My father's coat

When it’s minus twelve degrees at the gas pump in the morning, you tend to count your blessings but you do so at the pace of stamping feet - short and to the point. Today my counting stops at number one: my father’s coat, a heavy, old-fashioned, insanely warm down thing that envelops me as I wait for the tank to fill. The coat became mine when we cleaned out my father’s last room. I took it for my son. But once it wrapped itself around me, I couldn’t seem to let it go, a metaphor for my struggle to release the notion that parents are supposed to live and care for us forever. I buried myself in that coat for days, my nose protruding from above the zipper as we managed the details surrounding my father's death; I enjoyed its comforting propensity to swallow me whole throughout all of the last, long winter as we awaited in vain for some instruction on how to live without him.

A year later, I have hauled the coat out again to protect me from this first January blast.  The size and bulk of it are familiar, but the metaphor has slightly changed. I realize now that more of my father remains behind than I expected. Small rituals and sayings, old cocktail glasses, his paintings scattered around the house, a certain cheese and joke remind me of him daily and, like the coat, envelop me with memories of home. I have come to recognize that rich legacy of “being” that I have inherited from my father, a lifetime of acquired mannerisms come from watching my Dad be himself and emulating his best parts.

Over a decade ago, when I was diagnosed with what has turned out to be a mild and generally unobtrusive form of multiple sclerosis, my father visibly winced and said to me, “I’m sorry for the genes I gave you.” Wait, what?!? “Are you kidding me?!” I squawked. “First of all, MS is not hereditary and even if it were, I’d take it gladly along with all the other natural gifts embedded in my genes – your genes, Mister!” He shrugged off my ensuing list of genetic gratefulness: the indefinable artist eye and ear, the unmerciful creative drive, the analytical bent, the curiosity, the wit, a quiet empathy disguised, sometimes, by inappropriate laughter, the particular gifts and challenges of a closet introvert in an extrovert’s career. All of these assorted genetic imprints daily make me thankful to be my father's child… but heck, today it's cold outside. I’ll just settle and be grateful for his coat.

This is the year

I know well that on the first day of a new year it is traditional to set resolutions for the future - oaths of self improvement - and to narrow the past into convenient lists of ten best and worst. But today I choose to simply breathe and look around, take stock of all of it, no narrowing of the list.

It is, in truth, a day like any other January day, probably too crisp and cold to go outside, a few more minutes of sunlight than yesterday, a few fewer than tomorrow, our slow progression on to spring. Yet it is day one of the year in which I will turn 64 and sing that song - yes, that one - with the very same man who first played it for me at the age of sixteen.  It is the year in which I will both retire from public service and publish my first book, one story in a life full of interesting chapters with many more come. It is the year when  my grandson becomes old enough to read "Swallows and Amazons" and sail off into worlds he's never known. It is the year when his brother's vocabulary grows to the wondrous state of fluency. It is the year in which one son will finish his masters degree and the other will continue to invent new stories for new media. It is a year when I will reconnect with friends and commiserate about the fleeting of time and betrayal of bodies. It is the year when that sharp sense of loss for the wisdom and companionship of parents will probably not diminish but my appreciation will renew for how much of them there is to miss. This is the year when I explore my photography and my writing and the places they can take me.  

I do not deny the things in my own life and the greater world that could be better than they are. The need to improve on a personal and universal level has been a constant in the short years of my lifetime and it will be no different when I am gone. Humans muck it up pretty badly and universally. Injustice, racism, cruelty, hunger, sexism, disease, inhuman acts beyond description have abounded this past year like all the others. I do not deny that they require a call to action, they always do. But I would contest the pessimistic view that things are worse than they have ever been. They are the challenges of an imperfect species and, as always, they require our attention. But let us also remember those bursts of magnificent creativity and goodness that improve not only our lives but our souls - the messy, wondrous brilliance that make us lucky to be human and alive. Those have abounded, too, and we are all the better for them.

I do not know what I'm going to do this year - that, in itself, is a first. My day-to-day compass is not fixed. I don't know where, exactly, I'm going to live and spend my time. I have not been this untethered since the day I graduated from college and said, "now what?" But I expect that in this year, as always  I'll be centered by the ones I love, both family and friends, and from that circle I will take the challenges as they come.

On Being Number Two

Looking back along the sightline of my career, a single, common thread emerges, one that defines my work life and my character: I like, without apologies, being Number Two.  Not enough is said about  the position from which one can be both visionary and executor, define the work and get it done. It is the pivot, the fulcrum, the vital center. Regardless of the metaphor and almost without exception, Number Two is the place of quiet power and influence where ideas turn into action and vision into words. It is my favorite place to be.

Of course, like any other role in life, Number Two depends on several factors to succeed: a compelling purpose, trust from Number One, and talent on the execution side. The trifecta. To those ideal conditions, a Number Two adds critical thinking and a steady hand to make projects large and small succeed. Leading from the shadows requires a special skill and faith. The secret is to recognize one's unique perspective, neither envying nor emulating Number One. Be complementary not competitive, the very difference both your value and your strength. Plan, and when you think you've got it, plan some more, think everything through to its logical conclusion - that's your job. Build a staff that "gets it" and gets it done. And believe that your work will speak for itself - the very doing and the deed will earn for you all the trust and respect you'll ever need. 

I have been extraordinarily lucky in my life to hit the sweet spot more often than not - and to have done so on projects that have in common a quixotic inspirational challenge - big stuff, never done before, the tiger by the tail. The compelling challenge in my new post-retirement life is to channel the Number Two qualities and characteristics into my own personal goals (in which I'm, heaven forbid, also Number One) and a consulting life on projects that continue to intrigue and satisfy. Stay tuned.