To Be Appreciated

I mentioned before that I run. Not that I am a runner or that I like running. Just that I run. I run for what it does for my heart, my body, and my emotions.

When it's over, that is.

While I'm in the actual process of running, my heart, body, and even emotions all hurt. They don't like being pushed to grow or manipulated for my gain. My body even rebels, by turning my face a bright red, which lends people to ask me if I'm all right, even when I'm at the stage where I've barely broken a sweat.

I run in the evening for a number of reasons. One, it doesn't matter if my face stays red after my shower if I'm just going to bed. Two, it's cooler. And three, I am less likely to meet other people on the trail. Particularly those people who seem to run with ease, not ending, as I do, with my son looking at me and commenting, "Wow, Mom. You're REALLY sweaty."

Tonight, however, I ran into quite a few people. As I was moving to the side of the path and trying to avert my eyes from an entire family coming my way, the woman looked straight at me, smiled a huge smile and announced, "Great Job!!!!"

Great. Job.

Those two words have a crazy amount of meaning. They get thrown out there as a filler, a part of a "compliment sandwich," and an easy transition into, ". .  but you need to work on." But in the right context, that moment when I was struggling between embarrassment and sweaty exhaustion, it was a lifeline.

I ran further and more quickly than I have in a while, maintaining enough energy for a sprint at the end. Could two words really have done that?

In a study that I've heard quoted often enough that it has become apocryphal (if you need a citation, grumble at me in the comments), Employers thought that higher pay and job security were the top two things that their workers wanted, but when the workers were polled, the two most important issues for them were to have meaningful work and to be appreciated.

Appreciation is a tricky concept. I show appreciation to my employees through an email, a text, an award, a thank you card, but these often come when they're doing well. What was different about my experience with the stranger on my run was that the encouragement, and really appreciation, came when I was at a low point, not a high one.

Could it be that we're going about this all wrong? Yes, we should praise the behavior we want to see, but maybe what employees are often looking for is praise for the person they are, especially when they're struggling to do what's right, and don't have the results yet. This is where appreciation and encouragement meet. After all, the woman wasn't praising my success at running. She was praising that I was doing it. That I was fighting and struggling to make myself better.

And because of that, I did.

Resilience

I picked up this extraordinary seedpod on my walk today.

It's a seedpod from an invasive species called Scotch Broom, which has a tendency to take over any untended field in Washington that is not already taken over by blackberry bushes. The plant, while often lovely to look at, is invasive, toxic, and a general nuisance.

This little seedpod is newly formed, but had I left it in the field, it would have the potential to lay dormant for 30-80 years until germination, which could be quick and effective with just the slightest disturbance in the topsoil. Even forest fire doesn't usually destroy the pods, though collecting and directly burning the plants and their seeds is the only real way to get rid of them.

Why is it that the toxic things in our life often have the most staying power? It's so easy to let them hang out on the margins, waiting for the slightest disturbance to wake up, germinate, and grow.

My mom spent a lot of time working with Alzheimers and dementia patients. While some of their behaviors couldn't be explained, many times those latent seeds are exactly what show up in their interactions with people and the world. We have often discussed what that means for us at this moment. I want to plant strength, grace, and love so deep in my soul that their resilience is what defines me, even when I can no longer define myself.

Beauty can be resilient, too.

Moving On

What does moving on look like?

Last night, I dreamed of the funeral, which is tomorrow. I dreamed that I was organizing it, and I kept screwing everything up. And then finally, in my dream, I wept. Gut-wrenching, agonizing sobs, like I haven't allowed myself to have in real life. And then I woke up.

I'm glad that we wake up. The sobs catch us at weird moments, like in the car between appointments, but eventually we wake up. We find ourselves laughing at weird videos on Facebook, or getting excited about future moments, and then wonder, guiltily, if we are even allowed to do so.

I don't think anyone knows what moving on looks like. To me, it can't possibly mean continuing what once was. I must be changed somehow. And for the sake of the dead, I must be better, not worse.

In between visiting various of my staff today, I listed to a Harvard Business Review podcast about "Letting your employees be human." I spoke to a peer on the phone later, admitting that I hadn't had much appetite for work lately, and he confided that he felt the same. We hadn't admitted it to each other, continuing the facade to each other that we were achieving and overachieving, when really, the weight of our own pressure to perform was drowning us in the midst of our grief.

I wondered, if I had told him the truth in the beginning, and he had done the same, would we rather have helped each other through?

So how will I be different? I can't allow the sadness much longer, though the grief will be there still. I must move forward, but I will lean, rest, be vulnerable, hope, and be human.

And I think, work may just be better for it.

Power

During family time, the kids were asking about Power. If we had superhuman power, what would it look like? Truthfully, we do have access to superhuman power through grace, but it doesn't make things disappear or move the through the air, the way our kids think it should. Magic and power are really quite different, despite what the storybooks say.

When the kids asked us how we used that power, I said it was like the power to keep going, to be brave, even when the crushing sadness of losing a friend makes you want to stop everything. My husband talked about the power just to remain in the same space where he was when he heard the news, not to run away and fail to return. "I'm sad that your friend died," my littlest commented. Me, too. Me, too. But I'm thankful for superhuman power, that I can keep going.

Then I made it simpler. It's like the power to go running in the rain tonight, even though I really don't want to. The power to get out there and do something that I wouldn't normally do. To keep going that extra step, when my body is tired and I don't want to go.

We prayed, I sang a lullaby, said good night and left the room, immediately throwing on a sweatshirt and my sneakers. I left my glasses on the kitchen table and headed out into the rain, powerful, every step feeling against my will, but strong and steady. I am not athletic or strong, but I have power, to say yes to every step further away from home, which also says yes to a step I have to run back.

The hour wasn't late, but it was quiet out, not many people venturing through the steady rain to work or play on a Saturday night. I ran my usual route, past the rock wall where I always speed up a bit in case of snakes, around the corner full of allergy-inducing flowers, and along the four-lane road. I saw the unusual stump far up ahead, but without glasses I didn't give it much thought, until it moved.

The well-camouflaged creature crept like a cat, but was far too large, and as it stood, far too lanky. Traffic passed and it leapt out into the now empty road, darting for the other side, but stopping just after the median and turning back, to look at the only other creature in sight, a drenched human in yoga pants and a t-shirt, huffing along the path. We both stopped for a moment and stared at each other, unsure of our next step.

The coyote, for closer I now saw its distinct features, stood uncertain, the woods on the other side of the road beckoning it, but its curiosity taking over. How should I have felt? Afraid? At the very least, I had no desire to encounter an unafraid wild animal, much less a predatory one. But it was crouching, curious, and I was filled with power. Power that got me out of the house on a rainy night, power that kept me going through aching loss, and power that wasn't about to let a coyote ruin my run. A car appeared on the horizon, and suddenly prompted by compassion, I whisper-yelled to the coyote, whose ears stood tall, "Get off the road!"

This was the last thing he expected. He quickly broke eye-contact and made for the opposite side, well into the woods by the time the car approached, and I continued my run, not about to let anything keep me from my resolved 5K.

As I made it to the final stretch, lungs burning, my coyote-friend filled my thoughts. An unexpected appearance in a dreary routine can make all the difference. Otherwise, we're never quite sure of what's inside of us, quietly waiting for a miracle, for a surprise, for a moment of power.

In Honor

Why do it at all?

In the days since the death of my friend and coworker, Joe, I ask myself that question far more than I ever intend to. 

Joe and I used to email or text at 11:00 PM, calling it Power Hour and challenging each other to get the most done. We used to joke about who sent their weekly letter closest to midnight, when it was due "End of Day." We used to be the last to leave the office, teasing each other when the significant other would call or text "What time are you planning to be home?"

And what, I have to ask, was all that for? The company made more money, but he died in the process. 

I can't blame the company or our boss. The choices we made were our own. And while we enjoyed the success and adulation, the stress was leaving its mark. 

For him, it was energy drinks, alcohol, and slow and steady weight gain. For me, it was those moments where my heart would flutter in panic, and I would have to take deep breaths to steady it. The overwhelming guilt at either not accomplishing what I knew was my best at work, or not being the parent/spouse I knew I needed to be. The piled up "should have's" that threatened to choke me at the end of the day.

Death has a tendency to bring shoulds into sharp focus. Like this blog, a should I've had for over a year. 

Like the exercise I no longer put off. Or the baseball games I now attend for my sons. Or the birthday party I take PTO for. Even the fact that I try to get home by 7:00 so I can put my littles to bed. 

But then the question always comes back to where I started. If being successful at work means so much action that I'm sacrificing what is most important for it, is it even worth it? Because I'm not succeeding at the moment. I'm not having the stellar results I'm used to. As of now, I'm supposed to be writing an "Action Plan for Immediate Improvement." And I'm blogging instead. Because I know the easy answer to the question. It's more hours, more action, more of . . . me. But I have to remind myself why that precious commodity is worth giving. 

At some point soon, when grief doesn't have its hand so hard on my shoulder, when I don't feel so alone in this because I can't laugh with a dear friend about how hard we're working, when I'm not quite so overwhelmed by all that didn't get done while I spent a couple of days in mourning, I'll dust myself off and remember.

It's not just me. People count on me. My immediate family of five counts on me. 

The people who work for me, need me to help them remember how to succeed. If they're struggling, it's not just my problem. It's a problem for everyone who counts on them. 

And I am not strong enough for this load. But with Grace and honor for the friend I lost, I will do it.