jennethink

WALK WALK WALK WALK WALK

Well the intense training for The Breast Cancer 3 Day season has started.  I’ve been piddling around with walking for a few weeks … a few miles here, a few miles there, back and forth to the kitchen counter to grab some reese’s peanut butter eggs, etc.  But this week I hit that mother hard.

HOLLIE was in town for a few days and to celebrate we walked nine miles on Thursday.  And six on Friday - which was going to be twelve but when a second blister popped up ON TOP OF THE FIRST BLISTER on my ring toe, we called it quits-a-roo. I can’t describe how different it is walking with someone than walking alone.  When I walk alone, I have a variety of distraction techniques.  Sometimes I listen to music, sometime I call my mother, and sometimes I just walk in silence and think about the next talk I have or how I can grow my business or titles for my books that I haven’t written.  Lately I've taken to downloading audio books onto my iPod and I walk around listening to Dean Koontz.  Who rocks words extremely hard.  This latest novel I'm listening to, The Good Guy, is quite suspenseful and I can only imagine how fun it is for the people who pass me on my route to see me suddenly throw my hands over my mouth as my eyes grow wide and I shout, “NO!” and “OHMYGOODNESS!” and “AH! INEVERSAWTHATCOMING!” 

During the 12 walks that made up the 3 Day season last year I walked with a lot of people.  It’s part of my job, you know.  And I did love that part.  I enjoyed walking with and talking to other walkers.  I enjoyed hearing their stories of why they walk.  I enjoyed giving them encouragement when they needed it and, frankly, taking some myself when I needed it.  These people are amazing.  Open and honest.  Gentle.  Funny.  Willing to lend a hand, an ear, willing to share their feelings deeply.  But as much as they share and give and as vulnerable as they are across those 60 miles, they are still strangers to me.  Less so after we’ve seen and poked at each other’s blisters, but strangers still.

Walking with HOLLIE is completely different than that.  I won’t say the nine miles on Thursday (and the six on Friday) flew by but I will say I would do them all over again, daily, if I could have that kind of quality time with my friend.  We hit every topic imaginable.  We talked about sex education (our apologies to the family at 68th and Penn who heard HOLLIE shout the word clitoris loud enough to shake windows).  We talked about high school track.  We talked about weddings, divorces, family issues – oh dear did we talk about family issues!  We talked about spinach and politics and the Body exhibit at Union Station.  We discussed our independence, mini-coopers, vests, and shoe choices.  We talked about small businesses, taxes, banking and what the earth would look like if people suddenly disappeared.  And, certainly, we talked about boys.  Because after all, we are girls.

Even with all that talking, there would inevitably be pauses in the conversation.  When things would get quiet, we would continue walking and enjoy the silence for a few steps … and then one of us would say, “Isn’t it nice to not have to talk all the time?” and the other would say “You know I have something to say about that…” and we’d have a nice long conversation about how we don’t need to have nice long conversations. 

SETTING THINGS WRITE

I talk to my mom almost every day.  I talk to my sister a lot too. If we ever go too long without talking one of them lays a guilt trip on me.  That's fair ... it is most likely me that is not holding up my end of the bargain.  I’m the weak link in the answering the phone chain and so comes the “gee we haven’t talked to you in a loooooooooooooong time” trip. It’s okay.  I deserve it.  The truth is they call and I don’t answer.  They make the effort and I don’t respond.   It’s a thing I do.  Not as a punishment.  It’s just that sometimes I’m not ready to talk – I mean at that moment when the phone is ringing.  I’m not ready or willing and so I don’t answer.  This is a very self-centered attitude, I know, because maybe they are calling to talk about THEM and not me.  And maybe just because I’m not ready or willing to talk I could and should be ready and willing to listen.  So really, how hard is it to pick up the phone when it rings?

Trust me.  It is Very. Very.  Hard.

But most of the time, we talk often.  More than often … we talk a lot.  Daily.  When we’re on a roll, it is more than daily.  Let’s just say I’ve changed my phone plan many times and finally crossed into “unlimited” because it was the only plan that was going to keep T-Mobile from joining forces with the Columbia House Representative.... you know what I'm talking about.  Those daily phone calls are awesome.  Some are long.  Some short … and even though we talk multiple times a day, there are many times when I hang up and immediately have to call back. 

Because I forgot to tell her something. 

When you talk everyday, you have a lot to say.  Somehow everything ranks.  Everything is significant. 

The Hub’s family doesn’t talk often.   That’s their pattern.  Sometimes they’ll go long stretches without talking.  Like long.  For real.  Not like the 6 hour stretches that my mom considers long … “I called you before lunch, on the way to lunch, after lunch and then later when I was thinking about what I had for lunch and you didn’t answer any of those times.  What’s wrong?”  but REAL LIFE long stretches.  Weeks.  Months even. 

They aren’t angry at each other.
They enjoy conversating when they do talk.
It’s just the way it is. 

And the thing I’ve noticed is that even though they will go a long time, their conversations are no longer than my multi-daily conversations with my family members.  In fact, at times, it seems like they have less to talk about.  It seems like the less often they talk, the less they have to say.

And I guess that makes some sense.  I mean, after a while, it’s hard to know what to say.  It seems weird to talk about trivial stuff when you haven’t talked for so long.   Once you’ve gone a week or so without talking, it seems silly to talk about what you might or might not have done for the weekend.  Two weeks and your latest minor successes at work tend to fall by the wayside.  A month and the only things worth talking about are serious health issues, serious career issues or serious weather issues.

It all kind of, sort of HAS to be serious.

Not posting for a little while has the same effect.  Missing a day is forgivable.  Expected even.  Two days and the reader might not even notice.  But once we hit a week – we’re getting into dangerous territory.  What I had for lunch doesn’t seem to be worth writing about – especially since we all know it was Chick-fil-a.  Suddenly what I write about feels like it has to matter.  Once 10 days pass without a post that funny thing that happened on the way to the tattoo shop is sort of not so funny in that you had to be there sort of way and after a full two weeks I feel like I have to write the comeback post of all times or I will be hung by the cord of my own mouse.   

I hate it when bloggers apologize for not writing for days and days.  “I’m sorry I haven’t posted!  Gosh I’ve been so busy what with blah blah and yadda going on.  I promise I’ll do better.”  It seems so self-centered.  Believe me, blog writer, I’ve survived just fine without knowing what art supplies you’ve run out of and without hearing all the details about your dog’s ear surgery.   

Now I’m sounding cynical.

I guess what I’m saying is that there is a habit to communicating … a pattern.  And when that habit is broken, it is difficult at best to retrain the habit into habitualness again.  When I write each day, I find significance in most things – the way the ground sloshes when it is thoroughly soaked with snow reminds me of my own saturation point and how I too get noisy when I reach it.  The snow and ice on the Chicago streets and the stain the salt leaves behind on the legs of my jeans hints at the unseen dangers of those "safety measures" that are laid down in my path. The slow, almost plodding walk of the yellow Lab that lives down the block warms my heart and reminds me of the slow pace of old farm dogs and old farmers I knew when I was growing up.  And the difficultly getting a contractor to call me back reminds me that those guys are real sons of bitches.  That’s not significant, that’s just fact.

But when I go without writing for a stretch, nothing seems to be important.  Lessons lie unlearned.  I hear only hollow honking when the geese fly by and see nothing significant about their presence in the middle of winter.   When I run out of ink in my highlighter and have no pen in my purse and have to instead memorize the most significant things about an article on the plane I see it as a nuisance and not an opportunity.  And when the small bright-faced group of teenagers bundled in scarves and puffy coats in the park hold up hand-made multi-colored signs that read “FREE HUGS” I see nothing beautiful and instead mutter “weirdos” under my breath.

And so I come back to writing. 

Because I don’t want to be that girl. 

BIRTH OF A WRITER

I really only remember one fight my parents ever had.  It was enough.  It was a doozie.  It was a traveling fight, starting in their bedroom, moving to the kitchen, spilling out the back door and across the paddock to the workshop where my father hung many of his tools along the walls in the narrow rooms.  They weren’t hanging for long.  My mother saw to that. Don’t want to listen to me?  Maybe you’ll listen to this!  And they came crashing down.  Back across the paddock, back into the house – this time through the front door, back into the kitchen. You want to make a mess of my space? I’ll make a mess of yours! and the next thing I knew a dinner plate took flight and slammed against the panty wall and exploded. 

Like I said, it was a doozie.

A few years ago I became somewhat of a regular at a Greek restaurant near my home.  The food is mediocre but the entertainment – which includes a belly dancer and the restaurant owner who could double as Johnny Cash’s grandfather walking around pouring Ouzo down your throat – is enough to keep you coming back again and again.  I love going there.  I love listening to the music, watching the dancer, joining in.  Every now and again the owner is overcome with such joy and alcohol that he begins smashing plates on the floor.  In a joyful frenzy he tosses one after the other at the feet of the busboys dancing in a line around the dance floor.  The intent is pure but the sound for a moment makes me seize up.  and I blame that, like most things, on my parents.  The sound of those many breaking plates in the Greek restaurant are nothing compared to my memory of the sound of that single plate smashing into the wall.  A cymbal crash, a sonic boom.  So loud.  The kitchen was small, enclosed and the crash echoed. That sound of shattering was frightful.  And I think it startled them both. It surely startled me standing alone in the living room.  The shouting stopped.  I watched my father turn on his heel and storm to the bedroom.  I expected him to slam the door.  But he didn’t.  Instead he came out with his keys. 

Oh God.  I stood completely still. For a hundred years I stood completely still.  I was made of wood, concrete, marble.  A statue. Let dust cover me and weeds grow up through the floorboards and root me to the floor.  I would not move one inch toward him or toward her.  If I just stand here I’ll be forgotten, unremembered, ignored.  And I won’t have to do what I’m about to be asked to do.

At the door he turned.  Are you coming?

And there it was.  The Decision.

It was never said, Do you side with me or your rake-throwing mother? But that’s the question I felt being asked.  It was an impossible situation.  If I went with him, my mother would feel abandoned.  If I stayed, my father would feel betrayed.  And although I’d never been faced with this choice before, I knew somehow that’s what I was being asked to do.  I was being asked to pick.

My parents had an amazing relationship.  Up until this point I’d barely seen them argue.  I’d seen them disagree, but I’d always seen them figure it out too.  Our home was bursting with laughter and teasing and all the things that made my house the one that all my friends wanted to come to after church even though there was just as much stall cleaning as there was story telling and banjo playing.  I always felt secure in my home.  Even though I grew up knowing my father had a terminal illness it never worried me, not really.  I never really thought about it.  Girls at school – talking about their own dysfunctional families - once asked me who I would go with if my parents got a divorce and I answered. I picked one of my two parents.  I made a choice. But I didn’t mean it.  I only answered because that’s what everyone was doing – choosing a side, but I knew deep down I’d never really have to.  It was just a game.  And now, here I was.  Actually being asked to make a choice – a momentary choice, but a choice nonetheless. 

Mom’s pride and joy

Or Daddy’s little girl

Which?

I, of course, went with my father.  Not because I liked him more, understood him better or sided with him in the argument – hells bells I don’t know now nor did I know then what the fight was about – but because he was less forgiving than my mother.  He was faster to anger and slower to remorse.  This is the truth.  And I supposed deep down I knew it would be easier to get back in mom’s good graces than back into Dad’s.  Besides, I had the silly notion if I went with my father, I could negotiate a truce between the two of them.  And I tried.  I laid out all the reasons why he should apologize as we tore down the gravel driveway.  I counted off reasons on my fingers why this was no big deal.  I told him to remember how much he loved my mom and I told him that it couldn’t be so bad.  It’s not so bad, right? I said.  And I remember him driving.  Facing forward.  He never looked my way.  It was like riding next to a stone.

I pressed on.  Determined.  I explained why mom was probably so upset and I asked him to see it from her side and, believe it or not, I told him about a time at school when I was mad at a friend and how we worked it out.  Eventually, after a very long silence, he spoke, This isn’t something you could possibly understand, he said.  And I turned to look out the window.  I was hurt by his comment.  He acted like I didn’t know anything.  Like I wasn’t paying attention.  As if.  I let two or three fields go by before I spun back around and shouted, I’m not dumb you know, I’m not dumb, maybe YOU’RE the one who doesn’t understand!  He said nothing.  He’d returned to rock.

It’s an impossible situation to put a child into. 

We ran some meaningless errand taking the long way to town and the longer way back.  We didn’t speak another word to each other. When we got home I bolted from the car and ran inside as fast as I could.  My mother was sitting at the kitchen table.  Before I could get one word out about anything my father came up behind me and quietly asked my mom if he could speak to her in the bedroom.  Together they went in.

And closed the door.

Up to this point, this story is nothing remarkable.  Truly.  I think everyone can recall at least one horrendous fight between their parents.  At least one – maybe the remarkable thing is that I can recall ONLY one.  Parents aren’t perfect.  I’ve just recently realized they are human and we, as parents, are not given a handbook of any kind or initiation into sainthood upon the arrival of our children.  Although I’ve said it before and will say it again, any woman who can push an 8 pound anything out her hooha deserves sainthood.  At least.   The remarkable part of this story comes in what took place after that bedroom door opened back up. 

They apologized.  Not too each other – although I’m sure they’d done that already – they apologized to me and to my sister.  Sat us right down on the couch and apologized.  Apologized for the fight, for arguing in front of us, for making us worry.  My mother apologized for raising her voice and my father apologized for yelling at our mother and breaking her dishes – and he then told us that the first dish he pulled out of the cupboard was a old plastic plate we had and we all laughed thinking of what a fizzle it would have been for him to fling that plastic excuse for a plate across the room only to have it clatter wimpily to the floor.

And then we all got back to being a family.

Sometime later when we were alone and working side-by-side in the barn my father said, I want you to know I appreciated what you had to say to me in the car.  It was good, he said.  It was good stuff Jen Ben.  And it was then my turn to be as silent as stone.  I didn’t want to break the spell.  Good golly molly, tell me that every moment of every day and it still won’t be enough.  Give me that kind of positive feedback and I'll shut up forever.  It was awesome.  Of course I knew then as I know now that I wasn’t responsible for the resolution of my parents’ argument.  I knew more likely than not my father was just trying to affirm me, validate me, make sure he and I were okay – that I wasn’t injured by what he said, by his telling me I couldn’t possibly know what I was talking about.  But there was a tiny grain of a thought in my brain that maybe something I said HAD helped.  Maybe my talking and presenting my ideas to my dad DID change things.  Maybe I WAS in a tiny, tiny way responsible.  Maybe it mattered.  It was weird to think something I said could actually change the way adults behave.  And thrilling.  And it was the first time I can remember thinking,

Maybe I have something to say.

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EVERYTHING'S COMING UP ROSIE

I used to have one dog.  That dog was named Rosie.  Rosie was a basset hound and a darn good one.  When she was little, she would drink water and her ears would hang in the bowl.  She howled when sirens went by.  When she would run, she would sometimes topple over because she tripped on her big brown ears.  She barked with a cute little woooooff wooooooff, her doggie mouth in a perfect O, at strangers, friends, even me when I arrived home.  At the time I lived in Midtown in a 6th floor apartment.  No yard – no problem.  Our walks around my (somewhat sketchy) neighborhood were some of her favorite times.  There was SO MUCH to sniff.  New smells daily.  New people, new tossed McDonald’s bags, new empty beer cans, new homemade crack pipes.  Always something! Rosie was leery of new people and would often give a low warning wooooooooff when we were passing someone she considered suspicious.   Keep your distance, she seemed to be saying.  We don’t know him, she’d warn me.   Watch that one.  She was good company.  I don’t know that I’d walk those streets without her.

One night Rosie started acting strange.  Instead of trotting everywhere around the apartment and getting underfoot, she was laying very still.  She wouldn’t get up when I called her.  Her eyes, which always looked a little sad, looked downright forlorn.  She got worse throughout the night. By 4 a.m. I knew something was very very wrong.  With much effort, I loaded her up and took her to the emergency vet.  Diagnosis: a blown disc in her back.  Rosie needed surgery. 

Surgery was successful.  The disc was repaired.  However, she couldn’t walk.  Not initially.  That would be something that would come back in time.  “It may be a few months before she has full use of her back legs,” the young vet told me.  I didn’t care.  Rosie had seen me though a lot.  I wouldn’t let her down now.  It probably would have been harder to deal with but Rosie didn’t seem to care or notice that her back legs didn’t work.  Within days of surgery she was pulling herself all around my hardwood floored apartment.  Rosie apparently had a lot of upper body strength and could easily haul her own weight around - a trait I highly admire seeing as though I can barely lift my own spirits without getting winded.  Pullpulllpull into the kitchen … pullpullpull – into the bedroom …. Pullpullpull WOOOOOOOOFfff – someone is at the door – I could hardly keep up with her. 

Unfortunately, she couldn’t pull this same move outside.  Outside, where there was grass and – more often – concrete, Rosie was stymied.  This was a bummer.  I hated it that Rosie couldn’t enjoy her walks like we used to.  Hated it.  I considered going out daily and gathering up some of her favorite items to bring them back to the apartment to sniff.  But to be honest, a white girl gathering discarded trash and hypodermics in my neighborhood might appear a bit – oh I don’t know – suspicious to the regulars.  So I crossed that thought right off my mental idea list and went back to thinking.  And then I landed on an idea.  I bought a wagon – a red radio flyer wagon.  She might not be able to walk, but she could ride.  Once a day I’d load Rosie in the wagon and we’d go traipsing off around the neighborhood.  Occasionally I’d stop so she could lean her big head over and take a whiff of the ground.  I was hesitant at first but you’d be surprised how much crack dealers love a dog in a wagon.  I’d never felt safer.

The next couple of months were crazy.  Thankfully, the apartment had an elevator.  However, there were still steps that had to be climbed in order to get outside.  Rosie not being a small dog and neither of us having good backs proved to make things a little challenging.  Necessity as they say is the mother of invention.  You wouldn’t believe the crap I invented in order to get that 70 pound dog up and out of that apartment.  But I did it.  And every day we’d go for a “walk”, every day we’d hear “here come that dog in that wagon!” from our neighbors and every day she’d get a little better.

One day I was walking from the living room to the kitchen.  Rosie decided to come with me.  Instead of dragging herself, she did the amazing – she hopped up on all fours and walked.  Two steps.  Only two.  But she did it.  Upon completing these two steps, Rosie’s backside flopped over again and she paddled her way the rest of the way into the kitchen to get the 20 biscuits I fed her while I told her what a brave and strong dog she was!  That was a turning point.  Each day she’d walk a few more steps.  Pretty soon she was walking more than dragging and within a week we parked the red wagon once and for all. 

Our inaugural walk sans wagon was one to behold.  We proudly paraded up and down the broken sidewalks of our neighborhood. I was as puffed as a pastry and Rosie trotted with her head up and NOT sniffing a good 30% of the time – a huge amount to say the least. I wondered, ignorantly, if we’d get a reaction.  Of course we got a reaction.  And the reaction we got was hysterical.  That basset got cat calls.  Everyone was very impressed.  Very impressed indeed.  There were a few iffy moments when Rosie would topple to the side and groups of people sitting on the porch or standing on the corner would collectively groan.  But quickly enough, and un-phased, Rosie would be UP!  And the crowd would cheer!  YAY!  And then they’d laugh.  And I’d laugh.  We’d laugh at ourselves and our hero basset, who remained un-phased, untarnished and would trot ahead to the next deliciously smelling hunk of garbage by the curb.

Everybody loves an underdog.

Soon after that, I got a puppy.  Another dog to keep Rosie company.  It was the vet’s idea – something to help Rosie stay active.  It was a good decision.  But this dog brought a whole new set of issues – not the least of which was dealing with the reaction from the neighbors.  I spent the first few walks telling the neighbors about the puppy’s role.  Then I had to explain my reasoning.  Then I had to defend my decision.  They didn’t like this new dog – this rowdy puppy that ran in circles and didn’t need a wagon.  “Where’s that other dog?” they’d call when I’d be out with the just the Puppy.  And I’d tell them.  And they’d shake their heads and turn back to their conversations.  They resented the Pup.  They didn’t like this new addition to our walks.  And quickly enough, my neighbors stopped talking when we walked by.  When I was without Rosie, they no longer asked about her and when I was with her, they no longer cared.   Rosie went back to sniffing 100% of the time and I went back to looking straight ahead at nothing when I passed a crowded corner.

Within a few months I moved from that neighborhood.  Once Rosie had a yard I forgot about those walks.  Forgot about how people bonded over an injured dog.  Forgot about how illness and vulnerability can bring people together.  How people let their guard down when someone else is hurting. 

And I forgot that sometimes, when the crisis is over, that guard comes back up.

IN HONOR OF NATHAN'S HOT DOG EATING CONTEST, A STORY ABOUT WIENERS. SORT OF.

I love this post by Dan.  He talks about an incident that happened years ago when he drove the Oscar Meyer Wienermobile around. Yes, he actually did that.  One day while he was eating dinner away from the worlds biggest hot dog car, a little girl named Lindsey Mulligan left a note on the windshield.  He includes the note in his post.  Basically, she let the drivers of the mobile know that she loves the Wienermobile and that she waited for them but under the direction of her mother had to go to bed.  She also spells out very clearly in her note what she wants. 

“I would love two (2) Wiener whistles.  You can leave them in my mailbox near the red door at 145 Main Street.”

That clear.  That plain.  That simple.

Of course Dan and his then wiener partner did what was requested … and then some.  They left two (2) wiener whistles in Leslie’s mailbox AND a hot wheels Wienermobile AND a watch.  Of course they did.  Wouldn’t you?

The point here is this … most people, not just those who drive Wienermobiles for a summer job, will help you get what you want if they can and if they know what it is.  The problem lies most often not in the willingness of someone to help but in the clarity and directness of the person asking. The secret is to be direct and clear.  Communicate the feeling.  Communicate the need. Communicate the desire.

“I’m feeling like I don’t know what’s going on.  I’d like to be included.  Please let me know when the next meeting takes place.”

“I’m feeling attacked.  I need to know we can resolve this calmly.  Please help me do that.”

“I’m feeling like I haven’t had ice cream for 6 hours.  I need ice cream soon.  Please drive me to the ice cream store at top speed.”

You get the point. 

It should be simple, but it isn’t.  Most people over Lindsey Mulligan’s age have difficulty expressing themselves this way.  They don’t like to let you know what they are feeling or what they need.  Most adults feel like they are losing ground if they communicate what’s going on inside them.  Most adults get defensive. 

“I should have been in that meeting – what does he think? That I don’t pull my weight? I was doing this long before he came along!”

“You have no right to speak to me that way!  You have no clue what I go through on a daily basis!”

And this defensiveness gets you nothing.  Not resolution, not reconciliation, not progress and certain not two (2) wiener whistles in your mailbox.

We could learn a thing or two from Lindsey Mulligan.

MIND MAP QUEST

I tell a lot of stories when I give presentations.  It really doesn't matter what the topic is, I most often start with a story.  Then I tell another story later.  And then later after that I tell a story. And if you want to meet for a drink after I'm done, I'll tell you another story.  That's how it works for me.  I believe in the power of stories.  I told you that already. 

I'm often asked how I come up with all my stories.  To tell you the truth, I don't rightly always know.  Sometimes they just pop in there.  Sometimes I have to work a bit.  Sometimes my stories don't actually show up until right when I need them - they're sort of like the Lone Ranger in that sense.  Waiting until the laaaaaast possible moment before they appear.  I'm tied to the tracks and the train is a whistling and suddenly *DING* there it is.  I've learned to sort of trust this process. 

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But if I'm going to START with a story - and that's what I suggest to classes when I'm teaching this topic - then I usually go through a mind mapping process to find a good story.  Recently I was in front of a class teaching them about presentation skills and decided to teach them this process.  They had been working on a presentation all day.  They each had picked a topic and had worked through an audience analysis, content preparation, call to action and introduction development.  I was showing them how to then create a mind map to identify an applicable story to build credibility with their audience and get them drawn in.

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"It works!"  I said, "even when you don't think you have any story to tell, if you give your mind a chance, it can find a good story that is yours that can go with nearly any topic."  Then I took a risk.  "Ok," I said feeling confident, "Okay, I'll prove it ... someone give me your topic."

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They were, of course, initially silent as I moved from the front of the classroom to a white board on the side of the room.  I've learned to wait out the silence in these moments,  someone will always crack.  Wimps.   I got to the board, chose the green pen from the 10 or so that were laying in the tray, uncapped it and put my marker to the board.  The silence was finally too much for one person and she shouted out

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"Turning our office into a virtual office!"

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"Okay! "  Virtual Office for Employees!" I wrote it on the top of the board in big fat green letters.  "Now, it works like this ..."  and I began showing them the mind mapping process - at least the way I do it.  I'll recreate it for you here. 

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First I ask myself what emotion do I want the audience to feel?  Once I identify the emotion, in this case, a sense of urgency to change, I write that in the middle of the paper (or board) and draw a circle around it. 

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Next, I just sort of let my mind wander.  I ask myself when have I felt a sense of urgency.  I immediately think of when I have a bladder infection and have to pee 100 times an hour.  And even though I know I most likely will not be able to use this story, I write it down.   I connect it to "sense of urgency" with a line and I keep moving.

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(It was at this point I began to think maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.  But I was committed (or should have been) so I continued. )

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Bladder infection immediately leads me down a hundred paths all having to do with medical issues.  And because they are all medical in nature, I bring them out of the same spot as my bladder infection.

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This line of thinking really isn't leading me anywhere - except telling my audience much more about me than they need to know - so I take a step back and look at it again

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"Sense of Urgency"

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And I ask myself "why do I want them to feel this way?"  And the answer gets put in a big circle with a line "CHANGE!"

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I want them to change.  The next questions come easy "When have I changed in my life?" And quickly I realize there are little changes and big changes that we make.  I write some little ones down.  I write some big ones down.  And one of those big changes really is the biggest change I've made so I stick there for a bit.  And I think about it.  And as topics float into my head I write them down.  The Hub, my big move to KC,  Detroit,  and although all of these have stories attached to them, nothing really comes to mind.  Then going off of The Hub, I begin to think about The Kid.  Big topic.  She gets a circle all her own.  I think about what it would be like to have her nearby when I work.  I realized that she almost always IS nearby when I work - since I work from home.  Then I think about the challenges of that and how it isn't always easy to do my job when she is, literally, in my lap.  And then I think about the fact that I tell her that we all have jobs to do and her job is to be a kid.  And then.  Just like that.  The Story comes.

I think about it for about 3 seconds and I realize it is a perfect story for Virtual Officing.  It is a perfect story for creating connection with the audience.  It will bring down the wall.  It will create a sense of urgency.  It will introduce the topic.

Granted, it will need some work.  I'll have to tie it in skillfully but I can do that.  I put down my pen and turn back to my audience there in the classroom and I begin:

One day I was making The Kid a chicken salad sandwich.  It isn't really chicken salad, it's chicken cut into pieces but I call it chicken salad hoping that one day I'll be able to sneak real chicken salad into her bread and she'll never notice and I'll eventually be able to feed her anything and she'll eat it up and Oliver Twist me, "MORE!" After all, let's face it, the jump from chicken salad to liver and onions is very small.

So there I am, making the mock chicken salad sandwich and she says "Not so much, we won't have any chicken left."

This strikes me as odd.  And I say, quite poetically, "Huh?" And she says "We're almost out of chicken and what if we want more later or for dinner?"

And I looked at her little face and I realized she was worried.  My little six year old was worried about having enough chicken.  And my heart about broke.  I put down the knife and I squatted and I said "Honey, that's not your job.  Your job is to be a kid.  My job is to put chicken in the fridge.  We do better when we all do our jobs.  So no more worrying about my job, okay?"

See, she was distracted. She couldn't do her job - of being a kid - and be worried at the same time.  There is no way she could fulfill her responsibilities of Kidhood if she was worried about the chicken.  What I had to do, as her parent, was to remove those worries and refocus her on her job. 

Your people are worried - about a thousand things.  They are distracted about a hundred items that have nothing to do with their jobs.  And because they are worried and distracted, they can't do their jobs to the best of their ability.  And just like I had the power - and responsibility - to remove as many worries and distractions from The Kid, you have a responsibility to create an environment that will best help your employees do their jobs.  Because ultimately, that's what you want.

I mean it isn't War and Peace but it's not bad as stories go.

The funny thing was as people started to try to find their own stories to introduce their topic they got stuck.  They got stuck and then they got frustrated.  They got stuck and frustrated and then they got mad. 

At me.

"I don't have a good story!" One said.

"There is no way this will work for everyone."  Another said

"You're dumb!" Said another.  Okay no one actually said that but it was getting ugly.  They began in again about how they didn't have a stories like that.  Maybe not everyone has a story, they said.  Can't I just skip it?  But I wasn't going to let them off the hook that easily.  I reminded them that people need and want to like you when you present but you have to give them a reason.  "You think you don't have a story?" I asked and was rewarded with nods.  "Okay then, turn to the person next to you and tell them about a challenge - any challenge - you had to overcome from childhood."

It took 3 seconds.  The room exploded into stories. 

I let them talk for about 5 minutes and then I said, "Can anyone tie the story they told into their topic?" And, of course, they all said "No!"

So I pointed to one woman in the room.  "What is your story?"  And she told this amazing tale in about 1 minute of being a child and being shuttled back and forth between her mom's house and her dad's house as a little girl because her parents were divorced and she never felt totally connected to either of them.  And just when she felt like she was connecting, she had to go to the other house and she had to learn how to cope with that but it was so hard to disconnect and reconnect and disconnect and reconnect. 

That was a powerful story.  It had a ton of emotion.  It really drew me in in about 2 seconds and I wanted to hear her talk more.  It was exactly perfect and I wanted her to know it and use it.  I told her I loved that story.  I thanked her for sharing it and then I said "How can you tie that into your topic?"

She replied,  "Well, I can't.  It really doesn't fit."

"Darn!" I said, I was genuinely disappointed and thought maybe I should abandon this whole thing.  But I gave it one last shot, "What's your topic?" 

And she said, (You ready for this?)  "Having day care on site for employees.  That way they can spend more time with their kids and stuff and they could have lunch with them or whatever.  But the day care would close every day at 5:30 so they'd have to go home.  They couldn't just abandon them there."

Sometimes my job writes itself.

REMEMBER SUSIE CHAPSTICK?

I have a friend who is addicted to chapstick.  I won't post her name here but she knows who she is. 

I screen my friends carefully.  I know this sounds odd but it is true.  I'm introverted by nature - no one believes me but I really am. 

SIDEBAR: This reminds me of a 4 year old I used to know.  She came into my office one day and began interviewing me about the objects in my office.  "What's that?  Why do you have it? When did you get it? Can I have it? What's that? Do you like pink? Pink's my favorite color. What's that?"  This went on for a while and I kept up pretty good.  Eventually I turned back to my work and let her entertain herself with the chalk and chalkboard in my office.  She talked the whole time.  Not to me ... just sort of to herself.  Or to the chalk.  Or to her feet.  You know, whatever.  Eventually she got louder.  I could tell she wanted more attention.  I was busy.  "I'm drawing again!" she called out.  "uh huh!" I said.  "I have pink chalk at home!"  she said "Okay!" I said.  But apparently my little responses weren't enough.  Next thing I knew, she was tugging at me, at my shirt.  "Hey, hey, hey, hey" <tug tug tug> "hey ..." 

I finished typing and turned around to face her , "yes?"

"I'm shy."

I burst into laughter.  "Are you?" I said and laughed again.  Then I said "Sweetie, let me let you in on a secret ... if you like to tell people you are shy, you probably aren't."  And I scooped her up and we went to the lobby to count the flowers.

So that's kind of how I feel about saying I'm introverted.  No one really believes me because most people see me up in front of a crowd or teaching a room full of execs and I'm sure most people reading this are saying "if you have to convince us you are introverted you probably aren't"  but I really am.  Really.  I AM!

Anyway, this is why I'm very selective about my friends.  Because I have limited energy and I want to make sure that I'll be a good friend (and honestly, that they will be too).  So I have sort of selection criteria.  I won't expose my criteria but I will say this,  chapstick addiction is a plus.  Not just because I love chapstick but also because I want my friends to be eccentric.  I want them to be a little - off.  I like it when they shamelessly have a quirk. 

By observation alone, I have counted 7 different lip balms in her possession.  They've gotten pulled out of purses and desk drawers and my personal favorite - out of an arrangement on the coffee table in her living room.  And what's even better?  We've NEVER said anything about it.  She's never said "I'm addicted to chapstick" and I've never said "Don't you think you have a lot of chapstick?"  But inside I jump up and down like a little girl getting a pony every time a chapstick appears.  You never know when it is going to happen or where they are going to come from.  It's just the BEST!

This isn't her only quirk.  She doesn't know this but the first FOUR times I saw her she had on the same sweater.  The first time was when we met at her office.  The next time was at a lunch.  Then we ran into each other at an office downtown and then a few weeks later I had to stop by her office again.  All these times she had on the same sweater.  By this time, we had quickly become friends and had scheduled a dinner with spouses.  On the way to her house I kept asking The Husband "What if she has on that sweater again?" and we developed a plan for him to distract her while I snuck to her closet to see if this was the SAME sweater or if she had a army of them.

I have to admit I was a little disappointed to she her dressed all in black and the sweater was no where to be found.

She and her husband were over the other night and we played Hoopla - my favorite game.  In Hoopla you are required to draw.  You draw and everyone tries to guess what you are drawing.  Like pictionary.  Lipbalm had to draw an elephant.  She started at the back, which, admittedly, is not where I would start.  She never picked up her pencil.  She drew the whole thing without stopping. It was one long line.  It was a side view.  It looked EXACTLY like

a septic system.

Somehow we got the clue.  I don't know how exactly but someone called out "ELEPHANT!"  but it was more like "elephant???"  I do remember asking about the elephant's brain tumor and being told that was its ear.  About this time we all burst into laughter.  And kept laughing and kept laughing. 

And then she reached into her pocket, pulled out a tube and applied Medicated Chapstick to her lips.

COMMUNICATIONS SKILLS OF STEEL

Want to be more encouraging?  Want to be more flexible?  Want to have a more positive impact on people around you?  Then minimize your buts.  Not that butt (although, who couldn’t use a little less of THAT butt), the ones you are using in your everyday speech. 

I see your point, but …

I know you’ve been working hard, but …

That’s a nice shirt, but …

See what I mean?  You throw a but in there and suddenly, it negates everything before it.  But means you really DON’T see the point.  You really DON’T think I’ve been working hard and you really DO hate that shirt.

Actually the “but” in speech is rather a lot like the butt on the seat.  Too much of either is a real drag.  Too much of that butt isn’t flattering and too much of the other but isn’t encouraging.  Too much of that butt and you’re uncomfortable in your pants, too much of the other but and you’re uncomfortable in your relationships.  Too much of that butt and you probably aren’t listening to the scales and too much of the other but and you probably aren’t listening period.

We could all use a little less but(t).

How?  Well, alas, I cannot help you with your butt – that’s something you’re going to have to figure out on your own.  Although stepping away from the ice cream wouldn’t hurt.  I can, however, help you with the speech but.  It’s simple really.  Just remove the “but” when you are talking and use “and” instead.

I see your point, and …

I know you’ve been working hard, and ...

That’s a nice shirt, and …

Let’s try it:  I see your point, and I’d like to add something. I know you’ve been working hard and I’d like to see you tackle this as well. That’s a nice shirt, and wouldn’t you like to cover it with this coat?

Okay, it doesn’t ALWAYS work.  BUT – give it a shot.  It really can make a difference.  In no time, you may be kissing your but goodbye.

OBSERVATIONS, FEELINGS, NEEDS, REQUEST

I noticed you ___________.  When you did that, I felt ____________.  I need ______________ and therefore, I’m hoping you’ll ___________.

This formula could save your personal and professional relationships.  In Marshall Rosenberg’s book, Nonviolent Communication, he explains the method in detail. It’s an in-depth book that I feel can be summed up pretty quickly by learning and applying the above formula.

I’m sure the author would disagree with me, but then again, he has a very fluffy cover on the book – light blue with floating clouds and a fru-fru looking font. So I think I could take him in a fight if I had to. 

Regardless of how the look of the book strikes me (or you for that matter) the content is good. When something happens that you don’t like, tell someone.  Mention the situation (observation) let them know what you felt (feelings), communicate your needs (needs) and ask them to do something differently (request).  It is as simple as that. 

In real life, it might go like this:  I noticed in yesterday’s meeting you rolled your eyes and sat with your arms folded (observation.  Note that we didn’t say "I noticed you were disengaged," that’s an opinion.  Or "I noticed you were acting like an ass" – also an opinion – albeit an accurate one). When that happened, I felt like I’d lost control of the room (feelings) because everyone was responding to your reaction rather than to what I was saying.  I need you to be supportive of me in front of the group (needs) so will you agree to stay engaged in the meetings and then come to me afterwards if you disagree with something I’ve said? (request). 

Or, another example: I noticed you left two pairs of shoes by the door in the living room and one pair on the table in the dining room and another pair - well, half a pair, in the bathroom.  That makes me feel like a maid the second I come home and that’s so frustrating. I need to be able to relax and unwind when I get home and see this house as a haven, a safe place. So, in the future will you put your shoes in the closet or at least in the bedroom? 

Amazingly enough, I found that nonviolent communication does work.  (And I’m currently working to keep my shoes contained to the bedroom.)