I was traveling in Asia a few years back and spent an overnight in Hong Kong on my return trip to Sri Lanka. In the morning I packed my things, had a leisurely breakfast, and made it to the airport by about 0900, several hours before my flight time. Taxis drop passengers off at the terminal entrance which is on ground level, but the actual departure terminal is two levels below the street. To get down to the departure desks there are several long and somewhat steep concrete ramps, about eight feet wide that head down perpendicular from the street above.

I loaded my two big suitcases and my laptop onto a luggage cart, the kind with a braking bar at the handles, and steered towards the ramp. As I started down the ramp, gravity began to help me and I found it necessary to release the braking handle to slow the cart down. Unfortunately the brakes on this particular cart were apparently not working. As I dug in my feet to try and stop the cart I found that it only got worse. The steepness of the ramp, the weight of my luggage, the existence of gravity and the lack of friction between my leather dress shoes and the smooth concrete created an effect that I can only describe as “Airport Skiing.”

I plummeted down the ramp, knees slightly bent, feet sliding down the concrete as I struggled to keep myself upright, the luggage cart going straight, and my maximum velocity below the speed at which the wheels might begin to melt. The ramp was actually two ramps with a small landing about ten feet across halfway down the slope. This one level spot was my one hope for bringing the cart under control before I began to approach the bottom. I remember thinking that it was a miracle that I was the only passenger pushing a cart down the ramp or there would have been a brutal accident.

As I approached the flat area I leaned backwards a bit, hoping to dig in my heels on the flat surface and prevent the cart from heading down the second ramp. Leaning back brought the front wheels slightly off the ground, (okay, in truth it was a high speed luggage cart wheelie) but at the speed I was going, threatened to tip the entire luggage cart back on top of me. I managed to tip it back onto all four wheels at a slightly reduced speed, just before the cart went over the edge of the platform and down the next ramp.

Because there had been a sudden lurching forward of the weight of the luggage as I tried to get the wheels back on the ground, the cart had additional momentum just as it started down the ramp. So as it picked up speed and I resigned myself to just go along for the ride and get it under control at the bottom, I noticed that I was hurtling towards a cluster of saffron-clad Buddhist monks who had gathered at the bottom of the ramp for reasons known only to them. Great, I thought, I’m going to be the first and last contestant in the international bowling for monks tournament and by evening, I’m going to be in a prison in Hong Kong.

I started yelling to get their attention so that they would move out of the way, but as one of the principle tenets of buddhism is ahimsa, or inaction, they very calmly looked up at me plummeting down towards them and did not move. Not one inch. I screamed louder and got the attention of a number of other people in the terminal who looked up at the spectacle, but no one took any action to get the monks to move. They also didn’t clear away from the ramp in case my cart plunged through the monks into the crowd beyond.

Just as I neared the bottom of the ramp and a mere ten feet away from the monks, I noticed that there was a gap, about three feet wide, between the right-most monk and the wall at the end of the ramp. Perfect! With my shoes smoking from the friction, and my arms about to give out from trying to pull the cart back up the hill, I completely disregarded the laws of physics, specifically that one about inertia, and tried to abruptly wrench the cart towards the opening.

If you have studied physics you likely already know what happened to each of the variables in the equation. If so, please wait for the others to catch up. If not, I will tell you. The cart and I turned towards the opening. The luggage did not. As the luggage continued hurtling off the cart towards the monk, the cart, now free of its burden but on a new trajectory with only me to hold it back, began to turn end over end. Remember that old song that begins “Kind sir I write this note to you to tell you of my plight?” The one that ends, after the Scotsman has been battered and beaten by falling objects and oncoming platforms while he held onto a rope attached to a pully? “As I lay there bleeding on the ground, I let go of the bloody rope!” Like the Scotsman and his rope, I let go of the bloody cart.

At this point, everything went into slow motion. I saw the cart headed off to my right, bounding and skidding on the concrete. I saw my suitcases and laptop flying, like images from a Samsonite commercial. I felt rather than saw myself bounce, several times, off the concrete. I heard a ripping of fabric and began to feel something wet on my knees. I must say in retrospect that the biggest injury was to my ego and so I jumped up with surprising speed and agility considering what had just happened to me and gathered my things quickly. I secured the broken cart as evidence, piled my lugagge on top of it, and looked about to find the chief monk so that I could apologize.

Not only had the monks adhered to the principle of inaction during my downward plummet, they had also ensured that they would not be distracted from their chosen path, by something as ordinary as a human bullet. Without so much as an “are you okay?” or “learn to be more careful young man,” or even a nodding “we don’t speak English, but these monkly gestures will let you know that we care for your well-being,” they were gone. On to a flight to Orlando Florida no doubt, and a trip to Disney World. I looked about for someone else to connect with, if even for a moment, just so that I could apologize to someone, to regain even a small amount of dignity, but no one, not one person, was paying any attention. It was like it had never even happened.

I walked to the security attendant at the entrance to check-in and explained what had happened to me. He listened to me intently and asked me if I would be getting in line to check in. I told him that I would like to find someplace to get a band-aid, a bandage for my bloody knees and he very politely said “of course sir, you can go to our medical clinic as soon as you check in. Please get in line. ” I got in line. Since carts were not allowed in the check-in line, I asked him to keep the broken cart there until I had checked in, so that I could show it to airport management. He nodded and said “of course sir.”

I approached the business class counter in a suit with both knees ripped out, blood oozing from both legs, my hands scraped and my hair in disarray. No one said a word. There was blood on my passport. Fresh blood. The lady behind the counter wiped it off on a tissue without so much as a glance up at me and very calmly checked me in. “Have a nice flight sir,” she smiled sweetly. For a moment I felt like a ghost. No one was looking at me. No one cared that I was torn and bleeding. Everything was absolutely normal to them. I went back for the cart.

“May I help you sir?” said the sweet young security girl working at the check-in line where I left my cart. “Where is the man who was here a moment ago?” I asked. “He has gone sir. Is there something I can do to help you?” “I need the cart I left here a moment ago,” I told her. “Did he take the cart?” She looked at my laptop, and must have wondered why I wanted a cart when I had no luggage. She pointed to a cluster of carts about ten meters from where we were standing. “You can get a cart there if you like sir, but you can’t take it through security.” I must admit feeling a bit defeated. I just stood there a second to determine what to do next. “Is there something else sir?” “Yes,” I replied. “I need to get a bandage for my knee. I don’t want to get blood all over the plane.” She pointed towards a sign at the other end of the terminal and said “Good luck sir, I hope you aren’t too sick!” I began to look around for Rod Serling… (TO BE CONTINUED).

It’s gone now Matieu, thrown in the trash. You’ll never get to see rain gutters on the gingerbread birdhouse…but just so you can remember it…

Is it just me, or does it seem like the world falling apart around us?  I don’t think I’ve stayed in a hotel in the past two years that didn’t have two or three things broken in the room.  The government building I work in is falling apart.  Bridges are collapsing all over.  Metro in Washington DC has had more track fires and train wrecks because of deteriorating infrastructure than ever before.   Sidewalks are cracked, door handles are broken…what’s with all the decay?

My workplace is crumbling.  Can’t drive up on the parking deck because the ramp is undergoing maintenance.  Can’t walk up the steps because they are being repaired.  The door handles are broken.  The carpet is frayed.  The cafeteria ran out of bagels, and coffee, and napkins, and cup lids and courtesy.   Don’t get me started on the IT infrastructure or more importantly, the hideous state thereof.

I’m sure that someone out there has a theory on the entropic nature of the universe…but why does it have to start on the roads I drive upon, the building I work in and the places I frequent?  Too tired to post tonight.  Wait.  I just did.  They say that memory is the second thing to go…

Twenty-eight years in the Army.  Five continents, twenty-three moves, travel or work in thirty-some countries, hundreds of friends and thousands of experiences.  Learned eight or more languages, earned three graduate degrees, have a bucket-load of ribbons and medals.  Dozens of separations and deployments and exercises and operations.  Been held at gun point three times, kept in a foreign prison (briefly) once and toured foreign prisons multiple times.  Been hauled up the side of a mountain on a rope and pushed out of an airplane at altitude.  I’ve trekked in the High Himalayas, walked across the highest motorable road in the world, lived through dengue fever and dysentery and worse.  Ridden elephants, camels, horses, donkeys and oxen.  Flown in gliders and single props and massive C-17s in combat zones.  Cleaned up suspected anthrax, and worked in and around wars, tsunamis, hurricanes, insurgencies, acts of terrorism and foreign internal violence.  In 110 ten more days I get to see how the rest of the world has been doing it all these years.    I think I might be more nervous about the future than I have been in the past…

Okay…I’ve been sending out a resume or an application every day now for several weeks. I’ve already had a few interviews and have had a few offers. The real problem is, I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up…or at least I didn’t until today. At the link below is the best job ever! Chief Magic Official for Disney!! I think I’m going to apply.

http://www.dreamcmo.com/chief-magic-official-video.php

In my circle of friends there is an unspoken rule, “don’t mention any potential project out loud, no matter how wild or impossible it might seem at the time, unless you really want me to do it.” At work, I’m normally a big idea guy. I think the big thoughts, see the big picture, plan the grand scheme, and someone else gets to fill in all the little details like, oh, making the impossible possible. I get to manage, direct, decide, and execute (in the executive sense), but I seldom get to do anything.

At home, I like to get my hands dirty and actually see a project through from fertile idea to splendid though often exhausting completion. I have a high success rate, which means I am constantly crossing things off my ‘honey do’ list, but my honey also continues to add things, as do I, which means the list never seems to end. This is how we end up with a sixteen foot long bridge over our creek sturdy enough to drive a truck full of stone over (or fight upon in armor), a forest fairy play set with towers that have individually cut and hand painted tar paper leaves, and a deck the shape of a redbud leaf with a stem of stairs leading to the water. We have a faux stained glass window hanging in our foyer that is eight feet in diameter and weighs several hundred pounds, an English parterre with raised beds in the backyard, and any number of projects ongoing in the basement and garage.

Many of them started with words from the forbidden list, “wouldn’t it be cool if…” or “what if you could…” or “I’ll bet you might be able to…” — you get the idea. We’ve built eight foot tall castle walls out of paper mache’ rocks (enough to decorate the walls of an entire union hall), built a cake in the shape of a castle that was fourteen inches tall and four feet on a side (and required us to remove the door frame to get it out of the house), and have plans for a portable tudor style home that could be transported in a semi-trailer.

At one point in my life, when I spent time working in a specific medium for a period of time before moving on to another, my friends were very wary of allowing me to be exposed to ideas. I saw a medieval pavilion (tent) in a book and decided to make one. Then I made twelve more. I saw a picture of a wooden bed and decided I could easily build one. Or six. I made my friends some medieval armor. Then I made several other sets. It was a wonderful time of life. Have an idea, make it reality. See something I liked, make one myself.

One day some friends came over while I was lying on the floor watching TV with my head against the front of the sofa. I vaguely heard the door open, heard a strangled scream of “NOOOOOOOO!” and suddenly found myself being dragged out into the back yard and hosed down with water like a dog that had made a mess on the rug. “NO. NO. NO. NOOOOOO!” They had come in to find me watching a history show about Welsh stonemasons hand carving blocks of stone to rebuild a medieval fortress. Give me a break. I didn’t even own a stone chisel at the time. And I lived much farther from a stone quarry than I do now. Not to mention the climate where I lived then was not as appropriate as it is now. You have to know your limitations. You also have to know how to be patient.

So for now, I’m finishing my basement, putting final touches on the gardens, perfecting the playset, and planning my next small projects. I’m listening intently to the project ideas of my friends, like the one who suggested that I was a bit obsessive for putting an address and stamp on the 1/4 inch long letter made of chewing gum that went into the mailbox next to the sidewalk in front of this year’s gingerbread house, but I’m also recalling all the projects I’ve been patient about over the years. There are some wonderful open areas in the woods behind our house. Who knows what I could build there. History Channel anyone?

On a business trip to Germany last year, while taking the train from Frankfurt international airport to Bonn, I whiled away the time by looking out the windows and watching the German countryside roll by in silence. The only sounds were the clacking of the wheels on the track separations, the occasional sound of braking at stations, light chatter from my colleagues and off and on, the internal music that runs through my mind when I am content.

“I’m beginning to see the light!” remarked Toni, one of my co-travelers who was sitting across the table from me. “What?” I asked, somewhat puzzled at her outburst. “That tune you’re humming,” she said, “it’s - I’m beginning to see the light.” She smiled at me, waiting I guess, for some kind of affirmation.

I wasn’t humming,” I attempted, realizing with a growing embarrassment, that either I had been humming, or Toni was a mind reader. “What?” she asked, “you think I can read minds or something?” Now I was embarrassed and stunned. “You always hum sir,” she said, “you do it all the time.” “I don’t,” I tried. “You do,” said Joni, another colleague traveling with me. (I’m not making this up, Toni and Joni). I looked at both of their smiling faces and thought to myself, ok, if I have been humming, it stops now.

For the rest of the trip, perhaps three or five or fifteen times a day, one of the six analysts I was with would look at me and remind me of my growing dementia. At first, it was a fun game they played, sort of a Name That Tune episode with me as the band leader and unfortunately, the band. Later, when the game wasn’t as much fun for them and I had come to realize that I was, in fact, humming all the time, they would just say, “Sir, you’re doing it again.” Eventually, it only took a sort of two syllable lilting “Sir-ir,” and I would stop. Sometimes I would feebly protest that I had not been humming and try to maintain that they must have been hearing someone else. They were, after all, trained analysts and knew what they were hearing.

Now, about a year later, I don’t hum out loud any more. Well, not as often. Maybe I have gotten it under control. Maybe I am just not content as often. Maybe everyone has just given up on telling me. Whatever the case, I am a Colonel, a full-bird Colonel as they say. Humming, for this bird, needs to stop.

I have a friend whose job requires him to travel. A lot. Today he left at noon for Houston, and Canada and who knows where else, and he won’t be back for two weeks. He’ll have a few days home, wash clothes, repack his bags and head for the airport again. Frankly, I don’t know how he does it.

I returned this summer from a three-plus month tour in Afghanistan, and I have often been away from home for three, six, or more months at a time, usually to fairly dangerous places. But the thought of always being away, on the road, in the air, sleeping in motels, does not appeal to me. Travel is wonderful recreation as a concept, even if it is often somewhat flawed in reality, and I do enjoy the occasional trip to a new country, region, or sight. Spending every night of several weeks in a new hotel, even worse, the same hotel in a different city would get old rather quickly.

Now that I am nearing the end of my military career and have begun the difficult search for a second career, I am going to be very careful about the travel requirements associated with a job before I even consider it. Perhaps traveling 25% of the time would be livable…anything more, at this point in my life, is right out.

It is 2 AM and the pots and pans are finally washed, the dishes put away, the massive amounts of extra bread stocked in the deep freeze and all the guests tucked away for the night.  What a wonderful evening of feasting, music, friendship, memories and tall stories.  In a few hours, all these wonderful people that love each other like a family will get up, put on armor, and go outside to pound on each other with swords.  This is actually another thing that friends are for.

Email has made communication simpler and faster, but I’m not certain it has made us any more efficient.  Before email, I didn’t answer several hundred written notes a day from colleagues and management like I do now.  Routine matters were handled by telephone and very important issues were dealt with through memorandums and letters.   Now,  because everyone in an organization is connected instantly via email, employees often spend much of their day answering incredibly routine questions from their supervisors, questions that, before the inception of the internet, never would have been worth dialing a phone or walking down the hall to ask.

I had a boss at one point in the past whose office was about thirty feet down the hall from my own, separated by two other offices.  If he raised his voice and both of our doors were open I could hear him talking.  He could have called out from his desk (though thankfully he didn’t) and I would have walked down to see him.

One day he stuck his head in my door and asked “Did you get my email yet?”   We had been having some slow server problems, and I had not yet seen anything, so I said “No sir, the server must be slow again.”  He made a sort of “Hmmmpf” sound and walked away, clearly irritated.  I assumed he was irritated with the server.

Perhaps five minutes later he came back to my office and stuck his head in my office again.  “Did you get my email yet?”  I looked up to see him looking angry, and as I quickly moused over to open my inbox and check, I began to think what he could have sent me that needed such urgent attention.  “Is there some document you need me to review sir?  Perhaps you could print it out and I could look at it.”  “Read your email,” he said walking away with another strangled “Hrrmmmppf!”

Not ten minutes later he was back.  “Well?”  I had not closed down my inbox, but refreshed the screen and still had nothing.  “Sir, is there something you needed to discuss with me?” I asked.  “Wait for the eeeemail!”  he said, emphasizing the “e” in a manner that made me feel like he wasn’t really even sure how to pronounce it.

So frustrated by his multiple visits to my office and his unwillingness to just tell me what it was he wanted me to review or look into, I turned on the incoming mail chime which, for reasons most sane people understand, had been turned off since I first set up the account.  After a few minutes there was the repeated sound of the microsoft “chime” signaling the arrival of a number of emails, including the one from my boss.  The subject line read “Important.”  I quickly opened the email to find his message, concise and to the point: “please come see me.”

I counted to ten, took a deep breath and tried to keep the blood from rising to my face.  Knocking on his door (which he normally did not keep closed) I heard a faint “enter!” and went inside.  “Did you get my email?”  “Yes sir,” I said, “But I…”  “Good!” he said, “I wanted to ask your opinion on…”  I have no recollection of what he was talking about, or what was so urgent.  I was incredulous at the time.  “Sir, if you wanted to see me in your office, why didn’t you just ask me to come see you on one of your visits to my office?  Or call me, or send Mr. Golden (an assistant), or…I don’t know…just yell down the hall?”

“Well,” he said, “I shouldn’t have to do that.  I sent you an email.”  I was dumbfounded.

This drives me insane.  The belief by so many people in the workplace that, if they send an email, their task is complete.  You cannot lead an organization through emails.  You have to get out, see people, know what they are doing, interact with them.   You can’t just sit behind a screen, like the Wizard of Oz, trying to run things virtually.  Am I wrong to think this way?  Am I the only one who has suffered from E-leadership?