Thank You, Seth

Your art is what you do when no one can tell you exactly how to do it. Your art is the act of taking personal responsibility, challenging the status quo, and changing people. ~Seth Godin

About a year ago, 23Sep2011 to be exact, I took up a challenge by Seth Godin to start a blog and to write a blog a day for an entire year.

I don't know Seth, had never heard of him until a month before when I heard him speak at the Willow Creek Global Leadership Summit. I know him now only through his message on stage that day and the books of his I have read.

His way of thinking strikes a chord with me. He says we were all artists and we should share our art with the world, sharing our art is a gift we give to the world. By sharing our art we connect with others. Connectedness is the way of the future.

I had been thinking prior to hearing him about starting a blog. His challenge of a blog a day in one of his blogs gave me the kick in the butt I needed and I started blogging.

Through 29Jan2012, I blogged every day. I thought I posted on 30Jan but apparently I posted that days blog on the 31Jan. So, on 30Jan, my streak was broken. It restarted then broke again on 27Mar after which, work became very hectic and the blog a day faded to something like a blog a week.

In some respects, I am disappointed that I broke my streak. But, the thing that got in the way, my work, was because I had started a Leadership Training course for which I developed all content and was the trainer. That activity, a complete labor of love, consumed me completely work weeks on end. Many a work day would pass where I suddenly found myself to be the only one in the office and the clock showing I had been there for 12 or more hours.

So the blog streak broke and I am okay with that. Over the course of 365 days I posted 255 blogs which amounts to about a 70% completion rate. More importantly, I jumped back into a personal art form that had been stagnant for quite a few years. I found myself reveling in the written word again, found myself growing in creativity with every post. For this joy, I say, Thank You, Seth Godin.

Hershey Bar Squares

There's a smile in every Hershey Bar ~Hershey Advertising Slogan

One of my fondest memories of my youth was the big, milk chocolate Hershey Bar formed into squares. To me, the squares were a palette of chocolate gold.  They were a rare treat in our family. Those rare times we sunk our teeth into the chocolate morsels were when my father had been out of town on a business trip and would bring home a Hershey bar to share with us kids. He didn't bring home bars. He brought home a single bar and from that bar, we kids were each treated to a single, delicious square. 

There was not much disposable income during the years I grew up. We didn't have a lot of things nor did we visit exotic locales....exotic other than central Wisconsin where we vacationed practically every summer in our personal compound of tents and sleeping bags on our 'summer estate'. Of course, with the lack of disposable income came with it a lack of things. We didn't have latest cool bikes like my friends and our clothing was frequently hand me downs from our neighbors or custom creations formed on a sewing machine by my mom.

The one thing we never wanted for as children was the unconditional love that seemed to ooze from my parent's pores. They loved us completely every day of our lives, a love that still is a staple of the family in which I was lucky to be raised, a love uniquely shared between me and my siblings and my Mother and with the memory of my departed Father.

Their love was manifest in listening to us speak from the depths our souls even when the revelation our souls made them uncomfortable. It was manifest in the shoulder to cry on when love broke our hearts. It was manifest in encouraging us to choose a path in life that revealed who we were born to be rather than who they thought we should be. It was manifest in the discipline we received when we crossed the line from acceptable to unacceptable actions. It was manifest in the sacrifices they made to ensure we were loved especially in those time when we were unlovable.

Love is a funny thing in that the more love you give away the more love you receive. The love we received is now a love that is being passed down through the generations. I see that love in myself as I give it to my children. I see it in my children as they express it upon my grandson.

A workmate was selling candy today for his/her child and I bought one. I ate that Hershey bar, the entire bar all by myself one square at a time. The experience was much more than a mere chunk of chocolate that melted in my mouth. Every square of the Hershey bar embodied the love I felt as a child and every square I put into my mouth melted my heart.

Your Children Are Not Your Children

Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you. ~Kahlil Gibran.


I've never confessed this to anyone before but I think it's about time. I am a closet reader of Dear Abbey. No, I don't read the column in the closet. I typically read the column between the sheets, in those moments between waking up and getting out of bed right after I read the daily Dilbert and just before I check the news on Zite from my iPad or iPhone.

I don't read Dear Abbey for the advice she bestows on people who, by their questions, alert the world to their alarming lack of common sense. I read the column purely for the entertainment value. My favorite columns move along the line of;

My boyfriend is the most loving man in the entire world and he is absolutely perfect for me but, there is a small problem that has me concerned and I don't know what to do. He drinks a lot and cannot hold a job because he shows up for work drunk. He gambles away the money I earn from working two jobs which makes it hard to pay the bills. What should I do?

I wish, just once, she would just tell the person to get a crowbar, extract their head from deep up their butt, dump the idiot and get on with life. How these people grew up without any common sense is something I can only blame on their parents. Today's column, a rebuttal from an older column, helped solidify the lousy parenting theory in my mind.

In a recent column, I encountered a mom who freaks out because her college age daughter won't return her text messages. Here is the column in question from 26Jun2012:

DEAR ABBY: My daughter, "Tammi," is attending college in a neighboring state. When I text or call her, she doesn't respond. I have asked her to please just text me back saying she's OK. She says my texting her once a day is "overkill" and I should stop doing it so often -- once a week is often enough. I feel it is disrespectful of Tammi not to respond to my texts, even with a simple "OK" or "fine." She texts her friends all the time, so I don't think five seconds is too much to ask of her.I'm willing to compromise and text Tammi every other day or every three days. She is my only child and I want to know that she is well. Am I being unrealistic or asking too much? -- TAMMI'S MOM IN NEW JERSEY

My comment would have been. Hey Tammi's Mom…get a life. The end product of having children is to grow them into fully functional, INDEPENDENT adults. Kids are not there to make you feel better, not there for you to hover over and 'protect' from the boogie man. Face facts, you can't protect your kids from injury especially when they are away at college becoming adults. Answering your texts is not going to prevent harm. You only want contact to assuage your own anxiety not to help your children become an adult. If you have not prepared them o be independent by the time they have entered college then you have FAILED as a parent.

Another parent commented that I pay the cell phone bill so I better get a call or I'm going to cancel the phone. Please! You job pays you the money so you can afford the phone. Should you be required to call them back when not at work? Should you be required to let them view your Facebook account because they pay you the money for your internet access?  If you need to force your child to call then you too have FAILED as a parent. Forcing your kid to call will also push them away emotionally which is just the opposite of the closeness you seek.

When my daughter went away to college, she encountered other students who came in clueless as how to wash their own clothes or cook a meal that required more skill than microwaving a bowl of water and dumping in raman noodles. Some of them were even challenged at boiling the water.  She was shocked by the complete lack of life skills these kids learned growing up. I was more shocked that parent's could have so FAILED the children the were blessed with by not teaching these basic skills.

My children learned to wash their own clothes by the age of 12. By that time, they were also able to cook basics. By the time they finished High School, they were prepared to live as independent adults and did so while attending college.

While they were in college, I received phone calls not because I threatened to cut off their phones but because I had invested the time necessary to build a strong relationship with them, a relationship that helped them move from youth into a functional adult hood and they wanted to talk to me. I didn't get calls every day or every week and I was ok with that because I knew I had done my job well enough to  ensure they were functionally adults and had the ability to survive on their own.

To those parents that whine about their kids not calling or feel compelled to manipulate them into calling. While they were growing up, would have been better off growing them into adults instead of kissing their butts until they went off to college. It's time you understand the reason your kids are not calling and you are freaking out about the lack of contact is because, as parents, you have FAILED them.

Two Wheeled Therapy

Four wheels move the body. Two wheels move the soul. ~Author Unknown



I walked out of the office today at 6:30 pm. It was another in a long line of days beginning and ending with both clock hands pointing at the number six. I am not complaining because I enjoy my work, enjoy leaving the office knowing I have completed something, enjoy walking out the doors believing that I have made a difference for the people I lead.

There were very few cars left in the lot, very few cars and one lone motorcycle. My black Honda Magna was standing in the motorcycle stable, my trusty steed waiting to take me home. She turned over at the first button press, roared to life and whinnied as I tweaked the throttle once, twice, thrice sending the tachometer to the redline as my baby screamed and shook with an intense energy begging to be unleashed.

I pulled up the zipper on my leather jacket, put on my helmet, then my deerskin, leather gloves while feeling the rumble of the engine beneath me, enjoying the vibration of a 750cc engine between my legs. Her purr worked it's way through my body making me feel at one with my two wheeled steed. I shifted into gear and took off turning the handle bars back and forth taking me on a serpentine path through the parking lot, around the curbs, over the speed bumps, into the turns and up to the street where I paused as the cages, the wheeled boxes clumsily hobbled on by.

As soon as the coast cleared, I attacked the road and shot into the evening air, the perfect, 58 degree evening air, 58 exhilarating degrees, cool not cold, brisk not bitter. The wind buffeted my body as I flew past the cages, flew down the black pavement gaining speed until the dividing lines blended into one long, white ribbon, flew until any lingering world cares melted away leaving just me on my motorcycle, a naked soul soaring effortlessly through space and time. Utopia. Nirvana. Heaven.

The Binge of 2012

The television, that insidious beast, that Medusa which freezes a billion people to stone every night, staring fixedly, that Siren which called and sang and promised so much and gave, after all, so little. ~Ray Bradbury


I am seriously considering getting rid of my cable TV subscription. For two weeks I had no TV when the cable convertor box died and, except for some mild annoyance when I could not watch Manchester United play their opening match of the 2012 season, I did not miss having the boob tube active in my home. In fact, for most of this year, I have limited my time in front of the television, limited it to a few carefully chosen shows so it would not consume inordinate amounts of my precious time. These I record and watch on DVR so as not to spend time accosted by commercials.

So, what has filled the void?

I took on an activity at work this year, creating and giving a six part leadership training course, that has brought me great deal of personal satisfaction and required many hours of extended time in the office. The extended office time felt more like play than working so I did not mind putting in regular 10 to 12 hour days for weeks and months on end in addition to time at home once I left the office. Creating the class has required many hours of research on the internet and in books. It is mainly in books that I have invested many of the hours previously sucked away by the tube.

Books are a lot cheaper than cable TV and are a far more satisfying investment of my time. So far this year, I have read 74 books and have many more I want to get through. I am thinking this continued wise investment of my time may enable me to read 100 before the end of the year. I have never read that many books in a year probably have not read that many books over two to three years. I feel I have been on a reading binge for the past nine months.

When I do sit in front of the TV these days, I usually end up feeling guilty because my time investment realizes minuscule dividends when compared to the knowledge that could have been fed into my brain, my personal data bank, that magical organ capable of learning that applying that learning in new and wonderful ways. This guilt feeling is especially troubling when the show I watched was a rerun of something I had seen previously or I suddenly look at my watch and find hours have been lost to emptiness. After watching TV, I find myself wondering how much growth as an individual would have occurred if I had spent that last hour reading a book on leadership or poetry or philosophy or history or a biography or a fictional story.

For me, there are three must watch shows in "The Big Bang Theory", "Dr. Who" and the weekly "English Premier League Highlight Show" and one must watch sport in soccer especially when Manchester United is displaying their magic on the pitch. Getting rid of cable TV would mean that I would no longer have access to Dr. Who or any soccer games worth watching. I would still be able to watch Big Bang but, albeit, with the dreaded commercials. Getting rid of cable TV would mean I could no longer watch the exquisite Champions League matches on ESPN. Getting rid of cable TV would also minimize the amount of drivel available to me on a daily basis.

Getting rid of cable TV would also mean additional coin in my piggy bank, coinage that could be utilized visiting exotic locales instead of 'experiencing' them through the tube. Getting rid of cable would free up additional time to build my mind by learning from the great minds in history. Giving up my cable TV seems like a win-win situation for me.

What would it take for you to give up your cable TV?

08 December 1980

Imagine no possessions I wonder if you can

No need for greed or hunger a brotherhood of man

Imagine all the people

Sharing for the world

You may say I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only one

I hope someday you'll join us

And the world will live as one

          - John Lennon

US history books contain reference to the 'shot heard round the world', metaphorically speaking, the shot signifies the beginning of the American Revolutionary War. The shot marked the beginning of a war that freed the American colonies from British tyranny (later to be replaced by our government's own form of tyranny) I believe this was also the start of the demise of the British empire as the influence of Great Britain slowly receded from the four corners of the earth to the little island cluster on the East side of the Atlantic ocean.

Since the phrase was coined, each generation can point to it's own shot heard around the world. For those of the early 1900s, that shot killed Archduke Franz Ferdinand and plunged Europe into the WWI, the war to end all wars. In the 1940s, that shot was the bombing of Pearl Harbor which subsequently brought the US out of self-imposed isolationism and full bore into the Great War against Japan and the Axis forces.

For those born in the 50s & 60s, that shot occurred on 08 Dec 1980 in New York City outside the entrance of the Dakota apartments when John Lennon was murdered with four bullets in his back. At the time of his death, I was nineteen and a first year college student. When I heard the news, I wept. I wept with millions of others around the globe that had been moved by John's music and life philosophy. I believe, for many of us, the naiveté of our youth died with John.

For the people of my generation (the Baby Boomers), John was an icon. We adored John, loved his music from the Beatles thru his solo work. Watched with rapt attention his every move. John was a hero well beyond his world changing music. John gave voice to an idealistic youth sick to death of the status quo, sick to death of the horror expressed by our elders in their Vietnam War. John helped us believe that peace was not only a viable alternative to society run amok, but the only viable path for a world bent on destruction.

The music inspired by John Lennon has outlasted the Beatles, outlasted John, and, I believe, will outlast my generation because the thoughts expressed in his lyrics are timeless. His words, 'No need for greed or hunger' are poignant in the light of the scandals like Enron that helped plunge the world into a financial crisis. Who among us can't feel moved by, 'Imagine there's no countries, it isn't hard to do. No need to kill or die for'  when confronted by the horror of Afghanistan, Syria, or Sudan or the many other places in which people are being killed by civil wars or drug wars or gang wars.

These thoughts of John came to me today when I stumbled upon Imagine: John Lennon, a documentary on his musical career, while I was flipping the channels. I watched the documentary previously, years ago. It was a beautifully done film. I watched it thinking it would not have same effect  on me that it had during previous viewings. But it did. 

When the documentary came to the point when John was murdered, I again felt the despair of a beautiful life cut short, felt the pang of my lost youth, felt a haunting in my soul as the scened cut to John playing the white piano in the stark white room while singing 'Give Peace A Chance' a song that has become the anthem of my generation with a message tugging at the psyche of every generation since. And when the documentary came to senseless murder the emotion that had been welling up inside me erupted. 


When John died, I wept.

My Sanctuary

A library is a delivery room for the birth of ideas. ~Norman Cousins


I want my own library. Not one of those monstrous structures housing row after row of dust gathering books, most which, I would never consider worthy companions as I traipse the twisted corridors of life. It's not that I have anything against those books just that my life time is limited and I want to share it with soul mates not acquaintances to whom I am, at best, indifferent and, at worst, disdainful. My desire is for an intimate room, an intimate relationship.

I want a library in my home, a single room with high ceilings and tall, cherry wood bookshelves, crafted of my two hands, bookshelves stretching all the way up the walls to the very top like ivy covering almost every inch of available wall space on three walls except for the fireplace that would blanket me with warmth on chilly days as I read in my comfy chair a sweater on my shoulders and a blank over my legs, a room with oak floors brightly buffed to a reflective sheen on which I can slide from end to end in my sock covered feet. I want these shelves populated with every book with which I communed, with which I became a kindred spirit, with which my view on life was completely and forever altered. I want all three of my copies of Desert Solotaire, the only adult book I have read cover to cover three times or more on those shelves and I want one of the copies housed behind glass opened to my favorite passage.

I want this to be a room full of all my dearest friends. I want to be surrounded the Hardy Boy's mysteries that kept me inside on beautiful summer days during my youth, the pricey text books that carried me through college, the nonfiction books that have taught me an almost infinite number of true and not so true 'facts', my Bible in who's words I find comfort and security, the Quran gifted to me by friends when I visited Turkey where I fell under the spell of the Muezzin's call prayer (except during his predawn call to prayer when I was trying to catch some shut eye before my next big adventure.). There would be a special shelf for all for the Dr Seuss books I read to my kids, my grandson, read over and over until I had lyrical pages memorized by hundreds of repetitions, a place of honor for the Dr's greatest book of all, his alphabet book.

Big A, Little a what begins with A? Aunt Annies Alligator. A, a, A. Big B, Little b what begins with B? Baby, barber, bubbles and a bumble bee. Camel on the ceiling, C, C, c.

The fourth wall would not a wall at all, rather, a floor to ceiling, single pane of glass overlooking a body of water. I love bodies of water. I feed off the energy of raging waves during a storm, fall under the spell found in the tranquility of waves gently lapping the shore that come with the setting sun, absorb the serenity of smooth as glass waters when her heart is calm, contemplate the mystery hidden below her surface, a mystery that forever invites dream like speculation.

In the glass wall would be a door, a magic portal allowing me to commune with the elements, an opening allowing me entrance into Earth's soul, an archway opening to my deck hosting handcrafted deck chairs on which I could sit and admire the beauty of God's designing hand, His artistic flair evident in the water, the mountains, the sky at the closing of day.

All this would exist to be my sanctuary for those days when I wish to pull back from the bustle, when I desire solitude from the human onslaught, when my soul craves communion with the minds of Abbey, Poe, Ziglar and anyone else who's thoughts could satisfy the itch of my curiosity, who's words could feed my desire to walk in intimacy with minds other than my own.

Hands of Time

The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. ~Socrates


"We all die. It's a part of life."

That phrase was one of the last, lucid things my dad said to me before cancer finished devouring his body from the inside out. At the time, he was bed ridden and frequently hopped up on morphine to numb the ever present pain. Actually, it had to be agony because my dad had a high tolerance for pain. I was sitting next to him, trying to communicate hoping he would have a moment of clarity in the haze. I remember saying with tears in my eyes that I did not want him to die. I think it was the serenity in his voice that gave me comfort at that moment, the wisdom in his words that allowed my heart to find peace during a difficult life event.

I have often wondered if I could, would I turn back the clock of my own life, spin those hands backwards to an hour ago, a day ago, months ago, years ago, decades ago. Spin those hands back to a time when I was in my physical prime. As much as I miss the ability to move quickly during a soccer game to even play soccer pain free or recover quickly from injury, I don't want to go back to my youth.

That likely shocks many because society in the US puts an inordinate emphasis on youth. So much so that people, who must have shaky self confidence at best, spend countless dollars on schemes (drugs, therapies, surgeries, Botox) to try and make themselves appear young, to stave off the steady march of time carrying us from uterus to dust. The only person they are fooling is themselves for everyone else sees their folly.

In our societies obsession with the utopia of youth, we forget that, in our youth, most of us, to put it kindly, lacked wisdom.

Going back to my youth would mean, for me, going back to my stupidity. Honestly, I am very happy and more than a little surprised that I survived the stupidity of my youth. I was a reckless individual, reckless with my own life and intolerant of anyone that did not measure up to my standards, standards that were arbitrary at best and heavily biased at there worst.

Even more surprising than surviving my youth is that I have gradually moved in the direction of wisdom. It is wisdom that helped me, eventually, become a decent father. It is the further acquisition of wisdom that has helped me become a better grandfather than I believe I was a father. It is wisdom that has, in my later years, helped me become a solid leader in my work place. It is wisdom that is helping me grow relationships that escaped me in my youth. It is my wisdom that finds me these days a very happy human being.

Wisdom is the reward we reap for surviving the insanity of our youth.

It's time people smartened up and stopped the impossible quest to maintain youth. It's time they chose to embrace the benefits that comes with each passing year instead of living the frustration that comes from their folly. Unfortunately, it seems, those that most need wisdom are also those least likely to acquire wisdom.

To paraphrase the wisdom of my dad; "We all age, it's a part of life." I hope someday to have half of the wisdom my dad carried to the grave. If I do, I will truly be a blessed man.

Global Leadership Summit 2012

Leadership and learning are indispensable to each other. ~John F. Kennedy


I sat in my usual spot high in the mezzanine level of the 7000+ seat auditorium to the left of center affording both a great view and an easy exit strategy for breaks and end of day quick access to the parking lot. My skin tingled at the energy infused by the electricity in the air. No, it wasn't a sporting event nor a concert. The electricity oozed from the 1000s of leaders, many of them church leaders, sitting in the auditorium of Willow Creek Community Church anticipating the beginning of the annual Global Leadership Summit.

This event is one of the premier leadership teaching events in the world and is a highlight of my leadership year. It is at this summit that I am blessed with great practical leadership teaching and a healthy dose of inspiration from exemplary leaders that feeds my engine for many months. There are a number of blogs capturing the bullet points of the various sessions so I am not going to be redundant and create my own. One of them is Jenni Catron if you are interested.

This was my fifth consecutive year in attendance, the fifth consecutive year listening to some of the greatest minds in leadership and the greatest leaders in the world share their knowledge and experience. I marvel every year at the quality of the teaching brought together over the course of two days. And every year I take away a sack full of nuggets that help me become a better leader for those I am privileged to lead.

I lost count of the notes I took and the notations I made to add certain concepts to the leadership training course I am creating and delivering at my company. It's a course aimed at new leaders, however, it is one that would benefit many of the experienced leaders in my company…if only they were humble enough to recognize the need for continual, personal leadership development.

Too often, once people are in leadership they think they have arrived. For some reason, they fail to understand that leadership, like any skill, must be continually grown and refined if that skill is to remain sharp, effective, relevant. The need to continually grow in leadership was both explored in my first leadership training class and the closing thoughts in the sixth and final segment of my leadership training course.

This sixth class could be the end of the beginning or the beginning of the end. The determination which it is depends upon their mindsets going forward. If they think they have arrived in leadership and quite learning then the end is on the horizon. If they seek to continue growing their leadership abilities then the sun is just rising on their leadership careers.

I am creating a foundation for the concept of end of the beginning by encouraging them, us, to continue our association beyond the final class. We are going to meet on a regular, monthly basis in an ongoing effort to continually hone our leadership skills. It is through this association that I am hoping to create an exemplarily leadership organization within my company with highly skilled leaders ready to take us in whatever direction is needed to improve the organization.

I have always gone to the Leadership Summit as a personal quest to improve my own ability to lead. The lessons I learned there have helped me to see a bigger picture, encouraged me to take a bigger risk. This leadership course and my vision for leadership at my company came about, in large part, to the many lessons I learned at the Leadership Summit.

The Tragedy of the American Dream

Why fit in when you were born to stand out? ~Dr. Seuss

The stereotypical American Dream is often portrayed as being perfectly average; being married, having two children and living in a three-bedroom home with a white picket fence.

I have nothing against owning a home and knocking out a few puppies to carry one's name into the future. Having children is wonderful, fulfilling. It is quite possibly the most rewarding and challenging activity undertaken by human beings in their short time on this planet. That is, if it's done correctly, if one put's his or her heart into the children and suffers the pain of raising them into adulthood, bringing them into a place where they have grown enough to move into adult life and have their own brood instead of acting as if parenthood is complete with the breeding act.

The problem I have with the American Dream is the part about being average, about fitting in, about blending in with everyone else, about the homogenization of a people at the expense of their God endowed qualities making each of them unique as a snowflake, that make them different from everyone else toddling around on this beautiful little planet which is hurtling through the heavens which, as far as we know, is alone in the universe in that it contains sentient life.

The greatest irony of our quest to 'fit in' during our formative years is that we aspire to emulate the pioneers, those that marched to the beat of their own drum. We seek to express our individuality by purchasing and wearing the products of the one off artist instead of being an artist ourselves and creating our own look, instead of wearing our own art. If every one buys the same unique item it's no longer unique.

By extension of fitting in, we tend to keep to America. The percentage of Americans having a valid US passport in 2012 was about 30% a number that doubled from 2001. Compare this with 60% of Canadians having a valid passport and 75% of UK residents with a passport. It seems that Americans are comfortable in their own environment and, by extrapolation, are less than comfortable in non American environments thus the popular depiction of the ugly American tourist.

For me, the biggest problem with the American Dream is that for most Americans, the world begins and ends at the US border. There is a huge world out there that, if explored, forever alters the myopic view too many of my fellow Americans take to the grave. I have had the good fortune of traveling to England, Germany, India, Italy, Jamaica, Switzerland, and Turkey with hopes of many more countries in the future. Next year a trip to the Philippines is in the cards with Africa, Australia, and Indonesia nearing the top of the deck.

Each culture blesses me in ways I would not be blessed had I not broke free of US borders. Each has ia unique cuisine that expands my palette allowing me to savor flavors that, if I never left the US shores, would not have danced upon my tongue. These are flavors that, though we try, just cannot be reproduced in the US because our food growing habits are very different from other parts of the world.

Each culture bares to me it's history and architecture and art and mind sets vastly different than that produced on this land bounded by the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. History that was already old when the USA was birthed by people seeking to escape their own culture and create a new way of life.

Each country I visit exposes me to differing views of life, differing values, values that are the pillars upon which the societies are built, pillars that shape thought and language and actions. I have been to Zurich Switzerland which is currently rated the most expensive city in the world to live in and to Mumbai India where I have seen poverty the tore at my heart.

I am not saying Americans should explore other countries at the expense of seeing the US. Our country is vast and wonderful and worth every minute spent contemplating the mountains, plains, and deserts and the many sub cultures unique to the four corners of our lands. I have been to many States and appreciated them all, some more than others.

Nor am I saying those other cultures are better than mine and, conversely, I am not saying they are worse. They are merely different. And it is precisely those differences that help me to identify and understand my own cultural biases and predilections, help me to better appreciate the culture from which I sprang. It's those differences that add fragrance to my life.

The tragedy of the American dream is that it tends to isolate us not allowing us to drink deeply from the cup of cultural diversity. The tragedy of the American dream is the mindset of 'keeping up with the Joneses' instead of blazing our own trail. The tragedy of the American Dream as that we aspire to to fit in with the average Joe instead of allowing our uniqueness to speak volumes.

The Story Teller

Stories are the creative conversion of life itself into a more powerful, clearer, more meaningful experience. They are the currency of human contact. ~Robert McKee

Bob

My dad had a very dear friend for most of his adult life, a man named Bob who loved all things outdoors, especially fishing, especially fishing for the monster Northern Pike lurking in waters north of the US border. Bob taught my dad to fish, opened a world to my dad that he came to love until the day he died, a world my dad shared with me, my brothers, and his grandchildren. Bob and my dad fished together for forty some years.

When I was first allowed to go to Canada with the men, I wanted to fish with Bob. Partly because he was, hands down, the most knowledgeable and best fisherman in the group. Also, I believe, because Bob was always willing to teach me to fish and was very tolerant of me when I lost leach after leach trying unsuccessfully to apply techniques he mastered many years previously to catch Walleye.

On my last two fishing trips with Bob, it was evident that age was taking a toll on him. He no longer was able to cast those heavy Muskie lures for hours on end, no longer able to send his lures very far from the boat, no longer to pinpoint his casts at the only open spot in a bay choked with weed. His joints ached. He grew short of breath yet still he puffed those damn cancer sticks all day long. Somehow, despite his ill health, he still had knack for catching a lot of fish, the uncanny ability to land the biggest fish on every trip.

Despite fishing with Bob for many years, he had one skill I was never able to acquire, a skill none of us came close to developing to the degree he mastered, a skill that seemed to get better with each passing year. Bob is a master story teller, a weaver of yarns, a modern day Mark Twain.

Richard (My Dad)

Never did I appreciate Bob's ability to tell a story as much I did on the last two fishing trips I shared with him. Both of these trips were taken after my dad had died. As we drove together and fished together, Bob told story after story, told most of his stories then told them again. He told me many tales of days of old, of the days he worked along side my dad, of those fishing trips he took with my dad on the annual outing to Canada, of the occasional Muskie trip to Boulder Junction. Bob was able to make the past come alive in exquisite detail allowing me to create pictures of my dad in my head from his words.

Where others might grow weary of the repetition, I never did. Bob, through his stories, kept my dad alive for me by filling me with tales I knew and tales I heard for the first time giving my new insights into my dad's life. Bob, through his stories, passed an invaluable legacy to me, to my brothers, and to my son, a grandson who adored his grandfather and was lucky enough to fish with his grandfather in Canada a few times before he passed.

Bob had a stroke this year so missed the annual trip. It may be the last time I ever get the chance to fish with Bob. It may be that last time I see him because he lives quite a few hours from me. I am very thankful to have had those last two trips during which he told story after story about my dad. Because, through his stories I could see my dad fishing for that monster lurking in the cabbage weeds, hear my dad laughing over a practical joke, feel his heart beating, feel my own heart swell with love for my dear, departed dad.

The Old Pier

A comfortable old age is the reward of a well-spent youth. Instead of its bringing sad and melancholy prospects of decay, it would give us hopes of eternal youth in a better world. ~Maurice Chevalier


The pier has grown old, decrepit, feeble. I find this sad for that pier, over the years, has provided me with countless hours of joy, countless memories, countless moments of solitude where I contemplated my life one fishing cast at a time. It extends 8 feet from the shore with skinny legs set deep into the lake water providing stability when the waves coming crashing in after the speed boats zip by in their continual loops around the lake.

When I was really young and still enjoyed swimming, it was the platform from which, under the watchful eye of my mother with her head buried in a book, I launched myself into the water. The dives were of the racing variety because the water was not very deep and, by race diving, I only penetrated a foot or so beneath the surface. Or we ran and launched ourselves as far as possible like the long jumpers in the Olympic games. The abrupt entires were my way of overcoming the coldness of the water quickly, in one fell swoop where I instantly went from hot and dry to soaking wet. When the swimming was finished and we were chilled, we lay our towels on the pier and warmed ourselves in the sun high overhead and, at times, getting very sunburned.

Many a night, the pier held our clothing as we skinny dipped our evening bath. That was a time before my parent's land had a house and we had to take showers at the lodge. Unfortunately, the lodge closed early so, many nights, a shower was not in the cards. We always used ivory soap for this ritual because the soap was biodegradable and, more importantly, floated in the event it was accidentally dropped or the next person missed the catch when it was thrown to them. I never did get used to the weeds rubbing against my legs in the pitch black of those evenings.

It was on that pier during one very lonely era of my life that I carved the words into it's soft flesh, "One is the loneliest number I will ever be". I was surrounded by people yet oh so very lonely because I seemed to be unable to make deep, soul nourishing friendships, seemed to always be the odd man out in the groups, seemed always to be distant from everyone but myself. It would be a few years after that night when I learned to both be a friend and have friends.

More than anything, the pier was a place we sat as we fished for the ubiquitous pan fish; bluegill, bait stealing perch, aggressive pumpkinseed, the occasional bullhead with it's prickly whiskers and slimy, black skin, and the infrequent crappie that was so much bigger than the others it seemed to be a monster, was definitely a prized catch. I have spent more hours fishing on that pier than anything else, more hours fishing and bonding with those closet to me, those I loved more than anyone else in this world.

We caught fish there but the time on the pier was about so much more than catching fish. The time on the pier was about bonding, about togetherness, about loving family, about passing the torch of togetherness from one generation to the next.

It was on this pier where my daughters landed seemingly identical nine inch pumpkinseeds one misty afternoon when they were still toddlers. It was on this pier when my son, at the impressionable age of 5, caught his first largemouth bass and became hooked forever on fishing. It was on that pier I fished with my dad on tranquil evenings while the waves gently lapped the shore and bats flitted for insects talking about the mysteries of life, fished with my children hoping to instill in them the love of family time, and fished with my grandson many years later doing my best to pass on the legacy of love my dad and mom passed down to me.

More and more often, I feel like that pier looks. My body has lost it's youthful ability to bounce back from adversity, from injury. We both have scars from decades of wear and tear. There are times when the ache in my knees makes it painful to walk and I must resort to medication for pain free walking as the pier resorts to splints and surgically repaired legs to keep it afloat. I wonder, if the pier could speak, what memories would it hold dear. For me, the memories associated with the pier are many, are cherished, are some of the most precious in my life.

Sleeping Outside

The weather here is windy, balmy, sometimes wet. Desert springtime, with flowers popping up all over the place, trees leafing out, streams gushing down from the mountains. Great time of year for hiking, camping, exploring, sleeping under the new moon and the old stars. At dawn and at evening we hear the coyotes howling with excitement - mating season. And lots of fresh rabbit meat hopping about to feed the young ones with. ~Edward Abbey



This weekend my grandson is sleeping with me in my little tent. We sleep side by side. I'm on my Thermarest to cushion my bones from the hard ground and he directly on the ground wrapped securely in his blanket. I write this as he lays next to me his face in quiet repose, dreaming the dreams the of a little boy with his entire future at his fingertips and I, in my early 50s with most of my years behind me, years oozing with myriads of memories.

For as long as I can remember, I have enjoyed sleeping outside, enjoyed being in a tent or, if the conditions were right, sleeping with the blanket of stars as the canopy over my head. Tent technology took a huge step forward when the primary structure started utilizing mesh for the roof with a removable rainfly for those nights when rain was not in the forecast. This allowed me to lay on my back and contemplate the stars without the need to constantly swat mosquitoes.

My love for sleeping outdoors began when I was very young. We were a large family with very little disposable income so vacations involved a tent, a cabin tent holding 8 people sleeping in double stacked cots, a second tent to house our gear, a screen house for eating with all three connected by a canopy. Those family vacations contain some of the most vivid and joyful recollections of my young life. It is those memories that seeded my love for sleeping outdoors.

My preference is to sleep without a tent, without the thin shell, security blanket to protect me from all creatures great and small. It's my preference but one I rarely indulge in because mosquitoes in the north woods are relentless and the resultant welts quite itchy. Those pests are not common in the wilds of Southern Utah so, when there, I do sleep sans tent, sans security blanket, exposed to the elements and critters native to that region. One brisk night, I had such an encounter.

I was sleeping under an overhang during a backpacking adventure where, early in the evening, I had made my dinner and left the pots and pans sitting on a large, flat rock for ready for morning grub. During the night, I heard jostling by the pots and pans. It was a Deer Mouse rummaging for food. I rolled over and let him be for I was too tired to get up and put things away.

Later in the night, I opened my eyes from a light sleep, opened my eyes to find that Deer Mouse perched on my sleeping bag and unblinking, staring directly into my face, perhaps even into my soul. Startled, I hit the inside of my sleeping bag with my hands and sent that mouse flying. I never saw where he landed nor did I hear him the rest of the night. With my heart buzzing, I didn't sleep much the rest of that night. My mind kept me wondering if that mouse was going to return.

This weekend, I am in Wisconsin with my family at our cottage. Generally when here, I setup a tent for myself and sleep outside. I started this habit early on because the noise in the house, the result of the part atmosphere we created in our 20s, was unbearable when I was trying to sleep. I sustained the habit because I grew to love sleeping outdoors.

I grew to love hearing the birds, natural alarm clocks, singing and tweeting and chirping as the suns rays crept over the horizon giving gentle color the night sky. I grew to love the crispness in the air that helped me sleep deep, sleep soundly. I grew to love waking to the first rays of morning sun illuminating my tent.

At this point, a few hours after the sun has set for the day, the only sounds are the chirping of crickets in the cool night air and the slow rhythmic breathing of my grandson soundly, sleeping next to me. The breathing of one who is completely at peace with nary a care in the world. I pray this little boy dreaming next to me grows up loving the serenity, the adventure of sleeping outdoors as much as I have.

Who Do You Work For?

If it's your job to eat a frog, it's best to do it first thing in the morning. And If it's your job to eat two frogs, it's best to eat the biggest one first. ~Mark Twain

I had an interesting conversation recently that centered around the topic, "Who do your work for?" For most people in the US, the answer to this is typically the company who signs your paycheck. In this context, the conversation was between people all at the same company so it had a different meaning. The person asking the question started naming off people in authority, I work for this boss and that boss and the other boss. My answer was that I work for the team I am leading.

This was not a trite answer to provoke conversation which is something I have been know to do occasionally. It was an answer to a question I had mulled over for quite a few years because the way in which people lead others is neatly summed up in the answer.

The reply I received to my response was, "That's simplistic", in a tone of voice that oozed derision and a complete dismissal that there was any grain of truth in my response.

I can't say I was surprised at the response because the person in the conversation has a style of leadership that is diametrically opposed to my style. Where my colleague works from an autocratic style mine is more aptly described as coaching/mentoring based.

The spectrum of leadership extends from the Henry Ford types who wouldn't let people make a decision without his approval to the leadership style I practice which is known as Servant Leadership. Servant leaders view themselves as servants of the team they are leading, a servant who seeks to empower people to achieve a goal, to achieve greatness. A servant who works to grow a team to act independently.

I can ascribe the mindset of a servant leader as having a simple focus but never as being simplistic. It is not very difficult leading with this style because the servant leader must suppress his own ego in order to effectively mentor other people. A servant leader must act out of heart of humility.

Autocratic leadership leads to teams that are disengaged from their work because they sense the lack of trust from the leader. This is manifest in that their opinion is rarely asked and, if it is asked, it is rarely acted upon because 'leader knows best' is how the teams are managed. The goal of a servant leader is to help people become fully engaged in their work, to grow people into independence from the leader such that they can make their own decisions. A servant leader starts from a mindset of trust.

I was tempted to try and explain to my colleague why it is important to view leadership as working for the team, why it is important to grow fully engaged individuals, why it is important to empower individuals to make decisions, why it is important to view oneself as a leader serving the team. However, I did not for there really is no benefit to beating my head against the wall for the umpteenth time.

What Makes You Unique?

Why fit in when you were born to stand out? ~Theodore Geisel aka Dr Seuss


To often, we seek to see how we can be normal, how we can blend in with the crowd. Some people spend a life time buying what everyone else buys and trying to look like everyone else. I think this is because they don't value their uniqueness. I find this to be a very sad expression of our humanity.

Each of us is a unique creation. Each of us is blessed with gifts and talents that are shared by no one else in the world. Each person is as unique as the fingerprints they carry around on their hands.

Uniqueness should be celebrated.

The preciousness assigned to an item is directly  proportional to it's rarity. The less there is of something the more valuable it is viewed. Gold has value because it is relatively rare. Flawless diamonds are even more rare so they have higher value. A Rembrandt painting is a one off and it's value is off the charts.

By trying to be like everyone else we diminish our own intrinsic value.

I believe we should do our best to identify that which makes us unique, identify that which makes us special and celebrate that we are not like everyone else, celebrate that God chose to bless each of us with unique characteristics, unique gifts, unique talents.

I believe we should develop those special aspects that make us unique and share them with our fellow man, bless the world.

Most everyone I know want's to be outstanding. To be outstanding one must be willing to be stand out, must be willing to separate themselves from the safety of anonymity, must be willing to expose their uniqueness to the world.

What is holding you back from standing out and and daring to be outstanding?

The Primary Leadership Characteristic

Great leaders genuinely care for and love the people they lead more than they love leading itself. Leadership without love degenerates into self-serving manipulation. ~Rick Warren

I have had a leadership role since 1988 when I was promoted to Supervisor at my second company out of college. While I was in a leadership role, I don't believe I was a leader of a people. I was a figure head who had responsibilities required to run my small department but my ability to lead people as defined by influencing them was nil. Why? I was interested in my career not in the people under my supervision.

My ability to truly lead people began 5 years later. It started with young kids, 2 and 3 year olds, when I led in a Children's ministry at church. I stayed in the Children's ministry for a few years and frequently had people tell me their kids looked forward to coming and seeing me.

The next phase of my growing leadership came through coaching soccer primarily with kids in the 7 to 12 year old range. I did whatever I could to ensure the kids both learned how to play and have fun in the process. Here, again, parents frequently came to me and told me their kids loved playing for me.

All during this time, I was a leader of adults in the work world. Gradually, I became influential to those I lead in the adult world and it is not uncommon for them to tell me the appreciate me as their manager, that they can tell I cared about them.

Surrealistic Reality

If love had feathers and tasted like dog food, then I suggest you wear shoes with your banana pudding. ~Jarod Kintz


I have dabbled in poetry but don't consider myself a poet. I have dabbled in photography, sold a few of my photos, but don't consider myself a photographer. I have dabbled with acrylic paints but don't consider myself a painter. I have dabbled in arts but don't consider myself a classic artist because my current art is my work. I do, however, enjoy the conventional arts.

I have been through phases when I was most attracted to pictures depicting reality such as the stunning black and white photography of Ansel Adams or the gorgeous scenics of Galen Rowell, a mountain climbing photographer who is known to take pictures while hanging precariously on a rope over the edge of a cliff to catch that last ray of sunshine creating fire on the landscape.

My current favorite genre of art is Surrealism.

Surrealism fascinates me because the images jolt the brain from the real of normal into a world where anything is possible, into a world where clocks melt, where brains are a maze, where eyeballs peer out from between ruby red lips.

Too often, we are caught up in what is right or wrong instead of setting aside those notions and allowing ourselves to just enjoy beauty, allowing our minds to grab hold of the fantastical. When my kids were small, we colored together. They used to ask me what were the right colors for a particular picture.  I always told them the right color is the color they choose. To show them there was no right color, I would use every color in  the box when coloring natural scenery.

For me, the most haunting of the surreal images are those depicting the eyes. The English proverb says, the eyes are the window of the soul. When I look at surreal pictures who's centerpiece is eyes, I feel I am looking into the souls of the artists who created those pictures.

Some of those souls are scary places replete with skulls and visions of tormented minds while others create views of reality which intrigue me. I love to see images of humans hatching from eggs and hands that draw themselves and fish with human legs laying on the beach and many other images which propel me over the edge and into the abyss of imagination.

I think I am attracted to these works because the imagery is so far out of bounds with the norm, the imagery is dreamer and I tend to be a dreamer. As a leader of people, I believe if the team can dream a goal they have taken a big step to achieving their goal. It is my job to help them believe the seemingly impossible as the artists show us their surrealistic realities.

Alice laughed: "There's no use trying," she said; "one can't believe impossible things."
"I daresay you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was younger, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast." ~Lewis Carrol, Alice in Wonderland.

Disaster: Olympics 2012 on NBC

There can be distractions, but if you're isolated from the heart of the Games, the Olympics become just another competition. ~Mary Lou Retton


I have been a fan of sport for as long as I can remember. As a youth, my favorite activities followed the sporting calendar; baseball/basketball in summer, football in the fall, hockey in the winter and tennis to coincide with the Borg McEnroe epic matches. I discovered soccer when I entered High School and have been fanatical about the sport ever since. To this day, I am actively involved with soccer as a referee, have been pretty much continuously been a referee since I was 20 except for a brief spell when my kids were very young.

Naturally, as a fan of sport, I would get very excited every four years when the Summer Olympics came to television spending hour upon hour taking in as many events as possible, marveling at the athletic prowess of amateur athletes on display for the world to marvel. I would cheer for the red, white, and blue who seemed to have a competitor in every event. It didn't dawn on me until years later that there was an American in every event because the US TV coverage only broadcast events in which Americans were participating. I guess the assumed fans of athletics were too self centered to care about other events.

My taste for the Olympics soured around the time of the big boycotts, the boycott of the US against Russia and the counter boycott of Russia against the US. It soured because of the influx of political ideals into what was supposed to be a celebration of sport and, more influential, I soured on watching the Olympics because the coverage was awful. It was commercial laden, focused more on 'people of interest' than sport and the jingoistic nature of the US broadcasts stuck me with hour after hour of boxing while other events, events without US participants, barely earned a mention.

It was following the olympics that tried to drown me with boxing that I became fed up with the broadcasts and quit watching the games. It wasn't that I didn't like boxing it was that the broadcast whores would shove it down our throats to the exclusion of many other events that turned me against watching the corporate greed that the Olympics had become. As near as I can recall, that was the last time I wasted my time watching an Olympic broadcast. That was the last time until the 2012 Summer Olympics when I turned on the Saturday evening broadcast.

I turned on the the first Saturday broadcast because my curiosity got the best of me. Had the networks learned anything in the past 30 years, had they listened to the people and eliminated the commercialism that, like a cancer, infects the broadcast of the event? Would the networks portray sport for the beauty it is or would they still suck the life out of the event?

To my utter dismay, it is the same feeble minded broadcast style from all those years ago, the same feeble mind excrement fed to me in my youth. Sadly, the network didn't even show the big swim meet between American greats, the 400m individual medley, on live TV in the US. The rest of the world saw it live but not us in the US. The bastards showed the event on tape delay many hours after the fact, after the results were posted all over the news. The greedy bastards showed the event on tape delay because they believe more gold coin will cross their Judas palms by showing the event in prime time.

I have no problem with a rebroadcast in the evening but for sporting sake, show the event live. The World Cup broadcasts live. The Euro 2012 championships were broadcast live. Why not show this premier event live? I will tell you. They don't really care about the Olympics as sport. They only care about the Olympics as a cash cow.

To say I am disappointed in the networks is an understatement. I am as disillusioned by the corporate greed now as I was in my youth. It will be another 30 years before I can look forward to watching the Olympics again. Maybe then the greedy bastards will get it right. Somehow, I don't think NBC and the networks will ever change, will ever do what's right for the Olympics.

Transformational

We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts we make the world.~ Sid Gautama

To date, I have given five of the six Leadership Trainings I am creating for my company. The final training is scheduled for 16 August. I have been enjoying the program immensely, both the creation of content and presenting the material to my class of seven students. Overall, the reviews have been very positive, more positive than I expected considering I have never previously done something of this sort.

As I was leaving work the other day, one of my students was walking out with me and told me that, for him, the class has been transformational. I knew he was enjoying the class but to say it was transformational shocked me as I don't think I have ever had a hand in something that was transformational for another human being.

I simply can't view this as I transformed another human being because I don't believe that is possible just as it is impossible to turn a moth into a butterfly or a fish into frog. I view my role in the transformation as helping him to see the skills and abilities already inside of him. I view my role as helping the butterfly emerge from the chrysalis. Now, going forward, I see my role as encouraging him to spread his leadership wings.

A Million Plus Thirty Miles

Here I am again in this mean old town
And you're so far away from me
And where are you when the sun goes down
You're so far away from me
You're so far away from me
You're so far I just can't see
You're so far away from me
You're so far away from me
~REM

Someone within touching distance can be a million miles away. If someone is a million miles away does 30 more make a difference? 

The right word can shrink a million miles to a hairs breadth while the wrong word can create a chasm and the unspoken word break a heart.

Sometimes the extra 30 miles actually brings you closer, bridges the black gap separating two hearts.

Sometimes Life Tastes Like Sawdust

It was like sawdust, the unhappiness: it infiltrated everything, everything was a problem, everything made her cry -- school, homework, boyfriends, the future, the lack of future, the uncertainty of future, fear of future, fear in general -- but it was so hard to say exactly what the problem was in the first place. ~Melanie Thernstrom

The males in my home are rehabbing the basement. The endeavor started when a crack in the foundation allowed water to leak in and saturate the carpet resulting in a mildew smell. I originally thought the mildew smell was the result of my son leaving his wet clothing on the floor. We had to tear down a section of the plywood wall to expose the crack for repair this our adventure began.

The son and son in law did most of the demolition then placed all the paneling sheets in my garage where they have been sitting for a few weeks. I spent a couple of hours today with the circular saw ripping them into bite sized chunks for the trash cans. During those couple of hours of ripping, the sawdust flew everywhere. Sawdust not only flies everywhere, it also gets everywhere. There was sawdust on the floor, in my hair, coating my sweaty body, up my nostrils and into my mouth. I blow my nose and fine particulate fills the kleenex. I cough up phlegm that's the dark brown color of the 1970s era paneling. For the past couple of hours, everything I have eaten has been punctuated with the flavor of sawdust. It's an unpleasant taste that lingers for quite some time because the sawdust was breathed in and just sits there stuck to the lining of the throat.

Sometimes, the messiness of life infiltrates all of one's existence just as the sawdust leaves nothing devoid of the fine wood particulate. An argument with a loved one can coat your mood in ways that the feelings can't quite be deciphered let alone articulated. It just sits there, a haze, obfuscating clarity, tainting one's ability to get understanding.

When life has the taste of sawdust, all existence is colored by the foul taste. It becomes difficult to understand the essence of the ongoing experience, become difficult to separate good from bad because the bad is a constant undertone.

The unfortunate thing is one can't just rid oneself of the taste. It is stuck there, stuck in the mucus tainting whatever is ingested. I takes time to work itself out of the system, time to generally dissipate, time until the foul taste is gone and life is again full of excellent flavor.

If You Ain't Fist, You're Last!

I'm the best there is - plain and simple. I mean, I wake up in the morning and I piss excellence. You know, nobody can hang with my stuff. I'm just a--just a big, hairy, American winning machine. "If you ain't first, you're last!" You know? You know what I mean? ~Ricky Bobby, Talladega Nights

I have pretty much quit playing sports. I have not completely for I do take part in the occasional mountain bike race.

Quitting sport was difficult because I have always been competitive, have always enjoyed competition. The problem, though, is that it wasn't uncommon for me to push the bounds of ethical integrity in competition as it also wan't uncommon for me smash through those bounds and end up with ethical integrity a distant vision on the horizon in my quest to win at all costs.

There were times in the heat of competition when I would get mean towards my opponent and, at times, toward my teammates. It was a regular occurrence for me to taunt opponents even when playing against friends, to rub victory in their faces. And therein lies the problem.

When I was mean, when I bragged and taunted, when I screamed and yelled, I would hurt relationships with friends. Sometimes my behaviors would damage relationships beyond reapir.

I was much older when I discovered the extent of the hurt I caused. It was during an indoor soccer game in an adult, coed league. I yelled at one of my female teammates for getting in my way when she prevented me from intercepting a pass going to an opponent, a pass that eventually led to a goal scored against my team. I was very angry and let that anger explode. After that, it was never the same between us.

That incident caused me to look deep and hard into my behaviors, into the silliness that drove me to want victory at all costs, no matter the cost. I eventually decided the cost of victory can be too high.

The Read List

To read is to fly: it is to soar to a point of vantage which gives a view over wide terrains of history, human variety, ideas, shared experience and the fruits of many inquiries. ~A C Grayling


This year for Christmas, I received an iPad on which, I immediately installed the Kindle reader application. I have long been a reader and have stacks of books, boxes of books as evidence to support my claim. Some of these were given to me but most I have purchased. It is hard for to enter a book store and leave empty handed. Unfortunately, a number of the books I own are still virgin having never been read nor had their covers spread once they left the store.

Now, with an eReader, my books are always handy, always with me wherever I travel, always available to be read as the opportunity arises. I frequently have multiple nonfiction books in the actively being read category and hop between them as the mood strikes me. I find nonfiction to be a good for book hopping as the books I read frequently complement each other. Fiction, on the other hand, typically casts a spell over me and I read them voraciously leaving no time for other books to break the story line.

I was wondering about the number of books I read this calendar year so reviewed my ereader for the count. To my astonishment, I have completed 63 books to date for 2012. At this pace, I should easily achieve 100 books read by the end of the year. I don't recall ever reading so voraciously at any phase in my life.

In addition to reading books, I have become a devotee of Zite and Flipboard as a way of keeping abreast of news in the blogosphere. These applications funnel news and blogs to me in the categories that capture my interest. In the case of Zite, as I mark articles with 'like' the more of that type of article are aggregated in my main feed. With these apps, I read about 20 blogs/news articles every day. The tailoring capabilities of Zite and Flipboard have rendered newspapers useless in my world.

My reading world has expanded markedly in the past year as has my knowledge base. This is important to me because I am teaching a Leadership course at my company for which I am also the content creator. The readings have added greatly to the depth of my teaching and benefitted the people I am privileged to lead.

Recently, I acquired a new Product Development team. My reading has reminded me of the person I need to be to effectively lead a team, has reminded me of the character I need to have, the skills I need to employ if I am to lead this team with the leadership they need to succeed.

I believe my happiness with my life is positively affected by my reading, by my learning, by my application of the things I read to my work a day world. For the first time in my life, I find myself excited about going to work every morning, looking forward to the start of my work day, wishing my work day was still going full tilt ahead as I walk out the door 13 hours after crossing the threshold every morning. I chalk this work happiness up, in large part, to the person I have become from applying those things I have read over the past half year.




Books Read:

1. 
   
2. 1968 by Mark Kulansky 
3. 21 irrefutable Laws of Leadership by John Maxwell 
4. 48 Laws of Power by Robert Greene 
5. 5 Levels of Leadership by John Maxwell 
6. After Dark by Haruki Murakami 
7. After the Quake by Haruki Murakami 
8. As a Man Thinketh by James Allen 
9. Axiom by Bill Hybels 
10. Becoming a Person of Influence by John Maxwell 
11. Candice by Voltaire 
12. City of Bones by Michael Connelly 
13. Doctor Who and The Brain of Morbius by Terrance Dicks 
14. Doctor Who and the Giant Robot by Terrance Dicks 
15. Dracula by Bram Stoker 
16. Drive by Daniel Pink 
17. Echo Park by Michael Connelly 
18. Football's Funniest Quotes by Scott Porker 
19. Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death by Patrick Henry 
20. History of World Literature by The Teaching Company 
21. How to Think Like Leonardo Davinci by Michael J Gelb 
22. Leadership Methods of the Navy Seals by Jeff Cannon 
23. Lessons of the Chinese Masters by Thomas Clearly 
24. Love Poems by Pablo Neruda 
25. Love Poems of Rumi by Deepak Chopra 
26. Men of the Bible by Dwight Lyman Moody 
27. Mirrors: Stories of Almost Everyone by Eduardo Galeano 
28. One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez 
29. Ordained Irreverence by MacMillan Moody 
30. Please Look After Mother by Kyung-Sook Shin 
31. Primal Leadership by Daniel Goleman 
32. Running with the Giants by John Maxwell 
33. Shit My Dad Says by Justin Halpern 
34. Siddhartha by Herman Hesse 
35. Taking People with You by David Novak 
36. The 17 Indisputable Laws of Leadership by John Maxwell 
37. The Ambition by Lee Strobel 
38. The Art of War by Sun Tzu 
39. The Black Echo by Michael Connelly 
40. The Black Ice by Michael Connelly 
41. The Bourne Betrayal by Eric Ledbetter 
42. The Bourne Deception by Eric Ledbetter 
43. The Bourne Sanction by Eric Ledbetter 
44. The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka 
45. The Closers by Michael Connelly 
46. The Concrete Blond by Michael Connelly 
47. The Definitive Book of Body Language by Barbara Pease (started) 
48. The Draining Lake by Amuldar Indriadson 
49. The Five Temptations of a CEO by Patrick Lincioni 
50. The Illiad by Homer 
51. The Last Coyote by Michael Connelly 
52. The Lincoln Lawyer by Michael Connelly 
53. The Lovers Dictionary by David Levithan 
54. The Matterhorn A Novel of the Viet Nam War by Karl Marlantes 
55. The Metamorphosis by Kafka 
56. The Moose Jaw by Mike Delaney 
57. The Odyssey by Homer 
58. The Practice of the Presence of God by Brother Lawrence 
59. The Snowman by Jo Nesbo 
60. The War of Art by Steven Pressfield 
61. Trunk Music a Harry Bosch Novel by Michael Connelly 
62. Turning Pro by Steven Pressfield 
63. When the Emperor was Divine by Julie Otsuka 
64. Who's There by Seth Godin

Books Being Read:

1. Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes (Active) 
2. Good to Great by Jim Collins (Active) 
3. Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse (Active) 
4. The Charisma Myth by Olivia Fox Cabane (Active) 
5. The Sayings of Confucius by Confuscius (Active)