how you treat the trivial moments of your life is how your life treats you.” He followed it with an example: he said, “Someone cuts you off in traffic; how are you going to respond? Such a little thing yet how many times have I treated being cut off as a statement of power – and I lose!” He laughed. “I get angry and life gives me an angry day. I created the anger so that’s just what I got!”

Recently, Ana-the-wise busted me, saying, “You are just like me, you make things too complex. You look for the deep meaning in everything and so you make even the simple things complicated. Sometimes it is just simple.” I thought of Ana while listening to my classmate. What I put out is what I get back. It is simple. And I need not seek the big moments in life for clues about what I put out – pay attention to the little moments and I get all the information I need.

Take A Radical Step

532. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

I had a revelation today as Alan Seale and I facilitated a Transformational Leadership Coaching forum discussion. Our topic was the power of taking a radical step. Here’s a quote from Alan’s newsletter:

“Many people equate radicalism with violent extremism. However, if violent acts of extremism are at one end of the “radical” spectrum, the constructive power of radicalism lies at the other end. Religious movements as well as great social and scientific advances started out because someone was willing to take a radical stance…. The word “radical” comes from the Latin radix meaning “root.” A radical thought, position, or act is born out of a powerful root belief or value. It is the outward expression of a conviction rooted in the core of one’s being. Conviction turns to action when it can no longer be held silent.”

A radical act is seen as doing something counter to the main stream, going against what is popular. The kid who said, “The Emperor has no clothes!” was most likely shushed by his parents. The neighbors probably glared and the kid learned that speaking truth was not tolerated in polite society. His comment was not a radical act; however, when, as an adult, he is once again in polite society and can no longer hold his tongue, when he speaks the truth and knows that he might be ostracized…, that is a radical act. Rosa Parks knew that sitting at the front of the bus might get her killed and she did it anyway. That is a radical act.

Here’s my revelation: radical acts often look small in the doing. I coach people and everyday hear stories of immense courage and the necessary action, from an outside observer, appears small but the impact is enormous. Speaking your truth, putting down a cigarette for the last time, saying “no” (or “yes”), changing the-story-you-tell-yourself-about-yourself, seeing opportunity in an obstacle, allowing yourself to be seen: Rosa Parks sat on a bus. Every avalanche begins with a single pebble.

Let Go Of “It”

531. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

I’ve started drawing again. Each day, every day, I flip the elastic band off my moleskin sketchbook, open to a new page, and draw. Or scribble. I make marks and circles. I draw mostly from my imagination; sometimes I look at things and sketch what I see as a starting point and then rearrange the elements: I compose. I don’t see much difference between drawing from imagination and infusing my imagination into what I see. They are the same action; the direction is slightly different.

I am no longer interested in “capturing” reality – primarily because I don’t think there is a reality beyond what I perceive. In a sense there is nothing to capture. There is only interpretation. There is only imagination. To be clear: what I call reality is what I perceive; there is stuff out there (and you will waste a lot of breath trying to convince me that “it” is separate from me: I will giggle if you tell me that there is an objective reality) and I assign “it” meaning; simply by assigning a word to “it” I have abstracted “it.” If I describe “it” I have interpreted “it.” If I describe “it,” I no longer see “it;” I see the word that I’ve attached to “it.” So, when drawing “it” why not go with the flow – interpret, compose, imagine. Scribble, scribble, play. Sharpen the pencil and repeat.

The word “it” provides a perfect example: use these two little letters in the proper sequence and all the magnificent motion and moving beauty of the universe is frozen – “it” fixes flow in time: I can convince myself that a verb is a noun, a river is a thing, a person is knowable, all because I squeeze the miracle into two tiny symbols and think I know “it.”

Alan suggested that I do a self-portrait. It has been over a decade since my last serious attempt. He said, “Peer into those eyes for a while before starting and then ask yourself, ‘Who is this person?’” He asked me to draw with my heart and not my head. Alan is wily and that is why I love him so. He knows what I believe and why I draw. He caught me in a net of my own making. How can I now look in the mirror and possibly believe that I can “capture” what I see?

Get Tired

530. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

It is very late and I am too tired to write. It is a surprisingly yummy feeling to be this tired, to know there are thoughts in there somewhere – some might even be coherent – but the layer of fuzz wrapped around my brain makes the thoughts just slightly out of my reach. There are many paths to illumination and I will dub this route “stupid Zen.” Of course, the problem with stupid Zen is it’s not trustworthy: life is, according to the Balinese, a shadow puppet play. We only see the shadows, the illusion, so riding the horse of exhaustion into the illusion of illumination seems counterproductive.

It is not so much an altered state as much as…a state. In the absence of coherent thought there is no need for alteration. With reason tucked in for the night, thought is more apt to go off the trail and lose itself in the forest. The cool night air, the sound of the waves against the seawall are more available; I am more able to give myself over to the little things which, I know, are really the important things: when I am this tired I can be no where else but here.

I heard this quote today, I can’t remember where, but it just bubbled to the top and I’ve just decided that for sheer tenacity this will be the first verse in the book of stupid Zen:

“I prefer to be wrong, it is so much more interesting than thinking I am right.”

What’s At Your Feet?

529. Join me in inspiring truly powerful people. Each day I will add a new thought, story or idea to support your quest and mine.

For the past several months I have been interested in the marks we make on the ground. I often wander the streets with my camera and take photos of the ubiquitous marks at my feet. City engineers spray alien looking symbols in green and orange paint on sidewalks and streets. There are symbols everywhere if you pay attention: the universal walking man to demarcated crosswalks and walkways, bicycle shapes indicating lanes for things with wheels, “stop here” in bold letters, lane lines, curb lines, crosswalk stripes, chalk drawings, sprayed messages, stencils, scratched names and dates. I imagine I am an alien from another planet gathering samples of culture and ponder what does this overwhelming impulse to make marks, to define and apply symbol on the ground say about earthlings in the USA, 2012? They are beautiful when you pretend that you don’t know what they mean. My inner alien has sometimes exclaimed, “These earthlings like to draw on everything. They have an extraordinary impulse toward beauty and expression!”

Someone once told me that the unique challenge facing our culturally diverse democracy is that we must constantly define ourselves; we do not share a common narrative, we certainly have wildly divided ideas even about the simplest of terms like “marriage” and “patriotism,” so each day we must work hard to know where we fit, we must daily reinvent ourselves to know who we are in the absence of really knowing. We debate, not to clarify, but to know what we believe. The good folks on Madison Avenue, working so hard to sell us stuff, would have a miserable job if we truly knew who we were (secure in our identity, we would laugh at the notion that red shoes or a new car would make us more appealing).

The marks made by the engineers are practical: the sewer line goes here. The crosswalks, bike lanes, lane lines, directional arrows, etc., are also practical if not highly revealing; my inner alien eventually comes to recognize, much to his chagrin, that these marks are not art but rules: walk here, ride here, go this direction, look both ways; the earthlings in the USA, 2012 are an ordered bunch! Despite their rhetoric and emphasis on individualism they like their rules. They prefer the pre-determined path; they like to know which way to walk and when. They value conformity and compliance; this, at least, does not warrant a debate: all the evidence you need is waiting at your feet.