Letting go of another sort

Sometimes, when I find myself with an idea to write about, I go back to the archives of this here blog dealeo and take a look to see if there’s a post from the past couple of years about that very thing. Sometimes there is. Like this one.

I had to laugh a little when I opened it and read its two short paragraphs. I laughed, not because it was really about what I wanted to write about today. No, I laughed because it was a lesson I’d forgotten over the last two years. One that I needed a reminder about. At the very least, all of this is worth it for that.

Ok, so what did I want to write about? Well, a different sort of letting go. I’m not going to get overly specific here, as I’m still thinking about this, but I wanted to get some thoughts down here. Sometimes, we get into things — be they hobbies or activities, groups, clubs, memberships, professions, etc. We get into them for a reason, a reason that has tons of legitimacy. And sometimes we stay in that thing, even as the reason shifts. Sometimes the reason shifts for us and keeps us in the thing. It could be a bowling league, a therapy group, a job. It really doesn’t matter.

But then things shift in a way that can make us wonder about our reasoning1. Is this for me? Or for you? For service? For adulation? Is it just a habit?

Or has the thing just morphed in a way we can’t quite see yet, requiring us to morph, or our relationship to the thing to morph2? This means that a shift isn’t about endings but about transformation. Or, maybe, transmutation.

Either way, a letting go is essential. It’s easy to think of a letting go as being about endings. About losing something. About not having that thing anymore. And that’s true. Letting go is about those things. Yet, from this angle, at least where I sit, it’s about more. It’s about reimagining from multiple perspectives. It’s about inner and outer shifts. Shifts in such a way that loss is the last thing on your mind because you have just gained something. Ending is irrelevant because of the beautiful new beginning.

Letting go can be about, well, receiving.

Yes. That’s what I was needing to hear.

  1. I know. I’m betraying one of my cardinal rules’ — to use I’ language. I’m generalizing here. It’s not to avoid responsibility, I assure you. It’s because I’m still sorting this out in my head, as I said, and it’s easier for me to do this in a more general sort of way. Carry on.↩︎

  2. So, this is a great example of what putting this stuff down does for me. I had no idea that this would come through. And this is a lesson for me to ponder.↩︎


Everything’s a conversation

Walk out your front door. What do you experience?

Accept a job offer. How does your life unfold?

Ignore your partner’s text. What happens next?

Years ago, I had a teacher who talked about how our entire lives are essentially conversations with the world. We engage — through behavior, words — and the world responds. It’s a question and answer process. Sometimes we do the asking, sometimes we do the answering. We can think of each of our actions and inter-actions as an ongoing, unfolding conversation.

What is the conversation that you are in at this moment? How has it changed from year to year? Decade to decade? What are you learning? What new knowledge are you helping to create?

And then there’s the kicker1, who is it that we are really having the conversations with anyway?

Does it matter?

  1. Well, a kicker anyway.↩︎


A piece of gum

When I was a kid, we used to fly back to Boston every summer to visit my grandparents. It was always one of my favorite things, flying. I loved the visits to the grandparents as well; they were beautiful people. I miss them both dearly. It was those visits that made me a natural flyer1.

These were the days when a flight from San Francisco to Boston was made on a wide-bodied jet. There would be two aisles and loads of space. I remember three seats by the window, four to five seats in the middle, and three more seats by the window. I could have these dimensions wrong, but that’s what my kiddo memory tells me. It was not unusual for us to have our own row as a family. This meant getting to lay down. I mean, like, lifting up armrests and taking up like three seats.

When was the last time you saw three seats in a row empty on an airplane?2

Not only was the plane giant and empty, but going to the cockpit was a thing. During flights. I would always ask for three things on a plane: a deck of cards (they’d give me one), pilots wings (they were pins, not those dumb and cheap stickers), and a trip to the cockpit to say hi to the pilot. They always took me. I don’t remember being able to see out the window. Nor do I remember being asked any inappropriate questions.

Flying was different then. Of course, so many things were. But I digress. This isn’t meant to be a when I was a kid’ sort of piece.

Whenever we flew back east (or on the return flight), I would always carry with me a pack of gum. Gum is handy for relieving the pressure build-up in your ears as you take off and land. Chewing gum can help alleviate or prevent that uncomfortable feeling. But I had another purpose for my gum.

Once the flight was in the air, and the fasten-seatbelt was turned off, I’d get up and start wandering around. Remember, flights generally weren’t as packed as they are these days (and have been for what seems like the last 20 years), so there was room to roam. There were also two isles, so getting caught in front of or behind a drink cart (or meal cart…my goodness, they used to serve us meals!) wasn’t really an issue.

I’d wanter up and down the isles looking for something: friends.

If I saw a kid that was my age, I’d stop and ask them, Do you want a piece of gum?” It was a simple gesture. Who doesn’t want a piece of gum? Sometimes, I’d get a no,” but often, it was an enthusiastic yes.” This was the gateway. Now I might have a companion for the flight.

I’ve got to be honest here. I don’t have a ton of memories of these kids. I don’t really remember what we’d do after giving them the gum. I suppose we’d chat. Perhaps we’d play cards (remember, they’d give you free cards), maybe we’d wander around. I really don’t remember. I just remember the gum—the gesture.

The reach for connection.

That’s really what it was, wasn’t it? An attempt at connecting. As a kid, I naturally knew that the flight would be easier with a friend, and I knew that I had to make that happen. The only way to do that was to reach for someone I didn’t know. I just needed a bridge—a symbol of some sort. Thus the gum.

I have no idea if this was something that I figured out on my own or if it was suggested to me by one of the adults in my life. What I do know is that somewhere along the way, I forgot about it. Connecting to others became more challenging. Walking into a room and striking up a conversation with someone I never met became a bit of an anxiety.

I stopped chewing gum in my late twenties when I was diagnosed with TMJ (gum chewing is really not advised when you have TMJ — even on airplanes). It’s not like I replaced it with mints. Or small pieces of chocolate3. No, I simply forgot about the bridge. I had some relationship trauma throughout the years, and I became much shyer than that kid who looked forward to wandering the aisles of the airplane.

As I’ve been thinking about the impact of my social shyness on reaching out and generating new business opportunities and filling programs, this story came back to me. To be specific, it was while I was out for a hike, my mind wandering gently as my feet made their way back down the summit I’d climbed. The memory flowed back in like an old friend. Would you like a piece of gum?” I smiled inside and out when it came back to me.

That’s it, I thought. I want to offer the world some gum and see who says yes. Who wants to connect? Who wants to join this other kid on this random journey. We may never cross paths again, but it doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy each other’s company and, perhaps, even help each other out a bit.

How about you? You want a piece of gum?

  1. I developed a fear of flying later in life, one I’ve mostly gotten past, but for much of my life, getting on a plane was as easeful as getting in a car.↩︎

  2. Well, pre-Covid, that is. I suspect there’ve been some empty seats this past year.↩︎

  3. Let’s be serious: I’d just eat those all myself.↩︎



I received an email from indeed.com inviting me to listen to a Job Cast’ workshop titled Well-Being at Work: Understanding What Drives Work Happiness. The description read:

You spend a large portion of your life at work, so it’s important that you find a position that represents more than a paycheck. Trust, belonging, flexibility, appreciation and a sense of purpose all contribute to your well-being at work.

Tune in for this virtual workshop to learn how to find a job that makes you happy, plus how to be happy while finding a job.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this for a while now. I’m not quite sure that I’m fully ready to put my thinking on this down fully, but this felt like a way to introduce a concept that I don’t see discussed in a lot of places (a few…well, a very few, but definitely not a lot).

This workshop (its description, anyway) makes some fundamental assumptions. The primary assumption it’s making is that work is inevitable. That it’s necessary. That it’s natural.

The thing is, the way we’ve organized our societies — around exchanging our labor for a currency that we can use to buy life necessities such as housing, health care, food, etc. (as well as luxuries like vacations, fancy clothes, and whatnot) — is just that: the way we’ve organized our societies. It’s no more natural than the way you’ve organized your closet.

There are a lot of ways that we could organize ourselves to meet the individual and collective needs of all people, and the way we have is one of them.

For years and years and years, Gallup has done surveys on employee engagement. And for many, many years, the numbers have either declined or plateaued. And they’re not good. There hasn’t been a whole lot of improvement. And that’s despite billions of dollars spent on consultants, engagement programs, moral programs, etc., etc., etc. Perhaps the questions we are asking are wrong.

Perhaps instead of asking, how do we help people be more engaged with work?”, we should be asking, why is it that people have to work in the first place?”

I know, I know. There are a lot of things that need to be done in order for society to function (even if we were to organize differently around our economy and resource allocation, we still all have to poop. Someone has to deal with that). That’s true. No doubt. But let’s not let that get in the way of the larger question: why are we continuing to choose a structure for our society that has so many (more than 70% according to some polls) disengaged in their lives? Not to mention a structure that leaves so many struggling to make ends meet?

These questions actually have some answers, but that’s not what I’m up to here. Right now, I just want to lay this in the center: what if our lives were centered, and not the economy? What if our organizing principles were what is life-giving?

What might the world look like?

And how necessary would a workshop such as Well-Being at Work: Understanding What Drives Work Happiness be?


In honor of the defenses

Your defenses are ingenious. They have kept you alive. They have protected you from what you are not capable of experiencing. They have helped you get to today.

Sure, they might be out of date. Sure, they may not serve you in the ways that you would like. Sure, they may get in the way of you experiencing things in life that you would like to today. That doesn’t detract from just how ingenious they are.

I’ve spent quite a bit of my time trying to undo my defenses. Trying to extract them from my way of being. Why wouldn’t I? Especially in a world where we are told that the things that are in our way are either our fault or simply bad.

It stopped me in my tracks when a friend invited me to slow down and offer gratitude for my defenses. To honor them for the way that they have helped me survive.

Sometimes not feeling was the best move I could make.

Sometimes pushing others away was a way to stay connected to myself.

What happens when we approach our resistance, our dissociation, our repression, our isolation with a humble gratitude?

What might we be freed up to experience?


May I have this dance?

It’s beginning to feel a bit like there’s a flurry of emergence happening; like something that has been longing to come on the scene is starting to make itself known. It’s still a bit like a mist, not quite graspable. But clearly there. It’s coming into form through multiple channels. Through conversations and music and groups and ideas. Through books and podcasts and apps and television. Yeah, television.

And through healing. Individual healing. Collective healing.

Much like a lot of different futures, this one isn’t yet visible by looking at it head on. We have to see it out of the periphery. We have to be open to the idea that there is something that’s inviting us forward. We have to trust. We have to have faith and courage.

When I was getting ready for one of the men’s groups that I run, I went looking for a poem to help ground us into conversation. I found this one:

Advice, by Bill Holm

Someone dancing inside us
learned only a few steps:
the Do-Your-Work” in 4/4 time,
the What-Do-You-Expect” waltz.
He hasn’t noticed yet the woman
standing away from the lamp,
the one with black eyes
who knows the rhumba,
and strange steps in jumpy rhythms
from the mountains in Bulgaria.
If they dance together,
something unexpected will happen.
If they don’t, the next world
will be a lot like this one.

I love that this poem is called Advice.’ It gives us a recipe to find our way to a new way of engaging with the world.

As we were discussing it, one of the men mentioned that he didn’t know how to dance the rhumba, and so he wouldn’t be able to dance with this mystery woman1. Yet the poem doesn’t say anything about needing to know how to dance the rhumba. It only insists that we chose to dance together — or end up with a world that looks a lot like the one we’re in.

This is how this future is feeling to me. I feel being pulled toward something. I don’t feel in the drivers seat. And I am pretty sure that if I follow its lead, something unexpected will happen.

  1. I trust that the poet doesn’t mean to gender this approach to life in an exclusionary way. I can see how this poem could be read this way. It certainly isn’t my intention to exclude anyone from this conversation.↩︎