A Husband…

"Success at the highest level comes down to one question: Can you decide that your happiness can come from someone else's success?"

Bill Walton

My greatest influencer has been my husband. He has seen me at my worst and stayed. He has enormous amounts of patience and the capacity to play with our children and grandchildren for endless hours no matter what else is vying for his attention. He's the kind of guy that includes people and collaborates. He's the one to call when our health insurance company accidentally canceled all our various family member's insurance policies. He's patient and has a natural ability to listen to customer service representatives as they explain to him why they cannot help him and yet, eventually do.

He has a natural capacity to really listen to people and help solve problems so that organizations and teams he supports have a better chance of achieving their goals. I have other influencers in my life with this uncanny ability to support the dreams of others - they are pretty magical people. I have a dear friend and daughter who also exude this willingness to sacrifice over and over for those they love. Truly, these folks are willing to go to great lengths without receiving credit for their efforts so long as their efforts improve the condition of those they serve.

Could this be you? Can you think of others in your life who have this capacity and inspire you?

The Growing Up and the Growing Old

She had a strong German accent and was dressed from head to toe in a canary yellow tennis ensemble. Pete and I were standing in line at the local YMCA near our favorite vacation spot. For the last few years he and I try to get away for some quiet time to rest and recharge our batteries - McBean style. This means working out, paddle boarding, kayaking, foosball, walking, ping pong, etc. The 'etc.' also includes tennis, once we found a local Y that would give us guest privileges to use their courts. Hence, standing in line. Although the Y may be small and intimate, the red tape to get through the door and onto the courts is not.

As we shift from foot-to-foot, filling out forms and answering a multitude of questions, up comes the canary clad lady. The front desk clerk, a cheery woman who helps us get into the inner sanctum every year, acknowledges her presence with an apologetic nod to us - the knuckleheads causing the hold up.

"I can wait," she says as she sizes me up. "You know, we play doubles tennis here and we are always looking for....well, you know...new people." I really do think she was working hard to not say, 'fresh meat'. We remained silent and non-committal. She was just getting warmed up.

"You know," she leans in, "I'm of a certain age. My children think I cannot order at a restaurant for myself or make my own decisions." She shrugs. "My kids are in their sixties! You'd think they'd have more pressing matters to attend to. I'm too busy with my sports and other commitments to keep them apprised of my goings and comings!"

Sixties? Her kids are in their sixties?

"My own children seem to think we're old," I nod at Pete. "They're very concerned that we take good care of ourselves in the midst of a pandemic and whatnot."

"Well, that's only reasonable," she replies briskly. "But what I take offense at is feeling....smothered."

One lovely element of receiving stories includes the opportunity to find common ground. I, refusing to share a common enemy (because it is a cheap and tawdry substitute for true connection), particularly appreciate how often, almost inevitably, we humans can find meaningful connection. Today, we connect in this moment of shared knowing. I am the age of her children, but somehow, with careful listening comes a shared experience. I have children too. And no matter the actual age, the generational divide is there. Mother and daughter. Mother and son. The elder, the younger. The growing up and the growing old.

Waiting in Lines…

"You need to write a book about all the stories people tell you while we are waiting in lines," said Pete. He has a point.

I countered, "If I wrote THAT book, I would call it..."PLEASE Keep Telling Me Your Stories," which did not thrill him. He is not as big a fan of the long and winding road one travels when listening to a stranger. But I love every mile.

People are so interesting. They have so much to share!

When I was sad and lonely, depressed and anxious, it was hard for me to show up for listening. I tried. I did my best because this is a core value of mine. But for me, and maybe I'm just weird (ok, I am weird), listening requires a certain kind of spiritual presence. We can learn how to improve our listening skills and fall back on those when needed. Sometimes that is the best we can do. But it is an anemic substitute for the pure joy that comes when I fall head over heels in love with someone else's story.

When I am not sad, lonely, depressed and anxious, one of my favorite things is listening to the stories people share. I will do it under any condition (the aforementioned sad, lonely, depressed and anxious) but when I am able to bring my healthiest self to the conversation, oh the joy!

Tomorrow, have I got a story for you!