How I Stay Sane, Part IV: Awake at Work

Recently I’ve seen a lot of change at work.

“What else is new?” you might ask. “Haven’t you learned by now in your lengthy career that change is the only constant?” Well, these particular changes are larger than usual, resulting in my managing totally different people and product groups, and with a new angle focusing on quality assurance rather than product development.

The opportunity for learning and growth is huge. And I have much to learn, which can be very stressful.

To stay sane and strong, I’m using a number of tried and true coping mechanisms, one of which is to re-read a marvelous book by Michael Carroll, “Awake at Work: 35 Practical Buddhist Principles for Discovering Clarity and Balance in the Midst of Work’s Chaos.”

You don’t have to be a practicing Buddhist (I am not--I am more of a dabbler) for these principles to be useful. The main point is that clarity can be gained by slowing down just long enough to become present and mindful of what’s going on in the present moment—by being “who we are, where we are right now,” as Carroll puts it.

This mindfulness allows curiosity to replace fear and hope (both of which can cause painful and futile resistance to the reality of the present moment). A calm curiosity can bring unexpected insights about what’s really going on at work and how to better deal with it.

Here are three principles that particularly ring true for me in my reading of the book this time around--although there are many others I find just as helpful:

“Work is a mess.”

“Power is unnerving.”

“First to pacify, last to destroy.”

First, “work is a mess.” Accept that unpredictable surprises and messes are inevitable. Instead of panicing, blaming, or regretting, seize these opportunities to find creative solutions. As Sun Tzu said, victory is achieved not through the execution of previously laid out plans but by being relaxed, open and awake at that moment when surprise strikes—and then trusting your natural intelligence and instincts to know what to do in these crazy moments.

Secondly, “power is unnerving.” As I become accustomed to working with new figures of authority, many of whom seem absolutely certain at all times that they are correct, and at the same time become the new boss for other people who are meeting me for the first time, it is good to remember that authority, either ours or someone else’s, can cause great stress and discomfort. But these very sensations are a signal to be ever more mindful, alert, precise--and to focus on the moment, allowing it to be okay if we’re uncertain, heeding that very uncertainty as a signal to remain fully mindful. (Another principle related to this one is to “welcome the tyrant. ” A bully at work may be just the thing to wake you up and focus you on being right here, right now—allowing revelations you never would have had otherwise).

“First to pacify, last to destroy” is the third concept. Four methods for dealing with conflict are presented, and I find that these are so much a part of my natural instincts that is it great to see them written down and validated. The first is to begin by “pacifying”—being curious rather than resistant to the conflict and listening to discover the other person’s viewpoint. The second is “enriching”-- looking for ways to support another person rather than focusing more narrowly on our own objectives alone--looking for the win/win, the higher level common goal. The third approach Carroll calls “magnetizing”—focusing on compromise, gaining agreement and support, which can only be done by having first addressed the previous two concepts and understanding where the other person is coming from and how you can support that other person’s goals as part of the solution.

The final method for dealing with conflict is “destroying.” This is the hardest one for me—the ability to say no during conflict and walk away if necessary. The point here is that by exercising the previous methods first (pacifying, enriching, magnetizing), there’s a foundation for finding the strength to walk away—not in anger or hate, but as a last resort after all else has failed, knowing you did your best. And, as I’ve always believed, this measure should only be taken as the last resort. Not all people in business believe this; some hold the view that “tough” management can only be demonstrated with an easy willingness to destroy first. But I agree with the idea that being “first to pacify, last to destroy” is the true hallmark of wisdom and courage. Even so, you’ve got to be ready to confidently take this measure when the situation calls for it.

If you are seeking new ways to look at work, get this book--and let me know what you think.

Sisters of Mercy

A few weeks ago my husband, daughter and I spent a weekend sitting with my husband’s dying mother Jacki; she passed away just a few days after we returned home.

In a tiny Ohio apartment in the coldest days of January, her husband and many family members surrounded her hospital bed, offering what each of them could in love and comfort, seeking ways to say good-bye. The five stages of dying and loss played and replayed themselves not necessarily in neat order, with everything from anger to denial (“I am not dying!”) to acceptance and surrender. I struggled to find ways to respect her experience and her needs as she drifted further and further away hoping my own family would do the same for me one day.

The experience evoked memories in me of other losses including my last days with my father, sitting by his hospital bed feeling as helpless as hell, wishing with all my heart that I could somehow halt the relentless failure of each organ in turn, the inevitability of a life slipping away.

“There’s nothing you can do for me, kid,” he said at one point as we shared an orange together. I remembered him years before offering my grandfather sections of orange in the convalescent home during the last few months of grandfather’s life.

“I know there's nothing I can do—but I wish there were.  I wish there were,” I replied.

And what do you do for the dying in those last hours or days when they can move so swiftly among flashes of fear, denial, regret, pain, acceptance, love, anger? Surrounding her bed, each of us did what we could. Her daughter and her friend stayed there and provided care day and night, her sons were there for her in every way they could be, each of the grandchildren did their best, her husband sat by her bed and asked if there was anything she needed.

I rubbed Jacki’s feet and legs a couple of times, for as long as she seemed to want me to, and was rewarded with the smallest of smiles as she gazed into my eyes. I told her we all loved her. I asked her questions about her distant past, trying to focus on the good memories. I helped her with a few sips of water, took my turn giving her meds mixed with yoghurt, distracted her from her discomfort while the hospice nurse bathed her by talking steadily of those sun-filled summer days at a Florida beach years ago when she took the grandkids for a few nights and gave my husband and me some delightful alone time that meant the world to us at the time. I thanked her once again for that kindness.

My sister-in-law and I sang Cohen’s “Sisters of Mercy” together for her as I played the guitar.

Oh the Sisters of Mercy they are not departed or gone.

They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can’t go on.

And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me their song.
I hope you run into them, you who’ve been traveling so long...

We all sang another song she remembered and liked that the family used to sing together: “Abilene.”

Everybody did everything they could to provide love and comfort at every opportunity and yet in the end of course nothing could halt the process, and a few days after we left, she was gone. I am, as I always am after a death in the family, with the feeling that somehow I could have done more, or done things differently--the familiar regret that always consumes me when a family member is gone forever and I’ll never hear that voice again.

Farewell, Jacki.

Here and Now at The Laughing Goat

I spend part of the morning at my new favorite coffeehouse, The Laughing Goat. Near Pearl and 17th, the coffee is great and the ambience hits a sweet spot for me somehow. I usually sit at the front tables to soak up the sun’s warmth. The tabletops are a subtle rich mixture of orange-brown-green metallic color. A sign over the espresso bar says “Be Nice or Leave”, and further down the bar the light fixtures are covered with a warm orange-brown crinkly fabric that reminds me of Cecropia moth cocoons. Flyers advertise poetry night on Monday evenings, the Beat Bookstore a few doors down, live Jazz on Wednesday nights, and more.  The walls are black-painted cinder block and artwork in orange and turquoise covers the walls. There is a Buddhist shrine in the front window with an orange shroud, incense burners, candles and prayer flags. Bluetech rhythms swirl from the sound system. On a high shelf, a white ceramic goat stands with a toothy grin and a green and gold saddle on its back, seasonally sporting a red Santa hat with white trim.

All in all, a good place to write my New Year’s resolutions. Aside from the usual self-exhortations to work out more on the treadmill (the only technique guaranteed to get my heart rate up to the desired level), eat less crap, write more, etc. etc., my main resolution has to do with…paying more attention to what I need and want in the present.

As I type this, Emily the Cat lies in front of the computer, batting at the cursor as it moves across the screen, along with, occasionally, the (hah!) mouse pointer. She has only recently discovered the wonders of the computer, after I changed the screensaver to a marquee message in light blue English Gothic lettering, the message being simply: Here and Now

Whenever the screensaver kicks in, “Here and Now” gyrates, whirls and tilts against a black screen in a manner far more enticing than a mere mouse could ever be. Emily bats wildly at this message, much as I do several times every day.

My main resolution is paying attention to what I need and want, Here and Now. This may seem like a no brainer to many people who are well-versed in knowing what they want here, now, there and everywhere, but for me—a person who throughout my life has focused on making everything run smoothly, helping everyone find what happiness might be possible for them, earning what approval I can and never earning enough to satisfy me—it is not a no-brainer.

Much can be learned from Emily the Cat, who consistently focuses on what she needs and wants here and now, whether it be her morning treat, to be let in, to be let out, to be petted on a warm lap. At the moment she would like to catch in her claws the odd little vertical line that scoots randomly across the screen, sometimes backing up for a moment as I fix a typo, then jerking forward again in teasing fashion. Come to think of it, she wants the cursor here and now, but she cannot have it—ever (though at least she knows what she wants). So this analogy has perhaps fallen to pieces right before my horrified eyes, and yet it amuses me, right now this second, so it hasn’t been a complete loss.

In hasty conclusion, I do believe there’s simple joy in Here and Now…let’s see if I can remember that this year.

Cardinals and Snow

As I gazed at my Starbuck’s latte and pondered what I would say in the Christmas letter this year, I noticed a phrase printed on the side of the cup: “We invite you to LISTEN to your DESIRES and to RENEW your HOPE. To see the world not as it is, but as it COULD be. Go ahead. WISH. It’s what makes the holidays the HOLIDAYS.”

This contrasts with the Buddhist philosophy to neither hope nor fear, to let go of longings and be mindful of the joys available in the present moment. Can one let go properly (the lesson I keep working to learn over and over again) and yet retain hope and optimism? It seems that in order to renew hope one must begin by paying attention to the present moment and being mindful of all there is to be grateful for, here and now. And there is an optimism perhaps in Max Ehrmann’s phrase from Desiderata: “no doubt life is unfolding as it should.”

If a therapist were consulted, she might say that the first part of the Starbuck’s exhortation, the part about listening to one’s desires, is a very good plan, especially for those who have a tendency to try to make sure everybody else has the oxygen mask in place during the plane emergency and end up almost passing out from oxygen deprivation themselves.

A meditation on one’s own desires seems selfish and not in keeping with the holiday season—unless perhaps you have lost hope and you need to find a way back to the vision in the shining child’s eyes, seeing a Christmas morning where all wishes come true. For the Christmas book this year, my book club chose “A Redbird Christmas” by Fanny Flagg (also the author of “Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistlestop Café”). This is an unabashed fairy tale in which good people and a young child hope when it seems that all hope is lost, and end up with a Christmas miracle beyond their wildest imaginings involving redbirds and snow in the Deep South.

I have always associated red cardinals against a snowy background with Christmastime. I remember when I was around seven my mother wrapped a package especially for me and taped a red cardinal to it, carefully cut out from an old Christmas card. I don’t remember what was in the package, but I remember the love and thoughtfulness represented by the cardinal decoration. I also remember watching all the birds, including the cardinals, flock to feast on the sunflower seeds my Dad placed out on the upper deck bird feeder during the coldest, snowiest days of winter at our Sugar Lane house back in Southern Indiana. Those birds had reason to hope each year and also seized any opportunities in the present as well. So I will have my cake and eat it too, combining hope with mindfulness of the present. No doubt events are unfolding as they should.

So I wish that everybody who reads this has a great holiday. May all of you take a deep breath, be present, and renew your hope in the coming New Year.

Persimmon Pudding

When I was a little girl back in Indiana we always went to Grandmother’s old brick house on Dunn Street in Bloomington for Thanksgiving Dinner. The table would be set beautifully, with polished silver candlesticks and flatware, and a real lace tablecloth. We feasted on roast turkey, rich dark brown gravy, dressing, mashed and sweet potatoes, green beans simmered with bacon, and Grandmother’s special, tart, not-for-everybody cranberry and orange relish. For at least one dessert we would always have persimmon pudding with whipped cream on top. The persimmons were gathered from beneath persimmon trees on a nearby property my grandparents called “the farm.” I knew nothing of how such a dinner was orchestrated and set upon the table with exactly the right timing—Grandmother made it look very easy. I might be asked to bring some of the dishes to the table or fill the water glasses.

After Grandmother was gone, my mother made the Thanksgiving dinner each year at our house on Sugar Lane. I helped a lot more at this point so I could start to see how bringing such a feast to the dinner table was like an air traffic controller managing the simultaneous landing of several Boeing 777’s at the same airport—a calm demeanor and careful planning were both essential. My Mom also made it look easy but I began to understand what it took, and helped as much as possible with the relish plate containing the olives, celery and carrot sticks, and the traditional green beans simmered with bacon. But my father was always the one to make the persimmon pudding. He had planted persimmon trees many years before up in his vast garden, using seeds obtained from the farm—and each year he would harvest the persimmons that had fallen to the ground and were starting to soften, peel them and mash them into a rich orange pulp. With the precise care and intense breathing he applied to most important tasks he would mix and bake the persimmon pudding. I began to see that this was homage to his mother perhaps, although we never talked about it.

Later, I moved far away to Colorado and began to have Thanksgiving dinners of my own, learning to overcome the momentary panic when confronting a large turkey ready to be stuffed, calling my mother for advice where necessary.

Me on the phone: Mom—there are icicles inside the turkey!!
Mom: Yeah, there always are—just knock ‘em aside and stuff the old bird.

My father would painstakingly ship me enough frozen persimmon pulp for one batch of persimmon pudding, which due to his master skills at packaging and shipping would arrive in perfect time and condition for me to make the dessert for my Colorado Thanksgivings.

Dad is gone now, but persimmons can be found around this time of year in the produce department of most grocery stores.  And so this holiday I give thanks for these memories and I pay homage to those who came before me as I slowly and lovingly mix the ingredients for today’s persimmon pudding we will have with our family feast to come in a few hours. M is in charge of most of the cooking, since he is the master cook in the family, but I do the pudding, and the traditional green beans simmered with bacon.

Happy Thanksgiving to all. May each person reading this make and hold dear all the beautiful memories of your own families.

Seasons

M and I walk north from Pearl on 13th and make our way to the North Boulder Community Gardens where piles of mulch and bales of straw announce the approach of winter. I notice for the first time a red stone bench with two trees planted in the half-circle. Someone has placed a few wicker chairs with comfortable backs in the half-circle as well, and the little park looks south over the gardens toward the Flatirons. The chair back feels warm from the sun as I settle into it and gaze at the view; I’m grateful for a momentary sense of inner peace. The stone bench has five separate sections with inscriptions. It is a dedication to Thomas Clark, “A Man for All Seasons,” it says. In the center section is carved:

Thomas Clark - A Man for All Seasons
Ecclesiastes 3:1 “To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heaven.”

I think that Thomas Clark contributed much to the Community Gardens and has been remembered in this way; I could do worse than to be remembered as a "woman for all seasons."  Two sections on either side of this are carved with phrases representing each season, and so we find:

Spring – Joyful Renewal
Summer – Generous Abundance
Fall – Passionate Celebration
Winter – Peaceful Reflection

M and I agree that on this November day we would seem to be somewhere between celebration and reflection. It is a beautiful spot, and I tell him if I go first, he should meet me here in spirit, and I would do the same for him. He agrees to this with mild amusement, but later comments with typical irreverence that it is more likely his spirit would come back in a Terre Haute whorehouse.  Despite getting a pretty good night’s sleep, he is tired today he tells me, but has been able to write again just a little this week.

Knowing as I do how much seasons can affect moods, it's comforting to have these positive phrases set in stone to describe Spring, Summer, Fall and Winter--almost like a meditational theme for each. I’ve always loved climates with clearly defined seasons; they can be relied upon to change just when you’re most ready for a new perspective.

Wild Things

So I know you’re all asking yourselves, “Should I take my grownup to see ‘Where the Wild Things Are’?” I know you’re thinking, “My grownup enjoyed the book—we read it together often enough—but will the film version of the Maurice Sendak classic really be suitable for grownups?”

Spike Jonze’s back story on Max’s wildness got to me. Max is a lonely kid with a good but distracted mother, an older sister who breaks Max’s heart to be with her friends, and a father who’s left the family behind. This is a kid with overwhelming energy and emotions, but also a kid with great heart and a need for love and boundaries. After a particularly beastly scene with this mother, Max in his wolf suit sails off to a distant land where the wild things are and discovers several huge monsters, each with an oddly civilized name like Carroll, Douglas, Ira and Judy. Each wild thing plays out an emotion (feelings of anger, abandonment, alienation, shyness, regret, resentment, love, aggression) and they interact in all the ways a family does—meaning that they have great power to work together, help each other, and of course hurt and destroy each other as well.

Max convinces the wild things that he has special powers that make him uniquely suited to be their king, and they build a fantastic fort together.  The wild things are all parts of Max himself, as well as Max’s family, in a kind of Jungian fantasy. Where the wild things are, a mother’s love can literally swallow a boy whole to protect him and only reluctantly regurgitate him up again when the danger is past and he complains that he’s having trouble breathing.

The wild rumpus is great fun, but over time things become complicated as they will when various personalities and needs interact. It is harder to be king than Max had first imagined (after all, every prior king has eventually been eaten up by the wild things), aggressive war games end up causing pain, and in the end he realizes what he really needs and sails back home to have a late supper with his mother, who’s very glad to see him.

Ultimately this is a movie about almost everything that matters, so I do recommend it for discerning grownups. Would I say it is too dark or scary for kids? Maurice Sendak explains how he would answer this question in typically wild fashion: "I would tell them to go to hell. That's a question I will not tolerate ... If they can't handle it, go home. Or wet your pants. Do whatever you like. But it's not a question that can be answered."

All righty then.