Lesson on "I"

This is my favorite story that I heard in 2010. It involves a rabbi. In this case, a famous one. Hassidic leader, Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, last leader of the Chabad Lubivitchers. Rabbi Schneerson was a well known teacher, scholar and beloved by his community. Though at times controversial, there was no question his people adored him with reverence and deep respect.

One day Rabbi Schneerson got a letter from a man who wrote. “I must see the rabbi. I need the rabbi’s help. I am deeply depressed. I can hardly go on. I pray and am not fulfilled. I am not moved. I feel no satisfaction. I need the rabbi’s help.”

The Rabbi, who used to be in publishing, did nothing nor offered any opinion or commentary, save for one simple action. He sent the letter back, and circled the first word in each sentence in red. The lesson was clear. You live a life of misery because you are focused on yourself.

There is an old Talmudic saying, "Another's physical needs are my spiritual obligations." In this season of joy and light this may be the most worthy of considerations.

What You Notice

Recently I returned from running a two week retreat in Kenya (www.davidbaum.com/workshops-kenya.html). The focus was a cross-cultural experience of community service, wildlife and personal rejuvenation. Though I have been to Kenya a number of times, each time I am filled with wonder and amazement. This workshop in particular seemed to be one special moment after the next. It was a great time for all.

One of the highlights of our retreat was the opportunity for each person to spend a day walking the Mara with a Maasai warrior. Imagine being alone on the savannah, with a traditionally armed and clothed guide as your protection. Your time is spent in leisurely travel, engaged in deep conversation and laughter. There is nothing but a great expanse of land and sky in front of you, and the only sounds you hear are the ringing of occasional cow bells from wandering herds.

One of the participants though had a bit of a start. During her walk she and her warrior came across a dead black cobra (a live encounter is very rare and very unlikely). It is after all Africa. Understandably she got a bit freaked out. She kept asking her guide, "Is it dead? Are you sure?" Though her eyes told her one thing, her fear was proving hard to convince. After repeatedly poking the unmoving cobra's body with his spear to reassure her, he then strongly advised, "Kate (not her real name). You must be more concerned with what is living than what is dead." In that one moment, her back home mental struggles instantly shifted, and she learned an important lesson.

Too much of our time is spent focused on what is not working, no longer alive or has little vitality. We have become addicted to the negative, fueled by feelings of fear, doubt and an almost pathological attention to frenzy. In essence, dead cobras are everywhere. A quick check of today's news or blogsphere will validate this. It is all about the negative. The question is, what can we do about it?

There is a Maasai proverb that says, "Home is not far away when you are alive." If you want to feel more at "home" in your work and relationships, then do as the Maasai advise. Focus your gaze on what has life, not death. This is where you place your energy, this is where you choose to move. Look for that in your inner nature and outer world (organizations, families, marriages, communities) which is working or holds vitality. Then when you are aware of something different, based in fear or doubt, walk away. Because usually the only harm it can do is in your mind.

The Power of "Yet"

I've had the great delight to spend some time with LA based jazz composer Larry Karush. Larry is a deep thinker, passionate in his music and extraordinary in his abilities. He said something quite remarkable the other night.

"I compose songs that I can't yet physically play," he quietly remarked. Imagine that. He doesn't write what he can play. He writes what he can't play. Then he figures out how to perform with his hands what he first envisioned in his mind. In some ways this is the role of the artist...to see a world not yet possible, and then figure out how to do it.

In my own coaching work, one word can help move a client into a more optimistic mindset. It's the word "Yet". Put "yet" at the end of any statement and it immediately turns a negative point of view into one of hopefulness, of something more.

"I don't speak Spanish." "I don't speak Spanish yet."

"I can't run a marathon." "I can't run a marathon yet."

"I'm not happy in my life." "I'm not happy in my life yet."

"Yet" is the language of possibility. It directs the mind towards a future fulfillment when we are stuck in the limiting present. Impossible things happen all the time, but to do so demands a more active approach in the way we think. It requires, as Larry Karush exemplified, a belief in one's ability to figure it out. What can then follow is a new and never before heard composition.

Leadership Calm

These days it seems a great deal of my time is spent helping clients deal with the stress of the events of the current world. Between speed and access of opinion, lack of differentiation between quantity and quality of information, dying civility, the dismal state of our media, political deadlock and oh yeah, something called the economy, too many are more frequently dealing with eruptions of crisis.

We have become a society where shrill has over-powered common sense and truth matters less than volume. The loudest voice seems to be the winning strategy, no matter what the message. It's tough not to behave in like fashion. The problem is this is a zero sum game. I react with intensity, more than matching the perceived threat, you come back at me, and we are off and running.

Where this sad state began is hard to tell, but what is clear is that it has become deeply ingrained in our cultural patterning and that is rarely good. Oh it's good for attention, power grabs and retaliation, but not good for a sustainable way of co-existing. I have been influenced by a Gallup survey of "Why we follow leaders" which found people positively respond to those who create frames of trust, hope, compassion and stability. This last one was a bit of a surprise, and as a consequence has me occasionally directing during challenging times, "Everyone please. Just calm the f**k down!"

I fly a lot. And sometimes I fly through really bad weather. As I hear the groans, gasps and prayers of those around me, I know that only one question matters to all of us in that moment, "Will it be OK?". I used to worry, holding onto my seat and muttering upward. But now I do one thing, and one thing only. I look for the flight attendants. If they seem relaxed, calmly checking their watch, sitting quietly without a care in the world, I relax...no matter what my cabin mates are screaming. If, however, the flight attendants look concerned, I get very worried. I take my lead from them.

Leaders are the flight attendants of their organization. They are almost always scrutinized by someone in every moment of every day...whether they want it or not. I am convinced that what people notice most, especially during perceived crisis is the response. The response is the cue that guides others on their fear or anger triggers. The response is the dial that either turns up or down the negative emotional temperature of others. It is the response, even more than the so-called "reality", that answers the question, "Will it be OK?"

As I told one president, who was complaining about the drama on his board, "Feelings are fine. Just don't be a co-producer of the play. Embers are everywhere. The mark of your leadership will be whether you fan them."

Letting Go the Demons

My years in elementary and junior high school were less than stellar. I flunked seventh grade (I am one of the few people I know who can say seventh grade was the worst two years of my life). But of all the teachers that had left their painful mark, by far and away my fifth grade teacher was the most traumatic. Her name was Miss Barr.

Built like a fire hydrant, with a helmet of black hair atop a mean and dour face, she was every fifth grade boy’s nightmare. My typical memory was of her verbally scolding and abusing me in front of the class. She'd repeat over and over that I would never amount to anything--that I was basically worthless. For the next four years she was right, until my parents sent me off to a private school that I credit with saving my life.

Thus it was with shock and surprise that twenty-five years later I found myself sitting in a natural foods restaurant at a table right behind her. She looked exactly the same, down to the sensible shoes, with only one difference—her hair helmet was now bright white.

“Look”, I whispered to my then wife, “It’s Miss Barr!”

It was as if the very mention of her name would summon the devil. My voice had the timber of an eleven-year old, understandable because I was immediately transported back to a scared fifth grader in my old elementary school. And now, sitting behind me, was the unforgiving arch nemesis of my childhood. I immediately started to construct a passionate monologue in my mind. I leaned over to my wife and hissed, “There’s an old Klingon expression, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold.’ Paybacks a bitch baby!”

I was going to go over, look her in the face and say, “Miss Barr. You said I would never amount to anything. But I now have a Ph.D., a successful business and am making ten times what you make. You were wrong then, and I can only pray you have not done terrible damage to the many young children who have crossed your path.” Oh, this was going to be good.

Just to be on the safe side however, and more than a bit curious, I proceeded to prepare myself by eavesdropping on her conversation. Who knows, I thought, in a moment of sentimentality. Maybe I misjudged her. Maybe I should give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she is actually a sweet and lovely woman who I had miscast through the fragile perspective of an eleven-year-old psyche.

What I heard instead confirmed I was completely correct. As I eavesdropped, Miss Barr spent the next fifteen minutes engaged in some of the most vicious gossip mongering I have ever heard. She was mean-spirited, vindictive and downright nasty. OK I thought. My feelings are quite justified. This woman is a vampire.

Disregarding the desperately pleading eyes of my wife, I summoned my strength and decided to step into my revenge. This was the moment of truth. I had waited thirty years for this and vengeance was mine, sayeth the Lord. I strode over to her table, looked her calmly in the face and said, “Excuse me. Miss Barr?”

Without hesitation, she squinted, looked up from her curried eggplant and chickpeas, and slowly and coldly announced, “David Howard Baum”.

Dear God. The woman had super human powers of memory too! There wasn’t a moment of hunting for recognition. Not a second! I immediately started to wilt, and found myself shrinking back into a fifth grade body. “Get a grip man!” I thought. “Pull yourself together.”

Not wanting to be thrown off my game plan, I started to launch into my prepared speech. I took a deep breath and readied myself for the attack. I was not eleven anymore, and she was going to know it. I steeled myself for the moment, steadied my breath and felt the rise of adrenaline in my veins. I wanted to be calm, but forceful, and no matter what I was committed to acting on my long suffering feelings.

Suddenly, just as I was to launch into my diatribe, the most amazing thing happened. I heard a voice deep inside of me. It was me, but it wasn’t me…I don’t know how else to explain it. The voice said, “Let it go”.

Immediately I felt a shift in my thinking and instead of seeing Miss Barr as a mean-spirited and vindictive autocrat, I instead saw a sad and troubled old woman, obviously retired by now, with only her gossip and memories to keep her warm.

I looked at Miss Barr and quietly spoke. “Miss Barr,” I began. “I just wanted to say that I have turned out quite well. I have a doctorate, my own business, and am in part who I am today because of you. I just wanted to stop and tell you that.” I didn’t lie, but I did give only a humane portion of the truth. After all, I thought, what ultimate good would it have done?

Did Miss Barr soften? Did we have a moment that connected us in a new and adult way? No, not so much. She stiffened, looked me coldly in the eye, and said, “I knew all you needed was a little prodding from your boyish laziness." She then looked away. I had been dismissed.

But when I left the restaurant, instead of feeling deflated or depressed, I instead felt ten feet tall. Somehow in the reshaping of my history with Miss Barr I had given myself something that no amount of anger and retribution could provide. I had given myself respect. Those three simple words, let it go, had banished forever the demons she had represented.

"Let it go" is rooted in the Buddhist philosophy of detachment, and means we do our very best in the effort. That regardless of what happens, we detach from the outcome. “For us there is only the trying", said Alfred Tennyson. "The rest is none of our business.”

In the end, what Miss Barr said or did, never really mattered. What mattered is what I choose to do with my memories of her. And for that I am grateful.

The Unconscious Court

I used to be a good tennis player. I came from a tennis playing family. Lessons started with a pro at eight, and then at twelve my father moved me to a local tennis legend named Dave Perchonock. Dave was a classic player, with stunningly beautiful strokes made for slow clay and wooden rackets. He was a surly man and he'd spend a lot of time grimacing and unhappily walking to the net to inform me of where my stroke was off. I was happy to oblige because being coached by Dave was considered an honor. Watching him hit a forehand, his shoes and socks covered in red dust, legs perfectly positioned, was a thing of beauty. Even at twelve I knew what perfect looked like, and Dave was perfect.

My father was quite different. He took up tennis later in life, having been a scratch golfer. Too much time away from the family, he said. One day he literally decided to give up golf and start playing tennis. I never saw him hit a golf ball, but as a tennis player he became a "high B", meaning he was good but not great. His public persona was like his stroke, understated and traditional.

In all ways and situations my father was loving and kind. I still remember the day I beat him for the very first time. I was about fourteen, and as I watched his backhand sail long I worried about what would come next. After all, I had never beaten him before. When we played, he played to win. "No gimme's", he'd say. But when I won he just beamed, offered his hand over the net, and simply said, "Nice match." I don't think I have ever received greater praise.

Growing up tennis was everything. Weekends were spent at the local club, hours of practice and endless matches. Monthly tournaments in the Middle States punctuated my routine, and as a junior I experienced a high level of success. Tennis became my identity. Professional players such as Billie Jean King and Rosemary Casals became family friends, staying with us on their travels. I lived, breathed and dreamed of tennis. My heroes played, my family played and life was often compared to the game. "Remember" my father would strongly advise. "Tennis is a lifetime sport", putting emphasis on the word lifetime. Baseball, football, basketball, hockey...all staples of a Philadelphia sports childhood were considered passing fads.

This all changed in one horrific day. While playing doubles with my father one afternoon in August, he suffered a massive heart attack and died in my arms. He was just forty-eight and I was sixteen. It was of course life changing. First, it set me on a course for which I am ultimately grateful. There is an appreciation I have of certain things that only a close view of death at an early age provides. Second, while a tragic event for sure, I didn't end up a tragedy, and I suppose that is most important.

After my father's funeral I actively chose to still play tennis. Family friends wanted me to keep playing, and so I did. But as time went by I found my energy for the game begin to wane. As I got older the pleasure of tennis seemed to disappear right from my pores. My temper got worse, punctuated with occasional smashed rackets caused by simmering anger. On the court I became like my old coach Dave Perchonock, surly and joyless. At the age of forty-seven I gave up the game completely, weary and disgusted. That was seven years ago. The reason I rationalized was the game was just too frustrating. All I could remember were the faded glory shots of my youth.

A few weeks ago a series of incidents started to get me back on a court. First, a close friend spoke passionately about Andre Agassi's new autobiography, "Open". Said I would love it. Well, I thought, I really don't do tennis anymore. But then I found myself in an airport and needing a book and there it was, staring me in the face. Looked interesting, what the hell. As I started to read about the names and matches I knew so well from my past, I suddenly became...curious. Then away on a weeks vacation, another friend, who was a great player, asked me to hit. "Use to", I said. "But I really don't enjoy it anymore", explaining a bit of my history. "Do you think," she innocently probed, "that it has anything to do with your father's death?"

A trashcan-lid-sized-penny suddenly dropped. Oh my God. I gave up tennis just as I approached the age my father was when he died on a court! How could I have missed this obvious connection? It was so clear. She then coaxed me onto a court for the first time in seven years. I was quite nervous and my legs more than a bit shaky. But I was feeling something I hadn't felt in many decades...excitement. As I started to hit, the old muscle memory began to respond. I wasn't too bad after such a long layoff and strangely it felt good. Tennis equipment had come a long way in a decade since I had bought my racquets, and I was amazed at how I was literally crushing my backhand. I laughed and joked and had such a great time we planned to play again the next day.

When I got home, I immediately started hitting with a local pro I'd worked with before. Now I can't wait to get on a court. I'm energetic, and calm, and fascinated with where this new discovery will take me. No longer upset at missed balls, my new mantra has become "Next!" As Andre Agassi writes in his autobiography, "Control what you can control". The rest seems to be none of my business. This new attitude has made tennis nothing less than pure joy. I'm hitting very well (given the layoff), and on the court there is a passion and grace I've never had. My pro says there is a smoothness to certain strokes that are new to me. And most importantly, it is now only a game. Whatever demons hung over me since I was sixteen, seem to be long gone.

I have a Ph.D. in psychology, which apparently is useless when looking in a mirror. That I could not have seen this reason for leaving the game is astounding to me. But then again, that is the nature of the unconscious. If I could see it, I suppose, it wouldn't be unconscious. Suddenly aware, I now feel blessed, grateful for the events that conspired to awaken me from my past. This awakening has reinvigorated a passion of something I once loved so much.

I am left this morning with a small interior voice. It wonders how many other parts of my past unconsciously still effect my life, silently waiting for me at the net, hand stretched out, broadly smiling, and ready to say, "Nice match".

The Price of Inaction

Mary was a partner at the actuarial consulting firm, Arthur Anderson where she was a rising star. To meet Mary is to love her--fiery, funny, with an easy laugh and very smart. Mary was in charge of a team asked to bid on an account for the micro-brewer, Sam Adams. Given a variety of factors, Mary and her team were long shots at best.

She decided she had nothing to lose, and so came up with a creative approach. First she got the Anderson proposal to exactly 24 pages. The proposal was then separated into single pages and each page was rolled and placed into a clean and empty Sam Adams bottle. The bottles were then placed into a Sam Adams case. At the pitch meeting, every member of the Sam Adams team got a case, each with a copy of the proposal, one page per bottle. They were highly impressed knowing Mary really understood their unique and different culture. The presentation was a huge hit. She got the project, and Arthur Anderson got a new client.

However, when she returned with the good news, a senior partner dismissively sniffed, "That's not the Anderson way."

Mary told me she knew in that moment, she was in the wrong place. She then did what very few partners at Anderson have ever done. She chose her soul over security. She resigned.

Many times we think through the consequences of an action, but rarely do we consider the consequences of inaction--of not doing. If we are really listening, however, the message of stagnation can often be shaken loose it in one singular, flashing moment.

Consider where you have placed yourself--relationships, work, and friends--all of it. Now ask yourself, "Is the price I am paying from inaction larger than the risk of taking action?" Are you brave enough to act on a truth that probably already exists.

Today, by the way, Mary is a very successful company president. "Did I make the right decision?" she rhetorically asked me one afternoon. "Looking back on it. Damn straight!"

Mount Monadnock

I live in a beautiful part of the world. Southern New Hampshire boasts many natural treasures but arguably one of the finest is Mount or Grand Monadnock. Artists have painted it more times than there are feet in its elevation, and luminaries such as Thoreau and Emerson have written many essays about its power and inspiration. I see it almost every day when I am home, and it never ceases to inspire me nor make me feel that I live in the shadow of something great.

The term "Monadnock" has come to be used by American geologists to describe any isolated mountain formed from the relationship of a hard and soft rock. It is an Abenaki word of unknown meaning, though some say it translates to "She who stands alone", while others argue it just means "mountain". At 3,165 feet, Mount Monadnock is nearly 1,000 feet higher than any peak within 30 miles.

Between 1810 and 1820, local farmers, believing that wolves were living in the blow downs, twice set fire to the mountain. The conflagration raged for weeks, destroying the topsoil and denuding the mountain above 2,000 feet. It is still barren rock 1000 feet below its peak. Thankfully, there is not one shred of evidence that any wolf perished in the fires set. Most biologists think they simply slipped away at the first sign of smoke and never returned due to loss of habitat. However, many sheep, barns and even some homesteads were destroyed by the blaze. This is commonly known.

What is less known is this. In 1802 the first Merino sheep herd was introduced to Vermont, quickly making the New England sheep's inferior wool almost immediately worthless. In two sudden and disastrous price drops for New England sheep farmers, wool's price went from $5 a pound to $1.86 a pound, and a few years later from $1.82 a pound to zero. Each price drop was followed a few days later by the setting of each fire. The implication is clear. New England sheep farmers were angry and scared and not knowing what to do, they put their rage into a massive destructive act against nature and the unknown.

The artist Janet Bleicken, who painted a series on the fires of Monadnock, tells the story of sitting alone one day in a gallery of her work. A truck driver came in and quietly walked around the paintings, staring in silence, not knowing she was the artist whose work he was now seeing. As he left, with tears in his eyes, he passed Janet and muttered, "This is what we did in Detroit in 1967".

We live in uncertain times with an acceleration of anger that is faster than any I have ever witnessed. Between television and radio demagogues and the uncertainty of the economy, environment and our own security, it is too easy to get overwhelmed with dark feelings. The fast response is to fan the embers of fear and burn down our own home. We don’t know what to do, so instead we displace our anger on that which we don’t understand just as those early sheep farmers did in New Hampshire. We scream about immigrants, demonize Muslims, rage at those who are different than us and pitifully destroy our own environment.

This is not the answer. Instead, in this season of “peace on earth”, the response must be to turn one’s back on rage, walk away from the instigators and look for actions that creatively quiets the voices of fear and instead promotes the better angels of our nature.

A good start would be the following. First turn off your TV’s and radios, especially news and commentary. Then take a walk into the open air. Finally, consider this story. When Mother Teresa received her Nobel Prize, she was asked the question, “What can we do to promote world peace?” She replied, “Go home and love your family.”