Archive for the ‘Work’ Category
You’ve probably seen some version of this infographic about adoption rates of new technology over the past 150 years:
by g kofi anan
I see this as just one indicator of the ramping up of the overall pace of change in our lives. Imagine living at the end of the 19th century and deciding whether to have a telephone in your house, or electric lighting. You could debate and think and argue about it for years without feeling like anything was passing you by or that there was any real pressure to make a decision. And meanwhile, the rest of your life would be flowing on, pretty much status quo. That was how we humans lived for thousands of years. And though I’m sure the 1890s felt very modern and fast to the people living through them (Traveling by train from New York to LA in less than 4 days! Women demonstrating for the right to vote!), most everyone spent their whole lives doing the same work, being a part of the same family, living in the same place, eating the same food, using the same tools and ways of doing things, having the same friends.
Now, all these core life elements can and do change regularly for most of us. And the decision about whether to adopt a new technology is made in a moment….and then again the next moment. My conclusion? We need to get better at changing in order to thrive in the 21st century.
I’ve come to believe that fear of and unwillingness or inability to change are the biggest risks we face today. For instance, it’s at the heart of the political and cultural divide we’re living through in the US. Those who want to “make America great again” long to return to a time that makes sense to them, where white men made most of the key decisions and held most of the power; where industrial jobs were plentiful and stable and paid a wage that could support a whole family; where captains of business could do what they wanted and workers had to go along; where America was the most powerful nation in the world and called most of the shots; where science didn’t offer new and confusing and confronting realities on a daily basis; where women and people of color and non-christians and lesbians and gays didn’t speak up and didn’t have to be included in the conversation or the halls of power.
Sorry folks: it’s simply not going to happen. Once the genie of change has been let out of the bottle, nothing – not legislation or shouting, not violence or willful ignorance – is going to stuff it back in. And the present administrations’ attempts to drag us back to that earlier, less change-filled era are going to fail miserably.
What I’d suggest instead is that we get good at changing. That we manage our fear and resistance and learn to view radical, continuous change as an inevitable part of modern life. That we rely on those things that truly are universal and timeless – love, humility, courage, curiosity, joy. That we get good at learning quickly, adapting easily, and creating new habits and new ways of thinking. And that we learn to assess any new idea or thing as objectively as possible, so that we can respond in a way that supports the greatest good to the greatest number of people in this ever-changing world.
There’s no way back: we can only find the best way forward.
The power of poetry is to use regular words to capture something rare. My son has always been a poet in that way, even as a little kid. Once, when he was about five and we we were driving past a neighborhood of brand new, cheaply-built, all-the-same-except-for-color houses, thrown up quickly to respond to the ’90s Colorado housing boom, he said, “Those houses are so empty it makes me want to cry.”
He’s still doing it: framing insight as poetry. Just the other day, he told me that he, his wife, and a friend are thinking about going into business together. And one of the reasons he thinks it will work well is because “they believe in each other’s magic.”
It resonated so deeply for me. I knew exactly what he meant, because my business partner Jeff and I also believe in each others’ magic, as do my husband Patrick and I. In fact, in all my best personal and professional relationships, there’s an element of believing in each other’s magic.
To believe in someone else’s magic is to know that things that person wants do are possible, even if you don’t understand them and couldn’t do them yourself – and that the person will accomplish those things, even if you don’t understand how that will happen.
A small example: a couple of years ago, my husband said, “Wouldn’t it be cool to have a built-in TV on the screen porch? It wouldn’t get in the way of the view.” I said yes, with complete faith that he would make that happen, even though I didn’t have the faintest idea how such a thing could be done. And – voilá – now we have a flat-screen TV that hangs down from the ceiling of the screen porch, at exactly the right height for viewing, but without compromising in the least our beautiful Hudson River views. I still don’t really understand how he did it.
This has also happened countless times with me and my business partner Jeff. Twelve years ago, I said to him “I’m going to get this book published,” and he completely believed me, even though I had never done it before and the odds were long. Two years ago, he said “We should create a partnership with this start-up virtual reality company,” and I completely believed him, even though I didn’t really understand why that was a good idea, or how we would do it. Both things happened, and turned out to be truly beneficial for our business.
Believing in someone’s magic isn’t blind faith. It’s faith based on practical experience: you observe the other person has skills, experience and insight that you lack, and can apply those assets in ways that seem mysterious to you because you don’t share them. And so when he or she says “I can do this” or “We should do this,” you take that leap of faith, based on what you know and have experienced of that person.
I love this idea so much, because it captures one of the most powerful elements of good leadership, good partnership, and real innovation: believing that others can and will do things that you yourself are not capable of doing – and, sometimes, that are beyond your understanding. Believing in others’ magic allows us to combine our individual powers to reach new heights, to do things that none of us could have done by ourselves. It’s why diversity – of all kinds – is so critical to success. Through working with others who are not like us and believing in their magic, we can leapfrog our own limitations to solve our most intractable problems together.
It requires real humility, though. The essence of believing in someone else’s magic is being willing to acknowledge that you don’t know it all; that other people understand things that you don’t – and perhaps never will. For lots of us, that’s especially difficult when the other person is younger, less educated, a different gender, race, or religion than we are. Believing in the magic of someone we see – consciously or unconsciously – as being “less” than we are is both particularly challenging and particularly valuable. When you truly believe in someone’s magic, it’s virtually impossible to hold on to dismissive prejudices about that person.
Next time someone in your personal or professional life suggests a way to move forward or solve a problem that you don’t understand, or can’t quite see: before you say no, take a moment. Ask yourself, “Do we believe in each others’ magic?”
Ever since 1934, when the Social Security administration established 65 as the “official” national retirement age, most of us have assumed that at somewhere around 65, we’d stop doing paid work. And even though the average 65-year-old these days has both a considerably greater life expectancy and much improved health compared to his or her 1934 counterpart, our association with 65 as the age of retirement remains. And that’s true even though we baby boomers aren’t adhering to it: only 1 in 4 boomers are fully retiring from paid work by 65. As has often been the case with us as a generation, we’re trying to figure out a different way to do things.
When I turned 65 recently, I didn’t expect it would have much impact on me, since I generally don’t think of myself as being any particular age. So I was surprised to find myself thinking a lot about working and not working, and how I intended to approach the next phase of my life. Even though I knew I didn’t want to stop working any time soon, I noticed that I also didn’t want to keep working at the same pace I’d been working for the last 45 years. I had already decided to work somewhat less starting this year – I had told people that I was “cutting back to full time.” They’d laugh, but it was pretty accurate: I’m experimenting with working around 40-45 hours a week, rather than 50-60 hours a week.
But I could feel there was some deeper issue not being addressed by that decision, and I wasn’t sure what it was. I called Lorie, a wonderful therapist and all-around wise person who has helped me enormously through times of major change over the past ten years, and told her what I was feeling and thinking. In a series of conversations, she helped me see that I was wanting to carve a new path for myself: that I felt constrained by what I saw as the limited and limiting expectations for women at 65 relative to work. I believe that society expects that women, if they do keep working after 65, will do it in a kind of invisible and genteel old-ladyish way: part-time, in a situation that doesn’t require or afford a lot of responsibility or power. (As an example, when I told a 30-something friend that I was struggling to figure out my work path for the next decade, she suggested that perhaps I could teach classes at our local library.) And the general expectation for us as retirees is that we will focus on taking care of our families, on our old-lady hobbies, or on doing good works.
Neither of those paths appealed to me. In my conversations with Lorie, I realized that I needed to “go off road,” to carve out a personal post-65 career path that works for me and those I love, and that may not fulfill any of those expectations.
And, as it turns out, what works for me is a life that includes the best of both worlds. In the world of work, I’ve realized that I’m doing the best work of my life, and I want to keep doing that. I’m braver, wiser, clearer, more experienced, and at the same time more flexible, compassionate and patient than ever before, and I intend for my clients and my colleagues to get the benefit of that. And in the world of retirement, I find I’m cherishing time with my husband, children, grandchildren, and other loved ones in a new and deeper way, knowing that my remaining time on earth is less than the time already passed. At the same time, I find that I need more time for reflection and recuperation in order to be at my best – and that I’m able to appreciate those resting periods more than I ever have before.
So I’m working and retiring simultaneously. When I’m working, it’s full-on, all-in: offering the best of who I am in deep and powerful partnership with my clients and colleagues. When I’m retiring, it’s full-on, all-in: 100% luxuriating in play, rest, travel, the love of those I love. I suspect the proportions of the two will continue to shift as I age: more time retired, less time working. But the depth of commitment to each will remain. That sense of doing whatever I’m doing with full joy and commitment is what resonates for me.
If you find yourself asking these kinds of questions – as I assume you might be, having read this far – my advice to you is not to adopt my solution or anyone else’s, but to find your own. Your life is precious, and it’s a great gift to have arrived in your 60s with your health and spirit intact. Be conscious in deciding how to take advantage of this gift you’ve been given, so that at the end of your days you feel satisfied that you’ve lived the life you most wanted to live.
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit…
I’ve loved this poem since I first read it in the 1970s. Even as a young woman, I was enchanted with the idea that as an older person, a tribal elder, I could feel and be less constrained by the dictates of society, more willing and able to do as I pleased, to be a more quirky and braver version of myself.
And here I am, on the cusp of what is generally considered old age – soon to celebrate my 65th birthday – and though I may not literally have a stick, or be running it along the public railings, I’m proud to say that I find myself doing a metaphoric version of these things every day. I’m much more willing than I used to be to challenge assumptions – especially my own – and to be open to different ways of approaching situations or solving problems.
With age has also come a greater willingness to say true but difficult things if I think they will benefit a person, a relationship, an organization: I’m “pressing alarm bells.” And at the same time, I see that my increasing straightforwardness contains a tenderness and compassion that I believe was missing in my earlier years; I’ve now experienced enough pain of my own to know how hard it can be to hear difficult truths.
And I’m pleased to find that my passion for and joy in life are undiminished and, in fact, seem to be increasing; I wear celebratory, invisible purple and red nearly every day. However, I have noticed that my physical stamina is diminished – I get worn out working the 70-hour weeks of my 40s and 50s – and so I’ve decided I need to sit down on the pavement a bit more, so to speak.
I’m very grateful to have the influence and wherewithal to be able to craft my “sitting down” in a way that works for me. So here’s my plan: I’m going to “cut back to fulltime,” as I’ve been saying to my colleagues. Soon I’ll be working four long days every week, instead of five (or six). Starting after the first of the year, on Fridays I’ll mostly be doing things other than working.
It’s interesting watching the reactions I’m getting from friends and clients when I share this plan. Those younger than I are generally very supportive, and see this as a great way to create a little more space for rest and reflection, while still staying active in this work I love so much. Interestingly, the only people so far who seem uncomfortable with my plan are friends my age who are still in the workforce. And their negative response isn’t to the plan itself, but to my acknowledgement that I need a bit more time dedicated to recuperation in order to be at my best when I am working. “I still feel like I’m 29,” a client scowled when I shared this with him. One friend shook her head. “I think it’s limiting to believe we can’t have the same energy at 70 that we did at 30.”
Maybe. But maybe it’s limiting to believe we must have the same energy at 70 that we did at 30. At its core, Jenny Joseph’s poem is about authenticity: discovering and being your true self. And the older I get, the truer I want to be to what I know, understand, and experience, and the more clearly I want to live as a reflection of that truth.
What’s your version of wearing purple? If you were to shift the elements of your life to include more of what you want and need at this point in your evolution, what would that look like?
I was talking to someone the other day about the willingness of many millenials to leave jobs where the culture is bad or the expectations are unrealistic or confusing. We both agreed that, in general, we find it refreshing – and that we believe it will force many companies to think more deeply about how they operate and the cultures they create.
At one point, though, my colleague said, “But it can go too far. Sometimes you have to suffer – there can be a purpose to pain.”
I watched my immediate mental response: That’s not true – thinking that we have to suffer condemns us to suffering. But instead of saying that out loud, I kept listening and asking questions. After a few minutes, I thought I understood what she was really saying, and so took a stab at summarizing. “You’re talking about pain on the way to improvement, vs. just submitting yourself to ongoing suffering.”
“Exactly,” she responded.
Then she told me a great story about two senior executives she knew, both of whom had reputations as tough, sometimes difficult and demanding bosses. However, she went on to note that many people she knew felt their time working for boss A was very valuable, and said they’d work for him in the future, if they had a chance – while most people had really disliked working for boss B, and would never want to work for him again.
The difference? Boss A, while tough, demanding and undiplomatic (to put it mildly) really focused on developing his folks. His toughness was in the service of their getting better, thinking more deeply, being able and willing to embrace new possibilities. Under boss A, people grew. In contrast, boss B was tough because he could be; he was just mis-using his boss power. There was no gain from the pain.
And I think this is a lesson millenials need to learn (and one I see my millenial children and colleagues learning as they get older and work longer). Sometimes, you have to do things that aren’t very comfortable, in order to get what you really want. And if you bail at the first sign of discomfort – whether you’re by yourself, trying to learn something; or in an organization, having to put up with some company BS; or dealing with a boss who may not be the most skilled or emotionally intelligent, but is genuinely trying to help you improve – you’re never going to get very far.
It’s analogous to trying to get in better physical shape, where the price is the bodily discomfort of sore muscles and the mental discomfort of feeling like a klutz. If you really want to get in better professional shape – to find out what you can love and be great at doing, and then to become excellent at doing it – the price is always some degree of mental, emotional, and even physical discomfort.
In other words: if you’re entirely comfortable, you’re probably not learning anything. And if you want to become world-class at doing anything, you’ll have to learn to be comfortable being uncomfortable.
Read Be Bad First – Get Good at Things FAST to Stay Ready for the Future for more insights about being usefully uncomfortable.
Many years ago, my mom declared that she would knit each of us, her four children, a sweater. She had lots of other stuff she was interested in doing, though, so she never quite completed the project. I’m pretty sure she finished my younger brother’s sweater, and she may have finished my older sister’s. In any case, when we went to clean out her house after she died in 2004, I discovered most of the sweater she had been making for me in a knitting bag with (fortunately) the pattern book she was using. I was touched; I decided to take it home with me and finish it someday.
So here I am, twelve years later, finishing the sweater my mom started for me sometime in the 1990s. I thought it would be a nice way to connect with her, and it is. It’s easy to imagine her working on it: getting irritated when an instruction didn’t make sense; swearing softly at having to undo and redo a mistake; her crooked smile of satisfaction at a beautifully complex bit of finished work. And most of all, thinking of her thinking of me.
I’ve also enjoyed the mystery-solving aspect of it. It’s a cardigan, and she had completed the back, both fronts, and most of one of the sleeves. So I had to determine where she was in the sleeve (there’s a cable design running down the middle, so I had to figure out exactly the correct row), and which of the six available sizes she had chosen to knit. And since I had only one skein of the yarn she was using, a yarn that hasn’t been made for many years, I had to find more of it (thank god for ebay). Finally, I had to figure out what size needles she was using in order to finish the ribbed trim on the front, neck and pockets. I tried the size called for in the pattern, but that made stitches that were bigger than hers; I tried a couple of different size needles, knitting a few rows, pulling out the work and redoing it till I got it right. (You can see how it’s going in the picture above.)
Most of all, though, doing this is making me realize that I generally don’t give my mom enough credit for the foundation she provided to me throughout my life. So much of who I am as a professional, a parent, and a human being is grounded in her good example. She taught me how to think critically; inspired my love of language and of writing; taught me that a parent’s job is to provide the tools kids need to create their own life and the moral compass to assure that life is one of contribution and value to others and to the world. She taught me that humor can ease tension, and that it’s mentally lazy to accept “what everyone knows” as truth. She insisted that I take responsibility for my mistakes, and she was quietly proud of my accomplishments. She (and my father) taught me that judging, dismissing, or hating others for some part of who they are – skin color, sexual orientation, country of birth – is just plain wrong. She raised all four of us, two boys and two girls, with equal expectations that each of us would find work we liked and were good at, and build loving, strong relationships and families.
And as I’m reflecting on this, on my own failure to acknowledge her gifts to me, I’m wondering if we aren’t all guilty of this to some extent. It’s too easy to believe that everything now is “new,” that we’re starting from zero every day and having to invent everything as we go. But even though almost every aspect of our world is changing faster now that at any previous time in history, we are able to navigate through this time of seismic change by virtue of the foundation laid down by those who have gone before.
Just as I can finish this sweater because of the start my mom made on it and the knitting skills passed down to me by her and many others, all that we do builds on the discoveries and advances of previous generations. The fact that I, a woman, can be accepted and respected as an author, speaker, consultant and business owner is built on the efforts and sacrifice of my feminist mother, my suffragette grandmothers, and millions of other women of past generations all over the world. The fact that I can share my thoughts with you here, one-to-one, perhaps without ever having met you, is a tribute to thousands of generations of humans who created language, invented ways to write it down and disseminate it (including the printing press), then created ever-more sophisticated computers, and finally harnessed the power of the internet.
It is both humbling and inspiring to acknowledge that we are links in this human chain. It makes me feel very grateful, and it makes me want to leave a legacy that will help move the world and everyone in it toward more joy, more collaboration, and lives of prosperity, independence and discovery.
My husband and I play a word game that consists of figuring out the negative names and the positive names for things. Here’s what I mean:
- For large properties owned by a single person or entity: “estate”=good; “compound”= bad
- For someone who behaves in unpredictable ways: “eccentric”=good; “crazy” = bad
- For people whose job is to execute someone else’s directives: “staff”=good; “minions”=bad
- For a newly formed religious group: “sect” = good; “cult” = bad
We’ve found that there can be a world of difference in the implications of using one word vs. another to describe something. The two of us play this game because we find it fascinating, but it also makes me think about how often we can reveal our unconscious prejudices and assumptions about people and situations through our word choices.
And when you’re a leader, the power of that is magnified. Let’s say you’re a manager, and you’re talking to someone about a guy that works for you who has lots of ideas and enjoys talking about them. If you describe his behaviors as “enthusiastic” or “passionate,” your colleague will have a very different sense of him than if you describe him as “loud” or “pushy.” Sometimes, sadly, people do this kind of subtle character assassination on purpose – when they want someone to be seen badly. But too often, we do it without conscious malice, simply based on unrecognized negative assumptions we have about someone…and don’t realize the negative impact it can have on them.
I was coaching someone once who had three direct reports. When she spoke about two of them, Emma and Joe, she nearly always used “good” words. In her description, they were forward-looking, inspiring, big thinkers, and risk-takers. These were qualities that she saw and liked in herself and in them. The third report, Damon, was very different from the three of them, and she would describe him as old-school, slow, formal, and sensitive. When I pointed out to her how these words might come across to others, she responded that they weren’t negative words, and that she thought they were accurate. So then I asked her what impression her boss had of the three, based on her descriptors. She thought for a moment, and then responded (I gave her high marks for honesty), “He probably sees Emma and Joe as big assets to the organization, and Damon as OK but not great.”
“Is that how you see him?” I asked.
“Not at all,” she acknowledged. “He’s really valuable. He reins us in and keeps us from making impulsive decisions. We need him.”
Once she had seen that, it was easy for her to see how the words she used to describe him arose out of her feeling less comfortable with him and of unconsciously wanting him to be more like Emma and Joe. And how those descriptors might lead others to see him in a less-than-positive way. I asked her to think of alternative, yet still accurate ways of describing him that would let others see the value she saw. Instead of old-school, slow, formal, and sensitive, she began to talk about him as being professional, thoughtful, measured, and considerate.
And not only did her altered description begin to change her boss’ perception of him, I noticed that she, Emma and Joe all started to treat him differently: to make better use of his complimentary strengths, and to more often acknowledge his contributions.
I encourage you to think about how you’re describing situations or people in a way that might subtly (or not so subtly) devalue them in your mind or to others. How could you describe them differently to create more openness and appreciation?
I spent the weekend participating in TAP NY – billed as both the largest craft beer festival in New York State and the largest single-state craft beer festival in the US. It was enormously fun: I had the pleasure of helping my husband Patrick dispense his Great Life beer to hundreds of jovial people over the course of the two days. And – thrilling to us – his 1875 Milk Stout won the Bronze Medal in the Hudson Valley Stouts category.
I love being involved (peripherally) in Patrick’s brewery partly because he’s so passionate about it, partly because brewing beer is intrinsically interesting (and I love finding out things), and partly because it’s so fascinating watching this business niche -craft brewing – explode.
On the TAP NY website, their own history page describes the geometric curve that is craft brewing. They started in 1998 at the Culinary institute of America in Hyde Park, NY with a handful of breweries, styling themselves the Hudson Valley Craft Beer and Food Festival. After just a few years they outgrew that site, moved to the Hunter Mountain Ski area, renamed the event TAP NY, and expanded to include all of NY state. Over the next few years, the festival continued to grow slowly, with about 25 breweries involved by 2007. Then, in true geometric curve fashion, it really began to ramp up: 40 breweries in 2010, over 60 in 2013, almost 90 in 2015, and 116 breweries attending this past weekend.
When I wasn’t busy drawing 4-oz tasting glasses for the continual stream of folks who stopped by our booth, I wandered around and observed. In some ways, the craft beer culture is like any newly vital business sector, with lots of early entrants wanting to get in on the action. It’s analogous to the early 20th century in autos, when there were literally hundreds of car makers in the US. Then the larger manufacturers began to take over through superior distribution and economies of scale, and the smaller auto companies began to go out of business or get bought up. But beer has already been through that evolution: in the late 19th century, it’s estimated there were over 4,000 mostly small independent breweries operating in the US. Then brewing began to go through the same kind of consolidation, helped along by prohibition. In 1935 there were only about 750 breweries in the US, and by 1980, there were only about 50 brewing companies in the whole country. And, as one beer writer in the 1980s commented, “They are pale lager beers vaguely of the pilsener style…They do not all taste exactly the same but the differences between them are often of minor consequence.” Beer had become standardized and commercialized: what could be made most efficiently and while appealing to the largest number of people.
Then, in the late 1980s, the tide started to turn. As people began to explore using locally grown and naturally sourced foods, they also started get interested in the possibility of drinking beer that was locally produced, with stronger and more interesting flavors. Once the trend started, it gained momentum every year, as evidenced by the growth of TAP NY and dozens of similar festivals across the country. In 1990 there were about 400 microbreweries and brewpubs in the US: in 2015, there were over 4000. We’ve now matched (and are on a path to exceeding) the high-water mark for American breweries set in 1873.
The big commercial breweries are still selling most of the beer drunk in the US – but the craft beer share of sales is significant and growing yearly: one recent statistic estimates that around 13% of the beer consumed in the US today is produced in craft breweries (doubled from just a few years ago).
I’m fascinated to see how this business of craft beer will continue to evolve. In one way, it’s a return to the way humans consumed beer hundreds of years ago, where every village had its own brewer, often the owner of the local tavern and his wife. And in another, it’s completely modern: a manifestation of the free-lance, entrepreneurial, artisanal explosion of the last decade, where more people want to work for themselves and join together with small groups of like-minded others to create products and offer services about which they feel passionate. One element of the craft beer explosion I find really interesting: although still largely male, craft brewing seems not to be age-specific. As I wandered the booths this weekend, I noted some brewers in their 20s and some in their 60s – and everything in between. I also noted that nearly everyone, brewers and samplers alike, seemed to be having a great time.
And I don’t think it was just the mellowing effect of the beer itself: it’s fun to create things you love, it’s fun to connect with the people who make the things you consume, and it’s fun to consume things that are made with care and attention.
¡Viva la evolucion!
First, my apologies for not posting last month. It’s been a bit wild in Proteus-land lately, all for very good reasons. There’s a lot happening because we have a number of new clients and new consultants – which is fun and exciting, and requires attention and effort.
The main wildness-inducer for me, though, has been the launch of my new book, Be Bad First. The official publication date was March 8 – but the pub date is less and less meaningful these days: the hard copy, e-book and audio versions were all available on Amazon before that date, and lots of interviews, reviews, and articles had already come out related to the book. Two things I’m especially excited about: an article about the book’s model in the March issue of HBR, Learning to Learn, and the book being selected as an Editor’s Choice by 800CEOREAD.
There’s a tremendous amount of effort involved in putting out a book, not only for me, but for our publishers and publicists — and the Proteus staff (especially my wingman Dan) have done a lot to support the book’s success, as well. But it all seems worth it: having these ideas about learning and mastery out in the world is good for lots of people. It supports the growth of our business, it gives our consultants more tools to help our clients, and it helps those clients navigate this complex world.
The part of writing a book that’s especially meaningful and almost magical to me is knowing that thousands of people I will never meet or know are reading it and, I hope, benefitting from it. I love thinking about them finding out about it, deciding there’s something in it that might be interesting to them, and then starting to read or listen. A long-time client and friend of mine was commuting into NYC on the Long Island Railroad a few weeks ago, and the woman across from him (he didn’t know her), pulled Be Bad First out of her bag and showed it to her seat mate, remarking that she was reading and liking it. He took it from her and started reading the back cover – that’s when my friend Brad shot this picture.
I loved having this little window into two people I don’t know (and may never know) being touched by the book and (I hope) exploring the ANEW model. I love even more getting to see the viral aspect of this: she liked it, and then told someone about it. It’s lovely to imagine that happening all over the world (we’ve just heard that they’ve sold the rights in China, and are working on a rights sale in South America)…people being helped to become better learners, and turning to friends, family, colleagues, and telling them about it, so they can become better learners and more able to future-proof themselves, in order to thrive through change.
It’s one of the great things about living in a world where knowledge can spread so quickly and efficiently – one person, one idea, one action, can have a huge positive impact. So: do good things.
If you’ve read Be Bad First and enjoyed it, please spread the word by writing a review on Amazon. Thanks in anticipation!
My husband and I recently took a little mini-vacation to Grand Canyon National Park. I’m not quite sure why it took me so long to get there – it’s not as though I’ve never had an opportunity before now. All that aside, though: it was astonishing. If you’ve never visited, all I can say is that pictures absolutely do not do it justice; it’s much more vast and beautiful and other-worldly than you can imagine. It made us feel small, but in a completely positive way; a tiny part of an awe-inspiring whole.
Hopi House; Courtesy of Wikipedia
While we were there, I kept noticing buildings that I really loved. There was Hermit’s Rest, the Hopi House, and the Desert View Watchtower. As it turns out, they were all designed by a woman named Mary Elizabeth Jane Coulter, who worked for the Santa Fe Railroad in the first half of the 20th century as an architect and designer. In the words of Wikipedia:
She was one of the very few female American architects in her day. She was the designer of many landmark buildings and spaces for the Fred Harvey Company and the Santa Fe Railroad, notably in Grand Canyon National Park. Her work had enormous influence as she helped to create a style, blending Spanish Colonial Revival and Mission Revival architecture with Native American motifs and Rustic elements, that became popular throughout the Southwest.
MJC ca 1893 by California Artist Arthur Mathews
from the Program for Art on Film Web site
I was so charmed by her buildings and intrigued by her story that I bought and read her biography. In 1902, Ms. Coulter began working for the Fred Harvey Company, which partnered with the Santa Fe Railroad to open the American Southwest to travel and tourism in the late 19th and early- to mid-20th centuries. Coulter was one of the only female employees of the Harvey Company at that time who was not a waitress – and the only woman with management responsibilities.
As I read about her, and looked at the buildings and interiors she designed – and the construction of which she oversaw and managed – I tried to imagine the combination of vision, strength of character and diplomacy required to be successful as a woman leader working with an all male group of colleagues and staff to establish a new kind of architectural style in a barely-civilized part of the US, at a time when any sort of woman professional was a rare creature indeed.
Talk about a high bar.
I’m inspired and humbled to find that she was able to do all of that, to leave us a legacy of wonderfully evocative buildings, structures that live at ease in the landscape of the desert southwest. Her designs are unpretentious and yet in harmony with the grandeur around them, while marrying indigenous Native American and Mexican styles with modern applications.
I suspect I’ll think of Mary Jane Coulter’s life and work from now on when I’m in what I believe is a difficult situation. I kind of feel as though my toughest challenges would seem like an easy day to her. It’s good to remind ourselves of those brave souls who have gone before us; it helps us find that pioneer inside. It supports us to be bold in asking “Why Not…?” and in finding ways to do things that haven’t been done before.
Thank you, Mary…