I’ve always wanted to be a leader. I mow the lawn and take out the trash. I pay the bills. I’ve fed the dog and picked up the poop, just like a good leader should.
But I’m no leader.
I know this because I’ve been reading blogs about the subject. I’m finding out that true leaders can write and master multi-step action plans that make them superhumanly productive. They select and nourish positive, reinforcing team members around themselves. They demonstrate unequalled zest for adventure in their personal lives. Their professional success generates surplus income sufficient to spawn multiple non-profit organizations.
Does that describe me? Nope. I’m an un-leader. Here are some blog-harvested leadership skills I haven’t quite mastered:
How to be a responsive person
How to train my brain
How to become a better communicator
How to say “no”
How to promote myself
How to become a champion
How to build my own “platform”
…oh…and this one…
How to not feel overwhelmed
See?
I’m an un-leader because I can’t shrink my to-do lists; instead, they keep growing.
I’m an un-leader because realists are less popular than idealists; they don’t draw much more of a following than flies.
If I wrote a song today, there would be a verse about birds because this week I witnessed two of them, on two separate occasions, helpless and injured on the sidewalk in front of me. One young bird fell out of the nest above my head just as I walked by. I might write a second verse that would ask what else I could have done besides simply walk by.
There would be a very long verse with too many words about my family, how much they mean to me, and how much I hope I mean to them.
There would be a verse about my great friend, who this week suffered a major heart attack and who is now in the hospital following surgery. I would tell of his long and loyal relationship over many decades, how he has enriched my life and how much better I have become by knowing him.
There would be a very short verse that would ponder whether or not my job is significant.
There would be a verse about people who ride the train, legs splayed, bags on cushions meant for passengers, their bodies blocking access to the seat next to them.
There would be a verse about seeing the reflection of my face, noticing no change day by day except for the deepening creases that somehow migrated there since a picture taken a decade ago.
In between each verse would be a majestic, joyful refrain—a sort of counterpoint—expressing gratitude to God for birds, for family, for friends, for jobs, for trains and for health.
Just beyond the prim, tidy front yard intended for view by the general public, lies a more restricted, wilder place, a vestige of nearly-forgotten cops and robbers chases, water balloon fights and a blow-up swimming pool with a three-week lifespan before the leaks would arrive.
Backyards hold private mysteries that go undiscovered even by others within the same household. Here, a mother recalls a hedgehog that tore up the lovingly-weeded annuals. There, children observed a feral cat bear her kittens, creating the myth of fierce cat-creatures that toy soldiers would hunt for several summers. Dreams of future baseball and soccer triumphs would eventually crowd out fights between plastic soldiers clutching plastic guns.
Gradually, the forgotten green soldiers buried themselves within misplaced Lego brick fortress walls, long since concealed beneath the roots of a giant oleander bush. There, they guarded the small menagerie of plastic farm animals. A tiny replica of Trigger peered into the dirt, searching for Roy Rogers, unaware of his presence six inches deep in the dirt just beyond the fading pink fragment of hula hoop.
Another world lay buried just below this community of plastic. It consisted primarily of rusting creations: toy cranes, a windup monkey frozen by time, and a piggy bank containing 16 coins, all bearing dates prior to 1930.
And so the sediment treasures continue downward, each layer less familiar and more mysterious than the one before. Who can know what lies beneath the ancient Indian relics and buckles of explorers, and what creatures conquered and then perished in a deepening layer of sediment before human witnesses existed.
It will be our turn to lay a layer down. As the gigabytes of discarded data settle into the next layer of strata, I’m hoping for more than irretrievable bits and bytes, more than fading plastic and more than rusted scrap metal.
I’m hoping for a layer that will last: for faith well-founded, for promises well-kept, for trust well-earned, for love well-invested, for encouragement well-placed.
As I walk past artist James Turrell’s architectural installation, the color of the light emitted from the art constantly changes against the evolving hues of the sky. The light-splashed square opening in the artwork frames the sky above, so the interplay of light is never the same from moment to moment, from sunrise to sundown. The combinations are unpredictable.
If our lives are the sculpture, the light we generate interacts against the backdrop of the ever-changing light of the world we live in. No wonder life can be perplexing. Sometimes we can manage a chameleon-like blend with our surroundings. Other times we feel an uncomfortable clash with our environment.
When the first grey days of winter moved in, Old Meter #2’s departure was not far behind. It was not wholly surprising that #2 would go. As the oldest meter, he was the founding member of the cluster of meters, having been installed before the house was subdivided into apartments. Upon his last inspection, he was found to suffer from slow meter syndrome, resulting in lost earnings for the natural gas utility company, and his replacement came with little fanfare. But Miss Meter #1, Gumbo Ya Ya Meter #3, Junkman Meter #4 and Meter of the Pack #5 grieved.
“It’s always about the money,” muttered Meter of the Pack #5 upon hearing of Old Meter #2’s impending replacement. #5 was an awkward sort of meter who was proud of the “Meter of the Pack” nickname that he had invented for himself, suggestive of the design flaw he possessed—a flaw that made his usage dial turn unreliably. His own replacement had long been rumored, so he took #2’s decommissioning personally.
There was another cloud of melancholy that hung over the meters. The woman renting Gumbo Ya Ya Meter #3’s apartment had abruptly left her place some time ago. It stood empty, awaiting badly-needed refurbishing by the owner. Pots and pans still littered the kitchen; buckets and packing boxes and foam shipping peanuts were strewn about. The story gradually shook out. The former resident had been discovered to be cooking gumbo ya ya illegally, in an unlicensed and un-inspected kitchen, falsely labeling the containers as originating from New Orleans. Suspicion arose due to the amount of her kitchen’s gas usage, uncharacteristically high for a residence, and drawing the false conclusions that she had in fact been running a meth lab. With her gone, the gas gradually drained from Gumbo Ya Ya Meter #3’s pipes, and he gradually faded away, like the grip of early onset Alzheimer’s. One day, after the arrival of a new occupant, and with the gas flow restored, he would be back. But for now, he was forced to withdraw from the traditional social hours that the meters coveted.
Before Old Meter #2 was taken away, and while Gumbo Ya Ya Meter #3 still had all her faculties, they had all indeed enjoyed a close camaraderie. Here, on the north side of the aging house, they were protected on the hottest days. As their various renters arose to face the new day, their meter dials stirred, slowly gathering speed, the flow of gas gently tickling them awake from their nightly slumbers. Junkman Meter #4 generally napped on his own schedule, since his renter worked the graveyard shift as a night watchman at the local junkyard. When #4 awoke, he would boast to the other meters about how much gas he had passed during their sleep. It was a lame joke, but he never tired of it. Jokes don’t come easy for tightly-regulated meters.
The meters watched together as the sun began its daily arc, gently warming them from the chill of night, the early glow of the sun’s first light coloring their steel, like crab shells reddened by boiling water.
Their job was forever unchanging. At the sun’s daily arrival, the meters remained perched upon the gas lines–looking like hearts connected to fat, gray arteries, as they monitored the flow of invisible energy. Their daily routine would be interrupted only once per month by a lone technician, who, like a homecare nurse, would inspect them and note the progression of gas, displayed upon their slowly rotating dials.
Old Meter #2 had provided years of faithful service to his longtime renter, Reverend Robert, a young pastor with a sterling reputation until recently, when the rumors surfaced about his supposed dalliances with the attractive brunette who lived across the hallway, Miss Meter #1’s renter. Never mind that all the rumors were unfounded. Yes, they had become good friends, and, yes, they had engaged in conversations at the local Starbucks, but always with great intentionality to be in full view of the community so that no misunderstanding might arise. The cumulative weight of the rumor mill had taken its toll on him. He soured on the people, and eventually, the ministry itself, and his world unraveled. He felt he deserved to be loved, and that it held no contradictions to his calling. When a small emerging home group offered him open arms to become their leader, he resigned his church and took their offer; the reduced income meant nothing to him. It felt good to be free and to no longer care about perceived impropriety. He would answer for his actions, but no longer to the torturous investigations of the former congregation.
On the same day that Rev. Robert was reinventing his life, his gas meter, Old Meter #2, took its final ride to the junkyard, the same junkyard that was under the watchful eye of Junkman Meter #4’s graveyard-shift night watchman.
On this day, one final drama would play out in Meterland. The technician tightened the last nut, leaving a brand new face in Old Meter #2’s place—New Meter #2.
“Hey, everyone!” New Meter #2 shouted to the other meters, hoping for a warm welcome. “Look at me! Fresh out of the factory box! And look, no dial for me! I’m all digital! Wheeeee!”
The other meters, clearly grieving for Old #2, barely tolerated his comments. They stole a sideways glance, which is, actually, all meters can ever do. Indeed, the brash new meter did have a different look about him.
“Hey, I even have my own tattoo!” he boasted of the round yellow tag across his front. The other meters thought better of correcting him, knowing that, with time, the inspector’s number would fade and disappear, just as theirs had so many seasons ago.
With the setting sun, the day’s heat drained from the meters’ cold-blooded shells. As the renters fell asleep, their meters quieted as slumber also gently came upon them.
Rev. Robert’s dreams again turned, now freely, to Miss Meter #1’s renter in the apartment next door as a smile passed across his face.
Meter of the Pack #5, with his renter at work in the night shift, had already long been silent.
New Meter #2 emitted the cold light of new diodes. He was proud to be the first next-generation meter on the block. So far, he liked the new friends in his meter-hood.
There was something that excited New Meter #2 about discovering the intricate gas utility usage patterns of his renter, the Rev. Robert.
But from the news that he had already gathered from the other meters concerning Rev. Robert’s dreams of Miss Meter #1’s renter, New Meter #2 anticipated that all those patterns were about to dramatically change.
I came across a one dollar bill lying directly in front of me on the sidewalk during my daily walk. It fluttered provocatively, like a butterfly during mating season, seducing me to stuff it into my pocket before the former owner noticed its absence.
As I weighed my decision whether to pick it up, I pondered just how much this single dollar bill was really worth. Was the dollar’s loser laying a trap for me, tempting me to steal his greenback? Was I being secretly filmed for the inaugural television episode of “True Mysteries: Who Would Steal a One Dollar Bill”?
So what is the significance of a mere one dollar bill?
Some months ago (my blog dated September 17, 2010), I reported that I had testified on behalf of a two-strike offender, on trial for committing his “third strike” offense, which carried with it a possible life sentence. At 40 years old, some would argue that he should have known better than to steal a backpack from a 99 Cent store, and when confronted, assault the security guard with a substance from a spray can in his pocket. That $1 backpack theft earned him a 30-year sentence, without the possibility of parole. A single one dollar bill could have bought him 30 years of his life.
If I were still a child growing up in Germany, the country where gummy bears originated, the German equivalent of a $1 bill would buy me precisely 400 of these miraculously scrumptious gastronomical delights. The mere thought of these treats would start my salivary glands a-tingling, prompting me to jump onto my three-speed bicycle and sprint to the next village, where the matron tending the store (she knew me well) would dutifully count out: “Eins, zwei, drei, vier…” all the way to 400, while I watched, to be sure she didn’t cheat me out of even one tiny fructose delicacy.
If I had invested a single $1 bill each day for four decades at 7% compound interest, I would have created wealth of more than $80,000 for myself, a gain of $65,500 in interest alone. Too bad I didn’t manage to do that. Alas! My retirement plans are still in tatters.
I recall the $20 bill I came across nearly two years ago, within a few blocks of here. Now that was a find—a miracle!
But what to do with this solitary $1 bill? How could I best honor this unexpected $1 windfall from an unknown donor?
Over the years, inflation alone has rendered it nearly worthless. Or has it? I considered my remaining choices. I could—
–search for the owner, but that would be in vain, I surmised; don’t be ridiculous.
–give it to a needy person, but it likely would be spent on booze. Nah, not on my watch!
–give it to charity. Get real! Their administrative costs would eat up all but a few pennies.
Only one option remained that might revive the value of my anemic dollar bill. With bill in hand, I quickly covered the several blocks to my destination, strode into the establishment, plopped down my $1 bill on the counter, and confidently ordered, “One Mega-Millions lottery ticket, please!”
Devoted readers will recall the recent blog posting of May 21, in which we stumbled upon a nasty-looking beetle with an even nastier name: The Devil’s Coach-Horse!
“So what became of this fearsome beast?” some may ask.
The longer I held him captive in the Folgers coffee jar, the more clear the choice became—I would need to either permanently eliminate the vermin, or perform a “catch and release,” borrowing the vernacular of seasoned sport fishermen. Should I give this horrid bug the “thumbs down” and squash its worthless little life, or should it receive the “thumbs up” reprieve and let it enter a world of unexpected freedom?
The longer I studied him through the glass, the more I started to empathize with him. Those horrible mandibles—well, what else to eat with? Without braces on our teeth, many of us would resemble the grille of a 1953 DeSoto. And the nasty-smell producing anal gland and spray—I dare say I know some folks who don’t smell quite right either, but they don’t deserve squishing. Then there’s that scary scorpion-like tail! If I were so small, and my captor so big, I suppose I would also use any scare tactic I could conjure up.
I gave him a few drops of water, perhaps to see if he would drown, maybe to make him start moving again, and to my amazement, his head immediately lowered into the shimmering droplet, like a dog lapping out of its bowl. I could almost hear him slurp. My amazement turned into guilt. I had nearly let my captive, by now nearly a pet, suffer death by dehydration.
And that turned the tide. He was no longer an object of scorn and fear. He was more like me than I wanted to admit. I would have to let him go. A senseless massacre was averted because I had come to know him as more than a discardable object. If not a friend, at least he had become my neighbor. In my world and in my mind, I had just settled my own version of Middle East hostilities.
As I tipped the jar, and he gained his footing, I envisioned myself also being released, along with the Devil’s Coach-Horse–escaping death, and not taking another moment of life for granted.
What a relief! Apparently, death from holding the wrong end of a flame thrower, being ejected by a wildly-gyrating Ferris wheel gone berzerk, dehydrating due to blood-sucking zombies, or suffering fatal trampling by frenzied steroid-ingesting giant armadillos could all happen multiple times.
But drowning can only happen once in a lifetime. Whew! One less thing to worry about.
I’m no entomologist, but even if I were, this guy would freak me out. The name itself is the stuff of science fiction, as this book cover suggests. The devil’s coach-horse is a beetle one hopes does not really exist.
The troubling thing is that this thing really does exist; I collected this specimen just outside my office door.
I thought at first this was a large ant. After closer inspection, I realized for that to be true, it would have to be an ant on The Mother of All Steroids. It measured fully one inch long, with jaws that could disassemble a Tonka Toy model dump truck with a single chomp.
I gingerly tried to gather the specimen in an empty plastic jar that used to contain Folgers coffee crystals. Suddenly, my mini-monster raised its tail straight into the air, as if to strike like a scorpion. At its end gleamed two white menacing tips, looking as though they could launch some sort of secret weaponry. Its mouth opened up like a Vise-Grip pliers, ready to sink into its next meal: me.
Dropping the Folgers jar, I clawed for the wall behind me, like a child clinging to its mother’s skirt; this one-inch mystery monster had me cornered. Pulse throbbing, I grabbed the disassembled Folgers lid and jar and did what any red-blooded male would do: I prepared to tromp him, leaving nothing behind but beetle pudding, a set of giant mandibles, and a tail full of venom or puss or poisonous juice that he would have injected into a vein. I imagined my death to be slow and painful, the poison probably first paralyzing my vocal cords as a precautionary measure, so that I could not squeal for help.
Then the unexpected happened. The cold-blooded vermin dropped his tail, turned, and attempted to retreat. It was now or never, life or death. I sprang at him, Folgers lid and jar in hand, and, mercifully, in his confusion, he did not kill me. He was my prisoner.
I kept my captive overnight, wondering just what chemical or radiation exposure had created my monster beetle.
What on earth was this miniature monster all about??
The Google search began. Eventually, I found him out:
“The other popular name for this beetle is ‘cocktail’, because of its habit of raising its tail like a scorpion when it feels threatened. It cannot sting like a scorpion, but it does have another, rather bizarre defense mechanism. At the end of its abdomen are a pair of white glands which can emit a foul smell. It can also squirt a stinking brown fluid from its mouth and anus.
“The ‘devil’s coach-horse’ name came from Irish mythology where this particular beetle was considered a symbol of corruption. It was believed to have the power to kill on sight, and that it would eat sinners. When the beetle raised its tail, it was thought to be casting a curse. The foul smelling fluid emitted added to the effect.”
Mystery solved, but no more comforted, I nervously peered into his big, cold, expressionless bug-eyes. I wondered what that beetle-brain thought about the kind of creature that was staring back at him.
And still, I pondered how he yet planned to end my life.
I came upon these discarded items, in that order, during a single ten-minute walk. What could these items mean? The sleuth in me could not let go of the evidence.
Eventually, the order of events became obvious:
Eva sat on the grass in the park, the breeze softly moving her hair. Yesterday’s college graduation marked the beginning of her life of New Choices. She would get her own place now, finally, leaving the restrictions of dormitory life behind. She breathed in her newfound freedom. Yes, everything would become different. She would have a career and new friendships of her choosing.
“You look happy,” came a voice from just behind her. “I’ve been watching you from up the hill. Care to share a bit of my picnic?” He handed her the apple.
Two hours later, Eva took off down the hill, to the park’s exit. To her surprise, the apple was still in her hand. It had been two of the best hours she could remember—he, another lingering graduate from yesterday’s ceremony, was witty and a bit eccentric in a disarming sort of way. Laughter made his eyes shut tight, and she liked that. In the joy of the moment, she balanced on a brick wall, placing foot before foot, being careful to keep her balance.
Only later did she recall that during her balancing act, she had left the apple on top of the wall.
Not bowing quite low enough beneath a young tree, a twig grabbed at her hair and broke off. Eva plucked it from her hair, noticing round seeds attached to it. She took it as a good omen—her graduation, the delightful picnic in the park, the promise of a full life ahead. To celebrate all of this, she placed her small Twig of Hope into the utility cover beneath her feet.
I’m still not sure what Wrights Flexi Lace Hem Facing is used for, but she had a package of it in her purse, ready for a sewing project. Our friend, Eva, is handy with a needle and thread. Maybe she was going to decorate a pair of jeans or trim the edge of a handmade tablecloth. In any case, the package of Wrights Flexi Lace Hem Facing fell out of her purse, just as she reached into it and pulled out her wallet to buy a newspaper. She would enshrine the newspaper, which documented the headlines of the First Day of Her New Life, framing it on the wall of the new apartment she would rent.
She noticed the neighboring magazine stand that held Apartment Finder Magazine. Of course! She would pick up a free copy to find her new residence! She eagerly rifled through the apartment guide.
But wait. I wondered at the story of Eva that I had imagined. Why, if this series of events had transpired, had I found the apartment publication still there, left behind on the magazine stand, opened to the page showing the apartments she had envied? Perhaps I’ve gotten the story twisted. There’s no explanation that fits this scenario. Why would she leave the publication behind? My story of the series of items that were left behind, the apple, the twig, the Wrights Flexi Lace Hem Facing and the Apartment Finder Magazine must all be mistaken, though it all seemed so plausible!
But now, as I revise and replay the scenes with the cast of characters, the mystery suddenly becomes clear to me!
I’m staring at Eva reading the magazine, so caught up in her dreams that she does not hear the approaching steps behind her. Suddenly an abrupt and familiar chuckle catches her attention and she spins around, gazing directly into those eyes, now shut tight, closed in laughter. The young man apologizes for frightening her.
“I’m sorry,” he begins, “but I had to follow. The park got awfully quiet and lonely after you left. I had no choice; I just had to follow.”
I gradually lost their conversation through their laughter as they strolled away together.
From atop the magazine rack, Apartment Finder Magazine quietly flapped its pages in the breeze. The apartments could wait for another day; this was the first day of the rest of her life.
