I woke up with an earworm of Julie Andrews singing “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music.
This morning’s brain tune came with a bonus memory video of the scenes in the movie – Maria von Trapp and the children, dancing around the bedroom while thunder and lightning stormed outside. I let it replay in my mind a few times as I snuggled under the blankets, enjoying a few extra minutes of quiet comfort.
It was a good way to start the day. Thank you to the von Trapp Family Singers.
In the first days after 9/11, when the skies were silent and the country was grieving, it felt as if time had stopped. The days passed, but each one somberly echoed the one before, the same and alike.
Then, the word came that the skies would reopen, and the planes could fly. My colleagues and I went outside to watch and cheer as one of the first rolled down the runway and made its way into the clouds.
That one communal event didn’t change what had happened, didn’t fix what had come before. It didn’t negate the horrified sadness that seemed to be everywhere. Grief is not something that can be managed on a calendar or put on a timetable for healing. Those emotions, especially on a scale that existed after 9/11, must be allowed to occur as necessary, to come in waves, small and large, in bits and pieces, minutes and memories; a collective experience that is manifested in millions of individual, personal moments.
That shared occasion did do something important, however. It recognized a first. It honored a symbolic start. It celebrated the beginning of an ending.
I thought about those days this morning as I read about the trucks rolling out on their way to deliver the first doses of vaccine.
What’s onboard those trucks cannot make what’s come before disappear. Their contents won’t solve all of the challenges or take away all of the pain. There is no quick fix.
Those trucks do, however, carry a beginning.
Here’s to the start of hope. And, here’s to all those who are doing what’s needed to help the world move forward.
I’ve never bought anything from Zappos.
I don’t do a lot of online shopping, so that’s not a statement about my feelings about the company. On the contrary, I’m a Zappos admirer. If I wanted to purchase shoes or clothing online, Zappos would be one of the first options I’d consider. I’d even recommend – in fact, have recommended – Zappos to other people.
Why am I a Zappos fan, despite not being an actual customer (so far)? I’m inspired by the Zappos story, the journey from a little online shoe company to an e-commerce powerhouse.
The business results – financial returns, company growth, all of the other traditional “business” measurements – are impressive, of course. What I find particularly appealing, however, is what drives those results: the Zappos culture.
Until recently, the person leading the culture charge was Tony Hsieh. His perspective was (is) seen by some as radical, extreme, unsustainable. Encourage your employees to spend as much time as necessary to help a customer? Recommend a competitor if you aren’t able to meet a customer’s needs? Spell out company values and then prioritize those values over technical skills when hiring new employees? Crazy stuff, some might say.
But if you zero in on what’s really going on, what’s happening to build and sustain and expand the Zappos brand, the beloved Zappos experience, it’s not extreme at all. It’s very simple.
It’s people.
Zappos sells shoes and clothing online. That’s where the money comes from, and yes, the money is vital. A business can’t operate without it.
But – the reason Zappos exists is to serve people, both outside (customers) and inside (employees) the company.
Zappos puts people at the center of their business, treats them with care and respect and appreciation, trusts them to make good decisions, and listens to and learns from them. Customers and employees respond in kind.
This approach doesn’t guarantee that every day is full of unicorns and lollipops. Sometimes, mistakes get made, bad things happen, plans fail. Nobody’s perfect. That’s reality.
It’s hard to argue with success, however. The results are there; they tell a story that can’t be ignored.
Today’s cuppa honors Tony Hsieh, who passed away on November 27. Here’s to his brand of putting people first. I hope that his message continues to influence the world of business for generations to come.
Yesterday, I read an article about a bridge in Utah that was constructed as part of an overpass widening project. The bridge is intended to give a safe “paw passage” for wildlife across the interstate highway.
According to the article, the plan is working. Deer, squirrels, and other wildlife are using the bridge. The article included video showing daytime and nighttime views of animals making their way from one side to the other. The end result is a safer journey for them as well as for the humans who are less likely to encounter a critter on the road.
“Innovation” can be a daunting word; it’s often associated with expectations of grand actions and never-before-seen results. It’s nice to be reminded that successful innovation, the kind that brings meaningful change, can be as simple as building a bridge.
Every year before Thanksgiving, I buy a new jar of poultry seasoning.
I don’t use poultry seasoning very often during the rest of the year, so you’d think I wouldn’t have to buy a new jar. I can never find the previous year’s jar in time to start prepping the food, however, no matter how hard I look.
Every once in a while, I’ll find the missing jar a day or two after Thanksgiving. I’ll carefully set it next to the current year’s jar and whisper to myself, “Now you have two; don’t forget where you put them so you don’t end up buying something you don’t actually need next year.” But then, the following year, the cycle of loss repeats itself, and poultry seasoning goes back on my shopping list.
Most often, the missing jar(s) simply never appears. It’s a mysterious event, like two socks going into the wash and one sock coming out, or cupboards full of Tupperware lids without matching Tupperware containers. I’ve learned to accept it and just get on with things.
In the midst of all that’s different this year, I especially appreciate the little moments of continuity – the expected, the familiar – when they do occur.
Here’s to tradition.
Happy birthday, Carl Sagan.
I watch this video at least once a year. It makes me think, makes me cry, and makes me smile.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3F2NeH_-f34
Here’s to our lives together on this tiny, blue dot.
I have sons but no daughters.
I am, however, a daughter myself, and I have several nieces. I also have a mother, a sister, aunts, grandmothers. I have friends who have daughters, who are also sisters, aunts, grandmothers.
In other words, I may not have the experience of mothering a daughter, but I do understand the daughter experience.
Yesterday, the daughter experience had a First. Yesterday, a woman – a daughter – did something that took 200+ years and the combined hopes, dreams, blood, sweat, and tears of countless other daughters to achieve.
I know that not everybody is as happy with these circumstances as I am. Not everybody agrees with the positions and perspective that this woman, this newly-elected Vice President, holds. Even those who voted for her may have reservations. That is true in every election; there is no perfect candidate, and there are no perfect outcomes, even for the winning side.
I also know that history is full of diverse opinions and different views. Yet, the tales of history are influenced by the storytellers. Now, we are poised for the history books to include the voices of women – of daughters – in a new way.
This event doesn’t have to diminish what came before. Nor does it mean that my hopes and dreams for my sons – and for all sons – have disappeared. As always, I want them to be able to achieve their goals and to be recognized for their accomplishments.
I also want them to know, however, that there is room for more. There is space for beyond what used to be. They don’t become “less than” simply because of change; instead, change makes new opportunities possible. Instead of either/or, the world can be full of and.
I saw this floating around social media yesterday:
Be sure to wear your shoes, ladies. There’s a lot of glass on the floor in here.
Daughters- and sons – everywhere…let’s celebrate.
Perhaps it’s because yesterday, I was reading about the horrible fires on the West Coast and in Colorado; thousands of acres burned, numerous deaths and injuries, countless homes and businesses destroyed.
Or maybe it’s because I watched a weather report last night describing the anticipated path of Hurricane Zeta, the seventh? eighth? – I’ve lost count – hurricane affecting the U.S. Gulf Coast this year.
Or, it could be because COVID-19 is constantly on my mind, as it is for the millions of others whose lives have been turned upside-down by the medical and financial and logistical nightmare of this illness.
Whatever the reason, this morning’s earworm was Synchroncity II by The Police. I woke up with Sting inside my head, singing about patterns and parallels and a shadow on the door of a cottage by the shore of a dark Scottish lake.
“Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real.” -Cormack McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses
Sometimes, elections come with drama. Punditry, debates, commercials, and yard signs surround us and (if we let them) occupy our hours and minds.
This campaign-driven drama can lead to an anti-climactic feeling in the actual moments just before voting. No matter how enthusiastic I might be about an election, waiting in line to get my ballot feels a little like prepping a room before painting the walls: necessary, but uninspiring.
The actual voting moment, however, never fails to make me emotional.
Where I live, we use electronic ballots. Each selection I make on the screen feels like a cheer, an internal celebration of my values, my opinions, my hopes and dreams.
By the Are these your final selections? confirmation question that is the last step on the voting machine, I have tears in my eyes. I blink them away as I walk to the ballot collection machine and (if they are offering them) accept my I voted sticker.
Perhaps that seems silly. Perhaps, to some, that makes me ridiculous.
I don’t care. I won’t apologize, or duck my head to hide the tears. I won’t allow myself to feel embarrassed or less than because I bring my emotions into the polling booth. I hope I always react this way, feel like this.
It wasn’t so long ago that brave, determined people fought to make sure that I could vote. There are still battles happening today, efforts to ensure that people can be heard. Sometimes, I feel like those who paved the way, who put everything on the line (and are still doing so now) are voting with me, standing by my side or crowded behind me, cheering along.
I will never be a world leader, never discover a cure for disease or make life-altering judicial decisions. I’ll never fly a spacecraft or make a news-breaking scientific discovery. When I vote, however, as I did yesterday, I become part of the historical record.
It’s a tiny role, for sure, like a background character in a live, on-stage performance. But imagine if the tiny roles didn’t exist. You’d be left with a half-complete story, one lacking heart and soul, warmth and energy. You’d be missing the context and meaning that can only exist when many are present, many are part.
I’m proud and grateful for what I am able to contribute.
Here’s to the emotional experience of voting and the celebration of all it represents.
A Daily Cuppa 