Things

Dad once told me, “There’s nothing more important to me than family.”  I believe it’s the most consequential thing he’s ever said to me.  He teared up as he said it.  It’s one of the very few times I’ve ever seen him tear up.

I’ve come to realize that Dad had a vision, a dream for his family.  Growing up, I didn’t see this because I was living within his dream.  But I’m beginning to see it and appreciate it.

Dad wasn’t given tools to know how to parent.  His parents didn’t have the tools to know how to parent him.  Yet his children have thrived!  The three of us were among the first in our extended family to graduate college.  We’ve become scientists and accountants and engineers.  Sandy once told me that Dad made her what she was today.  He taught Brian to do his own car maintenance and home renovations, and helped him for as long as he was physically capable.  (I didn’t have the patience to sit at his knee and learn all this stuff.)  Although he confessed that he didn’t understand how I could create my own job by founding a company, he supported me and even invested some of his own money in my company.  Most telling, he taught us to be good parents ourselves, and his grandchildren have become responsible adults we are so proud of.  We all are his legacy.

Dad was a man of his times; when men were providers and protectors and the unquestioned leaders of their family.  So he could be authoritarian, judgmental, inflexible, and stubborn.  But he was also sacrificing, affectionate, generous, and even indulgent.  I remember the feel of his beard stubble when he kissed me every night when went to bed.  Mom also told me he had a side that we didn’t get to see, that he was sensitive and tender.  They never argued in front of us, instead waiting until they were behind closed doors.

As a protector, Dad gave us the best environment to thrive.  Once Mom & Dad married, they moved move out of rural Ohio to suburban life near Cleveland.  We had advantages that we couldn’t have in rural Ohio.  As a provider, Dad set to work.  He didn’t have much time, as I was born nine months after Mom & Dad married.  Dad got a job packing light bulbs at General Electric.  He was promoted to draftsman, and eventually to quality control engineer, even though he didn’t have a college degree.

I remember one act of generosity.  With money tight, we really only got presents for Christmas.  But one day he surprised us and came home with a set of sports equipment to set up a volleyball & badminton net and a tetherball. We got a second Christmas that year.  He also set up a tire swing for us, something he would one day do again for his grandchildren.

He sacrificed for us by working hard to make sure we had a comfortable life.  He started working on his degree at home during his evenings, but he gave it up in order to spend more time with us.  When our family outgrew our small home, he and some relatives tore most of the back of the roof off the house and built a dormer.  Out of necessity, he finished Brian’s and my bedroom fairly quickly, but the upstairs bathroom wasn’t functional until I was a teen.  I still remember walking on the bare wood floor, but it was heavenly to actually have a second bathroom in the home.

He indulged my curiosity by allowing me to turn part of the basement into a science lab.  Then I turned it into a makeshift dark room so I could develop my own photographs.  One year he even helped turn my idea for a haunted basement into reality with black lights and floor-to-ceiling black plastic sheeting.

Dad had an adventurous side.  He got a large tent (probably as a wedding present), and the family went camping often.  We graduated to a trailer, and most summers we took off to far-flung places.  One summer we spent four weeks driving to California and back.  Dad would bypass all the attractions we saw on the billboards and wanted to go to.  He called them “tourist traps.”  Instead we went to national parks and state parks and lakes and beaches.  By the time I was a young adult, I had visited 48 states and Canada.  I still haven’t been to North and South Dakota.

We traveled often to see relatives.  Dad made sure we knew our roots.  My cousin Kippy became my best friend, and I cried every time I had to leave him.

Once Dad retired, he realized his dream of selling his home and living untethered in an RV.  Dad & Mom took the RV to see relatives in Ohio and Texas, keeping their family ties. They wintered at the southern tip of Texas where they got to experience summer all winter long.  I can only guess how many winters Dad spent snowed in, living in Ohio, dreaming about this. 

Any story of Dad’s life would be incomplete without talking about his involvement in the Scouts.  Dad became an assistant scout master, attended scout meetings and service projects and camping trips.  He went to summer camp with us and took us to high-adventure camps such as Philmont in Arizona and Tinnerman canoe base in Canada.  He continued his involvement with scouts long after we were grown, becoming scout master and extending his legacy to entire generations of boys.

Dad was most happy when his whole family, children and grandchildren were all together, gathered around a table for a big meal.  It was the fulfillment of his dream he created for his family.

Dad, I love you.  I often catch myself being like you, in a turn of a phrase or in telling a “Dad” joke that makes everybody groan.  You gave me a sense of responsibility and the discipline to accomplish my goals.  You gave me tools to be a better Dad.  Whether we were aware of it or not, whether we appreciated it or not, we are the beneficiaries of your vision and sacrifice.  It is your gift you left to the world to make it a better place.  Thank you for giving generously to us.

I was exhausted.

I had just completed three out-of-town trips in three weeks, seeing eight people on my list. Of course, this required writing and editing eight letters, only some of which I had completed before the start of my trips.

I delivered my last letter in Portland, and then helped facilitate a three-day intensive workshop. By the end of the workshop, I was more tired than I had been since I pulled all-nighters two decades earlier at my tax software business.

It was time for a break, so I took it. I’ve been slow-releasing the letters since then. Ron’s letter was the last, released four weeks after I read it to him.

I’ve decided to extend my project beyond the six months. It doesn’t make sense to try to kill myself to get it done. It’s important to not let deadlines interfere with the purpose of the project, especially since the deadlines are arbitrary.

My only concern is that the six-month deadline helped me stay on track. It’s the reason why I chose six months in the first place rather than a year. But I’m not concerned. I’ve seen enough benefit to this project that I will finish it, even at a slower pace.

I’ve read letters now to 18 people. I’ve published 16 of these letters. One letter I decided not to publish. Another person didn’t want her letter published and made it a pre-condition of her participation in the project. I’m very gratified to have permission to publish all the rest.

I figure I have about a dozen to go. There are a couple of people I haven’t decided on yet. I need to have a compelling reason to see someone and to write them a letter. In these particular cases, the relationships ended poorly, but I’m not sorry for ending them the way I did. On the other hand, I can focus on what went right in the relationship, so I may see these people after all.

I’ve received different gifts from different people.

With some, it’s been a very easy-going and gentle experience that affirms the deep friendships I have with them. These interactions tend to be with people I see often.

With others, it’s the first time I may have seen them in a decade or two. I feel rather apologetic about this. There’s a lot of catching up and promises to see each other more often. I plan to make good on these promises, though for some it will be after the project has ended.

With some people, the meeting is highly symbolic for me, even if I don’t know the person very well. These meetings are usually very healing for me.

Here’s an example. Writing about Savannah was very vulnerable for me, because I harbor shame about my relationships with young women whose roots extend back to the days when I was a young man. When I made the conscious decision to publish her letter, it was with the full knowledge that people could try to read between the lines and make up a nefarious story about what was really happening in that relationship. In turn, I could have made up a story about how everybody was judging me for a perfectly innocent relationship.

Even a year or two ago, the story I would have made up about other peoples’ judgment would have prevented me from publishing the letter. I trust the people close to me, but… the entire internet?

So publishing the letter was an act of vulnerability, strength, and courage. It may not have been as difficult for somebody not as susceptible to shame. The fact I actually felt good about it represented freedom for me.

I then read Savannah’s letter to her which was again very healing for me. It is a relationship of unconditional love and acceptance. I can’t put into words what this means to me.

Then I went straight into facilitating a Foundations Workshop. I plan to write an entire letter to describe this amazing workshop, but for now I’d like to highlight one event from that weekend.

There is a major process called “contracts”. A contract is a “being” statement; it is who you are at your best. It usually takes the form: “I am a _____ man” or “I am a _____ woman.”

On Friday nights during the workshop, we get the presenting team together for “Contract School.” We teach facilitators the process to get the participants to claim their specific contract. Sometimes we have a volunteer who takes the role of a participant so people can practice.

Except… there’s no way to have a “practice” contract process. If the volunteer answers the questions openly and honestly, she will be IN a real contract, the emotions will emerge and she will claim the words of her new contract.

It had been more than a decade since I volunteered, but on this particular Friday I found myself raising my hand. After going through the process, I claimed this contract:

I am a free man letting go of the bullshit.

If you’ve read my letter to Savannah, you recognize where the word “bullshit” comes from. It is my shame. My shame keeps me small and safe. But claiming my freedom from shame with such an energetic word is liberating.

Last weekend I returned to Portland for the second part of the two-weekend workshop. I was facilitating a high-energy process with about 40 people in attendance. In front of so many people, I made a mistake that cascaded into a whole series of mistakes. I may have ruined a part of the experience for a participant. I was so emotionally overwhelmed that I asked another facilitator to take over for me. This had never happened to me before.

My contract helped me quickly recover. It wasn’t easy. I had to get away and let the feelings wash over me before I could sort through them. It was the first real test of my new contract. While I still feel a twinge of embarrassment, I was able to process through my shame. It will not stop me from risking again in the future.

This is something I can generalize to other situations in my life. I can work to eliminate the bullshit that holds me back and keeps me from putting myself out there.

And I have one or two more symbolically important people still on my list. So I have more healing to receive from my friends.

To those who have already participated in this project, thank you for being there for me. I am determined to make the most of the privilege.

“Ah, this is not the end. No it is not even the beginning of the end. But it is perhaps the end of the beginning.”

–Winston Churchill

A common question I get is, “How is your project going?” Some people are fascinated and want to talk with me in great detail, which is very gratifying to me. So it’s time to provide an early update.

It’s hard to believe I’m already one-third of the way through my six months. I write this from a hotel room in Denver. Yesterday I read my letter to my brother Brian. Tomorrow I board a flight to San Francisco to see Robert, my best friend from childhood. By the time I get home, I’ll have visited six family members plus four friends.

So I’m going at the rate of five letters per month. I already have trips to five more friends scheduled in the next month. So it looks like I’m on pace to see 30 people. I’m satisfied with that.

Onto the observations:

It’s too early to know how this project is changing me.

My goal for this project is to shake myself awake; to engage with others and with life again. My coach calls it my “soul desperation.” I like that because that’s the way it feels to me.

I have to be honest and admit that I am still in soul desperation. There was a brief period after I got back from Mississippi where I felt more passionate about life and relationships. This was after delivering letters to my mom, my dad, my sister, and Jim in quick succession. I would have to describe this passion as a “high” because it kind of wore off after a few days.

I have to be patient. There’s a reason why the project lasts six months, and not two months. I’m even prepared to go beyond six months if there’s more gold to be mined.

Emotional work exhausts me.

One day in Mississippi, I delivered the letter to my sister Sandy, then I drove nearly four hours round trip to see Jim. When I got home that evening, I collapsed into bed and slept for 11 hours. Then I was wiped out for the entire next day.

So I’ve resolved not to do more than one letter in a day, or to read my letter after a long travel day. It makes my trips lengthier, but it’s necessary for me.

I also notice this emotional “drain” when I facilitate weekend workshops. Yes, the hours are long—up to 12 hours per day for three days. But I’m part of a team of facilitators, so I only have to be at the front of the room for a few hours each day. Yet I still feel exhausted.

I’ve learned to take care of myself at these workshops. I sleep in and arrive later than others because I don’t need to be involved in the early morning planning sessions. I go to my room and rest in the middle of the day. I take longer meal breaks. I go back to my room and go to bed sometimes even before the sessions end.

I feel selfish given that others stay engaged the entire time. It’s a good discipline for me—to take care of myself even if people might judge me for it.

As much of a stretch as this project is for me, it’s a bigger stretch for the people I’m visiting.

I’m asking a lot from people. Just because I’m willing to get crazy outside my comfort zone doesn’t mean I have a right to expect my family and friends to do the same. As I go along, this process gets easier for me, but not for the people I’m going to see.

So I’m very grateful that nobody has turned me down yet. I can sense the trepidation in many people when it comes time for me to read the letter. I’m reminded that I’m about to take them out of their comfort zone, so I need to be gentle and reassuring.

I can sense that people are afraid of what I might say. So I make it a point to be universally positive (while still being genuine and honest). From reading the very first letters, I realized that a negative comment would stick out, kind of like those “opportunities to improve” people get in a performance review. These letters are NOT performance reviews.

Most people visibly relax once I get into the letter. Humor helps. Often I’ll stop reading so we can talk a bit.

Only one person hesitated when I asked if I could publish the letter, and even he/she ultimately agreed to make it public. Everyone has been very gracious given the personal nature of the letter.

Interestingly, I get some of the most nervous reactions when I ask to take a picture to use on the web site. But I think it’s simply that they didn’t prepare to be camera-ready. They always look fine to me.

Some things simply don’t belong in the letter, and I need to remind myself of that. In some of the early letters, I found myself writing passive-aggressively. In other words, if I wanted to write about something honest, but negative, I addressed it indirectly and subtly. But peoples’ radar is finely tuned to subtlety.

Thankfully, I always write a letter and then sleep on it and ask myself if I really feel good about what I’ve written. This allows me to police myself and remove those “digs” that make it into the first draft. If I don’t think it’s appropriate to say directly, then I don’t try to bury it in the subtext either.

I need to allow for a response.

An early mistake I made was to not explicitly ask how the person felt about the letter immediately after reading it to him/her. As often than not, tears were shed by both of us. In at least one case, I simply assumed that the tears were positive. After leaving their house, I realized my mistake: I actually didn’t know what was causing this person’s tears. I had to contact this person after the fact to make sure he/she was OK with what I said.

Another question I’ve learned to ask right away is if they want to say anything in response. After all, I’ve just read them 1000+ words about our relationship. It’s only fair to give them a turn, and they certainly must have something to say.

So far the experience has been universally positive. I’ve been fortunate and grateful, because the nature of risk is that it may not always turn out well. Because I’ve grown accustomed to positive responses, the first negative response may come as a shock. Then I’ll need to remind myself that I’m taking this risk because it is worth it.