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In the spirit of those kindred souls Voltaire and George S. Patton, here's one way to measure the infinite:
An infinite distance lies between nothing--the unsaid comment, the unwritten letter, the undone act--and something, no matter how much room for improvement remains. In comparison, the distance between that something and perfection is barely noticeable at all.
Photo by Ben Husmann. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.
The concept of boundaries comes up regularly in my work with clients and students, and in my own life as well. A client resents feeling obligated to respond to emails after a certain hour in the evening. A student wants to insure that family activities don't overwhelm her plans for graduation. And I often need to decompress quietly for 20 minutes after getting home before engaging in conversation. At the heart of all of these issues is a boundary, in one form or another.
As I've written before, my former colleague Michael Gilbert has had a big influence on how I view the concept of boundaries, and here's a passage from his 2008 post Good Fences that I refer to often:
In regard to this exploration of "work-life balance," what's clear in our discussion is that we have been using the word "balance" when what we really seem to mean is "boundaries." Boundaries keep things in their place. Balance suggests the same amount of two things on either side of a scale. Boundaries keep one of those things from oozing past the edge of its platter and taking over the other side...
Boundaries and integration go together. Maybe it's just the biologist in me, but it seems that good boundaries are what make integration work. Just as functional membranes (letting the right things through and keeping the wrong things out) facilitate the healthy interaction of the cells of our bodies, so do functional personal boundaries facilitate the healthy interaction of the various parts of our lives. Bad boundaries lead to either being overwhelmed or withdrawal. Good boundaries lead to wholeness and synergy.
But it's essential to realize that boundaries don't simply spring into existence fully formed. They emerge, they evolve, they erode--they're dynamic features of our lives that we build up and maintain piece by piece, through countless small steps and interactions. In my work with clients and students over the years and in my own efforts to create boundaries that support fulfillment and effectiveness, I've come to see 4 key steps in this process:
1) Identify
The very first step is identifying the need for a boundary (or a better boundary) in the first place, and this can be a lot harder than it sounds. The very act of identifying the need for a boundary can raise all sorts of anxieties, self-judgments and other complex feelings: What does it say about me that I want a boundary here? What will it cost me? How will it affect the other people involved? But as difficult as this step might be, nothing else can happen until we take it.
2) Accept
Once we've identified the need for a boundary at a conceptual level, we have to truly accept it at a deeper emotional level. We have to acknowledge and deal with all those feelings that are generated by the idea of the boundary; we have to answer the questions above (and any others that arise along similar lines) and come to terms with our responses. More often than not, this involves challenging the mental models and assumptions that cause us to question or resist our desire for a boundary.
3) Establish
Having fully accepted the boundary, we need to take action and establish it effectively by communicating it to others in a manner that will A) maximize the likelihood of winning their support and B) overcome resistance when that support isn't forthcoming. This step probably feels the riskiest--it's certainly the point at which we can derail the process both by holding back and by coming on too strong. Here's where good communication skills are critical (and I've also found Susan Scott's "Mineral Rights" framework extremely helpful.)
4) Maintain
Finally, note that all boundaries are subject to erosion over time and must be actively maintained. We don't establish them once; we re-establish them over and over, in ways that adjust to our changing needs and circumstances. This may involve having similar conversations with multiple people--or it may involve having the same conversation several times with one person to insure that it truly sinks in and sticks. The key is recognizing that boundaries aren't static features of a landscape, but dynamic aspects of our relationships, our personal lives and our organizations.
Photo by Ryan McDonald. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.
Seize the day. We all support the sentiment, of course, but the complete line from Horace makes it much more compelling:
Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.
Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.
I'm certainly more motivated to do something today when I admit that tomorrow might not come. And the message of this post is: Don't wait. Do it today. You might not have another chance.
If that's sufficient motivation for you, great--you may not need to read any further. What follows is a discursive, even self-indulgent piece of writing intended to preserve some beautiful memories that will serve to remind me why it's so important not to wait when an opportunity presents itself.
In February 1946, George Orwell published an essay in the Evening Standard titled "The Moon Under Water":
My favourite public-house, the Moon Under Water, is only two minutes from a bus stop, but it is on a side-street, and drunks and rowdies never seem to find their way there, even on Saturday nights...
If you are asked why you favour a particular public-house, it would seem natural to put the beer first, but the thing that most appeals to me about the Moon Under Water is what people call its "atmosphere."
Orwell goes on to describe his pub in great detail, down to the color of the crockery and the terms of endearment used by the barmaids. What matters most to him, though, is the way these characteristics add up to a warm, welcoming environment. I'm so enchanted by Orwell's vision of this "great, good place" that my heart always sinks at his sudden revelation, even though it comes as no surprise:
But now is the time to reveal something which the discerning and disillusioned reader will probably have guessed already. There is no such place as the Moon Under Water.
That is to say, there may well be a pub of that name, but I don't know of it, nor do I know any pub with just that combination of qualities...
But, to be fair, I do know of a few pubs that almost come up to the Moon Under Water. I have mentioned above ten qualities that the perfect pub should have and I know one pub that has eight of them. Even there, however, there is no draught stout, and no china mugs.
For the past two years Amy and I have enjoyed our own Moon Under Water--not in idealized form, but an actual place, a restaurant called the Moss Room. It opened in the basement of the newly revamped California Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park in 2008, but we only discovered it in 2010 after Amy went there for lunch with colleagues.
A unique combination of factors made the Moss Room so special to us: It was within walking distance of our apartment in the Richmond, and even on a cold, rainy night walking up to Golden Gate Park is a lovely experience. The physical space was enchanting, starting with the after-hours entrance at the side of the museum that made the place feel like a speakeasy, a feeling that grew as you took the stairs below-ground. And the food was routinely outstanding--I can honestly say that I loved every single dish I ever had there, and we ate there a lot.
But the primary reason we loved the Moss Room was the people--manager and sommelier Kristen Capella, bartender Robert Baker, servers Tuni and Ashley and host Katherine (whose last names we never learned), and "new" manager Rafael Jimenez Rivera, who took Kristen's place late last year after she was asked to help open AQ downtown. They were all spectacularly great at their jobs. Kristen was such a master of her wine list that after our first visit we never ordered a bottle again--we just asked her to pick for us, and she inevitably found the most fascinating wines that perfectly complemented our meal. Robert was, bar none (heh), the best bartender I've ever had the pleasure of patronizing, and his passion for the history and art of his craft informed every drink. Tuni, Ashley and Katherine made us feel truly appreciated and cared for. We usually sat at a table of Tuni's--#50, at the far right in the picture above--and she was always candid (and right) about the menu's strengths and weaknesses on a given night, and uncanny in her ability to both predict and remember our likes and dislikes. And all of them were simply engaging, interesting people who made a really good restaurant a great one.
To be clear, Amy and I love eating out, and eating and drinking at the Moss Room was a very pleasurable experience. But we also discovered the Moss Room at a particularly important time in our lives. Amy's dad and a student of mine passed away in 2009, and we spent the next year in a state of grief and shock, compounded by a number of additional personal struggles. We were emerging from that period when Amy first visited the Moss Room, and it was an incredible gift to find this little community--one that also happened to serve amazing food and cocktails--just a short walk from our home. It was a respite, a place to let go of our cares and learn to relax and have fun again.
You'll notice that I've been using the past tense--last month, just after Christmas, we learned that the Moss Room was going to close, immediately, and that New Year's Eve was going to be its final night of operation. From a business perspective, I wasn't entirely surprised--it's an offbeat, out-of-the-way location, and many nights it was well under capacity--but from a personal perspective I was stunned. I actually cried.
But as much as I'll miss the Moss Room, I've made peace with its abrupt disappearance from my life because Amy and I seized an opportunity not only to have one last meal there but also to thank the people we knew. As Christmas approached, we felt so grateful for everything they had done for us that we decided to get them presents. Nothing big--just something to express our appreciation and let them know that they had made a small but meaningful difference in our lives. We stopped in to drop off the gifts and to have a quick cocktail--I don't remember why, but we weren't planning to stay, and almost left. But at the last minute we said, what the hell, we won't get a chance to come back until after New Year's, let's stay. So we did.
It was an amazing meal, as expected. Robert's cocktails were perfect, and Tuni was incredibly indulgent and extra dishes turned up in between courses, and we just couldn't have been any happier. I'd be upset if we'd missed that last meal, that last chance to say goodbye to the Moss Room, even though we didn't know that was what we were doing at the time. But I'd be much more upset if we'd missed that chance to say "Thank you" to the people who made that experience--and so many like it--possible for us.
I know we'll continue to see Kristin at AQ, and we'll surely see Robert at his next bar, and hopefully we'll cross paths with Tuni and Ashley and Katherine again. But we'll never have the Moss Room again--that little community will never be re-assembled. So the simple lesson I've learned is: Stay for dinner; there may not be another meal--and thank someone who deserves it; you may not get another chance to let them know how you feel.
Lately I've been paying closer attention to the steady, low-level urge I often feel to check my phone for emails, texts, tweets and other notifications. I can justify this urge with any number of "good" reasons: I keep my phone on silent so it won't interrupt a coaching session, and I might have missed something important. A client or student may need to reach me, and I want to be responsive to them. Amy may have texted me about something pressing, and... Etc.
Those reasons are all true, and yet they don't fully explain my behavior. I've realized that this urge--and my almost automatic response to obey it--has a more emotional, less cognitive explanation: When I feel a little anxious or bored, I can check my phone, and if something new is there, my anxiety is eased and my boredom is relieved. It's a form of adult thumb-sucking.
There are times when this urge disappears, such as when I'm in a coaching session with a client or student, or when I'm in a meaningful conversation with Amy or a friend. And there are times when this urge is almost overpowering, such as when I'm in a dull meeting or making awkward small talk, or when I'm struggling with a difficult piece of writing.
All behavior is adaptive, so it's unhelpful to simply characterize this urge as "bad" and strive to quash it without understanding 1) what I'm adapting to, 2) how that adaptation serves me (and how it leads me off course), and 3) when I should follow it (and when I should resist it).
I'm clearly adapting to a set of inner drives that are important parts of my makeup. I'm usually highly attuned to my social environment, particularly signals that suggest another person's need for support or engagement, and this allows me to be an effective coach (and husband and friend) but can also generate anxiety when I want to connect but am unable to. I'm also typically a quick thinker who needs a lot of stimulation to avoid boredom--which is one reason why I find it difficult to meditate and yet keep trying.
Checking my phone obviously helps me adapt to these drives, and this adaptation serves me in many ways. Clients and students often express appreciation for my responsiveness, and note that they feel respected and cared for as a result. At times I can get a lot of work done on multiple fronts simultaneously. And I stay connected with a number of people who are important to me as a result.
But compulsively checking my phone leads me off course in a number of ways as well. In the moment, it tells the people in my physical presence that I'm less interested in them than I am in my virtual network, which can undermine my relationships. It contributes to unrealistic expectations regarding my availability and responsiveness. It disrupts my concentration when I'm struggling to think through difficult work, requiring me to switch contexts and rapidly adjust from one mode of working to another. And perhaps most importantly, I suspect that there's a neurological impact, resulting in diminished impulse control in general.
As noted above, when I'm fully engaged in a coaching session or conversation I don't feel this urge at all and have no need to resist it. But I believe there are a number of situations in which I'd be well served to do so, both interpersonally and in my writing and other reflective work. It's not difficult to manage this urge when I'm coaching--my dedication to my craft helps me focus on the people in front of me and keep any conceptual distractions at bay. The real challenge is when I'm writing, reading or doing other work alone--it's always tempting to set aside any conceptual challenges I face in order to deal with the "real" issues posed by a client or friend (or Twitter follower.)
Photo by syauqee. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.
It's essential for me as a coach--and, I'd argue, for all of us when we're in any position of influence, particularly a leadership role--to distinguish between investment and attachment. It's a distinction that has a significant impact on our relationships in those roles, our mutual feelings of autonomy and independence, and our ability to support and lead others effectively.
We invest in people, and being invested in someone means we care about them and want them to succeed. We convey our investment in ways large and small, from being available to being vulnerable, from providing support and consolation to stepping into challenges and pushing back when necessary.
But if we invest in people, we're attached to outcomes. We want something specific to happen, and the successful accomplishment of that goal can be an important source of meaning and fulfillment to us, so we'll expend a lot of energy and exert a lot of pressure to insure that it's achieved.
As a coach, I need to be invested in my clients' or students' success without becoming attached to any particular definition of success. As they progress toward (or away from) certain outcomes, I pay careful attention to how I respond. If a client or student is succeeding in accomplishing a given goal, do I feel good because I'm invested in them as a person, or do I feel good because I'm attached to their accomplishment of that goal for some reason, perhaps because it would make me feel more effective as a coach? Whatever the cause, when my investment turns to attachment, it's a clear sign of bad coaching, and an invitation to explore 1) why I'm attached to that particular outcome, 2) how I might relinquish my attachment, and 3) how I might increase my investment in the person.
The calculus for a leader is different, of course. In almost all leadership roles, we have to balance our investment in people and our attachment to outcomes. If we care only about the people and are indifferent to the goals, it's either a very unusual leadership situation...or we're coaching and not actually leading. But if we don't sufficiently invest in our people while remaining deeply attached to achieving our goals, that unbalanced emphasis inevitably has a pernicious effect on engagement, commitment and retention. People sense that they're valued solely as means to an end, and if they can find equivalent compensation elsewhere while feeling valued as individuals, they'll pursue those options.
So while coaches have to be careful to avoid becoming unduly attached to outcomes, leaders must as well. We all draw the line in different places depending on our role, the context, the urgency of our goals and the relationships we have with our people, but we all have to find the right balance.
Postscript
A vivid example of this dynamic is an aspect of my role as a Leadership Coach at the Stanford Graduate School of Business (GSB). I work with 11 Leadership Fellows, second-year students who've been accepted into a competitive program in which they each work with a total of 9 first-year students in small groups and one-on-one to help the first-years develop their leadership and interpersonal skills.
I'm intensely attached to the goal of insuring that the 99 first-years who are being served by my 11 Fellows have a meaningful learning experience. That's an outcome that matters a great deal to me, and not only because it's a function of my role, but also because I believe deeply in the value of this curriculum, and as a GSB alumnus I want the school to do the best job possible of developing better leaders and managers.
But at the same time I work very closely with those 11 Leadership Fellows, in small groups and one-on-one, a process that involves not only (or even primarily) my managing their work with their first-year students, but also coaching them on a wide range of professional and personal issues during the course of the 8 months we spend together. It's impossible for me not to become deeply invested in my Fellows as individuals because of this level of engagement.
Admittedly, it's an unusual situation because 1) every year the Fellows I'm privileged to work with are an incredibly dedicated group of people, 2) my goals as a Leadership Coach are tightly aligned with my Fellows' goals, and 3) the Fellows' primary relationship to their students is as a coach, so even when I'm coaching them on issues unrelated to their work, they have an opportunity to learn work-related skills.
But even in this context I have to bear in mind the balance between investment and attachment. I do have to insure that we collectively deliver on our commitment to support those 99 first-years, and I'm firmly attached to that outcome. At the same time it's essential that my 11 Fellows know how deeply invested I am in them as individuals and how committed I am to their own growth and development. If I were to view my Fellows as means to an end, it would compromise my values and undermine my ability to work with them effectively. And yet if we were to lose sight of that end, it would essentially turn our 99 first-years into lab rats--highly complex rats, to be sure, but the subjects of an experiment all the same.
Photo by nosha. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.
