For weeks before Greg, her very practical youngest son took her from her 27th Street gingerbread home of plastic seat covers and walnut wood originals, some would even call ‘perfectly preserved antiques’, she had refused to wear the medical alert medallion. Now, at eighty-seven years, her forearms grown progressively brittle and rusty like brown sticks were unable to break the falls that more frequently came, and Miss Eva went into the hospital and soon passed away last fall. It was just about two and a half weeks before my father, Dudley Henry, also entered the hospital and passed away. He, too, was done before I was ready to accept it. Miss Eva and my dad are parallel stories in my life, one of at least a dozen mentors in the village that raised a child. I am that child, and the connections between them and me, I call ‘string’. Her presence fueled my social consciousness and much of my writing, so I start with her to try illuminate the relationships between myself and the world.
Since I was a undersized, quietly observant and inwardly focused six year old, Miss Eva had continually awed me because she was both so prolific a writer, and because she was so human. Greg, her son who is one month younger than me, was the first connection between us, although we had our own relationship over the years. She was, at barely five feet tall, never remote, even in 1953, when I first met her. But, then, I was not intimidated by my own father’s towering height of over six feet—it seemed natural to interact with them even while other adults seemed so remote. In truth, I was never very cowed by any adults, which mystified my peers a bit over my willingness to intrude on the adult world with my own ideas and sense of what should be. But tiny Miss Eva was more than special. She, like my paternal grandfather and a half dozen authors I read, opened me to the world.
First, there were topics of conversation: a world view quite different from, but strongly connecting with my home, church and family life. Conversation immersed in the delight of language; richly peppered with verse, allusion and alliteration and flowing and surging like the tidewater. Then, there was music from outside the walls of the church: Ray Charles and Brook Benton and Miles Davis and hundreds more, on heavy black rubber-like discs that overburdened the arm of her fancy brown and gold record player. Music that was so much more life-like than the Church music diet of my home. Where church music gave the spirit lift, this music’s lyrics gave voice to the twisting of internal organs, wings to the tears of humanity and heartache and balm to the loneliness that etched consciousness into the psyche of a growing boy. It was the knowing escape from existentialism accessible even for a six year old.
On the mahogany rack beside the plaid couch, and next to the stack of LPs, lay the latest issue of Jet, and later, Ebony Magazine, talking about people who looked like us with all the similarity of ‘us’ with ‘others’. Music and magazines all radiated a consciousness about ‘Blackness’ that anchored my life to a the local community and to the world. In my home we had religious books and encyclopedias, we had chemistry and science books, and sometimes even a current Life Magazine, none of which had any black faces to feel connected with. We even had a few classical music records, but race and color were never the topic of overt conversation, even when we went to downtown Washington DC with its restrooms and water fountains labeled “white” and “colored”, and the restaurants we could not eat in unless we went over to the corner counter to stand. When desegregation came and I was sent off to the neighborhood school where I was only one of four black children, the home avoided conversations about race. After a year or two the connection with Miss Eva rushed into that void.
But Miss Eva was more than that to me. When Greg had his annual birthday party just about Thanksgiving, Miss Eva would have the rambunctious boys calmed down by playing a bingo game with language manipulation, I was always happy to win many of these games, I now suspect it was jigged for a boost in my self confidence. And when, at 16 I broke my jaw playing football in summer camp, it was her house that I took refuge in—my mother has said that I was not to get hurt, and I knew that this injury could end my playing days if Mom found out.
Even in mid-June, the last time that I would see her in life, Miss Eva asked me questions about race and culture while she bustled around her house preparing me a piece of my favorite cake--part of a forty-four year ritual of food, pleasure and sustenance for the spirit. She was curious about Oregon, where I now live, and she wanted comparisons of it with California, especially the diversity. She asked me about raising my daughter in a very ‘white bread’ community. But she almost never offered advice, preferring to let me discover places for expansion.
As I understand it, Miss Eva published more than 500 short stories and poems over a fifty year writing span, and as one whose hubris is tied to his intellect even as his profession insists upon publish or perish, the volume and quality of her writing is stupifying. I also know that she expected me to write—although she never said so-- and I had always assumed it was to do professional writing. Coming to the house about twenty years ago, looking for Greg, I sat on the ‘becoming antiques’ in her dining room and living room after my ritual piece of cake, and spent about three hours telling her about my dissertation research and writing of the manuscript. While she was attentive and probing with questions then, I believe now, that I was mistaken. Her urging to me was to the narrative, not the pretensions of scholarship writing. After some thought, I think I have unraveled some of what she was asking me for.
As I reflect, Miss Eva nurtured a response to the world that quite clearly, cannot be located in, or contained with, the styles and subjects of academia. Academic pursuit, at least in these United States, is far too linear. It is too anchored in white Northern European thought, too full of its own importance, and too ignorant about the lives of people from other cultures to even come close to comprehending that for many others on the planet, life is a confluence of rivers and, our spirit lives in the connections of the many facets; none of which can be understood without the other. In my fiftieth year as I struggled with the rejection and ill-consideration of my colleagues as I requested promotion to full professor, I came to understand, a bit better, that the story that Miss Eva wanted me to write was of ordinary people, of Black people, who live spectacularly even as they live quietly without much notice from the media or from white America.
Miss Eva caused me to understand that because our lives are full and rich and meaningful, we fight battles much of the society cannot fathom exist. For us, the whole, unabridged stories are important. In history, which I teach at the university, we are consumed with the stories of the famous, the rich, the generals and the presidents, but it is ordinary people that make history. So I set about to tell these stories as I hope Miss Eva might like to hear about and nurtured me to tell.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Shendrine B. Henry An Educator Building Social Capital by Samuel D. Henry
Shendrine B. Henry believed that a woman’s place was in the home, and in the chemistry lab, in the community and the science classroom, and so she achieved in each place for most of the 84 years of her life. Shendrine’s adoring father named her from a Portuguese name he had heard in his native Barbados, even before he immigrated to New York City with his new wife, Hortense. In 1915, when they had their first child--not the boy everyone thought she would be--they called her: ‘Shendrine Eugene’. Ezra gladly named her, and for the next 45 years he never called her a nickname—the family did not believe in nicknames, slang or baby talk.
Shendrine was the first child in the family born in the United States, but like a lot of Black immigrants, she was very proud of her Caribbean, Irish and African heritage. Black immigrant families often had extended families arrive intact, unlike the shattered families of slavery practiced here. Her family had been granted permission to immigrate because Ezra had worked for the US building the building of the Panama Canal. Ezra wanted his children to have educational opportunities in this country; Hortense also searched for economic betterment. Shendrine’s parents were also glad that because of Ezra’s work, each of his children could have dual citizenship in the US and Barbados. Like many of almost 1 million West Indian immigrants of the WWI period, they maintained frequent contact, through trips and letters, with relatives back in the Islands. Also like many immigrant West Indians, they highly valued school success, speaking multiple languages, and culture contact with those who were different from them.
By the time Shendrine had two bothers and two sisters, including the twins: Felix and Eunice, and went to Girls High in New York City, her multi-ethnic group of friends from the immigrant neighborhoods of Brooklyn NY, often called her: “Sherry”, especially since she was active playing tennis, participating in her church and the Black immigrant community. Her dad encouraged her to read the newspaper daily; they often discussed local and international politics (he supported the Marcus Garvey Black Star project), and both parents supported her early achievement in school, where she was labeled as ‘gifted’. They hoped Shendrine would become the first doctor in the family, a dream spurred on by the ailments of her youngest sister, Leticia, who eventually died at 15 from a hole in her heart. The whole family was very saddened and stunned—one of her brothers felt he could never go to church again because the death of his sister was so cruel. Shendrine did not waver from her religious beliefs. In her quest to prepare for medicine, Shendrine attended Hunter College in NYC and graduated with a major in chemistry in 1940. During college years, at a church picnic, she had also met a tall young Black man from Washington, D.C., named Dudley Henry, and they were married about the same time as college graduation. Ezra liked the way Dudley supported Shendrine’s quest for knowledge and her community work through the church.
WWII and other family factors, including a pregnancy that miscarried, interrupted Shendrine’s dream of becoming a medical doctor, then came the birth of her daughter, Angelina. Six years later, and three years after Dudley had returned from serving in the Army, she gave birth to Samuel and while he was a toddler, she returned to school in the field of psychology. When a university professor told her that she shouldn’t be taking a psychology class because women, like her, took the seats of men that could be there in class, she was hurt but she persevered. A few years later, Shendrine became one of the first Black women chemists at the National Institutes for Health, NIH; and later, a founder of a national group of Black chemists. For several years Shendrine was recruited to become a chemist in France, but she decided not to transplant the family. After the Russians launched Sputnik, the US became very interested in improving science education and Shendrine, as well as a lot of scientists, became concerned and involved in secondary school curricula. With Dudley’s support, she went back to the university to earn a master’s degree in science education and she became a secondary school science teacher. She taught first in Baltimore, Maryland, then, in Washington DC: at the same high school her children had attended.
By now, Shendrine and Dudley had started an important enterprise. Given a rise in single female-headed households and the economic recessions of the 1950s, they began to feed ‘down and out’ families in the Washington, D.C. area. Taking donations from local merchants, and adding scarce funds of their own, they prepared food baskets weekly, often feeding as many as thirty families. When some other ministers told Dudley he should be concentrating on building his own church and collecting funds, Shendrine supported his efforts by helping put the packages together and getting driving directions for him. For almost 30 years they continued this ‘ministry’ together.
Once Shendrine had been teaching at McKinley Tech High School in Washington DC, for a few years, she put another set of talents to work. She enjoyed the church, she enjoyed music (she had played the piano since she was a child), and she really enjoyed teenagers, so she and a group of students started the high school Gospel Choir. There was some hesitation at first, some saw a problem with religious origin music in a public school, but Shendrine assured them that the choir was a good activity, that it was non-denominational, and it served to preserve a rich musical and communal connection for Black Americans-and anyone else who wanted to sing. Even though the school was about 90% Black, there were non-Black students in the choir at various times.
Shendrine also worked in the community insofar as politics was concerned. Her father, Ezra had been a Republican—recruited by the local politicians soon after he got off the boat. Shendrine was also a Republican, and she supported the party during the 1950s. She volunteered to be a civilian air spotter for several years, taking her duty turns during several periods of the Cold War Era. When President Eisenhower had a heart attack, she sent him a card and was most proud of Mamie Eisenhower’s thank-you note back. She was also proud of the Freedom’s Foundation medal she received. At the family dinner table politics was always served as well—Dudley was a New Deal Democrat, and discussions that the children were encouraged to participate in ranged from the accepting gifts scandal of Richard Nixon to the newly emerging countries of Africa and the Caribbean. Her usual goal was not to argue or change minds; it was to air opinions and discuss possibilities. In 1977, she was very pleased to attend the graduation of her son, Samuel, at Columbia University. He had fulfilled one of her dreams; even though it wasn’t medical, he had become a doctor. For her 40th wedding anniversary, Shendrine and Dudley traveled to Asia—she had always wanted to go, they enjoyed each other’s company even after their children had moved away from home.
In 1985, Shendrine retired from teaching high school, but over the next five years she would teach pre-school and design curriculum. In 1990, for their 50th anniversary, Dudley and Shendrine renewed their vows with almost 100 of the original wedding participants, and in the early 90s she greeted the birth of her only grand daughter, Antonia, with great joy. She lived simply with Dudley until he passed in September 1997, and unhappy to be without him, Alzheimer’s brought her to a quiet sigh of death in 1999.
Shendrine believed in the American Dream, and she lived a part of it. Like many Black immigrants, she valued and excelled in education. As a teacher she believed her role was to help students learn chemistry—more than three dozen former students came to her funeral to attest to her influence. She also held strong support for working with people of different cultures and valuing the African and Caribbean cultures here in the US. She was a patriot and a parent; an educator and a doer. She was very smart, but always found time to listen to new opinions. And she loved Dudley with all of her heart from the moment she saw him at that picnic until she died.
Shendrine was the first child in the family born in the United States, but like a lot of Black immigrants, she was very proud of her Caribbean, Irish and African heritage. Black immigrant families often had extended families arrive intact, unlike the shattered families of slavery practiced here. Her family had been granted permission to immigrate because Ezra had worked for the US building the building of the Panama Canal. Ezra wanted his children to have educational opportunities in this country; Hortense also searched for economic betterment. Shendrine’s parents were also glad that because of Ezra’s work, each of his children could have dual citizenship in the US and Barbados. Like many of almost 1 million West Indian immigrants of the WWI period, they maintained frequent contact, through trips and letters, with relatives back in the Islands. Also like many immigrant West Indians, they highly valued school success, speaking multiple languages, and culture contact with those who were different from them.
By the time Shendrine had two bothers and two sisters, including the twins: Felix and Eunice, and went to Girls High in New York City, her multi-ethnic group of friends from the immigrant neighborhoods of Brooklyn NY, often called her: “Sherry”, especially since she was active playing tennis, participating in her church and the Black immigrant community. Her dad encouraged her to read the newspaper daily; they often discussed local and international politics (he supported the Marcus Garvey Black Star project), and both parents supported her early achievement in school, where she was labeled as ‘gifted’. They hoped Shendrine would become the first doctor in the family, a dream spurred on by the ailments of her youngest sister, Leticia, who eventually died at 15 from a hole in her heart. The whole family was very saddened and stunned—one of her brothers felt he could never go to church again because the death of his sister was so cruel. Shendrine did not waver from her religious beliefs. In her quest to prepare for medicine, Shendrine attended Hunter College in NYC and graduated with a major in chemistry in 1940. During college years, at a church picnic, she had also met a tall young Black man from Washington, D.C., named Dudley Henry, and they were married about the same time as college graduation. Ezra liked the way Dudley supported Shendrine’s quest for knowledge and her community work through the church.
WWII and other family factors, including a pregnancy that miscarried, interrupted Shendrine’s dream of becoming a medical doctor, then came the birth of her daughter, Angelina. Six years later, and three years after Dudley had returned from serving in the Army, she gave birth to Samuel and while he was a toddler, she returned to school in the field of psychology. When a university professor told her that she shouldn’t be taking a psychology class because women, like her, took the seats of men that could be there in class, she was hurt but she persevered. A few years later, Shendrine became one of the first Black women chemists at the National Institutes for Health, NIH; and later, a founder of a national group of Black chemists. For several years Shendrine was recruited to become a chemist in France, but she decided not to transplant the family. After the Russians launched Sputnik, the US became very interested in improving science education and Shendrine, as well as a lot of scientists, became concerned and involved in secondary school curricula. With Dudley’s support, she went back to the university to earn a master’s degree in science education and she became a secondary school science teacher. She taught first in Baltimore, Maryland, then, in Washington DC: at the same high school her children had attended.
By now, Shendrine and Dudley had started an important enterprise. Given a rise in single female-headed households and the economic recessions of the 1950s, they began to feed ‘down and out’ families in the Washington, D.C. area. Taking donations from local merchants, and adding scarce funds of their own, they prepared food baskets weekly, often feeding as many as thirty families. When some other ministers told Dudley he should be concentrating on building his own church and collecting funds, Shendrine supported his efforts by helping put the packages together and getting driving directions for him. For almost 30 years they continued this ‘ministry’ together.
Once Shendrine had been teaching at McKinley Tech High School in Washington DC, for a few years, she put another set of talents to work. She enjoyed the church, she enjoyed music (she had played the piano since she was a child), and she really enjoyed teenagers, so she and a group of students started the high school Gospel Choir. There was some hesitation at first, some saw a problem with religious origin music in a public school, but Shendrine assured them that the choir was a good activity, that it was non-denominational, and it served to preserve a rich musical and communal connection for Black Americans-and anyone else who wanted to sing. Even though the school was about 90% Black, there were non-Black students in the choir at various times.
Shendrine also worked in the community insofar as politics was concerned. Her father, Ezra had been a Republican—recruited by the local politicians soon after he got off the boat. Shendrine was also a Republican, and she supported the party during the 1950s. She volunteered to be a civilian air spotter for several years, taking her duty turns during several periods of the Cold War Era. When President Eisenhower had a heart attack, she sent him a card and was most proud of Mamie Eisenhower’s thank-you note back. She was also proud of the Freedom’s Foundation medal she received. At the family dinner table politics was always served as well—Dudley was a New Deal Democrat, and discussions that the children were encouraged to participate in ranged from the accepting gifts scandal of Richard Nixon to the newly emerging countries of Africa and the Caribbean. Her usual goal was not to argue or change minds; it was to air opinions and discuss possibilities. In 1977, she was very pleased to attend the graduation of her son, Samuel, at Columbia University. He had fulfilled one of her dreams; even though it wasn’t medical, he had become a doctor. For her 40th wedding anniversary, Shendrine and Dudley traveled to Asia—she had always wanted to go, they enjoyed each other’s company even after their children had moved away from home.
In 1985, Shendrine retired from teaching high school, but over the next five years she would teach pre-school and design curriculum. In 1990, for their 50th anniversary, Dudley and Shendrine renewed their vows with almost 100 of the original wedding participants, and in the early 90s she greeted the birth of her only grand daughter, Antonia, with great joy. She lived simply with Dudley until he passed in September 1997, and unhappy to be without him, Alzheimer’s brought her to a quiet sigh of death in 1999.
Shendrine believed in the American Dream, and she lived a part of it. Like many Black immigrants, she valued and excelled in education. As a teacher she believed her role was to help students learn chemistry—more than three dozen former students came to her funeral to attest to her influence. She also held strong support for working with people of different cultures and valuing the African and Caribbean cultures here in the US. She was a patriot and a parent; an educator and a doer. She was very smart, but always found time to listen to new opinions. And she loved Dudley with all of her heart from the moment she saw him at that picnic until she died.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
What We Really Yearn for, as Human Beings, Is To Be Visible to Each Other
My grandmother used to tell me that the greatest fear that children harbor is the fear of disappearing. Making simple human connections during the day to day things that we do can be a challenge. Jacqueline Novogratz speaks of a "life of immersion" in her TED presentation:
http://www.ted.com/talks/jacqueline_novogratz_inspiring_a_life_of_immersion.html
Jacqueline left a job on Wall Street to live a life of immersion. She speaks of people who have taken risks in the name of impacting the world in positive ways - some have lost their lives - have risked it all for a life of immersion. I love her story of the Blue Sweater:
http://www.acumenfund.org/bluesweater/
People operate under the misguided impression that there are measurable distances between "us" and "them", when the truth is there is no "us" and "them" - there is only us. When we fail to see and connect with others, we miss opportunities to celebrate us, and to change the world one relationship at a time. Immersion may be as simple as engaging in your community, in your work place. Celebrating the people who serve you - thanking the check-out person; recognizing the contribution of the person who serves as a crossing guard for our children; complimenting someone on their thoughtfulness, complimenting someone on their act of kindness - every day holds a myriad of opportunities to immerse yourself more fully in your community and bring a deeper meaning to your life. Try it - It's life changing!
http://www.ted.com/talks/jacqueline_novogratz_inspiring_a_life_of_immersion.html
Jacqueline left a job on Wall Street to live a life of immersion. She speaks of people who have taken risks in the name of impacting the world in positive ways - some have lost their lives - have risked it all for a life of immersion. I love her story of the Blue Sweater:
http://www.acumenfund.org/bluesweater/
People operate under the misguided impression that there are measurable distances between "us" and "them", when the truth is there is no "us" and "them" - there is only us. When we fail to see and connect with others, we miss opportunities to celebrate us, and to change the world one relationship at a time. Immersion may be as simple as engaging in your community, in your work place. Celebrating the people who serve you - thanking the check-out person; recognizing the contribution of the person who serves as a crossing guard for our children; complimenting someone on their thoughtfulness, complimenting someone on their act of kindness - every day holds a myriad of opportunities to immerse yourself more fully in your community and bring a deeper meaning to your life. Try it - It's life changing!
Friday, February 18, 2011
Rachel Carson is One of My Heroes
Rachel was into the environment before it was cool to be into the environment. She was lobbying for environmental change before it was big business to lobby for environmental causes. She worked tirelessly to bring awareness to the effects of DDT and pesticides on the environment. Her pivotal work, "Silent Spring", spoke to the loss of our song bird population to the ravages of environmental pollutants. The sad truth is that pollution has become big business. Futures in emissions credits (the right to belch toxic pollutants into the atmosphere) are traded on the open market. Coal burning plants that exceed EPA emission standards can buy emission credits from those power facilities whose emissions are less, and who lie within the EPA requirements. This allows those less efficient plants to spew their toxic byproducts into the air. In addition, developed countries take advantage of third world countries, selling them their outdated equipment and technology that does not meet the pollution standards set by their government, locating manufacturing facilities in third world countries so that they can avoid having to meet stricter standards. The chemical disaster at the Union Carbide plant in Bhopal, India, in 1984, brought to light what continues to go on today in third world countries.
Rachel Carson fought long and hard for what she believed in. She talked to anyone who would listen. She believed that she could make a difference. She continues to inspire me. Never underestimate the power of one person committed to success - committed to what they believe in.
Rachel Carson fought long and hard for what she believed in. She talked to anyone who would listen. She believed that she could make a difference. She continues to inspire me. Never underestimate the power of one person committed to success - committed to what they believe in.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Life's Little Challenges
I consider myself a fair minded person, for the most part. This week the lines I draw in the sand, that define my life, were challenged; more pointedly, they were offended. Now I am looking at what happened and asking myself "why"? Why did this event impact me to the degree that it did? A wise man I knew once told me that we, as individuals, have the power to disarm hurtful words that are sent our way. He described hurtful words as "arrows". He shared that we decide if we will let the arrows pierce us - or not. He shared that words are merely wind over vocal chords - nothing more. It is we, who give them meaning. It is we, who give them power. In this light, I let the words this person sent my way wound me. Initially I became angry with this person, but not so any more. I realize that he is who he is. I don't have to like him, or approve of him. He is not permanently a part of my life. Neither does he need to be. In truth, it wasn't his fault that our worlds momentarily collided. If the truth be told, I have a part of my life that isn't in a "state" that I would like to see it in. All the incident did was point this out. If my life had been where I would like it to be, I probably wouldn't have reacted as strongly as I did. The good news is I don't believe I let on that I was impacted to the level that I was. Bottom line: no harm, no foul.
As humans, we spend so much time and energy building the sand castles we call our lives. The truth is, the ocean of time will eventually wash it away. What then do we leave behind? What then is our legacy? For me, it is the one kind word that I can offer someone else; or the act of forgiveness, or compassion; it is the thoughtful deed that brightens one person's day, or lifts someone's spirits. It is my encouragement to everyone I have the opportunity to interact with in a positive way: in short, my legacy is to pass it on, to pay it forward. It is unlikely that I will be remembered long after I'm gone, or that history will record my deeds for posterity. But that in no way diminishes the lasting impact of the simple kindnesses that I can extend to others that can make a difference in their lives. If that is all I am able to accomplish, it is enough.
As humans, we spend so much time and energy building the sand castles we call our lives. The truth is, the ocean of time will eventually wash it away. What then do we leave behind? What then is our legacy? For me, it is the one kind word that I can offer someone else; or the act of forgiveness, or compassion; it is the thoughtful deed that brightens one person's day, or lifts someone's spirits. It is my encouragement to everyone I have the opportunity to interact with in a positive way: in short, my legacy is to pass it on, to pay it forward. It is unlikely that I will be remembered long after I'm gone, or that history will record my deeds for posterity. But that in no way diminishes the lasting impact of the simple kindnesses that I can extend to others that can make a difference in their lives. If that is all I am able to accomplish, it is enough.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Attitudes are the Real Figures of Speach
"The colossal misunderstanding of our time is the assumption that insight will work with people who are unmotivated to change. Communication does not depend on syntax, or eloquence, or rhetoric, or articulation but on the emotional context in which the message is being heard. People can only hear you when they are moving toward you, and they are not likely to when your words are pursuing them. Even the choicest words lose their power when they are used to overpower. Attitudes are the real figures of speech." - Edwin H. Friedman
How one uses ones words, ones language skills can create first impressions just as impactful as the visual message. There is a science and an art to the use of words in conveying a message. The stronger the alignment between the verbal and the non-verbal the more powerful the message. Conversely, when ones words and non-verbals are not in alignment the message can be garbled, lost, and misinterpreted. How is it we can go through so much formal schooling and have so little formal training in the science and art of communication? How is it that we can spend so much time in frustrated miscommunication throughout our lives and still do nothing about it? If we continue doing the same thing, isn't it likely we are going to get the same results?
I was trying to convey a concept to someone, recently through a story I was telling. The person I was talking to didn't get it. He didn't see the parallel and he didn't draw the connection. He didn't get it. In order to get my point across I started speaking louder, and becoming more animated. At that moment, for me, the failure didn't lie in the fact that the message I was sending didn't match or parallel anything in his frame of reference. I just needed to be a little more graphic, more colorful, instill more emotion... Then I got it. I had an Ah Ha moment. As much as I loved the craft of my words, it didn't work for him. If my true intent was for a mutual understanding, it was I who had to change, not him.
WOW. Go Figure! Our relationship has changed. From that moment on we now try to find common ground before making a point, before seeking mutual understanding. WE GET that we don't get each other, and it's OK. It's even funny now. We laugh when one of us falls off the wagon and goes off on a tangent and looses the other person. We call each other back in good humor and in understanding. We have changed what was once painful into something that feels good for both of us. Most importantly we now are able to communicate in a way that allows us to connect on levels that neither of us thought was possible.
How one uses ones words, ones language skills can create first impressions just as impactful as the visual message. There is a science and an art to the use of words in conveying a message. The stronger the alignment between the verbal and the non-verbal the more powerful the message. Conversely, when ones words and non-verbals are not in alignment the message can be garbled, lost, and misinterpreted. How is it we can go through so much formal schooling and have so little formal training in the science and art of communication? How is it that we can spend so much time in frustrated miscommunication throughout our lives and still do nothing about it? If we continue doing the same thing, isn't it likely we are going to get the same results?
I was trying to convey a concept to someone, recently through a story I was telling. The person I was talking to didn't get it. He didn't see the parallel and he didn't draw the connection. He didn't get it. In order to get my point across I started speaking louder, and becoming more animated. At that moment, for me, the failure didn't lie in the fact that the message I was sending didn't match or parallel anything in his frame of reference. I just needed to be a little more graphic, more colorful, instill more emotion... Then I got it. I had an Ah Ha moment. As much as I loved the craft of my words, it didn't work for him. If my true intent was for a mutual understanding, it was I who had to change, not him.
WOW. Go Figure! Our relationship has changed. From that moment on we now try to find common ground before making a point, before seeking mutual understanding. WE GET that we don't get each other, and it's OK. It's even funny now. We laugh when one of us falls off the wagon and goes off on a tangent and looses the other person. We call each other back in good humor and in understanding. We have changed what was once painful into something that feels good for both of us. Most importantly we now are able to communicate in a way that allows us to connect on levels that neither of us thought was possible.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Nature of Impermanence
This week has been cathartic in a number of ways. This week I found out that a good friend of mine has breast cancer. I spent the evening with her. We talked, we cried, we laughed and we commiserated on how life can spin out of control at any moment. For as solid as our persistence of vision is, in the end it's an illusion...like a lot of things we count on. Tomorrow she goes into surgery, and after that radiation therapy, and after that... We hope, we pray we try to see a straight line in the chaos of possible outcomes. In the end we hold on to each other for dear life. That is the one truth in this story - life is dear. It is the only medium we have to be impactful, or not. My friend is one of those people that you love, often times with intense frustration. That you admire, often times with total disbelief, and that you are absolutely sure is your hero except for her faults. That, too, is the human condition. It isn't always clean, or clear, or consistent. It doesn't always make sense, or endear itself to you, and, in the end, like my friend, humanity is my hero if it weren't for it's faults.
They have come to me today...those that she has helped...those that she has listened to...those that she has encouraged...asking how they can help...how they can be of service. These are the human qualities that I celebrate. This is what makes impermanence bearable. It is the small things that we do to improve the human condition, day in and day out, that tie us to the infinite good that lies at the heart of humanity.
"The happiness of life is made up of minute fractions -- the little soon forgotten charities of a kiss or smile, a kind look, a heartfelt compliment, and the countless infinitesimal of pleasurable and genial feeling."
They have come to me today...those that she has helped...those that she has listened to...those that she has encouraged...asking how they can help...how they can be of service. These are the human qualities that I celebrate. This is what makes impermanence bearable. It is the small things that we do to improve the human condition, day in and day out, that tie us to the infinite good that lies at the heart of humanity.
"The happiness of life is made up of minute fractions -- the little soon forgotten charities of a kiss or smile, a kind look, a heartfelt compliment, and the countless infinitesimal of pleasurable and genial feeling."
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
The End Doesn't Have to Be The End
"When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world." Poet Mary Oliver from When Death Comes
How much of my time, attention, energy and resources is spent on things that are impermanent? More than I really want to admit. I recently watched a short video clip of Simon Sinek's from 2007:
http://www.captureyourflag.com/interview-library/how-to-set-life-goals-to-leave-a-personal-legacy-to-society.html
If I account for my age as a count down to zero, using standard life expectancy, I'm in my early twenties. When I think about how driven I was to discover my WHY in my twenties, I realize that I have become complacent, comparatively speaking. The good news is that I also have a good deal more knowledge and experience under my belt and, if I choose to, I can really make the next twenty something years count in a way that wasn't possible when I was twenty something. If I work smart and focus on service to others and on being the kind of leader who empowers and celebrates others. In truth, I am looking forward with anticipation to this part of my journey. There is comfort in knowing that life goes on, even as the count down continues. The imperative is not to leave my mark, but to pay it forward and to provide, where possible the step up that others may need in finding their voice and impacting their world in positive ways. It is a bright and inviting future that leads to the end!
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world." Poet Mary Oliver from When Death Comes
How much of my time, attention, energy and resources is spent on things that are impermanent? More than I really want to admit. I recently watched a short video clip of Simon Sinek's from 2007:
http://www.captureyourflag.com/interview-library/how-to-set-life-goals-to-leave-a-personal-legacy-to-society.html
If I account for my age as a count down to zero, using standard life expectancy, I'm in my early twenties. When I think about how driven I was to discover my WHY in my twenties, I realize that I have become complacent, comparatively speaking. The good news is that I also have a good deal more knowledge and experience under my belt and, if I choose to, I can really make the next twenty something years count in a way that wasn't possible when I was twenty something. If I work smart and focus on service to others and on being the kind of leader who empowers and celebrates others. In truth, I am looking forward with anticipation to this part of my journey. There is comfort in knowing that life goes on, even as the count down continues. The imperative is not to leave my mark, but to pay it forward and to provide, where possible the step up that others may need in finding their voice and impacting their world in positive ways. It is a bright and inviting future that leads to the end!
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