Control, Influence, and Concern

They say that feeling in Control is key to mental health.  In fact, some mental health professionals will tell you that the whole concept of mental health is a measurement of the degree of control people believe they have in their environment.  Don’t confuse this with the word “controlling”.  We all know people who try to control everything and everyone around them.  That is not what I am talking about.  There are two things you cannot control—other people, and nature.  Never forget that.  You can only exercise control over your own thoughts, and behavior. 

So how the heck do we do that?  There have been a number of “self-help gurus” who have written about this, but I came across the concept originally back when I was in the Army. * 

“Captain”, they said, “Do you see that big oak tree off to your right?  And do you see where the bridge crosses the creek over to your left?  That is your Area of Control.” 

Within that area of control it was my responsibility to determine the enemy avenues of approach, place my soldiers, machine guns, and mortars, coordinate artillery fires, and generally plan how I would fight the battle if it came my way.  I made the decisions.  I had both the responsibility, and the authority to do whatever I needed to do in that area.

To my left and right were other Captains who were doing the same thing in their areas of control.   I could not go over and tell them what to do.  It was their responsibility, and they had the authority.  However, if the battle came at them, I could, if necessary, readjust my forces, and assist them in fighting their battle.  This was called my Area of Influence, because I could influence the battle there. 

Beyond that, the rest of the battlefield was my Area of Concern.  What happened out there concerned me, but I could neither control nor influence what happened there.  Obviously I was concerned that these other soldiers did their jobs properly because if the enemy broke through their positions my unit might be cut off and surrounded.  Still I had no authority to go check on them, nor could I tell them what I thought they should do.  My only recourse was to focus on what I could control, and train my soldiers how to breakout from an encirclement just in case the worst happened out there in the area of concern.

The same principles apply to everyday life.  War.  It seems it’s always there.  It was in Iraq yesterday, and Syria today.  It hasn’t gone away in Afghanistan, and now it’s here at home—Ferguson, Dallas, Boston, San Bernardino, Berkeley, Washington DC. The stock market is climbing, or dropping.  Family members get sick or hurt.  Jobs are being moved offshore.  Hurricanes.  Tornadoes.  Wildfires. Floods.  Epidemics.  No matter how much we want to, we cannot control any of these.    Sure, we need to be aware of what’s out there of concern, but only so that we can plan our control issues better. 

As humans, we respond to danger by attacking (fight) or running away (flight).  Either way, our bodies produce adrenaline so that we have the strength to fight ferociously, or to run like hell.  When we get out there in our area of concern, and we see these dangers, our bodies begin to produce the adrenaline required.  The trouble is that in most instances we can’t fight—how do you punch out the Consumer Price Index?  And we have no place to run—we’re stuck behind the desk, or the wheel of our car.  So what happens to the adrenaline that is flowing through our bodies, but has no outlet?  It eats us.  Literally.  As a chemical agent it can destroy tissue.  It can eat through the mucous membrane that lines our stomachs and cause ulcers.  It can cause anxiety, and hyper-irritability.  Not good.

The solution is to focus on what we can control, or what we can influence.  I can’t control the economy, but I can control my checking and savings accounts.  I cannot prevent a tornado, but I can stock my basement with flashlights, batteries, water, and food.  I can’t keep management from shutting down the plant, but I can bring my best value everyday so hopefully they never need to.  The more you do these kinds of things, the better you will feel. 

When you can’t control it, try to influence it.  No matter how much you’d like to, you cannot control your spouse, your kids, your parents, your friends, your boss, or your co-workers.  But you can influence them.  You can talk to them.  You can work at convincing them that your way is a better way.  Sometimes they will listen.  Sometimes they won’t.  But if you prepare your arguments carefully, and present them properly, and let them know you care about them, you’ll influence them positively more often than not.  The area of influence is interesting, because as you expand it, you are expanding your area of control too.  See, the thoughts you have, and the actions you take in order to influence someone are things that only you control. 

Don’t stay hanging out in your area of concern.  There is nothing you can do there except make yourself sick!

Come back to yourself and ask:  “What if?”  What if my husband’s company moves the operation to Mexico, or India, or China?  What actions can I take now to prepare for that eventuality?  How likely is it to happen anyway—90% certain, or only 10% chance?  Act accordingly.  You cannot eliminate risk.  We are fragile creatures in a hostile universe.  But you can control your response to it.  You don’t have to be eaten alive with fear and anxiety.  You can think.  You can act.  You can adapt.  You can develop alternatives.  You can survive.  You can even thrive. 

As Viktor Frankl pointed out in his book Man’s Search for Meaning,

“When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves.” 

That change is a choice.  It can only come from the inside.  We may not be in control of the situation, but we are in control of our choices. 

*Stephen Covey talked about these same topics in his writings, but I was first taught the concept at the US Army Infantry School at Fort Benning, GA.

Little White Packages

The pigs have gone off to the Processor for “processing”.  When I was a kid it was off to the slaughterhouse to be “butchered”.  The end result is the same.  Whether “processed” or “butchered”, bacon, ham, chops, and sausage will soon be piled high on the table for our dining enjoyment.  Wat, Spot, and Not were in good spirits when they left, and that’s important when it comes to taste.   

The Sergeant Major told me I shouldn’t name them, but I couldn’t help it.  I could distinguish between the three quite easily, but without names I would have had no way to tell her about them.   

“One of the pigs doesn’t seem to be eating as well as the others,” I said.   

“Which one?” she asked. 

“You know, that one that I know is different from the other two, but since I can’t name him, I don’t know how to tell you who it is” 

“Just describe the one you’re talking about!” she said, rather exasperated. 

“Well…it’s a pig, and… it’s not eating as well as the other pigs.” 

“Describe it, dammit!” 

“OK!  It’s not the red one with the wattles, it’s one of the other two.  It’s black and white.” 

“Which black and white!” 

You get the drift.  I know which black and white pig it is because I know how to distinguish between the two.  They are both black with a white stripe which circles their bodies just behind their shoulders.  On the back, inside the white stripe, one pig has a black spot, and the other pig does not.  Spot, and Not.  The red one I call Wat, because of the wattles.  Wat, Spot, and Not.  It’s quite easy really, but it has now become clear that I’m going to have to confess that I’ve named the pigs even though I had been “cautioned” not to.  

Sidebar: 

I use the term “cautioned” much like the Battalion Sergeant Major would use it when I was a Company Commander. 

“Well, Captain, I understand.  However, I would just ‘caution’ you that if you proceed with your proposed course of action, you are likely to endure some serious unintended consequences.” 

If you are a young Captain, and if you have been paying attention to the world around you, you know that the next words out of your mouth must be, “Well Sergeant Major, what do you suggest?” 

This is true because 1) There is a high likelihood that your plan has a major flaw in it that the Sergeant Major has recognized, but does not want to insult you by bluntly pointing it out, or 2) You have a brilliant plan that the Sergeant Major, for his own reasons, does not like, and if you proceed with it, he will do whatever it takes to ensure that there are “serious unintended consequences” which will not be traceable back to him. 

End Sidebar 

“OK, it’s Not.  Spot’s eating fine, and Wat’s eating normal for him.”   

Silence.   

Then, shrugging her shoulders in resignation, she said, “You named the pigs.  Do you not understand that these animals will be on our table someday?  Do you not understand that Not, or whatever the heck you call him, is going to become our bacon?" 

“Of course I understand that," I said excitedly.  “But not just bacon.  He’ll be ham and sausage too.  At first I called them ‘Breakfast, ‘Lunch’, and ‘Dinner’, but that takes way too long to say.  And anyway, you still wouldn’t know which was which because any of them could match any one of those names.  I’m just trying to draw a distinction.” 

She looked at me silently.   

"I'll go look", she said.   

She turned sharply towards the barn, muttering something under her breath. 

"What did you say", I said.   

"Nothing".   

"No.  You said something.  What was it?" I insisted.   

She turned back.  "Little white packages.  I said 'All I see is little white packages'.  Dozens and dozens of little white packages".  

So, as I said, they left in good spirits the other morning.  The Sergeant Major is right as usual.  They will return as little white packages.  Little white packages full of nutrition and joy.   What can be better than that? 

Micro Stories

Katy Bourne is the sister of my friends.  She wrote a book called Weirdo Simpatico: Little Stories for Short Attention Spans.  Amazon is where I got my copy, and I’ve really enjoyed it.  She talks about how she started by writing little stories about words which others would give to her. 

I was telling a friend about this, and mentioned that I had a mind to try it.  Did he have any words?

“Yep”, he said.  “Burp, fart, and sneeze”.

“I can’t write about that”, I said. 

“Then you can’t write”, he replied.  “Those are the words”.

So, my pride and ego on the line, all I could say was, “Challenge accepted”. 

You can decide whether I get it or not.  Oh, I did add a couple of extra words of my own.    

Burp—

It took the room by surprise.  Completely.  Thoroughly.  The sound roaring like a flash flood raging through a dry creek bed after a torrential rainstorm.  Where once only the soft clinking of glassware, and the tinkling music of silver had mixed with the murmur of intimate, close conversation, now came a force of nature, shattering everything in its path—the intensity of the moment so unexpected, so quick.  The diners froze in horror as if they had just sat down to dinner in Pompeii.

Fart—

She wasn’t sure she was that happy about it.  Yes, for a moment it had seemed wondrous.  The pain was gone in an instant.  She felt light.  She felt free.  She wanted to leap for joy.  But now, the consequences had begun to set in.  Her eyes burned, and her nose urged her to flee.  “Run!” it cried.  “Run now!”

Sneeze—

It built slowly like soft, white cumulus clouds on a hot summer’s day.  At first there was only the tickling of a faint breeze, so faint, in fact, that she could not be sure it was really there at all.  But just as the clouds grow higher and higher, so did the pressure.  The air turned angry, and the clouds darkened.  For a moment, the world held its breath.  Then, the flash of lightning, the rumble of thunder, and the rain falling down until it rested lightly on her soufflé.  

 Salad—

"Weeds again?”, he said.

"They're not weeds, it's salad. It's good for you. Now stop it and let's enjoy our meal".

The Waiter returned and stood quietly, pad and pencil in hand. 

The lady gave her order, including the House salad.  With Vinaigrette.  

"On the side please", she said. 

"And you Sir", said the Waiter. 

He hesitated. She looked daggers at him. 

"The salad", she hissed. 

"I'll have the salad" he said, looking at the Waiter. 

"Yes Sir.  House or Caesar?"

"Macaroni", he replied. 

Survival—

“Run”, she cried.

 “Run now!”

 So I ran.  Then ran some more, staying tight to her speckled white hip and swinging black tail. 

“Why are we running”, I cried out. 

“It’s what we do”, she called back. “Just stay with me”. 

Across the green grass, splashing through the cold water, and stumbling, flailing against the black mud which sucked my feet deep into the earth.  Eyes blurry from wind and effort.  Lungs on fire.  The only sound in my ears, the roar of the blood racing through my veins. 

“There!”, she cried.  “Over there, the gap in the thicket.  Do you see it”?  She pushed her nose into my shoulder to guide me to where she was looking. 

Where?  Where?  My mind was on fire and I could not focus.  What gap?

Then suddenly I saw it.  A dark space.  A shadow on the wall of trees ahead.  I pointed my nose towards it, pushed hard with my hindquarters and I was through.  Ahead of me, the old Appaloosa mare was slowing.  I caught up to her and slowed with her.  

“But why are we running?   I still don’t understand”, I gasped.  The mare slowed to a walk and swung her head towards me.  “It’s what we do.  When we don’t understand, we run.  We run first and figure the rest out later. Don’t ever forget it.  It’s how we stay alive”.   

Of Daylight, Time, and Madness

“I don’t care what they call it, it’s still 7 o'clock!”, said I, quite irritated.

“Spoken like a true curmudgeon”, replied the Sergeant Major.

“Well, it’s true.  They think they can just change time, but they can’t.  It’s still 1pm Greenwich Mean Time (GMT).  All they’ve done is to make me go to work from 7:30am to 4pm, instead of 8:30am to 5pm.  The Earth is still rotating at the same rate.  It didn’t speed up at 2am Sunday morning!”

By now I was highly agitated, and that, along with some coffee, was the primary reason I was even awake.  Yes, I know that farmers are supposed to “get up with the sun”, or some such nonsense, so I guess I’ll just have to be the exception to the rule. 

But while we’re on that subject, my animals find this change annoying as well.  They measure time by the sun, as they should.  Now, because their farmer has gone off his rocker, they will be eating their meals an hour earlier.  That will go on for some months until it suddenly changes back and they find themselves eating at the proper time, or an hour later, or something.  No wonder they remain somewhat skeptical of humans.  We can be quite inconsistent with even the very basics. 

The only ones who win are the chickens because they have food and water available 24/7, and the rooster still crows at sunrise.  Nothing arbitrary and capricious about that.  Sure, the couple that comes by to see them every day will wander by an hour earlier than usual, but so what? 

For the horses, pigs, alpacas and donkeys, tough luck.  People screw with me; I screw with you.  Stuff flows downhill, as they say. 

But why?  Why do we bring this pain on ourselves?  According to my research it can be described in one word:  Evil.  The guys who came up with this abomination were 1) Early risers, and 2) Busybodies.  They were up.  The sun was up.  Why was everyone else still asleep?

“You’re wasting daylight”, they cried. 

“So what”, said the Farmers.  “The dew makes it too wet to cut hay until later.  We’re going back to bed, thank you very much”. 

And so they did, and slept just fine until World War I, when the busy bodies returned in force. 

“There’s a war on you know”, they cried. 

“The cows don’t care”, the Farmers shouted.

And for reasons still not fully understood except that people tend to lose their minds in war time, Daylight Savings Time became a reality.  For a while. It was repealed after the war, and it stayed gone until, you guessed it, the next World War.  This time the rallying cry was to “Save Energy” although it’s never been clear that it actually saves very much energy.  At any rate, after the war, it went away again, but like any other really bad idea, it just wouldn’t stay gone.

So how do you keep selling this bad idea?  “For the children”, of course.  Thousands of school children would be mowed down by speeding motorists while they stood in the road waiting for the bus.  Or some such thing.  But Americans being Americans if it “saves even one child’s life” we have to do it. 

And so we do.  Funny thing is though, the people who actually made this happen were the grill and charcoal makers, amusement park owners, fast food companies, and the makers of sporting goods—People who all benefited if Joe the Plumber got off work at 4pm instead of 5pm.  He and his buds now had an extra hour to grill out, drink beer, or go fishing while their wives could run down to the store or take the kids to the amusement park while it was still daylight.

This is why I get to spend two weeks in the Spring and another two weeks in the Fall, feeling like death warmed over while my body reluctantly adjusts its Circadian rhythms to please a bunch of early rising busybodies, in cahoots with businessmen and politicians. 

Quit telling me that “Time changes”.  No.  Nature’s time is Nature’s time and my animals and I know it.  You might have the power to make me go to work an hour earlier, and get off work an hour earlier, but you didn’t change time.  All you did was change my schedule.  

Ask the people in Greenwich.  Time didn’t change a bit, GMT is still GMT.  I agree with the unknown person who made this observation: “Only the government could believe that if you cut a foot off the top of a blanket, and sew it to the bottom of the blanket, you will get a longer blanket.”

Art, Music, and Soul

They say that Art shapes society.  I agree.  Art is communication between a “Speaker”—the Artist, and the “Listener”—the Audience.  It can take a variety of forms—painting, sculpture, photography, films, literature, music.  But it must convey a message from the Speaker to the Listener. 

Personally, I enjoy Art most when the message is positive—when it instills virtue, or celebrates a joy.  My favorite though, is when it creates a sense of oneness.  When it shows us that we are a lot more alike than we are different, even if we are separated from each other by race, or class, or time. 

I consider myself one of the lucky ones.  Art was a big deal when I was growing up.  “Picture Study” as we called it, was taught in the elementary schools.  I still remember learning the names of the great paintings, the Artist, and their country of origin. 

We had theater too.  Our local theater group, “the Playhouse” was made up of people who we knew.  When I saw Tennessee Williams’ “The Glass Menagerie” performed, it was my teachers, and my neighbors that I was watching.  And it wasn’t limited to small productions either.  They performed “Camelot”, and “The Royal Hunt of the Sun”.  Dozens of people were involved in every aspect of putting on a play—building sets, painting scenery, moving scenery, rehearsing lines, playing musical instruments, or acting as “extras”.  This was all in addition to the Director and his or her actors who were the public face of the production.  Almost everyone had some connection to the play, or knew someone who did. 

Music was a big part of our community as well.  In the Summer, the local park would host the town “orchestra”.  It was comprised of people who knew how and wanted to play an instrument.  The well-regarded high school band director at the time was the Conductor, and people would gather to picnic and listen to their neighbors play.

When I was in third grade, the Oklahoma City Symphony came to town.  Our largest auditorium at the time was in the Junior High School.  That was the venue.  During the day, grade school kids from town were bussed to the Junior High to listen to an abbreviated performance.  That evening the adults would attend the entire concert.  For some reason I was unable to attend with my classmates that day, and I was extremely upset about it.  I lobbied hard to attend the adult show that evening.  My parents did not want to go, but in a compromise which I find amazing to this day, my father drove me to the Junior High, and let me out.  After the concert he returned to pick me up.  I remember sitting there, listening to this wondrous music.  I had never in my life heard an actual orchestra “up close and personal” like that.  It was a deeply satisfying experience, and I’m grateful to my folks to this day for making it happen. 

High school was a feast, with Band, Orchestra, Chorale, Glee Club, Speech Activities, Drama, and Art.  I followed the Speech Activities path and competed in Poetry and Dramatic Interpretations.  I was the Audio Manager for our school TV show, and the Program Manager for the school radio program.  I played the lead in the Junior play, and was a Photographer and Photography Editor for the Yearbook.  It was all fun, and great times.

Art can show us proper principles; it can make us search our souls.  Good art inspires us.  It schools us in creativity, and, dare I say it, in “thinking outside the box”.  That’s why I cringe when I see school systems today cutting Music and Art in response to funding shortfalls.  I’m not saying that Art is more important than Science, or Math, but it is at least AS important. 

In my work as a Human Resources professional, I have seen the difference that Art makes.  Those employees who come from schools without Music and Art programs tend to be less creative problem-solvers.  They seek the one right answer without understanding that the goal is to solve the problem.  They keep requesting a template instead of creating one of their own.  They don’t grasp that maybe there are multiple answers, or a variety of ways to do something. 

These are not bad people by any means, and they’re no less hard working, but they’ve missed out on an important part of being a human.  I look for ways to share, but it can be difficult.  Once we reach adulthood we become a tougher audience.  Not long ago, we had a corporate retreat and I suggested going to the Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in nearby Bentonville, AR.  The first response was pretty much, “You gotta be kidding me, right?”.  But I prevailed, and we did go there.  Among our activities was creating a group piece of art, and we allowed ample time to visit the Museum itself.  After it was all over, the responses were gratifying: “I’m so glad we did that”, was common, followed by, “I plan to take my family soon”.   I said a silent “Yes!”, while doing an invisible fist-pump.   And I celebrate a little victory every time I pass the group painting which now hangs in a prominent spot in our corporate office.

Art, in all its forms, is a path with heart.  Follow it and be rewarded.  As Pablo Picasso said, “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life”.

Values and Cultures

“Those who say that all cultures are equal

never explain why the results of those cultures

are so grossly unequal.” –Thomas Sowell

Last time I wrote that my company had started a new Employee Recognition Program.  I mentioned that it was tied to our Values, and that I had written some micro-stories and essays for the program.  What I find interesting today is that no one asked why.  Why would you tie your recognition program to your Values?

The answer is that we want to create a culture that reflects who we are, who we want to be, and that rewards people when they demonstrate their commitment to our values.  In short, we believe that culture really does matter—because results matter.  They really do.   

In the business world this has been accepted as fact for quite some time.  Numerous studies have shown that companies that deliberately work to create a specific culture are much more successful than those who leave it to chance. 

“How can that be”, you ask.  “Aren’t all cultures equal?  Isn’t the best culture ‘multi-culture’?”

No, not exactly.  Cultures are based on shared values.  When shared values are missing, so is the commitment to the group.  Each individual strives to get ahead, and without the mitigating influence of shared values, the group is left to flounder helplessly as each individual tries to pull everyone in his or her direction.  Without values agreement there can be no right, no wrong. 

High performing groups, on the other hand, consistently demonstrate two characteristics:  Everyone understands the mission, and everyone shares the same values.  So, in the absence of further guidance, individual members consistently make better decisions for the advantage of the entire group. 

One culture, striving to reach an agreed upon goal.  It works. 

“But isn’t that discrimination?” you ask.  In a manner of speaking, yes.  We are looking for people who show Respect for one another; who live their lives with Integrity; who have Spirit: who demonstrate Excellence; and who care about Stewardship.  If you don’t want to be like that, then, yeah, you don’t fit. 

Here is the key:  We don’t want “multi-cultural”, but we do want “multi-ethnic”.  We want “multi-gender”.  We want “multi-generational”.  We want “multi-faith”. 

And, in my company, you will see that.  We are Indian, Black, White, Hispanic, and Asian.  We are men and women; heterosexual and homosexual.  We are Christian, Jew, Moslem, Nativist, Pantheist, Deist, Taoist, Buddhist, Hindu, Rastafarian, agnostic, and atheist.  We are old, young, and middle-aged. 

And you are welcome to be any of that, or something else altogether.  We don’t care.  What we do care is that you have Respect, Integrity, Spirit, Excellence, and Stewardship.  They are the non-negotiables. They form the basis for our culture.  This is how we wish to live.  They tell us what is bad and what is good, what is desirable, and what is undesirable.  If these values represent who you are, and who you wish to be, you are welcome here.  If these values don’t resonate with you, then yes, it is better for you to go.  No hard feelings.  No ill wishes.  But you just won’t fit. “You don’t have to go home” as the old saying goes, “but you can’t stay here.”