Culture of Acknowledgement

Have you ever seen the show “Undercover Boss?”  CEO’s go undercover to find out what it’s really like to work for their companies. They see the good, the bad, and the ugly.  They get to know the employees and hear their stories, needs, and dreams. At the end of the show the boss reveals him/herself to the unsuspecting employees. 

At the reveal, great employees are rewarded by their undercover boss. What amazes me most are the acknowledgements that the bosses give these employees. Some get financial assistance, promotions, business opportunities, and other rewards.  Many of these employees have clearly had so little acknowledgement in their lives that they are shocked, not just by the bonuses, but by the words of the bosses who value them and the work they do.

What makes the show so appealing to me, is watching these regular working class people expand their self worth by absorbing the acknowledgements from their CEOs. They just blossom right in front of the viewer.  And the bosses get to realize that without these “regular” people they have no company.  For some of them, it’s the first time they get this message.

Who doesn’t long for acknowledgement? Acknowledgement is a powerful thing. No matter how great we might think we are doing, hearing it spoken makes it REAL. Every time I receive it and every time I give it, the language of acknowledgement rocks my world.With something so powerful so readily available, it’s amazing to me that so few of us seem to know what it is or how to use it. God knows until recently, I had no clue myself.

At the yearly embarrassing work birthday party, where cake and silly cards ruled the day, I announced that I wanted to create a “Culture of Acknowledgement.”  I handed out cards with acknowledgements crafted personally for each of my co-workers. One person made a comment. One person hugged me, and everyone else seemed doomed to silence for a short time while they considered my communication.  Some people read the cards right there, and some didn’t,  perhaps hoarding them for a private moment.

What followed over the next few days amazed me as I saw the acknowledgment cards taped to my co-workers computer monitors and other areas. The next day I was presented with an envelope of cards similar to the ones I gave out. Awesome words like leader, teacher, and friend were crafted and signed by my co-workers. In that moment, I felt heard.

What possibilities does the Culture of Acknowledgement create? Can it create a work place where acknowledgment and coaching put discipline and complaining to rest?  Can it create a culture where worthiness is a given and achievement no longer goes unnoticed? Only time will tell.

I know I will have more to say about acknowledgement……. stay tuned.

Pi was acknowledged for his work in flyball this weekend with this awesome plaque.
He's a good boy , and he is loved by me! 

Trains Go By

When I rounded the corner onto TV Highway on my way to work, I sighed  as I saw the traffic backed up for several blocks. The red flashing lights in the distance and the mournful cry of the train horn announced that the road was blocked with no way around.

I turned off the car and sent texts to inform work I would be late. As I watched the lumber laden rail cars, slowly click-clack  across the intersection, I was reminded of a conversation  I had with a good friend whose life was then in turmoil.

"Emotions are like trains, " she said, "they just go by."

Some go by in a flash:  joy of  victory,  fleeting frustration,  anger of being cut off at your exit.

Some go by like a turtle packing bricks (which isn't always bad) :  disappointment of  a failed attempt,  pride of job well done, the fear of being caught.

As you can see, the train has gone by.
Photo taken at a park near Republic, WA, 2010

The worst, the train stopper, has to be grief. When a big loss hits like a 2 X 2 in the jaw, the train just stays on the track, stopping  traffic and blocking the view of what lies ahead.  I have let grief keep a train on the track for months. Sometimes there is nothing to do but keep breathing and wait for the train to move.

What a relief to know that I can't trust emotions to keep me company forever. When emotions run rampant,  I just wait a while and they move on by until the view becomes clear again.

The train goes by and the journey continues.
Peace!
lw

When Cats Go Bananas

As a vet tech I have many stories of cats who have "gone mad" trying to avoid veterinary services. While most pet  cats are certainly amiable enough, many want nothing to do with the vet. Some cats want to claw your face. Some want to latch on to your hand. Some just want to get away.

Recently, when trying to discharge a post surgery cat, the cat decided he would not be  caught or picked up again. To avoid being transferred to his rather posh cat carrier, he instead took a leap toward my head. In sheer reflex action, I ducked. The cat's feet landed square on the top of my head, and he launched himself from my head to the ground in less than a micro second.

My hands flew immediately to the top of my head and I began inching my way through our treatment area chasing the cat and calling out that a cat was loose. The cat made a safe landing to the tile floor and was recaptured quickly by our staff.   Fortunately, he was a light and agile cat and the damage to my skull was minimal.

My favorite cat escape story occurred when I had my first part time job in a GP clinic.I had been on the job about 3 days and the  regular technician called in sick. I hadn't  a clue how to anesthetize a cat for surgery. I had watched the more experienced technician wrap the pet in a towel, inject induction drugs, and mask the cat with gas anesthetic. (Not something that would ever be done in the place I work now.)

As I was holding this kitty burrito, the vet decided to check the oxygen tank. The hiss from the tank spooked this mildly drugged cat and sent him  straight to "crazy town". To avoid being bitten, I did the only intelligent thing.  I let go. The cat shot out of the towel, off the surgery table and into the clinic lobby.

The vet and I chased the cat into the lobby where  he lingered at the base of a decorative banana tree.

We crept along, trying not to scare him again. But alas, he would have none of it and he climbed the tree to the very top. Unfortunately,  the tree touched the ceiling tiles and those tiles were movable. The cat was headed into the ceiling. 

Now the doctor was starting to panic. Long strings of profanity poured forth. Seriously hateful looks were cast my way. He sent me for the big fishing net.

Before I had returned with the net, the doctor decided to chance it. He jumped up on the lobby seating, and launched  himself up the tree. He grabbed the cat's rear leg. When the kitty turned to hiss and bite the doctor, he lost his balance and fell from the tree. He dropped to the floor like a stunned fly.I put the net over him and waited for the swearing doctor to come down off the seats to assist me.

He didn't . He walked away, leaving me there with the stunned cat. I waited what seemed like forever for the cat to lift its head. His eye were dilated with fear but he was still alive. I had no clue how to get the cat into the net. So I finally just took it off. He perked up and looked around. Once he realized he was free, he gave a half-hearted sprint. I was able to herd him into a large ground floor cage in the surgery area where he avoided a procedure that day.

About a week later, I saw our receptionist loading that banana tree into her convertible. The doctor gave her the tree and forbid any further plant life in the lobby. As she drove away with the leaves flapping in the wind, it occurred to me that when cats "go bananas" nobody wins, least of all the cat.
lw

Winston: Feline Chessmaster
He did not escape, but he is super cute. 

Of Mice and Mom (and Dad)

My childhood friend Andy loved animals, but his mother would not allow pets.  To convince his mom that he should have a pet, we decided that he should start out small. We biked to a discount store and Andy selected two mice, one white with red eyes and one black and white, which he toted home in a cardboard carrier. Of course as kids do, he gave no thought as to how to house them once he got them home.

The doorbell rang  that evening and there stood Andy holding out a paper sack with the mouse carrier inside. The mice scratched at the cardboard furiously. He explained that his mother went totally whacko at the sight of the rodents.  She threatened to take a broom to them and Andy  thought their best bet for survival lay somewhere besides his house. He thrust the sack into my hands and insisted that I take it. I closed the sack up and shut the door.

I scurried off  into my sister’s room and showed her the mice. I dramatically recounted the tale of Andy’s mouse killing mom.  Sis agreed not to tell our parents. We would take care of them ourselves. 

We made a nest for them in a cigar box and hid the box on a high shelf in the closet. We used jar lids for water bowls and fed them cat food. When funds were available,  I rode my bike to the store and bought rodent food. Once or twice a day when mom was preoccupied  we took them out and played with them.   They would sit on our shoulders while we walked around.  Sometimes Andy came over and played with them too.

These mice had the life. They milled about on the shelf leaving poo all over. They chewed up my sister’s doll clothes. As far as we knew they never left the shelf unless we took them off of it. We explained to the mice that we had cats and that it would be wise not to leave the shelf. We were sure they understood us because the cats never found them.

We had shut the door to the room to clean the nest and feed the mice.   Mom threw open the door to tell us dinner was ready.  Alas, we were caught mouse-handed. She froze, stared for a moment, and then began a vigorous rant to rival all rants.  

I was devastated as I imagined my angry mother flattening them with a broom.  

Mom marched us into the living room and stood us in front of our father. My sister clutched the cigar box tightly as the mice tried to poke their noses out.  Mom continued her yelling until my father held up his hand and asked her to stop. 

“Can I speak to the kids?,” he asked as he continued to give mom the hand.  She continued to look very angry but she had stopped yelling. 

“Well,” said Dad, “where did these critters come from?”

I explained in dramatic detail how we saved them from a cruel death at the hand of Andy’s mom, that we had to take them, and  that we hid them because we knew Mom might be inclined to whack them just like Andy’s mom.

“Hmmpf,” groaned Dad, “how long have you been ‘saving’ these critters from doom?”

 I confessed that we had been keeping them for about a month.

“A month?” he questioned. He was smiling and I was not sure how to take it. The smile grew wider and he started to laugh. He let out a hoot and dropped back into his easy chair. I was relieved and quite confused by his display.

My mother was floored. She was strangely silent.

“Oh now,” Dad went on, “they have taken care of them for a month and we have not even noticed. No reason to turn them loose now. We should get them a better house though.”

The next day Mom took us to get a proper mouse cage. She told us that they must stay in the cage and never be let out. Of course, we still let them out when she wasn't around.

About 9 months later, the cat knocked the cage off the table and broke it open. The mice became cat food.  While I am sure that Mom was not sad about the rodent’s demise, she did actually care that we were  so sad about their death. We moped about for weeks holding a dangerous grudge against the evil feline.

In an effort to help us through our loss, Mom allowed us to pick out  a hamster to replace the expired mice. She never touched it, looked at it, or cared for it.  She didn't complain about it either and she even paid for his food .

My sister and I were relieved that our mom was not like Andy’s and that, while she did not care for rodents, she finally accepted our need to have them.  I also  found myself being thankful that my often disinterested father had found humor in the situation and had come to our defense. He understood our innocent need to show compassion to outcasts even if they were just mice. While my parents certainly had different reactions to the situation, in the end, they both came around to teaching us an unforgettable lesson. True compassion is never wasted and always its own reward. 

Growing up to be a Tree

My neighbor had a very large tree in her yard. The evergreen tree was probably three stories high. Since the tree was not particularly well maintained her insurance company told her to cut it down as it was a danger to her home. She did. (Sad face.) I liked the tree.

Now the tree is gone. Even if we wanted it back, it's not possible to plant a three story tree. Even if we could dig one up somewhere, haul it over, and put it in a hole in the ground it would fall without the root system that it took years to build. That's the thing about trees. You can plant a seed or sapling or even a small tree, but putting  up a really large tree in an instant,  and expecting it to live, just isn't done

A sapling, on the other hand, is movable. We can put it just about anywhere there is earth and water. With some care and kindness, it grows into a  tree. If we plant many and wait a long time, we have an orchard or perhaps a forest.

The key to having the forest, the orchard, or just one big ass tree is long term commitment and good old fashioned patience. No matter how hard I want it, the tree won't grow any faster than it's meant to. The root system is the intricate life force and stability of the mighty tree. Roots are a product of time.

Integrity is like that root system. Our integrity provides the stability and foundation that keeps us upright especially when  the storms come. I am challenging myself to walk a walk of integrity, to be authentic, and remain standing even when the winds are trying to blow me over. Nobody said it would be easy. In fact, it's not easy.  I suppose that I hold out hope that as the root system grows this tree will become more stable (if I live long enough.)

In the words of my favorite band Misty River's song "Branching Out" from their album Stories:

"When I grow up I wanna be a tree........ when spring comes by, I'm gonna get real green....on windy days I'll bend and lean.......If I should fall in storm or slumber, please don't turn me into lumber, I'd rather be a Lousiville Slugger......

You can click on the link below to hear Misty River sing this song! Hopefully they don't sue me for me putting a quote about them in this blog. I did buy most of the their albums AND concert tickets.

http://www.opb.org/programs/artbeat/segments/view/674?q=Misty+River

Peace! lw

Stuck in the Deep End

Growing up in rural Texas in the 70's was a hoot for a kid. My parents allowed free roam of the neighborhood with the only caveat being that I had to be indoors by the time the street lamps shined. For a kid of only six, the freedom was sometimes daunting and often dangerous.

In the fall, just before school began, I learned the nearby community pool had been drained. I had been to the pool many times. The idea of seeing the deep end with no water fascinated me, and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Back in those days there was no razor wire around the community pool, only a standard 10 foot wooden fence. I wasn't big enough to climb the fence, but I knew where to find a few loose pickets.

I convinced my young friend, Caroline, that seeing the bottom of the empty pool could change our lives forever. My four year old sister tagged along, sworn to secrecy. We were just small enough to shimmy through the loose pickets and into the community facility. The pool looked vast as we ran to the edge.

We descended  the  concrete steps on the shallow end and shuffled along investigating every crack in  the pool bottom. And there it was ......... the deep end. The steep slope before us looked as enticing as a playground slide. At the bottom of the slide, even more alluring, was the big drain. A simple must see for any six year old is the big drain at the bottom of the deep end.

I wasn't allowed in the deep end. My mother didn't trust my swimming skills, so I was restricted  to the shallows and kiddie pools.  I grinned as I slid down the slope to the drain. I had thwarted my mother's protective nature. I put my eyes up to the drain and saw blackness. I put my hand down through the metal bars and felt damp air. My friend did the same and then we were bored. Nothing else to do here.

I started up the slope to head out and with sudden fear realized that it was too steep. I slid back down toward the drain. I tried again but I was too small to get the momentum required to get up the slope. As I stood on top of the drain gazing up at the clear blue sky, I notice the number 12 painted along the edge of the top of the pool. Three little kids, 12 feet down, on the drain and no way out.

Caroline started to cry. Little sis just stood there staring at me with her thumb in her mouth. They were not going to be any help. It was up to me. Since little sis was the smallest I tried to lift her up to edge of the slope but she still couldn't reach the edge. We slid back down the slope landing in a heap near the drain.

I shushed Caroline. I couldn't think with  all that wailing. She shut up for a minute or two. I leaned again the cement slope. I instructed Caroline to climb up onto my shoulders. She did so kicking me not so gingerly in the ear. Next I had little sis climb our human ladder to Caroline's shoulders. Caroline put her hands under the four year old's feet and shoved her over the edge. She was out.

Since I knew she wasn't big enough to reach down to pull Caroline out, I gave her clear instruction to go get help from anyone but Mom. Off she went. She waved to us from 12 feet up. I screamed at her to get away from the edge.

"If you fall in, " I yelled, "we will all die in here. We will never get out! Go get help."

Caroline was sobbing again. I told her crying wasn't helping and shushed her again.

I am not sure how long we waited. Time is different when you are  six, even slower when you are stuck in an empty  pool. I was sure we had waited for hours, when at last I heard the laughter of two teen-age boys that Sis had rounded up in the park nearby. They stood there chuckling at our situation.  I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. One of the boys slid down the slope, hoisted me onto to his back, and ran up the slope, his friend grabbing his hand at the top and pulling him over. Then he went back down to get the crybaby.

We were rescued. We thanked our heroes who still hadn't stopped laughing. The boys jumped the fence and we slid back through our loose pickets. We three swore a pact to never tell our parents, keeping the secret for over 20 years.

When I contemplate what could have happened that day, it's disturbing. We could have been there a long time had I simply sat down and cried like my friend. The slope was too high and steep and we were too small.  We needed help.

I think perhaps in some ways I was more in tune when I was six. I can't count the number of times since then that I have sunk to the bottom of life only to sit and whine about it. Despite the fact that I am very aware that rescue always involves someone else, I hesitate to ask for help concerned that asking for help leaves me vulnerable (and it does.)  Conversely, I am the same person who rarely waivers when asked to help someone else.

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY:

Self sufficiency has no solution for one who is stuck 12 feet down in the deep end.

Peace! lw

Back Down the Rabbit Hole

After 5 wonderful days off, one traveling, two playing flyball, and two working the second job, I finally darkened the door at my "real" job. There was no welcome mat rolled out. No, "hey it's good to see you. " Nobody asked where I had been or how my weekend was.

A tad deflated I was when briskly reintroduced to the workplace drama that my stellar weekend had erased from my brain.  I was accosted immediately with a tsunami of scheduling issues and an angry clinic cat that didn't want his nail trims. The twisted reality of people who don't act like they like each other that much, forced to spend all day together in order to have groceries and power, reared its bobble head with a shiny Cheshire smirk.  I got cranky and couldn't seem to shake it.

To top it off, one of my doctors informed me that my speed of work (which I was thought was a good thing) was actually detrimental and that I needed to slow down. Slowing down is hard to do when you are super busy and always aware of the clock.  I even caught myself refusing help simply because it was easier to do it myself rather than take time to interact with somebody else.

Don't get me wrong. I work in a very nice clinic with genuine veterinarians. I am paid a fair wage for a CVT, and my manager is wonderful advocate for her staff. I have turned down other jobs to stay there. I was looking forward to being back at my regular job, where I know where things are and what is expected, only to be dropped down the rabbit hole of reality. Whoosh!

In the world of work, even those who are lucky enough to have jobs we like, still have to deal with everyday nuisances of human relationships (and in my case animals too!) If you're good at it, you develop a coping skill set for the various scenarios that rub you wrong. If you're not, you limp along in your work relationships until you give up and  find somewhere else to go.

I have to admit that I have become a super-coper.  I have spent most of life "coping" with some thing or other.  Lately, I ponder if it's possible  to move through life without having to cope all the time. Can I invent a possibility of just being without needing to constantly cope with every stupid thing that comes my way? While I  believe the answer is yes,  I'm not so sure I know how to cope with it.

Peace! lw