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Thick Skin Doesn’t Indicate Courage. Courage Indicates Courage

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I had a client working with someone who was making his job very difficult. My client’s team was located remotely around the world at the time, so he had to manage them remotely. Not easy.

As he was talking about this particular individual he said, “I just have to get tougher-skin to handle this person and focus on getting past this deadline.”

His use of the words “tougher-skin” caught my attention because it was out of character for him. His management style and strength as a leader drew as much from his ability to be direct, strong and clear as it did from his compassion and self-awareness. This was not a guy who was afraid of being vulnerable.

Because of this, I suspected that the term tough-skin wouldn’t be helpful in helping him manage his employee. But what to suggest as an alternative? Tough-skin, thick-skinned…etc – so many of our expressions that convey strength are associated with hardness. What could he focus on to help him deal with this person in a way that was in integrity with his leadership style?

Inner Wisdom

I thought about individuals who exemplified strength without hardness or harshness, like Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King Jr., Thich Nhat Hanh. I wondered what their guiding metaphor was?

And it clicked – what if he focused on what he absolutely understood about himself – not the feel-good beliefs of what we try to show the world we are, or the sad, powerless parts of who we are at our worst moments. But our essence that remains before and after beliefs, self-concepts and identification.  

For my client, it was compassion. He said it so matter-of-fact that. He didn’t seem to have to even think about it.

So I said to him, “The world is full of leaders with tough-skin…but a lot of them are a**holes. Then there are others who may not be jerks, but who shrink before real challenges that call for a deeper kind of strength. You don’t strike me as either type. So, how can you draw even more from your compassion to be stronger?”

He paused and said, “You’re right, that’s what I want. To lead from who I am.”

And he did just that. 

Falling On and Off the Beat: Metaphor and Practice for Learning to Start Again

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Some years ago, I was an avid Salsa and Rumba dancer. I’d go out a few times a week, every week and dance for hours. If you’ve enjoyed partner dancing to live music then you know that it’s one of the best feelings on earth. That joy of feeling into the steps, being in the moment with your partner, and wrapped in powerfully good music.

Falling On and Off the Beat: Metaphor and Practice for Learning to Start Again 1
Finding the beat then losing it

The satisfaction I had when my partner and I were in sync, but also the frustration we both felt when we bumped into eachother, or were off-time. But beyond both extremes, being able to re-engage in the dance, and lighten-up inside! What a relief.

It could be a metaphor for our quality of attention when working on a given project. When I have an idea and decide start it, but fail to go fully into the implemention or the action of it, or when I start and make great headway, but then get interrupted…it’s unsatisfying. It’s like intending to do a particular dance step, starting it and getting interrupted, or realizing that I’m off the beat. It’s almost painful. I’d argue that it’s even more painful in a work project than in a dance, or some other physical activity, because it’s more difficult to access the joy.

The joy is in the body, not the head. When we work, its all to easy to get into the head. The point is that whether we mess up and fall off the beat or nail the step, there is always the opportunity to re-start, and isn’t that really the best part?

Imagining the Worst that Can Happen is Useful if…

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Walking around the lake with my friend Mary one afternoon, the idea came up in conversation that I should visit my dad. I had a problematic relationship with him since my 20s, and had tried every which way to insert myself into his life – from showing unconditional love by being a ready ear to his troubles, to directly communicating my true feelings in a loving way. I even tried shutting him out of my life if things didn’t change, but that only made him do the same to me. Nothing worked. 

But I couldn’t give up.  

So, when we started talking about this idea, it made me stop inside. Strange thing is, I don’t even know who brought it up first, me or my friend. I knew that if I thought about it even for a minute, I’d miss an opportunity to change things – I didn’t know what would change or how I’d do it, but I knew it was worth considering. 

“OK, I’ll go. I’ll go see dad in person,” I said half shocking myself hearing the words out loud.

Without hesitation Mary responds, “Good. How about next Friday?”

“Next Friday works,” I say. Is this really happening, I think to myself.

“Good. It’s settled. I’ll pick you up at 9:00am and we’ll drive up together.” 

 At this, I’ve stopped breathing. “Sure Mary. Sounds good,” I say taking a breath in. 

Next Friday comes fast, and true to her word, Mary is at my apartment at 9:00am sharp. The drive to Sacramento takes twice as long no thanks to travelers heading North for the weekend and unusually bad commuter traffic. Plus, it’s hot – in the 90’s to be exact. All of this, however, is made bearable with a combination of stimulating conversation, a sense of personal mission and the tinge of adventure that a road trip with a good friend will bring.

Hours later we’re just a few miles from dad’s house and I start to tremble. Mary pulls over, “What’s wrong,” she asks with concern. 

“I don’t know but I can’t control it,” I sob. It occurs to me that I’m putting myself in the same situation I went through as a teenager so many years ago when dad locked me out of the house late one stormy night for being 15 minutes past curfew. He wouldn’t let me inside, so apparently I walked to the safety of my best friends family’s house on the other side of town miles away. I say apparently because I have no memory of what happened between standing at the door of my house and arriving at my friend’s house later than night. 

I realize in that moment that the same thing could happen to be all over again: Being abandoned by someone I love. I shared this with Mary whose quality of presence helps me find a little bit of stillness inside. 

After a few minutes she suggests that I call him and let him know that I’m on my way. I had decided before coming that I wouldn’t call him in advance because in the past that gave him the chance to come up with an excuse as to why he didn’t have time for a visit. So I had to come up with a story as to why I was nearby so that it would be harder for him to say no. 

“Dad, hi, it’s Robin,” I say with a shaky voice. 

“I know who it is,” he says, not unkindly. 

“I was in Nevada city for a dance workshop and thought I’d come by to say `hello’. Can I stop by?” I say hastily finishing the question in the hopes he won’t have time to think of a way to say no. 

“Well, this is a surprise,” he says with a long pause before continuing, “You may as well stop by, but I don’t have much time.”

Hearing the words, you may as well stop by, was like witnessing the opening of a treasure chest that only happens after years of toiling for the secret key. Ten minutes later, we pull into his driveway. I gather my courage and take a deep breath  and approach the front door. I’m ready for any outcome.

“Hi there, mate. Come on in,” dad says with a boyish grin. He’s originally from England and even though it’s been many decades since he lived there, his accent is easy to detect. The word “mate” to him is a term of endearment, much like American’s use the word “buddy.” 

After introducing him to Mary, we stand awkwardly in the entranceway. Dad leans over to give me a hug and says, “It’s good to see you.” 

It was the beginning of a new start.

Obligation Disappears When You Make a Real Choice

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I had a job that was a combination of administrator, project coordinator, volunteer coordinator, coach, cook and errand-runner. It was a small family run business, so all 9 employees wore many hats. The company had offices in both Marin, California and Paris, France, therefore one frequent errand I had was to pick up and drop off visitors and staff at the airport. This was in the late 90’s so traffic in the Bay Area wasn’t as bad as it is today, but it still took much-needed time out of my already overloaded workday. 

On one of these occasions, my manager told me that I had to take my Parisian counterpart, Hillary, to the airport the next day. I didn’t know her well, but I loved her energy. It seemed like when she was here from Paris, the office was a nicer place to be. 

Still, I was pissed that I had to take a couple of hours out of my already super busy schedule – I mean, why couldn’t she just take the Marin airporter to the airport? If the situation were reversed, I’d have to?! But I didn’t dare ask my boss. I already knew what he’d say: a big fat NO. And on top of it, he’d probably use the opportunity to remind me that my attitude sucked. And he’d be right! 

So, the next morning while driving to work from San Francisco (where I lived at the time), I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that I was going to have to do this whole commute in reverse just to get Hillary to the airport – I mean, what a total waste of my time! I’ll never be appreciated for my true talents at this job. I’ll always be the employee who has to do crappy errands. I couldn’t let it go. By the time I reached the offramp to San Rafael, I had talked myself into a frenzy- it felt like my head was going to explode! 

Rounding the corner to the home-office, an enormous rose bush catches my eye. I drive by here every day, sometimes more than twice a day, and have never noticed it before. How is that possible? 

I pull over, put the car in park and pluck a few of the brightest pink-orange blossoms before getting back into the car. Pulling into the driveway I sit for a minute bewildered…I feel really good all of sudden.

If I have to do this, I’m gunna make it count. You have a job to do, I say, looking over at the stack of rose buds, as if they’re going to talk back to me. A moment later petals cover the passenger seat.

Later that morning, Hillary opens the car door to get in but stops midway. “How beautiful!” she beams. Brushing the petals aside before getting in she leans over and gives me a hug. “I know that it’s a drag to have to take me to the airport. I’m having a rough time taking care of things in Paris right now and it makes a big difference. Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” I say, so glad that I did this tiny thing.

We made it to the airport faster than expected, chattering the whole time. It would be the first of many conversations. We became the best of friends. 

Do I Follow My Instinct or Not: Some Choices are Not Black and White

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It’s 1:00 in the afternoon and I’m walking home from the train. I was in the city for a job interview that went longer than expected, making me late for a second job interview by phone at 1:30. It takes 30 minutes to get home, and since the bus is too slow and a taxi is too expensive I’ll just have to walk super-fast like one of those goofy-looking speed-walkers. Missing this interview isn’t an option – it was month seven of a depressing job hunt. I was getting desperate. It was 2013 and while the job market wasn’t terrible, the fact that I was in my late 40’s re-entering tech sales after freelancing for a few years, made things harder. 

Rounding the corner toward Lakeshore Avenue I hear a whimpering sound. Don’t you dare stop, Robin Fletcher – just keep walking. Not halfway down the block, I stop, turn around and go back. 

There, behind a column on the porch of one of those run-down Edwardians near the lake is a shivering puppy peaking his head out from behind. There’s no collar and judging by its eyes, which are crusty and watery, it’s probably been abandoned. But there’s what looks like a water bowl with no water beside him.  

Crap. Now what do I do? I can still make my interview if I leave right this minute. But then, what about the puppy? I could take him with me but if there’s an owner, he’ll wonder what happened to dog. I could knock on the door, but if the owner is stupid enough to leave his dog unattended by this busy street he might resent the fact that I’m telling him what to do with his dog. Damn.

Just then a stranger walks by and, noticing the pup asks, “What a cute puppy, is it ok?” 

“I think it’s been abandoned, but I’m not sure. I was just walking by like you and had to stop.  I’m not sure what to do,” I say. 

“Well someone’s got to do something!” she blurts, shifting from concern to condemnation in an flash.

“I agree, but the problem is that I have a job interview that I have to go to.” Then it occurs to me we could team up, “this may seem weird because you don’t know me but maybe together we can figure out a way to help him.”  

Visibly conflicted she snaps, “It’s not my fault – You’re the one who found it, not me.” And with that, she turns and continues on her way.

I look at the time. My interview starts in 5 minutes. I’ll never make it. And unfortunately I don’t even have their number to call and let them know. So, I guess I’m staying after all. 

I wait for a few more minutes, hoping someone will approach who knows something, anything, about this puppy. But no one does. I gather my courage to knock on the front door – praying that by doing so I don’t unintentionally piss off the person living there.

An old woman still in her nightgown opens the door. “Hi, I’m Robin and I was just walking by when I noticed your puppy here alone on your porch.” 

“It’s not mine,” she snaps. 

“Um, uh, ok, well anyway, I was worried that he could go into the street, so I thought I’d let you know…”  searching her face for some kind of sign that she cares. 

But instead, she looks at me then down at the puppy then back at me and says, “I heard it crying this morning and so I put out some water and a bit of food. I thought it would just go away.” And with that she shrugs her shoulders and shuts the door. 

I guess you’re coming with me, pup. 

A few weeks later after having checked with the local animal shelters to see if anyone was looking for their lost puppy, I had no luck. I thought about adopting him myself but already had Moose, a large Coon Hound. And if you know hounds, they need plenty of exercise. My usual routine of running with him every day turned out to be quite the challenge. Squid, the name I ended up giving the pup because when he snuggled he looked like a little squid, was too small to keep up with Moose, and so I’d end up holding him in one arm, while running Moose with the other. And God help me if a squirrel crossed our path! 

So, I decided to post on social media asking friends if anyone wanted to adopt Squid. A few days go by and there’s no interest. But he’s really grown on me by this time, so I decide to keep him. I’ll just have to find a way to make it work with Moose. That afternoon, I get a call from a friend of a friend interested in seeing Squid. She thinks he could be a potential therapy dog. She works with seniors in hospice and is taking care of an elderly gentleman who desperately wants a dog to keep him company. I look at Squid and realize this is where he is meant to be. 

They come to meet Squid later that day and it’s love at first site. Squid nuzzles up against the old man’s arm, making him brighten with happiness.  

Months later, the person who groomed Squid to be a therapy dog calls to let me know that the elderly gentleman passed away. He was holding squid lovingly in his arm when he died. 

Sometimes When Things Go Against Your Plans, Hopes and Expectations it Can Be Awesome!

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Have you ever found yourself in a different country, by accident? I have. The country was Portugal. 

In August of 2000 I planned a trip to Europe to attend the wedding of some friends. The wedding would be in southeastern France, along the Cote d’Azur in a small village called Canadel. 

August is tourist season, so everything is expensive. Luckily, I was able to get a couple of cheap airline tickets from a former colleague of mine I worked with when I flew for TWA years earlier. Yvonne, my travel companion, and I wanted to spend a few days in Paris before heading by train to Canadel for the wedding. 

My flight-attendant friend, Jose got us the lowest level roundtrip tickets from San Francisco to Paris. This was fine by me because the lower the level, the cheaper the cost, the more money I could spend on clothes and food while in Paris. But Jose warned that these cheap tickets (buddy passes they called them), come with a risk. If flights are overbooked out of NY (our point of transfer), we’d be the first to get bumped. But I wasn’t worried about this – after all, I’d used buddy passes dozens of times before and have never had a problem. Not only that, if worse comes to worse, we could fly to a city near Paris and take a train in. 

I was certain that nothing could go wrong. And so, with full confidence, I spend the money saved by getting cheap tickets on a Paris-worthy shopping spree! Why wait to be in Paris to shop? I planned an outfit for each day, (something I’d never done before!). I even got us a place to stay for free near the famous Champs-Elysees. An ex-boyfriend owed me a favor and convinced his sister who lived in Paris to give us a room during our stay. Everything would be perfect. 

August finally comes and Yvonne and I have a fantastic flight from SFO airport. Not only did we get a free upgrade to business class, but our flight gets into JFK early. On the way to our connecting gate, we stop at one of those over-priced airport shops to stock up on chocolate and magazines. Giggly and excited we head to the gate. I get in line to check-in while Yvonne grabs one of the few empty seats. It’s busier than I thought it would be. 

The line is really long and seems full of frustrated passengers. I look over at a Yvonne and flash a smile with a thumbs up, wanting to reassure her that everything is fine. But, in fact, I’m more trying to reassure myself.  

Finally, I make it to the front of the line. Reaching for my ticket, the gate agent says, “This flight is very full, but I’ll see what can do.” 

Meanwhile the other gate agent is announcing the names of standby passengers who’ve made the cut. My bulletproof optimism shrinks with the announcement of each name. I start to fear the worst. “I’m so sorry Ms. Fletcher,” says the first gate agent, “but I’m afraid there isn’t a single seat left. There are too many standby passengers and you’ve got the lowest priority passes.”

In the periphery, I can see Yvonne looking in my direction but don’t dare look at her until I have boarding passes in hand. “Well, what about a different airport? There’s got to be another flight going into France besides Paris, n’est-pas?” I say, chuckling at my clever use of French. 

“Unfortunately, most flights leaving for Europe for the next day 1/2 are oversold. The only thing I can get you both on is a flight to Portugal – but it’s boarding right now, so you’ve got a minute to decide,” she says with controlled urgency. 

“Yes, we’ll take it, at least it’s on the same continent,” I blurt before realizing the idiocy of that comment. 

Just then Yvonne walks up and asks, “What’s taking so long?”

“It turns out that every flight going to Paris is is full, so we’re going to Portugal instead,” I say with forced enthusiasm. “I’ll explain later, we have sprint if we’re going to make this flight.” 

We make the flight just in time and arrive into Lisbon, Portugal’s capital in the late afternoon of a hot August day. But unfortunately, our bags go to Paris. In the cab ride from the airport neither of us are talking and giggling.

We’re dropped off at a cobble-stoned plaza that looks like it might be the central part of the city. Jetlagged and feeling sorry for ourselves, we randomly choose one of the many streets shooting off from the central plaza. My French Berlitz dictionary is not much help so we end up going with the first proprietor who speaks enough English to tell us the price per night. 

With no luggage to unpack, we settle in quickly and within the hour are sitting on the pension’s peach-colored metal terrace. By this time, I had been stewing in regret for not thinking things through, embarrassment at the fact that this didn’t just impact me but Yvonne also, and anger that things didn’t go as planned. Regret, embarrassment and anger, though unpleasant can sometimes be delicious ingredients but they make for a bitter meal that turn you into a real drag. 

So I wasn’t surprised that while sharing a bottle of local red wine Yvonne stared me straight in the eyes and said, “You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself. Things didn’t go as planned – get over it!” 

I sat there in my stew of negative emotions, knowing she was right but I just couldn’t let it go. I mean what mess I made of things. And not only that, I’ve got no clothes! 

I pour a second glass and the owner comes out with a platter of cheeses and bread. Just then, the sun slips beneath the horizon making the sky a brilliant orange-pink color with shades of purple and blue. Each building reflects the light in glowing but unique hues. And Lisbon comes to life right there before my eyes.

“You might be right Yvonne, life’s too damn short…and who knows what tomorrow will bring anyway. I’ve got a feeling that whether I plan or not, we’re on an adventure.”

To hear what happens next, listen to the podcast I did on this trip: https://soundcloud.com/obind/lisbon