A letter to Mary Tyler Moore upon her death (January 2017)

Dear Mary,

Your Mary Tyler Moore show, I learned this week, was considered groundbreaking in the 1970s. Groundbreaking? For me, not so much. Instead, pure comfort, woven into cherished childhood memories.

In my blossoming years – ages 7 to 14 – my grandmother and I spent nearly every Saturday afternoon and overnight together. Is it coincidence these were the same years in which your show aired? Could the debut of your show, in fact, have been the genesis of our longstanding weekly ritual?

Early afternoon each Saturday would find me near the front door, listening for the sounds of Nanny’s arrival to retrieve me from my home in “the country,” to free me from confinement. A brief visit – me chomping at the bit – and we’d depart, bent on adventure. Tame by any standards – a few hours of department store shopping along Main Street, then on to a favorite local restaurant for dinner. At last, a retreat to her small, tidy apartment for the evening. No matter what, a stop by the grocery store first, stocking up on snacks for the TV marathon that was to come.

Seven p.m. meant Lawrence Welk – fount of oft-remarked wonder by current friends and family, when they are treated spontaneously to the storehouse of show tunes deeply embedded in my brain, bursting forth with no warning when an occasion presents itself.

Then, speaking of groundbreaking, up next was the controversial All in the Family. Historical accounts say M*A*S*H was next in the lineup, but in my memory Archie and Edith were followed by either The Jeffersons or Maude – really, what must Nanny have been thinking to imprint these radical ideas on my impressionable psyche? On the other hand, perhaps this explains a lot.

Sandwiched between these shows and those that followed (The Bob Newhart Show, and our beloved Carol Burnett), there you were. Mary Richards, plucky single career woman, journalist, girl next door, figuring out life on your terms. A marvel that, upon your death this week, I’m struck at last by glaring similarities in how my own life unfolded, the wide-eyed awe with which I approached my early career. More wondrous still, how did I never think to view you through Nanny’s eyes, and see her reflected there?

On the surface, you and she couldn’t have been more different. Nanny, widowed at 22, when my grandfather was taken from her in one of the last battles of World War II and buried in a distant land. Left with two young daughters, Nanny went to work at whatever she could find, from serving students in a school cafeteria, to eventually sewing in a textile factory until she blissfully retired.

A neat generational stack, she, my mother and I resided in 20-year-increments. Mom was 20 when I was born, Nanny 40.  Rooted in her rural Appalachian community of family and church, Nanny was bigger-than-life. Gregarious. Her laughter and raucous comments always rang out loudest and longest. She was “all in,” and all “out there.”

The adult in me sees a counterpoint of pure grief that ran through her life as well. Mostly, that side of her was quiet. For the young girl that I was, she was the picture of womanly independence. She never remarried, considering no other man good enough to be allowed into her daughters’ lives.

Now, I see how young she was, too, on those shared Saturday nights in the ‘70s. Those years, those times of cultural upheaval, were among the most treasured of my childhood and adolescence. An overnight respite every week from my home overcrowded with younger brothers. A time to indulge in little treats of clothes, or special snacks. To most assuredly bask in the luxury of undivided attention. A time to benefit from her opinions (of these, she had many) and to absorb her teachings on fashion, politics, and “how things are done.”

Wide-eyed wonder now, again. Could it be that I was gift to her, as she was to me? Now, I glean the loneliness she must have felt, the need for companionship, the deep desire to care and to be cared for. To count on someone for one night each week – to share her home, a meal, ideas and hopes and dreams. A ritual to rely on. The inside track of laughs. Undergirding memories to cling to for a lifetime.

Mary, you gave us much more than a TV show. When you said that you were “gonna make it after all,” you proved to us that we could, too.

In gratitude, to strong women who led the way.

Friends and followers of my work know Savvy from this piece first published in 2017. This “good enough dog” was a force of nature. Adopted reluctantly, she wormed her way into our good graces sufficiently to keep herself fed and in receipt of shelter and routine medical care. Often unspeakably annoying, and rarely suitable for public interaction, Savvy nonetheless possessed a good and loyal heart, and likely wanted nothing more than to be a calm little lapdog. Alas, her long, gangly legs and full-body quivering prevented that most of the time.

Over the last few years, though, aging began to take a toll. Those legs lost their bounce, and she was less inclined than before – compelled by some greyhound DNA lurking in her murky bloodline – to burn off a burst of energy by making lightning-fast turns around the yard. Her vision blurred, her hearing dulled, and, like a lot of old ladies, she began to grow a skin tag here and there. One of these, undetected on her back foot, grew so large it literally exploded on Halloween a few years ago, leaving our porch looking a little too well decorated for the holiday with a trail of blood splatters from one end to the other. One toe amputation later, she was good as almost new until a new little tag started up on her neck, and then grew, and grew some more. We named it Frances, so as not to keep calling it “that thing on her neck.” Dignified, Savvy was not, but still, she carried on.

At least, that is, until several weeks ago, when her aging kidneys and liver sent her into a rapid decline. We knew the time was at hand, and so she took her final breath on that same porch, under the tender care of 4 Paws Mobile Hospice, with as many of us as possible gathered around to see her safely to the Rainbow Bridge. We humans should be so lucky, to cast off this mortal coil so peacefully.

In addition to the humans who loved Savvy, left to mourn her is the most-rescued-of-rescue-pups, Zuma, who made his way into our lives several years back. Named for the bike trail where my husband found him near death, Zuma grew up under Savvy’s tutelage from the age of about eight weeks, meaning he’s been equally unpresentable to the general public. While distinctly calmer and more sociable than his older sibling, some congenital abnormalities mean his hips and back legs won’t tolerate long hikes or trail running like we’d hoped.

Big sister Savvy helped train little Zuma

But now, with Savvy gone, watching his grief was heartbreaking. Already prone to separation anxiety, he wouldn’t let us out of his sight. So what were his humans to do?

In this case, I took some wisdom from Gordon Lightfoot, and a quote he noted in a documentary we saw about him recently: “motion is the potion.” I know it’s true for me; I’ve written before how, as an Enneagram 6 (head-type), nothing is better therapy for me than getting my feet on the ground, moving on the earth. It’s how I meditate, how I create, how I worship, how I remember.

So if it works for me, why not for Zuma? Well, for starters, despite his smallish size and delicate limbs, he’s about 40 pounds of pure, undisciplined muscle, which can be a bit more than I can handle. I was determined to help pull him out of his misery, though, so I went about exploring ways to make him more manageable on walks. A torso-harness would be ideal, but his internal injuries as a pup make him intolerant of anything around his middle. I tried a snout harness, but he’d have none of that. 

Finally, desperate for a way to help, I decided to give it a try with his standard collar. I drove him to our neighborhood lake and steeled myself for the worst. Which didn’t take long to come; over-eager at this new adventure, Zuma pushed his way out of the car, knocked me to the ground and dragged me a few feet across the pavement for good measure. 

Despite that clumsy beginning and my own notorious lack of patience, a sort of miracle has since unfolded. This new activity mattered to both of us, so we kept trying, and every trip got a little better. Now, after just a few weeks, Zuma makes his way around that lake like a champ. Er…most of the time. He still pulls like crazy for the first 50 yards or so, but I’ve learned how to manage that and to anticipate what riles him up. He gets excited about pee-mail, which he sniffs out (and delivers!) at every bridge railing and tall tuft of grass. He was delighted one day to find a fish, still flapping on the shore, left behind by a bored goose moments before. He was less delighted when, after gulping it down before I could stop him, he threw up his breakfast half a lap later. He ignores the gaggle of hissing geese that I thought would make him crazy. He mostly gives a wide berth to the other dogs who want to check out the new kid on the block.

It seems we’re both honoring Savvy’s memory by doing something she could never really master. Sometimes, I like to think she’s now tagging along with us in spirit. Maybe Zuma doesn’t have to chase the geese, or antagonize the other dogs, because Savvy’s got that part covered. 

Our walks have become a form of healing for both of us. Zuma’s getting some undivided attention and much needed exercise every day, filling some of the hours he used to spend with Savvy. And I’m strengthening my bond with this guy for whom, up until now, I was mostly just ‘the food lady.” Turns out motion really is the potion.

But here, I’ve been quiet in a new way. For “a girl who loves words, and the power they have to touch us in unexpected ways,” (as I say in my website’s intro), it’s been distressing to me that I haven’t been moved to share any reflections or even summon some much-needed humor and put it out into the world.

It’s no wonder I, and so many, have found that words fail us in the face of the horrors in Uvalde and Buffalo, the life-changing devastation in Ukraine, the economic struggles everywhere, the political divisions that threaten the very fabric of our society.

What words can possibly be enough for the mother who sent her child to school in the morning, and by evening was providing DNA samples to identify the body? For children who touch palms to window glass as they bid farewell to their fathers and their country, maybe forever, because of geopolitical greed? For families just beginning to see light at the end of the pandemic, now wondering how they can buy gas and put food on the table? 

I don’t have those words. 

And since words are my palette, what am I to do with this persistent feeling that more words are decidedly not what the world needs right now? Already, we have too many. And too few of them are helpful. So I’ve been quiet, because I don’t want to contribute to the noise, to the already over-saturated airwaves and news feeds that don’t leave space for what I believe we do need now, more than ever.

Listening.

In a world that won’t stop talking (to quote the subtitle of Susan Cain’s excellent book, Quiet), it seems no one is listening. No one is seeking to understand. We’re only seeking to be heard.

As a writer and communicator, I see this as a reminder to use things besides my words – like an open heart, an active mind, and a curiosity of spirit. I must summon the will not just to hear and respond to the stories of those people whose personal tragedies play out in prime time and tug on my heartstrings, but also to listen to those who see the world in vastly different ways than I do. 

That is so much harder, isn’t it?

To be clear, I’m not talking about excusing those who commit atrocities. Rather, I mean listening to what’s behind the diatribes on social media or at demonstrations and rallies, seeking to understand those who come from a perspective that is far different from mine. 

For instance, I disagree vehemently with those who believe an 18-year-old (or anyone) has a fundamental right to own an automatic weapon, those who want to limit a woman’s right to decide what happens with her own body, those who would ban books or try to insulate us from the facts of our uncomfortable history, those who perpetuate a known lie in a brazen attempt to subvert our democracy.

Throwing words at all these issues isn’t helping. All sides (including my own) are dug in. We’re not hearing one another. Am I foolish to believe we have to try to do better? Maybe. I know we won’t ever move forward if we can’t forge some common ground.

If I listen behind and beyond the words yelled from those who disagree with me, one thing I think I hear is fear. Fear of being targeted by violence. Fear of the breakdown of society, the loss of history and tradition, the dismissing of worldviews. Fear of losing power or control. Fear of change. 

Maybe our very fears offer a meeting place. What if we voiced those, instead of our opinions? What if we listened – really listened – with open hearts and minds? What if we were all a little vulnerable, willing to learn something, seeking to “understand, rather than be understood?”

Is that even possible? Who knows? I just know where we are isn’t working. Communication isn’t happening when all we are doing is asserting our own viewpoints.

So, let listening begin with me. I hope some from different perspectives, sincerely seeking common ground, might meet me here.

Make that past tense: happened to still own, until said DVD player went on the fritz last week, just as I was all set up in a spare bedroom, ready to get in a quick 30-minute workout before dinner. What’s a dancing girl to do?

A few words of background explanation here: As my husband and I like to say, he doesn’t dance, and I shouldn’t. I generally stick with that axiom, unless I’m at a social function and the spirits (shall we say) move me and convince me that, why yes, in fact, I can dance, and I need to do it right now. There are no doubt several new additions to the historical record on this phenomenon thanks to my son’s recent nuptials, when said husband briefly left me unattended. (Let this be a public warning that maternal / spousal / familial wrath like never seen before shall descend upon anyone who thinks it would be funny to share or make a meme of said evidence. The dancing shoes here are all the world will ever see.)

But I digress. Body Groove is perfect for people like me who, truly, cannot and should not dance. No rhythm whatsoever. “Dance like nobody’s watching,” for me translates to, “Please, God, nobody needs to see this.” Misty is generous with her instruction and always reminds participants to make the movements our own. She demonstrates all sorts of steps to all sorts of rhythms, but basically tells us to do our own thing and go where the music takes us.

This means I bounce along to country music and swing my arms to make a lasso; I walk like an Egyptian, striking some exceptionally [ahem] creative poses and making snake movements with my arms; I attempt the fancy footwork of the Charleston or the subtle bop of the Pony; sometimes I even do a little belly dancing. Or rather, my awkward, no-rhythm versions of all these. Since there are no rules and no one would dare watch, I’m free to do whatever I want, and I do, in fact, go wherever the music takes me. And get a pretty good, fun workout in the bargain, all in the privacy of my own home. 

Until the DVD player died, thwarting my plans. But thankfully, inspiration struck. 

It’s a good bet that one reason I have no rhythm is that I’m a news fanatic, and have spent way more of my life listening to news than to music – a crime nearly on par with my dancing, I know. 

A quick glance at the clock told me I could catch the last half-hour of All Things Considered on NPR, so I made lemonade from lemons. I danced my heart out while Mary Louise Kelly, Audie Cornish, and Ari Shapiro reported on the state of the economy and the Omicron surge. The music was (mostly) in my head, though I did take particular advantage of the soundtracks between segments – which NPR conveniently turns into a playlist each week. Who knew?

Maybe I’m onto something. Maybe this will be my new groove. Maybe I’ll start a trend. Dancing with NPR lets me multitask to my heart’s content. “All the news that’s fit to dance to.” 

Just please, for your own sake, avert your eyes – these moves were made for radio.

So my hopes and intentions for this coming year are just that – hopes and intentions, not resolutions to be cast aside like the dried-up Christmas tree we leave at the curb. Nor are they aspirations I contemplated while waiting for the clock to strike midnight on New Year’s Eve. Rather, they are longings of my heart that have been growing during this second excruciating year of the pandemic. In two words, they are presence and attention.

I know there are people who say they’ve had a burst of creativity during these dark days, and I wish I were one of them. But for me, it’s been a second year of hunkering down, of putting things on hold in the expectation that surely, very soon, we’ll be back to “normal.” I focused on indulging or distracting myself with small comforts that made the days and weeks and months of “not normal” a little gentler. I still think this is what I needed, and I don’t know that I’d change a thing (except maybe pay a wee bit more attention to my diet).

What I tragically let fall by the wayside during this time was my own creativity, specifically my writing practice. I did not make time or space for reflection, for pondering, or for exploring the depths of my creative spirit. I was not present or attentive to my own needs for what feeds my soul. 

Recognizing this loss, before the year ended I gave myself a gift – an online poetry class with a favorite writing teacher who knows just how to coax me out of my slump. I’ve never been a serious student of poetry, so this was a leap for me; more than anything, I looked to this experience to, as I told the instructor, “help me fall in love with words again.” 

And it was a good start at that; unlike the non-fiction and short stories I typically write, poetry is about precision and economy of language. As William Faulkner said, “A novelist is a failed short story writer, and a short story writer is a failed poet.” I took delight in honing my poems for the class, in excising any element that didn’t contribute, in discovering just the right words to convey the emotion I intended.

I realized that poetry is all about attention – paying attention to the words, yes, but more than that, paying attention to the memories and being present to the feelings of a moment, and finding a way to capture and harness these in language. I was amazed at how the exercises we used to mine our memories brought me vivid images of experiences I hadn’t thought of in years, and became the basis of some of the best work I produced in the class.

So presence and attention are my hopes and aspirations, my mantra, for this year. That means putting the oxygen mask on myself first; being present and attentive to myself, to the desires of my heart, to the needs of my spirit. Present to the memories and the everyday experiences that fuel my creative work. Attentive to the wonder in the smallest of things. Showing up – being present – to write every day. (In a testament to what this takes, I’m writing right now, instead of tending to the myriad of home chores and side hustle deadlines that are calling my name.) 

And then, from that abundance of spirit, I can be more fully present and attentive to the ones I love – from the rowdy dogs that share our lives, to my family and friends who make every day better, and to the wider world that needs all the creativity and presence and attention I can muster.

So here I am, present and accounted for, holding a sheltering hand up to the divine spark of my creative spirit, gently nudging it to catch fire and burn a little brighter in the year ahead.

I’ve been so frustrated and angry and deeply heartsick at the “not dead yet” scene playing out right now with the pandemic. Like the ending of so many classic horror movies, we’re almost out of the woods. So very close. And then, just when we are starting to relax and breathe normally, the monster reaches its arm from the murky depths and tells us, “Not so fast.” 

My anger and frustration has been compounded by the knowledge that – like for many a horror movie heroine – the solution is right here in our grasp. But because so many people delayed or denied the life-saving vaccine, a deadly mutant of the virus has taken hold again. Like so many people I know, I’m oh-so-weary of doing everything we were supposed to, and still finding ourselves stuck in the purgatory of masks and social distancing and fear.

And then, like it knew exactly what I needed, the universe intervened for me this morning. Savoring some rare down time, I walked to our little village to visit the Saturday tailgate market. I chatted with my neighborhood farmer and selected some heirloom tomatoes that will make their way into a pie this weekend. I wandered to the bakery and picked up coffee and a pastry and headed to the lake, always a place of respite for me.

Despite all these abundant signs of life, despite the seeming normalcy of my errands, my footsteps sounded an elegy. My heart and spirit were burdened. 

Then I saw the Lake Monster.

Turns out a community group had organized a Lake Monster Parade for this morning, presumably for the sheer joy of it. And what a joy it was. 

Families of all shapes and sizes and combinations showed up, in homemade costumes and carriages, all presided over by the Lake Monster itself, gently paddling along in the wake of the paraders.

There was the pint-sized pirate, swashbuckling his way through a gaggle of geese. We had an octopus, mini-mermaids, furry four-legged dragons and more. Spectators scrambled for photos of some of the more elaborate contraptions and carts decorated with googley eyeballs and rubber glove flippers on their wheels, transformed into seaworthy chariots for costumed toddlers who no doubt wondered what all the fuss was about.

And right there, just there on the lakeside, my seized-up heart melted. I wept to see the young families, no doubt far more weary than I, indulging in a moment of fantastic, unbridled fun. I wept for those of us standing on the sidelines, cheering them on and laughing at their antics, united in serendipitous whimsy. And I wept in solidarity with those harried parents and confused-looking kids who showed up late or couldn’t find the start, but simply paraded where they were and made the best of where they found themselves.

I said a prayer of thanks for the creativity that made this magic happen, and for the grace that led me to it.

We’re still fighting the COVID monster. But for a moment, just a moment, we were fighting the despair of it together, with an army of mermaids and sea creatures, anodyne for heavy hearts. 

Warning: The following, if taken as career advice, could be hazardous to your income. It’s my individual career path story, shared in hopes it will help you think differently about how to shape your own.

It’s revealing to look back on a career spanning more than three decades and to see, from the perspective of hindsight, the steps and decisions that led from there to here. Unlike some people whose upward trajectory is steady and true, mine was always more like the ‘80s video game Frogger: I hopped on a log and rode it until another good option came along, or until circumstances forced or encouraged me to jump for the next, usually more advanced, opportunity.

While some of those leaps were lateral moves or even the occasional step down, my general career path was onward and upward. Without even thinking about it, I was on a management track, and (in the early days) couldn’t get there fast enough. I measured success not just by my paycheck, but in the number of people reporting to me and the degree of influence I had on my organization. Fortunately, that rookie attitude gave way to some hard-earned wisdom over the years, and I like to think I grew into the mantle of leadership and recognized the privilege it afforded me to actually do some good for my organizations and the people in them.

As described in Part 2 of this series, a year ago I pressed “pause” on that career path so I could dig deep to discover what I really wanted out of my (likely) final decade of paid work. I knew a few things innately: I needed to get back to my community-based, not-for-profit roots with an organization I could be proud to serve, and I wanted to be surrounded by smart, talented, committed people. I knew I’d probably take a pay cut no matter where I landed, and I carefully built a “must-have” baseline budget to guide me.

Armed with these non-negotiables, I began to think about what I could do that would check all the boxes. Despite all the intentionality, I was still operating from what soon revealed itself to be a faulty assumption: that I’d pursue another leadership role.

But as I reflected back over my career and the times I’d felt the most satisfied in my work, my thoughts kept returning again and again to the role that launched me on my eventual career path. While it carried a different title, it was essentially an executive assistant role working with the CEO and board of an established organization that was well-respected in our community. It drew on all my strengths, offered me autonomy and influence, but didn’t require me to give my life over 24/7 to the organization.

The more I contemplated it, the more I knew it was exactly the kind of role I needed and wanted for my next step. But…with recent titles of VP and Director on my resume, surely no one would take me seriously. In fact, I knew that if I were a hiring manager for a role like this and saw someone with those titles applying, I’d never trust they really wanted “just” an assistant role. And what would people who “knew me when” think when they heard I’d stepped off that leadership path?

Time for more soul searching. I acknowledged my heart wasn’t in the higher level roles any more. My recent experience had made it crystal clear that some titles and paychecks simply aren’t worth it. I’d been saying all along that I wanted balance, and realized taking a less demanding role was one way to get it. A role I could turn off at 5 pm every day offered the prospect of more “life” in my off hours – from writing, to spending time with loved ones, to taking care of myself. And as for “what will people think,” I decided (belatedly) that this had no place in my life or career. I also reflected on the many brilliant and talented people I know who have made exactly this kind of role their profession, and knew I’d be in great company if I moved in that direction.

Knowing I’d face skepticism, I began working my connections. Even among people I knew wanted the best for me, I heard the doubt. They listened to me with kindness, but I could tell they were thinking, “She says this now, but she won’t want this for long.”

What happened next was nothing short of a miracle – actually, a series of them. I found a role description that so perfectly matched what I was looking for that I wept when I read it. I convinced the recruiter to get me an interview.

When I met the hiring manager, I spoke my truth. I acknowledged that if I were in her seat, I’d be highly suspicious of someone with my background wanting a role like this. I told her exactly why I wanted it, and what I could bring to it that would set me apart from her other candidates. And in a true moment of what can only be grace, she heard me. She got it. She shared with me the story of her friend who’s on a similar path. And she had the courage to offer me the job.

The role hits all the marks: It’s with a highly respected organization with deep roots in the community. I continue to learn new skills, while drawing on my years of experience. I’m surrounded by smart young people every day. 

There are other intangibles. This move has taken my ego out of the equation; it’s intrinsically rewarding to have skills to contribute, but without the pressure to climb or be on an upward trajectory. As a more seasoned worker, it’s less about me and more about giving a boost to the next generation. Rather than compete with them, we complement each other, and it is a huge joy for me to see them learn and grow and succeed.

Lest this be another “sunshine and roses” story, let’s talk about the financial implications. They are substantial. I acknowledge that it was a luxury, one not everyone has, for me to even be able to consider such a move. My husband and I joke that we are the poster-children for downward mobility (hence that warning at the beginning of this piece). We have less disposable income than we once had, but my less demanding job leaves me time left over for freelance work, and we’ve further diversified our income by creating a little short-term rental apartment in our now empty-nest home.

On to the moral of this little fable: For hiring managers reading this, I encourage you to keep an open mind when you see someone looking for just this kind of bell-shaped career path. Having been in your seat, I know it’s often so hard to know what an applicant really wants. Trust your instincts; remember my story. There just might be a treasure there.

And for those seekers out there, please hear this: You’re the architect of your own path. You get to decide the trajectory. If upward and top of the heap is what you want, I’ll be cheering for you every step of the way. But don’t let habit, or others’ expectations, keep you heading in a direction you no longer want to go. Chart your own course, and keep an eye out for the wonders awaiting off the beaten path. Wishing you traveling mercies.

In Part 1 of this series, I described my lessons learned the hard way when I made an ill-considered career move some years back. So as you can imagine, when I found myself facing a more recent fork in my professional path, I approached it with fear and trembling.

That earlier move had come on the heels of a merger that had taken me out of the beloved organization where I’d spent more than two decades growing my career, catapulting me into an ill-fitting role with the new parent organization. As I was still grieving the loss of my “home” workplace, personal tragedy struck as well. I was reeling on all fronts, developing health issues, and not finding the support I needed to get myself on track in my new role. Somehow, despite the chaotic state I was in, I sought and in a single week was offered not one but two presumably great jobs with other organizations. 

I remember agonizing over these choices, convinced only that I had to make a move. I was working with a leadership coach at the time, who kept asking, “What are you feeling?” and “What do you want?” as I processed these options.

“I feel exhausted,” was my consistent answer.

If you’ve read Part 1, you know I did not choose wisely, and ended up in that little office with the “Not an Entrance or Exit” sign on the closet. I chose it because it seemed the antithesis of the situation I was leaving – a simpler, calmer place that would give me space to breathe again. My desire for that altered state clouded my judgment and drowned out the alarm bells that were ringing all along – the staff I’d be working with did not seem welcoming, the bureaucratic structure was a recipe for frustration, the physical environment was bleak and uninviting. There was so much about the situation that clearly wasn’t a fit for me, but in my desperation to make a move, I looked the other way. It ultimately didn’t work, because what I really needed, if I’d been listening to myself, was rest.

Fast-forward another five years, and the company I’d successfully returned to after that brief misstep was itself acquired by a corporate behemoth that brought change not just to my role, but to the entire culture and purpose of our work. True to form, I gave it a good try, but more and more the gnawing voice in my head (and knot in my stomach) were telling me that this was not a place I could spend the remaining decade or so of my career.

Given my earlier experience, I knew what not to do (or so I thought). I knew that this time, there wouldn’t be another do-over. I was determined to learn my lesson from the past, and have patience to find just the right next step. I could wait, I thought, as long as I was working on my exit strategy. I began a very focused job search, interviewed well, and was first runner up for a couple of really great opportunities. But nothing came through.

Then, staying became harder, because I could no longer do my work with integrity. The incongruence was eating away at me, and I found myself back in the familiar place of feeling exhausted and unhealthy all the time. I asked myself the questions the coach had asked before, “What are you feeling?” and “What do you want?” And I kept giving the same answer, “I feel exhausted.” This time, I added, “I don’t want this to be how it ends.”

A lightbulb went off, and I knew, with a clarity I never felt in the prior move, what I needed to do. 

I needed to pause. To turn to wonder. To embrace the questions, to lean into the unknown. To apply the life lessons gifted me by the “Not an Exit or Entrance” sign.

By listening deeply to my own heart and soul, I realized that I couldn’t offer any future employer – let alone myself – my best until I’d given myself time to rest. 

So I did exactly what all my HR experience told me I should never, ever do: in my mid-50s, I left a lucrative job without knowing what my next one would be. (In a particularly thrilling twist to the story, this occurred 10 days before the world shut down due to the COVID-19 pandemic. But I digress.)

Immediately, this time I knew I’d done the right thing. And, I was terrified, despite the safety net of a small nest egg – a luxury I do not take for granted – that allowed me to press pause, to rest, and to explore what would come next. 

While those months did give me the gift of time and space, they also brought me face to face with my deepest fears about self-sufficiency, and self-worth, and purpose. Though I’d intended to use the time to immerse myself in the creative writing I never had time to do with my demanding job, I instead found that my creativity suffered under the burden of fear and anxiety about my now-unknown future.

I tell this part because I think too often we hear about dramatic career moves and downsizing that can seem sugar-coated and rose-colored. In reality, this was not an easy time. It forced me to confront some hard truths about myself, and make some very tough decisions financially and personally. It’s part of the story – maybe the essence of it – and it can’t be skipped or glossed over.

But from the perspective of a year later, I can categorically say this pause was the single most important investment I’ve ever made in my career. Because of it, I’m more satisfied with where I am now than I would have thought possible, and on a path I wouldn’t have expected. 

More to come in Part 3: The Bell-Curve Career

Unlike many people, I’ve never had a singular career goal. I didn’t, for instance, set out on a defined path to be a nurse, an attorney, a physician, an accountant. I started with an undergrad degree in English, and all I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to teach (for which potential students everywhere might say a silent prayer of thanks).

So it’s astounding, when I look back over the past 30+ years, where my meandering career has taken me. Rather than focus on a particular destination, I’ve simply made sure, whatever role I’m in, to show up with my best and give it everything I’ve got. While never perfect, I’ve tried to contribute to my employer’s success, doing my part to make things run smoothly, and taking it all (probably) way too seriously.

That alone has opened doors I couldn’t have imagined as a bright-eyed new grad. It set me on a path to career success and satisfaction, for which I am forever grateful.

Yet despite these best of intentions, sometimes the path has taken me places I didn’t really want to go. I mark a wry anniversary this time each year, acknowledging an instance when I made what I now consider one of the biggest missteps of my career. It was a hasty, emotional decision to change jobs (more on this in Part 2 of this series), when I didn’t listen to my internal alarm bells going off. And I landed in a place I affectionately dubbed the Time Warp. 

This quixotic little sign was the first thing I saw when I entered my new office on the first day. It was affixed to what turned out to be a closet, and the fact that the facility couldn’t simply label it “closet” spoke volumes about why this place was not a good fit for me. After four excruciating months, this high performing, get-’er-done, always-make-things-better gal accepted that fact and threw in the towel. And I felt like a failure, kicking myself for making such a stupid decision in the first place. 

And yet, in a twist of grace, this little sign has become not so much a symbol of my failure, but a metaphor for the wisdom I gained during and after this experience. While I laugh at its bureaucratic jumble of syntax, it really has guided me as I’ve navigated more recent career and life decisions. 

It reminds me that whatever my current state, it’s not permanent; that I need to savor moments of beauty and success when they come, and likewise relax a bit during more challenging times, knowing they, too, will pass.

While my misstep initially felt like a failure – an “exit” – in fact, it wasn’t the end of the world. In this particular case, it led me back to my prior employer, but not before opening the door to conversations about why I’d felt the need to leave in the first place, and how we could make things better if I returned. In hindsight, those were conversations I could and should have had before leaving, but like so many things, it’s a lesson I had to learn the hard way. 

The sign is the gift that keeps on giving; it provided fodder for a flash fiction piece I had published last year, and I’ve used it as an example in coaching my kids, friends and colleagues when they are contemplating big decisions. I’ve joked that it will probably be the title of my memoir someday. All this, from a silly little sign.

I’m drawn to its message in times of transition – in life, in career, in this moment of glimpsing light at the end of the pandemic tunnel. It’s about endings, beginnings, and all the unseen spaces in between. Hold on to the good. Trust that the not-so-good will be on its way soon. Listen to yourself. Live in wonder. Embrace the questions. Lean into the unknown.

As Lao Tzu reminds us, “A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.”

No exit or entrance; just the next step in the journey.

Coming Soon –  Part 2: The Importance of the Pause

“Oh?” I said eagerly. “What’d you say?” Not one to be described as “beautiful” or “hot,” I was expecting his answer to be more along the lines of “funny,” “kind,” or even “smart” or “talented.”

“I told him you’re the most competent person I’ve ever met,” he said proudly.

Oh. Competent. Maybe this budding relationship wasn’t what I thought it was. (Note from future me: Calm down. It was.)

“Wow,” I responded. “I’ll bet that impressed him. Just what every guy dreams of – ‘Competent Woman.’”

Truly distraught at my less than enthusiastic reaction, he was quick to explain why this was, in fact, the highest of compliments. Uh huh.

And so, “Competent Woman” became part of our vernacular. When I regaled a group of co-workers with this story afterwards, we decided competence is my superpower. One even suggested a secret gesture – a hand shaped like the letter C, held at chest level and accompanied by a chk-chk sound effect. For years, when I’d see her in the hallway, that became our standard greeting.

I was thinking about Competent Woman recently, when hubby (let’s call him MacGyver, or Mac for short) and I were discussing a mutual friend of about our age who still shows up to Zoom calls in full hair and makeup and trendy clothes from top to bottom, including designer boots. “It’s a kit,” he said. “She won’t go out or stay in without it.”

“Hmm,” I mused. “How would I describe Competent Woman’s kit?” I went on to detail a few items from my current, imminently practical collection:

Elastic wear all day – check. 

The natural glow of no makeup – check. 

Hair, being gently nudged to its natural, graying state with the help of (thank goodness) a talented stylist – check. 

A scrunchie for that same hair, longer than it’s been since high school, that I can now pull into a stylish ponytail – check. Though “stylish” is a stretch; to be honest, it’s got a way to go before it stops looking like a founding father’s powdered wig after a particularly raucous day in the Continental Congress.

And again with the hair; for days that I don’t have “on camera” or in person appearances at work, it’s either left to dry in its wild woman naturally wavy state, or more often than not, sprayed down with a little dry shampoo to get just one more day between washings.

“Don’t forget the stabilizer shoes,” Mac contributed helpfully. Right; thanks for the reminder of the new athletic gear I had to invest in recently after developing some acute knee pain. The earnest young woman in the running store recommended them for my particular gait and other challenges. They’re not orthopedic shoes. They’re not.

“What else?” I asked.

“Maybe some kind of ointment?” Mac offered. No denying, this guy knows how to sweet-talk me.

“Well, if we’re shifting from ‘kit’ to ‘go bag,’ let’s not forget a towel,” I retorted. I have a reputation in our family for never traveling without my own towel – you never know when you’ll need one, and you can’t always count on a clean and sanitized one being provided for you. As the great philosopher Douglas Adams details in this excerpt from his classic The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, “a towel is about the most massively useful thing” there is. 

Competent Woman is always prepared; youngest child once decreed me “Princess Just-in-Case” during a make-believe play session. For those who know the Enneagram, Competent Woman is a 6. Her cupboards and closets are just this side of hoarder status, but you’re not going to run out of chicken broth or toilet paper on her watch.

So today, I pause to embrace my status as Competent Woman. I come from a long line of them. I’ll bet you know one, or maybe even are one yourself. I’ll even bet that in some of those who insist on the outward appearance “kit,” the heart of Competent Woman beats just below the surface.

Look carefully and you might even glimpse our secret identity symbol –  right underneath that stylish fleece hoodie covered in dog hair. 

Then along comes 2020. This year, I suspect most of us approach the solstice utterly weary from the non-doing, from the disruption of our plans and the upending of our normal routines, thrust upon us by an invisible peril that has confined many of us to home and kept us apart. Such a forced non-doing has more often agitated than calmed, even as we adjust to this (surely) temporary state of being. 

While in other years I’ve been eager to embrace the dark and quiet elements of the winter solstice, this year I am reminded that the season is really about the return of the light. We know the coming winter may hold even more darkness before we get to the other side of the pandemic, which makes it all the more important that we look for and celebrate the pinpoints of hope that light our way toward spring, toward a vaccine, toward whatever “normal” we long to return to. 

Along with light, grace is a concept that’s much in my thoughts. One of the best descriptions of its religious roots comes from Frederick Buechner – a reflection we loved so much, my husband and I used it in our wedding ceremony. (It’s a short piece, and I promise, it’s worth a read.)

I’ve noticed how the word grace has been showing up in more of my conversations and in the wider world lately. We talk of “giving grace” to ourselves or to each other. Isn’t it lovely, in a year when we’re all battered and worn, that we are reminding ourselves to tread gently? Granted, in one of the most divisive times in our country’s history, grace hasn’t always been evident, but the verbal reminders can move us a tiny bit more in that direction. 

So this year, my own personal winter solstice reflection is a stringing together of some of those moments of grace that have been visited upon me this year. They might have been unremarkable in other times, but in a year of heaviness and angst, they shine like tiny beacons in the darkness, reminding me of the good that’s all around us, that can be ours, as Buechner says, “if only [we’ll] reach out and take it.”

Pinpoints of Grace, 2020 Edition

Grace was recognizing a career path was wrong for me, having the courage to step off it and into the unknown, and trusting there would be a net to catch me. Grace also was laughing when my husband didn’t know the “leap and a net will appear” quote I mentioned to him during that time, and then making ourselves a set of matching mugs to serve as a light-hearted reminder.

Grace was having time to contemplate my deepest, truest wants and needs, so that I’d recognize the net when it appeared and be able to “reach out and take it.” It was being heard – really listened to – and having my own wisdom honored. And it was finding new purpose and new learning, in a workplace that leaves room for my heart and soul.

Grace was discovering there are those who value my writing and the expertise I’ve accumulated over the past several decades, and learning that seemingly simple ideas right out of my own head could earn me (a little) extra income.

Grace was having adult children and their friends with us for an extended time in the spring, reconnecting through daily life and afternoon happy hours on the porch in view of these ancient mountains, together finding our way through the pandemic’s early days.

Grace was seeing our youngest child graduate from high school and reflecting on a journey that didn’t follow the expected path. And grace was remembering to tell the friends who had offered us important perspective and encouragement along the way what a difference that made.

Grace was paying it forward – becoming trusted confidantes to others navigating challenges similar to our own. This year, I have recognized that there’s perhaps no more pure form of grace than turning our own pain and struggle into something that eases the burdens of others.

Grace was reconnecting with one of my lifelong friends and visiting more often through technology than we ever have in person. And grace was monthly book club meetings over Zoom, culminating recently with lighting the first candle of Hanukkah together, virtually.

Grace reveals itself through more frequent texts and hand-written cards among friends both near and far, just checking on each other and making sure we stay connected. And grace is parking lot meetings and drive-by visits when we just need to lay actual eyes on the people we care about.

Grace is daily talks with my parents, who have been through so much this year; grace is bearing witness to the resilience and humor they bring to their everyday moments.

Grace was setting a goal at the beginning of “lock-down” to have at least one belly-laugh each day, and most days finding humor in the absurdity of this crazy life we live.

Grace, ultimately, means learning what matters. When the busyness and distraction of our “normal” lives are stripped away, grace is in what remains. 

Our blessings are still too numerous to count, and grace is the gift of grateful hearts that continue to turn toward the light.

I found myself wondering what an archaeologist unearthing our little domestic compound in the distant future might make of the eclectic and – in some cases – downright disturbing collection of ornaments we treasure, pack away carefully and display year after year. Of course, a clue’s to be found if they also happened to discover the little wooden sign on display near the tree that says, “If you met my family you would understand.”

But really, how to explain things like the blown glass unicorn in lederhosen? Or the head of Charles Darwin (you think it’s Santa, but it’s not!)? Worse still, the “ugly baby for sale” nestled in the branches and giving off a truly creepy vibe?

By way of (attempted) explanation, the first two are part of our collection of absurd ornaments that we began exchanging early in our “blended family” days – togetherness and hilarity brought to you by the Archie McPhee catalog. Ugly Baby is in a class by itself, and was one of the first hints I had of the kind of household I was marrying into; the children had adapted it from a gift given to them by grandparents, recognizing its potential to disturb. So of course, now it’s on the tree. I mean, what else would we do with it? (Don’t answer that.)

There’s plenty of pure whimsy, too, from the “Mistletoad” to Yoda and other Star Wars and Star Trek characters. There are nostalgic ornaments passed down through generations, like the parachuting snowman or the Santa pilot. There are ornaments gifted to the children based on hobbies at the time – from cooking, to music, to favorite animals. Sometimes irony comes more in the placement of things – the elegant peacock feather butterfly perches just beside the ornament that commemorates the Hi-Way Drive-In, aka the Dip-Dog Stand, a veritable institution, decidedly inelegant, in my hometown.

Other ornaments give insight to things I’ve only recently recognized about myself. For instance, I thought my fascination with birds was relatively new, and related to my treehouse “perch.” But apparently I’ve been collecting bird-related ornaments for years, now adorning the tree’s branches with everything from realistic-looking cardinals to flamingos in Santa hats.

One bird tells a different story and is a reminder to me of the hazards of re-gifting: It was a simple painted wooden ornament I gave my Secret Santa recipient long ago in college, only to have her unwittingly re-gift it to me the next week. I still remember how mortified she was when she connected the dots at our final gift exchange. A cautionary tale for the ages, renewed in memory once a year.

Still others bring more traditional and fond reminders of the friends who’ve gifted them to me over the years – the tiny clay polar bear; the handmade dragonfly from a friend who took the time to remember my love for that image. The sweet bonds of friendship these memories conjure have inspired me also to do more gifting of ornaments in recent years, hoping they prompt similar memories for others decorating their own trees now and in the future.

More sobering are ornaments from hospice or other mementos, marking the years that loved ones left us. One of the newest and most precious to me is a blue and white star brought from a friend’s trip to Holland, commemorating another friend who died last year; this shade of blue is an instant reminder of her.

Of course like most families, we’ve got plenty of hand-made ornaments from different eras of the children’s growing-up years. Clothespin reindeer and ballerinas, glass orbs with holly thumbprints, felt candy canes with photos attached. We also have tributes to some of our epic family Halloween costumes, from popcorn boxes to playing cards. We don’t use all of these every year, but a few always make their way into the display.

Turns out, our crazy-quilt of a tree does tell a story, and would offer future explorers pretty good insight into the family that cherishes it. Here in this house, there was laughter, and a more than healthy appreciation of irony and the absurd. There were friendships we treasured. There were lessons learned. There was creativity. There were poignant memories which, though sometimes painful, were softened and burnished by the passing of time.

And every Christmas, we have a chance to put this on display, and to honor and celebrate all these gifts of the spirit collected across the generations. It’s a treasure to unearth, year after year.

A large bulletin board in our hallway became the place where we’d display the evidence of this success – news clippings, photos and mementos we wanted to celebrate and recognize. Once the items were posted, we didn’t linger much over them, but there were still proud smiles when someone got to add a report card or a runner’s bib (I even contributed one of those myself!).

Then, something unforeseen happened. One of our kids (who shall remain nameless) failed the first attempt at getting a driver’s license. Shock, devastation and heartbreak ensued – especially as this was arguably the best driver in the household (sorry, other two – you know who you are!). The test could be retaken in a few days, but the disappointment and self-judgment remained. And there was an empty space on our bulletin board where we’d expected the passing score to be posted.

My husband has a knack for lightening any mood, and began telling stories of his less-than-illustrious high school report cards to reinforce the message that, despite some early failures, one can go on to lead a generally productive life. He said he’d actually found his old high school transcript recently when cleaning out some files.

He left the room for a moment before returning and heading straight to the board in the hallway to post his old transcript in that empty space. (He wasn’t kidding about his grades, though phys ed and history seem to have been strengths; Bible, along with speech and drama, not so much.) He made a hand-lettered banner, thus designating a section of our display “The Failure Board,” and challenging the rest of us to produce some prime examples for posting. Of course, the failed driving result was the next to go up, and even elicited the tiniest of smiles in the process.

Since then, the Failure Board has taken on a life of its own. I can’t say we’re happy about some of the things we’ve added – medical bracelets salvaged after ER visits, for instance, and even the disposable clothing one of us got on one such trip. But usually we take delight when something happens or is said that just screams, “Failure Board.”

I contributed a printout of the closed work order from my corporate IT department, declaring my issue had been resolved when they “instructed user to press the power button.” (For the record, there was much more to that story, and that was not the resolution – but I digress.) Though we no longer had the documentation, we posted a note reminding us of the time another new driver had two minor fender-benders in the space of one week – thankfully, a record unchallenged to this day.

We’ve got failed attempts at souvenirs we’ve collected, like the wrapper from the snacks we bought during a visit to Ford’s Theatre, which one child dubbed “Assassination Pretzels.” We’ve got quotes that bring a cringe and a laugh, harvested from many a dinner table conversation; among the favorites is the daily catch-phrase of the middle school principal, “It’s a beautiful day in the Valley,” which we’ve adopted and applied in the most ironic way possible. We’ve got the parking garage ticket that for several minutes stymied our departure after last year’s Christmas Eve church service, when someone (also nameless) was inserting it in the credit card slot by mistake.

Even the pets get into the act – we have the results of dear Savvy’s Wisdom Panel DNA test, which show she’s a tiny part miniature Fox Terrier, part Norweigian Elkhound, and about 65% “other mixed breed” (our money’s on “alien”). Speaking of numbers, we’ve got the losing lottery tickets I bought when the jackpot was too high to resist, and we’ve got samples of the enormous quantity of printed cards I ordered for a work project, clearly underscoring that I’m a words person, not a numbers person: I ordered more than 3,000, when the actual amount needed was about 200. Adding insult to injury, it includes the sticky note where I’d scratched out my “calculations.” But on the plus side, we have a lifetime supply of great note cards and bookmarks!

If you’re a visitor to our home, you just might earn yourself a place on the Failure Board, too. We’ve got a photo of the “press to retract” label from a hair dryer one of our guests borrowed. I guess this accomplished engineer missed that little instruction, and ended up taking the dryer apart and putting it back together when they couldn’t figure out how to retract the cord after using. See, failure happens to the best of us!

The year 2020 certainly should offer some great additions to the board – the White House’s postcard “Guidelines for Coronavirus” received this Spring has a prominent place. Here’s hoping the election results don’t end up there, too.

Last year during our Marie Kondo tidying up phase, I realized our bulletin board was itself in need of some tidying. There simply wasn’t room for all the successes, which had also continued to multiply, along with the failures. In fact, there were still exponentially more of the former than the latter. I didn’t think twice about it – I lovingly took inventory of everything, separating the successes from the “failures.” 

The successes got packed away in a large box, to serve as mementos for the ages. The failures remain in pride of place on the Failure Board – visible reminders that none of us is perfect, nor are we expected to be. That laughter does heal the hurts, at least a little bit. That these are the precious moments we want to remember, and to celebrate. That home is where we’ll be ourselves and love each other, no matter what.

This year, I’ve spent more concentrated time outside – or on the verge, perched in my little treehouse office – than any other time in memory. This vantage point, though necessitated by the tragedy of the COVID-19 pandemic and intensified by other life changes, has been nothing short of glorious, and soothing to my soul.

From my perch, I’m literally surrounded by trees and the birds who come to feed and nest there. I’ve become acquainted with the chickadees and finches, the towhees and the cardinals, the hummingbirds and nuthatches. I was there when the bare branches sprouted tiny green buds and then quickly came to full leaf too dense to see through, and now am witness as the first yellow and red kisses of autumn are making their appearance.

At the nearby lake, I delighted in the new batches of ducklings and goslings in the spring. I watched their mamas teach them to swim and then marveled as those babies turned into feisty teenagers, venturing out on their own, and more recently became unrecognizable from their parents’ generation. I welcomed the heron who makes an appearance each late summer, startling me at every sighting with the impossibility of its presence.

This year, on my now more frequent neighborhood walks or just doing routine yard work, I’ve encountered (still from a safe distance) no less than four snakes, when most seasons I see none. I’ve chatted with a little toad – whom we named Todd the Toad – who’s taken up residence in our stone wall, and has now grown to quite a size and seems oddly curious about our comings and goings. I’ve had surprise visits from the bunnies that nest under our porch, and the bears who scavenge in the woods behind the house.

In short, I’ve found myself surrounded by nature, and the cycles of the natural world. Most years, I’d have been working long hours in a corporate office, rarely outside enough to see or notice these things. But for three seasons of this year that has been like no other, they have become my companions, my fellow travelers. They have grounded me in the natural rhythms, and beyond making the heaviness of COVID more bearable, they give me hope. 

These woodland creatures don’t know about COVID. They keep moving in their natural cycles, oblivious to our human worries. The leaves sprout, the eggs hatch, the heron follows its migratory calling. The leaves turn, the snake sheds its skin, the bears find a den for their winter’s sleep.

While the world I know has pressed pause, the world they know keeps spinning, the circles of life keep turning. The bulb dormant in the cold becomes the brilliant crocus of spring. The leaf that falls to the ground today becomes a sapling and later a source of shade on a future summer’s day. The duckling of today becomes the patient parent of tomorrow.

Nature knows to take the long view. This pause is but a moment. The disappointment and the loss and the fear, though very real and present with us today, are fleeting. The darkness will not last. Morning will come, and we will rise to welcome it as a long-lost but faithful friend, ready to pick up where we left off. 

And yet, I hope, changed in ways we won’t forget.

I remain committed to (mostly) staying out of politics in this space. But having spent the better part of my career in the realm of leadership communications, I’m having a hard time remaining silent this time. Rather than dwell on this particular situation, let’s instead broaden it to a teachable moment and an example for leaders navigating difficult messages.

Any leader, whether of a small non-profit, a publicly-held company or a governmental agency, is going to face such moments of truth at some point – maybe revenues drop and layoffs are imminent, or the competition introduces a game-changer to the business model, or the company is about to be acquired. Good leaders understand the enormity of their responsibility to their stakeholders; they understand that livelihoods depend on the choices they make. In this week’s very public example, the responsibility was to a whole nation, and livelihoods as well as actual lives were at stake. Were I advising a leader in a similar situation, it would go something like this:

It Begins With Respect

If the first rule of communication is “know your audience,” then a very close second is “respect your audience.” In my experience, leaders get in trouble when they put themselves on the slippery slope of protecting (read: patronizing) their audience. It signals, to borrow Jack Nicholson’s famous line from A Few Good Men, that the leader thinks we can’t handle the truth. And belies an underlying disrespect and dismissiveness that is hard to overcome.

I’ve led communication efforts in more than one organization that was facing being acquired, or managing through steep budget cuts and downsizing. I’ve been in conversations where there was concern that being too forthcoming could cause good employees to flee in the face of imagined job cuts or just the fear of the unknown, or could otherwise hurt the reputation or the performance of the business. And yet, I’m proud to say in all cases the leaders I worked with came down firmly on the side of sharing the facts when they were known, recognizing that people needed to be able to make informed decisions about their futures.

It’s About Power

Hoarding information in the name of protecting others is really about protecting the leader him- or herself. It’s a dangerous approach that magnifies an already obvious power divide, in this case between those with access to accurate information and those without it. I studied journalism and became a professional communicator because I truly believe information is power, and those who hoard it rarely have the common good at heart (no matter how much they may try to convince themselves and us of that). Often, this behavior reflects the leader’s own fears, whether about the challenge itself, or about having to face tough questions or to own difficult decisions that must be made. In reality, it’s far more empowering for the leader and the audience when the facts are shared proactively.

It’s Not a Binary Proposition

In the tapes this week, we heard that truth was downplayed to avoid panic. This implies an either/or choice between sharing facts, which presumably would cause panic, and sugarcoating, which was intended to reassure. (More on the utter fallacy of this later.) What this kind of moment actually calls for is a leader who will both own the present reality in all its difficulty, and signal the way forward despite the challenges. 

I know firsthand that the clear, calm voice of a confident leader, especially when sharing difficult news, sets the tone for how an organization responds. In the case of the coronavirus, my recommendation for leadership communication would have included calm presentation of the facts, consistent messaging from experts to clarify the best course of action, acknowledgement of the shared sacrifice that would be needed, and a commitment to lead us through the coming months. Instead, we got empty, false assurances and self-described “cheerleading.”

Timing is Everything

There is an important caveat: even a well-meaning leader can create panic and chaos by over-sharing or communicating prematurely, before the facts are known. A leader does sometimes have to bear alone, or with a small group of advisors, decisions in the making. Sometimes information has to be held in confidence (during mergers and acquisitions, for instance) and should not be shared while it’s still in a “what if” status. But once the future becomes more clear, a leader has the responsibility to share it in a disciplined way that is truthful and respectful of the audience.

Still, there will be things the leader doesn’t know, or can’t share. When questioned about these things (as always happens), the best leaders know that humility and truth remain their guideposts. “I don’t know,” or “I’m not able to share that now, but I will when I can,” are honest answers that build lasting trust. 

The Truth Will Set You Free

As to the premise above (truth = panic; misrepresentation = calm), well, it’s just wrong. When the news is bad, or not what the audience wants to hear, people are far less likely to panic when they are given the facts by a calm, confident, trustworthy leader. The facts empower them to make their own informed decisions, and this in turn builds even greater trust. 

Conversely, as the Bard tells us, “the truth will out;” the very panic the leader seeks to avoid by hiding or downplaying information often is made exponentially worse when the facts do surface. Fundamental trust has been eroded, often never to be recovered.

Every leader will face the challenge of communicating effectively through difficult times across the span of a career. The simple guiding principles of respect, empowerment, ownership and truth will always point the way.

At first, I thought it was funny – this whole “Karen” thing – because I never miss a chance to laugh at myself. A few years ago my kids gleefully introduced me to the Karen memes – the hyper-vigilant, entitled middle-aged mom demanding to speak to the manager, or compelled to explain to strangers in the park how they ought to behave. I began sharing examples of Karens throwing their weight around, finding it hysterical that my name was trending as it hadn’t since its heyday in the 1950s and 60s – although in a deliciously undesirable way.

Despite my currently-unfortunate moniker, I honestly can’t remember a time I’ve asked to speak to the manager at any business or engaged in other overtly stereotypical Karen behavior. My family teases me about my expectations to have things go a certain way; the waiting line at the local Panera is particularly irritating to my sense of logic and order and efficiency, but at most drives me to a few heavy sighs and dramatic eye rolls. (And okay, I might have yelled at that teenage skateboarder that time, but that was me being a conscientious mom and he was riding into traffic!)

So why are Karens quite literally making a name for themselves recently? This piece from CNN gives some good background on the rise of the Karen phenomenon. While Karen may now be seen as an antiquated name that “no one would name their kid anymore” [sigh], for about 15 years in the 1950s and 60s, Karen was today’s Ava or Ethan – consistently in the top 10 lists of baby names. (So Mom and Dad, stop blaming yourselves for being on trend. And Ava and Ethan, consider this a cautionary tale). This explains why there are so many of us Karens in varying roles of influence now, and statistically, why a few of us are making negative news.

But next came Karens stepping into the news cycle, showcasing their racism. Sometimes blatantly, sometimes ignorant to their implicit bias. The “Karens” (whatever their actual names) became synonymous with white privilege and abuse of power. With putting others, especially Black and people of color, “in their place.” And that’s when I stopped laughing.

“But you’re not one of those Karens,” many friends reassured me.

“Well, I certainly hope I’m not,” I said.

For a while, I began to take offense at my name being used thusly, and was determined to counter “that Karen” narrative. I started writing this post as a sort of call to arms (kind ones), exhorting my sisters in infamy to band together to use our power and privilege for good, and to distinguish ourselves from the Karens who were most decidedly behaving badly.

Then, as I was working on that draft, I happened across this from the excellent NPR podcast, Code Switch. It took me deeper into the history of “Karen” and her predecessors “Becky” and “Miss Ann,” and how they’ve been used as code in the Black community for generations to describe a white woman to watch out for, one who can be counted on to use her power and privilege against them.

So much for my “claim your power and privilege for good” angle. Power – and its misuse – is what got us here. Next draft! And another, and another.

Every time I started to write, I came across some new information like the Code Switch blog that would cause my perspective on this issue to shift again. At last, that became my way in; and so, [ahem], I present the following guide:

How Not to Be a “Karen” (in 5 not-so-easy but essential steps)

Step 1:

Recognize that you have things to learn – and unlearn. Despite the expert, instructive tone of this post’s title, I know I don’t have all the answers. Those other “Karens” would never admit they don’t know everything, including what’s best for everyone around them. Some humility, combined with a thirst for knowledge, goes a long way. Remember the infamous “Karen,” Lisa Alexander, in San Francisco? She would have done well not to accuse a Filipino man (or anyone) of defacing property that turned out to be his very own. What she thought she knew backfired in a big way, and revealed her implicit bias in the process. Even we who consider ourselves enlightened and inclusive had better be examining our blind spots from the last many years to the last few minutes, raising our consciousness and finding ways to unlearn racist attitudes we may not even know we have.

Step 2:

Recognize that your experience is not everyone’s experience. This is hard for most of us. We see the world from our own perspective, and may assume it’s the same for everyone. I hate to break it to you, Karen, but it’s not. For instance, imagine my surprise (and chagrin) when I watched the movie Hidden Figures only to discover its central character, famed NASA mathematician Katherine Johnson, had taught in the segregated school in my hometown – a school I barely knew existed and couldn’t have pointed out on a town map. When I shared that newfound fact on social media, a Black classmate from high school told me that Katherine Johnson was her mother’s teacher. A whole world I never knew, right in front of me – hidden, indeed. Acknowledging that your worldview is narrow helps open you to Step 3.

Step 3:

Seek to understand. When you embrace Steps 1 and 2, the natural next step is to want to broaden your perspective. Don’t know much about other races’ and cultures’ experience, arts, history? Explore everything you can find. Listen to great podcasts, like Code Switch. Google it, for heaven’s sake. Listen! Just listen. This kind of learning builds empathy, and empathy builds bridges. A word of caution – Step 3 is not easy. You’ll confront some ugliness and ignorance in yourself along the way. You’ll remember things you said and did without realizing the hurt they conveyed. When this happens, give yourself some grace. Whether your eyes are opened through your own research or through gentle teaching or corrections from others, learn to be grateful and gracious in the learning. When you realize you’ve had it all wrong, say “thank you” instead of being defensive. Embrace this as a gift, as a chance to do better. What you learn will change you; what you learn can change the world.

Step 4:

When you don’t know, don’t speak. (Brief pause here so those who know me to be a talker can recover their composure.) This step is why I kept wrestling with this topic before I put words to paper. I have opinions, sure, but are they well-informed? The short answer: not yet, but I’m working on it. Does it mean I need to be silent? No, but I have a responsibility to take the time to be thoughtful before I put my ideas or suggestions out there. It’s why I backed off from the “use our power for good” theme of my original drafts. It’s why I’ll keep practicing all these steps for the rest of my life, because I want to get it right. And it’s why I asked a trusted friend, who’s educating herself on all these issues and won’t hesitate to tell me the truth, to review this piece before I put it out there. Her contributions made it better. (Thanks FR!)

Step 5:

Remember this feeling. If, like me, you’re actually named Karen, stop for a moment. Feel the sting of being stereotyped for something as simple as your name. Sure, you brushed it off and laughed about it at first, but it’s not going away. Feel that little spark of anger and frustration about being wrongly accused, of assumptions being made about your motives, or about the kind of person you are. Feel what it’s like when you’ve become a meme, and your name is the butt of jokes you find yourself apologizing for. Let me be clear, I’m not elevating the “suffering” of Karens in any way; this is a nuisance for us, nothing more. But I’m saying maybe this gives us the tiniest insight to imagine how angry and hurt and traumatized whole generations of our fellow human beings are about the systemic racism that’s made assumptions, applied stereotypes and kept them “in their place.” Take that feeling, use it to walk a mile in others’ shoes, and channel it to change your own biases and behaviors.

If you are worried you might be “one of those Karens,” or you know someone who might be, I hope you’ll find the steps above a great place to start on the road to recovery.

And to my fellow actual Karens, at last, a call to action: When our learning and unlearning, our opened eyes, our self-awareness and our empathy combine to help us decide to make the world better, that’s how we’ll begin to make a new name for ourselves.

The author even used the term “magic” to describe the effect – so of course, it got me thinking about “the magic question” that I’ve used for years, especially when a conversation is emotionally charged. And in fact, the magic question is best used in conjunction with “tell me.”

The magic question is useful in all sorts of conversations when it’s important to get to the heart of the matter. I’ve used it with executives unhappy with how a project is going. And with staff members who are struggling to understand and adjust to organizational changes that are out of their control. It works beautifully in service recovery, when you’re addressing a customer’s concerns. Dare I say, I’ve even used it successfully with teenagers (you know that’s powerful magic, indeed!).

But here’s the thing about the magic question. You don’t lead with it – you build toward it. In conversations where emotions are high, I tend to follow the LEAR method – Listen, show Empathy, Ask questions and Respond. This is a good framework, and it’s where you can use both the “tell me” approach and the magic question. Here’s a real-life example of how it works:

A staff member comes to me, highly upset that she’s been passed over for a promotion. “Tell me” is helpful here, as it begins the listening phase. I listen without judgment or interruption, letting her vent. I show empathy, acknowledging that her feelings are real and that it’s understandable she feels as she does. I might ask clarifying questions, if needed.

And now we come to the respond phase – and the magic question. Now that the emotion has been expressed, now that the staff member feels heard, now what? While venting (safely and appropriately) is healthy, how is she going to move forward? It’s time for the magic question: “What would you like to have happen?”

It’s magical on many levels. Like “tell me,” it is empowering to the responder. It guides her to think about what true resolution of her situation would look like, and gives her an opportunity to name it. It is future-facing, rather than rooted in the hurts of the past. It is tangible, and actionable.

In all my years of using the magic question, I can’t think of a time where it’s failed me. And in another bit of magic, the answers to it are almost always easily achievable, and brilliant in their simplicity.

You might fear that the responses would be demanding and unreasonable – “I want that other person fired, so I can have the job!” – but I’ve never gotten a response like that. I believe it’s because this question focuses the person, in the healthiest way, on what is in their control, versus keeping them stuck as a victim.

In the example above, the magic question led this young woman to what I have found is the most common response: “I just needed someone to hear me.” And then, to pick up her wounded pride and disappointment, and channel it into something productive. “I really did want this promotion,” she said. “And I still want one. I just want to know that I’m being given full consideration, and that I’m more prepared the next time an opportunity comes around.” Our conversation ended by talking about resources she could enlist to brush up her resume and interview skills, and some ways she could extend herself on specific teams to highlight her expertise. She left my office feeling heard, and with a plan. That’s magic!

Oh, to be sure, there have been some doozies of situations where I wondered if the magic question would come through for me – and still, it did. As noted, the most consistent answer is, “I just wanted to be heard. Thank you.” (Thank you, LEAR!). But whether dealing with irate customers, or unhappy bosses, or surly teenagers, I’ve never had anyone come back with a demand that wasn’t reasonable, or a request that couldn’t be met.

The magic question enlists the aggrieved party in the resolution to their complaint or concern. Rather than expecting the answer to come from elsewhere, it lets them name it and own it. By feeling heard in advance of the question, they are able to diffuse their emotion and identify tangible, concrete ways to move forward. Used in the context of LEAR, it really can be magical.

But the word kept calling to me, especially as I approached a recent time of self-imposed rest. From the moment I graduated from high school decades ago, I’ve been working, building a career and raising a family. I’ve rarely stopped for air, and certainly never devoted enough time to nurturing my creative spirit.

Consider these synonyms for fallow: Depleted. Dry. Parched. Neglected. Uninspired. Yep, feels about right. Which is why at last I made the necessary, self-preserving decision to step away from a ridiculously demanding job so I could clear my head and (I hoped) turn my time and energy to more creative, energizing, life-giving pursuits.

Interestingly, there are other synonyms: Resting. Unused. Dormant. On the Shelf. Out of Action. Sidelined. Suspended. Latent.

It strikes me that the first set of words is describing land that went fallow by accident, and with no end in sight. It’s how I got to that place in my life and career without meaning to, and without thought or intention.

The second list is more hopeful to me. It’s about land that is resting on purpose. It’s unused, on the shelf, sidelined, latent, but for what I read as an intentionally finite period of time. Like good farmers know, it has to rest so it can again, sometime in the future, be useful and productive.

Is it any wonder I love this image? And yet, here’s what I learned a mere few days into my own self-selected fallow time: It’s hard. As my wise sister-in-law reminded me, I’ve been going at such full speed that it takes time to “let the engine slow to idle.” No kidding!

Instead of fully embracing this fallow time, early on I found myself trying to do what I do best: manage it.  To figure out what comes next, to quickly move into my website creation and line up new work, to create plans B, C and D in case Plan A didn’t provide the financial safety net I need.

All this activity, when what I really, truly needed was rest. To be “out of action” for a bit. To let my mind be “suspended,” while I opened myself to new possibilities. It all sounds so right, and still it terrified me.

For so long I’ve embodied the illusion that I, and only I, can and must manage my future; to step back from that is perhaps to admit that it’s never been really in my hands. To let go of my typical orchestration of everything and just be, even for a little while, was both my heartfelt wish, and my most daunting challenge.

I know in my deepest being that I have needed to let the ground of my heart and mind and spirit lie fallow. So for a brief time, I have tried to resist the urge to fertilize and dig and plant.

Instead, I have tried to be still (at least sometimes).

I have felt the gentle breeze.

I have entertained the creatures and critters and kindred spirits that have crossed the parched earth of my soul.

I have basked in the summer sun in the daytime, and dreamt under the stars and moon on a solstice night.

I have welcomed the rains when they come.

Now, I am trusting that when the time is right, I will know.

And one day – soon, in fact – I will be ready to plant and cultivate my heart’s garden again.

That’s what this new blog space, which I'm calling The Perch, is for me – a place to explore, with words, the depths of my own heart. These are personal meditations. They are how I process the world, shift and shape the components into something of meaning. I’ve heard other artists – painters, composers, performers – describe their acts of creation as a compulsion, and that is true for me as well. I know the muse is speaking when I cannot – must not! – do anything else until I sit and convey my fledgling thoughts to paper (or screen).  However frail and imperfect my words may be, they are looking for expression, and I will try to do them justice.

I am reminded of the refrain from many a Protestant worship service, drawing on the Psalm: “May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart, be acceptable in Your sight, oh Lord, my strength and my Redeemer.” My work is not overtly religious, but it will often be spiritual. Not preachy, but reflective.  Not perfect, but seeking.

Vincent van Gogh’s words ring true for me: “I am seeking, I am striving, I am in it with all my heart.” I feel things so deeply, often to my own detriment. I care so much about people, about my work, about the world around me, that I am frequently exhausted. I have too little of myself left over to actually do anything. So this perch, this platform, is my way of beginning to change that. Maybe the act of creating/writing/recording “the meditations of my heart” is what I “do” – how I elevate my heartfelt longings – even if I’m the only one reading them! Of course, "dance like there’s nobody watching” doesn’t really work for writers, as it is the reader’s engagement with the piece that actually completes it, helps it transcend the author and become something more, with even greater possibilities. And yet...to write is to lay my fragile soul bare; so much so that I often write with a secret hope that no one will read it, because it opens wide my heart to the world, exposed.

So (as I pause for a few deep breaths before I leap) - if you are reading this, thank you. I hope my words in this space will speak to something in your heart, or prompt a question, or a possibility, or a new way of thinking. I hope sometimes you'll laugh out loud, because absurdity is one of my favorite parts of the human experience. If nothing else, I hope this space allows you to pause and be still, and to listen to your own heart. Hear it. Feel it. Connect with it. In our common ground, there is grace.

I won't write every day, but I will write often. My topics may rarely or never track with the world’s headlines, but then again, they may. Sometimes I will focus on everyday life, and other times I'll draw from my experiences in the corporate world – for is not work also life for many of us? There is heart and reflection and dreaming and grace there, as well.

I’m following the trails of my heart and spirit to see where they lead. Thanks for coming along for the journey.