The Failure Way

Working through a book titled "Success on Purpose" by E.R. Haas and Kent C. Madson, I saw a note in pencil made yesterday. My note says, "Failure is not an option."  I made it while listening to the CD that went with chapter one.

But, this morning, upon reviewing the previous day's lesson, I saw the written phrase and realized something. "Failure is not an option" shouldn't be read or said out of context.

Working in real estate sales 2005 to 2015, I heard and read about a lot of coaches available for hire. Thousands of books exist to help salespeople improve their souls for selling. "Failure is not an option" is one of the most common themes shared by the authors and coaches. It sells well and motivates because the salesperson definitely does not want to fail! 

And yet, a trap awaits for those who believe the mantra without conditions. "Aha!," most of the book authors would retort, "There are no conditions! You cannot fail and be successful at achieving your expectation!" Then, many would use metaphors like flying in a plane and how careful one must be to stay on course, that changing course by one degree can place you in an utterly different landing situation. 

I protest. Most of these authors fail to offer context. 

They fail to mention how many thousands of flights made the successful fight possible. They fail to mention the mapping professionals, the avionics enthusiasts who wanted to learn to fly planes, the engineers that designed planes that can fly farther than 100 yards and the concrete specialists, who built the runway. 

Most of these authors sensationalize success by not providing context. 

Failure is an option. In fact, success requires failure. 

Practice Makes Perfect. 

It's The Failure Way.

No Comprendo

Pastor Lee Berger serves in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico

For certain in America, and maybe everywhere, I believe people are conditioned to the silent assumption that we can fully understand another person.

Looking back with 20/20 now, memory says the coaches, teachers and preachers I heard spoke as if people can grow to maybe completely understand the other. 

I don't think it is possible to fully understand anyone at any point in time. There may be an agreement, but never full understanding.

The above snapshot was taken in 2008 by a member of Crossing Borders, a unique Christian mission trip program that allows even blind men or whole families to participate together. They prepare a couple days with skit training, culture training, and making supplies. Every year, the trip is different. This trip, Crossing Borders identified a family living in a shack among hundreds of other shacks in a barrio with no running water or power outside Nuevo Laredo, Mexico with two disabled children. The interior was ... well, a shack is a shack. You could see through the walls.

Missionaries changing lives.

Pastor Lee Berger lead the team, who painted the interior pink and added bunk beds to provide real beds and space. The family spoke local Spanish, very few of the missionaries spoke the same.

Both givers and receivers recognized the challenges: Language, awkwardness, fatigue, heat, hunger, joy, playfulness and maybe even fear. But, both sides would be aware they come from different worlds and would be more patient.

If I live with someone, it would be easy to assume I understand his intentions, his English, his gestures. But, I've learned something.

My communication skills don't include mind-reading. 

Children changed, reached another developmental milestone, and I didn't realize it until after an argument. Their skills became more refined, but I would keep doing the task for them, without asking or too busy to notice it was time to let go. Or maybe I make the mistake of assuming the second or third child would have the same way of communicating as the oldest.

We need to ask more often. We don't ask if our understanding, our perception of what someone else is saying in words or deeds, is correct.

We need to listen. Ask. Listen again.
And ... maybe even ask again. At least I do.

Good Hair Day

More than ten years ago, I cut my hair off ... boy short. Illness rendered me too weak to hold up a blowdryer over my head in addition to a shower, combing and adding product.

Thankfully, wellbeing returned gradually the past decade; and today was a good hair day. I got to visit Natalia, a creative of the sweetest kind. She doesn't just cut hair, she soothes the soul.

Placing my hair into her capable hands, I relax into a nice chunk of carefree time getting the best treatment in town. Each visit, she surprises me with something different. Last time, purple highlights. This time, she tapered the color from linen blonde on top to chestnut blonde on the bottom. She also cut it slightly differently to lighten up the shape. I love it.

She respects the freedom I gladly give. I let her do whatever she wants!  It's only hair. It grows out. It can be redone, but so far, she creates a winner every time.

Last time, she got excited about a fashion runway show. Grabbing her cell phone, she showed me the Pinterest photographs she favorited. The models' gowns, how they were colored with multiple hues that blended into each changing from the top of the gowns moving down to the hemline. She thinks it would be amazing to put those colors on hair. She got so excited she glowed. We had fun.

This time we talked about the urban dictionary and new slang words like "nesterday" and "herb." We looked them up; so, if you want to know, you have to, too.

As always, she is a delight. People who serve us can be a delight, and we need to let them know. I tip her generously because she deserves it. And, to be honest, I want to keep her!

Natalia loves bargain-hunting vintage clothes, the color blue and a drink at Starbucks named "flat-something". I will be bringing her one of those little coffees with me next time I come calling.

She cares. I appreciate Natalia a lot and, yes, I enjoy her enjoyment of her art.  Already, I can't wait for next time. She practices hair styling and design at Fantastic Sam's. But, she would be worth her salt at any high-end salon. I'm so lucky she practices on me.

It Takes Practice

How can we say we understand another person completely 

when so often we don't understand ourselves?

It takes practice to know why we do what we do. 

So, maybe it takes practice to know another, too.

What I Don't Know For Sure

Last weekend, I was texting with my son in Italy using a Korean-based app, Kakao.

We moved through our pixelated conversation to the topic of communication and relationships. He reaffirmed his belief in the importance of communication. Then, something popped out of my keyboard that truly surprised me. It's so obvious now.

"We can't possibly be 100% effective when we are 100% unique."

Looking back, it seems as if maybe all the speakers, coaches, teachers and preachers I've heard talk about communication assume people can at some point completely understand each other. I don't think that's possible.

How can we say we understand another person completely when so often we don't understand ourselves?

My husband and I both discovered our assumptions were off near our third anniversary. I had my assumptions. He had his. We made decisions based on those misinterpreted signals. More than 25 years later, we keep asking if we got the message the other meant to send. Still, asking really helps.

The risks are high if we don't slow down. Estrangement from children, lawsuits from customers, bad relationships with neighbors, missed connection, missed priceless moments, missed moments of understanding another soul and being understood.

Did I really understand? How can I communicate what is needed? Will the other party want to know? If he or she doesn't, is the effort still valuable?

So far in my experience, asking these kinds of questions has led me to relief, enlightenment and even joy. I've learned over time that I am usually believing things the other thinks worse of me than reality reveals.

Ask. And if you find yourself surprised, I would love to hear about it.

The Code and The Law

Since February 3, the bulk of my time goes to learning how to code. "Code" describes in vernacular all the different languages "humans" use to talk to with computers. "Coders" or software developers write code for computers to read. Computers read the code if all the language rules are followed.

If the coder breaks the language's rules or doesn't know the right word, then the computer communicates that the sin must be fixed before the computer can go any further with reading or doing. Sometimes there is only one "error", sometimes there are a hundred before the coder gets the code to flow in a way the computer will accept.

Unforgiving and awful, the computer doesn't tell me how to fix the problem, only that the problem exists and that it might be on line 46, line 52, line 80, line ad infinitum. 

My class and I made it through two interviews and a math test to qualify for this torture. Each of us got this far in life generally learning how to learn on our own. Familiar with helping others more than needing help, the program messes with our emotions. Some challenges present so puzzling that some of us need help with every single step. Painful describes the process. Patience and perspective prove better tools than my Mac, empowering me to make the choice to believe I can learn this. The computer doesn't help. The teachers and my fellow students do. 

It's a lot like The Law. 

The Law doesn't tell me I broke it. The Law's agents send me an error message and price to pay.

If my brake light is out and forgot to put the new insurance card in my glove box for an agent's inspection, I get a ticket and have to pay the lawbreaker's price.

Breaking rules in computer code requires the price of time, frustration while finding an answer and maybe some money if it melted the hard drive.

It might sound like I don't appreciate the code. Nah. I do like to code. In fact, I love what I am learning! I do note the similarities, however, between the computer's response to me and perhaps an unforgiving judge's response. 

I am grateful my spiritual and human loved ones don't treat me like this computer does. 

Thanks. 

Yes, thank you very much. 

The Blessing of Being Bossed (Part 2)

Since graduation, I wrote without a boss, but I that's changed now.

I've said it before, writing is hard.

Since May 2014, six books by published authors about how to write memoir joined my shelf. These authors offer what they wish they had when they were committing their own stories to the page. Another dozen memoirs, beautifully written, show me the diversity of how people share themselves. At the end of 2014, playing with schedules, motivations and consuming the words of others produced not a line of my own.

As it turns out, reading about work does not a product make, writing a book is different than news stories or magazine articles. Common sense would tell me this. Experience teaches me better. Chapters. Theme. Tens of thousands of words? A book resembles so much more than newsy, objective information for the public, and the mindset has taken time to develop.

I once again own the blessing of being bossed. She came to me in January. My new boss leans on me, compelling me to Sharpies and wide-ruled notebook paper for mind-mapping phrases and ideas. She keeps me awake staring at the flickering LED candle on my bookshelf, thinking about angles, figures of speech and possible chapters. She gets me snatching images and phrases on my cell phone before they fly away in the night.

January took me to Italy to visit my son at Aviano Air Force Base. His house rests just up the base of the Dolomite mountain range and above Dardago di Budoia, a village dating from the early 1700s. While he worked, I explored the village and climbed the mountain following an ancient aqueduct as it brought pure, ice cold water from high up the mountain.

My boss came with me on this trip. She whispered, "Don't let go, don't take time for granted. Do it. Do the hard thing. Do it today. Remember why you want to write, remember why." I drafted the first three chapters with a view of Italy through wide glass doors and the naked trees of winter.

Back home now, I attend full-time class at Codeup, a school downtown that teaches how to get from knowing nothing to developing fully functional web pages from scratch in a few months.

My boss continues to whisper, "Yes, I know you are in school. Don't lose your momentum. Remember why you want to write, remember why."

With the first month of Codeup under my belt this week, I've adjusted to the new schedule and demands. It's time to produce again.

Her voice doesn't fail me because she is my better self. She knows what I want and what I hope to give back. She can tell when I am distracting myself from the hard thing. I know by now that she's right.

The Blessing of Being Bossed (Part 1)

How could being bossed be a blessing?! How could anyone say that?
Searching Google for the "blessing of being bossed" discloses that hardly anyone if anyone searches those words in that order. Today, no first page results included this exact phrase. Close. There is a story by Rebecca Harmon titled "The Blessing of a Bad Boss", but nothing about the blessing of simply being bossed.

"The Blessing of a Bad Boss" by Rebecca Harmon

Why not?

People usually agree, "We don't want to be bossed." Bad politicians, leaders, parents and cops make easy conversation starters. Who would want a boss anyway?

The program at the journalism school at San Antonio College grants grades and credit based on a real newspaper product. Student grades and credit often, if not always, depends on the work of other students. When I realized this, I got angry. I had trust issues with the performance of other students. Public school K-12 group assignments taught me students are lazy.

Anger quickly succumbed to the workload.

My first surprise experience with said bossing occurred day one of class when Instructor Irene Abrego said all stories required for credit would be published for tens of thousands of readers across the city. I felt stunned and vulnerable.

My second surprise experience came when my fellow student-mentor-editor Rebecca Salinas quickly scanned my first story, turned her chair to face me and said, "It's all opinion. This is not news." Bomb. Fail. Rewrite. Fail again. Rewrite. Edit again. And again. Boss Salinas' sent me back to pounding sidewalk.

My first short tiny story passed an labyrinth of editors, professors and designers half a dozen times before I saw it in the Friday's newspaper or online.

So began my first recognition of the blessing of being bossed. New reporting students dropped like flies the first month. The deadlines and bossing, interviews, editing and being asked to do another interview, rewrites, forgotten photo requests and professors complaining about boring pages with no photos and students with nothing to photograph - it overwhelmed. Being bossed like this developed skills and insights I value as priceless.

I didn't understand this group of students would prove me wrong. The Ranger students and faculty turned out to be an amazing alchemy of diverse opinions, ages, backgrounds, and talents, all of whom I witnessed giving their best. We all needed the good work of each other. We wrote, photographed, videotaped, edited, designed, discussed, debated, celebrated, got aggravated and created together. I get emotional thinking about it.

Blessed are the bossed, for they shall become better.