Ordinary Life, Extraordinary Living

Brilliant Conversations

Over the holidays, I received an email from a long time blog reader, Cathy, in response to my annual holiday e-card. (If you aren't on the list and would like to be, please contact me):

"Thanks for all you do. I enjoy reading what you write!" 

I was curious.  What exactly do I do that my readers benefit from?  So I asked Cathy that very question.  And here's what she said:

"You are saying and writing the inner dialog that many of us have with ourselves or should have. Our inner cheerleader--the one who encourages us to think of life as an expanding experience full of promise. So much of our daily interactions are negative or limiting. How wonderful when I get your reminders to look for the extra…something...out there and stay open to possibilities."

I was floored--and humbled--when I read the impact I've had, over time:

"I have saved several of your posts and reread them often.  Something must have sunk in;  I just found a new career this past year, going from writer to librarian. It was a stretch to even think I could do such a job, without having a library science degree. But it's people like you, with your encouragement to change and be honest about life, who helped me do it."

Cathy gave me a huge gift, through her feedback. I couldn't help but cry as I read her words. Photo by BiblioArchives/LibraryArchives

I rarely use this blog to make a pitch for my paid offerings. And I'm doing it today, for the first time in many years, since I started blogging nearly a decade ago. Why?  Because when I hear from people like Cathy, I realize that each of us can do remarkable things that we never imagined we could do, when we have the right ongoing support.

Reading a blog for years might not be your version of the right ongoing support. But regular, live conversation, as part of a vibrant community?  That just might do it.  

 

What I'm Noticing

• You are who you hang with. Emotions, both positive and negative, are contagious.
• It's easy to become isolated.  And without feedback from others, you forget how talented and fabulous you really are.  
• You can be your own worst enemy--talking yourself out of great ideas and giving yourself too little credit for trying.  
• Your internal thoughts create your external reality.  This is not hocus-pocus, new agey stuff.  How you show up has a lot to do with whether your idea gets accepted by your colleagues or whether your kids continue throwing tantrums.  Your internal dialogue sets the stage for everything else in life. 
• Changing your habit of thinking takes practice. And yes, how you think is a habit. 
• Stories are powerful. They have the capacity to give hope to the hopeless, encouragement to the discouraged, and inspiration to the uninspired. We need more places to share our stories. 
• Conversations matter. With meaningful conversation, a group of strangers can become friends, quickly.  

 

Enter Brilliant Conversations

Brilliant Conversations Community-- the support to help you do big things in 2014.   Whether your heart's desire is to change careers, write a book, return to work, live a saner life, build your business, or make your mark in your corner of the world, being a member of the Brilliant Conversations Community can turbo charge your efforts to turn dreams into reality. Photo source: Tumblr.com/blog/permutationsoflove

Brilliant Conversations is a new service, designed to give you momentum, savvy advice and tips ... and courage. You'll get timely reminders of what really matters and new perspectives on life and work. I will share my knowledge to stir your creative juices, use my wisdom to get you unstuck, and coach you towards your own brilliance. I'll also bring in trusted colleagues as guest experts.

Brilliant Conversations Community is a gathering place to be immersed in the vibe of pure brilliance--yours, mine, ours--and to share our collective stories. The result? You'll achieve more in life. No question.  But more importantly, you'll experience more in life.  

In addition to being part of a vibrant, uplifting community that supports you in your goals, you'll also make valuable one-on-one connections through a private Facebook group. 
 

"Carol gets a seemingly disparate group of people together and engages them in finding more about each other, and therefore about themselves.

I wish I could throw a party like that!"

--Nicole Bergstrom, Co-Founder, BT Films

If this speaks to you, I want you to be a part of this community, to be a part of Brilliant Conversations.  We'll meet virtually on a teleseminar, twice a month, for an hour at a time, where you will have access to me and other bright minds.  Who are you to be brilliant?  As Marianne Williamson says, "Who are you not to be?"  

Join the Brilliant Conversations Community for just $45/month. That's the cost of lattes for a month or a few lunches out. Trade those jolts of caffeine or extra calories for something more nurturing, nourishing, and life-changing. 

Ready to join me? (I hope you'll say yes!)

The Details

What: An investment in yourself. Brilliant Conversations Community (BCC). Live calls twice a month, facilitated by Carol Ross. You will also have 24/7 access to a private Facebook group. Photo source: Stylemepretty.com

When: Calls are the first and third Mondays of each month, starting on February 3.  Calls are scheduled for Feb 3 and 17, Mar 3 and 17, Apr 7 and 21 at 6pm Eastern/ 5pm Central/ 4pm Mountain/ 3pm Pacific. Can't make a live call?  Don't worry. All calls are recorded. 

Where: Virtual. You can join by webcast, phone, or Skype. 

Cost: $45/month. Join by 5pm ET on Thurs, January 23 and you'll get the early bird price of $35/month, for the months of February, March, and April.  

And you don't ever have to commit to a certain number of months. 

To sign up:  Email carol [at] carolrossandassociates [dot] com. Once you contact me, I'll arrange a phone call to get your credit card info.  Yes, I could make this easier with a Paypal button and a few clicks. But our short phone call is also a way to connect and to get to know each other, ahead of time.  Brilliant Conversations isn't about lurking in the background. It's a place for each of us to show up.  

When bright minds and kind hearts gather together, magic happens. It always does.  Save your spot now so that you'll be a part of that magic.

 

What Others Are Saying

"Being a part of Carol's "conversations" is immensely rewarding--from her authentic introduction of where she is "coming from" to her supportive and personal response to each participant's input.  She demonstrates the power of personal development work as a conversation, rather than as a solitary exercise in a book or on a website."

--Ron Gross, Founder, Conversations New York

"Carol has a way of emphasizing things that really matter." 

--Erika Nygaard, graphic designer
 

"Carol shares her resources and connections openly, demonstrating that not all payoffs are transactions, but often are investments in deeper, longer-term relationships.... leading to deeper, longer-term outcomes."
--Dave Aron, Associate Professor of Marketing, Dominican University
 

 

PS.  I'm starting the Brilliant Conversations Community to help you jump start a network that would take years to assemble on your own. I've seen too many people try to go it alone. When I ask, "Do you have someone who can be your accountability partner or a mastermind partner?", I get blank stares. I forget how lucky I am to have the network that I have. What's possible with the support of kindred spirits who have curious minds and generous hearts, are wickedly smart and multi-talented, and vibrating, quite frankly, at an energy level way above the mainstream? Find out by joining the Brilliant Conversations Community.  Sign up today by contacting me, carol [at] carolrossandassociates [dot] com. 

PPS. Quite frankly, I feel a responsibility to have the greatest impact, with the gifts that I've been given.  I have a gift for creating forums where honest conversation can unfold.  It's what happens when I'm coaching a client or interviewing a book author or writing a blog post.  And I know it's what will happen with the Brilliant Conversations Community. 

 

What I Believe

As part of re-branding, I'm doing a new site.  It's been a good exercise in getting clear on who I am, what makes me distinctive as a coach and how I can help others.  I'm writing a section on my beliefs, because what I believe drives my actions. How I experience the world influences my behavior.

Recently, I shared this section with a friend, and based on her reaction, I thought it might be useful to share it here. Why wait until the new site is done, right?

So here's what I believe:

 

About Careers and People

•  Career changers don’t want a new career.  They want career integration—incorporating more of who they are into their work. 
•  Your best work is an expression of who you are. It is wholeness personified.
•  Everyone has a story, waiting to be told.
•  Genius is inside each one of us. Brilliance emerges when we detach from our ego and walk our own path. 
•  Everyone is creative. Your “level” of creativity is based on the story you tell yourself about being creative.
•  We each have the opportunity to tell and live a better story.
• Everyone has thought leadership.  Thought leadership is the application of your wisdom to your work.
• Everyone has wisdom, born out of one’s life experience. 
• We need role models.  They give us hope. 
• Role models are no different than other people, at their core.  Role models are susceptible to all human frailties. The difference is that role models have allowed their core to be seen by others.

 

About Human Behavior

• Your internal creates your external.  All external goals start with your internal state of mind.  This is especially true with career goals.
• Vulnerability is incredibly powerful.  It has the ability to create seismic shifts in broken relationships, attract good-hearted people into our lives, and heal deep wounds.
• Tragedies bring people together because it generates vulnerability and compassion.
• Humility, in its purest form, is magical. You cannot be bought and for that, people will love you.  False humility is a form of self-loathing.
• People act out of their deepest fears, no matter how remote the possibility is of their fears being realized.
• People dismiss their greatest strength, no matter how pervasively and intensely that strength is known by others.
• The need to belong is a powerful motivator.
• People yearn to be seen, but they are afraid of being fully seen.
• Our children reflect back to us the love and respect that we have for ourselves.

 

About Stories

• Messy stories contain great learning and big gifts.
• Telling Stories = Making Meaning
• Each person has a distinctive theme that runs throughout their life, independent of position, job title or role they are playing.   Identify your theme and you will know your place in the world.

 

About Being Productive

• We are slowly killing ourselves in the name of productivity.  What’s needed: More being, less doing.  More reflection, less reactivity. More connecting, less transacting. Quality thinking over quantity achieving.
• Most problems, on most days, can be solved with a long walk.
• Pacing yourself is the key to productivity. 
• Emotional distress is an invisible poison in the waters of productivity.  It takes a larger toll on our daily lives than most people realize.
• Managing your energy well is one of the best things you can do for yourself.  For most people, this takes a lifetime to learn.

 

About Life

• Light and dark co-exist, side by side.  When you can see both, life becomes much easier.
• The answer is not “out there”. It is inside of you.
• Before true happiness comes peace.
• The Universe gives you exactly what you need, when you need it, and no sooner.
• What comes around goes around.  There is karmic justice.
• Commitment trumps passion.  I can be passionate without commitment and the world does not change.  But when I commit, something in the world shifts. 
• Being gracious is a lost art. 
• You learn a lot about yourself when you examine your beliefs.

 

What do you believe?  Add your comments below.

 

How Friday the 13th Became Boulder's 9/11

In just 5 days, Boulder County, where I live, received over 14 inches of rain.  I've heard that's more than 75% of the typical annual rainfall for this area. What started out as a blessing from a late summer heat wave turned into what some have described as an apocalypse.

On the first day, rain was a welcome relief.  That day, my husband headed out the door to choir rehearsal with umbrella in hand, a rare accoutrement since we moved to Colorado over twenty years ago. Photo by John Gilchrist

On the second day, there was a steady drizzle that was neither here nor there.  The rain blended into a forgettable overcast sky.  I missed seeing the sun, but thought nothing more about the weather.

On the third day, a friend of mine remarked, "It's getting soggy."  The rain was an irritant, but alarm bells were not yet ringing.  We live 10 miles from the city of Boulder, on higher ground.  I went about my day, business as usual, preparing for two upcoming workshops ad making plans for a trip to Chicago. 

When the rain stopped briefly, I went for a run.  It started raining again. By the time I got back to my house, I was soaked to the skin.  Throughout the night, I could hear the rain, sometimes pouring.   

When I woke up on the fourth day, I knew that things had gotten worse, much worse. One client in Denver emailed to ask if I had power. A friend in Boulder told me that he had been up in the middle of the night, trying to divert water away from his basement, to no avail.  Another friend told me her office in Boulder was closed. I checked my crawl space for moisture and was relieved to find nothing unusual.

While eating lunch, I plopped myself in front of the television and watched live shots of creeks that had become raging torrents of murky brown water. On a road not more than five miles from my house, the road had buckled and three cars had fallen into rapidly moving water.  Miraculously, all three drivers were rescued.

It rained throughout the day.

I was mesmerized and distracted.  Typing the Twitter hashtag, #boulderflood, I was like an addict, where each new piece of info was a hit that made me want more.  Photos of flooded intersections and park benches surrounded by water.  Announcements from the Boulder Office of Emergency Management about evacuations and road closures.  Images of University of Colorado students outside and inside, in a foot of water, struck by the novelty, unaware of the dangers and enjoying a day off from school. The buzzing sound of incoming text messages--flood warnings that kept expiring and continuing--only added to the tension. The live stream of one of the local television stations played in the background on my computer. Photo posted by brandish on Instagram @photogjake.

My husband, Chip, and I prepared ourselves for the worst.  Earlier in the day, Chip went into his office in downtown Boulder and moved things from the floor to on top of desks.  He brought home files and equipment for safe keeping. While I scolded him for even going into the office, he reported that the streets were not too bad...yet.  I searched for flashlights in case the power went off.  Chip filled up a large pot, normally used to cook pasta, with water.  On a Post-It note on top of the lid, he wrote the words, "Emergency H20". My brother, who lives close by, called looking for a shopvac as a backup to his sump pump.

These are times when concern for others is as great as concern for yourself. I emailed friends who I was worried about. I phoned my sister and mother, both nearby.

That evening, armed with an umbrella, I took a walk around my neighborhood, to see first hand how bad things were.  We live in a golf course commuity.  Normally, a small creek runs through the golf course. What I saw astounded me.  The creek had overflowed its banks and had become a river, a coffee-colored watery ribbon, winding its way down the fairway.  The same murky brown water that I had seen on television was now churning violently in front of me, no more than 30 feet from my neighborhood street.  It was surreal.  New water hazards had popped up overnight--ones that no golfer was prepared to face.

Like so many others who are in awe of the ruthless power of nature, I took a video of the water monster on the 8th hole.  I emailed it to my sons, away at college in Atlanta and Dallas. 

I was shaken, knowing that conditions could get worse before they got better.  The rain was not expected to stop for several days.  I watched more local television coverage and later, saw that the flood had made the national news. I went to bed hoping for the best and expecting the worse.

On the fifth day, Friday, September 13, the local paper declared in a 2-inch headine, "100-YEAR FLOOD".  Boulder was eligible for federal disaster aid, thanks to an emergency order signed by the White House. The National Guard was called in to aid in rescue efforts. Two people had died and one was missing. The main highway into Boulder was shut down and the public was asked to stay out, so that first responders could do their work. #boulderflood was in the top ten trending hashtags on Twitter. The University of Colorado, for only the third time in history, canceled a football game, scheduled for the following day.  The first two times were after JFK's assassination and after 9/11.

Chip and I watched television throughout the day, hypnotized by a bird's eye view of towns underwater, not just in the foothills of Boulder County, but also in Northern Colorado and further east. The main interstate between Colorado and Wyoming, our neighboring state to the north, was closed due to flood waters covering the highway.  Misery was spreading to new parts of the state, to college towns like Ft. Collins and Greeley and to farming communities like Evans and Milliken. The water from the mountain streams and rivers had to go somewhere and on this side of the Continental Divide, it flows east.

I emailed more friends, hoping to hear they were safe and sound.  Chip's dad called from Chicago. I emailed out of state friends and family, to let them know we were okay.

While I was still open for business, my heart wasn't into it.  I rescheduled two calls with locals. None of us were in the mood for work.  Our priorities were elsewhere.  I went ahead with calls to people in other parts of the country, but I found myself struggling to stay focused.  One friend near Ft. Collins wrote: "Tried two days now to get to work with no luck---there are just no routes unless you are a hovercraft or plane/helicopter." To which I replied: "Work is a lost cause, even for those of us who work at home. Mesmerized by the Twitter feed for #boulderflood. Still waiting to hear from two friends who I know have houses in harm's way."

Even though my family and house were unharmed, the days' events had taken their toll on me. I was emotionally exhausted.

In the evening, I heard the low rumbling of helicopters flying toward the mountains.  It was not the light whipping sound of a radio station's traffic reporter.  These were large military Chinook helicopters, designed to carry lots of people and cargo. 

Yesterday morning, on the sixth day since the rain started, I saw blue skies.  My husband opened up the windows and sun streamed through the living room window. I sat on the back patio for the first time in nearly a week. I stayed off Twitter for half a day, giving myself an emotional break from the incessant updates. For a moment, things felt normal. 

Just like 9/11, things will not be normal for a long time.  Even as Boulderites are cleaning out mud from their houses, more rain is forecast. New places in Colorado are being threatened by rivers overflowing their banks.  Stretches of roads are damaged, or completely gone.  Established parks have been stripped bare of vegetation, picnic tables carried away by the rushing water.  Mudslides are a real danger.  Hundreds people are still unaccounted for.  Rescue operations are less than 2 days old.  The good news is that over 1200 people have been rescued so far, 700 by helicopter. Yesterday's local paper heralded the following: "EMERGING FROM THE STORM".

As stories of survivors and casualties come out, there will be another collective wave of emotion, amplified by social media, television, and radio. 

Closer to home, the garbage truck still has not come, three days after the normal pickup. Casual conversations are peppered with "staying safe and dry" and "sump pumps".  Mindsets are shifting to fundraising and donations for the victims of the flood. My husband and I have watched more television in the last 3 days than we do in 3 months. My friend, Evelyn, who I have biked with in Boulder on Sunday mornings for years, was photographed by a national news agency, returning to her flooded home.  Things are definitely not normal. Photo by REUTERS/Mark Leffingwell.

And as it was with 9/11, people show their resilience and love in tough times. Overwhelmingly, this is what I'm seeing and feeling.

Week One: Not as Bad As I Imagined

This is Week One of my new life, as an empty nester. For years I've been anticipating this moment--two children, now men, out in the world.  

When my older son, Casey, was a senior in high school, I remember thinking, "Gosh, he'll be on his own in less than a year." It was hard to imagine. Someone who had lived with us for so long, and gone from baby to toddler to boy to young man, would no longer be here in the morning when I woke up or in the evening, when I went to bed. Photo by JMarkBlasingame

Casey left for college a thousand miles way, in Dallas. I survived, and so did he.  We stayed connected through weekly Skype calls and monthly care packages of homemade cookies, beef jerky, and occasionally, carmel popcorn.  My husband and I got used to piling the day's mail at his place at the dining room table--an empty space that had a new purpose.  Reunions during school breaks meant eagerly making a place for him again in the household. Over the years, the immediate feeling of loss at the end of August became familiar--and bearable.

Our younger son, Andy, is less of a homebody than Casey. Once he earned his driver's license, he was out with friends or busy with school activities most evenings of the week. Still, I felt his presence with requests to borrow my car, gas tanks that needed to be filled, and dirty ice cream dishes, a tell tale spoon sticking out, near the sink.  

Last year, when Andy was applying to colleges, I knew that my life would be changing soon. Empty nest became a milestone that I didn't want to come too quickly, like a 50th birthday.  I savored the last high school events, as a proud parent at parent teacher conferences, as an audience member for choir concerts and musicals, as a somewhat bored observer at robotics competitions, as a teary-eyed mother snapping pre-prom photos of teenagers in tuxes and tuille.

When Andy was accepted to a major university on the East Coast, I was excited for him. He was clearly ready for the next adventure in life. I was more circumspect about what was next for me.

I planned a summer vacation, the first one in years, knowing that it might be the last family vacation for awhile. We chose to visit Seattle in August.  Pike Place market, terrific Japanese food, multiple flight museums, quirky Seattle neighborhoods. 

My favorite memory of the entire 6-day trip was a night when the Perseid meteor showers were at their height of visibility.  We were on a local island, far enough from the light pollution of a big city to see the blackness of the sky in a new way.  From a Hansel and Gretel like cottage that I found through Airbnb, we walked down a hill in the darkness, toward a beach.  

Laying on the ground and looking up at the sky, waiting for a shooting star to cross our field of vision, I felt the sweetness and personalities of my two sons infuse the night air. It was a quieter, more intimate version of fireworks, one where the anticipation of a bright light flying across the darkness made the actual event even more surprising and enjoyable. One where waiting for the next sparkle in the sky was time for friendly chatter.  After 30 minutes, Andy declared he was ready to go.  We made our way up the hill, blankets hung over our shoulders, Casey waving a flashlight on the road ahead for effect. Photo by Bearfaced

Back home, ten days later, my boys were gone. Not forever, but for enough time, several months, to have the house--and my life--feel different.

Now that I'm here, a 50 something woman with no kids at home, I have been surprised. It has not been as hard as I imagined.

Sure, some things are different. Take grocery shopping.  No need to shop the day old bread and pastries that young men gobble up and middle-aged women abhor for their weight gaining properties. Buying a whole chicken seems like overkill.  I think twice about picking up a half gallon of ice cream, knowing that it could stay in the freezer until I break down and eat it, all of it. Photo by straubted.

At times, I wonder what my sons are doing in that very moment.  It's the nosy parent in me.  My younger son is fiercely independent, having spurned all offers for me to send him things that might make his life easier--including gift cards for the local bookstore and water bottles.  In the end, I know my sons are living their life as they want to.  And that brings me peace. 

My husband and I have a closeness that we haven't had in some time. We are looking forward to taking a few trips, perhaps Santa Fe in the fall.  As we are waking up in the morning, there is light banter. We cook meals that we both enjoy, dishes that our kids would find unappealing, like mussels with pasta.  Knowing it's just the two of us, we are seeing each other as more interesting and fun companions. It's a nice feeling that takes me back to the early days, before kids. 

I realize that I have had a life outside of children for a long time, not just with my husband, but also with my business, clients, colleagues, friends, and extended family.  In the past, my waking days were not so much about activities with the kids as they were about kids in the background of my life, with a presence that was light-hearted and fun and young. So it is today. Once a week, our boys have agreed to meet on a Google Hangout, so that we have face-to-face time, virtually. 

This is Week One. So far, so good.  Ask me how it feels in Week Six or Seven.

How a Presence Turns into Genuine Love

I never expected to be a cat owner.   

Several years ago, I remember going to an office supply store, getting out of the car, looking over at an adjacent pet store, and thinking, “That’s the last store you’ll ever find me in.” It was as if I was referring to a tattoo parlor or a gun store.  Completely foreign territory.

A few years later, my youngest son, Andy, then eleven years old, asked about getting a pet.  Neither my husband nor I had pets growing up and the idea of getting a dog seemed like too big of a leap. Raising two boys seemed like enough responsibility.  We suggested my son think about goldfish.  Instead, he proposed a turtle.

We researched on the Internet what it took to raise a turtle.  It’s more than you think, without much emotional payback.  Nevertheless, we did our due diligence, and visited a friend of my older son, who had turtles as pets.  Andy and I were both underwhelmed.

A year later, my son brought up the idea of a cat—not as much work as a dog, but definitely more engaging than a turtle. The entire family decided to look online at the pets available for adoption at the local humane society. We noted cats that seemed to be easier to take care of—short hair instead of long hair, no longer a kitten but not too old, low maintenance vs. high maintenance personality.  A friend recommended getting a male, as they seemed to continue to be affectionate throughout their lifetime, while females can become temperamental (okay, let’s stick to the topic.)

The four of us—my husband, my two sons, and I—thought we were only looking when we entered the humane society nearly six years ago.  Instead, we left with a large, short-haired male cat, thought to be anywhere from 1-3 years of age, declawed by a previous owner, previously found on the street.  

The humane society had named him Llama, but my older son, Casey, thought it wasn’t right for one animal to be named another animal.  We took the Spanish pronunciation of the cat’s given name and spelled it phonetically.  We named him Yama.

Andy insisted that his name be put on the official papers as Yama’s owner. (Later we would find out that Andy was allergic to cat hair.  You can own something and still have it be irritating. )  But we all felt responsible for the well-being of this new living creature who had joined our household.  Suddenly, we were pet owners.  Like good parents, we researched cat behavior, watched instructional videos about what your cat’s tail can tell you, and introduced him to the litter box.  The cat seemed to be well acquainted with litter boxes, for which I was thankful.  

We gave the cat his space. Immediately upon entering our house, Yama headed for the basement, into the playroom, and underneath a book case. He stayed there for days, before venturing upstairs, making short appearances in the family room as we watched TV.

In the ensuing months, we got used to Yama and he got used to us.  During the day, he ate and slept and gave occasional nudges to our legs and ankles.  He “head-butted” my hand as I tipped the metal cup of dry cat food into his bowl. I took this to be a gracious gesture of gratitude.  My husband, Chip, cleaned his litter box diligently.  He made sure Yama had fresh water every day in a white bowl. We all remembered to keep toilet lids down to prevent unauthorized drinking.  I became acquainted with the same pet store that I previously vowed never to enter. Under our care, Yama put on weight, from under 13 pounds when we first got him, to over 20 pounds a year later.

At night, Yama was free to explore and had the run of the house.  Occasionally, in the middle of the night, I could hear him tearing across the living room floor, like a teen trying out new tires in an empty parking lot. In the morning, I would see our rug on the wood floor, normally positioned neatly before the front door, pushed in and slightly askew. It was the only sign of Yama’s night on the town. 

Over time, Yama’s emotional ownership transferred from my younger son, to my husband, older son and myself. We doted on him, made up nicknames for him (Yamasita, Mr. Yams), and played his favorite game of peek-a-boo on our open staircase.  Evenings watching television included Yama on chest or lap, where we indulged him with a neck massage or a head rub.  (At times, I wondered if my husband liked the cat more than me.  Chip was never quite so forthcoming in offering me massages or beckoning me to join him on the couch.)  In the winter, Yama slept in our beds, close to our feet, like a lead-weighted blanket.  We lovingly called him names like “Big Old Mau” and “Fat Boy”, especially when he resisted making room in bed for our feet.  At the family Christmas dinner that we hosted with aunts, uncles and cousins, my older son, Casey, made a place card for “Mr. Yams”.

The cat became a constant presence in the house, low-key, patiently waiting by his bowl when it was empty, hoping someone would notice enough to fill it up.  As my mother would observe, “Yama is a gentleman.”  He greeted us by the door leading from the garage when we returned to the house after an outing, whether it was an hour at the grocery store or an evening at a concert. When one of us was sick in bed, Yama snuggled close to that person, sleeping alongside. This was a cat’s version of a sympathy vote. On cold winter nights, Yama wandered into my home office, settling into a director’s chair while I worked at my computer.

About nine months into his residency at the Ross house, Yama escaped—into our fenced-in backyard. Until then, the house was enough new territory to satisfy his curiosity and serve as a playground.  One day, Casey opened the sliding glass door to the patio to walk outside. The cat saw his chance to expand his playground and slipped past the opening.  He headed for tall grasses near the patio and began to whack at them with his paw.

It wasn’t long before he established his dominancy in the backyard, catching mice, rabbits, and even a bird.  This must be what cat nirvana is like—plenty of prey to hunt, and if the day’s bounty was scarce, he had the luxury of returning home to a prepared meal of dehydrated fish-flavored nuggets. 

At the end of the day, I would call Yama inside for the night. Usually, he would come running from the far reaches of the back yard, sometimes at top speed, just to show he still had it.  Sometimes, like a small child, he had to be coaxed back in.  Turning on the sprinkler system never failed to turn him up.

In the morning, Yama became my wake-up call, meowing loudly until I let him out for a morning ramble.  When it was too wet or cold to go out, he turned his back on the door and flicked his tail as if to say, “Not now. I’ll go out later.”   Other times, he went out briefly and would scratch at my basement level office window, or simply meow. It was his way of saying that he was ready to come back in.  More than once, I have been on a business call and after heading upstairs, I would motion him to come through the opening in the sliding glass door.  I used to joke that he needed to be welcomed back in. 

While the four of us saw plenty of Yama, friends and family--really nearly any visitor to our home--was oblivious to our four-legged companion.  When the doorbell rang, Yama was quick to run upstairs and hide in my walk-in closet, behind boxes of wrapping paper and bows. He found other hiding places that became an instant refuge from strangers—behind the filing cabinet in my home office, between the shower curtain and the liner in a basement bathroom, under Casey’s bed, among poster board and old school papers, and once, in a toy box in Andy’s closet.

He lived out the stereotype of a “fraidy cat”, even running away from the noise of aluminum foil being unraveled.  He had an intense fear of teenage boys, to the point where I wondered if he had had a bad encounter before he came into our lives.  When my sons got older and invited friends over for long bouts of Dungeons and Dragons and late night LAN parties, Yama would be in hiding for hours.

In the end, it wasn’t fear of teenage boys that did Yama in.  It was his stomach.  Yama would throw up on a monthly basis.  Never having owned a cat, my husband and I thought that this is just what cats do.  He was losing weight.  Last fall, during a checkup, the vet told us that he either had an intestinal disorder, possibly treatable with antibiotics , or in the worst case, the intestinal disorder had transformed into an incurable cancer. We betted on the intestinal disorder, but the antibiotics didn’t work. 

This past week, Yama took a distinct turn for the worse. Within 48 hours of noticing that he was lethargic and in pain, we had taken him to the vet twice, gotten numerous tests performed and finally heard from the vet, “The prognosis is not good.”  Yama had free floating fluid in his belly, possibly the result of ruptured intestines.  His white blood count had shot up to multiple times the normal levels.  His body temperature was dropping.  He hadn’t eaten in two days.

We decided to end his suffering.  The nurse gave us two choices—letting him die on his own or euthanasia.  I had not heard that term, “euthanasia” in years, since the days of Jack Kevorkian. 

The decision to put him to sleep was not a hard one.  Chip and I immediately agreed that it was the humane thing to do.  Beyond what the vet was telling us in terms of treatment options and his vital stats, we intuitively knew that the life that Yama led, as part of our household for nearly six years, was gone.  We could not turn the clock back. 

I am grateful that he was peaceful at the end.  The nurse brought Yama into the treatment room, after stabilizing him enough to make him comfortable.  Wrapped in a green fleece blanket, his eyes were wide open.  She laid him between Chip and me.  As we stroked his head, he closed his eyes. Our tired warrior could finally rest.  We told him it was okay to go.  He did not resist.  Chip remarked that for the first time in two days, Yama did not seem be in pain. 

When we were ready, the vet came in and explained that Yama would receive two injections. The first was a sedative. She explained that in human terms, it would be akin to being on the operating table and counting from 100 backwards, with not much awareness after 98.  The second injection was an overdose that would stop his heart.  It would all happen in a matter of seconds.

Chip chose not to be in the room for the injections.  He kissed Yama on the head and left the room. I decided to stay, to see him through to the end.  It was fast, and from the look on Yama’s face, painless.  The only thing that seemed to be amiss was his left ear, which was cocked at a slightly different angle from its normal posture. 

After the vet confirmed that his heart had stopped beating, she asked me if I wanted to have a few moments with him.  I told her no.  I knew that all that was before me was an empty vessel.  Yama’s gentle spirit had already gone.

Looking back on Yama’s time with us, I not only became a cat owner. I became a cat lover. 

Yama taught me how much animals can be like humans.  He knew contentment and peace, laying on a patio chair next to me on a warm summer day. He felt anger when a stray cat entered our yard in the middle of the night and taunted him through the sliding glass door. He knew focus and achievement, mixed with pride after coming inside the house to show us a dead mouse he had caught.  He showed loyalty with the many hours by our bedside. He could be curious and playful, fearful and timid, loving and patient. 

Chip liked to say that Yama was smarter than a lot of humans. I think he was wiser.  He showed me how our presence, over time, translates to genuine love.

Now that Yama is gone, I am learning how to love and let go. I move from moment to moment, between a state of being grateful for the photos and memories and a state of noticing the void in our daily lives and being sad.  I never expected to be this heartbroken over the loss of a pet, but I am.  As a friend told me recently, our hearts are tender things, but resilient in the end.

Pledge to Myself: Write, Just Write.

Yesterday, I had a coaching session with someone who barely knows me.  She asked me what I was doing to get out of my head and into my creative flow.  I thought I was in my creative flow. I was wrong.  She was right.

I've been doing lots of thinking and not so much feeling and being. Which is a shame, because feeling is at least half of life, if not more. Not feeling, as in high drama.  Feeling, as in "being in the moment". Feeling, as in savoring the little highlights of life that are right in front of me. 

My way of feeling is through writing.  I don't think my way through a blog posting. I feel my way through it. And sadly, I haven't been writing, at least not the stuff that brings me joy, creates meaning, and is deeply satisfying. Photo by Ian Hayhurst

It's the middle of the night. Not being able to sleep, I'm in my home office, exploring Danielle LaPorte's site.  This woman can write. And she does.  I don't write like Danielle, but I know deep inside, the writer in me wants to have the kind of full, creative expression that she role models.

So, I'm making a pledge to myself, to write more, write often, and write so that I can feel what's inside of me, intensely. 

Why? Because as Danielle says,

"What if, first, we got clear on how we actually wanted to feel in our life, and then we laid out our intentions? What if your most desired feelings consciously informed how you plan your day, your year, your career, your holidays — your life?"

That's what I'm shooting for--a life built around the things that bring me alive. Stay tuned.



I Deserve to Be Here

I've shifted my mindset from one of scarcity to one of abundance.

No, I didn't blindly repeat a mantra about how the Universe is loving and abundant.  Nor did I go to the bank and get a $100 bill to carry around in my wallet. And I didn't watch a video of an Internet sensation talk about how I, too, can make a 7-figure salary, if I enrolled in her 10-week course.

Instead, I stopped in my tracks, as I was about to pass a high end store in Santa Fe's famed Plaza, and listened to a small voice that said, "You can go in there."

My husband and I were in Santa Fe on a spur of the moment vacation, our first in nearly three years.  I was window shopping, while he was visiting a history museum.  I had been admiring the shop's windows--beautiful designer clothes, richly textured and expertly tailored, and jewelry that looked like nature's best effort at dazzling the human eye. This was a place where one could easily drop a few thousand dollars without breaking a sweat.  As I walked past the doorway, I could see racks of pristine clothes inside, artfully displayed. Photo by all things paper.

When I got to the last window, I knew it was a moment of choice.  Do I go in and risk being embarrassed, in my jeans and sneakers? I was clearly out of my element.  Or do I keep walking down the sidewalk, safe...and small. 

The voice inside my head was encouraging. "You can go in there.  You're a fifty something woman."  And then, in the faintest of whispers, "You deserve to be there."

I turned around and walked inside the store. 

As I entered, my eye caught the unusual designs of finely double woven scarves.  A young woman approached and asked if she could help me.

I replied honestly, "I just came in to be inspired, creatively. The mix of colors is so beautiful." 

To which she said, "Oh, no problem. Other people have come in for inspiration as well.  We just got these scarves in from Japan. If you have any questions, let me know. Each piece has a story behind it."

Did I hear her right?  Did she say story?  My rational mind dismissed her words and smiled back.  It was as if the Universe was beckoning me through a doorway, and I was still reluctant to go through. 

I began looking at a rack of handmade coats sporting quilted, colorful prints.  When the saleswoman pointed out her favorite among many, I delighted in the fact that the same piece was my favorite as well.  I asked her how they were made.  From there, it was a series of stories about designers and fashion history, prompted by a specific garment on the rack--from Issey Miyake's one-size-fits-all wearable art to vests made out of vintage Hermes scarves to one designer's brilliant use of deep color with simple shapes. It was as if I had stepped into the Costume collection of prestigious big city museum and had my own personal guide.

As we looked at the jewelry cases, laden with necklaces and earrings crafted out of semi-precious stones,  I came upon a realization, which I shared with my new companion.  Photo images1.1stdibs.com

"Look at the unusual color of these stones. I don't have to own this to enjoy it. Just like nature."

Abundance is savoring, not necessarily owning. 

To my surprise, I did walk out with a purchase. I bought a pair of shoes that I thoroughly love.  I'm still in a bit of a daze that the shoes cost more than three times the price of a single night at the bed and breakfast we stayed at. 

But here's what I know.  From the moment I put on those shoes, I felt like I was walking in sneakers.  Comfort is all important to me.  These shoes fit my foot.

And they fit me. Entirely. A bit quirky and absolutely original. Like me. They make me feel special.

The cynics would say that the salesperson was very savvy to make friends with me.  I'd say that she was a kindred spirit who made me feel like I belonged.

In fact, I thanked her for making me feel so welcome.  To which she replied, "Oh, I hate snooty sales people.  As a teenager, I was fascinated by fashion and I remember going into an Yves St. Laurent shop."  She didn't elaborate what her experience was, but I could tell that she understood my hesitation in initially entering this store. I was so grateful that we connected. I wish I had taken a picture of her. Her name was Kate.

I left the store, feeling like life was indeed abundant, not so much because of my treasure held in a nondescript charcoal shopping bag. Instead, the shoes are a physical reminder of the impact of that one hour on my spirit, heart, and mind.

I had been treated to a visual feast that sparked my creativity and spirit.

Abundance is joyously connecting to the world around you. 

My mind was fed by an amiable guide with a deep sense of history and craftsmanship.  

Abundance is fulfilling one's curiosity.

My heart was filled with a self-respect that can never be taken away. I belonged in a place I didn't think I belonged.  I deserved to be there.

Abundance is knowing you are enough.

Thanks, Kate, for helping me see and feel that.

A Lifetime of Stories

Each of us has wonderful stories inside of us, waiting to be told.  The older you are, the more stories you have.  The shame is that many of these stories will never be heard, their power to connect human beings and teach important lessons made impotent.  

Recently, my brother called me to ask for a favor.  His 90-something mother-in-law, who had been visiting from out of state, had just been moved to a local assisted living facility, within ten minutes of my house.  Hard of hearing, but perfectly lucid, she was recovering from a month-long episode of health issues.  Would I be willing to go visit her? 

I immediately said yes.  I had last seen Lula at Christmas, when my brother and sister-in-law hosted the family gathering. The photo to the left is of my niece with Lula at Christmas.

Lula loves to talk. And to tell stories. While my brother's family has likely heard most of Lula's stories over the years, I wondered what stories Lula holds inside of her that have never been told.

Enter a piece of paper that has been on my office counter for the last two years.  It's a list of questions from the book, Listening is an Act of Love, by Dave Isay, founder of StoryCorps, an oral history project started in 2003. The questions are intended to elicit meaningful stories, from ordinary people. 

A few of my favorites:

• What was the happiest moment of your life? The saddest?
• Who was the most important person in your life?  Can you tell me about him or her?
• What are you proudest of in your life?
• How has your life been different from what you imagined?

How many times have I walked by that piece of paper over the last two years, waiting for the right moment to ask these questions?  I have found that engaging in the kind of poignant conversation that these questions can foster takes courage, especially if it's someone I'm close to. So...I've waited. Until now.

This week, I plan on visiting Lula.  I'll let you know how it goes.

P.S. StoryCorps has a comprehensive list of questions, categorized by topic, on their site. Click here to view.  Here's an example of the great work that StoryCorps has done over the years.

 

See more of their animated stories here.  (BTW--The organization was recently awarded a $1M MacArthur Award for Creative and Effective Institutions. Hooray for the power of stories!)

Living a Bigger Story

Remember the bumper stickers: "I'd rather be fishing" or "I'd rather be sailing"?  I'd rather be...living a bigger story.

So much of my life has been spent finding answers, "figuring it out", whatever "it" is.  But living a bigger story means being part of a mystery and not knowing.  The physicist, Richard Feynman, puts it eloquently: 

"I think it is much more interesting to live not knowing than to have answers which might be wrong."

Except for maybe in Sunday school or a preacher's sermon (which I was not exposed to in any depth) we are not taught to savor mystery.  Instead, we are socialized to have the pat answer.  And this only leads to small stories--what Feynman calls provincial stories.

 

 

My friend, Dave, has been to hell and back with health issues in 2012.  He's had multiple surgeries and trips to the ER, indescribable pain, and the frustration of having no answers.  He sums it up this way:

"Randomness rules & uncertainty needs to be a comfort zone.  Truth is still out there…just not simple to find."

Living a bigger story means being in connection with something bigger. I have never had a structured religion to point the way to that place of connection.  And yet I know it exists. It comes in "winks" from the Universe. In synchronicities and coincidences that are hard to explain. Lost pictures found. Taking a seat with my extended family at a high school graduation ceremony, filled with thousands of people, and hearing the voice of a friend, seated directly behind me.  Sending an email to someone who I have not spoken to in weeks, just at the moment when they are thinking of reaching out to me.

I'm not saying that living with mystery is easy.  I like knowing the whole game plan and seeing things unfold like clockwork.  It's how I'm wired.  But I also know that what I can imagine in my mind is so pitifully small and mundane compared to what life presents.  

How do you live a bigger story? 

What Do You Believe?

I recently did an exercise on uncovering my beliefs.  Beliefs are like the engine in a car--it's what is under the hood that powers the car.

When it comes to your life, these are the beliefs that guide me:

• The Universe gives you exactly what you need, when you need it, and no sooner.
• Everyone has a story to tell.
• Everyone has a gift to give—in the form of talent and wisdom.  Genius is in everyone.
• We create our own luck.
• Your body doesn’t lie. Listen to it.
• Beauty (e.g., flowers) is a source of joy.
• Most problems can be solved with a long walk.
• What we do matters, even though we will never know the full impact of our actions on others.
• Feedback is a good thing.  Give it frequently and thoughtfully.  Receive it openly. 
• Everyone makes mistakes. It’s the recovery that matters.
• Most people are doing the best they can, in the situation they find themselves.

 

The beliefs that guide how I conduct business:

• Give value.
• Work only with people who have integrity.
• Reputation matters. Always take the high road. Work with impeccable integrity.
• Bad clients are not worth the money.  What I gain in money, I lose double in energy.  
• Everything I do as a business owner says something about me.
• Follow my sweet spot.  Just because I can do something doesn’t mean I should.
• Giving and receiving must be balanced to keep the flow going.
• My business has to fit with my life in order for it to thrive.

These last two beliefs are fairly new, based on my experience with burnout.

 

I recently told someone that the books you read say a lot about who you are.  Even more telling is what you believe. It's why success is an inside job. (Yes, that's a belief, as well.)

What are the beliefs that guide your life and your work?

Always Ask--And Answer--These Two Questions

[Full disclosure:  I applied, and was selected, to be on the unpaid launch team for the book, To Sell is Human. I am one of 96 team members across the globe who got advance copies of the book, as well as the "first mover package" that comes with pre-ordering the book. My review below is based solely on the merits of the book. In other words, I would have written the same review, independent of being on the launch team.]

One of my favorite authors, Dan Pink, has a new book, To Sell Is Human, coming out on Dec 31.  Even if you don't think of yourself as selling, the book argues successfully that we are all in sales. Unless you are in a coma, our daily life and work requires each of us to influence others in some way--whether it's getting your child to finish their homework, or getting funding for a project at work, or motivating an employee to stay late for the umpteenth time. The author calls this "non-sales selling".  We aren't selling a tangible product or service, but we are selling, nonetheless.

So, we're all in sales. So what?

If you're like me, traditional sales techniques feel manipulative. It feels like only flaming extroverts could pull them off. (Some of my best friends are extroverts in sales, so nothing against them.)

Fortunately, Pink makes the case for why the schmoozy model of sales is dead, largely due to the buyer's accessibility to information via the Internet.  When I can research everything about a car, including profit margins, reliability, and maintenance history, even before stepping into a showroom, I'm no longer at a disadvantage.  Instead of "buyer beware", it's now "seller beware". Not only do I have equal information for the transaction, but I can easily publicize to my friends on social media if you, the seller, is a jerk. 

The author draws on research from social psychology to give the reader a roadmap for how to influence others in this new landscape.  What he comes up with is fresh, easy to implement with a little effort, and sometimes so simple that it's startling. The book outlines six ideas that speak to the being and doing of selling: Attunement, Buoyancy, Clarity, Pitch, Improvise, and Serve.  Watch the following video for more:

 

 

While it may take work to integrate these concepts into how you operate (you'll largely be undoing many of the stereotypes about selling that have been drilled into your head for decades), you'll find "selling" to be more fun and natural. More importantly, Pink has created a framework for fulfilling a desire that most people who walk this planet have--to serve others with integrity.

After reading all five of his books and interviewing him multiple times, I realize that what makes Dan Pink's work so compelling is that he is first and foremost, a humanist. Yes, he's big on research and factoids.  But underlying all of that is being of service and making the world a better place. Photo by douas

Which leads me to the title of this post.  Most likely you've heard that the best salespeople have an attitude of service. But what does that really mean?  Pink gives a yardstick to measure ourselves by--two questions to ask and answer when you are attempting to influence someone:

1. If the person you're selling agrees to buy, will his or her life improve?
2. When your interaction is over, will the world be a better place than when you began?

He goes on to say: "If the answer to either of these questions is no, you're doing something wrong."

If you've never read any of Pink's books, start now with this one.  His writing is a mixture of:

• Insights backed by hard research (e.g., charts by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics and studies from well-regarded academics.)

• First person stories that come out of his personal research (e.g., shadowing the last Fuller Brush man in America, taking an improv class with a cosmetic company executive and other professionals wanting to get better at their jobs.)

• Tools, exercises and resources to help you put the insights into action (e.g., a three-step process for being a better curator of information for your audience, templates for six new kinds of pitches, designating a "slow day" when you'll wait five seconds before opening your mouth in a conversation.)

BTW--when you pre-order the book before Dec 30, you'll get his "First Mover Package"--a veritable Santa's bag full of goodies (e.g., access to a live call with Pink on New Year's Day, a workbook, two recorded interviews with social psychology researchers and thought leaders.) Gift yourself the book. Really. Do it.

Gifts Unnoticed

As Thanksgiving approaches, I am reminded of the gifts that arrive in my life daily, that go unnoticed.  Here's a run down:

• The gift of sleep.  In my inbox this morning was a note from a friend who has had a series of health problems throughout this year, leading to multiple surgeries and trips to the ER.  His note talked about the feeling that Santa had arrived. He awoke in the middle of the night feeling something he hadn't experienced in seven months: rest. My friend realized that for the first time since April, he had slept more than two hours in a row. His note gave me a whole new appreciation for my body's ability to rest and rejuvenate through the gift of sleep. Photo by mayte_pons

• The gift of exercise.  Last month, I returned to the gym, after dealing with a host of minor issues that kept me from exercising for weeks and months at a time. It feels good to be active again, to work up a sweat, to go to yoga class, to run. I am thankful to be healthy enough that taking a class requires nothing more than making the time and showing up. 

• The gift of electricity.  In touching base with friends and family on the East Coast after Superstorm Sandy, I heard stories of what life is like without power for extended periods of time--not just hours, but days or even weeks. Unimaginable is the word that comes to mind. For most of us, our daily lives would be severely interrupted without access to electricity. Yet, I know that I don't give a second thought to having heat and lights and electronic devices that allow me to do my work and communicate with others. I am now more aware of how my life is comfortable and meaningful, because of the gift of electricity. Photo by elycefeliz

• The gift of the Internet. How lucky am I that I can watch an inspiring TED talk or learn the history of a beautiful song with a few keystrokes?  Using the Internet, I have access to more resources than anyone could have imagined just 10 years ago.  It has become commonplace, especially with the Millennials, to expect that information is at our finger tips. But it wasn't always so. And in other parts of the world, there are censors that filter what information is available. I am living in an age where the gift of the Internet has made my world bigger, better, and richer. 

• The gift of driving.  In the U.S., most of us take for granted the ability to hop in a car and go wherever we want to go.  Recently, with a third driver at home (my teenage son) and two cars,  I've come to appreciate when there is a car for me to use. I was even more aware of this when I visited my older son at college. He doesn't have a car on campus--in an area that revolves around cars (Dallas). So it was a treat for him when I showed up with a rental car. We were able to visit an art museum and have dinner in downtown Dallas, and go to a local grocery store to stock up on supplies.  All of this would be so much harder without the gift of driving. Photo by epSos.de

• The gift of fitting in. Every single day, I connect with people who "get" me and appreciate me.  This has not always been the case. In my first job out of college, I took a job where I felt isolated and out of place. I was working in a nuclear power plant that was under construction, 60 miles outside of Chicago. There were 3,000 construction workers on site and 150 professional/administrative staff. I was one of a handful of women in a professional role.  I supervised technicians that were decades older.  And I don't recall another Asian on site.  I am so grateful that I have found my tribe, where the question of fitting in doesn't even cross my mind.

• The gift of newness. Every day, we have the opportunity to approach life with "beginner's mind".  I am reminded of this in welcoming a new baby into our extended famiy, a great niece, born last month.  I can see the freshness and vibrancy that new life brings to my family.  The gift of newness is there for me to receive, if I choose to see the world in that way. 

• The gift of family and friends. This poignant set of essays, titled, The Empty Chair, reminded me of the treasure of each person who will be at the dinner table for our Thanksgiving feast. It's easy to take for granted the presence of family members who I see many times a year.  And yet, I know that our time on Earth is limited.  While everyone is in town for the holiday, my extended family will celebrate my stepfather's 98th birthday.  98 times around the sun! I feel blessed to have this time with my stepfather, who still plays a mean game of mah-jong, and has a peaceful and loving heart. I will enjoy the gift of family and friends tomorrow, and each day after. 

Thanksgiving comes just once a year and allows us to pause, reflect, and give thanks. Make every day a day of thanks, by noticing the gifts that surround you.

The Phone Rang...And My Life Changed

It was ten years ago this month that I learned my life would change.  I had no idea how much it would change. 

I was just about to leave my office for the day, when the phone rang. It was a good friend, my first boss at the company that I had joined six years prior. I had not worked for her in several years, but we were still close.  I don't remember what she said to me. I could only hear that something was amiss in her voice. Photo by MarkandMarina

Without thinking, I blurted out, "You know something, don't you?"  I knew then that I was on a list of employees to be laid off. There had been rumors of another layoff.  The company had been shedding workers for three straight quarters. Her reply confirmed my knowng: "Yes. Can I come over to your house this evening?"  I decided not say anything to anyone about my conversation until I heard more.

Later that evening, after my children were in bed, and my husband was at my parents' house playing mah-jong, my friend arrived, with a mutual friend.  These were two of the strongest women in my life, women who had lived through a lot. They entered my house with a look of concern, as if to say, "We take care of our own."  We talked for over two hours, about my impending layoff and what I would do next.  The only thing I was sure of was that I would strike out on my own. I had no desire to work for another company.  

A lot has happened since that late night.  

The world around me has changed.  Ten years ago, social media did not exist. YouTube, FB, LinkedIn, Twitter--nada.  Blogs were in their infancy.  The mobility and miniaturization of computers still meant laptops, not iPhones or tablets.  Connecting with someone meant having a conversation, not exchanging bytes on a hand-held screen.  As a nation, we were just figuring out what a post 9/11 world looked like.  Al-Qaeda was not a household word. The war in Iraq had not started. The country was united behind a sitting president and bi-partisanship in Congress was not the rarity it is today.  Our society valued civility over entertainment; Donald Trump had not yet uttered the words, "You're fired!" on national television.  Photo by Yutaka Tsutano

My world has changed.  After working in large companies for nearly two decades, I had no inkling what it meant to be an entrepreneur, to run your own show and make up the rules along the way.  I had no idea how much fun it would be, nor did I know that it would test me at every turn--causing me to reflect on who I am, what I stand for, and what I wanted in life. I was suddenly free of the structure of work that I had known since my first real job at 16--showing up in a non-descript building, settling into a cubicle, and "doing the work" for the better part of the day, driving home on autopilot, listening to NPR, briefcase next to me.  Now, work is a few steps away in a basement office and I "arrive" sometimes in the middle of the night, when I can't sleep, or in the middle of the day, after a Zumba class at the gym or a run on a nearby trail.  Instead of "doing the work", I'm focused on adding value, pacing myself, and savoring the moment.

My family has changed. Grade school boys have become young adults, with driver's licenses and dorm rooms and large appetites.  They tower over me, like gentle giants. My husband has gray hair around his temples, and his boyish face is now marked with a few wrinkles. He's stopped playing baseball in the 48-and-over league and finds biking less injury prone (knock on wood.) My siblings have become grandparents and empty nesters. Nieces and nephews have real jobs with real responsibilities. Parents have become more frail.

For all that has changed on the outside, I still feel much the same as I did that November evening ten years ago.  Uncertain about the future, but optimistic about shaping my destiny.  Grateful for friends and family.  Loved and supported. Still in awe of the mysteries of life. Eager to make meaning of it all.

I have changed too. I am more aware of my patterns of thinking and behaving, both good and bad.  I cherish my family more and no longer take my gifts for granted. (Okay, maybe I'm stll working on that last one.) Time is my ally, instead of my master. I am clear about the work that makes me happiest and who my tribe is.  Energy and attention are not infinite but a valuable asset to manage well.  I have calmed down, made peace, and let go.  I watch calories and appreciate good health.  I no longer dream about overflowing toilets in public restrooms. (My interpretation: dealing with crap.) Frenetic lunges toward the finish line no longer interest me, even if it does allow me to check another item off my list. Failure is something to learn from, not avoid. (I'm still working on that last one, too.)  Photo by japa_justin

We all have turning points in our lives.  And it's hard to appreciate them at the time. 

It's only in hindsight that we can see a moment in time as an inflection point in an ongoing narrative. A door opens, and our habit is to focus on the one behind, slamming shut.  Unbeknownst to us, there is a new world awaiting to be discovered, for us to play in and explore and make our mark.  Opportunities aren't so much found, as they are made in this new world. Photo by imsuri.

What have been the turning points in your life and what new worlds did they open you up to?

WSJ article: Work as Labor or Love?, http://on.wsj.com/S5G8b5 . Online "Happiness at Work" survey of 11,000 people in 90 countries. Least happy are those in their 40's. 25% more likely to be happy at a smaller company (less than 100 employees). Any surprises?

Five Things I Wish I Had Known Ten Years Ago

Like the old saying goes, "Hindsight is 20/20".

Here are 5 things I wish someone had told me 10 years ago:

• Success is an inside job. No matter how you define success, it starts with your mindset.  Why?  Because the most insidious limitations are the ones we put on ourselves.  The way you view the world and what you focus on have everything to do with whether you reach your goals in life.   Let me give you an example.  I just finished a six-month program designed to help me groove new ways of thinking and being, and to dismantle old ways that were no longer serving me.  Over the course of months, I saw how a piece of me, lovingly called "Racehorse", was making things harder in my business than they needed to be and spoiling the rest of my life.  This is exactly how I ended up in burnout last year.  Photo by Wiertz Sebastien

Instead of experiencing joy, I felt anxiety that I wasn't doing enough. Instead of celebrating who I am, I focused on not being enough.  Instead of letting things flow, I tried to "figure it out".  Fixing problems, quickly, was my mantra, which only served to overstimulate my mind and throw me into a mental rut. 

Since becoming aware of "Racehorse", I've caught myself numerous times giving into the seduction of "faster is better".  Some situations are blatant.  Others are subtle and nuanced.  Each time, I become better at getting out of my own way. 

Last week, someone I had not seen in many months asked me if my work was stressful. And for the first time in several years, I was able to answer honestly, "No, not at all."  I'm getting better results based on any meaningful metric you can think of (e.g., financials, work/life balance, productivity, customer satisfaction, creativity, personal growth), all with more ease and flow. I feel like I've upgraded my "operating system".

• Use visuals and drawings to think. I think pretty well in words. But drawing as a way to clarify my thoughts and creating collages to express my inner desires take my effectiveness to a new level. A great book on this is Blah, Blah, Blah: What To Do When Words Don't Work.  Watch this video of the author, Dan Roam, speaking about his passion of using drawing as a thinking tool.

 

Twelve months ago, I created a collage, cutting out magazine images that were appealing. Amazingly, when I look at this collage, I see how several of the images have come to fruition. The campfire became Campfire Conversations, a new Q+A call on career development that I've hosted and will do more of, because it feeds me. The watch is a symbol of my new relationship with time.  The colored eggs in the nest remind me of Easter, about the time I started the six-month program to learn about and rein in "Racehorse". I'm curious to see how the rest of this collage plays out in my life.

 

• Get coached by someone who sees you "10X" bigger than you see yourself. I cannot be as successful alone as I can with the help of others. I've had several coaches over the last ten years.  They were all good in their own way.  And this year, I worked with coaches who could see my potential in a way that excited me.  They used words that were both concrete and transcendent.  They helped me see my own magic. In doing so, I am not so much pushing myself harder, as I am giving myself permission to see a different possibility.  Which goes back to mindset.

• Take time to appreciate the body that you have.  Ten years ago, I didn't know the meaning of "muffin top" and "hot flashes".  I had no idea how gray hairs could readily invade my mass of black hair or how years of tea drinking would stain teeth.  A decade ago, I could read the fine print on lipstick covers with ease.  Now, I am thankful for what does work well, and more forgiving of parts that do not. I appreciate that I can still run/walk a few miles and not feel sore the next day.  I take joy in a yoga workout that leaves me relaxed and fit.  I feel grateful when I can get out of bed, without a stiff back or vertigo.  Photo by Emanuel Leanza "Eleanza"

• Savor the time with your children.  Ten years ago, my sons were 7 and 9.  In less than a decade, they grew into young men. Now, one goes to college a thousand miles away and the other might as well be for how much he's out and about with school activities and friends.  I am so proud of both of them AND the years are a blur.  I still don't know where the time went. 

I started off this post by saying I wish someone had told me these things ten years ago. The irony is that for many things in life, it's our experience that informs us, not the words handed down by someone else. 

What do you wish someone had told you ten years ago?

The New Normal

Change is hard.

For 14 years, on the first day of school, I've taken pictures of my sons smiling (and not so smiling) on the front porch, after a big breakfast. It was our annual ritual before hopping in the car to drive to school. The picture to the left is from 2007.

Fast forward to 2012. My older son has returned to college, a thousand miles away.  And on the first day of school, my younger son, a high school senior, gave only a shrug when I offered up to make pancakes and sausage.  Instead, he cheerily said, "Bye, Mom!", walked out to the garage, settled in behind the wheel--my seat for so many years--and drove himself to school.

I completely forgot about the annual photo on the front porch until he was pulling out of the garage.  I managed to snap a photo from the front door.

From smiling boys to my car pulling away, without me.

Change is hard, when it means giving up not just rituals, but control. 

(I was somewhat vindicated when the phone rang a few minutes past 8 on the first day of school.  It was the high school counselor, sitting with my son in her office. There was a scheduling mixup, which put my son in a middle school study hall. In fixing his schedule, my son also needed my consent on an AP class that he wanted to drop. What little power and authority I still have over the mind and body of a rebellious 17-year old, I'll take.)

I am trying to snap out of it--my old mental model of being a youngish mother of middle school kids, the early years of diapers and child rearing behind me and the college years, transforming adolescents into independent adults, still far away.

The reality is that I am 50-something and on the verge of being an empty nester.  My brother and sister-in-law are experiencing that this fall, after raising three girls who are now lovely young women. I don't envy them, even though they seem to be happy with weekend trips and volunteer work. 

All of this has made me wonder about my mother, now in her eighties--how she survived change.  In the course of a few short years, she buried a husband, remarried, moved to another state, changed jobs, and saw the last of her three children go off to college, in places far enough away to think twice about a quick visit.  She did it without showing much angst, at least none that I could see.

(BTW--a mother's dream does come true. After being scattered to the winds, across states and countries for decades, all of her four children now live close by, from a few minutes walk down the street to 30-minute drive across town. The picture is me with Mom at my older son's high school graduation party.)

 

Change is hard, and it's survivable. My mother showed me that.

I may not like that I'm entering a new phase of my life--one without kids in the house and one with a body that gains weight all too easily and gets gray hairs between dye jobs. That's the new normal.

What I can do is stop resisting.  Or at least give up trying to resist.  Resistance is not just futile. It's draining. 

Change is hard, and resisting makes it worse.  Resisting is a perfectly human reaction, that doesn't serve me.

What I can do is remember, that when the mourning stops, I can embrace the opportunity that change always provides. It's there, if I choose to remember--when I lost a parent, when I left being an employee (hopefully, forever), when my oldest child first went away to college a year ago.  Those losses have led to a wonderful relationship with a loving stepfather, to the reward and thrill of a second career as an entrepreneur, to the satisfaction of seeing my son be self-sufficient (and the indulgence of a spare bedroom turned into an office for nine months out of the year.)  

I'm getting used to the new normal--Skype calls on Sundays with my son at college, turning over the car keys to my younger son to run errands, more time with aging parents, less laundry and lower food bills, and planning more getaways with my husband. 

Change is hard, and it's worth it. The new normal is here to stay.

The Power of Awe

If you're like most people, there never seems to be enough time. 

But according to new research, people who were primed to feel awe had a stronger belief that there was enough time to get things done. (And all along, you thought it was a better time management system that would be the answer. Mind over matter.)

Read more in the second posting of a short Wall Street Journal column, about how "feeling a sense of awe causes people feel less rushed and impatient--and, at least briefly, happier about their lives."

I think that's why certain videos go viral--they create a sense of awe and a feel good state. Like this one that was pointed out by Dan Pink, who found out about it from Seth Godin. 

 

 

And here's what is truly extraordinary.  We can find things to be in awe of, each and every day. Whether it's how much your kids grew over the summer, or the fact that your 90-year old grandmother still walks everywhere or how the Internet has transformed our lives over the last decade, there's a lot to be in awe of. If you are still stumped, look on YouTube.

Let's have some fun and declare this coming week, A Week of Awe. 

Tell me in your comments about your moments of awe.

August 24, Campfire Conversation: Career Q+A

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My younger son is back at school and my older son returns to college in a few days. Summer is coming to a close.  And I'm not quite ready to declare the season over.  Photo by jkirkhart35

It seems appropriate to have one last event that captures the essence of summer, a campfire conversation.  Something about a crackling fire burning in the night, lighting up just enough of each person's face to give you the comfort of being surrounded by other human beings (as opposed to bears and coyotes), puts me in the mood for meaningful conversation. 

With the help of technology, I'm hosting a "virtual campfire", where we'll talk about careers. Join me for honest conversation, sage advice, and maybe a tall tale or two. (Did I ever tell you the time that I was VP for a day? Okay, just kidding.)

What: Campfire Conversation: Career Q+A.  I'll answer as many of your career-related questions as I can in 60 minutes.  And maybe, through your questions and my answers, we'll get to know each other just a little bit more.

When: August 24, 1pm ET/10am PT

Where: Virtual. This is a teleseminar, so you can attend via phone, Skype, or over the Internet.

Cost: Free

Yep, that's right. It's free.  So even if you don't have a career question, just come by to say hi. I look forward to hearing your voice around the campfire.

Click on the button below to register.

Everyone Has a Story to Tell

Understanding my life's work continues to be a work in progress.  Just when I think I have a handle on my work, I see a new wrinkle.

Lately, I've been pondering and embracing this idea:

"Everyone has a story to tell...and a gift to give."

It's what I used as an icebreaker at my recent dinner in Chicago. And it's what I've been focusing on with my work with coaching clients--helping them tell their story online and identify their "genius zone". (More on the phrase, "genius zone" in an upcoming post.) Photo by jkirkhart35

The latest opportunity: a talk on Thurs, Aug 2, on something I call "brand story".

Here are the details. If you are in the Denver/Boulder area, I hope you can join me:

What: Your Brand in Demand: Standing Out in a Competitive Marketplace.  In this free in-person presentation, you'll learn:

• Why storytelling is the new competitive advantage

• How to shape unique work and life experiences into an authentic story of who you are and the value you deliver

• The two critical components that most people miss when using story to present themselves

When:  Thurs, August 2, 8am

Where: 4755 Walnut Street, Boulder, CO.  Unlike many events these days, this one is completely in person. There is no virtual component. In other words, you need to show up, in person, to participate!

RSVP: To register, click here. This talk is sponsored by the Boulder Area Human Resources Association. When you register, please indicate that you are attending as my guest.

 

If you can't make the presentation but are interested in the topic, please enjoy an article that I wrote for Next Avenue, a PBS site, "How to Use LinkedIn to Promote Your Personal Brand".

Poem As Food for the Soul: The Fat of the Land

A friend emailed me this morning with a poem from The Writer's Almanac about summer family reunions. Photo by djtansey

She advised:

Click on the link to listen to Garrison Keillor read the poem aloud. It’s much better that way.

So I did. I read along while listening to the woodsy voice of the long time host of  A Prairie Home Companion. It was a five minute break in the workday that was as yummy as a piece of chocolate cake.  Food for the soul, indeed. Let me know if your experience is the same.

Click here to listen and read the poem, The Fat of the Land.

Happy Friday!