Ed Batista

Carpe Diem (RIP, Moss Room)

Seize the day. We all support the sentiment, of course, but the complete line from Horace makes it much more compelling:

Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.

Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future.

I'm certainly more motivated to do something today when I admit that tomorrow might not come. And the message of this post is: Don't wait. Do it today. You might not have another chance.

If that's sufficient motivation for you, great--you may not need to read any further. What follows is a discursive, even self-indulgent piece of writing intended to preserve some beautiful memories that will serve to remind me why it's so important not to wait when an opportunity presents itself.

In February 1946, George Orwell published an essay in the Evening Standard titled "The Moon Under Water":

My favourite public-house, the Moon Under Water, is only two minutes from a bus stop, but it is on a side-street, and drunks and rowdies never seem to find their way there, even on Saturday nights...

If you are asked why you favour a particular public-house, it would seem natural to put the beer first, but the thing that most appeals to me about the Moon Under Water is what people call its "atmosphere."

Orwell goes on to describe his pub in great detail, down to the color of the crockery and the terms of endearment used by the barmaids. What matters most to him, though, is the way these characteristics add up to a warm, welcoming environment. I'm so enchanted by Orwell's vision of this "great, good place" that my heart always sinks at his sudden revelation, even though it comes as no surprise:

But now is the time to reveal something which the discerning and disillusioned reader will probably have guessed already. There is no such place as the Moon Under Water.

That is to say, there may well be a pub of that name, but I don't know of it, nor do I know any pub with just that combination of qualities...

But, to be fair, I do know of a few pubs that almost come up to the Moon Under Water. I have mentioned above ten qualities that the perfect pub should have and I know one pub that has eight of them. Even there, however, there is no draught stout, and no china mugs.

For the past two years Amy and I have enjoyed our own Moon Under Water--not in idealized form, but an actual place, a restaurant called the Moss Room. It opened in the basement of the newly revamped California Academy of Sciences in Golden Gate Park in 2008, but we only discovered it in 2010 after Amy went there for lunch with colleagues.

A unique combination of factors made the Moss Room so special to us: It was within walking distance of our apartment in the Richmond, and even on a cold, rainy night walking up to Golden Gate Park is a lovely experience. The physical space was enchanting, starting with the after-hours entrance at the side of the museum that made the place feel like a speakeasy, a feeling that grew as you took the stairs below-ground. And the food was routinely outstanding--I can honestly say that I loved every single dish I ever had there, and we ate there a lot.

But the primary reason we loved the Moss Room was the people--manager and sommelier Kristen Capella, bartender Robert Baker, servers Tuni and Ashley and host Katherine (whose last names we never learned), and "new" manager Rafael Jimenez Rivera, who took Kristen's place late last year after she was asked to help open AQ downtown. They were all spectacularly great at their jobs. Kristen was such a master of her wine list that after our first visit we never ordered a bottle again--we just asked her to pick for us, and she inevitably found the most fascinating wines that perfectly complemented our meal. Robert was, bar none (heh), the best bartender I've ever had the pleasure of patronizing, and his passion for the history and art of his craft informed every drink. Tuni, Ashley and Katherine made us feel truly appreciated and cared for. We usually sat at a table of Tuni's--#50, at the far right in the picture above--and she was always candid (and right) about the menu's strengths and weaknesses on a given night, and uncanny in her ability to both predict and remember our likes and dislikes. And all of them were simply engaging, interesting people who made a really good restaurant a great one.

To be clear, Amy and I love eating out, and eating and drinking at the Moss Room was a very pleasurable experience. But we also discovered the Moss Room at a particularly important time in our lives. Amy's dad and a student of mine passed away in 2009, and we spent the next year in a state of grief and shock, compounded by a number of additional personal struggles. We were emerging from that period when Amy first visited the Moss Room, and it was an incredible gift to find this little community--one that also happened to serve amazing food and cocktails--just a short walk from our home. It was a respite, a place to let go of our cares and learn to relax and have fun again.

You'll notice that I've been using the past tense--last month, just after Christmas, we learned that the Moss Room was going to close, immediately, and that New Year's Eve was going to be its final night of operation. From a business perspective, I wasn't entirely surprised--it's an offbeat, out-of-the-way location, and many nights it was well under capacity--but from a personal perspective I was stunned. I actually cried.

But as much as I'll miss the Moss Room, I've made peace with its abrupt disappearance from my life because Amy and I seized an opportunity not only to have one last meal there but also to thank the people we knew. As Christmas approached, we felt so grateful for everything they had done for us that we decided to get them presents. Nothing big--just something to express our appreciation and let them know that they had made a small but meaningful difference in our lives. We stopped in to drop off the gifts and to have a quick cocktail--I don't remember why, but we weren't planning to stay, and almost left. But at the last minute we said, what the hell, we won't get a chance to come back until after New Year's, let's stay. So we did.

It was an amazing meal, as expected. Robert's cocktails were perfect, and Tuni was incredibly indulgent and extra dishes turned up in between courses, and we just couldn't have been any happier. I'd be upset if we'd missed that last meal, that last chance to say goodbye to the Moss Room, even though we didn't know that was what we were doing at the time. But I'd be much more upset if we'd missed that chance to say "Thank you" to the people who made that experience--and so many like it--possible for us.

I know we'll continue to see Kristin at AQ, and we'll surely see Robert at his next bar, and hopefully we'll cross paths with Tuni and Ashley and Katherine again. But we'll never have the Moss Room again--that little community will never be re-assembled. So the simple lesson I've learned is: Stay for dinner; there may not be another meal--and thank someone who deserves it; you may not get another chance to let them know how you feel. 

Adult Thumb-Sucking

Lately I've been paying closer attention to the steady, low-level urge I often feel to check my phone for emails, texts, tweets and other notifications. I can justify this urge with any number of "good" reasons: I keep my phone on silent so it won't interrupt a coaching session, and I might have missed something important. A client or student may need to reach me, and I want to be responsive to them. Amy may have texted me about something pressing, and... Etc.

Those reasons are all true, and yet they don't fully explain my behavior. I've realized that this urge--and my almost automatic response to obey it--has a more emotional, less cognitive explanation: When I feel a little anxious or bored, I can check my phone, and if something new is there, my anxiety is eased and my boredom is relieved. It's a form of adult thumb-sucking.

There are times when this urge disappears, such as when I'm in a coaching session with a client or student, or when I'm in a meaningful conversation with Amy or a friend.  And there are times when this urge is almost overpowering, such as when I'm in a dull meeting or making awkward small talk, or when I'm struggling with a difficult piece of writing.

All behavior is adaptive, so it's unhelpful to simply characterize this urge as "bad" and strive to quash it without understanding 1) what I'm adapting to, 2) how that adaptation serves me (and how it leads me off course), and 3) when I should follow it (and when I should resist it).

I'm clearly adapting to a set of inner drives that are important parts of my makeup. I'm usually highly attuned to my social environment, particularly signals that suggest another person's need for support or engagement, and this allows me to be an effective coach (and husband and friend) but can also generate anxiety when I want to connect but am unable to.  I'm also typically a quick thinker who needs a lot of stimulation to avoid boredom--which is one reason why I find it difficult to meditate and yet keep trying.

Checking my phone obviously helps me adapt to these drives, and this adaptation serves me in many ways. Clients and students often express appreciation for my responsiveness, and note that they feel respected and cared for as a result. At times I can get a lot of work done on multiple fronts simultaneously. And I stay connected with a number of people who are important to me as a result.

But compulsively checking my phone leads me off course in a number of ways as well. In the moment, it tells the people in my physical presence that I'm less interested in them than I am in my virtual network, which can undermine my relationships. It contributes to unrealistic expectations regarding my availability and responsiveness. It  disrupts my concentration when I'm struggling to think through difficult work, requiring me to switch contexts and rapidly adjust from one mode of working to another. And perhaps most importantly, I suspect that there's a neurological impact, resulting in diminished impulse control in general.

As noted above, when I'm fully engaged in a coaching session or conversation I don't feel this urge at all and have no need to resist it. But I believe there are a number of situations in which I'd be well served to do so, both interpersonally and in my writing and other reflective work. It's not difficult to manage this urge when I'm coaching--my dedication to my craft helps me focus on the people in front of me and keep any conceptual distractions at bay. The real challenge is when I'm writing, reading or doing other work alone--it's always tempting to set aside any conceptual challenges I face in order to deal with the "real" issues posed by a client or friend (or Twitter follower.)

Photo by syauqee. Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

Significance Junkies

Writer and comedian Seth MacFarlane--the creator of the animated series Family Guy--was recently interviewed by Terry Gross on Fresh Air.  Here's the very last question they discussed:

Terry Gross: One more question, and I know you've been asked this a lot, but, on September 11th you were supposed to be on that plane that was supposed to fly from Boston to L.A. but instead was hijacked and flown into the north tower of the World Trade Center, and you were late, your travel agent gave you the wrong time, so you missed being on that catastrophic flight.  Do you ever think of the rest of your life as being this kind of gift, because you, you just, it could have all ended for you that day?

Seth MacFarlane: One of my favorite quotes by Carl Sagan is that we are as a species, and as a culture, we are significance junkies.  We love attaching significance to everything, even when there really is no significance and something is just a coincidence, and this is a perfect example to me of something, you know, really, in all honesty, not to sound cold, but, you know, I don't think of it that way.  I, I think of it as, you know, I'm living the same way in 2011 as I was in 1999, and the reason for that is that, you know, I had missed a lot of flights for being late, I'm a perpetually late person, you know, every flight that takes off, you gotta figure somebody's missing the flight or somebody's late, and on top of that, you know, who knows how many times a day we have similar close calls as the one that I had, you know?  I mean this morning, crossing the street, if I had crossed five minutes later I would have been hit by a car.  I, I, who knows?  So, in my case, you know, obviously the day itself was a tragedy and a disaster, but if we're just talking about my case, um, it doesn't strike me as something that I am attaching an unbelievable amount of significance to because of those reasons, because I, I've missed a bunch of flights.

In 1997 Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan co-authored The Demon-Haunted World, a "passionate plea for scientific literacy," according to Publishers Weekly, and one of the book's last chapters, titled "Significance Junkies," addresses the many ways in which we misinterpret statistics and willfully substitute magical thinking for clear-headed understanding.  One example they cite is the common attribution of "hot" and "cold" streaks and other aspects of athletic performance to quasi-mystical sources:

We seek meaning, even in random numbers.  We're significance junkies... So what?  What's the harm of a little mystification?  It sure beats boring statistical analyses.  In basketball, in sports, no harm.  But as a habitual way of thinking, it gets us into trouble in some of the other games we play. [p 349]

Sagan's use of the term "junkies" is apt; we crave significance just as any addict craves their drug of choice.  And when it's not readily available, we invent it--we imagine significance all around us.  This is harmless entertainment when we're talking about certain topics--but as Sagan and Druyan suggest, it can also pose a real problem.

Why am I talking about this on a site focused on executive coaching and change management?  Because I think one of the areas where our "significance addiction" does pose a real problem is in our working relationships, particularly when we're in a leadership role.

Our craving for significance leads us to see meaning in randomness, to hear signals instead of noise.  We mistakenly believe it's all about US--that people are thinking about US, noticing US, responding to US--when, from their perspective it's really all about THEM--and they're thinking about something else, noticing someone else, and responding to a whole host of factors, ranging from what they ate for breakfast to the state of their retirement portfolio.

We matter less than we think we do, and the universe is more random than we want it to be--and those can be painful truths to accept.  (Sagan and Druyan open their "Significance Junkies" chapter with an epigram from mathematician and philosopher Henri Poincaré:  "We also know how cruel the truth often is, and we wonder whether delusion is not more consoling.")

We crave significance and invent meaning not because we're stupid, but because we're brilliant; it hurts like hell to admit our insignificance, and we find consolation in endlessly inventive delusions of relevance.  But it's really not all about us, and once we realize that we can enter into a different kind of conversation with the people around us.  Instead of simply assuming that our actions are the basis for their reactions, we can get curious about what they really are thinking about and noticing and responding to.  It may be humbling, but we'll undoubtedly learn a lot in the process.

I'm all too aware of a paradox at the heart of this post: While it's never entirely about us, sometimes, in part, it truly is about us, particularly when we're in a leadership role, and something we said or did innocuously has had a significant and unintended impact on someone else.  I'm certainly not suggesting we ignore that dynamic--increasing awareness of our impact on others is at the heart of my work as a coach.  But I would draw a distinction between improving our ability to discern when we've had an impact on others on the basis of observed behavior, and letting go of the assumptions and imaginary scenarios that spring from our craving for significance.

Photo by Ella's Dad.  Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

A Little Housecleaning

This morning I finished some long-overdue housecleaning around here.  I'm always tinkering with the site, but it's been five years since my last full-on redesign.  This latest round wasn't quite that drastic--some of the changes aren't all that obvious, and there's still some work to be done--but hopefully the result is a slightly cleaner, livelier and easier-to-use site.

Just for my own record-keeping, here's what's changed:

• Nav Bar, Search Box and Banner
  
  • No more separate "Home" link in the nav bar, as I think people are sufficiently aware that a blog's banner image serves that purpose.
  • A larger search box, relocated to the lower right corner of the banner, to make it easier to locate and capable of handling longer queries without scrolling.
  • Resized the banner to accommodate these changes and provide some empty space to set off the search box.

• Feeds, Tweets and Pix
  
  • No more separate link for email subscriptions--it didn't seem to justify the high-profile real estate, and I reconfigured my Feedburner landing page to continue to provide a link to that service.
  • Links to my social networks clustered below my feed link on the left-hand sidebar, along with a Twitter feed that displays my most recent tweet.  This recognizes Twitter's unique role among my networking tools, provides a connection to the range of topics I tweet about, and brings some energy to the site during periods when I take a break from regular posting.  (The Twitter feed appears to be a little buggy, so you may or may not see a tweet.)
  • A thumbnail of the most recent pic I've uploaded to Flickr and a link to my photostream.  This provides a connection to my physical world and brings a little more life and color to the site.  (I'm using the Flickr uploader on my laptop and PhotoSync on my phone.  I'm still sorting out the  photo-sharing connections among my various networks, so bear with me if something looks amiss.)

• Archives, Categories and Thanks
  • A link to my full archives and list of categories moved to the top of the right-hand sidebar, just below the search box.
  • A drop-down menu linking to my "main categories," the topics that are currently of greatest interest to me.
  • Behind the scenes, a streamlined list of categories--I removed 10 or so that no longer served a meaningful purpose.
  • I created a separate "Thanks To..." page and linked to it, rather than maintain separate links in the right-hand sidebar.  I want to continue to express my appreciation to various people, but this seemed like a better way of doing it.

And here's what remains to be done, the next time I'm so motivated:

• While I'm happy with the visible results, a lot of the underlying code is pretty ugly.  I'm not a web designer, I just play one in my spare time, and I'm certain that I'm violating all sorts of sound coding and design principles.  Hopefully no one who knows what they're doing will peek behind the curtain.
• I'd love to smarten up the "Main Categories" drop box and make it a little more stylish.
• While I remain a huge fan of TypePad and a very loyal user, I'm not thrilled with the comment functionality, and I'd prefer to implement something like Disqus that's more social-media oriented.  I gave it a shot, but couldn't make it work--maybe sometime in the future.
• I'm ambivalent about my home-grown banner, which I stitched together myself over 5 years ago when I formally launched my coaching practice.  OTOH, it feels like me--colorful, engaging, a little quirky--and I've grown attached to it.  OTOH, who knows?  I just may be ready for a change.

All in all, I'm pretty happy with it.  Some day I'm sure I'll need to grow up and bring in the professionals, but nearly 7 years after getting started with TypePad, I'm still having fun rolling my own.

Photo by U.S. Army Environmental Command (Really!)  Yay Flickr and Creative Commons

Boundaries, Not Balance

I've had several conversations recently that touched on the topic of boundaries--one person even called me a "role model" in this regard, which is the sort of thing that gets my attention.

So I'm reminded of some wisdom from my long-ago colleague Michael Gilbert that's had a big influence on me--here's a passage from his 2008 post Good Fences that's worth quoting again:

In regard to this exploration of "work-life balance," what's clear in our discussion is that we have been using the word "balance" when what we really seem to mean is "boundaries." Boundaries keep things in their place. Balance suggests the same amount of two things on either side of a scale. Boundaries keep one of those things from oozing past the edge of its platter and taking over the other side...

Boundaries and integration go together. Maybe it's just the biologist in me, but it seems that good boundaries are what make integration work. Just as functional membranes (letting the right things through and keeping the wrong things out) facilitate the healthy interaction of the cells of our bodies, so do functional personal boundaries facilitate the healthy interaction of the various parts of our lives. Bad boundaries lead to either being overwhelmed or withdrawal. Good boundaries lead to wholeness and synergy.

This concept is central to my life (and was the key theme of Part 3 in last year's series on Happiness, Excellence & Boundaries: A Framework for Leaders.)  I'm the first person to admit that I don't live a "balanced" life.  And I don't want a balanced life.  I love my work as an executive coach--it's immensely fulfilling, and almost all-consuming, and that's just fine with me.  I don't need a host of other activities to balance the amount of time and energy that I dedicate to my profession.

But I do need clear and firm boundaries that allow me to "let the right things through and keep the wrong things out" when that's most important to me.  So what do these boundaries look like in practice?  One example is the ability to block out time on my daily calendar to go to the gym or go for a run.  What matters to me most isn't the balance that comes from working out (although that's a meaningful by-product), but the boundary that's established when I commit that time to one purpose and prohibit others from encroaching.

Many of the MBAs I work with at Stanford and many of the leaders I work with in my private practice are people who share this mindset--they're passionate about their work, and they're never going to live balanced lives, and that's usually just fine with them.  But things won't be fine if they're unable to establish, manage and maintain the boundaries that allow them to live lives of "wholeness and synergy," as Michael would say.

Photo by David Ludwig.  Yay Flickr and Creative Commons.

I Found My Heart in San Francisco

Sometimes it's just obvious why certain people touch your heart.  A former student I know is spending much of this year pursuing personal projects and traveling before starting a new job at the beginning of 2011.

This week she's returning to San Francisco to celebrate her birthday, and here's what she wrote in her invitation:

Instead of receiving birthday presents, I would love to receive your wisdom in the form of answers to two questions:
 
"If I had three months of freedom, I would. . ." and
"When you finally move to San Francisco, make sure to. . ."

She's going to cover the walls of the party site in paper and have people write (graffiti?) their responses during the party.  Wow--what a beautiful idea.

My own responses to those questions?

If I had three months of freedom...I would find a cottage up in the hills of Inverness with a quiet garden and a view of Tomales Bay.  I'd spend each morning distilling what I've written here over the years into a narrative about coaching and change and growth; I'd spend each afternoon hiking the trails of Point Reyes; and I'd spend each evening cooking with Amy and looking up at the stars.

And when you finally move to San Francisco, spend as much time as you can in all the hidden wild corners of the city: Land's End, the Presidio, Tank Hill, Grand View Park, Golden Gates Heights Park, Fort Funston, the community garden at Fort Mason, the back side of Twin Peaks, Glen Canyon and the top of Strawberry Hill in the middle of Stow Lake.  These places (and more like them) touch my own heart so deeply and are ultimately what make me most happy to live here.

Happy Birthday!

Recharged

Even the most casual reader of this site may have noticed that it's been more than 4 months since my last post.

I typically post less frequently during the Summer, but this year I really, really needed to recharge.  After the deaths of Rich Wright, my father-in-law, and Roanak Desai, a student of mine, I was emotionally and physically depleted.

And while Amy and I got a much-needed break on a trip to Point Reyes in June, 2010 wasn't finished with us yet.  Amy had a second shoulder surgery in July and her recovery has been anything but healing.  She's back at work, but is fighting chronic pain and fatigue.  (Melanie Thernstrom's The Pain Chronicles has been immensely helpful.)

The past few months have been difficult on a number of levels, and I just didn't have the energy to write.  But as my colleague Andrea Corney would say, times like this are an AFOG: Another Fucking Opportunity for Growth.  And in an unusual twist for me, I've grown by just letting myself recharge.

I've been very physically active, while allowing myself to take days off without guilt.  I've eaten a lot of really good food--including a heart-stopping number of Marin Sun Farms steaks and regular visits to The Moss Room.  I spent over a week with my parents, brothers and sisters-in-law back East doing little more than eating great meals together and then exercising the next day in order to keep up with my caloric intake.  Amy and I returned to Point Reyes and fulfilled a year-long wish by staying in Hi House, a breathtaking glass-walled modernist box on stilts in the middle of a pine meadow.  I put aside my professional reading and took up a new novel--Joseph O'Neill's Netherland--for the first time in ages.

But while all that play was essential to the recharging process, I've also been involved in some deeply rewarding work.  I held a seminar for nonprofit leaders in Los Angeles on "Happiness, Excellence and Boundaries," and co-facilitated a group with Carole Robin in Stanford's Interpersonal Dynamics for High-Performing Executives program.  And I worked more closely than ever with my beloved coach Mary Ann Huckabay and (unsurprisingly) found myself doing my best work as a coach with some amazing clients, who I feel incredibly privileged to be associated with.

Most importantly, Amy and I just spent a lot of time together, coming to terms with everything we've had to deal with this year, learning when we needed to be still and when we needed to push forward.  AFOG.

I've learned not to say, "I'm ready," because, really, I might not be.  Who knows what the hell we'll face tomorrow?  But I am eager--and, finally, recharged.

"Eveready" logo courtesy of The People's Logo Page.

The View from Twin Peaks

I rode up to Twin Peaks this afternoon, after going through Land's End, out to Ocean Beach and down the path that parallels the Great Highway.  It was one of those days when I feel so lucky to live here.

The view above is from Twin Peaks Boulevard--I love how the Transamerica pyramid and the new One Rincon Hill bookend the downtown skyline.  And if you look carefully, you can see the Ferry Building gleaming at the end of Market Street.

13 Miles in San Francisco

Today was an astoundingly beautiful day in San Francisco, and I spent a portion of it on one of my favorite rides around the City, a route that winds for just over 13 miles through Golden Gate Park, the Panhandle, the Wiggle, the Duboce Bikeway (above), Market Street, the Embarcadero, Fort Mason, Crissy Field, and the Presidio before returning to the Richmond.

I've ridden through the Duboce Bikeway literally thousands of times--I worked in downtown SF for a total of 8 years, and I commuted by bike for most of that time--but not once have I ever stopped to take a photo of the mural there, even though it happens to be my favorite piece of public art evah.

But for some reason today I stopped and snapped the pic above.  And looking at it now I want to ride out to Ocean Beach immediately.

A Day in San Francisco

Today we decided to simply hang out and enjoy a day in San Francisco, which included:

• The Small Dog Army at Ocean Beach (pictured above).  Every Saturday at 10am, dozens of people with small dogs converge at Ocean Beach, just across from the Beach Chalet, and slowly make their way up toward the Cliff House.  Amy and I don't have a small dog (or a large dog, for that matter), but we join the Army every once in a while because it's so damn entertaining.  The dogs are like kids at a birthday party, hyped up on cake and ice cream and presents and cake, running around and around like mad, yipping and yapping and wrestling in the sand.
• The view from Twin Peaks, an amazing spot locals sadly cede to tourists.
• Lunch at It's Tops on Market, an diner/burger joint that dates to 1935.
• A spin around the Ferry Building and down the Embarcadero to Cupid's Span.
• And finally, a peaceful interlude at the Fort Mason Community Garden (see below) complete with hummingbirds and parrots overhead.  (I overhead a guy working on his garden plot say to a woman nearby, "I stay out of the politics here."  I'm glad I just visit on the weekends.)

I'm very, very grateful to live here, to have opportunities like today to enjoy it, and to have someone I love to enjoy it with.