Coach Craig

I have two running buddies: T, who was the inspiration for me to start running in the first place, and a friend of ours we like to call Anonymous Craig. T likes to say that AC  and I are kind of like the devil and the angel on her shoulders. It's a little true.  I'm the one who encourages stopping, nursing injuries, slowing down.  AC? He's the one who pushes us, makes us run instead of walk, tries to beat the red lights.

Which is why I call him Coach Craig.  He's my running coach.  Calls me a whiner.  Gives us the post-run fist bump.  Is pushing us to do the Brooklyn half (for the record, it's not happening).  Makes fun of my visor (wait, they both do that).

I never had a coach before.  I was never an athlete, never played a team or individual sport.  They didn't really have reading coaches for nerdy kids like me.  

Yet, earlier this year, I had two.  I did a few months executive coaching with an extraordinary professional.  I can truly say it completely shifted my perspective on my career.

When I started interviewing coaches, one of the questions that I asked was what they saw as the differences between coaching and therapy.  They had different answers, and it was a question that remained in my head as I (somewhat skeptically) began working with my coach.

Here's what I learned: coaching moves us forward. Therapy helps us understand where we are and how we got there.  (That understanding is also key to moving us forward, of course).  Coaching says: okay - you've got issues, we all do.  OK, the people around you have issues - so what?  What are you going to do about your life?

Coaches push us.  They make us set goals and stick to them.  They do it in a nice way or in a not-so-nice way depending on what we need.  They help us make sure that tomorrow is different than today.

I run faster because of Coach Craig.  Sure, there are days when I would rather walk, but his friendly combination of teasing and just continuing to run if we stop works for me.  (So much so that I keep telling him he should have a personal training business on the side).  If you don't have a coach (or two, or three) in your life, find one.  Doesn't have to be someone you pay.  Just has to me someone whose role it is to keep you moving forward.  Even if he or she does it while wearing the ridiculous toe shoes.  

What are you amazing at?

In a meeting this week, someone asked me "What are you amazing at? Like, truly amazing?"  The question threw me off,  mostly because of the setting - it wasn't the sort of meeting in which I would have expected that question. 

(For what it's worth, and in case any of you readers might have been in that meeting,  I'm happy that I was asked.)

Frankly, I stumbled through my answer.  Even after several recent interviews for a new position during which I spoke a lot about myself.  And after working on articulating my story and my skills and my core competencies and all of those branding things which I have learned (somewhat reluctantly) to work on.

I can tell you what I'm good at.  I can tell you what I'm bad at.  But amazing?  To highlight one thing?  That's more difficult.

But so very crucial.  For ourselves, and for our organizations.

We need to be able to articulate quickly what is at the very top of our skill pyramids.  It's quicker, and sharper, than an elevator speech.  It becomes both more complicated and more important as the entire nonprofit world becomes more networked and more about working collaboratively with partners.  That very connectedness forces us to be able to pinpoint exactly what makes us stand out.

In Judaism this week, we read the story of Noah.  Most of us from western religious traditions know it.  Noah does one thing, right?  He builds that ark.  He doesn't, as this video suggests, go help his neighbors.  He doesn't try to stop the rain.  He listens, measures, and builds.

Maybe Noah should have done more.  Probably, even.  But even if he had, we might likely still remember him for that one thing.  That ark.  If someone asked him what he was amazing at, he could tell you.  Me, I haven't quite found my ark, but I'm having fun defining it, for myself, and for the amazing organization I have the privilege to work for.

Finding My Wheelhouse

I want to start with a confession: I'm a little obsessed with Jillian Michaels.  Yes, I know that The Biggest Loser is completely problematic (she quit, didn't she), and I know that she can be a little extreme, but I like her.  A lot.  So much that I listen to her weekly podcast and I don't even really mind that she calls everyone "buddy".

This week, she used the term "wheelhouse".  Hadn't heard it before.  JB tells me it is a baseball term.  Your wheelhouse (as maybe you all know) is your sweetspot.  That place where you hit your stride and feel great.  Psychologists call it "flow".  Mystics might call it revelation.  While the term might now be a baseball term, it has its origins in boating, of course.

Boating is where I went when I heard Jillian use it.  It reminded me of the extraordinary book that might friend Jessica Dulong wrote last year - chronicling her adventures finding her wheelhouse, literally and figuratively, on the Hudson river - in the engine room of a fire boat and behind the wheel of a tug.  If you haven't read it, I highly recommend you do so.

Jessica and I have known each other since we met as teenagers at an elite boarding school where we were constantly being told we were the "future leaders of America".  And some of us did indeed become that.  Many of us, though, fell into a long Gen X journey of finding our wheelhouse.  Discovering what it is that we can do that will put food on the table AND help us find our groove.

I started a new job this week.  In many ways, the move comes out of my long term and short term search for my wheelhouse.  It comes from noticing on a regular basis what things I love doing - the moments during the day when the passage of time ceases.  It is new, but it isn't new.  Those who know me well will recognize that components of it are getting back toward my roots - so new, but familiar at the same time.

Which resonates with me at this moment in the Jewish calendar - of Simchat Torah.  For those who don't know, this week we read the end of the Torah, and then, in pretty much the same breath, we start all over again.  Telling the same story, another time.  If we are lucky, each time we hear something new in it, and with each reading we come a little closer to understanding.  And to me, to understand Torah is to understand ourselves and our world - to come a little closer to spending more and more time in our wheelhouse.

Been a touchy-feely few weeks here at Fishing For Good.  Next week, back to running and community and organizational thinking. And in the coming weeks, my thoughts about coaching, too - 'cause I most definitely haven't been doing this thinking alone.  In the meantime, hope those of you who are dancing with the Torah (or marching, or parading around with flags with apples on top) have a joyous holiday.

I'm sorry that I never watched that Youtube video you sent me

At this time in the Jewish year (between the holidays of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur), it is traditional to ask for forgiveness from those we have wronged over the past year.  In recent years, more and more of my friends have been posting social media apologies.  I'm guessing you've seen a facebook status update that says something like "If I did something to hurt you this year, I'm sorry."

Um, really?  This doesn't do it for me.  If you know me well enough to be worried that you might have offended me and not realized it, than tell me.  Or call.  Or at the very least send me a personal email. I am a little old fashioned and facebook is not yet intimate enough for me for these kind of messages.  As this article teaches (albeit in another context), face it - don't facebook it.

But what about sins that are commited via social media?  Can we apologize for those with social media?  I believe we can.  And thus offer the following set of apologies (collected from my facebook friends, twitter followers, and real, live human beings I spoke with).

Virtual friends and followers, please forgive me for:

• The sin committed with a smartass facebook comment that could have been left unsaid (hat-tip to JB)
• The committed by over-sharing the accomplishments of our children, using baby talk when we do so, and assuming that people care about their bodily functions (hat-tip to QR)
• The sin committed by "liking" our own posts.  (hat-tip to KB)
• The sin committed by posting we will be in your city and then, well, not really wanting to hang out with you. (hat tip to SS)
• The sin committed by not wishing you a happy birthday on facebook.
• The sin committed by sending out an identical message simultaneously via facebook, twitter, and email.  
• The sin committed by replying to your voice mail with a text message.
• The sin committed by cluttering your news feed with gaming results.
• The sin committed by not checking out urban myths before passing them on.
• The sin committed by forwarding email chain letters.  Or jokes.  (Everyone over the age of 50 is automatically forgiven for the joke piece).
• The sin committed by sending you an email while you are in the room talking to me.

And one more, that I am truly sorry for:

• The sin committed by bragging (or  worse, complaining) about all that I have: healthy children, steady interesting work, a supportive and adorable spouse whom I was able to legally wed, great friends, an amazing family.... 

Because social media is about sharing our success, and joy, and struggles.  But when the audience isn't direct, and the message is 140 characters or less, it sure can be hard to remember to insert gratitude for what we have and acknowledgment that others might not be in the same place.

Will you forgive me?

Let my people work

Someone recently asked me about my management style, and part of what I said is this: hire good people, coach them to become great, and then make it possible for them to excel at their roles.  For me, a big piece of that has been knowing when to not give instructions.  When to get out of the way and let people do their work. 

It isn't rocket science, and I am not the first person to say it.  It is, however, something that I learned not on the job, but off.  Or rather, on my second job of co-managing our four person, one pet fish household.  


Which is why I'm both cringing and laughing out loud reading this article about the lists that mothers make when they go out of town on business trips. 

I have always shared primary care-giving responsibilities.  JB is a musician and has a very flexible schedule.    For the past number of years, day times have meant me in the office,  JB mostly at home, and an incredible rotating group of free-lancers, students, artist and musician babysitters to fill in the many holes.  Breakfast is my meal; dinner is his.  I do the grocery shopping; he does the vacuuming.  He washes the laundry; I fold the laundry.  You get the gist.

All this to say - I've never written a list of instructions of how things have to be done when I am away from home.  I have, however, received one or two.  (And on the work front, I will admit to writing one too many vacation/maternity leave/transition memos).

JB and I have many times when we flip roles.  Once or twice a year, he spends a couple of weeks or so on tour and I am the one who struggles to get dinner on the table every night.  (Luckily, I learned early in parenthood that if you buy the hippy kind of mac and cheese and throw in some frozen veggies, it counts as a meal).

We have been able to share responsibilities because we have learned to trust each other.  That doesn't mean that we do things the same way, however, and over the years we have learned to, for lack of a better phrase, deal with it. JB has to deal with the fact that the kids are not going to practice the violin as much when he is out of town.  I have to deal with the fact that they might not put their napkins on their laps (or use napkins at all) when I am not at the dinner table.  He might buy the "wrong" kind of bread.  I might let the kids leave their legos out overnight. 

Because we share responsibilities, more gets done.  It might not get done "perfectly" in either of our eyes, but there are more homemade meals, more projects with the kids, more time for us both to pursue our passions, because we have learned to allow the other person to do things the way that they do them. 

In my experience, same thing happens in the office.  We might not love the way a Board President runs meetings, but it is his role, so we bite our tongues in the room, give gentle suggestions behind the scenes, and deal.  And the meeting still runs.  We might not like the way our staff person writes her to-do lists, but she gets the work done, so we deal.  I might be a prepare-in-advance person; my colleagues might be last-minute.  I might write everything down; they might keep everything in their heads.

If JB wasn't home with the kids most days, my career couldn't look like it does.  If I didn't have a job that gave us health insurance, it would be harder for him to be freelance.  We have to let other people do their work.  Because if we don't, we can't do ours.  But when we do - when we do our work and when others do theirs, things get done.  Even if the house is messier (or, in my very lucky case), cleaner, than it would be if we were in charge.

Wines for the New Year

On this week's Splendid Table, Matt Kramer makes a distinction I can't stop thinking about.  He talks about wines of fear and wines of conviction.  Wines of fear, he says, are notable by what they don't have - tannins, oak, etc.  Wines of conviction are notable by what they do have.  (Matt also talks about how the connection between price and quality has been completely broken down, but that's another blog).   

For the record, I'm not a oenophile.  At all.  In fact, I am fairly intimidated by the guy who staffs our neighborhood wine store.  I can't talk about overtones and undernotes and this and that.  I have just enough knowledge to usually choose a glass I like in a restaurant, or an under $12 bottle at the store. 

What fascinated me was this: At one point in the podcast, the host, Lynne Rossetto Kasper, asks Matt Kramer how one can tell the difference between the two - the wines of fear and the wines of conviction.  His response - you just know.  Almost everyone who has had at least a glass or two of wine can tell. Wines of fear taste like they come from "nowhere".  Wines of conviction taste like they come from "somewhere".

That makes sense to me.  I probably can tell.  Conviction tastes like distinction, complexity, authenticity.  Whether it is an $8 bottle of Cava (which is the wine he is discussing) or a $300 fancy pants expense account bottle.

We know the same is true with people.  Spend a few minutes with someone and most of us get a gut instinct - is this a person from nowhere or a person from somewhere?  Sometimes we like that somewhere, sometimes we can't stand it, but we are never bored by it.  The same is true for organizations.  Is this an organization that puts a stake in the ground, that operates from conviction?  On some level, we feel it.  We recognize it when we see it.  Those are the people, and the organizations, that I want in my sandbox.  Even when they aren't quite so "easy drinking".

It's Elul, the Jewish month where we think about the year that has past and the year that is coming.  For all of us, I hope the year that comes is a year of wines of conviction.  I hope that we all surround ourselves with individuals, teams, and organizations defined by who they are, not who they aren't.

And let's all toast the new year with a glass of that $8 Cava, please.  But I'll send JB in to pick mine up.

My giant zucchini

My husband (to be known as JB here moving forward) came home last night from our CSA pickup with no melons, a weather-related crop update, and one giant zucchini. 

For those of you who aren't familiar, a CSA is a Community Supported Agriculture share.  Basically, you invest in a farm at the beginning of the growing season and receive regular products from that farm throughout the season.  There are many reasons why CSA's are great for agriculture, our community, and our health. 

In addition to our recent hurricane, and earthquake, we have had a month of record-setting rains on the East Coast, and have been wondering how those rains affected our farm.  Turns out that we were relatively lucky.  Our farmer is based in Pennsylvania, and while he did lose his entire crop of melons (much to my four year old melon monster's utter devastation), for the most part his farm was spared.  He told JB that many of his friends and colleagues who farm in upstate NY had to cancel their CSA deliveries for the remainder of the season.

That's right - cancel.  No produce at all, at the height of the season, for people who paid several hundred dollars months ago for that produce.  And who aren't getting their money back.  CSA's involve sharing risk.  They are a real partnership between producer and consumer.  The consumer reaps both the benefits and the losses of that risk.  Last year's tomato blight = no tomatoes for CSA customers around the region.  On the other hand, good weather last summer meant a double crop of corn for us and we were eating corn-on-the-cob well into the fall. 

Invest in a business, reap the success, risk the loss.  How many of us are courageous enough to do that with our dollars?  How many Board members would really be ok with weathering immense losses at the opportunity of great success for nonprofit organizations?  How many foundations want to hear real analysis and not just numbers massaged to convince them that they are meeting their objectives?

No answers today, just questions.  Including this one: what on earth am I going to do with another giant zucchini?