Category: Thoughts

The Err of Bluster

The team is staring down a challenge.

Great opportunity lies ahead. But so do obstacles. Obstacles determined to keep this opportunity out of reach.

With the fog of adversity looming, a leader steps in front of the group and gives a fiery speech. The words energize the team. They overcome the odds and reach their goal.

Chances are, you’ve seen this situation unfold. Maybe you experienced it in real life. Or you saw it in a movie about sports or war.

It’s become the de facto playbook for wide scale leadership.

Bluster on. Rally the troops. Achieve victory.

It sounds good on paper. But that playbook has a fatal flaw.

Speak softly and carry a big stick.

If you weren’t nodding off in history class, you might remember that this quote comes from Teddy Roosevelt.

Roosevelt talked the talk. But he also walked the walk.

He made his name in the Spanish-American War, when he led his regiment — the Rough Riders — in a daring charge up a hill in Cuba. He often ventured out to the Dakota wilderness to hunt ferocious animals. And he treated the United States as a global power — even though it was yet to truly be one.

Roosevelt became the 26th President of the United States in 1901, when his predecessor was assassinated. And he instantly stood out. For in its 125 previous years, the U.S. had never quite seen a leader with his level of bluster.

Indeed, the three other presidents immortalized on Mount Rushmore with Roosevelt — George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and Abraham Lincoln — conducted themselves much differently.

Washington led the fledging Revolutionary Army to victory over the British. But he didn’t achieve this feat by charging at the enemy in broad daylight. Instead, he used a series of skirmishes and retreats to lure them into a trap.

One need only look at the most famous painting of Washington to understand that he was more about guile than bile. That painting shows him and his troops crossing a frigid river for a surprise attack.

As President, Washington maintained his understated style. Despite the divisiveness all around him in the early days of the nation, he refused to resort to bravado.

The same went for Jefferson. As President, he’s perhaps most famous for purchasing land from the French. All the bluster was reserved for Vice President Aaron Burr, who got into an infamous duel with Alexander Hamilton.

And Lincoln? He led the United States through a Civil War with candor and compassion. His most famous speech — The Gettysburg Address — was more solemn than boisterous.

Yet, Roosevelt blazed a different path. And in his stead, a new form of leadership emerged.

The blustering style was in to stay.

Bluster has had a long run. Nearly 125 years in the daylight, to be precise.

But now, the sun might be setting on it.

Indeed, as a global pandemic tears its way through humanity, the virus at its center punishes defiance. And yet, many leaders have felt compelled to bluster on.

One of these blustering leaders was Boris Johnson, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. As the virus ravaged nearby nations — first Italy, then Spain, then France — Johnson seemed convinced that those in the British Isles had nothing to worry about.

Johnson blustered on about the strength of those across the UK. He continued to shake hands. And he resisted initial calls for a national lockdown.

This behavior all seemed reckless. But Johnson was not one to bow down to an opponent. He preferred the familiarity of a rally-the-troops style — even if it put his nation on a collision course with disaster.

Then, Johnson caught the virus.

He carried on with his duties at first, albeit remotely. But his condition worsened. Soon, he ended up in an Intensive Care ward at a London hospital, his life in the balance.

Johnson pulled through, and ultimately recovered from the virus. But he emerged from the ordeal deeply humbled. His brush with death had seemingly convinced him that the virus couldn’t be scared away with bold talk.

Johnson’s messaging has since taken a more pragmatic tone. And his voice has seemed to carry more weight.

The situation in the UK has remained dire. But the nation has avoided calamity, even as others have dealt with surging caseloads.

Perhaps this is a coincidence. But I think not.

It shouldn’t have to come to this.

Leaders shouldn’t have to risk falling in the abyss to see the light.

For the truth lies in front of us. Bluster just doesn’t work.

Sure, bluster might seem tantalizingly shiny when times are good. But when the going gets tough, all that glitter is as good as lead paint.

It’s dangerous. Even fatal.

Yes, when uncertainty takes hold, when fear and doubt infest us, we don’t look for the loudest voice in the room. We look for the steadiest hand.

We choose a Lincoln over a Roosevelt. Every time.

And yet, those in power can’t help themselves. After all those years watching war movies and all those months on the campaign trail, their egos have deluded them.

Noise becomes their most trusted tool. Their only trusted tool. And in the teeth of a crisis, they just turn up the dial.

It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. A prophecy in the form of a doom cycle.

Crises are good for precious few things.

But a fresh start is one of them.

The global pandemic has forced us to part with life as we once knew it. It’s compelled us to sacrifice so much that we once considered essential, in the name of survival.

So, why should we cling to a warped notion of leadership? Why should we tolerate the err of bluster?

Now is the time to celebrate a new class of leader. A leader who speaks through actions, rather than a bullhorn. A leader who is more deliberate than forceful. A leader who embraces humility over hubris.

Such a leader might not bring an aura. Their story might not catch the eye of Hollywood script writers.

But they will be the one that we follow out of the darkness.

It’s on us to make sure we continue to follow them in the light as well. That we make it clear precisely what we will tolerate from our leadership — and what we won’t. That we snuff out bluster once and for all.

Our future depends on it. No more. No less.

The stakes are high. Let’s make sure we meet them.

The Rhythm of Connection

I had some time to kill.

I had checked out of my hotel room. But my flight home wouldn’t leave the gate for another eight hours or so.

Sure, I could drive around in my rental car, or do some sightseeing.

But this was Florida in June. And between the swampy air and the constant thunderstorms, that didn’t seem like a great idea.

So, I did what many Americans do when killing time. I headed to the nearest Starbucks.

Moments later, I was sitting in an armchair with an iced coffee in hand. I pulled out some reading I’d brought with me, but I didn’t get far.

The scene around me was too interesting.

There was the group of young women looking for a caffeine boost. They were still wearing the commemorative t-shirts from the concert they’d gone to the night before.

There were the couples in line. Some seemed confident. Others seemed tentative.

There were some people speaking Spanish, some speaking English, and some mixing the two.

These snippets of everyday life weren’t playing out on the streets of a bustling city. They were taking place at a coffee shop in a suburban shopping center.

It seemed so normal. And yet, it blew my mind.

If I had hopped in a time machine and left the palm lined boulevards of modern-day Florida, I could probably find a similar scene to what I witness in that Starbucks.

For cafes and tea parlors have existed in parts of the world for centuries.

At first these establishments existed for functional reasons. Years ago, it was no small feat to make an espresso or an exotic tea at home. So many people would venture out to whet their appetites.

But all this has changed in recent decades. The advent of coffee makers and refrigerators make it far easier to enjoy any type of drink without leaving our front doors.

And yet, cafes have remained popular.

This is not because of the beverages these venues offer, or even the service they provide.

It’s because of the connections they help forge.

Drinking is a social activity. As humans, we like to share the experience with others. To take our time enjoying the concoctions in our mugs. And to soak up the ambiance.

Legislators failed to account for this when they enacted Prohibition in 1919. The act was meant to ban alcohol in the United States. But a vibrant Speakeasy culture popped up in its stead.

Speakesies didn’t take off because of the bootleg liquor inside. Sure, the opportunity to drink illicit alcohol was intriguing, but it wasn’t the main attraction.

No, the Speakeasies became legendary thanks to the scene they provided. Like moths on a sultry evening, people would flock to the flame of social connection that flickered at these secretive locations.

The United States government had tried to put out this flame. To defang the source of so many gatherings. To form a quiet, reclusive society.

But those efforts proved fruitless. Social connection persevered.

Decades later, Howard Schultz made sure not to repeat the U.S. government’s mistake. Noting the street café scene of Italy, Schultz reimagined the company he helmed. He rebranded it as a third place — a location where people were encouraged to linger and connect.

The company he redefined? Starbucks.

And now, on a steamy morning in Florida, it was all coming full circle. I was seeing Schultz’s vision unfold.

You can observe a lot by watching.

This Yogi Berra quote is whimsical, to the point of sounding ridiculous.

But there is a great deal of truth to it.

We live in a world that’s full of action. We inhabit a society where we’re encouraged to keep moving and keep creating.

But we cannot innovate if we don’t first imitate.

We grow by watching others and emulating their actions. We start by learning from our parents, but we soon evolve to learn from our peers.

The Internet has turbocharged this process, giving us a one-stop shop for everything from cooking tips to home improvement tutorials. But there are some things just can’t be shared through a laptop or a smartphone screen.

Some things can only be learned in person. In places like coffee shops, where people linger and connect. Places where so many corners of culture converge.

This spirit is what I was tapping into on this spontaneous trip to Starbucks. By simply sitting and enjoying a cup of coffee, I was immersing myself in the culture of this particular part of Florida. The nuances, the wrinkles — all of it was becoming more familiar to me.

 

The sights and sounds of coffee shops are far different these days.

With a global pandemic raging, many cafes have closed their doors. Others have pivoted to takeout service only.

Starbucks itself has largely moved in this direction. It’s a startling turnabout for a company that once refused to build drive thru lanes at its locations.

Not many coffee or tea drinkers have complained about this. For they can still get their espressos, lattes and Matchas ready to order from the counter or the drive thru window. And they don’t have to risk their health if they enjoy the beverages from the comfort of their vehicle or their home.

I understand this inclination as much as anyone. Yet, I still fear something is being lost.

The subtle din of the coffee shop, it’s not just fodder for writers like me. It’s a familiar soundtrack to so many of us.

It’s where the inquisitive can engage their curiosity. It’s where the cultural explorers can jet set, without boarding a plane.

It’s where friends can connect, romances can spark and business connections can be forged.

Yes, some of this can be supplanted in the virtual world. But it can’t truly be replaced.

We still need to tap into that rhythm of connection.

Maybe not at the moment I’m writing this, when gatherings are banned and interpersonal trust is fleeting. But someday, when this extraordinary moment passes, we will need the sights and the sounds of in-person interaction. We will need them more than ever.

I eagerly await that day, that eventuality. But until then, I hope the memories of that morning at a coffee shop in Florida will suffice.

The Secondary Effect Quandary

Cause and effect.

It’s a pattern that defines our lives.

When something happens to us, it has an impact. It shakes up the status quo and forces us to adapt.

The pattern of cause and effect has led humanity to adapt over the millennia. It’s transitioned us from primitive beings to the architects of advanced societies. It’s led to the practice of analysis in business, government and other subsets of life. And it’s allowed us to consider two time dimensions at once.

Yes, as we seek to move forward, it’s critical that we understand cause and effect patterns.

And yet, we continue to miss the mark.

For three months in late 2001, the skies over the New York Harbor were obscured by an ashy haze.

It looked like a plume of smoke was coming from Wall Street. That plume was actually dust and debris from the wreckage of the World Trade Center.

Every time I saw that plume, my entire body would seize up. For a moment, I’d be motionless.

The plume of debris was a visceral reminder about what happened in September of that year. It was a chilling warning of how that day would continue to affect me.

I was supposed to be one of the lucky ones. I didn’t lose anyone I knew in the attacks. I didn’t see the planes hit the towers firsthand. I didn’t have to run for my life as an avalanche of debris encroached upon me.

When the texts are written of that dark day, my story won’t be mentioned in them. From a historian’s perspective, I wasn’t part of the effect of that event.

And yet, I’ve carried the trauma of that moment with me every day since the attacks. That baggage has been with me for more than half of my life.

I don’t share this to claim victim status. The victims of that attack are the ones who lost their lives, and the loved ones who continue to mourn their loss.

But it’s clear that the attack had a wider impact. An indelible impact on anyone nearby who, on that day, believed our life was ending. An impact on anyone who encountered a heavily armed National Guardsman, imploring them to Go! Get out of here! An impact on anyone who saw the dust plume piercing the sky like a funnel cloud.

That someone was me. But it was also millions of others.

We might have been spared the primary impacts of the disaster. But the secondary effects are still scarring.

In the wake of disruptive change, it’s natural to think of the direct effects.

The rise of digital technology spelled the end for companies like Blockbuster and Kodak. The rise of nationalist movements in several countries represent a threat to immigrants.

These effects are well known and widely shared. Case studies illuminate the fall of analog players in the digital world. Endeavoring journalists warn of the dangers populism can bring to certain segments of society.

But while it might be poignant to feature the travails of these victims, their stories are just the tip of the iceberg. There is so much more under the surface.

Indeed, many consumers struggled in the transition to digital. Those who were not tech savvy faced challenges learning new techniques. And losing brands like Blockbuster and Kodak did not make that transition any easier.

And even if nationalist movements directly impact immigrants, those who rely on those immigrants for services are also impacted.

The secondary effects matter. So why do we keep ignoring them?

At the moment I’m writing this, the world seems as bleak as ever.

A global pandemic continues to rage, causing widespread devastation. The economy is in turmoil, as industries strain to recover from a series of lockdowns.

The primary effects of all this are not hard to find. Lives lost. Jobs lost. Families torn apart by illness or financial ruin.

It’s all a crushing reality.

Our society has largely failed to protect our lives and our livelihoods. And that puts us in a tough spot — one with no path ahead that spares more carnage.

Instant answers — such as unveiling economic incentives or imposing new lockdowns — might seem tempting. In theory, these solutions would remove half of the problem — thereby making it easier to focus on the other half.

But such plans have a familiar flaw.

They ignore the secondary effects.

Economic incentives only help if there’s business to be had. So long as consumers remain skittish due to health concerns, businesses will continue to struggle.

And lockdowns come with their own closets of skeletons.

There is the isolation factor. As we spend months without seeing our loved ones or celebrating special occasions, we lose social connectivity. As this pattern drags on, it’s hard not to feel that the world has passed us by.

There is the health factor. Staying home can make us more sedentary, leading to a new set of health issues.

And there is the essentials factor. With so many people locked down, the masses turn to a select few to deliver essential items — such as food or supplies. The divide between those staying safe and those taking on exponential health risks intensifies.

These issues might seem like minor grievances. After all, they pale in comparison to the specter of death and joblessness plaguing our society.

But that doesn’t make them irrelevant. Far from it.

Indeed, if we let these concerns go unchecked, they might plague us long after the crisis subsides. Months of quiet distress can lead to years of traumatic damage.

It’s what happened in the fall of 2001, when a plume of debris over the New York sky haunted anyone who laid eyes on it.

And now, history is poised to repeat itself.

It’s time we recognize the signs.

It’s time we see the gravity of secondary effects. And it’s time we factor those effects into our decision making.

For no matter how much we might think otherwise, choices are neither tidy nor simple. Change is difficult, and its aftereffects can be messy.

Sure, the primary effects of our moves might seem clear. But it’s what lies below the surface that will ultimately define us.

Let us not ignore that. Not now. Not ever.

A rebel might be without a cause. But a fool fails to consider the effects.

Now is no time to be foolish.

Forests and Trees

Vision.

It’s perhaps our most vivid sense.

We process the world through pictures. Through color. Through light and through shadows.

Vision facilitates our memories. It keeps snapshots of the faded past crystal clear in our minds.

Vision captivates our dreams. It makes these experiences so lifelike that we mistake them for reality.

Vision even crosses the void. When darkness sets in, our other senses kick into overdrive to compensate for what we now cannot see.

Yes, vision is essential for how we interact with the world. From the days of cave paintings to the modern day, it’s been a central part of our narrative. It’s served as a universal language.

And yet, much still gets lost in translation.

The view from my patio is leafy and green.

Not far from the railing — maybe 10 feet away — there is a large canopy of trees. And as I sit on my deck chair and take in the fresh air, the branches and leaves of the nearest tree extend out toward me, like a set of olive branches.

I love this view. It provides shade during the scorching days of a Texas summer. It provides a screen from the curious gaze of neighbors. And it provides solace from the noise and distractions that otherwise clutter my life.

And yet, this setup has its drawbacks. The trees rob me of the chance to gaze across the vast landscape. To feel the radiant warmth of the late morning sun. To ponder what lies beyond the horizon — or even see the horizon at all.

Fortunately for me, there are areas within walking distance that provide me such opportunities. But even then, there are tradeoffs. I must leave my leafy perch behind and venture out into the world.

I must decide whether to gaze upon the forest or look at the trees.

Details matter.

They might not shine like a marquee light. But they resonate.

Sure, you try and can go without them. You can stumble through life without paying attention to the little things. You might even get away with it, for a time.

But eventually, such brazen disregard for the details carries a hefty price.

So, I don’t risk it.

Yes, I have long obsessed over details. I’ve soaked up information like a sponge. I’ve looked carefully before I’ve leapt.

I’ve dumped my own health data into spreadsheets and crunched the numbers. I’ve read reviews before making a purchase. I’ve called service providers to make sure I understood how the fine print would impact me.

These habits have stemmed from my obsessive-compulsive nature, and my low tolerance for risk. But they’ve also plugged into a larger pattern.

For our society is addicted to detail.

Detail provides us the edge we need to thrive. And it provides the roadmap to live out our fantasies of perfection.

So, we follow its guidance.

We internalize adages like Take care of the little things, and the big things will follow. We make those words our ethos.

But all our efforts ring hollow.

We’re still missing part of the picture.

Tactics without strategy is the noise before defeat.

This line is widely attributed to Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese military strategist.

Phrases like these fill book called The Art Of War. That text is ostensibly about military strategy. But it’s found a far wider audience in the modern world.

In the face of fierce competition, business leaders, politicians and enterprising individuals have all flocked to military texts like The Art Of War. They’ve scoured the words of legendary tacticians, searching for translatable takeaways.

And of all the takeaways, these eight words stand our most of all.

For if we fail to consider the bigger picture, the details don’t matter. The minutia become meaningless.

We must get a glimpse at the entire forest to get a true understanding of the trees.

Some years back, I took a gondola ride up the western face of the Sandia Mountains, near Albuquerque. I had read that Sandia Peak had the best view of the city, and this was the best way to get to it.

The ticket was expensive for a gondola ride. As I boarded, I discovered why.

The gondola ride was not billed as transportation. It was meant to be an experience.

Trips were listed as flights. And a tour guide spoke with riders throughout the journey.

As soon as I heard the guide’s boisterous voice on the intercom, I rolled my eyes and tried to tune him out. This was not something I’d signed up for.

And yet, about halfway up the mountain, the tour guide pointed out something I couldn’t ignore.

Do you see that tiny black speck down there? he asked. That’s actually boulder the size of this tram car. 

I was floored. It was hard to imagine that something that appeared so tiny was actually larger than me.

The mental calculus hurt my brain. Years later, I still wince while trying to wrap my head around that fact.

That moment on the gondola encapsulates the relationship between the forest and the trees.

The 30,000 foot view provides context, but so does the ground-level perspective.

In moments of strife, we put blinders on.

We narrow our perspective, honing in on what can help us to survive the moment at hand. We consider our next move, in hopes of eradicating the threat — both now and in the future.

We focus solely on the trees.

Such a focus can help us to survive a brief shock. It can provide a lifeline in the wake of a storm, an attack or the loss of a job.

But if the struggle persists, everything breaks down.

Our laser focus makes us rigid. Our lack of perspective prevents us from adapting to our new reality.

And so, we endorse radical solutions. We turn to answers that may help in a pinch, but might have disastrous long-term consequences.

But this pattern cannot sustain itself.

Long-term crises require a dual perspective solution. They require us to focus on the forest and the trees.

We can’t just throw the most radical solutions at distressing disruptions — such as pandemics or recessions. There’s only so much runway for such stunts.

No, we must take a different tact.

We must first consider the overarching vision, the bird’s eye view. Then — and only then — can we descend into the particulars with an actionable plan.

Putting this plan into action requires a lot of it.

It means exploring the gray areas between the extremes. It means promoting sustainable behaviors. And it means thinking three steps ahead — even as the future remains wildly unpredictable.

This is hard work. Uncomfortable work, even.

But with so much at stake, we can’t hide from it.

So, let’s broaden our minds and widen our perspectives. Let’s not choose between the view of the forest and that of the trees.

Each should have its place on our plans.

Let’s make those plans a reality.

Faded Glory

It was so much better back then.

This is the great lament. The pang of regret, of longing, of melancholy nostalgia that eats at many of us from time to time.

When the present seems uncertain or uncomfortable, it’s all too natural to look backward. To rewind to a moment that seems more familiar and less scary. To gaze upon the shiny glow of that moment and believe in its superiority.

But as the saying goes, All that glitters is not gold.

When I look at the world around me, I tend to take the long view.

After all, the structures around us are built to last. Highways, homes and infrastructure have been designed to stand the test of time. And the average life expectancy in the developed world is going up too.

Yes, there are notable exceptions to these standard measures. But on the whole, things seem to be designed for the long-haul. And so, I focus on how we can continue to better ourselves over an extended time period.

But even as I stare toward the horizon, I’m keenly aware of what lies 6 inches from my nose. The short-term might not be my main focus, but it still matters.

In recent times, that fact has been more evident than ever.

A dangerous virus has forced us to upend our patterns of social interaction. A recession has left millions without an income. And longstanding tensions from race relations and political divisiveness have threatened to boil over.

The sun may still be shining in America. But it’s been hard to feel the warm glow.

As I’ve watched the short-term outlook deteriorate, I’ve found myself yearning for better days. Not in the uncertain future. But in the distant past.

I’ve found myself nostalgic for the 1990s.

The 1990s. What a time it was.

I was only a kid back then, but I recall things being harmonious. There didn’t seem to be as imminent threats out there. And there didn’t appear to be as much division and despair as what’s commonplace these days.

We could just live back then. At least that’s the way I remember it.

But take a wider view, and it’s clear that my rosy memories of that era are incomplete.

For one thing, there was still plenty of division. It was just underground. The Internet as we know it was in its nascent stages. And with no social media channels or smartphones, it was all but impossible for the divisive bickering of that era to reach today’s levels of public consciousness.

For another thing, there was plenty of despair to be found. While the United States government was running a budget surplus, unemployment numbers were often still above 5 percent. Plenty of people were poor, hungry and without a path to a better tomorrow. The angst that bands like Nirvana channeled in their music those days was real.

But these facts weren’t hitting me in the face at that time. For I was in a middle-class household under the care of  attentive parents. I was insulated from the darkness of those days.

Well, mostly.

My family did get the print version of the New York Times. And on my way to scanning the sports section, I would see the front page headlines.

The partisan bitterness during President Bill Clinton’s impeachment trial. Instances of racial profiling amongst the New Jersey state troopers. The horrific murder of James Byrd, who was chained to a pickup truck by racists in rural Texas and dragged for nearly three miles.

I would look at these stories in horror. But after a day or two, the routine of life would kick in — school, homework, family dinner — and I would forget all about the ugliness that lurked all around me.

There is no blissful ignorance. Not anymore.

Recent events have laid bare the disharmony of life. The gulf of distrust between us. The presence of vile hatred in pockets of society. And the inequality of opportunity.

In the past several years, we’ve been asked to part with our rooted assumptions. To change our behavior in order to promote equity and ensure safety.

We should be up for the challenge. After all, this task has been asked of us for the entirety of the millennium. Or at least since the aftermath of the 9/11 attacks.

And yet, we’d still rather escape to a rosy memory than tackle the beast in our midst.

Even as that rosy memory remains illustrative fiction.

Hindsight may be 20-20. But the benefit of clarity comes at the cost of context.

It may be easy to look back on a previous era and call it friendlier. But if we could hop in Doc Brown’s DeLorean and travel back there, the situation on the ground would look much different.

I may be look happily on the 1990s now. But truth be told, I wasn’t all that happy back then. I was saddled with anxiety and battling depression. My joyful memories help hide the acute pain I felt in that moment.

And I wasn’t alone. Plenty of people with more life experience than me were also miserable. And they yearned for an era that had passed them by. Even in the afterglow of the Iron Curtain’s collapse, many didn’t feel the present was a step forward.

This pattern has continued to perpetuate. In the social media age, people like to brand each year the Worst Year Ever. This branding stuck in 2009, when Michael Jackson died unexpectedly and a recession decimated the economy. But such a moniker also stuck in 2010, 2011, 2012, and so on.

In the fog of the moment, we are incapable of finding the right does of perspective. And that can become a major problem.

The moment now facing us is unprecedented.

It’s uncomfortable to have to abandon such hallmarks as social interaction or in-person entertainment. It’s disconcerting to think that a trip to a grocery store could ultimately kill us. And it’s excruciating to stumble through the mist with no idea when this moment will be over.

Just about no one is looking at this era with a smile on their face.

But we can do better than seeking an escape.

We can search for the silver linings. We can build for a brighter future. We can focus on our actions and mute our laments.

We can reshape our situation in a manner we can be proud of for years to come.

Nothing’s stopping us from doing this. Nothing but ourselves.

So, let’s break free of the hamster wheel.

The past might be comforting. But the present is still being written. And the future is up for grabs.

Let’s seize the moment.

Living With The Enemy

I was at my kitchen table when a heard a muffled sound.

It was that staccato of something bumping into a thin piece of metal.

As if by instinct, I turned my head to the left to investigate. My gaze shifted upward to find the area the sound was coming from.

As my eyes reached the track lighting near the ceiling, I found my culprit — a large yellow jacket.

I was instantly paralyzed with terror.

There are few things in life that I fear. Strangely enough, mud is one of those things. (That’s a story for a different time.) But wasps are certainly another.

Wasps are aggressive flying creatures. They have a painful sting. And they often set up nests in areas that people access.

As far as I’m concerned, wasps represent an impending disaster.

And so, as spring approaches each year, I am on guard. I have pest control on speed dial as I head out onto my patio. I walk gingerly as I approach blooming brush or dense wooded areas.  For my nemesis could be lurking anywhere.

But this time, the enemy was inside the gates. I was trapped with a wasp, inside my own home.

What was I to do?

I sat there, motionless. Meanwhile, the wasp swan dived from the lights onto the stainless steel door of my refrigerator.

The insect was oblivious to my presence. It calmly rested on the metal.

As I watched it apprehensively, a thought came to my mind.

Leave it be.

I couldn’t believe myself. Was I really going to let something I feared take over my sanctuary like this. Had I gone mad?

But the yellow jacket was leaving me alone for the time being. I could at least try and do the same.

So, over the next hour or so, I followed through on my uneasy truce. The wasp and I co-existed in my home — it on the refrigerator door, me at my kitchen table.

But eventually, the wasp tired of its perch. It flew around the kitchen for a bit before landing on a doorframe. And at the moment its wings took flight, the fear came coursing back through my veins.

So, I spring into action.

I got a can of Raid, cornered the yellow jacket, and shot the spray at it. The wasp fell to the floor and stopped moving.

I didn’t have remorse for what I did.

After all, I’d removed all manner of pests from my home before — even the ones that didn’t fill me with terror.

But as I swept up the wasp and disposed of it, I thought of my initial instinct — the one telling me to leave it be. I considered how I had tried to conquer my demons, and to live with the enemy.

What had inspired me to make such an attempt? Was I going soft? Had I lost the will to take control over my own home?

No, I had not. Deep down inside, it seemed I know what I was doing all along.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

This is a bit of wartime wisdom, perfectly encapsulated in the film The Godfather, Part II.

Proximity to the enemy can yield abundant intelligence. And abundant intelligence can lead to effective strategy.

This is why guerilla warfare has had such a long run of success. Instead of facing off on an open field, guerillas can lurk in the midst of their enemies. They co-exist — at least until they have enough of an advantage to strike.

There is still risk in this confrontation. Casualties remain likely, if not inevitable.

But when compared to continual, open conflict, guerilla warfare can prove more effective and efficient.

And it all starts with the willingness to live with the enemy.

As I write this, we are in the midst of a crisis, as our health is threatened by a lethal virus.

It’s tempting to seek to attack this issue head-on. Or to hunker down until all the danger has passed.

But such tactics are not sustainable. For a virus cannot instantly be stamped out or indefinitely be waited out. It evolves over time.

And so, we must learn to coexist with it. To recognize that its presence might continue in the short term, even as we seek to eradicate them in the long term.

Ideally, we can avoid direct conflict with the virus through this arrangement. But some risk will still remain present.

Even so, that risk is likely far lower than it would be under less sustainable tactics.

Months after my encounter with the yellow jacket, I climbed into the back seat of an SUV.

I had dropped my vehicle off to get repaired. And now, I was getting a ride back to the shop to pick it up.

But as the SUV went into motion, I heard a rustling sound. I looked across the back seat and spotted another yellow jacket. It was exploring the window guard on the other side of the vehicle.

This was all disconcerting enough. But moments later, the wasp flew right by me and nestled on the top of my window guard.

The wasp couldn’t have been more than 10 inches away from my face, and I had no way to elude it. There was no can of Raid to save me this time.

I had no choice but to confront my fears. I would need to live with the enemy.

And so, I sat there for five whole minutes, doing my best to ignore the insect. I was projecting calm — all while quietly freaking out. Each turn in the road had me worried that the wasp would get agitated and sting me.

But it never happened. The wasp minded its own business.

By the time I got to my destination, I felt triumphant. I had committed to living with my fears. And this time, I managed to avoid breaking that commitment.

 

We can all make the same commitment.

The commitment not to hide from the dangers all around us. Or to charge recklessly right toward them.

But instead, the commitment to pause. To seek out a more sustainable path. And to take it.

It’s a subtle power, this power of restraint. But that doesn’t make it any less resonant.

Yes, our enemies may lie in our midst. But if we play our cards right, they can bring out the best in us.

Righteous Resonance

There’s nothing I could say.

Chances are, these five words have crossed our mind on occasion.

For no matter how outgoing or socially adept we are, there are instances where communication fails us. Where words seem wholly inadequate.

This could be at moments of great elation. It could be at times of extreme shock. Or it could be in periods of profound sorrow.

I remember being speechless in the aftermath of 9/11. I recalled the events of that day viscerally. And yet, I felt powerless to put those memories into words. It took more than a decade before I was finally able to share my story.

I don’t regret taking so long to find my voice. After all, I had been mere miles away from major tragedy — one which was unfolded during the age when I was most emotionally vulnerable. Trauma like that doesn’t just come out in the wash. It takes its time to heal.

But there have been other times where I’ve stayed quiet. Like so many others, I’ve had moments where I determined I couldn’t understand what others were dealing with. Moments where I stopped trying. Moments when I mistook absenteeism for action.

Those instances are far too frequent. And they fill me with regret.

 

Several times I week, I go for a run through my neighborhood before dawn. I devote my days to my profession, without fearing it will drive me to a hospital bed. And whenever I venture out of my home, the worst outcome I might face from a law enforcement officer is a speeding ticket.

These might seem like normal activities or expectations. But they’re actually signs of privilege.

I am not wealthy. But I am a man of great fortune. And while I enjoy the advantages this brings, I do so with great guilt.

For there are so many who have been dealt a brutal hand. Who have seen their lives threatened by two insidious cornerstones of our society — medical disease and racism.

These two strains poison the well of equity. For they each cast an uneven burden — one indiscriminately and another full of discrimination.

Both medical disease and racism can tear families apart. They can deny opportunities. And they can exacerbate the divides between us.

Those of us who haven’t experienced this devastation have no reference point for it. There’s no way to know how it feels to live with the weight of injustice crushing us. There’s no way to simulate what it’s like living in constant fear.

We are living in an alternative reality. The connection is lost. And with it, our empathy.

So, we delude ourselves into silence. We determine we have nothing useful to share with the afflicted, and we slowly fade into the background.

Often, we make such moves under the guise of respect. We determine that it would be improper to inject ourselves — and our privilege — into another’s suffering.

But there’s hardly anything more disrespectful than remaining quiet.

As I write this, both medical disease and racism are top of mind in our society.

They have both been present on our shores for more than 400 years. But they haven’t always captured our collective consciousness the way they have now.

For the events of recent months have been tragic.

A lethal virus has swept across America, claiming more than 100,000 lives and decimating minority populations. And a spate of incidents involving law enforcement and vigilantes has left several unarmed African-Americans dead.

The veil has been lifted on these systemic problems. And yet, those of us not directly affected by this round of devastation are falling back into old patterns.

We’re convincing ourselves that since we can’t relate, we can’t help. We’re focusing on saving face instead of saving lives.

I know these patterns because I’ve lived them.

As the virus intensified, I stayed silent — even as the reports of death poured in from coast to coasts. Then, as a spate racial violence spurred widespread protests, I kept myself muzzled.

But gradually, I came to my senses.

I checked in with my friends of color to see how they were, and how I could assist. I spoke candidly about inequity and my subtle role in perpetuating it. And I vowed to make changes in my own life that would make the lives of others that much less difficult.

All of these gestures were small. But they were far from trivial.

For instead of passively observing the problem, I was actively trying to be part of the solution. Instead of obsessing over words, I was putting my weight behind my actions.

These actions won’t bring back those who have already been lost. And on their own, they’ll do little to change the state of affairs.

After all, I am just one dot on a map. One data point out of 300 million.

But if more of those dots take the same small steps, it will build a movement. A movement that can support the more boisterous one making the headlines. A movement that can lead to a better future.

Lasting change doesn’t come from a singular voice.

Government officials, faith leaders and scientists might provide us with the tools to enact change. But it’s on us to take the ball and run with it.

Martin Luther King Jr. gave us the dream to end centuries of legalized segregation. Jonas Salk gave us the means to defeat polio.

But if the people hadn’t adopted Dr. King’s message, the Civil Rights Movement would have died in obscurity. If the people hadn’t taken Dr. Salk’s vaccine, polio would still be rampant today.

Not everyone who advocated for civil rights had to sit on the back of a city bus. Not everyone who got the polio vaccine had to watch a loved one wither away from the disease.

But they leaned in anyway. And they helped the world change for the better.

Now, as we face new challenges among familiar fronts, we should follow the path they blazed. Instead of focusing on what to say to make things better, we should focus on what we can do.

Regardless of our background, we have the chance to make a difference. Our actions can yield righteous resonance.

But all of this can only happen if we allow it to.

So, let us not be silent.

We might not have the perfect words to bridge the gap. But our actions speak volumes.

Comfort in Discomfort

Along a beach in California, a strange occurrence repeats itself, time and again.

Young men, dressed in full combat fatigues, lay on the beach, just beyond the water’s edge. Waves of salt water wash over the men, as they lay there, motionless.

These young men are Navy SEAL trainees, who are in the midst of an intense physical regimen — including long runs and swims. Lying on the beach might sound like a welcome respite from all this activity. But the practice is known as Surf Torture.

Why? Because, the ocean temperatures in California are chilly, to say the least. And staying motionless while that cold water washes over one’s body is no easy feat.

And that is precisely the point.

For if the trainees are going to take on some of the military’s most advanced missions, they will need to adapt to extreme conditions. They will need to take refuge in inhospitable locations.

They will need to find comfort in discomfort.

We are not all Navy SEALs.

We don’t all get sent abroad to risk our lives in covert missions. We don’t all need to leave our families behind for months at a time, missing holidays and birthdays. We don’t all have our jobs turned into documentaries and Hollywood movies.

And of course, many of us don’t have the stomach and stamina to do all these things — even if we wanted to. There is a persistent dropout rate in the Navy SEAL training program for a reason.

But we do have one thing in common with these elite warriors. We also must reckon with discomfort.

Maybe we won’t experience anything as visceral as having cold water wash over us. But over time, we will continually find ourselves in uncomfortable situations. And we must learn to come to terms with that reality.

This is evident in times of crisis. After a hurricane or tornado, we might spend days with no electricity in our homes. After a deadly attack, we might contend with beefed-up security measures. After the onset of a virus, we might find our social interactions altered by face masks, gloves and distancing requirements.

In each case, the signs of change are visceral, and the scars of the trauma are fresh. Comfort is a fading memory, now beyond our grasp.

And yet, this discomfort is a hallmark of gentler times as well. For even when the moment feels less dire, things rarely go exactly as we wish. Bad weather might ruin our outdoor activities. A technological issue at work could get us off schedule. We might get a stain on our favorite white shirt.

These issues are far less universal than the ones we must contend with in a crisis. But they still sting when we encounter them.

For our fantasy vision of how life should go is shattered. And we’re left to pick up the pieces.

People love to classify things.

Classification allows us to delineate. It gives us the means to create order out of chaos.

So, we classify students by academic grades. We classify taxpayers by their income bracket. And we classify segments of society by their hobbies and interests.

But what started as a basic tool has gotten out of hand. For now, we even classify the troubles we face.

Case in point? The prevalence of the term First World Problems. We hear this phrase all over these days.

This is an underhanded slight. One that serves as a reminder that things could be far worse.

It’s not ideal when our washing machine breaks down, for instance. But how bad is this inconvenience? Particularly when you consider there are people in Africa who don’t have access to clean water at all.

The everyday issues people face in the so-called third world are severe. Our issues, by contrast,  are merely First World Problems.

It’s a nifty argument. A more sophisticated cousin to such tough-love sayings as Toughen up, buttercup! and Don’t cry over spilled milk.

But I don’t think it works.

For comparing one’s suffering to another doesn’t make the discomfort vanish. It simply hides it behind a layer of guilt and self-loathing.

Our issues still matter to us. They still frustrate us in the moment. And even though we can generally access solutions to these problems, such solutions still require sacrifice.

Dismissing concerns like these because of their scope — or our privilege — won’t help us adapt to the situation at hand. And adapting is precisely what we need to do.

Life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you respond to it.

Chuck Swindoll’s iconic line has practically become a rallying cry for those who define themselves through resilience.

But while it’s easy to find a spark from words like these, it’s harder to navigate the mechanics of change. Particularly when those mechanics feature prolonged discomfort.

We’re wired to treat discomfort like an obstacle. We act as if it’s a tunnel we must get through to find the glory on the other side.

This is why we seek to mitigate discomfort. This is why keep searching for the light in the distance.

But the world doesn’t work this way.

Discomfort doesn’t just appear or disappear in an instant. It’s omnipresent.

Masking discomfort with vices or delusions just won’t work long-term. We need to learn to live with it.

In fact, we must go further than mere coexistence. We must do what the Navy SEALs do. We must find comfort in discomfort.

This doesn’t require a trip to the California coastline or grueling physical exercise. But it does require some mental gymnastics.

It requires us to stop opining about how things were, or how we wished they would be. A Comfort in Discomfort mindset instead requires us to accept how things are — good, bad or ugly. Then, and only then, can we be expected to adapt accordingly.

This shift is quite a leap of faith. Even after years of trying, I have not been able to master it fully.

But I still hope to get there someday. And so should we all.

For once we let go of our dashed expectations of utopia, we can shed the weight of anxiety and longing. And, in doing this, we set ourselves up to thrive in nearly any landscape.

This is a future worth striving for. But we can only get there by going all in. By finding not only acceptance, but also comfort in discomfort.

Are you up for the challenge?

The Gray

Ain’t no road too long, when you meet in the middle.

This sentiment comes from an old country song. And it’s seemed to fade with the passing of the years.

As time marches on, we find ourselves drawn to the edges ever more. We dig in our heels, fighting tooth and nail over our positions and beliefs. We take an all-or-none approach.

This has long been a hallmark of competition. But it’s become embedded in our views on work, parenting, politics, religion, and even behavioral norms.

All too often, we frame these hallmarks of life in two camps. Good and bad. Or right and wrong.

And when we do this, we claim that decisions on how to proceed should be clear and evident.

But we delude ourselves.

For the world is not just darkness and light. It’s brimming with shades of gray.

There are few more frustrating types of weather than fog.

Clouds suspended in the sky can bring us shade, rain or even snow. But when those clouds reach ground level, they bring nothing but trouble.

Fog impacts our ability to move about safely. And it fills the atmosphere with a drab grayish hue.

We loathe fog because it robs us of what we seek — vision and clarity. And yet, it encapsulates how to understand our world in its realest form.

For life is full of ambiguity. Of shifting conditions and patterns.

This constant flux can lead to differing perceptions. And those perceptions make it more difficult to find consensus.

Those clear choices we believe in are often not so straightforward. They might help us, but hurt others. They might reduce our risk, but also limit our reward.

The best way to combat this is to embrace the gray area between those choices.

The most prudent way forward is to accept compromise.

Compromise is difficult.

Many leaders have mastered this discipline. But, when left to our own devices, we fail to follow in their footsteps.

For compromise requires us to step away from our picture of how things should be. It compels us to accept a solution that might seem watered down.

Yes, we can get much accomplished by leaning in to compromise. But at what cost?

For when we give, we allow others to take. And when we relax our standards, we can slam the door on our own rationality.

If we make a concession only one time, it shatters our standard of equity. It opens the door for others to question our overall judgment.

After all, why would we budge this one time, and not another?

Questions like these are difficult to answer. They threaten our reputation. They leave us vulnerable.

And so, we’d rather leave them unasked. We’d prefer to avoid the subject of compromise altogether.

But easing our discomfort is hurting our progress. And that is only leading to more pain.

In times of normalcy, we can get away with all-or-nothing thinking.

But in a crisis, the veil is lifted on our shortsightedness. And this can cause a reckoning.

Suddenly, our ideals no longer work. In an instant, our economic and social conventions are thrown into freefall.

In the fray of such carnage, we feel we have two options. We can stick to our hardened principles, enduring the suffering that is sure to follow. Or we can jump ship to opposing principles, forcing us to revisit our core beliefs.

But a third option is available. Just as it always has been.

We can embrace the gray area.

We can compromise. We can adapt. We can do what it takes to rise to the occasion.

In the context of a pandemic, this might mean accepting a government handout — even if we are normally accustomed to earning our keep. Or it might mean assessing the risks of activities in public settings, instead of barricading ourselves at home for months on end.

Neither of these options are a slam dunk, of course. In a society so fixated on precedent and liability, these tactics can go against the grain.

But the alternatives are untenable. Sticking to our principles for self-sufficiency in such a crisis can cause us to go hungry or bankrupt. And fully abandoning our principles for safety means putting ourselves — and everyone around us— at risk for a different kind of pain.

We must be willing to make an exception. To find a compromise in the gray area between the extremes. This solution won’t be perfect, but it will be best suited for the situation at hand.

How far should we venture into the mist?

How much of the gray area can we endure before we lose our way entirely?

It’s hard to know for sure. After all, the gray is ambiguous by nature.

But there are two pinnacles that can guide us — our curiosity and the moment.

Our curiosity is the latent driver. It unleashes all the possibilities we might someday explore. Maybe these possibilities are our second best options. Or maybe they’re opportunities we’ve yet to explore. Either way, we’re not fully opposed to them.

And the moment is the impetus. It’s the spark that causes us to change things up. To break the hardened rules we’ve set for ourselves and explore the possibilities instead.

When these two forces combine, we explore the gray. We can test the waters without losing our identity. We can find the reward without enduring much of the risk.

This is evident in a crisis, when the path to our survival is paramount. But it should also be apparent in more ordinary times.

Indeed, our curiosity is constantly lingering. It’s just up to us to conjure it.

And the moment is within our grasp as well. The inspiration lies within.

We don’t have to wait for our lives to get turned upside down, just to shake things up.

After all, the world is constantly evolving. Why shouldn’t we?

So, let’s adopt a new mindset.

Let’s stop hiding behind rigid principles. Let’s drop our fear of double standards. And let’s live in a more adaptable and sustainable way.

The gray area is not no-man’s land. It’s the key to our destiny.

Let’s harness it.

The Importance of Place

Every evening, I watch the sun go down.

Ostensibly.

For it is true that I’m generally sitting at my dining room table at that hour. It is true that I am facing west. And it is even true that I am at a high enough of a vantage point to readily watch the sun disappear beyond the horizon.

But for all those benefits, there is one obstacle — one thing keeping me from watching the western skies turn into a brilliant array of faded light.

That obstacle is a wall.

The western wall of my dining room is well decorated — with mementos, a grad school diploma and a photo of my grandfather’s training unit in the United States Navy. But that wall and those mementos form a venerable cliff blocking the view of anything behind it.

Of course, this wall is not the enemy. There are more than a dozen other walls beyond it before you get to the western face of my building. And even if I lived in the westernmost unit, the next building over would still block the view of anything else.

Yes, it seems like an at-home view of the sunset is out of the question — for myself and for all my neighbors.

And so, as the afternoon fades and the twilight sets in, I am forced to choose. Go somewhere else to catch the sunset, or simply imagine its presence beyond my line of sight.

All too often, I go for that second option.

 

Watching the sun set is not an essential part of life.

It pales in comparison to our needs for food, shelter and communal belonging.

And yet, many are enthralled by this experience. Just as many others are transfixed by the view of constellations in the clear night sky.

Observing such majesty with our own eyes reminds us of the vastness of the universe. And of just how small we are in comparison.

It is sobering in the best possible way. For it makes us aware of another concept — that of the importance of place.

This revelation is critical.

For what we do in life matters. Who we build that life with matters. But where we build that life also matters.

Such decisions are out of our hands initially. We grow up where we grow up — the choice of our parents, our guardians or circumstance. We don’t have much say in the matter.

But once we reach adulthood, we get to choose where we pitch our tent. We have some semblance of our own destiny — at least when geography is involved.

There is power in this version of independence. But only if we’re savvy enough to recognize it.

Something strange has happened recently.

With a deadly pandemic raging, much of the world has shut down. Entire countries have gone into quarantine for months at a time. And even in the United States — a nation without a federal lockdown — many people have limited their travel to a 10 mile radius of their homes.

These changes have had profound impacts on many aspects of our lives. One of those has been our understanding of the concept of place.

What was once an oversight is now facing a reckoning. For regardless how we normally feel about our home, we’ve been spending more time in it than usual. And that means we’re scrutinizing it more than ever before.

I consider myself fortunate in this endeavor. I might not have a sunset view, but I have a home I love — one that’s quiet and serene. The ability to sit on my patio, watching the wind blow through the trees and hearing the birds chirp, is an absolute godsend.

Others have not been so lucky.

Perhaps their home was an afterthought. Most of their time was spent out in the world of social interaction. Their house or apartment was simply a place to sleep and change clothes.

Perhaps other circumstances — job opportunities, financial situations or family concerns — had forced them to live in a place they didn’t desire to. Home wasn’t an exercise in self-expression. It was a symbol of their obligation.

In either case, the abrupt change to the world as we knew it must have been jarring. In an instant, their communities were forcibly separated, leaving them confined to a location they were none too fond of.

Yet, whether we love our home base or we loathe it, we now have no choice but to come to terms with it. For the world of whizzing distractions is gone for the foreseeable future. And so, there are no more convenient excuses for us to ignore what’s right in front of our nose.

At the start of the year, I made a pledge. I would walk or run at least a mile every single day. In sunshine and rain, bitter cold and searing heat, I would take the time to step out into the elements.

This was initially a ploy to improve my health. I had all too often wavered between times of intense workouts and sedentary days on the couch. I needed to commit to a plan that would keep me active.

The onset of a global pandemic threw a wrench into this plan. Suddenly, I had to change the way I strolled about in order to avoid getting sick.

But once I got used to wearing a mask and evading other people on the sidewalk, I realized how precious this ritual had become.

Not only did it get me out of my home — often for the only time all day — but it also allowed me to discover the little things that were all around me. The pattern of the stones on a retaining wall. The scurrying of rabbits and squirrels. The buzzing of high tension wires overhead.

None of these details were particularly picturesque or awe-inspiring. That’s probably why I ignored them in the first place. But now that I wasn’t shuffling around town for work, school or leisure — now that I was confined to these short forays in my neighborhood — I found a strange sense of identity within them.

These were the hallmarks of my corner of the world. They provided the backdrop to my vantage point of the world.

These sights, these sounds — they were my version of place. They were integral to my where.

I firmly believe that all of us can build this kind of connection with our surroundings. And indeed, that we need to.

For the more we stare at the horizon, the more we lose sight of what’s nearby. The more we yearn for liberation, the more we feel the walls closing in.

This is all bad enough in small doses. But over a long enough time horizon, it can be downright catastrophic.

Still, it doesn’t have to be this way.

Our mind can provide us salvation from this maelstrom. A change in our perspective can be the antidote to our despair.

And it all starts by recognizing the importance of place. Of fully understanding our whereabouts and making peace with them.

So, as we forge forward, let’s not neglect all that surrounds us. Let’s embrace it instead, with an open mind and an open heart.

For whether it’s beautiful or it’s mundane, our setting — our place — matters in our story. Don’t let it get erased.