Michele Woodward

Powerful Coaching. Powerful Results.

life

Nine Eleven

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I wrote this on the ten year anniversary of 9/11, and re-reading again this year, the fifteenth anniversary, seems appropriate to read it again, this year.

 

I was feeling rather smug that morning.(c) Jamie McIntyre, 2001

I stood on the tee box of the seventh hole, under the bluest sky I’d seen in some time, the crisp early fall air like a tonic in my lungs. And I was playing my brains out – 2 strokes over par after the first six holes of a nine hole golf tournament.

I was even nervously allowing myself to think, “I could win this thing!”

I stood on the tee box in the casual pose I’d seen pro golfers strike, arm on hip, hand on the end of the club, leg crossed over. I posed like a woman who was going to win, baby.But then I saw something. Coming over the ridge, a golf cart. I squinted. It was the young golf pro, and she was barreling directly for me. She screeched to a halt and breathlessly said, “Mrs. Woodward, you have to come in. Your husband called.” She must have read something on my face, because she quickly added, “Your kids are fine. Everyone’s fine. It’s just that both World Trade Towers in New York have collapsed, there’s a bomb at the Pentagon, there’s a bomb at the State Department and something up at the Capitol.” Panic started to well up inside me. “Your husband wants you to get the kids and go home.”  I nodded, processing it all, and threw my bag on the back of her cart and we sped off. My playing partner stepped out of the porta-potty just in time to hear me say, “I concede.  I have to go.”

And I didn’t think about golf again for a very long time.

It took well over an hour to drive the six miles home. I picked up the kids – confused, frightened – on the way. During those gridlocked minutes in the car, I felt like a sitting duck. The local all-news radio station was reporting on fighter planes scrambling, and commercial planes landing. They also reported that there was one more plane, on the way to The White House.

The White House, where I had worked, and where so many friends were working that day.

Crossing the Chain Bridge, I glanced to my left and saw a column of black smoke streaming over the tree tops. The Pentagon burning.

I could smell it.

It was surreal.

Our house is about a quarter of a mile from the Potomac River. Between the house and the river is the busy and noisy George Washington Parkway, which is traveled by 80,000 people every day. Usually, the hum of the cars whizzing past creates a gentle susurrus that can be as comforting as sitting by the ocean. And we also live under the flight path for Reagan National Airport, and the steady rumble of landing and taking off every six minutes is a part of the environment. It’s a noisy place.

But that morning, under the bluest sky, I stood in my front yard and heard… nothing.  No traffic. No planes. Nothing. I held my arms out, as if I could embrace the world and share our pain, when I heard the first one. One deep tone. Then another. The National Cathedral had begun tolling its bells. Then the bells from other churches began to ring. Mournful, yes. But hope, too, in each tone. Hope. Hope. Hope.

I stood there, barefoot, broken-hearted, on one of the most beautiful days of the year. Worried. What could possibly come next?

I did an inventory: I had a husband I loved, I had great kids I could parent full-time. I had my family, my friends. We were blessed. We were safe. We were going to be okay.

That’s what it looked like under the bluest sky. But the reality of the next ten years proved to be quite different than I ever could have imagined.If a visitor from the future had told me,  that morning out on my front lawn, that in the next ten years:

I would divorce the man whose ring I wore on September 11, 2001, after learning some hard truths.

He would move away, remarry and start a new family.

I would be a single parent.

I would give up being a full-time mom and go back to work.

I would be diagnosed with cancer.

I would struggle financially.

Family and dear friends would die unexpectedly, some painfully.

My children would face challenges which would stop us in our tracks.

If the future visitor told me all that on September 11, 2001, I would have said, “You have to be kidding. It can’t possibly go that way.”

But if that visitor was telling the truth, he’d also have had to tell me the fantastic parts of the coming years:

That I would be known as a writer, with blogs and books.

That I would work with people all over the world – from Asia to Europe, from Canada to Mexico, from Alaska to The Keys – and help them find more fulfilling work, and meaningful lives.

That I’d meet strangers who would grow dear to my heart.

That a certain 8-year old third grader would become a happy, thoughtful, kind, six foot tall college man with a thriving business he created from scratch.

That a little kindergartner would grow into a willowy high school athlete who studies Latin and history, and never forgets a friend.

That I would fund my own retirement account.

That I would own my resilience, know myself and grow comfortable in my own skin.

If the visitor from the future had told me under the bluest sky that I would grow to be more myself – more happy, centered and creative – than I’ve ever been, I would have said, “Dude, you’re talking to the wrong person.”

Because I hadn’t a clue on September 11, 2001. I thought I was happy. What could possibly change?

Only everything.

And always for the better, I’ve learned.  No matter how it seems in the moment.

Looking forward the next 10 years, to September 11, 2021, what will happen?  What change will I meet, and how will I handle it?

I have no idea. None. But I do know this: I am not afraid.

Because even all the pain of the last ten years has been exponentially outweighed by all the love. By all the connections. By all the growth. By all the learning.

On September 11, 2001, three thousand people lost their lives. They had no chance to experience the last ten years of living. But we did. We still do.

Don’t you think we owe it to them to embrace whatever it is that’s coming? And embrace it with love? With kindness? With creativity?

Yes, we do. And I will. I will live with my feet in the grass under skies both blue and gray, and remember the sound of bells tolling, hope, hope, hope.

Stand with me?

Photo: © Jamie McIntyre, 2001

Email Triage

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Week before last I wrote about In-box Management and while many of you liked my highly figurative example of dealing with the spam between your ears, most of you would like tips to deal with the actual deluge of email you have to face on a daily basis.

I am glad to oblige. Let’s get started.

The problem with email is twofold. First, there’s too much of it in your in-box (we’ll call that “inflow”) and, second, you have to decide what to do with it (“outflow”).

In medicine, “triage” is used to identify and manage the most acute cases, those in need of immediate attention. Guess what? Triage can also be used to manage your email effectively. All you have to do is identify what’s most important, and deal with that first. Sounds simple enough, right?

Here are three tips to triage Inflow:

1) Have three different email accounts. One is your primary business email account. This is the account on your business card, and the one you give to professionals with whom you network. Your second account is for personal use — this is the one you give your mother, your aunt Suzy, your layout cousin Frank and others. The third account is the one you use for online ordering, online games, online quizzes, whatever. This third account is your spam magnet, and will draw most of the junk. Then, you can spend quality time on your business email, some time on the family email and little or no time on the junk email.

2) Use email folders. Many email programs will allow you to change your settings so that email from a specific sender, or containing specific keywords, can be automatically directed into a folder. For instance, if you are working on a project with Tom Smith, you can specify that all messages containing his email address go into a Tom Smith folder. That makes staying on top of the project a breeze! Likewise, you can make all email containing Words You Would Have Gotten Smacked For Using In Front Of Your Mother go right into the trash. Setting up a priority system with your email folders can help you spend time on what’s acutely important, and save the marginally important for another time.

3) Don’t read your email all day long. It’s a trap to have your email browser open all the time. If you are old enough, you remember when fax machines first hit the office. In my office, every time the fax machine signaled it had an incoming message the entire team gathered around to watch it come through. Who would it be for? What would it say? How important I would be if the fax was for ME! Over time, the novelty of faxes wore off (thank goodness), and we settled down to work. Today, the omnipresence of incoming messages means there is little time to actually think, or create, or evaluate. I suggest you check your email first thing in the morning, mid-day, at the end of the day. I know, I know — you work in a culture that prizes always being available. Well, that’s an awful lot like standing around watching a fax come in. Think of it this way: setting boundaries around reading your email gives you time to actually work!

Now, to Outflow. In my Stress Management class, I give a series of questions to ask when feeling stressed about a task. The very same questions can be applied to your email: Can I eliminate this? Can I do it another time? Can someone else do it?

Back in the dark ages (even before the fax machine, if you can believe it) there was an organizational school of thought best summed up by the phrase: “Touch it once.” The idea being that a letter came in through the in-box on your desk (how quaint) and the goal was to touch it once — read it and decide whether it needed to be filed, thrown out or acted upon. If it needed to be acted upon, you decided that before you put the paper down — you wrote someone else’s name on it and put it in the out-box, you called someone on the telephone to deal with it, or you wrote a new memo suggesting a meeting to settle the matter. Whatever you did, you didn’t let paper hang around your in-box.

That’s a good rule of thumb with virtual paper, too. Don’t use your email in-box as a filing cabinet. Read the message; decide to do something with it or delete it; delegate it to someone else; call a meeting; print it out and post it anonymously on the employee bulletin board. Whatever you do, just touch it once, do something, and let it go.

The immediacy of email creates a false sense of importance. Only you can triage your email — only you can decide what’s important and needs immediate attention, and what’s less critical and can wait. Many things clamor for your attention during the day — honey, if you don’t decide what matters, the clamor decides for you.

And the clamor doesn’t always know what’s best for you.