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Oh, California.

There's nothing like a trip to California to cause a refinement and readjustment of my beliefs and values.

Last weekend provided an opportunity to ask 28 other Vistage chairs to challenge gaps between my beliefs and my behaviors.

One of those gaps: spending too much time online, especially during the evenings. It's costing me incremental depth in my relationships here at home. So the computer has to be turned off at dinnertime.

But, wait. I'm online at night because I have real online work to do. And I have online work to do at night, because I am working out of the home all day.

Push has come to shove.
Something has to give. So I decided to trim my workday work load.

Right now. Before I change my mind.

So I have just quit a beloved teaching assignment.
This week, I asked Ohio State to remove me from the lineup starting in the autumn. That gives me one more academic quarter to try to get it right. (And, ethically, there are already students enrolled. I don't want to disappoint them.)

I told my current students about my decision. There was some argument that I should continue. But, mainly, we all agreed that I preach about (in the words of Pink Floyd) "exchanging cold comfort for change," so I should move on.

The Immediate Challenge
I cannot slow down — even on the job I've just quit.

Here's a note to the students:

To a Most Memorable Class Of Students:

Someday you will quit your job, like I have with Ohio State. (If you have missed a few classes, I've asked Ohio State to leave me out of the teaching lineup starting in the autumn. Maybe it's a final quitting. Maybe it's a few years off. I don't know.) 

If you have already quit a meaningful job, you know this: there's nothing like the old job.

By that, I mean: once you have quit a job, you are suddenly tempted to work less hard at it, preferring to coast toward the finish line. Your attention and passion are naturally drawn toward what's coming: the next job.

As a teacher, I need to serve as a role model on this issue. So I am committed to striving all the way through to the finish line. I will double my effort. I will double my accessibility. (Let me know if you want to meet with me during specially scheduled "office" hours.) I will work harder.

One Ball Dropped
I have loved, loved, loved teaching creativity at Ohio State. I have felt like the Liberal Arts Department of the Business School. 

I have thought that, in a world that teaches people how to be computers, I can be someone teaching them to be human. Pretty preposterous stuff. Ambitious. Somewhat successful, according to more than a few students.

Still, I can't juggle as many balls, because some of the balls are becoming heavier and taking on a more golden hue. So I had to put this ball down.

 

Under Your Nose

Why do we so often miss the obvious?

Why do our co-workers, children, and spouses miss what is clearly right in front of them? Why does our radar so often miss picking up the signals?

Here are two examples. They might work better if you click on the bottom right to make the video full screen. 

Watch The Flashing Green Spot
The lesson — from a flight instructor — is to not stare at a single point on the horizon, but rather scan the horizon. Otherwise, you risk missing items that are nearly in front of you.

 

 

Count The Passes
Turn up the volume for your instructions... 

 

Why are built to miss the obvious?
I don't know. Ask Darwin. Or Mother Nature. 

This Old Heart

Hearts age physically. They also age emotionally.

Neither is particularly pretty.

*******************

A couple years ago, the old man spoke. 

We were at lunch, the only lunch we ever shared.

"May I Tell You A Story?"
He didn't say why he wanted to tell it. But, as he shared, his motive appeared: he was processing a brutal fact of his life. 

Here is the story, a story of love and loss. He said:

At college, back in the '60s, I was in love with a young woman. She was a delight and we were soulmates.

As we faced graduation, we mutually decided to let our careers take us to different cities. We intentionally discontinued our relationship, one thing led to another, and we fell out of touch.

So far, a frequent story. He continued:

A few years passed and I was transferred to a different city, placed in an office, seated at a desk, and — at the very next desk — there she was. Imagine that! What a coincidence! Kismet? I don't know. There she was. And she was as delightful and well-matched for me as ever.

But, while we were separated, she had married. She was happily married. But here I was. There she was. And she was married. Happily married. I understood.

The old man raised a finger, to stop me from commenting. He continued:

Time passed.

One or the other of us eventually left the company and the city. 

More time passed.

It happened again. This time, I was traveling and we bumped into each other. Just like that. Can you believe it? A complete coincidence, again. What are the odds? Anyway, we were suddenly together. And between us: all the old feelings of admiration and longing. We chatted with heart, and a fact was quickly revealed: she was available, she had divorced.

But now I was married. Happily married! And so on. The situation had reversed to the same effect. Our conversation was limited by propriety; our meeting and parting, to a genuine embrace. 

Time passed. Again, we lost touch.

He paused. He continued:

That phrase — "but I was married" doesn't convey the value of my marriage. You know of my marriage. Legendary. The envy of others. But, more than that, the treasure of my life. The font of our children. My wife, our love, were, to me, everything.

I had met his wife. I had heard about their love. I nodded.

He was quiet. I waited. Then:

As you know, my wife died several years ago. Cancer. Untimely. Awful.

And, so, naturally, I have increasingly wondered, where is my friend, my college girlfriend, that woman who I thought was my soulmate, but never knew because our good lives interrupted us?

I don't know. I just don't know. I can't find her. I don't know where she is.

We sat quietly. He clearly feared the worst. That she was gone. Dead. Or disappeared.

I muttered something about how — now, with Facebook — that won't ever happen to my children and their lovers, how people of the social networking generation can be gone but remain easily found.

I wondered why the old man didn't pay a private detective $100 to find his lost friend. If I suggested this to him, I'm sorry I did. The idea is too obvious. If he had done it, it obviously hadn't turned up anything. If he hadn't done it, he had a reason. Perhaps his reason was old-fashioned mores: one just doesn't do that. Or perhaps he placed True Love in the hands of Lady Kismet.

We all know this pain.
The ache in the heart. A pressure in the chest. 

I've seen it — and felt it — in childhood. In high school. In college. Beyond. 

She said "no." Or "no more." Or "you? really?" Or, worse nothing of all. Once she spoke Russian.

I don't think any of their judgements were wrong. Each was following her heart, as she must. (And, to be fair, at times, I was the one saying, "no." Those times don't hurt as much. Huh.)

Still, when my infatuation wasn't met in kind, I was left, holding my bruised heart, not knowing what to do, feeling humiliated, embarrassed. This seems pathetic, that I should have had the maturity with which to address the challenge: distraction, learning, recovery, renewed adventure.

I chose only distraction, the weakest of the alternatives. I placed my broken heart in the trunk of my car and drove on. 

What is the cure?
I thought I knew. Here's what I thought were the cures: 

• Time. Doesn't it heal all wounds? It doesn't. Decades pass, but heartache merely goes cryogenic, as easy to thaw as a frozen meal — Heart: Ready To Eat.
• Next. Isn't new love, a true love the antidote? It isn't. The perfect marriage — of which I know, for mine, if not perfect, is surely the least imperfect — isn't a cure. The new relationship is a heart transplant, not a heart repair. The old heart lies beside the photograph, still beating its retreat in the trunk of the car, good for little else. Except, of course, to remind us we are alive.
• Maturity. Don't we ever grow up? Not I. Another widowed friend in his 70s recently spoke of the pain. His heart was freshly broken. Not, this time, by bereavement. But rather by a week of dinners, on a vacation that had to end. "How dear," I thought shallowly. "How real," he felt deeply.

We are all freshman at the senior dance. We are all at summer camp.

Is this is a high-class heartache? 
After all, many of us are so contented in fruitful relationships.

But there are those whose heartache is based on loneliness. We must respect their sorrow. It must be greater. But from here, with these hearts on the floor, we can't tell.

We're looking at old hearts in the trunk, pained that we cannot live two lives at once. Driving on.

Will someone please call a surgeon
Who can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart
That you're deserting for better company?
I can't accept that it's over... 

 

I wish us all strength and a fullness of heart.

Get Up And Go

For whom will you get up and go?

Five years ago, friend, role model, and editor-farmer Kent Brown taught me the power of simply getting in the car and driving somewhere with someone. 

Where Am I Going?
As our kids get older, I have opportunities to drive farther.  

Today, I'll drive our beloved daughter to Washington, D.C. Just to drop her off in the arms of her friends. And I'll come back the next day.

On the way, we plan to visit the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden (open on New Year's Day!), sit for a delicious dinner at Sou'Wester, and walk the monuments at night.

The Trip Within The Trip
Of course, anyone who knows the power of a car — the intersection between environmental nightmare and relationship vehicle — knows that some of the best part of the ride will be the ride. On the highway. 

Driving with a child illustrates the very meaning of it's the journey, not the destination.

For whom will you get up and go?
What relationship is worth going far?

With whom — for whom — will you drive this year? 

I wish you a 2011 of health, happiness, creativity, and many moments of true engagement in life. I wish you — from time to time — a passenger, a soul to cheer yours on the road.

Gotta go. We'll be on our way now.

Am I Your Password?

When was the last time you logged into your online banking account?

Did you answer that security challenge, "What is the name of your first employer?"

I love that question.
I type my first boss's name — which, by the way, is none of your damn business — and I always enjoy a momentary memory, a fleeting emotion, based on our interaction. I was young and impressionable. (Now I'm older and impressionable.)

My first boss was a substantial shaper of who I have become. I always type her name with a smile.

You always remember your first boss.
In my Vistage practice, I'm meeting many people who run businesses. Each time, surely, I am meeting someone else's first boss.

The baker. The undertaker. The widget maker. Each has at least one employee — perhaps dozens — for whom their employment is their first job. And so each of my friends is, therefore, someone's first boss. 

And I smile.
I smile at the thought that each of their names have become banking passwords.

Throughout the city — far beyond, around the world — their current and former employees log into their own bank accounts and enter the names of my entrepreneurial friends.

What a strange and whimsical legacy! The final paycheck is long ago spent or invested. The boss wields no power.

But the boss's name is still the key to the vault. That's rich. That's irony. That's justice.

Who types your name?
For whom are you the first boss? 

Can you imagine them typing your name? Is it with a smile? I do hope so.

To Those Who Type "Artie"
I hope our time together was useful in your journey. 

If it wasn't, I'm sorry. I hope I wasn't the best boss you have had.

I hope you did the best work of your career when we were together. Until, of course, your next job, where I hope you did even better.

And I hope, whenever you type "Artie," your discover your bank account is a little fuller than you had forecast — like finding a $20 in the pocket of an old pair of jeans.

Choosing Diversions

Different strokes for different folks.

Or, as my Australian friend Catherine says, "Horses for courses."

So what are your strokes?
I can tell you what is not a stroke of mine: violence.

I really don't like it. 

And I don't consider it entertainment.

So if your stroke includes violence that leads too often to a reckless result — like, say, permanent brain injury — I'm out. 

My friends who are sports fans will counter, "People get injured walking across the street."

Sure enough. But who cheers when that happens? I'm not standing in the way of people taking risks for their passions. I'm simply disappointed and somewhat depressed when everyone stands and cheers for violence.

Call me "old fashioned." If disdain for violence is a crime, let me be guilty.

The Big Question
To be fully human, we need to ask ourselves throughout the day, "What does this experience mean to me? How am I expressing myself? Does this experience lift me, making me my best potential self, or does it lower me, degrading my potential?"

It might seem like a ponderous question for most people. However, with frequent asking, it becomes a light and enjoyable question.

So ask yourself: "When I see two people punching each other, what is the feeling that is stirred within me? Is it sporting? Or just thirsty for violence?"

Perhaps the answer is: o.k., watching violence stirs the primitive within. That leads to this question: is that what you want? 

Will hockey truly attempt to reform? Probably not. Because the "cost to the sport," is really a cost to the wallets of those who own the gladiatorial contest.

When people speak of "the sport" as an ancient ideal, I think, "Give me a break. Your ideal is worth cheering for people who defend the game by inflicting damage on one another? If so, do tell: what are your other ideals? Are any of them in conflict with this one?" 

I love the strength and grace of college hockey. But, so long as the major league behaves like the bush league, I'll stick to baseball. Unless and until the players brawl with regularity on the diamond. Then I'll leave the ballpark and crawl back under my self-righteous rock.

But this isn't about sports.

It's about the Arts.
I don't consider violence against women to be entertainment. It nauseates me. 

And when violence against women is presented as "art," I am ever more disgusted.

The arts has a way of saying, "We don't like this. We abhor it. So let's get some popcorn and watch a lot of it."

So I walked Out.
This was about a year ago, when the movie was new. I was in our beloved Drexel Theatre. I bought my ticket. I bought my popcorn. I sat through the coming attractions before the feature presentation.

Up came The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. This movie — claimed to be a "film" because it has subtitles, was introduced in independent cinemas, and is based on a best-selling series of novels by the late Stieg Larsson —  didn't last 30 minutes. For me, it didn't. I walked out.

Walked out? Well, what else is the appropriate reaction to watching a woman being beaten and sodomized?

I'm not able to keep thinking, "This is art. I am a patron of the arts." Call me a philistine, but when I'm watching a young woman harassed, battered, restrained, and penetrated, I have very few choices:

• watch — and have the primitive within me fueled. (Really, now, honestly: what is the feeling within you when you watch Noomi Rapace raped? She's a fine actress, so it looks real enough. What are you feeling? Artistically inspired? Doubtful. Aroused? Hmmm. Nice.)
• leave — and sit outside the theatre on a nice summer evening.

Of course, if this weren't art, the third and most appropriate choice would be to call the police. (The Onion's coverage of the recent assault scandal in sports was brilliant. Here it is: "Nation's 10-Year-Old Boys: 'If You See Someone Raping Us, Please Call The Police'.")

I'm conflicted.
This is awkward. I'm on the board of trustees for Friends of The Drexel, Inc., the new not-for-profit organization founded to secure and sustain the future of the historic Drexel Theatre as a distinctive cultural asset to Bexley and the greater Columbus community.

Showing violence against women isn't part of the mission, but the Dragon Tattoo movie was great at the box office. And more articulate, more cultured people than I defend the movie with passion.

I can say only this: "I know what I'm seeing. It's a woman being beaten and raped. Watching that is not — anytime, anywhere, under any Cloak of Sophisticated Culture — a form of entertainment or enlightenment for me. Never."

Independent arts cinemas turn their noses up at showing what they consider low-brow, like Terminator. And, so, we are showing this?

What's The Big Deal?
The big deal is that we are what we eat. And we are who we know. And we are where we go.

Let me add: We are what we cheer for. And we are what arouses us.

Can we make a case for not being who we are when we are cheering for — or aroused by — something violent? (I've tried. It's a weak case.)

Where can we turn for wisdom?
Not to me. I'm not the arbiter of taste.

Now that you are an adult, you have to decide what is beneath you. I'm just asking you to draw the line — rather than letting popular culture draw the line for you. Because we all know where popular culture will draw that line.

Columbus's native son, James Thurber once said (I'm paraphrasing here, because I cannot find the original quotation): "I'm glad to be going blind, so I can't see where popular culture is headed."

Want something more helpful?

The actor Bill Murray: “When you become an adult, you get to choose your diversions. You should choose them carefully.” 

The Purpose of Management

I've spent the past several months having increasingly deeper conversations with entrepreneurs and business owners. It's been an enlightening, joyful honor for me.

Observing these businesspeople is humbling. Most of them have a highly defined sense of purpose.

Here's one way of describing what I am seeing.

Guess What? It's Lutheran.
I heard this first when I taught creativity to MBA candidates at the Capital University Graduate School of Management. (This was years ago, before I came to Ohio State.)

The dean of the business school, Lisa Dolin, informed me that Capital University was founded by Lutherans, based on Lutheran ideals. And, if memory serves, she described a fundamental Lutheran mission like this:

The Lutherans recognize that we are more effective in some roles than we are in others. Some people are best at making shoes. Some people are best at dancing in those shoes.

So it is the purpose of education to help each person find his or her most productive role. Because, if we are all at our most effective, doing the thing that we are most meant to do, doing the thing that we do the best, doing the most important work of our careers, then we will — as a human population — really be moving the world forward.

We will truly be completing the act of creation.

Is that really Lutheran?
So I'm told. But I think even the Lutherans would agree — with delight — that this is a universal ethic. It would be universally beneficial if universally applied. And where it is not applied, it ought to be.

I might have added that last sentence, about finishing the act of creation. (I always try to worm that idea in.) But, it's fair to say that this world — as we have it now — is surely not finished. One only needs to look at the front page of the newspaper to realize that.

So What Is Management?
Management is helping our employees — and customers and families — identify their most important roles. And then helping them to focus on that work. The work of their careers.

Everyone profits.

This is where Management intersects with The Meaning Of Life.

Heavy. 

Another Take On This Idea
My wise cousin Steve Weiler said to me — years ago, just when I needed to hear it — that he tries to focus his life on doing "only those things that only I can do."

I asked him, "Well, what are those things that only you can do?"

His answer — with a humble laugh — is like mine: "Not all that many things!"

There are relatively few things that only I can do. But one thing is certain: I know when I'm doing them. And I know when I'm doing something that someone else could do. And, frankly, in those moments, someone else could surely do it a lot better.

Easy To Focus? (No.)
So, with so few activities that only I can do, it should be easy to stay focused.

Sadly, no. I'm easily distracted. I often find myself doing work that would be better done by someone else. 

That's why I made this chart.

The Beginning In The End

The year's end affords rebirth.
Many people pooh-pooh New Year's Resolutions, but that's because so many resolutions are hopes and dreams — not true decisions.

(This morning, I wrote the subscribers to my irregular newsletter, Three Ideas To Spark Your Creativity. If you want that, sign up here. The following is one of the topics I mentioned to them.)

So Let's Make A Decision.
During the past 60 days, I've asked 100+ people who run businesses: "What's is the biggest decision you need to make before the end of the year? Write it down. Now, write down the next step toward making that decision. And note by when you will take that step."

Writing this is essential. Writing doesn't make the decision. But it's funny what happens when we write it down. On paper, a big decision looks real — and more digestible.

What is the most important decision facing you?
Write it down. (Feel free to send it to me.)

Do this now. It won't take more than 10 minutes. And if not now, when?  

Here's my biggest year end decision.
How will I spend my time? If that sounds vague, click the chart on the right.

I'm sorting and assessing my activities. I'm a juggler, so I think of my activities as balls I'm juggling.

As the year proceeds, some of the balls get heavier. Some feel smoother in my hand and look more graceful in the air. Some are turning a golden hue.

Which ones might I put down in the coming year?

(And what balls might I want to pick up for the first time?)

Pardon me, what about your balls?

Let us (re)start with "Why?"

A month on the road has forced some introspection. (The travel experiences were excellent. More to come. Soon.)

Now it's your turn.
Perhaps you have already seen this video from Simon Sinek? It is a great place to start. 

After viewing the video, ask yourself, "Why am I doing what I am doing?"

If you truly want to lead, you need to know the answer to this question. You need to know why.

During the past several months, I've had deep conversations with more than 100 entrepreneurs. I'm hearing why, but I'm not sure all of them have articulated — specifically, on paper — why they are doing what they are doing.

This is clear: it's not the money.
As Sinek warns, it's not the money; that's a result. (A happy result, to be sure.)

Why is a deeper, more meaningful belief. The Why is found here: "What do I believe that drives what I am doing?"

Give it a go. Right now.
Please take ten minutes to write it down.

Then look at it tomorrow. If it doesn't quite capture what your belief — your underlying belief that drives you — revise it.  

And look at it every day. 
And revise it when you can better articulate your belief — or when you find your belief evolving.

Love A Librarian

Do you love libraries? I do. 

I always pull over, park the car, and go inside.

Usually, it's my own beloved Bexley Public Library or our magnificent Columbus Metropolitan Library. They are award-winning and deserve every award.

Often, it's when I'm passing through some small town. Or New York City.

Why The Love?
Because I love to go in and ask the librarians questions. They often know the answers. If not, they know where to turn.

They are like Google. But with judgement. 

They face disintermediation. As in: we might stop realizing we need librarians and libraries because everything is Googlable. But, you know and I know: the Internet isn't the same thing as a Masters in Library Science. It isn't the same thing as knowing what information is trustworthy and what is just Net Cotton Content. 

Don't disintermediate. Talk to a librarian today.

Now I Get To Talk To A Litter of Librarians
Amid all this flurry of travel, I'm looking forward to speaking to the Ohio Library Council 2011 Convention and Expo later this month.

That prompted an interview with Jill Holton Arrasmith, OLC Director of Communications.

Heres an excerpt, as published in the OLC's Access Weekly:

Jill (Q): What do you like best about public libraries?

Artie (A): Well, I like the sharing of information. I like the sense of community. I like the idea that we provide for ourselves and our children and our neighbors and the stranger in our midst a communal gathering place. A place where people can go for betterment, for relaxation, for meeting others that is not mercenary and it’s not retail or designed to prey upon us. It is designed to help us become our best selves.

Q: So, you are new to a lot of the OLC audience. Why is your session a must see/participate for our convention attendees?

A: Well, in the management of a library . . . we need greater creativity and collaboration. My sessions will talk about how to find ingenuity amid a constraint-based life, which certainly describes our libraries. I will also talk about how we can collaborate in a genuine and engaged way with peers, work colleagues, and patrons so that the library is not purely a hierarchical flow of information.

Q: How does creativity not only enhance a person’s career but their entire life?

A: The myth that we eventually see through is that we never really were living to work. We organize much of our personal development around what we think is professional development but in the end, my wife often says, all we really have are our relationships. We need human development. In order to help people personally, I have to masquerade as someone who’s teaching it from a business point of view, but really there is no such thing as a business person. There are only humans. And, I teach creativity because like liberal arts it offers us intellectual satisfaction, it offers us something to think about, and something to work on. We are created, whatever that means to whoever reads the word. We are created and we are creators and there is no greater satisfaction than the simple act of creating, whether it is a loaf of bread or a garden patch or a piece of text. . . . The study of creativity – it transcends the mercenary world.

I Was In California
The interview was over the phone while I was in California. I think that shows. I was talking like I was in California.