Everyone has these two voices, although one or the other tends to predominate in most people.  The promise voiced people consistently look on the bright side, the possibility side and dream of a bigger, brighter future.  Life, in their view, has infinite potential for greatness (or at least to be pain-free, miraculous, and consistently happy). The voice of promise invites stretch and growth, is the fuel for change. It’s the voice of eternal optimists, visionaries and dreamers. The prohibitors, on the other hand, keep the wagons in a tight circle, focus on the rules and are certain that coloring outside the lines will get you a smart smack on the knuckles with a ruler.  This is the voice that seeks to minimize risk. These folks are conservators and preservers, maintainers of lineage and traditional knowledge.  Both voices can have their uses and both are needed to some degree.   In excess, though, the voice of promise and the voice of prohibition interact with each other in ways that create a bitter wind that erodes even a semblance of vegetation from the landscape of an idea.

Voice is an intangible characteristic. We speak so often in our given voices that after a while, we lose sight of the fact that it’s an individual “mine” and assume it’s the voice of universal truth.  The voice of promise may be fueled by overwhelming positive emotions and the voice of prohibition may be fueled by fear.  Both emotions are catalytic.  An exorbitant promise taps a tiny fissure of fear which the respondent seeks to seal up quickly with a plug made of protocols, commandments and rebuke.  “Thou shalt not…” lights a fuse and explodes a thousand questions. Why not?  What if….?  How do we know?

The eastern plains of Colorado, like those in the surrounding states, are unimaginably vast to us city dwellers.  On the trip with our friends,  we could not begin to guess how far away the near mountain range we were seeing might be, and even less so for the distances of the range visible behind that, and the one visible behind that (even with a physicist and a rabbi among us!). We only knew it was many, many, miles.  The sky stretches out in three dimensions; the gentle roll of the plains disguises the actual acreage of a ranch or a farm.  More importantly, the land endures because it is constantly changing, evolving in response to wind, weather and all of the imprints of humankind.  So the little tug of war between yes/no doesn’t mean much in the bigger picture.  But the voices do give clues.  The voice of big promises shines a spotlight on possible resources to draw upon in problem-solving; what’s working, what might be working if we tinker with it a little.  The voice of prohibitions gives shape to current boundaries and prods us to think about how to refine our solutions before we go wandering off into canyon country and get lost in unmapped terrain.  A journey through this landscape invites us to quiet down and to listen to all of the voices.  And to see if we can find a poem. 

To download an audio version of this post, along with the poem and a thought exercise, click here.

But we would not do well to think about this all of the time, this constant flux of states and forms.  If we did, we’d find nowhere firm to stand in our lives.  It might be useful, though, to remember this when the ground is already shifting and we find ourselves trying to stay upright.

I was reminded of Einstein’s principle as I drove home today from early meditation at the Zen Center.  Particles of what had once been trees and shrubs and grasses beautifying the hills around Los Angeles now hang heavy in the Denver air.  Freed by raging wildfires,  they loosely assemble as a veil across the morning sun, tinting the light a pale tangerine.  There’s no recourse now, for capturing them and reassembling them into what they once had been.  The energy is in flux, moving into the next state and for a while will just be a vague haze distorting the color of the sun.

This is what we all find so discomfiting in the course of change:  that in-between state when we’re neither this nor that.  Resisting change is an energy-conserving mechanism.  We’re programmed for habit, especially for those which are pleasant, familiar, comfortable.  I’ve coached many people who find themselves in this uncomfortable state:  executives whose positions have been restructured along with the organization, requiring them to share decision-making and to collaborate rather than compete for resources;  people in relationships that are problem habits rather than real connections;  professionals who are ready to move on after a thirty-year career but unsure of what they would leap to.  Some free up their latent energy by burning bridges, standing firm in defense of what had been and pushing back against the tide of change.  Others recognize which way the wind blows and put their attention on the doors that open as the present ones close.  They didn’t choose to light the wildfires but they are choosing to direct themselves toward creating their next incarnation.

This is a hallmark of resilient individuals.  The ability to bounce back from adversity- and more constructively- to think ahead and shift in advance of adversity, rests on elasticity of mind as much as quality of character and connection of spirit.  Resilient people are those who can honor the whisperings of the heart and at the same time, cultivate curiosity and information-seeking to add texture and depth to the landscape of the mind.  It is a big idea, sometimes hard to grasp, that whatever the challenges of the moment may be they are impermanent, the particles resulting from a smoldering fireplace or raging conflagration happening some distance from ourselves.  To do so requires a determination to take the long view,  to stop expending energy on changing the direction of the wind and start spending energy on looking for what might lie beyond the moment,  to a time when the forest is leveled and starting to regenerate and the seeds we are planning take root and grow.

Eventually, this smoke over Denver will shift. Some of the airborne ash will continue elsewhere.  Some of it will drift to the ground and bury itself in forests and gardens.  Combined with the other elements, it will become the juice in our tomatoes and the grain of the wood in the table on which it stands.  Think for yourself now.  How are the winds blowing for you?

Click here for an audio version of this blog with additional material: poetry and a thought exercise.

Last week I wrote about a change challenge: specifically, the struggle to take action and change out the dying pansies in the flower boxes.  This weekend, I finally did the deed.  It wasn’t as hard as I thought and it didn’t take as long as I feared.  Nonetheless, I felt sad even as I pulled out the yellowing leaves and gone-to-seed flower stalks.  While I had managed to overcome the inertia induced by comfort, familiarity and connection with the past (see last blog), I now encountered other resistances.  Pulling out the dying plants somehow felt like ingratitude.  After all, these seemingly frail materials had stood up to scorching sun, violent winds and summer hailstorms and had put on a spectacular display for months.  While laughingly chiding myself for my sentimental relationship with cellulose and chlorophyll, I also had an insight about what is often a major (and unrecognized) stumbling block to taking the actions needed to make change.  Every change, however beneficial, necessary or potentially productive it may be, threatens some relationship.   

Sometimes, the relationship threat is obvious.  When I’m coaching a client who wants to confront his business colleague about questionable decisions or who is avoiding giving an unfavorable performance review, the professional relationship is obviously on the table.  Often, though, the threatened relationship is less clear.  Sometimes a person needs to reinvent the relationship with the person he used to be (the thirty-year old guy seeing a fifty plus man in the mirror); or with an internalized parent, teacher or role model.  These internal relationships are just as real and powerful, and just as easily threatened, as external ones.

We are connected creatures. Relationships help us define ourselves.  Because of my parents, I am a daughter; because of me (and my siblings), my parents are parents.  If Jack is the big bad boss, Joe is a little meek underling (or a rebel with a cause or however he casts himself).  Our relationships make space and issue the invitation for our best and worst selves to appear. When a relationship is built on caring and trust, my trusting and caring self is called into action.  In relationships built on mutual respect and shared scholarly interests, my research colleagues and I encourage and nurture each other’s curiosity and inquiring spirits.

Yet even the best relationships share something in common with the plants in my balcony garden.  None is immutable and none remains unchanged over time. Some relationships are like annuals, destined for the duration of a class or a contract. Some are perennial but even these change shape, extend roots and adapt to shifting climates.

Back to the pansies.  These are annuals whose time has come.  Letting them fully run their natural course means watering them even as they wither and die.  A cigarette butt tossed carelessly from a higher balcony can spark a fire (don’t ask- it’s happened here in the parched season).  Worse yet, I will still lose what I fear losing- the comfort and familiarity of their friendly little pansy faces.  I chose to cut short the inevitable and pull them out.  They’re now replaced by fresh plants, material which is ready to last well into autumn and perhaps winter. As I pull up each plant, I offer some words of appreciation. A few blooms have been pressed in the pages of a book.  My grandmother’s memory has been honored for another year, a relationship that transcends past and present, life and death, reinvented with each planting.  

Why is change so difficult?  My mind turns to the larger issues with which this nation is wrestling:  changes in health care, in government processes, in economy and lifestyle.  And I think, too, about my coaching clients and the way they wrestle with changes in organizational structure, their positions and responsibilities, their workplace cultures.  It’s still early in the morning and I haven’t had enough coffee to wrestle with such big questions.  My own pansy problem suggests a microcosm view of the heart of resistance.  I know what needs to be done:  pull out the fading plants, amend the soil, drive to the nursery and pick out more seasonal material, dedicate an hour or so replacing the old with the new, sweep the mess off the balcony, water liberally and hover for a few weeks until the new plants settle in. 

I’m aware of the underlying tug in the opposite direction, too, the tension incited by the pull toward change.  Sure, there’s a little laziness involved (yawn- I’d rather be reading) but that’s not the truth.  The truth is that the pansies are familiar.  I’ve grown accustomed to waking up and seeing the crowd of purples, yellows, oranges and whites outside the window already smiling with their little black marking faces.  When the sun warms them in mid-day, they offer just the slightest fragrance to spice up the Denver air.  They remind me of my grandmother and my childhood home.  They are a link to my past and my own roots.  Comfort, familiarity, connection:  these are strong forces anchoring resistance to change.

Nonetheless, the signs are clear.  There are more dead blooms to be removed than there are fresh ones coming on.  “Volunteers”- petunias from a neighboring balcony, some persistent wildflower seeds planted last year- are emerging and starting to crowd into the spaces left by shrinking pansy roots.  I take the path of least resistance, a Darwinian strategy of allowing the strong to overtake the weak.  The window box plantings will evolve on their own.  As the dead pansy blooms are removed, they make room for whatever chooses to move in.  In the window box world, it’s unlikely that this strategy will have serious consequences. In the end, when autumn chills the life out of them all, I’ll empty the boxes and leave them alone until spring.  In the real world, though, to choose such laissez-faire approach is to choose to be a victim of circumstance and the choices of others. 

Even now, writing this, I’m resisting the call of change: to finish up a long-term writing project that’s been going on so long that it’s as familiar as my bedroom slippers; to figure out which new task needs to be started first and to actually get started; to actually take away the bag of clothes that came out of last week’s closet-cleaning frenzy.   There are harder changes too, but writing about them only delays the inevitable and keeps me in my comfort zone. 

Last month, I was away from home for a week and a friend graciously offered to come in and water the garden.  She did so faithfully, following the written instructions I left.  When I returned home, all of the girls were doing splendidly except—-the clematis.  Over the week I was away, she suddenly withered and died.  My gardening guru called it “clematis wilt” and explained it was like the plant had a heart attack.  She advised me to throw away the pot, dirt and trellis or- at the least- toss the dirt and sterilize the pot and trellis before reuse.  I was sad and for three weeks just left the brittle remains twisted on the trellis in the corner of the balcony.  Each day, I promised myself that I’d toss the dirt and at least scrub out the pot for another use.  This morning, as I was watering the other plants I noticed a new sprout coming out of the old root.  Immediately, hope sprang up in my heart.  Could it be a resurrection?  I tore off the dead material, watered the dry soil and left the balcony with a renewed sense of hope.  Of course, it’s too early to tell what’s actually growing.  It might be a“volunteer” migrating from another balcony planter; it might be something that was dormant in the dirt.  It might be an alien life form.

In some ways, this blog is like that clematis plant.  I started the blog a while ago at the urging of my business coach and was very eager to leap into the new technology and grow a new communication stream.  Like my faithful morning watering in the garden, I wrote and posted regularly.  Then, one day, I found I had “blog wilt”.  Fresh ideas withered on the vine and never quite bloomed into postings.  I suspect most of us can relate to this experience:  planting something new – a new project, a blog, a promise to change some habit- and going at it great guns for a while then finding that the energy is gone.  There’s something daunting about the idea of trying to revive what seems to be dead so, like my blog, like my withered clematis,  we just leave it for a while, promising to “get at it today”….or tomorrow, or this weekend.  

What the little green shoot in the clematis pot tells me is that sometimes it’s OK to do just that: leave things alone for a while.  Just the act of putting out a pot of soil in the sun and keeping it watered was enough to at least get started.  While I was sorry that my initial plant died (so suddenly and so young!), I’m also intrigued by the possibilities of what might be growing now.  When initial plans fail, maybe it’s not always necessary to react and do something.  For now, I’m content to let the new plant unfurl itself.  I can make a better decision after it has revealed itself a little further.  Stay tuned.

Seated at the frosted green glass-topped desk, I start with the piles of paper- sorting, consolidating, and tossing.  Scraps of notes are entered into the reminder list or phone book as appropriate.  Items are filed into the “works in progress” folder on the desk.  Still, I don’t feel satisfied that I’ve done real clearing.  What’s missing, I realize, is the big picture view.  For the past few months, I’ve felt bogged down in details and working at a micro-level on seven different projects at once.  The strategy of developing multiple jobs and contracts at once has been instrumental in building a sustainable business. It has also led to this:  a babble of tasks and projects all wanting attention at the same time.  It’s a little like parenting three toddlers:  one’s crying to be changed, one is tugging at your leg and one’s heading out the door.

One trip to Office Depot later, I’m back in the office and in high gear sorting, choosing, transferring, consolidating and, best of all, tossing.  An hour later, all of the projects and major subtasks are listed on a whiteboard and the upcoming week is in front of me in big picture view.  All the stacks are gone. Material for works in progress are stored neatly in a segmented hanging file or in pockets in the desktop book.

I always regard these “clean and organize” events as promising signs of new beginnings.  There’s a theory of transition that suggests that new beginnings need to start with clear endings.  To make psychic and physical space for something new in life, it’s necessary to review and confront the old.  While I’m purposefully flinging and filing, I am reminded of an old Zen story.  A very learned professor goes to visit a Zen master.  The master asks the professor why he has come.  The professor says he has come to learn. He then proceeds to expound on all that he knows about enlightenment, mind and life. The Zen master invites the professor to have tea.  While the professor holds his cup, continuing to display his brilliance, the Zen teacher starts to pour the tea.  He pours and pours.  The tea runs over the brim and starts to drip into the professor’s lap.  “Hey!”, the professor shouts. “What are you doing?”  The Zen master stops.  “This cup is like your mind.  If you are truly seeking, you must first empty it out!”

The process of organizing is a process of choosing.  What’s worth keeping?  What’s needed?  What’s it needed for?  Is that still what I want?  The urge to organize is the voice of ignored opportunities , shouting:  “Empty your cup!”  It’s a signal I’ve gotten too bogged down in continuing on the same familiar path that I’ve stopped noticing the new roads being built.  “Empty your cup! Empty your cup!”

My Grandma Lupinacci was fond of roses and pansies.  The garden behind our brick row house in Brooklyn greened up in spring with lush grass and big-faced pansies along the border.  Grandma thought the pansy faces were friendly and she may have even talked to them.  In tribute to my grandmother, for the past several years I’ve made it a point to plant pansies for her birthday on April 17.  When I lived in South Dakota, this meant working in the cold wet soil, digging with spade, pitchfork- whatever it took to break up the icy clumps- and braving the sniggering of friends and neighbors who knew the weather better than I ever did.  Nonetheless, there were always at least a few clumps of hardy little faces flanking the front steps by April 17.  And despite subsequent snows and weeks of cold rain, they persisted well into the early weeks of summer.

The garden in our Denver apartment is nine stories off the ground and hangs precariously in window boxes off the edges of the balcony railing.  Nonetheless, two weeks ago I purchased a flat of pansies and determined that Grandma would have her flowers.  As soon as I brought the flat home, of course, the weather shifted from sunny and mild to a siege of classic Rocky Mountain spring: cold rain, snow, more rain and then last weekend’s blizzard.  In between storms, I dug out the dried, twisted roots from last year’s perennials, amended the soil and got those pansies in one box at a time.  For the first week, I wasn’t sure they would make it.  The strong winds bit the edges of the leaves and sucked the moisture out of the petals.  Overnight rain left icy crusts on the top of the soil.  Most of the flowers shriveled, curling into little purple and yellow balls shaking on top of slender stems.  Then last weekend’s weather laid a six inch cap of snow over them.  I despaired.

The snow started to disappear on Sunday and by Monday I was able to check the state of the pansies.  One box on a south facing balcony seemed completely revived by the harsh treatment.  The leaves were fresh and green and there were over a dozen new little faces smiling up.  The other two boxes on the south facing balcony are struggling, but this morning a half-dozen blooms are waving from re-emerging greens in each.

This is why I am stubborn about my pansy ritual.  Pansies are ordinary flowers, maybe even a little old-fashioned. Grandma Lupinacci had the resilience of those little plants.  When her mother died, Grandma left school to take care of her younger sisters and brother.  She worked in a clothing factory as a seamstress.  Her years were spent taking care of others:  my grandfather, my mother and eventually her grandchildren.  Life snowed on her quite a bit.  Yet she continued to show up for all of us and smile.  So I plant pansies in time for April 17, expecting that they will somehow endure. Planting anything, whether it’s flowers, ideas, appreciation or affection, takes an act of faith.  It’s Earth Day.  Plant something hopeful.

The Gathering Place  is a daytime, drop-in center in Denver, offering women and children who are homeless or in poverty a wide variety of resources with which to rebuild their lives.  The computer lab is my little window on the lives and experiences of the guests.  The clicking keyboards and whoosh of ventilators suggest a computer lab at any community college.  But there are obvious signs that’s not the case.  Although the center offers storage space while the women are in-house, many carry along their lives in plastic bags and shopping carts stuffed with assorted clothes, papers, bits of this and that, material and emotional necessities.

Many women use their thirty minutes of on-line time to search for work and fill out applications. A woman who has lost custody of her children follows their lives on Facebook and MySpace and joyfully prints out a picture her daughter has posted of herself.  An elderly Chinese woman who comes in regularly sits smiling through her half-hour of finding and looking at photographs of flowers, sunsets and fireworks.   Sometimes, the session runs out before an on-line job application is complete.  The woman might ask for a little more time or, looking at the waiting list, decide to give up her station and return later to complete her task.  They are generous with each other in ways that we comfortably domiciled often are not. 

Watching the women, I realize that we’re all doing the same stuff:  searching for work, subsistence, connection, distraction.  Some of us are carrying home in plastic bags; some enter a building by a front door and call it home.  A fortunate few carry home within them, a place to which they return again and again, no matter where the body is or what it is doing. Home is a place in the heart, built from the bricks and mortar of relationships, commitments and values.  As they leave the lab, many of the women say “thank you.”  I return the thanks.  Thanks, ladies, for helping to furnish my home.

I had dropped by Pappas Grocery on 12^th Avenue in Denver to pick up a few items for dinner and the next day’s breakfast.  Since I had an early flight and a late return four days later, I wanted to stock up on some basics.  Entering, I greeted the manager standing behind the tiny counter by the door. 

I come here often enough to know my way around, so basket in hand I walked the neatly stacked shelves, picking up some jelly and a few items of produce.  While I was able to resist the beckoning jars of local jellies and pickles, I gave in and picked up the sautéed peppers and onions that are just like my grandmother made.  At the combination deli/meat counter, I found fresh organic chicken parts and these went into the basket, too, along with an impulsive choice of feta and spinach chicken sausage.  The last aisle opens onto a wall of freezer and dairy cases.  I found the yogurt easily but didn’t see eggs, the one essential for my early breakfast.

At the counter near the front door, I unloaded my shopping basket and asked where I might find the eggs. “Eggs?” the manager asked.  “I’ll find them.”  I followed, thinking it would be good to know where to look next time.  I met him as he returned from the dairy section, shaking his head regretfully.  “All out”, he said.  “No problem”, I answered.  Unexpectedly, he asked, “How many do you need to get through tonight?”  “Two.”  “Wait- I’ll see what’s in the back.”

In the back is an unseen place behind the deli counter.  I imagined a tiny kitchen with two burners and a small refrigerator from which special lunch offerings might emerge.  The woman at the checkout started to ring up and bag my selections.  The manager came back with two chilled brown eggs carefully encased in a plastic Ziploc bag.  He placed them in my cupped palm, saying “this should get you through.”  We all laughed and I thanked them both profusely.

It’s fine to have big ambitions and be a businessman (or woman) who’s always on the job, making money.  But in that small exchange, my neighbor gave me confirmation of our shared humanity, caring and simple food.  The cost of the groceries was about nineteen dollars; the value of a neighborly gesture:  priceless.

A coaching colleague mentioned last week that she’s putting her attention on marketing for when the upturn happens.  A client facing a layoff has put together multiple financial scenarios and is starting to lay the groundwork for a new career.  A friend who lost her job is taking a class to acquire new technology skills and increase her marketability.  Choosing a different route right now means moving from the present tense to the future tense in our thinking.

In the face of layoffs, flat income, reduced resources, there’s an interesting question that shifts attention from “not” to “possible”.  The question is – what does this loss free me up to do?   Like the kid who stands on the edge of the pool and refuses to learn to swim until pushed in, people tend to resist making changes until something is nudging them to do so.  After some initial sputtering and shouting, though, most find that the water is unexpectedly fine.

The current situation is causing people to be more conservative with their resources and also to be more transparent about their financial limits.  I have the sense that we’re being a little more honest (with ourselves and others) about what we can and cannot afford to do.  There’s a double benefit here.  Besides the impetus to re-evaluate needs and priorities, my friends and I are being more authentic and transparent with each other about feeling the pinch.  In the marketplace, the downturn has generated more small enterprises, start-ups and shoe-string innovations.  In many cases, losing a job has freed people up to follow a vision or an inner stirring or a long-deferred dream.  In person networking and interactive on-line social technologies are replacing shiny, impersonal and expensive marketing campaigns.  As a result of being thrown in the water, we are finding the freedom to be more authentic about whom we are and to reach out and connect with others with whom we share some common bonds.

The state of the external world, I think, is reflecting our interiors:  the fears and foibles but also the inherent desires of (almost) all humans to connect and help each other through it.  The vicissitudes of any human journey are unpredictable.  But as long as I’m in the driver’s seat of this mature, optimism-fueled vehicle, I think I’ll stop driving by the car wrecks.  Instead, the map offers a wide array of blue highways.  Care to hop in?