the gift of dispatches from an unfinished journey

A few weeks ago I stumbled across an article in the New York Times sharing the story of Hanif Kureishi, a British writer who collapsed while on holiday in Rome on Boxing Day. He fell in such a way that he awoke paralyzed from the neck down, becoming as he has poignantly described, “divorced from myself.”

Since the first week of January he has been sharing his thoughts from his hospital bed, dictated to his loved ones who then dispatch it to Twitter and Substack.

It’s raw, vulnerable, profound, at times profane and painful to take in as he describes a reality and predicaments that the word hard doesn’t begin to do justice to describe. It’s also humorous at times. It’s all together captivating.

His writing has made me look at my life differently. To notice the gifts I have of doing simple things he speaks about missing - perusing my own bookshelves, writing words for myself, having command over my own hands, walking up the front path of home to sit and relax on my own couch.

It’s a wild privilege to be reading something written with such clarity - of voice, perspective, the writing itself - from the middle of tragedy in which the writer is the protagonist and the narrator. When the other side is so clearly uncertain, without the benefit of perspective that comes from writing with the gift of hindsight, knowing that the thing has been survived.

So many of us write from the meaning making, ‘here’s the lesson,’ place. I know it’s a place I always want to get to when the unexpected or undesired happens. The place where I alchemize something from pain and hearthurt into something useful, for myself and hopefully for others. The “I wish it had never happened yet look at how I’ve grown,” place. As if life can always be neatly wrapped up into tidy, sensical packages.

Maybe other writers have the capacity to drop themselves into moments of long ago and speak with aching honesty about what was viscerally happening in that moment. I’m aware that no matter how honest I wish to be, I edit as I write, or speak, if only by which details I reach for to include, or choose to leave out. By the desire, at times, to make use of an experience, to feel a sense of growth or purpose to stuff I’ve struggled with. I think this is human. This impulse to make sense of the nonsensical, assign meaning to the difficult events that have happened.

It’s such a gift to read Hanif’s writing. From the middle, as he’s in the experience. It’s aching, brutal, real, hopeful. It’s brought me, with each dispatch, more into the present moment than anything I’ve read in a very long time.

I don’t have a tidy conclusion to share.  I’m laughing at myself for the impulse to find one, given what I’m reflecting on. For now, I just have thoughts expressed with awe and gratitude. And an internal nudge to express more from the place where I’m still in it and figuring it out. I realize that I will always be figuring it out.

Photo by Kent Tupas on Unsplash

recreating the benefits of a commute when you work from home

While there are many benefits of working from home, I’ve also noticed a common pattern with my clients since the mass shift to remote work - a greater struggle to unplug at the end of the day, and with time, higher levels of exhaustion and in some, burnout.

Why? In my experience, it isn’t just in my clients who feel compelled to work all the time through internal drive or to comply with the pressures of a demanding work culture. It’s also with those who try to put work away at the end of the day. In working with multiple clients, I noticed a pattern and in it a shared trait - even when they stopped working, they kept thinking about work. 

Pre-Pandemic, most folks had a commute. Whether it was 10 minutes or 90+, a walk, a bike ride, a drive or time spent on trains, buses, boats, the act of getting ready to depart, traveling, and walking in the door did more than just transport folks from home to work, and work to home. The journey itself became a signal to their bodies and brains to transition out of work. Without the journey, many of my clients struggled to mentally disengage.

How to recreate the benefits of a commute while working from home? 

Many of my clients have found it helpful to create an end of day ritual that helps them mentally shift out of work. It facilitates rest as well as help prepare them for caretaking roles that await many at home, enabling them to be more present and so less stressed.

I think of it a bit like the routines my kids engage in before bed. The act of preparing to go to bed - put on pajamas, brush teeth, read a book, lights out, listen to music - helps to signal to their bodies to prepare to rest so that when they’re in bed, they’re calmer and more ready to fall sleep. My bedtime ritual, because it is repetitive, does the same for me. It’s an unconscious signal to my systems to begin to wind down for the night. 

What does a ritual look like?

There is no right way to design an end of work ritual. It can be as short as five minutes. The most important thing is to make it consistent.

In my experience, an impactful end of day ritual incorporates the following three steps:

1. Brain Dump Take a minute to down any uncompleted tasks that you don’t want to forget - take these out of your brain and capture them in your favorite system (paper, app, voice note, etc) so that you know they have been recorded and you can return to them. 

2. Power Down and Close Out Close your laptop or power down your desktop. Physically put the tools of work out of sight. If you’re lucky enough to have a designated office, close the door. If you work in another living space, put your tools away in a designated place that’s out of sight. 

3. A transition ritual that works for YOU If stepping outside your office puts you directly into a different role, such as parenting, your ritual may need to be one you can do from your office. Some five minute rituals you can do without leaving your chair: 

• Cup of tea – brew fresh or pour it from a thermos.  Hold it, feeling the warmth in your hands and take a few deep breaths, all the way to your belly. Consider your day in review. Note of what went well and learnings you wish to carry forward. Allow yourself to create notes of anything that may continue to churn in your mind so you can mentally rest

• A few minutes of meditation or intentional breathing 

• A quick free write. Verbal vomit all the stress on the page

• Gratitude Write down three things that you feel grateful for

If you have a bit more time and space…

Go for a walk - I remember hearing about an author who worked out of the garage in her backyard. To begin her day, she would walk around the block to go to work, when she was done, she walked around the block the other way to return home - she created a commute because she didn’t have one. 

Play with your pet or take them on a walk – do this with intention. If it helps, set a timer for yourself where you let yourself just play and be present until it goes off.

Go Outside Simply going outside and standing for a few minutes can be restorative – the intentional shift, the paying attention to life outside of us. Listen for sounds. Breathe all the way to your belly and as you exhale, breathe out any tension or stress. 

Workout Whatever your favorite workout, imagine putting space between yourself and the stressors of work as you move your body.

The best end of day ritual is one you can and will do regularly, so that the act of engaging it signals to your body and mind that it’s time to shift.  If needed, start small and simple and add on. Even short transition rituals that are approached with intention can be incredibly helpful and powerful.

• What have you found to be helpful in making the transition from work to home? 

• What helps you discharge stress so you can be present for those you love, or fully able to relax? 

• What other rituals do you recommend?

Photo by kyler trautner on Unsplash

a no today is a yes tomorrow for something you’ll want more

One of my clients used to have a tendency to say yes to requests or make promises to do things - take on additional tasks or work, volunteer - reflexively. This habit led to a cycle of being over committed and worn out. Over time, she noticed she was resenting these commitments, and felt trapped by them. The habit prevented her from taking on additional paid work and clients she was excited about, or taking the breaks. It was keeping her from pending time with friends and family and engaging in activities that she found fun, restorative and brought her joy.

To help break the habit, I offered her the practice I’d first learned from my friend and fellow coach, Jim Fallon: wait 24 hours before saying yes to a new commitment. If, after 24 hours, the desire to do the work was strong and it felt good to say yes, go for it.

At first, the idea terrified her. We practiced ways of graciously delaying giving a response to requests. And when taking twenty-four hours helped her realize it wasn’t work she was interested in, we rehearsed saying no in a way that felt good to her.

There were far more nos than yeses, and a lot of time gained back. More importantly, what she said yes to she was excited to take on. She was choosing with intention. This simple practice of taking a relatively short break transformed how she spent her time and how she felt about how she was spending her time. 

How did it go with others? Expectedly, some people were disappointed. And in a beautiful surprise, there were people who thanked her for saying no. Some people she said no to later contacted her about other opportunities she wanted to do.

After about a month, she no longer needed a waiting period. She’d developed a better sense of what felt good to commit to, and far more ease in saying no as her fear of offending others eased. In that time, through reflection and additional work in coaching, she had gained greater clarity on her values as well as the ways she wished to grow, which helped her to decide which opportunities felt like a true yes.

We don’t always have choice in the work we do in our paid roles and we can’t just jettison the less enjoyable responsibilities that are a part of our work, yet the extras – work that isn’t part of our core responsibilities or offerings (if you’re an entrepreneur), volunteer work, additional projects, the shoulds you somewhere along the way begin to say YES to without thinking – what if there’s more choice than we’ve been conditioned to believe?

If you have a habit of reflexively saying yes, play with creating a waiting period for yourself before making new agreements. See what happens. If it’s scary, first try saying “no” to something or somewhere that feels lower risk. It can be helpful to start with smaller requests, or within relationships where you feel better about placing and holding additional boundaries. Then, work from there.

If you are excited about the idea yet aren’t sure how to make it work in your work and life, a coach can be a great support. I currently have a few spots open in my practice and would love to connect with you to see if we may be a good fit for each other. Please find a time that works for you here.

Or, sit with these questions and see what arises:

• What work (adjacent to your paid work or that volunteer) are you reflexively taking on that you wish to stop?

• What do you want to say YES to (different work, growth opportunities, space for play or rest) that you don’t have time for because you are struggling to say NO elsewhere? 

Photo by Alexandar Todov on Unsplash

on the gunnel

Lessons from fear and resistance and how to befriend them

I’m standing on the gunnel of the boat, so cold my arm hair is standing at attention, clutching onto the main mast to steady my shivering body so that I don’t fall in. The Maine sun is barely over the horizon on this mid-April morning. I’m in my bathing suit, trying to will myself to jump into water that’s about 50-degrees. 

Everyone else aboard has already done their morning dip, a daily ritual at Outward Bound in which you jump into water first thing before getting dressed for the day. I look at them and envy their layers of fleece and wool. I look back at the water. Part of me is craving washing off last night’s sleeping bag stickiness, stink and sweat, yet something in me won’t let me jump.  I want to do this, yet I can’t make myself move. 

“Just do it!” Someone yells behind me. Someone else laughs. My cheeks flush hot. I feel embarrassed that my mind can’t compel my body to move, that I’m not tougher, that my internal struggle is on view to everyone, fully shaking in the cold. 

“You can do this,” I whisper to myself. 

I lean forward …begin to let go… 

“Just jump!” I get startled and instinctively grasp on tight again. I look up to see two fishermen laughing. I become aware of how all of this must look – I’m in a bikini. They can probably see my goose bumps from where they’re anchored 50-feet away. I’m white-knuckle gripping, doing a weird dance – lean forward, pull back, lean forward, pull back, lean forward, pull back.

Reflexively, I yell back, “I’m trying!” 

‘Trying’ comes out ‘Try – yun’, sung with the southern drawl that creeps into my voice when my emotions are high, its I’m-not-from-around-here tone further exaggerated by my shivering voice. This makes everyone laugh, especially the fishermen. 

I feel hot tears well up. I blink them back, take a breath and jump. 

The cold water fills my ears and cools my eyes. My hair flies above my head. I taste salt. 

I bob back up to the surface, powerfully kick and push myself back into the boat in a single movement, out of the water as quickly as I plunged in. It felt like forever on the gunnel and just 15 seconds in the water, if that long. I’m shaking from cold or adrenaline. My fellow instructors and the fishermen laugh and cheer. I force myself to laugh along, even as I feel my cheeks flush hot, tears close as I dry off and hurriedly get dressed.

As many times as I did morning dip and encouraged my teenage Outward Bound students to do it with me, I always felt resistance and an inexplicable surge of fear right before jumping in. I hated this fear, judged myself for it, even when I was able to override it quickly.  I felt I had to be, or had to at least appear to be, fearless to be worthy of the role of Watch Officer, Outward Bound’s term for sailing captain. 

I’ve found there’s a specific type of embarrassment and sometimes shame that arises with struggling to do something that seems to be so easy for others. I’m no longer struggling on the gunnel daily, yet have plenty of on the gunnel struggles, whether or not anyone else can pick up on my internal trembles. In the same way morning dip was a required part of my work at Outward Bound, public speaking, and writing and sharing online are a part of my on the gunnel struggles today.

I still don’t let fear stop me, and I’ve also let go of the idea of being fearless.  I've realized fear helps me stay safe.  It’s often shown me the path to the next area of growth, the next area for expansion. Lack of fear when it’s warranted can lead to rash, dangerous decisions (fellow parents of young kids can likely relate to the dangers involved in an underdeveloped sense of fear…)

I also find it fascinating what doesn’t scare me.  I’ve been told that I’m brave by others for things that, for me, didn’t frighten me, even if they were growth experiences, like trans-oceanic voyaging or stepping in to mediate conflict within groups. Fear, I’ve realized, is universal in that we all experience it, and personal in that an experience which provokes fear in me is one my friend or colleague or that person I admire from afar does without thought, yet the inverse, that I can do with ease what scares them, is just as likely to be true. 

There’s a difference between fears that keep us safe and fear that keep us small. What has helped me to shift limiting, on the gunnel fear from being an obstacle to a welcome companion on my journey is turning toward the fear and welcoming it.

I say “hello” to it, as if it’s a visitor I’m excited to greet. 

Then, I get quiet, often with a pen in hand and a blank page in front of me, and I ask, 

• What are you here to show me? 

• What are you trying to keep me safe from? 

• What do you want me to know?

Then I listen for or write whatever thoughts come. 

The act of naming a fear and turning towards it as if it’s a friend helps it shift from feeling like an immovable obstacle to an entity that can be worked with, something I’m in relationship with.  I first learned this skill through a practice called Inner Relationship Focusing, a practice that has echoes and overlap in many different research backed practices. By naming the fear, sitting with it, writing as if I’m in dialog with it, I begin to see and feel into a path forward.  Instead of being caught in trembles that keep me fixed, unmoving, as if I’m back on the gunnel, I disentangle real risk from perceived risks.  

Working with fear in this way helps me to find a more easeful path forward, not without fear, yet with right-timed (think rumble strips on the side of the highway) and right-sized fear, no longer an obstacle, yet a helpful companion on my journey. 

• What are your on the gunnel fears? 

• What do you find easy to do that others view as brave?

• What might your fear be here to help you learn if you begin to befriend it? 

Photo by Ian Wagg on Unsplash

goodnight, owls

A few nights ago, my two-year-old hit one of those tired, exhausted places that all toddlers hit and dissolved into a fit of yelling and crying. She was over tired, over stimulated, needing sleep desperately yet fighting it with every bit of her. I tried all the things. Holding her, rocking and swaying, putting her down and staying close by while she kicked and yelled, trying to hold her, without success, again. I felt my exhaustion, felt myself fighting to stay grounded, and not mirror her emotions, trying internally to will her to calm, yet instead feeling myself wind up inside. Searching for any way to help her shift, I remembered her love of owls.

“Do you want to go and say good night to the owls?” 

She paused the kicking and crying and, still breathing short, rapid breaths, looked up at me. Nodding, she reached up, arms outstretched. 

I scooped her into my arms, wrapped her tightly in a blanket and walked her into the cool night air. Arms wrapped around my neck, her head nestled in, we stepped outside. I felt her relax. Only a few feet from the front door, we looked up at the night sky. I felt my feet on the ground, and breathed, letting it deepen, noticing how hers deepened in turn. 

 Forgetting her protest, she smiled, lifted her head and called out into the night, “Goodnight, owls!”

As we listened for them to reply she snuggled back in, her strong little body relaxing a bit more. I felt the cold on my skin, enjoyed the weight of her warmth. I breathed her in, held her tight and felt my body unwind 

 She rubbed her eyes and yawned, “it’s cold, Mama. I want to go in.” 

I carried her inside and placed her in bed, stretching the blanket over her. Within a few minutes she was asleep.

I sat with her, reflecting. I had spent thirty minutes fighting to calm her while both of us became increasingly wound up, her externally, me internally. By stepping outside, feeling the night air, taking deep breaths, we became calm in about three minutes. 

When I’m stressed it’s harder for me to lead, be creative, parent, to respond instead of react. Taking action to help my toddler served me too. Inviting her to say goodnight to the owls I invited myself to change my environment, breathe a bit deeper and be present, inviting calm. Sometimes small actions enable big shifts. 

Photo by Zdeněk Macháček on Unsplash

how to drop your sorry reflex

how to drop your sorry reflex

Learning to stop saying “I’m Sorry” and begin saying “Thank You” instead

Any parent has experienced it. The total, drop out exhausted, overstimulated toddler meltdown in public. The point where a little one just has to release in order to find the capacity to be quiet again.

I was on the flight home with my daughter after visiting my family for six days. Six days of nearly nonstop time with people that aren’t a part of my daughter’s daily routine. For anyone it would be a lot. For an eighteen month old with strong opinions of likes and dislikes yet limited capacity to communicate, it was a lot to take in. When she was done she was done. In her frustration and exhaustion she was melting down. 

Toddlers are remarkably strong. And then remarkably floppy, and when unhappy, deploy whichever form - rigid or floppy - that causes the most challenge for whomever is trying to keep their little bodies safe. My daughter flopped and rolled around on the floor. When I picked her up, she straightened her arms and pushed me away. Then she hit me, and immediately started crying harder, as if she regretted it, hugging me while she cried, before pushing me away again.

This wasn't being naughty, this was desperation on her part. She was saying “all done” while using baby sign language to sign the same, as if to emphasize the message. She wanted out and I wasn't helping her because I couldn't - we were stuck in our seat. I became the object of her frustration.

I held her, I let her be. I tried to calm her with shhhhhing sounds. I sang to her, trying all of her favorite songs. I played her favorite song on my phone and held it up for her to hear - she grabbed the phone and threw it. I rocked her. I put her down and let her roll around on the floor of the plane again, trying not to imagine what was down there, mentally noting to give her a bath when we got home. I picked her up and held her again. I patted her on the back.  I breathed slowly, intentionally, encouraging her to do the same, while internally part of me felt helpless.  

After twenty minutes of trying to comfort her, her movement eased and her crying slowed. She cried into my lap. Slowly, she released. I picked her up and held her tightly. She didn’t fight me. Whatever made her cry wasn't as strong as her exhaustion. She fell asleep on my chest. Hard. Like the infant she was a year before.

And oh, that moment. The pure, peaceful calm after the storm of emotions passed. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and held her tightly. Internally, I let go, so grateful that she was peaceful.

Once I trusted she was truly asleep, and once I felt a sense of calm, I looked at the woman seated next to me who had been patient throughout the chaos that the tantrum had at times spilled over into her space, and said,  “Thank you.”

During the tantrum she had smiled at me a few times, a gesture I interpreted as understanding, of being of quiet support while I was managing the tantrum and my own stress response towards it.  In response, she once again smiled at me. Thank you. 

It wasn't long ago that my first words would have been, “I’m so sorry,” and then I would have spilled out possible explanations or excuses for the disruptive behavior, likely peppered with additional apologies throughout. It wasn’t too long ago that I would have been preoccupied about the disturbance to my fellow passengers as all this was going on, even as I was caring for my child.  I would likely have apologized as she cried. I would have felt embarrassed. I would have felt stressed about the impact on others, and she would have picked up on my emotional state and that would have likely amplified her feelings of distress. I know I would have apologized to anyone within earshot after she fell asleep. Instead, the words of my daughter’s pediatrician were in my mind, a reminder I received after I reflexively apologized during an appointment when my daughter cried while the doctor was checking her ears for what turned out to be a painful ear infection:  "Never apologize for your child's behavior. It's age appropriate. It’s situationally appropriate. Don't apologize because there's nothing wrong with it.”

The doctor's gentle chiding reminded me of advice I'd received from a friend that I had been working hard to put into practice in all aspects of my life, advice I feel so many people in our culture, especially women, need to remember - a caution that we often say "I'm sorry" when we should say, "Thank You.”

Culturally, we often apologize for the things that are out of our control, like a toddler crying or even throwing a tantrum, or being absent from work because we’re ill. We apologize for asking for what others should want us to have: for someone's time who should want to willingly give it to us as it's in their best interest to help us be successful - a boss, a more senior colleague, a professor, our clients. We apologize for inconveniencing others, often routinely doing so, when we can avoid the action for which we apologize,  when we are free and capable to make other choices: for being late to dinner; for working on our smartphone when we should be present for the person across from us; for taking a call that can wait until after a meal or a meeting; for letting others take on a greater, unequal burden of shared responsibilities as we focus our attention elsewhere, to other tasks or work or pursuits.

There are situations for “I’m sorry,” when the phrase is needed, deserved, the necessary first step in creating healing where we’ve hurt another or a group of people, or to begin repairing damage to a relationship. “I’m sorry” is a powerful phrase when used appropriately. At the same time, I strongly believe that overuse and misuse of “I’m sorry” cheapens the value, and overtime, that erodes trust.  Apologizing when we could have avoided the action and resulting event, yet chose to take the offending action anyway, risks feeling insincere. Apologizing for asking for a boss’ time risks suggesting we feel like we don’t deserve it. Apologizing with strangers when it’s unwarranted, like apologizing for our children behaving like children, or for accidentally brushing into someone on a street corner when it causes no harm, makes us appear meek: it gives away our power.

If overusing “I’m sorry” feels familiar, I invite you to try saying thank you where you may be conditioned to reflexively say, I’m sorry.  Try it out. Play with it. Try substituting thank you for sorry when thank you is more appropriate. See how it feels, how you feel. Say “thank you for your patience,” or  “thank you for your time,” or “thank you for the feedback,” or “thank you for your understanding….”   “Thank you __________ …”

A few examples: 

Thank you for being patient when I was late to our meeting because I prioritized something else. 

Thank you for taking on my responsibilities in addition to yours when I was out sick - knowing you were there to help enabled me to rest and heal. 

Thank you for doing more than your fair share of the parenting tonight because I had a deadline to meet. 

Thank you for picking up the slack I dropped - I noticed and I'm grateful and I look forward to doing the same in return when you need extra help.

Thank you for keeping your door open - your input on the project you assigned me has helped me create a better product. 

Thank you for the feedback you gave me - it will make me better at what I do, which will make me a stronger member of this team. 

If you like this shift and yet you still occasionally catch yourself in old habits, be kind to yourself. Treat it as a practice and please show yourself the grace you would bestow upon another - we’re all learning, every day. Thank yourself for trying something new.

From me? Thank you for reading. 

mug up

The equipment to make coffee was the one luxury I took into the field when I made my living outdoors. With space so tight I would limit the number of clean underwear I allowed myself to bring, a coffee press felt like an incredible indulgence. Even if the boat, and my students, were noisy and chaotic, or the weather cold and raining, if I took the time to boil the water, pour it in over the grounds, let it sit long enough to steep, press the plunger and pour, then wait long enough for it to be cool enough to taste…ahhh, that first sip… I would feel myself settle.

For a few minutes, I would be still. Cold hands wrapped around a warm beverage, intentionally taking a moment for myself. For a few minutes, my awareness of the discomforts I willingly took on in this beautiful and adventurous work– no showers for days, living on dehydrated and shelf stable food, constantly being on alert for dangers and ‘on’ to pick up on student needs, lack of any private space or time for me - fell away. Even while overseeing twelve teenagers who were constantly vying for each other’s and my attention and approval, I could feel the quiet moment. Sometimes one quiet moment each day to sit and reflect made every challenge that would come my way a little easier to meet and manage with grace and calm.

Brewing a cup of coffee or tea still feels like a luxury, an invitation to slow down. At times, I grab my coffee and drink it on the go, yet when possible I try to sit with it and invoke the sense of indulgence and stillness that I used to feel with salty, weather worn fingers wrapped around a beat-up metal mug, to use it as a space to pause, breathe and reflect.

As I have begun writing again, relaunching this blog as a space to explore ideas and questions that come my way in my coaching, facilitation and culture work, entering a reflective place, stories and memories are returning to me that I haven’t thought about in years. These stories feel as relevant to the work I do today as an executive coach, leadership coach, facilitator, and writer as they did when I wore the titles of captain, sailor, Outward Bound instructor and trainer. These stories, even when not consciously at the top of my mind, are a part of me. Living these experiences influenced who I am, continue to shape my perspective and my values, and continue to influence how I chart my professional and personal path.  

There are so many lessons for me to learn (and sometime learn again) in reflecting upon life and learnings from outside of my current profession – those from the years I made my living sailing, teaching and traveling, as well as stories I’m currently fully immersed in – of parenting, friendship, community and of partnerships in work and life. At times, interspersed with interviews with leaders, discussions of books I wish to share, ideas of how to approach leadership and workplace challenges I’ve witnessed clients tackle and overcome, I’ll use this blog to tell stories. These narratives are my Mug Ups, a name and concept I borrow from The Hungry Ocean, with the intention of paying homage to its author, Captain Linda Greenlaw,* as her story, her collection of stories, impacted me at a pivotal point in my life. Mug Up is also a nod to the time that it takes to brew, experience and enjoy a cup of coffee, time to reflect and breathe, and learn from what I’m living each day, this time that often seems like a luxury yet is a necessity, especially for those who wish to lead with intention.

*Linda Greenlaw captained the sister ship to the Andrea Gail, the boat that went down in the storm of 1991 off the coast of New England, about which The Perfect Storm was written by Sebastian Junger. Greenlaw has been hailed as one of the best fishing captains alive today on the east coast, maybe the whole US, maybe the whole world. Not one of the best female fishing captain, but one of the best captains. Period. She didn’t say that, Junger did.

last thoughts on...

I found my mind wandering in a less than positive way today and was inspired to put on Last Thoughts on Woody Guthrie by Bob Dylan* as I remember loving it, learning of it from one of my first mentors when I first started working in outdoor ed, who described it as 'the nicest thing I've ever heard anyone say about anybody.'  All I wanted to do was sit and intently listen to the words. All I wanted to do after listening was read and read more, to consume information on this last day of Obama's presidency - the tributes, the reflections, the opinions from all sides, the facts as presented by different outlets, the stuff that I'm not sure where it falls. I feel a sense of mourning. I'm worried for what's next. I wanted to sit with my feelings of sadness and my worries, to sit with my thoughts. My little girl had other ideas.

As I sat on my kitchen floor, trying to listen to Dylan's prose coming out of the speaker on the counter, my daughter wanted to play. She toddler-ran to the adjacent living room, flopped on a blanket, then ran back to me and kissed me. Back to the living room, flop and laugh, back for a kiss. Over and over. I smiled, still trying to stay engaged with the recording. Then I giggled. Then I laughed and nothing else existed except what she and I were doing and that moment.

When she got distracted by another activity (eating peas, remnants of a snack she had forgotten about) and I stepped out of the moment, a thought crossed my mind  - what if something bad were to happen? What if there was accident and my life is cut short? How would I have liked to spend one of my last days with my little girl? With her. Present. Steeped in this joy.

Present is how I want to spend every moment.

There is, undoubtedly, a fight ahead, even for me, who reflexively moves to diffuse and deescalate tense situations, who prefers to listen more than talk, prefers to challenge by asking questions instead of publicly proclaiming my views. I'll fight for her if needed, when needed. I'll fight for the people I love, to keep them safe. Yet, to do what I was trying to do - to try to imagine and then steel myself for scenarios where I may need to fight; to intentionally ruminate and feel sad; to actively worry about what's to come and feel fearful...I've lived in those head spaces before and it doesn't help, it doesn't work, it doesn't generate positive change, it doesn't prepare me for what will happen in future moments. To sit in those head spaces only invites depression and anxiety, which helps no one. It doesn't help me act now or later. It doesn't serve my values.

I'm here in moments. I'm here to help. I'm here to speak when needed. I'm here to listen even more. I'm here to write and share when I feel moved. I'm here to take action.

I'm not here to dwell, I'm not here to cower.

This life, lived in moments, is too important. These moments are too important. This moment is too important. This moment is the only one in which I can help and speak and listen and write and share. This moment is the only one in which I can act. I need to stay in this moment.

P.S. I've been recording three things I'm grateful for each day since the beginning of January. My three gratitudes for today: democracy, freedom of speech, the indomitable joy of the toddler spirit

*I'm finding myself drawn to the music of artists who served as voices of conscience or protest or inspiration during other tumultuous times.  I'd love to hear about what others are listening to - please drop me a note on the Contact page.

nowhere but here.

Fifteen months ago I became a mom. My little one is my teacher as much as I am hers, reminding me of truths I’m sure I once knew. One of the ways she’s taught me is by being an emotional mirror - when I’m playful and happy she’s joyful, when I let myself get carried away by worries about the future, or sad thinking about the past, she will often reflect my emotions. She also picks up on when I've let my mind wander off someplace, and am mindlessly doing some household task. She’ll toddle over to me and I’ll feel her tiny, powerful fingers pinch my thigh, as if to say, ‘I’m right here, mama. Where else would you want to be?’

It was hard to always stay present this past year. It was a challenging year, as it was for many. At times I was desperately sleep deprived while managing professional and personal challenges that would have felt formidable with a fully rested brain and body. To be so tired and then have my internal state picked up and amplified by an infant felt crazy making. If I felt impatient and agitated, she was restless and sleepless; if I gave into emotion and cried, she wailed. Yet, it was also true for the opposite end of the emotional spectrum - when I smiled, she often smiled. If I slowed my breathing, cleared my head to focus on her and willed myself to feeling calm, no matter how I felt when I picked her up, and no matter how distressed she may have appeared, she would, in time, calm. As tired as I was in so many moments in the first half of this year, through the action of calming her and being present I was often able to shift how I was feeling. When I went onto whatever was next in my day or evening, I was mentally present and better prepared to do the next task.

I’ve since realized that this trick and personal parenting survival tool I stumbled upon is a form of meditation, a very short practice of mindfulness. The beneficial shift I felt while trying to calm my daughter has been studied and documented, and I’ve over the past few months I’ve added ten to fifteen minutes of mindfulness as a (almost) daily practice. 

I stress practice because that’s what I do - I practice being present, sometimes peacefully and sometimes while being pestered by the thoughts, ideas, memories and anxieties that seem unwilling to end the noisy party they’re throwing in my mind. Yet, even on the days when it’s been more party than peace, my mindfulness practice serves me. Outside of my formal mediation, I’m more mindful in accomplishing the goals of the day, and more grounded when faced with inevitable challenges, whether for work objectives, or in trying to understand the needs and wants of a strong willed toddler who doesn’t have many words yet.

Like many people, I have great hopes and big goals for 2017.  Also like many, I feel unfamiliar uneasiness and uncertainty when I look forward at the year to come. No matter the challenges that occur, whether opportunities or trials, I’ve been learning that the only moment I can affect is the one I’m currently in. Being and staying present is a choice. I don't always remember that it's a choice, yet I’m practicing, working to remember and to live it because it makes me better at all that I do. I've also noticed that I find more laughter each day.

So, when that small pain of my daughter’s pinch yanks me out of my head and into the present moment, I look down to that cheeky smile (or defiant expression) and, in gratitude, I pick her up for a hug. I want her to  know that no matter how easy and tempting it is to  worry about what's to come, or wonder about what-ifs from moments already past, I realize that there's nowhere else I should be, and nowhere I’d rather be, than where I am in this moment. ’Nowhere, baby girl,’ I let her know, ’I don't want to be anywhere but here.’

*For those who are looking into a mindfulness practice: There’s an app I’ve come to love as I continue to learn how to be present. It's great for beginners and the first ten sessions are free. I’ve found it helpful enough to become a subscriber.

A few books I've enjoyed this year and continue to learn from that touch on mindfulness and the power of being present:

The Power of Now which is as dense as it is interesting. I recommend small doses, and The Awakened Family, which touches upon elements of mindfulness in consciously parenting.

I’d love to hear about other book recommendations; please drop me a note in the contact form.

here's to failing publicly

I had coffee with a friend today & he said one of his goals this year is to fail publicly, not just privately. Failing privately is failing because of not executing the ideas, not trying, not putting the work out there. Failing publicly is putting the work out there and having it fall flat, or being criticized, or ridiculed. His desire to fail publicly resonated with me. I’ve been making notes of ideas, writing stories in my head and writing down parts of stories or essays with this medium in mind, yet I haven’t posted. I’ve been putting off the full execution until I have more time, until I have better clarity for why I’m writing a piece, until I figure out exactly where I’m going with this website, until there’s time to do better, more complete edits on my writing…basically, I’ve been making a lot of excuses.

While waiting for the right time and the opportunity to create the allusive and, if I’m honest with myself, nonexistent Perfect pieces, I’ve denied myself the opportunity to learn through doing, forgetting that not doing is also failure, and of the two types of failure, not doing is a worse failure than failing while trying.

So, here’s to failing publicly … to picking up my writing and storytelling again after too long a hiatus, to hoping that through the process of writing and posting I may fail publicly forward towards learning and deeper understanding, forward on this path wherever it leads.

how (not) to choose work

In spring 2005 I joined the crew of a 42-foot sailboat as it was departing the US for a round the world voyage. I met the boat and crew in Florida, and we aimed to arrive in Fiji within five months. Our journey required that we pass through the Panama Canal. Gaining passage through the canal requires payment, and the canal charges by the length of the vessel. At 42-feet long, we were far from the top of the list. Priority was given to the boats that commanded a higher fee, that were designed to take up the full 1050-foot long length of the canal locks. Small sailboats waited turn, hanging out in a marina misleadingly named The Panama Canal Yacht Club, right outside of Colon, Panama where guests were casually warned not to leave the guarded gates unless in a taxi, or risk being mugged and knifed. Its main draw was a restaurant where the burgers were tasty, the beer was cheap and cold, and the crawling insects outnumbered the paying clientele. It was a place to spend time because there was no place else to go.

During the three weeks we waited, I spent most of my free time walking the docks, looking at the boats and speaking with other waylaid sailors. Boats flew under the flags of many different countries. The occupants were families, retirees, bootstrap sailors finally embarking upon a deferred dream, paid crew working for wealthy, absent owners, big groups, single handlers, all. During the day they made busy with repairs, reading, helping each other diagnose this or that issue, or arguing about routes, recipes and best practices. Everyone was doing their best to make good use of the time and make friends, but were impatient to be given passage to move through.

A few weeks into our wait, while walking the docks, I came a cross a beautiful boat, unusual and striking enough to cause me to absentmindedly stop and stare. All wooden, meticulously maintained, the line drawn from bow to stern, where the water met the hull, seemed perfect.

There’s a reason boats are rarely called “it.” Boats have names. They are referred to with gendered pronouns (most often female), and are often lovingly taken care of. They are at once, home, work, means of transport, and refuge. For sailors, for anyone who takes the time to notice, whether or not they know anything of boats, the lines of a beautiful vessel invoke a visceral reaction. This boat did that to me; it made me stop and stare.

“You like her?”

A voice, thick with Catalan accent, came from the bow. Feeling a bit like I had gotten caught staring at someone else’s sweetheart, I must have turned red, but tried to recover. “Yeah. She’s beautiful.”

He invited me to step aboard, and I did. As he showed me around, every detail up close better than those glimpsed from the dock, we traded sailor basics—where are you coming from? Where are you going? How long have you been waiting to go through the canal? How long have you worked on boats? And more. He was a far more seasoned sailor than I, single-handling a boat over 60-feet long for an owner & employer he spoke of with affection as a good friend. In contrast, I was sailing along as a part of a dysfunctional crew of five on a seaworthy, yet ungraceful vessel. He had experienced multiple ocean crossings, while I anxiously anticipated my first. He represented so much of what I aspired to become at the time. As I was about to depart, I told him, “Thank you. She’s beautiful. This is the type of boat I want to work on one day.”

My new friend paused, then looked at me hard. In the same thick, Catalan accent he challenged me.

“No….no. You have it wrong. It is not the boat that is most important.” Confused, and a bit surprised by his change in tone, I listened.

“There are three things that matter in seeking, in choosing, work. First: people. Who do you work for? Who do you work with? This is what matters most. You could be on a beautiful boat, going some place incredible, but if you have a boss, or a captain, that makes your life miserable? If you are sailing for a captain who has bad judgment? Bad skills? This is a place you do not want to be. It won’t matter how beautiful the boat.”

He continued, “Second – second is the project. You have a good boss? Good crew? Great. Yet if you are stuck sailing places you have been, over and over….? If your role never changes, if nothing is challenging, nothing is new? You will be bored. When you are bored, you will not care how pretty the boat. You must be excited about the project, challenged by the project.

“Third…third is the boat. If you work with good people, and if you have a project that’s exciting to you, then as long as your boat is seaworthy, you will be happy and interested and enjoy what you do.”

He paused again, and then finished, “Do not choose a job because you think the boat is beautiful.”

***

Long after I left my sailing days behind, I still employ this three-step process in looking at work, and when I haven’t, I’ve made poor choices. Boats make the choice more clear-cut. On a boat, you can’t exit if things get messy, you can’t jump ship (yup – maritime roots on that overused phrase) in the middle of an ocean.

On choosing for people: Choosing a bad captain, or a bad crew, may not only make for an unhappy experience, it can be dangerous. Working in a company for an unethical boss, working alongside people who you don’t enjoy, having direct reports for whose work you are ultimately responsible, but who are found to be untrustworthy, are potentially dangerous as well. At the end of the day, our experiences and our reputation are our greatest assets. Like our physical safety, we should be cautious of putting them into the hands of unknown people too readily. And this is before considering whether or not they are people you enjoy or learn from; work is where we spend the majority of our time.

On choosing for the project: Does the day to day of the work make you excited? Are you learning knowledge or skills you can use in the future? Are you gaining experience that is valuable? Is it something you believe in? That you are proud to be a part of? If not, as my wise Catalan captain friend said, you will be bored. And it’s hard to do good work, work we are proud of, when we are bored.

On choosing for the boat: Boat can be replaced the organization you are joining. Like the boat, how these appear from the outside, is what matters least. Yes, it needs to float—have a working business model, be financially solvent, we all need to get paid to live – yet at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how impressive these seem if you don’t have the first two right.

The job that had led me to the mouth of the Panama Canal, where I met the Catalan captain: the boat was fine, the project was incredible–sailing around the world was a dream of mine, and then to get paid to do it?! I felt I had stumbled into something incredibly lucky. Yet the people I sailed with made it tough to enjoy. As a group we were a mess – different values, different communication styles, complete lack of trust and appointed leadership who insisted on power yet didn’t, wouldn’t, work to make the dysfunction better. I realized all of this one week into the journey and thought, “I should get off this boat,” but I had told everyone back home of my incredible, lucky, awesome adventure. I had given up another great opportunity for this one. I ignored my gut. I figured I could suck it up, tune it out, adapt.

I stuck with it, yet, I lived for time ashore. I grew to dread sailing, a lifelong love and passion, except when it was my turn to stand watch at night, when everyone else was asleep. When my contract was done and it was time to re-up, I declined. The opportunity wasn’t worth the day-to-day experience. In signing up I had neglected step one: work with people with shared values.

Without regrets, I flew home from Fiji and returned to Outward Bound, to work I believed in, to people who challenged me to be better at my work and made me believe I could do it, to a purpose I wanted to work hard for.

1. People, 2. Project 3. Boat. I’ve learned this lesson a few times. Yet, when I’ve gotten the order right? It’s been awesome. Work doesn’t feel like work, work is fun.

why the third mast

third mast: the backstory I worked as an Outward Bound instructor, sailing instructor and captain, for a number of years. At the time, all Outward Bound bases used Pulling Boats: old school, sparely rigged sailboats rigged with two masts.

Returning from expedition on a windless night, my boat was backlit by Boston, which is across the harbor from the island that served as my home base. As my students rowed, I was standing on the back deck, keeping watch for approaching boats and other obstacles. When added to the silhouette of the two-masted pulling boat with furled sails, my 6’1” profile made it appear as though the boat had three masts.

On the island, this boat that looked like an Outward Bound boat yet had three masts was causing confusion and debate amongst the Outward Bound instructors gathered ashore. When my boat got close enough for the group to realize that I was the third mast, there was a lot of laughter. The next morning when I stepped ashore, I was let in on the joke and dubbed Third Mast.

why I chose the name for my company

The metaphor. On traditional, big sailing vessels, the third mast is the mast that’s the furthest aft. It’s the shortest mast and the sail that it holds is the smallest and so generates the least power, least forward momentum, of the three. Yet, because of its position, it enables a vessel hold course when sailing close to the wind; it’s effectively a rudder sail. When it’s effectively employed, the boat reaches its destination more efficiently and feels more balanced. This is especially important when a boat is zigzagging to reach a destination upwind. To serve as a third mast describes the way I seek to coach, teach and lead - helping to keep course when it’s tough to keep, and ensuring that those I support, as well as those watching from afar, recognize that credit for the hard work and accomplishment does not rest with me.

It cracks me up. How many people get mistaken for a very tall, wooden pole that holds a sail? I’ve been given a few nicknames over time, and as a traveler, constantly meeting new people, the ones that make people smile, or better—laugh—that can disarm a stranger and help turn them into a friend? Those nicknames are gifts. Laugh with me.

why I write. I love stories: sea stories, travel stories; funny, tough, even sad stories; those memorable teaching stories, carefully retold by folks wise enough to risk being vulnerable so that others can make different, better, mistakes. Third Mast's blog is a place to record my stories and the lessons that I'm learning so that I remember them. Hopefully, through remembering, I'll avoid making some of the same errors (again).