the war room that is me

a few months ago i saw the movie “the ides of march.” last night i watched “the war room.” the former is a fictionalized story of the inner workings of a presidential campaign. no one comes out smelling exactly clean. i felt sad when i saw it. the latter is a film documenting the story of bill clinton’s 1992 election. with live footage and seemingly deep access to the most central figures and offices of then governor clinton’s run for office, this movie demonstrates the inner workings of an actual presidential campaign. it also made me sad. for some similar, and many different, reasons.

things have changed drastically in 20 years.

in watching the movie of the 1992 election here is what i noticed:

teeth whitening strips had not yet gone mainstream.

there was a “news cycle” with a “going live” time. if something broke at an off-air time it didn’t break on air for several hours. 

news stations didn’t have constant running banners at the bottom or top of the screen.

campaign workers gathered around conference tables full of newspapers, notepads, and pens.

there was no emphasis (NONE) on caffeine or energy drinks to keep campaign workers awake. even in the final hours.

possibly because no one was busily keeping themselves “caffeinated,” there was real, honest, and heart felt emotion and exhaustion.

there was only one mention of email.

desks were remiss of computers (for the most part). those that existed were huge.

phones audibly rang. with a ringing sound. every time someone called.

people answered them. even without knowing ahead of time who was on the other end.

phones had cords.

phones were tethered. when bill clinton takes a phone call in the war room he can’t simply walk out of the room to hear the person calling. he has to “shush” everyone in the room so that he can hear. the concept of privacy was different.

those phones that did not have cords were huge. 

people spoke into their phones. only. no one typed on a phone.

people were dependent upon other people for information. (e.g: bill clinton had to call his communication lead to find out how he was doing in the polls rather than simply checking online.)

in 20 years the ways in which we interact with each other, our “staffs/teams/groups of influence,” current affairs, the media, our phones, and, therefore, with the world, have changed drastically. in reflecting on these changes i feel sadly certain that we look more at screens than at the eyes of real people. we type far more than we write or speak. we select who we will and will not talk to, when we want to, where we want to, how we want to, thus removing the flexibility that “messy,” outside-of-our-exclusive-control relatedness with others deepens within us. it feels as though we’re less about working as a team and more about having individual experiences within the proximity of a group.  we are constantly caffeinated (i know far too well about this myself) and rarely depend upon people in our own proximity to get information.

i want to make no judgements here. only observations. and internal commitments to determine which of these cultural changes i want to get on board with and which i, intentionally, want to resist. if i am truly wanting to maintain relational depth and flexibility as core values, the “war room” of my life must reflect movements and strategy that allow these to blossom and it just might be that caller i.d., voice mail, and constant internet access may not be strategies that help me win.

starting with cymbals

i have a cousin that i saw only during the summer months in my early years. she was my brother’s age and was creative and funny and full of life. when she came to california to stay at my house we would stage elaborate musicals in our back yard, invite the neighbors, and sing and dance our hearts out. we made art that we sold door to door. we absconded rolls of paper from my mom’s adding machine and made 15 foot long collages to mail to our other cousins in oregon. 

one summer she was with us on the forth of july. to understand the significance of this you need to know that the forth of july at my childhood home was a MAJOR HOLIDAY. nothing about those capitol letters is over emphasized. the forth of july was big. HUGE really. it began on the evening of the 3rd when our kitchen was abuzz with boiling pasta pots in preparation for the quadruple batch of forth of july salad my mother would make. large tubs of red licorice sat in picnic baskets and all the kids were put to work filling paper bags with air popped popcorn. around 5 we headed downtown for the outdoor “pops” concert after which somewhere between 50 and 60 friends would bring their lawn chairs to our home to be placed in the back of my dad’s car which would be heading downtown around 7 a.m. the next morning to set up the viewing area from which our assembled crowd would watch the parade. those chairs filled up long before the parade began and signs declaring everything from “we love the library” to “thanks firefighters” to “nice wheels” were held up for the general entertainment of the parade participants. several hot hours later everyone clamored to the patio of our home or the pool of our neighbor for a potluck before we launched water balloons from surgical tubing until the fireworks began. it was a big day requiring immense preparation and managing of logistics on the part of my parents. the few hours of sleep they got on the night of the 3rd were precious.

which brings me back to the story at hand. tired of our standard musical tributes and traveling art sales, jodi and jeremy and i conjured up a whole new kind of performance in the summer of 1976. every other kid we knew served their parents breakfast in bed. we figured we’d take it up a notch and serve my parents a performance in bed. given that the forth of july was a family favorite holiday and it was the bicentenial, it seemed the perfect day and presented an amazing theme for our creative process as well. searching our bookshelves for a copy of the declaration of independence, we put our minds to work on how to create an extravaganza to set the day off just right. we’d sing a few patriotic songs, wave a few flags, then, once everyone was really awake, we could take turns humming the battle hymn of the republic to back up a “rotating reading” of the declaration of independence. it was all set. it was going to be amazing!

i’m not sure when the idea came to us (likely in the wee small hours of the morning when our overly rehearsed program began to seem boring), but at some point we chose to add cymbals. it seemed so right and so, well, forth of july appropriate. so...it came to be that on july 4, 1976 we tip-toed into my parent’s room, got ourselves all set up for our show, and commenced our performance by banging together two sets of very metal lids from four very large kitchen pots. what we never even considered was the absolute and utterly panicked reaction this would evoke from two very tired and very fully asleep adults. needless to say, our bold introduction stole the show.

when we start with cymbals it’s hard to maintain our audience. either they’re startled and their ears hurt or we’ve set the expectation to such high stimulation that they are disappointed the minute we can’t maintain the symbol-like ambiance. 

starting with cymbals is almost a sure-fire set up for difficulties and yet we do it so often. we lead with our passions. we wear t-shirts that shout our values. we surround ourselves with those whose symbols sound like ours so we don’t have to deal with dissonance. we inform others of our beliefs and status so that they know what to (and not to) disclose to us. we keep to our neighborhoods, our social groups, our norms where we can be as abrasive as we want because everyone agrees with us.

we so often start with cymbals.

cymbals rarely, however, welcome others. when used as agents of greeting they are over-bold and under-sensitive. they make the welcome all about me and not at all about you. when used post greeting they are distractors and emphasizers, again pulling the focus from the broad to the specific. my “specific.”

there are so many other ways of making an impact than by banging metal on metal.

there is an old quaker saying that states, “let your life speak.” this is so un-cymbal-like and yet so deeply powerful. it alludes to the fact that how we live tells the story of what matters to us. 

is this true for you?

consider these questions: what does your morning routine say about what you value? what story does your wallet tell? in observing your interactions with people, what might someone learn about you? do your outsides match your insides? how does the manner in which you respond to disappointment speak to your resilience? what attitudes and feelings speak even louder than your words? so often what we are doing or feeling or thinking is speaking so loudly that no one can hear what we’re saying. that’s important to consider. so important that i want to say it again. so often what we are doing or feeling or thinking is speaking so loudly that no one can hear what we’re saying.

consider these examples: a person says that appearance doesn’t matter to them but spends excessive amounts of time, money, and energy achieving a certain “look.” someone else feels it’s financially impossible to afford life expanding experiences but pays over $100 a month on smart phone services. a family that doesn’t have time to eat together spends hours of evening time, each in front of their own screen. i could fill pages with examples like this...many from my own life.

if your life is speaking, do you like what it’s saying? do you feel like it’s lacking in impact or substance? do you dislike the story? is it discordant with how you’d really like it to be? is it reflective of the you you wish you were rather than the you you really are? if you answered yes to any of these questions, cymbals will not help. they may distract, they may impress, they may dress things up but they won’t help in the long run. the truth is, on the 4th of july in 1976 two parents were peeling themselves off the ceiling from the sheer terror of being awakened by clanging metal. while the introduction was certainly exciting, it absolutely did not make anyone want to stick around for the show. and if they had, the show would not have been able to live up to its beginning.

in letting our lives speak, the task is to align the external living of our lives with the internal movement of our souls. as a training percussionist aligns his practice to a metronome to keep in time, so must we hold ourselves accountable to a method of living that is sturdier than simply “winging it” allows. unearthing the truth about what we believe, doing the work of naming our values, and aligning our behaviors with these discoveries allows us to tell a story, through our lives, with authenticity and genuine depth. instead of living from one habit-driven second to the next, our movements begin to conform to the beating of our hearts. this slow, paced, patterned kind of living tells so much more of a reliable story than most creative beginnings can sustain. we may tell ourselves that this kind of living is too hard. that no one will want to connect to our “mundaneness.” truthfully, however, cymbals are best as accents and not the melody.

so listen. hear your heart beat. walk in time with it. let your life speak....

texting behind your back

twice in one week i’ve sent texts to the wrong person. one, intended for my husband, asking him to turn the volume down on the television, went to my brother an entire state away. the other, describing a frustrating experience i had with someone, went to that person instead of to my friend who i knew would “get it.” oops.

ultimately, i’m glad that second text went where it went. i shouldn’t speak poorly about an encounter with someone to anyone other than that person. it’s hurtful. it’s poor practice. it’s bad manners. it’s immature. the receipt of the wayward text forced a conversation that needed to happen. it happened in person and deepened a relationship worth deepening. it also humbled me. that is never a bad thing. i’m also glad my brother received my volume text. it made me realize that i really had become so comfortable with texting that i was using it to enable my laziness. seriously. i could have walked up the stairs and simply asked about the volume. had it really come to this? me texting my family members who were in the same house with me?

this repeated accidental experience has got me thinking. i’m wondering alot about how all of our new forms of communication are affecting how and what we express to eachother. my awareness is heightened regarding how many of my communication efforts are now made in short phrases. sent impulsively. un-considered, really, compared to the care of a thoughtfully composed written communique or the effort involved in a face to face or voice to voice encounter. i’m realizing that texting, for me, simply provides yet one more way to get more done. 

texting may be enabling me to get “more” communicating done, but the depth, the accuracy, and the intentionality of much of this communication is severely lacking.

as with almost everything, nothing is all good or all bad. it would be easy to idealize the “old days” and claim that i loved phone calls, written letters, and multitudes of face to face meetings. the truth is, however, i did not. i enjoy being able to nail down scheduling issues in email, check-ins via text, and using both mediums to send encouraging messages. my efficiency is up. my relational accuracy, however, is on a serious decline.

i am using this series of mistakes as an opportunity to challenge myself. to motivate me to make sure that i don’t begin to text that information which my relationships would be benefitted by my saying, or at least writing/constructing with more care and forethought. that i don’t do conflict, intimacy, or “taking the easy way out” via digitally sent messages from my phone to yours. i am asking myself to communicate with intention. to stop what i’m doing and fully communicate in engaged ways. not just impulsively text you something that really does deserve more effort. i’m forcing myself to respond to incoming messages only when i can do so while really paying attention. the indicator buzz is not a call to action. if it is then the moment i am currently in is always at risk of being hijacked by someone outside of it. what more chaotic reality could my insides ask for?

sometimes it’s important to wait. to initiate and to respond. to do so with intention and forethought and in the way that makes most sense rather than the way we have become habituated to. our messages will most effectively reach our intended audience when we are focused enough to make sure they do. and focus cannot be sent via text...

observing and interpreting

i often think my hair stylist (who i only met that way and who has become my friend) could be a therapist. she is wise and a seeker in all the right ways. she gleans wisdom and shares it generously. she listens and she shares. while cutting my hair yesterday she said in a sentence something that takes me paragraphs to say in my parenting talks. someone once said to me that “children are excellent observers and terrible interpreters.” 

this is so true. 

children are excellent observers and terrible interpreters.

it’s true this way too: people are excellent observers and (frequently) terrible interpreters.

the problem is that we don’t often realize this. or own it. 

we are all, more than any other time in history, observing. we observe in all the good old-fashioned ways: people watching, television watching, gossiping, “over hearing.” and we do it in some far flung new ways as well: trolling facebook photo albums, timelines, and status updates with their follow-on comments; following twitter accounts; getting feeds on our phones, which we take everywhere, even to the bathroom and to bed; screens, screens everywhere presenting stimulus for us to observe. in addition, when our own lives leave any open space at all we are quick to fill it with observation. while waiting in line, while experiencing a block while studying, while in conversations, while driving. we are always, it seems, observing.

in these times we often judge that which we observe. “that is so stupid.” “that is so amazing.” “he is such an idiot.” “she is such a narcissist.” “if that were me i would never...”  “he’s too busy for me, i wouldn’t want to bother him.” “she wouldn’t possibly remember me.” “he’s too attractive for me.” “she’s too smart.” “it’s far too good a school for me.” “they’re so self righteous.” and so on and so on and so on.

the problem is we’ve observed lazily and come to quick interpretations without even realizing it. no critical thought has been engaged, no room for doubt made, no empathic gaze employed. we just observe and interpret. in so doing we let our ridiculously false interpretations about our observations affect us deeply. 

if someone looks disinterested we assume they either feel, or are, too important for us. if a group holds a passionate stance we assume that individual members will reject us if we believe differently. when someone drives an old car we believe they can’t financially afford a newer one. when a person is dissheveled we are tempted to believe that they are lazy, or homeless, or needy in other too-scary-to-imagine ways. disinterested gazes are interpreted as personal rejections.

we imagine that our interpretations are accurate and we act, believe, and react accordingly. in so doing we make others’ actions all about us.

what if, instead, someone is simply shy. unable to interact with confidence so defensively clinging to a disinterested posture without ever realizing it consciously. perhaps individuals from the group are much more open than we imagine. it’s possoible that some folks choose to drive older cars for reasons having nothing to do with financial resources. maybe our kids’ cold expression or our cube mate’s grumbling or our partner’s distance has nothing to do with us and everything to do with what is going on in them. perhaps we, ourselves, are not the reference point for the interpretation of the actions of another.

here’s what i notice. if we stop long enough after observing to consider these alternatives we give up a portion of what we believe to be certainty. and who doesn’t like certainty over a lack there of? when i interpret your actions, choices, postures, etc based upon what my observations alone without any input from you, i am, in essence, saying, “i am sure that...” assuredness is solid. it empowers us to know how things are and what’s going on. it makes us feel sturdy. when i place my assuredness onto you it makes for less uncertainty, less struggle, less need for empathy, connection, and communication. it’s so much easier...

and so, we are all so like children it seems. we are excellent observers and (often) terrible interpreters. for children this is due to underdeveloped cognitive skills. for us adults, however, it’s due to inflexibility and fear of the unknown, the uncomfortable, and the uncertain. it's about our desire to believe that it's really all about the externals, about that which is seen/portrayed on the outside, about that which is observable. it's also about our unconscious tendency to interpret with ourselves as our point of reference.

likely, we each lean to a side of the “you’re just like me” or “you’re the exact opposite of me” interpretive continuum. we notice and judge our observations according to (or up against) our own way of being in the world. if we are primarily positive and optimistic we may interpret others’ actions as similarly so. if we are mostly negative and pessimistic we find the same traits in others. if we are insecure we interpret our observations in ways that support our self perceived flaws. if we are overly confident and/or independent we interpret dissension as threatening. in so doing we short change ourselves and pigeon hole others. we are not stretching our own minds at the same time that we are confining others to our ill-informed and limiting interpretations.

i wish for an expansive interpretive ability for us all. i wish for the willingness of all people to observe without the comfortable hand-holds of instant assumptions. as my friends who speak multiple languages benefit from wider conversational opportunities i ask of myself to learn the language of others in every way i can, large and small, observationally and practically. my “pronunciations”/efforts may be sloppy and messy at first but at least i’ll be trying.  how better to become fluent in the language of loving kindness than by speaking the first words of grace, empathy, and spaciousness...no matter how i pronounce them?

(not) on the tip of our tongues

my kids have had some amazing teachers. in second grade mrs. johnston would not accept the phrase “i don’t know.” she told her students, “”i don’t know’ usually means you’re not sure what to say. so...when you feel tempted to say it, take a second and figure out what you really mean, then say that.” in forth grade, mrs. smith outlawed the word “nice.” “it’s over-used and over-relied on. find a more fitting word instead.” she took this many steps further and taught her class how to honor each other, spending time on each student’s birthday looking into each other’s eyes and saying a character trait that they appreciated about the honoree. they did this. well. in forth grade.

what might the world be like if we all had such teachers? trusted others who helped us discern and communicate what we really mean, and want, to say. leaders who shepherded the process of honoring our classmates (neighbors, associates, clients, authority figures, etc) in honest and a-step-beyond-”you’re-nice” ways.

the problem is, most of us don’t have that person in our lives. we have to do it for ourselves. doing so is stretching in ways i never could have imagined before i was accountable to second and forth graders who were more than willing to point out my own over-used phrases.

what do you find yourself saying when you feel stuck? what is your “go-to” compliment? do you find that everyone in your life is “nice” or “cool” or “great?” when asked how you are, do you always answer with the same un-considered “fine?” when you’re stuck in a heated conversation do you revert to “i don’t know” and “i don’t care” just to get out of the fire?

perhaps it’s time to stretch. perhaps it’s time to move past the “tip of your tongue,” automatic response to the “one step deeper,” considered answer.

when my son was four his pediatrician asked him what made a light work. looking for the answer, “the switch,” he was blown away when connor responded, “a filament.” 

this answer demonstrates the kind of unexpected questions and answers and responses and compliments i’m suggesting we push ourselves to find.

instead of “nice” a person might be generous or thoughtful or caring. instead of “cute” a child might be joyful or enthusiastic or effervescent. instead of “fine” you might be pensive or feeling grateful or having a sort of off day. when we find ourselve leaping to comment on how great someone looks perhaps we could change gears and comment on how wonderful it feels to be with them. asking someone we’ve just met what they love to do with their free time before going down the expected “what do you do for a living?” conversational path. instead of reverting to “i don’t know” and “i don’t care,” it might be worth it to reach deep inside and address what’s really going on in our uncertainty, loneliness, and ambivalence.

it sounds so small and yet, when tried, it feels so different. to pause. to stop onesself from the automatic, and therefore so often not-really-meaningful, words we say to one another. to reach, instead, for words that reflect what we truly feel within ourselves and about others. to find the words that are not on the tip of our tongues, but are in the depths of our beings if only we are willing to risk the discomfort of finding them there.