Dancing with Strangers

Comfortable exchange among strangers weaving non-standard webs of encounter. Normally the dance of acquaintance irritates. But not this day. This day I delight in the serial introductions and find myself light of foot. Less at stake maybe. More at stake maybe. A freedom to be me and the space to receive you. I want to hear your story, and can do so without your story being a judgment on my own. Disparate journeys, voices, and perceptions dwelling in the same space, breathing the same air, building the one world entrusted to us with the one chance we have before us. We do not pass this way twice. May I have this dance?

Ignoring Splinters

A splinter so small I can't even see it has lodged itself in my palm. The swelling mound of red and tenderness, on the other hand, is painfully obvious. An irritating annoyance is growing into a disturbance impossible to ignore.
And, of course, to ignore it is the one avenue I choose only at my own peril. The intruder must be dealt with. It will not make peace with my hand. It's only potential is in the direction of infection and worse. I guess the next portion of my morning is spoken for whatever else I may have planned. I've got to get this splinter out.

A Space Called Home

Lighthearted munchkins scamper over the furniture, over each other. Oblivious to all that may be grave in the world, they rely on the safety provided by others. More than that, they thrive and develop into the sort of people who can suffer a grave world, because they were adequately shielded while young.
Safe in the a space called home to explore and adventure, climb and fall, get the giggles, have temper tantrums and curl up in your lap without a second thought. If only every child were so fortunate.

Too Transparent

The problem with being too transparent is that no one can see you. We expose too much and people see only the exposure. Instead of revealing to know and be known, (which places an extremely high value on this precious information and consequently is only feasible with a very few people on a rare basis), we reveal to be accepted and congratulated for the bravery transparency requires (which places an extremely low value on this precious information, and we broadcast to as many people and as often as possible.) I consider the latter emotional exhibitionism. I'm not suggesting we go back to wearing social masks. But transparency is not a virtue for its own sake. There are levels and dimensions of self revelation that are appropriate and inappropriate for different sorts of relationships and that accomplish different purposes within those relationships.

Crumbling Fortifications

Crumbling fortifications could spell disaster. Could spell rebirth.
We do not receive all new things with open and grateful arms. Some changes need to break through, force their way in. When life emerges, there is no stopping it. Witness the fragile grass that breaks through asphalt expanses.
I feel that way about maturity sometimes. When I do not see or refuse to face needed change, other forces come into play and the ground shifts beneath me. The terrain itself collapses and unfolds. My fortifications begin to crumble. Suddenly how I feel about change is moot. I either face the reality or deny it. The fact that what served well previously now fails me, need not be interpreted as failure or defeat. Just a fact.
Time to shift focus to what is emerging. Especially if what is emerging is life.

Confident or Arrogant?

There's not much to distinguish confidence and arrogance. Except that one is based on accurate and sober self-assessment, and one involves no assessment at all, only a positioning comparison over and against others.
I am trying to get more of the one without slipping over into the other.
The voices that accuse of arrogance are imaginary and a mystery to me. But they accuse nonetheless. I don't seem to be able to dismiss them as the irrational nuisances they are.
I need to become more at home with my competencies and wear them more comfortably.

Sensitive without Caring

We all know people at either end of the spectrum. Those who march to the beat of their own drummers, impervious to and possibly even unaware of the opinions, needs, and feelings of others. Then there are those who measure their very value by the opinions, needs and feelings of others. We aren't very sure what these people think, because they style their communication by gauging their listener. We all, of course, fall somewhere more complexly in between.
The question it raises is how to be sensitive to others without caring how they respond to us. When I care too deeply about how I might be received, I give others power that I then find sabatoging my own confidence. When I don't care at all, I function in the dark and in a vacuum, and end up harming as many people as I help. Being sensitive to others does not necessarily mean experiencing negative feelings in response to their negative reactions. It just means understanding them objectively and compassionately, and incorporating those insights into the facts that inform my choices. I am then free to modify my choices as a gift to the relationship without either feeling forced to modify my choices in order to protect myself or ignore others completely in order to be myself. Big difference.

Out of the Crowd

Small comfort are the smiling crowds. I've learned not to take my cues from those around me. Consensus has suffered too many blows to its credibility. That I am cautious with regards to the majority is no flippant disrespect. I simply haven't been served well by norms or going with the flow. Not that finding my own way has been any easier. But such is my story. The road of least resistence, though long of temptation and often tried, has always been a dead end. In many venues I portray the consumate average joe. In the most important ones, I am anything but. Another day becoming comfortable with being me.

Structure's New Disciple

Structure has the potential to both empower and stultify. I currently need its more empowering properties. I've spent so many years resisting its constricting, conformist dangers, that I'm finding it not so easy to embrace or appropriate its undergirding and fortifying strengths.
Flooded with options and decisions at every turn, I find myself paralyzed in a mult-dimensional maze, where I not only have to choose which way to turn, but chose to keep making that choice against all others as well. No path has its own boundaries that limit the range of choices available. A living nightmare where the possibility of anything at all becomes the reality of nothing in particular.
Needless to say I have become a quick study on the merits of structure.

Reading Weekend

This weekend is structured around reading together. My daughter has mapped out a complete schedule, breaks included. It's taped to the window. We're scheduled to begin in just a couple of minutes.
It's a different experience of love. Settled, comfy, and safe. Off we go on a new set of adventures together, just the two of us. That's the best part. Just the two of us.

Mastering Anger

Anger doesn't have many constructive outlets. Such potential for such power. So few, though, are masters of what they feel and not the other way around.
I rage inside. Seldom does it break through. Such self-restraint is not mastery either. That I do violence only to my own stomach lining merely limits my impact on others, which I suppose is better than overtly harming them, but hardly accomplishes anything that might benefit them.
There is a responsible, constructive place in the repertoire for anger as a force in the quest to make the world a better place. But we need to become better at feeling it, owning it, and mastering it. Then we will be better positioned to use it. Instead of it using us.

Competing with God

What does yielding to God look like when he has charged us with the stewardship of our lives? My power versus my responsibility. My power alongside my responsibility. God will apply his power as he sees fit. I don't see why I should be too concerned about competing with God, as if I'm reducing or disregarding his involvement by being involved myself. So much of the talk these days—about humility, yielding, trusting in God instead of ourselves—sounds like people think it's some kind of rebellion to intiate action on their own (most likely God-given) intuitions, beliefs, values, passions, skills, interests, etc. If I'm going to be held accountable for my life, I'd rather have erred trying to do what was not mine to do even if presumptuously, rather than not jumping in and doing what may be mine to do out of deference to the rulership of God.

Fullness and Risk

Why are fullness and risk so intertwined? I'm literally exhausted by my efforts to disentangle them. To set fullness apart in a safe, secure place. Easily accessible. Readily available.
No. Inevitably that place is flat and colorless. Sterile. Heat without warmth or the aroma of baking bread.
The experience of fullness accompanies the embrace of risk. The placing of something particularly and especially you out on the table in the high stakes human drama, wagering against all the fears of pain and loss, that the pay off is far richer and more valuable than we've been led to believe.
It is that wager itself that infuses color, adds dimension and intesifies the aroma. Don't tell me for all my efforts that I actually have been working against all I have been longing for.

Aching Graces

The unexpected graces are the most difficult to process. The ones into which we collide and over whom we stumble as we scan the horizon expectantly waiting for the invisible hand of God to manifest itself.
They leave an ache in their wake. Not an ache of longing or hurt, but an ache nonetheless. Possibly the sort of ache that accompanies growing up. The uninvited nudge (once in a while, shove) out of the nest. The on-going transformation of ignorance into wisdom and innocence into responsibility. Which, of course, means the cutting of few more dependencies; which, of course, means a much less safe journey; which, of course, I am not always open to. Ache!

Jolted Awake

Sudden thunderclaps break the reverie, while opaque sheets of water pelt and soak and wash over everything. Startled into alertness, I begrudgingly acknowledge there is something about a storm that gets one's attention.
Remaining alert through the rhythms of life's pressures is an ebb and flow dynamic. I accept responsibility for my own stewardship therein. But storms come nonetheless. No respecter of the responsible are they that break in without warning or purpose. Always it is left to me to choose my response. Jolted awake, no longer in control, I remain a player and must act. And so I greet the storm. I call it by name, neither denying its power nor surrendering my own.
So, now that you have my attention...

Being Seen

Once in a while I'm seen. It happens rarely enough that it continues to catch me off guard. Swirling in a sea of faces—busy, overwhelmed, smiling, distracted, compelled, purposeful, meandering, confident, sulking, (the list of fitting adjectives stretches beyond the human story's horizon)—it is as important to me to be one who distinguishes and recognizes individual souls as it is to be seen and recognized as a one, instead of merely another one among many.
I was seen today. Felt good. I tried to brush past, get on to my destination, but those who see individuals insist on encounter. I'm glad. I had another destination this morning that I almost missed. One of my favorite. Being seen.

I Believe in You

I believe you. I believe in you. Knowing you to the extent I do, I do not need to know what I can now trust. And I choose to trust you. Confident, not necessarily that things will turn out as I might prefer, but that you will be present and active. When you are present and active, I know good will result. I can rely on many things because I know you. (Part of me wishes I could predict many things because I know you, but there doesn't seem to be any correlation there.)
What do you need from me in order to thrive as you?

I Choose Today

Blindingly blue skies infuse the horizon with a naive freshness that not even the night's jaded hostility can diminish. While darkness smothers the cries of anguish arising from so many parts of the world, dawn continues to stubbornly insist on the possibility of the next day. The story does not end when the night becomes unbearable.
And with morning comes the next set of choices. And once again the human spirit chooses to live. Some spend the day wishing night would not return. Some try to live as if there were no such phenomenon as night or darkness or... loss. But some spend the day reimagining a world where love has an impact on fear and consequently on our capacity to meet the challenges of the darkness.
Who am I when the first rays of tomorrow announce themselves as today? When I finally do push myself out of bed, I am neither naive nor jaded, and therefore must choose who and how I will be today. I will rise and greet the dawn. I will take the story line in the direction of hope, even if hope's promise is to be fulfilled tomorrow.

Servant-Leader

Servant-leader is one of the more annoying oxymorons I keep running into.
What leaders usually mean when they use this descriptor is virtuous enough. The benevolent, other-oriented stewardship of the options power provides.
Now by "servant" though, I can't resist pointing out, leaders don't mean powerless. Though the primary and almost universal characteristic of servanthood is the absence of power. (That the efforts of servants benefit others is a characteristic of their powerlessness, not their benevolence.)
How is one with power ever really like one without power? I still haven't found anyone in a position of power who believes the route to servant-leadership is the relinquishment of power.
Let's float a new term: powerless-leader. They certainly exist, though history seldom records their contributions. But we cannot easily conceive leadership, effectiveness or impact resulting without the power to control, impose or direct. It would up-end where we look for leadership and transform how change breaks through (and, more significantly, why paralysis endures).
Yes, I'm playing with words. But only to wonder about the words some use to give themselves permission to hold onto what they cannot fathom being without in a world where, for all the leadership literature, so little changes and so much is at stake with things changing.

Scuppered Dreams

The festering wounds of scuppered dreams lie not in the losses grieved or the possibilities sacrificed. It is the accusing failure that can never be verified nor exonerated. Some dreams must be pursued simply because they have found succor and taken root in one's heart.

Informing Clues

What if the distractions that I assumed were confusing me were actually clues available to guide me? They catch my eye because they contain a glimmer of something attractive to me, even if they themselves are not what I am either looking for or need. But as a clue, instead of an answer, there may be much worth paying attention to.
Maybe it is the quest for answers where we get off track. Answers relieve of responsibility, and we know that is not possible. Clues inform the responsible without drawing conclusions or forcing decisions. I need to be more intentional about my own openness to the clues that I find strewn along my path.

Stubbed Toes

I suppose in a perfect world the sidewalks would all be smooth. They, of course, are anything but. Cracked, uneven surfaces warped by aggressive tree roots and neglect. I trip regularly, and, more disconcertingly, look around embarrassed that I did not see and avoid what is now so obvious.
What befuddles me about my embarrassment is, who was I concerned might see me and what am I worried that they might be thinking? My goodness. Who doesn't occasionally get tripped up or surprised by some protruding lip in the concrete? Is avoiding these imaginary humiliations worth walking with my head down, with eyes only for circumventing the next flaw in the path?
I think not. Count on observing a lot more stubbed toes in my stride.

Sunday Reprieve

Once a month or so, I give my youngest daughter a reprieve from the torturous boredom of Sunday School, and the two of us head over to a local coffee hang-out favorite of mine. Sometimes we talk, sometimes I read aloud. Our voices contributing to the uneven mix of chat and phone calls and espresso steam.
I finally decided that she needed permission to call boring, "boring." No pretending. No making excuses for God or church leaders. No propaganda about what is best for her. She needs to trust her intuitions and have those intuitions confirmed when accurate by the adults closest to her. Most weeks we insist she endure the non-stop talking of the well meaning teachers at church. But liberally sprinkled in are escapes of delightful father-daughter intimacy and fun. One of those decisions one has to make as a parent. I think the church will be better off for it. I know my daughter will be.

Non-Denominational

The awkward irony of a non-denominational church is the assumption that we can be somehow more affiliated with all other Christians by affiliating ourselves with no other Christians.

Skipping? No Way!

Have you noticed how rarely one comes across an adult breaking into a skip on the way down the hall? As refreshing as I think witnessing such a spectacle would be, I already know I'd be too self-conscious myself. Seems a shame. I'd kind of like to cut loose and enjoy the light-hearted exhuberance of such an upbeat canter. Of course, many of my professional appointments may call and cancel once being in my company carried such a risk.
Is it the weight of life's difficulties that slows our gait over time? Possibly the weight of the ever expanding waist band and the resulting increased intimacy with gravity?
Well, I can dream. High heel shoe makers promoting their "skip-friendly" lines. Testimonies on Oprah about how skipping revitalized their marriages. Exercise gurus extolling the advantages of squeezing in a good hearty skip between meetings. Dramatic correlations between skipping and both reduced cancer rates and increased sexual satisfaction.
Yes, but when it comes to the next trip down the hall, I ask myself, skipping? No way.

De-centered Community

I just got a free upgrade on my cell phone. Out of pocket only the sales tax. I'm always thrilled to get something new. Explore the enhanced features. Wonder what unimagined opportunities for human interaction are going to explode out of the next electronic permutation on conversation.
A close friend and I were sitting across the table from each other discussing decentered relational networks. No nationality to defend, no organization to sustain, no leadership hierarchy to climb, no barriers or limits to participation by anyone, anywhere, any time. Interesting. A world wide war is being waged on this basis as we speak. How will we engage these new possibilities for good?

Simple Directive

The stop sign's directive is clear. A momentary denial of freedom ensures the exercise of freedom for another 500 yards. Survival need not always cost a lot.
There comes a time, though, when there are so many stop signs that life itself has come to a halt. A predicament as debilitating as a crippling crash and as wreckless as ignoring the signs outright. There is more than one way to go through life in a coma.

One Step at at Time

Lofty visions inspire impressionable hearts, but the lack of progress down the road is telling. Inspire me to change the world and you change nothing. Inspire me to take my next step, and nothing will be able to stay the same.

Mosaic

Broken shards and sharp edges. Shattered fairy tales lie scattered across the floor. With one furious heave, the unthinkable betrayal finally explodes. What do you mean, "no happily ever after?" Staggering under the loss of the promised story line, we do not notice that what lies strewn under foot, the mess of our own doing, is the makings of a mosaic. We do not realize that it might be ours to rearrange the pieces into a new picture, a more enduring, if less pristine, story line.

Benign Kindness

I'm all for being a kind, gentle type of guy. I usually am. It's the thought of being benign that offends. That kindness is in any way mild, neutral or not threatening is a fallacy in our culture, particularly for men, especially for me.
There is a positive danger to goodness. Yes, beware the kind person, lest your values, beliefs, and tidy world view be undermined by one act of unwarranted generosity. I would rather confront the rash blow of unleashed anger than endure the unfathomable freedom and power of any act of kindness.
No respecter of social norms or relational protocols. Defiant in the face of opposition. Infinitely creative against all odds and obstacles. Impossible to predict with any accuracy or outmaneuver by any strategy. While serving all, mastered by none. Beware next time you encounter someone kind. You are not safe.

Planning to Adjust

I try to hold planning and adjusting in collaborative fraternity. But they weary of each other. The tension is palpable. Another plan butts up against reality and resents the gloating adjustments necessary for moving ahead. It is the goading of the jealous younger sibling, though, since the meanderings of change in a vacuum repeatedly prove that adjusting without a baseline plan against which to work isn't much more than chaos.
Why they do not embrace is a mystery to me. Such natural friends it seems. And yet planning resists any adjustments along the way. Adjusting resents being tied to and constrained by the defining structure of the plan.
I have chosen to foster this rivalry. Eager to exploit the benefits of their separate yet inseparable contributions.