noun. 1. the fact or power of enduring an unpleasant or difficult process or situation without giving way. 2. the capacity of something to last or to withstand wear and tear.
I am in earnest—I will not equivocate—I will not excuse—I will not retreat a single inch—and I will be heard!
—William Lloyd Garrison
even from the darkest night songs of beauty can be born.
—mar
Was I tempted to make an exception to the public transportation plan for this trip? Yes. But I stuck with my intention. I was committed to public transportation and trying to see the divine in each person I encountered. So then it was off to a bus. And another bus. And transfer to one more bus. By then I was hoping my friend Terry's recommendation to see the Dancing Saints mural of St. Gregory's Episcopal Church was a great idea. The moment that the fourth bus turned in the direction opposite to St. Gregory's, I just jumped off—no pause, I got off. (How could I have known if I'd just paused a moment I would not have had to climb Potrero Hill?) The bus went past me and disappeared going the wrong direction. Just moments later the bus reappeared on its slow haul up the hill. Up. Up. Grinding gears up. Where I wanted to go.
Ditch Potrero—it oughta be called Heart Attack Hill. I thought I was going to die. Unseasonably hot and I was dressed in a suit. The hill was tough, and so was the neighborhood.
Painted cement block apartments. This neighborhood was so tough they wrote the bus information on the asphalt because signs would have been destroyed. This neighborhood was so tough (How tough was it?) that—just like the highway worker zone where they double your fine for traffic violations—there were signs bolted, bolted, to cement walls, informing you that in this “drug zone … all acts of” (followed by a whole list which basically covered selling, soliciting, or using drugs or prostitution) were double the criminal penalty than in any other areas where those crimes might be committed.
One man yelled something unintelligible. It might've been English, I'm not sure. But I was not at risk from these men in cars because all of them, yes, all of them, could be heard laughing at me. Then. The hill. The Dancing Saints church is at the bottom of the other side of Potrero Hill. In case I haven't made it clear, the hill was a study in geometric angles. And I was an out-of-shape white girl. The only one in the neighborhood. I walked in the middle of the street. Except for the three cars that slowed and the one guy that yelled at me, there wasn't any traffic. Who drives through such a neighborhood? Oh, yeah. I'm walking through the neighborhood, I thought, so maybe I ought to just stop asking questions.
I was thinking of my friend Terry laughing back on his cool and flat island in Washington. I was convinced he recommend this church as a joke.
But I only thought that on the way up the hill. The way down. Geez. Nobody does hills like San Francisco.
I was catching my breath on the first part of the descent. An appropriate word, descent. As in down from a mountain. I was stepping sideways so I didn't just tumble down head over heels. A rough-looking fellow came around the corner just as I let the world's largest yawn fly from my lips. Sound effects and all. He stared at me. I stared at him. I couldn't have been scared if I'd wanted to be. I was too hot: dripping in sweat. My suit coat was tied around my waist. (Four buses earlier it had been cool.) The man was in tattered clothes. He had bloodshot eyes.
Ah. The divine in each person. I remembered. I shrugged my shoulders and gave the guy a crooked smile, and he smiled right back. “Ah tell you what, dawg … you in fer some fine sleep a night—you one tired bitch.”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“Well, now, you just take it slow, girl. You be fine.” He glanced downward. He patted my shoulder and went on his way.
Ah. Divine. The experiment was working so far. Least he called me a tired bitch instead of a fat white girl. It occurred to me that “bitch” and “dawg” are actually affectionate terms. I continued sideways down the hill.
The church building looked like something out of a movie, I thought to myself. I later found out that it is … based on something from a sci-fi flick, Ran. The rectors were a couple of movie buffs. Large doors. Yep. They were all locked. A little bit Dorothy at the gates of Oz. Fortunately I read the message board and learned I had ten minutes left before the office closed. Ten minutes. I tell you what, dawg….
Jamie was delighted to give me a tour. I so enjoyed myself. A heady odor was in the air. I asked and learned it was from the Anchor Brewing Company just across the way. The smell of ale and the Dancing Saints.
And it was all worth it. Everest in the drug zone and all. I'm glad I stuck to it. Actually, as I tilted my head to the murals circling the church rotunda, I thought of the many hardships they had all endured. I thought of the Continental Army that first winter with George marching all night in the snow without shoes, and told myself to quit my whining. The Dancing Saints were at the end of my journey and had messages for me.
Jamie, my kind tour guide, gave me a cool brochure, which, after yet another bus ride, I read at an Irish pub south of Market, while sucking down a cool Guinness. Thinking of the stuff that makes the saints dance. That boldness of endurance which is the underline to almost every success I can think of.
• tool kit •
A stop watch. An hourglass. The timer set on your cell phone. Give yourself a period of time to “hold on a little longer” on a project of any sort. Endurance isn't always measured in short time frames, but sometimes just a few extra minutes can make a big difference.
noun. 1. the action of leading a group of people or an organization. 2. the state or position of being a leader.
3. the ability to lead skillfully.
You cannot be a leader, and ask other people to follow you, unless you are willing to follow, too.
—Sam Rayburn
great leadership is not the visit of an unexpected fate but rather a flame which is kept burning in spite of the winds of risk and opposition.
—mar
Although my father provided an excellent model of what leadership could be … I was still rather confused about leadership in relation to my own daily practice. At the core of his leadership model was a simple commitment to achieving the goal. Whatever that looked like. For a long time I simply could have called my style “me-doer-ship” rather than leadership. I acted as though real leadership meant that I had to do everything. And be good at it, too! Which meant a willingness to do other people's parts if they didn't want to carry their weight.
Then there was the period of time when I thought leadership meant telling everyone else how things must/should/ought to be done. Somewhere I got the mistaken notion that if a process is the best practice for me, it becomes the best practice for everyone. Oops. Amend that to BIG oops. The phrase “best practices” became a popular shibboleth in the professional world for a while. At this, perhaps the most effective leaders smiled tolerantly.
Leadership at its most effective stance is able to determine an ultimate desired outcome … and draws the best practices out of the people responsible for working toward that outcome. The best leaders will redefine the outcome based upon the discoveries in the practices of the people.
As Antoine de Saint-Exupéry observed, “If you want to build a ship, don't herd people together to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea.”
John Adams struggled with the “me-do-it” view of leadership, and yet managed to leave a legacy of profound leadership and impact. In two terms as vice president and a term as president, and throughout his life, he struggled and he found a way through. He inspired others to the ultimate outcome of the flame of liberty. As a leader he demonstrated the practice of identifying an outcome and allowing the diversity of his ranks to come to their own best practices. He came to respect a onetime adversary who didn't follow John Adams's protocols but was inspired by his leadership.
On July 2, 1776, after the resolution was passed to issue the Declaration of Independence … John Adams returned to his room. Perhaps he had the sense that there would be forty-eight hours of nasty argument over the “slave paragraph” and various other edits, which, in some cases, would improve and clarify Jefferson's brilliant writing—but mostly meant a set of politicians trying to touch and fuss over what they had not crafted. Considering that each man of the Continental Congress was committing treason, Adams would not begrudge them their fussing.
That night he wrote in his journal … believing it was the second of July that America would remember for all time.
Privately John mused that this would become the holiday of the whole of these United States. A holiday celebrated with “all honor, and seriousness by pomp and grandeur, by parades, by the games of children and the gatherings of family, by the ringing of bells and by the spectacle of illuminations from one end of this grand country to the other.”
On the second of July, John Dickenson, believing adamantly in the need to reconcile to Britain, had stepped away from the hall during the vote. Dickenson knew such a vote had to be unanimous, and he was unable to go against his conscience.
On the third of July, Adams foresaw that these united states would long rage in conflict and would never forgive the Congress if they did not free Americans, all Americans … there must be no slavery. We know how far he got with that argument. On that day he warned of a civil war if his associates could not overlook their economic interests for a greater moral vision. He and Abigail never owned a slave. They lived their leadership. When a final scripted version of all the changes had been made, it was absent John Dickenson's signature. Dickenson, within the season, had signed up as a fighting man in the militia. Dickenson shouldered his musket and went out to fight on behalf of the country, which, as he said, was “like sailing into the worst sea on a skiff made of paper.”
Yes, what a skiff of paper this country is. We benefit every day from those men and women who pledged their belongings, their sacred honors, and their lives that we may live in the most remarkable ongoing experiment of democracy. That is leadership with legs.
I love the spirit of this country and wish its heart to be rekindled under our vision, with leaders who may be inspired by the heart, the valor, and the vision of John Adams and John Dickenson. John Adams, the man who, in all practical terms, is the structural “father” of our country and, ultimately, the model of a profound leader. John Dickenson, who demonstrated leadership by action toward the greater good, even when at conflict with his personal views.
• tool kit •
because
a mantle of leadership is
not too heavy when it's worn
with love and kept with vision;
because you rise above
challenges and allow your
rewards to come bountifully;
because you share rather than
secret away;
because you lead rather than push;
because you imagine and implement,
dream and do;
because of these things (and myriad others)
your success will shine as a light of hope
and inspire numbers you cannot total.
Can you be clear on the outcomes you are expecting of yourself and asking of others? How can you lead while allowing them a vision of their own? Can you create a sense of urgency for them to participate in their most effective way?