The Unfair Game

How often have you seen people move from one company to another because they're fed up being passed over?  How often have people moved because they're labeled or pigeon-holed into a specific category or task?  My guess: fairly often.

How could this be?  Ignore, for the sake of this argument, the times when the holding back or the labeling is justified.  But what about all the other times?

I blame the managers.  Threatened by competence.  Blind to potential.  Unwilling to make an investment.  Lazy.  Or just plain dumb.  Unfortunately, I can say that I have even had this happen in places where I was a manager.  So, I may have been part of the problem.  At minimum, I failed to persuade my co-workers of the foolishness of our actions.

Is there a way this behavior can be improved?  Sure.  However, effectiveness varies.  Training programs for both staff and managers.  Performance appraisals, again for BOTH staff and managers.  Third party evaluations.  But, what is the incentive that drives these programs?

Staff participates to the extent they are coerced or desire to advance.  But, they have the option of leaving when they get fed up.  (Less so, perhaps during down economies; but that is subject to change.)  Most of the time, they improve in their new setting.

Owners and managers, on the other hand, seek benefits that may be harder to measure, and harder to incent.  Less staff turn-over.  Higher productivity.  Improved marketability.

Here's a hair-brained idea: For every time a company loses a staff member who leaves out of frustration, the company has to make a donation to the mentor program of the staff member's professional association.

Would it help?  Would the game be any more fair?  

Zen Furniture

So much of what we do is mental, verbal or virtual.  Even when we get our buildings constructed, it's usually by the hands of others.  We have to derive satisfaction from seeing that the executed work comes together in a functional and attractive manner.  As satisfying as this may be when it comes off well, there's a missing element.

In Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Robert Pirsig explores the metaphysics of Quality.  The analysis was obscure and convoluted to say the least, and probably was well over my head; but there well elements I could relate to.  When he wrote about the majesty of engineered components fitting together, it rang true.  High function is high art.  The closest I can get, it seems, to achieving this is in the work I do designing and building furniture.

The effort is, without question, an ongoing work in progress.  Nirvana has not been has not yet been found.  Nevertheless, I persevere.  What's the right species of wood?  How are the pieces joined?  Is the finish durable and appropriate?  A thousand questions - with thousands of answers.  The fact that I can attempt to create the resolution with my own hands is the attraction.

Maybe this infatuation is genetic.  After my grandfather retired from his butcher shop, he made things in his basement.  Just be cause he wanted to - and because he could.  I remember fondly his living room fireplace standing against the wall.  It was furniture - connected to nothing; but it was beautiful.  Sure, it lacked my ideal of function, but he had other things in mind.  I can relate.

Regardless, the notion of furniture as therapy works for me.  I need to get into the shop.  I'm pretty sure my problem is more than S.A.D.  Wish me well.

And now, for something completely different ...

Last night, I had an experience that tested my usually composed demeanor.

For those of us who regularly present to clients and professional associations, "public speaking" (as some call it) can be relatively stress-free.  Think about it - we have agendas, plans to explain, PowerPoint shows which we are running, sometimes even a script or at least notes in our hand.  MouseMuse Productions knocked all those boxes out from under me.

They do evenings of story-telling where the performers/presenters are asked to tell a cohesive story on the chosen subject of the evening.  A few months ago, I went to watch a friend, and was badgered into putting my name into a hat to tell an impromptu short story.  The producers asked if I would come back to be "on the bill".  With trepidation, I said yes.

"Love Hurts" was the theme (It is approaching Valentine's Day, after all), and seven of us shared experiences on the concept.  In my case, I only got cotton mouth once.  I can't speak for the others.  At least one local reporter found the experience noteworthy - see "Love Hurts" So Good - http://goo.gl/lno5k. Who knows, maybe she's easily impressed.

I'm glad I did it, and I hope to do more.  Perhaps, I can learn how to be calmer when presenting.  Link to http://www.mousemuse.com/ to stay on top of upcoming schedules.  There's a rotating cadre of story-tellers.  Great fun.

How Could This Happen?

A few days ago, I was having a pleasant dinner with friends when I was asked how I fell into Architecture as a profession.  How people choose what to do in life is a fascinating subject. Sometimes it's very intentional and calculated.  Other times, it's pure serendipity that lands you in an unexpected place.

The question actually gave me pause, since I had rarely been called upon to explain myself with authentic details, as I was that night.  Here's how it goes:

I grew up in northern New Jersey at a time when suburban expansion was overwhelming the many former truck farms of the "Garden" State.  Not necessarily a good thing, but I was too young to influence my parents, much less history.  In any event, home-building was everywhere, and I was a weekend interloper.  Climbing about the unfinished houses, I was fascinated by how things were built; and I wanted to DO that.  So there I was, barely a teenage, saying that I planned to be an Architect.

Doing this on ones own may be possible, but not likely.  In my case, as I look back on it, I had a mentor.  My mechanical drawing teacher saw something in me, I guess.  Before I graduated from high school, he had me designing houses, that I would draw up - sometimes for credit, sometimes for the heck of it.  Mr. Czirr (now there's a name you can't forget - pronounced Sheer) wasn't coercive, just an enabler.  With his encouragement, I had opportunity.  I still have the drafting set he gave me as a graduation gift.

Lately, many have sadly vilified the teaching profession - a movement I must admit I can't find sympathy for.   My dedicated mentor represents all that is worthy about the underpaid, under-appreciated teachers out there.  All this introspection led me to explore what happened to him.  I found information that he is now 108 years old living in the home he retired to shortly after I graduated.  Thank you Mr. Czirr.