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.