Start there and work up
Plant something and maybe it will grow
Sit down
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Nature - and work - are the sum of many parts
Lessons learned from the garden:
If you took every beautiful and distinct flower in your garden, and tried to turn them all into one multipurpose flower, it would be the color of mud. And probably a pretty weird, not too attractive shape.
On the other hand, a bouquet of flowers combines the unique colors and shapes of each, leveraging their distinction. Maybe one stands out, maybe none stand out; and the beauty is achieved through the subtle strengths of each that just wouldn't be the same on their own.
Work is like that, too.
I've been struggling for a while with a workplace that is increasingly cookie cutter. By plugging units into self-determined slots (required by the corporate mother board), we have become manufactured chips intended to perform designated functions. The function is king! But individual distinction, experience and value is too time consuming to figure into the human resource equation.
What an organization gains with this approach is consistency, and perhaps scalability. What an organization loses is sight of the fact that businesses are organic entities; driven by creativity and distinction, not always able to be captured within the 20 minutes alotted to it or the 6 slide powerpoint meant to express it.
I know that I am not alone in this observation; there's a great corporate world out there that thrives on the comfortable and consistent tools of consultants that endeavor to bring to businesses something that feels like logic. And perhaps in some cases they do bring that logic. But increasingly in the world we now inhabit, logic is no longer linear, and businesses do not grow because we followed steps 1-10 in the manual. We do not all look alike, sound alike, and meet metrics in the same way. And companies that make great leaps do so these days in an entrepreneurial, organic, and somewhat circular way .. or perhaps not at all.
I'm not a youngster at this game. You might think I'd be more comfortable with the tried and true methods taught to me in B-school; and not embrace the somewhat bewildering (but also exciting) frontier of this generation's business practices. But I've seen firsthand the impact of companies and businesses that work by pigeonholing their talent into predetermined boxes that all look alike; and the result is this:
You get yourself a mud-colored flower.
Despite the work and time needed to create it, I prefer the bouquet.
If you took every beautiful and distinct flower in your garden, and tried to turn them all into one multipurpose flower, it would be the color of mud. And probably a pretty weird, not too attractive shape.
On the other hand, a bouquet of flowers combines the unique colors and shapes of each, leveraging their distinction. Maybe one stands out, maybe none stand out; and the beauty is achieved through the subtle strengths of each that just wouldn't be the same on their own.
Work is like that, too.
I've been struggling for a while with a workplace that is increasingly cookie cutter. By plugging units into self-determined slots (required by the corporate mother board), we have become manufactured chips intended to perform designated functions. The function is king! But individual distinction, experience and value is too time consuming to figure into the human resource equation.
What an organization gains with this approach is consistency, and perhaps scalability. What an organization loses is sight of the fact that businesses are organic entities; driven by creativity and distinction, not always able to be captured within the 20 minutes alotted to it or the 6 slide powerpoint meant to express it.
I know that I am not alone in this observation; there's a great corporate world out there that thrives on the comfortable and consistent tools of consultants that endeavor to bring to businesses something that feels like logic. And perhaps in some cases they do bring that logic. But increasingly in the world we now inhabit, logic is no longer linear, and businesses do not grow because we followed steps 1-10 in the manual. We do not all look alike, sound alike, and meet metrics in the same way. And companies that make great leaps do so these days in an entrepreneurial, organic, and somewhat circular way .. or perhaps not at all.
I'm not a youngster at this game. You might think I'd be more comfortable with the tried and true methods taught to me in B-school; and not embrace the somewhat bewildering (but also exciting) frontier of this generation's business practices. But I've seen firsthand the impact of companies and businesses that work by pigeonholing their talent into predetermined boxes that all look alike; and the result is this:
You get yourself a mud-colored flower.
Despite the work and time needed to create it, I prefer the bouquet.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
I can picture it
In the process of closing up my 98 year old aunt's apartment (she's going to a nursing home), I came across a dusty bag of old photos. Old cracked albums and loose pictures, frames falling apart at the corners. This week I dedicated myself to sorting through all the photos and creating a brand new, very full album for her.
Along the way, my mental picture of Aunt Helen began to change.
She was born in 1911; at a time when fashions were changing, but women weren't so far away from long skirts and piled up hair. Children were very serious for photos then; little staged portraits in their Sunday best. But the really interesting stuff began later. Growing up in New England, even in farm country, education was highly prized and Helen and her sister were both educated. They went on from high school to get teaching degrees.
In 1931, her photos show a shy, dark haired girl at the age of 20 visiting a Yale football game, and wearing her best lace dress on campus. My favorites, though, are a group of shots from 1938, when she and her friends travelled to Gloucester for the summers to waitress and make money during the school breaks. 27 - bathing beauties, boyfriends, cars. These girls are laughing, joking, and smiling, mugging for the camera; and there's my aunt, young and carefree, a beauty herself. She looks straight into the camera with the confidence and directness of a young teacher who is out on her own, supporting herself, and looking forward to an exciting life ahead.
You can see her fiance Ken in some of the photos. Alone or in groups, Ken had super model quality good looks, and was clearly smitten with Aunt Helen. We kids never really heard what happened to Ken, but the rumor is that he died in an accident before they could marry, and she remained a single lady for the rest of her life.
You can see the summer sun in these photos, the carefree unclouded aspect of the beginning of adult life for Helen. It's a picture of her that I never had, and as I care for her now that her world is shrinking into very small rooms and very few pursuits, it makes me feel melancholy.
It is impossible not to consider the passage of time when looking at these photos. We see ourselves forever young; and that stage of life and hopefulness defines that vision for a long, long time before accumulated pressures of time and the world's expectations erode it. All those you meet see you only as an old woman; with no frame of reference that includes your younger self, buried deep within.
There's another picture that I really treasure of Aunt Helen. From 1964, she is on a sailing boat on Block Island Sound, with a scarf in her hair, sunglasses on, and her (ever-present even now) silver bracelets shining on her tanned arms. At first glance, it's classic Jackie O. look; maybe a bit Ann Bancroft a la Mrs. Robinson fame. Either way, it's a breathtaking statement of the times and a lady that absorbed her earlier tragedies and moved on, working hard to establish a life, a livelihood and a set of friends (teachers, travellers, ocean lovers like herself) that would be fulfilling. Intrepid. She would have been 53 then; one year older than I am now. Still beautiful in a different way.
As the baby of the family, I've always been a bit selfish - it makes me a poor and unnatural caregiver. But I am caught, again and again, when my first impulse is to be irritated by these demands, by the mystery of how a life comes down to these few moments; and how much is unseen and unappreciated. People really are not one dimensional.
To see Helen's memories is to know where her sadness comes from, why her vanities (that may seem small to me) are so consuming to her; and maybe a little, what she sees in her mind's eye when she looks at herself.
I know I will be there someday, am heading there inexorably myself. What will people see when they look at me?
Along the way, my mental picture of Aunt Helen began to change.
She was born in 1911; at a time when fashions were changing, but women weren't so far away from long skirts and piled up hair. Children were very serious for photos then; little staged portraits in their Sunday best. But the really interesting stuff began later. Growing up in New England, even in farm country, education was highly prized and Helen and her sister were both educated. They went on from high school to get teaching degrees.
In 1931, her photos show a shy, dark haired girl at the age of 20 visiting a Yale football game, and wearing her best lace dress on campus. My favorites, though, are a group of shots from 1938, when she and her friends travelled to Gloucester for the summers to waitress and make money during the school breaks. 27 - bathing beauties, boyfriends, cars. These girls are laughing, joking, and smiling, mugging for the camera; and there's my aunt, young and carefree, a beauty herself. She looks straight into the camera with the confidence and directness of a young teacher who is out on her own, supporting herself, and looking forward to an exciting life ahead.
You can see her fiance Ken in some of the photos. Alone or in groups, Ken had super model quality good looks, and was clearly smitten with Aunt Helen. We kids never really heard what happened to Ken, but the rumor is that he died in an accident before they could marry, and she remained a single lady for the rest of her life.
You can see the summer sun in these photos, the carefree unclouded aspect of the beginning of adult life for Helen. It's a picture of her that I never had, and as I care for her now that her world is shrinking into very small rooms and very few pursuits, it makes me feel melancholy.
It is impossible not to consider the passage of time when looking at these photos. We see ourselves forever young; and that stage of life and hopefulness defines that vision for a long, long time before accumulated pressures of time and the world's expectations erode it. All those you meet see you only as an old woman; with no frame of reference that includes your younger self, buried deep within.
There's another picture that I really treasure of Aunt Helen. From 1964, she is on a sailing boat on Block Island Sound, with a scarf in her hair, sunglasses on, and her (ever-present even now) silver bracelets shining on her tanned arms. At first glance, it's classic Jackie O. look; maybe a bit Ann Bancroft a la Mrs. Robinson fame. Either way, it's a breathtaking statement of the times and a lady that absorbed her earlier tragedies and moved on, working hard to establish a life, a livelihood and a set of friends (teachers, travellers, ocean lovers like herself) that would be fulfilling. Intrepid. She would have been 53 then; one year older than I am now. Still beautiful in a different way.
As the baby of the family, I've always been a bit selfish - it makes me a poor and unnatural caregiver. But I am caught, again and again, when my first impulse is to be irritated by these demands, by the mystery of how a life comes down to these few moments; and how much is unseen and unappreciated. People really are not one dimensional.
To see Helen's memories is to know where her sadness comes from, why her vanities (that may seem small to me) are so consuming to her; and maybe a little, what she sees in her mind's eye when she looks at herself.
I know I will be there someday, am heading there inexorably myself. What will people see when they look at me?
Now it's summertime
We are coming into the fruitful time of summer. Plenty of flowers for the table, at close hand in the colorful garden. Too many weeds, but among them are garden vegetables ready to be eaten; and the farm stands are in full swing. There are still only 24 hurs in a day, and it's not nearly enough, but it is possible the pace may slow for just a little bit. I'm very ready to appreciate the dao of now. We had my brother stay this weekend, and made it a weekend of feasts with fresh herbs in our (best I've ever made) spaghetti sauce, and fresh vegetables of all kinds to go with the incredible steak dinner last night. Nice.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
There's a keeper for every flame
It seems to me that when I look back to remember the newsworthy events in the world as I grew up, they are inevitably framed by the presence of my father. He was, in my eyes, the watcher of the evening news on the television, and it was to him that I looked to find out if the news was world-changing.
I remember that when JFK was shot and died in the Dallas hospital, the television was on constantly for a week. We watched the news from Texas, we listened to the words of LBJ as he took the oath of office, we sat perfectly still, my two brothers and I, while Jackie Kennedy attended the funeral ceremony.
My father had tears in his eyes; something we saw occasionally, but not often. Mostly he was just very serious about news.
I remember the night Apollo 13 went around the moon as the world waited in heart-stopping silence (at least in our house) to find out if the astronauts would return alive. Again, the television was on all night. Dad looked tired the next day, but we all watched until the capsule was safe again, and the feeling of relief in the house at splash down was palpable.
These were times when some of the most dramatic news footage ever filmed was televised; and through it all, Dad's favorite voice, the voice of Walter Kronkite, reported faithfully into our little living room all that was terrible and moving in the world tonight.
I remember my father this way; that even though I was too young by far to understand what I was seeing, I was a part of the audience. And though I had no idea why, I can testify to the feelings that a generation had for each of those events.
To see my father cry for JFK stayed with me; but not more than my mother's cry of shock when she heard the news. It was exactly the same sound she made the night that her mother died. The phone call came, and the news was delivered, and she dropped the phone with the same cry. I will never forget the sound; it signaled that no death could ever be a surprise again.
Not sure where these ramblings lead, but to both of my parents, for different reasons, I give thanks. To live in a world unmoved by the events around us is to be truly isolated. I do think that they gave me that connection; and it is one that still takes me out of myself and my bubble; and brings me into the community with my fellows. It is a legacy worth holding on to.
I remember that when JFK was shot and died in the Dallas hospital, the television was on constantly for a week. We watched the news from Texas, we listened to the words of LBJ as he took the oath of office, we sat perfectly still, my two brothers and I, while Jackie Kennedy attended the funeral ceremony.
My father had tears in his eyes; something we saw occasionally, but not often. Mostly he was just very serious about news.
I remember the night Apollo 13 went around the moon as the world waited in heart-stopping silence (at least in our house) to find out if the astronauts would return alive. Again, the television was on all night. Dad looked tired the next day, but we all watched until the capsule was safe again, and the feeling of relief in the house at splash down was palpable.
These were times when some of the most dramatic news footage ever filmed was televised; and through it all, Dad's favorite voice, the voice of Walter Kronkite, reported faithfully into our little living room all that was terrible and moving in the world tonight.
I remember my father this way; that even though I was too young by far to understand what I was seeing, I was a part of the audience. And though I had no idea why, I can testify to the feelings that a generation had for each of those events.
To see my father cry for JFK stayed with me; but not more than my mother's cry of shock when she heard the news. It was exactly the same sound she made the night that her mother died. The phone call came, and the news was delivered, and she dropped the phone with the same cry. I will never forget the sound; it signaled that no death could ever be a surprise again.
Not sure where these ramblings lead, but to both of my parents, for different reasons, I give thanks. To live in a world unmoved by the events around us is to be truly isolated. I do think that they gave me that connection; and it is one that still takes me out of myself and my bubble; and brings me into the community with my fellows. It is a legacy worth holding on to.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Valley
A person who loves hobbits once asked me why I moved back to the Western part of Massachusetts from the North Shore of Boston. (Actually, lots of people ask me that). I promised to explain, and incude here a photo that will at least partly supply that explanation.
The Valley is a place for an appreciation of river life, dairy farms and apple orchards, tobacco sheds and fields (although the tobacco world here in Pioneer Valley is shrinking now, it used to be a major crop), and viewing the autumn world from a mild mountain top, not too high, but just high enough for the air to be crystal and the view to be fine.
When you prefer life with a slower pace than in the city, but close enough to visit there if you have an adventurous soul; and are a book and conversation lover comfortable spending your winter afternoons in the rarified company of academics, it has appeal. Jenny Lind called it "Paradise". Residents are conscious and inclusive about their spirituality, and it is believed by some to be the site of a "spiritual vortex"; a kind of a magnet for spiritual pursuit and thought. Consider Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost - both long time residents of the area, and you'll get an idea what I mean.
We have witches in the hills, but don't make a big deal out of them. We grow folk singers, jazz, R&B, country, and "alternative music" by the bunches. (Street musicians are a specialty). Crafters at every church fair and county fair offer home made jewelry, quilts, clothing, artwork, wood working, candles, and you-name-it-we've tried it craft there is. In fact, we host an annual craft fair that's known throughout New England.
We love all kinds of food. Best barbecue, best sushi, best German/Polish food, best Italian, best hot dog. Ever.
We are more adventurous as a whole than hobbits. But have many characteristics in common. Like the Shire and like all river valleys, it can sometimes be an insular place, protected from the "outside world" and prone to forgetting that life is harder (or even exists) elsewhere. It is important, if you live here, to leave it once in a while so as not to fold in on yourself and lose your sense of the world. Sometimes, although surprisingly seldom, it can be boring. But you don't have to go far to find something interesting to look at. Maybe just the nearest mountain top.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Graciousness
from Webster's: from middle english and Anglo-French. Marked by kindness, courtesy, tact and delicacy. Characterized by charm, warmth and compassion.
Respect is from the Latin, looking back. Regard or esteem, consideration.
Respect is from the Latin, looking back. Regard or esteem, consideration.
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