I started blogging over a 15 years ago to engage with my friends. The “readers” were people that were in my circle and would laugh at my jokes or comment on a thought, but it was truly and genuinely about engagement. Through several iterations, I started to look for reach, not engagement. I published at specific times, sent an email on the best day, and shared on social to “get the most eyeballs.” People became numbers, engagement became measured in clicks, and writing became formulaic. As a result, I slowly quit writing.

I’m exhausted by social media. Personal branding has killed the social aspect of social media. Sad, miserable people are branding themselves as happy, accomplished personal brands. “Friends” are afraid to engage for fear of offending someone. Kids are deleting pictures because of a lack of likes. Only extremists talk about politics and bland bullshit masquerades as engagement. I miss genuine discussion that’s maybe best found in a simple, old-fashioned, one-to-one email.

So, what was the email about? It was a hello from an old friend and an encouragement that the battle stripes of being a CEO will pay off–“becoming tougher than a whit leather dude.” I had always thought of this process as seasoning, but the tanning of the hide is spot on.

Listen to a recording he attached. A poem he wrote in the 90’s.

Written, recorded, and copyrighted by Michael Haun.

Take a minute. Reach out and touch someone. They may really need it.

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As a kid, whenever I went to the doctor with my dad, the staff literally cackled at his jokes and came out from behind the counter to hug him. They came to life when he was around, and when he wasn’t the staff would ask about him with some little comment, “I just love your dad.”

As a kid, I wondered, “Is he famous?” He had this impact on people everywhere we went. He didn’t participate in politics, and he wasn’t a major community leader in the non-profit world. He taught Sunday School. He was an FBI agent, and I guess I thought as a child that meant that everyone knew it–like he was an official or a politician.

Once we were in an elevator when a fella hollered, “hold the door.” Several of us were standing there in light-hearted conversation, but we held the door as the man maneuvered himself toward us. His gate accented by the familiar metallic thud of his crutches hitting the ground. The one-legged man joined us. His pant leg, now empty, was neatly pinned up, and his novice control of the crutches indicated that this was whole experience was new to him. The man quickly and coldly turned to face the front of the elevator.

As the doors closed, silence fogged the cramped space. “So, what happened to the leg?” my dad queried. The unasked question that everyone was thinking broke the silence like a thunderclap. Without moving his head, the man said, “amputated…diabetes.” My father said, “my brother lost his leg. I’m really sorry.” The man softened and turned to face my dad and they struck up a conversation. Again we held the doors open, this time so they could finish up a conversation. Before the man made his way off the elevator, he beamed a smile and wished us a good day.

After the doors closed, my dad with a tone of mischievous triumph whispered, “my goal was to make him smile.” He cared. Whether it was a clerk at a grocery store or a captured fugitive (yes, there’s a story), he sought to lighten the lives of those he encountered. He lived by the principle that you can say just about anything if you genuinely care about the answer.

I cannot control the hurricanes, the earthquakes, or the threat of nuclear war, but I can control how much I care about those whom I engage. We need a little of that Lewster light today.

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The Hawthorn cannot be the Redbud or the Magnolia, it is inherently, genetically, and uniquely the Hawthorn. In the naked wood, the Hawthorn adorns its splendor, which is a beautiful reminder of one of my favorite quotes, “Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.”—Oscar Wilde.

It’s easier to not be first. It’s easier not to be different. It’s easier not to zig when everyone else zags, but honestly, we must.

That still, small voice that drives us to act and be ourselves is groaning of humanity calling us to be unique, to be who we were created to be, yet seemingly louder fear whispers “no” in so many ways:

• The tremble in our voice when we stand up for justice.
• That lump in our throat when we reach out to the weak and poor.
• The stream of reasons not to when our gut says “you must.”

I spent the first decades of my life trying to be like others. I’ve told myself that if I act too early, then I’ll be alone, exposed, and vulnerable. I not only hushed the still, small voice, I rationalized my actions, but at some point in my twenties, I refused to have another George Costanza Comeback moment and to speak my mind in the moment. Time and practice gave me the boldness to hear that voice and act swiftly.

When you put yourself out there, people follow. Being you actually helps others to be themselves and follow their still, small, nagging voice. The courage of being yourself will certainly invite scorn, but it also sets into motion change that ripples through the universe attracting other followers.

Be the Hawthorn and lead the symphony of spring.

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This morning, my mind’s ear listened to the, all too familiar, voice of my dear friend Booth Andrews gently saying, “and this too shall pass.” A thousand times she has told me, “and this too shall pass.” For nearly as long as I’ve published anything, Booth and I have been friends, so there have been plenty of “life events” (a pretty, little moniker we use for the really painful moments of being alive) when she has reminded me, “and this too shall pass.” And it has.

We know the one certainty in life is change. Terrifying to some and liberating to others, change happens:

• In the depths of winter, spring comes.
• In the darkest hour, the sun rises.
• Grief eventually subsides.
• Heartache eventually softens.
• Summer eventually cools.
• Today becomes tomorrow.

Change is the rhythm of life, and it beats on endlessly.

For nearly two decades I’ve experienced every season with my brave and beautiful wife. We’ve had seasons of passion and moments of despair; we’ve laughed, cried, had adventures, and sat comfortably quiet. Through it all, we’ve known, and this too shall pass.

As my father laid dying, I did not want that season to end, but I was powerless to stop the moment from passing. A lifelong relationship moved from life to death. Eventually, the grief passed, and his legacy lives a new life in the stories we share about him. In fact, I remember a conversation we had when I was at a low point in my college career, we sat under his carport and as the rain gently peppered his lush green lawn, he offered the same gentle reminder, “and this too shall pass.”

I will write again. I am confident that the words will come and the passion restored because I know one thing to be true: this too shall pass.

So, wherever you stand today, whether on the peak of the mountain, in the lows in the valley, or wandering around in the desert, remember this too shall pass. Clench as we might, push as we want, change happens.

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An alternate approach is to ship. Use the best-known information, put it out in the world, observe, and adapt to the response.

The problem is that we don’t like to adapt. By adapting, we allow the details of our creation to be interpreted and altered. In other words, we are out of control when we adapt. It’s scary to say in a meeting, “I don’t know,” but sometimes that is the very best answer: “they know, I don’t.”

Here’s a great example. Look at this men’s room door. For whatever reason, the gentlemen that use this particular door, like to push it about a foot higher than the push plate. The plate’s only purpose is to prevent the defacing of the door, but these men didn’t want to push the door there.

We usually try to fix problems like this:

1. Putting up signs telling people to do it the way we designed it.
2. Fix the unintended consequence (by painting the door) but bitch about how stupid people are.
3. Remove the plate altogether.

Or, we can simply adapt and move the plate to adapt to the behavior of its users. Flex. There are plenty of times to hold the uncompromising line, but when possible, flex. The audience knows, we guess.

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