Dance Palace

As I turned to make certain that my hotel door shut firmly behind me, a brief glitter greeted me from the floor. I hesitated for a moment until will power kicked in and I focused on my purpose for the moment.

Picking up speed rapidly, I headed for the elevators. Punching the button, I found myself facing the inevitable delay. I am told that, except in the busiest of times, empty elevator cars in large buildings are dispatched to certain floors that statistically are closest to the most likely source of the next call. If that’s true, then statistically, I never have a room on one of those floors.

As I’m waiting, I take a glance in the mirror that is mandatorily hung next to elevators. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, at least nothing that I could remedy given the short amount of time and the materials available, I glanced around the elevator landing. Once again, I saw sparkles from the floor.

With nothing else to do, I crouched to more closely examine the phenomena. Extending my index finger, I poked at one glimmer. The expedition was successful. A quick glance revealed a sequin — one of dozens I could see from my position.

The buzzer sounded and I stood and entered the elevator. Transformed from pondering the source of the sequins, I hit the button for the lobby and rapidly descended. As the doors parted, the sight that presented itself caused me to pause. In fact my hesitation was long enough that the doors began to close again. Brought back to my senses, I shoved my hand between the rapidly narrowing doorway and then shouldered my way out.

The lobby was a veritable circus. I’m sure there were adults in the space somewhere. But all I could see were little girls in lavish costume. Talking, chasing, tapping feet impatiently, and . . . dancing.

It seems that my lodging for the weekend had been reserved not only for me, but for several hundred diminutive dancers and prancers. Each young lady was primed for a weekend competition. As I made my way slowly through the lobby, I began to see the adults who had parented, coached, and chaperoned.

A different spirit flowed from the old ones. Many appeared to be former dancers. Although this was not their contest, they were dressed in costumes that seem to masquerade as everyday clothing. And they may have gotten away with that, except for two things. First, the heavy make-up that screamed for attention. And second, the obvious nervousness that possessed them. Their charges, the little dancers, seemed to share none of the anxiety. The older, matronly dancers of years gone by seem hopelessly shackled by their concerns.

As I drove out of the parking lot, I was captured by the thought that the sequins lost by the little girls were not mourned by them. Instead, I imagined that each tiny, shiny piece of plastic was viewed by the small ones as simply an ambassador of the joy of dancing — a calling card to evidence the great events of the weekend put to music. Indeed, from their perspective, those sequins weren’t lost at all.

But for those much older, I perceived their concern that every drifting bit of the experience — whether a sequin or a moment or a misguided step from one of their charges — was a devastating loss of opportunity.

How much different the appreciation of those who come to dance and those who come merely to pick up things lost. That’s a major dividing line around my mediation table at times. Peace is so much closer to those who live in the moment and who have joy and hope for the future. And so distant from those who are satisfied with picking up lost pieces and begrudging the things that were once deemed joyful.

143 Paces

My work involves people who are in conflict with other people. And what I do in my work involves creating space that allows those people to get a break from abrasive things that irritate and aggravate them into a painful conflict experience.

Sometimes that space has to be physical space. In those cases, the conflict is so intense that being in the same room is too uncomfortable, too painful. And it’s in those mediations that I become a shuttle diplomat — dispatched with communication after communication that will create a new space for understanding.

Recently I conducted a mediation in another state. The parties asked for total separation and, although that’s not my preferred way of handling things, I agreed given the nature of their dispute. Not having a neutral place to host the mediation, I rented two suites in the same hotel. The suites were 20 rooms apart and arranged so that the parties could come and go without fear of crossing paths.

So, over the course of two days, I shuttled back and forth between the parties. Depending on the message I carried, the 143 paces between the rooms seemed very different. Some trips seemed very long. Other journeys were almost over before they started.

It was somewhere in the second day that I began to see these 143 steps as my space. I realized that even those who are inserted in a conflict for the purpose of creating space for others need that same luxury.

I came to cherish each of the 143. Although I only counted them once, I came to know every one of them well.

Honor the space that you’re allowed. I’m convinced that the true cathedrals of our lives are those spaces that give us room to find peace. And, if I could presume to know the mind of God, those same spaces would be just the sort of cathedral where He would prefer to meet us.

Finger Indicator

Researchers at the University of Cambridge have discovered that I am a better financial trader than others. The fact that I’m not a financial trader notwithstanding, I am quite pleased with these results.

No kidding! In a recent study, these scientists have compared the ratio of length of a person’s ring finger versus that of their index finger. Those of us who had longer ring fingers were anywhere from five to ten times more successful as financial traders.

It’s getting a little late in life, but I’m thinking about a career change. Not that I want a new career. It’s just that I’ve been told all of my life that my lack of height has been a barrier to my success — particularly in matters of leadership. Tall people are leaders. Short people are followers, plodders, and generally unexciting.

But now, seemingly, I can be both follower, plodder, and unexciting while still being immensely successful — and possibly wealthy if I follow my own trading advice. That’s a powerful draw as I reach the closing years of my professional life.

Seriously, why is it that these quirky study results catch our attention? Is it because there is some scientific evidence that we might have some advantage over others? (By the way, the people with longer index fingers are generally superior engineers, mathematicians, and computer scientists. So, I’m not better than everybody. In fact, if I were a financial trader, I’m pretty much at the mercy of engineers, mathematicians, and computer scientists to be able to technically accomplish my work. Who has the upper hand, er, finger, now?)

These kinds of news stories catch our eyes because we long for a way to be different from others — particularly if society views that difference as a positive thing. Yet, many of us who follow a higher calling are already different. But it’s a difference most of the world has difficulty understanding. If I can be a servant leader, isn’t that a better way? I’m pretty sure that doesn’t require great stature or many of the other markers of success — even a long ring finger.

For the record, I don’t put much stock in this latest revelation on my prowess as a financial trader. After all, scientists have already stated that folks like me with elongated ring fingers are generally more gifted in soccer and basketball than others. Evidently a long digit does not substitute for height and speed.

For now, I’ll just fold my hands and forego further finger examinations. I have too much work to do just being me.

Double Nickel

The long-awaited day has arrived. Indeed, this is the precise moment in time I have talked about and leaned toward for a couple of years.

Today I am officially a senior citizen at Peet’s Coffee. Ever since Peet’s opened in the corner of our neighborhood supermarket, I have been answering the question, “One punch or two?” And I have honestly answered, “Only one . . . for now.” The clerks behind the counter have looked warily at my greying, thinning hair and have reluctantly punched my frequent drinker’s card a single time.

You see, I knew my day would come. This is one of those life moments that counteract the generally negative thoughts about aging. In fact, for me it might be one of two. The first one was becoming a grandfather. What a great and wonderful thing! And right after it comes gaining senior status at Peet’s. (Many of you may point to my membership in AARP which was achieved 5 years ago. But I would argue that I have yet to find the pleasure in receiving magazines pointing out what can be done for those parts of me that aren’t working right and identifying those biological failures yet to come.)

I was wrong. My day did not come. A friend, Homer, broke the news to me on the day after Christmas. “Do you have any of the frequent drinker cards left?” he asked in a voice reminiscent of an eight-year old in search of a Mickey Mantle rookie card. When I looked puzzled, he explained, “They’ve discontinued the program. You can use the cards you have, but they’re not issuing any more.”

Minutes later, I looked remorsely at the card in my hand. It was full of punches. So, I thought, this is the way it will end. My last free cup of coffee — and it will be consumed while I’m still a junior citizen.

Maybe I should have saved that card until today. Perhaps Major Dickinson’s blend would have tasted that much better as a free one.

I’ve considered my options. I thought about writing a letter to the CEO of the supermarket, threatening a class action age discrimination suit. But I seem to remember something in our ethics course in law school about spurious law suits. I also thought about changing coffee shops. I even shopped around a bit. And I also considered giving up coffee.

But for today, I went to Peet’s, plunked down my money and got my coffee. I think I’ve grown accustomed to things anticipated not being quite what I imagined. Call it what you will — acceptance — contentment — acquiescence — resignation. It’s life.

And the real eye-opener (and caffeine-free) is knowing that most of the happenings in my life — the things that surprise or unfold without my design or effort, are so much better and delightful than what I could have asked for. God has a way of doing that.

So, at this milestone, I set aside my pride in attaining this now-expired status and I quote the imminent philosopher, Yoda, “Blessed, I am.”

A Moment of Christmas

We were expecting things to be different this year. Changes in the family have made us wary of almost every occasion.

So it was with no small amount of dread that I awaited the traditional opening of gifts. Certainly, I thought, things just won’t be the same. For one thing, it was coming a day late. And then there was the element of missing people. A few would not be with us. And then there was the fact that the economic downturn would be an obstacle for all that gathered.

But the magic moment of Christmas emerged. The gifts, some modest and some more extravagant, were a side note to the beautiful thoughts and love poured into their selection. After this long-awaited festival of sharing, I chided myself on my earlier anxiety. After all, wasn’t the greatest present in the world delivered in a small family gathering in a stable during tough economic times and horrific political and social stress?

So, while I was still thinking that perhaps Christmas would be unrecognizable this year, I received the greatest present of them all. The moment of Christmas began to sink in.

“Emmanuel” does mean “God with us.” And He is.

Faith

This has been a difficult year in many ways. I didn’t write a Christmas letter to slip in with the cards that Nancy faithfully selects, writes personal notes in, and stays up all hours to hand address. Come to think about it, I didn’t write a Christmas letter last year either. Twelve months ago, it was a mixture of fatigue, laziness, and a lack of time that drained the creative juices and stopped the project.

This year was just too difficult. In one of the Christmas cards to a dear, but distant friend, I wrote that this had been a year of blessings with a heavy dose of tragedy and a sprinkling of comedy. After further thought, I realized that was a pretty good summary statement. And it’s a statement that works not only for us, but for so many others around us.

For whatever reason, I have been fixated on how different things are becoming for us. And, in so doing, I think I’ve lost the broader view of what life is. Life is something different every day. Death is day after day with no change.

I have to admit I’m weary of some of the different that’s coming our way. Yet, I remind myself of what I learned from my good friend, Preacher Eddie. He was telling the story of Jesus calming the storm with that powerful order — “Peace, be still!”

As Preacher Eddie preached on, he asked us to consider the point of that story. I have to admit that I centered on the power of God, the Creator, and the awesome might of His mere words. And, as Eddie reminded, that is part of the story.

What I missed was what happened next. Jesus turned to his disciples and basically said, “So, what were you worried about? Did you forget that I’m right here in the boat with you?”

So, even though I can’t bring myself to writing a Christmas letter this year, I want you to know that the whole story of Christmas is this:

Jesus is in the boat. Whatever the change that comes, whatever the tragedy, God is next to us. Spreading blessings, sprinkling comedy.

Isn’t life great? When the waves grow a little threatening and wind howls around us, Nancy and I just turn to each other and say, “Remember, Jesus is in the boat.”

Merry Christmas. . .

Electrifying experience

Everyone I know has had the experience. Maybe it wasn’t with the electric company. But the cable company, phone company, water company.

So I went in early to a little business I accidentally acquired a few years ago to pay bills. Normally, I set the computer to remind me of bills on the day they need to be mailed. But this month I messed up. I entered the actual due date — today — as the day for the reminder.

As I ran the check, I glanced at the statement and realized that by mailing it today, it would be late. Not wanting a late charge or even one of those demeaning letters about how my electricity would be turned off and I would be subjected to public humiliation, I called customer service.

Of course, I had to do the requisite “shout every number that is remotely connected with you, the account, and the obscure prophecies of Nostradamus” until the machine finally gave up and connected me to a human.

She was a nice human. Very soft voice, though. I kept turning the volume up on my receiver. Eventually, I had given her enough numbers to satisfy her, told her my problem and asked if I could pay the bill locally today — on the due date — so that I wouldn’t be late. Several minutes later she gave me a string of places that would accept my payment.

“Of course,” she explained, “if you pay in person today it will still be late.”

It took her a couple of more minutes to enlighten me why, if I paid on time to her representative, my payment would still be late. “You know,” she said, “you can pay online and it won’t be late.”

“Great, now we’re getting somewhere!”

“BUT, after you transfer the money into our account, you’ll need to call us and give us the confirmation number so that we can manually make a note that you’re not late.”

“So,” I began slowly, “if I put money in your account directly on the due date so that I’m not late, I still have to call you to tell you that I’m not late.”

“You’ve got it!” she said cheerily.

So I made the payment online. Then dialed the number on the screen. Went back through the shout all the numbers through the phone again and finally reached a customer service representative. I provided account numbers, gave my name three times, and finally, after revealing my zip code, heard, “Oh, you’re not in my service area — let me transfer you.”

Went through the same pattern with the man who answered and then heard, “Oh, this is a business account — let me transfer you.”

The last customer service rep seemed nice enough. Gave her all of the numbers, plus some the others hadn’t thought of and she finally took the payment confirmation number.

“Don’t worry if you get any notices — we have a record that you’ve paid now,” she informed me brightly.

“But that’s why I called. I don’t want notices or late charges or anything like that.”

“Well we can’t guarantee that.”

Well, usually when I write I try to come up with some wonderful thought and teaching moment. Sorry, I’m empty. And I won’t stoop to identifying the electric company. Of course, you know that I live in
TeXas and it is a Utility company. Maybe you can “capitalize” on those hints and figure out who it is.

Bet I still get a notice and a late charge.

Pre-Season

The audiobook I was listening to was, frankly, a little creepy. A tale of hidden worlds and creatures with formidable powers. It was not really a book I would normally choose. But the reviews were strong on the website where I purchased it. And since I was a monthly subscriber, I had my pick of two books each month. So even if I went wrong, I really couldn’t go very wrong.

I decided to switch to a different form of entertainment. My CD player wasn’t loaded, so I opted for the radio. At 4 a.m. on a Saturday morning on a backroad in West Texas, I didn’t have a lot of options. So I listened to country music and farm reports until the sun came up.

At that point, I opted for silence. Of course, now that I’m older I’m never blessed with complete silence. The tinnitus that plagues me projects a high-pitched squeal in my ear that only gets louder as other noise lessens. As I drove through the outlying communities north of Austin, I punched up the radio again and sent it searching for a station. I had to deaden the incessant ringing.

More country and western — not something I dislike, but I wanted something a bit more mellow. It was 7:15 a.m. and I bounced from hip-hop to country to talk radio.

And then, I heard a more classical tone. I brought the volume up and realized that I knew the song. Not by name. Yet it was undeniably the anthem of champagne makers where, in the television commercials, the clinking of glasses emit the sound of bells. You know it, don’t you? LAAA, LA, LA, LA. LAAA, LA, LA, LA. (Don’t laugh, I sing no better than I write.)

Convinced that I was hearing an ad, I settled back. And, the truth be known, I’ve always liked this particular song. But there were no words. And in a few moments, the announcer had given the time and the temperature and the next song was a Christmas song as well.

After about 15 minutes, I realized I had discovered an “All Christmas – All the Time” station. It was November 15. Immediately, I thought of the protest emails I had sent one of our local stations when they went all Christmas on December 1. Who in their right mind would want to listen to Christmas music for four, five, or six solid weeks — or more?

I punched “seek” again and rolled through my choices. Eventually, the radio bumped back into “The First Noel.” And I left it there. And for the next song. And the next.

As I threaded my way through increasing traffic, I found the familiar holiday fare to be uplifting. There was no association with long lines at retailers or heartburn over what to give that special some one. Instead, it was light and uplifting music that brought back memories and instilled hope.

Funny, isn’t it, how things that are so pleasurable can come to be burdens because of the context? Perhaps its because we choose to immerse ourselves in the challenging and difficult rather than allow something good to lift us.

So, no emails to radio stations this year. A pledge to listen to more Christmas music. And a promise to myself to allow the good to do good in my life.

Change has come to America . . .

With those words, President-Elect Barack Obama challenged a nation.

He acknowledged that change wouldn’t happen in a day or a year or perhaps even within a single presidential term. Finally, the election is over. It is my hope that reasonable men and women will leave their extreme positions that are intended to create distance and “market recognition.” Now is the time to come together. I just pray that we will.

I don’t agree with all of the plans that the new president has made. I didn’t agree with all of the plans that Senator McCain had either. My comfort throughout the election has come simply from the knowledge that God is in control of everything and that, with this wondrous assurance, my post-election plan would simply be to encourage others to pursue peace.

Peace, of course, doesn’t happen in a vacuum devoid of conflict. Conflict is its constant companion. It flickers around the edges of even the most serene moments. Conflict flares from the fuel of the slightest disagreement.

Yet, it is true that we can pursue, enjoy, and embrace peace in the epicenter of conflict.

I’m not certain of what “change” has come to America. I think we would be better served by our calculated efforts to realize the potential of the hope that has always been here and in every nation history has known.

President-Elect Obama, in keeping with my post-election plan, I want to encourage you to pursue peace. Not at all costs and not with eyes shut to reality. But pursue peace responsibly and through understanding of not only the issues, but of the interests of all people. May God bless you.

Masks

“What monster is this we’ve created?”

I find myself somewhat apprehensive about the coming hours. As polls begin to close on the eastern seaboard, the news media and prognosticators and the pundits will begin to mount their mound of predictions. And we will wait for what will seem like a span of time longer than even the presidential campaign to get the official results. Undoubtedly, those reports will come after accusations of wrong-doing and malfeasance and other election ugliness.

Yesterday, Senator Obama promised his audience that “change will begin occurring tomorrow.” Of course, in truth, change happens daily. But the change he talks about really won’t begin as the votes come in today. The serious change he has promised will come over long negotiations and perhaps bitter struggle over the next 4 years. He promises unity, but the potential for polarization looms pretty large.

And, Senator McCain told his followers that “the ‘Mac’ is back!” Obviously, that’s a literary reference to the Phoenix-like qualities of this Arizona statesman and a rallying cry that victory, even in the face of less than favored status in the polls, is close. Or possibly just a tie-in to an old fast-food commercial. He promises change as well. Yet, any shifts in policy he pursues will meet similar protracted battles and angry outcries.

Strange, this mandatory pursuit of change in politics. People want change, right? Yet we struggle in our personal lives to minimize change. And we minimize change because of our fear of what change may bring. “What we have, no matter how bad, could ever be as bad as what could be.”

So we’ll wake up tomorrow with a new leader. And if it’s my candidate or yours, we’ll all face the news with a little bit of dread. Because, in the game of politics, we require our players to wear masks. Unlike in civilized sports where masks are meant to prevent disfiguration and maiming of the participants, the face-piece in politics is designed to alter communication and block true meaning. And in such design crouches the potential of disfiguring and maiming us, the electorate. And that’s what we fear.

For none of us can be sure of the true nature of the one who will move into the White House in January. Two hundred years of free election have taught us to peer suspiciously behind the masks.

It’s too late now — maybe centuries too late. I just wish that once, the candidates would take off their masks and talk to each other as individuals who really want to bring about good for all people. Not a debate, but a conversation.

But the two-headed, masked monster is one of our creation. And one that is destined to frighten us until the game is changed. Oops, there’s that word again.