Maybe the End of the Beginning...

Since last Thursday, the images from Ukraine have been mesmerizing, inspiring, terrifying, sad, but also, in a way, hopeful. We should never forget the amazing resolve of the Ukrainian people to fight for their homes, their families, their County.  As Americans, we would do well to learn from them and their display of genuine leadership in the face of this crisis which is a much needed reminder of what that word really means and what it looks like in action.  

But looking ahead beyond the hopeful coming end of this terrible war, I want to share another potential lesson about the future of these types of conflicts, gleaned from what we have watched in Ukraine in real time on Twitter, Facebook, and cable news. 

With smart phones, social media, satellite communication, and all the other technologies we now have at our disposal, maybe, just maybe this is one of the very last times we are going to see this type of conflict.

The old style "sneak attack" is pretty much impossible when every citizen has a smart phone and can share the exact whereabouts of enemy positions for targeting by smart weapons. When commercially available satellite imagery can track whereabouts of soldiers and materials, and when dating apps can provide the location of individual soldiers, the information age is also bringing forward an awareness age that makes major, long duration, military campaigns nearly impossible to undertake without the opposing forces knowing exactly what you are up to. 

Beyond that, the globally interconnected nature of our economies today, may bring forth (finally) the dreams of the post WW2 community. The visionaries and dreamers who saw the United Nations and a common set of human rights as well as an interconnected community of nations, as  key elements of preventing wars.  To date, in so many places, that collective approach has failed to prevent war.  It did not prevent the war here either, but the world has now seen the power of a shared response and perhaps this will change forever what we are willing to tolerate and empower our shared responsibility and resolve to act BEFORE the bombs fall.  

Now, this is not a perfect scenario by any means and these days are not here yet. The people of Grozny and Aleppo and Darfur and Burundi and so many other places still bear the scars of our global inaction and inattentiveness. This better future is also dependent on the technology available to local citizenry and their governments,  meaning that there are countries in the world still very vulnerable to armed conflict and populations that will still face the horrors of war. 

But here in the last week, maybe just maybe we have our roadmap to a more peaceful planet. Where the combination of resolve and technology, information and analysis, and a global community committed to action in the face of conflict can bring us to a more peaceful age.  Time, as with all things, will tell.  And we are by no means at the dawn of a fully peaceful era, but progress is sometimes slow and almost always too slow when it comes to ending the scourge of military conflict, but maybe that sight is on the far horizon.  And that is something we can all be inspired by. 

Hanging with an Ex

I did it.  Maybe I should not have. Perhaps it is a bit disrespectful to my partner of five years.  But in the face  of the pandemic’s never ending slog, my need to rediscover myself, and a desire to feel alive again, I took a risk. I opened a door I slammed shut seven years ago.  Once opened, I walked in.  Cooly, calmly, and with a certain degree of determination.  

I walked down the jet bridge and did not even connect. I went back Non-Stop.  I landed in LGA. I found the MetroCard vending machine, boarded the Q70, transferred to the R train and found myself back in the arms of one of my greatest loves. 

The City of New York. 

NYC in all of its altered Subway routes, rats on the platform, noisy hotel room, never ending siren glory. 

I took in museums. I perused an amazing exhibition at the NY Public Library, and I sat in one of my favorite bars and watched golf, made new friends, and ate about 3/4 of the clam strips and even some of the french fries. Type 2 diabetes be damned. 

I ventured to Bay Ridge and cried a genuine tear about how so much was different about my old neighborhood and none of it for the better. I GOT the words of Iris DeMent’s Our Town, a song I have loved but never felt. By the third closed restaurant, I was right there with her

“And just like they say, nothing good ever lasts…”

But it was certainly was not all that. Or even all bad. New York’s greatest feature is also its worst. The ability to be two opposing things at once. The beauty of the Occulus and the “new” Penn station; the art at the Whitney, the designs at the Cooper Hewitt, and the spirit of some of the folks you meet. 

Thats why its never all bad. That is why I loved it when I lived there. A new experience was always available. You were never stuck to one thing. 

Time has gone on. I am happy where I am. I am content with where I am. I am even happier with who I am now (most of the time anyway). But I am also proud and happy of who I was and the love affair I had with that amazing place. No regrets, but no returns. Maybe a drink once in awhile. Perhaps a wonderful walk down Pigeon crowded streets of shadow, but what was- was. And I am okay with that. 

Isn’t that the best thing we can say about an ex?

The Second Worst Part

      When you are trying to get yourself back on track the second worst part, after whatever situation made you realize there may be an issue, is that horrible terrible shame and disgust filled moment when you realize how obvious it was that you got off track. Not when the derailment was underway of course, but with the clarity and magnification of the rear view mirror.  A device which does not have in its matrix the ability see a damn thing ahead of time or even in progress. How much time and energy would that save us all? 

 Next come questions. How did you miss the road signs?  Didn’t you notice the letters spelling out WRONG WAY? How about those spiky things that you are never ever supposed to drive over or severe soul damage may result? 

Nope, it is now crystal clear we just drove right over those. How did I miss the sound of the tires popping?  How did I not notice the car driving as though it had no tires? Oh whats that you say?  My blood glucose got to 368?  I was shedding muscle like a steroid user kicking the needle? My grandmotherly slot machine habit evolving to more of  a meth-friendly cousin, 3AM at waffle house kind of “issue?” How about the underlying current of frustration and anger and disappointment. The melancholy mornings…. Noons… and nights.  The 15 extra pounds and my fit-bit giving up the ghost from boredom? Those warning signs were not good enough?  The ER for chest pains. Yeah not a clear indication there either. I don’t know what you are saying exactly.  Some things to work on?  The TV is a bit static filled. Lets work on those bunny ears. 

     I do not want to know what message was going to be on the side of the Goodyear blimp obviously scheduled to crash in my backyard next week.  

     I would still wonder. “Whats the meaning of it all”. Blissfully in more denial than early 60s Female Rock Hudson fans convinced he was hollywood’s most eligible bachelor. Well yes, but actually, no. 

     It is not just the shame that makes now the a hard time. Its not just the feeling of being stupidly unaware of wasted time, wasted energy, wasted talents. 

     It is more that it all feels like being cheated on. By yourself. And feeling you must fix and make up for it: NOW. The cure for perfectionism is, of course, perfectionism. right? .Its having to fight the desire to make up for it all in a day. Shed 35 pounds on the elliptical in 45 minutes. Let’s see, 350 strides a minute should do the trick. 

For a certain kind of person it is also realizing you must, for the sake of pure survival, take a step back and look at the painting on the wall and breathe. Not once. But ten times. Deeply. Closing your eyes. And then moving. Moving is so damn important. Rocks do not have to move, neither do tables. But people must. Often. 

      True story, my doctor just prescribed me… breathing… in response to my chest pain event. Is it that obvious?  Or did he just hear and see the ticking timer attached to the TNT stick I have been chewing on like Bugs Bunny’s carrot. 

     I know what it was all trying to say. In our perpetually crazy always on always GO and CONNECTED world, it is more critical than ever to stop. Take this all in. Accept the fact the train derailed. And then deliberately, carefully consciously put it back on the track. And first run true. Then run slow. Then pick up a little steam. 

     But we can not fix the train at all if we don’t know where it is.  We have no hope of getting to the destination stuck in a mire of endless lets do this about that right now damn it!  No, I must stop. I will stop. 10 times. The start of every hour. Breaths. Deep and real. 

     Maybe then I will do a list. With only 2 or three things on it. Maybe then I will take a moment to meditate. I actually managed to do it last weekend. For five whole minutes I sat on the couch and did nothing. I kept a pad beside me and managed to have the most productive two hours of the last two years right after. Just from five minutes of calm focused presence. Im not going to fix everything. I am not even going to try. Im just going to do my best to do the right thing, to treat myself with the same love and patience I so easily give away to others. And  that is not a bad thing at all.  In truth, it may be the most essential thing I have ever needed to do.  Not bad at all. 

A New Oath

The last three jobs I have held featured the title of “Director”. One in the Fire Department, one for a Non-Profit, and, currently, for a software company. I have taken that title and my roles seriously in each case, as I have with every job I have ever worked, starting with Baseball umpire at age 14. For 33 years, I have thrown my entire being into elevating my skills, taking classes, attending conferences, reading books, getting certificates and using every other available avenue to help me and the organization I serve(d) succeed.  I like to think that I more often than not have been effective at those roles. 

But in recent days, in the face of articles on the Great Resignation, the aftermath of Covid-19, a wonderful sermon from Pastor Amy, and some really impossible situations, I have begun to  truly evaluate what that drive to succeed has cost me in return for success. 

You might say I can be a touch compulsive. Or that I am at times a perfectionist. You would probably be right. You may also correctly observe that my childhood featured echoes of the great depression by way of my parents and their own upbringings.  

“Your job is your life.” 

 “You must have stability and be the best at your job because if you don't you may starve.”  

"Don't stand up to your employer, they might get mad at you and take away your job and then where will you be?" 

That was the base layer. It was understandable, but far from healthy. Especially when that focus on work and determination was not accompanied by encouraging a side order of balance and boundaries and appreciation for the human needs of… being human. 

When you add in an extra entrée  of “must be best little boy in the world syndrome” is it any wonder I have been in some form of solid tea kettle boil since the age of about seven? For the unaware, that syndrome refers to us gay kids who grew up with a constant undercurrent of a terror that if anyone- a parent, friend, preacher, teacher knew who we REALLY were we would be rejected like a donated kidney and sent to live with really bad people in the woods or an orphanage,  followed by an eternity in hell. Or Michigan. 

Our Faustian bargain was to think that if we were perfect (about everything) then we could overcome our original sin (shame) and possibly earn our way to tolerance. Not acceptance. That was out of the question. But tolerance. Sort of a Tiny Tim existence where our shameful self would at least be given some table scraps on major holidays and perhaps be allowed to have a supporting role in the family production of Christmas Day. Likely while sitting in a closet. Forever and alone. 

For far too many of my LGBTQ sisters and brothers, even that modest goal proved unattainable and the exile became very real. And incredibly painful, horrible, and complete. Thankfully, my own exile lasted only a few months. But the wound caused by a knife is more about location than duration. And the scar does not tell the difference in time. 

That leads me to today. And that word: Director. As well as the accompanying realization that for far too long I have been all about perfecting the wrong words on my business card. I have looked at my job and my role with all the passion and commitment of someone whose worth was found in his ability to live up to the Title.

That was the result of an early electric connection between my shame and fear of being openly who I was and the ability to "make up for it" through work.  Thinking that I did not deserve grace and acceptance, just like with trying to be the perfect child to earn some form of tolerance, work offered the same possibility.  If I was great, well, maybe I could make up for my shortcomings.  I could earn something close to that which I thought I could never ever have. 

That was my own vow or oath. When my work became not the bottom couple of lines on a email signature, but something so much more than it should. That’s at least partially ok when you have taken an oath, when lives depend on getting it right. It is no less dangerous for your psyche to seek perfection in that case but there can be found some logic in the quest. 

But what happens when grace and peace become a prize to be earned through that work rather than a gift already sweetly and perfectly given?  When salvation connects itself to how far above your quota you were? How many hours you extended yourself beyond a normal schedule?  How well did you put on a smiling face and not say what needed to be said because of fear of scarcity or rejection?    

Welcome back to the Christmas closet, workplace edition. Realizing that along the way the comma between the name, my name, and the title was replaced by an equal sign.

And if that happens, when it happens for some of us, the question becomes, how in God's name do we stop?  How do we put some distance back between what we do and who we are?  That question may become our most important and hardest job of all. Being fully, completely, honestly one's self in an integrated way, focused first on our humanity, not our title.   How do we get back to being, Joe or Joanne, “who happens to be for awhile serving as a ___________” 

Anytime I forget that truth I lose my way. It is always impossible to find your way home if you know not where you are, or where you are going. Those are essential bits of information for even the most ambitious of GPS systems. 

I do suspect where the road back begins. It starts with asking: who am I always?  No matter what.  What brings me joy and peace even when the tempest boils?  Where can I find myself again, even if I lost me along the way.  It continues with an understanding. I am the only me who has ever been or ever will be. I am an original work of the creator. I am a recipient of grace and love and peace not as a reward for winning a prize, or meeting a quota, but as a result of being here, alive, and human. The best of our friends, family and counselors remind of this.  On our best days we remind each other.  

If you can find that, then you can begin to find it all again.  And that my friends is another form of grace. A beauty which comes from hearing your own name in your own ears not as an afterthought to your past or your title or your shame or your success. But on its glorious own. Serving as the reminder of whom you were made to be and who you are. No matter how you earn your pay. No matter what you are called. No matter who you love. No matter what those before you did or did not have. No matter what room you occupy on Christmas or any other day  

My forever oath is to do better at remembering that it is not an equal sign, but a comma. That much of our entire life is a blank line with words written in pencil following after a name that is ours  forever. A name that reflects my purpose above by position and the grace given to me and never earned, because it did not have to be. My oath is to be the best Christopher Blake Carver there is, or ever will be.  And that should always be more than enough. 

Innovation Missed: Why our best future demands safer communities.

This weekend marked my first ever visit to the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan.  I could go on for days about the collection and content.  It checked the boxes of nearly every interest I have. Diners to Airplanes, 1970s and 1980s television to trains and fascinating cultural references. From roadside architecture to a 1986 Ford Taurus similar to the one my family drove off a lot in December of 1985 thereby becoming, for a time, the coolest family in town.  It was all there.  

Most striking to me though, was a hall that attempted to define and describe innovation.  Highlighting key innovators over the last hundred plus years in a variety of fields as well as core concepts, it did what all great museums do.  It inspired but also challenged. It made you think about your own view of the world and the who behind things we take for granted. 

It also got me thinking about organizations and communities and the role our environments play in our ability to innovate. In the possibilities we do or don't have to take our lives to the next level, or to any level at all. 

The question then becomes: How we can create the environments in which the next one hundred years of innovation can happen? From where will the next George Washington Carver, Amelia Earhart, or Jonas Salk come from?  And how can we ensure that the solutions to our problems of today and tomorrow are brought to light and not squandered because of a missed opportunity.  How many brighter futures can we help make happen? 

Where does it begin? That better future for yourself and your community.  I believe it has to start with safety. If you do not feel safe and you are not safe, it is nearly impossible for you to become an innovator. Can it be done, perhaps.  But the best possible future will have the best possibility of succeeding in the safest possible environment.  Yes, a flower will grow sometimes in barren sand.  But far better are its chances in fertile soil, a temperate climate, and with the tender and watchful care of a gardener or two. 

If you do not know where your next meal will come from,  if you have no permanent housing,  if your community is ravaged by violence or drugs how safe can you be?   If your drinking water is contaminated by lead or if climate change leads to your community being destroyed by an increasingly destructive weather pattern or you suffer from emotional and/or physical violence at home, how safe can you be?  How well are you set up to innovate, much less thrive?  In many ways it may be next to impossible just to survive. Imagine having a justice system that does not afford you the same protections as others, or which does not believe you are entitled to equal rights because of your skin color or sexual orientation. 

Once you have a safer environment in which to grow, we can talk about the potential to thrive. That is where educational opportunities, training opportunities and lifelong schooling come in.  The importance of access to quality versions of those systems and institutions can not possibly be overstated. 

This is one reason, however, why our current "us versus them" climate is so incredibly destructive. We seem to have forgotten that the vast majority of people want and need the exact same things.  That fears and concerns surrounding these issues have been manipulated to highten differences and exacerbate fears are just another tragedy of the current age and every inch we stray from the common ground that forms our universal basic needs, we fall farther away from who we can be as individuals, communities, and a nation  

Take as an exmaple the interaction between any law enforcement agency and the community it serves.  Too often, both the citizen and the police officer are seen as antagonists.  There are certainly reasons why this occurs, but both need each other.  The citizen needs a police force that truly practices the carriage of justice and concern for every member of the community they serve and protect. But the community needs the police as well. When the 9-1-1 call is made to report a crime, potentially a violent one, those in peril need to know they will receive assistance in a timely and professional manner. 

If we are to have our next Henry Ford Museum celebrating advances in innovation that change our lives for the better, then we have to focus on the foundation of the house. There is a reason that our greatest period of American History (at least in some ways) can be said to be the Second World War. Although not perfect by any means for all people, it none-the-less gave an indication of what was possible when America focused in energy and creativity on a problem and got to work.  Imagine what we could do with today’s technology and capabilities focused on our present day problems.  From improving education to solving climate change, the possibilities are incredible. 

But you have to walk before you fly. And we have to get the basics right for all Americans- starting with their safety, their access to health care, and their education.  From that, anything is possible. 

Chest Pains & Wake Up Calls

 It is a story as old as a 70s family drama on ABC, CBS, or NBC. Remember kids, only three networks for those kind of shows back then. A middle aged man in the midwest feels a crushing chest pain for about a week and finally decides to venture out to the ER in the aftermath of a winter storm.  

This requires digging the car out, chipping off the ice, and determining the exact right moment to tell his partner the exact right thing (by text) so that he is sharing valuable information but not contributing to said partner’s discomfort or anxiety. 

As with all things at all times, it is about minimizing the discomfort of others you know. (If the midwest had its own coinage that very phrase would be stamped on the back, probably surrounding an image of a heroic parent holding a screaming toddler, books for her/his doctoral program, a bible, and the meals they just cooked for the incapacitated neighbor). 

The journey, although arduous, was successful. Two hours later I was sitting in Bob Evans (on brand, right?) having comfort food and thinking about just what a crazy person I was. Had it been a real cardiac event the stress of digging out the car would have left me like Luke Skywalker on Hoth, but with no warming animal carcass for safety. Just the barren frigid flatness of my driveway. Perhaps with enough energy to beckon a squirrel for some cuddles. I doubt the squirrel would have obliged, especially if the squirrel had seen the Empire Strikes Back. 

And what was the verdict? A side effect of covid had led to swelling and inflammation surrounding my lungs. Making it super painful to… well…. anything. Other than some medication, there was nothing else to really do. Other than rest, relax, and let my body calm down from whatever stresses it. 

Let’s see. In this day and age. Working in sales. More attuned than I should be to the events of the world, politics, and in the middle of a major house renovation already teetering on weeks off schedule, you want me to… relax and de-stress?  

Probably should just print the memorial service invitations now. At least I will know they got the order of services and the music right. 

Alas, here I am. I made it to the next day. Not dead yet. Yes. It still hurts.  And no, the bathrooms are not done yet. And yes, our nation is still in quite a bit of a pickle. 

But last night brought a glorious dinner with a new neighbor friend. My partner and I, by virtue of the car having been dug out earlier, were able to provide transportation to one of local favorite spots for food, wine, and conversation. 

Conversation about fears, frustrations, the challenges of love, and the possibility of it all.  The hard work of making anything work- love, a career, an ominous snowman in the yard. We ordered the desert, swore we would only eat a bit and take the rest home. But at the end the desert plates were clean. The only thing left to take was the memory of the conversation and of the joy of being present in each other’s lives and sharing this crazy thing that is our life today. 

It was fear of missing out on that which motivated my perhaps misdirected efforts to get to the hospital a few hours before. It was that fear that made me tell jokes and entertain the hospital staff making them more comfortable even when it was their job to do that for me. The ER physician complimented me on my “pleasant disposition”- something I am embarrassed to admit may have happened a few times before in situations where I perhaps should have been a bit more freaked out and less focused on the feelings of strangers. 

It was fear of not doing those things to be done that lingers behind, just like this aching pain behind my right lung. Maybe I can do something about that fear, even if I can’t do much about the pain.