Getting Better

A strange thing happens when you study something for years and years, accepting (repeatedly) that you're just not very good at it and allowing (repeatedly) that you may never understand why you keep doing it anyway.

You get better.  Maybe not fast, maybe not when you expect to, but in time, eventually.

I've been videoing myself dancing, weekly, with the same partner to the same music for a few months now.  I've been studying the videos, and to my surprise the woman I'm watching is looking more and more like a dancer.

I'm guessing you're thinking one of three things: "well, duh", or "how can you be sure?", or even "who cares?"  If it's the last, go read my Awesome post. (Right now. You'll love it.)

If it's "how can you be sure?" I answer: it's about smoothness, and musicality. Posture. But it's also something that's hard to define but you know when you see it.  Grace.  Something I never thought I'd see in myself.

And if it's "well, duh"?  To you I made a cute piss-off gesture that you find amusing, feisty and adorable all at once, and you resolve to bring me some fabulously tasty chocolates next time you come to watch me dance.

Hot. Brain. Melt.

So hot your brain feels like it's melting.  So hot that riding from place A to place B I found myself deciding to go buy things near by at an air-conditioned store, rationalizing the need to go there TODAY, NOW to get stuff.  As if my brain were a whining child. A scheming, clever, and insidious whining child.

Get us out of the heat and brain forgets. Back in the heat it starts whining again.  It's almost funny, which is why I am sitting at a red light, heavy jacket, boots and black helmet, the sun crashing down, heat worming its way into my melting brains, and I'm chuckling.  In case you were in a nearby car, wondering.

It'll pass. Of course it will.  Then it'll be cool again. And too soon, it'll be too cold again.

But today Hot. Brain. Melt.

Consultants Need Ears

Yesterday I consulted with the management of a local non-profit about their online communication channels. It was intended to be a presentation about blogs and blogging practices, but when I got there it was clear that they hadn't really looked at their online communications in total - newsletter, events listing, facebook and twitter feeds - with an eye to who they were trying to reach and what they wanted to accomplish.

I changed my presentation on the spot because the client, this organization, needed something other than what I'd come in to talk about. I'm flexible. I give the client what they need.

Apparently not all consultants do this. They don't start by asking questions. I won't speculate on why, but - okay, I will. They can get away with it? They think it makes them look weak to ask questions?

You can manage to give a perfectly useless presentation on any subject if you simply disregard the audience's needs. I know, I've done it. I've seen the glazed look in my listeners' eyes, heard the polite applause. Resolved not to do it again.

You know you've done good when you leave people jazzed and ready to go to work. When I was done the director shook my hand, all grins and eager for the next step. She was glad I hadn't told them they were doing it all wrong.

Which they weren't. A few things maybe, which I told them in a way that played to their strengths, not their weaknesses. After all, the idea is to give the client useful tools, not convince them I know more than they do.

We covered what I came in to talk about, too, but we started somewhere else. And that is, in my mind, what a consultant ought to do: cover the ground that needs covering. This seems obvious, but I know there are plenty of well-paid people who fail to start with the most important step in giving solid value as a consultant: asking the right questions and listening to what the client answers.

Better at Me

I'm coming off a weekend of a lot of tango dancing with friends and strangers and some things have occurred to me.  It's funny how the stuff you hear over the years comes back to you in waves of meaning and applicability.  For example, what if I only took steps that were right for me at the moment, rather than pushing myself to take a step because I thought it was expected?  What if I took my time with each step, even at the risk of being late?  Would this change my dance?

Most certainly it would.  I've been doing that, more and more, and it's -- delicious.

And of course tango is a mirror for life.

Someone recently said to me between dances, his eyes wide and his tone full of surprise, "there's something about the way you dance... it feels like-- like you bring something to the conversation."

Well, yes. In tango, the woman's role -- we say "the follow" in this country, but that's sort of a confusing term -- is about listening.  As is the man's role.  But the woman's role is also about responding, about saying something in return.  About making it a conversation. Too many men -- "leads" -- don't get that part.   And by "don't get" I don't just mean don't understand.  I mean never receive.  What a shame.

I realized something recently about why I dance tango, and I've been saying it a lot lately:

I don't dance tango to get better at tango.  I dance tango to get better at me.

Lessons Learned between Home and Hospital

Advice to those who suddenly have a person in the ER

Turns out that the moment you walk into the ER with chest pressure, pain, or discomfort, you are sucked into a vortex that does not, even under the best of circumstances, spit you out for hours and days. I think that's because no one who needs to buy liability insurance wants to let you out the door if there's any chance you'll die because they didn't do some test.

As luck would have it, I wasn't the one being tested. I did all the other things, like medications, clothes, cats, updates, and trying not to panic.

And I learned a few things. Here's my advice to those in the non-professional caretaker position, about what to do when someone you love goes into the ER and you are left holding all the other bags.

• Slow down. Yes, I know, it seems urgent, and it might well be, but unless you're training regularly to do this urgent thing and do it fast, whether driving, answering questions, or gathering clothes, you are not good at it, and it will take longer if you rush. And if you make a mistake, the costs are high; your person doesn't need you crashing the car, tripping and breaking something, or leaving the stove on because you're dropping bits. Slow down, even more. If you get there a few minutes later, it won't make as much difference as having fed the poor cat, made sure you've got all your stuff, and not crashing the car. Slow. Down. More.
  
  I was about to leave the house. I made myself stop, take a deep breath, and look around. What did I have with me? What did I need? Everything was suddenly more complicated than I was used to.
  
  
• Take care of the care-taker. That's you. Sleep, eat, cry, call friends, get hugs. It does your person no good to watch you deteriorate with stress while they're stuck in the hospital. You're ready to fight for your person, right? Fight for yourself first. Notice when you feel guilty for not being the sick one or for enjoying something, and fight that, too. Eating, sleeping, resting, working out, wearing clean clothes -- whatever sustains you -- is essential. It's not about fun, it's about oxygen. Don't drown while trying to rescue someone else.
  
  While my person was taking a test to determine if he would be allowed to leave the hospital, I went swimming at the gym. To do that, I put off friends and was late to the hospital. But the test ended up being late, too, and I was calmer after the workout.
  
  
• Have a kit. You'll be tossing stuff into bags, like changes of clothes and books and suchlike for your person. But also have a bag just for you, which should contain your book, paper, pens, phone, keys, a thermos of your favorite tea, more snacks than you think you need, and so on. I used a backpack and reserved the front pocket for my keys, phone, the contact info for the nurse, and the address where I was going next, so I always knew where my most critical stuff was located.
  
  
• Take notes. Write down everything doctors and nurses tell you-- possible causes, room numbers, test names, medications, names and locations. Date the pages. Use lots of paper. Most of it won't be useful, but what is useful is very useful. Also, it gives you something to do when you're in the hospital, which is a strange place where you will often feel out of place. Don't fall for that--you're critically important for your person, and taking notes and asking questions is a big part of your job. Speaking of asking questions, ask questions. Nurses and doctors are trained to get you to comply and to get out of the way. Be cooperative, of course, but (politely) get all questions answered.
  
  
• Be prepared to wait. One of the most draining parts of this process is waiting when you're revved up for a crisis. You switch into high gear for the initial emergency, and then you sit at the hospital for hours, days, or weeks, waiting. How can you be prepared? Bring a book, a pad and pen, your laptop or phone, but most of all, adjust your expectations: you will not get the stuff done you usually do, even if you bring it with you, because you're hyped and everything is strange. Other good things to do: walk around, stretch, breathe, call a friend. Wait outside, wait inside. Tour the hospital. Move.
  
  
• Use social media. I chose twitter as my way of keeping friends and family in the loop. Sure, some of them won't follow it and then you'll need to use the phone, but you'll save yourself a lot of repetition and urgent calls from people when you don't have time by pointing everyone at the same twitter feed or facebook page for updates. If you're not sure how to use it, have one of your friends who is offering to help to be your interface. Once people find out, they'll want to know what's up, again and again, and not always when you have time to talk.
  
  
• Accept help. When a friend or family member offers to accompany you, say yes. Moral support and another set of eyes to help you remember things that you will absolutely forget is a really good idea. But you might not get that help, or might not get it right away. If you don't have that help, it's even more important to take every step slowly, to ask questions as often as you need to, to review your notes, to think about what to bring a third time.
  
  
• Plan for exhaustion. When the end is in sight, carve out some real time -- hours, days -- to sleep and be useless. When the end hits, even if it's the best possible outcome, you are likely to be far more exhausted than you realize while you're hyped and ready to do whatever it takes to get your person through the crisis. Yes, you might need to call in sick after taking time off for this crisis. It's easy to underestimate how much this can take out of you. Plan for it and you might need less of it. Tough it out and you might need more.
  

This is hard work, having a person in the hospital. You can tell yourself that others have it far worse, that at least your person is still breathing, that we are all lucky to have medical care-- and all that might be true, but this is still hard work. Just because you're not the one running around in scrubs or the one lying there in the bed doesn't mean you aren't doing real, hard work. You are.

Awesome!

I remember when "awesome" began standing in for "that's nice" in casual conversation. My friends and I would use it to mock the verbal trends, along with "tubular!" and "gag me with a spoon!"

Awesome!

Dig it, man!

That was some many years ago. Listen, kids, the awesome thing?  It's gotten old. Move on. Seriously.

So I'm on a boat (no, really) and I'm talking to this guy named Travis. Travis is in his 30s and of an age to have been exposed to "awesome" as a simple conversational device growing up.  He's sharp, well spoken, and generally has an adult demeanor.  (Mostly. We're on a boat, after all).

So we're chatting about this and that and the a-word pops out of his mouth.  I pause, because (in case you forgot) we're on a boat, and when nothing urgent is happening on a boat, you're busy chatting, pausing, and sucking down beer. I'm in the pausing phase.

I say, "Listen, Travis, what happens if something truly awesome happens to you?  What if--" I look around at clear blue sky and squint against brilliant sun, "what if God Itself comes down from the Heavens and says--" Here I drop my voice, to make it sound ponderous and, you know, god-like. "Traaaaviiiissss!"

I have his attention now.

"What," I ask, infusing my voice with as much gravitas as I can summon, "are you going to say?"

I've asked this question before of people Travis' age and younger while trying to keep the peevedness out of my tone, because, I admit, it does peeve me; watering down superlatives is bad for words everywhere. They generally answer, "well, I guess I'd say 'really awesome!' or 'wow!'".

"Double-plus awesome", maybe?  Or they look at me uncomprehendingly.  Yeah, I get that look a lot. I'm getting used to it.

But Travis is a cut above and clever as well, and we're on a boat, where thoughts sometimes come clear in surprising ways.  I'm hoping he'll say something I haven't heard before.

"Nothing," He replies. "There are no more words."

I am delighted. I grin back. He's got that right. Use up all your superlatives, and you're left with nothing. Silence.

Which, now that I think about it, isn't such a bad thing. I'm on a boat, the day is clear and warm, the beer is flowing, the company is good.

Silence. Companionable silence, thoughtful silence, intriguing silence.  Given the words that often come out of people's mouths, I find I'm coming to like silence a lot.  It's great.  It's fine.

It's awesome.

Some thoughts on a horse

And what is it that makes this commercial so -- tasty? Most assuredly nom nom. I had to watch it twice and then again to try to sort it out in my head. Not my head, you say? Too distracted to argue that. It's not that he's -- well, yes, it is that he's gorgeous and his voice is like unfiltered pheromone-laced honey.

Nice. Real nice. Better watch it again.

This is what happens when commercialism, sex and art collide: a man on a horse who has my attention. So they made another, worth watching if you like the first, here.

So I watch again. How many times do I need to watch this before I'm tired of this guy?

Surreal? You betcha. Gorgeous? Oh yeah.

Eleven million views. Impressive for a commercial.

Think there's room on that horse for me?

Use of Force

Today was tons of fun. We met in a grimy tavern in a grimy part of town, most of us martial artists for a decade or more, for a self-defense seminar taught by the pretty darned impressive Rory Miller, a man I consider one of my best fighting arts teachers.

We practiced what techniques we knew, and then practiced some things we thought we knew, like power generation, which we now know better. We did scenario fights with weapons and cars and and padded attackers, and after each one discussed how we'd justify use of force. Say you actually do hurt someone in self-defense, how do you explain what you did to a judge or a jury?  You have to understand legal issues of force and self-defense. You have to think.

The range of experience in the room was impressive and a delight to work with, but for me the great part was watching myself and those around me think in new ways about self defense.

Too many martial arts schools are clean, well-lit studios that teach that self-defense is about a bad guy attacking and you defending, and it's that simple. But in the real(er) world, there are chairs and tables, stuff on the floor, coolers with handles. There is your kid in the back seat of your car. There are guys with egos who won't back down, and there are innocent bystanders, and in the thick of it, you can't always tell the difference.

And there are many, many times when the best thing to do is to walk away.

What, Miller asks us in each scenario, is your goal?  What do you want? As much fun as thumping on each other is to us fighting arts geeks, what most of us want is to go home in one piece, not to engage in violence.  To study safety in the midst of danger and go home unharmed, to look at this subject after decades of training and learn new things -- wow.

I had a blast.

"This should not happen!"

Just today a friend reported this message as output from a large software system.  Any code base of sufficient size will include a variation of this statement, often as debugging output. Why?  Because the programmer can clearly see that the possible path in question should not happen.  Because he or she can look at and see that you just can't get there from here.

But you can.  You very much can.

It makes me laugh and it makes me quite nostalgic, because with some minor rewording, this was the very first output message that my first program spat out at me.  There I was, running my first ever code (PLM, since you asked) and suddenly I'm trying to hide the whole thing and blushing as well, because, you see, in those days the output went to a printer, not a console, and it was loud.  The same message, over and over, saying, in effect, "programmer looses."

Of course, it's not just us programmers who say this sort of thing. All of us have asserted, at one time or another, that something could not possibly be, that an event's occurrence was -- inconceivable.

"That word.  I don't think it means what you think it means..."

It doesn't.  And it's not.  And you can, indeed, get there from here.

And what does this tell us?  Perhaps that we don't understand cause and effect anywhere near as well as we think we do, even (and perhaps especially) those of us with more than our share of smarts.

Me? No way!

I did my first Toastmaster's speech today, and it was recorded, so I watched it.  Sure, I've been recorded before.  Tons of times.

No, now that I think about it, not really very much.  A bit here and there, some of the dancing, but not really much in the way of presentations.

As I watched I realized with growing astonishmen that I'm actually a pretty good speaker.  At least this time I was. Funny, clear, charming.  Adorable.

Adorable?

I don't think of myself as adorable.  Me, adorable?

I watched it again, just to be sure.  Yep, that woman there, talking about tango and love, she's - adorable.  No two ways about it.

Me, adorable!  Who would have thought?

One-one

So I bought a bike the other day.  Test rode it and discovered to my annoyance (but, alas, not my surprise) that my bike-riding condition is not what I imagined it to be.  Man, this stuff is hard.  I'm assured by men with big smiles that it'll get easier with time.

When I bought my first bike, it had ten speeds on one side, and two on the other, and I was very confused but pretended to know what I was doing.  Now I'm mature enough to not need to pretend any more.

"So one is the easiest?"

"Yep."

"And if I'm going up a steep hill and it's too hard for me, one ought to do it?"

"Yep."

"And for the other thingie on the other side, one again?"

"Yep."

"And what if that's still too hard?"

He didn't seem to have an answer for that.  Turns out the answer is you walk the bike, and for someone who's walked a 90 pound occasionally resistant dog, walking a thing with wheels and no resistance is no big deal, no matter how steep the hill.

And mostly, I did ride.  One-one a lot of the time, but ride I did.

The Magic of the Dance

The amazing thing about this dance is what's unspoken: you're talking to someone without words. As you become a better speaker, as you find people who you can talk with more easily and often, and now and then profoundly, the conversation gets more intense, more delicate.

Think about this for a moment: what sorts of conversations do you have with people without words?

So when it works, when two people somehow make this dance work, this non-verbal communication of some fair subtlety, well.  Those are some fine moments.  They can be very affecting.  Intimate.

Tonight I met a stranger, and with barely two words spoken between us, we stepped onto the floor and we danced. From the first movement I knew it was something special.  Uncommonly smooth, slow. Velvety. As the music gathered itself and leapt, luxuriated, and wound around, I remembered why I do this insanely hard dance, with all its frustrations and agonies.  For a few dances, I felt the grace and rightness of the world.  It was a bit like being in love.

But this fellow who was a stranger before we danced and was something else after was no more to be held onto than a rainbow. So we exchanged a smile, a thank-you, and we both went on to our next partners. That's how it goes.  The moments are what you get.

And for a few glorious moments last night, it all came together. For a few moments last night, the birds sang, the flowers bloomed, and I Danced.

That Oil Spill Thing

How about that Oil Spill, eh?  Sure is big.

Wow.

Yeah, I was angry. Outraged. Then I was incredulous.  Then I was angry again.  Pissed.

And then, somehow, I stopped thinking about it. At least until the news came on again, and then - angry, outraged, incredulous.  Then I stopped thinking about it.  Why?

It's just too big, and I'm just too small.  My fantasies about stuffing BP execs down the hole to see if their big [egos / capatalist short-sighted stupidity / asses - pick your fave] might plug it notwithstanding, there's just nothing I can do.

Nothing I can do about what could be the biggest environmental disaster of our time. If I think about it, I'll feel - sick. Scared. Angry. Outraged.

Impotent.




http://xkcd.com/748/

Optimism

I was charmed by this talk on optimism and programming languages (written version) by Reg Braithwaite. I also recently read "Learned Optimism" by Dr. Martin Seligman (which I'm not linking to because everyone links to Amazon, and hey, let's buy from our local bookstores instead, what say?)  The talk is pretty long, but it's good, and if you're only interested in the optimism angle (and if you think optimism is dumb, as I used to, you should be), just read until he starts talking about code.

The Rosemary

Yesterday was Mother's Day, so I planted a garden. No, that's not why, but it seemed like a good day for it. And, yes, I did call my mother, thanks for asking! (Hi, Mom!)

You'll want to know what I planted, I suppose. I'm an old fashioned girl, raised on Simon and Garfunkel, so you know what I planted.

Except for the rosemary. No need.

There's a lot of rosemary in Seattle. And some of these bushes are nearly as big as trees. I have this feeling that if you have more than a square foot of dirt under your control and you don't have rosemary, you ought to be looking over your shoulder. Something about the way the rosemary looks at me as I walk by, I guess.

Rosemary doesn't mess around. It makes small, practical flowers. It puts out a powerful scent. It handles drought and water with equal aplomb. It's not invasive like mint or ivy - that would be, well, rude. But it's quite serious.


Actually, I wonder if maybe there's only one rosemary plant in this city. And the roots go way, way down.

Sure, take some sprigs as you walk by. No problem. The rosemary has plenty to spare. It's not afraid of you and your little fingers. It'll just make more.

I see rosemary, I nod respectfully.