Steve Boehlke – Leadership Development https://steveboehlke.com/ Wed, 03 Feb 2021 17:15:46 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.4.3 Humpty Dumpty and the Healing of Our Nation https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2021/01/humpty-dumpty-and-the-healing-of-our-nation/ Sat, 16 Jan 2021 17:57:43 +0000 https://steveboehlke.com/?p=1628 An alternative to the exercise of power and the privilege of position may be required...

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Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

He had climbed to great heights. Given his constitution as an egg (as depicted graphically though nowhere referenced as such in the rhyming words), we might assume it took no small amount of time and a lot of sweat to achieve his elevated position. Having arrived on top, he was just sitting there. Keeping his balance with such a thin, brittle shell was no small feat. Then he fell!

Humpty-Dumpty.jpg

Why did he fall? Maybe he was not in shape, or was not, in any case, of a suitable shape. Or perhaps it was simply an “accident” — a convergence of unseemly and volatile forces that pushed him over the edge? It was a “great fall”. Whatever the circumstances, we can assume he was doing something that one of his kind would not normally due, unless they were especially driven, or daring, or had a death wish. He was, after all, just an egg, perched precariously on a wall, maybe even a wall he himself had built.

Lying there, broken on the ground, his shell no longer protects his vulnerable self. And note: the most public and prominent powers in the land could not put him together again. In the face of their failure, the impotence of the King’s men may prompt feelings of their own inadequacy and helplessness, maybe even shame. Or some may be laughing at the foolishness of Humpty for climbing up there in the first place. Whatever the case, Humpty’s brokenness now confronts others with what remains on the ground. Is it over? Is he dead? Can anything be done other than to clean up the mess and wash away the sticky, smelly debris? But what seems to be the end of the story may not be the end of Humpty after all.

An alternative to the exercise of power and the privilege of position may be required to heal the brokenness.

Maybe, just maybe, the show of force and strength, the machismo of all the King’s horses and all the King’s men, is not what was required to put Humpty together again. Perhaps more than man-power what is needed is holding and healing, a kind of feminine energy and presence (which men as well as women can access, if they choose). An alternative to the exercise of power and the privilege of position may be required to heal the brokenness. Leadership which embodies a tenderness of heart and a compassionate presence may be hard to imagine in the shadow of the wall. But we can choose to look for it and seek to personify it in ourselves and others.

Acknowledging and sharing our human-all-too-human brokenness is essential to the healing task. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. But he is not alone. The broken egg and wounded egos need to share their grief, own their vulnerability, and find the courage to re-imagine how to heal the wounds. There is a difference between being broken and breaking open. Let the healing begin from the inside out, however embryonic it may be.

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Remembering https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2020/08/remembering/ Tue, 25 Aug 2020 20:35:53 +0000 https://steveboehlke.com/?p=1582 The waves pounded the shore relentlessly as we found our way between piles of drift wood, slick protruding boulders, and small ponds of brackish salt water.  The tide was coming in quickly.  Hand in hand we trekked across the perimeter of Acadia National Park, inhaling deeply the salty breezes that have calmed and renewed us […]

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The waves pounded the shore relentlessly as we found our way between piles of drift wood, slick protruding boulders, and small ponds of brackish salt water.  The tide was coming in quickly.  Hand in hand we trekked across the perimeter of Acadia National Park, inhaling deeply the salty breezes that have calmed and renewed us on many an ocean shore across the years.  But this time it was different.  Something happened.

She remembers it as if it was yesterday, though it was twenty years ago.  I don’t remember it at all, other than that we were at the shore together that day. She has carried it all these years as a painful reminder of how one person can hurt another.  I acknowledge my capacity to betray and wound another, but cannot even imagine having said what she remembers.  She said I said…   I can’t imagine saying it, even if I felt it.  She said I said…  I can’t imagine writing it now.  

Memories have such incredible power to shape and create the stories we carry with us, stories that we may never tell because they don’t seem possible or true.  I want to remember, or do I?  My earliest memory is the acrid smell of the chicken coop adjacent to our backyard when I was three or four years old in Bourbon, Indiana.  There was a horseracing track back there too.  That’s it.  That’s all I remember.  But there must be more.  My fondest early memory, a memory I hold tenderly, is…   I don’t know what it is.  I panic. 

I remember being carried out to the back seat of the warm car on more than one occasion in the early morning darkness, snuggling into the blankets along with my younger brother, Tom.  We were about to set out on another family road trip. I have good memories of those vacations together.  I remember finding my dog, Spotty, dead in the street one day while walking to my piano lesson.  I must have been 6 or 7 years old.  I remember playing “eenie annie over”.  I must have been old enough to throw a ball over the garage, though I never had a really good arm.  I doubt whether I am remembering this correctly, so I “google” it.  Indeed there is such a kid’s game documented with multiple links and references.  I wish I could google all my memories to verify them.  Or have a personal Wikipedia where I could just look them up.

I share many memories of time spent with those I love, most especially Mary.  At another time, on another shore – this one in Costa Rica – we hiked down a very steep and slippery precipice to a remote, sandy cove, warmed by the intense sun.  Effortlessly, we stripped and merged.  I remember how warm and close and intimate we felt.

But what about that which I don’t remember?  Or how can my memory be so different from that of others?  My story is my story.  That’s all I’ve got.  I need to remember that.                     

SFB 4/2/15 

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Planting https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2020/08/planting/ Tue, 25 Aug 2020 20:21:09 +0000 https://steveboehlke.com/?p=1579 Dad grew up on a farm. He sold hybrid seed corn as a boy. And he always had a garden, for as long as I can remember. Whether trenching the roses to protect them from the harsh Minnesota winters, dividing the irises to give them room to flourish or tying back the peonies with their […]

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Dad grew up on a farm. He sold hybrid seed corn as a boy. And he always had a garden, for as long as I can remember. Whether trenching the roses to protect them from the harsh Minnesota winters, dividing the irises to give them room to flourish or tying back the peonies with their weighty blossoms tipping to the earth below, his attention to multiple, varied tasks assured recurring seasonal beauty.

The wedge hoe that Dad’s Dad used to cultivate sugar beets has a special place among the tools I use to this day to loosen the clay soil in my gardens. The roses are there along with peonies and irises and several hundred tulips which miraculously escape noshing by the rabbits and deer that still promenade prominently through our yard each Spring. Season after season, my finger nails gritty dirty, I dig in the soil, pull the weeds, and discover anew the wonder of it all – a nest of turtle eggs buried just beneath the mulch, forgotten hosta pushing through their green sprouts in neglected shade, new spikes of purple liatris wedged between the landscape boulders, raspberry canes spreading more wildly than ever throughout the beds.

The seeds I plant sometimes sprout, sometimes flourish and bear fruit, sometimes never break open – and eventually always die. To produce more seeds. Maybe this is why I so look forward to multiple trips to the Farmers’ Market each Spring to buy sturdy seedlings; I can eliminate some of the chance that accompanies my recurring efforts to keep things lush and verdant. Despite the apparent randomness, there is a reproductive wonder that grasps me year after year, the outcome of which remains a mystery.

Beyond my gardens which bring substance and beauty to the place on earth I call home, I know I have planted seeds all my life. Sometimes I want much quicker and more visible confirmation that they have taken root than what the environment offers up. Often my most thoughtful, intentional placing of an idea, or a more strenuous active initiative, seems to land in the ditch, with little or no chance of making a damn bit of difference. Not that I am solely preoccupied with establishing my place in the world. But I want my presence in the world to bear fruit of some sort. I want to make a difference to others, most particularly to others whose path has crossed mine, whether for only a fleeting moment or a lifetime of companionship.

Dad died. My brother, Peter, went to his bedside that night upon learning of his death. While saying “good-bye” for all of us he discovered in a book beside Dad’s bed a copy of a poem I had written many years ago. He snapped a photo of the poem and texted it to me in those hours immediately after Dad slipped out of this world into another. I don’t remember sending it to him; I don’t remember ever discussing the poem with him. But the re-discovery of that poem allowed me to feel closer to him and perhaps him to me even as we parted in death. Little did I know the seed I had planted years before.

SFB 3/15/15

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Lying https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2020/08/lying/ Tue, 25 Aug 2020 20:13:45 +0000 https://steveboehlke.com/?p=1577 “Is there anyone in your life to whom you have not lied?” What?  I was clearly startled by the unexpected question.  A good friend, quite some years younger than I, queried me as we were finishing our breakfast together. My gut response in the moment was to respond “No”.  And that’s what I hesitantly said, […]

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“Is there anyone in your life to whom you have not lied?”

What?  I was clearly startled by the unexpected question.  A good friend, quite some years younger than I, queried me as we were finishing our breakfast together. My gut response in the moment was to respond “No”.  And that’s what I hesitantly said, after a few awkward moments of introspection.  I strongly suspect that I have probably, at one point or another, told something other than or less than the truth to most everyone with whom I am in relationship.  Am I that much of a liar? In retrospect I realize that I failed to say to him, “I don’t believe I have ever lied to you.”  Maybe I haven’t known him long enough? Honestly, I was disturbed by his question, and my inability to answer with a confident, intelligent response.   I wonder why?

I told my first lie in kindergarten, at least the first that I can remember.  And I got caught!  I told Mrs. Markham, my kindergarten teacher, that I had a new baby sister at home. I have no recollection whatsoever why I chose to fabricate such an untruth.  I realized I was in trouble when Mom asked me one day upon getting home from school why she had received a congratulations card from Mrs. Markham upon the birth of a daughter.  I dreaded going back to school the next day! I had to tell Mrs. Markham that I did not have a new baby sister, nor was there a baby expected anytime soon.  At least not in our family.  I had lied.

Now what? I am tempted all these many years later to try to purge myself of any and every falsehood, as if to substantiate the merits of believing that one must always and forever tell the truth. This is difficult!  I don’t want to confront the reality of my own justifying and reconciling of “truth”.   It seems virtually impossible for me to access and recount the lies I’ve told in a lifetime.  My defenses are sure I guess.  I’m somehow resistant to such an examination of conscience, feeling as though such self-indicting reflection was far too prominent earlier in my life. 

Are you feeling depressed?  No!  Yes!

Did you eat that last cookie in the cookie jar?  No! (I don’t think so…) Yes! 

Will you meet me for dinner tonight?  No (I have another obligation).  Yes, I could.

Do you have anything to declare in those bags?   No!  Yes! (as I smuggled electronics through the Berlin wall many years ago…)

Have you ever betrayed those you love ?  No!  Yes!

Will you always tell me the truth?  Yes! No!

“Audacious lying” is how the news anchor on NPR today described the latest defense of a prominent advisor to our President.  “Fake news” has become part of our public vernacular.  The ability to discern what is really happening in our world at any given moment is more compromised than ever, despite (or maybe because of ) proliferating social media.  A posting to Facebook, as immediate and compelling as it may be, is not the “truth” any more than my most artful attempts to disguise what I am really feeling or wanting or doing.  The climate for telling the truth is changing.  Maybe it is necessarily a moving target?

Or maybe we just need more fact-checkers?

Truth for me is dynamic, relational, alive.  That does not mean it is O.K. to deceive or dupe another.

A trusted counselor once said to me:

“It is somewhat presumptuous for you to think you need to share this with anyone else just now, as you don’t really understand yourself what is happening.”

Just a convenient rationalization?  Or a timely reminder that human as I am, I will always wonder whether I am true. I strive to be true to myself.  Not an easy task, given the many selves I know.

SFB 1/29/19

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The Myth of the Immutable Center https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2020/07/the-myth-of-the-immutable-center/ Wed, 22 Jul 2020 17:57:16 +0000 http://steveboehlke.com/?p=1540 Two stones cannot occupy the same space but two fragrances can. Kabir Helminski,   Living Presence Seldom am I asked directly, “Where’s my center?”  or “What grounds me?”  But in thousands of little ways, – the briefest of sighs, the anxious turn of phrase, the bewildered look, the pause which reaches for remembrance of purpose, – […]

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Two stones cannot occupy the same space but two fragrances can.

Kabir Helminski,   Living Presence

Seldom am I asked directly, “Where’s my center?”  or “What grounds me?”  But in thousands of little ways, – the briefest of sighs, the anxious turn of phrase, the bewildered look, the pause which reaches for remembrance of purpose, – I encounter again and again an unspoken query. 

What am I all about, really?   Who am I, when all is said and done?  What’s at the center of this person that is me? 

Words often fail to capture the depth of concern or the scope of the question.  Yet the instinct to dig deeper persists.  To know and experience what may be enduring or reliable within one self haunts even the most cavalier and carefree person.  Philosophers wax eloquently about the search for meaning; priests and prophets offer credos and religious guidance;  the arts and literature are rife with evidence of longing and searching.  And still I am left with my self and my quest for what holds me and my world together.

Too often I default to thinking there must be something incontestably and undisputedly true, as if there is something immutable and utterly defining about who I am.  A Platonic form somewhere out there… I could begin to make a list:  I am a man, a son, a husband, a father, I am an American citizen – I could continue to accumulate the facts of my existence.  Even so, I acknowledge I could quite readily alter some of these “facts”.  And then my mind kicks in, and I want to know more of who I am, truly.

This is more than a question of identity; for me it is a matter of describing my own experience of finding myself, if you will, in process.  I am less being and more becoming. That is what it means to me to live fully alive.  There are indeed certain constants but even the constants change.  Language, for example, is a constant.  I have relied on language since I could first speak, though I have no memory of what my first words may have been.  “Love” has been a part of my vocabulary since I was a young child but my experience, my understanding, my knowing of love has evolved and changed.  And wondrously, mysteriously, a sense of unconditional love has come to flourish in my life and centers me even as it moves me.

Rocks and rivers, tossed pebbles and rippling ponds, stones and fragrances  – the paradox of the  the stable yet dynamic nature of this world perplexes me.  “Give me a place to stand and I can change the world.” (Archimedes)  We search for the rock. “No man [sic] ever steps into the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and it’s not the same man.”  (Heraclitus)  And we must navigate the river.  The persistent and powerful course of events which define our lives are beyond the control of any one of us.  We prosper or perish, depending on our readiness to know ourselves as always emerging, constantly engaging, forever changing, yet one with ourselves and a wonderous Universe.

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cENTER https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2020/07/center/ Wed, 22 Jul 2020 17:55:19 +0000 http://steveboehlke.com/?p=1539 “Where do I click to find my center?” a bright, quick, very skilled gamer unexpectedly asked me recently.   I am not a “gamer” but a good friend recently introduced me to “Call of Duty” – a game of modern warfare.  He explained that before engaging others to attack, destroy and “win” in this virtual “community,”  […]

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“Where do I click to find my center?” a bright, quick, very skilled gamer unexpectedly asked me recently.   I am not a “gamer” but a good friend recently introduced me to “Call of Duty” – a game of modern warfare.  He explained that before engaging others to attack, destroy and “win” in this virtual “community,”  players typically want to develop a steady hand on the joystick and the reflexes to respond adroitly to whatever may assault them . Playing alone for hours the gamer strives to master how to navigate the dangerous terrain with agility and even finesse. Before entering battle, one wants to be grounded and secure in his or her capacity to respond to whatever one may encounter.

As we interact more and more on digital platforms, whether gaming or collaborating with business colleagues around the world or hosting a zoom happy hour with family and friends, the stamina and discipline required to navigate these interactions becomes depleted.  With more attention than ever to our virtual connections, we’re as “busy” as ever. Or so it seems. Even as the world pauses in the midst of a pandemic, our usual rhythms and routines are challenged.  One day blends into the next with an unconscious but potent angst. What grounds us when everything around us is so uncertain?

Entering into a conversation with myself about who I am and what holds me steady and ready, when threatened by uncertainty, is a game I am not always well-prepared to play. Persistent existential questions loom, not far beneath the surface.  How sweet if there were simply a drop down menu to click and choose among several options, each customized to capture the essence of the identity with which I am playing on that given day.  I confess sometimes I seem more defined by others’ attributions or assumptions about me than what I choose to contest.

“If you are willing to be more fully present to yourself, you will find yourself drawn closer to others, whatever the game may be”

Being in tune with one’s self  is critical in turbulent times.   The ability to embody a non-anxious presence when others are perturbed and restless lies not in some external skill development but rather with an internal composure and assurance.  Renewing one’s inner resources is essential to survive, never mind if one hopes to thrive.  The journey inward, however one chooses to describe it or navigate it, strikes some as a distinctively self-absorbed exercise. However, I would argue that here is a paradox: if you are willing to be more fully present to yourself, you will find yourself drawn closer to others, whatever the game may be. But no one else can map that venture for you. When individuals confirm their intent to become more centered, to live and move from a deep place within — regardless of their place of origin, their beliefs or distinctive convictions – they enter into a proximity to one another that reflects and reinforces something much bigger than themselves.  Some may simply call it “community”.  Others may uncover a shared sense of purpose or a reinforcing “super-power”.  Entering into a quest for center mysteriously but amazingly uncovers a dynamic, enlivening process of experiencing ourselves  as part of something more, something much bigger, something Infinite.

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Building https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2020/06/building/ https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2020/06/building/#respond Mon, 15 Jun 2020 05:48:05 +0000 http://local.steveboehlke.com/?p=1476 “The foolish men built a house upon the sand.  The foolish men built a house upon the sand. The foolish men built a house upon the sand.  And the walls came tumbling down.  The wise men built a house upon the rock, the wise men built a house upon the rock….” The melody of this […]

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“The foolish men built a house upon the sand.  The foolish men built a house upon the sand. The foolish men built a house upon the sand.  And the walls came tumbling down.  The wise men built a house upon the rock, the wise men built a house upon the rock….” The melody of this childhood song replays in my head, the lyrics taunting me even as I recall the hand motions that accompanied it.  

Dad built a house.  He constructed the first house that he and mom lived in after they were married in Willmar, Kentucky, where I was born.  Dad also built and stained the twin wall cabinets that hung above the beds that mr brother and I shared in South Minneapolis.  My cabinet hangs in my garage to this day. He also built the fence that runs along the property line behind our home in Plymouth.  Dad built quite a bit actually. He learned construction somewhere.  And what he built seemed sturdy and strong.

As a child I built an “invisible man,” painting all the respective organs and assembling the plastic model with the conviction that one day I would be a doctor.  I also built model cars and airplanes.  My favorite building project, however, was a zoo.  I can still picture the dark musty alcove in the basement of the St. Cloud Public Library where I repeatedly retrieved the green hardbound copy of “How to Make a Miniature Zoo.”   The “zoo” was located in the pen defined by two white-picket fences between the house and the garage.  I didn’t so much “build” the zoo as stock it with turtles, snakes, frogs, and the occasional random rodent that my best friend, Dick, and I managed to catch.  These projects never really lasted.

“Built to Last” – which happens to be the title of a best-selling book on enduring business success – is venerated as a virtuous ambition by many. The prevailing notion seems to be that building on something “solid as a rock” will do the trick.  But what if I choose river rather than rock?  What if being in a creative flow state is more important to me than building a lasting legacy? What if I am more interested in being alive today than what will endure for tomorrow?

Building castles on the shore with my grandchildren is one of the great pleasures of my life these days, along with digging holes in the sand so deep that my young grandson virtually disappears.  Whether building or digging, I know that the tide will eventually change and the amazing forms we’ve constructed will wash away.  There is no illusion that they will be there tomorrow. But the joy of the moment suffices.  We laugh and we play and we dig away. 

I outgrew singing about wise men and foolish men.  Today I am more interested in being fully present than concerned about what will last for tomorrow. Is that foolish or is there a wisdom in that as well?

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Dancing https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2020/06/dancing/ https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2020/06/dancing/#respond Mon, 15 Jun 2020 05:37:29 +0000 http://local.steveboehlke.com/?p=1472 I discovered the small black and white snapshot of me as a young child in a shoebox of old photos. My parents thought I might want to sort through them. Bowler hat on my head, smile on my face, I was probably about 4 years old, ready to move my feet and dance for joy. […]

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I discovered the small black and white snapshot of me as a young child in a shoebox of old photos. My parents thought I might want to sort through them. Bowler hat on my head, smile on my face, I was probably about 4 years old, ready to move my feet and dance for joy. At least that’s the story as I remember it. A few minutes later, I found another pic at the bottom of the box. Several years older, I am now on my knees praying over my sandwich on the back stoop of our home. Whether the shot was posed or snapped while I wasn’t looking, I don’t remember. Regardless, the two photos capture the shift in my childhood from innocent freedom to self-conscious devotion.

I’ve always wanted to dance. All the more ironic that I attended a private parochial high school which, in the era of my adolescence , did not permit dancing as part of the social scene. Yes, the “Footloose” scenario was for real. Rather than senior prom we had the junior/senior banquet. I remember, however, that Jolly Palm had a party one weekend at her house with dancing. Her home was out on Lake Minnetonka where the rich, more progressive families lived. I went to the party, anxiously.

I have danced, but I don’t claim it as part of who I am. I can hear the melody of “Summerplace” on the Johnny Mann Singers’ LP as Mary and I held each other close and danced in the staff cabin at Koronis the summer before we were married. The Christmas Dinner Dance was one of the annual highlights of my years working with youth at the Barn in Ridgewood.

I’ve danced very much alone in the dark of the night to the sound of Billy Joel’s “River of Dreams”. Just a few years ago my granddaughter, Eva, drew all of us into leaping and laughing to the “Nutcracker Suite” one Christmas eve after dinner. Recently, in the glow of a bright South African full moon, a group of young African men – students at the African Leadership Academy- unexpectedly pulled me into their circle, girating and jousting with one another to the pulsating beat of powerful African rhythms.

Of course, I have danced at weddings across the years. Some have noticed, I have learned, that I can dance. But I still don’t own it, don’t practice it, don’t claim it.

Recently Mary and I started taking ballroom dance lessons. We’ve gone to an occasional “Arthur Murray” dance class in the past. But we had never before intentionally decided that we would really learn to dance together. We’ve each noticed, in our own way, at the conclusion of a dance lesson, that we are revived even though tired. We’re strangely energized even if frustrated with our fumbled steps. We’ve re-connected to ourselves and, even after one too many turns, with one another.

I frequently encourage clients with whom I work to own and exercise the disconnected or “fringe” elements of their personalities, if they want to become more fully and completely the leaders they are. What does it take to be more fully who I am?

Maybe I need to dance more?

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Running https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2020/06/running/ https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2020/06/running/#respond Mon, 08 Jun 2020 16:58:20 +0000 http://local.steveboehlke.com/?p=1453 The most exhilarating feeling came not as I crossed the finish line of the NYC Marathon. Rather it was as I was turning off Fifth Avenue into Central Park. I looked to the right over my shoulder and there was Jay. We had run together most of the almost 24 miles to that point, pausing […]

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The most exhilarating feeling came not as I crossed the finish line of the NYC Marathon. Rather it was as I was turning off Fifth Avenue into Central Park. I looked to the right over my shoulder and there was Jay. We had run together most of the almost 24 miles to that point, pausing to stretch at irregular intervals, waiting for one another at the far side of a water station when we got separated. We had agreed we would try to finish the course together. But somewhere on Fifth Avenue we had lost each other.

I met Jay many years ago when I started running with the Northwest Running Club. It was 1996. My son, Chris, and I decided to train together to run our first marathon. I trained with Duane and Jane and Jerry, Jay and Sharon. On occasion, one or two others would join us for a long run around the Lakes. Chris, of course, trained with a faster paced team. We began to call ourselves “the deviants” because we tended not to follow the assigned route or the scheduled pace that the rest of the club was running on any given day. Sharon and Jay got married a few years later. Running together for hours forged some of my most enduring friendships.

For all the miles I have run with others across the years, there have been many more solitary runs. I have paced myself by the mile on the Luce Line that connects us to lakes, East and West, just at the bottom of the hill from our home. My dog, Zoe, used to run me on the trail. Sometimes early in the morning when the mist was still on the pond, we’d go off-trail at the Woodrill Reserve. I’d unleash her and let her run until we got to our “secret place,” a lone crab apple tree standing in a small field on the other side of the forest. She knew where it was. Zoe admittedly broke the solitude of my runs. She was a rambunctious but endearing companion through some of the loneliness hours of my life.

Strive to learn before you die
from what you run, and to, and why.

– James Thurber

Solitude is not easy for me. I am masterful at interrupting myself by myself. Despite my intellectual assent to the practice of meditation and centering, I seem to be severely handicapped when I want to stop running and just be quiet. “The Necessity of Empty Spaces” was a retreat I facilitated in the Mojave Desert to help others find a time and place not filled with disruption and distraction. Often I am better at quieting others than calming myself.

Jay and I finished the NYC marathon together. Despite previous good intentions, this was the first time I had ever trained and crossed the finish line together with a running buddy. To this day I am grateful for the companionship running has afforded me. At the same time, I acknowledge I need to learn to pace myself in place.

SFB 2/22/12

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On Finding my Moving Center Today https://steveboehlke.com/blog/2020/04/on-finding-my-moving-center-today/ Wed, 08 Apr 2020 15:26:34 +0000 http://steveboehlke.com/?p=1376 I love to travel.  For most of my career going to work has meant getting on a plane and flying somewhere to engage with clients. I have landed among other places in Shanghai, Warsaw, Johannesburg,  Bangalore, Lima, Bangkok, and cities all across the U.S.  I am extraordinarily grateful for the vistas and venues I have […]

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I love to travel.  For most of my career going to work has meant getting on a plane and flying somewhere to engage with clients. I have landed among other places in Shanghai, Warsaw, Johannesburg,  Bangalore, Lima, Bangkok, and cities all across the U.S.  I am extraordinarily grateful for the vistas and venues I have been able to explore.  Now that I am confined to home with Covid-19 quarantine for the indefinite future, I am prompted to examine as never before how much being in motion – going somewhere, doing something – has defined my sense of self. 

Today I pause to find my moving center without going anywhere. Sometimes it takes me hours, even days, to modify my agenda(s), release my compulsions, quiet all the chatter and distractions in my head, and trust that the moment is more than sufficient to sustain and enliven me. Even then I realize there is still much in motion within me and around me. I discover it is a very elusive task to find and know my center, the essence of me, apart from the current environ in which I may be situated, for better or worse.

The current global pandemic environment threatens our quest for stability, predictability, and certainty as never before in my lifetime. External sources of assurance are not stable  —  whether enduring employment, financial liquidity, fully-stocked shelves, or merely a place to convene with others.  The task of being with ourselves, calming ourselves, knowing ourselves is stripped of our usual props and platforms.  With more angst than usual, we look for a place to land in the midst of unanticipated turbulence.

The sage advice and wisdom of many whom I have trusted over the years is to find and build on something solid as a rock, something that would secure me regardless of external circumstances. But what if my security lies not on a rock but rather in a river? What if I choose river rather than rock? In the span of my lifetime I have experienced myself as a man with many selves, a sense of identity that sometimes confounds me but nevertheless defines me. A continual process of exploring, owning, engaging these different aspects of myself assures me that I am for real, I am alive.   I might well describe this as my “moving center” – the essence of who I am without fixing myself to one inviolate anchor or rock. It’s a paradox. 

Much as a gyroscope functions in perpetual motion, most balanced while spinning, I know myself most assuredly when I am in some sort of “flow state” – a veritable stream of moving parts and pieces, all of which comprise who I am.  Claiming that fluidity, knowing that I am always in process, brings me alive, regardless of the external world that I find myself in.  Though global pandemic pervades and economic collapse threatens, I am for these moments thankfully grounded in a place that is uniquely mine. It changes, it evolves, it spins and turns – and I am in that movement most fully myself.  And most alive!

The journey inward to embrace a dynamic stability within is the most daring and arduous adventure of all.

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