To-Do List

It’s been a busy week. When things pile up, and I need to stay organized, I ditch the digital organization and go back to paper: the 1-page To-Do List.  Just write down what needs to get done, and do it.

Nothing can top the feeling of physicall crossing something off the list.  Scratch it off and voila!  Next, please!

And nothing is more frustrating–motivating?–of that one, uncrossed item staring you back in the face:  I’m still here! (Sometimes that item deserves a circle, as pictured above)

Usually, the uncrossed and circled items are the hardest to do–which is why we’ve left them there, picking the lowest hanging fruit from our list.  If I’m feeling up for it, I start with the hardest tasks first, knowing once they’re done, it’s all down hill from there.

How do you stay organized?

Coors Light, the Cops, and an Angry Old Man

I want to tell you a story today about adulthood.  You might not expect that a 27 year old student has much to say about the ins and outs of being an adult.  But an experience I had just 14 days ago has convinced me otherwise and I hope relating the experience will convince you, too.

Let me paint the picture for you.  Imagine that you’re me.  I’m walking Mackenzie the Dog around our neighborhood in downtown Madison, Wisconsin.  It’s a Friday–but not just any Friday.  It’s a beautiful, here-comes-the-weekend, everything-is-perfect Friday.  It might help you conjure up this image by picturing that a soundtrack is playing in the background.  The soundtrack would sound something like Boyz II Men because they’re epic (and the reference to this band might be considered foreshadowing)

My house and Mackenzie’s dinner is just a block away–across Reynolds Field, one of the few city parks in town.  Next to Reynolds Field is Breese Stevens Stadium, where all of the high school soccer teams in Dane County come to play their games.  We are fortunate to live in this area of town because we have so much green space to run around.  In fact, Mackenzie is kind of pissed that there are people occupying Reynolds Field at this particular moment.  She feels like she owns this park,so she takes a pee on it.

There must be a game tonight because the stadium lights are on.  And the street is all “parked up” by spectators looking to get a good seat.  This is fine by me.  It adds to the sense of community.

But something’s not right about this picture. Here’s what I see:  about 20 high schoolers gathered around a pop-up card table.  They are being fairly loud and rowdy for Friday at 4:30pm.  And the closer I get, the more Red Solo Cups I see.  And then I spot a trash bag full of Coors Light.  My first thought is:

“Who the eff drinks Coors Light?”

(Especially in Wisconsin.  And especially because that beer company has yoked its entire marketing campaign to selling the “coldest beer.”  Come on, anyone can put anything in a bottle, stick it in the fridge and–guess what?–30 minutes later, it’s cold).

So I’m angry that these under-agers are disrespecting me and the law and the entire state of Wisconsin by drinking.  They shouldn’t be drinking out in the open like that.  They’re not even 21!  What if one of them has to get in a car and drive in about an hour?  When I was young we drank Natty Light or warm diet coke with cheap vodka.  Have some respect.

As these thoughts bounced around my raging brain, something in me presses pause for a second.  Who am I? Am I Andy Stuhl, the guy who celebrates the anniversary of his 21st birthday each year?   Or am I Andrew Stuhl, the guy who owns a house and a dog, is engaged to be married, and generally likes to lounge in his Adidas sweatpants on rainy days?

In this moment, I decided I was the latter.  And here’s the kicker:  I didn’t just get “all adult” by thinking that what those kids were doing was wrong.  I made a huge next step.   I called the cops.

Yup, I picked up the phone and rang the local police station.  This was not an emergency, so no 911 was needed (sorry Sean Kingston).  It was just a friendly neighbor alerting the fuzz of a potential situation.  I convinced myself I was doing my duty as a citizen–this was illegal and dangerous activity.  It was the “right thing to do” to call the cops and let them know that young, under-age, and possibly intoxicated kids would soon get into cars and drive away.

As soon as I put the phone down, I had pangs of regret.  Am I “that guy?”  Am I Mr. Hypocritical?  Of course, we must remember, I too attended soccer games as a high school student.  My high school team reached #1 in the USA back in the day, partly because I was there in attendance cheering the boys on.  And I may or may not have been drinking beforehand.

I realized there were two reasons why I called the cops.  For one, I wanted to assert my own adulthood by “doing the right thing” and making sure everybody was safe.

Underneath that motivation was something deeper–potentially more adult.  It was the nagging feeling that I was getting older and that I recognized in these kids a shade of my youth, a version of my younger self.

Having that out-of-body realization–that distance between where I stood in life and where those teenagers were–that was the moment I knew I was an adult.

How to Give Feedback

Tim and I were friends, which is why it surprised me that he kept flaking out on me. We were in a band and we needed to practice.  We had lunch plans.  We were going hiking with friends.  He had other things to do.

I wanted to let him know. Dude, this isn’t right.  We’re friends!  Keep to your word. So I did let him know, but not like that.  I didn’t choose the up front and honest approach.

We were walking back from class. Ironically, I think we had just discussed Thoreau that day.  Thoreau is one of my favorites and one of Tim’s too.  He may be one of the reasons Tim and I bonded:  we both want to drive life into a corner and see what it has to offer.

The moment came.  I think it was Tim who spoke first. He said something like, “Let’s hang out soon.”  This was like pressing the On button on the coffee-maker.  All of my grounds for not being a good friend were being percolated by my boiling emotions.

“Sure, sounds great.”  (You have to imagine that what I offer to Tim here is glazed with sarcasm.)  And I follow that up with, “Hopefully we can actually hang out this time.”

I got him.  Now he’ll never bail on me again.  He finally knows what our friendship means.  Winner: me.

A week passed and I kind of forgot about this private victory. It was time for  class again.  The group had a great discussion that spilled over to the walk back to campus.  Tim slides through the mass to my side:  Can I talk to you for a second?

Oh crap. Everyone knows these words are signs of things to come–bad things to come.  My stomach hollows out–what did I do wrong? Am I bad person?  I am a bad person.  I just don’t know why yet.

It’s obvious by the look on his face that Tim is the most mature person in the world right now. “Listen, man,” he confesses, “that was pretty harsh what you said last week.  You laid a guilt trip on me.  That’s not what I want this friendship to be about.  If you have something to say,  I want you to be honest with me.”

I was on the floor.  He leveled with me. I was stuck to my guilt as Tim strode away with his genuine freedom.  He was right.  I had to come to terms with that.

What got me is that Tim said what I couldn’t say–the truth.  He didn’t struggle with it.  He just put it out there.  He pulled back his sleeve and showed me his heart.

Last summer, I stood behind Tim as he got married. I was his best man. His feedback probably saved our friendship.  At the very least it redirected its course from “we’re good friends” to “we’re best friends.”   You know what I’m talking about–that friend in your life who you go to when things are a little crazy and you just need some realness. (Not the one whose Facebook pictures you flip through and suddenly realize you have no idea who you are looking at.)

The woman he married was the woman he started dating in college.  Tim was not flaking out on me–he was trying to balance a whole new life.

I wish I had had the guts to be sincere with him.  But maybe I wouldn’t have truly learned what it takes to be open and frank–until I knew what was on the line.

Don’t Just Do Something, Sit There

We’re all confronted with tough situations we never could have expected. An angry customer yelling in your face. An injured stranger who appears in front of you on your afternoon jog. A loved one who dumps their stress on your shoulders.

In the heat of these moments, how do you react? Instead of responding to the pressure and taking action just because, what if your mantra was “don’t just do something, sit there?”

In a way, it is counter intuitive to sit on your hands in an emergent situation.  Usually, things need to happen fast in order to correct a wrong-doing or prevent a disaster.   But what do we risk by leaping first and looking second?

Safety, for one.  In first aid training, we are taught to assess the scene before entering it.  Take the injured stranger, for example.  You happen upon someone lying in the street.  Your instinct screams, “Help them.” If you approach them without taking a second to evaluate what’s going on, you may be creating more danger.  Maybe the building they’re laying in front of is full of noxious gasses–getting too close could turn you from the only rescuer into a second victim.  Who knows–the point is that one minute’s preparation is worth an hour’s cure.  This is why police officers train endlessly to see the big picture–and prevent the negative consequences of “tunnel vision“–when presented with a threat.

We can apply these lessons from medical training and security to other aspects of life. If we are too quick to respond, we might have sacrificed the appropriate time to listen–to what and who is around us. The angry customer and the loved one are similar cases. They want answers and they want them now.  You hear them out–or maybe you don’t; you interrupt to chip in your two cents–in any case, whatever response you come up with only seems to escalate the issue.  Try as you might to calm things down or come up with a solution, the situation spins further and further out of control.

Sure, there’s more nuance to inter-personal arguments and relationships than I’m giving credit to–but the mantra of “don’t just do something, sit there” could help here, too.  The customer rants for five minutes.  The loved one spills their guts.  You sit there.  They stop talking.  The room falls silent.  You wait, taking it all in.

In this split-second–which feels like an eternity–your brain processes everything you’ve just heard. And processes it again. Your instincts realign themselves.  The customer has a chance to hear the echoes of what they just said–and perhaps reposition themselves. The loved one takes a breath. You gain some clarity. You break the silence with a whisper.  The tone of everything shifts into a lower gear.

Sitting there is a win-win–but it’s a limited time offer.  You can’t sit forever.  After all, the stranger, the customer, and the loved one all need you–they just don’t need you at this instant.

The trick is to find the sweet spot between leaping and lapsing.

Sub-Concsious Self-Consciousness

Let’s get one thing clear:  We all have voices in our heads.

I’m talking about the whispers you hear ten seconds before you walk into the board room; the murmurs echoing in your brain at the starting line; the silent chatter that rings so loudly in your head you can’t sleep at night.

These voices we hear are our sub-conscious self-consciousness.  In facilitation, these voices are sometimes called “Gremlins.”  Gremlins represent our fears, our concerns, our doubts–those emotions and feelings that hold us back, suck away our confidence, and fill us with regret. Gremlins are with us all the time–even if we don’t actively recognize it–waiting to prey on our slightest insecurity.  Gremlins can serve a useful purpose–but only if we learn how to listen to them–or ignore them completely.

I have a Gremlin who I like to call Replay.  Replay is the voice I hear after I’ve just completed a big event.  The event can be anything I’ve stressed over–from preparing for and giving a big presentation to swallowing enough pride to phone a friend I should have been in better touch with.  I know Replay is with me when I start reviewing every action I took during that event, every word I uttered, every move I made.  It is if I’m watching an instant replay of what I’ve just done, only this time I’m (over)analyzing the minutia of my actions.

I should have said something different.  Why did I react that way?  If only I could have come up with a better answer.

This is Replay, loud and clear.  He’s in my head, picking at my uncertainties like a scab.  This can go on for minutes, hours, or even days—and consume not only my private conversations but the ones I have with friends and family, too.

In some sense, all of us who know Replay need to push the Stop button on him.  The past is past.  The past has passed.  As much as we try, we cannot go back and actually re-play any event.  At some point, we need to accept what has happened and move on.  It may be easier for us to accomplish this moving on by acknowledging that not everything in our life needs to be a lesson.

So here’s the point in the blog post where we discover that the glass is not simply half-empty–it is also half-full.  Gremlins can be helpful, too.

Let’s take another look at Replay (hmm, there’s something ironic about that). There’s a part of Replay that I appreciate.  It’s the part that tells me–you can always improve; you can always appreciate what you’ve done. I know this flies in the face of an earlier conclusion–that not everything in life needs to be teachable moment.  But, in life, there is a time for everything.  Immediately after a stressful episode, we may want to change channels and switch off Replay for a while.  If you check back in three months later, time may have allowed us to revisit and Replay, and we may be in a better state to analyze without breaking ourselves down.

The trick here may be to keep your ears perked for those Gremlins, especially if you find yourself in stress mode.  If you hear Replay (or whatever name for whatever Gremlins you may have) start a-talkin’, it may be wise to press mute and give yourself a chance to breathe.  Then, when the air is clear, you may want to return to that moment, to dissect it with stable hands, pulling out only what can help you in the long run–and not worrying about what you did or didn’t do so long ago.

What Gremlins do you have?

(It certainly does help to use this public space to give them a name–acknowledgement is the first step to acceptance)